Engraved by E.Scrii'cn Historical Engraver u> U.R.H.thc Prince Regent.
 
 
 SELECT PIECES 
 
 IN 
 
 VERSE AND PROSE. 
 
 BY 
 
 IMF LATE JOHN BOWDLER, JUN. ESQ. 
 
 OK LINCOLN'S INN, BARRISTER AT LAW. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1. 
 
 A CUKI-IIAN is the In^lirst -,tile of Man." Young. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed by Datitito*, Old Baititll Court ; 
 
 SOLD BY CADELL AND DAVIKS, IS THR 91RAND, 
 AND HATCHARD, PI( t AWI I.I.Y.
 
 
 BZf-A/t- 
 v,/ *' 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I 
 
 THE JOURNAL I 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS TO HID FRIENDS . . 77 
 
 SELECT PIECES IN VERSE 
 
 To his Mother 165 
 
 On the Genius of Shakspeare, a School Exercise . l6f 
 
 Abradates and Panthea, a School Exercise . . 17' 
 
 Letter to his Sister Jane . . . . . 183 
 
 Lines written before he went abroad . . . 189 
 
 On leaving England for the South of Europe . . 191 
 
 Eliza's Urn . 194 
 
 Lines written in 1812 ...... 195 
 
 Canzonette ... . . . . . 197 
 
 Traveller, whence comest thou ? . . . . 199 
 
 The Sabbath .201 
 
 A Fragment 204 
 
 Thankfulness ...... . 206 
 
 Hymn for a Charity Sermon 208 
 
 Psalm XXIV. paraphrased . . . . 210 
 
 Psalm XLH. paraphrased Part I. . . 212 
 
 Part II. . .213 
 
 Psalm CXXI. paraphrased . . 214 
 Psalm ( XXIII. paraphrased ... .215 
 
 A Fragment 217 
 
 Lines on the Fountain of Arethusa . . . 222 
 
 Translation of an Italian Sonnet .... 225 
 
 OiildofMan .... 226
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 SELECT PIECES IN PROSE. 
 
 Page 
 On the comparative Merits of Private and Public 
 
 Education .229 
 
 Thoughts on the proposed Improvement of Female 
 
 Education *. .242 
 
 Strictures on a Review of the Family Shakspeare . 272 
 Extracts from a Review of the Tableau de la Littera- 
 
 ture pendant le dix-huiti^rae Siecle . . 287 
 
 THE 
 
 PROFITS OF THIS EDITION 
 
 WILL BE GIVEN 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Society for Maintaining and Educating Poor 
 Orphans of Clergymen. 
 
 \ 
 
 \
 
 THE author of these volumes was 
 born in London, February the 4th 1783, and 
 even in infancy shewed signs of his future 
 character and talents. All knowledge was 
 readily received by him; but from the first 
 dawn of reason, religious instruction was pe- 
 culiarly acceptable to him. 
 
 After attending the grammar school at 
 Seven Oaks as a day scholar, he was placed 
 at Hyde Abbey School in Winchester, and 
 was afterwards removed to the College there, 
 but not on the foundation. Here he had for 
 his Master the Rev. Doctor William Stanley 
 Goddard, whose kind and judicious treatment 
 contributed in no small degree to the forma- 
 tion of his future character. 
 
 Being a younger son, it was material that 
 his education should bo such, as without great
 
 VI 
 
 expense, would enable him at an early age to 
 practise the profession of the Law. With 
 this view, in his seventeenth year, he was ar- 
 ticled to a respectable Solicitor in the City of 
 London, and (partly with a view to the pre- 
 servation of his morals) was lodged in his 
 house. 
 
 To supply the want of a University Edu- 
 cation, he applied himself at once to the 
 study of the Sciences, and of the Law. But 
 the intenseness of his application, added to 
 the confinement and close air of the City, 
 proved injurious to his health, and probably 
 laid the foundation of future mischief. 
 
 At the expiration of his clerkship, he be- 
 came the Pupil of a Gentleman of eminence 
 in the Court of Chancery; and upon that 
 gentleman's accepting a silk gown, he was 
 himself called to the Bar in Hilary Term 
 1807, and his success soon appeared to have 
 no obstacle but his delicate health. A little 
 cough, too long neglected as unimportant, at 
 length attracted the attention of his friends,
 
 Vll 
 
 and a physician being consulted, he imme- 
 diately discovered its danger ms nature. 
 
