in:!;- 
 
 f&ioi:- 
 
 iii-! 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witin funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arclnive.org/details/baclielorswifeselOOgaltricli 
 
February^ 1894. 
 
 VALUABLE 
 
 STANDARD WORKS, 
 
 3>R1XTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, 
 BROWN, ^ND GREEN, 
 
 ftontion* 
 
 PERIODICAL PUBLICATIONS AND FINE ARTS. 
 THE ANNUAL BIOGRAPHY AND OBITUARY. 
 
 :omi»rel.eiulinjc the Bio/^raphy of all the principal Characters. Interspersed and 
 Ihistratcd with a Variety of original Letters, Documents, and Anecdotes. Vols 
 .to Vlll.for 1817, 18, 19, 20,21, ««, 23, & «4, Price 15*. each. 
 
 Contents of Vol. VIII. for 1S2.J-4. 
 Vi'ic Mint Keith; J. P. Kemble. Ksq ; Dr. Hulton; Mrs. Radcliffe; Mr. Bloora- 
 «el(l: Gen.Deckwiih; Bishop Middleton ; C. S. Lef.-vre, Esq.; J, Nollekens Esq.* 
 )r. Jeniier; Gen. Duinouriez ; Earl of St. Vincent; J. J. Anperstein, Esq ' Earl 
 f Ho|)»Mm.n: Dr. Baillie; L^rd Glenbervle; Sir Denis Pack; David Kicardo 
 kq. ; Sir H. Raeburn; J. Schanck, Esq. A general Biographical List of Persons 
 rho diod in 1S2M9*3. 
 
 The ARCHITECTURAL ANTIQUITIES of GREAT BRI- 
 
 TAIN, displaying a Series of Select Engravings, representing the most beautiful 
 urious. and interesting ancient Edifices of this Country, with an Historical and' 
 )escriptiV'- Account of eni-h Subject. 
 
 In 4v.,ls. M.Mliiiin4to.2l^; or Imperial 4to. 82^ half-bound. 
 By JOHN BRITTON. 
 
 CIIRONOLOL.ILAL and HISTORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 of the ANCIENT ARCHITECTURE of GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 Containing a Series of Engravings of Views, Plans, Elevations, Sections and 
 )etails, of all the various Classes of Buildings and Styles ..f Architecture * that 
 ,ave successively prevailed at different Periods in Great Britain; accomwanied 
 ■y Historical and Descriptive Accounts of entire Edifices, and of their component 
 
 By JOHN BRITTON, F.S.A. 
 
 Nos. I. to IX. Price lit. each. Medium 4to.; and IZ-Imperial 4to. 
 
 The loth Number, to complete the Work, will appear shortly 
 
 'his Work will form the Fifth Volume of the Architectural Antiquitie's of Great 
 
 Britain. 
 
 The CATHEDRAL ANTIQUITIES of ENGLAND ; or, an His- 
 
 )rical,Architectural, and Graphical Illustration of the English Cathedral Churches 
 By JOHN BRITTON, F. S. A. 
 
 Price 12*. per Number in Medium 4to.: and 1/. in Imperial 4to. 32 Number, 
 re alread> published. Each Size to class with the Architectural AntiauitieMnf 
 ireat Britain. The following are complete, and may be had separate viz 
 
 Salisbury Cathedral, with 31 Engravings, med. 4to. Jl. s*. imp. 4to* &l 'n. .... 
 ol. SI. sup.-roy. fol. III. Bds. •*» » ' "P- *lO. 51. St. cr. 
 
 Norwich, With -ib Plates, med. 4to. 2/. 10«.; imp. 4to. U.4s.: cr fol ai in. 
 up..roy. fol. S/. \r,s. Bds. ' * "*• '"»•; 
 
 Winchester, med. 4to. 3^ 3». ; imp. 4to. 6/. 5#.; cr. foL8^; sup.-roy fol 11/ 
 
 York, with sb Engravings, med. 4lo.3/. li«.; imp. 4to. Rl. 6».; or fol *9L q. • 
 up.-roy.fol. 12t 12*. Bds. "• . *.r- loi. at. 9,., 
 
 Liclifi«ld,with 16 Engravings, medium 4to. 3^ 15*.; imperial 4to. G/. fi* Bds 
 Oxford, med. 4 to. W. 4*.; imp. 4lo. 2^ 2*.; sup.-roy. folio, 4t 4* Bds 
 Canterbury, med. 4to. 3L 3*. ; imp. 5/. &*. ; sup.-roy. fol. lof, lo*. Bds. 
 ff'elU Cathedral, to be completed in 3 Numbert, it in the courte ofpubUcation. 
 
2 Voyages, Travels, Geography, and Topography. y\ 
 
 '\ 
 A PICTURESaUE VOYAGE ROUNu GREAT BRITAIN jj 
 
 containing a Series of Views of the prominent Features of the Coast. [ 
 
 By WILLIAM DANIELL, A.R.A. j 
 
 The First Voyage contains 28 Plates, illustrative of the Coast from the Land's j 
 .End, Cornwall, to Holyhead, with descriptive Letter-press, 7i. los. half-bound. j 
 
 The Second Voyage (of 1816) comprehends Holyhead and Portpatrick, with the] 
 intermediate Parts, illustrated in 28 Plates, and detailed Narrative, 7^ 10s. | 
 
 The Third Voyage (in 1817) comprises 42 Plates, with Descriptions of the South- | 
 west Coast and Part of the Western Isles of Scotland, 11. \os. half-bound. 
 
 The FoDRTH Voyage (in 1818) comprehending the Isles of Skye, Harris, and ] 
 Lewis; the North-west and Northern Coast of Scotland; the Orkneys; and the ; 
 East Coast from Duncansby Head to Dundee, with 42 Plates,?^. lo«. i 
 
 Vol. V. being a Continuation of the Fourth Voyage, 7i. lOs. half-bound. j 
 
 Vol. VI. extends to the Mouth of the Thames, 11. lOs. Bds. I 
 
 Vol. VII. embraces the distance between Sbeerness and Weymouth, inclusive^! 
 "iL 10«. Bds. 
 
 A SYSTEM OF UNIVERSAL GEOGRAPHY. ] 
 
 By M. MALTE BRUN, Editor of the " Annales des Voyages," &c. j 
 
 Parts I. to Vin. Price 7s. 6d. each. To be continued Quarterly, in Parts, or Half ! 
 
 Volumes. : 
 
 This Work is to be completed in seven octavo volumes, five of which have been - 
 already published in the original, each containing 665 pages of letter-press,^ 
 nearly double the quantity of an ordinary Volume. * 
 
 The History and Theory of Geography, and the description of Asia, Africa, and i 
 the Continent of Europe, will be corrected and improved by the Author, ex-\ 
 pressly for this Translation — The description of the British Empire, and ofj 
 North and South America, is to be revised by Gentlemen belonging to these j 
 Countrits, whose access to official documents will enable them to supply such j 
 important and valuable information as will render this part of the work in a I 
 great measure original. »; 
 
 The character of Malte-Brun's Geography is now so well established, as to render*; 
 it unnecessary lo enter into any particular examination of its contents. Every j 
 
 im- 1 
 ind i 
 
 „ „ ^ for ! 
 
 every fact of any importance; and the Author's intimate acquaintance with the 1 
 German, Dutch, and other northern languages, as well as with those of the more j 
 southern countries of Europo, has enabled him to avail himself of the iuforma- i 
 tion embodied in various works of very great merit, which had not been con- ■ 
 suited by any preceding French or English writer on Geography. The volumes | 
 containing the History and the Theory of Geography cannot fail of being pecu- > 
 liarly acceptable to the Buiclish reader. They are executed with the greatest \ 
 ability, and there are no works of the same kind in our language. Two large ( 
 impressions of the first three volumes of the Paris edition have already been i 
 sold oflF. ' 
 
 The Publishers entertain a confident expectation that the present translation will I 
 form the most complete body of Geographical Science ever given to the public. 
 " M. Malte Brun is probably known to most of our readers as the author of a Sys- 
 tematic Work on Geography; he is besides the editor of Nonvelles Annales des 
 Voyages: the first is as much superior to the compilations of our Gutliries and Pink- 
 ertons as the other is to the garbled productions of our Truslers and |Mavors."— 
 Quarterly Review, No.b2. 
 
 The MODERN THEATRE; or, a COLLECTION of SUC- 
 CESSFUL MODERN PLAYS, acted at the Theatres Royal, London. Printed from 
 the Prompt-books by Authority of the Managers. 
 
 Selected by Mrs.INCHBALD. 
 
 In 10- Vols, royal ISmo. to correspond with Incbbald's British Theatre. and Collec- 
 tion of Farces. Price 21. 10«. and on fine Paper, Price 31. 15s. Bds. 
 
 A COLLECTION of FARCES, and OTHER AFTERPIECES, 
 
 acted at the Theatres Royal, London. 
 
 Selected by Mrs. INCHBALD. 
 In 7 Vols, royal ISmo. U. 15s. Bds. or on fine Paper, with Portraits, 21. 12s. erf. 
 
 The EDINBURGH REVIEW and CRITICAL JOURNAL, 
 
 Uo. 1 to 77. Price 6s. each. 
 
 it unnecessary lo enter into any particular examination ot its contents. Evei 
 part of it has been elaborated with the utmost care and diligence: and it is it 
 pcissible to pei'use a single chapter without being satisfied of the variety ai 
 solidity of the Author's acquirements. Hefpreiices are constantly given f 
 
Printed for Longman^ Hurst, Kees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 3 
 
 VOYAGES, TRAVELS, GEOGRAPHY, AND 
 TOPOGRAPHY. 
 
 TRAVELS in the INTERIOR of SOUTHERN AFRICA. 
 
 By WILLIAM J. BURCHELL, Esq. 
 
 With an entirely new large Map, numerous coloured Engravinps, and 50 Vig- 
 nettes, from the Author's original Drawings. In 4t4>. Vol. II. (which concludes 
 the Work) Price 4/. 14». 6rf. Bds. Also, Vol. I. Price 4/. 14». 6d. 
 
 TRAVELS in GEORGIA, PERSIA, ARMENIA, ANCIENT 
 
 BABYLONIA, TURCOMANIA, BULGARIA, VALACHIA, Ac &c. during the 
 
 Years 1817, 1818, 1819, 18^0. In 4to. with numerous Enpravings of Portraits, Cos- 
 
 .umes. Antiquities, Ac. Ac. Complete in 2 Vols. Price ^l. 9*. Bds. 
 
 By SIR ROBERT KER PORTER, Ac. Ac. 
 
 Vol. II. just published, may be had separately. Price 4M4«.6d. Bds. 
 
 TRAVELS, comprising OBSERVATIONS made during a RESI- 
 DENCE in the TARENTAISE, and various Parts of the Grecian and Pennine Alps, 
 in Savoy, and in Switzerland and Auvergne, in the Years 18^, IS^Jl, and lS->3, with 
 Remarks on the present State of Society, Manners, Religion, Agriculture, Cli- 
 mate, Ac. of those Countries. 
 
 By ROBERT BAKEWELL, Esq. 
 In 3 ToU. 8vo. illustrated with Plates, and numerous Wood-cats, from original 
 Drawings and Sections. Price 11. 6t. Bds. 
 
 JOURNAL of a TEN MONTHS RESIDENCE in NEW 
 
 ZEALAND. 
 
 By Captain A. CRUISE, of the S4th Regiment. 
 In 8vo. with a Frontispiece. Price 9«. Bds. 
 
 MEMOIRS of aCAPTIVITYamon<rthe INDIANS of NORTH 
 
 AMERICA, from Childhood to the Age of Nineteen. With Anecdotes descriptive 
 of thfir Manners and Customs, and some Accmntof the Soil, Climate, and Ve- 
 getable Productions of tlie Territory westward of the Mississippi. 
 
 By J. D. HUNTER. The 3d Edition, with a Portrait, in 8vo. Price 12«. Bds. 
 
 ACCOUNT of an EXPEDITION from PIITSBURGII to the 
 
 ROCKY MOUNTAINS, performed in the Years 1819-20, by Order of the Hon. J. 0. 
 Calhoun, Secretary of War, under the Command of Major S. H.Lono, of the United 
 States Topographical Enginters. ('ompiled from the Notes of Major Long, Mr. 
 T. S.\y, and other Gentlemen of the Party. 
 
 By EDWIN JAMES, Botanist and Geologist for the Expedition. 
 ^ In 3 Vols. 8vo. illustrated with Maps and Plates. Price \L 16«. Bds. 
 
 NARRATIVE of a TOUR through the MOREA, giving an 
 
 Account of the present State of that Peninsula and iu Inhabitants. 
 By Sir WILLIAM GELL. 
 In 1 Vol. 8vo. illustrated by Plates, Wood Cuts, Ac. Price lb$. Bds. 
 
 The TRAVELS of THEODORE DUCAS, in various Countries 
 
 of Europe, at the Revival of Letters and Art. Part the First— ITALY. 
 Edited by CHiRLES MILLS, Esq. 
 Author of the" History of the Crusades," and a " History of Mahomraedanism." 
 In2 Vols. 8vo. Prire M. 4j. 
 
 TRAVELS in PALESTLNE, thronjrh the Countries of Bashan 
 
 and Gilead, East of the River Jordan; including a Visit to the Cities of Geraza 
 and Gamaln. in the Decapolis. In 2 Vols. t>vo. the id Edition, with Maps, Plates, 
 and Vignt- ites. Price \l. IU. 6d. Bds. 
 
 By J. A. S.BUCKINGHAM, Member of the Asiatic Society, Calcutta; and of the 
 Literary Societies of Madras and Bombay. 
 
4 Periodical Publications, ^c. — History and Biography. j 
 
 AN ACCOUNT of CEYLON, with TRAVELS in the Interior j 
 
 of the Island. 4to. with Engravings. Price 3f. 13». 6d. bds. : 
 
 By JOHN DAVY, M.D. F.R.S. I 
 
 TRAVELS in the INTERIOR of BRAZIL; with Notices on \ 
 
 its Climate, Natural Productions, Agriculture, Commerce, Population, Manners, ■ 
 
 and Customs: and a particular Account of the Gold and Diamond Districts. In- i 
 
 eluding a Voyage to the Rio de la Plate. i 
 
 By JOHN M AWE, Mineralogist. 
 
 Second Edit, illustrated with coloured Plates, and a Map, 8vo. Price 18*. Bds. i 
 
 TRAVELS in various COUNTRIES of the EAST ; beincr a Con- | 
 
 timiatiou of Memoirs relating to European and Asiatic Turkey, &c. in 4to. with ' 
 
 Plates. Price 3t. 3s, Bds. j 
 
 Edited by ROBERT V^ALPOLE, A.M. 
 
 MEMOIRS relating to EUROPEAN and ASIATIC TURKEY, i 
 
 and other Countries of the EAST. The Second Edition. In Quarto. VV'ith Plates. ■. 
 Price dl. as. Bds 
 
 Edited from Manuscript Journals by ROBERT W^ALPOLE, A. M. , 
 
 LETTERS written during a TOUR through NORMANDY, ' 
 
 BRITTANY, and other Parts of FRANCE, in 1818; including Local and Historical . 
 
 Descriptions, with Remarks on the Manners and Character of the People. i 
 
 By Mrs. CHARLES STOTHARD. | 
 
 With numerous Engravings, after Drawings by Charles Stothard, F.S.A. » 
 
 In4to. Price 22. I2«. ed.Bds. I 
 
 A SECOND JOURNEY through PERSIA to CONST ANTI-| 
 
 NOPLE, between the Years 1810 and 1916. lu royal 4to. with Maps, coloured Cos-ffi 
 
 tumes, and other Engravings, :il. 13s. 6rf. Bds. ij 
 
 By JAMES MORIER, Esq. late his Majesty's Secretary of Embassy, and Mini-' 
 
 ster Plenipotentiary to the Court of Persia. 
 
 The PERSONAL NARRATIVE of M. DE HUMBOLDT'S ] 
 
 TRAVELS to the Equinoctial Regions of the New Continent: during the Years i 
 
 1799-1804. Vol. 5, in 8vo. II. is. Bds. ; also, Vols. 1 to 4, Price 2t. Ms. Bds. 
 
 Translated by HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS, under the immediate Inspection i 
 
 of the Author. ; 
 
 By the same Author, l 
 
 The RESEARCHES, comprising the Text of the Atlas Pittoresque, and a Selec-^ 
 
 tion of the Plates. A new Edit, in 2 Vols. 8vo. Price II. Us. 6d. Bds. 
 
 POLITICAL ESSAY on the KINGDOM of NEW SPAIN; 
 
 with Physical Sections and Maps. 
 
 By ALEXANDER DE HUMBOLDT. 
 
 Translated from the Original French, by JOHN BLACK. 
 
 The Third Edit. InlVols.Svo. Price 3M3s.6d. Bds. 
 
 A GEOGNOSTICAL ESSAY on the SUPERPOSITION of 
 
 ROCKS in both HEMISPHERES. 
 
 By M DE HUMBOLDT. 
 
 And translated into English under his immediate Inspection. 
 
 In One Vol. 8vo. Price I4«. Boards. 
 
 SKETCHES OF INDIA. 
 
 By a TRAVELLER, 
 For Fire-side Travellers at Home. The 2d Edit. In 1 Vol. 8vo. 10«. 6d. Bds. 
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 MEMOIRS of MARY QUEEN of SCOTS, with Anecdotes o< 
 
 the Court of HENRY the SECOND, during her Residence in France. 
 
 By MISS BENGER. 
 The 2d edit, in 2 Vols. 8vo. with a genuine Portrait, never before engraved, \L 4s, 
 
 The HISTORY of the REIGN of GEORGE the THIRD. 
 
 Completed to the Death of the King. In 6 Vols. 8vo. A New Edit. 3i. 3«. Bds. 
 By ROBERT BISSET, LL.D. 
 
Printed for Lonpnan, Hwst^ ReeSy Orme, Brown, and Green. 6 
 The PRIVATE and CON FIDKNTIAL CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 of ( HARLKS TALBOT, Duke ot SHHKVVSBURY, principal Minister to King 
 William, for a coiuidernble Period of bis Ileigii. 
 
 By the Rev. ArcbJeacon COXE. 
 
 In 4to. with a Portrait of the Duk.- of Shrewsbury, from an original Painting, by 
 Sir Peter Lely. Price iU it. Bds. 
 
 SKETCHES ofthe LIVES of CORREGIO and PARMEGJANO; 
 
 W ith NOTICES of their PRINCIPAL WORKS. 
 Beaatifolly printed, in small Svo. with a Portrait. Price 10#. 6rf. Bds. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE LATE MRS. CATHERINE CAPPE. 
 
 Written by HERSELF. 
 The Second Edit. In Svo. with a Portrait, Price 12*. Boards. 
 
 I [.e HISTORY of ENGLAND DURING the MIDDLE AGES. 
 
 By SHARON TURNER, F.S.A. 
 In 3 vols.4to. Price 6l. Bds. 
 
 These Volumes compriHe the History of England, from the Norman Conquest 
 to the l>eath of Henry the Seventh, and complete the Second Series of the 
 English History. 
 
 Ti.e HISTORY of the ANGLO-SAXONS, from their first Appear- 
 
 ance iti Europe to the End of their Dynasty in England; comprising the History 
 of England from the earliest Perio«l to the Norman Conquest. 
 By S. TURNER, Esq. F.S.A. 
 In 3 Vols. Svo. The Fourth Edit, corrected and improved, ii.&s. 
 
 MRMOIRSoftheLIFE of CHARLES ALFRED STOTHARD, 
 
 F.S A. Author of the Monumental Efflgiesof Great Britain; including several of bis 
 OrijtinalLetters, Papers, Journals, Essays, &c. &C.&C. With some Account of a 
 Journey in the Netherlands: 
 
 By Mrs. CHARLES STOTH ARD, Author of Letters written during a Tour through 
 
 Normandy, Brittany, and other Parts of France, in IblS. 
 
 In Svo. With a Portrait, Price Ibt. Bds. 
 
 The HISTORY of the REBELLION in 1745 and 1740. 
 
 In Svo. the 3d Edit, with Portraits. Price 15*. Bds. 
 
 By CHEVALIER JOHNSTONE, Aide-de-Camp to Prince Charles Edward Stewart, 
 
 and Lord George Murray. 
 
 MEMOIRS of the PROTECTOR, OLIVER CROMVJ^ELL, 
 
 and his Sons, Richard and Henry. 
 
 By OLIVER CROMWELL, Esq. a Descendant of the Family. 
 With Six Portraits, from original Pictures. Third Edit. 2 Vols. Svo. RS«. Bds. 
 
 MEMOIRS of JOHN, DUKE of MARLBOROUGH ; with his 
 
 Original Correspondence, collected from the Family Records at Blenheim, and 
 other authentic Sources. 2d Edit. In fi vols. Svo. with an Atlas in 4to.; illu8trat< 
 ed with Portraits, Maps, and Military Plans, Price St. bt. 
 
 By WILLIAM COXE, M.A. F.R.S. F.8.A. 
 
 The LIFE of WESLEY, and the Rise and Progress of Method- 
 ism. Second Edit. la 2 Vols. Svo. with Portraits. 1 .'. Ha. Bds. 
 By ROBERT SOUTHEV, Esq. 
 
 The HISTORY of GREENLAND, with a Continuation to the 
 
 present Time, from the German of Divio Crantz. A New Edition, illustrated by 
 PlateSjWith considerable Additions and Improvements. 8 Vols. Svo. Price 1/. U. Bds. 
 
 UNIVERSAL HISTORY, in Twenty-four Books. 
 
 In i Vols. Svo. Price 11. 16«. Bds. 
 Translated from the German of JOHN MULLER, 
 
6 History and Biography. — Poetry. j 
 
 HISTORY of the HOUSE of AUSTRIA, from the Foundation of | 
 
 the Monarchy, by Rodolphof Hapsburg-h, to the Death of Leopold the Second, 1218 \ 
 to 1792. The 2d Edition, in ftvoJs.Svo. Price 3^.l3s.6d. Boards. 
 
 By WILLIAM COXE, F.R.S. F.S.A. i 
 
 The HISTORY of the CRUSADES, for the Recovery of the I 
 
 HOLY LAND. The 3d Edit. In 2 vols. 8vo. H. 4s. 
 
 By CHARLES MILLS, Esq. ! 
 
 LIFE of WILLIAM, LORD RUSSELL, with some Account of j 
 
 the Times in which he lived. A new Edit. In2Vols. 8vo. \l. 1«. bds. j 
 
 By LORD JOHN RUSSELL. j 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT of the LIFE of RACHAEL WRIOTHES- 
 
 LEY, LADY RUSSELL. 
 
 By the Editor of MADAME du DEFFAND'S LETTERS. \ 
 
 Followed by a Series of Letters from Lady Russell to her Husband, William, Lordi 
 Russell, from 1672 to 1682. Published from the Originals in the Posaestion of hit] 
 Grace the Duke of Devonshire. Third Edition, 8vo. lis. Bds. \ 
 
 MEMOIRS of the LIFE of ANNE BOLEYN, Queen of| 
 
 Henry VIII. 2d Edit. In 2 Vols, small 8vo. Price 16s. Bds. 
 By MISS BENGER. 
 
 MEMOIRS of the COURT of aUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 In 2 vols. 8vo. The 5th Edit. Price \l. hs. Bds. 
 By LUCY AIKIN. 
 
 MEMOIRS of the COURT of KING JAMES the FIRST. | 
 
 By LUCY AIKIN. | 
 
 In 2 Vols. 8vo. with a Portrait. The 3d Edition. Price If. 4». Bds. | 
 
 MEMOIRS of the KINGS of SPAIN of the HOUSE of BOUR-1 
 
 BON, from the Accession of Philip the Fifth to the Death of Charles the Third, j 
 1700 — 1788. With an Introduction relative to the Government and State of Spain, i 
 Drawn from original Documents, and secret Papers, many of which have never \ 
 before been published. The 2d edition. In 5 vols. 8vo. Price il. Boards. A i 
 few Copies in 3 vols. 4to. Price 6^ 6s. In Imperial 4to. 12^ I2s. Bds. 
 
 By WILLIAM COXE, M.A. F.R.S. F.S.A. j 
 
 The HISTORY of BRAZIL. " 1 
 
 In 3 Vols. 4to. with a Map of the Country. Price 7Z. 15s. Bds. 
 
 By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. J 
 
 THE LIFE of JAMES the SECOND, KING of ENGLAND, | 
 
 &c. collected out of Memoirs writ of his own Hand. 2 large Vols, 4to. 61. 6s. Bds, | 
 By the Rev. J. S. CLARKE, LL.B. F.R.S. 
 
 POETRY. 
 ALFRED ; a ROMANCE in RHYME. 
 
 By RICHARD PAYNE KNIGHT, Esq. 
 In 1 Vol. 8vo. Price lis. Bds. 
 
 FABLES for the HOLY ALLIANCE, RHYMES on the 
 
 ROAD, &c. Ac. 
 
 By THOMAS BROWN, the Younger, 
 
 Secretary of the Poco-curante Society, and Author of the Fudge Family, <ic. 
 
 In foolscap Octavo, Price 8s. 6d. 
 
 THE NlGHT before the BRIDAL, a Spanish Tale; SAPPHO, 
 
 a Dramatic Sketch; and other Poems. 
 
 By CATHEIIINE GRACE GARNET, 
 
 Daughter of the laie Dr. Garnet, of the Royal loatitution. 
 
 la 8vo. Price 9s. Bds. 
 
Printed for Longman^ Bursty Rees, OrnUy Brown, and Green. 7 
 THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 A PoFif. By THOMAS MOORE. The btli Edit, in 8to. 9s. Bds. 
 
 Also, ILLUSTRATIONS to the POEM. From Designs by R. WE8TALL, Esq. 
 In 8vo. Price &». 
 
 SELECT WORKS of the BRITISH POETS, with Bioffraphica! 
 
 and Critical Prefaces, lo Vola. royal ISmo. s/.; or in 10 Vols post iSuio. il. 
 
 By Dr. AIKIN. 
 The tame Work^'\n one large Vol. of 812 Pages mediam 8vo. Price 19«. extra Bds. 
 
 SONGS of ZION, being Imitations of Psalms. 
 
 By J. MONTGOMERY. In foolscap Uto. Price be. 
 
 ELLEN FITZARTHUR, a Metrical Tale, in Fire Cantos, the 
 
 Second Edition, in Foolscap Octavo, Price 6s. (id. Bds. 
 
 The WIDOW'S TALE and OTHER POEMS. 
 
 By the Author of '* FXLEN FITZARTHUR." In Foolscap 8to. 6«. 6<f. Bds. 
 
 LALLA ROOKH, an ORIENTAL ROMANCE. 
 
 By THOMAS MOORE, Esq. Tenth Edition. In 8vo. Price \U. 
 
 Also, in 8vo. Price 12*. ILLUSTRATIONS of the POEM, engraved by Charles 
 Heath, from Painlinps by R. WEST ALL, R. A. 
 
 The POETICAL WORKS of SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. 
 
 Handsomely printed in 8 Vol. f.cap 8vo. with a Portrait of the Author, 3^ Xia. Bds. 
 
 The POETICAL WORKS of SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart. 
 
 Miniature Edition. In 10 Vols, elegantly printed by Ballantyne, with beautiful 
 Vignette Titles, engraved by Heath, and emhellisbed with Engravings, after 
 original Pictures by Shirkb. Price iL 13*. 6</. Bds.; or without Smirke's Plates 
 3i. Ai. Bds. 
 
 The POETICAL WORKS of SIR WALTER SCOTT, Bart 
 
 Including the MINSTRELSY of the BORDER, and SIR TRISTREM. 
 
 In 10 V0U.8TO. with 10 Vignettes from Original Drawings, by Nasuttr, and a 
 Portrait of the Author, Price 6^ Bds. 
 
 By the same Author ^ 
 The LORD of the ISLES. A Poem. 4th Edit. In 8vo. 14*. royal 8vo. i/.8*. 
 ROKEBY. A Poem. In 8to. 6th Edition, 14*.; royal 8vo. 1^ 8*. 
 The LADY of the LAKE. A Poem. I2th Edit. In Svo. 14*. Bdjs. 
 The LAY of the LAST MINSTREL. 15th Edit. 8vo. 10*1 6d. Bds. 
 MARMION. A Poem. 10th Edit, in Svo. 14*. Bds. 
 BALLADS and LYRICAL PIECES. &thEdit. Svo. 7*. 6/f. Bds. 
 The MINSTRELSY of the SCOTTISH BORDER. The 5th Edition. In S Yola 
 8vo. Price U. 16*. Bds. 
 
 GERTRUDE of WYOMING, or the PENNSYLVANIAN 
 
 COTTAGP^ and other Poems. To which is added, an ODE to the MEMORY of 
 
 BURNS. lu foolscap Svo. the 7lh Edit, with Plates.from Westall's Designs. "jff.Bds. 
 
 By THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 The ILLUSTRATIONS may be had separate, in foolscap Svo. Price 4«. • aad 
 75. in 4to. * 
 
 Tlie MISCELLANEOUS POEMS of WILLIAM WORDS- 
 
 WORTH, Esq. In four Volumes, limo. Price W. 12*. Bds. 
 
 The following may be had separately ^ 
 
 The EXCURSION, in 4to. 2/. 2*. Bds Ditto, in Svo. Sd Edit, 14*. Bd«. 
 
 The RIVER DUDDON, in Svo. 12*. Bds. 
 
 The WHITE DOE of RYLSTONE, in 4to. W. 1*. 
 
8 Poetry. — Gardening^ ^c. \ 
 
 The PLEASURES of HOPE, with other POEMS. With En-^ 
 
 gravings, from Designs by R.Westall, R.A. f.cap 8vo. 8s. Boards. The Illustra- i 
 tions may be had separate, in f.cap 8vo. 5*. or in 4to. with Proof Impressious. 9«. 
 
 By THOMAS CAMPBELL. i 
 
 RODERICK, the LAST of the GOTHS. i 
 
 By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq. 
 5th Edition. In 2 Volumes, 16». Boards. ! 
 
 By the same Author., \ 
 
 JOAN of ARC. An Epic Poem. 2 Vols. The 3th Edit. Price 16s. in Bds. '■ 
 
 THALABA the DESTROYER. The 3d Edit. 2 Vols. 16*. Bds. 
 
 MADOC A Poem. 2 Vols. The 4th Edition. Price 16». in Bds. 1 
 
 The CURSE of KEHAMA. A Poem. The 4th Edit. 2 Vols. 14*. in Bds. , 
 
 The POET'S PILGRIMAGE to WATERLOO. 10#.6d.Bd3. 
 
 CARMEN AULICA, written in 1814, on the Arrival ©f the Allied Sovereigns in i 
 England. CARMEN TRIUMPHALE, for the Commencement of the Year 1814. in 1 
 foolscap 8vo. Price 5s. Bds. ' 
 
 A VISION of JUDGMENT. A Poem. Price 15«. Bds ! 
 
 1 
 
 GREENLAND, and other POEMS. By James Montgomery, i 
 
 In l2mo. the Second Edition. Price 8». Bds. j 
 
 The WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD, a Poem, in Ten Cantos.; 
 
 With other occasional Pieces. Foolscap Svo. The 6th Edit. Price 98. Bds. ' 
 
 By JAMES MONTGOMERY. \ 
 
 The WANDERER of SWITZERLAND, and other Poems. i 
 
 By JAMES MONTGOMERY. The 9th Edit. In f.cap Svo. Price 6«. Bds* ^ 
 
 The WEST INDIES, and OTHER POEMS. 6th Edit. Qs. Bds. 
 
 By JAMES MONTGOMERY. I 
 
 GARDENING, Sfc. \ 
 
 An ENCYCLOPAEDIA of GARDENING; comprising thej 
 
 Theory and Practice of Horticulture, Floriculture, Arboriculture, and Landscape* ; 
 
 Gardening; including all the latest Improvements, a General History of Garden- i 
 
 ing in all Countries, and a Statistical View of its present State, with Suggestions i 
 
 for its future Progress in the British Isles. ; 
 
 By J. C. LOUDON, F.L.S. H.S., &c. \ 
 
 Complete, in 1 large Volume, Svo. of 1300 pages, closely printed. Price 2t. 10s. '' 
 
 Bds. with 600 Engravings on Wood. ] 
 
 LECTURES ON THE ELEMENTS OF BOTANY. \ 
 
 Containing the Descriptive Anatomy of those Organs, on which the Growth and | 
 Preservation of the Vegetable depend. j 
 
 By ANTHONY TODD THOMSON, F.L.S. &c. &c. ^ 
 
 Ir Svo. Price 1^ Ss.Bds. illustrated withPlates and numerous Wood-Cats, Volume I. 
 
 The different MODES of cultivatino^ the PJNE- APPLE, from its ; 
 
 first Introduction into Europe, to the late Improvements of T. A. Knight, Esq. '\ 
 
 By a MEMBER of the HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 
 In Svo. Price 9s. Bds. with 74 Wood Engravings, exhibiting the best Plans of Pine-^i 
 Stoves and Pits. i 
 
 The GARDENER'S REMEMBRANCER. | 
 
 By JAMES MACPHAIL. 7«. 6({. Boards. 2d Edition. ] 
 
Printed for Longman^ Hurst^ Rees^ Orme, Broton, and Green. 9 
 "SYLVA FLORIFERA," the "SHRUBBERY;" containinor 
 
 in HUtorical ami Botanical Account of the Floweriufj Shrubs and Trees, which 
 now ornament the Shrubbery, the I'ark, and Rural Scenei in {general ; with Ob- 
 servations on the Formation of Ornamental Plantations, and Picturesque Scenery. 
 
 Bv HENHY PHILLIPS, F.H.S. 
 
 Author of the " History of Fruits known in Grkat Bhitaim," and the " Histort of 
 
 Cultivated Veoetablk»." 
 
 In 3 vols. Svo. Price \l. \s. Eds. 
 
 A GRAMMAR of BOTANY. 
 
 In Svo. with SI Plates, contaiuinfr ■ill Figures of Plants, &c.l9«. plain; or coloured 
 Impressions, I^IU. 6d. Bds. 
 By Sir J. E. SMITH, President of the Linnsan Society. 
 By the tame Author^ 
 An INTRODUCTION to the STUDY of PHYSIOLOGICAL and SYSTEMATICAL 
 BOTANY. In Svo. the Fourth Edition, with Fifteen Plates. U«. Boards; or co- 
 loured, W. 8«. 
 
 COMPENDIUM FLORAE BRITANNICiE. The Third Edition, corrected, and 
 continued to the End of the Third Volume of the Flora Britannic a, with all new- 
 discovered Plants from the Englisu Botany, and References to that Work 
 throughout. In limo. Price 'is. (id. Bds. 
 
 ELEMENTS of AGRICULTURAL CHEMISTRY, in a Course 
 
 of Lectures for the Board of Agriculture. A New Edition. Svo. with Engravings.. 
 16#. Bds. 
 
 By Sir HUMPHRY DAVY, Bart. F.R.S. M.B.A. 
 
 A TREATISE on the CULTURE and MANAGEMENT of 
 
 FRUIT TREES, in which a new Method of Pruning and Training is fully described. 
 Published by Order of Government. The 6th Edit. Price \Ss. Bds. 
 By WILLIAM FORSYTH, F.A.S.andF.S.A. &c. 
 
 CONVERSATIONS on BOTANY, Mith Twenty Engravings. 
 
 The Fourth Edit. In One VoJ. 19mo. Price 7«. 6d. plain, or 10«. 6d. coloured. 
 Tlie object of tliit Work i* to enible /oua^ pertoa* to acquire a knowleiigcof the vegetable pro- 
 diictiooit o( tbeir uative couutry. 
 
 A TREATISE on the CULTURE of the VINE; with new 
 
 Hints on the Formation of Vineyards in England. Also, a Treatise on the Cuworb 
 of the Pink-Apple, and the Management of the Hot-House. In 1 Vol. Svo. 3d 
 Edit, with Plates, Price 1S«. Bds. 
 
 By WILLIAM SPEECHLY. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The SAXON CHRONICLES, with an English Translation, and 
 
 Notes, Critical and Explanatory. 
 
 By the Rev. J. INGRAM, 
 Late Saxon Professor in the University of Oxford. 
 To which are added, 
 A New and Copious CHRONOLOGICAL, TOPOGRAPHICAL, and GLOSSARIAL 
 INDEX, with a short Grammar of the Saxon Language. 
 
 In 1 Vol. 4to. with an accurate and enlarged Map of England during the Hep- 
 tarchy, Plates of Coins, &c. Price 31. im. 6d. Bds. 
 A few large paper Copies may be had, price 61. 6$. Bds. 
 
 WINE and WALNUTS j or, after Dinner Chit-Chat. 
 
 By EPHRAIM HARDCASTLE, Citizen and Dry-salter. 
 In 2 Vols, foolscap Svo. Price Hi. Bds. 
 
 PROSE, by a Poet. 
 Content*.— Pen, Ink, and Paper; Moma; Old Women; Life of a Flower, by it- 
 self; Juvenile Delinquency; an Old English Year; the Moon and Stars, a Fable; 
 Common Place; a Six Miles Tour; a Tale without a Name; a Modest Confession; 
 the Acorn, an Apologue; a Dialogue of the Alphabet; n Scene not to be found in 
 any Play: Mutability; Extracts from my Journal at Scarborough; the Voyage of 
 the Blind ; an Apocryphal Chapter in the Hintory of England; a Forenoon at Har- 
 rogate; an African Valley; the La-tt Day ; Postscript. 
 
 lu i Vols, foolscap Svo. Price U$. Bds. 
 
12 Miscellaneous. 
 
 THE LINN^AN SYSTEM OF CONCHOLOGY, describing 
 
 the Orders, Genera, and Species of Shells, arranged into Divisions and Families : 
 with a View to facilitate the Student's Attainment of the Science. 
 
 By JOHN MAWE. 
 
 In 8vo. with 36 Plates, plain, and coloured Frontispiece. Price 11. It. or tlie whole 
 
 beautifully coloured, 2^ 12*. ed.Bds. 
 
 TheCHRlSTfAN ARMED ajrainst INFIDELITY ; for theDe- 
 
 fence of all Denominations of Believers. 
 
 By the Authors of "Body and Soul." 
 In 12mo. &». Boards. 
 
 BODY AND SOUL. Consisting of a Series of lively and pa- 
 thetic Stories, calculated to excite the Attention and Interest of the Religious 
 World. 
 
 The Third Edition, with Additions, in 2 Vols. 12mo. Price 18*. Bds. 
 
 " This Publication is undertaken as a Corrective of Fanaticism. Us Author is well-grounded ini 
 the conirovtrsies of the Day. anil his views of them are eminently correct. His Docirini' is that oi 
 the Church of England, and his mannei- such as thpsr wlio argue not to gain vic:or.v, but to produce 
 conviction, would do well to adopt."— British Critic for July, 1322, and August 1823. 
 
 TAXIDERMY, or a complete TREATI^^E on the Art of pre- 
 paring, mounting, and preserving every Object of l«...,iiral History for Museums* 
 A new Edition, 12mo. with Plates, 7*.6d. Bds. 
 
 CONVERSATIONS on CHEMISTRY, in which the Elementi 
 
 of that Science are familiarly explained and illustrated by Experiments. 
 The Eighth Edition, revised, and considerably improved, in 2 Vols. l2mo. with 
 Plates by Lowry. Price 14«. Bds. 
 
 CONVERSATIONS on NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, in whic 
 
 the Elements of that Science are familiarly explained, and adapted to the Com« 
 prehension of Young Pupils. Third Edition. In I2mo. Price !()«. 6d.Bds. 11 
 trated with 2-2 Engravings bv Lowrv. 
 
 By the Author of " CONVERSATIONS on CHEMISTRY." 
 
 CONVERSATIONS on POLITICAL ECONOMY; in which 
 
 the Elements of that Science are familiarly explained. The Fourth Edition, iin< 
 proved, in One large Vol. 12mo. Price 9«. Boards. 
 
 By the Author of " CONVERSATIONS on CHEMISTRY." | 
 
 The FAMILY SHAKSPEARK; in which nothing is added td 
 
 the Original Text: but those Words and Expressions are omitted which cannol 
 with Propriety be read aloud in a Family. The Third Edition, on a large Typei 
 inSVols. 8vo.4i. 14*. 6rf. 
 
 By THOMAS BOW^DLER, Esq. F.R.S. and S.A. 
 Also, in 10 Vo]«. royal 18mo. uLSa.Bds. 
 
 An INTRODUCTION to ENTOMOLOGY: or. Elements of th 
 
 Natural History of Insects. Illustrated by coloured Plates. Vol. I. 4th Edition, en^ 
 larged and improved, 18«.— Vol. If. 3d Edition, IS*. 
 
 By WILLIAM KIRBY, M.A. F.R. & L.S. and WILLIAM SPENCE, Esq. F.L.S. | 
 
 SYSTEMATIC EDUCATION; or, ELEMENTARY INSTRUC 
 
 TION in the various Departments of Literature and Science, with Practica 
 Rules for studying each Branch of Useful Knowledge. Third Edit. In 2 vols. 8vo 
 illustrated with Plates by Lowry, &c. Price II. 11*. 6^/. Bds. 
 By the Rev. W. SHEPHERD, the Rev. LANT CARPENTER, LL. D., and the 
 Rev. J. JOYCE. 
 
 PRINCIPLES of EDUCATION, Intellectual, Moral, and Phy^ 
 
 sical. In 8vo. Price I2s. Boards. 
 
 By the Rev. LANT CARPENTER, L.L.D. 
 
 An ESSAY on the INVENTIONS anl CUSTOMS of both 
 
 ANCIENTS and MODERNS in the Use of inebriating Liquors; interspersed with 
 interesting Anecdotes, illustrative of the Manners and Habits of the principal 
 Nations of the World. With an historical View of the Extent and Practice oi 
 Distillation, both as it relates to Commerce, and as a Source of National Incomes 
 comprising much curious Information, respecting the Application and Properties 
 of several Parts of the vegetable Kingdom. 
 
 By SAMUEL MOREWOOD, 
 
 Surveyor of Excise. 
 
 In 1 Volume 8vo. Price 12s. Bds. 
 
THE 
 
 BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
THE 
 
 BACHELOR'S WIFE; 
 
 A SELECTION OF 
 
 CURIOUS AND INTERESTING EXTRACTS, 
 
 CURSORY OBSERVATIONS. 
 
 By JOHN GALT, Esq. 
 
 *' What's in a name ? the rose 
 
 By any other name would smell as sweet.*' 
 
 EDINBURGH ; 
 
 PUHI.I^HKl) liY 
 
 OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT, 
 
 AND 
 
 O. & W. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON. 
 
 1824. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 The only apology which this work perhaps requires 
 is with regard to the title, for otherwise it belongs to 
 a class of publications, of which the value is so ob- 
 vious as to admit of no question. 
 
 As a compilation, it will be readily seen, that it 
 has been generally formed upon the principle of af- 
 fording specimens of the literature of different epochs, 
 not indeed methodically arranged, but so chosen as 
 to exhibit a more extensive view of the literary mind 
 of the country, historically considered, than has been 
 attempted in any previous selection of extracts. 
 
 The works of popular authors of the present time 
 have not been particularly resorted to, because Mr 
 M*Diarmid, by his tasteful and judicious selection 
 in " The Scrap Book," has rendered this inexpedient. 
 It was also thought, and the reader will not be back^ 
 ward in acknowledging the propriety of the opinion, 
 
 ^^HiJS^H 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 that there are many gems, both in prose and verse, 
 hidden in works, which, however much esteemed in 
 their day, have long since ceased to be generally ac- 
 cessible. To gather a few of these, and to bring 
 them again to light, was one of the objects which 
 the compiler proposed to himself in this undertaking; 
 hut it would have been inconsistent with the light and 
 cursory nature of his design, to have brought them 
 forward, either in any sort of chronological order, or 
 with any particular formality of disquisition. In fact, 
 the colloquies with which he has prefaced the extracts 
 were suggested by an after-thought, in order to give 
 an air of freshness to the results of a task that ne- 
 cessarily excluded originality. 
 
 To accomplish this, he has therefore not scrupled 
 to assume opinions, which he would hesitate, in many 
 instances, to acknowledge as his own, and also to 
 maintain paradoxes, calculated rather to excite re- 
 flection than to induce persuasion ; at the same time, 
 nothing will be found either in the one or the other, 
 to which any objection can be reasonably made. The 
 book has indeed been prepared for the parlour table, 
 and is likely to afford amusement, in the intervals 
 of business, to a class of readers who would never 
 
PREFACE. Vii 
 
 think of looking at many of the originals from which 
 the selections have been made. Every thing, accord- 
 ingly, doubtful in principle, or questionable in ten- 
 dency, has been carefully excluded ; and, although 
 it is in appearance a production of very humble pre- 
 tensions, it will perhaps be found more valuable than 
 some other publications, to which the public has been 
 so indulgent as to receive with favour. 
 
 February 20, 1824. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Chap. I. — Eloquence, * 
 
 II. — Calamities,.. ** 
 
 An Earthquake, * 20 
 
 A Volcano, 24 
 
 A Massacre, 82 
 
 III.— Manners, 82 
 
 Greek Manners, 33 
 
 African Manners, 38 
 
 IV'.— 'Dramatic Poetry, 44 
 
 v.— >Periodical Literature, 61 
 
 Popular Mythology, 67 
 
 VI.— Stray Essays, 78 
 
 On the Literary Character, 77 
 
 On Deformity,; 84 
 
 VII. — A singular Speech, 91 
 
 VIII.— Sir PhUip Sidney, 96 
 
 IX.— Sir Walter Raleigh, 98 
 
 Domestic Economy, 99 
 
 X.— Stray Poetry, 101 
 
 The Shipwreck, ib. 
 
 The Old Man's Reverie, 103 
 
 Elegy by a School-boy, 105 
 
 A Ballad on Old Age, 107 
 
 The Call of Morven, 109 
 
 The Swiss Beggar, ib. 
 
▼1 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Odeto Patriotism,. Ill 
 
 The Poet to his Works, 113 
 
 Chap. XI. — Miscellaneous Extracts, 114 
 
 Xll.—Witchcraft, 119 
 
 Initiation of a Witch, 121 
 
 XIII. — The Wandering Jew, 127 
 
 The Destruction of Jerusalem, 129 
 
 Arabian Antiquities, 134 
 
 Death of a Cynic, 136 
 
 ^t*W Authors, — 140 
 
 * The SibyUine Books, 142 
 
 The Last Day of the Romans, 144 
 
 XIV.— Neglected Poets, 147 
 
 To Lucasta, 148 
 
 To the Grasshopper, 149 
 
 To theRose, 150 
 
 Song, 152 
 
 XV.^The Excommunicant, 155 
 
 St Augustine, 157 
 
 XVI.— Sotheby's Saul, 162 
 
 XVII.— African Sketches, 168 
 
 XVIII.— Plague Poets, 172 
 
 XIX. — Grandeur of the Ancients, 176 
 
 Ancient Rome, » 177 
 
 Roman Palaces, 181 
 
 XX. — Steam-Engines, 185 
 
 XXL— Adventures,; 194 
 
 XXIL— Peter the Great, 204 
 
 XXIIL— The Philosophy of Kant, 207 
 
 XXIV.— The West Indies, 217 
 
 XXV.— Battie of the Titans, 221 
 
 XXVL— Southey's Roderick, 224 
 
 XXVII.— Rhymes of Idleness, 231 
 
 The Lawyer's Farewell to his Muse, ib. 
 
CONTENTS. Yll 
 
 Chap. XXVIII.— Liberty of the Press, 236 
 
 XXIX.— Character of Luther, 243 
 
 XXX.— A Mist otx the Shore,..; 250 
 
 XXXI. — German Genius, 255 
 
 XXXIL— FaUs of Niagara, 285 
 
 XXXIII.— Moscow, 292 
 
 Nobility,; 293 
 
 The City, 296 
 
 XXXIV.— High Mass in St Peter's, 209 
 
 XXXV.— Miss BaiUie's Songs, 303 ' 
 
 XXXVI.— Prince Eugene, 30T 
 
 XXXVII.— MUton's Cottage, 313 
 
 XXXVIII.— The Battle of Cressy, 317 
 
 XXXIX.— Shakspeare's Dramas, 321 
 
 XL. — Old English Manners, 328 
 
 Liulecote-House, ib. 
 
 The Squire's Daughter, 332 
 
 The Upstart of Elizabeth's Time, 333 
 
 A Squire of the Revolution, 334 
 
 A Squire of Queen Anne's Time, 336 
 
 Yeomen, 338 
 
 The Growth of Luxury, 339 
 
 The Clown, 342 
 
 XLI. — Scottish Scenery, 344 
 
 XLII. — Cycles of Literature, 350 
 
 XLIII. — Burger, the German Poet, 355 
 
 Lenora, 356 
 
 The Lass of Fair Wone, 366 
 
 XLIV. — Bishop Warburton and Dr Johnson, 373 
 
 XLV. — Descriptive Poetry, 397 
 
 XLVI. — Standard Novels and Romances, 416 
 
 XLVIL— The Fine Arts, 426 
 
 Conclusion, 443 
 
THE 
 
 BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
 Who found a more than commom votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth." 
 
 Of the perfections of bachelors' wives it is unneces- 
 sary to speak : they are so well known that no eulo- 
 gy, even from the ablest pen, could do them any de- 
 gree of justice. But the manner in which those sweet 
 intellectual creatures entertain their solitary husbands, 
 their conjugal conversations, and the manifold poeti- 
 cal graces and rational blandishments with which 
 they render their society so delightful and endearing, 
 are not generally known. We have therefore under- 
 taken the agreeable task of informing the world with 
 respect to topics so interesting, and we doubt not 
 that, before our labours are completed, we shall have 
 persuaded all our fair and gentle readers to emulate 
 the fascinating intelligence of the faultless, the ever- 
 placent, ever-pleasant companion, Egeria. 
 
CHAP. I. 
 
 ELOQUENCE. 
 
 One evening, soon after the marriage of our old 
 chum Benedict, during the honey-moon, as his dear 
 Egeria and he were sitting enjoying the beatitude of 
 his lonely chambers in the Paper buildings, the con- 
 versation happened to turn on public speaking, Be- 
 nedict being at the time ambitious to acquire distinc- 
 tion in that department, the lady, like a fond and 
 faithful Wife, did all in her power to encourage his 
 predilections for the art. 
 
 " It has often been urged," said she, " as an ob- 
 jection against the study of eloquence, that it is a 
 delusive art ; unnecessary when it is employed on the 
 side of truth and justice, which their own intrinsic 
 weight and evidence will always sufficiently recom- 
 mend ; and when found in opposition to them, as, 
 from the variety and imperfection of human charac- 
 ters must frequently be the case, highly dangerous 
 to society. In this objection, eloquence is considered 
 as an engine for swaying the minds of men, not only 
 independent of the moral character of the speaker, 
 but of the truth or falsehood of the propositions he 
 endeavours to inculcate ; and which may, with equal 
 facility, be employed to give a gloss to false opinions, 
 and to acts of treachery and injustice, as to enforce 
 truth, or to support virtue. According to this view of 
 the subject, there can be little doubt but that elo- 
 quence is an evil which ought to be banished from 
 
ELOQUENCE. 3 
 
 the writings and discourses of men ; for though the 
 advantages on both sides may seem equally balanced, 
 as eloquence may as frequently be an auxiliary to 
 truth as to error, yet truth and justice can much 
 better support the absence of extrinsic ornament than 
 falsehood and injustice, which never fail, when shewn 
 in their true colours, to excite aversion and detesta- 
 tion. 
 
 " It is, however, by no means clear that eloquence, 
 or at least that noble and commanding species of it 
 which we at present consider, is equally adapted to 
 all characters and to all causes and circumstances. 
 Eloquence, it would seem, depends, in a great mea- 
 sure, on the strength of the moral feelings ; and I 
 am strongly inclined to imagine that, wherever it 
 produces its highest effects, it produces them only 
 through the medium of those natural sentiments of 
 equity and public spirit common to all mankind, 
 which can seldom be excited but in a good cause. 
 No man becomes eloquent but by having his mind 
 roused and agitated by some ennobling sentiment or 
 passion, which he communicates by sympathy to his 
 hearers : but self-interest, however strongly it may 
 urge a man to the accomplishment of his designs, 
 wants power to excite that noble enthusiasm of mind 
 which is essential to true eloquence. Even suppos- 
 ing this enthusiasm excited in the speaker**s own 
 breast, by what means is it to be conveyed to the 
 minds of his audience ? It is only the generous and 
 social affections that are communicable by sympathy, 
 and which circulate with rapidity from breast to 
 breast ; interest, on the contrary, is a cold and soli- 
 tary feeling, which shrinks from the eye of public 
 
4 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 observation, and which every individual carefully 
 conceals within himself."" 
 
 " Your observations, my love," replied the Bache- 
 lor, " are exceedingly just as regards eloquence in 
 general. In this country, however, where it is not 
 used as an occasional engine, but is in fact one of the 
 manufacturing machines of our multiform commerce, 
 it is decidedly an art in which the power of persua^ 
 sion consists in something distinct, both from the 
 personal feelings and the personal character of the 
 orator. Eloquence among us is the art of reasoning ; 
 we attain nothing, either at the bar or in parliament, 
 by impassioned declamation, and scarcely more than 
 a shout even on the hustings.""' 
 
 " You would imply by that, Benedict,"" replied 
 the nymph, " that eloquence is not among us so emi- 
 nent a faculty as it was among the ancients."" 
 
 " It is so thought," said he. 
 
 " It is so said, I allow,"*"* interrupted Egeria ; " but 
 how far justly is another thing. I am however in- 
 clined to think, that as it enters so much more large- 
 ly into the management of public affairs in Eng- 
 land than in any other country, either ancient or mo- 
 dern, it ought to flourish here in greater perfection 
 than it ever did elsewhere."" 
 
 " But confessedly it does not,"*' said the Bachelor. 
 " We have had no orator to compare either with 
 Demosthenes or with Cicero ; and until we have 
 such, we must bow the head of homage to their ge- 
 nius, and acknowledge our inferiority."" 
 
 " I do not see the question in that light, my dear,"" 
 replied the nymph. " We have had, it is true, no 
 orators who exactly resemble them, but we have had 
 
ELOQUENCE. & 
 
 others, who, in their own line, were not less power- 
 ful. Besides, we have carried the art farther than 
 ever it was carried, either among the Greeks, or the 
 Romans, or any other people. In reply, the orators 
 of England have no masters. It is from that de- 
 partment of oratory that the evidence of our attain- 
 ments should be adduced. Can any thing be finer, 
 or, if you like the term better, more impassioned, 
 than that masterly reply of the Earl of Kildare to 
 Cardinal Wolsey, as it has been preserved by Cam- 
 pion, the historian of Ireland.? — It appeared that 
 the Earl of Kildare had been accused of treasonous 
 partialities during his administration as the king's 
 deputy in Ireland, for which he was summoned be- 
 fore the privy-council in England. On his appear- 
 ance there, Wolsey attacked him with great vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 " I know well, my lord/' exclaimed the cardinal, 
 " that I am not the fittest man at this table to accuse 
 you, because your adherents assert that I am an enemy 
 to all nobility, and particularly to your blood. But the 
 charges against you are so strong that we cannot over- 
 look them, and so clear that you cannot deny them. I 
 must therefore beg, notwithstanding the stale slander 
 against me, to be the mouth and orator of these honour- 
 able gentlemen, and to state the treasons of which you 
 stand accused, without respecting how you may like it. 
 My lord, you well remember how the Earl of Desmond, 
 your kinsman, sent emissaries with letters to Francis, 
 the French king, offering the aid of Munster and of 
 Connaught for the conquest of Ireland ; and, receiving 
 but a cold answer, applied to Charles, the emperor. 
 How many letters, what precepts, what messages, what 
 threats, have been sent to you to apprehend him, and it 
 
e THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 is not yet done. Why ? Because you could not catch 
 him ; nay, my lord, you would not, forsooth ! catch him. 
 If he be justly suspected, why are you so partial ? If 
 not, why are you so fearful to have him tried ? But it 
 will be sworn to your face, that, to avoid him you have 
 winked wilfully, shunned his haunts, altered your 
 course, advised his friends, and stopped both ears and 
 eyes in the business ; and that, when you did make a 
 show of hunting him out, he was always beforehand, 
 and gone. Surely, my lord, this juggling little became 
 an honest man called to such honour, or a nobleman 
 adorned with so great a trust. Had you lost but a cow 
 or a carrion of your own, two hundred retainers would 
 have started up at your whistle, to rescue the prey from 
 the farthest edge of Ulster. All the Irish in Ireland 
 must have made way for you. But, in performing your 
 duty in this affair, merciful God ! how delicate, how di- 
 latory, how dangerous, have you been ! One time he is 
 from home ; another time he is at home ; sometimes 
 fled, and sometimes in places where you dare not ven- 
 ture. What ! the Earl of Kildare not venture ! Nay, the 
 King of Kildare ; for you reign more than you govern 
 the land. When you are offended, the lowest subjects 
 stand as rebels ; when you are pleased, rebels are very 
 dutiful subjects. Hearts and hands, lives and lands, 
 must all be at your beck. Who fawns not to you can- 
 not live within your scent, and your scent is so keen 
 that you track them out at pleasure." 
 
 While the cardinal was thus speaking, the earl 
 frequently changed colour, and vainly endeavoured 
 to master himself. He affected to smile; but his 
 face was pale, his lips quivered, and his eyes light- 
 ened with rage. 
 
 " My lord chancellor \" he exclaimed fiercely ; " my 
 
ELOQUENCE. 7 
 
 lord chancellor, I beseech you, pardon me. I have but 
 a short memory, and you know that I have to tell a long 
 tale. If you proceed in this way I shall forget the half 
 of ray defence. I have no school-tricks, nor art of recol- 
 lection. Unless you hear me while I remember, your 
 second charge will hammer the first out of my head." 
 
 Several of the counsellors were friends of the earl ; 
 and knowing the acrimony of the cardinal's taunts, 
 which they were themselves often obliged to endure, 
 interfered, and entreated that the charges might be 
 discussed one by one. Wolsey assenting to this, 
 Kildare resumed. 
 
 " It is with good reason that your grace is the mouth 
 of this council ; but, my lord, the mouths that put this 
 tale into yours are very wide, and have gaped long for 
 my ruin. What my cousin Desmond has done I know 
 not ; beshrew him for holding out so long. If he be 
 taken in the traps that I have set for him, my adversa- 
 ries, by this heap of heinous charges, will only have 
 proved their own malice. But if he be never taken, 
 what is Kildare to blame more than Ossory, who, not- 
 withstanding his high promises, and having now the 
 king's power, you see, takes his own time to bring him 
 in ? Cannot the Earl of Desmond stir, but I must ad- 
 vise ? Cannot he be hid, but I must wink ? If he is 
 befriended, am I therefore a traitor ? It is truly a for- 
 midable accusation ! My first denial confounds my ac- 
 cusers. Who made them so familiar with my sight ? 
 When was the earl in my view ? Who stood by when 
 I let him slip ? But, say they, I sent him word. Who 
 was the messenger ? Where are the letters ? Confute 
 my denial. 
 
 " Only see, my lord, how loosely this idle gear of 
 theirs hangs together ! Desmond is not taken. Well ! 
 
8 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Kildare is in fault. Why ? Because he is. Who proves 
 it > Nobody. But it is thought ; it is said. By whom ? 
 His enemies. Who informed them ? They will swear 
 it. Will they swear it, my lord ? Why, then they must 
 know it. Either they have my letters to show, or can 
 produce my messengers, or were present at a confer- 
 ence, or were concerned with Desmond, or somebody 
 betrayed the secret to them, or they were themselves 
 my vicegerents in the business : which of these points 
 will they choose to maintain ? I know them too well to 
 reckon myself convicted by their assertions, hearsays, 
 or any oaths which they may swear. My letters could 
 soon be read, were any such things extant. My ser- 
 vants and friends are ready to be sifted. Of my cousin 
 Desmond they may lie loudly ; for no man here can 
 contradict them. But as to myself, I never saw in 
 them integrity enough to make me stake on their si- 
 lence the life of a hound, far less my own. I doubt 
 not, if your honours examine them apart, you will 
 find that they are the tools of others, suborned to say, 
 6wear, and state any thing but truth ; and that their 
 tongues are chained, as it were, to some patron's 
 trencher. I am grieved, my lord cardinal, that your 
 grace, whom I take to be passing wise and sharp, and 
 who, of your own blessed disposition, wishes me so 
 well, should be so far gone in crediting these corrupt 
 informers that abuse your ignorance of Ireland. Little 
 know you, my lord, how necessary it is, not only for 
 the governor, but also for every nobleman in that coun- 
 try, to hamper his uncivil neighbours at discretion. 
 Were we to wait for processes of law, and had not those 
 hearts and hands, of which you speak, we should soon 
 lose both lives and lands. You hear of our case as in a 
 dream, and feel not the smart of suffering that we endure. 
 In England, there is not a subject that dare extend his 
 arm to fillip a peer of the realm. In Ireland, unless 
 
ELOQUENCE. 9 
 
 the lord have ability to his power, and power to protect 
 himself, with sufficient authority to take thieves and 
 varlets whenever they stir, he will find them swarm so 
 fast, that it will soon be too late to call for justice. If 
 you will have our service to effect, you must not bind 
 us always to judicial proceedings, such as you are bless- 
 ed with here in England. As to my kingdom, my lord 
 cardinal, I know not what you mean. If your grace 
 thinks that a kingdom consists in serving God, in obey- 
 ing the king, in governing the commonwealth with love, 
 in sheltering the subjects, in suppressing rebels, in exe- 
 cuting justice, and in bridling factions, I would gladly 
 be invested with so virtuous and royal a state. But if 
 you only call me king, because you are persuaded that 
 I repine at the government of my sovereign, wink at 
 malefactors, and oppress well-doers, I utterly disclaim 
 the odious epithet, surprised that your grace should 
 appropriate so sacred a name to conduct so wicked. — 
 But however this may be, I would you and I, my lord, 
 exchanged kingdoms for one month. I would in that 
 time undertake to gather more crumbs than twice the 
 revenues of my poor earldom. You are safe and warm, 
 my lord cardinal, and should not upbraid me. While 
 you sleep in your bed of down, I lie in a hovel ; while 
 you are served under a canopy, I serve under the cope 
 of heaven ; while you drink wine from golden cups, I 
 must be content with water from a shell ; my charger 
 is trained for the field, your gennet is taught to amble ; 
 and while you are be-lorded and be-graced, and crouch- 
 ed and knelt to, I get little reverence, but when I cut 
 the rebels off by the knees." 
 
 " It is not in reply alone,'^ resumed Egeria, " that 
 the British orators have surpassed the Greek and 
 Roman ; among us another species of eloquence has 
 been cultivated with equal success. It belongs to a 
 
10 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 class which may be called descriptive oratory, but it 
 comprehends higher qualities than those of descrip- 
 tion; its effects are similar to the impressions of 
 argument, but it does not apparently employ any 
 form of ratiocination ; appealing to knowledge pre- 
 viously existing in the minds of the auditors, it 
 works out its object and intent, by placing facts 
 together in such a manner as to produce all the 
 force of argument combined with the interest which 
 lively description never fails to awaken. You will 
 find a very splendid specimen of this species of ora- 
 tory, which might, I think, be described as the stat- 
 mentative (if we may coin such a term,) in Mr 
 Burke's speech on Mr Fox's East India Bill, 1st 
 December 1783. 
 
 *' Now, sir, according to the plan I proposed, I shall 
 take notice of the Company's internal government, as 
 it is exercised first on the dependent provinces, and 
 then as it affects those under the direct and immediate 
 authority of that body. And here, sir, before I enter 
 into the spirit of their interior government, permit me 
 to observe to you, upon a few of the many lines of dif- 
 ference which are to be found between the vices of the 
 Company's government, and those of the conquerors 
 who preceded us in India, that we may be enabled a 
 little the better to see our way in an attempt to the 
 necessary reformation. 
 
 " The several irruptions of Arabs, Tartars, and Persians, 
 into India were, for the greater part, ferocious, bloody, 
 and wasteful in the extreme ; our entrance into the do- 
 minion of that country was, as generally, with small 
 comparative effusion of blood ; being introduced by va- 
 rious frauds and delusions, and by taking advantage of 
 the incurable, blind, and senseless animosity, which the 
 
ELOQUENCE. 11 
 
 several country powers bear towards each other, rather 
 than by open force. But the difference in favour of the 
 first conquerors is this: the Asiatic conquerors very soon 
 abated of their ferocity, because they made the conquer- 
 ed country their own. Tliey rose or fell with the rise 
 or fall of the territory they lived in. Fathers there de- 
 posited the hopes of their posterity ; and children there 
 beheld the monuments of their fathers. Here their lot 
 was finally cast ; and it is the natural wish of all, that 
 their lot should not be cast in a bad land. Poverty, 
 sterility, and desolation, are not a recreating prospect to 
 the eye of man ; and there are very few who can bear 
 to grow old among the curses of a whole people. If 
 their passion or their avarice drove the Tartar lords to 
 acts of rapacity or tyranny, there was time enough, even 
 in the short life of man, to bring round the ill effects of 
 an abuse of power upon the power itself. If hoards 
 were made by violence and tyranny, they were still do- 
 mestic hoards, and domestic profusion, or the rapine of 
 a more powerful and prodigal hand, restored them to 
 the people. With many disorders, and with few political 
 checks upon power, nature had still fair play; the 
 sources of acquisition were not dried up ; and therefore 
 the trade, the manufactures, and the commerce of the 
 country flourished. Even avarice and usury itself ope- 
 rated, both for the preservation and the employment of 
 national wealth. The husbandman and manufacturer 
 paid heavy interest, but then they augmented the fund 
 from whence they were again to borrow. Their re- 
 sources were dearly bought, but they were sure ; and 
 the general stock of the community grew by the general 
 effort. 
 
 " But under the English government all this order is 
 reversed. The Tartar invasion was mischievous; but it 
 is our protection that destroys India. It was their en- 
 mity, but it is our friendship. Our conquest there. 
 
12 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 after twenty years^ is as crude as it was the first day. 
 The natives scarcely know what it is to see the grey 
 head of an Englishman. Young men (boys almost) 
 govern there^, without society, and without sympathy 
 with the natives. They have no more social habits 
 with the people than if they still resided in England ; 
 nor indeed any species of intercourse but that which is 
 necessary to making a sudden fortune, with a view to a 
 remote settlement. Animated with all the avarice of 
 age, and all the impetuosity of youth, they roll in one 
 after another ; wave after wave ; and there is nothing 
 before the eyes of the natives but an endless, hopeless 
 prospect of new flights of birds of prey and passage, 
 with appetites continually renewing for a food that is 
 continually wasting. Every rupee of profit made by an 
 Englishman is lost for ever to India. With us are no 
 retributory superstitions, by which a foundation of 
 charity compensates, through ages, to the poor, for the 
 rapine and injustice of a day. With us no pride erects 
 stately monuments which repair the mischiefs which 
 pride had produced, and which adorn a country out of 
 its own spoils. England has erected no churches, no 
 hospitals, no palaces, no schools ; England has built 
 no bridges, made no high roads, cut no navigations, 
 dug out no reservoirs. Every other conqueror of every 
 other description has left some monument, either of 
 state or beneficence, behind him. Were we to be driven 
 out of India this day, nothing would remain to tell that 
 it had been possessed, during the inglorious period of 
 our dominion, by any thing better than the ouran-out- 
 ang or the tiger. 
 
 " There is nothing in the boys we send to India worse 
 than in the boys whom we are whipping at school, or that 
 we see trailing a pike, or bending over a desk at home. 
 But as English youth in India drink the intoxicating 
 draught of authority and dominion before their heads 
 
ELOQUENCE. 13 
 
 are able to bear it, and as they are full-grown in fortune 
 long before they are ripe in principle, neither nature 
 nor reason have any opportunity to exert themselves 
 for remedy of the excesses of their premature power. 
 The consequences of their conduct, which in good 
 minds (and many of theirs are probably such) might 
 produce penitence or amendment, are unable to pur- 
 sue the rapidity of their flight. Their prey is lodged in 
 England ; and the cries of India are given to seas and 
 winds, to be blown about in every breaking uj) of the 
 monsoon, over a remote and unhearing ocean. 
 
 " In India all the vices operate by which sudden for- 
 tune is acquired ; in England are often displayed by 
 the same persons the virtues which dispense hereditary 
 wealth. Arrived in England, the destroyers of the no- 
 bility and gentry of a whole kingdom will find the best 
 company in this nation, at a board of elegance and hos- 
 pitality. Here the manufacturer and husbandman will 
 bless the just and punctual hand that in India has torn 
 the cloth from the loom, or wrested the scanty portion 
 of rice and salt from the peasant of Bengal, or wrung 
 from him the very opium in which he forgot his oppres- 
 sions and his oppressor. They marry into your families ; 
 they enter into your senate ; they ease your estates by 
 loans ; they raise their value by demand ; they cherish 
 and protect your relations which lie heavy on your pa- 
 tronage ; and there is scarcely a house in the kingdom 
 that does not feel some concern and interest that makes 
 all reform of our eastern government appear officious 
 and disgusting; and, on the whole, a most discouraging 
 attempt. In such an attempt you hurt those who are 
 able to return kindness or to resent injury. If you 
 succeed, you save those who cannot so much as give 
 you thanks." 
 
 *' But/' said Egcria, " perhaps you will say that 
 
14 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 this kind of eloquence belongs almost exclusively to 
 the style of Mr Burke, and I will not dispute the 
 point with you. I acknowledge, that he seems to 
 have been in it the greatest master, as he was of all 
 modern orators, nay, I will assert of all orators 
 whatsoever, the most magnificent in phraseology. 
 His diction wants the round and rolling cadence of 
 Cicero''s, and in argument he was far inferior in 
 clearness, closeness, and vehemence to Demosthenes, 
 but neither the Greek nor the Roman have excelled 
 him in his own particular style. The desolation of 
 the Carnatic by Hyder Ali, as described in his 
 speech of February 28th 1785, on the Nabob of 
 Arcofs debts, is not surpassed by any description in 
 poetry."" 
 
 " Let me hear it,**' said the Bachelor, and his airy- 
 handed lady took down the volume and read — 
 
 " The great fortunes made in India in the beginnings 
 of conquest, naturally excited an emulation in all the 
 parts, and through the whole succession of the Com- 
 pany's service. But in the Company it gave rise to 
 other sentiments. They did not find the new channels 
 of acquisition flow with equal riches to them. On the 
 contrary, the high flood-tide of private emolument was 
 generally in the lowest ebb of their affairs. They began 
 also to fear, that the fortune of war might take away 
 what the fortune of war had given. Wars were accord- 
 ingly discouraged by repeated injunctions and menaces ; 
 and that the servants might not be bribed into them by 
 the native princes, they were strictly forbidden to take 
 any money whatsoever from their hands. But vehe- 
 ment passion is ingenious in resources. The Company's 
 servants were not only stimulated, but better instructed 
 
ELOQUENCE. 15 
 
 by the prohibition. They «oon fell upon a contrivance 
 which answered their purposes far better than the me- 
 thods which were forbidden ; though in this also they 
 violated an ancient, but, they thought, an abrogated or- 
 der. They reversed their proceedings. Instead of re- 
 ceiving presents, they made loans. Instead of carrying 
 on wars in their own name, they contrived an authority, 
 at once irresistible and irresponsible, in whose name they 
 might ravage at pleasure, and being thus freed from all 
 restraint, they indulged themselves in the most extra- 
 vagant speculations of plunder. The cabal of creditors 
 who have been the object of the late bountiful grant 
 from his Majesty's ministers, in order to possess them- 
 selves, under the name of creditors and assignees, of 
 every country in India, as fast as it should be conquer- 
 ed, inspired into the mind of the nabob of Arcot, (then 
 a dependant on the Company of the humblest order,) a 
 scheme of the most wild and desperate ambition that I 
 believe ever was admitted into the thoughts of a man so 
 situated. First, they persuaded him to consider himself 
 as a principal member in the political system of Europe. 
 In the next place, they held out to him, and he readily 
 imbibed, the idea of the general empire of Indostan. 
 As a preliminary to this undertaking, they prevailed on 
 him to propose a tripartite division of that vast country. 
 One part to the Company ; another to the Mahrattas ; 
 and the third to himself. To himself he reserved all 
 the southern part of the great peninsula, comprehend- 
 ed under the general name of the Decan. 
 
 " On this scheme of their servants, the Company was 
 to appear in the Carnatic in no other light than as a con- 
 tractor for the provision of armies and the hire of merce- 
 naries for his use, and under his direction. This dis- 
 position was to be secured by the nabob's putting him- 
 self under the guarantee of France, and by the means 
 of that rival nation preventing the English for ever 
 
16 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 from assuming an equality, much less a superiority, in 
 the Carnatic. In pursuance of this treasonable project, 
 treasonable on the part of the English, they extin- 
 guished the Company as a sovereign power in that part 
 of India; they withdrew the Company's garrisons out 
 of all the forts and strong-holds of the Carnatic ; they 
 declined to receive the ambassadors from foreign courts, 
 and remitted them to the nabob of Arcot; they fell 
 upon and totally destroyed the oldest ally of the Com- 
 pany, the king of Tanjore, and plundered the country 
 to the amount of near five millions sterling ; one after 
 another, in the nabob's name, but with English force, 
 they brought into a miserable servitude all the princes 
 and great independent nobility of a vast country. In 
 proportion to these treasons and violences, which ruined 
 the people, the fund of the nabob's debt grew and flou- 
 rished. 
 
 " Among the victims to this magnificent plan of uni- 
 versal plunder, worthy of the heroic avarice of the pro- 
 jectors, you have all heard (and he has made himself to 
 be well remembered) of an Indian chief called Hyder 
 Ali Khan. This man possessed the western, as the Com- 
 pany, under the name of the nabob of Arcot, does the 
 eastern division of the Carnatic. It was among the 
 leading measures in the design of this cabal (according 
 to their own emphatic language) to extirpate this Hyder 
 Ali. They declared the nabob of Arcot to be his sove- 
 reign, and himself to be a rebel, and publicly invested 
 their instrument with the sovereignty of the kingdom of 
 Mysore. But their victim was not of the passive kind. 
 They were soon obliged to conclude a treaty of peace 
 and close alliance w ith this rebel at the gates of Madras. 
 Both before and since this treaty, every principle of 
 policy pointed out this power as a natural alliance ; and 
 on his part it was courted by every sort of amicable 
 office. But the cabinet council of English creditors 
 
 1 
 
ELOQUENCE. 17 
 
 would not suffer their nabob of Arcot to sign the treaty, 
 nor even to give to a prince, at least his equal, the ordi- 
 nary titles of respect and courtesy. From that time 
 forward a continued plot was carried on within the 
 divan, black and white, of the nabob of Arcot, for the 
 destruction of Hyder Ali. As to the outward members 
 of the double, or rather treble, government of Madras, 
 which had signed the treaty, they were always pre- 
 vented by some overruling influence (which they do 
 not describe, but which cannot be misunderstood,) from 
 performing what justice and interest combined so evi- 
 dently to enforce. 
 
 " When at length Hyder AH found that he had to do 
 with men who either would sign no convention, or whom 
 no treaty and no signature could bind, and who were 
 the determined enemies of human intercourse itself, he 
 decreed to make the country possessed by these incor- 
 rigible and predestinated criminals a memorable ex- 
 ample to mankind. He resolved, in the gloomy recesses 
 of a mind capacious of such things, to leave the whole 
 Carnatic an everlasting monument of vengeance, and to 
 put perpetual desolation as a barrier between him and 
 those against whom the faith which holds the moral 
 elements of the world together was no protection. He 
 became at length so confident of his force, so collected 
 in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his 
 dreadful resolution. 
 
 " Having terminated his disputes with every enemy 
 and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in 
 their common detestation against the creditors of the 
 nabob of Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever 
 a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the 
 arts of destruction ; and compounding all the materials 
 of fury, havock, and desolation, into one black cloud, 
 he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains. 
 Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stu- 
 
 B 
 
18 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 pidly gazing on this menacing meteor, which blackened 
 all their horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down 
 the whole of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatic. 
 Then ensued a scene of woe, the like of which no eye 
 had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can 
 adequately tell. All the horrors of war, before known 
 or heard of, were mercy to that new havock. A storm 
 of universal fire blasted every field, consumed every 
 house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabit- 
 ants, flying from their flaming villages, in part were 
 slaughtered ; others, without regard to sex, to age, to 
 the respect of rank or sacredness of function, fathers 
 torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in 
 a whirlwind of cavalry, and amidst the goading spears 
 of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses, were 
 swept into captivity in an unknown and hostile land. 
 Those who were able to evade this tempest fled to the 
 walled cities. But escaping from fire, sword, and exile, 
 they fell into the jaws of famine, 
 
 " The alms of the settlement, in this dreadful exi- 
 gency, were certainly liberal, and all was done by cha- 
 rity that private charity could do ; but it was a people 
 in beggary; it was a nation which stretched out the 
 hands for food. For months together these creatures of 
 sufferance, whose very excess and luxury, in their most 
 plenteous days, had fallen short of the allowance of our 
 austerest fasts, silent, patient, resigned, without sedition 
 or disturbance, almost without complaint, perished by 
 an hundred a-day in the streets of Madras ; every day 
 seventy at least laid their bodies in the streets, or on the 
 glacis of Tanjore, and expired of famine in the granary 
 of India. I was going to awake your justice towards 
 this unhappy part of our fellow-citizens, by bringing 
 before you some of the circumstances of this plague of 
 hunger. Of all the calamities which beset and waylay 
 the life of maft, this comes the nearest to our heart, and 
 
CALAMITIES. 19 
 
 is that wherein the proudest of us all feels himself to be 
 nothing more than he is : but I find myself unable to 
 manage it with decorum ; these details are of a species 
 of horror so nauseous and disgusting ; they are so de- 
 grading to the sufferers and to the hearers ; they are so 
 humiliating to human nature itself, that, on better 
 thoughts, I find it more advisable to throw a pall over 
 this hideous object, and to leave it to your general con- 
 ceptions." 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 CALAMITIES. 
 
 " It is very strange,**' said the Bachelor, " when 
 Egeria had laid down the book, that we should en- 
 joy so much pleasure from the description of ca- 
 lamities.'' 
 
 " It argues," said the nymph, " nothing very fa- 
 vourable to the benevolence of the human heart." 
 
 " Yes ; it is a proof of the malice of our nature, 
 that we should find delight in hearing of the suffer- 
 ings of our fellow-creatures," replied the Bachelor. 
 
 " I did not make the remark with any reference 
 to so general a sentiment," said Egeria ; — " but, now 
 that you call my attention to it so particularly, I 
 must own that it does look as if we had a latent pen- 
 chant to be pleased with evil. May not, however, our 
 pleasure in perusing descriptions of sorrows and ca- 
 lamities arise from the degree of excitement which 
 they produce on our sympathetic feelings ? Be the 
 
20 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 source of our enjoyment, however, in the good or 
 the bad properties of our own heart, there is no dis- 
 puting the fact, that we do receive great pleasure 
 from well-drawn pictures, whether they be with 
 words or with colours, of those scenes in which the 
 nothingness of man, as an object of the care of Pro- 
 vidence, is most strikingly delineated. This morning 
 for example, in turning over the leaves of De Hum- 
 boldt's Travels, I felt myself very pleasingly interested 
 by his vigorous description of the catastrophe which 
 befell the city of Caraccas. I shall read it to you." 
 
 AN EARTHQUAKE. 
 " A great drought prevailed at this period in the pro- 
 vince of Venezuela. Not a single drop of rain had fallen 
 at Caraccas, or in the country ninety leagues round, 
 during the five months which preceded the destruction 
 of the capital. The 26th of March was a remarkably 
 hot day. The air was calm and the sky unclouded. It 
 was Holy Thursday, and a great part of the population 
 was assembled in the churches. Nothing seemed to pre- 
 sage the calamities of the day. At seven minutes after 
 four in the afternoon the first shock was felt ; it was suf- 
 ficiently powerful to make the bells of the churches toll; 
 it lasted five or six seconds, during which time the 
 ground was in a continual undulating movement, and 
 seemed to heave up like a boiling liquid. The danger 
 was thought to be past, when a tremendous subterrane- 
 ous noise was heard, resembling the rolling of thunder, 
 but louder, and of longer continuance, than that heard 
 within the tropics in time of storms. This noise preced- 
 ed a perpendicular motion of three or four seconds, fol- 
 lowed by an undulatory movement somewhat longer. 
 The shocks were in opposite directions, from north to 
 
CALAMITIES. 21 
 
 souths and from east to west. Nothing could resist the 
 movement from beneath upward, and undulations cross- 
 ing each other. The town of Caraccas was entirely 
 overthrown. Thousands of the inhabitants (between 
 nine and ten thousand) were buried under the ruins of 
 the houses and churches. The procession had not yet 
 set out ; but the crowd was so great in the churches, 
 that nearly three or four thousand persons were crushed 
 by the fall of their vaulted roofs. The explosion was 
 stronger toward the north, in that part of the town si- 
 tuated nearest the mountain of Avila, and the Silla. The 
 churches of La Trinidad, and Alta Gracia, which were 
 more than one hundred and fifty feet high, and the naves 
 of which were supported by pillars of twelve or fifteen 
 feet diameter, left a mass of ruins scarcely exceeding five 
 or six feet in elevation. The sinking of the ruins has 
 been so considerable, that there now scarcely remain 
 any vestiges of pillars or columns. The barracks, called 
 El Quartel de San Carlos, situate farther north of the 
 church of the Trinity, on the road from the custom- 
 house de la Pastora, almost entirely disappeared. A 
 regiment of troops of the line, that was assembled under 
 arms, ready to join the procession, was, with the excep- 
 tion of a few men, buried under the ruins of this great 
 edifice. Nine-tenths of the fine town of Caraccas were 
 entirely destroyed. The walls of the houses that were 
 not thrown down, as those of the street San Juan, near 
 the Capuchin Hospital, were cracked in such a manner 
 that it was impossible to run the risk of inhabiting them. 
 The effects of the earthquake were somewhat less violent 
 in the western and southern parts of the city, between 
 the principal square and the ravin of Caraguata. There 
 the cathedral, supported by enormous buttresses, re- 
 mains standing. 
 
 " Estimating at nine or ten thousand the number of 
 the dead in the city of Caraccas, we do not include those 
 
22 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 unhappy persons, who, dangerously wounded, perished 
 several months after for want of food and proper care. 
 The night of Holy Thursday presented the most distress- 
 ing scene of desolation and sorrow. That thick cloud 
 of dust, which, rising above the ruins, darkened the sky 
 like a fog, had settled on the ground. No shock was 
 felt, and never was a night more calm or more serene. 
 The moon, nearly full, illumined the rounded domes of 
 the Silla, and the aspect of the sky formed a perfect 
 contrast to that of the earth, covered with the dead and 
 heaped with ruins. Mothers were seen bearing in their 
 arms their children, whom they hoped to recall to life. 
 Desolate families wandered through the city seeking a 
 brother, a husband, a friend, of whose fate they were 
 ignorant, and whom they believed to be lost in the 
 crowd. The people pressed along the streets, which 
 could no more be recognised but by long lines of ruins. 
 " All the Calamities experienced in the great catastro- 
 phes of Lisbon, Messina, Lima, and Riobamba, were re- 
 newed on the fatal day of the 26th of March 1812. The 
 wounded, buried under the ruins, implored by their cries 
 the help of the passers-by, and nearly two thousand were 
 dug out. Never was pity displayed in a more affecting 
 manner ; never had it been seen more ingeniously ac- 
 tive, than in the efforts employed to save the miserable 
 victims, whose groans reached the ear. Implements 
 for digging and clearing away the ruins were entirely 
 wanting ; and the people were obliged to use their bare 
 hands to disinter the living. The wounded, as well as 
 the sick who had escaped from the hospitals, were laid 
 on the banks of the small river Guayra. They found 
 no shelter but the foliage of trees. Beds, linen to dress 
 the wounds, instruments of surgery, medicines, and ob- 
 jects of the most urgent necessity, were buried under 
 the ruins. Every thing, even food, was wanting dur- 
 ing the first days. Water became alike scarce in the 
 
CALAMITIES. 23 
 
 interior of the city. The commotion had rent the pipes 
 of the fountains ; the falling in of the earth had choak- 
 ed up the springs that supplied them ; and it became 
 necessary, in order to have water, to go down to the 
 river Guayra, which was considerably swelled ; and 
 then vessels to convey the water were wanting. 
 
 " There remained a duty to be fulfilled toward the 
 dead, enjoined at once by piety and the dread of in- 
 fection. It being impossible to inter so many thousand 
 corpses, half-buried under the ruins, commissaries were 
 appointed to burn the bodies; and for this purpose 
 funeral piles were erected between the heaps of ruins. 
 This ceremony lasted several days. Amid so many 
 public calamities, the people devoted themselves to 
 those religious duties, which they thought were the 
 most fitted to appease the wrath of Heaven. Some, 
 assembling in processions, sang funeral hymns ; others, 
 in a state of distraction, confessed themselves aloud in 
 the streets. In this town was now repeated, what had 
 been remarked in the province of Quito after the tre- 
 mendous earthquake of 1797; — a number of marriages 
 were contracted, between persons who had neglected 
 for many years to sanction their union by the sacerdotal 
 benediction ; children found parents, by whom they 
 had never till then been acknowledged; restitutions 
 were promised by persons who had never been accused 
 of fraud ; and families, who had long been enemies, 
 were drawn together by the tie of common calamity." 
 
 " Doubtless,*" said the Bachelor, " in that descrip- 
 tion of De Humboldt many things give us pleasure 
 which reasonably ought not to do so ; but does it not 
 arise from the satisfaction that we derive from the 
 contemplation of the vast power exerted to produce 
 such appalling effects ?^ 
 
 " Yes,"" replied Egeria, " I think you are 
 
24 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 right. Man is naturally a power-worshipping crea- 
 ture, and he enjoys the very highest degree of de- 
 light from the contemplation of power in action, 
 where neither danger nor suffering is visible. Dr 
 Clarke's description of the eruptions of Mount Ve- 
 suvius, in the year 179B, is an instance of this. The 
 passage is vigorously and even sublimely written. 
 In so far, from the power displayed by the au- 
 thor, it necessarily affords pleasure ; but the main 
 source of enjoyment unquestionably arises from the 
 vastness of the power of the element that causes the 
 phenomenon described.'*'' 
 
 A VOLCANO. 
 " Upon proceeding up the cone of Vesuvius, the party 
 found the crater at the summit, in a very active state, 
 throwing out volleys of immense stones translucent with 
 vitrification, and such heavy showers of ashes, involved 
 in dense sulphureous clouds, as to render any approach 
 to it extremely dangerous. The party ascended, how- 
 ever, as near to the summit as possible ; then crossing 
 over to the side whence the lava was issuing, they 
 reached the bed of the torrent, and attempted to ascend 
 by the side of it to its source. This they soon found to 
 be impossible, owing to an unfortunate change of wind ; 
 in consequence of which, all the smoke of the lava came 
 hot upon them, accompanied at the same time with so 
 thick a mist of minute ashes from the crater, and such 
 suffocating fumes of sulphur, that they knew not what 
 course to steer. In this perplexity, the author called to 
 mind an expedient recommended by Sir William Hamil- 
 ton upon a former occasion, and proposed crossing im- 
 mediately the current of the flowing lava, with a view 
 to gain its windward side. All his companions were 
 against this measure, owing to the very liquid appear- 
 
CALAMITIES. 25 
 
 ance the lava then had so near its source ; but while 
 they stood deliberating what was to be done, immense 
 fragments of rocks that had been ejected from the cra- 
 ter, and huge volcanic bombs, which the smoke had 
 prevented their observing, fell thick among them ; vast 
 masses of slag and of other matter, rolling upon their 
 edges like enormous wheels, passed Ji)y them with a 
 force and velocity sufficient to crush every one of the 
 party to atoms, if directed to the spot where they all 
 stood huddled together. There was not a moment to 
 be lost ; the author, therefore, covering his face with 
 his hat, descended the high bank beneath which the 
 lava ran, and rushing upon the surface of the melted 
 matter, reached the opposite side, having only his boots 
 burned, and his hands somewhat scorched. Here he 
 saw clearly the whole of the danger to which liis friends 
 were exposed : the noise was such as almost prevented 
 his being heard; but he endeavoured, by calling and 
 by gestures, to persuade them to follow. Vast rocks of 
 indurated lava from the crater were bounding by them, 
 and others falling, that would have overwhelmed a cit- 
 adel. Not one of the party would stir ; not even the 
 guides accustomed for hire to conduct persons over the 
 mountain. At last he had the satisfaction to see them 
 descend, and endeavour to cross the torrent somewhat 
 lower down, where the lava from its redness appeared 
 to be less liquid, and where the stream was narrower. 
 In fact, the narrowness of the stream deceived them : 
 the current had divided into two branches ; in the midst 
 of which was an island, if such it might be called, sur- 
 rounded by liquid fire. They crossed over the first 
 stream in safety ; but being a good deal scorched upon 
 the island, they attempted the passage of the second 
 branch ; in doing which, one of the guides, laden with 
 torches and other things, fell down and was terribly 
 burned. 
 
26 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " Being now all on the windward side, they conti- 
 nued their ascent ; the bellowings, belchings, and ex-, 
 plosions, as of cannon, evidently not from the crater, 
 (which sent forth one uniform roaring and deafening 
 noise) convinced them they were now not far from the 
 source. The lava appeared whiter and whiter as they 
 advanced, owing to its intense heat ; and in about half 
 an hour they reached the chasm through which the 
 melted matter had opened itself a passage. It was a 
 narrow fissure in the solid lava of the cone. The sides,, 
 smooth, compact, and destitute of that porous appear- 
 ance which the superficies of lava exhibits when it is 
 cooled under exposure to atmospheric air, resembled 
 the most solid trap or basalt. To describe the rest of 
 the spectacle here displayed is utterly beyond all human 
 ability ; the author can only appeal to those who partici- 
 pated the astonishment he felt upon that occasion, and to 
 the sensations which they experienced in common with 
 him, the remembrance of which can only be obliterated 
 with their lives. All he had previously seen of volcanic 
 phenomena, had not prepared him for what he then be- 
 held. He had often witnessed the rivers of lava, after 
 their descent into the valley between Somma and Vesu- 
 vius; they resembled moving heaps of scorias falling 
 over one another with a rattling noise, which, in their 
 further progress, carried ruin and devastation into the 
 plains. But from the centre of this arched chasm, and 
 along a channel cut finer than art can imitate, beamed 
 the most intense light, radiating with such ineffable 
 lustre, that the eye could only contemplate it for one 
 instant, and by successive glances. — ^While, issuing with 
 the velocity of a flood, and accompanied with a rushing 
 wind, this light itself, in milder splendour, seemed to 
 melt away into a translucent and vivid stream, exhibit- 
 ing matter in the most perfect fusion, running like 
 liquid silver down the side of the mountain. In its 
 
CALAMITIES. 27 
 
 progress downwards, and as soon as the air began to 
 act upon it, the superficies lost its whiteness ; becoming 
 first red, and afterwards of a darker hue, until, lower 
 down, black scoriae began to form upon its surface. 
 Above the arched chasm, there was a natural chimney, 
 about four feet in height, throwing up occasionally 
 stones, attended with detonations. The author ap- 
 proached near enough to this aperture to gather from 
 the lips of it some incrustations of pure sulphur, the 
 fumes of wliich were so suffocating, that it was with dif- 
 ficulty and only at intervals a sight could be obtained 
 of what was passing below. It was evident, however, 
 that the current of lava, with the same indescribable 
 splendour, was flowing rapidly at the bottom of this 
 chimney towards the mouth of the chasm ; and, had 
 it not been for this vent, it is probable the party now 
 mentioned could never have been able to approach so 
 nearly as they had done to the source of the lava. The 
 eruptions from the crater increased with such violence, 
 that it was necessary to use all possible expedition in 
 making the remaining observations. 
 
 " The eruptions from the crater were now without in- 
 termission, and the danger of remaining any longer near 
 this place was alarmingly conspicuous. A huge mass, 
 cast to an immense height in the air, seemed to be fall- 
 ing in a direction so fatally perpendicular, that there 
 was not one of the party present who did not expect to 
 be crushed by it ; fortunately it fell beyond the spot on 
 which they stood, where it was shattered into a thousand 
 pieces ; and these rolling onwards, were carried with 
 great velocity into the valley below." 
 
 " In these and other descriptions," resumed Ege- 
 ria, " if the pleasure arises from the contemplation 
 of the exercise of power, what shall we say of those 
 narratives of which the subjects are the enormities of 
 
28 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 man ? Miof s account, for example, of the massacre 
 of the Turks at Jaffa by Buonaparte, is neither so 
 vigorously written in the original, nor so susceptible 
 of vigour in any translation, as to awaken pleasurable 
 emotions, in so far as the power of the author is con- 
 cerned, and yet the vastness of the crime makes the 
 impression almost as awful as that of many descrip- 
 tions which are considered and felt to be sublime. 
 Let me read it to you." 
 
 A MASSACRE. 
 
 '' Here it is that I must make a most painful recital. 
 The frankness, I will venture to say the candour, which 
 may be observed in these memoirs, make it a duty that 
 I should not pass over in silence the event which I am 
 about to relate, and of which I was witness. If I have 
 pledged myself in writing this work not to judge the 
 actions of the man who will be judged by posterity, I 
 have also pledged myself to reveal every thing which 
 may enlighten opinion concerning him. It is just, there- 
 fore, that I should repeat the motives which were en- 
 forced at the time, to authorise a determination so cruel 
 as that which decided the fate of the prisoners at Jaffa. 
 Behold then the considerations which seem to have pro- 
 voked it. 
 
 " The army, already weakened by its loss at the 
 sieges of El Arish and of Jaffa, was still more so by 
 diseases, whose ravages became from day to day more 
 alarming. It had great difficulties in maintaining itself, 
 and the soldier rarely received his full ration. This 
 difficulty of subsistence would augment in consequence 
 of the evil disposition of the inhabitants towards us. To 
 feed the Jaffa prisoners while we kept them with us, 
 was not only to increase our wants, but also constantly 
 
CALAMITIES. 29 
 
 to encumber our own movements ; to confine them at 
 Jaffa would, without removing the first inconvenience, 
 have created another — the possibility of a revolt, con- 
 sidering the small force that could have been left to 
 garrison the place; to send them into Egypt would 
 have been obliging ourselves to dismiss a considerable 
 detachment, which would greatly reduce the force of 
 the expedition ; to set them at liberty upon their parole, 
 notwithstanding all the engagements into which they 
 could have entered, would have been sending them to 
 increase the strength of our enemies, and particularly 
 the garrison of St John d'Acre ; for Djezzar was not a 
 man to respect promises made by his soldiers, men also 
 little religious themselves as to a point of honour of 
 which they knew not the force. There remained then 
 only one course which reconciled every thing : it was a 
 frightful one ; however it appears to have been believed 
 to be necessary. 
 
 " On the 20th Ventose (March 10), in the afternoon, 
 the Jaffa prisoners were put in motion in the midst of a 
 vast square battalion formed by the troops of General 
 Bon's division. A dark rumour of the fate which was 
 prepared for them determined me, as well as many other 
 persons, to mount on horseback, and follow this silent 
 column of victims, to satisfy myself whether what had 
 been told me was well-founded. The Turks, marching 
 pell-mell, already foresaw their fate : they shed no tears ; 
 they uttered no cries ; they were resigned. Some, who 
 were wounded, and could not march so fast as the rest, 
 were bayonetted on the way. Some others went about 
 the crowd, and appeared to be giving salutary advice in 
 this imminent danger. Perhaps the boldest might have 
 thought that it would not be impossible for them to 
 break through the battalion which surrounded them: 
 perhaps they hoped that, in dispersing themselves over 
 the plains which they were crossing, a certain number 
 
30 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 might escape death. Every means had been taken to 
 prevent this, and the Turks made no attempt to escape. 
 Having reached the sand-hills to the south-west of Jaffa, 
 they were lialted near a pool of stagnant water. Then 
 the officer who commanded the troops had the mass di- 
 vided into small bodies ; and these being led to many 
 different parts, were there fusilladed. This horrible 
 operation required much time, notwithstanding the 
 number of troops employed in this dreadful sacrifice : 
 I owe it to these troops to declare, that they did not 
 without extreme repugnance submit to the abominable 
 service which was required from their victorious hands. 
 There was a group of prisoners near the pool of water, 
 among whom were some old chiefs of a noble and reso- 
 lute courage, and one young man whose courage was 
 dreadfully shaken. At so tender an age he must have 
 believed himself innocent, and that feeling hurried him 
 on to an action which appeared to shock those about 
 him. He threw himself at the feet of the horse which 
 the chief of the French troops rode, and embraced the 
 knees of that officer, imploring him to spare his life, and 
 exclaiming, ' Of what am I guilty } What evil have I 
 done ?' His tears, his affecting cries, were unavailing ; 
 they could not change the fatal sentence pronounced 
 upon his lot. With the exception of this young man, 
 all the other Turks made their ablutions calmly in the 
 stagnant water of which I have spoken ; then taking 
 each other's hand, after having laid it upon the heart 
 and the lips, according to the manner of salutation, they 
 gave and received an eternal adieu. Their courageous 
 spirits appeared to defy death ; you saw in their tran- 
 quillity the confidence which in these last moments was 
 inspired by their religion, and the hope of a happy here- 
 after. They seemed to say, I quit this world to go and 
 enjoy with Mahommed a lasting happiness. Thus the 
 reward after this life which the Koran promises, sup- 
 
CALAMITIES. 31 
 
 ported the Mussulman, conquered indeed, but still proud 
 in his adversity. 
 
 " I saw a respectable old man, whose tone and man- 
 ners announced a superior rank. I saw him coolly order 
 a hole to be made before him in the loose sand, deep 
 enough to bury him alive ; doubtless he did not choose 
 to die by any other hands than those of his own people : 
 within this protecting and dolorous grave he laid himself 
 upon his back ; and his comrades addressing their sup- 
 plicatory prayers to God, covered him presently with 
 sand, and trampled afterwards upon the soil which 
 served him for a winding-sheet, probably with the idea 
 of accelerating the end of his sufferings. This spectacle, 
 which makes my heart palpitate, and which I paint but 
 too feebly, took place during the execution of the par- 
 ties distributed about the sand-hills. At length there 
 remained no more of all the prisoners than those who 
 were placed near the pool of water. Our soldiers had 
 exhausted their cartridges, and it was necessary to de- 
 stroy them with the bayonet and the sword. I could 
 not support this horrible sight, but hastened away, pale 
 and almost fainting. Some officers informed me in the 
 evening, that these unhappy men, yielding to that irre- 
 sistible impulse of nature which makes us shrink from 
 death even when we have no longer a hope of escaping 
 it, strove to get one behind another, and received in 
 their limbs the blows aimed at the heart, which would 
 at once have terminated their wretched lives. Then 
 was there formed, since it must be related, a dreadful 
 pyramid of the dead and of the dying streaming with 
 blood ; and it was necessary to drag away the bodies of 
 those' who had already expired, in order to finish the 
 wretches who, under cover of this frightful and shock- 
 ing rampart, had not yet been reached. This picture is 
 exact and faithful ; and the recollection makes my hand 
 tremble, though the whole horror is not described." 
 
CHAP. III. 
 
 MANNERS. 
 
 " 1 THINK,"" said Egeria one morning, after reading 
 some account of the Greek insurrection in a morning 
 paper, " that there must be a great deal of exaggera- 
 tion in these stories. This war has now raged a long 
 time, and dreadful events have taken place on both 
 sides ; but nothing yet appears to indicate what it is 
 that the Greeks propose to do for themselves when 
 they shall have thrown off the Ottoman yoke. They 
 are fighting for freedom; but there is no freedom 
 without security, and the Greek insurgents are doing 
 nothing to provide for the preservation of public or 
 of private rights. By continuing the contest, an 
 army will probably be formed among them, and the 
 commander of that army, whoever he may be, will 
 of course become their king — their tyrant I should 
 rather say, for it is impossible to conceive that a 
 modern Greek soldier, semi-barbarians as they all 
 are, can be aught else. I should therefore like to 
 know in what their condition will be improved, by 
 the establishment of a despotism of their own at 
 Athens, from what it has been under the sultans of 
 Constantinople."" 
 
 " I suspect,*" replied the Bachelor, " that we are 
 not very accurately informed with respect to the 
 condition of the Greeks under the Turks. Slavery 
 
MANNERS. 33 
 
 of every kind is to the free imagination of the people 
 of this country rightly and wisely held in dread and 
 abhorrence ; but the thraldom which the Greeks 
 suffer under their Mahommedan masters is rather of 
 the nature of a caste-exclusion than a servitude. 
 They live in their own house|, they pursue their 
 own avocations, they buy, sell, and serve on their 
 own account, and I believe they may even purchase 
 slaves. It is not, I think, very easy to adjust our 
 ideas of a bondman to the description which Dr 
 Holland gives of the condition and household of the 
 superior classes of the Greeks at loannina, under the 
 notorious Ali Pashaw. I shall read to you what he 
 says.""* 
 
 GREEK MANNERS. 
 
 " The habitation of our host resembled those which are 
 common in the country. Externally to the street no- 
 thing is seen but a high stone wall, with the summit of 
 a small part of the inner building. Large double gates 
 conduct you into an outer area^ from which you pass 
 through other gates into an inner square, surrounded 
 on three sides by the buildings of the house. The base- 
 ment story is constructed of stone, the upper part of the 
 structure almost entirely of wood. A broad gallery 
 passes along two sides of the area, open in front, and 
 shaded overhead by the roof of the building. To this 
 gallery you ascend by a flight of stairs, the doors of 
 which conduct to the different living-rooms of the 
 house, all going from it. In this country it is uncom- 
 nlon, except with the lower classes, to live upon the 
 ground-floor, which is therefore generally occupied as 
 out-buildings, the first floor being that always inhabited 
 by the family. In the house of our host there were four 
 or five living-rooms, furnished with couches, carpets, 
 
 c 
 
34 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 and looking-glasses, which, with the decorations of the 
 ceiling and walls, may be considered as almost the only 
 appendages to a Grecian apartment. The principal 
 room (or what with us would be the drawing-room) 
 was large, lofty, and decorated with much richness. Its 
 height was suflBcient for a double row of windows along 
 three sides of the apartment ; all these windows, how- 
 ever, being small, and so situated as merely to admit 
 light without allowing any external view. The ceiling 
 was profusely ornamented with painting and gilding 
 upon carved wood, the walls divided into panels, and 
 decorated in the same way, with the addition of several 
 pier-glasses. A couch or divan, like those described in 
 the seraglio, passed along three sides of the apartment, 
 and superseded equally the use of chairs and tables, 
 which are but rarely found in a Greek house. 
 
 " The dining-room was also large, but furnished with 
 less decoration; and the same with the other living- 
 apartments. The kitchen and servants' rooms were con- 
 nected by a passage with the great gallery; but this 
 gallery itself formed a privileged place to all the mem- 
 bers of the family, and it was seldom that some of the 
 domestics might not be seen here partaking in the sports 
 of the children, and using a famiUarity with their supe- 
 riors which is sufficiently common in the south of Eu- 
 rope, but very unusual in England. Bedchambers are 
 not to be sought for in Greek or Turkish habitations. 
 The sofas of their living-apartments are the place of 
 nightly repose with the higher classes ; the floor with 
 those of inferior rank. Upon the sofas are spread their 
 cotton or woollen mattresses, cotton sheets, sometimes 
 with worked muslin trimmings, and ornamented quilts. 
 Neither men nor women take off more than a small part 
 of their dress ; and the lower classes seldom make any 
 change whatever before throwing themselves down 
 among the coarse woollen cloaks which form their 
 
MANNERS. ^5 
 
 nightly covering. In this point the oriental customs 
 are much more simple than those of civilized Europe. 
 
 " The separate communication of the rooms witli an 
 open gallery renders the Greek houses very cold in 
 winter, of which I had reason to be convinced during 
 both my residences at loannina. The higher class of 
 Greeks seldom use any other means of artificial warmth 
 than a brazier of charcoal in the middle of the apart- 
 ment, trusting to their pelisses and thick clothing for 
 the rest. Sometimes the brazier is placed under a table, 
 covered with a thick rug cloth which falls down to the 
 floor. The heat is thus confined, and the feet of those 
 sitting round the table acquire an agreeable warmth, 
 which is diffused to the rest of the body. 
 
 " The family of Metzou generally rose before eight 
 o'clock. Their breakfast consisted simply of one or 
 two cups of coffee, served up with a salver of sweet- 
 meats, but without any more substantial food. In con- 
 sideration to our grosser morning appetites, bread, 
 honey, and rice-milk, were added to the repast which 
 was set before us. Our host, who was always addressed 
 with the epithet of AfTendi by his children and domes- 
 tics, passed much of the morning in smoking, in walk- 
 ing up and down the gallery, or in talking with his 
 friends who called upon him. Not being engaged in 
 commerce, and influenced perhaps by his natural 
 timidity, he rarely quitted the house; and I do not 
 recollect to have seen him more than five or six times 
 beyond the gates of the area of his dwelling. His lady, 
 meanwhile, was engaged either in directing her house- 
 hold affairs, in working embroidery, or in weaving silk 
 thread. The boys were occupied during a part of the 
 morning in learning to read and write the Romaic with 
 a young man who officiated as tutor, the mode of 
 instruction not differing much from that common else- 
 where. 
 
36 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " The dinner hour of the family was usually between 
 twelve and one, but from complaisance to us they de- 
 layed it till two o'clock. Summoned to the dining- 
 room, a female domestic^ in the usage of the east, pre- 
 sented to each person in succession a large basin with 
 soap, and poured tepid water upon the hands from a 
 brazen ewer. This finished, we seated ourselves at the 
 table, which was simply a circular pewter tray, still 
 called trapeza, placed upon a stool, and without cloth or 
 other appendage. The dinner consisted generally of ten 
 or twelve dishes, presented singly at the table by an 
 Albanian servant, habited in his national costume. The 
 dishes afforded some, though not great variety ; and the 
 enumeration of those at one dinner may suffice as a 
 general example of the common style of this repast in a 
 Greek family of the higher class : — First, a dish of 
 boiled rice flavoured with lemon-juice ; then a plate of 
 mutton boiled to rags ; another plate of mutton cooked 
 with spinach or onions, and rich sauces ; a Turkish 
 dish composed of force-meat with vegetables, made into 
 balls ; another Turkish dish, which appears as a large 
 flat cake, the outside of a rich and greasy paste, the 
 inside composed of eggs, vegetables, with a small quan- 
 tity of meat : following this, a plate of baked mutton, 
 with raisins and almonds, boiled rice with oil, omelet 
 balls, a dish of thin cakes made of flour, eggs, and 
 honey ; or sometimes, in lieu of these, small cakes made 
 of flour, coffee, and eggs ; and the repast finished by a 
 dessert of grapes, raisins, and chesnuts. But for the 
 presence of strangers, the family would have ate in 
 common from the dishes successively brought to the 
 table; and even with separate plates before them this 
 was frequently done. The thin wine of the country 
 was drunk during the repast; but neither in eating 
 or drinking is it common for the Greeks to indulge in 
 excess. 
 
MANNERS. 37 
 
 " The dinner tray removed, the basin and ewer were 
 again carried round, — a practice which is seldom omitted 
 even among the inferior classes in this country. After 
 an interval of a few minutes, a glass of liquor and coffee 
 were handed to us, and a Turkish pipe presented to any 
 one who desired it. In sununer a short siesta is gene- 
 rally taken at this hour, but now it was not considered 
 necessary. After passing an hour or two on the couches 
 of the apartment, some visitors generally arrived, and 
 the family moved to the larger room before described. 
 These visitors were Greeks of the city, some of them 
 relations, others friends of the family, who did not 
 come on formal invitation, but in an unreserved way, 
 to pass the evening in conversation. This mode of so- 
 ciety is common in loannina, and, but that the women 
 take little part in it, might be considered extremely 
 pleasant. When a visitor enters the apartment, he 
 salutes and is saluted by the right hand placed on the 
 lefl breast, — a method of address at once simple and 
 dignified. Seated on the couch, sweetmeats, coffee, and 
 a pipe, are presented to him ; and these form, in fact, 
 the only articles of entertainment." 
 
 " Truly,""" said Egeria, *' that does not indeed 
 look very much like a description of the habitation 
 of a slave. I must confess that of late my ideas of 
 slavery and barbarism have been strangely unsettled. 
 Bowdich's mission to Ashantce has opened up a view 
 of the state of Africa of which I had formed no pre- 
 vious conception. Really it would seem that the 
 barbaric pearl and gold there are wonderfully like 
 the pomps and pageantries among ourselves. Turn 
 up the volume at page 34, and you will find the 
 description to which I allude.'*'' 
 
38 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 AFRICAN MANNERS. 
 
 " An area of nearly a mile in circumference was 
 crowded with magnificence and novelty. The king, 
 his tributaries and captains, were resplendent in the 
 distance, surrounded by attendants of every description, 
 fronted by a mass of warriors which seemed to make 
 our approach impervious. The sun was reflected, with 
 a glare scarcely more supportable than the heat, from 
 the massy gold ornaments which glistened in every di- 
 rection. More than a hundred bands burst at once on 
 our arrival, with the peculiar airs of their several chiefs ; 
 the horns flourished their defiances, with the beating of 
 innumerable drums and metal instruments, and then 
 yielding for a while to the soft breathings of their long 
 flutes, which were truly harmonious ; and a pleasing 
 instrument, like a bagpipe without the drone, was 
 happily blended. At least a hundred large umbrellas, 
 or canopies, which could shelter thirty persons, were 
 sprung up and down by the bearers with brilliant 
 eff'ect, being made of scarlet, yellow, and the most 
 showy cloths and silks, and crowned on the top with 
 crescents, pelicans, elephants, barrels, and arms and 
 swords of gold ; they were of various shapes, but 
 mostly dome ; and the valances (in some of which small 
 looking-glasses were inserted) fantastically scalloped 
 and fringed : from the fronts of some the proboscis and 
 small teeth of elephants projected, and a few were 
 roofed with leopard skins, and crowned with various 
 animals naturally stuffed. The state hammocks, like 
 long cradles, were raised in the rear, the poles on the 
 heads of the bearers; the cushions and pillows were 
 covered with crimson taffeta, and the richest cloths 
 hung over the sides. Innumerable small umbrellas, of 
 various coloured stripes, were crowded in the intervals. 
 
MANNERS. 39 
 
 whilst several large trees heightened the glare by con- 
 trasting the sober colouring of nature : 
 
 ' Discolor unde auri per ramos aura refulsiu* 
 
 " The king's messengers, with gold breast-plates, 
 made way for us, and we commenced our round, pre- 
 ceded by the canes and the English flag. We stopped 
 to take the hand of every caboceer; which, as their 
 household suites occupied several spaces in advance, 
 delayed us long enough to distinguish some of the 
 ornaments in the general blaze of splendour and osten- 
 tation. 
 
 " The caboceers, as did their superior captains and 
 attendants, wore Ashantee cloths of extravagant price, 
 from the costly foreign silks which had been unravelled 
 to weave them in all the varieties of colour as well as 
 pattern : they were of an incredible size and weight, 
 and thrown over the shoulder exactly like the Roman 
 toga. A small silk fillet generally encircled their tem- 
 ples; and massy gold necklaces, intricately wrought, 
 suspended Moorish charms, dearly purchased, and en- 
 closed in small square cases of gold, silver, and curious 
 embroidery. Some wore necklaces reaching to the navel, 
 entirely of aggry beads ; a band of gold and beads en- 
 circled the knee, from which several strings of the same 
 depended ; small circles of gold, like guineas, rings, and 
 casts of animals, were strung round their ancles ; their 
 sandals were of green, red, and delicate white leather ; 
 manillas, and rude lumps of rock-gold, hung from their 
 left wrists, which were so heavily laden as to be sup- 
 ported on the head of one of their handsomest boys. 
 Gold and silver pipes and canes dazzled the eye in 
 every direction. Wolves' and rams' heads as large as 
 life, cast in gold, were suspended from their gold- 
 handled swords, which were held around them in great 
 numbers ; the blades were shaped like round bills, and 
 
40 THE BACHEX.OR'S WIFE. 
 
 rusted in blood ; the sheaths were of leopard skin, or 
 the shell of a fish like shagreen. The large drums, sup- 
 ported on the head of one man, and beaten by two 
 others, were braced around with the thigh-bones of 
 their enemies, and ornamented with their skulls. The 
 kettle-drums, resting on the ground, were scraped with 
 wet fingers, and covered with leopard skin. The wrists 
 of the drummers were hung with bells and curiously- 
 shaped pieces of iron, which gingled loudly as they were 
 beating. The smaller drums were suspended from the 
 neck by scarves of red cloth ; the horns (the teeth of 
 young elephants) were ornamented at the mouth-piece 
 ■VV^ith gold, and the jaw-bones of human victims. The 
 war-caps of eagles' feathers nodded in the rear^ and 
 large fans, of the wing-feathers of the ostrich, played 
 around the dignitaries. Immediately behind their chairs 
 (which were of black wood, almost covered by inlays of 
 ivory and gold embossment) stood their handsomest 
 youths, with corslets of leopard's skin covered with 
 gold cockle-shells, and stuck full of small knives, 
 sheathed in gold and silver, and the handles of blue 
 agate ; cartouch-boxes of elephants' hides hung below, 
 ornamented in the same manner ; a large gold-handled 
 sword was fixed behind the left shoulder, and silk 
 scarves and horses* tails (generally white) streamed 
 from the arms and waist-cloth : their long Danish 
 muskets had broad rims of gold at small distances, and 
 the stocks were ornamented with shells. Finely-grown 
 girls stood behind the chairs of some, with silver basins. 
 Their stools, of the most laborious carved work, and 
 generally with two large bells attached to them, were 
 conspicuously placed upon the heads of favourites ; and 
 crowds of small boys were seated around, flourishing 
 elephants* tails curiously mounted. The warriors sat 
 on the ground close to these, and so thickly as not to 
 ^dmit of our passing without ^reading on their feet, to 
 
MANNERS. 41 
 
 which they were perfectly indifferent; their caps were 
 of the skin of the pangolin and leopard, the tails hang- 
 ing down behind; their cartouch belts (composed of 
 small gourds which hold the charges, and covered with 
 leopard or pig's skin) were embossed with red shells, 
 and small brass bells thickly hung to them ; on their 
 hips and shoulders was a cluster of knives ; iron chains 
 and collars dignified the most daring, who were prouder 
 of them than of gold ; their muskets had rests affixed of 
 leopard's skin, and the locks a covering of the same ; 
 the sides of their faces were curiously painted in long 
 white streaks, and their arras also striped, having the 
 appearance of armour. 
 
 ** The prolonged flourishes of the horns, a deafening 
 tumult of drums, and the fuller concert of the intervals, 
 announced that we were approaching the king ; we 
 were already passing the principal officers of his house- 
 hold ; the chamberlain, the gold horn-blower, the cap- 
 tain of the messengers, the captain for royal executions, 
 the captain of the market, the keeper of the royal burial- 
 ground, and the master of the bands, sat surrounded by 
 a retinue and splendour which bespoke the dignity and 
 importance of their offices. The cook had a number of 
 small services covered with leopard's skin held behind 
 him, and a large quantity of massy silver plate was dis- 
 played before him, punch-bowls, waiters, coffee-pots, 
 tankards, and a very large vessel with heavy handles 
 and clawed-feet, which seemed to have been made to 
 hold incense : I observed a Portuguese inscription on 
 one piece, and they seemed generally of that manufac- 
 ture. The executioner, a man of immense size, wore a 
 massy gold hatchet on his breast ; and the execution- 
 stool was held before him, clotted in blood, and partly 
 covered with a cawl of fat. The king's four linguists 
 were encircled by a splendour inferior to none, and their 
 peculiar insignia, gold canesj were elevated in all direc-» 
 
41 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 tions, tied in bundles^ like fasces. The keeper of the 
 treasury added to his own magnificence by the ostenta- 
 tious display of his service ; the blow-pan, boxes, scales 
 and weights, were of solid gold. 
 
 " A delay of some minutes, while we severally ap- 
 proached to receive the king's hand, afforded us a tho- 
 rough view of him : his deportment first excited my 
 attention ; native dignity in princes we are pleased to 
 call barbarous was a curious spectacle : his manners 
 were majestic, yet courteous ; and he did not allow his 
 surprise to beguile him for a moment of the composure 
 of the monarch : he appeared to be about thirty-eight 
 years of age, inclined to corpulence, and of a benevo- 
 lent countenance : he wore a fillet of aggry beads round 
 his temples, a necklace of gold cockspur shells strung 
 by their largest ends, and over his right shoulder a red 
 silk cord, suspending three saphies cased in gold : his 
 bracelets were the richest mixtures of beads and gold, 
 and his fingers covered with rings : his cloth was of a 
 dark green silk ; a pointed diadem was elegantly painted 
 in white on his forehead ; also a pattern resembling an 
 epaulette on each shoulder, and an ornament like a full- 
 blown rose, one leaf rising above another until it covered 
 his whole breast : his knee-bands were of aggry beads, 
 and his ancle-strings of gold ornaments of the most de- 
 licate workmanship, small drums, sankos, stools, swords, 
 guns, and birds, clustered together : his sandals, of a 
 soft white leather, were embossed across the instep-band 
 with small gold and silver cases of saphies : he was seated 
 in a low chair, richly ornamented with gold : he wore 
 a pair of gold castanets on his finger and thumb, which 
 he clapped to enforce silence. The belts of the guards 
 behind his chair were cased in gold, and covered with 
 small jaw-bones of the same metal : the elephants' tails, 
 waving like a small cloud before him, were spangled 
 with gold, and large plumes of feathers were flourished 
 
MANNERS. 43 
 
 amid them. His eunuch presided over these attendants, 
 wearing only one massy piece of gold about his neck : 
 the royal stool, entirely cased in gold, was displayed 
 under a splendid umbrella, with drums, sankos, horns, 
 and various musical instruments, cased in gold, about 
 the thickness of cartridge-paper ; large circles of gold 
 hung by scarlet cloth from the swords of state, the 
 sheaths as well as the handles of which were also cased ; 
 hatchets of the same were intermixed with them ; the 
 breasts of the Ocrahs, and various attendants, were 
 adorned with large stars, stools, crescents, and gossa- 
 mer wings, of solid gold." 
 
 " Shall we call a people, in the enjoyment of such 
 wealth and splendour, barbarians ?^ added Egeria, 
 laying down the book,—*' what then shall we say of 
 those who are living in the midst of the wretchedness 
 of Ireland ? Look at Miss Edgeworth's description 
 of an Irish cottage ; you will find it at the 94th page 
 of the first volume of her Fashionable Tales." 
 
 " It was a wretched-looking, low, mud- walled cabin. 
 At one end it was propped by a buttress of loose stones, 
 upon which stood a goat reared on his hind-legs, to 
 browse on the grass that grew on the house-top. A 
 dunghill was before the only window, at the other end 
 of the house ; and close to the door was a puddle of the 
 dirtiest of dirty water, in which ducks were dabbling. 
 At my approach, there came out of the cabin a pig, a 
 calf, a lamb, a kid, and two geese, all with their legs 
 tied, followed by cocks, hens, chickens, a dog, a cat, a 
 kitten, a beggar-man, a beggar-woman with a pipe in 
 her mouth ; children innumerable, and a stout girl with 
 a pitchfork in her hand ; altogether more than I, look- 
 ing down upon the roof as I sat on horseback, and mea- 
 suring the superficies with my eye, could have possibly 
 
44 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 supposed the mansion capable of containing. I asked 
 if Ellinor O'Donoghoe was at home ? but the dog 
 barked, the geese cackled, the turkeys gobbled, and the 
 beggars begged, with one accord so loudly, that there 
 was no chance of my being heard. When the girl had 
 at last succeeded in appeasing them all with her pitch- 
 fork, she answered, that Ellinor O'Donoghoe was at 
 home, but that she was out with the potatoes ; and she 
 ran to fetch her, after calling to the boys, who were within 
 in the room smoking, to come out to his honour. As 
 soon as they had crouched under the door, and were 
 able to stand upright, they welcomed me with a very 
 good grace, and were proud to see me in the kingdom. 
 I asked if they were all Ellinor's sons. ' All entirely,' 
 was the first answer. ' Not one but one,' was the 
 second answer. The third made the other two intelli- 
 gible. ' Plase your honour, we are all her sons-in-law, 
 except myself, who am her lawful son.' ' Then you are 
 my foster-brother ?' ' No, plase your honour ; it's not 
 me, but my brother, and he's not in it.' ' Not in it ?' 
 ' No, plase your honour ; because he's in the forge up 
 above. Sure he's the blacksmith, my lard.' ' And what 
 are you }' ' I'm Ody, plase your honour ;' the short for 
 Owen." 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 DRAMATIC POETRY. 
 
 " No department of English poetry," said Egeria, 
 one evening after tea, on taking up a volume of Ben 
 Jonson''s works, " no department of English poetry 
 is more rich in beautiful passages than the dramatic, 
 and none of which the riches are so little known. 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 45 
 
 " The speech of Petreius in The Catiline of 
 this author, I have always tlioiight one of the most 
 magnificent passages in the whole compass of Eng- 
 lish literature, — listen/' 
 
 " Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such. 
 As he must fight with one of the two armies 
 That then had near enclosed him, it pleased fate 
 To make us th' object of his desperate choice. 
 Wherein the danger almost poised the honour : 
 And, as he rose, the day grew black with him. 
 And fate descended nearer to the earth. 
 As if she meant to hide the name of things 
 Under her wings, and make the world her quarry. 
 At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay 
 Had left it to be inquired what Rome was ; 
 And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence 
 Of our great cause, in form of battle stood. 
 Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face 
 Of any man, but of a public ruin : 
 His countenance was a civil war itself ; 
 And all his host had, standing in their looks. 
 The paleness of the death that was to come ; 
 Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on. 
 As if they would precipitate our fates. 
 Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself 
 Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life. 
 Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land 
 Had broke between two mighty seas, and either 
 Flow'd into other ; for so did the slaughter ; 
 And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides 
 Meet and not yield. The furies stood on hills. 
 Circling the place, and trembling to see men 
 Do more than they ; whilst piety left the field. 
 Grieved for that side, that in so bad a cause 
 They knew not what a crime their valour was. 
 
^ THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 1 
 
 The sun stood still, and was, behind a cloud ] 
 
 The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up i 
 His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward : 
 
 And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame, j 
 
 Consumed all it could reach, and then itself, ' 
 
 Had not the fortune of the commonwealth .• 
 
 Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought ; ' 
 Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops 
 Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks, j 
 
 Ambitious of great fame to crown his ill, \ 
 
 Collected all his fury, and ran in ] 
 
 (Arm'd with a glory high as his despair) i 
 
 Into our battle, like a Libyan lion . 
 
 Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, \ 
 
 Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him, \ 
 
 Till he had circled-in himself with death : s 
 
 Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay. ] 
 
 And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods, ^ 
 
 Minerva holding forth Medusa's head, > 
 
 One of the giant brethren felt himself ] 
 
 Grow marble at the killing sight ; and now, ; 
 Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint. 
 
 What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs ; ; 
 
 And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd : I 
 So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us. 
 Became his tomb ; yet did his look retain 
 
 Some of his fierceness, and his hands still moved, '. 
 
 As if he labour'd yet to grasp the state ' 
 
 With those rebellious parts. | 
 
 Cato. A brave bad death ! \ 
 Had this been honest now, and for his country. 
 
 As 'twas against it, who had e'er fall'n greater ?" J 
 
 " It is very fine,'' said Benedict ; " but, after all, 
 my love, I should not much like to see many of the \ 
 
 old dramatists, even with all their merits, restored to 1 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 47 
 
 the use of the general reader. You will find, I sus- 
 pect, that they have deservedly fallen into obscurity 
 on account of their impure language and gross allu- 
 sions. It may be said of them all as it was said of 
 Marston by one of his contemporaries, — ' He cared 
 not for modest close-couched terms, but dealt in plain 
 naked words, stripped from their shirts.' " 
 
 " And yet,'' repUed the nymph, " a judicious se- 
 lection from their works would be a valuable addi- 
 tion to the hbrary of the boudoir. Many passages 
 of Marston himself are of the very highest order of 
 poetry. Look at his explanation of what it is to be 
 a king." 
 
 " Why, man, I never was a prince till now. 
 
 'Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees. 
 
 Gilt tipstaffs, Tyrian purple, chairs of state. 
 
 Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still 
 
 In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince : 
 
 'Tis not the unsavoury breath of multitudes. 
 
 Shouting and clapping with confused din. 
 
 That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king, 
 
 A true right king, that dares do aught, save wrong ; 
 
 Fears nothing mortal, but to be unjust : 
 
 Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs 
 
 Of spungy sycophants : who stands unmoved. 
 
 Despite the justling of opinion : 
 
 Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng 
 
 That strive to press his quiet out of him : 
 
 Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do. 
 
 Adoring, not affecting, majesty : 
 
 Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown 
 
 Of clear content : this, Lucio, is a king. 
 
 And of this empire, every man's possess'd. 
 
 That's worth his soul." 
 
48 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " The description of Antonio''s visit to the vaults 
 in which tlie body of his father lies, affords also a 
 specimen of very splendid poetry/' 
 
 '' I purify the air with odorous fume. 
 Graves^ vaults^ and tombSj groan not to bear my weight. 
 Cold flesh, bleak trunks, wrapt in your half-rot shrouds, 
 I press you softly with a tender foot. 
 Most honour'd sepulchre, vouchsafe a wretch 
 Leave to weep o'er thee. Tomb, I'll not be long 
 Ere I creep in thee, and with bloodless lips 
 Kiss my cold father's cheek. I pr'ythee, grave. 
 Provide soft mould to wrap my carcass in. 
 Thou royal spirit of Andrugio, where'er thou hoverest, 
 (Airy intellect) I heave up tapers to thee (view thy son). 
 On celebration of due obsequies. 
 Once every night I'll dew thy funeral hearse 
 With my religious tears. 
 O blessed father of a cursed son ! 
 Thou diedst most happy, since thou livedst not 
 To see thy son most wretched, and thy wife 
 Pursued by him that seeks my guiltless blood. 
 O, in what orb thy mighty spirit soars. 
 Stoop and beat down this rising fog of shame. 
 That strives to blur thy blood, and girt defame 
 About my innocent and spotless brows." 
 
 " And the death of Mellida is full of tenderness 
 and beauty. The fool alluded to is Antonio in dis- 
 guise.'' 
 
 '' Being laid upon her bed, she grasp'd my hand. 
 And kissing it, spake thus : Thou very poor. 
 Why dost not weep ? The jewel of thy brow. 
 The rich adornment that enchased thy breast. 
 Is lost ; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. 
 
 1 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 49 | 
 
 And do I live to say Antonio's dead ? ] 
 
 And have I lived to see his virtues blurr'd 
 
 With guiltless blots ? O world, thou art too subtle ^ 
 
 For honest natures to converse withal : j 
 
 Therefore I'll leave thee ; farewell, mart of woe, 
 I fly to clip my love, Antonio. i 
 
 With that her head sunk down upon her breast ; 
 Her cheek changed earth, her senses slept in rest ; 
 Until my fool, that crept unto the bed, 
 
 Screech'd out so loud, that he brought back her soul, * 
 
 Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gan ope, i 
 
 And stared upon him : he, audacious fool, ; 
 
 Dared kiss her hand, wish'd her soft rest, loved bride ; 
 She fumbled out thanks good, and so she died." j 
 
 j 
 
 " And, my dear Benedict, could even you your- i 
 
 self say any thing finer than the lewd Marston has \ 
 
 done of conjugal love ?"" \ 
 
 " If love be holy, if that mystery i 
 
 Of co-united hearts be sacrament ; 
 
 If the unbounded goodness have infused i 
 
 A sacred ardour of a mutual love \ 
 
 Into our species ; if those amorous joys. 
 
 Those sweets of life, those comforts even in death, ■ 
 
 Spring from a cause above our reason's reach ; 
 
 If that clear flame deduce its heat from Heaven, : 
 
 'Tisj like its cause, eternal ; always one, | 
 
 As is th' instiller of divinest love. 
 
 Unchanged by time, immortal, maugre death. j 
 
 But, oh, 'tis grown a figment ; love a jest ; ^ 
 
 A comic posey ; the soul of man is rotten 
 
 Even to the core, no sound afl^ection. 'i 
 
 Our love is hollow, vaulted, stands on props ] 
 
 Of circumstance, profit, or ambitious hopes." ' 
 
 D I 
 
50 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " And,'' continued the nymph, " I doubt very 
 much if any equal number of Hnes of Lord Byron 
 would furnish finer extracts, in what may be termed 
 his lordship's own peculiar style, than the " Duke 
 OF Byron" of old Chapman. The story consists 
 of two parts, or distinct plays, The Conspiracy 
 and The Tragedy. The first part opens with the 
 arrival of the Duke of Savoy at the court of Henry 
 IV. of France openly, but with the secret design of 
 corrupting and drawing over Byron, the marshal of 
 France ; and he thus addresses his own minister :"" 
 
 " Sav. I would not, for half Savoy, but have bound 
 France to some favour, by my personal presence 
 More than yourself, my Lord Ambassador, 
 Could have obtain'd ; for all ambassadors. 
 You know, have chiefly these instructions : 
 To note the state and chief sway of the court 
 To which they are employ 'd ; to penetrate 
 The heart and marrow of the king's designs. 
 And to observe the countenance and spirits 
 Of such as are impatient of the rest. 
 And wring beneath some private discontent : 
 But past all these, there are a number more 
 Of these state-criticisms, that our personal view 
 May profitably make, which cannot fall 
 Within the powers of our instruction 
 To make you comprehend. I will do more 
 With my mere shadow than you with your persons. 
 All you can say against my coming here. 
 Is that which, I confess, may, for the time. 
 Breed strange affections in my brother Spain ; 
 But when I shall have time to make my cannons 
 The long-tongued heralds of my hidden drifts. 
 Our reconcilement will be made with triumphs." 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 51 
 
 '* Lafin is also another object for Savoy to gain; 
 and the task is facihtatcd by Henry's rejection of 
 Lafin's suit, as described in the following spirited 
 scene. — The king enters with Lafin :" — 
 
 " Hen. I will not have my train 
 Made a retreat for bankrupts, nor my court 
 A hive for drones : proud beggars and true thieves. 
 That, with a forced truth they swear to me, 
 Rob my poor subjects, shall give up their arts. 
 And henceforth learn to live by their deserts. 
 Though I am grown, by right of birth and arms. 
 Into a greater kingdom, I will spread 
 With no more shade than may admit that kingdom 
 Her proper, natural, and w^onted fruits : 
 Navarre shall be Navarre, and France still France ; 
 If one may be the better for the other 
 By mutual right, so neither shall be worse. 
 Thou art in law, in quarrels, and in debt. 
 Which thou would'st quit with count'nance. Borrowing 
 With thee is purchase, and thou seek'st by me, 
 (In my supportance) now our old wars cease. 
 To wage worse battles with the arms of peace. 
 
 Laf. Peace must not make men cowards, nor keep 
 calm 
 Her pursie regiment with men's smother'd breaths. 
 I must confess my fortunes are declined. 
 But neither my deservings nor my mind. 
 I seek but to sustain the right I found 
 When I was rich, in keeping what is left. 
 And making good my honour as at best, 
 Though it be hard : man's right to every thing 
 Wanes with his wealth ; wealth is his surest king. 
 Yet justice should be still indifferent. 
 The overplus of kings, in all their might, 
 Is but to piece out the defects of right : 
 
52 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And this I sue for ; nor shall frowns and taunts, 
 (The common scarecrows of all good men's suits,) 
 Nor misconstruction, that doth colour still 
 Licentiate justice, punishing good for ill. 
 Keep my free throat from knocking at the sky. 
 If thunder chid me from my equity. 
 
 Hen, Thy equity is to be ever banish'd 
 From court, and all society of noblesse. 
 Amongst whom thou throw'st balls of all dissension. 
 Thou art at peace with nothing but with war ; 
 Hast no heart but to hurt, and eat'st thy heart 
 If it but think of doing any good : 
 Thou witchest with thy smiles; suck'st blood with 
 
 praises ; 
 Mock'st all humanity ; society poison'st ; 
 Cozen'st with virtue : with religion 
 Betray'st and massacre'st ; so vile thyself. 
 That thou suspect'st perfection in others : 
 A man must think of all the villanies 
 He knows in all men to decipher thee. 
 That art the centre to impiety. 
 Away, and tempt me not. 
 
 Laf. But you tempt me. 
 To what, thou Sun be judge, and make him see. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 " At the time of the Duke of Savoy's arrival, 
 Byron is ambassador at the court of the archduke, 
 where attempts are also made to draw him from his 
 allegiance. The character of Byron is conceived 
 with great strength and animation. He is repre- 
 sented as bold in the field, boastful, filled with a 
 proud conceit of his own merits, and weakly ad- 
 dicted to flattery, which his enemies know how to 
 manage. On his embassy, he is approached with 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 53 
 
 the must profound but artful respect, and is thus 
 ushered in to the sound of music i^'' 
 
 " Byr. What place is this, what air, what region, 
 In which a man may hear the harmony 
 Of all things moving ? Hymen marries here 
 Their ends and uses, and makes me his temple. 
 Hath any man been blessed and yet lived ? 
 The blood turns in my veins ; I stand on change. 
 And shall dissolve in changing ; 'tis so full 
 Of pleasure, not to be contained in flesh ; 
 To fear a violent good, abuseth goodness ; 
 'Tis immortality to die aspiring. 
 As if a man were taken quick to heaven : 
 What will not hold perfection, let it burst : 
 What force hath any cannon, not being charged. 
 Or being not discharged ? To have stuff and form, 
 And to lie idle, fearful, and unused. 
 Nor form, nor stuff shews. Happy Semele, 
 That died comprest with glory. Happiness 
 Denies comparison, of less, or more. 
 And not at most, is nothing. — Like the sliaft. 
 Shot at the sun by angry Hercules, 
 And into shivers by the thunder broken. 
 Will I be if I burst : and in my heart 
 This shall be written, yet 'twas high and right. 
 Here too ! they follow all my steps with music. 
 As if my feet were numerous, and trod sounds 
 Out of the centre, with Apollo's virtue. 
 That out of every tiling his each part touch'd 
 Struck musical accents. Wheresoe'er 1 go 
 They hide the earth from me with coverings rich. 
 To make me think that I am here in heaven." 
 
 \yiusxc again. 
 
 " The duke, however, does not immediately fall 
 
54 THE BACHELOR'vS WIFE. 
 
 into the designs of the enemies of his master, but 
 replies to the incitements of one of their agents" — 
 
 " Byr. O 'tis a dangerous and a dreadful thing 
 To steal prey from a lion, or to hide 
 A head distrustful in his open'd jaws ; 
 To trust our blood in others' veins, and hang 
 'Twixt heaven and earth in vapours of their breaths : 
 To leave a sure space on continuate earth. 
 And force a gate in jumps from tower to tower. 
 As they do that aspire from height to height. 
 The bounds of loyalty are made of glass. 
 Soon broke, but can in no date be repair'd ; 
 And as the Duke D'Aumall (now here in court) 
 Flying his country, had his statue torn 
 Piecemeal with horses ; all his goods confiscate ; 
 His arms of honour kick'd about the streets ; 
 His goodly house at Annet razed to th' earth ; 
 And, for a strange reproach to his foul treason. 
 His trees about it cut off by their waists ; 
 So, when men fly the natural clime of truth. 
 And turn themselves loose, out of all the bounds 
 Of justice, and the straightway to their ends. 
 Forsaking all the sure force in themselves. 
 To seek, without them, that which is not theirs. 
 The forms of all their comforts are distracted ; 
 The riches of their freedoms forfeited ; 
 Their human noblesse shamed ; the mansions 
 Of their cold spirits eaten down with cares. 
 And all their ornaments of wit and valour. 
 Learning and judgment, cut from all their fruits." 
 
 " Lafin, being brought over by the Duke of Sa- 
 voy, is made the means of seducing Byron. He 
 commences his operations by throwing himself in 
 the duke's way, in a pretended fit of furious indig- 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. 56 
 
 nation. Lafin, it will be observed, hints at the skill 
 in magic whicii he was supposed to possess, and the 
 duke supposed to believe in." 
 
 " Byr. Here is the man. My honour'd friend, Lafin, 
 Alone and heavy-count'nanced ! On what terms 
 Stood th' insultation of the king upon you ? 
 
 Laf. Why do you ask } 
 
 Byr. Since I would know the trutli. 
 
 Laf. And when you know it, what > 
 
 Byr. I'll judge betwixt you, 
 And, as I may, make even tli' excess of eitlier. 
 
 Laf. Alas, my lord, not all your loyalty. 
 Which is in you more than hereditary. 
 Nor all your valour, which is more tlian human. 
 Can do the service you may hope on me, j 
 
 In sounding my displeased integrity. 
 
 Stand for the king, as much in policy « 
 
 As you have stirr'd for him in deeds of arms, \ 
 
 And make yourself his glory, and your country's, \ 
 
 Till you be suck'd as dry, and wrought as lean 
 As my flay'd carcass : you shall never close \ 
 
 With me as you imagine. 
 
 Byr. You much wrong me 
 To think me an intelligencing lord. \ 
 
 Laf. I know not how your so affected zeal s 
 
 To be reputed a true-hearted subject « 
 
 May stretch or turn you. I am desperate ; j 
 
 If I offend you, I am in your power : \ 
 
 I care not how I tempt your conq'ring fury ; 
 I am predestined to too base an end ) 
 
 To have the honour of your wrath destroy me. 
 And be a worthy object for your sword. j 
 
 1 lay my hand, and head too, at your feet, i 
 
 As I have ever ; here I hold it still : ^ 
 
 End me directly, do not go about. 
 
56 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. i 
 
 Byr. How strange is this ! The shame of his disgrace ] 
 
 Hath made him lunatick. ; 
 
 Laf. Since the king hath wrong'd me, ^ 
 
 He thinks I'll hurt myself : no, no, my lord ; ■ 
 
 I know that all the kings in Christendom, -j 
 
 If they should join in my revenge, would prove j 
 
 Weak foes to him, still having you to friend. ' 
 
 If you were gone (I care not if you tell him) . 
 
 I might be tempted then to right myself. \_Exit. \ 
 
 Byr. He has a will to me, and dares not shew it : ; 
 
 His state decay'd, and he disgraced, distracts him. \ 
 
 Re-enter Lafin. , 
 Laf. Change not my words, my lord. I only said 
 
 I might be tempted then to right myself — j 
 
 Temptation to treason is no treason ; 
 
 And that word " tempted" was conditional too, ; 
 
 If you were gone. I pray inform the truth. ; 
 Byr. Stay, injured man, and know I am your friend. 
 
 Far from these base and mercenary reaches \ 
 
 I am, I swear to you. ] 
 
 Laf. You may be so ; \ 
 
 And yet you'll give me leave to be Lafin, | 
 
 A poor and expuate humour of the court : 
 
 But what good blood came out with me ; what veins \ 
 
 And sinews of the triumphs now it makes, i 
 
 I list not vaunt ; yet will I now confess, j 
 
 And dare assume it, I have power to add 
 
 To all his greatness, and make yet more fix'd \ 
 
 His bold security. Tell him this, my lord ; 
 
 And this (if all the spirits of earth and air ^ 
 
 Be able to enforce) I can make good. ? 
 
 If knowledge of the sure events of things, \ 
 
 Even from the rise of subjects into kings, ; 
 
 And falls of kings to subjects, hold a power ■ 
 
 Of strength to work it, I can make it good. j 
 
 1 
 
DRAIMATIC POETRY. 57 
 
 And tell him this too : if in midst of winter 
 
 To make black groves grow green ; to still the thunder ; 
 
 And cast out able flashes from mine eyes. 
 
 To beat the light'ning back into the skies. 
 
 Prove power to do it, I can make it good. 
 
 And tell him this too : if to lift the sea 
 
 Up to the stars, when all the winds are still, 
 
 And keep it calm when they are most enraged ; 
 
 To make earth's driest palms sweat humorous springs ; 
 
 To make fix'd rocks walk, and loose shadows stand ; 
 
 To make the dead speak ; midnight see the sun ; 
 
 Mid-day turn midnight ; to dissolve all laws 
 
 Of nature and of order — argue power 
 
 Able to work all, I can make all good ; 
 
 And all this tell the king. 
 
 Byr. 'Tis more than strange. 
 To see you stand thus at the rapier's point 
 With one so kind and sure a friend as I. 
 
 Laf. Who cannot friend himself, is foe to any. 
 And to be fear'd of all, and that is it 
 Makes me so scorn'd : but make me what you can. 
 Never so wicked and so full of fiends, 
 I never yet was traitor to my friends. 
 The laws of friendship I have ever held 
 As my religion ; and, for other laws. 
 He is a fool that keeps them with more care 
 Than they keep him, rich, safe, and popular. 
 For riches and for popular respects 
 Take them amongst ye, minions ; but for safety 
 You shall not find the least flaw in mine arms. 
 To pierce or taint me. What will great men be 
 To please the king, and bear authority ! {_Exit. 
 
 Byr. How fit a sort were this to hansel fortune ! 
 And 1 will win it though I lose myself 
 Though he prove harder than Egyptian marble, 
 I'll make him malleable as th' Ophir gold." 
 
58 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 " The following speech of Henry is, I think, 
 eminently wise, humane, and, as a poetical compo- 
 sition, truly beautiful. Roiseau has just described 
 the attempts to seduce the duke." 
 
 Hen. It may be he dissembled, or, suppose 
 He be a little tainted : men whom virtue 
 Forms with the stuff of fortune, great and gracious. 
 Must needs partake with fortune in her humour 
 Of instability ; and are like shafts 
 Grown crook'd with standing, which to rectify 
 Must twice as much be bow'd another way. 
 He that hath borne wounds for his worthy parts, 
 Must for his worst be borne with. We must fit 
 Our government to m^en, as men to it. 
 In old time, they that hunted savage beasts 
 Are said to clothe themselves in savage skins : 
 They that were fowlers, when they went on fowling. 
 Wore garments made with wings resembling fowls : 
 To bulls we must not shew ourselves in red. 
 Nor to the warlike elephant in white. 
 In all things govern'd, their infirmities 
 IMust not be stirr'd, nor wrought on. Duke Byron 
 Flows with adust and melancholy choler. 
 And melancholy spirits are venomous, 
 Not to be touch'd but as they may be cured. 
 I therefore mean to make him change the air. 
 And send him further from those Spanish vapours. 
 That still bear fighting sulphur in their breasts. 
 To breathe awhile in temperate English air. 
 Whose lips are spiced with free and loyal counsels ; 
 Where policies are not ruinous but saving ; 
 Wisdom is simple, valour righteous. 
 Humane, and hating facts of brutish force. 
 And whose grave natures scorn the scoffs of France, 
 The empty compliments of Italy, 
 
DRAMATIC POETRY. » 
 
 Tlie any-way encroaching pride of Spain^ 
 And love men modest, hearty, just, and plain." 
 
 " But,"" resumed Egcria, " it is not my intention to 
 analyze the play ; I shall therefore only read to you 
 one or two of the similes. — The state of a man whose 
 fortunes have shot beyond the foundation of his 
 merits is thus magnificently compared :" 
 
 " As you may see a mighty promontory. 
 
 More digg'd and under-eaten than may warrant 
 
 A safe supportance to his hanging brows. 
 
 All passengers avoid him ; shun all ground 
 
 That lies within his shadow, and bear still 
 
 A flying eye upon him ; so great men. 
 
 Corrupted in their grounds, and building out 
 
 Too swelling fronts for their foundations. 
 
 When most they should be propp'd are most forsaken. 
 
 And men will rather thrust into the storms 
 
 Of better-grounded states, than take a shelter 
 
 Beneath their ruinous and fearful weight ; 
 
 Yet they so oversee their faulty bases. 
 
 That they remain securer in conceit ; 
 
 And that security doth worse presage 
 
 Their near destruction, than their eaten grounds." 
 
 " And I think the following description of a 
 horse very spirited : — it is Byron\s comparison of 
 his own manner."'' 
 
 " To whom I came, methought; with such a spirit 
 As you have seen a lusty courser shew, 
 That hath been long tim^ at his manger tied. 
 High fed, alone, and when, his head-stall broken. 
 He runs his prison, like a trumpet neighs. 
 
60 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. \ 
 
 Cuts air in high curvets^ and shakes his head ; i 
 
 With wanton stoopings 'twixt his forelegs, mocking \ 
 
 The heavy centre ; spreads his flying crest, ' 
 
 Like to an ensign ; hedge and ditches leaping, ; 
 
 Till in the fresh meat, at his natural food i 
 
 He sees free fellows, and hath met them free." ! 
 
 " Henry ""s blessing upon his infant son is also a | 
 very fine passage, and much deserves to be better 
 
 known.*" i 
 
 j 
 
 " Hen. Have thy old father's angel for thy guide ; | 
 
 Redoubled be his spirit in thy breast ; \ 
 
 Who when this state ran, like a turbulent sea, ; 
 
 In civil hates and bloody enmity, ] 
 Their wraths and envies, like so many winds. 
 
 Settled and burst, and like the halcyon's birth, \ 
 
 Be thine to bring a calm upon the shore, I 
 
 In which the eyes of war may ever sleep, ] 
 
 As overmatch'd with former massacres, \ 
 
 When guilty, mad noblesse fed on noblesse ; ; 
 All the sweet plenty of the realm exhausted : 
 
 When the naked merchant was pursued for spoil ; ] 
 
 When the poor peasants frighted neediest thieves \ 
 
 With their bare leanness, nothing left on them ' 
 
 But meagre carcasses sustain'd with air, ; 
 
 Wandering like ghosts affrighted from their graves ; j 
 When, with the often and incessant sounds. 
 The very beasts knew the alarum-bell. 
 
 And, hearing it, ran bellowing to their home : j 
 
 From which unchristian broils and homicides 1 
 
 Let the religious sword of justice free 1 
 
 Thee and thy kingdoms govern'd after me." ; 
 
CHAP. V. 
 
 PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 
 
 One morning as the Bachelor''s Wife, having no 
 other household care, was reading the backs of his 
 books, she paused before a goodly range of reviews 
 and magazines, and said to him, 
 
 " I do not think it has been half considered by 
 the world how much has been added to our pleasures 
 by the invention of periodical publications. It has 
 domesticated learning, deprived it of all its formality, 
 put the shovel-hat, the square cap, the wig, the 
 gown, and all those antique trappings and devices, 
 which were wont to inspire so much wonder and 
 awe, quite out of fashion. It has made gentlemen 
 of authors, and authors of gentlemen. For this, as 
 well as for its other singular merits, the Edinburgh 
 Review stands pre-eminent. You cannot open a 
 volume without finding some topic of science, or of 
 erudition, treated in a much more jx>pular and en- 
 gaging form than it was ever done before." 
 
 In saying this she put forth her hand, and taking 
 down the tenth volume, opened it, and read aloud 
 the following excellent condensed account of the reli- 
 gious sentiments of the Turks. 
 
 MAHOMETAMSM. 
 
 " The religion of the Turks is Mahometanism in its 
 utmost purity, and in complete preservation from the 
 
62 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 days of its founder. They believe in one God, and in 
 the divine mission of his prophet. They scrupulously 
 follow, as the rule of their conduct, his precepts con- 
 tained in the Koran, and his example; together with 
 certain sayings not recorded in that book, but handed 
 down by tradition. The leading maxims thus delivered 
 and religiously observed, are, the maintenance of the 
 faith, the performance of certain outward ceremonies, 
 and hatred of other sects. Their belief is inculcated as 
 so necessary to eternal salvation, and so sure of working 
 this end without the aid of good works, that we need 
 not be surprised to find scarcely one freethinker in the 
 whole of the Turkish population. A few reasoning men 
 may here and there be found, who hold that a life of 
 sanctity, independent of faith, is sufficient ; but the 
 church condemns this as the worst of heresies, and 
 those persons must keep their doctrines carefully to 
 themselves. The inducements to hold the faith of their 
 fathers are so strong among an indolent and sensual 
 people, that any doubt or scruple is likely to be rejected 
 as a present injury. ' Whatever happens during this 
 life is well ; God ordains it. If we live, we shall smoke 
 so much tobacco, enjoy so many Circassians, saunter 
 away so many hours in our baths. If death comes to- 
 morrow, we have kept the faith, and shall inevitably 
 sup in paradise, — with better tobacco, fairer women, 
 and more voluptuous baths.' A notion of this sort, 
 once rivetted in the mind, at an early period of society, 
 will account for the horror with which every question 
 relative to articles of belief must afterwards be received. 
 It will account for the exclusive attention of those true 
 believers to the concerns of the present moment, and 
 their carelessness about futurity ; for their implicit obe- 
 dience to the easy injunctions of the Koran, and their 
 steady rejection of all more unpleasant doctrines. Be- 
 sides holding this faith, they have only to perform the 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 63 
 
 ceremonies of prayer, ablution, and fasting, — trouble- 
 some, indeed, in some respects, from their frequent 
 recurrence, but far more easy than the restraint of a 
 single wicked inclination, the sacrifice of an interested 
 to a principled view, or the fulfilment of any active 
 duty ; and their lives are pure before Allah. 
 
 " As the object of tlie founder of this religion was 
 power, he carefully enjoined such an implicit obedience 
 to himself or his successors as might ensure his divine 
 authority in the state, and such a hatred of unbelievers 
 as might both keep alive the faith among his followers, 
 and prepare the way for the conquest of foreign nations. 
 The most unresisting and passive obedience to the sa- 
 cred person of him who is at the head l)oth of the church 
 and state is inculcated as a primary religious duty. He 
 is the ZiLullah, or shadow of God ; the Padishah-islam, 
 or emperor of Islamism ; the Iinam-ul-viusliminn* or 
 pontiff of Mussulmans ; the Sultandinn, or protector of 
 the faith. The title of Caliph was first acquired on the 
 conquest of Egypt ; but the prerogatives annexed to it, 
 of sovereign pontiff and depositary of the divine will, as 
 handed down from Mahomet, had all along been exer- 
 cised by the Turkish emperor. He is further, in his 
 temporal capacity, denominated Hunkiar, or the man- 
 slayer ; it is the name commonly given him, and denotes 
 the absolute power which he has over the life of each of 
 his subjects, in virtue of his divine commission. Who- 
 ever submits without resistance to death inflicted by his 
 order, is looked upon as sure of that eternal felicity of 
 the highest order which belongs to martyrdom. His 
 edicts, always received with religious veneration, are 
 welcomed with peculiar awe, when accompanied by a 
 note under his hand enjoining obedience ; and whatever 
 
 * '• Muslim is the singular, Muatulman the dual, and Mitsliminn 
 the plural : it signifies * rctigncd to God»' " 
 
64 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 may be the tenor of such a command^ the devout Mus- 
 sulman kisses it as soon as it is presented to him, and 
 piously wipes the dust from it with his cheek. The 
 Pashas who rebel against his authority are careful to 
 mention his name with holy reverence ; and, during 
 the course of their disobedience, scrupulously comply 
 with his orders in every point, except when he requires 
 a resignation of their independence, or some sacrifice 
 injurious to it. When he sends his executioners to 
 despatch a rebellious chieftain, it is not uncommon to 
 see the mere production of the imperial mandate, un- 
 aided by any force, silence all opposition, and command 
 obedience from the rebel and his followers. Frequently, 
 indeed, the executioner is stopped in his attempts to 
 gain admittance, and himself put to death. But if he 
 once performs his office, and the insurgent leader falls, 
 there is no instance of his troops revenging his death on 
 the bearer of so sacred a commission, though he comes 
 singly, and trusts himself among an armed multitude of 
 men, the moment before in the act of rebellion. Rycaut 
 affirms, though Mr Thornton calls it an exaggerated 
 picture, that the emperor would be obeyed, were he 
 ' to command whole armies to precipitate themselves 
 from a rock, or build a bridge with piles of their bodies 
 for him to pass rivers, or to kill one another to affiard 
 him pastime and pleasure.' 
 
 ^' The disciple of Mahomet is educated in a haughty 
 belief of the superiority of his own faith, and a suitable 
 aversion towards all infidels. ' I withdraw my foot and 
 turn away my face,' says the prophet, ' from a society 
 in which the faithful are mixed with the ungodly/ — 
 * The prayers of the infidel are not prayers, but wan- 
 derings.' — ^ Pray not for those whose death is eternal ; 
 and defile not thy feet by passing over the graves of 
 men the enemies of God and his prophet.' The example 
 of the prophet himself, who is recorded to have fre- 
 
 1 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 65 
 
 quented the society of infidels, is of no avail in counter- 
 acting those insolent precepts ; and the more other na- 
 tions have distinguished themselves from the Turk by 
 their progress in wisdom and civility, the more obdurate 
 has been his determination to keep within the pale of 
 his own faith, and to despise their advances. The spirit 
 of proselytism has been shown, not in any attempts to 
 convert by argument: the extension of dominion was 
 the only object of the prophet in proclaiming rewards 
 to such as propagated the faith. Whoever refused the 
 proffered creed was either to be cut off, or reduced to the 
 state of a vassal paying tribute ; and those who die in 
 this holy war pass immediately into paradise. ' Wash 
 not their bodies,' says the prophet ; * every wound 
 which they bear will smell sweeter than musk in the 
 day of judgment.' While to Jews and Christians the 
 alternative of conversion or tributary vassalage was held 
 out, the idolater was doomed to death. ' Kill and ex- 
 terminate all worshijjpers of plurality,' says the Koran ; 
 and this command has not infrequently been literally 
 complied with. The Persians are, however, held in 
 peculiar abhorrence; and it is deemed more praise- 
 worthy in the sight of God to kill a single worshipper 
 of fire than seventy infidels of any other religion. 
 
 " The Turks abhor the worship of images, yet think 
 it decent to reverence departed saints, and to visit their 
 tombs. They chiefly invoke the names of Mahomet and 
 his four immediate successors. They conceive idiots to 
 be favoured by Heaven, from their apparent insensibility 
 to the evils of life, and their indifference to its enjoy- 
 ments. They prize relics, or substances which have 
 been in contact with persons of extraordinary piety; 
 and ascribe to them cures and other miracles, similar to 
 those which the Roman Catholic superstitions inculcate. 
 They dread the effect of sorcery, and provide against it 
 by much the same contrivances as are used in the 
 
6Q THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 northern countries of Europe and Asia. They carefully 
 observe dreams, and other accidental notions, as omin- 
 ous of future events ; and have a superstitious aversion 
 to all pictures of the human body, believing that angels 
 cannot enter the house where these are. The pilgrim- 
 age to Mecca is well known ; they believe that it cures 
 all former transgressions, and hold that a man should 
 set about it as soon as his means are double the expense 
 of the journey. Such, at least, is the injunction of the 
 Koran ; and only necessary impediments, as blindness, 
 poverty, lameness, &c. are deemed to justify a Mussul- 
 man in neglecting this act of devotion. The black stone 
 at Mecca is an object of peculiar reverence; it is ex- 
 pected to be endowed with speech at the day of judg- 
 ment, for the purpose of declaring the names of those 
 who performed the pilgrimage. The sanjac-shcrif, or 
 standard of Mahomet, being the curtain of the chamber- 
 door of his favourite wife, is kept as the palladium of 
 the empire, upon which no infidel can look with impu- 
 nity. It is carried to battle with great formality before 
 the sultan or vizier ; and its return is hailed by all the 
 Mussulmans of the capital going out to meet it." 
 
 When Egeria had read these passages, she return- 
 ed the book into its place, and took down the twenty- 
 second volume of the Quarterly Review. 
 
 " The two greatest literary journals of the present 
 time,*" said she, — " perhaps of any epoch, are un- 
 doubtedly the rival publications of Edinburgh and 
 London. In point of literary merit I am sometimes 
 at a loss which to prefer. The northern luminary is, 
 I believe, regarded as the most ingenious of the two, 
 and the southern as the most learned, especially in 
 subjects of classical interest. Perhaps they may be 
 considered as affording, in their respective merits. 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 07 
 
 fair specimens of the difference in effect between the 
 systems of education cuhivated in England and in 
 Scotland. But at hap-hazard I will open this volume, 
 and I doubt not that the first article which meets my 
 view will present an agreeable and characteristic con- 
 trast to the general observations and metaphysical 
 reflections of the paragraphs which I have just read."" 
 She accordingly opened the book and read — 
 
 POPULAR MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 '* Tales of supernatural agency are not read to full ad- 
 vantage except in the authors by whom they ai'e first 
 recorded. When treated by moderns, much of their 
 original character must necessarily evaporate ; like 
 tombs, which lose their venerable sanctity when re- 
 moved from the aisles of a cathedral, and exposed in a 
 museum. We reason where the writers of former days 
 believed, and the attention of the reader is rivetted by 
 the earnestness of their credulity. Besides which, the 
 very outward appearance of their volumes diffuses a 
 quiet charm ; the mellow tint of the pages, the full glos- 
 sy black letter, the miniated capitals, the musky odour 
 of the binding, all contribute to banish the present busy 
 world, and to revive the recollection of the monastic li- 
 brary. And once within the cloistered precinct, we are 
 reluctant to doubt the veracity of that grave friar, the 
 venerable Henry Institor, seated at his desk in the sun- 
 ny oriel, and devoutly employed in describing the ter- 
 rific Sabbath of Satan, and the nocturnal flights and 
 orgies of his worshippers. 
 
 " When the fables of popular superstition are con- 
 templated in detail, we discover a singular degree of 
 uniformity in that realm wherein most diversity might 
 be expected in the ideal world. Imagination seems to 
 possess a boundless power of creation and combination ; 
 
68 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 and yet the beings which have their existence only in 
 fancy, when freely called into action, in every climate and 
 every age, betray so close an affinity to one another, that 
 it is scarcely possible to avoid admitting that imagina- 
 tion had little share in giving them their shape and 
 form. Their attributes and character are impressed by 
 tokens, proving that they resulted rather from a succes- 
 sion of doctrines than from invention ; that they were 
 traditive, and not arbitrary. The vague credulity of 
 the peasant agrees with the systematic mythology of the 
 sages of primeval times. Nations whom the ocean se- 
 parates are united by their delusions. The village gos- 
 sip recognises, though in ignorance, the divinities of 
 classical antiquity, and the Hamadryads of Greece and 
 the Elves of Scandinavia join the phantoms who swarm 
 around us when, under the guidance of the wizard, we 
 enter that gloomy dell, — 
 
 ' - ■ " Where the sad mandrake grows, 
 
 Whose groans are deathful, the dead-numbing nightshade, 
 The stupifying hemlock, adder's tongue, 
 And martagan. — The shrieks of luckless owls 
 We hear, and croaking night-crows in the air ; 
 Green-bellied snakes, blue fire-drakes in the sky, 
 And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings, 
 And scaly beetles with their habergeons, 
 That make a humming murmur as they fly. 
 There in the stocks of trees white fays do dwell, 
 And span-long elves that dance about a pool 
 With each a little changeling in their arms : 
 The airy spirits play with falling stars, 
 And mount the sphere of fire." 
 
 " Amidst the evanescent groups, whose revels are em- 
 bodied in the noble lines of the moral dramatist, the 
 Fairies are the most poetical and the most potent ; and 
 many theories respecting their origin have been found- 
 ed on their names. Morgain la Fay has been readily 
 identified with Mergian Peri. We may, however, be 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. fiO 
 
 allowed to observe, that arguments drawn from simila- 
 rity of sound are frequently convincing without being 
 conclusive. The romance of Merlin describes Morgain 
 as a brunette ; in spite, however, of this venerable au- 
 thority, the fairy dame is evidently Mor-Gtvynn, the 
 white damsel, corresponding with the white women of 
 ghostly memory, and a true-born child of the Cymry. 
 It is not our wish to dispute about words : we merely 
 object to the inferences drawn from this coincidence, 
 which, united to others of the same class, seem to have 
 given some plausibility to the supposition that the char- 
 acter of the fairy has arisen from the amalgamation of 
 Roman, Celtic, Gothic, and Oriental mythology. We 
 are loth to dissent from an opinion which has been ad- 
 vocated by that mighty master, Walter Scott ; but the 
 converse of the proposition is the truth. The attributes 
 have been dispersed and not collected. Fables have ra- 
 diated from a common centre, and their universal con- 
 sent does not prove their subsequent reaction upon each 
 other, but their common derivation from a common 
 origin. 
 
 " Mythology has not been diffused from nation to na- 
 tion, but all nations have derived their belief from one 
 primitive system. It is with fable as with language. 
 The dialects of the Hindoo, the Gothic, and the Pelasgic 
 tribes betray a constant affinity, but they did not inter- 
 change their nomenclatures. Neither did one tribe bor- 
 row the religious fictions of the other. Each retained a 
 modification of the belief of the parent stock. The 
 Dewtas of Meru, the warlike forms of Asgard, and the 
 inhabitants of Olympus, all emanated from the thrones 
 and powers which had been worshipped by one mighty 
 and energetic race.— Sabaism announced itself in an- 
 other mode. But all mythology has been governed by 
 a uniform principle, pervading its creations with plastic 
 energy, and giving an unaltering and unalterable sem- 
 
70 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 blance of consistency to the successive developments of 
 error. Divested of its mythic or poetic garb, it will be 
 found that the creative power is the doctrine of fatality. 
 Oppressed by the wretchedness of its nature, without 
 some infallible guide, the human mind shrinks from 
 contemplation, and cowers in its own imbecility ; it re- 
 poses in the belief of predestination, which enables us to 
 bear up against every misery, and solves those awful 
 doubts which are scarcely less tolerable than misery.— 
 The Gordian knot is cut, and the web is unravelled, 
 when all things are seen subordinate to Fate, to that 
 stern power which restrains the active intelligences of 
 good and evil, dooming the universe of spirit and of 
 matter to be the battle-field of endless strife between the 
 light and the darkness. — ^Whether the rites of the ' false 
 religions, full of pomp and gold,' have been solemnized 
 in the sculptured cavern or in the resplendent temple, in 
 the shade of the forest or on the summit of the moun- 
 tain, still the same lesson has been taught. Men and 
 gods vainly struggle to free themselves from the ada- 
 mantine bonds of destiny. The oracle, or the omen 
 which declares the impending evil, affords no method of 
 averting it. All insight into futurity proves a curse to 
 those on whom the power descends. We hear the warn- 
 ing which we cannot obey. The gleam of light which 
 radiates athwart the abyss only increases its horror. No 
 gift which the favouring intelligence strives to bestow 
 upon a mortal can be received without an admixture of 
 evil, from which the powerful spirit of beneficence can- 
 not defend it ; but neither can the malice of the eternal 
 enemy prevail and triumph ; it may scath but not con- 
 sume. 
 
 " Upon fatality and the tenet of conflicting power, 
 popular mythology is wholly founded, the basis reap- 
 pears in every trivial tale of supernatural agency, and 
 the gossip sitting in the chimney-nook is imbued with 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 71 
 
 all the wisdom of the hierophants of Greece, or the magi 
 of Persia. As the destroying principle appears more 
 active in this lower world, Oromanes has prevailed in 
 popular belief. Orb is involved in orb, the multiplied 
 reflections become fainter and fainter, the strange and 
 fantastic forms are variously tinted and refracted, some 
 are bright and glorious as the rainbow, others shadowy 
 and grey, yet all turn unto the central image, the per- 
 sonification of the principle of Evil. 
 
 " The legendary Satan is a being wholly distinct 
 from the theological Lucifer. He is never ennobled by 
 the sullen dignity of the fallen angel. No traces of ce- 
 lestial origin are to be discerned on his brow. He is 
 not a rebellious Mon who once was clothed in radiance. 
 But he is the Fiend, the Enemy, evil from all time past 
 in his very essence, foul and degraded, cowardly and 
 impure ; his rage is oftenest impotent, unless his cun- 
 ning can assist his power. He excites fright rather 
 than fear. Hence, wild caprice and ludicrous malice 
 are his popular characteristics ; they render him fami- 
 liar, and diminish the awe inspired by his name ; and 
 these playful elements enter into all the ghost and gob- 
 lin combinations of the evil principle. More, the pla- 
 tonist, did not perceive the psycological fitness of these 
 attributes, and he was greatly annoyed in his lucubra- 
 tions by the uncouth oddity of the pranks ascribed to 
 goblins and elves ; they discomposed the gravity of his 
 arguments, and in order to meet the objections of such 
 reasoners as might venture to suspect that merriment 
 and waggery degraded a spiritual being, he sturdily 
 maintains, that ' there are as great fools in the body as 
 there are out of it.' He would not observe that the my- 
 thological portrait was consistent in its features. Laugh- 
 ter is foreign to the serenity of beneficence. Angels 
 may weep, but they would forfeit their essence were 
 they to laugh. INIirth, on the contrary, is the consort of 
 
72 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 concealed spite, and if not invariably wicked or mischie- 
 vousj yet always blending itself readily with wickedness 
 and mischief. Sport, even when intended to be inno- 
 cent, degrades its object ; though the best and wisest of 
 us cannot always resist the temptation of deriving plea- 
 sure from the pains which we inflict upon our fellow- 
 creatures by amusing ourselves with their weakness. 
 From this alliance between laughter and malice arose 
 the burlesque malignants whom the mythologists have 
 placed amongst the deities. Such is the Momus of the 
 Greeks, and his counterpart Loki, the attendant of the 
 banquets of Valhalla. And the same idea is again the 
 substance of the Vice of the ancient allegorical drama. 
 
 '' Equally dramatic and poetical is the part allotted to 
 Satan in those ancient romances of religion, the Lives of 
 the Saints : he is the main motive of the action of the 
 narrative, to which his agency gives fulness and effect. 
 But in the conception of the legendary Satan, the be- 
 lief in his might melts into the ideality of his character. 
 Amidst clouds of infernal vapour, he developes his form, 
 half in allegory and half with spiritual reality : — and 
 his horns, his tail, his saucer eyes, his claws, his taunts, 
 his wiles, his malice, all bear witness to the simultane- 
 ous yet contradictory impressions to which the hagio- 
 logist is compelled to yield. This confusion is very ap- 
 parent in the demons introduced by St Gregory in his 
 Life of St Benedict. A poet would maintain that they 
 are employed merely as machinery to carry on the holy 
 epic. A monk must believe in them more strongly than 
 in the gospel. 
 
 " When the saint was once saying his prayers in the 
 oratory of St John, on Monte Casino, he saw the Devil 
 in the shape of a horse-doctor, but with a horn in one 
 hand and a tether in the other. Satan spoke civilly to 
 St Benedict, and informed him that he was going to ad- 
 minister a drench to the beasts upon two legs, the fa- 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 73 
 
 thers of the monastery. By an interpunctuation the 
 text has been made to import that St Benedict saw the 
 Devil in the more questionable shape of a doctor of 
 physic, riding, as doctors were wont to do before the 
 introduction of carriages, upon a mule. This has been 
 the favourite reading ; and accordingly, when the old 
 painters treated the miracle, they usually represented 
 the Devil in the regular medical costume, with a urinal, 
 and a budget full of doctor's stuff behind him. It is 
 hardly necessary to observe, that the Saint did not allow 
 the Devil to do much mischief in his medical capacity. 
 
 " Another time a complaint was made to St Benedict 
 respecting the conduct of a monk belonging to one of 
 the affiliated monasteries, who would not or could not 
 pray with assiduity. After praying a little while, he 
 used to walk away and leave the rest of the fraternity 
 at their devotions. Benedict ordered him to be brought 
 to Monte Casino, and when the monk, as usual, became 
 heartily tired of prayer and prepared to go out of the 
 oratory, the saint saw a little black Devil tugging at the 
 skirts of his gown as hard as he could pull, and leading 
 him to the door. ' See ye not who leadeth our brother ?' 
 quoth St Benedict to Father Maurus and Pompeianus, 
 the prior. * We see nought,' answered they. After 
 two days' prayer, Maurus, who was in training to be a 
 saint, was able to see the little black Devil at the skirts 
 of the monk's gown as clearly as St Benedict himself; 
 but the imp continued invisible to Pompeianus. On the 
 third day St Benedict followed the monk out of the 
 oratory and struck him with his staff. He was not spar- 
 ing, we may suppose, of the baculine exorcism, for 
 after it had been administered, the monk, as we are told 
 by St Gregory, was never more infested by the little 
 black Devil, and remained always steady at his prayers. 
 " Amongst the innumerable anecdotes and histories 
 of the Devil in the lives of the saints, some are more lu- 
 
74 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 dlcrous^ and^ if possible, more trivial, others more pic- 
 turesque. Saint Anthony saw the Devil with his head 
 towering above the clouds, and stretching out his hands 
 to intercept the souls of the departed in their flight to 
 heaven. According to our modes of thinking we should 
 be apt to consider such representations merely as apo- 
 logues. But there was an honest confidence in the actual 
 existence of the machinery of devotional romance. The 
 hagiologist told his tale in right earnest : he was teach- 
 ing matters of faith and edification ; and we may be 
 charitable enough to believe that he was persuaded of 
 the truth of his legends. Yet the dullest piety could 
 not peruse them without an obscure though indelible 
 sensation of the affinity between allegorical imagery, 
 and these supposed approaches of the evil one. Obe- 
 dient devotion thus struggled against the reasoning fa- 
 culty, which felt the impersonality of the personification, 
 yet without being able to attain either vivid belief in 
 the fiction, or a clear perception of its non-entity. Just 
 as when we dream between watchfulness and slumber ; 
 we are conscious that the sounds which we hear, and the 
 sights which we see, originate wholly from the brain, but 
 our reason refuses to obey our judgment ; and we cannot 
 rouse ourselves and think, and shake off the delusion. 
 
 '^ Sometimes the Devil is a thorough monkey, and his 
 malice is merely playful. Year after year did he lie in 
 wait for the purpose of defeating the piety of Saint 
 Gudula. Manifold were the assavilts to which her virgin 
 frailty was exposed. But all were vain. At length he 
 summoned up all his power for one grand effort. It was 
 the custom of this noble and pious maiden to rise at 
 cock-crowing, and to go to church to say her prayers, 
 her damsel walking before her with a lantern. What 
 
 did the author of all malice now do .? he put 
 
 out the candle ! The Saint set it a-light again, not by any 
 vulgar method, but by her prayers. And this is her 
 
PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 75 
 
 standard miracle. The relation in the legend is a won- 
 derful and almost unparalleled specimen of bombast and 
 bathos. 
 
 " The Devil also appears to be a very thoughtless 
 devil. Once, whilst St Martin was saying mass, St 
 Britius, whose name hath retained a place in the pro- 
 testant calendar, officiated as deacon, and behind the 
 altar he espied the Devil busily employed in writing 
 down on a slip of parchment, as long as a proctor's bill, 
 all the sins which the congregation were actually com- 
 mitting. Now St Martin's congregation were any thing 
 but serious ; they buzzed and giggled, and the men 
 looked upwards, and the women did not look down, 
 and were guilty of so many transgressions, that the Devil 
 soon filled one whole side of his parchment with short- 
 hand notes from top to bottom, and was forced to turn 
 it. This side was also soon covered with writing : tlie 
 Devil was now in sad perplexity ; he could not stomach 
 losing a sin, he could not trust his memory, and he had 
 no more parchment about him. He therefore clenched 
 one end of the scroll with his claws, and took the other 
 between his teeth, and pulled it as hard as he could, 
 thinking that it would stretch. The unelastic material 
 gave way and broke : he was not prepared for this ; so 
 his head flew back, and bumped against the wall. St 
 Britius was wonderfully amused by the Devil's disaster, 
 he laughed heartily, and incurred tlie momentary dis- 
 pleasure of St Martin, who did not at first see what was 
 going forward. St Britius explained, and St Martin 
 took care to improve the accident for the edification of 
 his hearers. The moral is not to our purpose ; but we 
 quote the anecdote as an exemplification of the stupidity 
 involved in the popular allegory of Satan. In all his 
 dealings he is sure to be baffled and cheated. When he 
 sues, his bill is dismissed, or he is nonsuited and sent 
 out of court ' without a day,' with his ears drooping and 
 
76 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 his tail clapped betwixt his legs. After paying a fair 
 market-price for the body and soul of the wizard, he is 
 sure to lose his bargain from the equivocal wording of 
 the covenant. And at the moment that he is agreeing 
 for the first living thing which is to pass over the bridge 
 which he has built over the yawning chasm, the free- 
 mason joyfully anticipates the disappointment of the in- 
 fernal workman, when compelled to accept the worthless 
 animal by which the literal meaning of the contract is 
 to be satisfied. 
 
 " More familiar demons are such as are enumerated in 
 the homely rhymes of John Hey wood, who tells us that 
 
 " In John Milesius any man may read 
 Of divels in Sarmatia lionoured 
 CaU'd KoTRi or Kobaldi, such as we 
 Pugs and Hobgoblins call ; their dwellings be 
 In corners of old houses least frequented, 
 Or beneath stacks of wood ; and these convented 
 Make fearful noise in buttries and in dairies, 
 Robin Goodfellows some, some call them fairies. 
 In solitarie rooms these uproars keep, 
 And beat at doors to wake men from their sleep, 
 Seeming to force locks be they ne're so strong. 
 And keeping Christmasse gambols all night long." 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 STRAY ESSAYS. 
 
 " Well, my love," said Egeria one morning to her 
 Lord, when he returned from his customary walk, 
 and found her engaged with a number of manuscripts 
 before her, — " I have been looking over these Stray 
 Essays, and really they have a great deal of merit. 
 The style is perhaps here and there a little harsh ; 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 77 
 
 but the general effect is classical, and the spirit of 
 good sense breathes throughout the composition. 
 The reflections on the literary character are both 
 philosophical and highly original."" 
 
 ON THE LITERARY CHARACTER. 
 To those who are capable of appreciating the immense 
 improvement which the human mind derives from the 
 study of literature, it cannot but appear surprising, that 
 the same superiority of talents and information which 
 qualifies a man for becoming the public instructor of his 
 species, through the medium of the press, should yet 
 give him little or no advantage in the ordinary inter- 
 course of active life. Nothing in fact can be more un- 
 equal than the character of a man of letters, when con- 
 sidered in relation to the separate functions of the au- 
 thor and the private citizen. In the one view, we be- 
 hold him enlarging the general stock of human know- 
 ledge, directing the opinions of whole nations, and per- 
 haps deciding the fortunes of yet unborn millions ; but 
 in the other, we would often look in vain for the proofs 
 of that superior acuteness and ability which he displays 
 in his literary capacity. This inconsistency is so glar- 
 ing, that it has not failed to strike those who are least 
 in the habit of weighing with critical minuteness the 
 characters of such as are subject to their observation. 
 The vulgar, who are remarkably prone to admire learn- 
 ed men at a distance, are astonished to find, on a nearer 
 acquaintance, that the scholar is only great when he has 
 the pen in his hand ; that on all other occasions he is a 
 mere common mortal, oflen inferior in sagacity and 
 practical wisdom to the most illiterate. Men of letters 
 themselves look with disdain on this revolution of opi- 
 nion in the vulgar, and consider their peculiar merits as 
 too remote from common apprehension to be understood 
 by any but those of their own class. 
 
78 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 May they not, however, have formed to themselves a 
 criterion of merit, which a rational and candid view of 
 things would not justify ? The vulgar are certainly ex- 
 cusable in regulating their opinion of those with whom 
 they are connected in society, by the ability which they 
 discover on such occasions as fall within the sphere of 
 their own judgment ; more especially when the trans- 
 action is of a nature so interesting to the individual in 
 question, as that it may be reasonably supposed to have 
 called forth the full strength of his mind. It is too much 
 a common feature with the literary class, that they con- 
 fine all the praise of intellectual merit to their own fa- 
 vourite pursuits, and consider nothing as pertaining to 
 mental exertion, but what appears in the form of a poem 
 or a philosophical treatise. Surely, however, this is a 
 very circumscribed mode of thinking. As much of all 
 that belongs to genius, as much originality of concep- 
 tion, as great powers of argument and persuasion, know- 
 ledge as profound of human nature, may be displayed 
 by a man of the world in the management of his private 
 concerns, as by an author in the design and execution of 
 a literary composition ; and, perhaps, to a benevolent 
 mind, the obscure struggles of the former will not be a 
 less interesting object of contemplation, than the more 
 splendid labours of the latter, but less immediately con- 
 nected with human happiness or misery. It by no 
 means appears, that mind has so little share in the go- 
 vernment of the world as many are willing to imagine. 
 On a close examination, it will probably be found, that 
 every individual naturally enjoys that degree of influ- 
 ence and authority in his particular circle (which is 
 usually composed of his equals in rank), to which the 
 rate of his understanding entitles him, and is followed, 
 consulted, and attended to by those around him, in ex- 
 act proportion to their experience of the soundness of 
 his judgment, and the extent of his mental resources. 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 79 
 
 Who is the man, in whatever circle, on whom, in any 
 emergency, all eyes are turned, in whose opinion all 
 acquiesce with alacrity, or are speedily brought over by 
 his arguments, and who, in cases of more than common 
 difficulty and importance, is always selected to act as 
 the common representative ? Be assured that this man, 
 however uncultivated by letters, possesses talents of no 
 ordinary standard ; and as in mere abstract capacity he 
 may be equal to the literary character, so, with respect 
 to the application of his powers, he need not blush at a 
 comparison. 
 
 It is seldom that we find the man of letters acting 
 this respectable part, however qualified he might appear 
 by the cultivation of his powers, and the superiority of 
 his acquired knowledge, to take the lead of the ablest of 
 those who are merely men of the world. There are cer- 
 tain active qualities, to the acquisition of which the 
 habits of a studious life are unfavourable, the want of 
 which renders his advantages in other respects in a great 
 measure unavailing. That confidence in our own re- 
 sources, and the presence and intrepidity of mind re- 
 sulting from it, which are so necessary to the conducting 
 business with dignity and success, can only be acquired 
 by familiarity with scenes of bustle and difficulty ; from 
 such experience of our own powers as may enable us to 
 act without timidity, and to retain the full possession of 
 the faculty of recollection. In vain will the man of re- 
 tirement, in the view of engaging in some public scene, 
 fortify himself with the consciousness of his own supe- 
 riority, and endeavour to reason himself out of his fears. 
 In the moment of trial his presence of mind will infaU 
 libly forsake him, and he will act and speak with an 
 ability as much below his ordinary standard as the im- 
 portance of the occasion would require him to rise above 
 it. On all occasions, therefore, when, not the mere pa- 
 rade of intellect, but real strength of mind is required ; 
 
80 THE BACHELORS WIFE. 
 
 firmness in danger, energy of language and sentiments, 
 a cool yet decisive judgment ; on all such occasions he 
 will find himself thrown into the shade, and when his 
 own safety is involved, will be glad to follow in the 
 train of some less accomplished, but more experienced 
 leader. 
 
 They who are conversant in the private history of 
 men of genius, must have observed with surprise, that 
 not an inconsiderable proportion of those who were dis- 
 tinguished by their superiority in the higher qualities 
 of mind, have yet been unusually deficient in good sense. 
 If we endeavour, however, to analyze this useful faculty, 
 according to Pope, " Although no science, fairly worth 
 the seven," our wonder will in a great measure cease. 
 That intuitive sense of propriety in which good sense 
 chiefly consists, is the result of natural quickness of ap- 
 prehension, combined with much experience crowded 
 into a little space, by an observation perpetually on the 
 watch to dissect little incidents apparently not worth 
 examining. In the former of these qualifications, the 
 man of letters is generally abundantly provided, but he 
 is seldom willing to bestow the time and attention re- 
 quisite to collect the materials of judgment. Those mi- 
 nute forms of business and ceremony, which the customs 
 of society render necessary to be known and practised, 
 either escape his notice, or, if observed, appear beneath 
 his regard. Hence, in the ordinary intercourse of life, 
 he is perpetually liable to small mistakes and blunders, 
 which place him in an awkward and inferior point of 
 view, and are sometimes attended with more serious 
 consequences. 
 
 It may perhaps have an invidious appearance to 
 insist farther on the peculiar imperfections to which li- 
 terary men are liable, but I cannot help adding, that 
 there is often a defect in that very department in which 
 they might be supposed to excel, in their scientific 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 81 
 
 knowledge, that renders it comparatively of little real 
 utility to its possessor, or to others. Their information 
 is not sufficiently minute or particular ; they are versed 
 in the general principles of things, but they are not ex- 
 ercised in applying them to practical purposes ; and 
 thus they lose both the benefit that would accrue to 
 themselves from their knowledge, and the credit it 
 would give them with those around them. It is too 
 much the characteristic of the general scholar, that he 
 never has his knowledge ready to produce on sudden 
 emergencies ; satisfied with obtaining the principles of 
 any process, he refers to the book in which it is found 
 for the detail and manipulation, in case he should ever 
 have occasion to apply it to practice. Books, however, 
 are too unwieldy an apparatus for a man to carry about 
 with him ; and it will frequently happen that, before 
 the requisite information can be obtained, the occasion 
 is lost. The mind of such a person is merely an index 
 to his library, and is nearly as useless by itself as the 
 table of contents torn out of a book. 
 
 From an impression of these facts, men of the world 
 have set it down as a maxim, that nothing is more ad- 
 verse to a man's success in life than a taste for litera- 
 ture. Were this really the case, it would indeed be 
 matter of regret to every ingenuous mind. That the 
 most exquisite pleasures of which the mind of man is 
 susceptible, should be incompatible with the proper dis- 
 charge of his active duties ; that studies, which enlarge 
 his understanding, and refine his affections, should ren- 
 der him less capable of sustaining his part in the social 
 intercourse of his species, would argue a degree of de- 
 pravity in society, or an inconsistency in the constitu- 
 tion of human nature, more than our experience of 
 either will authorise us to allow If we examine, how- 
 ever, the grounds of this opinion, as stated by those who 
 entertain it, we will uniformly find it to be the result of 
 
 F 
 
82 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 narrow and confined experience, not the dictate of those 
 liberal views which fix upon general principles, and 
 have the human constitution for their basis. To those 
 who observe the close analogy that exists betwixt all the 
 different occupations in which the mind of man can be 
 engaged, it will appear that the study of literature, when 
 it produces its proper effect, is not only no barrier, but, 
 on the contrary, a powerful assistant to the attainment 
 of what every man desires, — authority and influence, 
 and an honourable station in society. It must be ad- 
 mitted, that nothing improves the human mind so much 
 as exercise. Even when its habitual exertions are con- 
 fined to one direction, the beneficial influence of labour 
 extends to all its powers, and its general capacity is 
 found to be increased. But, in fact, the operations of 
 the mind in the pursuit of scientific truth, and in the 
 conduct of actual affairs, are pretty nearly the same. 
 The same powers of memory, judgment, and imagina- 
 tion, are employed in the one case as in the other ; and 
 the methodical arrangement of ideas, the habits of ana- 
 lyzing complex objects, and of tracing various effects to 
 their respective causes, which the man of cultivated 
 mind is accustomed to exert in his literary studies, 
 would be equally useful and properly applied to the pur- 
 suits of active life. In affirming, however, that litera- 
 ture might be rendered conducive to the usefulness and 
 respectability of its votaries in society, it is understood 
 that they consider it as of subordinate value, and not as 
 the most important business of life, and that, with supe- 
 rior faculties, they bestow on their affairs the same de- 
 gree of industry and attention as other men. Till they 
 can bring themselves to this resolution, men of letters 
 will never attain their due weight and influence in so- 
 ciety. In fact, ill success in the world is not confined 
 to literary men, but is common to them with all who, 
 from the love of pleasure, or any other species of dissi- 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 83 
 
 patloD; neglect solid happiness for transient amusement. 
 The objection which would probably have tlie greatest 
 weight with many against reducing these ideas into 
 practice, is the abridgment which a more active life 
 would necessarily occasion of those intellectual enjoy- 
 ments, which all who know them prefer to every otiier 
 kind of pleasure. In tliis respect, however, as well as 
 in point of literary progress, the difference, on trial, 
 would be found much less considerable than might at 
 first be imagined. We never take up a book with so 
 keen an appetite, or taste its beauties with such an ex- 
 quisite relish, as after a day passed in useful and mo- 
 derate industry. It is well known also, to all who are 
 accustomed to mental labour, that the faculties of the 
 mind are at no time so vigorous and alert as when the 
 attention is concentrated by our being somewhat strait- 
 ened in point of time. Unlimited leisure, especially in 
 men of letters, is apt to induce a listless indolence, and 
 a spirit of procrastination, which not only destroy en- 
 joyment, but dissolve the elastic vigour of the mind, 
 and incapacitate it for any thing honourable and useful, 
 by rendering it incapable of labour and perseverance. 
 But thougli the peculiar enjoyments of literary men 
 would be to a certain extent diminished, those sources 
 of satisfaction, which they have in common with the 
 rest of mankind, would be increased in a much higher 
 proportion. After all the eloquent encomiums that have 
 been written on the pleasures of philosophical retire- 
 ment, and the exquisite sensations of a refined taste, it 
 must be confessed that the great materials of happiness 
 are the same to all human beings, and are equally with- 
 in the reach of all who know how to estimate their 
 value, and build the superstructure. Successful in- 
 dustry, domestic neatness and comfort, tlie affection 
 of a few, the esteem and respect of the many ; from 
 these sources is derived the mass of human enjoyments. 
 
84 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 To these sources literature forms a most valuable sup- 
 plement; but I am convinced, that the experience of 
 the majority of its votaries will declare, that when it is 
 pursued as the chief business of life, the sum of its en- 
 joyments is below the ordinary standard of human hap- 
 piness. 
 
 ON DEFORMITY. 
 