 Being ordered to quit London immedi- 
 ately, and to pass the ensuing winter in the 
 south of Europe, he submitted (though very 
 reluctantly,) and left England in October 
 1810 with a relation who kindly offered to 
 'accompany him. Some account of their 
 progress will be found in his Journal. 
 
 To avoid the heat of a Mediterranean sum- 
 mer, he returned to England in the beginning 
 of August 1811; but was obliged again to 
 seek a milder climate in the following Octo- 
 ber. Of this second voyage some particulars 
 are mentioned in his Letters. The ensuing 
 winter he spent with some kind friends in 
 Sicily and Malta. In May 1812 he once 
 more returned home, but in too infirm a 
 state to attend the Courts. 
 
 Being averse to migrating a third time, lie 
 passed the next winter with some relations 
 near Portsmouth, under whose care and 
 kindness he regained sufficient health and 
 strength to resume his profession, and even
 
 VIU 
 
 to speak in public without difficulty or any 
 apparent ill effect; and this he continued to 
 do daring the following winter, and through- 
 out the year 1814. But after spending the 
 Christmas of that year in the country, on his 
 return to London about the middle of Janu- 
 ary, he found one of his best and dearest 
 friends on his death-bed. This shock was 
 too great for his acute feelings and tender 
 frame; a blood vessel soon after gave way, 
 and perceiving his end approaching, having 
 settled his worldly concerns, he devoted his 
 remaining hours to the more immediate 
 preparation for his great change, which took 
 place on the first of February, 1815.
 
 THE JOURNAL 
 
 On board the Apollo, Thursday, 
 
 Nov. 1, 1810. 
 My dear Father, 
 
 My Journal begins on the fourth day from the 
 lime of coming on board, so I must go back a 
 little, that I may begin from the beginning; beg- 
 ging you by anticipation to excuse all the bad writ- 
 ing and worse composition which may be expected 
 from an invalid, recounting his little adventures 
 amidst noise, and inconvenience, and novelty* 
 
 Of the parting at W. I will not say much. It 
 was very trying; for the L s had been most un- 
 wearied in their kindness, and leaving W. was leav- 
 ing England, and with it all that is dear to me. 
 We put off on Monday 29th October from the 
 Sally-port, in a little boat, and got to the Camilla, 
 which soon brought us to Spithead, where the 
 Apollo was lying. The day was very fine, and 
 every thing favourable. Happily for us, Captain 
 Taylor came on board just as we were lying along- 
 side, so every thing was quickly arranged ; our lug- 
 gage got safely in, and we seated in the captain's 
 cabin, which is elegantly fitted up, and was then 
 
 B
 
 2 
 
 delightfully warm, the sun having lain upon it for 
 some time. This was about one o'clock. Some 
 treasure was expected on board, which arrived soon 
 afterwards ; and we began to unmoor. Soon after 
 sun-set we weighed anchor ; but it was now become 
 bitterly cold, and I began to feel the severities of a 
 sea life ; for the cabin has neither fire nor stove, the 
 wind was northerly, and the stern of course turned 
 away from the sun. Captain T. was very civil and 
 obliging ; but the day was a busy one, and he could 
 pay little attention to us. At last, about seven 
 o'clock, dinner was announced. This was served 
 up in an apartment immediately adjoining the cabin, 
 which is lighted principally from the deck. It is 
 about the. same size as, or somewhat larger, than 
 the cabin, but not fitted up, except that there are 
 chairs and tables. About one third of it is parted off 
 by a slight screen, and there my uncle's cot and 
 mine are hung. The captain sleeps in the other 
 part, which serves also as the room for dinner, 
 breakfast, &c. So we dined ; and in the evening 
 drank coffee, and went to bed. But the cold, the 
 noise, the rolling of the ship, &c. made it impossi- 
 ble for me to sleep, and a dreary night it was ; the 
 weather was rather squally, the sea rough, and the 
 tumult of hoisting and lowering the sails, as circum- 
 stances made necessary, ceaseless. In the morn- 
 ing I found myself, (as might be expected) fatigued 
 and disposed to sickness. My Uncle too (though 
 he had slept well enough) felt the swinging of the 
 ship. However, we got up, and managed to get
 