 Of moral disquisitions, the most useful probably are 
 those which, leaving out of view the considerations com- 
 mon to the species, exclusively address themselves to par- 
 ticular classes of readers. In this way of writing, what is 
 lost by the limitation of the subject is abundantly com- 
 pensated by the additional interest excited in those whom 
 it concerns ; for, in proportion as we recede from ab- 
 straction and approach to individuality, we touch the 
 feelings of self more nearly, and hence awaken a more 
 animated attention. The circumstances which afford a 
 basis for the classifications of the moralist are infinitely 
 diversified, and admit of all gradations of descent, from 
 the broadest generality to the most subtle minuteness. 
 Among such as hold an important rank may be reck- 
 oned those defects of conformation which destroy the 
 symmetry of the person, and render it an object of sur- 
 prise and disgust to the beholder. Deformity, as a cir- 
 cumstance of considerable importance in the state of 
 the individual, must exert a specific influence over his 
 mind, and will, therefore, in the majority of instances, 
 produce a certain distinctive character, which is very 
 perceptible to an accurate observer. It was evidently 
 the opinion of Lord Verulam, though he has expressed 
 himself with reserve and tenderness, that this character 
 is by no means that of benevolence ; and certainly, on 
 a general view, the charge seems not entirely destitute 
 of foundation. By making the case our own for a 
 moment, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 85 
 
 feelings which must pass through the mind of a de- 
 formed person, on comparing himself with those of the 
 same age and rank around him. He will necessarily 
 feel indignant at being thus disgraced by the hand of 
 nature; and, for want of a direct object on which to 
 vent his resentment, he will be apt to transfer a part of 
 it to mankind in general, who, he thinks, can never 
 look upon him but with aversion. If he be of an aspir- 
 ing disposition, his ambition will prompt him rather to 
 make himself feared than beloved, as the chief pleasure 
 which he proposes to himself in the exercise of power, 
 is to punish mankind for their imagined contempt, by 
 enjoying their homage and mortifying their pride. — 
 Obscure feelings of this kind will occasionally enter 
 even the best-regulated minds, however carefully they 
 may be repressed and discouraged ; but in tempers of a 
 bold and unprincipled cast, they will be explicitly stat- 
 ed and avowedly acted upon. Shakspeare has admir- 
 ably exemplified this effect of deformity in his character 
 of Richard the Third ; and, contrary to his usual man- 
 ner of leaving the character to develop itself by de- 
 grees, has expressly stated it in the soliloquy with which 
 the play opens :— 
 
 *^ I, that am curtailM of this fair proportion, 
 Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature, 
 Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and unfashionable. 
 That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; — 
 Why I, in tliis weak piping time of peace. 
 Have no delight to pass away the time. 
 Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, 
 And descant on my own deformity ; 
 And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover. 
 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — 
 I am determined to prove a villain. 
 And hate the idle pleasures of these days." 
 
86 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 With the sentiments here expressed, every man of a 
 form like Richard's cannot help feeling a momentary 
 sympathy ; nor is it possible for him to possess the same 
 complete detestation of the tyrant as an indifferent spec- 
 tator of the drama. 
 
 This tendency to malignity, every reflecting person 
 will consider as by much the most serious evil attend- 
 ing deformity ; and he will exert himself to overcome 
 it, with an energy of resolution proportioned to the com- 
 prehension of his views and the strength of his moral 
 feelings. Besides the common motives, he has an inter- 
 est peculiar to himself in avoiding the displeasure of 
 mankind, because on him it would fall with an accumu- 
 lated weight. It may be remarked, that, owing to the 
 salutary restraints imposed by civilized manners, the 
 natural sentiments of mankind, with respect to defor- 
 mity, are seldom displayed in their full extent. We 
 sometimes observe them very strongly expressed by the 
 vulgar, who are less accustomed than their superiors to 
 disguise their emotions, or to repress them by consider- 
 ations of propriety. Sensible of the injustice of treat- 
 ing an involuntary misfortune as a crime, mankind en- 
 deavour as much as possible to rectify their sentiments. 
 But when malice and deformity are united in the same 
 individual, they think themselves at liberty to indulge 
 their feelings to the utmost. Fear and hatred then 
 combine with disgust to produce a fervour of abhor- 
 rence, in many cases to be compared only to that sen- 
 sation with which the sight of a venomous reptile in- 
 spires us. 
 
 A regard to safety, therefore, as well as to tranquil- 
 lity of mind, should prompt the deformed by every 
 honest method to cultivate the good graces of mankind ; 
 and this is only to be done effectually by cherishing 
 real benevolence, which alone has the power of exciting 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 87 
 
 reciprocal sentiments in the breasts of others. To this 
 purpose notliing would contribute more essentially than 
 a sober and philosophical view of his case, considered 
 merely as an abstract subject of investigation. Such a 
 view, however, like all the children of misfortune, he is 
 very little disposed to take. On the contrary, he wil- 
 fully shuts his eyes to the alleviating circumstances of 
 his lot, and dwells on those which accord with the 
 gloomy state of his feelings. He laments that the ten- 
 derest affection he conceives for others can only be re- 
 turned with a fixed aversion or a cold pity ; that, by the 
 sentence of nature written on his forehead, he is cut off 
 from the common privilege of the human face divine, 
 endearing smiles and sympathetic expression ; and, 
 amid the gayety of the festive circle, even while his 
 heart overflows with kindness, is compelled to look on 
 with the countenance of a demon repining at human 
 happiness. Such exaggerated complaints are not un- 
 frequently poured into the ear of friendship ; but they 
 imply an evident inattention to the power of custom, 
 in familiarizing and rendering indifferent whatever is 
 originally most shocking to imagination. There are few 
 who have not remarked how completely the greatest de- 
 formity of countenance is overlooked and forgotten after 
 some acquaintance, especially when there are agreeable 
 qualities of mind to counterbalance its impression. — 
 Custom, in this respect, exerts an equalizing property, 
 and diminishes the power both of beauty and deformity. 
 On this principle, by which the female is prompted to 
 half conceal her charms, the deformed person ought 
 boldly to bring his defects into view, that those with 
 whom he associates may the sooner arrive at the state 
 of indifference. The less he seems to think of his mis- 
 fortune, the more quickly will they forget it. By this 
 magnanimous policy, he will at the same time avoid the 
 many awkward tricks contracted by those who are con- 
 
88 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 stantly endeavouring to hide defects impossible to be 
 concealed, which endeavours only serve to draw the 
 attention of the spectator more particularly. 
 
 Besides custom, there is another principle, which 
 has probably a considerable influence in reconciling us 
 to deformity. In proportion as we become familiar with 
 the countenance, we acquire a knowledge of its peculiar 
 modes of expression ; and hence are often enabled to 
 discern benevolence, where we formerly thought we 
 saw only malignity. It is the happiness of beauty that 
 the external signs of kindness are natural to it, and, 
 whenever they appear, are intelligible at first sight to 
 all mankind. In deformity, on the contrary, these signs 
 are perhaps various and accidental ; or, at least, they are 
 so strongly obscured by the unfavourable cast of the 
 features, that they require to be studied in order to be 
 understood. When this has been done, however, we 
 learn to make such ample allowances, that a homely 
 countenance will come in time to communicate its emo- 
 tions not less distinctly than the most finished beauty. 
 To this consideration may be added, the progressive ef- 
 fect of habitual good-nature in moulding the looks to a 
 conformable expression, which is universally admitted 
 to be considerable, and is perhaps still greater than is 
 commonly apprehended. The sunshine of the mind 
 will at last break through the cloudiest features. The 
 elegant, but mystical genius of Lavater, has both illus- 
 trated and obscured this subject, which, stript of the 
 dress of imagination, may be comprehended in this plain 
 and rational position, that a homely face, though it can 
 never produce the appropriate sensation of beauty, may 
 yet serve as the index of so many agreeable moral qua- 
 lities in the mind, as to be on the whole a pleasing ob- 
 ject. 
 
 An important mistake, into which deformed people 
 and old men are very apt to fall, is to suppose them- 
 
STRAY ESSAYS. 09 
 
 selves incapable of being beloved. The observations 
 already made may have tended to remove this preju- 
 dice ; but, in order more distinctly to perceive its fal- 
 lacy, it will be of use to take a view of the manner in 
 which the passion of love is generated in the mind. 
 According to the system of Hartley, which affords by 
 far the most satisfactory explication of the mental phe- 
 nomena that has yet been given, the various pleasurable 
 perceptions received from the beloved object, being as- 
 sociated together, coalesce into one idea, which, though 
 in reality very complex, is apparently simple. Although, 
 therefore, some disagreeable sensations, arising from mo- 
 ral or personal defects, should blend themselves with 
 this idea, yet, being strongly counteracted by those of 
 an opposite kind, they will be overpowered and ren- 
 dered imperceptible, and the result will be a balance of 
 pure pleasure, which is the efficient cause of attach- 
 ment. The consequence is, that these defects no longer 
 excite the disagreeable feelings which they would ori- 
 ginally raise, but will be viewed with that complacency 
 which constitutes the predominant impression in the 
 mind. — Common observation confirms the truth of this 
 theory. The lover is blind to the faults of his mistress ; 
 or, if he at all perceives them, he loves them as a part 
 of her ; he thinks they become her better than the op- 
 posite virtues do others ; and he would hardly wish to 
 remove them, even though it were in his power. This 
 system likewise shews clearly, what indeed must be 
 known to every one, that beauty is only one of the 
 causes which excite affection ; that elegant accomplish- 
 ments, good-humour, wit, the arts of pleasing conversa- 
 tion ; whatsover, in short, serves to connect agreeable 
 feelings with the presence or recollection of the indi- 
 vidual, also tend to produce it. It were absurd to 
 suppose, that the single disadvantage of person or of 
 age must necessarily overcome a combination of these 
 
90 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 causes ; and, in fact, instances to the contrary so fre- 
 quently occur in common life, as to draw upon the fair 
 sex an imputation of whimsicalness from superficial 
 observers. The affection of Desdemona for the Moor 
 Othello is strictly according to nature, and is perhaps 
 much less improbable than the villany of lago. — ^At 
 any rate, it is a sufficient consolation to the deformed, 
 to know that they are capable of inspiring that calm and 
 rational attachment, which is the true foundation of do- 
 mestic happiness, and which, being fixed on moral 
 qualities, is not liable to decay with years, or to pall by 
 satiety. 
 
 It will probably, however, be thought by many, 
 that consolation of this kind is very little wanted by the 
 description of persons under consideration, and that ob- 
 servations like the foregoing will be rather detrimental 
 than useful, by increasing that absurd personal vanity 
 for which they are already so remarkable. This opi- 
 nion, that deformed people are peculiarly subject to va- 
 nity, is very generally entertained, and seems to lie at 
 the bottom of that persuasion of their mental inferiority 
 which may be observed among the vulgar. It is, how- 
 ever, evidently a mistake, occasioned by not adverting 
 to the fact, that states of mind in many respects simi- 
 lar often arise from contrary causes. Thus, the hand- 
 some and the deformed are both much occupied about 
 their persons, but from motives precisely opposite ; the 
 one because he is conscious of being an agreeable object 
 in the sight of mankind ; the other because he feels that 
 he is the reverse. Both are fond of dress, and equally 
 ready to adopt every new ornament ; but in the former, 
 this arises from a desire to increase his attractions ; in 
 the latter, from a wish to palliate or conceal his defects. 
 Their actions are therefore similar, and hence are as- 
 cribed to the same motive; though in the one, vanity or 
 conceit is the moving principle ; in the other, perhaps 
 
A SINGULAR SPEECH. 91 
 
 too deep a sense of inferiority. It must be acknow- 
 ledged, however, that this principle in the minds of the 
 deformed, by keeping the attention constantly fixed on 
 the personal appearance, produces many of the effects 
 of vanity. In its excess, it is the great source of their 
 unhappiness ; as its usual effect is either a total want of 
 firmness, in so much that, like bashful children, they are 
 hardly able to look up to meet the eye of a stranger ; 
 or an irritable jealousy of temper, which is constantly 
 watching the looks of others for symptoms of contempt 
 or ridicule, and finds matter of resentment and com- 
 plaint in the most indifferent circumstances. The only 
 effectual remedy against it, is a just and manly confi- 
 dence in the superiority of the mind over the body, 
 together with an assiduous cultivation of those intellec- 
 tual and moral graces which form the best counterpoise 
 to corporeal imperfections. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 A SINGULAR SPEECH. 
 
 " Why do you smile, Egeria.^'" said the Bachelor 
 one day, as the nymph of his affections was looking 
 over an old Magazine, from which she was in the 
 practice of occasionally tearing a leaf to curl her 
 hair with. 
 
 " The smartest hit at the bachelors which I have 
 ever met with. It professes to be the speech of Miss 
 Polly Baker before a court of judicature in Connec- 
 ticut, where she was prosecuted the fifth time for 
 having a bastard child. It is said that this address 
 
92 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 not only influenced the court to dispense with her 
 punishment, but so captivated one of the judges, 
 that he married her next day, and to whom she had 
 afterwards fifteen children. Listen." 
 
 '^ May it please the honourable bench to indulge me 
 in a few words. I am a poor unhappy woman, who 
 have no money to fee lawyers to plead for me, being 
 hard put to it to get a tolerable living. I shall not 
 trouble your honours with long speeches; for I have 
 not the presumption to expect that you may, by any 
 means, be prevailed on to deviate in your sentence 
 from the law in my favour. All I humbly hope is, 
 that your honours would charitably move the governor's 
 goodness on my behalf, that my fine may be remitted. 
 This is the fifth time, gentlemen, that I have been 
 dragged before your court on the same account ; twice 
 I have paid heavy fines, and twice have been brought 
 to public punishment for want of money to pay those 
 fines. This may have been agreeable to the laws, and I 
 don't dispute it; but since laws are sometimes unrea- 
 sonable in themselves, and therefore repealed, and 
 others bear too hard on the subject in particular cir- 
 cumstances, and therefore there is left a power some- 
 what to dispense with the execution of them, I take 
 the liberty to say, that I think this law, by which I am 
 punished, is both unreasonable in itself, and particularly 
 severe with regard to me, who have always lived an in- 
 offensive life in the neighbourhood where I was born, 
 and defy my enemies (if I have any) to say I ever 
 wronged man, woman, or child. Abstracted from the 
 law, I cannot conceive (may it please your honours) 
 what the nature of my offence is. I have brought five 
 fine children into the world at the risk of my life ; I 
 have maintained them well by my own industry, with- 
 out burdening the township, and would have done it 
 
A SINGULAR SPEECH. 93 
 
 better, if It had not been for the heavy charges and fines 
 I have paid. Can it be a crime (in the nature of things 
 I mean) to add to the number of the king's subjects in 
 a new country that really wants people ? I own it, I 
 should think it a praiseworthy ratlier than a punishable 
 action. I have debauched no other woman's husband, 
 nor enticed any youth : these things I never was charged 
 with, nor has any one the least cause of complaint 
 against me, unless perhaps the minister or the justice, 
 because I have had children without being married, by 
 which they have missed a wedding-fee. But can this 
 be a fault of mine } I appeal to your honours. You are 
 pleased to allow I don't want sense ; but I must be stu- 
 pified to the last degree, not to prefer the honourable 
 state of wedlock to the condition I have lived in. I 
 always was, and still am, willing to enter into it ; and 
 doubt not my behaving well in it, having all the in- 
 dustry, frugality, fertility, and skill in economy, apper- 
 taining to a good wife's character. I defy any person 
 to say I ever refused an offer of that sort : on the con- 
 trary, I readily consented to the only proposal of mar- 
 riage that ever was made me, which was when I was 
 a virgin ; but, too easily confiding in the person's sin- 
 cerity that made it, I unhappily lost my own honour 
 by trusting to his ; and he then forsook me. That 
 very person you all know; he is now become a ma- 
 gistrate of this county, and I had hopes he would 
 have appeared this day on the bench, and have endea- 
 voured to moderate the court in my favour ; then I 
 should have scorned to have mentioned it ; but I must 
 now complain of it as unjust and unequal, that my be- 
 trayer and undoer, the first cause of all my faults and 
 miscarriages (if they must be deemed such), should be 
 advanced to honour and power in the government that 
 punishes my misfortunes with stripes and infamy. I 
 
94 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 should be told, 'tis like, that, were there no act of assem- 
 bly in the case, the precepts of religion are violated by 
 my transgressions. If mine is a religious offence, leave 
 it to religious punishments. You have already excluded 
 me from the comforts of your church communion. Is 
 not that sufficient ? You believe I have offended Hea- 
 ven, and must suffer eternal fire : Will not that be suffi- 
 cient ? But how can it be believed that Heaven is angry 
 at my having children, when, to the little done by me 
 towards it, God has been pleased to add his divine skill 
 and admirable workmanship in the formation of their 
 bodies, and crowned it by furnishing them with ra- 
 tional and immortal souls ? Forgive me, gentlemen, if 
 I talk a little extravagantly on these matters. I am no 
 divine ; but if you, gentlemen, must be making laws, 
 take into your wise consideration the great and grow- 
 ing number of bachelors in the country, many of whom, 
 from the mean fear of the expenses of a family, have 
 never sincerely and honourably courted a woman in 
 their lives. Is not theirs a greater offence against the 
 public good than mine ? Compel them, then, by law, 
 either to marriage, or to pay double the fine. What 
 must poor young women do, whom custom hath forbid 
 to solicit the men, and who cannot force themselves 
 upon husbands, when the laws take no care to provide 
 them with any ? Is not increase and multiply the first 
 and great commandment of nature and of nature's God ? 
 and are those that contravene the law by human insti- 
 tutions not greater offenders than the mother of five fine 
 children that now supplicates your mercy for having 
 fulfilled its obligations ? No, gentlemen ; though the 
 king's statutes make me guilty of wrong against so- 
 ciety, as it happens at present to be constituted, it is your 
 duty, by obeying the natural feelings to which my poor 
 estate and condition cannot but move you, at this time 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 95 
 
 to mitigate the rigour of those artificial penalties which 
 I have unfortunately incurred. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 ** I HAVE never been able to understand/'' said the 
 Bachelor one day, " how it happens that Sir Philip 
 Sidney enjoys so high a name in literature. He has 
 done nothing to merit so much renown. His Ar- 
 cadia is a sad namby-pamby affair ; it scarcely shows 
 even the promise of any masculine talent.'^ 
 
 " Certainly, if you judge of the merits of that ce- 
 lebrated favourite of his age by the Arcadia only, 
 your opinion must be allowed to be just,^ replied 
 Egeria; " but the Arcadia is not so mawkish a 
 thing as you seem to consider it. Not only does it 
 possess many literary beauties, but there is the spirit 
 of a fine enthusiasm spread over it, breathing virtue 
 and benevolence ; and in this respect it has not yet 
 been excelled. I allow that the story lingers, and 
 that the sentiments are rather long-winded; but, 
 nevertheless, the melody of the style is sweet and 
 pleasing, and nothing can exceed the charm of the 
 disposition in which the subject seems to have been 
 conceived. 
 
 " The conversation in which Pyroclcs describes 
 to Musidorus the pleasures of the solitude to which 
 he had retired is full of delightful poetry.*" 
 
96 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " Eagles/' says he, " we see, fly alone, and they are 
 but sheep which always herd together: condemn not 
 therefore my mind sometimes to enjoy itself; nor blame 
 the taking of such times as serve most fit for it. And, 
 alas ! dear Musidorus, if I be sad, who knows better 
 than you the just causes I have of sadness ? And here 
 Pyrocles suddenly stopped, like a man unsatisfied in 
 himself, though his wit might well have served to have 
 satisfied another. And so looking with a countenance 
 as though he desired he should know his mind without 
 hearing him speak, and yet desirous to speak, to breathe 
 out some part of his inward evil, sending again new 
 blood to his face, he continued his speech in this man- 
 ner : and. Lord (dear cousin, said he), doth not the 
 pleasantness of this place carry in itself sufficient reward 
 for any time lost in it ? Do you not see how all things 
 conspire together to make this country a heavenly 
 dwelling ? Do you not see the grass, how in colour 
 they excel the emeralds, every one striving to pass his 
 fellow, and yet they are all kept of an equal height } 
 And see you not the rest of these beautiful flowers, each 
 of which would require a man's wit to know, and his 
 life to express ? Do not these stately trees seem to main- 
 tain their flourishing old age with the only happiness of 
 their seat, being clothed with a continual spring, be- 
 cause no beauty here should ever fade ? Doth not the air 
 breathe health, which the birds (delightful both to ear 
 and eye) do daily solemnize with the sweet consent of 
 their voices ? Is not every echo there of a perfect music ; 
 and these fresh and delightful brooks, how slowly they 
 slide away, as loth to leave the company of so many 
 things united in perfection, and with how sweet a 
 murmur they lament their forced departure ? Certainly, 
 certainly, cousin, it must needs be that some goddess 
 inhabiteth this region, who is the soul of this soil ; for 
 neither is any less than a goddess worthy to be shrined 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 97 
 
 in such a heap of pleasures^ nor any less than a goddess 
 could have made it so perfect a plot of the celestial 
 dwellings." 
 
 " The prayer of Pamela, under the afflictions 
 which she suffered from Cecropia, is not only a 
 splendid specimen of elevated composition, but in 
 the sentiment reaches the sublime." 
 
 " O All-seeing Light and Eternal Life of all things, 
 to whom nothing is either so great that it may resist, or 
 so small that it is contemned ; look upon my misery 
 with thine eye of mercy, and let thine infinite power 
 vouchsafe to limit out some proportion of deliverance 
 unto me, as to thee shall seem most convenient. Let 
 not injury, O Lord, triumph over me, and let my faults 
 by thy hand be corrected, and make not mine unjust 
 enemy the minister of thy justice. But yet, my God, 
 if in thy wisdom this be the aptest chastisement for my 
 unexcusable folly ; if this low bondage be fittest for my 
 over-high desires ; if the pride of my not enough hum- 
 ble heart be thus to be broken ; O Lord, I yield unto 
 thy will, and joyfully embrace what sorrow thou wilt 
 have me suffer. Only thus much let me crave of thee 
 (let my craving, O Lord, be accepted of thee, since even 
 that proceeds from thee,) let me crave, even by the 
 noblest title, which in my greatest affliction I may give 
 myself, that I am thy creature, and by thy goodness 
 (which is thyself) that thou wilt suffer some beam of 
 thy IMajesty so to shine into my mind, that it may still 
 depend confidently on thee. Let calamity be the exer- 
 cise, but not the overthrow, of my virtue: let their 
 power prevail, but prevail not to destruction: let my 
 greatness be their prey : let my pain be the sweetness 
 of their revenge : let them (if so seem good unto thee) 
 vex me with more and more punishment : but, O Lord, 
 
 o 
 
98 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 let never their wickedness have such a hand, but that I 
 may carry a pure mind in a pure body." 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 " Last night," said the Bax^helor, " you were speak- 
 ing in commendation of Sidney's Arcadia; I have 
 since thought it somewhat remarkable, that although 
 all scholars, well read in English authors, regard the 
 writers of Queen Elizabeth's age as the master-minds 
 of the language, few of their works have of late 
 years been reprinted. 
 
 " It is certainly remarkable," replied the Lady ; 
 " for, with the exception of Bacon's Essays, I 
 scarcely recollect any of the little works of that 
 period which have been republished in our time ; but 
 his, you will say, belong rather to the age of her suc- 
 cessor James. — It may be so ; but his mind was 
 formed in the same circumstances which inspired the 
 genius of Shakspeare. I wonder, indeed, that nobody 
 has thought of bringing out a new edition of ' Sir 
 Walter Raleigh's Remains,' — a work which, in many 
 respects, deserves to stand by the side of Bacon's 
 Essays. It is the private thoughts, if I may use 
 the term, of a very great man ; one who had exam- 
 ined the world with a sharp eye, and whose mind 
 was rich in observations and experience. He was, 
 undoubtedly, a man of much wisdom, though it may 
 
SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 99 
 
 be said that there is a leaning to worldliness in his 
 reflections which somewhat diminishes the impres- 
 sion that the justness of his remarks is calculated to 
 produce ;— and his advice to his son has always been 
 considered as a proof of it. Take, for example, his 
 rules for the preservation of a man's estate."" 
 
 DOMESTIC ECONOMY. 
 
 " Amongst all other things of the world, take care of 
 thy estate, which thou shalt ever preserve, if thou ob- 
 serve three things; first, that thou know what thou 
 hast, what every thing is worth that thou hast, and to 
 see that thou art not wasted by thy servants and offi- 
 cers. The second is, that thou never spend any thing 
 before thou have it ; for borrowing is the canker and 
 death of every man's estate. The third is, that thou 
 suffer not thyself to be wounded for other men's faults, 
 and scourged for other men's offences ; which is the 
 surety for another, for thereby millions of men have 
 been beggared and destroyed, paying the reckoning of 
 other men's riot, and the charge of other men's folly and 
 prodigality ; if thou smart, smart for thine own sins, 
 and, above all things, be not made an ass to carry the 
 burdens of other men ; if any friend desire thee to be 
 his surety, give him a part of what thou hast to spare ; 
 if he press thee farther, he is not thy friend at all, for 
 friendship rather chooseth harm to itself than ofTereth 
 it ; if thou be bound for a stranger, thou art a fool ; if 
 for a merchant, thou puttest thy estate to learn to swim ; 
 if for a chiu-chman, he hath no inheritance ; if for a 
 lawyer, he will find an invasion by a syllable or word 
 to abuse thee ; if for a poor man, thou must pay it thy- 
 self; if for a rich man, it need not; therefore from 
 suretyship, as from a man-slayer or enchanter, bless 
 thyself, for the best profit and return will be this, that 
 
100 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 if thou force him, for whom thou art bound, to pay it 
 himself, he will become thy enemy ; if thou use to pay 
 it thyself, thou wilt be a beggar ; and believe thy father 
 in this, and print it on thy thought, that what virtue 
 soever thou hast, be it never so manifold, if thou be 
 poor withal, thou and thy qualities shall be despised ; 
 besides, poverty is oft times sent as a curse of God, it is 
 a shame amongst men, an imprisonment of the mind, a 
 vexation of every worthy spirit ; thou shalt neither help 
 thyself nor others, thou shalt drown thee in all thy vir- 
 tues, having no means to shew them ; thou shalt be a 
 burden and an eye-sore to thy friends — every man will 
 fear thy company — thou shalt be driven basely to beg 
 and depend on others — to flatter unworthy men — to 
 make dishonest shifts, and to conclude, poverty pro- 
 vokes a man to do infamous and detested deeds ; let no 
 vanity therefore, or persuasion, draw thee to that worst 
 of worldly miseries. 
 
 " If thou be rich, it will give thee pleasure in health, 
 comfort in sickness, keep thy mind and body free, save 
 thee from many perils, relieve thee in thy elder years, 
 relieve the poor and thy honest friends, and give means 
 to thy posterity to live, and defend themselves and thine 
 own fame. Where it is said in the Proverbs, That he 
 shall he sore vexed that is surety for a stranger ^ and he 
 that hateth suretyship is sure; it is further said. The 
 poor is hated even of his own neighbour y but the rich have 
 many friends. Lend not to him that is mightier than 
 thyself, for if thou lendest him, count it but lost ; be 
 not surety above thy power, for if thou be surety, think 
 to pay it." 
 
CHAP. X. 
 
 STRAY POETRY. 
 
 " The other day,"'' said Egeria one evening after 
 tea, " I called your attention to that bundle of ma- 
 nuscripts which you brought for us to look over, and 
 I read to you two very clever and philosophical little 
 essays. In looking this afternoon again into the 
 same papers, I have found several other things no 
 less deserving of attention. I wonder who is the 
 author. It is surprising that one who writes so well 
 should be so little known." 
 
 The Bachelor did not reply to this question, but, 
 giving a sigh, said, " Let me hear you read these 
 which have given you so much pleasure."" 
 
 Egeria, without affecting to notice the pensive 
 reminiscence which her question had awakened, took 
 the following little poem from the bundle. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 The ship is unmoor'd. 
 
 All hands are on board, 
 Released from the bonds of affection ; 
 
 High-mounted, the crew 
 
 Bid a cheering adieu. 
 To stifle each fond recollection. 
 
 The sails all are spread. 
 
 The ship shoots ahead, 
 
 The rough billows proudly dividing; 
 
102 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. ■ 
 
 Now plunging amain^ ] 
 
 Now rising again, i 
 
 Like a sea-bird on white bosom riding. \ 
 
 The wind louder grows, ] 
 
 And fiercer it blows, • 
 
 Now shrill, and then hoarse as the thunder ; ; 
 
 The masts all are bent, i 
 
 And the topsail is rent, : 
 
 By the swift-rushing blast burst asunder. ] 
 
 Awe-struck, from the skies J 
 
 The pilot descries \ 
 
 The whirlwind in circles descending, • \ 
 
 And marks over head, '■ 
 
 Up-looking with dread, | 
 
 The waves in white ridges impending. ^ 
 
 The rudder is broke ; 
 
 She reels from the stroke ; i 
 
 O'erwhelm'd, for a moment she's sinking : ] 
 
 In silence their fate i 
 
 The seamen await; 
 
 On the sweetness of home they are thinking. j 
 
 I 
 
 The twilight is gone, I 
 Dark night is come on. 
 
 All dreary and wild is the ocean ; j 
 
 And shoreward in haste ] 
 
 The billows are chased, ; 
 
 High-raging in boundless commotion. 1 
 
 The breakers are heard, i 
 
 And all are prepar'd ; i 
 
 To the rigging with cords they have bound them : j 
 
STRAY POETRY. 103 j 
 
 No star in the sky. 
 
 Nor light they espy, ; 
 But the foam of the waves all around them. 
 
 The landsman shall starts < 
 
 As his slumbers depart, \ 
 
 On his soft couch so peacefully lying, i 
 
 And hear with affright, j 
 
 Through the darkness of night. 
 
 The groans and the shrieks of the dying. ; 
 
 " Yes," said the Bachelor, " it is a very beautiful < 
 
 poem." j 
 
 " And," added Egeria, " both original and striking ■ 
 
 in the conception and execution. It is what I would \ 
 
 call a talismanic composition : it produces its effect -j 
 
 not by what it describes, but by what it recalls to < 
 recollection, or by the associations which it awakens. 
 
 This other is, however, still more beautiful. I have \ 
 seldom met with any thing so simple and touching." 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S REVERIE. J 
 
 i 
 Sooth'd by the self-same ditty, see 
 
 The infant and the sire ; \ 
 
 That smiling on the nurse's knee, ] 
 
 This weeping by the fire; i 
 
 Where unobserved he finds a joy 1 
 
 To list its plaintive tone. 
 
 And silently his thoughts employ < 
 
 On sorrows all his own. 
 
 At once it comes, by memory's power. 
 The loved habitual theme. 
 
104 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Reserved for twilight's darkling hour, 
 
 A voluntary dream ; 
 And as with thoughts of former years 
 
 His weakly eyes o'erflow. 
 None w onders at an old man's tears. 
 
 Or seeks his grief to know. 
 
 Think not he dotes because he weeps ; 
 
 Conclusion, ah ! how wrong ! 
 Reason with grief joint empire keeps, 
 
 Indissolubly strong ; 
 And oft in age a helpless pride 
 
 With jealous weakness pines, 
 (To second infancy allied) 
 
 And every woe refines. 
 
 How busy now his teeming brain. 
 Those murmuring lips declare ; 
 
 Scenes never to return again 
 Are represented there. 
 
 He ponders on his infant years. 
 
 When first his race began. 
 And, oh ! how wonderful appears 
 
 The destiny of man ! 
 How swift those lovely hours were pa^. 
 
 In darkness closed how soon ! 
 As if a winter's night o'ercast 
 
 The brightest summer's noon. 
 
 His wither'd hand he holds to view. 
 With nerves once firmly strung. 
 
 And scarcely can believe it true 
 That ever he was young. 
 
STRAY POETRY. 105 
 
 And as he thinks o'er all his ills. 
 
 Disease, neglect, and scorn. 
 Strange pity of himself he feels. 
 
 Thus aged and forlorn. 
 
 " This is not only pathetic,'*' continued the nymph, 
 ** but it is poetical in the truest sense of the term ; for 
 it presents at once an image to the mind, an argument 
 to the judgment, and a subject interesting to the 
 universal feelings of our nature. Pray, do tell me by 
 whom it was written.''* 
 
 " Some other time I may,'*' replied Benedict, — 
 " when the proper occasion arises ; meanwhile, have 
 you found any thing else that pleases you ?'*' 
 
 " O they all please me,'*' said Egeria briskly ; " and 
 here is a humorous effusion, that seems to have been 
 written as a companion to the affecting little piece 
 which I have just read." 
 
 ELEGY BY A SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 How blest was I at Dobson's ball ! 
 
 The fiddlers come, my partner chosen ! 
 My oranges were five in all, 
 
 Alas ! they were not half-a-dozen ! 
 
 For soon a richer rival came. 
 
 And soon the bargain was concluded ; 
 
 My Peggy took him without shame. 
 And left me hopeless and deluded. 
 
 To leave me for an orange more ! 
 
 Could not your pockets-full content ye ? 
 "What could you do with all that store ? 
 
 He had but six, and five were plenty. 
 
106 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And mine were biggest, I protest. 
 
 For some of his were only penny ones. 
 
 While mine were all the very best. 
 
 As juicy, large, and sweet as any one's. 
 
 Could I have thought, ye beaux and belles. 
 An orange would have so undone me ! 
 
 Or any thing the grocer sells. 
 
 Could move my fair one thus to shun me ! 
 
 All night I sat in fixed disdain. 
 
 While hornpipes numberless were hobbled ; 
 I watch'd my mistress and her swain. 
 
 And saw his paltry present gobbled. 
 
 But when the country-dance was call'd, 
 I could have cried with pure vexation ; 
 
 For by the arms I saw her haul'd. 
 And led triumphant to her station. 
 
 What other could I think to take ? 
 
 Of all the school she was the tallest ; 
 What choice worth making could I make. 
 
 None left me, but the very smallest ! 
 
 But now all thoughts of her adieu ! 
 
 This is no time for such diversion ; 
 Mair's Introduction lies in view. 
 
 And I must write my Latin version. 
 
 Yet all who that way are inclined. 
 This lesson learn from my undoing ; 
 
 Unless your pockets are well lined, 
 'Tis labour lost to go a wooing. 
 
STRAY POETRY. 107 
 
 " There is, " resumed the nymph,'' not only hu- 
 mour and truth in this little poem, but a naiVetd of 
 thought and expression, which shows that the author 
 possesses very amiable dispositions.*" 
 
 ** Possessed r replied the Bachelor with a mourn- 
 ful accent, — ** but read me the short baUad on old 
 age. I remember, when I heard it at first, it struck 
 me as one of the most plaintive and simple complaints 
 I had ever met with. It is in my opinion quite a 
 melody, and a sad one too. Alas, that we should 
 grow old !'' 
 
 Egeria turned over the papers, till she found the 
 piece, and then began to read. 
 
 A BALLAD ON OLD AGE. 
 
 Come any gentle poet 
 
 Who wants a mournful page. 
 His theme I soon will show it ; 
 
 Oh, sing the woes of age ! 
 He sure must weep for pity. 
 
 Who sings so sad a lay ; 
 And tears, to grace his ditty. 
 
 His sorrow shall repay. 
 
 O age is- dark and dreary. 
 
 As every old man knows ; 
 Without labour he is weary. 
 
 In rest finds no repose ; 
 His life affords no pleasure. 
 
 For he has lived too long ; 
 A cup with over-measure. 
 
 It palls upon the tongue. 
 
 His friends long time departed. 
 That were so true and kind. 
 
108 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 When children are hard-hearted. 
 
 He bears them oft in mind : 
 He silent sits and ponders. 
 
 In grief and helpless pride ; 
 And as his fancy wanders. 
 
 He thinks them at his side. 
 
 who would strive with nature 
 For half an hour of gloom. 
 
 To live an abject creature. 
 Usurping others' room ! 
 
 1 seek not life, but rather 
 I pray to be at rest ; 
 
 When friends go all together. 
 That voyage is surely best. 
 
 " I shall not be content, my dear Benedict," said 
 the nymph, " till you tell me by whom these papers 
 were written, and how it happened that so many 
 really charming things have never been published .?" 
 
 " Whether any of these poems have ever been 
 published," replied the Bachelor, " I do not certainly 
 know ; but the Essay on Deformity was printed in 
 some periodical work at the time it was written, and 
 I recollect it obtained a warm commendation from 
 the editor. The author then was very young, a 
 mere boy, and the promise of his talent was a blos- 
 som that might have come in time to some rich and 
 rare fruit, had he been spared in health."" 
 
 " In health ! then he is still alive .?" said the 
 nymph. 
 
 '' Do not question me any further at present," 
 replied the Bachelor; ** I have a reason for my 
 silence. Have you looked at any more ?^'' 
 
STRAY POETRY. 109 
 
 *' Yes ; and here is a song which is both spirited 
 and highly poetical." 
 
 THE CALL OF MORVEN. 
 
 Strike the harp ! strike the harp ! O ye masters of song! 
 
 Call forth your high strains that to glory belong. 
 
 The valiant depart, go ye minstrels before. 
 
 And lead with proud steps to the fight as of yore. 
 
 High flames the red signal on Cruachan's bound. 
 
 And answering swords gleam in thousands around. 
 
 The banner of Albin unfurls in its might. 
 
 And flaps like an eagle preparing for flight ; 
 
 Full spread to the blast see it rushes afar. 
 
 And the sons of green Morven must follow to war. 
 
 Hide your tears ! O ye maids, in your brightness o'ercast. 
 
 Nor rend your fair locks till the heroes be past ! 
 
 Approach not, ye mothers, lamenting afar. 
 
 For the sons of green Morven are summoned to war ! 
 
 O ye shores of the ocean, for combats renown'd. 
 
 Where the bones of the mighty lie scatter'd around ; 
 
 Where the Roman was chased from the hill to the plain. 
 
 And the haughty Norweyan lies stretched on the Dane: 
 
 Again shall ye tell where the valiant have died. 
 
 And the spoiler of nations stood check'd in his pride ; 
 
 Once more shall your echoes redouble from far 
 
 The sound of pursuit, and the triumph of war. 
 
 " But,*" continued the nymph, " it is in the simple 
 pathetic that the author most excels,— and here is a 
 little piece of that kind which I think affecting and 
 pretty."" 
 
 THE SWISS BEGGAR. 
 
 O I am not of this countrie, 
 
 And much my heart is wrung. 
 To wander in a foreign land. 
 
 And beg in foreign tongue. 
 
no THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 *Tis all to gain a little sum 
 To bear me o'er the sea ; 
 
 And hither slowly I am come 
 To ask your charity. 
 
 My home is in the Valteline, 
 Far inland from the main ; 
 
 And every day I wish and pine 
 To see it once again. 
 
 I cannot mend this little store ; 
 
 My wishing is in vain ; 
 And I shall ne'er behold it more, 
 
 Ah never, ne'er again ! 
 
 If you have ever been abroad. 
 Bestow an alms on me ! 
 
 And think you speed me on my road 
 My native land to see. 
 
 My cot still rises to my view. 
 And will not let me stay ; 
 
 But I am old, and alms are few. 
 And long is the delay ! 
 
 And must I ever thus deplore 
 
 My labour spent in vain ? 
 And shall I ne'er behold it more ? 
 Ah never, ne'er again ! 
 
 Your country is a pleasant land. 
 But, oh, it is not mine ! 
 
 I have not here a kindred band 
 As in the Valteline. 
 
 When on my native hills I play'd, 
 I breathed not English air ; 
 
STRAY POETRY. Ill 
 
 I did not love an English maid 
 When love was all my care. 
 
 But I must die on England's strand, 
 
 A prisoner of the main ! 
 And ne'er behold my native land. 
 
 Ah, never, ne'er again ! 
 
 " I am also well pleased with another short poem, 
 which, without being very lofty in the style, is very 
 animated in the conception, and full of lyrical 
 energy."" 
 
 ODE TO PATRIOTISM. 
 
 thou who didst thy vigils keep. 
 On lonely tower or heath-clad steep. 
 Watching the midnight beacon's blaze. 
 That, streaming to the warrior's gaze. 
 Told him the invading foe was near. 
 And bade him grasp the Scottish spear ; 
 O, welcome to this heart again ! 
 Welcome ! with all thy radiant train. 
 Valour with Friendship by his side. 
 Domestic Love with pinions tied. 
 
 And Poesy, the wild and free. 
 Sweet child of Sympathy and thee ! 
 Too long a stranger to thy shrine. 
 And heedless of thy songs divine, 
 
 1 foUow'd shadows, false though fair. 
 That beckoning through the misty air. 
 Drew me, unwilling and afraid. 
 
 To desert paths of deepest shade. 
 Yet not bereft of thee, sweet Power ! 
 For still, from thine and Virtue's bower. 
 Thou follow'dst on the devious track. 
 Suppliant to win thy votary back ; 
 
112 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And oft, when slumber seal'd mine eyes. 
 Thou bad'st a pictured vision rise, 
 My country's image, fair exprest, 
 A blooming maid in antique vest ; 
 Such as to Burns his Coila stood. 
 When smiling in the portal rude. 
 She caught her poet's startled eye. 
 Half-closed in musing ecstasy. 
 Roused by her danger, lo ! I burn ; 
 Visions of childhood, ye return. 
 When wand'ring by the wonted stream. 
 Sacred to Fancy's wildest dream, 
 I conn'd your lays, ye bards of old. 
 Simple and rude, yet strong and bold. 
 What rushing tremors thrill'd my frame. 
 When he, the chief of glorious name. 
 Who thrice the Scottish standard rear'd. 
 While sceptred tyrants saw and fear'd. 
 Rose to my view in awful might. 
 Trampling the proud oppressor's flight ; 
 Or, as with dust and wounds o'erspread. 
 When faithful ranks retreating bled. 
 Alone he check'd the foe's career. 
 And waved his wide-protecting spear ! 
 O thou ! in Danger's bosom nurst, 
 Wallace ! of Scottish heroes first ; 
 A warrior raised by Heaven's command : 
 Hail ! guardian genius of the land ; 
 For still thy martial spirit reigns. 
 Still hovers o'er these hills and plains. 
 Even in the rude unletter'd hynd. 
 Breathing the firm undaunted mind. 
 O, never shall thy glories die ; 
 But still thy name, emblazon'd high 
 On Scotia's bright historic scroll. 
 Shall Kindle on the Patriot's soul. 
 1 
 
STRAY POETRY. 113 
 
 First on the lisping infant's tongue ; 
 Still to the harp by minstrels sung ; 
 And still, O destiny sublime ! 
 Lightning, to the remotest time. 
 Shall rouse thy country's sleeping fire. 
 The watch-word of her vengeful ire. 
 When hostile feet shall dare to tread 
 The ashes of her mighty dead. 
 Such meed is thine, immortal maid ! 
 To whom my contrite vows are paid. 
 
 " But here is a sweet and pleasing effusion. It 
 becomes pathetic by the sorrow that we feel in remem- 
 l)ering the author. All of his, wc trust, shall not 
 die." 
 
 THE POET TO HIS WORKS. 
 
 Flowers born beneath a wintry sky. 
 When shall ye burst the envious shade ? 
 
 Or, like the bard, fore-doom'd to die. 
 Unseen, unhonour'd, must ye fade ? 
 
 Yet droop not hopeless round his urn. 
 Untimely though your blossoms fall. 
 
 Await with him the year's return. 
 For you nor he shall perish all. 
 
 Sprung through a crevice of the tomb, 
 
 A solitary stem may blow. 
 Gay orphan of the silent gloom. 
 
 And point the humble name below. 
 
 Some simple, unambitious strain. 
 
 Low breathed in beauty's pensive ear, 
 
 The soft complaint of tender pain. 
 Framed in the flowing of a tear ; 
 
 H 
 
114 THE BACHELORS WIFE. 
 
 The poet's pure immortal part. 
 From all unhallow'd dross refined. 
 
 Shall live in many a gentle heart. 
 The heaven of a poetic mind. 
 
 CHAP. XI. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. 
 
 " The Russians," said Egeria one morning, as she 
 was turning carefully over the leaves of several 
 books which happened to be lying on the table, 
 *' seem to me to hold a place, in their habits, man- 
 ners, and pursuits, between the Europeans and 
 Asiatics. They have a great deal of the intelligence, 
 the activity, and the shrewdness of the former, with 
 no small degree of the cunning, the pride, and the 
 selfishness of the latter. Their taste for slaves and 
 magnificence is quite oriental ; but they have social 
 and convivial dispositions which do not belong to the 
 Asiatics. The custom among the Muscovite no- 
 bility of keeping dwarfs is peculiar, I fancy, to 
 themselves. Porter's account of these unfortunate 
 little creatures is about one of the best things in his 
 Travels in Russia and Sweden.*" 
 
 " They are here the pages and the playthings of the 
 great ; and at almost all entertainments stand for hours 
 by their lord's chair, holding his snuff-box, or awaiting 
 his commands. There is scarcely a nobleman in this 
 country who is not possessed of one or more of these 
 
MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. 115 
 
 frisks of nature; but in their selection, I cannot say 
 * that the noblesse display their gallantry, as they choose 
 none but males. 
 
 *' These little beings are generally the gayest drest 
 persons in the service of their lord, and are attired in a 
 uniform or livery of very costly materials. In the pre- 
 sence of their owner, their usual station is at his elbow 
 in the character of a page ; and during his absence, 
 they are then responsible for the cleanliness and combed 
 locks of their companions of the canine species. 
 
 " Besides these lilliputians, many of the nobility keep 
 a fool or two, like the motleys of our court in the days 
 of Elizabeth ; but like in name alone, for their wit, if 
 they ever had any, is swallowed up by indolence. — 
 Savoury sauce and rich repasts swell their bodies to the 
 most disgusting size ; and lying about in the corners of 
 some splendid saloon, they sleep profoundly, till awak- 
 ened by the command of their lord to amuse the com- 
 pany. Shaking their enormous bulk, they rise from 
 their trance ; and, supporting their unwieldy trunks 
 against the wall, drawl out their heavy nonsense, with 
 as much grace as the motions of a sloth in the hands of 
 a reptile-fancier. One glance was sufficient for me of 
 these imbruted creatures; and, with something like 
 pleasure, I turned from them to the less humiliating 
 view of human nature in the dwarf. 
 
 " The race of these unfortunates is very diminutive 
 in Russia, and numerous. They are generally well 
 shaped, and their hands and feet particularly graceful. 
 Indeed, in the proportion of their figures, we should no 
 where discover them to be flaws in the economy of na- 
 ture, were it not for a peculiarity of feature and the 
 size of the head, which is commonly exceedingly en- 
 larged. Take them on the whole, they are such com- 
 pact, and even pretty little beings, that no idea can be 
 formed of them from the clumsy deformed dwarfs which 
 
116 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 are exhibited at our fairs in England. I cannot say 
 that we need envy Russia this part of her offspring. It 
 is very curious to observe how nearly they resemble 
 each other; their features are all so alike, that you 
 might easily imagine that one pair had spread their 
 progeny over the whole country." 
 
 " I would also read to you an anecdote of Gus- 
 tavus Vasa, which is very cleverly told." 
 
 " On the little hill just mentioned, stood a very an- 
 cient habitation, of so simple an architecture, that you 
 would have taken it for a hind's cottage, instead of a 
 place that, in times of old, had been the abode of no- 
 bility. It consisted of a long barn-like structure, formed 
 of fir, covered in a strange fashion with scales and odd 
 ornamental twistings in the carved wood. But the spot 
 was hallowed by the virtues of its heroic mistress, who 
 saved, by her presence of mind, the life of the future 
 deliverer of her country. The following are the circum- 
 stances alluded to ; and most of them were communi- 
 cated to me under the very roof. 
 
 " Gustavus having, by an evil accident, been discov- 
 ered in the mines, and after being nearly betrayed by a 
 Swedish nobleman, bent his course towards this house, 
 then inhabited by a gentleman of the name of Pearson 
 (or Peterson), whom he had known in the armies of the 
 late administrator. Here he hoped, from the obliga- 
 tions he had formerly laid on the officer, that he should 
 at least find a safe retreat. Pearson received him with 
 every mark of friendship ; nay, treated him with that 
 respect and submission which noble minds are proud to 
 pay to the truly great, when robbed of their external 
 honours. He seemed more afflicted by the misfortunes 
 of Gustavus than that prince was himself; and ex- 
 claimed with such vehemence against the Danes, that. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. 117 
 
 instead of awaiting a proposal to take up arms^ he ofTer- 
 ed, unmasked, to try the spirit of the mountaineers ; 
 and declared that himself and his vassals would be the 
 first to set an example, and turn out under the com- 
 mand of his beloved general. 
 
 " Gustavus was rejoiced to find that he had at last 
 discovered a man who was not afraid to draw his sword 
 in the defence of his country ; and endeavoured, by the 
 most impressive arguments, and the prospect of a suit- 
 able recompense for the personal risks he ran, to con- 
 firm him in so generous a resolution. Pearson answered 
 with repeated assurances of fidelity ; he named the gen- 
 tlemen, and the leading persons among the peasants, 
 whom he hoped to engage in the enterprise. Gustavus 
 relied on his word, and promising not to disclose himself 
 to any while he was absent, some days afterwards saw 
 him leave the house to put his design in execution. 
 
 "It was indeed a design, and a black one. Under 
 the specious cloak of a zealous affection for Gustavus, 
 the traitor was contriving his ruin. The hope of mak- 
 ing his court to the Danish tyrant, and the expectation 
 of a large reward, made tliis son of Judas resolve to 
 sacrifice his honour to his ambition, and, for the sake of 
 a few ducats, violate the most sacred laws of hospitality, 
 by betraying his guest. In pursuance of that base reso- 
 lution, he went straight to one of Christiern's officers 
 commanding in the province, and informed him that 
 Gustavus was his prisoner. Having committed this 
 treachery, he had not courage to face his victim ; and 
 telling the Dane how to surprise the prince, who, he 
 said, believed himself to be under the protection of a 
 friend, (shame to manhood, to dare to confess that he 
 could betray such a confidence !) he proposed taking a 
 wider circuit home, while they, apparently unknown to 
 him, rifled it of its treasuer. * It will be an easy mat- 
 
118 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ter/ said he, ' for not even my wife knows that it is 
 Gustavus.' 
 
 *' Accordingly, the officer, at the head of a party of 
 well-armed soldiers, marched directly to the lake. The 
 men invested the house, while the leader, abruptly en- 
 tering, found Pearson's wife, according to the fashion 
 of those days, employed in culinary preparations. At 
 some distance from her sat a young man in a rustic 
 garb, lopping off the knots from the broken branch of a 
 tree. The officer went up to her, and told her he came 
 in King Christiern's name to demand the rebel Gus- 
 tavus, who he knew was concealed under her roof.— 
 The dauntless woman never changed colour ; she im- 
 mediately guessed the man whom her husband had in- 
 troduced as a miner's son, to be the Swedish hero. The 
 door was blocked up by soldiers. In an instant she 
 replied, without once glancing at Gustavus, who sat 
 motionless with surprise, ' If you mean the melancholy 
 gentleman my husband has had here these few days, he 
 has just walked out into the wood on the other side of 
 the hill. Some of those soldiers may readily seize him^ 
 as he has no arms with him. 
 
 " The officer did not suspect the easy simplicity of 
 her manner ; and ordered part of the men to go in quest 
 of him. At that moment, suddenly turning her eyes on 
 Gustavus, she flew up to him, and catching the stick 
 out of his hand, exclaimed, in an angry voice, — ' Un- 
 mannerly wretch ! What, sit before your betters ? Don't 
 you see the king's officers in the room ? Get out of my 
 sight, or some of them shall give you a drubbing !' As 
 she spoke, she struck him a blow on the back with all 
 her strength ; and opening a side-door, ' there, get into 
 the scullery,' cried she, Mt is the fittest place for such 
 company !' and giving him another knock, she flung 
 the stick after him, and shut the door. ' Sure,' added 
 
JNnSCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS. Ill) 
 
 she, in a great heat, * never woman was plagued with 
 such a lout of a slave !' 
 
 " The officer begged she would not disturb herself 
 on his account ; but she, affecting great reverence for 
 the king, and respect for his representative, prayed him 
 to enter her parlour while she brought some refresh- 
 ment. The Dane civilly complied ; perhaps glad enough 
 to get from the side of a shrew ; and she immediately 
 hastened to Gustavus, whom she had bolted in, and by 
 means of a back-passage conducted him in a moment to 
 a certain little apartment, which projected from the 
 side of the house close to the bank of the lake where the 
 fishers' boats lay, she lowered him down the convenient 
 aperture in the seat, and, giving him a direction to an 
 honest curate across the lake, committed him to Provi- 
 dence." 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 WITCHCRAFT. 
 
 One windy wintry night, as the Bachelor and his 
 nymph were enjoying together the music of the blast, 
 the lady said to him, — " It was a strange fancy of 
 our ancestors, to suppose that men and women witch- 
 es and wizards should ever have delighted in caus- 
 ing such weather as this; and, above all, of making 
 choice of it for visiting. But truly, after all that 
 has been written about magic and witchcraft, I think 
 a sound and sober treatise on the subject is still 
 wanted. For my own part, I am of opinion that 
 the laws against witches and witchcraft, though noTr 
 
120 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 rendered obsolete by the progress of knowledge, 
 were yet, when first enacted, founded in wisdom 
 and on justice." 
 
 " Really, my love,*" replied the Bachelor, looking 
 aghast at this observation, " you begin to grow para- 
 doxical. You do not mean to contend that there 
 was ever any such crime as that for which so many 
 poor wretches suffered death, in consequence of those 
 absurd and superstitious laws .?" 
 
 " But I do though,'"* said Egeria ; " I do not, it is 
 true, contend, that ever any such power as that which 
 was ascribed to the wizard and the witch actually 
 existed ; but, what was almost the same thing, the 
 belief that it did exist was universal ; and wicked 
 and malicious persons, by pretending to the posses- 
 sion of it, acquired an influence over the minds of 
 their neighbours, which they often exercised with 
 the worst and most baneful effect. Think, for a mo- 
 ment, what must have been his feelings who believed 
 himself under the influence of their malignant spells ! 
 Misfortunes were not to him merely causes of re- 
 gret and sorrow, but subjects of the most hideous 
 and horrible contemplation. He saw not his cattle 
 die of disease, but the victims of unutterable incan- 
 tations. It was not the wind nor the rain of nature 
 by which his corn was laid, but the trampling of 
 hell-hags, furious with enmity against himself. His 
 sleep was not disturbed by indigestion, or by infirm 
 health, but by dreadful charms, mingled by accursed 
 hands, and made efficacious by the ministry of dia- 
 bolical agents. The anguish of sickness was exas- 
 perated by the pangs of mental suffering ; and the in- 
 valid who pined in consumption, trembled with the 
 
WITCHCRAFT. 121 
 
 frightful thought of a waxen image of himself, fram- 
 ed with mysteries under disastrous aspects of the hea- 
 vens, revolving and melting before an enchanted fire, 
 round which the most loathsome and detestable of 
 beings were convened. The changes of his sensa- 
 tions told him when their cruelty damped the flame, 
 to waste him lingeringly ; and, in his sharp and 
 shooting pains, he thought of the witches piercing 
 the image with pins and bodkins. They sat on his 
 heart in his sleep, and they haunted him in his sha- 
 dow. Were not the causes of such agonies, though 
 but by the management of the imaginations and 
 the ears of the subjects, worthy of punishment.'* 
 and shall we therefore say, that the laws, which 
 were framed to deter wretches from the practice of 
 impostures so fatal, were either in themselves uncall- 
 ed for or unwise ? That those who practised witch- 
 craft believed themselves possessed of the power to 
 which they pretended is not impossible ; but I am 
 more inclined to think, that the spell formed but a 
 part of the devices of their malignant cunning ;— 
 though it cannot be supposed that there ever was any 
 such ceremonies in use among them as those of the 
 absurd tales of the mysteries of their visitations.— 
 For example, look at Gaule's account of the busi- 
 ness ; was ever any such absurdities either done or 
 attempted as the following ?" 
 
 INITIATION OF A M^ITCH. 
 " The convention for such a solemn initiation being 
 proclaimed (by some herald imp) to some others of the 
 confederation, on the Lord's day, or some great lioly- 
 day or chief festival, they meet in some church near 
 the font or high altar, and that very early, before the 
 
122 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 consecrated bell hath tolled, or the least sprinkling of 
 holy water ; or else very late, after all services are past 
 and over. Here the party, in some vesture for that 
 purpose, is presented, by some confederate or familiar, to 
 the prince of devils sitting now on a throne of infernal 
 majesty, appearing in the form of a man (only labouring 
 to hide his cloven foot.) To whom, after bowing, and 
 homage done in kissing, &c. a petition is presented to 
 be received unto his association and protection; and 
 first, if the witch be outwardly Christian, baptism 
 must be renounced, the party must be re-baptized in 
 the devil's name, and a new name is also imposed by 
 him ; and here must be god-fathers too, for the devil 
 takes them not to be so adult as to promise and vow 
 for themselves. But above all, he is very busy with 
 his long nails, in scraping and scratching those places 
 of the forehead where the sign of the cross was made, 
 or where the chrism was laid. Instead of both which, 
 he himself impresses or inures the mark of the beast, 
 the devil's flesh brand, upon one or other part of the 
 body, and teaches them to make an oil or ointment of 
 live infants, stolen out of the cradle (before they be 
 signed with the sign of the cross), or dead ones stolen 
 out of their graves ; the which they are to boil to a 
 jelly ; and then drinking one part, and besmearing 
 themselves with another, they forthwith feel themselves 
 imprest and endowed with the faculties of this mystical 
 art. Further, the witch (for his or her part) vows, 
 (either by word of mouth, or peradventure by writing, 
 and that in their own blood) to give both body and soul 
 to the devil, to deny and defy God the Father, the 
 Son, and the Holy Ghost, but especially the blessed Vir- 
 gin, convitiating her with one infamous nick-name or 
 other ; to abhor the word and sacraments, but especially 
 to spit at the saying of mass ; to spurn at the cross, 
 and tread saints' images under feet ; and, as much as pes- 
 
WITCHCRAFT. 123 
 
 sible they may, to profane all saints* reliques, holy water, 
 consecrated salt, wax, &c. To be sure to fast on Sun- 
 days, and eat flesh on Fridays, not to confess their 
 sins however they do, especially to a priest. To sepa- 
 rate from the Catholic church, and despise God's vicar's 
 primacy. To attend his nocturnal conventicles, sabbaths, 
 sacrifices. To take him for their God, and worship, in- 
 voke, obey him, &c. To devote their children to him, and 
 to labour all that they may to bring others into the same 
 confederacy. Then the devil, for his part, promises to 
 be always present with them, to serve them at their 
 beck. That they shall have their wills upon any body ; 
 that they shall have what riches, honours, pleasures, they 
 can imagine. And if any be so wary as to think of their 
 future being, he tells them they shall be principalities 
 ruling in the air ; or shall but be turned into imps at 
 worst. Then he preaches to them to be mindful of their 
 covenant, and not to fail to revenge themselves upon 
 their enemies. Then he commends to them (for these 
 purposes) an imp or familiar, in the shape of dog, cat, 
 rat, mouse, weasle, &c. After this they shake hands, em- 
 brace in arms, dance, feast, and banquet, according as the 
 devil hath provided in imitation of the supper. Nay, oft- 
 times he marries them ere they part, either to himself, 
 or their familiar, or to one another, and that by the 
 Book of Common Prayer (as a pretender to witch-find- 
 ing told me in the audience of many.) After this they 
 part, till the next great conventicle, or Sabbath of 
 theirs, which meets thrice in a year, conveyed as swift 
 as the winds from remotest parts of the earth, where the 
 most notorious of them meet to redintegrate their cove- 
 nant, and give account of their improvement. Where 
 they that have done the most execrable mischief, and 
 can brag of it, make most merry with the devil ; and 
 they that have been indiligent, and have done but 
 petty services in comparison, are jeered and derided 
 
124 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 by the devil, and all the rest of the company. And 
 such as are absent, and have no care to be assigned, are 
 amerced to this penalty, so to be beaten on the palms of 
 their feet, to be v^^hipt with iron rods, to be pinched 
 and sucked by their familiars till their heart blood 
 come, till they repent them of their sloth, and promise 
 more attendance and diligence for the future." 
 
 '' And what was the condition of the poor wretch- 
 es," said the Bachelor, " after all this, think you ? 
 Excommunication, horror, and misery, in every form 
 that detestation, contumely, and insult, could inflict. 
 There was no humanity for them. They were re- 
 garded as having held hideous commerce with in- 
 fernal beings. Every evil which befell their neigh- 
 bours was imputed to their malice. Children fled 
 at their approach, or pursued them with execrations, 
 and hootings, and peltings. Many would not sell to 
 them the necessaries of life. They were tried, by 
 casting them into pools and rivers, and often mur- 
 dered with impunity. I know few states of human 
 distress more touching, than the condition of an 
 innocent and harmless poor old creature suspected of 
 the crime of witchcraft ; an affecting instance of this 
 is mentioned in Satan's Invisible World Discovered, 
 in the case of a miserable woman condemned in 
 1649. She had been some time accused of the sin ; 
 and, being arrested, confessed to the minister of 
 the parish and other witnesses her guilt. Her con- 
 fession was however suspected, and she was urged 
 to revoke it ; but she persisted, and was doomed to 
 suffer. Being carried to the place of execution, she 
 remained silent during the first, second, and third 
 prayer, at the end of which she cried out,"' — 
 
WITCHCRAFT. 125 
 
 " Now, all you that see me this day, know, that I am 
 now to die a witch by my own confession, and I free all 
 men, especially the ministers and magistrates, of the 
 guilt of my blood. I take it wholly upon myself, my 
 blood be upon my own head. And, as I must make 
 answer to the God of heaven presently, I declare I am 
 as free of witchcraft as any child ; but being delated by 
 a malicious woman, and put in prison under the name 
 of a witch, disowned by my husband and friends, and 
 seeing no ground of hope of my coming out of prison, 
 or ever coming in credit again, through the temptation 
 of the devil I made up that confession, on purpose to 
 destroy my own life, being weary of it, and choosing 
 rather to die than live." 
 
 " Say you, therefore, Egeria, that the laws which 
 led to such effects were either wise or requisite ?^ 
 
 " I do not perceive the justness of the remark,'*'' 
 replied the nymph. " You must first shew me 
 that the belief in witchcraft never existed, and 
 likewise never any wretches who availed them- 
 selves of it to afflict others. It is however a cu- 
 rious historical fact, that there were persons who 
 openly made a profession of witch-finding ; and one 
 of these, Matthew Hopkins, who took the style and 
 title of witch-finder-general, was so proud of his 
 skill and success, that he has recorded his exploits 
 in a pamphlet, which he published, adorned with 
 effigies of himself and of different imps. He ruined 
 his trade however at last ; for he went on scorching 
 and swimming poor creatures, till he so roused the 
 indignation of some gentlemen by his barbarity, that 
 they took him and tied his thumbs and toes together, 
 as he used to lie those of others, and flung him into 
 
126 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 a water to his fate. The following extract from his 
 book is at once ludicrous and horrible.'' 
 
 '' The discoverer never travelled far for it ; but, in 
 March 1644, he had some seven or eight of that horrible 
 sect of witches, living in the town where he lived, (a 
 town in Essex, called Maningtree,) with divers other ad- 
 jacent witches of other towns, who every six weeks, in 
 the night, (being always on the Friday night,) had their 
 meeting close by his house, and had their several solemn 
 sacrifices there offered to the devil, one of which this 
 discoverer heard speaking to her imps one night, and 
 bid them go to another witch, who was thereupon ap- 
 prehended, and searched by women, who had for many 
 years known the devil's marks, and found to have some 
 marks about her which honest women have not ; so, upon 
 command from the justice, they were to keep her from 
 sleep two or three nights, expecting in that time to see her 
 familiars ; which, the fourth night, she called in by their 
 several names, and told them in what shapes to come, a 
 quarter of an hour before they came, there being ten of 
 us in the room. The 1st she called was Holt, who came 
 in like a white kitling. 2. Jarmara, who came in like 
 a fat spaniel, without any legs at all ; she said she kept 
 him fat, for he sucked good blood from her body. 3. 
 Vinegar Tom, who was like a long-legged greyhound, 
 with an head like an ox, with a long tail and broad eyes, 
 who, when this discoverer spoke to, and bade him go to 
 the place provided for him and his angels, immediately 
 transformed himself into the shape of a child of four years 
 old, without a head, and gave half a dozen turns about 
 the house, and vanished at the door. 4. Sack and Sugar, 
 like a black rabbit. 5. Newes, like a polecat. All these 
 vanished away in a little time. Immediately after, this 
 witch confessed several other witches, from whom she 
 had her imps, and named to divers women where their 
 
WITCHCRAFT. 127 
 
 marks were, the number of their marks and imps, and 
 imps' names, as Elemauzer, Pyewacket, Peckin the 
 Crown, Grizzel, Greedigut, &c. which no mortal could 
 invent ; and upon their searches, the same marks were 
 found, the same number, and in the same place, and the 
 like confessions from them from the same imps, (though 
 they knew not that we were told before), and so peached 
 one another thereabouts that joined together in the like 
 damnable practice, that in our hundred in Essex, twenty- 
 nine were condemned at once, four brought twenty-five 
 miles to be hanged, where this discoverer lives, for send- 
 ing the devil, like a bear, to kill him in his garden ; so 
 by seeing divers of the men's marks, and trying ways 
 with hundreds of them, he gained this experience, and, 
 for aught he knows, any man else may find them as 
 well as he and his company, if they had the same skill 
 and experience. 
 
 " The devil's policy is great, in persuading many to 
 come of their own accord to be tried, persuading them 
 their marks are so close they shall not be found out ; so 
 divers have come ten or twelve miles to be searched, 
 of their own accord, and hanged for their labour." 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 One evening as the Bachelor was reading an agree- 
 able little work ascribed to Lord John Russell, 
 *' Essays by a Gentleman who left his Lodgings,*" he 
 remarked, on looking at the article which bears the 
 
128 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 title of " The Wandering Jew,*" that the idea was a 
 rery good one. 
 
 " I wonder," said he, " that nobody has adopted 
 it, and given us the travels of that supposed cha- 
 racter during the last seventeen centuries." 
 
 " O !" exclaimed Egeria, " the thing has been done 
 some time ago, — and I am surprised that the author 
 of the work in your hand should have so palpably 
 taken another^ s thought and plan, without any sort of 
 acknowledgment." 
 
 " I do not recollect of having met with the book 
 to which you allude," rejoined Benedict. 
 
 " It is called " The Wandering Jew,'' or the 
 Travels and Observations of Hareach the Prolonged." 
 I believe the name Hareach is a Hebrew term, signi- 
 fying the prolonged. The work exhibits a view of 
 the most distinguished events in the history of man- 
 kind, since the destruction of Jerusalem by Titus ; 
 and the plan of the compilation professes to be a 
 series of extracts from a journal written by the 
 traveller, and left by him in a Greek monastery on 
 mount Parnassus. By the way, now that I recollect 
 it, you will find a copy behind your wig-box ; fetch 
 it, and I will read to you a few passages, to show you 
 in what manner the compiler has handled his subject." 
 
 The Bachelor, like an obedient husband, went for 
 the book, and gave it to Egeria, who, in opening it, 
 said, 
 
 " As the story properly begins with the descrip- 
 tion of the sack of Jerusalem in the second chapter, 
 we shall take that as the first specimen." 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 129 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. 
 
 " Omens and prodigies had long announced that Je- 
 hovah was departed from the mercy-seat, but it was not 
 till the 7th day of the month Elul, in the year of the 
 world 4077, (A. D. 73), that the daily sacrifice ceased for 
 ever in the temple. Titus the Roman was desirous 
 that the worship should have been continued; for it was 
 an ancient maxim in the policy of his countrymen, to 
 respect the religious rites while they erased the his- 
 tory of the nations they subdued ; but the remnant of 
 our people, who had determined to perish with every 
 thing rather than again submit to the Roman arms, re- 
 jected the representations which he made to them on this 
 subject. Seeing them thus resolute, and in possession 
 of the sacred edifice, which they had converted into a 
 fortress, he prosecuted the siege with remorseless vigour. 
 But desperate men, determined on death, resisted him 
 with an energy new to his legions, and laughed to scorn 
 the fury alike of the engines and the soldiery. For six 
 days he endeavoured to batter down the walls which 
 surrounded the temple, but was repulsed, with the loss 
 of many of his bravest troops, and the destruction of their 
 eagles. On the seventh, he set fire to the gates, which 
 were plated with silver, and the flames communicated to 
 the porticoes and galleries ; but the besieged within an- 
 swered to the shouts of the Romans with execrations, 
 and made no attempt to extinguish the burning. Next 
 morning, he ordered the legions to stop the progress of 
 the fire, being still anxious to preserve so glorious a 
 building ; and having consultetl his council, it was de- 
 termined that, on the 10th of the next month, a general 
 assault should take place. On the preceding night, 
 however, my countrymen made two sallies, with partial 
 success, which greatly exasperated the Romans ; and I 
 observed, from the terrace of the house where I had 
 
130 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 witnessed these conflicts^ one of the private soldiers, 
 after Titus had retired to take repose, mount on the 
 back of his comrade, and throw a firebrand into one of 
 the windows of the apartments that surrounded the 
 sanctuary. Immediately the whole north side was in a 
 blaze ; and the Romans rent the air with acclamations. 
 Titus, surprised by the noise, came running from his 
 tent towards them, and prayed, and threatened, and even 
 struck his men, calling on them to extinguish the flames. 
 But, raging themselves with vengeance against the be- 
 sieged, they paid no attention to his orders ; continuing, 
 on the contrary, to spread the conflagration throughout 
 the whole edifice, and to sacrifice all the unhappy 
 wretches within the reach of their swords. 
 
 '^ Titus, having thus in vain endeavoured to preserve 
 the temple, then entered the sanctuary, and took pos- 
 session of the consecrated utensils of gold — the candle- 
 stick, the altar of incense, and the table of shew-bread ; 
 but when he penetrated behind the veil of the most holy 
 place, he was struck with awe, and instantly retired. 
 In the same moment, a soldier applied a torch to the 
 sacred curtain, and the fire furling up for ever the veil 
 of mystery, shewed that the God was not there ! The 
 Jews shrieked with horror, and a wail and lamentation 
 spread throughout the city ; even the Romans paused in 
 consternation, — ^but it was only to return to the work of 
 slaughter with redoubled fury. 
 
 " From the destruction of the temple the overthrow 
 of the nation may be dated, although possession of the 
 upper town was not obtained till the eighth of the month 
 Elat (September), when, as soon as the work of massacre 
 and pillage was over, Titus ordered his army to demolish 
 the city, with all its structures, palaces, and towers. He 
 left nothing standing but a piece of the western wall, 
 and the three towers of Hippicos, Phasael, and Mari- 
 amne ; the former to serve as a redoubt to one of his 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 131 
 
 legions, which he left there to prevent the Jews from 
 re-assembling, and the three latter as monuments to 
 give future ages some idea of the strength of the city, 
 and the valour that was necessary to the conquest. Thus 
 was the bow of Israel for ever broken, and her quiver 
 emptied ; and since that time I have wandered among 
 men, like a creature of another state of being, without 
 communion of mind, without sympathy, without parti- 
 cipation in any cares, without the hazard of any greater 
 misfortunes, without the hope of any improvement in 
 my solitary lot ; a spirit interdicted from entering the 
 social circle, living without any motive to action, my 
 feelings seared up, and my purposes all done. But I 
 felt myself fated to be the deathless witness of the an- 
 cient greatness of our holy people, and doomed to re- 
 present their homeless and outcast condition, till the ter- 
 rible cycle of their sufferings be complete, and they again 
 assemble to reign in the land of their fathers. 
 
 *' When the destruction of the city was completed, 
 Titus ordered a tribunal to be prepared for him in the 
 midst of the ground where he had encamped, and calling 
 his officers around him, he addressed them from that 
 lofty seat ; commended their exploits in the siege, and 
 rewarded them, according to their respective rank and 
 merits, with crowns of gold and other precious orna- 
 ments. The army applauded this munificence to the 
 skies. He then descended ; and the Roman priests who 
 attended the army having provided a number of oxen, 
 a prodigious sacrifice was offered to the idolatrous gods 
 of the Romans, and the remainder was distributed among 
 the soldiery. The following day, leaving the tenth legion 
 to prevent my miserable brethren from returning to the 
 ruins of the city of their fathers, he marched with his 
 army to Cesaria. 
 
 " When the main body of the Romans had been thus 
 removed from Jerusalem some time, several of the inha- 
 
132 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 bitants, who had been scattered by the issue of the siege, 
 returned to look among the wreck of their habitations 
 for any relics that might yet be found of their former 
 property. One morning, as I was wandering among the 
 ruins, observing these unhappy persons, and burning 
 with indignation at the taunts which they endured from 
 the Roman soldiers, I beheld a ghastly form, clothed in 
 white, and wearing a purple cloak, rising out of the earth 
 in the centre of the spot where the temple once stood. 
 The soldiers, so loud in their derision, were struck with 
 awe at the sight, and stood still for some time, believing 
 that it was a supernatural apparition. Having, however, 
 mustered courage, they approached, and demanded who 
 he was, and what he wanted. But the mysterious being, 
 instead of answering, ordered them to call their captain. 
 I now also advanced, and saw that it was no other than 
 Simon, who had taken so large a share in the revolt 
 against the Romans, and whom it was thought had 
 perished in the burning of the temple. He had, how- 
 ever, concealed himself, with a few of his most devoted 
 followers, in a secret cavern ; and, having provided them- 
 selves with a stock of provisions, they had there remained 
 until their stores were consumed. Terentius Rufus, the 
 Roman commander, on being informed by the troops, 
 hastened to the spot, and hearing from Simon his name, 
 ordered him to be seized, and sent in chains to grace 
 the triumph of Titus. 
 
 " My heart was greatly wrung by the fate of this man; 
 for, although his factious spirit had raised many enemies 
 even among ourselves, none laboured with a more earnest 
 spirit to break those galling shackles with which the 
 Romans had held us in slavery, while they insulted our 
 customs, and endeavoured to destroy the records of our 
 national independence and glorious history. It is true, 
 that by the revolt the nation was dispersed, and our 
 kindred carried into captivity ; but Jerusalem fell not 
 
THE WANDEBING JEW. 133 
 
 without a struggle. The greatness of the vengeance of 
 Titus bore testimony to the valour of Israel; and the in- 
 dignities offered to Simon was evidence of the fidelity 
 and enterprise with which he had endeavoured to re- 
 deem the independence of the people. 
 
 " Seeing the melancholy condition to which Simon 
 was reduced, and having myself no home, I resolved to 
 pass with the captives to Italy ; and reached the neigh- 
 bourhood of Rome on the evening preceding the day ap- 
 pointed for the triumph decreed to Titus. 
 
 " Early in the morning, Vespasian the emperor, and 
 Titus, who had rested during the night in the temple 
 of Isis, came out crowned with laurel ; and, clothed in 
 the ancient purple robes of their dignity, walked to 
 where a stage, with ivory chairs, had been prepared for 
 them, and where the senate, the magistrates of Rome, 
 and the members of the equestrian order, were as- 
 sembled. When they had seated themselves, and re- 
 ceived the congratulations of these public personages, 
 amidst the acclamation of the soldiers and the people, a 
 solemn sacrifice was offered to their gods, and the whole 
 army feasted, according to the Roman custom, on the 
 choicest portions of the victims. But the triumphal 
 procession I cannot describe: my eyes were dazzled 
 with the splendour, while my spirit mourned for Israel. 
 I have therefore retained but a confused recollection of 
 pictures embroidered by the Babylonians, the images of 
 the Roman gods and of great men carried on superb 
 chariots, and vast machines, towering above the houses, 
 loaded with the richest trophies. I bowed my head to 
 the earth when I beheld the sacred vessels of the holy 
 temple borne along ; and heard and saw not that this 
 gorgeous train of ruin was terminated by a person bear- 
 ing that copy of the law, which had been preserved for 
 so many ages in the hallowed archives of the sanctuary. 
 Soon alter, a terrible shout announced that the unfor- 
 
134 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 tunate Simon^ who had been ignominiously dragged by 
 a rope round his neck, was put to death in the forum. 
 
 " The Romans thus gloried in the victories of Titus, 
 thus honoured his achievements, and erected monuments 
 to perpetuate his fame ; but the Jews, of all the nations 
 that they subdued, alone preserved the integrity of their 
 ancient character. We were broken, but not destroyed ; 
 scattered, but not lost !" 
 
 His description of the city of Petraea, and the tribes 
 of Abraham and Aaron is also a striking picture. 
 
 ARABIAN ANTIQUITIES. 
 
 " When Aulus Cornelius Palma, the Roman governor 
 of Syria, reduced Arabia Petraea to the dominion of the 
 emperor, the capital of the country was still a consider- 
 able city, though much declined from its former grandeur. 
 It would seem as if all states and kingdoms, whether 
 great or small, indicate, by a certain visible decay, the 
 approach of their political death ; but the city of Petraea, 
 like the wonders of Egypt, possessed a sort of everlast- 
 ing character, that was calculated to transmit the im- 
 press of its ancient kings to an interminable period. 
 Desolation sat weaving in unmolested silence the cobwebs 
 of oblivion in her temples, but Ruin was denied ad- 
 mission. 
 
 " The structures of this venerable metropolis have ex- 
 isted from an unknown antiquity. They are the works 
 of the same epoch in which the imperishable fabrics of 
 Egypt and India were constructed ; nor can they be de- 
 stroyed, but by the exertion of a power and perseve- 
 rance equal to the original labour bestowed on their 
 formation ; for they are not built, but hewn, with in- 
 credible industry, from the masses and precipices of the 
 living rock. 
 
 " We crossed a clear and sparkling rivulet, whose 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 135 
 
 cool and delicious appearance irresistibly invited our 
 horses to drink ; and we halted to indulge them. We 
 were then near one of the chief entrances to the town ; 
 but, instead of the busy circumstances which commonly 
 indicate the vicinity of such a place, a solemn silence 
 reigned in the air ; while the drowsy chirping of the 
 grasshoppers, and the lulling murmurs of the flowing 
 stream, served as an accompaniment that deepened its 
 awful effect. 
 
 " When we had again mounted, we rode forward 
 without speaking ; and the first object that attracted our 
 attention was a magnificent mausoleum, the gate of which 
 was open, as if ready for the reception of new offerings 
 to oblivion. Two colossal sphynx stood at each side of 
 the portal; but their forms were defaced, and they seemed 
 to be the monuments of a people that were greater and 
 older than the race of man. We then entered a winding 
 chasm between stupendous precipices, whose overhang- 
 ing cornices frequently darkened the path below. Above 
 us, at a vast height, it was spanned by the arch of an 
 aqueduct, from a small fissure in which the water was 
 continually dropping ; and it sounded in my ears as if 
 the genius of the place was mournfully reckoning the 
 passing moments. 
 
 " The sides of this awful passage were in some places 
 hollowed into niches ; in others, dark openings into se- 
 pulchres yawned, from which a fearful echo within 
 mocked the mortal sound of our passing, with accents 
 so prophetic and oracular, that they thrilled our hearts 
 with superstitious horror ; and here and there masses of 
 the rock stood forward from the wall, bearing a myste- 
 rious resemblance to living things : but time and ruin 
 has wrapped their sculpture in an irremoveable and 
 eternal veil. 
 
 " As we drew near to the termination of this avenue 
 of death and oblivion, a tremendous spectacle of human 
 
136 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 folly burst upon our view. It was a temple to Victory, 
 adorned with the pomp of centaurs and lapithae, and 
 the statue of the goddess, with her wings outspread as 
 if just alighted. It seemed placed there to commemo- 
 rate the funeral triumphs of Destruction, whose innu- 
 merable trophies were displayed on all sides. 
 
 " But, although the architects of these works have 
 perished, and their monuments have only outlasted them- 
 selves by being formed of a more stubborn substance, the 
 inscrutable memorials of their greatness and power, of 
 their wealth, intelligence, and splendouf, still obscurely 
 preserved in the legendary poetry of their descendants, 
 serve to inspire high notions of their refinement ; and the 
 ruins of their metropolis bear witness to the truth of this 
 opinion/' 
 
 '* To this curious remark, I would add,"" said Ege- 
 ria, " that the genii and the talismans of their tales are, 
 perhaps, but the spectral remembrance of the sages 
 and the science that adorned the remote epochs of 
 those kings by whom the temples and palaces of 
 Petraea were excavated. 
 
 " Among other pictures that the wandering Jew 
 gives of ancient manners, his account of the death of 
 Demonax the Cynic, at Athens, may be taken as an- 
 other specimen of the style of the book.*" 
 
 DEATH OF A CYNIC. 
 
 " Demonax was a native of Cyprus, and had resided so 
 long at Athens, that he considered that city as his home. 
 At this time he inhabited a small house in a lane not far 
 from the monument of Lysicrates, close under the cliffs 
 of the Acropolis. His apartment was mean, but kept 
 with neatness, and, being on an elevated situation, the 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 137 
 
 window commanded a fine view of the temple of the 
 Olympian Jupiter, and other superb edifices, in the hol- 
 low along the banks of the Ilyssus, beyond which rose 
 the lofty summits of mount Hymettus. 
 
 " His conversation was sharp, — I might justly say 
 invidious ; for he had looked narrowly into the motives 
 of mankind, and judged with severity and suspicion. 
 His paternal fortune was considerable, and he might 
 have lived in affluence ; but his humour, and the prin- 
 ciples of his sect, prevented him from partaking of any 
 luxury. 
 
 " In the cool of the evening I sometimes went to con- 
 verse with him ; for he was now exceedingly infirm with 
 age, and could no longer take his wonted walk to the 
 top o£ the Museum-hill, where, in the shadow of the 
 monument of Philopapas, he was in the practice of dis- 
 coursing with his friends and disciples. 
 
 " One evening when I happened to call, I found him 
 alone, and pensively seated at the window. The air was 
 serene, and the sun, at that moment on the point of set- 
 ting, threw the shadow of the Acropolis over the city, 
 and as far as the arch of Adrian ; but the temple of 
 Jupiter, and the mountain beyond, were still glowing 
 with his departing radiance. 
 
 " Demonax did not take any notice of me when I first 
 entered the room, but continued to contemplate the 
 magnificent prospect from his window till the sun sunk 
 beneath the horizon, and the twilight began to invest 
 every object witli that sober obscurity, which disposes 
 the mind of the spectator to calm and lowly reflections. 
 
 " I sat down unbidden, and' looked at the pale and 
 venerable old man in silence. The fading light and the 
 failing life seemed solemnly in unison ; and I was touched 
 with a sentiment of inexpressible sadness. When I had 
 been seated some time, Demonax turned round to me, and 
 said, ' I am glad to see you ; — this is my last evening.' 
 
138 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " ' How !' exclaimed I ; ' do you then intend to kill 
 yourself?' 
 
 ^' ' No/ replied he, in his usual testy manner ; ' I am 
 not so tired of life ; but the spirit, vexed with its falling 
 house, is anxious to quit. It is four-and-twenty hours 
 since I have tasted any food ; and, were I now to in- 
 dulge the craving of that voracious monster, the 
 stomach, I should only voluntarily incur pain ; and I do 
 not wish to go out of the world making ugly faces at 
 those I leave in it, however much they may deserve it/ 
 
 " ' But, my friend,' continued the philosopher, assum- 
 ing a sedate and grave manner, ' I wish to ask you a 
 question. You are a person of much experience, and I 
 have been surprised often at the knowledge you seem to 
 have acquired as a traveller, — Can you tell me what that 
 vain fellow Adrian meant, by erecting yonder sumptu- 
 ous heap of stones to that something to which we have 
 given the name of Jupiter ? Piety it was not ; for he as 
 little regarded Jupiter as I do the Bull of Memphis.* 
 
 " ^ It was, no doubt,' said I, ' to perpetuate his name, 
 and to become famous with posterity.' 
 
 " ' I thought so,' replied Demonax, with a sarcastic 
 smile; ' I thought so; — but, when these marbles are 
 shaken down by time, and converted into mortar by the 
 barbarians that will then inhabit Athens, where will be 
 the renown of Adrian }' 
 
 " ' The works of poets and historians will commemo- 
 rate his glory ; and by them the fame of his liberality and 
 magnificence will be transmitted to future ages. In that 
 way (said I) Adrian will be rewarded.' 
 
 " ' Rewarded !' exclaimed the old man with contempt ; 
 ' poets and historians, I grant you, may speak of them 
 to future ages ; but they also are human, and their voices 
 are circumscribed. There is a circle in the theatre of 
 time beyond which they cannot be heard. The fate of 
 Adrian, and all like him, is this :— the present age ad- 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 130 
 
 mires his structures ; the next will do so too ; in the 
 third, the religion to which they were consecrated will 
 be neglected ; other temples will then be frequented ; 
 these will fall into decay ; the priests will desert them,— 
 for the revenues will diminish. The buildings will re- 
 quire repair ; the weather will get in ; by and by it will 
 be dangerous to enter beneath the roof; — a storm will 
 then put his shoulder to the wreck, or an earthquake 
 will kick it down. The stones will lie more ready to 
 the next race of builders than the marble of Pentilicus. 
 Hammers and hands will help the progress. By this 
 time Athens will have dwindled into a village ; — her 
 arts and genius no more ; — poets and pilgrims from far 
 countries will come to visit her. They will come again 
 to revive the magnificence of Adrian by their descrip- 
 tions. But the language in which they write will, in 
 its turn, grow obsolete ; and other Adrians and their 
 edifices will arise, to engross the admiration of the world, 
 and to share the fate of ours. Nature ever works in a 
 circle. It is morning, noon, and night ; — and then morn- 
 ing comes again. It is Adrian, — renown and neglect ; — 
 and then another Adrian. It is birth, life, and death ;— 
 and then another takes our place. There is a continual 
 beginning, — continual ending; the same thing over again, 
 and yet still different. But the folly is in thinking, that, 
 by any human effort, the phantom of immortality can be 
 acquired among mankind. It is possible that an indivi- 
 dual may spring up with such wonderful talents, as that 
 his name may last on earth five thousand years. But, 
 what are five thousand years, or five millions, or five 
 hundred millions, or any number that computation can 
 reckon, when compared with what has been and is to 
 be?' 
 
 " In saying these words, the philosopher appeared 
 worn out, and almost on the point of expiring. I rose 
 hastily to bring him a little water ; but, before I had 
 
140 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 done so, he somewhat recruited,, and told me that he 
 would not belie the principles on which he had so 
 long acted, by accepting of any assistance from another. 
 He then rose, and, tottering towards a pallet of straw 
 covered with a piece of hair-cloth, stretched himself 
 down, and ordered me peevishly to go away. ' I will 
 return in the morning, and see how you are,' said I, in 
 taking leave. — ^ No, don't,' said he ; 'do not come till 
 the evening, by which time I shall have become a nui- 
 sance, and the neighbours will be glad to assist you to 
 put me in a hole.' Next day he was dead. 
 
 " It was evident (observes our author) that Demonax 
 felt very much like other men, notwithstanding his ap- 
 parent indifference ; for I noticed, on leaving the room, 
 that he followed me with his eye, with a languid and 
 pathetic cast, that expressed more than words could have 
 done ; but I could not disturb his last moments by any 
 attempt to violate the principles of his philosophy." 
 
 " But,*" resumed Egeria, " I think the Jew's ac- 
 count of the state of authors and publications in 
 the third century is still better than this." 
 AUTHORS. 
 
 " The suppers of Toxotius are the most delightful re- 
 pasts in Rome. Every man of celebrity is welcome to 
 them; and the accomplishments of the host, though 
 neither superior nor interesting, qualify him so well to 
 conduct conversation agreeably, that all his guests are 
 afforded an opportunity of appearing to advantage, by 
 speaking on the subjects with which they are best ac- 
 quainted. In other houses, men of greater talent are 
 occasionally met with than the generality of those who 
 frequent the table of this amiable man ; but they are 
 there either on business, or to gratify the vanity of the 
 feast-giver. 
 
 " Last night we were gratified by the publication of 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 141 
 
 a new book — a short account of the Life of Maximinus, 
 by a young man who evinced considerable ability. Tox- 
 otius gave a special banquet on the occasion^ and invited 
 a numerous assemblage of his friends; for he was desirous 
 to obtain their patronage for the author. The best pub- 
 lic reader in Rome was engaged, for the author him- 
 self was too diffident to do justice in that way to his 
 work before so large a company; and, in order that 
 nothing might be wanting to give due eclat to the pub- 
 lication, the manuscript had been carefully perused by 
 the reader some time before. 
 
 " The history was written with commendable brevity, 
 and no one disputed the correctness of the facts^ or the 
 views which the author took of the principal incidents ; 
 but he dwelt too strongly on the transactions of Maxi- 
 minus after he became emperor ; and it was generally 
 thought that he adopted too much of the vulgar opinion 
 respecting his strength, appetites, and ferocity. 
 
 " The reader acquitted himself so well, that he was 
 much applauded at the conclusion ; and the friends of 
 Toxotius expressed themselves so pleased with the book, 
 that the author was requested to furnish them with 
 copies ; and, that he might be able to employe the most 
 elegant penmen, they presented him with a very liberal 
 contribution of money. 
 
 " During the time of the reading, the author watched 
 the faces of the company with great anxiety, and Mas 
 often apparently much distressed, by the curious and in- 
 quisitive looks which were from time to time cast to- 
 wards him, when his expressions were not exactly ac- 
 cording to the rules of approved taste, or his statements 
 not in unison with the common opinion. It was, how- 
 ever, of great use to him to undergo this trial, painful as 
 it no doubt was ; for it enabled him to see where he 
 failed in producing due eflect, and to correct his text and 
 narrative before committing the work to the penman." 
 
142 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ^' Among other interesting events which Hareach 
 is supposed to have witnessed is the ceremony of the 
 opening of the SibylHne Books, during that disastrous 
 epoch of the fortunes of Rome, when, it is said, no 
 less than thirty pretenders to the imperial dignity 
 started in different provinces, at the head of as many 
 armies. Revolt and invasion resounded on all sides, 
 and frightful portents and calamities seemed to 
 indicate that universal nature sympathised with the 
 political convulsions which shook the Roman world. 
 The sun was overcast with blackness, and a preter- 
 natural night continued for the space of several days, 
 attended with peals of thunder, not in the air, but in 
 the bowels of the earth, which opened in many places, 
 and swallowed up towns and villages, with all their 
 inhabitants. The sea swelled above its boundaries, 
 and drowned whole cities, and a pestilence raged in 
 Egypt, Greece, and Italy. These tremendous visi- 
 tations of Divine wrath had an awful effect on the 
 populace of Rome ; and the description which Ha- 
 reach gives of the opening of the Sibylhne books, 
 may be extracted as the final act of national adora- 
 tion paid in Italy to the genius of the classic my- 
 thology." 
 
 THE SIBYLLINE BOOKS. 
 
 '' It is now the third day, and the sun has not appeared. 
 The clouds hang so low, that they seem to rest like masses 
 of black marble on the roofs of the city. It is not dark- 
 ness, but an obscurity much more terrible, that fills the 
 whole air, for still all things are visible, — as distinctly so 
 as in the brightest sunshine ; but they are covered with 
 an ashy-coloured wanness, that is the more appalling, as 
 no light can be seen from whence it proceeds. 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 143 
 
 " The Christians expect the day of judgment, and are 
 at prayers openly ; and the magistrates tremble and for- 
 bear to enforce the edicts against them. The senate has 
 assembled, and, unable to apply any authority to repress 
 the menaces o£ God and Nature, decrees that the books 
 of the sibyls shall be consulted. 
 
 " The preparatory sacrifices are slain, and the offer- 
 ings to Jupiter laid upon the altar. A prodigious mul- 
 titude of all ranks and ages has assembled round the 
 capitol, and in the streets leading to the temple of Apollo, 
 where the books were deposited by Augustus. 
 
 " It is announced that the sacrifice is consumed. The 
 portals of the capitol are thrown open ; and the senators 
 in their robes, in the great chamber, are standing to re- 
 ceive the books. All is profound silence ; — the priests 
 and vestal virgins approach ; — the crowd fall on their 
 knees as the procession passes ; and the senators, with 
 their hands crossed on their bosoms, bend forward with 
 reverence, as in the presence of a coming God. 
 
 " On a golden salver, borne on the head of a child, 
 and covered with a veil that conceals the face of the 
 bearer, is the sacred casket which contains the prophetic 
 volumes. The chief of the college, with whom they are 
 deposited, and who alone can read the venerable language 
 in which they are written, walks reverentially behind. 
 
 " The priests and vestals form a lane, from the porch 
 of the capitol and down the stairs beyond the bottom 
 of the hill, and the child and the interpreter ascending 
 to the hall of the senators, the ranks close, and follow 
 them up the steps. 
 
 " The procession has filled the area of the hall ; — the 
 veil is raised by Faustinius ; — the casket is opened ; — 
 and the volumes are unfolded. 
 
 " The countenance of the consul is pale with anxiety 
 and dread. The pontiff, who explores the books, searches 
 them in vain. The last of the three volumes is in his 
 
144 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 hand, and every eye is fixed on him as he turns over the 
 leaves ; but he returns it also into the casket with a sor- 
 rowful look, and Faustinius covers it with the veil. — In 
 the same moment, a dreadful clap of thunder was fol- 
 lowed by a sudden shuddering of the earth, and the 
 doors of the capitol were closed with tremendous vio- 
 lence by a blast of cold and furious wind. The multi- 
 tude, horror-struck by the thunder and the earthquake, 
 fled in all directions ; and the senators, priests, augurs, 
 and vestal virgins, no less terrified, came rushing from 
 the doors and windows, and precipitated themselves 
 down the steps as if driven out of the building by some 
 avenging demon. It was soon known, that, although 
 this was but the effect of fear, inspired by the convul- 
 sions of Nature, the prophetic wisdom of the Sibylline 
 books offered no consolation to the public despair. The 
 report indeed is, that they are all blank, the writing 
 having entirely vanished from the pages, and this the 
 Christians suppose indicates, that the end of the world 
 is come ; while the idolators consider it as the evidence 
 of the Gods having abandoned the protection of Rome." 
 
 " You see/' said Egeria, " that it is a very curi- 
 ous book, and may aspire to be ranked with those 
 works of which the authors display at least some re- 
 search and reading."" 
 
 " The description of the last day of the Roman 
 sovereignty is sketched as for a painting. I sliould not 
 be surprised were Balshazzar Martin to take it up.''"' 
 
 THE LAST DAY OF THE ROMANS. 
 
 " Odoacer has acted with more moderation than was 
 expected from the fierceness of his character. He'has 
 spared the life of Augustulus, the young emperor ; but 
 has confined him for the present to the castle of Lucul- 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 145 
 
 kanum, after, however, stripping him of all the imperial 
 insignia. 
 
 " He entered the city last night, and has taken pos- 
 session of the palace. A vague rumour is abroad this 
 morning, that he intends to assume the imperial dignity 
 himself, and will re-assemble the senate. But some 
 doubt the truth of this opinion ; alleging, how can he 
 wear the purple but as commander of the Roman armies? 
 
 " Many of the senators have been to the palace, and 
 were received by him with respectful civility ; but his 
 conversation related to indifferent topics, and he did not 
 recognise them as possessing any other rank than the 
 common herd of the nobility. This has damped their 
 expectation exceedingly ; and they begin to fear that he 
 entertains some undivulged project, fatal to their ancient 
 dignity. 
 
 " A great sensation has been excited throughout the 
 city. The heralds of Odoacer, in their garbs of ceremony, 
 attended by a sumptuous retinue of his guards, have 
 gone towards the Capitol. The whole population of 
 Rome is rushing in that direction. It is a fearful crowd; 
 the high-born and the ignoble, the freeman and the slave, 
 all who have part or interest in the fate of the eternal 
 city, — are animated by one sentiment, and press forward 
 to hear the proclamation of Odoacer. 
 
 " I obtained by accident a favourable place, on the 
 pedestal of a broken statue, for hearing the heralds* 
 The soldiers lined the stairs ascending to the portico, 
 and they made a gay and glittering appearance; the 
 skies were overcast with masses of black clouds, but a 
 splendid burst of sunshine fell on them, and they shone 
 as it were in glorious contrast to the Romans, who were 
 obscured with the shadows of the clouds. The assembled 
 crowd was prodigious. The whole space around the foot 
 of the hill, and as far as the eye could reach along the 
 streets in every direction, was a mosaic of human faces. 
 
 K 
 
146 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 It was an appalling sight to look on such a multitude. It 
 was, as when the waters are out, and the landmarks are 
 flooded, and a wide deluge overspreads the wonted bounds 
 of the river. The slightest simultaneous action of so many 
 thousands seemed, by its own physical mass, capable of 
 treading into dust the conqueror and all his armies; but 
 nothing could more effectually demonstrate the entire 
 extinction of the Roman spirit, than the mercurial flu- 
 idity of this enormous multitude. 
 
 *' Some little time passed before the chief herald was 
 in readiness to read the proclamation. He at first as- 
 cended to the portico of the building, seemingly with 
 the intention of reading it there ; but, on some observa- 
 tions from the officer who commanded the guard, he re- 
 turned between the ranks of the soldiers, about half way 
 down the steps. At this moment a loud rushing sound 
 rose from the crowd ; and, when he had taken his station, 
 the trumpets sounded a solemn flourish. My eye invo- 
 luntarily turned towards the capitol, where, for so many 
 ages, the oracle of the Roman people had proclaimed 
 slavery and degradation to the kingdoms of the earth. 
 It was in ruins. The roof, which had not been repaired 
 since it was stripped of its golden covering by Genseric, 
 had fallen in in several places. 
 
 " The trumpets ceased ; there was a profound silence; 
 and the herald, with a loud voice, proclaimed Odoacer 
 king of Italy, without even mentioning the Roman 
 name. An awful response rose from the multitude. It 
 was not a sigh, nor a murmur, nor a sound like any 
 thing I had ever before heard ; but a deep and dreadful 
 sob, as if some mighty life had in that ultimate crisis 
 expired. It subdued the soldiers of Odoacer ; and I saw 
 them look at one another and grow pale, as if chilled 
 with supernatural fear. The very flesh crawled on my 
 own bones ; and it was with difficulty that my falter- 
 ing knees sustained me where I stood. 
 
NEGLECTED POETS. 147 
 
 *' But this sublime paroxysm did not last long. The 
 soldiers soon recovered their wonted self-possession, and 
 cried out, ' Long live Odoacer, king of Italy !' to which 
 the crowd, as if suddenly transmuted from the Roman 
 into another character, answered, with a magnificent 
 shout, that reverberated through the empty halls of the 
 Capitol, ' Odoacer, king of Italy !' Thus was the very 
 name of Rome expunged from the sovereignties of the 
 world ; and all her glory, her greatness, and her crimes, 
 reduced to an epitaph." 
 
 CHAR XIV. 
 
 NEGLECTED POETS. 
 
 OuE Bachelor and his Egeria seldom differed in 
 opinion, but when, as such things sometimes happen 
 in the best-regulated families, a discord chanced to 
 disturb the harmony of their conjugal duets, — if the 
 gentleman was ever positively in the right, the lady 
 certainly was rarely in the wrong. The only occasion 
 on which any thing like a durable controversy arose 
 between them, was one evening when, conversing, 
 with their wonted taste and acumen, on the com- 
 parative merits of the ancient and modern poets of 
 England, the nymph remarked, that no improvement 
 had been made in our poetical phraseology since the 
 age of Shakspeare, notwithstanding the manifest 
 advancement of the language generally for every 
 other purpose of communication. 
 
148 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 <' I do not know,*" said she, " any poet of our 
 own time that, in the music of his numbers, excels 
 Richard Lovelace for example, especially in those effu- 
 sions which he appears to have written from the im- 
 mediate impulse of his feelings. Tommy Moore him- 
 self has given us nothing more melodious than some 
 of his songs ; indeed, the Irish bard, with all his ten- 
 derness, is not often so truly impassioned. I won- 
 der that the musical composers, who seem so sadly 
 at a loss for tolerable verses, and who waste so much 
 of their tuneful sweetness on the rancid rhymes of 
 the lamplighting muses of the green-room, never 
 think of applying to those amiable unfortunates, the 
 neglected poets. I am sure that Bishop can find 
 nothing more worthy of his best music than the fol- 
 lowing pretty little song by Lovelace." 
 
 TO LUCASTA. 
 " Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind. 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True ; a new mistress now I chase. 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And, with a stronger faith, embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such. 
 
 As you, too, shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 
 Loved I not honour more." 
 
 " But although song-writing, particularly of the 
 amatory strain, was, without question, the forte of 
 
NEGLECTED POETS. 149 I 
 
 i 
 
 Lovelace, many of his other poems possess a high j 
 
 degree of beauty. His address to the grasshopper 1 
 
 is singularly elegant, and so sprinkled over with the i 
 
 sparkling dew of true poetical sensibility, that it re- j 
 
 quires only to be once read to be ever after remem- ] 
 
 bered, and referred to as one of the happiest speci- 't 
 
 mens of the poetry of fancy." x 
 
 TO THE GRASSHOPPER. ) 
 
 " O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair ] 
 
 Of some well-filled oaten beard. 
 Drunk every night with a delicious tear, 
 
 Dropp'd thee from heav'n, where now thou'rt rear'd. I 
 
 The joys of earth and air are thine entire, i 
 
 That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; ] 
 
 And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
 
 To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. \ 
 
 Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then, : 
 
 Sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams, ; 
 
 And all these merry days mak'st merry men, . ' 
 
 Thyself, and melancholy streams. ] 
 
 But ah, the sickle ! golden ears are cropp'd ; 
 
 Ceres and Bacchus bid good night ; 
 Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd. 
 
 And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 
 
 Poor verdant fool ! and now, green ice, thy joys i 
 
 Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, j 
 
 Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poise j 
 
 Their floods with an o'erflowing glass." ' 
 
 -\ 
 '' And the little ode addressed to the rose is also \ 
 
150 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 as sweet and fanciful as any thing of the kind that 
 the best of our bards have since written." 
 
 TO THE ROSE. 
 
 " Sweet, serene, sky-like flower. 
 Haste to adorn her bower : 
 
 From thy long cloudy bed 
 Shoot forth thy damask head. 
 
 Vermilion ball that's given 
 From lip to lip in heaven ; 
 Love's couch's coverlid : 
 Haste, haste, to make her bed. 
 
 See ! rosy is her bower. 
 Her floor is all this flower ; 
 
 Her bed a rosy nest. 
 
 By a bud of roses prest." 
 
 " I acknowledge,'' replied Benedict, *' that these 
 are very pretty things ; and I am, like you, a little 
 disposed to wonder how compositions of so much 
 merit should have fallen so entirely into oblivion, as 
 to be only known to a few bookworms. I suppose 
 it must be owing to a little degree of quaintness, — 
 I would almost say pedantry, which makes the lan- 
 guage and imagery not sound quite so pleasantly to 
 our ears as it. did to those of our ancestors, when 
 that sort of style was more in unison with the ideas 
 and sentiments then in fashion." 
 
 " Ah !" said Egeria, " that is just the way that 
 all the moderns depreciate the merits of their prede- 
 
NEGLECTED POETS. 161 
 
 cessors. They never think how their own paltry 
 performances will be considered hereafter, but set up 
 a standard of excellence, formed according to a narrow 
 scale of their own, by which they have themselves 
 worked, and will not even allow the grace of success, 
 in having written fashionably according to the taste 
 of the times, to authors who have declined from po- 
 pularity, although to have written so was neverthe- 
 less merit. I scarcely know of one eminent writer, 
 for whom the bad taste of his age is alleged in ex- 
 tenuation of his faults, but Shakspeare ; and yet, 
 considering the singular judgment and good sense of 
 that great poet, one should have thought that there 
 was less excuse for him than for his inferiors. But, 
 after all the clatter and criticism that we hear of the 
 Elizabethan age, I hope that some independent edi- 
 tor will yet arise to do justice to the writers of the 
 early part of Charles I.''s reign, particularly to the 
 poets, of whom we never hear mention made, and 
 seldom meet with a quotation. The works of Carew 
 are in themselves a rich treasury of pleasing pas- 
 sages. The following song, in the peculiar fashion of 
 that time, I am sure you will acknowledge, even with 
 the defects of that fashion, is remarkably beautiful.'' 
 
 " Would you know what's soft ? I dare 
 Not bring you to the down or air ; 
 Nor to stars to show what's bright ; 
 Nor to snow to teach you white. 
 
 Nor, if you would music hear. 
 Call the orbs to take your ear ; 
 Nor to please your sense bring forth 
 Bruised nard, or what's more worth. 
 
152 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Or on food were your thoughts placed. 
 Bring you nectar for a taste : 
 Would you have all these in one. 
 Name my mistress, and 'tis done," 
 
 " And this other is still more curiously elegant."** 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
 When June is past, the fading rose ; 
 For in your beauties' orient deep. 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth stray 
 The golden atoms of the day ; 
 For in pure love heaven did prepare 
 Those powders, to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when May is past ; 
 For in your sweet dividing throat. 
 She winters and keeps warm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more, if east or west 
 The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
 For unto you at last she flies. 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies.'* 
 
 " And where will you find a sweeter pastoral, than 
 this sylvan dialogue between a shepherd and a 
 nymph .?" 
 
 " Shep. This mossy bank they press'd. Ni/m. That 
 aged oak 
 Did canopy the happy pair 
 All night from the damp air. 
 
NEGLECTED POETS. 153 
 
 Cko. Here let us sit and sing the words they spoke. 
 
 Till the day breaking their embraces broke. 
 Shep. See, love, the blushes of the morn appear. 
 
 And now she hangs her pearly store, 
 
 (Robb'd from the eastern shore,) 
 I' th' cowslip's bell, and rose's ear : 
 Sweet, I must stay no longer here. 
 
 Ni/m. Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day. 
 But show my sun must set ; no morn 
 Shall shine till thou return ; 
 
 The yellow planets, and the gray 
 
 Dawn, shall attend thee on thy way. 
 
 Shep. If thine eyes gild my paths, they may forbear 
 Their useless shine. Ni/m. My tears will quite 
 Extinguish their faint light. 
 
 Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear. 
 Love's flames will shine in ev'ry tear. 
 
 Cho. They kiss'd and wept ; and from their lips and 
 eyes. 
 
 In a mix'd dew of briny sweet. 
 
 Their joys and sorrows meet ; 
 But she cries out. Ni/m. Shepherd, arise. 
 The sun betrays us else to spies. 
 
 Shep. The winged hours fly fast, whilst we embrace ; 
 
 But when we want their help to meet. 
 
 They move with leaden feet. 
 N^m. Then let us pinion time, and chase 
 The day for ever from this place. 
 
 Shep. Hark ! Ni/m. Ay, me, stay ! Shep. For ever. 
 Nym. No, arise. 
 
 We must be gone. Shep. My nest of spice. 
 Nym. My soul. Shep. "My paradise. 
 
164 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their 
 eyes 
 Grief interrupted speech with tears supplies." 
 
 " Carew possessed naturally but little humour ; 
 but there is a dignified, pleasing, sly gravity in the 
 lines upon Lord Chief Justice Finch, on paying his 
 addresses to Lady Anne Wentworth. It possesses, 
 moreover, Benedict, what you so much admire, a 
 sort of classical air, which, by the way, is rather a 
 stiffishness of manner than an excellence."*' 
 
 " Read the poem," said the Bachelor, and the 
 Nymph read, — 
 
 " Hear this, and tremble all 
 
 Usurping beauties, that create 
 A government tyrannical 
 In love's free state ; 
 Justice hath to the sword of your edged eyes 
 His equal balance join'd, his sage lies 
 In love's soft lap, which must be just and wise. 
 
 Hark how the stem law breathes 
 
 Forth amorous sighs, and now prepares 
 No fetters, but of silken wreaths 
 And braided hairs ; 
 His dreadful rods and axes are exiled 
 Whilst he sits crown'd with roses : Love hath filed 
 His native roughness. Justice is grown mild. 
 
 The golden age returns. 
 
 Love's bow and quiver useless lie ; 
 His shaft, his brand, nor wounds nor burns. 
 And cruelty 
 Is sunk to hell : the fair shall all be kind ; 
 Who loves shall be beloved, the froward mind 
 To a deformed shape shall be confined. 
 
NEGLECTED POETS. 155 
 
 Astraea hath possest 
 
 An earthly seat, and now remains 
 
 In Finch's heart, but Wentworth's breast 
 
 • That guest contains : 
 With her she dwells, yet hath not left the skies. 
 Nor lost her sphere, for, new-enthroned, she cries, 
 I know no heaven but fair Westworth's eyes." 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 THE EXCOMMUNICANT. 
 
 One morning, after a long debate in the House of 
 Commons on the Catholic question, the Nymph and 
 the Bachelor fell into conversation in reading the re- 
 port of the speeches in the Morning Chronicle.— 
 " I think,'" said she, " that none of the orators ven- 
 ture to touch the marrow of this important subject." 
 
 " How ! what do you mean ?^ replied Benedict, 
 anticipating, from the tone in which she had made 
 the remark, something paradoxical, — " what other 
 marrow is there in the subject, than that the law as 
 it stands deprives millions of their undoubted politi- 
 cal rights ?" 
 
 " The law as it stands, you ought rather to say, 
 prevents those millions from disturbing public affairs, 
 merely because such is the state and circumstances 
 of their minds, that they can neither reason nor ex- 
 ercise their judgment like other men. — There can be 
 
156 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 no emancipation of the Catholic but by himself. — He 
 should show that he is as free a moral agent as the 
 rest of the species, before he can hope that they will 
 permit him to take a part in their common affairs." 
 
 " In what way," said the Bachelor, " are they 
 to do this ? I am sure in all things the Roman Ca- 
 tholic shows himself as much a man, and as good a 
 subject, as any other Christian." 
 
 " He does no such thing," replied the Nymph, 
 somewhat fervently, at hearing her beloved repeat 
 this stale assertion. "'In the first place, he acknow- 
 ledges a power to reside in other men, which, were 
 he in a condition to exercise his judgment freely, he 
 would feel himself obliged to confess is not con- 
 sistent with human nature. I mean the priestly re- 
 mission of sin ; — and, moreover, in believing the 
 irrational doctrine of transubstantiation, he denies 
 the evidence of his own senses. Now, what sort of 
 confidence should we be disposed to give to a person, 
 who asserted that he was intrusted with supernatu- 
 ral powers, and maintained that fire was ice, — treat- 
 ing with contempt the opinion, that supernatural 
 power can never be possessed by man, and asserting 
 that all deserved eternal perdition who did not be- 
 lieve that the fire which he called ice, in despite of the 
 sensations of touch and vision, was ice ?" 
 
 " But not to grow polemical," interrupted the 
 Bachelor, — " those sort of absurdities are mere spe- 
 culative opinions, and as such have probably as little 
 influence on the conduct of the Catholic as any 
 theoretical dogma whatever has on that of the more 
 philosophical Protestant. It is therefore hard, that 
 
THE EXCOMMUNICANT. 167 
 
 men should be denied their birthright, because they 
 happen to be a little fantastical in their metaphysics.'" 
 " You have hit the mark,*" replied the Nymph 
 briskly ; " The Catholic is just so much more fan- 
 tastical in his opinions than the Protestant, that it 
 is not fit he should be allowed all the freedom of the 
 Protestant. He is only mad a point or two more : 
 I concede as much. But how much more insane 
 than the heir at law was the Earl of Portsmouth, 
 whom a jury the other day declared incapable of 
 managing his affairs like other men ? Besides, the 
 whole history of Catholicism is a continued demon- 
 stration, that it is founded on a depravation of hu- 
 man reason. But only last night I was reading in 
 Fordun, the Scottish historian, an adventure of St 
 Augustine, that I am sure no moderate Catholic of 
 the present day can peruse without feeling, at least, 
 awkwardly, if not ashamed, that his church should 
 countenance such fables.*" 
 
 ST AUGUSTINE. 
 
 " When the blessed Augustine," says Fordun, " was 
 preaching the divine word to the Gentiles, according to 
 his custom, he came to a village in the county of Oxford, 
 six miles distant from a place celebrated at this time, 
 and called Vudiflix Cumentona ; there came to him a 
 priest of the same town, saying, ' Reverend father and 
 lord, I inform your holiness that the lord of this pro- 
 perty, though by me admonished with many exhorta- 
 tions, will never consent to pay to the holy church of 
 God the tithe of those things which the celestial bounty 
 has conferred upon him. Moreover, having oflen threa- 
 tened him with sentence of excommunication, I find him 
 more rebellious and obstinate than before : let your 
 
158 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 holiness therefore see what is to be done.' When St 
 Augustine heard this^ he made the soldier be brought 
 before him, and said. What is this that I hear of thee ? 
 O son, wherefore do you refuse to render tithes to God, 
 the giver of all good things, and to the holy church ? 
 Are you ignorant that they are not yours but God's ? 
 Therefore do thou with a ready and willing mind pay 
 thankfully thy debt to Almighty God, lest the severe 
 sentence of a rigorous judge should in the following year 
 take from thee for thine obstinacy, that from whence 
 thou shouldst pay it. At this the soldier being irritated, 
 with the spur of anger, replied to the man of God: Who, 
 said he, cultivated the land ? who supplied the seed for 
 it ? who caused the ripe corn to be cut down ? was it 
 not I ? All men therefore may know that he who has 
 the nine sheafs shall have the tenth also. To whom St 
 Augustine, Speak not- thus, my son ! for I would not 
 have thee ignorant, that if thou refusest to give thy 
 tithes, according to the custom of the faithful and the 
 tradition of the holy fathers, without doubt I shall ex- 
 communicate thee. And this being said, he turned to 
 the Lord's table, that he might celebrate divine service. 
 And he said before all the people, with a loud voice. On 
 the part of God, I command that no excommunicated 
 person presume to be present at the solemnities of mass. 
 Which when he had. said, a thing marvellous and un- 
 heard of in former ages happened. For in the very en- 
 trance of the church a buried corpse arose, and going 
 out of the cemetery, stood there immovable, as long as 
 the holy man was celebrating the solemnities of mass. 
 Which when he had concluded, the faithful who were 
 then present, being made almost beside themselves, 
 came trembling to the blessed pontiff, and related what 
 had befallen. To whom he said. Fear not ! but let the 
 standard of the cross of the Lord go before us, and holy 
 water also, and let us see what this may be which is 
 
THE EXCOMMUNICANT. 159 
 
 shown us. So the pious pastor preceding, the affrighted 
 sheep of Christ went, with him to the entrance of the 
 burial place, and seeing the black and hideous corpse, 
 he said, I command you in the name of the Lord, that 
 you tell me who you are, and wherefore you come here 
 to delude the people of Christ ? To whom the corpse 
 made answer, I have not come here to affright the peo- 
 ple, neither to deceive them, most holy father Augustine; 
 but when on the part of God you commanded, that no 
 excommunicated person should be present at the solem- 
 nities of mass, then the angels of God, who always are 
 the companions of your journeys, cast me from the place 
 where I was buried, saying, that Augustine, the friend 
 of God, had commanded the stinking flesh to be cast out 
 of the church. For in the time of the Britons, before 
 the fury of the heathen Angles had laid waste this king- 
 dom, I was the patron of this town : and, although I was 
 admonished often by the priest of this church, yet I 
 never would consent to give my tithes ; but at last, be- 
 ing condemned by him in the sentence of excommuni- 
 cation, ah ! me miserable ! in the midst of these things 
 I was cut off, and being buried in the place from whence 
 I have now risen, I delivered up my soul to the infernal 
 demons, continually to be tormented with hell fires. 
 Then all who were present wept when they heard this ; 
 and the saint himself, plentifully bedewing his face with 
 tears, and manifesting the great grief of his heart by fre- 
 quent sighs, said to him, Knowest thou the place where 
 the priest who excommunicated thee was buried ? He 
 answered that he knew it well, and that he had his grave 
 in that same cemetery. Augustine said, Go before us 
 then, and show us the place. 
 
 " The dead man then went before, and came to a cer- 
 tain place nigh unto the church, where there appeared 
 no sign of any sepulchre, the bishop and all the people 
 following him. And he said with a clear voice. Behold 
 
160 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 the spotj dig here, if it please you, and you will find the 
 bones of the priest concerning whom you ask. Then by 
 command of the pontiff they began to dig, and at length 
 they found a few bones buried very deep in the ground, 
 and by reason of the length of time turned green. But 
 the servant of God inquired if these were the bones of 
 the priest, and the dead man answered. Yes, father. 
 Then St Augustine, having poured forth a long prayer, 
 said. To the end that all may know, that life and death 
 are in the hands of our Lord, to whom nothing is im- 
 possible, I say unto thee in his name. Brother, arise ! 
 we have need of thee ! O marvellous thing, and unheard 
 of by human ears ! at the command of the devout priest, 
 all they who were present saw the dust unite itself to 
 dust, and the bones join together with nerves, and thus 
 at last an animated human form raised from the grave. 
 And the blessed man, when he stood before him, said, 
 Knowest thou this person, brother ? He made answer, 
 I know him, father, and wish that I had not known him. 
 The benevolent priest rejoined. Hast thou bound him 
 with an anathema ? I have bound him, he replied, and 
 worthily, according to his deserts ; for he was a rebel in 
 all things against the holy church : he was always a with- 
 holder of his tithes, and moreover, a perpetrator of many 
 crimes even to the last day of his life. Then the man 
 of God, Augustine, groaned deeply, and said. Brother, 
 thou knowest that the mercy of God is upon all his 
 works ! therefore it behoves us also to have compassion 
 upon the creature and image of God, redeemed by his 
 precious blood, who now for so long a time shut up in 
 a dark prison has endured infernal punishments. Then 
 he delivered to him a whip, and the corpse kneeling 
 before him, and asking absolution with tears, the dead 
 man absolved the dead man, through the great bounty 
 of the grace of God, for manifesting the merits of his 
 servant Augustine. When he was thus absolved, the 
 
THE EXCOMIMUNICANT. 161 
 
 saint commanded him that he should return to the se- 
 pulchre, and there await the last day in peace. He 
 forthwith returning to the place from whence he had 
 been seen to rise, entered the grave, and quickly was 
 resolved into dust and ashes. Then said the saint to 
 the priest. How long hast thou lain here ? He answered. 
 An hundred and fifty years, and more. How, said he, 
 hath it been with thee until this time? Well, he replied, 
 I have been placed in the joys of our Lord, and present 
 in the delight of eternal life. Wouldst thou, said Au- 
 gustine, that I should pray to our common Lord, that 
 you may return to us again, and sowing with us the 
 seeds of the gospel, bring back to their Creator souls 
 which have been deceived by diabolical fraud ? Far be 
 it from you, O venerable father, he replied, that you 
 should disturb my soul, and make me return to this 
 laborious and painful life. O great and entire confidence 
 in the mercy of God ! O glorious consciousness of a most 
 excellent heart, whicli doubted not that God was so 
 powerful, and merciful, and that himself had deserved 
 so much, that he should deign by him to perform so 
 magnificent a miracle ! This, peradventure, may seem 
 impossible to those who believe that any thing can be 
 impossible to God : yet it can be a doubt to none, that 
 unless it had been for great miracles, the stubborn necks 
 of the English would never have submitted to the yoke 
 of Christ. But the blessed Augustine, seeing that the 
 priest would not consent to come again into the ways of 
 this life, said. Go, dearest brother, and remain for a long 
 term of years in peace, and pray for me, and for the 
 universal holy church of God. And the priest entered 
 into the sepulchre, and presently was turned into dust 
 and ashes. Then the holy bishop, turning to the sol- 
 dier, said to him. Son, how is it now ? Do you consent 
 to render your tithes to God, or are you disposed to con- 
 tinue in your obstinacy ? But the soldier fell at his feet, 
 
 L 
 
1(J2 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 trembling, and weeping, and crying, and confessing his 
 guilt, and imploring forgiveness. And having forsaken 
 all other things, he cut off his hair, and followed the 
 blessed Augustine all the days of his life, as the author 
 of his salvation. And being thus made perfect in all 
 purity of mind and body, he closed his last day, and 
 entered the joys of eternal felicity, to live without end." 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 SOTHEBY'S SAUL. 
 
 ** Well, after all that has been lectured by criti- 
 cism,'' said Egeria one evening, about an hour after 
 tea, laying down Mr Sotheby's poem of Saul, " it 
 certainly is not in the thought and conception, but 
 in the expression and the execution, that the excel- 
 lence of poetry consists. This work, both in point 
 of thought and conception, possesses many beautiful 
 passages ; but in general their expression and execu- 
 tion seldom exceed mediocrity. For example, I do 
 not know a finer idea in any poem than Mr Sotheby's 
 theory, if we may use the expression, of Saul's frenzy. 
 He supposes the unhappy king to be haunted by a 
 spectre, which successively assumes his own form 
 and character, as in the days of his pastoral inno- 
 cence, and tortures him with the afflicting contrast 
 of those blameless times, before he had known the 
 cares of royalty or felt the pangs of remorse. But, 
 though elegantly versified, it lacks of the energy and 
 simplicity of natural feeling. The first form in which 
 
SOTHEBY'S SAUL. 1G3 
 
 the demon appears, is that of a beautiful youth in 
 shepherd's weeds, who addresses the entranced mo- 
 narch in these pohshed strains -^ — 
 
 " Up from thy couch of wo, and join my path ; 
 And I will wreath thy favourite crook with flowers. 
 Lo ! this thy crook, which from the flinty cleft 
 Sprung wild, where many a gurgling streamlet fell. 
 Pleasant the spot wherein the sapling grew ; 
 And pleasant was the hour, when o'er the rill 
 Thy fancy shaped its pliant growth ; 'twas spring ! 
 Sweet came its fragrance from the vale beneath, 
 Strew'd with fresh blossoms, shed from almond bowers. 
 Still blooms the almond bower : the fragrance still 
 Floats on the gale : still gush the crystal rills. 
 And Cedron rolls its current musical. 
 Why droop'st thou here disconsolate and sad ? 
 Look up ! the glad hills cast the snow aside ; 
 The rain is past, the fresh flow'rs paint the field ; 
 Each little bird calls to his answering mate ; 
 The roes bound o'er the mountains. Haste away ! 
 Up from thy couch, and join my gladsome path. 
 Where shepherds carol on the sunshine lawn !" 
 
 ' I come, I come, fair angel,' Saul exclaims. 
 ' Give me my shepherd's weeds — my pipe — my crook ; 
 Aid me to cast these cumbrous trappings off. 
 Yet stay ;' — ^but swift at once the vision gone 
 Mocks him, evanishing. Groans then, and sighs. 
 And bitterness of anguish, such as felt 
 Of him, who on Helvetia's heights, a boy. 
 Sung to the Alpine lark ; and saw, beneath. 
 Prone cataracts, and silver lakes, and vales 
 Romantic ; and now paces his night-watch. 
 Hoar veteran, on the tented field. Not him, 
 Fresh slaughter fuming on the plain, — not him 
 The groan of death, familiar to his ear. 
 
164 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Disquiet : but if, haply heard, the breeze 
 Bring from the distant mountain low of kine. 
 With pipe of shepherd leading on his flock 
 To fold ; oh then, on his remembrance rush 
 Those days so sweet ; that roof, beneath the rock. 
 Which cradled him when sweeping snow-storms burst ; 
 And those within, the peaceful household hearth. 
 With all its innocent pleasures. Him, far off, 
 Regret consumes, and inly- wasting grief. 
 That knows no solace, till in life's last hour. 
 When, o'er his gaze, in trance of bliss, once more 
 Helvetia and her piny summits float.' " 
 
 " Mr Sotheby's description of the approach of 
 Saul and his guards to the camp of the twelve tribes 
 is magnificent.^' 
 
 " Hark ! hark ! the clash and clang 
 
 Of shaken cymbals cadencing the pace j 
 
 Of martial movement regular : the swell ! 
 
 Sonorous of the brazen trump of war ; j 
 
 Shrill twang of harps, sooth'd by melodious chime ' 
 Of beat on silver bars ; and sweet, in pause 
 
 Of harsher instrument, continuous flow \ 
 
 Of breath, through flutes, in symphony with song, | 
 Choirs, whose match'd voices fill'd the air afar 
 
 With jubilee, and chant of triumph hymn : ; 
 
 And ever and anon irregular burst j 
 
 Of loudest acclamation, to each host j 
 Saul's stately advance proclaim'd. Before him, youths -j 
 In robes succinct for swiftness : oft they struck 
 Their staves against the ground, and warn'd the throng : 
 
 Backward to distant homage. Next, his strength ' 
 
 Of chariots roll'd with each an armed band ; \ 
 
 Earth groan'd afar beneath their iron wheels : ] 
 
 Part arm'd with scythe for battle, part adorn'd ; 
 
SOTHEBY'S SAUL. llx) 
 
 For triumph. Nor there wanting a led train 
 
 Of steeds in rich caparison, for show 
 
 Of solemn entry. Round about the king. 
 
 Warriors, his watch and ward, from every tribe 
 
 Drawn out. Of these a thousand each selects. 
 
 Of size and comeliness above tiieir peers. 
 
 Pride of their race. Radiant their armour : some 
 
 In silver cased, scale over scale, that play'd 
 
 All pliant to the litheness of the limb ; 
 
 Some mail'd in twisted gold, link within link 
 
 Flexibly ring'd and fitted, that the eye 
 
 Beneath the yielding panoply pursued. 
 
 When act of war the strength of man provoked. 
 
 The motion of the muscles, as they work'd 
 
 In rise and fall. On each left thigh a sword 
 
 Swung in the broider'd baldric : each right hand 
 
 Grasp'd a long shadowing spear. Like them, their chiefs 
 
 Array 'd ; save on their shields of solid ore. 
 
 And on their helm, the graver's toil had wrought 
 
 Its subtlety in rich device of war : 
 
 And o'er their mail, a robe, Punicean dye. 
 
 Gracefully play'd ; where the wing'd shuttle, shot 
 
 By cunning of Sidonian virgins, wove 
 
 Broidure of many-coloured figures rare. 
 
 Bright glow'd the sun, and bright the burnish'd mail 
 Of thousands ranged, whose pace to song kept time ; 
 And bright the glare of spears, and gleam of crests^ 
 And flaunt of banners flashing to and fro 
 The noon-day beam. Beneath their coming, earth 
 Wide glitter'd. Seen afar, amidst the pomp. 
 Gorgeously mail'd, but more by pride of port 
 Known, and superior stature, than rich trim 
 Of war and regal ornament, the king. 
 Throned in triumphal car, with trophies graced. 
 Stood eminent. The lifting of his lance 
 Shone like a sunbeam. O'er his armour flow'd 
 
166 HE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 A robe^ imperial mantle, thickly starr'd 
 With blaze of orient gems ; the clasp, that bound 
 Its gather'd folds his ample chest athwart. 
 Sapphire ; and o'er his casque, where rubies burnt, 
 A cherub flamed, and waved his wings in gold." 
 
 " The song of the virgins is also written with 
 spirit and elegance." 
 
 " Daughters of Israel ! praise the Lord of Hosts ! 
 Break into song ! with harp and tabret lift 
 Your voices up, and weave with joy the dance : 
 And to your twinkling footsteps toss aloft 
 Your arms ; and from the flash of cymbals shake 
 Sweet clangor, measuring the giddy maze. 
 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain. 
 
 Sing a new song. I saw them in their rage, 
 I saw the gleam of spears, the flash of swords. 
 That rang against our gates. The warder's watch 
 Ceased not. Tower answer'd tower : a warning voice 
 Was heard without ; the cry of wo within I 
 The shriek of virgins, and the wail of her. 
 The mother, in her anguish, who fore- wept. 
 Wept at the breast her babe, as now no more. 
 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain. 
 
 Sing a new song. Spake not th' insulting foe ? 
 I will pursue, o'ertake, divide the spoil. 
 My hand shall dash their infants on the stones : 
 The ploughshare of my vengeance shall draw out 
 The furrow, where the tower and fortress rose. 
 Before my chariot Israel's chiefs shall clank 
 Their chains. Each side, their virgin daughters groan ; 
 Erewhile to weave my conquest on their looms. 
 
 Shout ye ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain. 
 
SOTHEBY'S SAUL. 167 
 
 Thou heard'st, O God of battle ! Thou, whose look 
 Knappeth the spear in sunder. In thy strength 
 A youth, thy chosen, laid their champion low. 
 Saul, Saul pursues, o'ertakes, divides the spoil ; 
 Wreaths round our necks these chains of gold, and robes 
 Our limbs with floating crimson. Then rejoice. 
 Daughters of Israel ! from your cymbals shake 
 Sweet clangor, hymning God, the Lord of Hosts ! 
 
 Ye ! shout ! and ye ! make answer, Saul hath slain 
 His thousands ; David his ten thousands slain. 
 
 Such the hymn'd harmony, from voices breath'd 
 Of virgin-minstrels, of each tribe the prime 
 For beauty, and fine form, and artful touch 
 Of instrument, and skill in dance and song ; 
 Choir answering choir, that on to Gibeah led 
 The victors back in triumph. On each neck 
 Play'd chains of gold ; and, shadowing their charms 
 With colour like the blushes of the morn, 
 Robes, gift of Saul, round their light limbs, in toss 
 Of cjnnbals, and the many-mazed dance. 
 Floated like roseate douds. Thus these came on 
 In dance and song : then multitudes that swell'd 
 The pomp of triumph, and in circles ranged 
 Around the altar of Jehovah, brought 
 Freely their offerings ; and with one accord 
 Sang, * Glory, and praise, and worship, unto God.' 
 
 Loud rang the exultation. 'Twas the voice 
 Of a free people, from impending chains 
 Redeem'd : a people proud, whose bosom beat 
 With fire of glory and renown in arms. 
 Triumphant. Loud the exultation rang. 
 
 There, many a wife, whose ardent gaze from far 
 Singled the warrior, whose glad eye gave back 
 Her look of love. There, many a grandsire held 
 A blooming boy aloft, and midst th' array 
 
168 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 In triumph, pointing with his staff, exclaim'd, 
 ' Lo, my brave son ! I now may die in peace/ 
 
 There, many a beauteous virgin, blushing deep. 
 Flung back her veil, and, as the warrior came, 
 Hail'd her betroth'd. But chiefly on one alone 
 AH dwelt." 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 AFRICAN SKETCHES. 
 
 " I WISH," said Egeria, one evening after Benedict 
 had come home to their chambers in the Paper 
 Buildings, from his nightly potched egg and pint of 
 Burton at Offley's, " that some judicious editor 
 would compile a volume of striking passages from 
 the different numerous publications which we have 
 recently had respecting Africa. It is impossible to 
 read them all ; — indeed it would be a task like that 
 of crossing the deserts to attempt it, so many pages 
 are filled with arid and uninteresting details ; and 
 yet I am not aware of any class of books which con- 
 tain more new and curious matter concerning man, 
 than the works of the African travellers. This 
 evening I have been looking over Burckhardt's 
 Travels in Nubia, which, though far from being an 
 entertaining performance, would, nevertheless, fur- 
 nish several agreeable and impressive sketches. — 
 Take, for example, his account of the distress of 
 thirst in a caravan." 
 
AFKiCAN SKETCHES. 169 
 
 " After five days march in the mountains, their stock 
 of water was exhausted, nor did they know where they 
 were. They resolved, therefore, to direct their course 
 towards the setting sun, hoping thus to reach the Nile. 
 After two days thirst, fifteen slaves and one of the mer- 
 chants died. Another of them, an Ababde, who had 
 ten camels with him, thinking that the camels might 
 know better than their masters where water was to be 
 found, desired his comrades to tie him fast upon the 
 saddle of his strongest camel, that he might not fall 
 down from weakness ; and thus he parted from them, 
 permitting his camels to take their own way ; but nei- 
 ther the man nor his camels were ever heard of after- 
 wards. On the eighth day after leaving Owareyk, the 
 survivors came in sight of the mountains of Shigre, 
 which they immediately recognized, but their strength 
 was quite exhausted, and neither men nor beasts were 
 able to move any farther. Lying down under a rock, 
 they sent two of their servants, with the two strongest 
 remaining camels, in search of water. Before these two 
 men could reach the mountain, one of them dropped off 
 his camel deprived of speech, and able only to wave his 
 hands to his comrade as a signal that he desired to be 
 left to his fate. The survivor then continued his route, 
 but such was the effect of thirst upon him, that his eyes 
 grew dim, and he lost the road, though he had often 
 travelled over it before, and had been perfectly ac- 
 quainted with it. Having wandered about for a long 
 time, he alighted under the shade of a tree, and tied 
 the camel to one of its branches ; the beast, however, 
 smelt the water, (as the Arabs express it,) and, wearied 
 as it was, broke its halter, and set off galloping fmious- 
 ly in the direction of the spring, which, as it afterwards 
 appeared, was at half an hour's distance. The man, 
 well understanding the camel's action, endeavoured to 
 follow its footsteps, but could only move a few yards ; 
 
170 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 he fell exhausted on the ground_, and was about to 
 breathe his last, when Providence led that way, from a 
 neighbouring encampment, a Bisharye Bedouin, who, 
 by throwing water upon the man's face, restored him 
 to his senses. They then went hastily to the water, 
 filled the skins, and returning to the caravan, had the 
 good fortune to find the sufferers still alive. The Bi- 
 sharye received a slave for his trouble. My informer, 
 a native of Yembo in Arabia, was the man whose camel 
 discovered the spring, and he added the remarkable 
 circumstance, that the youngest slaves bore the thirst 
 better than the rest, and that while the grown-up boys 
 all died, the children reached Egypt in safety." 
 
 " Burckhardt travelled as a pedlar, and raised the 
 funds requisite for his expenses, by disposing in that 
 capacity of his little wares and merchandize. In the 
 practice of this calling he obtained opportunities of 
 seeing the manners of the people, to which he would 
 not perhaps otherwise have had access.*" 
 
 " One afternoon, says he, while crying my beads for 
 sale, I was accosted by a Faky, who asked me if could 
 read. On answering in the affirmative, he desired me 
 to follow him to a place where he said I might expect 
 to get a good dinner. He then led me to a house, where 
 I found a great number of people collected to celebrate 
 the memory of some relative lately deceased. Several 
 Fakys were reading the Koran in a low tone of voice. 
 A great Faky afterwards came in, whose arrival was 
 the signal for reciting the Khoran in loud songs, in the 
 manner customary in the east, in which I joined them. 
 This was continued for about half an hour, until dinner 
 was brought in, which was very plentiful, as a cow had 
 been killed upon the occasion. After a hearty meal. 
 
AFRICAN SKETCHES. 171 
 
 we recommenced our reading. One of the Shiks pro- 
 duced a basket lull of white pebbles, over which several 
 prayers were read. Tliese pebbles were destined to be 
 strewed over the tomb of the deceased in the manner 
 which I had often observed upon tombs freshly made. 
 Upon my inquiries concerning this custom, which I 
 confessed to have never before seen practised in any 
 Mohammedan country, the Faky answered, that it was 
 a mere meritorious action, that there was no absolute 
 necessity for it, but that it was thought that the soul of 
 the deceased, when hereafter visiting the tomb, might 
 be glad to find these pebbles, in order to use them as 
 beads in addressing its prayers to the Creator. When 
 the reading was over, the women began to sing and 
 howl. I then left the room; and on taking my departure 
 my kind host put some bones of roasted meat in my 
 hand to serve for my supper." 
 
 " The following description of Hadji Aly con- 
 tains traits that, I fear, are not peculiar even to the 
 slave-dealers of Africa." 
 
 " His travels, and the apparent sanctity of his con- 
 duct, had procured him great reputation, and he was 
 well received by the meks and other chiefs, to whom he 
 never failed to bring some small presents from Dijdda. 
 Although almost constantly occupied (whether sitting 
 under a temporary shed of mats, or riding upon his 
 camel on the march) in reading the Koran, yet this 
 man was a complete bon vivant, whose sole object was 
 sensual enjoyment. The profits on his small capital, 
 which were continually renewed by his travelling, were 
 spent entirely in the gratification of his desires. He 
 carried with him a favourite Borgho slave, as his con- 
 cubine ; she had lived with him three years, and had 
 
172 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 her own camel, while his other slaves performed the 
 whole journey on foot. His leathern sacks were filled 
 with all the choice provisions which the Shendy market 
 could afford, particularly with sugar and dates, and his 
 dinners were the best in the caravan. To hear him talk 
 of morals and religion, one might have supposed that he 
 knew vice only by name ; yet Hadji Aly, who had spent 
 half his life in devotion, sold last year, in the slave- 
 market of Medinah, his own cousin, whom he had re- 
 cently married at Mekka. She had gone thither on a 
 pilgrimage from Bornou by the way of Cairo, when Aly 
 unexpectedly meeting with her, claimed her as his cousin, 
 and married her : at Medinah, being in want of money, 
 he sold her to some Egyptian merchants ; and as the 
 poor woman was unable to prove her free origin, she 
 was obliged to submit to her fate. The circumstance 
 was well known in the caravan, but the Hadji neverthe- 
 less still continued to enjoy all his wonted reputation." 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 PLAGUE POETS. 
 
 " Assuredly the most unpromising of all topics 
 for a poet," said the Bachelor, laying down Wilson's 
 pathetic City of the Plague, " is this same subject.*" 
 
 " And yet," replied Egeria, " perhaps there are 
 few which admit of so much affecting description ; 
 though, with the exception of Wilson, I do think 
 that scarcely any of the Plague Poets have touched 
 the right key." 
 
 " Plague Poets ! Avhat a nickname !" exclaimed 
 
PLAGUE POETS. 173 
 
 Benedict. " I was not aware that the subject'- had 
 ever been set in poetry before ; for I do not consider 
 that medical-man-like manner in which Lucretius 
 has done the symptoms into verse deserves to be con- 
 sidered as poetry. As for Virgil's description of a 
 plague among cattle, in the Georgics, and what Ovid, 
 Statins, Silius Italicus, and Manilius, have said, — in 
 so far as they go, there is nothing very interesting, 
 however correct the painting may be.*" 
 
 *' Indeed,"" said Egeria, " the ancients, generally 
 speaking, were not very expert at the pathetic. They 
 were a grave race, and appear to have but seldom 
 either laughed or wept. Thomson and Akenside 
 have shown, in noticing the plague, more true feeling 
 than all the ancients you have named, with Thucy- 
 dides to boot, even in the verse of Bishop Sprat, 
 and exalted by his Lordship''s additional touches ; of 
 which, as a specimen, take the Bishop's account of 
 the disease first shewing itself in the head and eyes.*" 
 
 " Upon the head first the disease. 
 As a bold conqueror doth seize. 
 Begins with man's metropolis ; 
 Secured the capitol ; and then it knew 
 It could at pleasure weaker parts subdue : 
 Blood started through each eye : 
 The redness of that sky 
 Foretold a tempest nigh." 
 
 " But, although Bishop Sprat's verse is in this 
 extravagant style, there is yet one little passage that 
 might obtain the honour of a second reading among 
 better poetry. I allude to his description of the 
 sleeplessness of the sufferers."" 
 
174 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. i 
 
 ^' No sleep, no peace, no rest. 
 
 Their wand'ring and affrighted minds possess'd ; . 
 
 Upon their souls and eyes ] 
 
 Hell and eternal horror lies, I 
 
 Unusual shapes and images, i 
 
 Dark pictures and resemblances 
 
 Of things to come, and of the world below, ] 
 
 O'er their distemper'd fancies go : i 
 
 Sometimes they curse, sometimes they pray unto j 
 
 The gods above, the gods beneath ; \ 
 
 Sometimes they cruelties and fury breathe — \ 
 
 Not Sleep, but Waking now was sister unto Death." ] 
 
 ] 
 " But Wither is the true English laureate of j 
 pestilence. The following description of the con- i 
 sternation, packing up, and flight of the Cockneys, ^ 
 during the great plague of London, is equally ; 
 
 matchless and original."" ; 
 
 '' Those who, in all their life-time, never went '\ 
 So far as is the nearest part of Kent : 
 
 Those who did never travel, till of late, i 
 
 Half way to Pancras from the city gate : *■ 
 
 Those who might think the sun did rise at Bow, ; 
 
 And set at Acton, for aught they did know : ■ 
 And dream young partridge suck not, but are fed 
 
 As lambs and rabbits, which of eggs are bred : i 
 
 Ev'n some of these have journeys ventured on ] 
 
 Five miles by land (as far as Edmonton.) ■ 
 
 Some hazarded themselves from Lion-key 'i 
 
 Almost as far as Erith down by sea : ] 
 
 Some row'd against the stream, and straggled out j 
 
 As far as Hounslow-heath, or thereabout : ] 
 
 Some climbed Highgate-hill, and there they see ] 
 
 The world so large, that they amazed be ; i 
 
PLAGUE POETS. 175 
 
 Yea, some have gone 8o far, that they do know. 
 Ere this, how wheat is made, and malt doth grow. 
 
 Oh, how they trudged and bustled up and down. 
 To get themselves a furlong out of town. 
 And how they were becumber'd to provide. 
 That had about a mile or two to ride. 
 But when whole households further off were sent. 
 You would have thought the master of it meant 
 To furnish forth some navy, and that he 
 Had got his neighbours venturers to be ; 
 For all the near acquaintance thereabout. 
 By lending somewhat help to set them out. 
 What hiring was there of our hackney jades .•* 
 What scouring up of old and rusty blades ? 
 What running to and fro was there to borrow 
 A safeguard, or a cloak, until the morrow ? 
 What shift made Jack for girths ? what shift made Gillian 
 To get her neighbour's footstool and her pillion. 
 Which are not yet return'd ? How great a pother 
 To furnish and unfurnish one another. 
 In this great voyage did there then appear ? 
 And what a time was that for bankrupts here ? 
 Those who had thought (by night) to steal away. 
 Did unsuspected shut up shop by day ; 
 And (if good luck it in conclusion prove) 
 Two dangers were escaped at one remove : 
 Some hired palfreys for a day or twain. 
 But rode so far they came not back again. 
 Some dealed by their neighbours, as the Jews 
 At their departure did th' Egyptians use : 
 And some, (with what was of their own, content) 
 Took up their luggage, and away they went. 
 
 And had you heard how loud the coaches rumbled ; 
 Beheld how cars and carts together jumbled ; 
 Seen how the ways with people thronged were ; 
 The bands of foot, the troops of horsemen there ; 
 
176 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 What multitudes away by land were sent ; 
 
 How many thousands forth by water went ; 
 
 And how the wealth of London thence was borne; 
 
 You would have wonder'd ; and (almost) have sworn 
 
 The city had been leaving her foundation. 
 
 And seeking out another situation ; 
 
 Or, that some enemy, with dreadful power. 
 
 Was coming to besiege, and to devour. 
 
 Oh, foolish people, though I justly might 
 Authorise thus my muse to mock your flight. 
 And still to flout your follies : yet, compassion 
 Shall end it in a kind expostulation." 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 GRANDEUR OF THE ANCIENTS. 
 
 One morning as the Bachelor and his Egeria were 
 looking over a set of Henning's beautiful casts of the 
 Athenian marbles in the British Museum, Benedict 
 observed, with his characteristic simplicity, '' that 
 surely the ancients must have excelled the moderns 
 prodigiously in grandeur of every kind." 
 
 '^ If that were the case,'' said the nymph, " it is 
 curious that so little of their domestic splendour has 
 come down to us. I shall not go so far as the Irish 
 gentleman, who said of the magnificence of Cgesar, 
 that he had not a shirt to his back ; but I very much 
 suspect that the domestic comforts of the ancients 
 were far inferior to our own. At the same time, I 
 confess that the ornaments which have been ob- 
 
GRANDEUR OF THE ANCIENTS. 177 
 
 taincd from the ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii 
 are stubborn facts against me. However, I think it 
 not to be questioned, that if we form our estimate 
 from the remains of their sacerdotal and other pub- 
 lic edifices, we shall be obliged to admit with you, 
 that their grandeur very greatly exceeded that of the 
 moderns ; and yet I think it is Aristotle who de- 
 scribes that same Athens, where these beautiful 
 sculptures were executed, and which they so long 
 adorned, as a dirty place, with streets scarcely wide 
 enough for a carriage to pass ; the houses chiefly of 
 timber,- and overhanging the streets in such a man- 
 ner as at once to darken the path and confine the 
 air. Indeed, I fancy the state of the citizen-part of 
 the cities of the ancients ought no more to be esti- 
 mated by the magnificent ruins of the public build- 
 ings, than the state of our own old towns in the 
 olden time by the cathedrals and the abbey remains 
 that still render them so interesting. Upon the sub- 
 ject of ancient Roman grandeur, there are some very 
 sensible observations in the fifty-sixth number of 
 the Quarterly Review, which I beg you will allow 
 me to read.'*"' 
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 
 " Unfortunately, very few travellers approach Rome 
 in the first instance with the moderate expectations of 
 Virgil's Shepherd ; prepared for nothing more splendid 
 .than what they had been accustomed to see at their own 
 country-towns on a market-day. They have taken on 
 trust the descriptions of the poets, and orators, and his- 
 torians, of a country fertile in such characters ; and the 
 Queen of Cities, throned upon her seven hills in marble 
 majesty, the mistress of a world conquered by the va- 
 lour of her sons, holds up to them a picture, the effect 
 
178 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 of which they are perhaps unwilling to spoil by filling 
 up all its parts with too curious accuracy ; otherwise it 
 is certain that information enough is to be obtained 
 from Roman authors to prepare them for a scene of 
 much more moderate splendour in the capital of Italy. 
 From them they might have learned^ before they put 
 themselves on board the packet, that all those points 
 upon which the imagination reposes with so much com- 
 placency, are perfectly consistent with disorder, and 
 misery, and filth: they might have learned, that the 
 Tiber was of old but a torpid and muddy stream ; that 
 heretofore the streets of Rome were dark and narrow, 
 and crooked ; that carriages of pleasure (of which, by 
 the bye, the carpentum, one of the most common, pro- 
 bably very little surpassed our tilting and jolting tax- 
 cart) were by law prohibited from entering them ex- 
 cept on certain days, so little space was there for driv- 
 ing ; that the sedans, which were used in their stead, 
 put the people to infinite confusion ; that there were 
 few scavengers, and no lamps ; that when a Roman re- 
 turned home from a supper party, he had to pick his 
 way along with a horn lantern, and bless himself if he 
 reached his own door without a shower from an attic 
 alighting on his cap of liberty ; that the porticos and 
 approaches to the baths were subject to every species of 
 defilement, so that even the symbols of religion were 
 inlisted for their protection; that the statues with 
 which the city was peopled were treated with that con- 
 tempt which Launce would have rebuked even in his 
 dog; that the images of the gods were disfigured by 
 painted faces and gilded beards ; and that though the 
 Venus de' Medici never appeared in a hooped petticoat, 
 nor the Apollo Belvedere in a blue swallow-tailed coat 
 with metal buttons, yet that the costume of the day, 
 whatever it was, was very generally bestowed on the 
 representatives of Heaven ; that the houses were for the 
 
GRANDEUR OF THE ANCIENTS. 179 
 
 most part brick, many of them crazy, and supported 
 upon props, and that such as belonged to a patrician 
 himself, had often the ground-floor assigned to a huck- 
 ster or a dealer in oil ; that in the windows (which 
 were few in number) glass was seldom if ever to be 
 seen, but in its stead a dimly transparent stone, or shut- 
 ter of wood ; that, from a want of chimneys, the rooms 
 were full o£ smoke, which was left to make its escape by 
 the tiles, the windows, and the door ; that on this ac- 
 count Vitruvius expressly forbade carved work or 
 moulding, except in the summer apartments, where no 
 fire was admitted, because in the others they would be 
 covered with soot (lib. vii. c. 4.) ; that amongst the ac- 
 complishments of a cook, it was expected that he should 
 be skilful in detecting which way the wind blew, lest, 
 if he opened the wrong kitchen-window, the smoke 
 should be driven into the broth; — that, under these 
 circumstances, the ancestors of a Roman gentleman, 
 when they had occupied the niches of his hall for a few 
 years, bore a very striking resemblance to modern 
 chimney-sweepers ; that the Romans made as much use 
 of their fingers at a meal as Englishmen do of their 
 forks ; and that Ovid, in his Art of Love, gives it as a 
 piece of Chesterfield advice to the young gallants of his 
 time, ' not to smear their mouths with their greasy 
 hands' more than necessary ; that a mappa, or napkin, 
 for each individual, was thus absolutely requisite ; that 
 every guest brought his own, and, lest the gravy and 
 sauce-boats overturned should not do it full justice, it 
 was made further serviceable as a pocket handkerchief! 
 They might have learned, moreover, from the same 
 authorities, that the middle ranks of the citizens were 
 clad in white woollen vestures, which were of course as 
 habitually dirty as might be expected from the general 
 poverty of the wearers, whilst the baser plebeians, not 
 able to affect this shabby gentility, contented themselves 
 
180 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 with garments of the colour, and quality, and neatness 
 of a mendicant friar's ; that their shirts, too, were com- 
 posed of the same material ; and that from these causes, 
 aided by the blessing of a warm climate, and the plen- 
 tiful use of garlic, the effluvia of their public assemblies 
 was so offensive, that even in a roofless theatre the em- 
 peror found it expedient to sprinkle his faithful subjects 
 with showers of rose-water : — and having duly weighed 
 these, and similar points of minute history, they might 
 certainly have brought themselves to adopt more sober 
 views of the magnificence of ancient Rome, and an an- 
 cient Roman, and have advanced to the Porta del Po- 
 polo with the reasonable chance of having their antici- 
 pations, in many respects at least, completely fulfilled," 
 
 " But," resumed Egeria, " although this account 
 of the state of ancient Rome is, I doubt not, per- 
 fectly just, it would seem that the condition of the 
 modern city is not much better. Without looking far- 
 ther than the appearance of things as they are, travel- 
 lers ascribe the slovenliness of the Italians, and chiefly 
 that of the Romans, to the decline of moral energy 
 among them, — which same moral energy is one of 
 those vague generalities that are admitted as things 
 understood ; whereas, if I mistake not, they are, for 
 the most part, terms without any distinct or accurate 
 meaning. However, it would be difficult to prove 
 that the slovenliness of the modern Romans is owing 
 to any such cause, as either a failing in their powers 
 of reasoning or in their faculty of intellectual taste ; 
 for the probability is, that Rome at present, in what 
 respects the accommodation and comfort of the in- 
 habitants, is superior to what she ever was, even in 
 the palmiest period of her magnificence. In truth. 
 
GRANDEUR OF THE ANCIENTS. 181 
 
 I have a notion that the dryness of the Italian air is 
 not favourable to cleanliness. The neatest people, 
 in all their household concerns, are the Dutch, — > 
 and, beyond all question, they are incited to the in- 
 dustry which makes them so to their mud and their 
 moist climate. The English are perhaps more delicate 
 than the Dutch ; they have, generally speaking, the 
 same love of neatness, but they have also a degree of 
 taste for greater elegance, which I attribute to our 
 climate being more variable than that of Holland ; 
 our love of the 7ieat, if I may be permitted so to 
 speak, considering it as a quality different from the 
 bountiful, I would ascribe to the foggy humidity of 
 our climate — the Dutch days — which are not so nu- 
 merous in the course of the year as to make neatness 
 the sole object of household thrift, — and our taste 
 for the elegant to those bright and sunny intervals, 
 though few and far between, which occasionally exalt 
 the temperament of our sensations and perceptions to 
 a degree of Italian delicacy. But not to descant on 
 a topic so pregnant with controversy and metaphysics, 
 I will read to you, from a clever female work, entitled, 
 " Rome in the Nineteenth Century^ an account of 
 the state of her palaces, as illustrative of what I have 
 just been saying with regard to the domestic comforts 
 of her inhabitants."" 
 
 ROMAN PALACES. 
 " Palaces, to an English ear, convey an idea of all 
 that the imagination can figure of elegance and splen- 
 dour. But after a certain residence in Italy, even this 
 obstinate early association is conquered, and the word 
 immediately brings to our mind images of dirt, neglect, 
 and decay. The palaces of Rome are innumerable ; 
 
182 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 but then, every gentleman's house is a palace, — I should 
 say, every nobleman's, — for there are no gentlemen in 
 Italy except noblemen; society being, as of old, di- 
 vided into two classes, the Patricians and the Plebeians ; 
 but though every gentleman is a nobleman, I am sorry 
 to say, every nobleman is not a gentleman; neither 
 would many of their palaces be considered by any 
 means fit residences for gentlemen in our country. The 
 legitimate application of the word, which, with us, is 
 confined to a building forming a quadrangle, and en- 
 closing a court within itself, is by no means adhered to 
 here. Every house that has a porte cocker, and many 
 that have not, are called palaces ; and, in short, under 
 that high-sounding appellation, are comprehended 
 places, whose wretchedness far surpasses the utmost 
 stretch of an English imagination to conceive. 
 
 " Rome, however, contains re«/ palaces, whose magni- 
 tude and magnificence are astonishing to transalpine 
 eyes ; but their tasteless architecture is more astonish- 
 ing still. 
 
 '* Though they have the great names of Michael An- 
 gelo, Bramante, Versopi, Bernini, &c. &c. among their 
 architects ; though they are built of travertine stone, 
 which, whether viewed with the deepened hues of age in 
 the Colosseum, or the brightness of recent finish in St 
 Peter's, is, I think, by far the finest material for build- 
 ing in the world ; and though, from the grandeur of 
 their scale, and the prodigality of their decoration, they 
 admitted of grand combinations and striking effect, — 
 yet they are lamentably destitute of architectural beauty 
 in the exterior ; and in the interior, though they are 
 filled with vast ranges of spacious apartments — though 
 the polished marbles and precious spoils of antiquity 
 have not been spared to embellish them- — though the 
 genius of painting has made theni her modern temples, 
 and sculpture adorned them with the choicest remains 
 
GRANDEUR OF THE ANCIENTS. 183 
 
 of ancient art, yet they are, generally speaking, about 
 the most incommodious, unenviable, uncomfortable 
 dwellings you can imagine. 
 
 " I know it may said, that comfort in England and in 
 Italy is not the same thing ; but it never can consist in 
 dulness, dirt, and dilapidation, any where. Italian com- 
 fort may not require thick carpets, warm fires, or close 
 rooms; but it can be no worse of clean floors, com- 
 modious furniture, and a house in good repair. 
 
 " In habitations of such immense size and costly deco- 
 rations as these, you look for libraries, baths, music- 
 rooms, and every appendage of refinement and luxury ; 
 but these things are rarely to be found in Italian palaces. 
 If they were arranged and kept up, indeed, with any 
 thing of English propriety, consistency, order, or clean- 
 liness, many of them would be noble habitations ; but 
 in the best of them, you see a barrenness, a neglect, an 
 all-prevailing look of misery — deficiencies every where 
 — and contemptible meannesses" adhering to grasping 
 magnificence. But nothing is so offensive as the dirt. 
 Amongst all the palaces, there is no such thing as a 
 palace of cleanliness. You see — and that is not the 
 worst, — you smell abominable dunghills heaped up 
 against the walls of splendid palaces, and foul heaps of 
 ordure defiling their columned courts ;— you ascend 
 noble marble staircases, whose costly materials are in- 
 visible beneath the accumulated filth that covers them ; 
 and you are sickened with the noxious odours that assail 
 you at every turn. You pass through long suites of 
 ghastly rooms, with a few crazy old tables and chairs, 
 thinly scattered through them, and behold around you 
 nothing but gloom and discomfort. 
 
 '' The custom of abandoning the ground-floor to menial 
 purposes, except when used for shops, which is almost 
 universal throughout Italy, and covering its windows, 
 both for security and economy, with a strong iron grate 
 
184 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 without any glass behind it, contributes to give the 
 houses and palaces a wretched and dungeon-like ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " It is no uncommon thing for an Italian nobleman to 
 go up into the attics of his own palace himself, and to 
 let the principal rooms to lodgers. Proud as he is, he 
 thinks this no degradation ; though he would spurn the 
 idea of allowing his sons to follow any profession, save 
 that of arms or of the church. He would sooner see 
 them dependants, flatterers, eaves-droppers, spies, gam- 
 blers, cavalieri servanti, polite rogues of any kind — or 
 even beggars, — than honest merchants, lawyers, or phy- 
 sicians. 
 
 " The Fiano Palace has its lower story let out into 
 shops, and its superior ones occupied by about twenty 
 different families — among which, the duke and duchess 
 live in a corner of their own palace. 
 
 " It is the same case with more than half the nobles of 
 Rome and Naples. But the Doria, the Borghese, and 
 the Colonna, possess enough of their ancient wealth to 
 support their hereditary dignity, and their immense 
 palaces are filled only with their own families and de- 
 pendants. Not but that, though lodgings are not let at 
 the Doria Palace, butter is regularly sold there every 
 week ; which, in England, would seem rather an extra- 
 ordinary trade for one of the first noblemen in the 
 land to carry on in his own house. Yet this very butter- 
 selling prince looks down with a species of contempt 
 upon a great British merchant. 
 
 " Commerce seems to be no longer respected in Italy, 
 not even in Florence, where its reigning princes were 
 merchants. Yet the proudest Florentine noblemen sell 
 wine, by the flask, at their own palaces. I wonder the 
 profits of this little huckstering trade never induced 
 them to think of entering intQ larger concerns, that they 
 might have larger returns. I wonder it never led them 
 
STEAM-ENGINES. 185 
 
 to remember that commerce was the source of the mo- 
 dern prosperity of Italy. But commerce cannot exist 
 without freedom — a truth that princes and people have 
 yet to learn here. 
 
 " The palaces of all the ancient Roman nobility have, 
 in the entrance hall, a crimson canopy of state, beneath 
 which the prince sits on a raised throne to receive his 
 vassals, hear their complaints, redress their grievances, 
 and administer justice. Perhaps I ought to speak in the 
 past, rather than the present tense ; but they still exer- 
 cise a sort of feudal jurisdiction over their numerous ten- 
 antry — among whom their will is law. 
 
 " Above the door of every palace, upon the escutcheon 
 of the family arms, we seldom fail to see the S. P. Q. R. 
 all tliat is left of the senate and people of Rome." 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 STEAM-ENGINES. 
 
 In the summer of 1823, the Bachelor and his Nymph 
 projected a tour to Scotland ; but in what vehicle was 
 a question that occasioned some discussion between 
 them. Benedict was strongly in favour of a steamer, 
 and urged many reasons, as to speed, novelty, and 
 economy, why they ought to prefer that mode of 
 conveyance. The Nymph, however, pled not only 
 her feminine timidity against all the agencies of fire 
 and water, but contended that the state of the ma- 
 chinery in those sort of vessels was still in so rude a 
 condition, that no person of a true philosophical mind 
 
186 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 would risk himself in them. " They may do very 
 well," said she, " for people of practical feelings, and 
 habituated experience, but to those who have a cor- 
 rect theoretical conception of the accidents to which 
 the machinery is liable, — the brittleness of the iron, 
 the explosive powers of the steam, the negligence of 
 the engineers, the unknown gaseous substances in 
 the fuel, — the risk of unsoundness in the timber 
 work, — the uncertainty of the winds, the hazards of 
 the waves, and all the manifold ordinary perils of 
 navigation, besides those that peculiarly attach to 
 machinery, and particularly to that of the steam- 
 engine, it would argue almost a brute disregard 
 of consequences, to prefer a steamer to a smack ; and 
 who would not prefer a carriage to all the aquatic 
 vessels that have been built since the time of Noah's 
 ark?" 
 
 " You are indulging yourself in fears little more 
 creditable than hypochondriacal terrors," replied the 
 Bachelor. " I am assured, on the most perfect report, 
 that the steamers are as safe and safer than any 
 other mode of conveyance whatever." 
 
 " The thing is quite impossible," said Egeria. 
 '' The invention is but still in its infancy. Give me 
 the thirteenth volume of the Edinburgh Review 
 from the shelf behind, and I will convince you by 
 its history." 
 
 " The first idea of the steam-engine is found in the 
 writings of that celebrated projector, the Marquis of 
 Worcester, who, in the year 1663, published a small 
 tract, entitled, " A Century of Inventions,'\consistingof 
 short heads, or notices of schemes, many of them obvi- 
 
STEAM-ENGINES. 187 
 
 ously impracticable, which at various times had sug- 
 gested themselves to his very fertile and warm imagi- 
 nation. No contemporary record exists to illustrate or 
 verify his description of the contrivance which we pre- 
 sume to call a steam-engine, or to inform us where, and 
 in what manner, it was carried into effect ; though it is 
 evident, from his account, that he had actually con- 
 structed and worked a machine that raised water by 
 steam. His description of the method is short and ob- 
 scure ; but inclines us to think, contrary to what many 
 have supposed, that the force of his engine was derived 
 solely from the elasticity of steam ; and that the cojidcfi- 
 scUion of steam by cold was no part of his contrivance. 
 This last, we believe, was the invention of Captain 
 Savary, who, in 1696, published an account of his ma- 
 chine, in a small tract entitled the Miner's Friend, hav- 
 ing erected several engines previous to that period. In 
 these engines the alternate condensation and pressure of 
 the steam took place in the same vessel into which the 
 water was first raised, from a lower reservoir, by the 
 pressure of the atmosphere, and then expelled into a 
 higher one by the elastic force of strong steam. 
 
 " Steam, it must be observed, was thus employed 
 merely to produce a vacuum, and to supply the strength 
 that was applied, for a like effect, to the sucker or piston 
 of an ordinary pump ; and it was a great step to have 
 discovered a method of bringing the air to act in this 
 manner, by the application of heat to water, without 
 the assistance of mechanical force. 
 
 " The next essential improvement was made by 
 Newcomen, for which he obtained a patent in 1 705. It 
 consisted in separating the parts of the engine in which 
 the steam was to act from those in which the water was 
 to be raised ; the weight of the atmosphere being em- 
 ployed only for the purpose of pressure, and the steam 
 for that of first displacing the air, and then forming a 
 
188 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 vacuum by condensation. Newcomen was thus enabled 
 to dispense with the use of steam of great and dangerous 
 elasticity, to work with moderate heats, and to remove 
 at least some part of the causes of wasteful and in- 
 effectual condensation. To him we are indebted for the 
 introduction of the steam cylinder and piston, and for 
 their connexion with the pump by means of the main 
 lever with its rods and chains ; to which we might add 
 several other subordinate contrivances, which do great 
 credit to his ingenuity. 
 
 " Still, however, the machine required the constant 
 attendance of a man to open and shut the cocks at the 
 proper intervals, for the alternate admission of steam 
 and cold water : and although traditional report attri- 
 butes the invention of the mechanism by which the en- 
 gine was made to perform this work itself, to the in- 
 genuity of an idle boy, we know that the contrivance 
 was first perfected by Mr Henry Beighton 1717^ who 
 also improved the construction of several other parts of 
 the engine. From this time to the year 1764, there 
 seems to have been no material improvement in the 
 structure of the engine, which still continued to be 
 known by the appellation of Newcomen' s, or the atmo- 
 spheric engine. The boilers, however, had been removed 
 from under the cylinder in some of the larger engines, 
 and the cylinder had been fixed down to a solid basis. 
 Still the steam was condensed i?i the cylinder ; the hot 
 water was expelled by the steam; the piston was pressed 
 down by the weight of the atmosphere, and kept tight 
 by being covered with water. It was moreover con- 
 sidered as necessary that the injection cistern should be 
 placed on high, in order that the water might enter with 
 great force. It had been found by experience, that the 
 engine could not be loaded, with advantage, with more 
 than seven pounds on each square inch of the piston ; 
 and the inferiority of that power to the known pressure 
 
STEAM-ENGINES. 189 
 
 of the atmosphere, was, without clue consideration, im- 
 puted wholly to friction. The bulk of water, when con- 
 verted into steam, was very erroneously computed ; the 
 quantity of fuel necessary to evaporate a given quantity 
 of water was not even guessed at ; whether the heat of 
 steam is accurately measured by its temperature was un- 
 known ; and no good experiment had been made to de- 
 termine the quantity of injection water necessary for a 
 cylinder of given dimensions. In a word, no man of 
 science in this country had considered the subject since 
 Desaguliers ; and his writings, in many respects, tended 
 more to mislead than instruct. 
 
 " Such was the state of matters, when, fortunately for 
 science and for the arts, Mr Watt, then a mathematical 
 instrument-maker at Glasgow, undertook the repair of 
 the model of a steam engine belonging to the University. 
 In the course of his trials with it, he found the quantity 
 of fuel and injection water it required, much greater in 
 proportion than tliey were said to be in large engines ; 
 and it soon occurred to him, that this must be owing to 
 the cylinder of this small model exposing a greater sur- 
 face, in proportion to its contents, than larger cylinders 
 did. This he endeavoured to remedy, by making his 
 cylinders and pistons of substances which conducted 
 heat slowly. He employed wood prepared on purpose, 
 and resorted to other expedients, without producing the 
 desired effect in any remarkable degree. He found also, 
 that all attempts to produce a greater degree of exhaus- 
 tion, or a more perfect vacuum, occasioned a dispropor- 
 tionate expenditure of steam. In reflecting upon the 
 causes of these phenomena, the recent discovery, that 
 water boiled in an exhausted receiver at low degrees of 
 heat (certainly not exceeding 100 degrees of Faliren- 
 heit, but probably, when the vacuum was perfect, much 
 lower), occurred to him ; and he immediately concluded, 
 that, to obtain any considerable degree of exhaustion. 
 
190 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 the cylinder and its contents must be cooled down to 
 100 degrees at least ; in which case^ the reproduction of 
 steam in the same cylinder must be accompanied with a 
 great expense of heat^ and consequently of fuel. He 
 next endeavoured to ascertain the temperature at which 
 water boils when placed under various pressures ; and 
 not having any apparatus at hand, by which he could 
 make his experiments under pressures less than that of 
 the atmosphere, he began with trying the temperature 
 of water boiling under greater pressures ; and by laying 
 down a curve, of which the abscisses represented the 
 temperatures, and the ordinates the pressures, he found 
 the law by which the two are connected, whether the 
 pressure be increased or diminished. 
 
 " Observing also, that there was a great error in 
 Desaguliers's calculation of the bulk of water when con- 
 verted into steam, and that the experiment on which he 
 founded his conclusion was in itself fallacious, he thought 
 it essential to determine this point with more accuracy. 
 By a very simple experiment with a Florence flask, 
 which our limits will not allow us to detail, he ascer- 
 tained, that water, when converted into steam under the 
 ordinary pressure of the atmosphere, occupies about 
 eighteen hundred times its original space. 
 
 '^ These points being determined, he constructed a 
 boiler in such a manner, as to show by inspection, with 
 tolerable accuracy, the quantity of water evaporated in 
 any given time ; and he also ascertained, by experiment, 
 the quantity of coals necessary to evaporate a given 
 quantity of water. 
 
 " He now applied his boiler to the working model 
 above-mentioned ; when it appeared, that the quantity 
 of steam expended at every stroke exceeded many times 
 what was sufficient to fill the cylinder ; and deducing 
 from thence the quantity of water required to form as 
 much steam as would supply each stroke of the engine. 
 
STEAM-ENGINES. 191 
 
 he proceeded to examine how much cold water was used 
 for injection, and what heat it gained ; which, to his very 
 great surprise, he found to be many times the number 
 of degrees which could have been communicated to it 
 by a quantity of boiling water equal to that of which 
 the steam was composed. Suspecting, however, that 
 there might be some fallacy in these deductions, he 
 made a direct experiment to ascertain the degree of heat 
 communicated by steam to water ; when it clearly ap- 
 peared, that one part of water, in the form of steam, at 
 212*^, had communicated about 140 degrees of heat to 
 six parts of water. The fact, thus confirmed, was so 
 contrary to all his previous conceptions, that he at first 
 saw no means of explaining it. Dr Black indeed had, 
 some time before, made his discovery of latent heat ; but 
 Mr Watt's mind being otherwise engaged, he had not 
 attended sufficiently to it, to make himself much ac- 
 quainted with the doctrine : but upon communicating 
 his observations to the Doctor, he received from him a 
 full explanation of his theory ; and this induced him to 
 make further experiments, by which he ascertained the 
 latent heat of steam to be above 900 degrees. 
 
 " The causes of the defects of Newcomen's engines 
 were now evident. It appeared that the steam could 
 not be condensed so as to form an approximation to a 
 vacuum, unless the cylinder, and the water it contained, 
 were cooled down to less than 100^ ; and that, at greater 
 degrees of heat, the water in the cylinder must produce 
 steam, which would in part resist the pressure of the 
 atmosphere. On the other hand, when greater degrees 
 of exhaustion were attempted, the quantities of injection 
 water required to be increased in a very great ratio ; and 
 this was followed by a proportionate destruction of steam 
 on refilling the cylinder. 
 
 " Mr Watt now perceived, that to make an engine in 
 which the destruction of steam should be the least pos- 
 
192 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 sible^ and the vacuum the most perfect, it was necessary 
 that the cylinder should condense no steam on filling it, 
 and that, when condensed, the water, forming the steam, 
 should be cooled down to 100 degrees, or lower. In re- 
 flecting on this desideVatum, he was not long in finding 
 that the cylinder must be preserved always as hot as 
 the steam that enters it ; and that, by opening a commu- 
 nication between this hot cylinder when filled with steam, 
 and another vessel exhausted of air, the steam, being an 
 elastic fluid, would rush into it, until an equilibrium 
 was established between the two vessels; and that if 
 cold water, in sufficient quantity, were injected into the 
 second vessel, the steam it contained would be reduced 
 to water, and no more steam would enter until the whole 
 was condensed. 
 
 " But a difficulty arose — How was this condensed 
 steam and water to be got out of the second vessel with- 
 out letting in air ? Two methods presented themselves. 
 One was, to join to this second vessel (which, after him, 
 we shall call the condenser^ a pipe, which should extend 
 downwards more than 34 feet perpendicular, so that the 
 column of water contained in it, exceeding the weight 
 of the atmosphere, would run out by its own gravity, 
 and leave the condenser in a state of exhaustion, except 
 in so far as the air, which might enter with the steam 
 and injection water, should tend to render the exhaus- 
 tion less perfect: this air he proposed to extract by means 
 of a pump. The second method which occurred, was 
 to extract both air and water by means of a pump or 
 pumps ; which would possess the advantage over the 
 other, of being applicable in all situations. This latter 
 contrivance was therefore preferred ; and is known by 
 the common name of the Air-pump. There still re- 
 mained some defects unremedied in Newcomen's cylin- 
 der. The piston in that engine was kept tight by water ; 
 much of which passing by the sides, injured the va- 
 
STEAM-ENGINES. 193 
 
 cuum below, by its evaporation ; and this water, as well 
 as the atmosphere which came into contact with the 
 upper part of the piston and sides of the cylinder at 
 every stroke, tended materially to cool that vessel. Mr 
 Watt removed these defects, by applying oils, wax, and 
 fat of animals, to lubricate his piston and keep it tight; 
 he put a cover on his cylinder (with a hole in it, made 
 air and steam tight, for the piston-rod to pass through), 
 and employed the elastic force of steam to press upon 
 the piston : he also surrounded the cylinder with a case 
 containing steam, or a case of wood, or of other non- 
 conducting substance, which should keep it always of 
 an equable temperature. 
 
 " The improvement of Newcomen's engine, so far as the 
 saving of steam and fuel was concerned, was now com- 
 plete in Mr Watt's mind ; and in the course of the fol- 
 lowing year, 1765, he executed a working model, the 
 effect of which he found fully to answer his expectations. 
 It worked readily with 10^ lib. on the inch, and was 
 even capable of raising 14 lib.; and did not require 
 more than one-third of the steam used in the common 
 atmospheric engine, to produce the same effect. Indeed, 
 the principle of keeping the vessel in which the elasti- 
 city of the steam is exerted always hot, and that in which 
 the condensation is performed always cold, is in itself 
 perfect. For the steam never coming in contact with 
 any substance colder than itself until it had done its 
 office, no part is condensed until the whole effect has 
 been obtained in the cylinder ; and when it has acted 
 there, it is so condensed in the separate vessel that no 
 resistance remains : accordingly, the barometer proves 
 a vacuum, nearly as perfect as by the exhaustion of the 
 air-pump. The whole of the steam and heat is usefully 
 employed ; and the contrivance appears scarcely to ad- 
 mit of improvement. 
 
194 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " The steam-engine,'*' resumed the Nymph, for- 
 getting the dispute which had given rise to the read- 
 ing of the foregoing passage, '^ is the greatest in- 
 vention, next to that of letters, which the powers of 
 the human mind have yet achieved, — were one to 
 designate remarkable cycles, by emblematic, or hiero- 
 glyphical figures, the steam-engine should be the 
 type of the eighteenth century. It has in effect 
 created, as it were by something like a fiat, a prodi- 
 gious increase, not only to the adult population of 
 this world, but of mechanics in the full maturity of 
 skill. I have heard, that some time ago the pro- 
 ductive powers of the steam-engine in this country 
 were considered as equivalent to those of sixty millions 
 of artizans. If, therefore, we consider the invention 
 in a political point of view, it is hardly possible to 
 estimate the accession of strength which it has given 
 to the kingdom.*" 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 ADVENTURES. 
 
 " The only remnant left among us of that romantic 
 spirit which, in former times, sent so many of the 
 bold peers of Christendom in quest of adventures,"** 
 said Egeria one morning as she was turning over 
 the leaves of Legh's Journey in Egypt, ^' is, unques- 
 tionably, the curiosity of those indefatigable tra- 
 vellers, who go abroad to gather fame by collecting 
 materi^tls for publication. The labours they un- 
 
ADVENTURES. lf» 
 
 dergo, — the antres vast which they visit, and the 
 " hair-breadth 'scapes, and moving accidents by flood 
 and field,"" which they voluntarily encounter, afford 
 matter for much musing. The very least of the 
 hardships which this gentleman has suffered would 
 have furnished a long chapter to the lengthiest ro- 
 mance-writer of the brightest days of chivalry. I 
 question, indeed, if ever Orlando himself met with an 
 adventure more appalling than Mr Legh's descent 
 into the caverns of the crocodiles near Manfalout.— 
 It is not easy to imagine what could induce any 
 Christian gentleman to engage in such an enterprise. 
 To say nothing of the danger, whether from reptiles 
 or azote, the very idea of mingling, like a grub of the 
 grave, among the dried entrails and rattling carcasses 
 of such monsters, is equal in horror to any image 
 that can be formed of the wildest spells and darkest 
 enchantments of the most potent sorcerer that either 
 pagan or knight in Palestine ever dreaded." 
 " Read it," said Benedict. 
 
 " We had been wandering for more than an hour in 
 low subterranean passages, and felt considerably fatigued 
 by the irksoraeness of the posture in which we had been 
 obliged to move, and the heat of our torches in those 
 narrow and low galleries. But the Arabs spoke so con* 
 fidently of succeeding in this second trial, that we were 
 induced once more to attend them. We found the 
 opening of the chamber which we now approached 
 guarded by a trench of unknown depth, and wide 
 enough to require a good leap. The first Arab jumped 
 the ditch, and we all followed him. The passage we 
 entered was extremely small, and so low in some places 
 as to oblige us to crawl flat on the ground, and almost 
 
196 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 always on our hands and knees. The intricacies of its 
 windings resembled a labyrinth ; and it terminated at 
 length in a chamber much smaller than that we had 
 left ; but, like it, containing nothing to satisfy our cu- 
 riosity. Our search hitherto had been fruitless; but 
 the mummies might not be far distant, — another effort, 
 and we might still be successful. 
 
 " The Arab whom I followed, and who led the way, 
 now entered another gallery, and we all continued to 
 move in the same manner as before, each preceded by a 
 guide. We had not gone far before the heat became 
 excessive ; for my own part, I found my breathing ex- 
 tremely difficult,' — my head began to ache most violently, 
 and I had a most distressing sensation of fulness about 
 the breast. We felt we had gone too far, and yet were 
 almost deprived of the power of returning. At this 
 moment the torch of the first Arab went out. I was 
 close to him, and saw him fall on his side ; he uttered 
 a groan — his legs were strongly convulsed, and I heard 
 a rattling noise in his throat — he was dead. The Arab 
 behind me seeing the torch of his companion extin- 
 guished, and conceiving he had stumbled, passed me, 
 advanced to his assistance, and stooped. I observed 
 him appear faint, totter, and fall in a moment, — he also 
 was dead. The third Arab came forward, and made an 
 effort to approach the bodies, but stopped short. We 
 looked at each other in silent horror. The danger in- 
 creased every instant ; our torches burnt faintly — our 
 breathing became more difficult — our knees tottered 
 under us, and we felt our strength nearly gone. 
 
 " There was no time to be lost. The American, Bar- 
 thow, cried to us to take courage, and we began to move 
 back as fast as we could. We heard the remaining Arab 
 shouting after us, calling us Caffres, imploring our assist- 
 ance, and upbraiding us with deserting him. But we were 
 obliged to leave him to his fate, expecting every moment 
 
ADVENTURES. 197 
 
 to share it with him. The windings of the passages through 
 which we had come increased the difficulty of our escape; 
 we might take a wrong turn, and never reach the great 
 chamber we had first entered. Even supposing we took the 
 shortest road, it was but too probable our strength would 
 fail lis before we arrived. We had each of us, separately 
 and unknown to one another, observed attentively the dif- 
 ferent shapes of the stones which projected into the gal- 
 leries we had passed, so that each had an imperfect clue 
 to the labyrinth we had now to retrace. We compared 
 notes, and only on one occasion had a dispute, the Ame- 
 rican differing from my friend and myself; in this di- 
 lemma we were determined by the majority, and fortu- 
 nately were right. Exhausted with fatigue and terror, 
 we reached the edge of the deep trench, which remained 
 to be crossed before we got into the great chafhber. — 
 Mustering all my strength, I leaped, and was followed 
 by the American. Smelt stood on the brink ready to 
 drop with fatigue. He called to us, — " For God's sake 
 to help him over the fosse, or at least to stop, if only for 
 five minutes, to allow him to recover his strength." It 
 was impossible — to stay was death, and we could not 
 resist the desire to push on and reach the open air.— 
 We encouraged him to summon all his force, and he 
 cleared the trench. When we reached the open air, it 
 was one o'clock, and the heat in the sun about 160*. 
 Our sailors, who were waiting for us, had luckily a 
 bardak full of water, which they sprinkled upon us ; 
 but though a little refreshed, it was not possible to climb 
 the sides of the pit ; they unfolded their turbans, and 
 slinging them round our bodies, drew us to the top. 
 
 " Our appearance alone, without our guides, naturally 
 astonished the Arab, who had remained at the entrance 
 of the cavern, and he anxiously inquired for his friends. 
 To have confessed they were dead would have excited 
 suspicion ; he would have supposed we had murdered 
 
198 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 t]iem, and have alarmed the inhabitants of Amabdi to 
 pursue us, and revenge the death of their friends. We 
 replied, therefore, they were coming, and were employed 
 in bringing out the mummies we had found, which was 
 the cause of their delay. We lost no time in mounting 
 our asses, re-crossed the Desert, and passed hastily by 
 the village, to regain the ferry at Manfalout." 
 
 *' It is a very hideous story,'' said the Bachelor ; 
 " but these sorts of horror are not quite so much to 
 my taste as adventures of more varied address, — such, 
 for example, as those of the two Sherleys, in Orme's 
 Historical Fragments.*" 
 
 '' The means by which the two extraordinary ad- 
 venturers of that name obtained such important employ- 
 ment from the ablest and fiercest sovereign of the East, 
 would not have borne much respect in our times, which 
 permit no enthusiasms to cover or consecrate the latent 
 views of luxurious ambition. Anthony Shirley, the 
 elder brother of Robert, was a dependant on the Earl 
 of Essex, who sent him, in 1598, with some soldiers to 
 fight for the Duke of Ferrara against the Pope ; but, by 
 the time they arrived in Italy, the quarrel was reconcil- 
 ed. Essex, nevertheless, unwilling that his knight 
 should return to England with the derision of having 
 done nothing, not only consented to his proposal of pro- 
 ceeding to Persia with offer of service to Shah Abbas, 
 whose fame had spread with much renown throughout 
 Europe, but also furnished him with money and bills 
 for the journey. Shirley embarked from Venice in May 
 1599, with twenty-five followers, some of education, all 
 of resolution, and amongst them his brother Robert, at 
 that time a youth. After various escapes by sea and 
 land, they arrived at Aleppo, where, getting money for 
 their bills, they proceeded in the company of a large 
 
ADVENTURES. 199 
 
 caravan to Bagdad, Shirley professing himself a mer- 
 chant, who expected goods by the next ; but this pre- 
 tence, and tlie number of his retinue, excited suspicions, 
 and all he brought was seized at the custom-house; 
 which reduced them to live on the piece-meal sale of 
 the clothes they wore : his anxiety in this situation was 
 observed by a Florentine, named Victorio Spiciera, who 
 was proceeding to Ormus in order to embark for China, 
 and had frequently conversed with Shirley during the 
 journey from Aleppo. He tried, by repeated questions, 
 to discover his real condition and purpose ; but failing, 
 made up his own conjectures, that Shirley intended some 
 signal mischief, either against the Turkish empire, or 
 the sovereignty of the Portuguese in India, of which 
 the one was as detestable to his piety, as the other to his 
 traffic : from these motives, mixed perhaps with admira- 
 tion of a character, which knew to personate romantic 
 dignity, the Florentine determined not only to extricate 
 him from the dangers of his present situation, but enable 
 him to prosecute his views, whatsoever they might be. 
 The emergency pressed ; for the second caravan from 
 Aleppo was come within ten days of Bagdad ; and Spi- 
 ciera knew, that when the goods which Shirley had pre- 
 tended to expect should not appear, he and all his fol- 
 lowers would be doomed to imprisonment, if not worse. 
 Fortunately, a caravan returning from Mecca to Persia 
 arrived at this time, and encamped under the walls. 
 Spiciera hired amongst them camels, horses, with all 
 other necessaries of travel ; and, when the caravan was 
 ready to depart, revealed to Shirley the dangers which 
 awaited him, and the measures he had taken for his pre- 
 servation and success ; confirming these assurances by 
 the delivery of a great sum in gold, and many rarities 
 of great value ; so much in the whole amount, that 
 Shirley declines to mention it, because he says it would 
 not be believed. The Florentine left it to his honour to 
 
200 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 repay him when he could ; and, for five days after the 
 departure of the caravan, diverted suspicions of his 
 escape by living in Shirley's house, to whom he pre- 
 tended to have lent his own, that he might recover in 
 more quiet from a fit of illness ; he even requested the 
 governor for his physician, knowing he had none ; but 
 was afterwards fined severely for these generous col- 
 Jusions. ^' 
 
 ^' Fifty Janissaries were sent in pursuit of Shirley, but 
 missed the caravan ,• which employed fifty days on the 
 march to Casbin ; where the aids of Spiciera enabled 
 Shirley to equip himself and followers in sumptuous 
 array, to live splendidly, and to make presents ; which 
 procured commendations to Shah Abbas, who arrived 
 at Casbin a month after, and was saluted by Shirley and 
 his company at his entrance into the city, when the 
 king distinguished him with the most honourable no- 
 tice. The next day Shirley sent the king a present of 
 jewels and Italian rarities, which were not only curious, 
 but costly beyond the expectation of homage ; and the 
 more he professed that he had come to offer his service 
 on his own account, and at his own expense, the more 
 the king inclined to believe, that the denial was intend- 
 ed, by concealing, to heighten the elegant compliment 
 of his monarch ; and at all events, could not resist the 
 complacence of regarding the resort of this band of 
 strangers as a signal proof of the great extent of his own 
 fame, which Shirley took care on all occasions to in- 
 culcate. 
 
 " It was the way of Shah Abbas, to discern those he 
 employed by familiarities. Shirley Avas solemn in be- 
 haviour, pompous in elocution, quick in apprehension, 
 and guarded in argument ; and having served both at 
 land and sea, was capable of suggesting the military 
 ideas of Europe ; which could not fail to attract the at- 
 tention of a monarch whose ruling passion was the fame 
 
ADVENTURES. 201 
 
 of war ; he even visited Shirley in his house, to examine 
 a book of fortifications ; and having, during a daily con- 
 verse of six weeks, treated him more with the respect 
 of a guest than the distance of a solicitor, on the very 
 day before his departure to Cassan, declared him a Mirza, 
 or lord in his service, and referred him to the treasurer ; 
 who, as soon as the king was gone, sent to Shirley a 
 present, which consisted of money to the amount of six- 
 teen thousand ducats ; forty horses, all accoutred ; two, 
 intended for his brother and himself, with saddles plat- 
 ed with gold, and set with rubies and torquoises ; the 
 others, with silver and embroidered velvet; twelve 
 camels laden with tents, and all furniture, not only for 
 the field, but for his house in Casbin, which likewise 
 was bestowed on him : he was ordered to follow the 
 king to Cassan, from whence he accompanied him to 
 Ispahan, and was treated by him with the same defer- 
 ence as before he had accepted his service. 
 
 " Daily and artful suggestions prepared the way to 
 the advice which Shirley had long premeditated, that 
 the king should renew the war against the Turks, and 
 depute an ambassador to excite the princes of Christen- 
 dom to co-operate by land and sea from the west, whilst 
 Persia invaded the Turkish territories on the east : this 
 commission Shirley designed for himself, but avoided 
 the mention. Nevertheless this intention was penetrat- 
 ed by the vizir, and several other of the principal noble- 
 men, who said that the proposal was the artful scheme 
 of a needy adventurer, seeking the sumptuous enjoy- 
 ment of exalted fortune at the risk of an empire : but 
 the king inclined to the war, which he regarded as in- 
 evitable ; and reasoned, that if the mission of Shirley 
 should be ineffectual, the detriment would be no more 
 than the loss of the expense, which he foresaw would, even 
 in this event, increase the reputation of his magnificence, 
 without diminishing the solid estimation of his abilities. 
 
202 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " The next morning the king went to Shirley's house, 
 and entered fully into the discussion of the war and em- 
 bassy to Europe, affecting to expect little hope from it, 
 but to comply merely as a testimony of his extreme re- 
 gard to Shirley, from whom he had received such un- 
 doubted proof of his own, by the fatigue and expense of 
 his journey to Persia, and the risks to which he now 
 offered to expose himself for his service. Shirley, in a 
 very long discourse, explained all the probabilities of 
 his plan : — ^that the emperor of Germany was already 
 at war with the Turks ; that the Pope would excite all 
 the other catholic princes ; that the king of Spain was 
 at continual enmity with the government of Algiers, 
 which was subservient to the Turkish empire ; that the 
 invitations of the king would attract merchants and 
 Christians of all other arts, trades, and occupations, who 
 would not only increase the commerce of his country, 
 but introduce new methods and inventions of great uti- 
 lity, especially to the improvement of his warfare ; and 
 that the liberal schism of religion, which the king wished 
 to promote as a descendant of Sesi, between his own 
 subjects and the Turks, would be encouraged by the 
 intercourse of Christians, whom they would be ac- 
 customed to see drinking wine, and exercising other 
 tolerances, which the Turks held in detestation. 
 