 our clothes on, and mounted upon deck. In spite 
 of an adverse breeze that obliged us to tack during 
 the night, we had run so far down the Channel, 
 that the Isle of Wight was out of sight. Over the 
 lee beam (to use the new lingo that I hear) the 
 white cliffs of Dorsetshire were visible; and if I 
 had been possessed of strength and spirits to enjoy 
 it, undoubtedly the scene was glorious. The sea 
 seemed racing by with vast rapidity, and the wea- 
 ther, though cold, was perfectly bright. But this 
 could not last long. After breakfast the sea sick- 
 ness overcame us both ; and though my Uncle soon 
 recruited, I can say little of the rest of this day, 
 which I spent upon the sofa, suffering much from 
 cold and more from illness. I should have men- 
 tioned that as early as Monday evening, Wilson [his 
 servant] fell ill, and was invisible, and of course 
 useless through the whole of Tuesday. However, 
 when things are at their worst they mend, or, to 
 speak with more piety and truth, our Heavenly 
 Father docs not forget our weakness, and is ever 
 present to hear and help us. I got a pretty fair al- 
 lowance of sleep during Tuesday night, and was 
 free from sickness the whole of yesterday ; the wea- 
 ther too was milder, and all went tolerably. To-day 
 also I urn free from sickness, but the insufferable 
 noises of last night kept me awake during the whole 
 or greater part of it; so 1 am languid. My Uncle 
 appears as well as usual. Wilson is beginning to 
 recover, but though he seems very well disposed, I 
 mi afraid he wants energy. My chest is much as it 
 
 Bs
 
 was when I left W. but we shall now soon get 
 into a milder atmosphere; for whatever might be 
 the fleetness of the celebrated steeds which bore the 
 ancient Apollo along the heavens, I take it the mo- 
 dern Lady of that name travels nearly as fast. We 
 are now in the Bay of Biscay ; whereabouts I do 
 not know, except that I was informed we were 
 about eighty miles West of Ushant, at eleven 
 o'clock this morning, and it is now two, and we 
 are running at a great rate, nine and a half knots an 
 hour, though close to the wind. Whether the Hi- 
 bernia got out on Wednesday, of course I do not 
 know, but notwithstanding the inconveniences I 
 have suffered, I do not lament the change we made, 
 for every day would probably be adding to the cold 
 at Portsmouth, and with us the wind was unfavour- 
 able for leaving Spithead on Wednesday. In ad- 
 dition to this I learn, since coming on board, that 
 Gibraltar is a most comfortless place to go to; the 
 town being crowded with all sorts of fugitives from 
 Spain, and decent accommodations hardly to be 
 had on any terms. As to our company on board 
 the Apollo : the Captain is a very modest, gentle- 
 man-like, simple, and pleasing character, so far as I 
 have yet become acquainted with him; quite easy 
 and good-natured, yet without the least of a sailor's 
 roughness. In him I think we are very fortunate; 
 and his whole behaviour to us is exceedingly atten- 
 tive and obliging. Of the officers I yet know but 
 little, but what little I have seen is good ; and their 
 manners, though quite plain, sufficiently courteous ;
 
 that is, for my taste; to which the glozing, the- 
 Htrical, high-coloured language and address of 
 thorough-bred men of the world is very disgusting. 
 I feel, however, how easily a person may fall into 
 the opposite extreme, which favours his pride and 
 indolence. The Latins had the same word for man- 
 ners and morals; and experience convinces me that 
 they are very closely allied. Happy he who can 
 unite, in his daily conversation with mankind, 
 a strict sincerity with that real kindness and po- 
 lite courtesy, which are the natural and not the 
 least perfect fruits of Christian love, which " suf- 
 fereth long and is kind, which vaunteth not herself, 
 and seeketh not her own." 
 
 Friday Evening. 
 
 I am afraid I shall make out badly, for the ship 
 is swinging with considerable violence, but I will 
 try to continue my Journal. Last night was a very 
 rough one, the wind high, the sea stormy, and the 
 motion of the vessel very trying. About two 
 o'clock in the morning, my Uncle, being awakened 
 with the sea washing in upon us, called the sentry, 
 and we found all our clothes adrift, as they call it, 
 (and knowing no shorter terms, when sea-phrases 
 occur, I shall use them, and claim not to be thought 
 guilty of affectation in so doing.) This was one of 
 the miseries ; and to be sure if Testy and his com- 
 panions had been on shipboard, he might have en-
 