 " The king still cautiously avoided any expressions 
 which might indicate much expectation, or any solici- 
 tude of assistance from the Christian princes ; in which 
 he properly maintained his own dignity, by not trusting 
 to the report of a stranger such a confession of the hopes 
 or wishes he might entertain ; but appeared much con- 
 tent with the probability of drawing European merchants 
 to his country ; for the increase of its trade had long 
 been a principal attention of his government. On this 
 ground he consented to the embassy, and required Shir- 
 ley to undertake it ; who, after many apologies of his 
 
ADVENTURES. 303 
 
 insufficiency, accepted the commission with as much sa- 
 tisfaction as he had pretended diffidence. Shirley re- 
 quested, that a young nobleman of distinction, named 
 Assan Cawn, might accompany him, to be the witness 
 of his conduct ; which was granted, but soon after re- 
 voked, by reason of his marriage with an aunt of the 
 king ; when Shirley, to conciliate the vizir and other 
 ministers, accepted Cuchin Allabi, a man of ordinary 
 rank and suspected character. As Shirley could not 
 pass through the Turkish dominions to Aleppo, except- 
 ing in disguise, it was resolved that he should proceed 
 through Russia ; which at this time was so little fre- 
 quented by travellers, and so suspicious of them, that 
 the king sent forward one of his officers as an ambas- 
 sador to the czar, in order to announce his mission, and 
 to procure him good reception through the country. 
 
 " The day before that appointed for his departure, 
 the king visited him, as if to recapitulate all the points 
 of the various negotiations which he had intrusted to 
 his conduct ; and now, with his usual foresight and sa- 
 gacity, broke his last proposal, which, although dictated 
 by warrantable suspicion, he clothed with the garb of 
 elegant compliment. It was, that Robert Shirley should 
 remain at his court during his brother's absence. Ro- 
 bert was present; and, without waiting his brother's 
 answer, proffered Iiimself to remain. This resolution 
 produced a new arrangement in the retinue of Anthony ; 
 and several of his English followers were left with Ro- 
 bert. The king, as the last compliment, according to 
 Shirley's relation, rode with him, when he set out, six 
 miles on the way from Ispahan ; and then, he says, took 
 leave of him, not without tears, although they had never 
 spoke to one another but through an interpreter. 
 
 '* The travellers were two months, not without evil 
 chances, before they had passed the Caspian to As- 
 trachan, where they found the ambassador sent to the 
 czar." 
 
204 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 
 PETER THE GREAT. 
 
 " I THINK," said Egeria one morning, " it is Dr 
 Clarke who describes the Russians as plated sa- 
 vages, — their magnificence as but lackered barba- 
 rity ; and I doubt not there is much truth in the re- 
 mark. They set forward in the march of improve- 
 ment when the rest of Europe was in comparative 
 maturity, and assumed many of the exterior sym- 
 bols of civilization before they had passed through 
 the different stages by which the mental refinement 
 can alone be attained. This was undoubtedly owing 
 to the peculiar character and carpenter-accomplish- 
 ments of Peter the Great. His mind was naturally 
 of the European cast, but his subjects, as I have 
 before observed to you, were in many points essen- 
 tially Asiatic : his talents were of a rude and co- 
 ercive kind. His administration may be described 
 as a constant effort, to impose not only civilization in 
 manners, but philosophy and mechanical industry on 
 a people who knew not the worth nor the importance 
 of either. He had, in truth, looked more at the 
 physical results of political strength in other states 
 than at the causes which produced it, and this mis- 
 take in any weaker or more delicate hand would have 
 been fatal. His contempt of the lives of his people, 
 and his ambition to build up a state, without refer- 
 ence to the opinions of his subjects, constitute the 
 two grand features of his history. He knew that he 
 could not be great in the community of the Euro- 
 
PETER THE GREAT. ^ 
 
 pean states, without fleets, arsenals, and armies* 
 He had seen himself, that all great empires had mag- 
 nificent capitals, and something too he had heard 
 of Babylon and of Rome, and therefore he resolved 
 to build St Petersburgh. But although all that he 
 did with respect to those undertakings was founded 
 in sagacious conceptions, both of immediate and re- 
 mote policy, yet it was nevertheless barbaric. The 
 nation for whom he planned and accomplished so 
 many stupendous designs, neither knew their utility 
 nor could comprehend their policy ; but there was an 
 intellectual power about the man that awed and com- 
 manded his barbarians like the influence of a god. 
 
 " As a monarch, according to our British no- 
 tions, Peter was one of the worst kind. It is be- 
 cause we see his character in what he achieved that 
 we respect the memory of this colossal despot. Were 
 we to consider him in the means he employed, and 
 to read the history of his glorious reign in the de- 
 tails, our aversion towards him would only be miti- 
 gated by the scorn with which we would regard his 
 docile and ductile barbarians. Can any thing be 
 more gross than his court was ? — Look at the ridi- 
 culous account of his visit to that of Berlin.'**' 
 
 " In the year 1717> Peter the Great came with his 
 empress and court to pay a visit at Berlin. On his 
 first presentation, the czar took Frederic by the hand, 
 and said, he was glad to see him ; he then offered to 
 kiss the queen, but she declined the honour. He next 
 presented his son and daughter, and four hundred ladies 
 in waiting, the greater part of whom, the princess as- 
 sures us, were washerwomen and scullions promoted to 
 that nominal dignity. Almost every one of them, how- 
 
^06 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ever, she adds, had a baby richly dressed in her arms ; 
 and when any one asked whose it was, answered with 
 great coolness and complacency, that ^ the czar had 
 done her the honour to make her the mother of it.' 
 The czarine was very short, tawny, and ungraceful, 
 dressed like a provincial German player, in an old- 
 fashioned robe, covered with dirt and silver, and with 
 some dozens of medals and pictures of saints strung 
 down the front, which clattered every time she moved 
 like the bells of a pack-horse. She spoke little Ger- 
 man, and no French ; and finding that she got on but 
 ill with the queen and her party, she called her fool 
 into a corner to come and entertain her in Russian— 
 which she did with such effect, that she kept her in a 
 continual roar of laughter before all the court. The 
 czar himself is described as tall and rather handsome, 
 though with something intolerably harsh in his physi- 
 ognomy. On first seeing our royal author he took her 
 up in his arms, and rubbed the skin off her face in kiss» 
 ing her, with his rough beard ; laughing very heartily at 
 the airs with which she resented this familiarity. He 
 was liable at times to convulsive starts and spasms, and 
 being seized with them when at table, with his knife in 
 his hand, put his hosts into no little bodily terror. He 
 told the queen, however, that he would do her no harm, 
 and took her hand in token of his good humour ; but 
 squeezed it so unmercifully that she was forced to cry 
 out — at which he laughed again with great violence, 
 and said, ' her bones were not so well knit as his Cathe- 
 rine's.' There was to be a grand ball in the evening ; 
 but as soon as he had done eating, he got up, and 
 trudged^ home by himself to his lodgings in the suburbs. 
 Next day they went to see the curiosities of the place. 
 What pleased him most was a piece of antique sculp- 
 ture, most grossly indecent. Nothing, however, would 
 serve him but that his wife should kiss this figure ; and 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 207 
 
 when she hesitated, he told her he would cut off her 
 head if she refused. He then asked this piece and seve- 
 ral other things of value from the King, and packed 
 them off for Petersburgh, without ceremony. In a few 
 days after, he took his departure ; leaving the palace in 
 which he had been lodged in such a state of filth and 
 dilapidation as to remind one of the desolation of Jeru- 
 salem." 
 
 CHAP. XXIII. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 
 
 " Well, I do think,"" said Egeria, one morning in 
 attempting to read Villers' account of the Transcen- 
 dental Philosophy of Kant, " that the history of 
 philosophy may be described as the history of hu- 
 man folly ; and yet the art of philosophizing pur- 
 poses to itself the development of the truths and 
 principles of Divine wisdom ! — I begin to suspect, 
 that the slow progress which the generality of man- 
 kind make in the science of the mind, is owing in 
 a great measure to the many dogmas which every 
 system of metaphysics entertains obnoxious to com- 
 mon sense. But of all systems, that of this ethereal 
 German seems the most pregnant with these sort of 
 absurdities ; and yet it is impossible to deny to the 
 author the praise of great acumen, and a degree of 
 subtlety almost without parallel. The history of the 
 man indeed demonstrates, that, by the course of re- 
 flection and meditation which he adopted, he neces-s 
 
208 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 sarily disqualified himself from advancing the im- 
 provement of mankind, — the sole end and object 
 of all science ; for, beyond question, the only au- 
 thors that have helped forward the process of intel- 
 lectualizing in the world, are those who have mixed 
 much with the bustle and business of life. There 
 is no example of a mere literary man ever having 
 done much good to his species, except in the capa- 
 city of a schoolmaster, — if, in that capacity, it be 
 fair to consider him as exclusively literary ; for, per- 
 haps, few situations are more trying, or require more 
 of address to manage, and of discernment to perceive 
 the peculiarities of those to be managed, than that 
 of a schoolmaster.'" 
 
 " What is the history of Kant .?" said Benedict ; 
 ** I never recollect to have heard much either of 
 him or of his philosophy, — but that implies nothing 
 derogatory either to his wisdom or his genius. The 
 tardiness with which the discoveries of Newton, — so 
 simple and so important, and so readily correspond- 
 ing with the general habits of science, — were adopted 
 among ourselves, is well known ; and, therefore, we 
 need not wonder that Kanf s philosophy should be 
 so little studied or understood in this country." 
 
 " It will never be either studied or understood in 
 England, you may rely on that, Benedict," replied 
 the Nymph ; "we are much too practical a people 
 to waste our time or thoughts on the unprofitable 
 phantoms of a flatulent imagination. Kant, the sage 
 or visionary of Koningsberg, is reputed as having, 
 in a life of nearly eighty years, sequestrated himself 
 from the world, — his admirers say, contenting him- 
 self, in the true simplicity of a sage, with the occu- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 209 
 
 pations of study and the society of a few favoured 
 friends. It does not appear in his case more than 
 in that of any other of your solitaries, that retirement 
 is favourable to modesty ; for it would seem it is not 
 merely as a metaphysician that he claims to be con- 
 sidered ; there is scarcely a science that he has not 
 ventured to attempt to illustrate. ' He is,' says his 
 disciple, ' a mathematician, an astronomer, a che- 
 mist ;— in natural history, in physics, in physiology, 
 in history, in languages, and literature and the arts, 
 — in all the details of geography, as they relate to 
 the exact situation of the parts of the globe, their in- 
 habitants and productions,— every thing is familiar 
 to him f that is to say, he was a dabbler and a med- 
 dler with every thing of which books treat, and did 
 nothing worth the consideration of a tyro in any of 
 them. It is true, that Monsieur Villers contends, 
 that the planet which Herschell discovered ought to 
 have been known to astronomers under the ridiculous 
 name of ' the Kant ;' because, twenty-six years before 
 the discovery of that portion of the solar system, its 
 existence had been predicted by Kant in some con- 
 jectures on the heavenly bodies, which probably 
 went beyond the orbit of Saturn, published in 1755, 
 in a work entitled, ' The Natural History of the 
 World, and Theory of the Heavens, on the Prin- 
 ciples of the Newtonian Philosophy.' This is a very 
 silly claim to set up. It ought rather to have been 
 called * The Newton ;' for, after the demonstration 
 which the English philosopher gave of the Coperni- 
 can system, the existence of unknown planets, both 
 within and without the orbit of Saturn, could not be 
 
210 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 doubted. The discovery of them depends on the 
 patience and telescopes of the observers." 
 
 '' I see you are no admirer. Nymph as you are,"" 
 said the Bachelor, '' of the metaphysical German ; 
 " but what can you tell me of his system — ^his phi- 
 losophy ?" 
 
 " I can tell you nothing," replied Egeria, '' and 
 I hope ever to be prevented from having it in my 
 power : but, if you have any curiosity on the subject, 
 look into the first volume of the Edinburgh Re- 
 view, and there you will find quite enough to satisfy 
 you that it very little deserves the attention of things 
 of flesh and blood." 
 
 " Philosophy^ in relation to the process which it 
 adopts^ is considered by Kant as of three kinds. It is 
 dogmatical, when it founds a system on principles as- 
 sumed as certain ; sceptical,, when it shows the insuffi- 
 ciency of those principles which the dogmatist has as- 
 sumed ; and critical, when, after adopting the objec- 
 tions of the sceptic, it does not rest satisfied with doubt, 
 but proceeds to inquire from what principle of our na- 
 ture the allusions of the dogmatist have arisen, and, by 
 a minute analysis of the cognitive powers of man, traces 
 the whole system of his knowledge through all the mo- 
 difications of its original elements, by his independent 
 and fundamental forms of thought. It is in this analy- 
 sis that the spirit of the critical philosophy is to be 
 found : and till the process have become familiar, the 
 whole system must appear peculiarly unintelligible ; 
 but, when the reduction of all our feelings to their ob- 
 jective and subjective elements is well understood, 
 though we may still be perplexed by the cumbrous su- 
 perfluity of nomenclature, we are able to discover. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 211 
 
 through the veil that is cast over us, those dim ideas 
 which were present to the author's mind. According 
 to Kant, then, it is necessary, in investigating the prin- 
 ciples of knowledge, to pay regard to the two sets of 
 laws on which the nature of the object and of the sub- 
 ject depends. It is from their joint result, as directing 
 the influence of the thing perceived, and as directing 
 the susceptibilities of the percipient, that knowledge, 
 which is thus in every instance compound, arises ; and 
 this compound of objective and subjective elements 
 might be modified equally, by the change of either set 
 of laws ; as the impression of a seal may be varied 
 alike, by a change of figure in the gem, or by a differ- 
 ence of resistance in the parts of the wax which are 
 exposed to its pressure. The subjective elements are 
 by Kant denominated forms ; and each function of the 
 mind has its peculiar forms, with which it invests its 
 objects, uniting with them so intimately, as to render 
 apparently one that feeling, which cannot exist but as 
 combined of different elements. Nothing therefore is 
 known to us as it is ; since we acquire the knowledge 
 of an object, only by the exertion of those laws, which 
 necessarily modify to us the real qualities of the object 
 known. Philosophy, therefore, in relation to its belief 
 of external things, is empirical, when it believes them 
 to exist exactly as they appear to us in each particular 
 case ; it is transcendent, when, using reason to correct 
 the false representation of the senses, it believes that the 
 objects of our senses exist in a manner really known to 
 us, after this correction, though different from their im- 
 mediate appearance in particular cases. In both these 
 views it has relation only to their objectivity, or to their 
 qualites as independently existing in themselves ; and 
 is therefore erroneous, as those qualities cannot be dis- 
 covered by us. It is transcendental, when, considering 
 them in relation to our own powers, it investigates the 
 
212 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 subjective elements, which necessarily, in the exertion 
 of our independent laws of cognition, modify the quali- 
 ties or elements of the object as perceived. Since it is 
 thus impossible to know the world as it is, we must 
 content ourselves with the knowledge of the phenome- 
 nal world, and with that reality which is merely subjec- 
 tive. The system of our world is thus idealism, but an 
 idealism in which we may safely confide ; though we 
 must be assured of erring, whenever we ascribe to it 
 objective certainty. There exists, however, an indepen- 
 dent system o^noumena, or things in themselves, though 
 we cannot know them as such, from the unavoidable 
 modification of every objective element, by our own 
 forms of cognition. To determine what is subjective in 
 each peculiar perception, the nature of the subject must 
 be investigated. This subject is self, the being to which 
 we give the name of I, when we say, I know, I will. 
 It has three great faculties ; cognition, by which we 
 know j volition, by which we act ; and judgment, 
 which is in some measure intermediate, being neither 
 wholly speculative, nor absolutely practical, but deter- 
 mining to action, and thus forming the bond of our 
 knowledge and our will. 
 
 " Pure cognition is divided into pure sensibility, pure 
 intelligence, and pure reason ; the products of sensibi- 
 lity being sensations, the products of intelligence con- 
 ceptions, and the products of reason ideas. This divi- 
 sion is not inconsistent with the absolute fundamental 
 unity of the cognitive being, that unity, of which we 
 are conscious in all the diversity of our feelings, and 
 without which we could not exist. The threefold action 
 is even in some measure aided by the unity itself; for, 
 from a law of our nature, we strive, by a perpetual sin- 
 thesis of comparison and arrangement, to bring the di- 
 versity of our sensations, as nearly as possible, to the 
 oneness of which we are conscious in ourselves. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 213 
 
 " Pure sensibility, comprehending all those feelings 
 in which space and time are involved, is external, 
 when it refers them to space, and internal when it re- 
 fers them to time. In itself nothing is larger or'small- 
 er, or before or after ; for space and time, the forms of 
 sensibility, by which a subjective world arises to us, are 
 not, in any degree, objective and real, but are modes 
 of our own existence as sentient beings. It is impos- 
 sible for us to imagine any body, which docs not exist 
 in space ; it is impossible for us to imagine any feeling, 
 which does not exist in time. With the abstraction of 
 these, every thing to us perishes ; but the certainty of 
 space and time remains with us, though every object 
 were conceived to be annihilated. Hence, space is an 
 indispensable condition of the possibility of bodies, but 
 bodies are not necessary to the possibility of space. 
 That it exists in ourselves d priori^ and independently 
 of experience, is shown by the impossibility of acquiring 
 it from without. Space includes three dimensions. 
 Sight, smell, taste, hearing, are evidently incapable of 
 affording these; nor is touch, to which Condillac as- 
 scribes its origin, more susceptible. We gain the idea, 
 says he, when our hand passes over a surface ; but he 
 has already supposed a surface and a hand ; and what 
 resemblance is there of a simple feeling to a body of 
 three dimensions ? Nor can space be supposed to arise 
 from abstraction, for by abstraction we separate only 
 simple qualities ; but space is not a simple quality ca- 
 pable of being perceived separately in bodies, it is the 
 necessary condition of their existence, implied in the first 
 perception of the infant, which supposes an object ex- 
 ternal to itself. In every sensation there must be ele- 
 ments both objective and subjective ; the subjective 
 must be permanent as ourselves, the objective fleeting 
 as the occasion. Space, therefore, being invariably pre- 
 sent amid all the apparent changes of quality, is subjec- 
 
214 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 tive in us ; occasioned indeed by the sensation, and ris- 
 ing in it, but not an objective part of it depending on , 
 experience. If that were its origin, we should be al- 
 lowed to conclude, only, that all the bodies yet known 
 to us are extended, and not that all bodies must have 
 extension. Yet the certainty of this we believe with 
 equal force ; since, space being a subjective condition 
 of knowledge, we feel that every impression, by a law 
 of our nature, must be invested with its form. On this, 
 the apodictic or demonstrative certainty of geometry de- 
 pends ; for, as pure space is the form of the external 
 sensibility of all men, the extensive properties of pure 
 space must, to all men, be the same. It is a peculiar 
 distinction of mathematical ideas, that they consider not 
 intensive but extensive qualities, all the degrees of 
 which are equally capable of being rendered sensible, 
 so as to correspond exactly with a sensible object. Of 
 degrees merely intensive, as of the varieties of force in 
 physics, and of benevolence in ethics, no delineation can 
 be given. 
 
 " The internal sensibility, by which we discover our 
 own mode of being, with all the changes that take 
 place within us, gives us the idea of time in the succes- 
 sion in which it represents to us our feelings. All the 
 arguments which prove space to be a form of our 
 cognition are equally applicable to time. By this, we 
 invest our internal affections with succession, as we cre- 
 ated to ourselves a subjective world by the investiture 
 with space. From succession we derive our idea of 
 number ; and time being, like space, an universal form, 
 the apodictic certainty of arithmetic is easily explained. 
 " If we had sensibility alone, the world would be 
 merely a number of detached beings ; it would not be 
 that great whole which we call nature. This is pro- 
 duced to us by intelligence ; that power, which, receiv- 
 ing the products of sensibility, establishes their rela- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 215 
 
 tlons, and, arranging them in classes, forms concep- 
 tions. As, in sensation, there are the necessary fonns of 
 space and time ; so are there necessary forms of intelli- 
 gence, to which Kant, adopting the well-known term 
 invented by Aristotle, gives the name of categories. 
 These are reduced to four orders,— quantity, quality, 
 relation, and modality : To the first of which belong the 
 categories, — 1. unity ; 2. plurality ; 3. totality : To the 
 second, 4. affirmation or reality ; 5. negation or priva- 
 tion ; 6. limitation : To the third, 7* substance and ac- 
 cident ; 8. causation, or the laws of cause and effect ; 
 
 9. recopricity of action and reaction : To the fourth, 
 
 10. possibility and impossibility ; 11. existence and non- 
 existence ; 12. necessity and contingence. No act of 
 intelligence can take place without the union of these 
 four forms of thought, in some one of their modifica- 
 tions. Like space and time, however, they are no part 
 of the object, but exist d. priorlj and independently of 
 all experience in the subject who intelligizes. Thus, to 
 take an instance from the categories of quantity, the 
 idea of number cannot form a part of any object. We 
 hear a sound, — we again hear a sound, — but, when we 
 say that we have heard two sounds, we have invested 
 a product of sensibility with a form of our own intelli- 
 gence. These fundamental conceptions may be com- 
 bined so as to form other conceptions equally indepen- 
 dent of experience ; as when, from substance and caus- 
 ation, we derive the conception of force, — or they may 
 be united with the pure forms of sensibility, as when, 
 from the addition of temporary succession to existence 
 and non-existence, we form the conception of com* 
 mencement. For determining to which of the catego- 
 ries our sensation belongs, tliere are four forms of re- 
 flection, corresponding with the four orders: for the 
 first, identity and diversity ; for the second, conformity 
 and contrariety ; for the third, interiority and exterio- 
 
216 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 rity, by which is meant the distinction of the attributes 
 of an object as originally existing in itself, or as ac- 
 quired from without ; for the fourth, matter and form. 
 These four reflective conceptions, though, like the cate- 
 gories, existing a priori, differ from them, as not being 
 applied to the products of sensibility, to fix their rela- 
 tions and mode of being, but to the conceptions of ob- 
 jects, to fix their appropriate place in the system of our 
 knowledge. 
 
 " Pure reason is the third mode of our cognitive fa- 
 culty. It is applied to our conceptions, and is that 
 which considers them as absolute. Its three great ideas 
 are, absolute unity, absolute totality, and absolute caus- 
 ation. These become objects to us, or ideals of pure 
 reason, by investing them with our own felt and funda- 
 mental unity, which individualizes absolute unity, as 
 in the human soul, or absolute totality, as in the uni- 
 verse ; and the ideas acquired from practical reason, of 
 absolute power and goodness, are, in like manner, indi- 
 vidualized in God. Every act of reasoning implies an 
 absolute idea. Thus, when we say, all bodies gravitate, 
 and the air, being a body, must therefore have weight, 
 the validity of our conclusion depends on the univer- 
 sality of the major proposition. To these absolute ideas 
 we are led, by an irresistible impulse of our nature to- 
 wards infinitude. They are forms existing d priori in 
 the mind; for our senses give us the perception only of 
 that which is divisable, limited, caused. With the unity 
 of the human mind, or the infinity of the universe, or 
 the great source of phenomenal nature, no corporeal 
 organ can make us acquainted. 
 
 ^' Each of the cognitive functions having thus its pe- 
 culiar forms, we are guilty of an amphiboly when we 
 ascribe to one the pure forms of another ; as when, in 
 material atoms of the philosophy of Epicurus, we invest 
 our external sensations with the idea of absolute simpli- 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. 217 
 
 city ; or when, adding to the same sensations the abso- 
 lute idea of causation, we erect a theory of atheistic ma- 
 terialism. In like manner, the combination of absolute 
 ideas with our internal sensibility, ' of which the form 
 is time, and the general representation spirit,' gives rise 
 to all those systems of spiritualism, which suppose a 
 simple unextended soul. The perplexing controversies 
 on the divisibility of matter are the product of a double 
 amphiboly, which confounds sensation and conception." 
 
 CHAP. XXIV. 
 
 THE WEST INDIES. 
 
 ** Considering the almost daily intercourse which 
 exists between this country and the West Indies,"" 
 said Egeria, " our intimacy with so many who have 
 resided long in that quarter, and also with natives, 
 it is very singular that there is not one book in the 
 language which gives any thing like a tolerable ac- 
 count, either of the natural history of the islands, or 
 of the manners and customs of the inhabitants. I 
 doubt not that this is partly owing to the unlettered 
 state of those returned adventurers who constitute the 
 chief class of our West Indian acquaintance. They 
 are in general persons come of humble life and very 
 ordinary acquirements, without taste, if they had 
 time, to make the requisite observations, and with- 
 out time, on account of their original poverty, if they 
 had the taste. When they return home, their habits 
 and predilections render them averse to enter into 
 
218 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 that kind of society where their natural shrewd- 
 ness, — for I hold all successful adventurers to be na- 
 turally shrewd, — might be rendered available to the 
 advancement of knowledge. The consequence is, 
 that almost with every opulent West Indian, a con- 
 siderable quantity of valuable information perishes 
 unknown; and that although for mercantile, and 
 perhaps political purposes, there be no lack of know- 
 ledge with respect to the West Indies, there is very 
 little for any purpose of science or of pastime. The 
 mortality of the climate is, however, the main cause of 
 the state of ignorance in which we are suffered to 
 remain : no literary man in his health and senses, nor 
 any gentleman for amusement, ever thinks of visit- 
 ing the indigenous region of hurricanes and the yel- 
 low fever." 
 
 " I am not sure," replied the Bachelor, " that you 
 have hit on the true cause. I think it is more owing 
 to the want, in the first place, of refined society ; and, 
 in the second, to the scarcity of interesting historical 
 monuments or remains." 
 
 '' I dare say you are partly in the right, Benedict ; 
 man in his general is as much an egotist as he is in 
 his individual capacity ; and therefore I suspect it 
 is, that, notwithstanding the luxuriant vegetation, — 
 the delicious fruits, — the turtle and the slaves of 
 the West Indies, — that they are never visited for 
 pleasure: for they contain but few objects calcu- 
 lated to awaken those associations which make so 
 many among us long for the less hospitable and not 
 less pestiferous shores of Egypt and of Greece. In 
 fact, every thing about the West Indies and West 
 Indians savours of barbarity. The trade, manu- 
 
THE WEST INDIES. 219 
 
 factures, arts, and commerce of the islands, have all 
 reference to tillage, — to the cultivation of the sugar 
 cane, pimento, and such things — and tillage is the 
 earliest occupation of man when he first begins to be 
 civilized. Then the brutalizing effects of slavery, a 
 thing in itself much more dishumanizing to the mas- 
 ter than to the slave. The passions there, too, are 
 all of a coarser kind than elsewhere ; and any tradi- 
 tions which are preserved among them relative to 
 those quahties which popularly interest mankind, 
 such as bravery, enterprise, or address, the modifi- 
 cations of heroism, are mixed up and alloyed with 
 enormities and crimes. The West Indies have pro- 
 duced no heroes nor warriors, but only buccaneers ; 
 and M *Kinnen's account of John Teach, the famous 
 Black Beard of the Bahamas, affords you some idea 
 of the sort of corsairs a Jamaica Byron would cele- 
 brate, if ever it be in the nature of rum, rhobe, and 
 sangree to engender a poet." 
 
 " This extraordinary man had united in his fortunes 
 a desperate and formidable gang of pirates, styling him- 
 self their Commodore, and assuming the authority of a 
 legitimate chief. Under a wild fig-tree, the trunk of 
 which still remains, and was shown to me in the eastern 
 part of the town, he used to sit in council amongst his 
 banditti, concerting or promulgating his plans, and ex- 
 ercising the authority of a magistrate. His piracies 
 were often carried on near the English settlements on 
 the coast of North America, where he met with extra- 
 ordinary success. Perhaps in the history of human de- 
 pravity it would be difficult to select actions more brutal 
 and extravagant, than Black Beard's biographer has re- 
 corded of him. As the narrative to which I allude is 
 generally credited, and bears strong internal evidence of 
 
220 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 truthj it may be amusing to mention a few particulars 
 of a man who was for some time considered as sovereign 
 of this island. 
 
 " In person, as well as disposition, this desperado, 
 who was a native of England, seems to have been qua- 
 lified for the chief of a gang of thieves. The effect of 
 his beard, which gave a natural ferocity to his counte- 
 nance, he was always solicitous to heighten, by suffering 
 it to grow to an immoderate length, and twisting it 
 about in small tails like a Ramilies wig ; whence he de- 
 rived the name of Black Beard. His portrait in time of 
 action is described as that of a complete fury, — with 
 three brace of pistols in holsters slung over his shoulders 
 like bandoliers, and lighted matches under his hat, 
 sticking out over each of his ears. All authority, as 
 well as admiration amongst the pirates, was conferred 
 on those who, committing every outrage on humanity, 
 displayed the greatest audacity and extravagance. — 
 Black Beard's pretensions to an elevated rank in the 
 estimation of his associates, may be conceived from the 
 character of his jokes. Having often exhibited himself 
 before them as a daemon, he determined once to shew 
 them a hell of his own creation. For this purpose he 
 collected a quantity of sulphur and combustible ma- 
 terials between the decks of his vessel ; when, kindling 
 a flame, and shutting down the hatches upon his crew, 
 he involved himself with them literally in fire and brim- 
 stone. With oaths and frantic gestures, he then acted 
 the part of the devil, as little affected by the smoke as if 
 he had been born in the infernal regions, till his com- 
 panions, nearly suffocated and fainting, compelled him 
 to release them. His convivial humour was of a similar 
 cast. In one of his ecstasies, whilst heated with liquor, 
 and sitting in his cabin, he took a pistol in each hand, 
 then, cocking them under the table, blew out the can- 
 dles, and, crossing his hands, fired on each side at his 
 
BATTLE OP THE TITANS. 221 
 
 companions : one of them received a shot which maimed 
 him for life. His gallantry also was of the same com- 
 plexion as this vein of humour. He had fourteen wives, 
 if they may be so called ; but his conduct towards one 
 of them appears to have been too unfeeling and unmanly 
 to admit of description." 
 
 CHAP. XXV. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE TITANS. 
 
 " I DO not wonder,'' said Egeria, in reply to some 
 remarks which the Bachelor was making on the ge- 
 nius of the ancients as compared with that of the 
 moderns, " why persons particularly attached to 
 their literature have adopted so contemptuous an 
 opinion of the works of the latter. It is perfectly 
 evident, that, besides a knowledge of the laws which 
 governed the style and composition of the Greeks 
 and Romans, something mucli more ingenious than 
 mere philological knowledge is required to extricate 
 the meaning from the obscurity with which time has 
 invested much of their phraseology. There is some- 
 thing, too, of the delight of discovery attached to 
 classical reading ; for many of the ideas, which pro- 
 bably were common-place enough in the time of the 
 writers, have acquired a recondite and curious inte- 
 rest merely by having lost somewhat of their clear- 
 ness, by becoming in fact obsolete. To decipher the 
 genuine meaning, various readings are resorted to, 
 and these trials of ingenuity are in themselves pleas- 
 
222 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ing exercises, which, when attended with success, 
 yield a degree of satisfaction analogous to that of the 
 chemist when he has adroitly performed some new 
 and agreeable experiment. But, independent of the 
 pleasure arising from such studies, there are many 
 things in the works of the classics to which some of 
 the finest passages of the moderns may be traced, 
 and the detection of such plagiarisms naturally in- 
 duces a decided preference for the originals. It 
 cannot, for example, be doubted, that Milton, — 
 ' that celestial thief,^ — stole several of the grandest 
 ideas, in the sixth book of the Paradise Lost, from 
 the Theogany of Hesiod. Look but at Mr Elton's 
 translation of the Battle of the Titans, and you must 
 instantly convict him." 
 
 " All on that day roused infinite the war. 
 
 Female and male ; the Titan deities. 
 
 The gods from Saturn sprung, and those whom Jove 
 
 From subterraneous gloom released to light : 
 
 Terrible, strong, of force enormous ; burst 
 
 A hundred arms from all their shoulders huge : 
 
 From all their shoulders fifty heads upsprang 
 
 O'er limbs of sinewy mould. They then array 'd 
 
 Against the Titans in fell combat stood. 
 
 And in their nervous grasps wielded aloft 
 
 Precipitous rocks. On the other side alert 
 
 The Titan phalanx closed : then hands of strength 
 
 Join'd prowess, and display'd the works of war. 
 
 Tremendous then the immeasurable sea 
 
 Roar'd ; earth resounded ; the wide heaven throughout 
 
 Groan'd shattering : from its base Olympus vast 
 
 Reel'd to the violence of gods ; the shock 
 
 Of deep concussion rock'd the dark abyss 
 
 Remote of Tartarus : the shrilling din 
 
BATTLE OP THE TITANS. 223 j 
 
 Of hollow tramplingS; and strong battle-strokes^ \ 
 
 And measureless uproar of wild pursuit. | 
 
 So they reciprocal their weapons hurl'd i 
 
 Groan-scattering ; and the shout of either host \ 
 
 Burst in exhorting ardour to the stars ; 
 Of heaven ; with mighty war-cries either host 
 
 Encountering closed. ) 
 
 Nor longer then did Jove 1 
 
 Curb his full power : but instant in his soul ■ 
 
 There grew dilated strength, and it was fiU'd ■ 
 
 With his omnipotence. At once he loosed j 
 
 His whole of might, and put forth all the god. 1 
 The vaulted sky, the mount Olympian, flashed 
 With his continual presence ; for he pass'd 
 Incessant forth, and scatter'd fires on fires. 
 
 Hurl'd from his hardy grasp, the lightnings flew \ 
 
 Reiterated, swift ; the whirling flash 1 
 
 Cast sacred splendour ; and the thunderbolt, i 
 Fell, roar'd around the nurture-yielding earth 
 
 In conflagration, far on every side. •' 
 
 The immensity of forests crackling blazed : i 
 
 Yea, the broad earth burn'd red, the streams that mix i 
 
 With ocean, and the deserts of the sea ; > 
 
 Round and around the Titan brood of earth, « 
 
 RoU'd the hot vapour on its fiery surge ; \ 
 The liquid heat, air's pure expanse divine 
 Suffused : the radiance keen of quivering flame 
 
 That shot from writhen lightnings, each dim orb, f 
 Strong though they were, intolerable smote. 
 
 And scorch'd their blasted vision. Through the void i 
 
 Of Erebus, the preternatural glare ^ 
 
 Spread, mingling fire with darkness. But to see j 
 
 With human eye, and hear with ear of man, ^ 
 Had been, as if midway the spacious heaven. 
 Hurtling with earth, shock'd— e'en as nether earth 
 Crash'd from the centre, and the wreck of heaven 
 
224 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 Fell ruining from high. So vast the din. 
 When, gods encountering gods, the clang of arms 
 Commingled, and the tumult roar'd from heaven." 
 
 CHAP. XXVI. 
 
 SOUTHEY'S RODERICK. 
 
 " No writer of the present day," observed Egeria, 
 turning over the leaves of Southey''s « Roderick, 
 THE LAST of THE GoTHs,' as it lay in her lap, " has 
 written more of what I would call respectable poetry, 
 than the Poet Laureate. He has, I acknowledge, 
 produced several passages of great beauty and mag- 
 nificence, but none which can justly be called truly 
 sublime or pathetic. He ranks high in the estimation 
 of the world, and deservedly so, as a man of genius ; 
 and, perhaps, in point of industry, he is not inferior, 
 neither in constancy of application, nor in productive 
 power, to the greatest of his contemporaries. But 
 the whole of his lays and lucubrations bear an im- 
 press of art and authorship which will ever keep them 
 out of the first class. He has ease undoubtedly, and 
 wonderful facility, but he has little of that natural 
 vivacity which enchants the attention. One never 
 forgets, in reading the works of this clever and 
 ingenious person, that one has a book in one's 
 hand, nor that it is the production of Mr Sou they ; 
 yet in his works there is no great degree of manner- 
 ism, and really very little egotism, although I be- 
 lieve few authors of our time have been more charged 
 with the latter fault. 
 
SOUTHEYS RODERICK. 225 
 
 " This Poem is decidedly his best, but those who 
 delight in the wild and wonderful will prefer Tha- 
 laba. It has more of talent than of genius ; more of 
 reflection than perception ; juster notions both of 
 adventure and of situation than any other of his 
 epics ; but still, like them all, it fails to reach the 
 heart, and though it pleases, never elevates tlie mind. 
 The defect is undoubtedly owing to some lack both 
 of power and of taste. Mr Southey cogitates him- 
 self into a state of poetical excitement, but he seems 
 to be rarely touched with the fine phrenzy of the poet. 
 He conceives his works according to certain prede- 
 termined principles, and is seldom inspired with the 
 creative energy that calls forth those startling and 
 glorious emanations, which at once make life felt 
 and beauty visible. He has capacity and means to 
 build a pyramid, but the little entaglio of Grey's 
 Elegy is more valuable than all this great tumulus 
 to the memory of the last of the Goths ; — still the 
 volume contains many splendid and beautiful pas^ 
 sages, which, when first seen, afford a very high de- 
 gree of pleasure. It is only when we read them a 
 second and a third time that we find out how much 
 of their beauty is more owing to the mechanical 
 structure of the language, than to the feeling or the 
 elegance of the fancy embodied in them. The fol- 
 lowing description of the return of Roderick to 
 Leyria is perhaps one of the finest passages in the 
 book ; but although full of imagery and of cir- 
 cumstances, the slightest of which, effectively manag- 
 ed, would have melted the very heart, I doubt if its 
 merits, great as they are, have ever received the tri- 
 bute of a tear.'*' 
 
226 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " 'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard ; 
 Instead thereof, on her polluted towers. 
 Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer. 
 The crier stood, and with his sonorous voice 
 Fiird the delicious vale where Lena winds 
 Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight 
 Of turban, girdle, robe, and scimitar. 
 And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts 
 Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth ; 
 The unaccustomed face of human-kind 
 Confused him now, and through the streets he went 
 With hagged mien, and countenance like one 
 Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd. 
 And wonder'd as he past. One stopt him short. 
 Put alms into his hand, and then desired. 
 In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man 
 To bless him. With a look of vacancy 
 Roderick received the alms ; his wandering eye 
 Fell on the money, and the fallen King, 
 Seeing his own royal impress on the piece. 
 Broke out into a quick convulsive voice. 
 That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon 
 In hollow groans supprest : the Mussulman 
 Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified 
 The name of Allah as he hasten'd on. 
 A Christian woman spinning at her door 
 Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd. 
 She laid her spindle by, and running in 
 Took bread, and following after call'd him back. 
 And placing in his passive hands the loaf. 
 She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake 
 Have mercy on thee ! With a look that seem'd 
 Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still. 
 Staring awhile ; then bursting into tears 
 Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart. 
 Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. 
 
SOUTHEY'S RODERICK. 227 
 
 So through the streets, and through the northern gate. 
 
 Did Roderick, reckless of a resting place. 
 
 With feeble yet with hurried step, pursue 
 
 His agitated way ; and when he reach'd 
 
 The open fields, and found himself alone 
 
 Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, 
 
 The sense of solitude, so dreadful late. 
 
 Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt 
 
 Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; 
 
 And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food 
 
 Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul 
 
 He breathed thanksgivmg forth ; then made his bed 
 
 On heath and myrtle." 
 
 " A midnight march in Spain is also very beauti- 
 fully described." 
 
 The favouring moon arose. 
 
 To guide them on their flight through upland paths 
 
 Remote from frequentage, and dales retired. 
 
 Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet 
 
 The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade. 
 
 Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way ; 
 
 The timorous blackbird, starting at their step. 
 
 Fled from the thicket, with shrill note of fear ; 
 
 And far below them in the peopled dell. 
 
 When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased. 
 
 The distant watch-dog's voice at times was heard. 
 
 Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night 
 
 Among the hills they travell'd silently ; 
 
 Till when the stars were setting, at what hour 
 
 The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld 
 
 Within a lonely grove the expected fire. 
 
 Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously 
 
 Look'd for the appointed meeting. 
 
 Bright rose the flame replenish'd ; It illumed 
 
228 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. ] 
 
 The cork-tree's furrowed rind, its rifts and swells 
 And redder scars, . . and where its aged boughs 
 O'erbower'd the travellers, cast upon the leaves i 
 
 A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam." j 
 
 " There is also much sweetness and pleasing poetry < 
 in the description of the investiture of the young \ 
 Alphonso with the honours of knighthood." 
 
 ^^ Rejoicing in their task. 
 The servants of the house with emulous love 
 Dispute the charge. One brings the cuirass, one 
 The buckler ; this exultingly displays 
 The sword, his comrade lifts the helm on high : 
 The greaves, the gauntlets they divide ; . . a spur 
 Seems now to dignify the officious hand 
 Which for such service bears it to his Lord. 
 Greek artists in the imperial city forged 
 That splendid armour, perfect in their craft ; 
 With curious skill they wrought it, framed alike 
 To shine amid the pageantry of war. 
 And for the proof of battle. Many a time 
 Alphonso from his nurse's lap had stretch'd 
 His infant hands toward it eagerly. 
 Where gleaming to the central fire it hung 
 High in the hall ; and many a time had wish'd 
 With boyish ardour, that the day were come 
 When Pedro to his prayers would grant the boon. 
 His dearest heart's desire. 
 No season this for old solemnities. 
 For wassailry and sport ; . . the bath, the bed. 
 The vigil, . . all preparatory rites 
 Omitted now, . . here in the face of Heaven, 
 Before the vassals of his father's house. 
 With them in instant peril to partake 
 
SOUTHEY'S RODERICK. 229 
 
 The chance of life or death, the heroic boy 
 Dons his first arms ; the coated scales of steel 
 Which o'er the tunic to his knees depend. 
 The hose, the sleeves of mail : bareheaded then 
 He stood. But when Count Pedro took the spurs. 
 And bent his knee in service to his son, 
 Alphonso from that gesture half drew back. 
 Starting in reverence, and a deeper hue 
 Spread o'er the glow of joy which flush'd his cheeks. 
 Do thou the rest, Pelayo ! said the Count ; 
 So shall the ceremony of this hour 
 Exceed in honour what in form it lacks." 
 
 <' I will just read to you another passage, which, 
 though of a different kind, is not less beautiful." 
 
 " JMethinks if ye would know 
 How visitations of calamity 
 Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there ! 
 Look yonder at that cloud, which through the sky 
 Sailing alone, doth cross in her career 
 The rolling moon ! I watch'd it as it came. 
 And deem'd the deep opaque would blot her beams ; 
 But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs 
 In folds of wavy silver rounds and clothes 
 The orb with richer beauties than her own. 
 Then passing, leaves her in her light serene. — 
 " Thus having said, the pious sufferer sate. 
 Beholding with fix'd eyes that lovely orb. 
 Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light 
 The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil 
 Of spirit, as by travail of the day 
 Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. 
 The silver cloud diffusing slowly past. 
 And now into its airy elements 
 Resolved is gone; while through the azure depth 
 
230 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues 
 
 Her course appointed, with indifferent beams 
 
 Shining upon the silent hills around. 
 
 And the dark tents of that unholy host. 
 
 Who, all unconscious of impending fate. 
 
 Take their last slumber there. The camp is still ; 
 
 The fires have moulder'd, and the breeze which stirs 
 
 The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare 
 
 At times a red and evanescent light. 
 
 Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. 
 
 They by the fountain hear the stream below. 
 
 Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell. 
 
 Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned. 
 
 And now the nightingale, not distant far. 
 
 Began her solitary song ; and pour'd 
 
 To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain 
 
 Than that with which the lyric lark salutes 
 
 The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song 
 
 Seem'd with its piercing melody to reach 
 
 The soul, and in mysterious unison 
 
 Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love. 
 
 Their hearts were open to the healing power 
 
 Of nature ; and the splendour of the night. 
 
 The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay 
 
 Came to them like a copious evening dew 
 
 Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain." 
 
RHYMES OF IDLENESS. 231 
 
 CHAP. XXVII. 
 
 RHYMES OF IDLENESS. 
 
 " I HAVE great delight," said Egeria one evening as 
 she was communing witli the Bachelor on the literary 
 accomplishments of several great characters, " in 
 reading those little poetical sketches in whicli some 
 of the most eminent statesmen have occasionally un- 
 bended. I do not speak of statesmen who had a de- 
 cided bias for authorship, and who have published 
 books, but of such as, in some few moments of gayety 
 and enjoyment, have drawn their fingers playfully 
 over the strings of the lyre, and brought forth tunes 
 and melodies that make one regret they had not 
 more cultivated the art. The great Earl of Chat- 
 ham has, in two or three instances, imitated Horace 
 with much taste and freedom ; but I think the fol- 
 lowing little piece by Sir William Blackstone, the 
 celebrated judge and expounder of the principles of 
 English law, is not inferior to some of the happiest 
 effusions of the regular-bred poets. It is not cer- 
 tainly of a very high order of poetry, but the verses 
 are imbued with elegance, and the sentiments 
 breathe the feelings of an amiable heart.'*' 
 
 THE LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE. 
 " As by some tyrant's stem command, 
 A wretch forsakes his native land, 
 In foreign climes condemn'd to roara. 
 An endless exile from his home. 
 Pensive he treads the destined way. 
 
232 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. i 
 
 Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow ■ 
 
 He stops^ and turns his eyes below, j 
 
 There, melting at the well-known view, ' 
 
 Drops a last tear, and bids adieu : — i 
 
 So I, from thee thus doom'd to part, j 
 
 Gay Queen of Fancy and of Art, \ 
 
 Reluctant move with doubtful mind, ; 
 Oft stop, and often look behind. • i 
 
 : '^ Companion of my tender age, , j 
 
 Serenely gay and sweetly sage, l 
 
 How blithesome were we wont to rove ] 
 
 By verdant hill or shady grove, ! 
 Where fervent bees, with humming voice,. 
 
 Around the honied oak rejoice, ^ 
 
 And aged elms, with awful bend, j 
 
 In long cathedral walks extend : ■ 
 Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods, 
 
 Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods, ] 
 
 How blest my days, my thoughts how free, > 
 
 In sweet society with thee ! • 
 
 Then all was joyous, all was young, ' 
 And years unheeded roll'd along. 
 
 " But now the pleasing dream is o'er. 
 
 These scenes must charm me now no more. 
 
 Lost to the fields, and torn from you. 
 
 Farewell, a long — a last adieu ! 
 
 Me wrangling courts and stubborn law 
 
 To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw. 
 
 There selfish faction rules the day. 
 
 And pride and avarice throng the way ; 
 
 Diseases taint the murky air. 
 
 And midnight conflagrations glare ; 
 
 Loose revelry and riot bold 
 
 In frighted streets their orgies hold ; 
 
RHYMES OP IDLENESS. 233 I 
 
 i 
 
 Or where in silence all is drown'd, 3 
 
 Fell murder walks his nightly round. 1 
 
 No room for peace — no room for you— i 
 
 Adieu, celestial Nymph ! adieu. \ 
 
 " Shakspeare, no more thy sylvan son, \ 
 
 Nor all the art of Addison, i 
 
 Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, ■ 
 
 Nor Milton's mighty self must please. j 
 
 Instead of these, a formal band I 
 
 With furs and coifs around me stand, ] 
 
 With sounds uncouth and accents dry '•> 
 
 That grate the soul of harmony. ] 
 
 Each pedant sage unlocks his store ] 
 
 Of mystic, dark, discordant lore, i 
 
 And points with tottering hand the ways ' 
 That lead me to the thorny maze. 
 
 " There, in a winding close retreat, j 
 
 Is Justice doom'd to fix her seat ; 
 
 There, fenced by bulwarks of the law. 
 
 She keeps the wondering world in awe ; 
 
 And there, from vulgar sight retired, ^ 
 
 Like Eastern queens, is more admired. ' 
 
 O let me pierce the secret shade. 
 
 Where dwells the venerable maid. 
 
 There humbly mark, with reverend awe, \ 
 
 The guardian of Britannia's law ; 
 
 Unfold with joy her sacred page, ; 
 
 The united boast of many an age; j 
 
 Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears j 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand years ; ! 
 
 In that pure spring the bottom view, j 
 
 Clear, deep, and regularly true ; \ 
 
 And other doctrine thence imbibe, ; 
 
 Than lurk witliin the sordid tribe ; 
 
234 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 Observe how parts with parts unite 
 In one harmonious rule of right ; 
 See countless wheels distinctly tend. 
 By various laws to one great end. 
 While mighty Alfred's piercing soul 
 Pervades and regulates the whole. 
 
 " Then, welcome business — welcome strife. 
 Welcome the cares — the thorns of life. 
 The visage wan — the poreblind sight. 
 The toil by day — the lamp at night. 
 The tedious forms — the solemn prate. 
 The pert dispute — the dull debate. 
 The drowsy bench — the babbling hall : 
 For thee, fair Justice, welcome all. 
 Thus let my noon of life be past ; 
 Yet let my setting sun at last. 
 Find out the still, the rural cell. 
 Where sage Retirement loves to dwell. 
 There let me taste the homefelt bliss 
 Of innocence and inward peace ; 
 Untainted by the guilty bribe — 
 Uncursed amid the harpy tribe — 
 No orphan's cry to wound my ear. 
 My honour and my conscience clear. 
 Thus I calmly meet my end. 
 Thus to the grave in peace descend !" 
 
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 235 
 
 CHAP. XXVIII. 
 
 LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " The last thirty years of the reign of George the 
 Third will be remembered as one of the most re- 
 markable epochs in the moral history of the world. 
 Among other memorable things, it will hereafter be 
 celebrated for the extraordinary elevation which the 
 oratory both of the bar and the senate attained. It 
 will require other events and circumstances equally 
 stupendous with those of the past, to call forth 
 again the energies of eloquence to the same degree of 
 effect and splendour. But perhaps no single occur- 
 rence in all those mighty and manifold exertions is 
 more interesting than the trial in the Court of King's 
 Bench of Mr Peltier, for a libel on Buonaparte. It 
 was considered as the first attempt of that magnifi- 
 cent adventurer to overtlirow the liberty of the Bri- 
 tish press ; and it was instituted at a time when many 
 gathering and darkening circumstances indicated that 
 a war was coming on in which the very existence of 
 the British state would be put to the most imminent 
 peril, by all the efforts that prodigious power and 
 boundless profligacy could exert, — in every shape 
 that force and fraud, either combined or separate, 
 can employ. But although the speech of Sir James 
 Mackintosh on that occasion is one of the most splen- 
 did compositions of the time, it has not obtained 
 that durable popularity of whicli so noble an effort 
 
236 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 might have been deemed beyond all question se- 
 cure." 
 
 The Nymph, in making this observation, took 
 down the published speech from the shelf, where 
 it lay covered with dust, and read the following ex- 
 tract relative to the press, which is in itself not only 
 very beautiful, but may be considered as a curious 
 memorial, illustrative of the popular opinions and 
 apprehensions of the time : — 
 
 " I am convinced, by circumstances which I shall now 
 abstain from discussing, that this is the first of a long 
 series of conflicts, between the greatest power in theworld, 
 and the only free press now remaining in Europe. Gen- 
 tlemen, this distinction of the English press is new — ^it 
 is a proud and melancholy distinction. Before the great 
 earthquake of the French revolution had swallowed up 
 all the asylums of free discussion on the continent, we 
 enjoyed that privilege, indeed, more fully than others, 
 but we did not enjoy it exclusively. In great monar- 
 chies, the press has always been considered as too for- 
 midable an engine to be intrusted to unlicensed indi- 
 viduals. But in other continental countries, either by 
 the laws of the estate, or by long habits of liberality and 
 toleration in magistrates, a liberty of discussion has been 
 enjoyed, perhaps sufficient for most useful purposes. It 
 existed, in fact, where it was not protected by law ; and 
 the wise and generous connivance of governments was 
 daily more and more secured by the growing civilization 
 of their subjects. In Holland, in Switzerland, in the 
 imperial towns in Germany, the press was either legally 
 or practically free. Holland and Switzerland are no 
 more ; and since the commencement of this prosecution, 
 fifty imperial towns have been erased from the list of in- 
 dependent states, by one dash of the pen. Three or 
 
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 237 
 
 four still preserve a precarious and trembling existence. 
 I will not say by what compliances they must purchase 
 its continuance. I will not insult the feebleness of 
 states, whose unmerited fall I do most bitterly deplore. 
 
 " These governments were in many respects one of 
 the most interesting parts of the ancient system of Eu- 
 rope. Unfortunately for the repose of mankind, great 
 states are compelled, by regard to their own safety, to 
 consider the military spirit and martial habits of their 
 people as one of the main objects of their policy. Fre- 
 quent hostilities seem almost the necessary condition of 
 their greatness » and, without being great, they cannot 
 long remain safe. Smaller states, exempted from this 
 cruel necessity — a hard condition of greatness, a bitter 
 satire on human nature— devoted themselves to the arts 
 of peace, to the cultivation of literature, and the im- 
 provement of reason. They became places of refuge for 
 free and fearless discussion ; they were the impartial 
 spectators and judges of the various contests of ambition, 
 which from time to time disturbed the quiet of the world. 
 They thus became peculiarly qualified to be the organs 
 of that public opinion, which converted Europe into a 
 great republic, with laws which mitigated, though they 
 could not extinguish ambition; and with moral tribunals, 
 to which even the most despotic sovereigns were amen- 
 able. If wars of aggrandizement were undertaken, their 
 authors were arraigned in the face of Europe. If acts 
 of internal tyranny were perpetrated, they resounded 
 from a thousand presses tln-oughout all civilized coun- 
 tries. Princes, on whose will there were no legal checks, 
 thus found a moral restraint, which the most powerful 
 of them could not brave with absolute impunity. They 
 acted before a vast audience, to whose applause or con- 
 demnation they could not be utterly indifferent. The 
 very constitution of human nature, the unalterable laws 
 of the mind of man, against which all rebellion is fruit- 
 
938 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 less, subjected the proudest tyrants to this control. No 
 elevation of power, — no depravity, however consum- 
 mate, — no innocence, however spotless, can render man 
 wholly independent of the praise or blame of his fellow- 
 men. 
 
 " These governments were, in other respects, one of 
 the most beautiful and interesting parts of our ancient 
 system. The perfect security of such inconsiderable 
 and feeble states, their undisturbed tranquillity amidst 
 the wars and conquests that surrounded them, attested, 
 beyond any other part of the European system, the mo- 
 deration, the justice, the civilization, to which Christian 
 Europe had reached in modern times. Their weakness 
 was protected only by the habitual reverence for justice, 
 which, during a long series of ages, had grown up in 
 Christendom. This was the only fortification which de- 
 fended them against those mighty monarchs to whom 
 they offered so easy a prey. And, till the French revo- 
 lution, this was sufficient. Consider, for instance, the 
 situation of the republic of Geneva : think of her de- 
 fenceless position, in the very jaws of France ; but think 
 also of her undisturbed security, of her profound quiet, 
 of the brilliant success with which she applied to in- 
 dustry and literature, while Louis XIV. was pouring 
 his myriads into Italy before her gates ; call to mind, 
 if ages crowded into years have not effaced them from 
 your memory, the happy period when we scarcely 
 dreamt more of the subjugation of the feeblest republics 
 of Europe, than of the conquest of her mightiest empire, 
 and tell me if you can imagine a spectacle more beauti- 
 ful to the moral eye, or a more striking proof of progress 
 in the noblest principles of true civilization. 
 
 " These feeble states, these monuments of the justice 
 of Europe, the asylum of peace, of industry, and of li- 
 terature, the organs of public reason, the refuge of op- 
 pressed innocence, and persecuted truth, have perished 
 
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 239 
 
 with these ancient principles which were their sole 
 guardians and protectors. They have been swallowed 
 up by that fearful convulsion, which has shaken the ut- 
 termost corners of the earth. They are destroyed and 
 gone for ever. 
 
 " One asylum of free discussion is still inviolate. 
 There is still one spot in Europe where man can freely 
 exercise his reason on the most important concerns of 
 society ; where he can boldly publish his judgment on 
 the acts of the proudest and most powerful tyrants. The 
 press of England is still free. It is guarded by the free 
 constitution of our forefathers. It is guarded by the 
 hearts and arms of Englishmen ; and I trust I may ven- 
 ture to say, that if it be to fall, it will fall only under 
 the ruins of the British empire. 
 
 " It is an awful consideration, gentlemen. Every 
 other monument of European liberty has perished.— 
 That ancient fabric, which has been gradually reared by 
 the wisdom and virtue of our fathers, still stands. — It 
 stands, thanks be to God ! solid and entire — but it stands 
 alone, and it stands amidst ruins." 
 
 ** But," added Egeria, " one of the ablest passages 
 in this most able oration, is that in which the speaker, 
 with admirable taste and dexterity, in affecting to 
 describe the policy of Queen Ehzal)eth, drew the 
 minds of his auditors to feel the full force of that 
 character of Buonaparte, with which he wished to im- 
 press them ; and that too without even seeming to 
 allude to him. It is one of the most artful and ef- 
 fective pieces of modern oratory." 
 
 " The reign of Queen Elizabeth may be considered 
 as the opening of the modern history of England, espe- 
 cially in its connexion with the modern system of 
 
240 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Europe, which began about that time to assume the form 
 that it preserved till the French revolution. It was a 
 very memorable period, of which the maxims ought to 
 be engraven'on the head and heart of every Englishman. 
 Philip II., at the head of the greatest empire then in the 
 world, was openly aiming at universal dominion ; and 
 his project was so far from being thought chimerical by 
 the wisest of his contemporaries, that, in the opinion of 
 the great Due de Sully, he must have been successful, 
 ' if, by a most singular combination of circumstances, 
 he had not at the same time been resisted by two such 
 strong heads as those of Henry IV, and Queen Eliza- 
 beth.' To the most extensive and opulent dominions, 
 the most numerous and disciplined armies, the most re- 
 nowned captains, the greatest revenue, he added also 
 the most formidable power over opinion. He was the 
 chief of a religious faction, animated by the most atro- 
 cious fanaticism, prepared to second his ambition by re- 
 bellion, anarchy, and regicide, in every Protestant state. 
 Elizabeth was among the first objects of his hostility. — 
 That wise and magnanimous princess placed herself in 
 the front of the battle for the liberties of Europe. Though 
 she had to contend at home with his fanatical faction, 
 which almost occupied Ireland, which divided Scotland, 
 and was not of contemptible strength in England, she 
 aided the oppressed inhabitants of the Netherlands in 
 their just and glorious resistance to his tyranny ; she 
 aided Henry the Great in suppressing the abominable 
 rebellion which anarchical principles had excited, and 
 Spanish arms had supported in France, and, after a long 
 reign of various fortune, in which she preserved her un- 
 conquered spirit through great calamities, and still greater 
 dangers, she at length broke the strength of the enemy, 
 and reduced his power within such limits as to be com- 
 patible with the safety of England, and of all Europe. 
 Her only effectual ally was the spirit of her people ; and 
 
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 241 
 
 her policy flowed from that magnanimous nature, which, 
 in the hour of peril, teaches better lessons than those of 
 cold reason. Her great heart inspired her with a higher 
 and nobler wisdom — which disdained to appeal to the 
 low and sordid passions of her people, even for the pro- 
 tection of their low and sordid interests ; because she 
 knew, or rather she felt, that these are effeminate, creep- 
 ing, cowardly, short-sighted passions, which shrink from 
 conflict, even in defence of their own mean objects. In 
 a righteous cause, she roused those generous affections 
 of her people, which alone teach boldness, constancy, 
 and foresight, and which are therefore the only safe 
 guardians of the lowest as well as the highest interests 
 of a nation. In her memorable address to her army, 
 when the invasion of the kingdom was threatened by 
 Spain, this woman of heroic spirit disdained to speak to 
 them of their ease, and their commerce, and their wealth, 
 and their safety. No ! she touched another chord — she 
 spoke of their national honour, of their dignity as Eng- 
 lishmen, of * the foul" scorn that Parma or Spain should 
 dare to invade the borders of her realms.' She breathed 
 into them those grand and powerful sentiments, which 
 exalt vulgar men into heroes, which lead them into the 
 battle of their country armed with holy and irresistible 
 enthusiasm, which even cover with their shield all the 
 ignoble interests that base calculation and cowardly 
 selfishness tremble to hazard, but shrink from defend- 
 ing. A sort of prophetic instinct, if I may so speak, 
 seems to have revealed to her the importance of that 
 great instrument, for rousing and guiding the minds of 
 men, of the effects of which she had no experience ; 
 which, since her time, has changed the condition of the 
 world; but which few modern statesmen have thoroughly 
 understood, or wisely employed ; which is, no doubt, 
 connected with many ridiculous and degrading details ; 
 which has produced, and may again produce, terrible 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 mischiefs ; but of which the influence must^ after all, be 
 considered as the most certain effect of the most effica- 
 cious cause of civilization ; and which, whether it be a 
 blessing or a curse, is the most powerful engine that a 
 politician can move — I mean the press. It is a curious 
 fact, that in the year of the Armada, Queen Elizabeth 
 caused to be printed the first Gazettes that ever appeared 
 in England. And I own, when I consider that this mode 
 of rousing a national spirit was then absolutely unex- 
 ampled, that she could have no assurance of its efficacy 
 from the precedents of former times, I am disposed to 
 regard her having recourse to it as one of the most sa- 
 gacious experiments, one of the greatest discoveries of 
 political genius, one of the most striking anticipations 
 of future experience, that we find in history. I mention 
 it to you, to justify the opinion that I have ventured to 
 state, of the close connexion of our national spirit with 
 our press, and even with our periodical press. I can- 
 not quit the reign of Elizabeth, without laying before 
 you the maxims of her policy in the language of the 
 greatest and wisest of men. Lord Bacon, in one part 
 of his discourse on her reign, speaks thus of her support 
 of Holland : — ' But let me rest upon the honourable and 
 continual aid and relief she hath given to the distressed 
 and desolate people of the Low Countries ; a people re- 
 commended unto her by ancient confederacy and daily 
 intercourse, by their cause so innocent, and their fortune 
 so lamentable !' In another passage of the same discourse, 
 he thus speaks of the general system of her foreign 
 policy, as the protector of Europe, in words too remark- 
 able to require any commentary : — ' Then it is her go- 
 vernment, and her government alone, that hath been the 
 sconce and fort of all Europe, which hath lett this proud 
 nation from overrunning all. If any state be yet free 
 from his factions erected in the bowels thereof; if there 
 be any state, wherein this faction is erected, that is not 
 
CHARACTER OF LUTHER. 243 
 
 fired with civil troubles ; if there be any state under his 
 protection that enjoyeth moderate liberty, upon wliich 
 he tyrannizeth not ; it is the mercy of this renowned 
 Queen that standeth between them and their misfor- 
 tunes/ " 
 
 CHAP. XXIX. 
 
 CHARACTER OF LUTHER. 
 
 One wet Sunday morning, as the Bachelor and his 
 Nymph had resolved not to go to church, — bachelors, 
 indeed, are not in general church-going persons, — 
 they fell into discourse concerning the history of 
 religion, — and in the conversation, Egeria, with her 
 wonted acumen, bore the principal part. 
 
 " I am surprised," said she, " that the spirit of 
 rehgious reformation has been so long dormant, — 
 but I think the eve of its awakening cannot be very 
 far off. There is a great stir abroad in the world 
 relative to religious instruction, — much of this is 
 made by worthy and pious persons, but the cloven 
 foot of worldly corruption may be seen among them ; 
 and in the very nature of things, some bold hypo- 
 crite will, sooner or later, attempt to turn the effects 
 of all this to his own particular renown and ad- 
 vantage." 
 
 *' May not," replied the Bachelor, •* some honest 
 man do the same, not, however, for his particular 
 gratification, but for the general advantage of the 
 world ?" 
 
244 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " No !" said the Nymph, — '' honest enthusiasm 
 no longer exists, — there is no sacrificing now of 
 present interests, — the interests of this world, for 
 the hope of that reward which passeth not away. 
 The existing spirit of the world is altogether mercan- 
 tile ; the epoch of the rider on the black horse, with 
 the balance in his hand, and his oil and corn for sale, 
 has come to pass. There is besides a plain and ob- 
 vious tendency in the current of human affairs, to 
 undermine the great edifices of ecclesiastical pomp 
 and patronage. But it shall not be till violence 
 has been again called in to uphold them, that any 
 change will take place in the dominion of the spirit 
 that is now abroad on the earth. 
 
 "But how is it, Benedict, that you think an honest 
 man may seize the preparations which are making 
 for a change in the religious ordinances of the world ? 
 Surely you forget that it was by the patient and the 
 suffering, — ^by the martyrs alone, — that the cause of 
 pious truth was advanced. The honest men were 
 the victims. Your Luthers,— your Calvins, — your 
 John Knoxes, — your Mahomets."— 
 
 " Monstrous I Mahomet and Luther,^-John Knox 
 and Mahomet V — exclaimed Benedict, — " my Life, 
 you are growing quite shocking. Madam de StaePs 
 philosophy was sky-blue to the indigo of such 
 licentiousness.'' 
 
 " To be sure," replied the Nymph, " it is per-, 
 haps a little too much to include Mahomet's name 
 among the list of Christian reformers ; but those 
 who have well considered the history of that singular 
 man, will, I am persuaded, agree with me, that if he 
 set not out as a reformer of the church, he was an 
 
CHARACTER OF LUTHER. 2i5 
 
 enemy of idolatry ; and whether the church was or 
 was not a very sink of idolatry in his time, I leave 
 you to judge, — that is to say, if you will take the 
 trouble to read his history, and compare it, as I have 
 done, with the general history of the world. 
 
 " At that era, the pagan religion was in a great 
 measure restored, but in a more irrational form than 
 in its original mythology ; for the ancient pagans 
 believed in the existence of intellectual powers, or 
 deities, suitable to the different occasions on which 
 they required celestial aid. In love, they addressed 
 themselves to Cupid and Venus ; in their vengeance, 
 to Jove ; in their voyages, to Neptune and ^Eolus ; 
 and in their resentments to Mars. But to the hu- 
 man deities of the Christian idolaters of Mahomet's 
 time an universal influence was ascribed, — and the 
 saint was preferred according to the fancy of the 
 suppliants. Is it therefore to be wondered, that 
 so slu*ewd a man as the impostor was, should not 
 have seen that there were many among mankind 
 who despised the idolatry of his time, and were 
 ripened for more rational dogmas.^ But we have 
 lost sight of the real character with which Mahomet 
 set out in his career, in the warlike principles which 
 he was afterwards, partly from necessity, though 
 generally from ambition, induced to adopt. 
 
 " He was in his youth the handsomest man of all 
 the Arabs ; he was descended of a sacred race, the 
 guardians of the Caaba, an altar consecrated to the 
 service of God, in the days of antiquity, by Ishmael ; 
 —he spoke with singular grace and eloquence, and 
 in his deportment he was distinguished for a wistlom 
 beyond his years ; — all those who knew him from bis 
 
246 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 boyhood had a presentiment that he was destined to 
 greatness ; indeed his very name signifies as much, 
 for it means ' the glorified,' and no other had ever 
 borne it before himself. 
 
 " When he was only thirteen years of age, he 
 happened to be in Bosra, and his appearance so 
 struck a monk, that he admonished the person with 
 whom the boy was in company, to take care of him, 
 for that he was assuredly ordained to become an ex- 
 traordinary person. 
 
 " He was a great traveller, and his conversation 
 was remarkable for a wonderful sagacity and know- 
 ledge of the mysteries of human nature, — and he 
 often, long before he became a teacher, expressed 
 great contempt for the state of religion throughout 
 the world, declaring that it had no resemblance to 
 the religion inculcated by Adam, by Noah, Abra- 
 ham, Moses, Jesus, and the prophets, — which was 
 all very true ; and it was remarked, that in maintain- 
 ing these opinions, he was never contradicted, either 
 because he made the truth so plain by his eloquence, 
 or because it was felt by others to have been so in- 
 disputable. And it cannot be questioned, that the 
 version of Christianity with which he opened his 
 lectures, was far more pure, and according to the 
 Gospel, than any thing then taught in the churches. 
 His subsequent pretences to prophecy, and all the 
 errors that followed in his imposture and apostacy, 
 have thrown a cloud over the greatness, and the 
 wisdom, and the boldness of his first endeavours ; 
 but I question very much if he kindled not a light 
 within the body of the church that has never yet 
 been extinguished. Men of his stamp, to be justly 
 
CHARACTER OF LUTHER. 247 
 
 considered, should be viewed in connexion with the 
 moral and jwlitical circumstances in which they ap- 
 pear ; and perhaps in this respect, notwithstanding 
 your interjection, it might not be difficult to show, 
 that in some things the merits of Mahomet were not 
 inferior to the exertions and intrepidity of Luther.*" 
 
 " Well,'** said the Bachelor, " as you are in one 
 of your sensation-producing moods, I shall not con- 
 tradict you." 
 
 " Nay,'' exclaimed Egeria, " if you are in that 
 vein, I shall say no more, but read you Mr Roscoc's 
 character of Luther, which I think very ably drawn. 
 It is not embued with much of the energy of genius, 
 but, like all the other productions of that author's j)en, 
 it is distinguished for good sense, a certain classical 
 propriety, — in short, it is a tasteful but not an original 
 sketch." 
 
 " In order to form a proper estimate of the conduct 
 and character of Luther, it is necessary to consider him 
 in two principal points of view : First, as an opponent 
 to the haughty assumptions and gross abuses of the Ro- 
 man See ; and, secondly, as the founder of a new church, 
 over which he may be said to have presided until the 
 time of his death, in 1546, an interval of nearly thirty 
 years. In the former capacity we find him endeavour- 
 ing to substitute the authority of reason and of scripture 
 for that of councils and of popes, and contending for 
 the utmost latitude in the perusal and construction of 
 the sacred writings, which, as he expressed it, could not 
 be chained, but were open to the interpretation of every 
 individual. For this great and daring attempt he was 
 peculiarly qualified. A consciousness of his own in- 
 tegrity, and the natural intrepidity of his mind, enabled 
 him not only to brave the most violent attacks of his 
 
248 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 adversafieSj but to treat them with a degree of derision 
 and contempt^ which seemed to prove the superiority of 
 his cause. Fully sensible of the importance and dignity 
 of his undertaking, he looked with equal eyes on all 
 worldly honours and distinctions ; and emperors, and 
 pontiffs, and kings, were regarded by him as men and 
 as equals, who might merit his respect or incur his re- 
 sentment, according as they were inclined to promote 
 or obstruct his views. Nor was he more firm against 
 the stern voice of authority, than against the blandish- 
 ments of flattery, and the softening influence of real or 
 of pretended friendship. The various attempts which 
 were made to induce him to relax in his opposition seem 
 in general to have confirmed rather than shaken his re- 
 solution ; and if at any time he shewed a disposition to- 
 wards conciliatory measures, it was only a symptom that 
 his opposition would be soon carried to a greater extreme. 
 The warmth of his temperament seldom, however, pre- 
 vented the exercise of his judgment ; and the various 
 measures to which he resorted for securing popularity 
 to his cause, were the result of a thorough! knowledge 
 of the great principles of human nature, and of the pe- 
 culiar state of the times in which he lived. The in- 
 justice and absurdity of resorting to violence. Instead 
 of convincing the understanding by argument, were 
 shewn by him in the strongest light. Before the impe- 
 rial diet he asserted his own private opinion, founded, 
 as he contended, on reason and scripture, against all the 
 authorities of the Roman church; and the important 
 point which he incessantly laboured to establish was 
 the right of private judgment in matters of faith. To 
 the defence of this proposition he was at all times ready 
 to devote his learning, his talents, his repose, his char- 
 acter, and his life ; and the great and imperishable merit 
 of this reformer consists in his having demonstrated it 
 by such arguments, as neither the efforts of his adversa* 
 
CHARACTER OF LUTHER. 249 
 
 rles, nor his own subsequent conduct, have been able 
 either to refute or invalidate. 
 
 " As the founder of a new church, the character of 
 Luther appears in a vei-y different light. After having 
 effected a separation from the See of Rome, there yet re- 
 mained the still more difficult task of establishing such 
 a system of religious faith and worship as, without ad- 
 mitting the exploded doctrines of the papal church, 
 would prevent that licentiousness which, it was suppos- 
 ed, would be the consequence of a total absence of all 
 ecclesiastical restraints. In this task Luther engaged, 
 with a resolution equal to that with which he had braved 
 the authority of the Romish church ; but with this re- 
 markable difference, that in one instance he effected his 
 purpose by strenuously insisting on the right of private 
 judgment in matters of faith, whilst, in the other, he suc- 
 ceeded, by laying down new doctrines, to which he ex- 
 pected that all those who espoused his cause should 
 implicity submit. The opinions of Luther on certain 
 points were fixed and unalterable. The most important 
 of these were, the doctrine of the real presence in the 
 Eucharist, and the justification of mankind by faith 
 alone. Whoever assented not to these propositions was 
 not of his church ; and although he was ready, on all 
 occasions, to make use of arguments from scripture for 
 the defence of his tenets, yet, when these proved insuf- 
 ficient, he seldom hesitated to resort to more violent 
 measures. This was fully exemplified in his conduct to- 
 wards his friend Carlo&tadt, who, not being able to dis- 
 tinguish between the Romish doctrine of transubstantia- 
 tion and that of the real presence of Christ in tlie sacra- 
 ment, had, like Zuinglius, adopted the idea that the 
 bread and the wine Mere only the symbols, and not the 
 actual substance of the body and blood of Christ. Lu- 
 ther, however, maintained his opinion with the utmost 
 obstinacy ; the dispute became the subject of several vio- 
 
250 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 lent publications, until Luther, who was now supported 
 by the secular power, obtained the banishment of Car- 
 lostadt, who was at length reduced to the necessity of 
 earning his bread by his daily labour. The unaccom- 
 modating adherence of Luther to this opinion, placed 
 also an effectual bar to the union of the Helvetic and 
 German reformers ; and to such an uncharitable extreme 
 did he carry his resentment against those who denied 
 the real presence, that he refused to admit the Swiss, 
 and the German cities and states, which had adopted the 
 sentiments of Zuinglius and Bucer, into the confederacy 
 for the defence of the Protestant church ; choosing rather 
 to risk the total destruction of his cause, than to avail 
 himself of the assistance of those who did not concur 
 with him in every particular article of belief." 
 
 CHAP. XXX. 
 
 A MIST ON THE SHORE. 
 
 " The other night," said Egeria, " I read Mr Howi- 
 son's description of the Falls of Niagara, — the best yet 
 given of one of the most magnificent spectacles on 
 the whole earth. But I think you will agree with 
 me, that if the author had not heightened the co- 
 louring with his own dreads and sentiments, the 
 painting, clear and effective as it is, would have 
 wanted half its beauty, and more than half its inte- 
 rest. In truth, life of some kind, descriptions of 
 the efforts of instinct or of mind, are essential to the 
 grandeur of the grandest scenes. Without such 
 the volcano is but a skyrocket, and the boundless 
 
A MIST ON THE SHORE. 251 
 
 ocean, agitated by a storm, only a magnified view 
 of the pool shaken by the breath of summer ! A 
 salmon-leap in a Highland glen might be so de- 
 scribed as to produce a higher sense of the sublime 
 than even Mr Howison'^s superb account of the Falls 
 of Niagara, though the perils and endeavours of no 
 other living thing were introduced than those of 
 a single fish struggling to overleap the fall of the 
 torrent. It is the skill with which such perils and 
 endeavours are introduced that constitute the im- 
 press of genius in description. Compare, for ex- 
 ample, the escape of Keith and Ellen, in Regi- 
 nald Dalton, with Mr Howison"'s Niagara, and 
 you will acknowledge the truth of my doctrine; 
 the principle of which is, that the subhme has its 
 source in moral feeling, either in apprehension, sym- 
 pathy, or association. And I pray you to observe, 
 that the Canadian traveller has done his utmost with 
 all his poetical power and the stores of a rich voca- 
 bulary,— whereas the novelist has trammelled him- 
 self with a colloquial familiarity approaching to mean- 
 ness ; and yet how awful and imposing the effect I 
 —how much more so than all the thunderings and 
 earthquake-murmurings of the other'*8 desire to do 
 justice to the magnitude of a great theme." 
 
 " * The mist, you will observe, had been clearing 
 away pretty quickly on the right hand, but it was dark 
 enough towards the front, and getting darker and 
 darker ; but we thought nought on't till the boy pulled 
 up. ' Meinherr, Meinherr !' cried the fellow, ' I am 
 afraid I hear the water.' He stopt for a moment, and 
 then said, ' Stay you for a moment where you are, and 
 I'll soon see whether we are right.' With that, off he 
 
252^ THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 went, as if the devil was at his tail ; and we, what could 
 we do ? — we stood like two stocks — and poor little Ellen, 
 she looked into my face so wofuUy, that I wished to 
 God we were both safe in the blackest hole of Bieche. 
 In short, I suppose he had not galloped half a bow- 
 shot ere we quite lost sight of the fellow, but for seve- 
 ral minutes more we could hear his horse's hoofs on the 
 wet sand. We lost that too — and "then, sirs, there came 
 another sound, but what it was we could not at first 
 bring ourselves to understand. Ellen stared me in the 
 face again, with a blank look, you may swear; and, 
 ' Good God !' said she at last, ' I am certain it's the sea, 
 uncle ?' — '^ No, no V said I, ' Listen, listen ! I'm sure 
 you are deceived.' She looked and listened, and so did 
 I, sirs, keenly enough ; and in a moment there came a 
 strong breath of wind, and away went the mist driving, 
 and we heard the regular heaving and rushing of the 
 waters. ' Ride, ride, my dear uncle,' cried Ellen, ' or 
 we are lost ;' and off we both went, galloping as hard 
 as we could away from the waves. My horse was 
 rather the stronger one of the pair, but at length he be- 
 gan to pant below me, and just then the mist dropt 
 down again thicker and thicker right and left, and I 
 pulled up in a new terror, lest we should be separated ; 
 but Ellen was alongside in a moment, and, faith, how- 
 ever it was, she had more calmness with her than I 
 could muster. She put out her hand, poor girl, and 
 grasped mine, and there we remained for, I dare say, 
 two or three minutes, our horses, both of them, quite 
 blown, and we knowing no more than the man in the 
 moon where we were, either by the village or our head- 
 land.' 
 
 '' The old gentleman paused for a moment, and then 
 went on in a much lower tone — ' I feel it all as if it 
 were now, sirs ; I was like a man bewildered in a 
 dream. I have some dim sort of remembrance of my 
 
A MIST OX THE SHORE. 253 
 
 beast pawing and plashing with his fore-feet, and look- 
 ing down and seeing some great slimy eels — never were 
 such loathsome wretches — twisting and twirling on the 
 sand, which, by the way, was more water than sand ere 
 that time. I also recollect a screaming in the air, and 
 then a flapping of wings close to my ear almost, and 
 then a great cloud of the seamews driving over us 
 away into the heart of the mist. Neither of us said 
 any thing, but we just began to ride on again, though, 
 God knows, we knew nothing of whither we v/ere 
 going; but we still kept hand in hand. We rode a 
 good space, till that way also we found ourselves getting 
 upon the sea ; and so round and round, till we were at 
 last convinced the water had completely hemmed us all 
 about. There were the waves trampling, trampling to- 
 wards us, whichever way we turned our horses' heads, 
 and the mist was all this while thickening more and 
 more ; and if a great cloud of it was dashed away now 
 and then with the wind, why, sirs^ the prospect was but 
 the more rueful, for the sea was round us every way. 
 Wide and far we could see nothing but the black water, 
 and the waves leaping up here and there upon the sand- 
 banks. 
 
 " * Well, sir, the poor dumb horses, they backed of 
 themselves as the waters came gushing towards us. 
 Looking round, snorting, snuffing, and pricking their 
 ears, the poor things seemed to be as sensible as our- 
 selves to the sort of condition we were all in ; and while 
 Ellen's hand wrung mine more and more closely, they 
 also, one would have thought, were always shrinking 
 nearer and nearer to each other, just as they had had 
 the same kind of feelings. Ellen, I cannot tell you 
 what her behaviour was. I don't believe there's a bold 
 man in Europe would have behaved so well, sirs. Her 
 cheek was white enough, and her lips were as white as 
 if they had never had a drop of blood in them ; but her 
 
254 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 eye, God bless me ! after the first two or three minutes 
 were over, it was as clear as the bonniest blue sky ye 
 ever looked upon. I, for my part, I cannot help saying 
 it, was, after a little while, more grieved, far more, 
 about her than myself. I am an old man, sirs, and 
 what did it signify ? but to see her at blithe seventeen 
 —But, however, why should I make many words about 
 all that ? I screamed, and screamed, and better scream- 
 ed, but she only squeezed my hand, and shook her 
 head, as if it was all of no avail. I had shouted till I was 
 as hoarse as a raven, and was just going to give up all 
 farther thoughts of making any exertion ; for, in truth, 
 I began to feel benumbed and listless all over, my 
 friends — when we heard a gun fired. We heard it 
 quite distinctly, though the mist was so thick that we 
 could see nothing. I cried then ; you may suppose 
 how I cried ; and Ellen too, though she had never 
 opened her lips before, cried as lustily as she could. 
 Again the gun was fired, and again we answered at the 
 top of our voices ; and then, God bless me ! — was there 
 ever such a moment ? We heard the dashing of the 
 oars, and a strong breeze lifted the mist like a curtain 
 from before us, and there was a boat — a jolly ten-oar 
 boat, steering right through the waters towards us, per- 
 haps about a couple of hundred yards off. A sailor on 
 the bow hailed and cheered us ; but you may imagine 
 how far gone we were when I tell you that I scarcely 
 took notice it was in English the man cried to us.' " 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 25iJ 
 
 CHAP. XXXI. 
 
 GERMAN GENIUS. 
 
 Some time after the conversation and illustration 
 recorded in the preceding chapter, Benedict appear- 
 ed one evening so flat and out of spirits, — whether 
 this was owing to any lack of fees it is needless to 
 guess, — that the Nymph resolved to rouse him, and 
 accordingly, as soon as the candles were set and the 
 fire trimmed, she took up Lord Francis Leveson 
 Gower's translation of Faust, a drama by Goethe. 
 
 " You have not read this,*" said she ; " I recollect 
 you threw it down with the epithet of Coleridgian 
 ravings when it was first sent home ; but I have 
 since carefully, word and line, pored it all through, 
 and I mean, Benedict, with your permission, to de- 
 liver my opinion at some length on the subject. 
 
 " In the first place, then, I think the noble 
 translator has done a great service to the literature 
 and to the genius of his country, in presenting us 
 with so clever, and, upon the whole, so tasteful a 
 translation of a work, considered by the Germans 
 and the German scholars as the masterpiece of so 
 celebrated a man as Goethe ; for I presume it will 
 now be admitted, that as this performance is sup- 
 posed to possess beauties of the highest order in the 
 opinion of the author'^s countrymen and the ad- 
 mirers of their literature, we may, by its merits, form 
 some notion of the degree of taste which the Ger- 
 
256 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 mans have attained, and also of that sort of moral 
 quality which they value as genius. 
 
 " You are aware, that in our own language we 
 possess, in the Doctor Faustus of Marlowe, a tragedy 
 on the same subject, — and that Lord Byron's Man- 
 fred is partly also similar in conception, but more 
 elegantly imagined than either. Vulgarly speaking, 
 the story is that of an accomplished man selling 
 himself to the devil, — philosophically, it is but a 
 dramatic version of such a character applying his 
 attainments without any restraint of moral or reli- 
 gious principle. Of the three dramas, I prefer 
 Byron's ; at the same time, I admit, that there 
 are passages, in the Doctor Faustus, more impas- 
 sioned, and passages also, even like his Lordship's 
 peculiar style, more effective than any thing in Man- 
 fred. The horror of Faustus towards the catas- 
 trophe transcends all exhibitions of despair, that 
 dramatic genius has yet attempted ; for, though tjie 
 Promethean fortitude of Manfred belongs to the 
 highest class of the sublime, it is still but a sustain- 
 ing effort. It wants the vehemence necessary to 
 make us sensible that the moral strength is really 
 that stupendous energy which the poet has endea- 
 voured to embody. The catastrophe of the Faust 
 of Goethe, compared with either, is a failure. The 
 interest depends not on the hero, but on the despair 
 of a poor girl whom he had seduced, and he is 
 carried away by the devil, without exciting one 
 sentiment of horror for his fate. The general con- 
 ception of the whole piece is also inferior to Mar- 
 lowe's tragedy, and not for a moment to be com- 
 pared with the hinted horrors of the noble poet's 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 257 
 
 mystery. It is not, however, my intention to insti- 
 tute any very strict comparison. Indeed, I have 
 but alluded to the two English works, as affording a 
 proof of the difference between our national taste 
 and that of the Germans, — now I will proceed more 
 closely with the Faust. 
 
 " The general character of the play may be de- 
 scribed, as formed on the plan of the old moralities 
 and mysteries. It opens with this song in heaven, 
 by the three archangels, Raphael, Gabriel, and 
 Michael.'' 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 " The sun his ancient hymn of wonder 
 
 Is pouring out to kindred spheres^ 
 And still pursues, with march of thunder. 
 
 His preappointed course of years. 
 Thy visage gives thy angels power. 
 
 Though none its dazzling rays withstand. 
 And bright, as in their natal hour. 
 
 Creation's dazzling realms expand. 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 " And still the earth's enduring motion 
 
 Revolves with uncomputed speed. 
 And o'er the chequer'd earth and ocean 
 
 Darkness and light by turns succeed. 
 The billowy waste of seas is boiling 
 
 From deep primeval rocks below. 
 Yet on their destined march are toiling 
 
 The rocks that stand, the waves that flow. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 " The whirlwind and the storm are raging 
 From sea to land, from land to main ; 
 And adverse elements engaging. 
 The trembling universe enchain. 
 
258 THK BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 The lightnings of the dread destroyer 
 ^ Precede his thunders through the air ; 
 Yet, at the nod of their employer. 
 The servants of his wrath forbear. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " Thy visage gives thy angels power. 
 
 Though none its dazzling rays withstand. 
 And bright, as in their natal hour. 
 Creation's dazzling realms expand." 
 
 " Then follows a personal conference between the 
 Almighty and Mephistopheles, alias the Devil, of 
 which the idea is taken from the book of Job. Lord 
 Francis has omitted to translate this scene, and, I 
 doubt not, judiciously ; but I should remark to you a 
 true touch of German taste in it. Mephistopheles 
 receives permission to exercise his powers upon 
 Faust, as of old upon Job, and in the end of the 
 play he carries off Faust ; thus the author hideously 
 makes the Almighty consenting to the destruction 
 of Faust for the gratification of the Devil. How 
 much finer, and more elevated, and more poetical 
 too, is the Hebrew idea, of making Job withstand 
 the temptation ! How much more awful the concep- 
 tion of Marlowe, in making Doctor Faustus sur- 
 render his spirit, so ennobled by knowledge, for mere 
 sensual enjoyments ! But the glory of conceiving the 
 splendidly-endowed Manfred, struggling with the 
 condemnations of remorse, the sequel, if I may so 
 speak, to the enjoyment obtained by the guilty com- 
 pact, raises Byron, in this instance, as much above 
 both Goethe and Marlowe as the lesson conveyed in 
 Job excels them all. The subject, however, is not 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 259 
 
 exhausted. Job was tried but by afflictions, — the 
 temptations of St Anthony, in the hands of a trutii- 
 poet, would furnish a richer topic than either. 
 
 " After the colloquy in heaven, the scene opens 
 with Faust in his study : he has exhausted science 
 and art ; his curiosity is still hungry, and he is dab- 
 bling in magic. All this is very prettily conceived, 
 but it is feebly expressed. A spirit in the end ap- 
 pears, for no purpose earthly. This is a dramatic 
 error, — no character should be introduced in a play 
 that is not required to the futherance of the plot. 
 The spirit having vanished, Wagner, the secretary 
 to Faust, comes in and interrupts his spell, and a 
 very weak and prosing conversation ensues, intended 
 to be satirical, but the shafts are clumsy and ineffec- 
 tual. Wagner, too, is of little use in the piece, — 
 when he has retired, Faust, however, delivers him- 
 self of a soliloquy, which possesses very considerable 
 poetical merit. He is speaking of the interruption 
 produced by AVagner, and of the spirit which had 
 appeared."" 
 
 " Strange that when reason totters hope is firm. 
 Each slight encouragement renews our toil, 
 We grub for treasures in the mouldy soil, 
 And bless our fortune when we find a worm. 
 Was this the place for such a voice to sound. 
 When the dark powers of nature swarm'd around .? 
 And yet for once poor wretch, whom nature ranks 
 Meanest of all her children, take my thanks. 
 Despair had seized me, — you have burst the chain. 
 And given my dazzled sense its powers again. 
 The vision seem'd of such gigantic guise. 
 My frame was lessen'd to a pigmy's size* 
 
260 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 1 
 I image of the Godhead, who but now 
 
 Almost had bask'd in truth's eternal sun. 
 
 For whom the reign of light had just begun, '] 
 
 While mortal mists were clearing from my brow ; j 
 
 Already borne beyond the cherub's flight, ] 
 
 Piercing the dark, undazzled by the bright, \ 
 
 A word of thunder, shrinking up my soul, i 
 
 Has hurl'd it backward as it near'd the goal. i 
 
 i 
 
 " Likeness to thee my clay may not inherit ; j 
 
 I could attract thee hither, haughty spirit ; j 
 
 And yet to hold thee here had not the power. j 
 
 That instant that you own'd my call, ; 
 
 I felt so little, yet so great, ] 
 
 You hurl'd me back, you bad me fall, i 
 
 Plumb down to man's uncertain state. ; 
 
 Who tells me what I should eschew ? I 
 
 What impulse I may best obey ? ' 
 
 Whether we suffer, or we do, ] 
 
 We clog existence on its way. j 
 
 " What though when fancy's daring wing was young. 
 
 Forth into boundless space at once it sprung ; 
 
 A shorter course 'tis now content to run. 
 
 When its wreck'd joys have perish'd one by one. 
 
 Care in the deep heart builds its nest, ; 
 
 And coils him there a rankling pest : j 
 
 With joy assumes his torturing task, j 
 
 Like other stabbers, not without a mask ; ; 
 
 As wife or child, or other kindred blood. 
 
 Poison or steel, he shows, or fire or flood. \ 
 
 We weep for what we never lost. 
 
 And fly imagined ill, as though our path it cross'^d. 
 
 " I am not like the gods. Know that I must, I 
 Most like the worm, slow wallowing through the dust, 
 
 i 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 261 
 
 Whom man's destroying foot, if there it strays, 
 Slays as he feasts, and buries while it slays. 
 
 " Are they not dust, the cases there ? 
 
 The shelves, and all the volumed pile they bear ? 
 
 There I may read, in many a page. 
 
 That man, in every clime and age. 
 
 Has rack'd his heart and brain : 
 
 That here and there a luckier wight was seen. 
 Seldom or never to be seen again. 
 Skull of the nameless dead, why grinn'st thou, say ? 
 
 Except to tell me that the brain within 
 
 Was mad, like mine, for what it fail'd to win. 
 Truths never-da>vning, still-expected day. 
 Ye, too, have mocked me, instruments of art. 
 
 Pulleys and rules, and wheels of toothed brass : 
 At learning's door ye play the porter's part. 
 
 But would not lift the latch to let me pass. 
 For Nature yields not to corporeal force. 
 
 Nor suffers man by aid like yours to find 
 
 What she refuses to the powers of mind. 
 And deep reflection's flow, and study's tranquil course 
 
 I have no portion in thee, useless heap 
 Of lumber, aiding once my father's toil : 
 
 Parchments and rolls continue still your sleep. 
 Grimed by yon cresset's ever-fuming oil. 
 
 Better to waste the substance of my sire. 
 
 Than thus encircled by it to expire. 
 All we possess, and use not on the road. 
 
 Adds to the burden we must bear. 
 
 Enjoyment alleviates our share. 
 And, by consuming, lightens still the load." 
 
 " He then intends to poison himself, and is arrested, 
 in the act of setting the cup to his lips, by the sound 
 of the churcli-bells and the Easter Hymn. Tlic 
 
262 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 sentiments which this incident recalls are tenderly 
 expressed, but not in that impassioned and pathetic 
 strain which the occasion might have been expected 
 to inspire."*' 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 " Why seek ye here, ye tones of Heaven, 
 
 A thing like me, of mortal leaven ? 
 
 On softer hearts your soothing influence try ; 
 
 I hear your tidings, would that I believed ! 
 
 I could be happy, though deceived. 
 
 I dare not lift my thoughts towards the spheres. 
 
 From whence that heavenly sound salutes my ears ; 
 
 And yet that anthem's long-remember'd strain 
 
 Revives the scenes of sinless youth again. 
 
 When, on the stillness of the sabbath-day. 
 
 Heaven in that peal seem'd pouring from above. 
 
 And I look'd upward for its kiss of love. 
 While saints might wish with joy like mine to pray. 
 
 An undefined inspiration 
 
 Impell'd me from the haunts of man ; 
 
 I form'd myself a new creation. 
 
 While tears of Christian fervour ran. 
 This very song proclaim'd to childhood's ear 
 
 The solemn tide for joys for ever past. 
 And memory, waking while the song I hear. 
 
 Arrests my strides, and checks me at the last. 
 Sound on, West strain, your task almost is done ; 
 Tears force their way, and earth regains her son.** 
 
 *' A very silly namby-pamby scene succeeds be- 
 tween worthy artizans and others of their class, — 
 going, as the Cockneys call it, a holiday-making. 
 Faust and Wagner, and then an old peasant, are in- 
 troduced. The dialogue between them hath oe- 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. , 263 
 
 casional touches of poetry and of natural feeling, 
 but still it is not of a very high order. The descrip- 
 tion of the season is not better than the spring has 
 been described a thousand times ; but the kindly gra- 
 titude of the peasant, for the assistance which Faust 
 and his father had given to the people by their skill 
 during a pestilence, is pleasing and natural ; and 
 there is prodigious effect in Faust's account of the 
 result of his father's alchemy. I suspect Lord 
 Francis did not clearly understand the passage in 
 the original ; for he has so translated it as to make 
 it almost seem as if Faust and his father exasperated 
 the plague by their medicines, — whereas Faust is 
 alluding to the deleterious effects of the gold which 
 his father had alchemically made." 
 
 PAUST. 
 
 ** A little onward — far as yonder stone — 
 
 1 have a reason good to rest me there ; 
 For of^en there I sat, and mused alone. 
 
 And mortified myself with fast and prayer. 
 There, firm in faith, I oft have striven, 
 
 With tears, and sighs, and prayers as vague. 
 To calm the wrath of angry Heaven, 
 
 And Stay the ravage of the plague. 
 That voice of praise to me is scorn. 
 Too just, too bitter to be borne. * 
 Hear how the father and the son 
 Deserve the gratitude they won. 
 That father was a dark adept. 
 Who nature's mystic ring o'erleapt. 
 And made her secret works his care, 
 With arts his own, but not unfair. 
 With some, like him initiate. 
 He sat before his furnace grate, 
 
264 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And, after many a crabb'd receipt. 
 He wielded there the powers of heat. 
 Made opposites together run. 
 And mingled contraries in one. 
 There was a lion red, a friar bold. 
 Who married lilies in their bath of gold. 
 With fire then vex'd them from one bridal bed 
 Into another, thus he made them wed. 
 Upon her throne of glass was seen. 
 Of varied hues, the youthful queen. 
 This was the scene from whence our skill 
 Displayed so far its power to kill ; 
 Our mixtures did their work more sure 
 Than all the plagues we came to cure. 
 Myself have given the poison draught. 
 And seen them perish as they quaff' d. 
 And live to hear their kindred shed 
 Their blessings on the murderer's head. 
 
 " An account of the feeling of his insatiable cu- 
 riosity, which soon follows, is full of beautiful and 
 lofty poetry. It is one of the gems of the book." 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 " Happy in error's sea who finds the land. 
 
 Or o'er delusion's waves his limbs can buoy ; 
 We use the arts we cannot understand — 
 
 And what we know, we know not to employ. 
 But let us not, in fancy's moody play. 
 The moment's present raptures waste away. * 
 See how, from tufted trees, in evening's glow. 
 Ere daylight sets, the cottage casements glow 
 It sinks, the sun has lived another day. 
 
 And yields to death but to recruit his fires ; 
 Alas ! no wing may bear me on my way. 
 
 To track the monarch, as his orb retires. 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 265 
 
 I watch'd him, as he sought the west ; 
 
 Beneath his feet creation slept, 
 Each summit blood-red bright, each vale at rest. 
 
 The waveless streams like golden serpents crept. 
 In vain yon mountain's arrowy pinnacle 
 To the mind's flight opposed its precipice. 
 Ocean himself retired, his billows fell. 
 And for my path disclosed his huge abyss. 
 The vision ceased, the sun's glad reign was o'er. 
 
 Yet the wish died not with returning night. 
 Darkness behind me, and the day before. 
 
 On rush'd my soul to drink the eternal light. 
 Seas roll'd beneath, and skies above me rose. 
 
 Blest dream ! It vanish'd in its loveliest prime. 
 Alas ! no mortal wings may succour those 
 
 Which lift the mind upon its flight sublime. 
 Yet nourish'd in the bosom's core 
 
 The impulse dwells which bids us onward press. 
 When the lark mounts till it can mount no more. 
 
 To wake its thrilling song of happiness. 
 When o'er the pines the eagle soaring 
 
 On poising wing appears to rest. 
 When marshy wastes and seas exploring. 
 
 The crane speeds to his native nest. 
 
 WAGNER. 
 
 ** I have had fancies, but for such as these 
 They never troubled me, as I remember ; 
 I soon have gazed my fill at fields and trees, 
 
 Envying no bird his wings, or any member. 
 A different joy the learned finds at home. 
 From page to page, from book to book to roam. 
 Life from such task runs warm through every limb. 
 And winter's blasts are gales of spring to him. 
 And when some parchment is unroll'd by you. 
 Heaven^ like the prophet's scroll, seems open'd too. 
 
266 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. J 
 
 FAUST. i 
 
 " One impulse you have left alone. : 
 
 Oh ! let the other rest unknown. \ 
 
 Alas ! in me two souls at variance dwell, — \ 
 
 Could they but separate, for both 'twere well. \ 
 One, ever wedded to the grosser earth. 
 
 Clings to the soulless clay that gave it birth ; ■ 
 
 The other feels that somewhere lie \ 
 
 Glad realms, to which it fain would fly ; \ 
 
 Spirits (if such unearthly forms there be) ! 
 
 To whom the reign of middle air is given, : 
 
 From clouds of downy gold descend, to free ] 
 
 A soul that pines for your transparent heaven. \ 
 Oh, were a magic mantle mine. 
 
 O'er foreign climes at will to range, ^ 
 
 No emperor's robe, of sables fine, \ 
 
 Should tempt my avarice to exchange ! , 
 
 WAGNER. \ 
 
 " For mercy's sake, invoke no more ■ 
 
 The troop whose being is known too well ! j 
 
 Too near at hand those viewless agents soar, \ 
 
 Too ready to obey the spell. ] 
 
 When the north blows, I know whose frosty fang : 
 
 Vexes, who fret me with their arrowy tongues, ; 
 
 While others ride the arid east, and hang ! 
 
 Upon the panting chest, and husky lungs. :\ 
 
 When mid-day from the desert has despatch'd i 
 
 The swarm that cauterize the maddening brain, i 
 
 Far in the west their opposites are hatch'd, 1 
 
 Who calm the fever and refresh the plain ; '■ 
 Prompt listeners to what heard shall make us grieve — 
 Prompt slaves to serve their masters, and deceive." 
 
 i 
 
 " While they are thus discoursing, a black hound is i 
 seen circling inwards, nearer and nearer, around them." \ 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 267 
 
 " The next scene is in the study of Faust, the dog 
 is with him. Why Lord Francis should have called 
 the hell-hound poodle, I cannot imagine. It tends 
 to make the reader believe that it was some new ap- 
 parition, — but there is poetry and beauty in what 
 passes.'" 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 " While gloomy night o'erspreads the plain, 
 I leave the shadowy waste behind. 
 Where darkness rouses not in vain 
 The better genius of the mind ; 
 Each impulse wild its rest is taking. 
 Each passion slumbers in its den. 
 Nought but the love of God is waking. 
 And love as pure for fellow-men. 
 
 " Rest thee, poodle. Why runnest thou so. 
 On the threshold wandering to and fro .'* 
 Lay thee down the stove beneath. 
 Stop thy whining, and still thy breath. 
 Poor dog, thou hast merrily cheer'd my way 
 With thy wanton springs and thy frolicsome play : 
 But welcome then here as an innocent guest, 
 Still thy whining, and take thy rest. 
 
 *' Ah ! when again within our cell 
 We bid the lamp of midnight glow. 
 The inward light is trimm'd as Mell 
 In hearts that learn themselves to know : 
 While reason's voice adorns its theme. 
 And hope blooms brighter than at first. 
 The soul springs onward to the stream 
 Which flpws to quench our mortal thirst 
 
268 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Howl not, poodle ! thy fiendish cries 
 Disturb the bosom's celestial tone. 
 Which accords but ill with thy yelling moan. 
 
 But aught that is hid from human eyes. 
 
 Human folly will oft condemn. 
 
 They will murmur at all that is fair and good. 
 If its fairness be hard to be understood. 
 
 Would the critical hound but imitate them ? 
 
 But already, will I what I may, 
 
 Joy's brief star has quench'd its fickle ray. 
 
 Why must the stream so soon be dried. 
 
 Ere my thirst be satisfied } 
 
 How oft such fortune has been mine : 
 
 And yet by each blessing the world denies 
 We are taught the things of heaven to prize. 
 
 And for revelation's light to pine. 
 
 And nowhere brighter it was sent 
 ^Than in our Saviour's Testament. 
 
 Great is my wish to labour o'er 
 
 My version of its holy lore ; 
 
 And, with a Christian's good design. 
 
 To make it German line by line. 
 
 '[ In the beginning was the Word, I write. 
 And straight erase what fails to satisfy ; 
 
 I cannot rate the Word sufficient quite ; 
 A worthier version I must try. 
 
 Will not the spirit guide me such to find } 
 
 I write, in the beginning was the Mind. 
 
 But let me, ere the opening line be done. 
 
 Consider if the pen the sense outrun. 
 
 Did Mind work all things in creation's hour ? 
 
 No, thus : in the beginning was the power. 
 
 Yet, while I write it down, a warning voice 
 
 Still makes me discontented with my choice 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 
 
 'Tis done ! the spirit helps me at my need, 
 And writes, in the -beginning was the Deed. 
 
 In my chamber would you rest. 
 Be silent, poodle — you had best. 
 Cease to bellow ! 
 
 For with such a clamorous fellow. 
 Truly, I could well dispense : 
 One incontinent must hence. 
 Though patient, I can bear no more. 
 Though to a guest I ope the door. 
 But, what wonders do I see ! 
 Natural sight it cannot be ! 
 Long and broad my poodle grows. 
 And a wondrous shape he shows. 
 Such the limbs and such the force 
 Of the Delta's river-horse ; 
 Half-begotten brood of hell, 
 Solomon's key shall fit him well. 
 
 " Less than five, and more than three. 
 Fit the beast whate'er he be. 
 Salamanders, burn and glow ; 
 Water-spirits, twine and flow ; 
 Up, ye sylphs, in aether blue ; 
 Earthly goblins, down with you. 
 
 " He who could not win consent 
 From each subject element, 
 Ck)uld not govern at his will 
 Spirits, be they good or ill. 
 
 " Salamanders, mix in flame ; 
 In your waters, sprites, the same ; 
 Sylphs, shine out in meteor beauty ; 
 Goblins, help to do your duty. 
 
270 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. \ 
 
 ] 
 Incubus^ Incubus, 
 
 Make the spell complete for us. \ 
 
 " None of the four 3 
 
 Stand in the door. i 
 
 He lies and he grins at me calmly still : I 
 
 And yet I have not work'd him ill ; < 
 
 But the spell he shall hear : 
 
 Shall shake him with fear. ^ 
 
 " Art thou, tell, : 
 
 An exile of hell ? | 
 
 Then look at this sign, • 
 
 At the sight of which all J 
 
 The fallen must fall. \ 
 
 His form swells out and bristles his hair. • 
 
 Son of a fallen line, ^ 
 
 Say, canst thou read the sign ? < 
 
 " Swelling like an elephant, ! 
 
 He will make the chamber scant. ; 
 
 Rise not to the ceiling's crown : \ 
 
 At my bidding lay thee down. j 
 
 You see that I threaten never in vain ; : 
 
 Be still ere I vex thee with fiery pain. ■■ 
 
 Wait not till the fiery light : 
 
 From its third eclipse be bright : ' 
 
 Wait not the force of the deadliest flame, ; 
 
 And the terrible sound of the Holiest name. i 
 
 [^Mephistopheles appears from behind the ! 
 
 stove, dressed as a travelling Student." { 
 
 " The dialogue between Faust and Mephistopheles ; 
 
 is not good — it is trifling for the most part, though \ 
 here and there one meets with touches — mediocre 
 enough — of poetry. The conversation between the 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 271 
 
 devil and a scholar is quite contemptible. The 
 scene which follows in the public-house in Leipzig 
 is as bad, and not superior to the carousals in any 
 ordinary melo-drama : compared with the same sort 
 in Marlowe's tragedy it is truly despicable. Here 
 is one of the devil's songs."" 
 
 " Upon a time there lived a king, 
 
 This king he had a flea. 
 So much he loved the little things 
 
 That like his son was he. 
 His tailor he beseeches. 
 
 The tailor to him goes. 
 Now measure my flea for breeches. 
 
 And measure him for hose. 
 
 " In satin and in laces, 
 
 Straitway this flea was drest ; 
 He had buckles to his braces. 
 
 And a cross upon his breast. 
 He govem'd then the nation. 
 
 With a star his coat to grace, 
 And he gave each poor relation 
 
 A pension or a place. 
 
 " He set the ladies scoffing. 
 
 The lords were sore distress'd ; 
 The queen too, and the dauphin. 
 
 Could neither eat nor rest ; 
 And yet they dared not stifle. 
 
 And crush the flea outright ; 
 We reckon it but a trifle 
 
 To crush one if he bite. 
 
272 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We reckon it, &c. &c. 
 
 » « » * 
 
 Very good song, very well sung. 
 Jolly companions every one V 
 
 '' The witch's kitchen is also a grotesque absurdity, 
 to which the author has been indebted to some pic- 
 ture of the temptations of St Anthony. I shall 
 only amuse you with this " horror*" by the stage- 
 directions/' 
 
 *' A great caldron is hoiling on afire, which is seen blaz- 
 ing on a low hearth. In the smoke that rises from it 
 various figures are ascending. A meerkatze {an animal 
 hetweeii a cat and a monkey^ sits by the caldron, skim~ 
 ming it so that it may not boil over. The male, roith 
 his family, is warming himself. The walls and roof 
 are hung round with all the strange and fantastic appa^ 
 ratus of witchcraft" 
 
 " The interlocutors in the scene are worthy of this. 
 The monkey-cats sing a trio, and he that was skim- 
 ming the pot rubs fondly up against Mephistopheles 
 and sings a solo. This, according to German taste, 
 is sublime — a high fancy of German genius. The 
 whole trash is a sad caricature of the incantation in 
 Macbeth. The proper business of the drama, how- 
 ever, now commences. Neither the sublime nor the 
 horrible belong to Goethe ; his forte is the pathetic, 
 and with the entrance of Margaret, the true spirit of 
 his genius descends into his pen ; but the manner in 
 which he accomplishes the seduction of that pretty 
 and simple maiden is vile. He puts jewels in her 
 box, for no other purpose, it would seem, than to 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 27S 
 
 draw forth an anathema on the greed of the priest- 
 hood — a crafty monk having contrived to possess 
 himself of the jewels. He thus represents Mar- 
 garet so sweet, — so gentle and confiding, — as really 
 a mercenary wench. The whole idea of her seduction 
 is poorly conceived, and executed in poverty. Even 
 the simplicity with which she is made to poison her 
 mother is without any effect. But the account of 
 her antipathy to Mephistopheles is beautifully writ- 
 ten." 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 " The man who still your steps attends. 
 That man, my deepest, inmost soul offends. 
 I never knew a feeling dart 
 So like a dagger through my heart. 
 As when his evil features cross my sight, 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 My foolish Margaret, why this causeless fright ? 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 His presence chills my blood through every vein ; 
 
 Ill-will to man I never entertain. 
 
 But, howsoe'er on you I love to gaze. 
 
 Still on that man my eye with horror strays ; 
 
 To a bad race I hold him to belong. 
 
 May God forgive me, if I do him wrong ! 
 
 FAUBT. 
 
 He is not lovely, but such men must be. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Heaven keep me far from such a mate as he ! 
 If at our door he chance to knock. 
 His very lip seems curl'd to mock, 
 
 8 
 
274 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. , 
 
 Yet furious in his very sneers. 
 
 He takes no part in aught he sees or hears. ; 
 
 Written it stands his brow above — • 
 
 No thing that lives that man may love. j 
 
 Abandoned to your circling arm, i 
 
 I feel so blest, so free from harm — \ 
 And he must poison joys so pure and mild. 
 
 FAUST. I 
 
 Thou loveliest, best, but most suspecting child. j 
 
 MARGARET. ] 
 
 My nerves so strongly it comes o*er, 1 
 
 I feel, whene'er he joins us on our way, \ 
 
 As if I did not love you as before ; J 
 
 As if I could not raise my voice to pray. ] 
 
 That fancy makes me tremble through my frame ; ] 
 
 Say what you will, yourself must feel the same." ■ 
 
 " The idea of Margaret placing flowers before the i 
 
 image of the Mater Dolorosa is delicately conceived, ^ 
 
 and the explanation given of the reason which led ' 
 
 her to do this is also finely insinuated in the sorrow ! 
 
 of her brother.*" i 
 
 I 
 
 VALENTINE. 
 
 *' When in some camp I joined the crowd. 
 Where jests went round, and boasting loud. 
 And many a clamorous voice proclaim'd 
 The charms and worth of maids they named. 
 And pledged, in mantling cups, the toast. 
 With elbows squared, I kept my post ; 
 Let all their tongues at freedom run. 
 Nor utter'd, till the tale was done. 
 Then 'twas my turn my beard to stroke — 
 I fiU'd my glass, aud smiled, and spoke. 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 275 
 
 Each to his inind — I gainsay none— 
 
 But this I say, there is not one 
 
 Like my poor Margaret, or who 
 
 Is fit to tie my sister's shoe ! 
 
 The merry glasses clang'd consent ; 
 
 They clapp'd, they shouted — round it went — 
 
 * She is the queen of all her race !' 
 
 The praise of others died apace. 
 
 And now ! — my best resource remains. 
 
 Against the wall to dash my brains. 
 
 For I am one each knave who meets 
 
 May curl his nose at in the streets. 
 
 Nail'd like a felon by the ear, 
 
 Sweating each scurril jest to hear ; 
 
 And though I smash'd them, low and high, 
 
 And gave the fiend their souls to fry, 
 
 I could not give one wretch the lie ! 
 
 Who slinks this way ? — who passes there ? 
 
 Now, by my sister's shame I swear. 
 
 Should it be he whose blood I crave. 
 
 The miscreant treads upon his grave !" 
 
 " Avery noble scene is that also in which Margaret 
 is described in the cathedral taunted by an evil spi- 
 rit. But the triumph of the. author is the catas- 
 trophe, in which, after Margaret has been seized and 
 condemned for the murder of her child, Faust goes 
 to deliver her. I said that the horrible was beyond 
 the powers of Goethe ; but he has, in this exquisite 
 passage, attained to something more rare and wor- 
 thier of imitation, and which, for want of a better 
 term, I would call the pathetic of horror.*^ 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 " Strength to my limbs my fainting soul denies. 
 Sick with the sense of man's collected wo ; 
 
276 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Behind this dungeon's dripping wall she lies. 
 Frenzy the crime for which her blood must flow. 
 
 Traitor, thou darest not enter in 
 
 To face the witness of thy sin. 
 
 Forward, thy cowardice draws down the blow. 
 
 MARGARET {within) siugS. 
 
 Now shame on my mother 
 
 Who brought me to light. 
 And foul fall my father 
 
 Who nursed me in spite. 
 
 FAUST {unlocking the door). 
 She dreams not that her lover hears the strain. 
 The straw's sad rustling, and the clinking chain. 
 
 MARGARET {hiding herself in the straw on which she lies). 
 Wo, wo ! they wake me ! bitter fate ! 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Hush, hush ! I come to give thee means to fly. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Art thou a man ? then be compassionate. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Soft ! thou wilt wake thy jailers with that cry. 
 
 \_He seizes the chains to unlock them. 
 
 MARGARET (o« her knecs). 
 Who gave the hangman power 
 
 So soon to wake and slay ? 
 Why callest thou me at midnight's hour } — 
 
 Oh ! let me live till day ! 
 Is it not time when morn has sprung .'* 
 
 \JShe stands up. 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 277 
 
 And I am yet so young — so young ! ] 
 
 And yet so soon to perish by your laws. ■ 
 
 Once I was fair too— that is just the cause. ] 
 
 One friend was near me then ; he too is fled. 
 My flowers are wither'd, and my garland dead. 
 Seize me not thus ! it gives me pain. 
 
 Have I e'er wrong'd thee ? why then bind me so ? I 
 
 Let not my woman's voice implore in vain — i 
 
 Can I have hurt one whom I do not know ? 
 
 FAUST. j 
 
 Can I outlive this hour of wo ! 
 
 MARGARET. I 
 
 Ah ! I am now within thy power ; j 
 
 Yet let me clasp my only joy, '*. 
 
 My child ! I nursed it many an hour, \ 
 
 But then they took it from me to annoy. 
 
 And now they say the mother kill'd her boy. 
 
 ' And she shall ne'er be happy more.' — ] 
 
 That is the song they sing to give me pain ; i 
 
 It is the end of an old strain. 
 
 But never meant me before. ; 
 
 PAUBT. "! 
 
 He whom you deem'd so far, before you lies. 
 To burst your chains, and g^ve the life you prize. 
 
 MARGARET. i 
 
 Oh ! raise we to the saints our prayer ! j 
 
 For see, beneath the stair. 
 
 Beneath the door-stone swell 
 
 The penal flames of hell. 
 
 The evil one. 
 
 In pitiless wrath. 
 
 Roars for his prey. 
 
278 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 FAUST {aloud). 
 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! : 
 
 MARGARET (starting). 
 
 That was his voice ! ! 
 
 ^She springs up p her chains Jail off."] ] 
 
 Where is he ? for I know 'twas he. : 
 
 None, none shall stay me ; I am free ! i 
 'Tis to his bosom I will fly. 
 
 In his embraces I will lie. i 
 
 His Margaret he calls, on the threshold he stands, ; 
 
 'Mid the laughter and howls of the fiendish bands ; l 
 
 Through the shouts of their malice, their hissings of scorn, 1 
 
 How sweetly his voice of affection was borne ! j 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 'Tis I. I 
 
 MARGARET. \ 
 
 Oh, say it, say it, once again, 4 
 
 My friend, my lover ! Where is now my pain ? \ 
 
 Where is my chain, my dungeon, and my grave ? i 
 
 He comes himself to comfort and to save. ; 
 I see the church's aisle, the street. 
 Where first we dared to gaze, to meet : 
 
 The garden blooms before me now, ,' 
 
 Where first we shared the kiss, the vow. ■ 
 
 FAUST. • 
 
 Away ! away ! ] 
 
 J 
 
 MARGARET. J 
 
 Oh, not so fast ! i 
 
 Time is with you so sweetly past. I 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 279 
 
 PAU8T. 
 
 Haste^ Margaret, haste ! 
 For if thou lingerest here. 
 We both shall pay it dear. 
 
 MAROABET. 
 
 What, thou canst kiss no more ! 
 
 Away so short a time as this. 
 
 And hast so soon forgot to kiss ! 
 Why are my joys less ardent than they were ? 
 
 Once in those folding arms I loved to lie. 
 Clung to that breast, and deem'd my heaven was there. 
 
 Till, scarce alive, I almost long'd to die ! 
 Those lips are cold, and do not move, 
 
 Alas ! unkind, unkind ! 
 Hast thou left all thy love. 
 
 Thy former love, behind ? 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Follow me ! follow, Margaret ! be not slow : 
 With twice its former heat my love shall glow. 
 Margaret, this instant come, 'tis all I pray. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 And art thou, art thou, he for certain, say ? 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 I am ; come with me. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Thou shalt burst my chain. 
 And lay me in thy folding arms again. 
 How comes it, tell me, thou canst bear my sight ? 
 Know'st thou to whom thou bring'st the means of flight ? 
 
THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 FAUST. 1 
 
 Come, come ! — I feel the morning breeze's breath. j 
 
 MARGARET. 1 
 
 This hand was guilty of a mother's death ! 
 
 I drown'd my child ! And thou canst tell ] 
 
 If it was mine, 'twas thine as well. | 
 
 I scarce believe, though so it seem — , 
 
 Give me thy hand — I do not dream — ] 
 
 That dear, dear hand. Alas, that spot ! ] 
 
 Wipe it away, the purple clot ! ; 
 
 What hast thou done ? Put up thy sword : ' 
 
 It was thy Margaret's voice implored. ■ 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Oh Margaret ! let the past be past r 
 Forget it, or I breathe my last. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 No ; you must live till I shall trace 
 For each their separate burial place. 
 You must prepare betimes to-morrow 
 Our home of sorrow. 
 For my poor mother keep the best : 
 My brother next to her shall rest. 
 Me, Margaret, you must lay aside. 
 Some space between, but not too wide. 
 On the right breast my boy shall be ; 
 Let no one else lie there but he. 
 'Twere bliss with him in death to lie. 
 Which, on this earth, my foes deny. 
 'Tis all in vain — you will not mind. 
 And yet you look so good, so kind* 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 281 
 
 FAU8T. 
 
 Then be persuaded— come with me. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 To wander with you ? 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 To be free. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 To death : I know it — I prepare — 
 
 I come : the grave is yawning there ! 
 
 The grave, no farther— 'tis our journey's end. 
 
 You part. Oh ! could I but your steps attend. 
 
 FAU8T. 
 
 You can ! But wish it, and the deed is done. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I may not with you : hope tor me is none ! 
 How can I fly ? They glare upon me still ! 
 It is so sad to beg the wide world through, 
 And with an evil conscience too ! 
 It is so sad to roam through stranger lands. 
 And they will seize me with their iron hands ! 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 I will be with you. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Quick ! fly ! 
 
 Save it, or the child will die ! 
 
 Through the wild wood, 
 
 To the pond ! 
 
 It lifts its head ! 
 
 The bubbles rise ! 
 
382 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 It breathes ! 
 
 Oh save it, save it ! 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Reflect, reflect ! 
 
 One step, and thou art free ! 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Had we but passed the hillside lone — 
 
 My mother there sits on a stone. 
 
 Long she has sat there, cold and dead. 
 
 Yet nodding with her weary head. 
 
 Yet winks not, nor signs, other motion is o'er ; 
 
 She slept for so long, that she wakes no more. 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Since words are vain to rouse thy sleeping sense, 
 I venture, and with force I bear thee hence. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Unhand me ! leave me ! I will not consent ! 
 Too much I yielded once ! too much repent ! 
 
 FAUST. 
 
 Day ! Margaret, day ! your hour will soon be past. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 True, 'tis the day ; the last — the last ! 
 
 My bridal day ! — 'twill soon appear. 
 
 Tell it to none thou hast been here. 
 
 We shall see one another, and soon shall see — 
 
 But not at the dance will our meeting be. 
 
 We two shall meet 
 
 In the crowded street : 
 
 The citizens throng — the press is hot. 
 
 They talk together — I hear them not : 
 
GERMAN GENIUS. 283 
 
 The bell has toll'd — the wand they break — 
 My arras they pinion till they ache ! 
 They force me down upon the chair ! 
 The neck of each spectator there 
 Thrills, as though itself would feel 
 The headsman's stroke — the sweeping steel! 
 And all are as dumb, with speechless pain. 
 As if they never would speak again ! 
 
 PAU8T. 
 
 Oh, had I never lived ! 
 
 MEPHisTOPHELES {appears in the door-rvay). 
 
 Off! or your life will be but short : 
 
 My coursers paw the ground, and snort ! 
 
 The sun will rise, and off they bound. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Who is it rises from the ground ? 
 'Tis he !— the evil one of hell ! 
 What would he where the holy dwell ? 
 'Tis me he seeks ! 
 
 PAU8T. 
 
 To bid thee live. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Justice of Heaven ! to thee my soul I give ! 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES (jO PAUST). 
 
 Come ! come ! or tarry else with her to die. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Heaven, I am thine ! to thy embrace I fly ! 
 Hover around, ye angel bands 
 Save me ! defy him where he stands. 
 Henry, I shudder ! 'tis for thee. 
 
284 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 MEPHISTOPHELES. 
 
 She is condemn'd ! 
 
 VOICES PROM ABOVE. 
 
 Is pardon'd ! 
 
 MEPHISTOPEHLES (to FAUST). 
 
 Hence, and flee ! 
 
 {Vanishes with Faust. 
 
 MARGARET {from Within). 
 Henry ! Henry !" 
 
 " I admit,*" said Benedict, wiping his eyes, when 
 the Nymph had finished, " that there is considerable 
 power in some passages, and also that the scene you 
 have just read is truly solemn and affecting ; but 
 still the whole drama is a very ill-constructed piece 
 of work, and has faults that would have sunk it in 
 England at the launching, and covered its author 
 with irredeemable ridicule. Cats singing, and a he- 
 cat rubbing the devil's legs as if it had been a 
 bachelor's Tom !'' 
 
 " Hush !" exclaimed the Nymph, laughing, " re- 
 collect what you are yourself. Besides, bear in mind 
 that the devil is a bachelor, and the first that was. 
 To be serious, however, it cannot be questioned that, 
 although there are in the productions of German 
 genius, passages of the very highest order, and con- 
 ceptions too of great originality, yet that, generally 
 speaking, taking this drama as an admired work, 
 absurdity and silliness are probably so superabun- 
 dant in them, that the same things which pleeise the 
 
FALLS OF NLAOARA. 285 
 
 Germans, and obtain honours and patronage among 
 them, would be consigned to laughter among us. 
 
 CHAP. XXXII. 
 
 FALLS OF NIAGARA. 
 
 " You were speaking to me lately,^ said the Bache- 
 lor," of the Falls of Niagara, as described by Mr 
 Howison, in his Sketches of Upper Canada. I do 
 not recollect the passage, indeed I may say that I 
 have scarcely looked at the book.*" 
 
 " Then you have a treat to receive which you 
 are not aware of," replied the Nymph : " it is a pleas- 
 ing work, written with considerable taste and great 
 purity of feeling, and no one who is not possessed of 
 the same delicate sense of physical grandeur, and of 
 the beauties of nature, should write about America. 
 I never read a book relative to that country but which 
 reminded me of the new-built suburbs of some of our 
 great manufacturing towns. There is a traffic-like 
 something about every description of the inhabitants, 
 by which one is brought to think only of profits and 
 of labour, — good and very necessary things, and 
 highly essential to the prosperity of a state, but not 
 just the sort of topics that delight in books of travels. 
 Mr Howison, however, is an exception to the gene- 
 rality of travellers in Amenca, — he gives us little of 
 what, in the course of business and of political eco- 
 nomy, is called valuable information, but he gives a 
 great deal of very pleasing description ; — now it is 
 
286 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 description which I long for. Every body has heard 
 and read of the vast scale on which nature has 
 formed the scenery of America ; — but few accounts 
 of its appearance present any image to the mind. 
 It is easy to conceive, from the dimensions of the 
 American mountains, lakes, and rivers, that they 
 prodigiously exceed every thing of the kind in this 
 country ; but the moral excitement which they pro- 
 duce, when first seen, has never been well described. 
 The best that I have almost ever met with is cer- 
 tainly Mr Howison's sketch of the Falls of Niagara. 
 I had never before any just idea of their might and 
 majesty ; but he makes one feel something of what he 
 himself experienced in beholding the magnificence of 
 that unequalled scene. As you say you do not re- 
 collect the passage, I will read it to you." 
 
 " Now that I propose to attempt a description of the 
 Falls of Niagara,, I feel myself threatened with a return 
 of those throbs of trembling expectation, which agitated 
 me on my first visit to these stupendous cataracts, and 
 to which every person of the least sensibility is liable, 
 when he is on the eve of seeing any thing that has 
 strongly excited his curiosity, or powerfully affected his 
 imagination. I fear I will not be able to convey a cor- 
 rect idea of the scene I mean to describe. Yet, anxious 
 as I am that you should have just conceptions of it, I 
 would not willingly have accepted your company when 
 I first visited Niagara Falls, — as any object that did not 
 enter into the real composition of the mighty scene, 
 would have proved a source of painful interruption to 
 me while engaged in contemplating its magnificent fea- 
 tures. 
 
 " The form of Niagara Falls is that of an irregular 
 semicircle, about three quarters of a mile in extent. 
 
FALLS OF NIAGARA. 287 
 
 This is divided ii\to two distinct cascades by the inter- 
 vention of Goat Island, the extremity of which is per- 
 pendicular, and in a line with the precipice over which 
 the water is projected. The cataract on the Canada side 
 of the river is called the Horseshoe, or Great Fall, from 
 its peculiar form — and that next the United States the 
 American Fall. 
 
 " Three extensive views of the Falls may be obtained 
 from three different places. In general, the first oppor- 
 tunity travellers have of seeing the cataract is from the 
 high-road, which, at one point, lies near the bank of the 
 river. This place, however, being considerably above 
 the level of the Falls, and a good way beyond them, af- 
 fords a view that is comparatively imperfect and unim- 
 posing. 
 
 " The Table Rock, from which the Falls of the Nia- 
 gara may be contemplated in all their grandeur, lies on an 
 exact level with the edge of the cataract on the Canada 
 side, and indeed forms a part of the precipice over 
 which the water gushes. It derives its name from the 
 circumstance of its projecting beyond the cliffs that sup- 
 port it like the leaf of a table. To gain this position, 
 it is necessary to descend a steep bank, and to follow a 
 path that winds among shrubbery and trees, which en- 
 tirely conceal from the eye the scene that awaits him 
 who traverses it. When near the termination of this 
 road, a few steps carried me beyond all these obstruc- 
 tions, and a magnificent amphitheatre of cataracts burst 
 upon my view with appalling suddenness and majesty. 
 However, in a moment the scene was concealed from 
 my eyes by a dense cloud of spray, which involved me 
 so completely, that I did not dare to extricate myself. 
 A mingled and thundering rushing filled my ears. I 
 could see nothing except when the wind made a chasm 
 in the spray, and then tremendous cataracts seemed to 
 encompass me on every side, while below, a raging and 
 
288 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 foamy gulf of undiscoverable extent lashed the rocks 
 with its hissing waves^ and swallowed, under a horrible 
 obscurity, the smoking floods that were precipitated in- 
 to its bosom. 
 
 " At first the sky was obscured by clouds, but after a 
 few minutes the sun burst forth, and the breeze subsid- 
 ing at the same time, permitted the spray to ascend per- 
 pendicularly. A host of pyramidal clouds rose majesti- 
 cally, one after another, from the abyss at the bottom 
 of the Fall ; and each, when it had ascended a little 
 above the edge of the cataract, displayed a beautiful 
 rainbow, which in a few moments was gradually trans- 
 ferred into the bosom of the cloud that immediately suc- 
 ceeded. The spray of the Great Fall had extended it- 
 self through a wide space directly over me, and, receiv- 
 ing the full influence of the sun, exhibited a luminous 
 and magnificent rainbow, which continued to over-arch 
 and irradiate the spot on which I stood, while I enthu- 
 siastically contemplated the indescribable scene. 
 
 " Any person, who has nerve enough (as I had) may 
 plunge his hand into the water of the Great Fall after 
 it is projected over the precipice, merely by lying down 
 flat, with his face beyond the edge of the Table Rock, 
 and stretching out his arm to its utmost extent. The 
 experiment is truly a horrible one, and such as I would 
 not wish to repeat ; for, even to this day, I feel a shud- 
 dering and recoiling sensation when I recollect having 
 been in the posture above described. 
 
 " The body of water which composes the middle part 
 of the Great Fall is so immense, that it descends nearly 
 two-thirds of the space without being rufiled or broken, 
 and the solemn calmness with which it rolls over the 
 edge of the precipice is finely contrasted with the per- 
 turbed appearance it assumes after having reached the 
 gulf below. But the water towards each side of the 
 Fall is shattered the moment it drops over the rock, and 
 
FALLS OF NIAGARA. 289 
 
 loses as it descends, in a great measure, the character 
 of a fluid, being divided into pyramidal-shaped frag- 
 ments, the bases of which are turned upwards. The 
 surface of the gulf below the cataract presents a very 
 singular aspect ; seeming, as it were, filled with an im- 
 mense quantity of hoar frost, which is agitated by small 
 and rapid undulations. The particles of water are dazzl- 
 ingly white, and do not apparently unite together, as 
 might be supposed, but seem to continue for a time in 
 a state of distinct comminution, and to repel each other 
 with a thrilling and shivering motion which cannot 
 easily be described. 
 
 " The noise made by the Horseshoe Fall, though very 
 great, is infinitely less than might be expected, and va- 
 ries in loudness according to the state of the atmos- 
 phere. When the weather is clear and frosty, it may 
 be distinctly heard at the distance of ten or twelve 
 miles ; but much further when there is a steady breeze : 
 however, I have frequently stood upon the declivity of 
 the high bank that overlooks the Table Rock, and dis- 
 tinguished a low thundering only, which at times was 
 altogether drowned amidst the roaring of the Rapids 
 above the cataract. In my opinion, tlie concave shape 
 of the Great Fall explains this circumstance. The noise 
 vibrates from one side of the rocky recess to the other, 
 and a little only escapes from its confinement; and even 
 this is less distinctly heard than it would otherwise be, 
 as the profusion of spray renders the air near the catar* 
 act a very indifferent conductor of sound. 
 
 " The road to the bottom of the Fall presents many 
 more difficulties than that which leads to the Table 
 Rock. After leaving the Table Rock, the traveller 
 must proceed down the river nearly half a mile, where 
 he will come to a small chasm in the bank, in which 
 there is a spiral staircase enclosed in a wooden building. 
 By descending the stair, which is seventy or eighty feet 
 
290 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 perpendicular height, he will find himself under the 
 precipice on the top of which he formerly walked. A 
 high but sloping bank extends from its base to the edge 
 of the river ; and on the summit of this there is a narrow 
 slippery path, covered with angular fragments of rock, 
 which leads to the Great Fall. The impending cliffs, 
 hung with a profusion of trees and brushwood, overarch 
 this road, and seem to vibrate with the thunders of the 
 cataract. In some places they rise abruptly to the 
 height of one hundred feet, and display, upon their sur- 
 faces, fossil shells, and the organic remains of a former 
 world ; thus sublimely leading the mind to contemplate 
 the convulsions which nature has undergone since the 
 creation. As the traveller advances, he is frightfully 
 stunned by the appalling noise ; clouds of spray some- 
 times envelope him, and suddenly check his faltering 
 steps, — rattlesnakes start from the cavities of the rocks, 
 and the scream of eagles soaring among the whirlwinds 
 of eddying vapour which obscure the gulf of the catar- 
 act, at intervals announce that the raging waters have 
 hurled some bewildered animal over the precipice. Af- 
 ter scrambling among piles of huge rocks that obstruct 
 his way, the traveller gains the bottom of the Fall, 
 where the soul can be susceptible only of one emotion, 
 —that of uncontrollable terror. 
 
 '' It was not until I had, by frequent excursions to 
 the Falls, in some measure familiarized my mind with 
 their sublimities, that I ventured to explore the pene- 
 tralia of the Great Cataract. The precipice over which 
 it rolls is very much arched underneath, while the im- 
 petus which the water receives in its descent projects it 
 far beyond the cliff, and thus an immense Gothic arch 
 is formed by the rock and the torrent. Twice I entered 
 this cavern, and twice I was obliged to retrace my 
 steps, lest I should be suffocated by the blast of dense 
 spray that whirled around me; however, the third 
 
FALLS OF NIAGARA. 201 
 
 time, I succeeded in advancing about twenty-five yards. 
 Here darkness began to encircle me ; on one side, the 
 black cliff stretched itself into a gigantic arch far above 
 my head, and on the other, the dense and hissing tor- 
 rent formed an impenetrable sheet of foam, with which 
 I was drenched in a moment. The rocks were so slip- 
 pery, that I could hardly keep my feet, or hold securely 
 by them ; while the horrid din made me think the pre- 
 cipices above were tumbling down in colossal fragments 
 upon my head. 
 
 " It is not easy to determine how far an individual 
 might advance between the sheet of water and the 
 rock ; but were it even possible to explore the recess to 
 its utmost extremity, scarcely any one, I believe, would 
 have courage to attempt an expedition of the kind. 
 
 " A little way below the Great Fall, the river is, 
 comparatively speaking, so tranquil, that a ferry-boat 
 plies between the Canada and American shores, for the 
 convenience of travellers. When I first crossed, the 
 heaving flood tossed about the skiff with a violence that 
 seemed very alarming ; but as soon as we gained the 
 middle of the river, my attention was altogether en- 
 gaged by the surpassing grandeur of the scene before 
 me. I was now within the area of a semicircle of catar- 
 acts, more than three thousand feet in extent, and floated 
 on the surface of a gulf, raging, fathomless, and inter- 
 minable. Majestic cliffs, splendid rainbows, lofty trees, 
 and columns of spray, were the gorgeous decorations of 
 this theatre of wonders, while a dazzling sun shed re- 
 fulgent glories upon every part of the scene. — Sur- 
 rounded with clouds of vapour, and stunned into a state 
 of confusion and terror by the hideous noise, I looked 
 upwards to the height of one hundred and fifty feet, and 
 saw vast floods, dense, awful, and stupendous, vehe- 
 mently bursting over the precipice, and rolling down, 
 as if the windows of heaven were opened to pour ano- 
 
292 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ther deluge upon the earth. Loud sounds, resembling 
 discharges of artillery or volcanic explosions, were now 
 distinguishable amidst the watery tumult, and added 
 terrors to the abyss from which they issued. The sun, 
 looking majestically through the ascending spray, was 
 encircled by a radiant halo ; whilst fragments of rain- 
 bows floated on every side, and momentarily vanished 
 only to give place to a succession of others more bril- 
 liant. Looking backwards, I saw the Niagara river, 
 again become calm and tranquil, rolling magnificently 
 between the towering cliffs that rose on either side, and 
 receiving showers of orient dew-drops from the trees 
 that gracefully overarched its transparent bosom. A 
 gentle breeze ruffled the waters, and beautiful birds 
 fluttered around, as if to welcome its egress from those 
 clouds and thunders and rainbows, which were the her- 
 alds of its precipitation into the abyss of the cataract." 
 
 CHAP. XXXIL 
 
 MOSCOW. 
 
 " Dii Edward Daniel Clarke,*" said Egeria one 
 morning as the first part of his voluminous Travels 
 happened to be lying on the table before the Bache- 
 lor ; " Dr Edward Daniel Clarke is about the most 
 interesting and accomplished traveller that England 
 has yet produced. He is, I admit, occasionally dog- 
 matical, — and, I would almost say, also supersti- 
 tiously credulous ; but still he has brought a mind 
 of very respectable endowment, and superior, per- 
 
MOSCOW— NOBILITY. 293 
 
 haps extraordinary, acquirements to bear upon all 
 and every thing that he has described. His opinion 
 of the Russians, however, is mere angry prejudice : 
 he must have suffered, either in his interests or in 
 his vanity, probably in both, before he could have 
 fallen into the error of supposing that the world 
 would beheve the following description to be in any 
 degree correct, founded, as it evidently is, on hear- 
 say and individual foUies : even, prior to the time 
 of Peter the Great, the manners of the Russian no- 
 bility could not have been so gross and abominable 
 as these monstrosities." 
 
 NOBILITY. 
 " Some of the nobles are much richer than the richest 
 of our English peers ; and a vast number^ as may be 
 supposed, are very poor. To this poverty, and to these 
 riches, are equally joined the most abject meanness, and 
 the most detestable profligacy. In sensuality they are 
 without limits of law, conscience, or honour. In their 
 amusement always children ; in their resentment, wo- 
 men. The toys of infants, the baubles of French fops, 
 constitute the highest object of their wishes. Novelty 
 delights the human race ; but no part of it seek for no- 
 velty so eagerly as the Russian nobles. Novelty in 
 their debaucheries; novelty in gluttony; novelty in 
 cruelty ; novelty in whatever they pursue. This is not 
 the case with the lower class, who preserve their habits 
 unaltered from one generation to another. But there 
 are characteristics in which the Russian prince and the 
 Russian peasant are the same : they are all equally 
 barbarous. Visit a Russian, of whatever rank, at his 
 country seat, and you will find him lounging about, 
 uncombed, unwashed, unshaven, half-naked, eating raw 
 turnips, and drinking quass. The raw turnip is handed 
 
294 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 about in slices, in the first houses, upon a silver salver, 
 vi^ith brandy, as a whet before dinner. Their hair is 
 universally in a state not to be described; and their 
 bodies are only divested of vermin when they frequent 
 the bath. Upon those occasions, their shirts and pe- 
 lisses are held over a hot stove, and the heat occasions 
 the vermin to fall off. It is a fact too notorious to admit 
 dispute, that from the Emperor to the meanest slave, 
 throughout the vast empire of all the Russias, including 
 all its princes, nobles, priests, and peasants, there exists 
 not a single individual in a thousand, whose body is 
 destitute of vermin. An English gentleman of Moscow, 
 residing as a banker in the city, assured me, that, passing 
 on horseback through the streets, he has often seen 
 women of the highest quality, sitting in the windows of 
 their palaces, divesting each other of vermin ; — another 
 trait, in addition to what I have said before, of their re- 
 semblance to the Neapolitans. 
 
 " The true manners of the people are not seen in 
 Petersburgh, nor even in Moscow, by entering the 
 houses of nobility only. Some of them, and generally 
 those to whom letters of recommendation are obtained, 
 have travelled, and introduce refinements, which their 
 friends and companions readily imitate. The real Rus- 
 sian rises at an early hour, and breakfasts on a dram 
 with black bread. His dinner at noon consists of the 
 coarsest and most greasy viands, the scorbutic effects of 
 which are counteracted by salted cucumbers, sour cab- 
 bage, the juice of his vaccinimn, and his nectar, quass. 
 Sleep, which renders him unmindful of his abject servi- 
 tude and barbarous life, he particularly indulges : sleep- 
 ing always after eating, and going early to his bed. 
 The principal articles of diet are the same every where ; 
 grease and brandy. A stranger, dining with their most 
 refined and most accomplished princes, may in vain ex- 
 pect to see his knife and fork changed. If he sends 
 
NOBILITY. 295 
 
 them away, they are returned without even being 
 wiped. If he looks behind him, he will see a servant 
 spit in the plate he is to receive, and wipe it with a 
 dirty napkin, to remove the dust. If he ventures 
 (which he should avoid, if he is hungry) to inspect the 
 soup in his plate with too inquisitive an eye, he will 
 doubtless discover living victims in distress, which a 
 Russian, if he saw, would swallow with indifference. 
 Is it not known to all, that Potemkin used to take ver- 
 min from liis head, and kill them on the bottom of his 
 plate at table ? and beauteous princesses of Moscow do 
 not scruple to follow his example. But vermin un- 
 known to an Englishman, and which it is not permitted 
 even to name, attack the stranger who incautiously 
 approaches too near the persons of their nobility, and 
 visit him from their sophas and chairs. If at table he 
 regards his neighbour, he sees him picking his teeth 
 with his fork, and then plunging it into a plate of meat 
 which is brought round to all. The horrors of a Rus- 
 sian kitchen are inconceivable ; and there is not a bed 
 in the whole empire, which an English traveller, aware 
 of its condition, would venture to approach. — There 
 is, in fact, no degree of meanness to which a Russian 
 nobleman will not condescend. To enumerate the things 
 of which we were eye-witnesses, would only weary and 
 disgust the reader. I will end with one. 
 
 " A hat had been stolen from our apartments. The 
 servants positively asserted, that some young noblemen, 
 who had been more lavish of their friendship and com- 
 pany than we desired, had gained access to the cham- 
 bers in our absence, and had carried off the hat, with 
 some other moveables, even of less value. The fact was 
 inconceivable, and we gave no credit to it. A few days 
 after, being upon an excursion to the convent of the 
 New Jerusalem, forty-five versts north of Moscow, a 
 party of the nobles, to whom our intention was made 
 
296 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 known the preceding evening at the Club de Noblesse, 
 overtook us on horseback. One of them, mounted on 
 an English racer, and habited like a Newmarket jockey, 
 rode up to the side of the carriage, but his horse being 
 somewhat unruly, he lost his seat, and a gust of wind 
 carried off his cap. My companion immediately de- 
 scended, and ran to recover it for its owner ; but what 
 was his astonishment, to perceive his own name, and 
 the name of his hatter, on the lining ! It was no other 
 than the identical hat which one of the party had stolen 
 from our lodgings, now become a cap, and which, under 
 its altered shape, might not have been recognised, but 
 for the accident here mentioned." 
 
 " This is amusing. The feeling it excites is similar 
 to that which the excessive abuse of an angry man 
 transported beyond the occasion sometimes produces. 
 One, however, is not sure whether such extravagance 
 deserves contempt or derision, nevertheless it is clev- 
 erly told. 
 
 " In his description of Moscow, he has had plainly 
 in his mind the idea of the French prince, who said 
 of that celebrated capital, that it looked like an as- 
 semblage of old chateaux come in from the country, 
 each attended by its own particular village ; but 
 still it is very good, though here and there heightened 
 by the general splenetic humour into which the doc- 
 tor falls as often as he treats of any thing concerning 
 the Russian nobility," 
 
 THE CITY. 
 " We arrived at the season of the year in which this 
 city is most interesting to strangers. Moscow is in every 
 thing extraordinary ; as well in disappointing expecta- 
 tion as in surpassing it ; in causing wonder and deri- 
 sion, pleasure and regret. Let me conduct the reader 
 
THE CITY. 297 
 
 back with me to the gate by which we entered, and 
 thence through the streets. Numerous spires glittering 
 witli gold, amidst burnished domes and painted palaces, 
 appear in the midst of an open plain, for several vrests 
 before you reach this gate. Having passed, you look 
 about and wonder what is become of the city, or where 
 you are; and are ready to ask once more. How far 
 is it to Moscow ? They will tell you, * This is Moscow !' 
 and you behold nothing but a wide and scattered su- 
 burb, huts, gardens, pigsties, brick walls, churches, 
 dunghills, palaces, timber-yards, warehouses, and a re- 
 fuse, as it were, of materials sufficient to stock an em- 
 pire with miserable towns and miserable villages. One 
 might imagine all the states of Europe and Asia had 
 sent a building, by way of representative, to Moscow ; 
 and under this impression the eye is presented with 
 deputies from all countries holding congress: timber 
 huts from regions beyond the Arctic — plastered palaces 
 from Sweden and Denmark, not whitewashed since 
 their arrival — painted walls from the Tyrol — mosques 
 from Constantinople — Tartar temples from Bucharia— 
 pagados, pavilions and virandas from China — cabarets 
 from Spain— dungeons, prisons, and public offices from 
 France — architectural ruins from Rome — terraces and 
 trellisses from Naples — and warehouses from Wapping. 
 " Having heard accounts of its immense population, 
 you wander through deserted streets. Passing suddenly 
 towards the quarter where the shops are situated, you 
 might walk upon the heads of thousands. The daily 
 throng is there so immense, that, unable to force a pas- 
 sage through it, or assign any motive that miglit con- 
 vene such a multitude, you ask the cause, and are told 
 that it is always the same. Nor is the costume less va- 
 rious than the aspect of the buildings ; Greeks, Turks, 
 Tartars, Cossacks, Chinese, Muscovites, English, French, 
 
298 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Italians, Poles, Germans, all parade in the habits of their 
 respective countries. 
 
 " We were in a Russian inn ; a complete epitome of 
 the city itself. The next room to ours was filled by 
 ambassadors from Persia. In a chamber beyond the 
 Persians lodged a party of Kirgisians, — a people yet un- 
 known, and any one of whom might be exhibited in a 
 cage, as some newly-discovered species. .They had 
 bald heads covered by conical embroidered caps, and 
 wore sheeps* hides. Beyond the Kirgisians lodged a 
 7iidus of Bucharians, wild as the asses of Numidia. All 
 these were ambassadors from their different districts, 
 extremely jealous of each other, who had been to Peters- 
 burg to treat of commerce, peace, and war. The doors 
 of all our chambers opened into one gloomy passage, so 
 that sometimes we all encountered and formed a curious 
 masquerade. The Kirgisians and Bucharians were best 
 at arm's length; but the worthy old Persian, whose 
 name was Orazai, often exchanged visits with us. He 
 brought us presents, according to the custom of his 
 country ; and was much pleased with an English 
 pocket knife we had given him, with which he said he 
 should shave his head. At his devotions, he stood 
 silent for an hour together on two small carpets, bare- 
 footed, with his face towards Mecca ; holding, as he 
 said, intellectual converse with Mahomet. 
 
 ^'Ambassadors of other more Oriental hordes drove into 
 the court-yard of the inn, from Petersburg. The emper- 
 or had presented each of them with a barouche. Never 
 was any thing more ludicrous than their appearance.— 
 Out of respect to the sovereign, they had maintained a 
 painful struggle to preserve their seat, sitting cross- 
 legged like Turks. The snow having melted, they had 
 been jolted in this manner over the trunks of trees, 
 which form a timber causeway between Petersburg and 
 
HIGH MASS IN ST PETER'S. 299 
 
 Moscow : so that when taken from their fine new car- 
 riages, they could harly crawl, aud made the most 
 pitiable grimaces imaginable. A few days after coming 
 to Moscow, they ordered all the carriages to be sold for 
 whatever sum any person would offer." 
 
 CHAP. XXXIV. 
 
 HIGH MASS IN ST PETER'S. 
 
 When the Nymph had concluded, Benedict reached 
 his hand to a shelf behind liim, and took down Eus- 
 tace's Tour in Italy. 
 
 " With all Dr Clarke's merits as a traveller,'* 
 said he, " he has produced no two such volumes as 
 these." 
 
 " Yes," replied Egeria, " I agree with you ; but 
 then many of the topics which the doctor has handled 
 freely and philosophically, Mr Eustace would not 
 have ventured to touch. Besides, you will allow 
 that much of the Tour in Italy derives its interest 
 and beauty from the religious faith of the traveller. 
 No Protestant can feel in that country like a Catho- 
 lic ; — he will see only mummery and pageants in 
 those rites and mysteries which elevate the other in- 
 to the ecstasies of holiness and adoration. But al- 
 though Mr Eustace, in this respect, often awakens 
 the sympathy even of Protestant readers, by descrip- 
 tions of sights and shows which a less reverential pil- 
 grim to the shrine of St Peter would either have 
 passed by unheeded or scoffingly, his good taste has 
 
300 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 always preserved him from launching into extrava- 
 gance in describing those scenes and solemnities, 
 which, it is natural to suppose, he must have wit- 
 nessed with the greatest awe and enthusiasm. His 
 account of the celebration of High Mass, by the 
 Pope in St Peter''s, is a remarkable instance of this. 
 It has the air of a simple historical statement, and 
 yet breathes throughout a repressed spirit of devo- 
 tional reverence, that renders the effect far more im- 
 pressive than if the author had indulged the warmth 
 and elevation of sentiment with which, it is not to 
 be doubted, he was himself affected during so august 
 and so imposing a ceremony." 
 
 " When the Pope celebrates divine service, as on 
 Easter Sunday, Christmas day, Whit Sunday, St Peter 
 and St Paul, &c., the great or middle doors of the 
 church are thrown open at ten, and the procession, 
 formed of all the persons mentioned above, preceded 
 by a beadle carrying the Papal cross, and two others 
 bearing lighted torches, enters and advances slowly, in 
 two long lines, between two ranks of soldiers, up the 
 nave. This majestic procession is closed by the Pontiff 
 himself, seated in a chair of state, supported by twenty 
 valets, half concealed in the drapery that falls in loose 
 folds from the throne. He is crowned with his tiara, 
 and bestows his benediction on the crowds that kneel 
 on all sides as he is borne along. When arrived at the 
 foot of the altar, he descends, resigns his tiara, kneels, 
 and, assuming the common mitre, seats himself in the 
 episcopal chair on the right side pf the altar, and joins 
 in the psalms and prayers that precede the solemn ser- 
 vice. Towards the conclusion of these preparatory de- 
 votions, his immediate attendants form a circle around 
 him, clothe him in his pontifical robes, and place the 
 
HIGH MASS IN ST PETER'S. 301 
 
 tiara on his head; after which, accompanied by two 
 deacons and two sub-deacons, he advances to the foot 
 of the altar, and bowing reverently, makes the usual 
 confession. He then proceeds in great pomp through 
 the chancel, and ascends the pontifical throne, while the 
 choir sing the Introitus, or psalm of entrance, the Kyric 
 Eleison and Gloria in excelsis, when the Pontiff lays 
 aside his tiara, and, after having saluted the congrega- 
 tion in the usual form, the Lord be with you, reads the 
 collect in an elevated tone of voice, with a degree of in- 
 flection just sufficient to distinguish it from an ordinary 
 lecture. The epistle is then read, first in Latin, then 
 in Greek ; and after it some select verses from the 
 Psalms, intermingled with AUeluiahs, are sung, to ele- 
 vate the mind, and prepare it for the gospel. The Pon- 
 tiff then rises, gives his benediction to the two deacons 
 that kneel at his feet with the book of the gospels, and, 
 resigning his tiara, stands while the gospel is sung in 
 Latin and in Greek ; after which he commences the Ni- 
 cene creed, which is continued in music by the choir. 
 When the creed and the psalm that follows it are over, 
 he descends from his throne, and approaching the altar, 
 with the same attendants and the same pomp as in the 
 commencement of the service, he receives, and offers 
 up the usual oblations, fumes the altar with frankin- 
 cense from a golden censer, and then washes his hands, 
 —a ceremony implying purity of mind and body. He 
 then turns to the people, and, in an humble and affec- 
 tionate address, begs their prayers ; and shortly after 
 commences that sublime form of adoration and praise 
 called the Preface, because it is an introduction to the 
 most solemn part of the liturgy, and chaunts it in a tone 
 supposed to be borrowed from the ancient tragic decla- 
 mation, and very noble and impressive. The last words, 
 " Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of armies," &c., are utter- 
 ed in a posture of profound adoration, and sung by the 
 
302 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 choir in notes of deep and solemn intonation. All music 
 then ceases^ all sounds are hushed, and an awful silence 
 reigns around ; while, in a low tone, the Pontiff recites 
 that most ancient and venerable invocation which pre- 
 cedes, accompanies, and follows the consecration, and 
 concludes with great propriety in the Lord's Prayer, 
 chaunted with a few emphatical inflections. 
 
 " Shortly after the conclusion of this prayer, the 
 Pontiff salutes the people in the ancient form, " May 
 the peace of the Lord be always with you," and returns 
 to his throne, while the choir sing thrice the devout ad- 
 dress to the Saviour, taken from the gospel, " Lamb of 
 God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy 
 upon us." When he is seated, the two deacons bring 
 the holy sacrament, which he first reveres humbly on 
 his knees, and then receives in a sitting posture : the 
 anthem after communion is sung, a collect follows, and 
 the deacon dismisses the assembly. 
 
 '' The Pope then offers up his devotions on his knees 
 at the foot of the altar, and borne along in the same 
 state as when he entered, passes down the nave of the 
 church, and ascends by the Scala Regia to the grand 
 gallery in the middle of the front of St Peter's. His 
 immediate attendants surround his person, the rest of 
 the procession draws up on each side. The immense 
 area and colonnade before the church are lined with 
 troops, and crowded with thousands of spectators. All 
 eyes are fixed on the gallery, the chaunt of the choir is 
 heard at a distance, the blaze of numberless torches 
 plays round the columns, and the Pontiff appears ele- 
 vated on his chair of state under the middle arch. In- 
 stantly the whole multitude below fall on their knees, 
 the cannons from St Angelo give a general discharge, 
 while, rising slowly from his throne, he lifts his hands 
 to heaven, stretches forth his arm, and thrice gives his 
 benediction to the crowd, to the city, and to all man- 
 
MISS BAILUE'S SONGS. 303 
 
 kind ; a solemn pause follows, another discharge is 
 heard, the crowd rises, and the pomp gradually disap- 
 pears. This ceremony is, without doubt, very grand, 
 and considered by most travellers as a noble and becom- 
 ing conclusion to the majestic service that precedes it. 
 In fact, every thing concurs to render it interesting ; 
 the venerable character of the Pontiff himself, the first 
 bishop of the Christian church, issuing from the sanc- 
 tuary of the noblest temple in the universe, bearing the 
 holiness of the mysteries, which he has just partici* 
 pated, imprinted on his countenance, offering up his 
 supplication in behalf of his flock, his subjects, his 
 brethren, his fellow-creatures, to the Father of all, 
 through the Saviour and Mediator of all. Surely such 
 a scene is both edifying and impressive." 
 
 CHAP. XXXIII. 
 
 MISS BAILLIKS SONGS. 
 
 " The genius of Miss Baillie,'' said Egeria, " dilates 
 as we become more and more intimately acquainted 
 with her works. There is a retired truth and secret 
 sentiment in her poetry, which is not obvious at the 
 first reading. Passion with her takes more of the 
 character of sensibility than of energy. It bears, 
 suffers, and sustains, but seldom breaks out into any 
 vehemence of action, — had she, instead of writing 
 dramas on the passions, been contented with the less 
 ambitious walk of odes and songs, her muse would 
 have been more popular. I suspect she would even 
 
304 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 have ranked higher, high as she is in hterature. 
 But what I most admire in her poetry is, a certain 
 quaint something of antiquity, simple and pictu- 
 resque, both in the language and the thought, re- 
 minding one, I know not wherefore, of mossy trees 
 and ivied towers, curious carvings, and all sorts and 
 scenes of olden imagery. 
 
 " There is an original song by her on a trite subject, 
 but so prettily expressed, as to have all the newness 
 that can be desired, even in the most excellent new 
 
 When clouds on high are riding. 
 The wintry moonshine hiding. 
 The raging blast abiding. 
 
 O'er mountain waves we go. 
 
 With hind on dry land creeping. 
 With town's men shelter keeping. 
 With lord on soft down sleeping. 
 
 Change we our lot ? — Oh^ no. 
 
 O'er stormy main careering. 
 Each sea-mate sea-mate cheering. 
 With dauntless helms-man steering. 
 
 Our steady course we hold. 
 
 Their sails Avith sunbeams whiten'd. 
 Themselves with glory brighten'd. 
 From care their bosoms lighten'd. 
 
 Who shall return .?— The bold.' 
 
 " But the songs in her delightful little drama of 
 *' the Beacon'' surpass all her other lyrical pieces. 
 
MISS BAILLIE'S SONGS. 305 
 
 I know not indeed the rhythm of any verse that comes 
 8o richly to the ear as tlie following reveilUe ."^ 
 
 " Up ! quit thy bower, late wears the hour ; 
 Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower ; 
 On flower and tree, loud hums the bee ; 
 The wilding kid sports merrily : 
 A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, 
 Shineth when good fortune's near. 
 
 Up ! Lady fair, and braid thy hair. 
 
 And rouse thee in the breezy air ; 
 
 The lulling stream, that sooth'd thy dream. 
 
 Is dancing in the sunny beam ; 
 
 And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay. 
 
 Will waft good fortune on its way." 
 
 " And this too reminds one of Milton'^s L' Al- 
 legro '!^ 
 
 " Wish'd-for gales the light vane veering. 
 Better dreams the dull night cheering ; 
 Lighter heart the morning greeting. 
 Things of better omen meeting ; 
 Eyes each passing stranger watching. 
 Ears each feeble rumour catching. 
 Say he existeth still on earthly ground. 
 The absent will return, the long, long lost be found. 
 
 In the tower the ward-bell ringing. 
 
 In the court the carols singing ; 
 
 Busy hands the gay board dressing. 
 
 Eager steps the threshold pressing, 
 
 Open'd arms in haste advancing. 
 
 Joyful looks through blind tears glancing ; 
 
306 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 The gladsome bounding of his aged hound. 
 
 Say he in truth is here, our long, long lost is found. 
 
 Hymned thanks and beedsmen praying. 
 With sheath'd sword the urching playing ; 
 Blazon'd hall with torches burning. 
 Cheerful morn in peace returning ; 
 Converse sweet that strangely borrows 
 Present bliss from former sorrows ; 
 O who can tell each blessed sight and sound. 
 That says, he with us bides, our long, long lost is found !" 
 
 " There is another still better, though perhaps not 
 so concisely expressed ; but what it may want of that 
 antique air, which I so much like, is amply made up 
 by the greater unity of the subject, and the brief 
 and beautiful description in the second stanza f 
 
 '' Where distant billows meet the sky, 
 A pale dull light the seamen spy. 
 As spent they stand and tempest-tost. 
 Their vessel struck, their rudder lost ; 
 While distant homes where kinsmen weep. 
 And graves full many a fathom deep. 
 By turns their fitful, gloomy thoughts pourtray : 
 ' 'Tis some delusion of the sight. 
 Some northern streamer's paly light.' 
 ' Fools !' saith roused Hope with gen'rous scorn, 
 ' It is the blessed peep of morn. 
 And aid and safety come when comes the day.' 
 
 And so it is ; the gradual shine 
 
 Spreads o'er heaven's verge its lengthen'd line r 
 
 Cloud after cloud begins to glow 
 
 And tint the changeful deep below ; 
 
PRINCE EUGENE. 307 
 
 Now sombre red, now amber bright. 
 
 Till upward breaks the blazing light ; 
 
 Like floating fire the gleamy billows burn : 
 
 Far distant on the ruddy tide, 
 
 A black'ning sail is seen to glide ; 
 
 Loud bursts their eager joyful cry. 
 
 Their hoisted signal waves on high. 
 
 And life and strength and happy thoughts return." 
 
 CHAP. XXXV. 
 
 PRINCE EUGENE. 
 
 ** General history is, after all that may be said 
 about its dignity, but the index to biography,'^ was 
 the observation with which Egeria laid down the 
 Memoirs of Prince Eugene. ** In this little work, 
 the great affairs in which the Prince l)ore so distin- 
 guished a part appear now but as the incidents of 
 his personal adventures. One thinks as little of the 
 battles of Blenheim and Oudenarde in these pages, 
 as of the frolics of Tom Jones, or of Roderick Ran- 
 dom, in the novels of Fielding and Smollett.'*' 
 
 " I have heard it surmised,"" replied the Bachelor, 
 ** that the book is not authentic.'" 
 
 " In the strictest sense of the term,^ said the 
 Nymph, " perhaps it may be so, but, philosophic 
 cjdly speaking, I would say, that, by whomsoever 
 it may have been written or compiled, it is assured- 
 ly authentic. The spirit and vivacity with which it 
 is drawn up are so admirably conceived, that the 
 
308 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 author seems to have possessed himself of the very- 
 nature and character of the Prince — if he was not 
 the Prince himself. But however that may have 
 been, this is an excellent piece of personal history. 
 It is written with a cheerful and masterly candour. 
 Every thing is treated with freedom and energy ; 
 and there is throughout a tone of decision, as well 
 as of enthusiasm, which I think particularly engag- 
 ing. Can any thing be more brisk and worldly, 
 yet withal, simple, than the preface .?"" 
 
 " Some historians^ good or badj will probably take 
 the trouble of entering into the details of my youth; 
 which I no longer remember. At all events, they will 
 speak of my mother ; a little too intriguing, to be sure ; 
 driven from the Court, exiled from Paris, and suspected, 
 I believe, of sorcery, by people who were no great con- 
 jurers. They will tell, too, how I was born in France, 
 and how I left it, burning with fury against Louis XIV. 
 who refused me a company of cavalry, because, he said, 
 I had too weak a constitution ; and an abbey, because 
 he pretended (on I do not know what stories respecting 
 me, current in the gallery of Versailles) that my voca- 
 tion was rather to pleasure than piety. But, however 
 that was, no Huguenot, banished by the revocation of 
 the edict of Nantes, ever cherished a stronger hatred 
 against him : and when Louvois said, on hearing of my 
 departure, ' It is all the better, he will never see 
 France again,' — I vowed that I never would, except as 
 a conquering enemy — and I kept my word. I have 
 seen it on more sides than one ; and it has not been my 
 fault if I have not penetrated farther. But for the 
 English, I should have given law in the capital of the 
 Grand Monarque, and shut up his Maintenon in a 
 convent for life!" 
 
PRINCE EUGENE. 30» 
 
 " The same gay nonchalance pervades the whole 
 work. Take, for example, his account of the battle 
 of Staffarde r 
 
 " The ministers of the Emperor had promised to let 
 me have seven thousand men, to support Victor Ama- 
 deus. I knew the slowness with which every thing is 
 decided and ordered at Vienna ; and, eager to engage 
 the French, whom I had never yet seen opposed to me, 
 I went to join the Duke of Savoy at his camp of Villa 
 Franca. ' You are in good time,' said he ; * I am 
 just going to give battle to Catinat.* — ' Then you must 
 take care of your movements,' said I ; ' he is an excel- 
 lent general, and commands the old troops, the flower 
 of the French infantry. Your's are new levies, and 
 mine are not yet come up.'^' What does that signify?' 
 said the Duke ; ' I know the country better than Ca- 
 tinat : to-morrow I shall advance with my army to the 
 Abbey of Staffarde.' Instead of making the attack, 
 however, we had to sustain it. The right wing, where the 
 Duke was placed, was attacked in front. The French wing 
 crossed marshes which were believed to be impractica- 
 ble ; and after having turned, and beaten ours, both their 
 wings united, and fell upon our left, where I command- 
 ed. I made my retreat in as good order as I could ; 
 and in the rear-guard, composed of gendarmes, and the 
 lifeguards of Savoy, I was slightly wounded by a spent 
 ball. I did not choose to remind my dear cousin of his 
 presumption, or my prediction ; but I endeavoured to 
 repair matters a little, at least in point of glory ; for, 
 some time after, I had the good fortune to cut off a large 
 detachment, which had pillaged Tivoli. It fell into an 
 ambuscade, from which, hearing the French coming, 
 who sung to the utmost stretch of their throats, I sallied 
 out to fall upon them. I scolded my soldiers for treat- 
 ing the prisoners a la Turquc. But they had been so 
 
310 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 long on that service, that they had forgot that it was 
 usual to give quarter to Christians." 
 
 " But the description of Oudenarde is still better: 
 it makes one an actor in the bustle and the business 
 of the battle f ' 
 
 " The French had 100,000 men in the Low Countries ; 
 Marlborough had only 60,000. I received orders to 
 march to his assistance. I pushed on my troops by 
 forced marches, and rode post myself, fearing that a 
 battle might be fought without me. Cadogan came to 
 compliment me at Maestrich. He told me that the 
 French had surprised Ghent, Bruges, and Plaskendael, 
 and that I was wanted. I passed through Brussels, 
 where my interview with my mother, after a separation 
 of twenty-five years, was very touching, but very short. 
 I found Marlborough encamped at Asch, between Brus- 
 sels and Alost ; and, learning that the enemy had their 
 left on the other side of the Dender, I asked Marl- 
 borough, on arriving, whether he did not intend to give 
 battle ? ' It is my intention,' said he, ' immediately ; 
 and I see with pleasure, but without surprise, that the 
 same reflection has occurred to us both, that, without 
 fighting, they might cut off our communication with 
 Brussels. I should like, however, to wait for your 
 troops." ' I would not advise it,* replied I ; ' for the 
 French would have time to retreat.* 
 
 " Vendome wished to oppose our passage of the Den- 
 der. He said to the Duke of Burgundy, whom bad 
 advisers inclined to march towards Ghent, ' When you 
 let Prince Eugene see that you wish to avoid an action, 
 he knows how to force you to it.' I saw this phrase in 
 his justificatory letter, which he printed on his return 
 to Paris. 
 
 ^' Cadogan went to Oudenarde ; and, in a few hours. 
 
PRINCE EUGENE. 311 
 
 threw a bridge across the Scheldt. ' It is still time/ 
 said Vendome to the Duke of Burgundy, ' to counter- 
 mand your march, and to attack, with the troops we 
 have here, that part of the enemy's array which has 
 passed the river.' The Duke hesitated, — stopped on the 
 height of Garves, — lost time, — wished to turn back, — 
 sent twenty squadrons to dispute the passage, — recalled 
 them, and finally said, ' Let us march to Ghent.' — ' It 
 is now too late,' said Vendome ; ' you cannot move at 
 present, — in half an hour you will have the enemy upon 
 your hands.' — * Why did you stop me then ?' said the 
 Duke of Burgundy. — ' In the hope that you would at- 
 tack immediately,' replied he ; ' but there is Cadogan 
 already master of the village of Hurne with six batta- 
 lions. Let us draw up at least as well as we can/ 
 Rantzaw began the attack. He overthrew a column of 
 cavalry, and would have been defeated in his turn, but 
 for the electoral Prince of Hanover, who, in the charge, 
 had his horse killed under him. Grimaldi ordered a 
 charge too early and unskilfully. ' What are you 
 doing ?' cried Vendome, who came up at full speed,— 
 ' you are wrong.* — ' The Duke of Burgundy has 
 ordered it,' replied he. — ' Ah ! the Duke is angry at 
 having been contradicted, and only thinks of con- 
 tradicting others.' Vendome wished the left to charge. 
 ' What are you doing ?' said the Duke of Burgundy, 
 — ' I forbid it, — there is a ravine, and an impassable 
 marsh.' One may imagine the anger of Vendome, 
 who had passed over the ground a moment before. 
 Without this misunderstanding, we should perhaps 
 have been beaten ; for our cavalry was more than 
 half an hour in order of battle before the infantry 
 could join. For this reason, I abandoned the village 
 of Hurne to send the battalions to support the squa- 
 drons on the right wing. But the Duke of Argyle 
 came up, with all possible speed, at the head of the 
 
312 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 English infantry — afterwards the Dutch, though much 
 more slowly. ' Now/ said I to Marlborough, ' we are 
 at last ready to fight.' It was six o'clock in the even- 
 ing, on the 11th of July, so that we had still three 
 hours of daylight. I was on the right at the head of 
 the Prussians. Some battalions turned their backs on 
 being attacked with unexampled fury. They rallied, 
 and repaired their fault, and we regained the ground 
 we had lost. The battle then began along the whole 
 of the line. The sight was superb, — it was one sheet 
 of fire. Our artillery produced a vast effect. That of 
 the French, by the uncertainty which prevailed in their 
 army, from the disunion of the commanders, was very 
 ill posted, and did little execution. With us it was 
 very different, — we loved and esteemed each other. 
 Even Marshal Ouverkerke, venerable for his age and 
 services, an old friend of mine and Marlborough, obeyed 
 us, and fought ardently. 
 
 '^ As a proof of our good harmony, affairs were going 
 ill on the right, where I commanded. Marlborough 
 perceived it, and sent me a reinforcement of eighteen 
 battalions, without which I could scarcely have sup- 
 ported myself I then advanced, and made the first line 
 give way ; but I found, at the head of the second, Ven- 
 dome on foot, with pike in hand, encouraging his sol- 
 diers. He made so vigorous a resistance, that I should 
 never have succeeded, but for Natzmer, who, at the 
 head of the Prussian gendarmes, pierced, broke the 
 enemy, and gave me a complete victory. Marlborough 
 purchased his success more dearly on the left, where 
 he attacked in front. While Ouverkerke dislodged the 
 enemy from the hedges and villages, Nassau, Fries, and 
 Oxenstiern, pushed their infantry beyond the defiles, 
 but were roughly handled by the household troops who 
 came to its assistance. I now returned my obligation 
 to the Duke. I sent Tilly, who, making a great ciiv 
 
MILTON'S COTTAGE. 318 
 
 cuit, took the brave household troops in the rear, when 
 they had almost snatched the victory from us ; but at 
 length it was decided. The darkness of the night hin- 
 dered our pursuit, and suggested to me a method of in- 
 creasing the number ot^ prisoners. I sent drums to dif- 
 ferent places, with orders to beat the French retreat ; 
 and I placed my French refugee officers to call, on all 
 sides. Here, Picardy ! — Here, Champagne ! — Here, Pied" 
 mont ! The French soldiers flocked in, and I made a 
 good harvest of them ; we took seven thousand in all." 
 
 CHAP. XXXVI. 
 
 MILTON'S COTTAGE. 
 
 One afternoon, as the Nymph and the Bachelor were 
 comparing ideas with respect to the durability of 
 human fame, Egeria remarked, that popularity was 
 undoubtedly the most agreeable sort of renown. 
 " All celebrity,*" said she, " is more or less but tem- 
 porary. The fame of a modern, such is the haste 
 with which all things are now rushing forward, can 
 hardly be expected to survive himself above twenty 
 years. Authors are the only persons who acquire 
 posthumous celebrity ; — heroes and statesmen belong 
 to their own time ; when they have made their exit, 
 they all naturally cease to be remembered ; and were it 
 not for the literary merits of those who choose to com- 
 memorate their exploits, they would soon be utterly 
 forgotten. But nothing is more curious than the dif- 
 ference between literary popularity and poslluanouJi 
 
314 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 fame : the former is the opinion of contemporaries, 
 formed upon their own knowledge ; the latter is the 
 decision of posterity, formed upon a comparison with 
 the merits of those who have been from age to age 
 admired. * Thomson,' says Gray, in one of his 
 letters, ' has lately published a poem called the 
 Castle of Indolence, in which there are some good 
 stanzas.' Who would have expected such a cold 
 sentence from Gray on such a poem as the master- 
 piece of one of the most exquisite and original poets 
 in the language ? And the celebrated Waller also 
 tells one of his friends, that ' the old blind school- 
 master, John Milton, hath published a tedious poem 
 on the fall of man ; — if its length be not considered 
 as merit, it has no other.' Such is the taste and 
 spirit of contemporary criticism ; such the admoni- 
 tion with which, through the opinions of the exist- 
 ing time, the spirit of posterity at once rebukes the 
 overweening conceits of popularity, and encourages 
 conscious genius amidst neglect, contumely, and 
 solitude. 
 
 " The odour of few names was at one time more 
 diflPused than that of Sir William Jones ; — of a re- 
 nown so general there is scarcely an example of a 
 comparative oblivion so sudden. This eclipse of a 
 luminary, once regarded as of the first magnitude, is 
 very mortifying to every one who happens to enjoy 
 any particular share of public interest, and it is vain 
 to palliate the harshness of the truth, by saying, 
 that Sir William Jones was overrated. Few men of 
 genius have, from the beginning of their career, been 
 more justly estimated. He was never considered as 
 endowed with a remarkable degree of original talent 
 of any kind ; but always, only as an accomplished 
 
MILTON'S COTTAGE. 316 
 
 and finislied gentleman, in what related to taste and 
 learning : besides, it could not be said that he was a 
 popular author, — his works in general are not for the 
 million. That he might, however, have easily be- 
 come popular, I think admits of little doubt ; and 
 perhaps, were a judicious selection made from his 
 works, a volume might yet be compiled that the 
 world would not willingly let perish. I say this partly 
 from the pleasure with which I remember his de- 
 scription of Milton's country house, which give me 
 leave to read f' 
 
 '' I set out in the morning, in company with a friend, to 
 visit a place where Milton spent some part of his life, 
 and where, in all probability, he composed several of 
 his earliest productions. It is a small village, situated 
 on a pleasant hill, about three miles from Oxford, and 
 called Forest Hill, because it formerly lay contiguous to 
 a forest, which has since been cut down. The poet 
 chose this place of retirement after his first marriage ; 
 and he describes the beauties of his retreat in that fine 
 passage of his L' Allegro— 
 
 ' Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 
 Whilst the landscape round it measures : 
 Russet lawns, and fallows grey. 
 Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 
 Mountains, on whose barren breast. 
 The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; 
 Meadows trim, with daisies pied. 
 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 
 Bosom'd high in tufted trees. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes. 
 From betwixt two aged oaks/ &c. 
 
316 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " It was neither the proper season of the year, nor 
 time of the day, to hear all the rural sounds, and see all 
 the objects mentioned in this description; but, by a 
 pleasing concurrence of circumstances, we were saluted, 
 upon our approach to the village, with the music of the 
 mower and his scythe ; we saw the ploughman intent 
 upon his labour, and the milkmaid returning from her 
 country employment. 
 
 ' As we ascended the hill, the variety of beautiful ob- 
 jects, the agreeable stillness and natural simplicity of 
 the whole scene, gave us the highest pleasure. We at 
 length reached the spot whence Milton undoubtedly 
 took most of his images : it is on the top of the hill, from 
 which there is a most extensive prospect on all sides. 
 The distant mountains that seemed to support the clouds, 
 the villages and turrets, partly shaded with trees of the 
 finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that 
 surrounded them ; the dark plains and meadows of a 
 greyish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large ; 
 in short, the view of the streams and rivers — convinced 
 us that there was not a single useless or idle word in 
 the above-mentioned description, but that it was a most 
 exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will 
 this fine passage, which has always been admired for its 
 elegance, receive an additional beauty from its exact- 
 ness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical 
 enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to 
 the village. 
 
 " The poet's house is close to the church ; the greatest 
 part of it has been pulled down, and what remains be- 
 longs to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several 
 papers, in Milton's own hand, were found by the gentle- 
 man who was last in possession of the estate. The tra- 
 dition of his having lived there is current among the 
 villagers ; one of them showed us a ruinous wall that 
 made part of his chamber, and I was much pleased with 
 
BATTLE OF CRESSY. 317 
 
 another, who had forgotten the name of JMilton, but re- 
 collected him by the title of The Poet. 
 
 " It must not be omitted, that the groves near this 
 village are famous for nightingales, which are so ele- 
 gantly described in the Pensieroso. Most of the cottage 
 windows are overgrown with sweet-briars, vines, and 
 honeysuckles : and that Milton's habitiition had the 
 same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his de- 
 scription of the lark bidding him good-morrow. 
 Through the sweetbriar, or the vine. 
 Or the twisted eglantine : 
 for it is evident that he meant a sort of honeysuckle by 
 the eglantine, though that word is commonly used for 
 the sweetbriar, which he could not mention twice in the 
 same couplet." 
 
 CHAP. XXXVII. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 
 
 " I EEMEMBEE,*" Said the Bachelor, in speaking of 
 the military achievements of the English nation, — 
 " I remember to have heard a remark once made 
 which struck me at the time as having something in 
 it of novelty ; and yet, though I have often since 
 turned and turned it over and over again in my 
 mind, I have never been able to discover that it has 
 any foundation in fact, or, in truth, any meaning at 
 all. It was made in a party where the conversation 
 was about the superior poetical circumstances of an- 
 
318 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 cient warfare compared with those of modern battle. 
 * The poetry is not in the circumstances,' said one of 
 the gentlemen, ' but in the more animated way in 
 which our ancestors were accustomed to consider the 
 details of bravery and adventure.' Why our ances- 
 tors should have done so I cannot understand, nor 
 do I believe they did ; but still there is no denying 
 that the incidents of knightly enterprise belonging 
 to their times possess a degree of interest which I 
 doubt if it be possible to confer on the military ex- 
 ploits of any modern hero ; and all this I conceive 
 to be chiefly owing to the panoply and parapher- 
 nalia of their warfare affording scope for livelier 
 sallies of fancy in description." 
 
 '' Perhaps," replied Egeria, after pondering some 
 time, " there is something in the observation, if we 
 could but know what was passing in the gentleman's 
 mind when he made it. In the battle-tales of an- 
 tiquity there is a degree of vivacity arising from 
 the narrations having been chiefly gathered from 
 actors in the scenes, very different from the calm 
 official formality of our gazette-accounts, which, 
 though also from actors, are yet written, as it were, 
 in a uniform and prescribed style. Buonaparte is 
 almost the only modern who has stampt the impress 
 of his own mind on the reports of his transactions. 
 His bulletin, after his return from the Russian cam- 
 paign, is quite poetical. Lord Nelson also, on one 
 or two great occasions, broke out from the White- 
 hall-style, and betrayed the depth of his feelings.— ' 
 You should therefore bear in mind, that the tame- 
 ness of modern history, with respect to military 
 achievements, arises, beyond all doubt, from the 
 
BATTLE OF CRESSY. 319 
 
 official forms in which the information concerning 
 them is conveyed. 
 
 " As to the panoply and paraphernalia of ancient 
 battles being more picturesque than those of modern 
 warfare, I am not inclined to admit. The sea-fights 
 of our own time have been immeasurably more mag- 
 nificent, both in outline and detail, than any possible 
 combustion that could arise among the galleys of 
 the ancients ; and if there was of old the sounding 
 of shields, have we not added the thunder of can- 
 non and bombs, and rockets too as frightful as 
 comets, to say nothing of the explosion of mines 
 and magazines ? The grandeur of the battles of the 
 ancients and of our ancestors consists in the exer- 
 tions of individual valour ; every thing is particular, 
 and the art of the poet in describing them lies in the 
 interest with which he invests the enterprises of 
 single warriors. But modem war is a superb gener- 
 ality — all is shrouded in smoke— -each particular battle 
 is a thunder-cloud, wherein one sees but the glancing 
 of tires, and hears but the rattling of successive peals ; 
 the interest, therefore, of modem war in descrip. 
 tion must lie in something very different from those 
 sort of minute details and individual exploits which 
 constitute the charm and sublimity of Homeric battles. 
 In the battle of Waterloo, it is not to be doubted 
 that the men felt as proudly as ever their forefathers 
 did at Cressy or at Agincourt ; but it would not 
 be easy to give an account of their disciplined for- 
 titude that would possess the spirit and liveHncss of 
 Froissart''s picture of the renowned field of Cressy. 
 Look at Lord Berner's translation of the passage, 
 and I think you will agree with me that it is not by 
 such details that a modern battle is to be described.*" 
 
320 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 " When the French king saw the Englishmen, his 
 blood changed; and he said to his marshals, * Make 
 the Genoese go on before and begin the battle, in the 
 name of God and St Denis/ There were of the Genoese 
 cross-bows about a fifteen thousand, but they were so 
 weary of going a-foot that day, a six leagues, armed 
 with their cross-bows, that they said to their constables, 
 * We be not well ordered to fight this day, for we be 
 not in the case to do any great deed of arms ; we have 
 more need of rest.' These words came to the Earl of 
 Alen^on, who said, ' A man is well at ease to be charg- 
 ed with such a sort of rascals, to be faint and fail now 
 at most need.' Also, the same season, there fell a great 
 rain, and an eclipse, with a terrible thunder ; and, be- 
 fore the rain, there came flying over the battles a great 
 number of crows for fear of the tempest coming. Then 
 anon the air began to wax clear, and the sun to shine 
 fair and bright, the which was right in the French- 
 men's eyen, and on the Englishmen's back. When the 
 Genoese were assembled together, and began to ap- 
 proach, they made a great leap and cry to abash the 
 Englishmen, but they stood still and stirred not for 
 all that. Then the Genoese again, the second time, 
 made another leap and a fell cry, and stepped forward 
 a little, and the Englishmen removed not one foot. — 
 Thirdly, again they leaped and cried, and went forth 
 till they came within shot ; then they shot fiercely with 
 their cross-bows. Then the English archers stepped 
 forth one pace, and let fly their arrows so wholly and 
 thick that it seemed snow. When the Genoese felt the 
 arrows piercing through heads and arms and breasts, 
 many of them cast down their cross-bows, and did cut 
 their strings, and returned discomfited. When the French 
 king saw them flee away, he said, ' Slay these rascals, 
 for they shall let and trouble us without reason.' Then 
 ye should have seen the men-at-arms dash in among 
 them and killed a great number of them, and ever still 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 321 
 
 the Englishmen shot whereas they saw the thickest 
 press ; the sharp arrows ran into the men-at-arms and 
 into their horses ; and many fell horse and men among 
 the Genoese ; and when they were down, they could not 
 relieve again ; the press was so thick that one overthrew 
 anotlier. And also, among the Englishmen, there were 
 certain rascals that went on foot with great knives, and 
 they went in among the men-at-arms, and murdered 
 many as they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, 
 knights, and squires, whereof the King of England was 
 after displeased, for he had rather they had been taken 
 prisoners." 
 
 CHAP. XXXVIII. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 
 
 There were two subjects on which the Bachelor 
 and his Egeria seldom agreed, — the comparative 
 merits of the ancients and moderns, and the genius 
 of Shakspeare. In the course of the foregoing 
 pages we have had occasion, at different times, to 
 advert to their sentiments with regard to the former, 
 and we now intend to shew something of what they 
 severally thought respecting the latter. 
 
 The Nymph, one evening after they had return- 
 ed home from the theatre, said, somewhat petulantly, 
 
 " Well ! let the players and play-going gentry 
 say what they will, the dramas of that same glorified 
 
322 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Shakspeare are heavy and improbable spectacles. 
 I do not dispute that they contain beautiful pas- 
 sages. I am not going, don''t be afraid, to deny 
 his merits, but only to say, that he has been more 
 praised, not, perhaps, than he may be found to 
 deserve, but than he has been read. His plots are 
 quite extravagant, his characters are often carica- 
 tures, and the stars of his poetry are so involved 
 amidst clouds of mediocrity, that a stranger, without 
 a guide, migh look for them all the livelong night of 
 the shortest day, and probably not find one of them."''' 
 
 " When I see you so inclined to be peremptory,'"' 
 replied Benedict, " I think it is always best to let 
 you have the argument your own way. But surely, 
 my love, you do not intend to maintain that Shak- 
 speare is not the greatest genius among the moderns .?"" 
 
 " Of the comparative greatness of his genius I 
 was saying nothing,"'"' cried the Nymph more sharply 
 than was consistent with conjugal subordination, 
 " but only that his dramas are very dull ; yea, and 
 very absurdly constructed. Can any thing be worse, 
 as a piece of art, than " Hamlet,"'"' which we have 
 this evening endeavoured to endure throughout.? 
 I say endeavoured ; for, notwithstanding your af- 
 fected adoration of the few and far between passages 
 of nature and poetry which it contains, I was often 
 under more apprehension for the consequences of 
 your yawning, than for the dramatic result of any 
 one incident."" 
 
 " Why,'"* exclaimed the Bachelor, " nobody goes 
 to see a play of Shakspeare from any curiosity with 
 respect to the result of the scenes, as connected with 
 the story, but to consider how far the personations of 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 323 
 
 the actors come up to the ideas we form of the charac- 
 ters by having studied them in our closets." 
 
 " Now look ye, friend," said the Nymph briskly, 
 *' does not that proceed from a preconceived, or pre- 
 adopted, opinion of some superior excellence in his 
 delineation of character ? and yet, find me two cri- 
 tics who are agreed whether Hamlet is to be consi- 
 dered as serious, or half-mad, or pretending to be so ? 
 Look how lame and imjx)tent the conclusion of the 
 plot is, compared to what was to be expected from 
 the introduction of a prelude so solemn as the ap- 
 pearance of a ghost ! But I will not make a stand 
 merely on the mechanical part of his dramas — the 
 construction of the fable ; — some of his noblest pas- 
 sages are not superior to similar passages in the 
 plays of his contemporaries. Take down his works, 
 and give me those of Beaumont and Fletcher, and 
 I will match you.*" 
 
 Benedict, as all obedient husbands should do, when 
 so required, to keep peace in the house, acquiesced ; 
 and when the books were arranged before them, he 
 opened Cymbehne, and said, — " Here is a description 
 of the military enthusiasm of a lx)y, — match it if you 
 
 Tliis Paladour (whom 
 
 The king his father call'd Guiderius) Jove ! 
 When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell 
 The warlike feats I've done, his spirits fly out 
 Into my story : say thus mine enemy fell. 
 And thus I set my foot on's neck— even then 
 The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats. 
 Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture 
 That acts my words." 
 
324 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " Good,*" said Egeria, *' very good,*" turning over 
 the leaves of the Maid's Tragedy ; but here is Me- 
 lantius' account of the heroic aspirations of Amintor 
 while a boy, and it is better T' — 
 
 " When he was a boy. 
 
 As oft as I returned (as, without beast, 
 I brought home conquest), be would gaze upon me. 
 And view me round, to find in what one limb 
 The virtue lay to do those things he heard ; 
 Then would he wish to see my sword, and feel 
 The quickness of the edge, and in his hand 
 Weigh it. — He oft would make me smile at this ; 
 His youth did promise much, and his ripe years 
 Will see it all performed." 
 
 " But,'' exclaimed the Bachelor, opening As You 
 like It, ^' find me any thing half so touching and 
 romantic as the moralizing of Jaques .?" 
 
 '^ To-day my lord of Amiens and myself 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ; 
 To the which place a poor sequestered stag. 
 That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt. 
 Did come to languish ; and indeed, my lord. 
 The wretched animal heaved forth such groans. 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
 Coursed one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fool. 
 Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, 
 Stood on th' extremest verge of the swift brook. 
 Augmenting it with tears. 
 
i. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 325 \ 
 
 1 
 
 Duke. But what said Jaques ? I 
 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle? l 
 
 1 Lord. Oh, yes, into a thousand similes : ' 
 
 First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; ] 
 
 Poor deer, quoth he, thou mak'st a testament I 
 
 As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more ' 
 
 To that which had too much ; then being alone, 4 
 
 Left and abandon'd of his velvet friends : i 
 *Tis right, quoth he, thus misery doth part 
 
 The flux of company : Anon a careless herd, j 
 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, j 
 
 And never stays to greet him : Ay, quoth Jaques, i 
 
 Sweep on, ye fat and greasy citizens, ! 
 
 Tis just the fashion," &c. = 
 
 " I am quite as sensible as you can be/' said ^ 
 
 Egeria, " to all the beauty of that passage ; but it j 
 
 is not so romantic as this in Philaster, — nor so.poeti- j 
 
 cal, nor withal more pathetic :" — I 
 
 " I have a boy 
 
 Sent by the gods I hope to this intent. 
 
 Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck ; 
 
 I found him sitting by a fountain-side, \ 
 
 Of which he borrowed some to quench his tliirst, i 
 
 And paid the nymph again as much in tears ; 
 
 A garland lay by him, made by himself ^ 
 
 Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, j 
 
 Stuck in that mystic order that the rareness j 
 
 Delighted me : but ever when he turn'd \ 
 
 His tender eyes upon them, he would weep, ^ 
 
 As if he meant to make tliem grow again. i 
 
 Seeing such pretty helpless innocence J 
 
 Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story ; | 
 
 He told me, that his parents gentle died. 
 