 riched his catalogue very considerably. 1 said the 
 night was a rough one: so has the day been, and I 
 have seen, what I am not sorry to have witnessed, 
 but have no great passion for seeing again, the Bay 
 of Biscay in great commotion, and the Apollo flying 
 at an amazing rate through it. Do not think me 
 beginning to practice the common vice of travellers, 
 when I tell you, that at one time, in the course of 
 this day, we were running at the rate of fifteen miles 
 and a quarter an hour. I mean statute miles ; above 
 thirteen knots. Captain T. said he had never 
 sailed so fast before. He told us to-day, some time in 
 the forenoon, that during the preceding twenty-four 
 hours, the Apollo had run two hundred and forty- 
 four nautical miles, that is, (I believe) two hundred 
 and eighty-two English miles. You will not won- 
 der after such accounts, that while we were at din- 
 ner to-day, an officer opened the door and told the 
 captain that land was visible from deck over the lar- 
 board bow: soon afterwards land was announced 
 over the starboard bow; and on going up about half 
 an hour afterwards, I saw with great delight a range 
 of bold mountainous country stretching from Cape 
 Ortugal to Cape Finisterre, extremely clear and ro- 
 mantic, and not above twenty miles distant. I own 
 the sight of land refreshed me, though I knew we 
 were not to touch there ; the appearance too of the 
 hills of Gallicia was very striking, as they are not 
 only wild, but craggy and irregular ; nor could I 
 forget that I was looking on the retreats of Spanish 
 liberty, ancl beheld the very peaks over which
 
 Moore's army must have passed, and probably those 
 on which he fought and conquered. The wind was 
 northerly and cold, so I could not stay long upon 
 deck; and the evening and night are gloomy sea- 
 sons with me: for the cold is still severe, our cabin 
 is soaked with brine, the ship swinging and strain- 
 ing, and my eyes are seldom closed for above two of 
 the twelve hours I spend in bed. I have not suffered 
 much from the sea-complaint to-day, notwithstand- 
 ing the violence of -the waves, but enough to make 
 me but little fit for any exertion of mind or body; my 
 stomach is pretty well, but my head swims and my 
 temples ache. My Uncle is not at all discomposed, 
 and on the whole 1 have great reason to be thankful. 
 You will be glad to hear that in spite of pains and 
 hardships, such as I have been little accustomed to, 
 I have caught no cold, and rny pulse has improved 
 considerably. We are now running round Cape 
 Finisterre, and as usual at a great rate. The cap- 
 tain promises us smoother water, and I heartily 
 hope he will keep his word, for this continual pitch- 
 ing and heaving, with the sea roaring and the brine 
 washing in, fatigues me. How glad shall I be to 
 get a night on shore at Cadiz. Sea-life may be ex- 
 cellent sport for those who like it, but I am very 
 thankful that 1 was bred a landsman. To be sure, 
 on a fine day, with a fine breeze, in a fiire vessel, 
 roasting along a fine short 1 , " with all advantages 
 and means to boot," a sail may be a very pleasant 
 thing; but take a person accustomed to ordinary 
 comforts, (especially if he is an invalid,) and tpve
 
 ; 8 
 
 him a close cabin, a cold night, and a fresh squall 
 in the Bay of Biscay, and, if he can honestly say 
 he likes it, he was born to be an admiral. For my 
 part, I never recollect having any such passion when 
 1 was a boy, and I am pretty confident it will not 
 come upon me now. 
 
 Friday night, 9 o'clock. A few lines must serve 
 for this day's Journal, having got to the light late : 
 for there is but one convenient place for writing, so 
 when my Uncle occupies that, I must sit and 
 whistle ; or rather sit and not whistle, for politeness 
 forbids me that last resource of vacancy. We have 
 been running at a vast rate. We made Cape Ortti- 
 gal yesterday about four p. m. and were a-breast of 
 the Burlings at six this evening. From twelve 
 o'clock yesterday to twelve o'clock this day, we 
 have run two hundred and forty-nine nautical miles 
 and a half. In the preceding twenty-four hours 
 we run two hundred and forty-four and a half, which 
 makes, I believe, as near as may be, five hundred 
 and seventy-three and a half English miles in forty- 
 eighty hours, about twelve miles an hour all the 
 way. This is prodigious sailing. I had no idea 
 that any vessel could move at such a pace. I 
 thought that a swift vessel in a gale might drive 
 ten knots an hour. But our's is fair sailing, 
 without any thing like a storm, for two days, at a 
 rate something swifter than that the whole way. 
 About twelve o'clock, we saw a strange sail very 
 little out of our course, and made towards her.
 