 Leaking him to the mercy of the fields, ■ 
 
326 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Which gave him roots^ and of the crystal springs 
 Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun 
 Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light. 
 Then took he up his garland, and did shew. 
 What every flower, as country people hold. 
 Did signify ; and how all, order'd thus, 
 Express'd his grief ; and to my thoughts did read 
 The prettiest lecture of his country art 
 That could be wish'd, so that methought I could 
 Have studied it." — 
 
 " There is, however, nothing in all Beaumont and 
 Fletcher," said Benedict, " half so tender, innocent, 
 and delicate as the answer of Julia, when disguised 
 as a boy, on being asked how tall Julia was :""— 
 
 '' About my stature ; for at Pentecost, 
 When all our pageants of delight were play'd. 
 Our youth got me to play the woman's part. 
 And I was trimm'd in madam Julia's gown. 
 And at that time I made her weep a-good. 
 For I did play a lamentable part. 
 Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning 
 For Theseus* perjury and unjust flight ; 
 Which I so lively acted with my tears. 
 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal. 
 Wept bitterly, and would I might be dead. 
 If I in thought felt not her very sorrow." 
 
 " In the Maid's Tragedy," replied Egeria, " I 
 have an allusion to the same story of Ariadne. As- 
 patia, forsaken by her lover, finds her maid Anti- 
 phila working a picture of Ariadne, and says," — 
 
 ^' But Where's the lady ? 
 Ant. There, madam. 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 327 
 
 Asp. ¥y, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila, 
 These colours are not dull aiid pale enough. 
 To shew a soul so full of misery 
 As this sad lady's was ; do it by me ; 
 Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia, 
 And you shall find all true. — Put me on th' wild island. 
 I stand upon the sea-beach now, and think 
 Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown by the wind. 
 Wild as that desert, and let all about me 
 Be teachers of my story : do my face 
 (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow). 
 Thus, thus, Antiphila ; strive to make me look 
 Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me 
 Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks 
 Groan with continual surges, and behind me 
 IMake all a desolation ; see, see, wenches, 
 A miserable life of this poor picture." 
 
 " But," resumed Egeria, " if we go on at this 
 rate, the night will not suffice for our comparison ; 
 I shall therefore give you a few hints of which here- 
 after you may chew the cud. Compare the frenzy 
 and the whole gentle character of the Jailer's Daugh- 
 ter in the Two Noble Kinsmen to Opheha in Ham- 
 let, — say which is the best. Look also at the deaths 
 of Pontius and Aecius in Valentinian : I uphold 
 them against the deaths of Cassius, Brutus, and 
 their friends, in Julius Caesar. Is the character and 
 passions of Cleopatra in the False One inferior Uy 
 Shakspeare's serpent of old Nile ? Not a jot. Is 
 the pious and grief-mingled rage of Edith, in the 
 Bloody Brother, less skilfully conceived, or less power- 
 fully executed, than the passion of Macduff' on hearing 
 of the massacre of his wife and children ? Is there 
 any personage in all Shakspeare to compare with 
 
328 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Juliana in the Double Marriage, and her death ? 
 Does the scene of old Lear, with Cordelia in his 
 arms, surpass it ?"*' 
 
 '' I will argue no more with you to-night,'^ said 
 the Bachelor coldly, rising and gathering the books, 
 which he replaced on the shelves. 
 
 CHAP. XXXIX. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH MANNERS. 
 " What have you got in your Album since I last 
 looked at it ?"" said the Bachelor one morning, seeing 
 the Nymph busily engaged in copying from several 
 scraps of paper on the table before her. 
 
 " Not much," replied Egeria ; " I have of late 
 been reading but new books, and there is a great 
 dearth of curious or of interesting passages in them 
 all. Modern authors scribble so fast, that they have 
 no time to compress their thoughts into proper quot- 
 able passages. But here are several notes illustrative 
 of old English manners that are worthy of being re- 
 duced into some consistent form. This one is a de- 
 scription of an old English hall, which still remains 
 as it existed in the days of Queen Elizabeth. It is 
 the more curious on account of the story tacked to 
 it, which might be easily worked up into an interest- 
 ing three-volume novel — of the Scottish or Scott's 
 school : it is from the notes to Sir Walter's Rokeby." 
 
 LITTLECOTE-HOUSE. 
 '* LiTTLECOTE-HOUSE Stands in a low and lonely si- 
 tuation. On three sides it is surrounded by a park that 
 
SIIAKSPEARES DRAMAS. 329 
 
 spreads over the adjoining hill ; on the fourth, by mea- 
 dows which are watered by the river Kennet. Close 
 on one side of the house is a thick grove of lofty trees, 
 along the verge of which runs one of the principal 
 avenues to it through the park. It is an irregular 
 building of great antiquity, and was probably erected 
 about the time of the termination of feudal warfare, 
 when defence came no longer to be an object in a coun- 
 try-mansion. Many circumstances in the interior of the 
 house, however, seem appropriate to feudal times. The 
 hall is very spacious, floored with stones, and lighted by 
 large transom windows, that are clothed with casements. 
 Its walls are hung with old military accoutrements, 
 that have long been left a prey to rust. At one end of 
 the hall is a range of coats-of-mail and helmets, and 
 there is on every side abundance of old-fashioned pis- 
 tols and guns, many of them with matchlocks. Imme- 
 diately below the cornice hangs a row of leathern jer- 
 kins, made in the form of a shirt, supposed to have 
 been worn as armour by the vassals. A large oak-table, 
 reaching nearly from one end of the room to the other, 
 might have feasted the whole neighbourhood, and an 
 appendage to one end of it made it answer at other times 
 for the old game of shuffle-board. The rest of tlie fur- 
 niture is in a suitable style, particularly an arm-chair of 
 cumbrous workmanship, constructed of wood, curiously 
 turned, with a high back and triangular seat, said to 
 have been used by Judge Popham in the reign of Eliza- 
 beth. The entrance into the hall is at one end by a low 
 door, communicating with a passage that leads from the 
 outer door, in the front of the house, to a quadrangle 
 -within ; at the other it opens upon a gloomy staircase, 
 by which you ascend to the first floor, and, passing the 
 doors of some bed-chambers, enter a narrow gallery, 
 which extends along the back front of the house from 
 one end to the other of it, and looks upon an old garden. 
 
330 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 This gallery is hung with portraits, chiefly in the Spa- 
 nish dresses of the sixteenth century. In one of the bed- 
 chambers, which you pass in going towards the gallery, 
 is a bedstead with blue furniture, which time has now 
 made dingy and threadbare, and in the bottom of one 
 of the bed-curtains you are shewn a place where a small 
 piece has been cut out and sown in again, — a circum- 
 stance which serves to identify the scene of the follow- 
 ing story : — 
 
 " ' It was a dark rainy night in the month of Novem- 
 ber, that an old midwife sate musing by her cottage 
 fire-side, when on a sudden she was startled by a loud 
 knocking at the door. On opening it she found a horse- 
 man, who told her that her assistance was required im- 
 mediately by a person of rank, and that she should be 
 handsomely rewarded, but that there w^ere reasons for 
 keeping the affair a strict secret, and, therefore, she 
 must submit to be blindfolded, and to be conducted in 
 that condition to the bed-chamber of the lady. After 
 proceeding in silence for many miles through rough and 
 dirty lanes, they stopped, and the midwife was led into 
 a house, which, from the length of her walk through 
 the apartment, as well as the sounds about her, she dis- 
 covered to be the seat of wealth and power. When the 
 bandage was removed from her eyes, she found herself 
 in a bed-chamber, in which were the lady on whose ac- 
 count she had been sent for, and a man of haughty and 
 ferocious aspect. The lady was delivered of a fine boy. 
 Immediately the man commanded the midwife to give 
 him the child, and, catching it from her, he hurried 
 across the room, and threw it on the back of the fire, 
 that was blazing in the chimney. The child, however, 
 was strong, and by its struggles rolled itself off upon 
 the hearth, when the ruffian again seized it with fury, 
 and, in spite of the intercession of the midwife, and the 
 more piteous entreaties of the mother, thrust it under the 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 331 
 
 grate, and raking the live coals upon it, soon put an 
 end to its lite. The midwife, after spending some time 
 in affording all the relief in her power to the wretched 
 mother, was told that she must be gone. Her former 
 conductor appeared, who again bound her eyes, and 
 conveyed her behind him to her own home ; he then 
 paid her handsomely, and departed. Tlie midwife was 
 strongly agitated by the horrors of the preceding night, 
 and she immediately made a deposition of the fact be- 
 fore a magistrate. Two circumstances afforded hopes of 
 detecting the house in which the crime had been com- 
 mitted ; one was, that the midwife, as she sate by the 
 bed-side, had, with a view to discover the place, cut out 
 a piece of the bed-curtain, and sown it in again ; the 
 other was, that as she had descended the staircase, she 
 had counted the steps. Some suspicions fell upon one 
 Darrell, at that time the proprietor of Littlecote-house, 
 and the domain around it. The house was examined, 
 and identified by the midwife, and Darrell was tried at 
 Salisbury for the murder. By corrupting his judge he 
 escaped the sentence of the law ; but broke his neck by 
 a fall from his horse in hunting in a few months after. 
 The place where this happened is still known by the name 
 of Darrell's Hill, — a sj)ot to be dreaded by the peasant 
 whom the shades of evening have overtaken on his way.'" 
 
 '' Harrison,'' resumed Egeria, " who wrote about 
 1580, gives several curious particulars relative to 
 the manners and habits of the country gentlemen 
 of Queen Elizabeth's time, when it would appear 
 that the old complaint was not new of the prone- 
 ness among the English to ape French fashions. 
 ' Neither was it merrier,' says he, ' with Eng- 
 land, than when an Englishman was knowne abroad 
 by his owne cloth, and contented himselfe at home 
 
332 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 with his fine carsie hosen, and a meane slop : his 
 coat, gowne, and cloak of browne, blue, or puke, 
 with some pretie furniture of velvet or furre, and a 
 doublet of sad, tawnie, or black velvet, or other 
 comelie silke, without cuts and gawrish colours 
 as are worne in these daies, and never brought 
 in but by the consent of the French, who thinke 
 themselves the gaiest men when they have most 
 diversities of jagges and change of colours about 
 them.' And look here,*" continued the Nymph, " what 
 a pretty picture Drayton gives of the vocations and 
 breeding of a squire's daughter in those days ; — no 
 harps, no pianos, no painting velvet cushions :"" — 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER. 
 '^ He had, as antique stories tell, 
 A daughter cleaped Dawsabel, 
 
 A maiden fair and free : 
 And for she was her father's heir. 
 Full well she was ycond the leir 
 Of mickle courtesy. 
 
 *' The silk well couth she twist and twine. 
 And make the fine march-pine. 
 
 And with the needle- work : 
 And she couth help the priest to say 
 His mattins on a holy day. 
 And sing a psalm in kirk. 
 
 " She wore a frock of frolic green. 
 Might well become a maiden queen. 
 
 Which seemly was to see ; 
 A hood to that so neat and fine. 
 In colour like the columbine, 
 
 Ywrought full featously. 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 333 
 
 " Her features all as fresh above. 
 As is the grass that grows by Dove, 
 
 And lythe as lass of Kent. 
 Her skin as soft as Lemster wool. 
 As white as snow on Peakish Hull, 
 Or swan that swims in Trent. 
 
 " This maiden in a mom betime. 
 
 Went forth when May was in the prime. 
 
 To get sweet setywall, 
 The honey-suckle, the harlock. 
 The lily, and the lady-smock. 
 To deck her summer-hall." 
 
 ** But the great storehouse for sketches of the 
 manners of the period referred to, is Bishop Earle''8 
 Miscrocosmograpliy : some of his limnings are quite 
 admirable. Take, for example, this scrap, which 
 contains his description of 
 
 THE UPSTART OF ELIZABETH'S TIME. 
 " He is a holiday clown, and differs only in the stuff of 
 his clothes, not the stuff of himself, for he bare the 
 king's sword before he had arms to wield it ; yet being 
 once laid o'er the shoulder with a knighthood, he finds 
 the herald his friend. His father was a man of good 
 stock, though but a tanner or usurer ; he purchased the 
 land, and his son the title. He has doffed off the name 
 of a country-fellow, but the look not so easy, and his 
 face still bears a relish of churne-milk. He is guarded 
 with more gold lace than all the gentlemen of the county, 
 yet his body makes his clothes still out of fashion. His 
 housekeeping is seen much in the distinct families of dogs, 
 and serving-men attendant on their kennels, and the 
 deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. 
 A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is 
 
334 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 exceeding ambitious to seem delighted in the sport, and 
 have his fist gloved with his jesses. A justice of peace 
 he is to domineer in his parish^ and do his neighhour 
 wrong with more right. He will be drunk with his 
 hunters for company, and stain his gentility with drop- 
 pings of ale. He is fearful of being sheriff of the shire 
 by instinct, and dreads the assize- week as much as the 
 prisoner. In sum, he's but a clod of his own earth, or 
 his land is the dunghill and he the cock that crows over 
 it : and commonly his race is quickly run, and his chil- 
 dren's children, though they scape hanging, return to 
 the place from whence they came." 
 
 " To this let me add a sketch of the squire about 
 the period of the Revolution, from Hutchin's His- 
 tory of Dorsetshire." 
 
 A SQUIRE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 " Mr Hastings was low of stature, but strong and ac- 
 tive, of a ruddy complexion, with flaxen hair. His 
 cloaths were always of green cloth, his house was of the 
 old fashion ; in the midst of a large park, well stocked 
 with deer, rabbits, and fish-ponds. He had a long nar- 
 row bowling-green in it, and used to play with round 
 sand-bowls. Here, too, he had a banquetting-room 
 built, like a stand, in a large tree. He kept all sorts of 
 hounds that ran buck, fox, hare, otter_, and badger ; and 
 had hawks of all kinds, both long and short-winged. 
 His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow- 
 bones, and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, and 
 terriers. The upper end of it was hung with fox-skins 
 of this and the last year's killing. Here and there a 
 pole-cat was intermixed ; and hunter's poles in great 
 abundance. Tiie parlour was a large room, completely 
 furnished in the same style. On a broad hearth, paved 
 with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds and 
 
SHAKSPEARES DRAMAS. 335 
 
 spaniels. One or two of the great chairs had litters of 
 cats in them, which were not to be disturbed. Of these, 
 three or four always attended him at dinner, and a little 
 white wand lay by his trencher, to defend it, if they 
 were too troublesome. In the windows, which were very 
 large, lay his arrows, cross-bows, and other accoutre- 
 ments. The corners of the room were filled with his best 
 hunting and hawking poles. His oyster table stood at 
 the lower end of the room, which was in constant use 
 twice a day all the year round ; for he never failed 
 to eat oysters both at dinner and supper, with which 
 the neighbouring town of Pool supplied him. At the 
 upper end of the room stood a small table with a double 
 desk ; one side of which held a Church Bible, the 
 other the Book of Martyrs. On different tables in the 
 room lay hawks' hoods, bells, old hats, with their crowns 
 thrust in, full of pheasant eggs ; tables, dice, cards, 
 and store of tobacco pipes. At one end of this room 
 was a door which opened into a closet, where stood 
 bottles of strong beer and wine, which never came out 
 but in single glasses, which was the rule of the house ; 
 for he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to 
 exceed. Answering to this closet was a door into an 
 old chapel, which had been long disused for devotion ; 
 but in the pulpit, as the safest place, was always to be 
 found a cold chine of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon 
 of bacon, or a great apple-pye, with thick crust well 
 baked. His table cost him not much, though it was 
 good to eat at. His sports supplied all but beef and 
 mutton ; except on Fridays, when he had the best of 
 fish. He never wanted a London pudding ; and he al- 
 ways sang it in with, ' My part lies thcrcin-a.' He 
 drank a glass or two of wine at meals, put syrup of 
 gilly-flowers into his sack, and had always a tun glass 
 of small-beer standing by him, which he often stirred 
 about with rosemary. He lived to be an hundred, and 
 
336 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 never lost his eye-sight nor used spectacles. He got on 
 horseback without help, and rode to the death of the 
 stag till he was past four score." 
 
 " But this you will say is the portrait of an in- 
 dividual, one Mr Hastings ; take, however, another 
 sketch of his general contemporary. It is from 
 Grose's Olio." 
 
 A SQUIRE OF QUEEN ANNE'S TIME. 
 
 " The little independent gentleman of three hundred 
 pounds per annum, who commonly appeared in a plain 
 drab or plush coat, large silver buttons, a jockey cap, 
 and rarely without boots. His travels never exceeded 
 the distance of the county town, and that only at assize 
 and session time, or to attend an election. Once a week 
 he commonly dined at the next market town, with the 
 attornies and justices. This man went to church regu- 
 larly, read the Weekly Journal, settled the parochial 
 disputes between the parish officers at the vestry, and 
 afterwards adjourned to the neighbouring alehouse, 
 where he usually got drunk for the good of his country. 
 He never played at cards but at Christmas, when a 
 family pack was produced from the mantle-piece. He 
 was commonly followed by a couple of greyhounds 
 and a pointer, and announced his arrival at a neighbour's 
 house by smacking his whip, or giving the view-halloo. 
 His drink was generally ale, except on Christmas, the 
 fifth of November, or some other gala days, when he 
 would make a bowl of strong brandy punch garnished 
 with a toast and nutmeg. A journey to London was, 
 by one of these men, reckoned as great an undertaking 
 as is at present a voyage to the East Indies, and under* 
 taken with scarce less precaution and preparation. 
 
 " The mansion of one of these 'squires was of plaister 
 striped with timber, not unaptly called callimanco work. 
 
SHAKSPEARES DRAMAS. 337 
 
 or of red brick, large casemented bow windows, a porch 
 with seats in it, and over it a study ; the eaves of tlie 
 house well inhabited by swallows^ and the court set 
 round with holly-hocks. Near the gate a horse-block 
 for the conveniency of mounting. 
 
 " The hall was furnished with flitches of bacon, and 
 the mantle-piece with guns and fishing rods of different 
 dimensions, accompanied by the broad sword, partizan, 
 and dagger, borne by his ancestor in the civil wars. 
 The vacant spaces were occupied by stag's horns. 
 Against the wall was posted King Charles's Golden 
 Rules, Vincent Wing's Almanack, and a portrait of the 
 Duke of Marlborough; in his window lay Baker's 
 Chronicle, Fox's Book of Martyrs, Glanvil on Appari- 
 tions, Quincey's Dispensatory, the Complete Justice^ 
 and a Book of Farriery. 
 
 " In the corner, by the fire side, stood a large wooden 
 two-armed chair with a cushion ; and within the chimney 
 corner were a couple of seats. Here, at Christmas, he 
 entertained his tenants assembled round a glowing fire 
 made of the roots of trees, and other great logs, and told 
 and heard the traditionary tales of the village respecting 
 ghosts and witches, till fear made them afraid to move. 
 In the mean time the jorum of ale was in continual cir- 
 culation. 
 
 " The best parlour, which was never opened but on 
 particular occasions, was furnished with Turk-worked 
 chain, and hung round with portraits of his ancestors ; 
 the men in the character of shepherds, with their crooks, 
 dressed in full suits and huge full-bottomed perukes ; 
 others in complete armour or buff coats, playing on the 
 base viol or lute. The females likewise as shepherdesses, 
 with the lamb and crook, all habited in high heads and 
 flowing robes. 
 
 " Alas ! these men and these houses are no more ! 
 
 Y 
 
338 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " This is both a lively and amusing picture, to 
 which let me subjoin Holinshed's description of the 
 Yeomen in Elizabeth's time, taken from Harrison." 
 
 YEOMEN. 
 
 '' This sort of people have a certaine preheminence, 
 and more estimation than labourers and the common 
 sort of artificers, and these commonlie live wealthilie, 
 keepe good houses, and travell to get riches. They are 
 also for the most part farmers to gentlemen, or at the 
 leastwise artificers, and with grazing, frequenting of 
 markets, and keeping of servants (not idle servants, as 
 the gentlemen doo, but such as get both their owne and 
 part of their masters living) do come to great welth, in 
 soraiuch that manie of them are able and doo buie the 
 lands of unthriftie gentlemen, and often setting their 
 sonnes to the schooles, to the universities, and to the Ins 
 of the court ; or otherwise leaving them sufficient lands 
 whereupon they may live without labour, doo make 
 them by those meanes to become gentlemen : these were 
 they that in times past made all France afraid. And 
 albeit they be not called master, as gentlemen are, or 
 sir as to knights apperteineth, but onelie John and Tho- 
 mas, &c. : yet have they beene found to have doone verie 
 good service : and the kings of England in foughten 
 battels, were woont to remaine among them (who were 
 their footmen) as the French kings did amongst their 
 horssemen : the prince thereby shewing where his chiefe 
 strength did consist." 
 
 " These notes, you see," continued Egeria, " are 
 very curious illustrations of national history, and 
 will prove highly useful to you, when, inspired by 
 me, you undertake to write a historical novel ; but 
 the following is still better. It is also by Harrison, 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 339 
 
 who, speaking of the additional splendour of gentle- 
 men's houses in Elizabeth's time, remarks''— 
 
 THE GROWTH OF LUXURY. 
 
 " In times past the costlie furniture staled therej 
 whereas now it is descended yet lower, even unto manie 
 farmers, who, by vertue of their old and not of their new 
 leases, have for the most part learned also to garnish 
 their cupbords with plate, their ioined beds with tapit 
 strie and silke hangings, and their tables with carpets 
 and fine naperie, whereby the wealth of our countrie 
 (God be praised therefore, and give us grace to imploie 
 it well) dooth infinitlie appeare. Neither doo I speake 
 this in reproch of anie man, God is my judge, but to 
 shew that I do rejoise rather, to see how God hath bless- 
 ed us with his good gifts ; and whilest I behold how 
 that in a time wherein all things are growen to most ex- 
 cessive prices, and what commoditie so ever is to be had, 
 is daily plucked from the commonaltie by such as looke 
 in to everie trade, we doo yet find the means to obtein 
 and atchive such furniture as here to fore hath beene 
 unpossible. There are old men yet dwelling in the vil- 
 lage where I remaine, which have noted three things to 
 be marvellouslie altered in England within their sound 
 remembrance ; and other three things too too much en- 
 creased. One is, the multitude of chimnies latelie erect- 
 ed, whereas in their yoong daies there were not above 
 two or three, if so manie, in most uplandish townes of 
 the realme, (the religious houses and manor places of 
 their lords alwaies excepted, and peradventure some 
 great personages) but ech one made his fire against a 
 rere dosse in the hall, where he dined and dressed his 
 meat. 
 
 " The second is the great (although not general!) 
 amendment of lodging, for (said they) our fathers (yea 
 and wee ourselves also) have lien full oft upon straw 
 
340 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 pallets, on rough mats covered onlie with a sh^et, under 
 coverlets made of dagswain or hop harlots (I use their 
 owne termes) and a good round log under their heads 
 instead of a bolster or pillow. If it were so that our 
 fathers, or the good man of the house, had within seven 
 yeares after his mariage purchased a matteres or flocke- 
 bed, and thereto a sacke of chafFe to rest his head upon, 
 he thought himselfe to be as well lodged as the lord of 
 the towne, that peradventure laie seldome in a bed of 
 downe or whole fethers ; so well were they contented, 
 and with such base kind of furniture : which also is not 
 verie much amended as yet in some parts of Bedford- 
 shire, and elsewhere further off from our southerne parts. 
 Pillowes (said they) were thought meet onelie for wo- 
 men in child bed. As for servants, if they had anie 
 sheet above them it was well, for seldome had they anie 
 under their bodies, to keepe them from the pricking 
 straws that ran oft through the canvas of the paJlet, and 
 rased their hardened hides. 
 
 '' The third thing they tell of, is the exchange of ves- 
 sell, as of treene platters into pewter, and wodden spoones 
 into silver or tin. For so common was all sorts of treene 
 stuff in old time, that a man should hardlie find four 
 peeces of pewter, (of which one was peradventure a salt,) 
 in a good farmer's house, and yet for all this frugahtie 
 (if it may so be justly called) they were scarce able to 
 live and paie their rents at their dales without selling of 
 a cow, or an horsse, or more, although they paid but 
 foure pounds at the uttermost by the yeare. Such also 
 was their povertie, that if some one od farmer or hus- 
 bandman had beene at the alehouse, a thing greatlie 
 used in those dales, amongst six or seven of his neigh- 
 bours, and there in a braverie to shew what store he had, 
 did cast downe his purse, and therein a noble or six 
 shillings in silver unto them (for few such men then 
 cared for gold, because it was not so readie paiment, and 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 341 
 
 they were oft inforced to give a penie for the exchange 
 of an angell) it was verie likelie that all the rest could 
 not laie downe so much against it : whereas in my time, 
 although peradventure foure poundes of old rent be im- 
 proved to fortie, fiftie, or an hundred pounds, yet will 
 the farmer as another palme or date tree thinke his gaines 
 verie small toward the end of his terme, if he have not 
 six or seven yeares rent lieing by him, therewith to 
 purchase a new lease, beside a faire garnish of pewter 
 on his cupbord, with so much in od vessell going about 
 the house, three or foure feather beds, so manie cover- 
 lids and carpets of tapistrie, a silver salt, a bowle for 
 wine (if not an whole neast) and a dozzen of spoones to 
 fumifih up the sute." 
 
 " To this let me add a quotation from a pastoral of 
 a shepherd youth, which is in itself not only a choice 
 morsel of poetry, but an historical portrait."" 
 
 " Sweet growte, or whig, his bottle had . 
 As much as it might hold : 
 
 A sheeve of bread as browne as nut. 
 
 And cheese as white as snowe. 
 And wildings, or the season's fruite. 
 
 He did in scrip bestow : 
 
 And whil'st his py-bald curre did sleepe. 
 
 And sheep-hooke lay him by. 
 On hollow quilles of oten strawe 
 
 He piped melody : — 
 
 With the sun 
 
 He doth his flocke unfold. 
 And all the day on hill or plaine 
 
 He merrie chat can hold : 
 
342 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And with the sun doth folde againe ; 
 
 Then jogging home betime. 
 He turnes a crab, or tunes a round. 
 
 Or sings some merrie ryme : 
 
 Nor lackes he gleeful tales to tell, 
 Whil'st round the bole doth trot ; 
 
 And sitteth singing care away. 
 Till he to bed hath got. 
 
 Theare sleeps he soundly all the night. 
 
 Forgetting morrow cares. 
 Nor feares he blasting of his come. 
 
 Nor uttering of his wares. 
 
 Or stormes by seas, or stirres on land. 
 
 Or cracke of credite lost. 
 Not spending franklier than his flocke 
 
 Shall still defray the cost. 
 
 Wei wot I, sooth they say that say : 
 
 More quiet nightes and dales 
 The shepheard sleepes and wakes than he 
 
 Whose cattel he doth graize.'* 
 
 " As a contrast to this picture of the shepherd 
 lad, let me read to you his companion, from Bishop 
 Earle's work, which I have already quoted.'*' 
 
 THE CLOWN. 
 
 " The plain country fellow is one that manures his 
 ground well, but lets himself lye fallow and untilled. 
 He has reason enough to do his business, and not enough 
 to be idle or melancholy. He seems to have the punish- 
 ment of Nebuchadnezzar, for his conversation is among 
 beasts, and his tallons none of the shortest, only he eats 
 
SHAKSPEARE'S DRAMAS. 343 
 
 not grass, because he loves not sallets. His hand guides 
 the plough, and the plough his thoughts, and his ditch 
 and land-mark is the very mound of his meditations. 
 He expostulates with his oxen very understanding! y, 
 and speaks gee, and ree, better than English. His mind 
 is not much distracted with objects ; but if a good fat 
 cow come in his way, he stands dumb and astonished, 
 and though his haste be never so great, will fix here half 
 an hour's contemplation. His habitation is some poor 
 thatched roof, distinguished from his barn by the loop- 
 holes that let out smoak, which the rain had long since 
 washed through, but for the double ceiling of bacon on 
 the inside, which has hung there from his grandsire's 
 time, and is yet to make rashers for posterity. His 
 dinner is his other work, for he sweats at it as much as 
 at his labour ; he is a terrible fastner on a piece of beef, 
 and you may hope to stave the guard off sooner. His 
 religion is a part of his copy-hold, which he takes from 
 his land-lord, and refers it wholly to his discretion : yet 
 . if he give him leave he is a good Christian to his power, 
 (that is,) comes to church in his best cloaths, and sits 
 there with his neighbours, where he is capable only of 
 two prayers, for rain and fair weather. He apprehends 
 God's blessings only in a good year, or a fat pasture, 
 and never praises him but on good ground. Sunday, he 
 esteems a day to make merry in, and thinks a bag-pipe 
 sis essential to it as evening prayer, where he walks very 
 solemnly after service with his hands coupled behind 
 him, and censures the dancing of his parish. His com- 
 pliment with his neighbour is a good thump on the back, 
 and his salutation commonly some blunt curse. He 
 thinks nothing to be vices, but pride and ill husbandry, 
 from which he will gravely dissuade the youth, and has 
 some thrifty hob-nail proverbs to clout his discourse. 
 He is a niggard all the week, except only market-day, 
 where, if his corn sell well, he thinks he may be drunk 
 
344 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 with a good conscience. He is sensible of no calamity 
 but the burning a stack of corn, or the overflowing of a 
 meadow, and thinks Noah's flood the greatest plague 
 that ever was, not because it drowned the world, but 
 spoiled the grass. For death he is never troubled, and 
 if he get in but his harvest before, let it come when it 
 will, he cares not." 
 
 CHAP. XL. 
 
 SCOTTISH SCENERY. 
 
 " The Scotch," said Egeria, with the volume of 
 * Lights and Shadows' in her hand, " seem resolved 
 to write up their manners, their scenery, and their 
 annals. There is nothing in the whole course of 
 literary history so extraordinary as the earnestness 
 with which the descriptive authors of Scotland have 
 devoted their pens and powers to the illustration of 
 their beloved country. In the Gentle Shepherd, 
 and songs of Allan Ramsay, we have the feelings 
 and the pastoral life of the south-country swains 
 expressed and delineated with an easy simplicity 
 and truth that beggars in comparison all the pas- 
 toral poetry written since the Song of Solomon ; 
 and Burns has done quite as much for the manners, 
 habits, and amusements of the farmers. We shall 
 look in vain, among all the other literature of Eu- 
 rope, for anything so truly national, worthy of being 
 compared with the pictures which they have intro- 
 
SCOTTISH SCENERY. 345 
 
 duced of rustic Scottish life, or with the correct ex- 
 pressions which they liave given to the sentiments 
 of the shepherds and the hinds of Scotland. 
 
 " In this volume, the author has obviously chosen 
 a different strain of the same subjects. He has not 
 attempted to describe individual scenes nor particu- 
 lar persons, nor the peculiar sentiments of any of 
 the various classes into which the lower orders of 
 the Scottish people are still divided, but has selected, 
 with a poetical eye, certain graces and beauties that 
 may here and there be found scattered among them 
 all, and formed them into compositions of singular 
 elegance and pathos. There arc, indeed, few pas- 
 sages in descriptive poetry more finely conceived 
 than this sketch of a snowy morning."" 
 
 " It was on a fierce and howling winter day that I was 
 crossing the dreary moor of Auchindown, on my way 
 to the manse of that parish, a solitary pedestrian. The 
 snow, which had been incessantly falh'ng for a week 
 past, was drifted into beautiful but dangerous wreaths, 
 far and wide, over the melancholy expanse — and the 
 scene kept visibly shifting before me, as the strong 
 wind that blew from every point of the compass struck 
 the dazzling masses, and heaved them up and down in 
 endless transformation. There was something inspirit- 
 ing in the labour with which, in the buoyant strengtii of 
 youth, I forced my way through the storm — and I could 
 not but enjoy those gleamings of sunliglit that ever and 
 anon burst through some unexpected opening in the sky, 
 and gave a character of cheerfulness, and even warmth, 
 to the sides or summits of the stricken hills. Some- 
 times the wind stopt of a sudden, and then the air was 
 as silent as the snow — not a murmur to be heard from 
 spring or stream, now all frozen up over those high 
 
346 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 moorlands. As the momentary cessations of the sharp 
 drift allowed my eyes to look upwards and around, I 
 saw here and there up the little opening valleys, cot- 
 tages just visible beneath the black stems of their snow- 
 covered clumps of trees, or beside some small spot of 
 green pasture kept open for the sheep. These intima- 
 tions of life and happiness came delightfully to me in 
 the midst of the desolation ; and the barking of a dog, 
 attending some shepherd in his quest on tJie hill, put 
 fresh vigour into my limbs, telling me, that, lonely as I 
 seemed to be, I was surrounded by cheerful though 
 unseen company, and that I was not the only wanderer 
 over the snows. 
 
 " As I walked along, my mind was insensibly filled 
 with a crowd of pleasant images of rural winter life, 
 that helped me gladly onwards over many miles of 
 moor. I thought of the severe but cheerful labours of 
 the barn — the mending of farm-gear by the fire-side — 
 the wheel turned by the foot of old age, less for gain 
 than as a thrifty pastime — the skilful mother making 
 ' auld claes look amaist as weel's the new* — the ballad 
 unconsciously listened to by the family all busy at their 
 own tasks round the singing maiden — the old tradi- 
 tionary tale told by some wayfarer hospitably housed 
 till the storm should blow by — the unexpected visit of 
 neighbours on need or friendship— or the footstep of 
 lover undeterred by snow-drifts that have buried up 
 his flocks ; — ^but, above all, I thought of those hours of 
 religious worship that have not yet escaped from the 
 domestic life of the peasantry of Scotland — of the sound 
 of psalms that the depth of snow cannot deaden to the 
 ear of Him to whom they are chanted — and of that 
 sublime Sabbath-keeping which, on days too tempes- 
 tuous for the kirk, changes the cottage of the shepherd 
 into the temple of God. 
 
 " With such glad and peaceful images in my heart, I 
 
SCOTTISH SCENERY. 347 
 
 travelled along that dreary moor, with the cutting wind 
 in my face, and my feet sinking in the snow, or sliding 
 on the hard blue ice beneath it — as cheerfully as I 
 ever walked in the dewy warmth of a summer morning, 
 through fields of fragrance and of flowers. And now I 
 could discern, within half an hour's walk before me, 
 the spire of the church, close to which stood the manse 
 of my aged friend and benefactor. My heart burned 
 within me as a sudden gleam of stormy sunlight tipt it 
 with fire — and I felt, at that moment, an inexpressible 
 sense of the sublimity of the character of that grey- 
 headed shepherd who had, for fifty years, abode in the 
 wilderness, keeping togetlier his own happy little flock." 
 
 " And here is another of a summer-storm in the 
 Highlands still more highly wrought; indeed, so 
 very poetical, that the language in several places 
 has all the sweetness and rhythm of verse." 
 
 ** An enormous thunder cloud had lain all day over 
 Ben-Nevis, shrouding its summit in thick darkness, 
 blackening its sides and base, wherever they were be- 
 held from the surrounding country, with masses of deep 
 shadow, and especially flinging down a weight of gloom 
 upon that magnificent Glen that bears the same name 
 with the mountain, till now the afternoon was like 
 twilight, and the voice of all the streams was distinct 
 in the breathlessness of the vast solitary hollow. The 
 inhabitants of all the straths, vales, glens, and dells, 
 round and about the monarch of Scottish mountains, 
 had, during each successive hour, been expecting the 
 roar of thunder and the deluge of rain ; but the huge 
 conglomeration of lowering clouds would not rend asun- 
 der, although it was certain that a calm blue sky could 
 not be restored till all that dreadful assemblage had 
 melted away into torrents, or been driven off by a 
 
348 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 strong wind from the sea. All the cattle on the hills, 
 and on the hollows, stood still or lay down in their 
 fear, — the wild deer sought in herds the shelter of the 
 pine-covered cliffs — the raven hushed his hoarse croak 
 in some grim cavern, and the eagle left the dreadful 
 silence of the upper heavens. Now and then the shep- 
 herds looked from their huts, while the shadow of the 
 thunder- clouds deepened the hues of their plaids and 
 tartans ; and at every creaking of the heavy branches 
 of the pines, or wide-armed oaks, in the solitude of their 
 inaccessible birth-place, the hearts of the lonely dwellers 
 quaked, and they lifted up their eyes to see the first 
 wide flash — the disparting of the masses of darkness-— 
 and paused to hear the long loud rattle of heaven's ar- 
 tillery shaking the foundation of the everlasting moun- 
 tains. But all was yet silent. 
 
 '^ The peal came at last, and it seemed as if an earth- 
 quake had smote the silence. Not a tree — not a blade 
 of grass moved, but the blow stunned, as it were, the 
 heart of the solid globe. Then was there a low, wild, 
 whispering, wailing voice, as of many spirits all joining 
 together from every point of heaven, — it died away— 
 and then the rushing of rain was heard through the 
 darkness ; and, in a few minutes down came all the 
 mountain torrents in their power, and the sides of all 
 the steeps were suddenly sheeted, far and wide, with 
 waterfalls. The element of water was let loose to run 
 its rejoicing race — and that of fire lent it illumination, 
 whether sweeping in floods along the great open straths, 
 or tumbling in cataracts from cliffs overhanging the 
 eagle's eyrie. 
 
 " Great rivers suddenly flooded — and the little moun- 
 tain-rivulets, a few minutes before only silver threads, 
 and in whose fairy basins the minnow played, were 
 now scarcely fordable to shepherds' feet. It was time 
 for the strongest to take shelter, and none now would 
 
SCOTTISH SCENERY. 349 
 
 have liked to issue from it ; for while there was real 
 danger to life and limb in the many raging torrents, 
 and in the lightning's flash, the imagination and the 
 soul themselves were touched with awe in the long re- 
 sounding glens, and beneath the savage scowl of the 
 angry sky. 
 
 " It was not a time to be abroad ; yet all by herself 
 was hastening down Glen- Nevis, from a shealing far up 
 the river, a little girl, not more than twelve years of 
 age — in truth, a very child. Grief and fear, not for 
 herself, but for another, bore her along as upon wings, 
 through the storm; she crossed rivulets from which, 
 on any other occasion, she should have turned back 
 trembling ; and she did not even hear many of the 
 crashes of thunder that smote the smoking hills. Some- 
 times at a fiercer flash of lightning she just lifted her 
 hand to her dazzled eyes, and then, unappalled, hurried 
 on through the hot and sulphureous air. Had she 
 been a maiden of that tender age from village or city, 
 her course would soon have been fatally stopt short ; 
 but she had been born among the hills, had first learn- 
 ed to walk among the heather, holding by its blooming 
 branches, and many and many a solitary mile had she 
 tripped, young as she was, over moss and moor, glen 
 and mountain, even like the roe that had its lair in the 
 coppice beside her own beloved shealing." 
 
350 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 CHAP. XLI. 
 
 CYCLES OF LITERATURE. 
 
 " I HAVE often thought,'' said the Bachelor one 
 evening, " that there are cycles of particular litera- 
 ture. One age excels in the drama, another in his- 
 tory, another in general poetry, the present seems 
 to be that of novels." 
 
 " And it is natural that it should be so," replied 
 the Nymph. " After epochs of action and enter- 
 prise, in which individual peculiarities are called 
 into impassioned exercise, we should expect the 
 drama to thrive : the history of English literature 
 shows as much. The conflicts of the York and 
 Lancaster wars ; the controversies of the Reforma- 
 tion ; the vicissitudes of fortune, arising from the 
 changes induced by them ; the struggles and con- 
 spiracies of faction ; the wrongs done to private 
 affection by the same causes, all combined to pre- 
 pare the way in England for some extraordinary 
 display of dramatic power; and accordingly we 
 find in Shakspeare, and his illustrious contempora- 
 ries, such a stupendous store of talent for that 
 species of writing as never was seen at any one period 
 in the world before. 
 
 " The dramatic age was followed by the histori- 
 cal. The compilations in that sort of composition, 
 both in the latter part of Elizabeth's reign, and 
 
CYCLES OF LITERATURE. 861 
 
 throughout the whole of King James the First's 
 time, are still the most valuable and important that 
 have yet been made in English literature. The 
 literature of no other country possesses any thing 
 to be put into comparison with the Chronicles of 
 these kingdoms. 
 
 " After the historical cycle came that of general 
 poetry, the genius of which addressed itself not to 
 the description of scenes or of feelings, but almost 
 exclusively to the associations which constitute the 
 basis of rational knowledge. Pope may be said 
 to have been the chief in this species of compo- 
 sition, and I am not sure that, since his time till 
 the present, the literature of this country has had 
 any decided character, or made any important pro- 
 gress. It has been classical, correct, moral and 
 philosophical, perhaps beyond the attainments of 
 the existing epoch, but it has been general, and, 
 in some respects, I may almost say, featureless. It 
 has consisted rather of compendious views of what 
 had been done and established in preceding times, 
 than of additions to our knowledge respecting the 
 recesses of nature and of passion. 
 
 " We are now, I think, evidently entered into a 
 new cycle. All the past has become, in some de- 
 gree, obsolete, or is only drawn on to furnish illus- 
 trations to characters, possessing something in com- 
 mon with that high state of excitement into which 
 we have ourselves been raised by the vast and won- 
 derful events of the age. The theatre, owing to 
 the general ignorance and conceit of the players, 
 being, in the management, so much under the 
 common level of the taste and knowledge of the 
 
352 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 time, has gone out of fashion, and the conse- 
 quence is, that the talent, which would otherwise 
 have been directed in another state of things to 
 furnish the empty stage with life, energy, and truth, 
 is now engaged in providing a similar sort of enter- 
 tainment in the shape of tales and romances, so 
 highly imbued with poetical ornament, and the 
 emphatic disclosures of sentiment and passion, that 
 they bear scarcely any likeness to the compositions 
 which, during the earlier part of the late reign, 
 were called novels, while they have much of the air 
 and complexion of the works of the old dramatists. 
 
 '^ When this cycle is run out, then we shall have 
 another historical period, and what themes for elo- 
 quence, aphorisms, and description, await thepen of the 
 unborn Humes, and Robertsons, and Gibbons, in the 
 gorgeous calamities and magnificent crimes and enter- 
 prises of the Revolutionary war ! — a subject in itself, 
 from the beginning to the end, the most complete 
 and epic which the whole history of mankind affords. 
 
 " In the meantime, we may expect to meet with 
 occasional preparatory passages, treated with dis- 
 crimination and ability, and which will serve the 
 future historian as materials for his " imperial 
 theme." Of this kind I consider Southey's History of 
 the Peninsular War, — a work, so far as it has gone, 
 highly creditable to his industry and talents, and, 
 indeed, one of the most favourable specimens of nar- 
 ration which has yet appeared on the greatest of 
 subjects ; I speak of the whole conflict, of which the 
 peninsular war, like the Egyptian expedition, can 
 only be considered as a chapter." 
 
 "I have not yet read his volume, " said Benedict," 
 
CYCLES OF LITERATURE. 363 
 
 " Then I advise you to do so with all possible 
 speed," replied Egeria. <* What I will read to you,— 
 his sketch of the siege of Zaragoza,— is a picture 
 which wanted but the circumstantial pencil of Jo- 
 sephus to have been none inferior in interest to the 
 unparalleled description of the destruction of Je- 
 rusalem :" 
 
 " On the 4th of August the French opened their 
 batteries within pistol-shot of the church and convent 
 of St Eugracia. 
 
 " The mud walls were levelled at the first discharge; 
 and the besiegers rushing through the opening, took 
 the batteries before the adjacent gates in reverse. Here 
 General Mori, who had distinguished himself on many 
 former occasions, was made prisoner. The street of St 
 Eugracia, which they had thus entered, leads into the 
 Cozo, and the comer buildings where it thus terminated, 
 were, on the one hand, the convent of St Francisco, and, 
 on the other, the general hospital. Both were stormed 
 and set on fire ; the sick and the wounded threw them^ 
 selves from the windows to escape the flames, and the 
 horror of the scene was aggravated by the maniacs, 
 whose voices, raving or singing in paroxysms of wilder 
 madness, or crying in vain to be set free, were heard 
 amid the confusion of dreadful sounds. Many fell vic- 
 tims to the fire, and some to the indiscriminating fury 
 of the assailants. Those who escaped were conducted 
 as prisoners to the Torrero ; but when their condition 
 had been discovered, they were sent back on the mor- 
 row, to take their chance in the siege. After a severe 
 contest and dreadful carnage, the French forced their 
 way into the Cozo, in the very centre of the city, and 
 before the day closed, were in possession of one half of 
 Zaragoza. Lefebvre now believed that he had effected 
 
364 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 his purpose, and required Palafox to surrender, in a note 
 containing only these words : — 
 
 ' Head-quarters, St Eugracia. — Capitulation !' 
 '' The heroic Spaniard immediately returned this reply:— 
 
 ' Head-quarters, Zaragoza. — ^War at the knife's point!' 
 " The contest which was now carried on is unex- 
 ampled in history.— One side of the Cozo, a street about 
 as wide as Pail-Mall, was possessed by the French ; and 
 in the centre of it, their general, Verdier, gave his orders 
 from the Franciscan convent. The opposite side was 
 maintained by the Arragonese, who threw up batteries 
 at the openings of the cross streets, within a few paces 
 of those which the French erected against them. The 
 intervening space was presently heaped with dead, either 
 slain upon the spot, or thrown out from the windows. 
 Next day the ammunition of the citizens began to fail 
 It was almost certain death to appear, by daylight, 
 within reach of those houses which were occupied by 
 the other party. But under cover of the darkness, the 
 combatants frequently dashed across the street to attack 
 each other's batteries ; and the battles which began there, 
 were often carried on into the houses beyond, where 
 they fought from room to room, and floor to floor. The 
 hostile batteries were so near each other, that a Spaniard 
 in one place made way under cover of the dead bodies, 
 which completely filled the space between them, and 
 fastened a rope to one of the French cannons ; in the 
 struggle which ensued, the rope broke, and the Zarago- 
 zans lost their prize at the very moment when they 
 thought themselves sure of it 
 
 '^ A new horror was added to the dread- 
 ful circumstances of war in this ever-memorable siege. 
 In general engagements the dead are left upon the field 
 of battle, and the survivors remove to clear ground, and 
 an untainted atmosphere ; but here — in Spain, and in 
 the month of August, there where the dead lay the 
 
BURGER, THE GERMAN POET. 355 
 
 struggle was still carried on, and pestilence was dread- 
 ed from the enormous accumulation of putrifying bodies. 
 Nothing in the whole course of the siege so much em- 
 barrassed Palafox as this evil. The only remedy was to 
 tie ropes to the French prisoners, and push them for- 
 ward amid the dead and dying, to remove the bodies, 
 and bring them away for interment Even for this 
 necessary office there was no truce, and it would have 
 been certain death to the Arragonese who should have 
 attempted to perform it ; but the prisoners were in ge- 
 neral secured by the pity of their own soldiers, and in 
 this manner the evil was, in some degree, diminished." 
 
 CHAP. XLII. 
 
 BURGER, THE GERMAN POET. 
 
 The Bachelor, one evening on returning home, 
 found his Nymph in a state of tremour amounting 
 almost to alarm. Her countenance was pale, and 
 her eyes bright and startled ; a hectic flush now and 
 then passed over her cheek, and in the same mo- 
 ment her lips became livid. Her dark hair fell in 
 pythian disorder over her shoulders, and the whole 
 apparition was sublime and mystical. " What has 
 happened ? What has terrified you ?" cried the kind 
 and affectionate Benedict. She, however, made him 
 no immediate answer ; but, flinging back her hair, 
 took a paper which was lying before her on the table, 
 and said, — " Have you ever read the ballads of 
 Biirger, the German poet ?" 
 
356 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " No ; neither the poets nor the prosers of that 
 nation, you know, are favourites of mine." 
 
 '^ Then," exclaimed Egeria, " you deny yourself 
 the high sensations of delightful horror, an impas- 
 sioned sentiment, which the writers of no other lan- 
 guage have so effectually succeeded in exciting.— 
 Here have I, for the last hour, been in a state of 
 agitation which I know not how to describe. I have 
 felt something like what I conceive to be the rapture 
 of the bard in the paroxysms of his inspiration. It 
 is quite astonishing what effect a man of genius may 
 produce, when he happens to employ the proper cur- 
 rent of his powers ; I say happens, because I am of 
 opinion, that authors are not always aware of the 
 peculiarities in which the real pith of their talent 
 lies ; and Burger is an instance of how much a man 
 may write without lighting upon his proper vein. — 
 He may be said to be the father of our taste for 
 German literature, and yet he owes all his fame 
 amongst us to these two simple ballads: the trans- 
 lations have indeed been executed with a degree of 
 felicity and energy that gives them the force and 
 spirit of originality ; I never read them but with 
 renewed and augmented interest," — and, with these 
 words, she began to read" — 
 
 LENORA. 
 
 At break of day, with frightful dreams 
 
 Lenora struggled sore ; 
 ' My William, art thou slane/ said she; 
 
 ' Or dost thou love no more ?' 
 
 He went abroade with Richard's host^ 
 The Paynim foes to quell ; 
 
5 
 
 LENORA. dSIJ \ 
 
 But he no word to her had writt, -j 
 
 An he were sick or well. ^ 
 
 i 
 
 With sowne of triunp, and beat of drum, 1 
 
 His fellow- soldyers come ; j 
 
 Their helmes bydeckt with oaken boughs, ^\ 
 They seeke their long'd-fbr home. 
 
 And ev'ry road and ev'ry lane \ 
 ^ Was full of old and young. 
 To gaze at the rejoicing band. 
 To hail with gladsome toung. 
 
 ' Thank God !' their wives and children saide, j 
 
 * Welcome !' the brides did saye : 
 
 But greete or kiss Lenora gave ' 
 
 To none upon that daye. ; 
 
 \ 
 
 She askte of all the passing traine, \ 
 
 For him she wisht to see : \ 
 
 But none of all the passing traine i 
 
 Could tell if lived hee. \ 
 
 And when the soldyers all were bye. 
 
 She tore her raven haire, ^ 
 
 And cast herself upon the growne ] 
 
 In furious despaire. ^ 
 
 Her mother ran and lyfte her up, j 
 And clasped in her arme, 
 
 * My child, my child, what dost thou ail ? ^ 
 
 God shield thy life from harm !' \ 
 
 * O mother, mother ! William's gone ! 
 
 What's all besyde to me ? 
 
358 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 There is no mercye, sure, above ! 
 All, all were spar'd but hee !' 
 
 * Knell downe, thy paternoster saye, 
 'Twill calm thy troubled spright ; 
 
 The Lord is wyse, the Lord is good : 
 What hee hath done is right/ 
 
 ' O mother, mother ! say not so ; 
 
 Most cruel is my fate : 
 I prayde, and prayde ; but watt avayl'd ! 
 
 'Tis now, alas ! too late/ 
 
 ' Our Heavenly Father, if we praye, 
 Will help a sufF'ring childe ; 
 
 Go take the holy sacrament : 
 So shall thy grief grow milde/ 
 
 ' O mother, what I feel within. 
 
 No sacrament can staye ; 
 No sacrament can teche the dead 
 
 To bear the sight of daye/ 
 
 ' May be, among the heathen folk 
 Thy William false doth prove. 
 
 And puts away his faith and troth. 
 And takes another love. 
 
 ' Then wherefore sorrow for his loss ? 
 
 Thy moans are all in vain : 
 And when his soul and body parte. 
 
 His falsehode brings him paine/ 
 
 ' O mother, mother ! gone is gone ; 
 My hope is all forlorne ; 
 
LENORA. 359 
 
 The grave mie only safeguard is— 
 O, had I ne'er been borne ! 
 
 ' Go out, go out, my lampe of life : 
 
 In grislie darkness die ; 
 There is no mercye, sure, above ! 
 
 For ever let me die/ 
 
 ' Almighty God ! O do not judge 
 
 My poor unhappy childe ; 
 She knows not what her lips pronounce. 
 
 Her anguish makes her wilde. 
 
 ' My girl, forget thine earthly woe. 
 
 And think on God and bliss ; 
 For so, at least, shall not thy soule 
 
 Its heavenly bridegroom miss.' 
 
 ' O mother, mother ! what is blisse. 
 
 And what the fiendis celle ? 
 With him 'tis heaven any where. 
 
 Without my William, helle. 
 
 ' Go out, go out, my lampe of life ; 
 
 In endless darkness die : 
 Without him I must loathe the earth. 
 
 Without him scorn the skye.' 
 
 And so despaire did rave and rage 
 
 Athwarte her boiling veins ; 
 Against the Providence of Heaven 
 
 She hurlde her impious strains. 
 
 She bet her breaste, and wrung her hands. 
 And roUde her tearlesse eye. 
 
360 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 From rise of morne, till the pale'stars 
 Again did freeke the skye. 
 
 When, harke ! abroade she hearde the trampe 
 
 Of nimble-hoofed steed ; 
 She hearde a knighte with clank alighte. 
 
 And climb the stair in speede. 
 
 And soon she herde a tinkling hande. 
 
 That twirled at the pin ; 
 And thro' her door, that open'd not. 
 
 These words were breathed in. 
 
 ' What ho ! what ho ! thy dore undoe ; 
 
 Art watching or asleepe ? 
 My love, dost yet remember mee. 
 
 And dost thou laugh or weep ?' 
 
 ^ ' Ah ! William, here so late at night ! 
 Oh ! I have watchte and wak'd : 
 Whence dost thou come ? For thy return 
 My herte has sorely ak*d.' 
 
 ' At midnight only we may ride ; 
 
 I come o'er land and sea : 
 I mounted late, but soon I go ; 
 
 Aryse, and come with mee.* 
 
 ' O William, enter first my bowre. 
 
 And give me one embrace : 
 The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss ; 
 
 Awayte a little space.' 
 
 * The blasts athwarte the hawthorn hiss> 
 I may not harboure here ; 
 
LENORA. 361 
 
 My spurre is sharpe, my courser pawes. 
 My houre of flighte is nere. 
 
 ' All as thou lyest upon thy couch, 
 
 Aryse, and mount behinde ; 
 To-night we'le ride a thousand miles. 
 
 The bridal bed to finde/ 
 
 ' How ! ride to-night a thousand miles ? 
 
 Thy love thou dost bemocke : 
 Eleven is the stroke that still 
 
 Rings on within the clocke.' 
 
 ' Looke up ; the moone is bright, and we 
 
 Outstride the earthlie men : 
 I'll take thee to the bridal bed. 
 
 And night shall end but then.' 
 
 ' And where is, then, thy house and home ? 
 
 And where thy bridal bed ?' 
 ' 'Tis narrow, silent, chilly, dark ; 
 
 Far hence I rest my head.* 
 
 ' And is there any room for mee. 
 
 Wherein that I may creepe ?' 
 ' There's room enough for thee and mee. 
 
 Wherein that wee may sleepe. 
 
 ' All as thou ly'st upon thy couch, 
 
 Aryse, no longer stop ; 
 The wedding guests thy coming waite. 
 
 The chamber door is ope.' 
 
 All in her sarke, as there she lay. 
 Upon his horse she sprung ; 
 
362 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. ^ 
 
 i 
 
 And with her lily hands so pale ] 
 
 About her William clung. i 
 
 And hurry-skurry forth they go, ^ 
 
 Unheeding wet or dry ; j 
 
 And horse and rider snort and blow, j 
 
 And sparkling pebbles fly. 1 
 
 How swift the flood, the mead, the wood, : 
 
 Aright, aleft, are gone ! • 
 
 The bridges thunder as they pass, i_ 
 
 But earthlie swoone is none. ] 
 
 i 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
 
 Splash, splash, across the see : j 
 
 ' Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ; i 
 
 Dost feare to ride with mee ? ' 
 
 •j 
 
 ' The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte ; \ 
 
 Dost quake the blast to stem } J 
 Dost shudder, mayde, to seek the dead ?' 
 
 ' No, no, but what of them ?* 
 
 * How glumlie sownes yon dirgye song ! 
 
 Night-ravens flappe the wing. 
 What knell doth slowlie toll ding-dong ? 
 
 The psalmes of death who sing ? 
 
 ' It creeps, the swarthie funeral traine. 
 
 The corse is onn the beere ; 
 Like croke of todes from lonely moors. 
 
 The chaunte doth meet the eere. 
 
 ' Go, bear her corse, when midnight's past. 
 With song, and tear, and wayle ; 
 
LENORA. 383 
 
 I've got my wife, I take her home. 
 My howre of wedlocke hayl. 
 
 ' Lead forth, O clarke, the chaunting quire. 
 
 To swell our nuptial song : 
 Come, preaste, and reade the blessing soone ; 
 
 For bed, for bed we long/ 
 
 They heede his calle, and husht the sowne ; 
 
 The biere was seen no more ; 
 And foUowde him ore feeld and flood 
 
 Yet faster than before. 
 
 Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe. 
 
 Unheeding wet or drye ; 
 And horse and rider snort and blowe. 
 
 And sparkling pebbles flye. 
 
 How swifte the hill, how swifte the dale. 
 
 Aright, aleft, are gone ? 
 By hedge and tree, by thorpe and towne. 
 
 They gallop, gallop on. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; 
 
 Splash, splash, acrosse the see : 
 ' Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ; 
 
 Dost fear to ride with me ? 
 
 ' Look up, look up, an airy crewe 
 
 In roundel daunces reele : 
 The moone is bryghte, and blue the nyghte, 
 
 Mayst dimlie see them wheele. 
 
 ' Come to, come to, ye ghostlie crewe. 
 
 Come to, and follow mee. 
 And daunce for us the wedding daunce. 
 
 When we in bed shall be.' 
 
364 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And brush, brush, brush, the ghostUe crewe ^ 
 
 Come wheeling ore their heads, ; 
 
 All rustling like the withered leaves ^ 
 
 That wyde the wirlwind spreads. ; 
 
 Halloo ! halloo ! away they goe, - 
 
 Unheeding wet or drye ; i 
 
 And horse and rider snort and blowe, 
 
 And sparkling pebbles flye. ■ 
 
 And all that in the moonshyne lay, 
 
 Behynde them fled afar ; 
 And backwarde scudded overhead \ 
 
 The sky and every star. j 
 
 Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede ; ; 
 
 Splash, splash, across the see : 
 ' Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ; ' 
 
 Dost fear to ride with mee ? 
 
 ' I weene the cock prepares to crowe ; ; 
 
 The sand will soon be runne ; \ 
 
 I snufFe the earlye morning aire : \ 
 
 Downe, downe ! our work is done. i 
 
 i 
 * The dead, the dead can ride apace I ^ 
 
 Our wed-bed here is fit ; ^ 
 
 Oure race is ridde, our journey ore, • 
 
 Our endlesse union knitt.* ] 
 
 And lo ! an'yren-grated gate ] 
 
 Soon biggens to their vie we : ; 
 
 He crackte his whyppe ; the clangynge boltes, \ 
 
 The doores asunder flewe. i 
 
 They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode ; i 
 
 ' 'Tis hither we are bounde :* I 
 
 \ 
 
LENORA. 365 
 
 And many a tombstone ghostlie white 
 Lay in the moonshyne round. 
 
 And when hee from his steede alytte. 
 
 His armour, black as cinder. 
 Did moulder, moulder all awaye. 
 
 As were it made of tinder. 
 
 His head became a naked scull ; 
 
 Nor haire nor eyne had hee : 
 His body grew a skeleton, 
 
 Whilome so blythe of blee. 
 
 And att his drye and boney heele 
 
 Nor spur was left to be ; 
 And inn his witherde hande you might 
 
 The scythe and houre-glasse see. 
 
 And lo ! his steede did thin to smoke. 
 
 And charnel fires outbreathe ; 
 And pal'd, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite 
 
 The mayde from undemeathe. 
 
 And hollow bowlings hung in aire. 
 
 And shrekes from vaults arose. 
 Then knew the mayde she mighte no more 
 
 Her living eyes unclose. 
 
 But onwarde to the judgment-seat. 
 
 Thro* myste and moonlight dreare. 
 The ghostlie crewe their flyghte persewe. 
 
 And hollowe inn her eare : — 
 
 ' Be patient ; tho' thyne herte shoulde breke, 
 
 Arrayne not Heaven's decree ; 
 Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte, 
 
 Thie soule forgiven bee !' 
 
366 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 " It is said," resumed the Nymph, " that when 
 Biirger first wrote this poem, he was a very young 
 man, and read it to his companions with such spirit 
 and vehemence, that they started from their seats in 
 horror at the impassioned accent with which he 
 uttered the expression in the original, which is so 
 happily rendered by ' he crackte his whyppe.' I have 
 also heard it stated, that he is considered among 
 his countrymen as Coleridge and Wordsworth are 
 among us, not so much for genius as for rejecting 
 what is called the conventual phraseology of regu- 
 lar poetry, in favour of popular forms of expression, 
 gathered from the simple and energetic utterance 
 of the common people. Imitative harmony he pur- 
 sues almost to excess, — ^the onomatopoeia is his pre- 
 vailing figure, — ^the inteijection liis favourite part of 
 speech, — arrangement, rhythm, sound, rhjrme, are 
 always with him an echo to the same. The hurry- 
 ing vigour of his poetical diction is unrivalled, yet 
 it is so natural, even in its sublimity, that his poetry 
 is singularly fitted to become national with the peo- 
 ple. Of these two ballads some prefer ' The Parson's 
 Daughter' to Lenora. It has been no less happily 
 translated than the other, under the title of 
 
 THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. 
 Beside the parson's bower of yew. 
 
 Why strays a troubled gpright. 
 That peaks and pines, and dimly shines 
 
 Thro' curtains of the night ? 
 
 Why steals along the pond of toads 
 
 A gliding fire so blue. 
 That lights a spot where grows no grass, 
 
 Where fells no rain nor dew ? 
 
THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. 307 
 
 The parson's daughter once WM good. 
 
 And gentle as the dove. 
 And young and fair, and many came 
 
 To win the damsel's love. 
 
 High o'er the hamlet, from the hill. 
 
 Beyond the winding stream. 
 The windows of a stately house 
 
 In sheen of evening gleam. 
 
 There dwelt, in riot, rout, and roar, 
 
 A lord so frank and free. 
 That oft, with inward joy of heart. 
 
 The maid beheld his glee. 
 
 Whether he met the dawning day. 
 
 In hunting trim so fine. 
 Or tapers, sparkling from his hall, 
 
 Beshone the midnight wine. 
 
 He sent the maid his picture, girt 
 
 With diamond, pearl, and gold ; 
 And silken paper, sweet with musk. 
 
 This gentle message told : 
 
 ' Let go thy sweethearts, one and all ; 
 
 Shalt thou be basely woo'd, 
 That worthy art to gain the heart 
 
 Of youths of noble blood ? 
 
 ' The tale I would to thee bewray, 
 
 In secret must be said : 
 At midnight hour I'll seek thy bower ; 
 
 Fair lass, be not afraid. 
 
 ' And when the amorous nightingale 
 Sings sweetly to his mate. 
 
368 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Ill pipe my quail-call from the field : 
 Be kind, nor make me wait/ 
 
 In cap and mantle clad he came. 
 
 At night, with lonely tread ; 
 Unseen, and silent as a mist. 
 
 And hush'd the dogs with bread. 
 
 And when the amorous nightingale 
 
 Sung sweetly to his mate. 
 She heard his quail-call in the field. 
 
 And, ah ! ne'er made him wait. 
 
 The words he whispered were so soft. 
 
 They won her ear and heart ; 
 How soon will she, who loves, believe ! 
 
 How deep a lover's art I 
 
 No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd. 
 
 To banish virtuous shame ; 
 He call'd on holy God above. 
 
 As witness to his flame. 
 
 He clasp'd her to his breast, and swore 
 
 To be for ever true : 
 ' O yield thee to my wishful arms. 
 
 Thy choice thou shalt not rue.' 
 
 And while she strove, he drew her on. 
 
 And led her to the bower 
 So still, so dim — and round about 
 
 Sweet smelt the beans in flower. 
 
 There beat her heart, and heaved her breast. 
 
 And pleaded every sense ; 
 And there the glowing breath of lust 
 
 Did blast her innocence. 
 
THE LASS OF FAIR WONE. 369 i 
 
 But when the fragrant beans began 
 
 Their fallow blooms to shed. 
 Her sparkling eyes their lustre lost ; 
 
 Her cheek, its roses fled ; 
 
 And when she saw the pods increase, i 
 
 The ruddier cherries stain, \ 
 
 She felt her silken robe grow tight, ] 
 
 Her waist new weight sustain. ] 
 
 And when the mowers went afield, ' 
 
 The yellow corn to ted, i 
 
 She felt her burden stir within, j 
 
 And shook with tender dread. ^ 
 
 And when the winds of autumn hist 
 
 Along the stubble field ; 
 Then could the damsel's piteous plight 
 
 No longer be conceal'd. 
 
 Her sire, a harsh and angry man. 
 
 With furious voice revil'd : 
 ' Hence from my sight ! I'll none of thee — 
 
 I harbour not thy child.' 
 
 And fast, amid her fluttering hair. 
 
 With clenched fist he gripes. 
 And seiz'd a leathern thong, and lash'd 
 
 Her side with sounding stripes. 
 
 Her lily skin, so soft and white. 
 
 He ribb'd with bloody wales ; 
 And thrust her out, though black the night. 
 
 Though sleet and storm assails. 
 
 Up the harsh rock, on flinty paths. 
 The maiden had to roam ; 
 
370 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 On tottering feet she grop*d her way. 
 And sought her lover's home. 
 
 * A mother thou hast made of me. 
 
 Before thou mad'st a wife : 
 
 For this, upon my tender breast. 
 
 These livid stripes are rife : 
 
 ' Behold ;* and then with bitter sobs. 
 She sank upon the floor — 
 
 * Make good the evil thou has wrought ; 
 
 My injur'd name restore.' 
 
 ' Poor soul, — I'll have thee hous'd and nurs'd ; 
 
 Thy terrors I lament. 
 Stay here ; we'll have some further talk— 
 
 The old one shall repent — * 
 
 ' I have no time to rest and wait ; 
 
 That saves not my good name, — 
 If thou with honest soul hast sworn, 
 
 O leave me not to shame ; 
 
 ' But at the holy altar be 
 
 Our union sanctified ; 
 Before the people and the priest 
 
 Receive me for thy bride.' 
 
 ' Unequal matches must not blot 
 
 The honours of my line ; 
 Art thou of wealth or rank for me. 
 
 To harbour thee as mine ? 
 
 ' What's fit and fair I'll do for thee ; 
 
 Shalt yet retain my love — 
 Shalt wed my huntsman, and we'll then 
 
 Our former transports prove.' 
 
THE LASS OP FAIR WONE. 371 
 
 ' Thy wicked soul, hard-hearted man. 
 
 May pangs in hell await ! 
 Sure, if not suited for thy bride, 
 
 I was not for thy mate. 
 
 ' Go, seek a spouse of nobler blood. 
 
 Nor God's just judgments dread- 
 So shall, ere long, some base-born wretch 
 
 Defile thy marriage-bed.— 
 
 ' Then, traitor, feel how wretched they 
 
 In hopeless shame immerst ; 
 Then smite thy forehead on the wall. 
 
 While horrid curses burst. 
 
 ' Roll thy dry eyes in wild despair— 
 
 Unsooth'd thy grinning wo ; 
 Through thy pale temples fire the ball. 
 
 And sink to fiends below.' 
 
 CJollected, then, she started up. 
 
 And, through the hissing sleet. 
 Through thorn and briar, through flood and mire. 
 
 She fled with bleeding feet. 
 
 ' Where now,' she cried, ' my gracious God ! 
 
 What refuge have I left ?' 
 And reach'd the garden of her home, 
 
 Of hope in man bereft. 
 
 On hand and foot she feebly crawl'd 
 
 Beneath the bower unblest ; 
 Where withering leaves, and gathering snow, 
 
 Prepar'd her only rest. 
 
 There rending pains and darting throes 
 Assail'd her shuddering frame ; 
 
372 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 And from her womb a lovely boy. 
 With wail and weeping came. 
 
 Forth from her hair a silver pin 
 
 With hasty hand she drew. 
 And prest against its tender heart. 
 
 And the sweet babe she slew. 
 
 Erst when the act of blood was done. 
 
 Her soul its guilt abhorr'd : 
 ' My Jesus ! what has been my deed ? 
 
 Have mercy on me. Lord !' 
 
 With bloody nails, beside the pond. 
 
 Its shallow grave she tore ; 
 ' There rest in God, — there shame and want 
 
 Thou can'st not suffer more ; 
 
 ' Me vengeance waits. My poor, poor child. 
 Thy wound shall bleed afresh. 
 
 When ravens from the gallows tear 
 Thy mother's mould'ring flesh.' — 
 
 Hard by the bower her gibbet stands. 
 
 Her skull is still to show ; 
 It seems to eye the barren grave. 
 
 Three spans in length below. 
 
 That is the spot where grows no grass ; 
 
 Where falls no rain nor dew, — 
 Whence steals along the pond of toads 
 
 A hovering fire so blue. 
 
 And nightly when the ravens come. 
 
 Her ghost is seen to glide ; 
 Pursues and tries to quench the flame, 
 
 And pines the pool beside. 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 37? 
 
 CHAP. XLIII. 
 
 BISHOP WARBURTON AND DR JOHNSON. 
 
 " We were talking the other evening of reviewers ; 
 since that time I have met with a clever article in 
 Blackwood'*s Magazine relative to the two most dis- 
 tinguished critics of the last century, Bishop War- 
 burton and Dr Johnson. Boswell has immortalized 
 the latter in such a manner, has so softened his dog- 
 matism and rudeness by the friendly admiration 
 with which, if I may use the expression, he has 
 enambered him, that it is impossible to read his 
 work without being persuaded that the Doctor was 
 a very learned, and something too of a wise as well 
 as a good man. As for the Bishop, I suspect it 
 would puzzle you to find a person now alive who, 
 from his own knowledge, can tell you either of the 
 powers or the productions by which he arrogated, 
 while alive, so much pre-eminence to himself. With- 
 out the work of Boswell, the fame of the Doctor 
 would rest almost entirely on his own Dictionary, 
 which, though a compilation of considerable indus- 
 try and acumen, cannot be regarded as any very 
 extraordinary achievement. A few of the Lives of 
 the Poets are highly respectable ; Rasselas is a so- 
 norous enough thing of its kind ; and some of the 
 papers in the Rambler would obtain insertion in the 
 magazines of the present day. His Tour to the 
 
374 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 Hebrides might also be spoken of as a very credit- 
 able work.'' 
 
 " My love," exclaimed the Bachelor, " what 
 blasphemy is that you are uttering ! I shudder 
 with the idea of what might be our fortune, were it 
 possible for " the colossus of learning" to hear you 
 speaking in such a strain." 
 
 «* * And knock that fellow and that woman down,* 
 
 as Peter Pindar makes him say, would, I doubt 
 not, be the gentlest thing we should hear from him," 
 replied Egeria ; " but, for all that, we ought not to 
 be deterred from speaking the truth, and what I 
 have said is the plain fact. Nevertheless, such is 
 the impression of the Doctor's character, left by the 
 perusal, many years ago, of Boswell's unequalled 
 and matchless piece of biography, that I have a 
 strong affection for his surly merits ; for in that work 
 I count him, as it were, a living friend, whom I can 
 occasionally consult. But Warburton, — peace to 
 his manes ! — I am really malicious enough to wish 
 he were now alive, and subject to the irreverent 
 spirit of modern criticism. How delightful to see 
 such a plethory of arrogance subjected to the bleed- 
 ing and blistering of the reviews! With all his 
 overweening presumption, however, it would seem 
 that he did possess talent as well as learning ; and 
 the ingenious author of the dissertation before me 
 has estimated his abilities, as compared with those 
 of Johnson, with a degree of tact and discrimina- 
 tion that will, perhaps, do as much for his fame 
 as any thing that he himself has or could have 
 •written. Of such bugbears it is pleasant to speak 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 375 
 
 contemptuously. One feels, in so doing, as if one 
 avenged the insolence with which they tyrannized 
 over their contemporaries.'*' 
 
 " The two greatest men of the last century in our na- 
 tional literature, the greatest in comprehensiveness of 
 mind and variety of talent, were undoubtedly Bishop 
 Warburton and Dr Johnson. For a long period of 
 time, they exercised a kind of joint domination over the 
 republic of letters — a dominion which, in the former, 
 chiefly arose from the bardy and unshrinking defiance 
 of public opinion he exhibited, backed by extraordinary 
 intellectual force and vigour ; and, in the latter, had its 
 origin in the universal awe and veneration his genius 
 and character had excited. In the one, it was a tribute 
 which fear of an immediate consequent castigation com- 
 pelled all to pay ; in the other, it was an homage more 
 voluntary, because less enforced, to powers of the high- 
 est magnitude, and virtue of the most unblemished 
 purity. The one, accounting dissent from his favourite 
 theories as a crime of the blackest dye, punished all 
 non-conformists to the idol he had set up with a most 
 merciless measure of pains and penalties ; while the 
 latter, possessing, indeed, not less of haughtiness and 
 irritability, but more of prudence, had the good sense 
 to leave to public opinion his justification against the 
 attacks of his enemies. This joint and equal literary 
 supremacy, notwithstanding that it was occasionally 
 disturbed by frequent murmurings of jealousy in the 
 former, and growlings of fearless opposition in the 
 latter, continued, without being shaken by intestine 
 division, till the former had lost, in inanity and dotage, 
 his great mental acuteness and strength, — and thus the 
 latter had, by the departure of his rival, become the 
 sole literary potentate of his country. Time, however, 
 which as frequently consigns to neglect the meritorious 
 
376 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 productions of literature, as it showers down an increase 
 of fame on the compositions of deserving genius, has 
 long since quieted the bustle which the pen of Warbur- 
 ton always excited in his lifetime ; and his name, once 
 numbered amongst the mighty of the earth, has been 
 for some time subjected to a partial if not total neglect. 
 As the Roman Catholic church treated the bones of 
 WicklifFe with contumely, whom, living, they could 
 not overcome; so the public seem determined to re- 
 venge upon Warburton, when dead, the contempt they 
 experienced from his haughtiness, and the unwillingly- 
 paid devotion which he enforced to his powers when 
 living. And in the length of time which has elapsed from 
 the period of his decease to the present day, many a 
 kick has been inflicted on the dead lion by animals who 
 could not have dared to approach him while capable of 
 defending and revenging himself. Popular hostility, 
 as well as private, ought, however, to give place to can- 
 did examination and allowance ; and when exercised 
 against a deserving subject, will only, in the end, 
 reflect disgrace upon itself for an unworthy exercise of 
 power. The fame of Warburton must, therefore, at 
 length experience a renewal of its brightness ; and 
 though perhaps shorn of some of its beams, will receive 
 its merited due at the hands of posterity. A very dif- 
 ferent effect has time had over the fame of his great 
 competitor: its only influence has been in showering 
 down additional lustre on the name of Samuel John- 
 son, and giving to it that fixed and permanent basis 
 and foundation, which it is only for posterity to bestow. 
 The best proof which can be given of the extensive circu- 
 lation of his writings, is the visible effect which they 
 have had over literature and criticism ; and the incon- 
 testable assistance they have afforded to the great march 
 of the human mind : while the works of Warburton 
 stand unnumbered amongst the standard productions 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 377 
 
 in theology and criticism ; and his great work, the 
 Divine Legation, remains, to use the words of Gibbon, 
 " a monument, crumbling in the dust of the vigour and 
 weakness of the human mind." As there is, I believe, 
 no writing extant in which the merits of these extraor- 
 dinary men have been made the subject of comparative 
 criticism, though certainly the most alike in the pecu- 
 liarities of their mental character of any of the literary 
 worthies of their age, the most equal in force of intel- 
 lect and universality of power, — an examination and 
 inquiry into their respective talents and characters may 
 not be without its particular benefit. It will, at least, 
 be of use in displaying how far it is possible for abilities 
 the most splendid to seduce their possessor to extrava- 
 gance in the search for originality ; and how transient 
 and momentary is the fame of paradoxical ingenuity, 
 when compared with that which rests on the immobili- 
 ty of established truth ! 
 
 " To the peculiar education of Warburton may be as- 
 cribed most of the peculiarities of his character. Him- 
 self, at first, an obscure provincial attorney, undiscip- 
 lined in the regular course of academical study ; and 
 refused, when he had even risen to celebrity, a common 
 academical honour ; owing none of the varied exuber- 
 ance of his knowledge to professors or professorships, 
 to universities or colleges; he naturally cherished a 
 secret dislike to the regular disciplinarians of learning ; 
 and it was at once his delight and his pride, to con- 
 found the followers of the beaten path of study, by 
 recondite and variously sparkling erudition — to oppose 
 himself to whole cohorts of the standard corps of litera- 
 ture, in the confidence of his own individual power; 
 to strike out new paths in learning, and open new 
 vistas in knowledge, with the rapidity of an enchanter ; 
 to demolish the old and stationary structures of theolo- 
 gy and literature, and overturn them from their foun- 
 
378 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 dations, for the purpose of erecting his own novelties 
 in their stead, which supplied what they wanted of so- 
 lidity, by speciousness and splendour ; and to dazzle 
 and astound the supporters of established principles 
 and maxims, by combating them with a force of reason, 
 and strength of logic, which was, perhaps, as unex- 
 ampled as it was audacious. His learning and his 
 mental powers were equally established without assist- 
 ance, and his haughtiness loved to shew how his inbred 
 mental vigour had triumphed over difficulties. From 
 the same source arose both the excellencies and defects 
 of his character. No pruning hand had ever been ex- 
 erted to remove the excrescencies which had been ge- 
 nerated in his mind, and to tame and sober the wildness 
 and extravagance with which it was so often over- 
 shadowed. Thus his intellect rose up in rough and 
 unshorn mightiness, and with it the pullulating seeds 
 of sophistical ingenuity, which grew with its growth 
 and strengthened with its strength, till at last he became 
 an inveterate and radicated system-monger, and his 
 mind a repositary, where every subject in theology, 
 criticism, or literature, had an hypothesis ready pre- 
 pared for it. Nor less powerful in its influence on his 
 character, was the first reception he met with in litera- 
 ture, — in the universal war, which seemed, at his first 
 rise, to be proclaimed against him. That his innovat- 
 ing and paradoxical spirit should procure him many 
 adversaries, was hardly to be doubted ; but, as if the 
 hypotheses he advanced were matter of established 
 belief, he resented every departure from them, as a de- 
 parture from truth itself; and his ungovernable haugh- 
 tiness, and impatience of contradiction, flamed out in 
 angry defiance against his opposers, and overwhelmed 
 them with an overpowering torrent of scurrility and 
 abuse, which was served by an inexpungable force of 
 argument, and strengthened by an unequalled promp- 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 379 
 
 titude of wit. From these primary circumstances, his 
 mind received an indelible impression ; and from his 
 first advance to greatness, to his last approach to imbe- 
 cility, he was the same, and unchanged ; the same con- 
 structor of systems, the same desperate controversialist, 
 the same dogmatical decider, the same determined op- 
 pugner of whatever authority had sanctioned in theolo- 
 gy, or common sense established in taste. The re- 
 sources of his ingenuity were not exhausted by time— 
 the severity of his pen was not composed by age — and 
 Lowth, on whom his last attack was made, was no less 
 fated than his first antagonist, Tillard, to receive the 
 overflowings of his gall. 
 
 " The character of Dr Johnson was, perhaps, not less 
 influenced by external circumstances, but they had 
 much less influence on the purely intellectual part of it. 
 If the early difliculties through which he struggled, in 
 conjunction with the original irritability of his system, 
 gave a strong tinge of morosity to his character, that 
 morosity was not communicated entire and unsoftened 
 to his writings. It did not form a constituent and 
 essential part of his compositions — a kind of perpetual 
 and inseparable quality of the mind ; nor was the same 
 itch for controversy so completely engrafted into, and 
 connected with it. He had not any of that foolish 
 knight-errantry, which leads forth its votaries to renew, 
 in the intellectual arena, the ancient feats of personal 
 prowess and individual strength ; and which would 
 sally forth, manfully dealing its blows to the right hand 
 and to the left, careless on whom they fell, and regard- 
 less what side they injured, for no certain purpose, or 
 visible design, save to manifest the mightiness of its 
 own strength. He did not vainly and ridiculously 
 oppose himself to the world ; for he well knew, that he 
 who takes the world for his opponent, is sure, in the 
 end, not to win ; and that, at last, his consolation will 
 
380 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 only be that of Nathaniel Lee in the madhouse, — '* The 
 world thinks me mad, and I think them so ; but num- 
 bers have prevailed over right." He did not concern 
 himself to answer every trifling and foolish attack, which 
 ignorance and malignity might make upon him ; for he 
 well knew, that to do so, is but to give duration to 
 objects in themselves insignificant, and which, other- 
 wise, would be speedily forgotten. The only contro- 
 versial compositions he has left behind, are his letters 
 to Jonas Hanway ; and in these, there is such a spirit 
 of good-humoured placidity, as completely to prove, 
 that controversial rancour formed no part of his disposi- 
 tion. Possessing, from his long intercourse with man- 
 kind, and deep insight into manners and men, much 
 more practical good sense than his great rival, and 
 entertaining a much greater habitual regard for estab- 
 lished institutions, he was not so desirous of leading the 
 multitude from the road they had frequented to new- 
 formed paths of his own. He had too much reverence 
 for what bore the semblance of truth, to wish to dis- 
 credit its supporters ; or, by making attempts to beau- 
 tify its outward appearance, to run the hazard of under- 
 mining its foundation in the end. With an equal por- 
 tion of that ingenuity and novelty of fancy, which gives 
 new colours to every subject, and brings to every 
 theme new and unhackneyed accessions of mind, he had 
 too much intellectual solidity to delight in framing 
 hypotheses which could not communicate to the mind 
 that satisfaction on which he loved to repose — and with- 
 out the power of giving which all theories are but 
 empty triflings. He had too much soundness in his 
 taste to split into systems, and quarter into subtleties, 
 the unchanged and unchangeable principles of nature ; 
 or to convert into intricate and interwoven propositions, 
 the plain and unerring dictates of reason. His devotion 
 to truth was too strong to suffer him to deceive others 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 381 
 
 — his judgment too sound to allow him to be deceived 
 himself — whether the deceit was introduced by the 
 reveries of a fervid imagination^ or the insinuating 
 dexterity of self-love. He is once reported to have 
 said, " How great might have been my fame, had not 
 my sole object been truth ;" and the fixed foundation 
 on which his fame now stands, may be considered as 
 some reward for his immediate self-denial. 
 
 " If we proceed to compare their respective intel- 
 lects, it will, perhaps, be rather difficult to adjust the 
 balance of superiority. In the first, great characteris- 
 tics of genius, unbounded comprehension of mind, and 
 receptability of images — in the power of communicat- 
 ing, to mental matter, that living energy and alimental 
 nourishment — that intellectual leaven, which gives it 
 tlie capacity of being kneaded and worked up into an 
 exhaustless diversity of shapes and figurations — in the 
 power of extracting and drawing forth all that human 
 reason, when bent to any given point, can educe — in the 
 power of conceiving mighty plans in the mind, without 
 destroying, in the grasp of the whole, the beauty and 
 the symmetry of the parts — in these first and foremost 
 requisites of genius, the endowments of both seem very 
 evenly divided, though the balance, if at all, prepon- 
 derates on the side of Johnson. He had, certainly, 
 more of the vivifying mind of a poet — more of that 
 brightness of imagination, which clothes all objects in a 
 vesture of splendour — ^more of that fervid fulness, which 
 deepens and swells the current of thought — but not 
 more of the boundless expansion and versatility of 
 mind — not more of the variegated exuberance of ima- 
 gery, or expatiating ubiquity of fancy. He had, per- 
 haps, not so much of that wide sweep of intellect, 
 which, like a drag-net, draws all within its reach into 
 its capacious reservoir of illustration, and which dimi- 
 nishes and contracts the resources of ingenuity by its 
 
382 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 extraordinary power of exhaustion; nor had he any 
 part of that fiery fervour, that indomitable vehemence, 
 which blazed forth in Warburton ; with which he 
 could burst through every bondage, and overcome 
 every obstacle; which it was impossible to withstand 
 in its attacks, or delay in its course ; and which, like 
 the burning simoom of the Arabian deserts, absolutely 
 devastated and laid waste the regions of literature, 
 with the sultriness of its ardour and the unquencha- 
 bleness of its flame. 
 
 " In logical strength and acuteness— in the faculty 
 of seeing immediately the weak side of an argument, 
 and exposing its fallacy with clearness and force — in 
 those powers which Dr Johnson has called the grappling- 
 irons of the understanding — each was superlatively pre- 
 eminent ; and it would be difficult to decide which is 
 the superior. Both great masters of the science of rea- 
 soning — endowed with that penetration of discernment, 
 which in a moment pierces through the sophistications 
 of argumentation, and unravels the mazes of subtlety 
 with intuitive quickness and precision — they were yet 
 considerably different in the manner in which those 
 talents were displayed. In Johnson, the science of rea- 
 soning has the appearance of being more a natural 
 faculty ; and in Warburton, more an artificial acquire- 
 ment. The one delighted in exhibiting it in its naked 
 force and undivided power^the other was fonder of 
 dividing it into distinctions, and reducing it into parts. 
 The one delighted to overwhelm and confound — the 
 other rather to lead into intricacies, and puzzle with 
 contradictions. The one wielded his weapons with 
 such overpowering strength, that skill was useless, and 
 art unnecessary — the other made use of them as an ex- 
 perienced fencing-master, whom great natural strength, 
 joined with much acquired skill, render irresistible. 
 In the one, the first blow was generally the decider of 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 383 
 
 the combat — in the other, the contest was often more 
 protracted, though the success in the end not less sure. 
 It was the glory of the one, to evince at once his power, 
 and, by a mighty blow, to destroy the antagonist who 
 assailed him — while it was at once the delight and 
 pride of the other, to deprive his opponent gradually of 
 every particle of armour and weapon of defence ; and 
 when he had riven away every obstacle and protection, 
 exultingly and mercilessly to despatch him. 
 
 " In real and true taste, Johnson was unquestionably 
 superior. Discarding all those systems of criticism 
 which had so long fettered and confined the efforts of 
 talent, he first established criticism on the basis and 
 foundation of common sense ; and thus liberated our 
 future Shakspeares from those degrading chains and 
 unworthy shackles, which custom had so long allowed 
 the weak to impose upon the strong. His critical de- 
 cisions — wherever personal hostility did not interfere, 
 and wherever his want of the finer and more delicate 
 perception of inanimate or intellectual beauty did not 
 incapacitate him from judging correctly — are, and ever 
 will be, incontestable for their truth, and unequalled 
 for their talent, and carry with them that undeniable 
 authority and weight, which nothing can question or 
 withstand. Had he been, perhaps, a little less preju- 
 diced, and a little more largely gifted with that fine 
 feeling, which is as necessary to form a great critic as a 
 great poet, he would certainly have been entitled to take 
 a higher place in the province of criticism than any man 
 who went before, or shall hereafter succeed him. Of 
 this true taste, in Warburton there was a most lament- 
 able deficiency ; with an equal lack of the more delicate 
 and imaginative qualifications for critical judgment, he 
 possessed none of that sound discriminative power, and 
 unerring rectitude of tact, which so eminently distin- 
 guished Johnson. The bias of his mind in criticism 
 
384 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 seems totally perverted and warped, and the obliquity 
 of his critical judgment is often as unaccountable as it 
 is amazing. A great part of this is owing to the bigoted 
 adherence which he placed in the systems of the French 
 critics, so popular in England in the beginning of the 
 last century ; and a much greater, to his own uncon- 
 querable propensity for adjusting and fashioning every 
 thing according to the decrees of some standard hy- 
 pothesis which had taken possession of his mind, and on 
 which, like the bed of Procrustes, he racked and tortured 
 every unfortunate subject till he had reduced it, by a pro- 
 cess of dislocation, into some conformity with his theories. 
 His fondness for Dr Bentley, and Dr Bentley's style of 
 criticism, was also another drawback in his qualifica- 
 tions : from him he derived that inextinguishable rage 
 for emendation, which has descended, like the prophet's 
 mantle, from critic to critic in succession ; and, indeed, 
 what Bentley has performed upon Milton, Warburton 
 has no less scrupulously performed upon Shakspeare, 
 though, perhaps, with much more acuteness and inge- 
 nuity in the exercise of his editorial capacity. For 
 wanting this emandatory ardour — or, as he would call 
 it, this critical vov? — he despised Dr Johnson ; though, 
 for his superabundance of it, Dr Johnson might much 
 more justly have despised him. To Warburton, criti- 
 cism was little else than ingenuity in inventing fresh 
 varieties of the text, and dexterity and plausibility in 
 their explanation. An author, chosen for the subject 
 of critical illustration, was to him nothing else than a 
 lamb led out to the slaughter, for the purpose of trying 
 the sharpness of his knife ; or an anvil, by frequently 
 striking which his commentator might elicit scintillations 
 and sparkles of his own. If he ever shines, it is always at 
 the expense of his author. He seems utterly incapable 
 of entering into the spirit of his text — of identifying 
 himself with his subject — of losing his own individu- 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 385 
 
 ality and consequence in his author and his author's 
 beauties. He had none of that true and refreshing spirit 
 of criticism which pours down a fresh radiance on the 
 withering beauties of antiquity, and discloses new graces 
 wherever its illuminating resplendences are thrown, and 
 which, like the skilful varnisher of some ancient paint- 
 ing, renews and renovates, in the subject, its brilliancy 
 and richness of colouring, without altering the character 
 of its loveliness, or impairing the symmetry of its pro- 
 portions. 
 
 '' With the power of wit, both were almost equally 
 gifted ; and the precise nature and description of that 
 wit was in both pretty nearly the same. It was not 
 that delicately gentle and refined species which distin- 
 guished Addison, and which gave an almost evanescent 
 air to the humour of his pages — but that coarse and 
 forcible strength of wit, or rather humour, which it is 
 impossible to withstand, and which breaks upon an ad- 
 versary as a torrent impetuous and overwhelming — ab- 
 solutely stunning and confounding with its vehemence, 
 its energy, and its force. Those who wish to see this 
 species of wit in its highest perfection, cannot be bet- 
 ter referred than to the controversial writings of War- 
 burton, or of Dr Bentley, from whom Warburton 
 adopted his style in controversy. It was this overflow- 
 ing and vigorous possession of wit, which rendered 
 Johnson so powerful in conversation, and enabled War- 
 burton in controversy to defy the hosts of enemies who 
 assailed him. Of those enemies, many were more ex- 
 actly learned as to the point in question than himself — 
 many equally sound reasoners — and, what is of no small 
 advantage in reasoning, had a much better cause to de- 
 fend ; but they were all in the end worsted, defeated, 
 and put to flight, by the auxiliary sallies of his wit, 
 which came forth in volleys as unexpected as they were 
 irresistible. That this species of wit should frequently 
 
 SB 
 
386 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 be coupled with scurrility, was what might readily be 
 anticipated — it was totally destitute of delicacy, and 
 had no refinement or polish. It perhaps cannot better 
 be described, than by comparing it with the wit of Ad- 
 dison, to which it was, in all its shapes, totally dissimilar. 
 The one was a weapon infinitely more powerful — though 
 the other required much more of dexterity and science 
 in its application. The former was much more the in- 
 strument of a barbarian— the latter of a civilized com- 
 batant. The one was more fitted for the lighter skir- 
 mishes of intellectual warfare, and softened courtliness 
 of social intercourse — the other more adapted for those 
 contests, where no quarter is given, and no indulgence 
 is expected. In the one, wit was so highly polished as 
 frequently to lose its effect — in the other, it was often 
 so coarse and personal, as to defeat its very purpose. 
 In the one, it is the arch smile of contemptuous scorn — 
 in the other, the loud horse-laugh of ferocious defiance. 
 The one was more fitted for the castigation of manners 
 — the other better adapted for the concussion of minds. 
 The wit of the former was, like the missile of the Is- 
 raelite, often overcoming from the skill with which it 
 was thrown — and that of the latter, the ponderous stone 
 of Ajax laid hold of with extraordinary strength, and 
 propelled with extraordinary fury. In short, the wit 
 of Addison, when compared with that of Warburton 
 and Johnson, was what the polished sharpness of the 
 rapier is to the ponderous weight of the battle-axe, or as 
 the innocuous brilliancy of the lightning to the over- 
 powering crash of the thunderbolt. 
 
 " In poetical genius and capability, it would perhaps 
 be unfair to compare them. What Warburton has 
 written in verse, was merely the first juvenile trying of 
 his pen, and therefore hardly could hope to rival the 
 mature and laboured poetical compositions of Johnson ; 
 yet we may doubt whether, if Warburton had written 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 387 
 
 more of poetry, he would have written better, or ever 
 risen* above mediocrity in the efforts of poetical talent. 
 Of those higher qualifications of imagination and sensi- 
 bility, which every true poet must possess, he was, 
 as well as Johnson, utterly destitute ; but he had not, 
 like Johnson, a mind stored with a rich fund of po- 
 etical images, or a nice perception of harmony in sound, 
 or melody in versification. His translations are merely 
 the productions of a school-boy, and such productions 
 as many a school-boy would be ashamed to own. He 
 seems to have possessed no ear attuned to the harmony 
 of numbers — no fondness for the music of rhyme, or 
 the march of periods. In this department of genius, 
 therefore, he was utterly inferior to Johnson, who, if 
 he did not possess the fine eye and highest exaltation of 
 a poet, could clothe every subject he descanted upon 
 with sonorous grandeur of verse, and gorgeous accom- 
 paniments of fancy. 
 
 " In the beauty of style, and the ornaments of language, 
 Johnson, it is well known, was most immeasurably su- 
 perior. His writings have given an increase of correct- 
 ness and purity, a transfusion of dignity and strength 
 to our language, which is unexampled in the annals of 
 literature, and which corrected, in their influence on 
 our dialect, the diffused tameness of Addison, and the 
 colloquialism of Swift. Whatever nearer approaches 
 have been made to perfection in our language, have all 
 been established on the foundation of his writings ; and, 
 perhaps, it would not be exceeding the bounds of jus- 
 tice to affirm, that more is due to him in the refinement 
 of the English tongue, than to any man in any lan- 
 guage or in any country, with the single exception of 
 Cicero. If his own style itself is not the best model in 
 our language, it is from it certainly that the best model 
 must be formed ; and whoever shall in the end attain 
 that summit of perfection, it will be from the copious 
 
388 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 fountain of Johnson that his materials must be supplied. 
 Of the graces and elegancies of diction, Warburton, on 
 the contrary, had no conception, — ^his thoughts were 
 turned out in the dress which lay nearest to his hand ; 
 and often their multiplicity was too great to allow him 
 time to find for each a proper and suitable covering of 
 expression. To harmony in the structure of cadences, 
 or splendour in the finishing of sentences, he was utterly 
 void of pretension, and was, moreover, totally destitute 
 of the power of selection or choice of words. Yet he 
 cannot justly be accused of neglect or contempt of the 
 beauties of style, for no one altered more incessantly, 
 or altered to less purpose, than Warburton. In one of his 
 letters he acknowledges, that there are many thousand 
 corrections and alterations merely of language in the 
 second edition of his Julian ; and, to my own know- 
 ledge, there are no less than 20,000 verbal corrections 
 in the several editions of his Divine Legation, almost 
 every one of which has no other effect than to render 
 that worse which before was bad. He compared him- 
 self, in his alterations, to the bear who licks into form 
 its shapeless offspring ; but, with little felicity of com- 
 parison, for his alterations, though they always bring 
 down and reduce to tameness the original nervous force 
 of the expression, have seldom the effect of adding to 
 its elegance or removing its infirmities. Very different, 
 in this respect, was Johnson's character in writing, who 
 is, like Shakspeare, hardly ever known to have altered 
 or corrected his productions after publication ; and 
 whose mastery of diction was such, that it immediately 
 brought, at his command, the best and most appropriate 
 language which his subject required. The answering 
 powers of his expression were always exactly propor- 
 tioned to the demand of his thought : there is never any 
 incongi'uity of this kind perceptible in his writings; 
 what he thought strongly, he could express forcibly 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 389 
 
 and well ; and what he had once written became fixed^ 
 and fixed, because it was impossible for alteration to 
 improve, or correction to amend it. The greatest fault, 
 perhaps, in his style, is the want of flexibility — the want 
 of variety adapted for every varying occasion ; it was 
 too uniform to alter — it was too stiif to bend — its natu- 
 ral tone was too high to admit of a graceful descent — 
 the same was the expression, and the same the pomp- 
 ousness of language, whether he descanted as a moralist, 
 or complained as an advertiser ; whether he weighed in 
 his balance the intellects of Shakspeare and Milton, or 
 denounced, with threats of punishment, against the 
 person or persons, unknown, who had pirated a paper 
 of his Idler. In Warburton's diction, which was uni- 
 formly faulty, it is needless to expatiate on any par- 
 ticular faults ; we may, however, mention, that it was 
 overrun with foreign idioms, and exotic phraseology, 
 and that it particularly abounds in Gallicisms, which al- 
 most disgrace every sentence. In both, the style doubt- 
 less took its tincture from the peculiar complexion of 
 their minds ; and while in the one it swelled into ma- 
 jestic elegance and dignified strength, in the other it 
 broke out into uncouth harshness and uncultivated force. 
 " In extent of learning, in profundity and depth of 
 erudition, Warburton may justly claim the superiority. 
 Nothing more illustrates the different characters of these 
 great men, than the different manner in which their 
 reading was applied. In Johnson, acquired learning 
 became immediately transmuted into mind — it imme- 
 diately was consubstantiated with its receiver ; it did 
 not remain dormant, like a dull and inert mass in the 
 intellect, unaltered and unalterable, but entered, if I 
 may use the expression, into the very core and marrow 
 of the mind, and became a quality and adjunct of the 
 digestive power ; it was instantaneously concocted into 
 intellectual chyle — his mind had more the quality of a 
 
390 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 grinding engine than a receiver ; every particle it ab- 
 sorbed became instinct with vital life — like the power 
 of flame it consumed all approximating substances. In 
 Warburton^ the power of digestion was certainly dis- 
 proportioned to the insatiability of appetite, — what he 
 could not retain, he was therefore obliged immediately 
 again to eject, and he did again eject it, but not in its 
 received and original state, but altered in its outward 
 form and semblance, and mouldered up into some glit- 
 tering and fantastical hypothesis, some original and 
 more alluring shape, as different from its first condition 
 as is the crawling caterpillar from the butterfly which 
 expands its golden wings in the air. The defects of his 
 digestive faculty were amply supplied by his power of 
 assimilation, which, spider-like, had the faculty of weav- 
 ing innumerable webs and phantasms out of the matter 
 which was presented to it, and disguising and recasting 
 into some other outward appearance those morsels which 
 were too hard to retain, and too ponderous to swallow. 
 Such, indeed, was the voracity of his appetite, that he 
 refused nothing which offered itself; and the wide gulf 
 of his intellectual appetite often reminds us of the boa 
 constrictor, after it has swallowed the rhinoceros, as it 
 lies in gorged and torpid fulness, stretched out in all 
 its giant-length on the ground. This difference in the 
 perception and application of knowledge was distin- 
 guishable in every production of these great men ; it is 
 perceptible from their earlier works to their latest ; and 
 being occasioned by the peculiar construction and for- 
 mation of their mental faculties, it formed the character 
 of their minds ; and, therefore, continued, without re- 
 ceiving alteration, from their first years of authorship 
 to their last. In Johnson, therefore, learning, when 
 received, might more properly be called knowledge, it 
 was stripped of its superfluous and unnecessary parts — 
 it was winnowed of its chaff, and deposited in the re- 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 391 
 
 ceptacles of thought, while, in Warburton, it was like 
 clay tlirown into a mould ready prepared for it, for the 
 purpose of forming materials for building up to their 
 measureless height the countless edifices of his fancy. 
 
 " In that practical knowledge of, and insight into hu- 
 man nature, which forms the chief qualification for the 
 moralist and the writer on men and manners, Johnson 
 was greatly superior to Warburton. The former had 
 acquired his knowledge in the tutoring school of ad- 
 versity ; and the long and dreary probation he had to 
 serve before he attained to competence and success, had 
 given him a sound and piercing view into life and hu- 
 man nature ; while the haughtiness of the latter formed 
 a kind of circle about him, which prevented his ming- 
 ling with the crowd, and deriving, by universal con- 
 verse and acquaintance, an universal and comprehensive 
 knowledge of man. He was also a more prejudiced 
 and less unbiassed spectator of mankind, continually 
 referring their causes of action, not to the acknowledged 
 principles of experience, but to some preconceived and 
 ready-fashioned theory of his own, with which he made 
 every deduction to square in and quadrate, and to whose 
 decision he referred the settlement of all the various 
 anomalies and phenomena which distract the inquirer 
 into human nature. Otherwise was the knowledge of 
 Johnson formed: he was no speculatist in his views 
 of mankind ; what he had learned, he learned from 
 practical experience ; commented upon with extraordi- 
 nary acuteness and penetration of discernment; and 
 what he had once learned, his judgment was too sound 
 to permit him to warp, and his love of truth too great 
 to allow him to conceal. 
 
 " In private life, the character of Warburton was dis- 
 tinguished by the same kind of bold openness and un- 
 shrinking cordiality ; the same livid warmth in his en- 
 mities and friendships ; and the same impatient haugh- 
 
392 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 tiness and dogmatical resolution which stood forth dis- 
 played in his writings. No one communicated to his 
 productions more of his own personal character, or drew 
 his own full-length so admirably in his works. After 
 a perusal of what he has written, his character lies in all 
 its native colours before our eyes, and we hardly want 
 the intimacy of a personal acquaintance to be fully and 
 thoroughly masters of his peculiarities. What he 
 thought, he dauntlessly and fearlessly expressed. Dis- 
 guise he hated, and subterfuge he despised. He who 
 was the enemy of Warburton was sure of bold, honesty 
 and manly hostility ; he who was his friend was equally 
 certain of the full participation of all the benefits of as- 
 sistance and protection. It was one of his maxims, both 
 in his public and private character, ^ He who is not 
 with me is against me.' He hated a neutral worse even 
 than an enemy ; to him indifference was worse than de- 
 cided dislike ; imperturbable placidity more disagreeable 
 than a storm. Pass over his opinions or his produc- 
 tions, without giving any decided opinion as to their jus- 
 tice or their merits, and he would immediately number 
 you amongst the list of his foes, and let loose upon you 
 all the torrent of his mingled scurrility and wit. This 
 fervid warmth of temper frequently overpowered the 
 cooler dictates of his reason, and to this we may perhaps 
 ascribe that high and overstrained excess of praise which 
 he showered down upon the productions of his friends ; 
 for of flattery we cannot justly accuse him : he would 
 have disdained what he conceived implied fear. One 
 exception, however, must be made to this remark, and 
 that is, the case of Bishop Sherlock, whom, during his 
 life, Warburton extravagantly praised, and after the 
 death of that prelate, not only expunged from his writ- 
 ings every syllable of commendation, but paragraphed 
 him in the Dunciad of his Divine Legation with the 
 utmost contumely and contempt. For neglect of his 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSON. 393 
 
 clerical duties. War burton has been lashed by the un- 
 sparing hand of a relentless satirist, whose pictures are 
 often less of true resemblances than hideous caricatures ; 
 but the suffrages of many must overpower the testimony 
 of one ; and it has been almost universally agreed, that 
 in the discharge of the social relations of life, his con- 
 duct was equally faultless and exemplary. The char- 
 acter of Johnson has been so often pourtrayed, and, 
 through the admirable delineations of his biographers, 
 is now so well known, that it would be useless to at- 
 tempt to describe it. He had certainly more habitual 
 reverence for what he conceived to be truth ; was more 
 rigid in his morality, more fervid in his piety, than 
 Warburton. He had not less perhaps of pride and 
 haughtiness, but his pride was more lofty, his haughti- 
 ness more independent. He could not bend to great- 
 ness, nor stoop to rise as Warburton certainly could do, 
 and sometimes did. His character, while it was much 
 more dignified than that of Warburton, had not the 
 same mixture of impetuosity and warmth, and thus he 
 was prevented from falling into those excesses which 
 the former could hardly avoid. Both had a certain por- 
 tion of intolerance in their dispositions, but in Johnson 
 that intolerance was exerted against the oppugners of 
 that creed he had received from others, while in War- 
 burton it was directed against the questioners of theories 
 of his own. In the one, it was prejudice unmixed — in 
 tlie other, it was always prejudice co-operating with 
 vanity. Upon the whole, perhaps, the character of 
 Warburton, notwithstanding its dictating and dog- 
 matical insolence, was the most attracting of the two. 
 There is, notwithstanding all its effervescences and ex- 
 cesses, a generous fervour, a kindliness of soul, an en- 
 tliusiastic warmth about it, which induces us to like him 
 in spite of ourselves, and to which we can forgive what- 
 
394 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 ever is disgusting in his scurrility or revolting in his 
 pride. 
 
 *' To bring my observations on the characters of these 
 great men to a close,, — in Warburton, the distinguish- 
 ing faculty was a fiery and ungovernable vigour of in- 
 tellect, a restless and irrepressible vehemence of mind, 
 an unquenchable and never-dormant principle of action, 
 which required continually some fresh matter to work 
 on — some fresh subject to exercise its power — some new 
 and untried space to perambulate and to pass through ; 
 it was an ever-working and operating faculty, an ever- 
 moving and resisting principle, which it was impossible 
 to tire or tame. There was nothing like rest or slumber 
 about it : it could not stagnate, — it could not stop ; it 
 was impossible to weaken its energies, or to contract 
 their operation. No matter was too tough for its force, 
 no metal too unmalleable for its strokes. 
 
 '^ Such was the elasticity of its constitution, that it 
 could not be broken ; such was its innate and surpass- 
 ing resistibility of temperament, that it could not be 
 overwhelmed. Entangle it with subtleties, and it im- 
 mediately snapt asunder its bonds, as Sampson burst 
 the encompassing cords of the Philistine. Bury it with 
 learning, and it immediately mounted up with the bril- 
 liancy and rapidity of a sky-rocket, and scattered about 
 it sparks and scintillations, which lightened the whole 
 atmosphere of literature. It was this volatility of spirit, 
 this forcible and indomitable action of mind, this never- 
 tiring and never-weakening intellectual energy, this 
 bounding and unceasing mental elasticity, which serves 
 to distinguish Warburton not only from Dr Johnson, 
 but also from all the characters who have ever appeared 
 in literature ; and it is to the self-corroding effect of 
 these qualities, that his alienation of mind at the latter 
 period of his life is undoubtedly to be attributed. 
 
WARBURTON AND JOHNSOxV. 396 
 
 " The mind of Johnson, on the contrary, was utterly 
 devoid of all that intellectual activity and elasticity 
 which Warburton possessed. There was about it an 
 habitual and dogged sluggishness, an inert and listless 
 torpor, a reluctance to call forth its energies and exer- 
 cise its powers ; it slumbered, but its slumbers were 
 those of a giant. With more of positive force when called 
 into action, it had not the same principle of motion, the 
 same continual beat, the same sleepless inquietude and 
 feverish excitement. It lay there like tlie leviathan, 
 reposing amidst tlie depths of the ocean, till necessity 
 drove it out to display the magnitude of his strength. 
 The one waited quietly in its den for food, while the 
 other prowled about continually for prey. To the latter, 
 inaction was impossible ; to the former, voluntary exer- 
 tion was unknown. Solidity and condensation were the 
 qualities of the one ; continued vigour and pliability 
 the characteristics of the other. The one, as a machine, 
 was more clumsy in its movements ; the other, more light 
 and unencumbered, but less effectual in its operation ; 
 the forces of the one were more scattered, the resources 
 of tlie other less alert. In Warburton, there was a 
 boundless fertility of vigour, which ripened up into all 
 the rankness of rich luxuriance. In Johnson, the har- 
 vest of intellect was not so spontaneous, nor perhaps its 
 fertility so great ; but M-hen once raised, it never re- 
 quired the hand of the weeder, but rose unmixed with 
 tares. The genius of the one, like a cascade, threw up its 
 water in the air, which glistened in the sun, and shone 
 with the variety of ten thousand hues and colourings ; 
 while the talents of the other never exerted themselves, 
 without joining at the same time utility with splen- 
 dour. The one, like the Gladiator of Lysippus, had 
 every nerve in motion, and every muscle flexible with 
 elasticity ; while in the other, like the colossal statues 
 
S96 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 of Michael Angelo, all was undivided energy and burst- 
 ing strength. « 
 
 '' Such were the characters of these great men, of 
 whom it is difficult to decide which was the greater, or 
 which possessed, in a greater portion, those qualities which 
 give a title to intellectual supremacy. The fame of John- 
 son will hereafter principally rest on his productions 
 as a moralist and a critic ; while that of Warburton, when 
 again revived, will as certainly be raised on the foun- 
 dation of his theological writings. Whatever may be 
 thought of the truth of some of his theories, or the un- 
 seemliness of some of his attacks, it is impossible to 
 deny that his Alliance and Divine Legation are the 
 most splendid, the most original, the most ingenious 
 defences of our ecclesiastical establishment, and of reve- 
 lation itself, that ever man constructed. On these, as 
 on the sure and unchangeable evidences of his powers, 
 his admirers may depend for his reception with pos- 
 terity ; with whom, when the name of Johnson, rich 
 in the accumulated tributes of time, shall hereafter be 
 accounted the mightiest amongst those ' who have 
 given ardour to virtue, and confidence to truth ;' then 
 shall the name of Warburton, also, purified from the 
 stains which have obscured and sullied its lustre, be 
 numbered amongst the brightest lights of the Protes- 
 tant Church — amongst the greatest of those who have 
 adorned it by their genius, or exalted it by their learn- 
 ing, a worthy accession to the mighty fellowship and 
 communion of Episcopius, Chillingworth, and Hooker. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 397 
 
 CHAP. XLIV. 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 
 
 To accustom young ladies to select and copy the 
 beautiful passages of favourite authors, is perhaps 
 the most obvious and effectual of all the minor modes 
 of polishing their minds. The old-fashioned prac- 
 tice of taxing them to learn by rote was not half so 
 good, and was, moreover, attended with the disad- 
 vantage of sometimes giving them a habit of quoting 
 in conversation ; nay, what was far worse, of betray- 
 ing them into the odious vanity of even leading the 
 conversation, in order that they might obtain oppor- 
 tunities to spout,— of course no Bachelor'*s Wife was 
 ever guilty of such a blue offence. But, as the per- 
 fect Egeria was sometimes in the practice of mak- 
 ing extracts in the way suggested, we shall look at a 
 few of the sort of things that she considered good. 
 
 The first we meet with is from a little poem com- 
 monly ascribed to the celebrated Earl of Surrey, 
 who, if not the father of English rhythm, was, after 
 Chaucer, the first who properly felt the depth and 
 variety of the harmonies of the language : 
 
 " The Sun, when he hath spread his rays. 
 And showed his face ten thousand ways. 
 Ten thousand things do then begin 
 To show the life that they are in. 
 
998 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 The heaven shows lively art and hue. 
 
 Of sundry shapes and colours new. 
 
 And laughs upon the earth : — anon. 
 
 The earth, as cold as any stone. 
 
 Wet in the tears of her own kind, 
 
 'Gins then to take a joyful mind ; 
 
 For well she feels that out and out 
 
 The sun doth warm her round about, 
 
 And dries her children tenderly. 
 
 And shows them forth full orderly. 
 
 The mountains high, and how they stand ; 
 
 The valleys, and the great main land ; 
 
 The trees, the herbs, the towers strong. 
 
 The castles, and the rivers long ; 
 
 And even for joy thus of this heat. 
 
 She showeth forth her pleasures great, . 
 
 And sleeps no more ; but sendeth forth 
 
 Her clergions, her own dear worth. 
 
 To mount and fly up to the air, ) 
 
 Where then they sing in order fair, ■ 
 
 And tell in song full merrily, j 
 
 How they have slept full quietly \ 
 
 That night about their mother's sides. ; 
 
 And when they have sung more besides, I 
 
 Then fall they to their mother's breast, { 
 
 Whereat they feed, or take their rest. i 
 
 The hunter then sounds out his horn, ^ 
 
 And rangeth straight through wood and corn ; ■'] 
 
 On hills then show the ewe and lamb. 
 
 And every young one with his dam ; ; 
 
 Then lovers walk and tell their tale, ] 
 
 Both of their bliss and of their bale ; \ 
 
 And how they serve, and how they do, i 
 
 And how their lady loves them too. ! 
 
 And thus all things have comforting ] 
 
 In that, that doth their comfort bring ; i 
 
DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 399 
 
 Save I, alas ! whom neither sun. 
 Nor aught that God hath wrought and done. 
 May comfort aught ; as though I were 
 A thing not made for comfort here." 
 
 The Earl of Surrey was the eldest son of tlie 
 Duke of Norfolk, in the time of Henry VIII. He 
 was born in 1516, and was early contracted to marry 
 Lady Frances Vere, daughter of the Earl of Oxford. 
 In 1542, he was made a knight of the garter, and 
 appears to have been one of the gayest ornaments of 
 the court ; but he fell under the displeasure of the 
 King, and was in consequence beheaded in the flower 
 of life. It is proper, however, to observe, that al- 
 though he has been regarded as the author of the 
 poem quoted, it is certainly not at all like the ordi- 
 nary style of his poetry, of which the following de- 
 scriptive effusion, written during one of his imprison- 
 ments in Windsor Castle, is a favourable specimen. 
 With somewhat of the general stiffness of his style, 
 it possesses much of the grace and gallant spirit of 
 his chivalrous character, and affords altogether an ad- 
 vantageous view of his powers and talents as a poet : 
 
 " So cruel prison how could betide, alas ! 
 
 As proud Windsor, where I in lust and joy. 
 With a king's son my childish years did pass. 
 
 In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. 
 Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour ; 
 
 The large green courts, where we were wont to hove. 
 With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower. 
 
 And easy sighs, such as folks draw in love ; 
 The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue. 
 
 The dances short, long tales of great deb'ght^ 
 
400 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 With words, and looks, that tigers could but rue. 
 
 Where each of us did plead the other's right ; 
 The palm-play, where despoiled for the game. 
 
 With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love. 
 Have missed the ball, and got sight of our dame. 
 
 To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. 
 The gravelled ground, with sleeves tied on the helm. 
 
 On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts. 
 With chear as though one should another whelm. 
 
 Where we here fought, and chased oft with darts ; 
 With silver drops the meads yet spread for ruth ; 
 
 In active games of nimbi eness and strength. 
 Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth. 
 
 Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length ; 
 The secret groves, which oft we made resound 
 
 Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies praise. 
 Recording soft what grace each one had found. 
 
 What hope of speed, what dread of long delays ; 
 The wild forest, the clothed holts with green ; 
 
 With rains availed, and swift y-breathed horse 
 With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between. 
 
 Where we did chase the fearful hart of force ; 
 The void walls eke that harboured us each night ; 
 
 Wherewith, alas ! revive within my heart 
 The sweet accord, such sleeps as yet delight. 
 
 The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest. 
 The secret thoughts imparted with such trust. 
 
 The wanton talk, the divers change of play. 
 The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just,— 
 
 Wherewith we past the winter nights away. 
 And with this thought the blood forsakes the face ; 
 
 The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : 
 The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! 
 
 Up-supped have, thus I my plaint renew : 
 *' O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes ! 
 
 Give me account, where is my noble fere ? 
 
DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 401 
 
 Wliom in thy walls thou didst each night enclose. 
 
 To other lief, but unto me most dear." 
 Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue. 
 
 Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. 
 Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew. 
 
 In prison pine with bondage and restraint ; 
 And with remembrance of the greater grief 
 
 To banish the less, I find my chief relief.** 
 
 If the muse of Surrey, the first noble English poet, 
 be imbued with the romantic spirit of his time, 
 perhaps in the more emphatic verse of Byron, the 
 latest and the greatest, we may trace the chartered 
 and fiercer energies that are supposed to have affected 
 the moral temperament of our own time. One of the 
 very finest passages in all his voluminous works is 
 an address to Napoleon, the individual in whom 
 whatever was peculiar, to the revolutionary period 
 that has just passed, may be said to have been em- 
 bodied. After adverting to the singular combination 
 of magnanimity and meanness, which formed the 
 brightness and the blackness of that extraordinary 
 political phenomenon, the author proceeds : 
 
 " Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide 
 With that untaught innate philosophy. 
 Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride. 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by. 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ;-^ 
 When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favourite child. 
 
 He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 2c 
 
402 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 *' Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show- 
 That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts. 'Twas wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow ; 
 *Tis but a worthless world to win or lose !— 
 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 *' But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore. 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 " This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs. 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule : 
 
 " Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last ; 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
 That should their days, surviving perils past. 
 
DESCRIPTIVE POETRY. 403 
 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
 With its own flickering ; or a sword laid by, 
 Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 " He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread. 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head. 
 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led/ 
 
 The stem sublimity of this highly-poetical and 
 descriptive passage may be agreeably contrasted 
 with the introduction to Campbeirs Gertrude of 
 Wyoming, — a poem of rare merit and delightful 
 beauty, but comparatively very little known, except 
 by name, notwithstanding the celebrity of the author. 
 The excellence of the execution, and the tenderness 
 of feeling in this composition, should have secured it 
 a much larger share of public admiration than it 
 will ever obtain : the remoteness of the scene, how- 
 ever, and the imagery being drawn from descriptions 
 in books, and not from impressions on the poet'^s sense, 
 have impaired the effect of his power ; and hence, 
 though as a work of art, Gertrude of Wyoming will 
 always rank high, yet it will never be in much request, 
 notwithstanding all its numberless beauties, and the 
 exquisite refinement of the sensibility that breathes 
 and trembles in the pathos of every line. 
 
404 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 " On Susquehana'9 side, fair Wyoming, 
 
 Although the wild-flower on thy ruin'd wall 
 
 And roofless homes a sad remembrance bring 
 
 Of what thy gentle people did befall. 
 
 Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all 
 
 That see the Atlantic waves their morn restore. 
 
 Sweet land ! may I thy lost delights recall. 
 
 And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore. 
 
 Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore ! 
 
 " It was beneath thy skies that, but to prune 
 His autumn fruits, or skim the light canoe. 
 Perchance, along thy river calm at noon. 
 The happy shepherd swain had nought to do 
 From morn till evening's sweeter pastime grew ; 
 Their timbrel in the dance of forests brown 
 When lovely maidens prankt in flow'ret new. 
 And aye, those sunny mountains half way down 
 Would echo flagelet from some romantic town. 
 
 " Then, where of Indian hills the daylight takes 
 His leave, how might you the flamingo see 
 Disporting like a meteor on the lakes — 
 And playful squirrel on his nut-grown tree : 
 And every sound of life was full of glee. 
 From merry mock-bird's song, or hum of men. 
 While hark'ning, fearing nought their revelry, 
 The wild deer arch'd his neck from glades, and then, 
 Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again. 
 
 " And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime 
 Heard but in transatlantic story rung. 
 For here the exile met from every clime. 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 405 
 
 And spoke in friendship ev'ry distant tongue ; 
 Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung. 
 Were but divided by the running brook. 
 And ha|)py where no Rhenish trumpet sung. 
 On plains no sieging mine's volcano shook. 
 The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning- 
 hook. 
 
 " Nor far some Andalusian saraband 
 
 Would sound to many a native rondelay ; 
 
 But who is he that yet a dearer land 
 
 Remembers, over hills and far away ? 
 
 Green Albyn ! what though he no more survey 
 
 Thy ships at anchor on the quiet shore, 
 
 Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain bay. 
 
 Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor. 
 
 And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar !" 
 
 CHAP. XLV. 
 
 STANDARD NOVELS AND ROMANCES. 
 
 No kind of literary talent is more overrated than 
 that of a reviewer, and this opinion Egeria was often 
 in the practice of maintaining. " Not,*" she used to 
 say, " that I undervalue the endowment, indepen- 
 dent of the learning, requisite to constitute a true 
 critic ; but, now-a-days, reviewers and rhymsters are 
 a superabundant race, and among the innumerable 
 swarms of both, which pester and sully modern liter- 
 ature, there are as few critics as there arc poets. 
 
406 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 " One of the most characteristic peculiarities of a 
 reviewer is a certain pert and off-hand manner, occa- 
 sionally lively, sometimes gay, and perhaps now 
 and then really witty. The free air, I would al- 
 most call it swagger, with which he carries himself, 
 obtains much more consideration than would be 
 accorded to his degree of ability differently em- 
 ployed. He is akin to those sprightly personages 
 who are always on the best terms with themselves, 
 and amusingly unacquainted with their proper place 
 in society. They elbow themselves into notice with 
 the most pleasant disregard, not only of all due 
 precedence, but of the worth and the feelings of 
 others. They say smart things with the happiest 
 nonchalance, and, while they push aside modest or 
 offended merit, are so very diverting in their self- 
 conceit, that the grave and decorous are irresistibly 
 led to join them in their laughter, even while con- 
 demning aUke their impudence and deficiencies. 
 
 *' But though I have so little respect for the ephe- 
 meral progeny of the periodical press, I have yet 
 still less for those authors who regard the faults 
 of reviewers as proceeding from malice and maUg- 
 nity. I believe, indeed, that there is as much ho- 
 nesty of intention among reviewers as among any 
 other class of persons whatever, and that they are 
 really inclined to be as conscientiously just in their 
 strictures as the flippancy of their natures will allow. 
 It is well known, that they but undertake to review 
 books; to think that they should read them is 
 one of the many unreasonable expectations in which 
 young authors are apt to indulge. 
 
 " But if this be the general character of those on 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 407 
 
 whom so many book-buyers fix their faith, it is not 
 to be denied, that now and then gleams of a better 
 and brighter spirit of criticism occasionally break 
 out from the mass of vapour that darkens and de- 
 forms the literature of the periodical press. It is, 
 for example, an excellent compendious estimate of 
 the most celebrated novels and romances by Mr 
 Jeffrey,— one, in fact, of those articles which have es- 
 tablished his fame as a critic, despite the innumer- 
 able impertinencies that he has allowed to escape 
 from his pen."" 
 
 " The first-rate writers in this class are of course 
 few ; but those few we may reckon, without scruple, 
 among the greatest ornaments and the best benefactors 
 of our kind. There is a certain set of them, who, as it 
 were, take their rank by the side of reality, and are ap- 
 pealed to as evidence on all questions concerning human 
 nature. The principal of these are Cervantes and Le 
 Sage, and, among ourselves. Fielding, Richardson, 
 Smollett, and Sterne. As this is a department of criti- 
 cism which deserves more attention than we have ever 
 yet bestowed on it, we shall venture to treat it a little in 
 detail, and endeavoiur to contribute something towards 
 settling the standard of excellence, both as to degree 
 and kind, in these several writers. 
 
 " We shall begin with the renowned history of Don 
 Quixote, who always presents something more stately, 
 more romantic, and at the same time more real to our 
 imagination, than any other hero upon record. His 
 lineaments, his accoutrements, his pasteboard visor, are 
 familiar to us as the recollections of our early home. 
 The spare and upright figiu*e of the hero paces dis- 
 tinctly before our eyes ; and Mambrino's helmet still 
 glitters in the sun ! We not only feel the greatest love 
 
4m THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 and veneration for the knight himself, but a certain re- 
 spect for all those connected with him — ^the Curate, and 
 Master Nicolas the barber — Sancho and Dapple — and 
 even for Rosinante's leanness and his errors ! — Perhaps 
 there is no work which combines so much originality 
 with such an air of truth. Its popularity is almost un- 
 exampled ; and yet its real merits have not been suffi- 
 ciently understood. The story is the least part of them, 
 though the blunders of Sancho, and the unlucky adven- 
 tures of his master, are what naturally catch the atten- 
 tion of ordinary readers. The pathos and dignity of the 
 sentiments are often disguised under the ludicrousness 
 of the subject, and provoke laughter when they might 
 well draw tears. The character of Don Quixote itself 
 is one of the most perfect disinterestedness. He is an 
 enthusiast of the most amiable kind, — of a nature equally 
 open, gentle, and generous ; — a lover of truth and jus- 
 tice, and one who had brooded over the fine dreams of 
 chivalry and romance, till the dazzling visions cheated 
 his brain into a belief of their reality. There cannot, in 
 our opinion, be a greater mistake than to consider Don 
 Quixote as a merely satirical work, or an attempt to ex- 
 plode, by coarse raillery, ' the long-forgotten order of 
 chivalry.' There could be no need to explode what no 
 longer existed. Besides, Cervantes himself was a man 
 of the most sanguine and enthusiastic temperament; 
 and even through the crazed and battered figure of the 
 knight, the spirit of chivalry shines out with undimin- 
 ished lustre; and one might almost imagine that the 
 author had half-designed to revive the example of past 
 ages, and once more ' witch the world with noble 
 horsemanship ;' and had veiled the design, in scorn of 
 the degenerate age to which it was addressed, under this 
 fantastic and imperfect disguise of romantic and ludi- 
 crous exaggeration. However that may be, the spirit 
 which the book breathes to those who relish and under* 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 409 
 
 stand it best, is unquestionably the spirit of chivalry ; 
 nor perhaps is it too much to say, that, if ever the 
 flame of Spanish liberty is destined to break forth, 
 wrapping the tyrant and the tyranny in one consuming 
 blaze, it is owing to Cervantes and his knight of La 
 Mancha, that the spark of generous sentiment and ro- 
 mantic enterprise from which it must be kindled, has 
 not been quite extinguished. 
 
 " The character of Sancho is not more admirable in 
 the execution than in the conception, as a relief to that 
 of the knight. The contrast is as picturesque and strik- 
 ing as that between the figures of Rosinante and Dapple. 
 Never was there so complete a parlie quarree ; — they 
 answer to one another at all points. Nothing can sur- 
 pass the truth of physiognomy in the description of the 
 master and man, both as to body and mind ; — the one 
 lean and tall, the other round and short ; — the one he- 
 roical and courteous, the other selfish and servile ; — the 
 one full of high-flown fancies, the other a bag of pro- 
 verbs ; — the one always starting some romantic scheme, 
 the other always keeping to the safe side of tradition 
 and custom. The gradual ascendency, too, obtained by 
 Don Quixote over Sancho, is as finely managed as it is 
 characteristic. Credulity, and a love of the marvellous, 
 are as natural to ignorance as selfishness and cunning. 
 Sancho by degrees becomes a kind of lay-brother of the 
 order ; acquires a taste for adventures in his own way ; 
 and is made all but an entire convert by the discovery 
 of the hundred crowns in one of his most comfortless 
 journeys. Towards the end, his regret at being forced 
 to give up the pursuit of knight-errantry almost equals 
 his master's ; and he seizes the proposal of Don Quixote 
 to turn shepherds with the greatest avidity, — still ap- 
 plying it, however, in his own fashion ; for while the 
 Don is ingeniously torturing the names of his humble 
 acquaintance into classical terminations, and contriving 
 
410 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 scenes of gallantry and song, Sancho exclaims, ' Oh, 
 what delicate wooden spoons shall I carve ! what crumbs 
 and cream shall I devour !' — forgetting, in his milk and 
 fruits, the pullets and geese at Camacho's wedding. 
 
 " This intuitive perception of the hidden analogies of 
 things, or, as it may be called, this instinct of imagina^ 
 tion, is what stamps the character of genius on the pro- 
 ductions of art more than any other circumstance ; for 
 it works unconsciously, like nature, and receives its im- 
 pressions from a kind of inspiration. There is more of 
 this unconscious power in Cervantes than in any other 
 author, except Shakspeare. Something of the same 
 kind extends itself to all the subordinate parts and cha- 
 racters of the work. Thus we find the curate confiden- 
 tially informing Don Quixote, that if he could get the 
 ear of the government, he has something of considerable 
 importance to propose for the good of the state; and 
 the knight afterwards meets with a young gentleman, 
 who is a candidate for poetical honours, with a mad 
 lover, a forsaken damsel, &c. — all delineated with the 
 same inimitable force, freedom, and fancy. The whole 
 work breathes that air of romance, — that aspiration after 
 imaginary good, — that longing after something more 
 than we possess, that, in all places, and in all conditions 
 of life. 
 
 '■■ ' still prompts the eternal sigh, 
 
 For which we wish to live, or dare to die I' 
 
 " The characters in Don Quixote are strictly indivi- 
 duals ; that is, they do not belong to, but form a class 
 of themselves. In other words, the actions and man- 
 ners of the chief dramatis personce do not arise out of 
 the actions and manners of those around them, or the 
 condition of life in which they are placed, but out of 
 the peculiar dispositions of the persons themselves, 
 operated upon by certain impulses o£ imagination and 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 411 
 
 accident ; yet these impulses are so true to nature, and 
 their operation so truly described, that we not only re- 
 cognise the fidelity of the representation, but recognise 
 it with all the advantages of novelty superadded. They 
 are unlike any thing we have actually seen, — may be 
 said to be purely ideal, — and yet familiarise themselves 
 more readily with our imagination, and are retained 
 more strongly in memory than perhaps any others ;— 
 they are never lost in the crowd. One test of the truth 
 of this ideal painting, is the number of allusions which 
 Don Quixote has furnished to the whole of civilized 
 Europe ; that is to say, of appropriate cases and striking 
 illustrations of the universal principles of our nature. 
 The common incidents and descriptions of human life 
 are, however, quite familiar and natural ; and we have 
 nearly the same insight given us here, into the charac- 
 ters of innkeepers, bar-maids, ostlers, and puppet-show 
 men, as in Fielding himself. There is a much greater 
 mixture, however, of sentiment with naivete, of the pa« 
 thetic with the quaint and humorous, than there ever is 
 in Fielding. We might instance the story of the coun- 
 try man, whom Don Quixote and Sancho met in their 
 search after Dulcinea, driving his mules to plough at 
 break of day, and ' singing the ancient ballad of Ron- 
 cesvalles !' The episodes which are introduced are ex- 
 cellent, but have upon the whole been overrated. Com- 
 pared with the serious tales in Boccacio they are trifling. 
 That of JMarcella, the fair shepherdess, is the best. We 
 will only add, that Don Quixote is an entirely original 
 work in its kind, and that the author has the highest 
 honour which can belong to one, that of being the 
 founder of a new style of writing. 
 
 " There is another Spanish novel, Gusmari d'Al- 
 farache, nearly of the same age as Don Quixote, and of 
 great genius, though it can hardly be ranked as a novel 
 or a work of imagination. It is a series of strange ad- 
 
412 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 ventures, rather drily told, but accompanied by the most 
 severe and sarcastic commentary. The satire, the wit, 
 the eloquence, and reasoning, are of the most powerful 
 kind ; but they are didactic rather than dramatic. They 
 would suit a sermon or a pasquinade better than a ro- 
 mance. Still there are in this extraordinary book occa- 
 sional sketches of character, and humorous descriptions, 
 to which it would be difficult to produce any thing su- 
 perior. This work, which is hardly known in this 
 country except by name, has the credit, without any 
 reason, of being the original of Gil Bias. There is only 
 one incident the same, that of the supper at the inn. In 
 all other respects, these two works are the very reverse 
 of each other, both in their excellencies and defects. 
 
 *' Gil Bias is, next to Don Quixote, more generally read 
 and admired than any other novel, — and, in one sense, 
 deservedly so : for it is at the head of its class, though 
 that class is very different from and inferior to the other. 
 There is very little individual character in Gil Bias. 
 The author is a describer of manners, and not of charac- 
 ter. He does not take the elements of human nature, 
 and work them up into new combinations (which is the 
 excellence of Don Quixote) ; nor trace the peculiar and 
 striking combinations of folly and knavery as they are 
 to be found in real life (like Fielding) ; but he takes off, 
 as it were, the general habitual impression which cir- 
 cumstances make on certain conditions of life, and 
 moulds all his characters accordingly. All the persons 
 whom he introduces, carry about with them the badge 
 of their profession ; and you see little more of them 
 than their costume. He describes men as belonging to 
 certain classes in society, — the highest, generally, and 
 the lowest, and such as are found in great cities, — not as 
 they are in themselves, or with the individual differences 
 which are always to be found in nature. His hero, in 
 particular, has no character but that of the accidental 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 413 
 
 circumstances in which he is placed. His priests are 
 only described as priests : his valets, his players, his 
 women, his courtiers, and his sharpers, are all the same. 
 Nothing can well exceed the monotony of tlie work in 
 this respect ; — at the same time that nothing can exceed 
 the truth and precision with which the general manners 
 of these different characters are preserved, nor the feli- 
 city of the particular traits by which their leading foibles 
 are brought out to notice. Thus, the Archbishop of 
 Grenada will remain an everlasting memento of the 
 weakness of human vanity; and the account of Gil Bias' 
 legacy, of the uncertainty of human expectations. This 
 novel is as deficient in the fable as in the characters. 
 It is not a regularly-constructed story, but a series of 
 adventures told with equal gayety and good sense, and 
 in the most graceful style possible. 
 
 " It has been usual to class our own great novelists as 
 imitators of one or other of these two writers. Fielding, 
 no doubt, is more like Don Quixote than Gil Bias; 
 Smollett is more like Gil Bias than Don Quixote : but 
 there is not much resemblance in either case. Sterne's 
 Tristram Shandy is a more direct instance of imitation. 
 Richardson can scarcely be called an imitator of any 
 one ; or, if he is, it is of the sentimental refinement of 
 Marivaux, or the verbose gallantry of the writers of the 
 seventeenth century. 
 
 " There is very little to warrant the common idea, 
 that Fielding was an imitator of Cervantes, — except his 
 own declaration of such an intention in the title-page of 
 Joseph Andrews, — the romantic turn of the character 
 of Parson Adams (the only romantic character in his 
 works), — and the proverbial humour of Partridge, which 
 is kept up only for a few pages. Fielding's novels are, 
 in general, thoroughly his own ; and they are thoroughly 
 English. What they are most remarkable for, is nei- 
 ther sentiment, nor imagination, nor wit, nor humour. 
 
414 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 though there is a great deal of this last quality ; but 
 profound knowledge of human nature — at least of Eng- 
 lish nature, — and masterly pictures of the characters of 
 men as he saw them existing. This quality distin- 
 guishes all his worksj and is shown almost equally in all 
 of them. As a painter of real life, he was equal to Ho- 
 garth; as a mere observer of human nature, he was 
 little inferior to Shakspeare, though without any of the 
 genius and poetical qualities of his mind. His humour 
 is less rich and laughable than Smollett's ; — his wit as 
 often misses as hits ; — ^he has none of the fine pathos of 
 Richardson or Sterne : — ^but he has brought together a 
 greater variety of characters in common life, — ^marked 
 with more distinct peculiarities, and without an atom of 
 caricature, than any other novel-writer whatever. The 
 extreme subtilty of observation on the springs of hu- 
 man conduct in ordinary characters, is only equalled by 
 the ingenuity of contrivance in bringing those springs 
 into play in such a manner as to lay open their smallest 
 irregularity. The detection is always complete, and 
 made with the certainty and skill of a philosophical ex- 
 periment, and the ease and simplicity of a casual observa- 
 tion. The truth of the imitation is indeed so great, that 
 it has been argued that Fielding must have had his ma- 
 terials ready-made to his hands, and was merely a tran- 
 scriber of local manners and individual habits. For this 
 conjecture, however, there seems to be no foundation. 
 His representations, it is true, are local and individual ; 
 but they are not the less profound and natural. The 
 feeling of the general principles of the human nature 
 operating in particular circumstances, is always intense, 
 and uppermost in his mind : and he makes use of inci- 
 dent and situation only to bring out character. 
 
 *' It is perhaps scarcely necessary to give any illustra- 
 tion of these remarks. Tom Jones is full of them. The 
 moral of this book has been objected to, and not altoge- 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 415 
 
 ther without reason ; but a more serious objection has 
 been made to the want of refinement and elef^ance in the 
 two principal characters. We never feel this objection, 
 indeed, while we are reading the book ; but at other 
 times we have something like a lurking suspicion that 
 Jones was but an awkward fellow, and Sophia a pretty 
 simpleton. We do not know how to account for this 
 effect, unless it is that Fielding's constantly assuring us 
 of the beauty of his hero, and the good sense of his 
 heroine, at last produces a distrust of both. The story 
 of Tom Jones is allowed to be unrivalled ; and it is this 
 circumstance, together with the vast variety of charac- 
 ters, that has given the History of a Foundling so decided 
 a preference over Fielding's other novels. The charac- 
 ters themselves, both in Amelia and Joseph Andrews, 
 are quite equal to any of those in Tom Jones. The ac- 
 count of Miss Mathews and Ensign Hibbert, — the way 
 in which that lady reconciles herself to the death of her 
 father, — the inflexible Colonel Bath, the insipid Mrs 
 James, tlie complaisant Colonel Trent, — the demure, 
 sly, intriguing, equivocal Mrs Bennet, — the lord who is 
 her seducer, and who attempts afterwards to seduce 
 Amelia by the same mechanical process of a concert- 
 ticket, a book, and the disguise of a great-coat, — his 
 little fat short-nosed, red-faced, good-humoured accom- 
 plice, the keeper of the lodging-house, who, having no 
 pretensions to gallantry herself, has a disinterested de- 
 light in forwarding the intrigues and pleasures of others 
 (to say nothing of honest Atkinson, the story of the 
 miniature-picture of Amelia, and the hashed mutton, 
 which are in a different style), are master-pieces of de- 
 scription. The whole scene at the lodging-house, the 
 masquerade, &c. in Amelia, is equal in interest to the 
 parallel scenes in Tom Jones, and even more refined in 
 the knowledge of character. For instance, Mrs Bennet 
 is superior to Mrs Fitzpatrick in her own way. Tlie 
 
416 THE BACHELORS WIFE. 
 
 uncertainty in which the event of her interview with 
 her former seducer is left is admirable. Fielding was a 
 master of what may be called the double entendre of cha- 
 racter, and surprises you no less by what he leaves in 
 the dark (hardly known to the persons themselves), 
 than by the unexpected discoveries he makes of the real 
 traits and circumstances in a character with which, till 
 then, you find you were unacquainted. There is no- 
 thing at all heroic, however, in the style of any of his 
 delineations. He never draws lofty characters or strong 
 passions ; — all his persons are of the ordinary stature as 
 to intellect ; and none of them trespass on the angelic 
 nature, by elevation of fancy, or energy of purpose. 
 Perhaps, after all. Parson Adams is his finest character. 
 It is equally true to nature, and more ideal than any of 
 the others. Its unsuspecting simplicity makes it not 
 only more amiable, but doubly amusing, by gratifying 
 the sense of superior sagacity in the reader. Our 
 laughing at him does not once lessen our respect for 
 him. His declaring that he would willingly walk ten 
 miles to fetch his sermon on vanity, merely to convince 
 Wilson of his thorough contempt of this vice, and his 
 consoling himself for the loss of his iEschylus, by sud- 
 denly recollecting that he could not read it if he had it, 
 because it is dark, are among the finest touches of wai- 
 vete. The night-adventures at Lady Booby's with Beau 
 Didapper and the amiable Slipslop, are the most ludi- 
 crous ; and that with the huntsman, who draws off the ^ 
 hounds from the poor Parson, because they would be 
 spoiled by following vermin, the most profound. Field- 
 ing did not often repeat himself: but Dr Harrison, in 
 Amelia, may be considered as a variation of the charac- 
 ter of Adams : so also is Goldsmith's Vicar of Wake- 
 field ; and the latter part of that work, which sets out 
 so delightfully, an almost entire plagiarism from Wil- 
 son's account of himself, and Adams* domestic history. 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c, 417 
 
 " Smollett's first novel, Roderick Random, which is 
 also his best, appeared about the same time as Fielding's 
 Tom Jones; and yet it has a much more modern air 
 with it : but this may be accounted for from the cir- 
 cumstance, that Smollett was quite a young man at the 
 time, whereas Fielding's manner must have been formed 
 long before. The style of Roderick Random, though 
 more scholastic and elaborate, is stronger and more 
 pointed than that of Tom Jones ; the incidents follow 
 one another more rapidly (though it must be confessed 
 they never come in such a throng, or are brought out 
 with the same dramatic facility) ; the humour is broader, 
 and as effectual ; and there is very nearly, if not quite, 
 an equal interest excited by the story. What then is it 
 that gives the superiority to Fielding ? It is the superior 
 insight into the springs of human character, and the 
 constant development of that character through every 
 change of circumstance. Smollett's humour often arises 
 from the situation of the persons, or the peculiarity of 
 their external appearance, as, — from Roderick Random's 
 carrotty locks, which hung down over his shoulders 
 like a pound of candles ; or Strap's ignorance of Lon- 
 don, and the blunders that follow from it. There is a 
 tone of vulgarity about all his productions. The inci- 
 dents frequently resemble detached anecdotes taken 
 from a newspaper or magazine ; and, like those in Gil 
 Bias, might happen to a hundred other characters. He 
 exhibits only the external accidents and reverses to 
 which human life is liable, — not ' the stuff' of which it 
 is composed. He seldom probes to the quick, or pene- 
 trates beyond the surface of his characters ; and there- 
 fore he leaves no stings in the minds of his readers, and 
 in this respect is far less interesting than Fielding. His 
 novels always enliven, and never tire us : we take them 
 up with pleasure, and lay them down without any strong 
 feeling of regret. We look on and laugh^ as spectators 
 
 2d 
 
418 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 of an amusing though inelegant scene, without closing 
 in with the combatants, or being made parties in the 
 event. We read Roderick Random as an entertaining 
 story ; for the particular accidents and modes of life 
 which it describes have ceased to exist : but we regard 
 Tom Jones as a real history, because the author never 
 stops short of those essential principles which lie at the 
 bottom of all our actions, and in which we feel an im- 
 mediate interest ; — intns et in cute. — Smollett excels most 
 as the lively caricaturist, — Fielding as the exact painter 
 and profound metaphysician. We are far from main- 
 taining, that this account applies uniformly to the pro- 
 ductions of these two writers ; but we think that, as far 
 as they essentially differ, what we have stated is the ge- 
 neral distinction between them. Roderick Random is 
 the purest of Smollett's novels, — we mean in point of 
 style and description. Most of the incidents and cha- 
 racters are supposed to have been taken from the events 
 of his own life ; and are therefore truer to nature. There 
 is a rude conception of generosity in some of his charac- 
 ters, of which Fielding seems to have been incapable ; 
 his amiable persons being merely good-natured. It is 
 owing to this, we think, that Strap is superior to Part- 
 ridge ; and there is a heartiness and warmth of feeling in 
 some of the scenes between Lieutenant Bowling and his 
 nephew, which is beyond Fielding's power of impas- 
 sioned writing. The whole of the scene on ship-board 
 is a most admirable and striking picture, and, we im- 
 agine, very little, if at all exaggerated, though the interest 
 it excites is of a very unpleasant kind. The picture of the 
 little profligate French friar, who was Roderick's travel- 
 ling companion, and of whom he always kept to the 
 windward, is one of Smollett's most masterly sketches. 
 Peregrine Pickle is no great favourite of ours, and 
 Launcelot Greaves was not worthy of the genius of the 
 author. 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 419 
 
 " Humphry Clinker and Count Fathom are both 
 equally admirable in their way. Perhaps the former is 
 the most pleasant gossipping novel that ever was writ- 
 ten — that which gives the most pleasure with the least 
 effort to the reader. It is quite as amusing as going 
 the journey could have been, and we have just as good 
 an idea of what happened on the road, as if we had 
 been of the party. Humphry Clinker himself is ex- 
 quisite ; and his sweetheart, Winifred Jenkins, nearly 
 as good. Matthew Bramble, though not altogether 
 original, is excellently supported, and seems to have 
 been the prototj^ie of Sir Anthony Absolute in the 
 Rivals. But Lismahago is the flower of the flock. His 
 tenaciousness in argument is not so delightful as the 
 relaxation of his logical severity, when he finds his for- 
 tune mellowing with the wintry smiles of Mrs Tabitha 
 Bramble. This is the best preserved and most original 
 of all Smollett's characters. The resemblance of Don 
 Quixote is only just enough to make it interesting to 
 the critical reader, without giving offence to any body 
 else. The indecency and filth in this novel, are what 
 must be allowed to all Smollett's writings. The sub- 
 ject and characters in Count Fathom are, in general, 
 exceedingly disgusting ; the story is also spun out to a 
 degree of tediousness in the serious and sentimental 
 parts ; but there is more power of writing occasionally 
 shown in it than in any of his works. We need only 
 refer to the fine and bitter irony of the Count's address 
 to the country of his ancestors on landing in England ; 
 to the robber-scene in the forest, which has never been 
 surpassed ; to the Parisian swindler, who personates a 
 raw English country squire, (Western is tame in the 
 comparison) ; and to the story of the seduction in the 
 west of England. We should have some difficulty to point 
 out, in any author, passages written with more force 
 and nature than these. 
 
420 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 '' It is not, in our opinion, a very difficult attempt to 
 class Fielding or Smollett ; the one as an observer of 
 the characters of human life, the other as a describer of 
 its various eccentricities ; — ^but it is by no means so 
 easy to dispose of Richardson, who was neither an ob- 
 server of the one, nor a describer of the other ; but who 
 seemed to spin his materials entirely out of his own 
 brain, as if there had been nothing existing in the world 
 beyond the little shop in which he sat writing. There 
 is an artificial reality about his works, which is nowhere 
 to be met with. They have the romantic air of a pure 
 fiction, with the literal minuteness of a common diary. 
 The author had the strangest matter-of-fact imagination 
 that ever existed, and wrote the oddest mixture of 
 poetry and prose. He does not appear to have taken 
 advantage of any thing in actual nature, from one end 
 of his works to the other ; and, yet, throughout all his 
 works, (voluminous as they are — and this, to be sure, 
 is one reason why they are so), he sets about describing 
 every object and transaction, as if the whole had been 
 given in on evidence by an eyewitness. This kind of 
 high finishing from imagination is an anomaly in the 
 history of human genius ; and certainly nothing so fine 
 was ever produced by the same accumulation of minute 
 parts. There is not the least distraction, the least for- 
 getfulness of the end j every circumstance is made to 
 tell. We cannot agree that this exactness of detail pro- 
 duces heaviness ; on the contrary, it gives an appear- 
 ance of truth, and a positive interest to the story ; and 
 we listen with the same attention as we should to the 
 particulars of a confidential communication. We at one 
 time used to think some parts of Sir Charles Grandison 
 rather trifling and tedious, especially the long descrip- 
 tion of Miss Harriet Byron's wedding-clothes, till we 
 met with two young ladies who had severally copied 
 out the whole of that very description for their own 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 421 
 
 private gratification. After this, we could not blame 
 the author. 
 
 " The effect of reading this work, is like an increase 
 of kincbed ; you find yourself all of a sudden introduced 
 into the midst of a large family, with aunts and cousins 
 to the third and fourth generation, and grandmothers 
 both by the father's and mother's side, — and a very odd 
 set of people too, but people whose real existence and 
 personal identity you can no more dispute than your 
 own senses, — for you see and hear all that they do or 
 say. What is still more extraordinary, all this extreme 
 elaborateness in working out the story, seems to have 
 cost the author nothing ; for it is said, that the pub- 
 lished works are mere abridgments. We have heard 
 (though this, we suppose, must be a pleasant exaggera- 
 tion), that Sir Charles Grandison was originally written 
 in eight and twenty volumes. 
 
 " Pamela is the first of his productions, and the very 
 child of his brain. Taking the general idea of the 
 character of a modest and beautiful country girl, and 
 of the situation in which she is placed, he makes out 
 all the rest, even to the smallest circumstance, by the 
 mere force of a reasoning imagination. It would seem 
 as if a step lost would be as fatal here as in a mathema- 
 tical demonstration. The development of the char- 
 acter is the most simple, and comes the nearest to na- 
 ture that it can do, without being the same thing. The 
 interest of the story increases with the dawn of under- 
 standing and reflection in the heroine. Her sentiments 
 gradually expand themselves, like opening flowers.— 
 She writes better every time, and acquires a confidence 
 in herself, just as a girl would do, writing such letters 
 in such circumstances ; and yet it is certain that no girl 
 would write such letters in such circumstances. What 
 we mean is this. Richardson's nature is always the 
 nature of sentiment and 'reflection, not of impulse or 
 
422 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 situation. He furnishes his characters, on every occa- 
 sion, with the presence of mind of the author. He makes 
 them act, not as they would from the impulse of the 
 moment, but as they might upon reflection, and upon a 
 careful review of every motive and circumstance in their 
 situation. They regularly sit down to write letters; 
 and if the business of life consisted in letter-writing, 
 and was carried on by the post (like a Spanish game 
 at chess), human nature would be what Richardson re- 
 presents it. All actual objects and feelings are blunted 
 and deadened, by being presented through a medium 
 which may be true to reason, but is false in nature.— 
 He confounds his own point of view with that of the 
 immediate actors in the scene : and hence presents you 
 with a conventional and factitious nature, instead of that 
 which is real. Dr Johnson seems to have preferred 
 this truth of reflection to the truth of nature, when he 
 said that there was more knowledge of the human heart 
 in a page of Richardson than in all Fielding. Fielding, 
 however, saw more of the practical results, and under- 
 stood the principles as well ; but he had not the same 
 power of speculating upon their possible results, and 
 combining them in certain ideal forms of passion and 
 imagination, which was Richardson's real excellence. 
 
 " It must be observed, however, that it is this mutual 
 good understanding, and comparing of notes between 
 the author and the persons he describes ; his infinite cir- 
 cumspection, his exact process of ratiocination and cal- 
 culation, which gives such an appearance of coldness 
 and formality to most of his characters, — which makes 
 prudes of his women and coxcombs of his men. Every 
 thing is too conscious in his works. Every thing is dis- 
 tinctly brought home to the mind of the actors in the 
 scene, which is a fault undoubtedly : but then, it must 
 be confessed, every thing is brought home in its full 
 force to the mind of the reader also ; and we feel the 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 423 
 
 same interest in the story as if it were our own. Can 
 any thing be more beautiful or affecting than Pamela's 
 reproaches to her * lumpish heart' when she is sent 
 away from her master's at her own request, — its light- 
 ness when she is sent for back, — the joy which the con- 
 viction of the sincerity of his love diffuses in her heart, 
 like the coming-on of spring,— the artifice of the stuff 
 gown,— the meeting with Lady Davers after her mar- 
 riage, — and the trial-scene with her husband? Who 
 ever remained insensible to the passion of Lady Clemen- 
 tina, except Sir Charles Grandison himself, who was the 
 object of it ? Clarissa is, however, his masterpiece, if 
 we except Lovelace. If she is fine in herself, she is still 
 finer in his account of her. With that foil her purity is 
 dazzling indeed ; and she who could triumph by her 
 virtue, and the force of her love, over the regality of 
 Lovelace's mind, his wit, his person, his accomplish- 
 ments and his spirit, conquers all hearts. We should 
 suppose that never sympathy more deep or sincere was 
 excited than by the heroine of Richardson's romance, 
 except by the calamities of real life. The links in this 
 wonderful chain of interest are not more finely wrought, 
 than their whole weight is overwhelming and irresistible. 
 Who can forget the exquisite gradations of her long 
 dying scene, or the closing of the coffin-lid, when Miss 
 Howe comes to take her last leave of her friend ; or the 
 heart-breaking reflection that Clarissa makes on what 
 was to have been her wedding-day ? Well does a mo- 
 dem writer exclaim, — 
 
 *■ Books are a real world, both pure and good, 
 Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 Our pastime and our happiness may grow !* 
 
 *' Richardson's wit was unlike that of any other wri- 
 ter ; — his humour was so too. Both were the effect of 
 intense activity of mind ; — laboured, and yet completely 
 
424 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 effectual. We might refer to Lovelace's reception and 
 description of Hickman, when he calls out death in his 
 ear, as the name of the person with whom Clarissa had 
 fallen in love ; and to the scene at the glove-shop. What 
 can be more magnificent than his enumeration of his 
 companions — ^ Belton so pert and so pimply — Tourville 
 so fair and so foppish/ &c. ? In casuistry, he is quite at 
 home ; and, with a boldness greater even than his puri- 
 tanical severity, has exhausted every topic on virtue 
 and vice. There is another peculiarity in Richardson, 
 not perhaps so uncommon, which is, his systematically 
 preferring his most insipid characters to his finest, though 
 both were equally his own invention, and he must be 
 supposed to have understood something of their quali-« 
 ties. Thus he preferred the little, selfish, affected, in- 
 significant Miss Byron, to the divine Clementina ; and 
 again. Sir Charles Grandison, to the nobler Lovelace. 
 We have nothing to say in favour of Lovelace's morality ; 
 but Sir Charles is the prince of coxcombs, — whose eye 
 was never once taken from his own person and his own 
 virtues ; and there is nothing which excites so little sym* 
 pathy as this excessive egotism." 
 
 " But," resumed the Nymph, " I recollect, in an- 
 other article, — the review of Mrs Barbauld's Life and 
 Correspondence of Richardson, — there are some bet- 
 ter observations on the character of that writer, which 
 might have been repeated here :'*'* — 
 
 " The great excellence of Richardson's novels," says 
 the critic, '^ consists, we think, in the unparalleled minute- 
 ness and copiousness of his descriptions, and in the pains 
 he takes to make us thoroughly and intimately acquainted 
 with every particular in the character and situation of the 
 personages with whom we are occupied. It has been the 
 policy of other writers to avoid all details that are_ not 
 
STANDARD NOVELS, &c. 425 
 
 necessary or impressive, to hurry over all the prepara- 
 tory scenes, and to reserve the whole of the reader's at- 
 tention for those momentous passages in which some 
 decisive measure is adopted, or some great passion 
 brought into action. The consequence is, that we are 
 only acquainted with their characters in their dress of 
 ceremony, and that, as we never see them except in those 
 critical circumstances, and those moments of strong emo- 
 tion, which are but of rare occurrence in real life, we 
 are never deceived into any belief of their reality, and 
 contemplate the whole as an exaggerated and dazzling 
 illusion. With such authors we merely make a visit by 
 appointment, and see and hear only what we know has 
 been prepared for our reception. With Richardson we 
 slip invisible into the domestic privacy of his characters, 
 and hear and see every thing that is said and done 
 among them, whether it be interesting or otherwise, and 
 whether it gratify our curiosity or disappoint it. We 
 sympathize with the former, therefore, only as we sym" 
 pathize with the monarchs and statesmen of history, of 
 whose condition as individuals we have but a very im- 
 perfect conception. We feel for the latter as for our 
 private friends and acquaintance, with whose whole si- 
 tuation we are familiar, and as to whom we can conceive 
 exactly the effects that will be produced by every thing 
 that may befall them. In this art Richardson is un- 
 doubtedly without an equal, and, if we except De Foe, 
 without a competitor, we believe, in the whole history 
 of literature. We are often fatigued as we listen to his 
 prolix descriptions, and the repetitions of those rambling 
 and inconclusive conversations in which so many pages 
 are consumed, without any apparent progress in the 
 story ; but, by means of all this, we get so intimately 
 acquainted with the characters, and so impressed with a 
 persuasion of their reality, that when any thing really 
 disastrous or important occurs to them, we feel as for 
 
426 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 old friends and companions, and are irresistibly led to as 
 lively a conception of their sensations as if we had been 
 spectators of a real transaction. This we certainly think 
 the chief merit of Richardson's productions : for, great 
 as his knowledge of the human heart and his powers of 
 pathetic description must be admitted to be, we are of 
 opinion, that he might have been equalled in those par- 
 ticulars by many whose productions are infinitely less 
 interesting. 
 
 " That his pieces were all intended to be strictly 
 moral is indisputable ; but it is not quite so clear that 
 they will uniformly be found to have this tendency. 
 There is a certain air of irksome regularity, gloominess, 
 and pedantry, attached to most of his virtuous charac- 
 ters, which is apt to encourage more unfortunate asso- 
 ciations than the engaging qualities with which he has 
 invested some of his vicious ones. The mansion of the 
 Harlowes, which, before the appearance of Lovelace, is 
 represented as the abode of domestic felicity, is a place 
 in which daylight can scarcely be supposed to shine ; 
 and Clarissa, with her scrupulous devotions, her intoler- 
 ably early rising, her day divided into tasks, and her 
 quantities of needle-work and discretion, has something 
 in her much less winning and attractive than inferior 
 artists have often communicated to an innocent beauty 
 of seventeen. The solemnity and moral discourses of 
 Sir Charles, his bows, minuets, compliments, and im- 
 moveable tranquillity, are much more likely to excite 
 the derision than the admiration of a modern reader. 
 Richardson's good people, in short, ai'e too wise and too 
 formal ever to appear in the light of desirable com- 
 panions, or to excite in a youthful mind any wish to re- 
 semble them. The gayety of all his characters is ex- 
 tremely girlish and silly, and is much more like the 
 prattle of spoiled children, than the wit and pleasantry 
 of persons acquainted with the world. The diction 
 
FINK ARTS. 427 
 
 throughout is heavy, vulgar, and embarrassed, though 
 the interest of the tragical scenes is too powerful to al- 
 low us to attend to any inferior consideration." 
 
 CHAP. XLVI. 
 FINE ARTS. 
 
 " It says but little for our national curiosity," ob- 
 served the Bachelor one morning as Egeria appeared 
 with a copy of Ferro''s work on the Fine Aarts in her 
 hand, " that we should have held military pos- 
 session of so interesting an island as Sicily for a 
 number of years, without drawing any thing of im- 
 portance from Sicilian literature."" 
 
 *' That was not so much the fault of the military 
 gentlemen as of the Sicilian literature," replied 
 the Nymph. ** The truth is, that there is very 
 little in the literature of Sicily worthy of being 
 translated. The learned Sicilians prefer the Italian 
 to their native language, in the same manner as the 
 Scots do the English. It is only for purposes illus- 
 trative of local humour and particular nationalities, 
 that the Sicilian authors employ the language of 
 Signor Stopholo ; that is, their mother-tongue,— 
 Signor Stopholo being the personification of the Si- 
 cilian character as John Bull is of the English. In 
 pastoral poetry, however, the land of Theocritus 
 may still lay claim to honour and distinction. The 
 Idyls of Meli unite with the sweetness of the classic 
 the delicacy of modern refinement ; they are, indeed. 
 
428 THB BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 very beautiful compositions, and possess an ease and 
 charm in the euphony of the numbers which it 
 would not be easy to imitate in translation. I know 
 few madrigals more tender and expressive than the 
 little piece beginning, 
 
 ' Sti silenzii, sta verdura.' " 
 
 *' I was not aware before,"" said Benedict, " of 
 what you mention relative to the difference between 
 the Sicilian and Italian languages. I presume, 
 therefore, that we are not to estimate the literary 
 attainments of the Sicilians by what they have writ- 
 ten in their own language so much as by what they 
 have written in the Italian.*" 
 
 " Exactly so,"" replied the Nymph ; " and the work 
 which you now hold in your hand is an example in 
 point. It is the best compendious view of the Fine 
 Arts that has yet been published in any language ; 
 and it possesses this curious and singular merit, that 
 the author adduces authority and historical fact for 
 every opinion he delivers. It is less, however, a work 
 of genius than of erudition ; for it offers little that 
 can be called either new or original, while it contains 
 the essence of all that has been written and said on 
 the subject." 
 
 " I remember having heard something of the work 
 before," said Benedict. 
 
 '' Yes, — I doubt not ; for a certain friend of yours 
 has made a translation of the first discourse," replied 
 Egeria. " It is not, however, a version of what the 
 author has said, for he has not only here and there 
 deviated from the text, but interwoven some of his 
 own ideas on the subject, making it, in fact, more a 
 theoretical disquisition than belongs to the historical 
 
FINE ARTS. 429 
 
 character of the original. I will read to you his 
 essay.'' 
 
 THE FINE AilTS. 
 
 " The fine arts are the study and delight of all po- 
 lished nations. They disarm the spirit of man of its 
 natural ferocity, and they elevate the mind while they 
 soften the heart. Ignorance is but another name for 
 barbarity, and the want of knowledge sharpens the 
 appetite of violence. It was, indeed, a strange paradox 
 of Rousseau, to maintain that mankind were happier 
 when they resembled wild beasts than with all the en- 
 joyments of civilized life, and that the cultivation of 
 their intellectual faculties had tended to degrade their 
 virtues. There can be no virtue but what is founded 
 on a comprehensive estimate of the effects of human ac- 
 tions ; and an animal under the guidance of instinct 
 cannot form any such estimate. 
 
 " The chief object of science is the discovery of truth, 
 and of art the development of beauty. In the former, 
 we trust to reason, and in the latter to imagination.— 
 But judgment and fancy are of mutual assistance in 
 both studies. Science clears the obstructions which 
 impede the progress of art, and art adorns and smooths 
 the path of science. No discovery is made without 
 some previous conjectural effort of the mind, some ex- 
 ertion of the imagination ; nor is any beauty unfolded 
 where there has not been some pre-consideration of 
 probable effects, some exertion of the reasoning fa- 
 culties. 
 
 " As the human mind is pleased with the contempla- 
 tion of what is true, and delighted with the appearance 
 of what is beautiful, it may be assumed that the culti- 
 vation of science, and the improvement of art, originate 
 in our love of pleasure. We commonly divide the ob- 
 jects of the two pursuits into distinct classes ; and we 
 
430 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 think, when we call scientific studies useful, and the 
 productions of art only ornamental, that there is some- 
 thing intrinsically different in their respective natures. 
 But if we examine our own feelings, and judge of 
 science by its influence on ourselves, we shall be oblig- 
 ed to confess, that although less obviously, it is, in fact, 
 as much recommended to us by the pleasures to which 
 it ministers, as those arts that we regard as entirely de- 
 voted to the excitement of agreeable emotions. 
 
 " Of all the arts, the art of building is that which 
 most prominently attracts attention. Invented in the 
 country, and brought to perfection in the town, it owes 
 its origin, like every other human contrivance, to ne- 
 cessity. Man, naked at his birth, thrown upon the 
 earth, exposed to the cold, the wet, and the heat, and 
 to the concussion of other bodies, was constrained to 
 seek artificial means of protection. The rain obliged 
 him to fly for shelter to trees and caverns, the only 
 habitations with which nature has provided her fa- 
 vourite ; for, in the improvable faculties bestowed on 
 his mind, she has furnished him with the means of con- 
 structing abodes suitable to himself and to the growth 
 of his wants, as they increase by the improvement of 
 his condition. The same instinct which led him to 
 take refuge from the shower, taught him to prefer those 
 trees of which the branches were most thickly inter- 
 woven, — and, when they were insufficient, to draw the 
 boughs closer over his head. The process of reasoning 
 from this experience, to the considerations which led 
 him to form permanent bowers, requires no illustration. 
 
 " Every hypothesis, framed to account for the various 
 styles of architecture, ascribes them to the form of the 
 structures first raised by the inhabitants of the countries 
 in which they respectively originated. The aisles of 
 the Gothic cathedral, and that rich foliage of carving 
 with which its vaults are embowered, cannot be seen 
 
FINE ARTS. 431 
 
 without immediately suggesting the idea of a grove ; — 
 and in the structure of the Grecian temple, we may 
 trace the characteristics of an edifice originally formed 
 of trees hewn and pruned for the convenience of trans- 
 portation ; for Greece was not a woody country, like 
 those northern regions which gave birth to Gothic archi- 
 tecture. In Egypt, where trees are still more rare than 
 in Greece ; where, indeed, there is nothing that can 
 be properly compared to our idea of a tree, we find the 
 character of the architecture partaking of the features 
 of what must have been the early habitations of a people 
 necessitated by their inarborous climate, to make their 
 permanent retreats and the sanctuaries of their gods in 
 the hollows and caverns of the earth. The architec- 
 ture which would arise among such a people we should 
 expect to be dark, massy, and stupendous ; and, accord- 
 ingly, we find in that of Egypt, and of other countries 
 which resemble it in local circumstances, temples and 
 labyrinths that rival in extent and intricacy the grottos 
 of nature, and pyramids that emulate the everlasting 
 hills in magnitude and durability. In the more oriental 
 nations we find the same general principle, and in their 
 permanent structures a similar resemblance to the fea- 
 tures of what were probably the primeval habitations 
 of the natives. In the light and pavilion-like appear- 
 ance of the Chinese buildings, we may see the heredi- 
 tary indications of a people that formerly resided: hh 
 tents, and such temporary abodes as were likely to Ibe^ 
 constructed by the inhabitants of a country abounding 
 in extensive plains, and of a climate unfavourable to 
 the growth of trees, and yet not so hot as to oblige 
 the natives to seek shelter in natural or artificial exca- 
 vations. 
 
 *' The first savage who, in the construction of his 
 hut, united a degree of symmetry with solidity, must 
 be regarded as the inventor of architecture. Multiply- 
 
432 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 ing improvements upon the first result of a combined 
 plan of the reason and imagination, after a series of 
 errors and accidents, a code of rules came to be estab- 
 lished, by which the art of building has since continued 
 to be regulated. The study of these rules furnishes a 
 knowledge of the science of architecture. 
 
 " Although necessity was the mother of architecture, 
 climate dictated the choice of materials employed in the 
 construction of buildings, and chance directed the fancy 
 of individuals in the selection of ornaments. History, 
 in recording that Callimachus of Corinth was led to 
 think of forming the Corinthian capital by observing 
 the beautiful effect of a vase accidentally placed in the 
 midst of a bunch of cellery, has furnished us with a 
 fact which proves, although a natural law governs man 
 in choosing the style of architecture, and climate pre- 
 scribes to him the materials, that the peculiarities of in- 
 dividual genius, and not the effect of any general prin- 
 ciple of taste, develops the beauties of ornament. 
 
 " Taste is formed by the contemplation of works of art, 
 and the perfection of art consists in exhibiting the greatest 
 degree of beauty with the utmost possible resemblance to 
 the natural models. Taste, therefore, does not instruct 
 us to prefer, for any general reason, any one particular 
 style of architecture to another, but only to observe and 
 disapprove of deviations from what is natural. 
 
 " Every pleasure, after enjoyment, occasions a new 
 want. The shelter and protection obtained from archi- 
 tecture incited man to seek enjoyments in the improve- 
 ment of the art of building. When his corporeal ne- 
 cessities are supplied, the restlessness of his mind leads 
 him to seek additional pleasures, by new modifications 
 of the means which supplied his corporeal necessities. 
 
 " In the Greek colonies of Asia Minor, architecture 
 is supposed to have first attained excellence. At least 
 the best authors on the history of the arts agree in stat- 
 
FINE ARTS. 433 
 
 ing, that the Doric and Ionic orders were first perfectly 
 constructed there ; and it may be questioned it', in the 
 lapse of more than twenty centuries, any improvement 
 has been added to the august simplicity of the Doric, 
 or to the unaffected elegance of the Ionic column. The 
 Corinthian, which is of much later invention, though 
 more elaborately ornamented than the other two, is, by 
 many of the most approved taste, deemed inferior to 
 them as an order. It retains less of the resemblance of 
 the original natural mo<lel. It has more about it that 
 may be regarded as superfluous, and the foliage of the 
 capital is obviously a redundancy placed there for no 
 other purpose than the display of skill and expense. — 
 The Corinthian pillars of the porticos of St Paul's in 
 London are esteemed very pure specimens of that or- 
 der ; but their appearance is less impressive than that 
 of the Doric columns, which still remain among the 
 ruins of the Temple of Minerva at Athens. !More than 
 two thousand years have elapsed, and the remnants of 
 the Greek architecture still afford models, which, never 
 having been equalled, seem incapable of being further 
 improved. It may indeed be said, that the genius of 
 ancient Greece has furnished eternal models of art as 
 well as of literature to Europe. 
 
 " About the time that the Doric was raised to per- 
 fection in Ionia, the Etruscans invented the Tuscan, a 
 similar order, but a grosser style ; and the Romans, 
 after the simple and dignified manners of their republic 
 had passed away, demonstrated, by the invention of the 
 Composite, and their preference for that gaudy order, 
 how much the corruption of their morals had infected 
 their taste. 
 
 " The Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan, and Com- 
 posite orders constitute what is properly understood by 
 the classes ot' architecture. They are arranged with dis- 
 tinct^ appropriate, and peculiar ornaments ; and their 
 
 2 E 
 
434 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 proportions are regulated by rules which cannot be vio- 
 lated without impairing their beauty. This is not the 
 case with any other kind of architecture^ and hence all 
 other modifications of the art of building are called styles, 
 in contradistinction to orders. It is true, that in Eng- 
 land the Society of Antiquaries, and several private ama- 
 teurs of the arts, have of late endeavoured to classify 
 and illustrate the different styles of architecture in the 
 ancient baronial and ecclesiastical edifices of Great Bri- 
 tain, but the inqury has not yet terminated, although 
 it has ascertained that the Saxon, Norman, and Gothic, 
 or, as the latter is now perhaps properly called, the 
 English order, have characteristics as distinct as those 
 of the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, and codes of general 
 rules that may prove to be peculiar to each, 
 
 " The human mind has an innate disposition to ad- 
 mire order, and to seek pleasure by the classification of 
 objects. Hence architecture is considered as consisting 
 of three distinct species, civil, military, and naval. I 
 may be justified in adding a fourth, ecclesiastical; for it 
 is impossible to visit any part of Europe, without being 
 convinced that the buildings consecrated to religious 
 rites could not, without radical alterations, be applied 
 to any other use. The cathedral, with its vast aisles, its 
 solemn vaults, and adjoining cloisters, is as obviously 
 constructed for a special purpose, as the fortress, the 
 ship, or the mansion. 
 
 " Phelones, of Byzantium, about three hundred years 
 before the Christian era, composed a treatise on the en- 
 gines of war and military architecture. He is, there- 
 fore, justly regarded as the father of engineers ; and 
 the principles which he is supposed to have elucidated 
 continued to be acted upon till the invention of gun- 
 powder. Italy, that has for so many ages been un- 
 known as a military nation, claims, for Senmicheli of 
 Verona, the glory of having established the principles 
 
FINE ARTS. 435 
 
 of the art of modern fortifications. Vauban, Pagan, 
 Blondel, Scheither, &c. only modified his suggestions 
 and developed his principles. History ascribes, by a 
 kind of courtesy, the honour of inventions and disco- 
 veries to the persons who first make them public, or 
 bring them into use. It is thus that, in naval architec- 
 ture, Usoo, a Phoenician, is considered as the father of 
 the art, because he is the first on record that navigated 
 a canoe. But in this the courtesy of history goes too 
 far, for Noah has certainly a superior claim, both on 
 account of the magnitude and the purpose of his vessel. 
 
 *' Although the Greeks excelled all the world in the 
 beauty of their works of art, they did not furnish any 
 treatise on the theory of architecture till after they had 
 constructed their finest buildings. This was natural. — 
 The rules which instruct us to produce beauties in any 
 kind of art, must be derived from the practice of those 
 who have previously, by the instinct of genius, pro- 
 duced excellent works. The rules for composing a 
 perfect epic poem were derived from the practice of 
 Homer, as it appeared in the Iliad. In like manner, 
 the principles of architecture, as a science, are founded 
 on the result, not of rules previously delivered, but of 
 experiments; hence we are assured, that by an ad- 
 herence to the rules, we shall produce the same beauti- 
 ful effects as the result of the experiments from which 
 the rules were deduced. Vitruvius was the first author 
 who established the principles of ancient architecture ; 
 but he did not write until the finest specimens of the 
 art had been long completed. He mentions, indeed, 
 the names of many architects, but they were practical 
 men — men of genius who had erected models, and there- 
 by furnished the means of giving rules for the guidance 
 of others. 
 
 " It is surprising, that although the work of Vitru- 
 vius is admitted by all students to be deficient, obscure. 
 
436 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 and ill arranged, it is still the best of its kind, especially 
 in what relates to the proper and appropriate use of the 
 different orders. A work embracing the Saxon, Nor- 
 man, and Gothic styles, in addition to the classic orders, 
 and discriminating the uses to which they are respec- 
 tively adapted, is a desideratum in the literature of 
 Europe. In England, a work of this kind is particu- 
 larly required, for the English are perhaps less than 
 any other people of Europe, sensible or even acquainted 
 with the proprieties of architecture. In the St Paul's of 
 London, one of the very finest works of the moderns, 
 and admired by the English equal to its merits, the 
 architect has employed the gayest orders, and in their 
 most ornamented style. The sublime magnitude of the 
 building diminishes, at the first view, the effect of its 
 preposterous gaudiness. It is not, till after contemplat- 
 ing it with relation to its uses, that we perceive how 
 much the style of the architecture is at variance with 
 the purpose of the fabric. Surely the flaunting lux- 
 uriance of the Corinthian and Composite orders are ill 
 placed on a temple dedicated to the service of God, and 
 appointed to receive the ashes of great and illustrious 
 men. The decorum of architecture has been equally dis- 
 regarded in the construction of the new theatre of Co- 
 vent Garden. The portico is undoubtedly a beautiful 
 specimen of the Grecian Doric, and as such would not 
 have disgraced Athens itself; but the august simplicity 
 of the Doric is as much out of place at the entrance of 
 the playhouse, as the gaudier elegance of the Corinthian 
 and Composite is on the church. Perhaps, if the theatre 
 were entirely devoted to the exhibition of tragedies, the 
 grave majesty of its portico would not be objectionable. 
 Still, however, both the theatre and the cathedral are fine 
 monuments of the skill of their respective architects, 
 but they are curious examples of the want of that taste 
 for propriety which is as requisite in the art of building 
 
FINE ARTS. 437 
 
 as in the compositions of the muse. It has been said of 
 the English, that they build their hospitals like palaces, 
 and their palaces like liospitals ; it may be added, that 
 they also ornament their churches like theatres, and 
 their theatres like chuches. 
 
 " Of all the fine arts, architecture is not only that 
 which is most easily traced to its origin in the wants of 
 mankind, but that on which all the others are depen- 
 dent. All the others, whrti compared with architecture, 
 are only representative, and contribute only to the gra- 
 tification of those wants which arise from the experience 
 of pleasure. But this primeval art is, in its rudimental 
 state, almost as necessary to man as food, and in its re- 
 fined, no less essential to the improvement of every 
 other. 
 
 " Painting and sculpture are the arts which seem to 
 have the greatest affinity to architecture, and to be im- 
 mediately connected with its use and progress. For 
 the origin of painting, we have no evidence of any such 
 obvious instinct as that which led man to the art of 
 building ; and it may be doubted, whether it ought to 
 be considered as an invention anterior or coeval with 
 sculpture. 
 
 " The Greeks, with that vanity which their extraordi- 
 nary proficiency in art and science almost justified them 
 in assuming, a vanity which is probably constitutional, as 
 it exists in them as strongly as ever, although they have 
 nothing left of their ancestors but their vices, the lees 
 and dregs of civilization, take to themselves the honour 
 of the invention of painting ; and tell us that, in parti- 
 cular, the art of portrait-painting was discovered among 
 them by a girl, who was fond oi^ a youth devoted to tra- 
 velling, and who, to sweeten the time of his absence, 
 delineated on the wall, with the assistance of a lamp, 
 the profile of her lover. Instead, however, of accept- 
 ing this as an historical fact, we ought to reflect how 
 
438 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. 
 
 prone the Greeks were to allegory, and that this elegant 
 fable is but another way of telling us that portrait- 
 painting was suggested by adolescent affection. 
 
 " Although Anaxagoras and Democritus wrote on the 
 rules of perspective, we have no proof that the Greeks, 
 notwithstanding their excellence in the delineation of 
 objects, ever made any proficiency in the application of 
 them. We have no account of any landscape-painter 
 of any great eminence in Greece. Among all the artists 
 of antiquity there was no Claude. But they doubtless 
 excelled in the drawing of figures. We are witnesses 
 of the still surpassing beauty of their statues ; and we 
 should not, therefore, question the excellence of their 
 figure-painters ; indeed, the sketches in outline on their 
 funeral vases put this matter beyond question. 
 
 " In comparing the remains of Grecian sculpture with 
 the works of the moderns, particularly with the public 
 monuments of the British nation, a very obvious and 
 Striking difference is at once perceived and felt. We 
 are sensible, in looking at the relics of Greece, of the 
 presence of a simple grace, an admirable naturalness of 
 form and figure, which is rarely discoverable in the 
 sculptures of the moderns. This seems to be owing to 
 a cause which admits of an easy explanation. The in- 
 feriority of the moderns arises from their superior scien- 
 tific knowledge. They understand the theory of the art 
 so well, that they think attention to the rules preferable 
 to the study of natural phenomena. The Greek artists, 
 on the contrary, appear to have worked from living 
 forms and existing things. This is remarkably obvious 
 in the remaining sculptures on the Parthenon. The 
 riders in them are not singly persons, whose muscles 
 and joints are disposed with exquisite anatomical exact- 
 ness, and placed on horses individually, equally, cor- 
 rectly formed ; but the riders and the horses, as in na- 
 ture, though two distinct beings, are there shown under 
 
FINE ARTS. 409 
 
 the influence of one impulse, and all those minute and 
 indescribable contractions and dilatations of parts, which 
 arise from their separate conformation, are shewn with 
 the effect of that impulse which constitutes the unity 
 of their mutual exertion. I am not here alluding to 
 the centaurs of^ the metopes, but to the horsemen of the 
 bas-reliefs on the frieze. It is impossible that this fe- 
 licitous result could have been obtained by the most 
 careful attention to any system of rules. It is indeed 
 impossible that the artist, whose business is to attain 
 perfection of design and beauty of execution, should be 
 able to give so much time and consideration ' to the 
 study of rules, as would enable him to work without 
 reference to models in nature. He must unquestionably 
 furnish himself with such a competent knowledge of 
 principles as will prevent him from falling into error ; 
 but, if he expects to excel in his art, he must study 
 other things than the principles by which the critics 
 will estimate his proficiency. As poets must be so far 
 acquainted with grammar, as to be able to write correct 
 language, painters and sculptors are required to know 
 the principles of their respective arts. But as that 
 knowledge of grammar which constitutes the merit of a 
 grammarian will never make a poet, so that knowledge 
 of perspective and anatomy which constitutes the merit 
 of a connoisseur will never make a painter or a sculptor. 
 Painting and sculpture are representative arts. Their 
 province is confined to forms that can be exhibited, and 
 excellence cannot be attained in them but by studying 
 such forms as naturally exist. In groups the sculptor 
 may bring together figures tliat might never have 
 met; as the landscape-painter may combine into one 
 picture objects selected from different views, and there- 
 by produce art effect that, while perfectly natural, shall 
 be more pleasing and impressive than any particular 
 view in nature. But the sculptor must not attempt to 
 
440 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 create forms, nor the painter to draw mountains or trees 
 from his own fancy, or they will assuredly never fail to 
 offend, if they do not always disgust. The two grand 
 allegorical landscapes of Claude, descriptive of the rise 
 and fall of the Roman empire, furnish an admirable il- 
 lustration of the maxim which I would inculcate. — 
 There is no part of Italy, various and beautiful as the 
 scenery of that country is, which exhibits such magnifi- 
 cent scenes as those paintings ; but still the moment 
 that we see them, we at once recognise all the features 
 of the Italian landscape. The picture descriptive of the 
 rise of the Roman nation informs us, at the first glance, 
 of the moral which the artist intends to convey. The 
 sky indicates the morning. On more close examination 
 we find, by the general appearance of the woods and 
 other objects, that it is the spring of the year ; the alle- 
 gory is still more distinctly told by the introduction of 
 husbandmen employed in preparing the soil ; and the 
 rudeness of society is ingeniously expressed by a num- 
 ber of little incidents, that, nevertheless, harmonize 
 with the general tone of the composition; while the 
 style of the buildings and the features of the landscape 
 shew, that it is a probable view of Italy, in the simple 
 and manly ages of the Roman republic. In delineating 
 the decline of the empire the painter has been no less 
 happy. The incidents are chosen with equal skill, and 
 combined with equal judgment. The sun is setting.— 
 It is the close of the vintage. The temples are in ruins ; 
 which emphatically tell the spectator how much the 
 reverence for the gods had declined. The peasants are 
 discovered in a state of intoxication, and the painter has 
 contrived to represent this without any ludicrous cir- 
 cumstance. He wished to convey an idea of the cor- 
 ruption of manners, and he has accomplished it without 
 infringing the solemnity of his composition. In the 
 first picture all is vigorous, fresh, active, and produc- 
 
FINE ARTS. 441 
 
 live ; in the second, all is exhausted, decaying, melan- 
 choly, and wasteful. No poem, no oration, could have 
 described the subject more elegantly. The historian 
 who related the fall of Rome, has not employed a pen 
 more correct than the pencil of the artist. It is such 
 productions that shew the superiority of genius. It is 
 this exquisite arrangement, and choice of things actually 
 existing, which obtain the praise of originality. 
 
 " Architecture, painting, and sculpture, may be de- 
 scribed as the sensual classes of the fine arts, and poetry 
 and music as the intellectual. The former address 
 themselves at once to our senses. Their aim is to ex- 
 hibit the resemblances of things which we have seen, 
 but the latter address themselves to the mind, and call 
 up trains of thought by means that have no likeness to 
 those ideas which they nevertheless renew. The influ- 
 ence of painting and sculpture on the mind is like that 
 of oratory, which persuades by the statement of truths ; 
 the power of poetry and music is felt like that of magic, 
 which calls up spirits, and produces miraculous effects 
 by the mixing of certain ingredients curiously culled. 
 As the orator cannot state a truth justly and perspicu- 
 ously, without obtaining an immediate concurrence in 
 opinion from his auditors, so the painter or sculptor can- 
 not exhibit a picture or a statue properly executed, with- 
 out obtaining the admiration of all spectators. But the 
 jurisdiction of poetry and music is not so universal, for 
 they are dependent on associations in the minds of those 
 to whom they address themselves. Truth is every where 
 the same, but habits are local. And the arts of paint- 
 ing and sculpture are connected with truths, while 
 those of music and painting are dependent on habits. — 
 The poet cannot produce any effect unless the reader's 
 acquired intellectual associations resemble those of the 
 poet. Music will produce no sentimental effect, unless 
 in particular passages it tends to remind the hearer of 
 
442 THE BACHELOR'S WIFE. 
 
 sounds in nature, and by that remembrance to recall 
 the images of the scenes where they were first heard, 
 or of incidents connected with the hearing of them. 
 
 " The effects of a local influence, similar to that which 
 has produced the different styles of architecture, is per- 
 ceivable in the poetry of all nations. The more de- 
 tached, unmixed, and steady the society of any country 
 preserves itself, the more original and singular should 
 be the characteristics of its poetry ; and by the same 
 rule, according to the intimacy and extent of intercourse 
 which nations cultivate with one another, the more va- 
 rious will be the points of association in their habits of 
 thinking, and their poetry will the more approximate 
 in resemblance. 
 
 '^ The English nation, above every other, has culti- 
 vated a general intercourse with all parts of the world, 
 and accordingly we find poets in that country, whose 
 works, though comparatively popular there, are but 
 little understood, even by the learned, in those districts 
 where the inhabitants have remained less extensively 
 informed ; while, at the same time, there are produc- 
 tions in the English language in which the most un- 
 mixed and primitive people may discover transcripts of 
 their own thoughts. 
 
 " In the middle of the eighteenth century, all Europe 
 was surprised by the appearance in the English lan- 
 guage of the poems of Ossian, works which, whatever 
 may be the debate as to their historical authenticity, 
 are admitted to be fine specimens of a kind of poetry 
 cultivated by the mountaineers of Scotland, and which 
 was felt to be natural, and acknowledged to be origi- 
 nal, even by those who questioned their antiquity. In 
 like manner, the conquests of the British in India have 
 added to the stores of the British poets ; and in Eng- 
 land a kind of poetry is fast growing into repute, which 
 seems to bear the same sort of resemblance to that of the 
 
CONCLUSION. 443 
 
 oriental poets which the productions of the muse in the 
 days of Leo X. bore to those of antiquity. Dr Southey 
 and Mr Moore have already brought this style to a high de- 
 gree of excellence ; and specimens by Sir William Jones, 
 along with the Transactions of the Asiatic Society, present 
 to the world a glimpse of what pleasures may be added 
 to our enjoyment of knowledge, by a nation which com- 
 bines in its enterprises the glory of victory and the ad- 
 vantages o€ commerce ; which carries in the rear of its 
 armies the abundance of industry ; and which, by its 
 jurisprudence, sends, to the most distant regions, the 
 most enlightened of mankind in the capacity of advo- 
 cates and judges." 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Having thus, in a most ingenious manner, shewn 
 with what sort of conjugal sweets those gentlemen 
 are entertained who bind themselves for better and 
 worse to the intellectual nymphs, especially such of 
 them as connect themselves with the family of Gen- 
 eral Literature, we now lay down our pen, trim our 
 frill, and smooth our vest, to receive the congratula- 
 tions of the world on the success and fehcity with 
 which we have accomplished a most interesting and 
 delightful task. Certainly we might affect a tone 
 of greater humility, but humility went out of fashion 
 before we came into this world ; and, to say the 
 truth, it is a weak apery of the old school of merit 
 for authors, or indeed for any body else, now-a-days, 
 to talk with diffidence of themselves. 
 
 No discovery of the moderns is more deserving of 
 approbation than the uses of the power of self-oonfi- 
 
444 THE BACHELOR'S WIPE. i 
 
 i 
 
 dence, — ^it is to the business of life what steam is in 
 mechanics,— and its operations on the pubhc produce 
 effects quite as wonderful, — sometimes, it is said, as 
 profitable. May this be the case in the present in- 
 stance, — for without a view to profit no man who has j 
 come to years of discretion would ever think of writ- \ 
 ing a book. Under the old system, where the vast 
 effects of the self-confident power were scarcely even : 
 imagined, it is inconceivable what perturbation men 1 
 of pretension as well as their friends suflPered, when j 
 they advanced to claim the attention of the world, j 
 But now all is smoothness, expectation, and compla- j 
 cency. Every genius, to whatever class or species he I 
 may happen to belong, is instructed, when he ad- ; 
 vances from under the maternal wing to try his pin- ! 
 ions in the world, to believe that he cannot take too i 
 bold a flight ; and, accordingly, he most judiciously ' 
 joins his own chirrup to the encouragement of his - 
 friends, just as the school-boy, in passing through " 
 the church-yard at night, *i 
 
 *' Whistles aloud to cheer his courage up." i 
 
 The more his fears thicken, and the faster his heart ; 
 
 beats, the louder and the livelier he whistles. It is , 
 
 so with modern modesty ; — there is, however, more j 
 real humility often in a swagger than in the most 
 
 demure and downcast bashfulness. But enough of \ 
 
 this : the reader will not think a bit better of our i 
 book by all the blushes we might try to make with 
 ink. ^ 
 
 THE END. ': 
 
 PRINTED BY OIVEll & HOYD. 
 
 ^ 
 
1 1 
 
 • 
 
 
 YCl^'^''^^