 She was coming to meet us, and proved to be an 
 English merchantman. We asked for news, but 
 she told none, at least none that we could hear ; so 
 we left her to move on at her snail's pace, and shot 
 back into our old direction. Land was announced 
 early in the day, but was only just visible from 
 deck. About four o'clock we made the Burlings, 
 of which I have had an exceeding fine view, for they 
 were visible at the distance of twenty-five or thirty 
 miles, and we passed them at the distance of about 
 four. They are very noble rocks, consisting of a 
 bold, rough, broad, and lofty rock in the centre, 
 surrounded by groupes of peaked irregular crags, 
 very like the Needles, with a pretty large mass of 
 table land divided about the centre, that is called an 
 island, (having a few inhabitants,) which lies among 
 them, and adds much to the effect. They are sepa- 
 rated from the main land by a broad frith, through 
 which vessels frequently pass, and behind which we 
 saw stretching to a considerable extent the coast and 
 hills of Portugal the hills in all probability where 
 Lord Wellington was lately entrenched. The cli- 
 mate is now become very sensibly softer. I gain 
 strength, and notwithstanding I am obliged to exert 
 myself both in speaking and acting more than is 
 quite convenient, I do not suffer. 
 
 Sunday noon. I was interrupted last night at 
 i his point by hearing that the rook of Lisbon was 
 visible from deck ; so I went up, and beheld by 
 moonlight a large mass of high land at no great dis-
 
 10 
 
 tance, running out boldly, and forming what would 
 in the day-time have been a striking object. The 
 evening was so delicious, and the clearness of the 
 atmosphere gave such uncommon brilliancy to the 
 moon and stars, that it was with some difficulty I 
 could persuade myself to go below again. The 
 night is always a bad time with me, for I cannot 
 sleep, and this exhausts me. However, to-day the 
 air is delightfully mild and refreshing, the sea 
 smooth, and every thing pleasant. We are now 
 nearing Cape St. Vincent ; a long range of the 
 Portuguese coast stretches out on the left, and we 
 are near enough to give it a very picturesque effect. 
 My Uncle has made out, by examining the log, that 
 from eight o'clock Thursday morning to eight 
 o'clock Saturday evening, being sixty hours, we run 
 six hundred and one nautical miles and a half, 
 which, our course being nearly South, could not be 
 much less than ten degrees of latitude. How much 
 reason have I to be thankful for obtain ing so quickly 
 the chief object of my voyage. The boisterous 
 days and inclement nights, from which I suffered at 
 first, were in fact great blessings, for they saved me 
 from much severer, because much more protracted, 
 suffering, which must have been the consequence 
 of beating about with adverse winds, or with very 
 little wind, in the Bay of Biscay. So little do we 
 know what is really for our benefit, or at least so 
 apt are we, under the pressure of affliction, to over- 
 look the blessing which accompanies it.
 
 11 
 
 Monday morning, eight a. m. We are nearing 
 Cadiz, so I must get my little packet ready. We 
 passed Cape St. Vincent yesterday evening about 
 five o'clock, within about two miles of the shore. It 
 is not a very bold promontory, but rather the extre- 
 mity of a flattish tract of ground, such as one not 
 unfrequently seen towards the sea, running in front 
 of higher lands behind, with a pretty high cliff. 
 On the point of the Cape is built a monastery, 
 plainly seen by the naked eye. During the night 
 we have proceeded with a light wind over a smooth 
 sea, and are now, I guess, about forty or fifty miles 
 from Cadiz, the bold and lofty ridges around which 
 are visible in the horizon. If this reaches you, as I 
 trust it will, you will understand that we are safely 
 arrived at Cadiz, for I shall probably not have an 
 opportunity of adding that. I think myself mend- 
 ing, but feel that I have a long way to work up, 
 before I shall be what I was three months ago. 
 Through the mercy of God, I do not fear ; or if it 
 be his will that I should continue an invalid, that 
 ought to be, and I humbly hope will be, most 
 acceptable to me. And now begging my kindest 
 love to my dear Mother, and all friends who are 
 kind enough to feel interested about me, I will 
 close my first dispatch. I must greatly alter, if 
 absence and wandering make me love England less 
 than when I quitted it. I think with eagerness of 
 the day that will restore me to that dear land ; and 
 though I feel that in the next seven months much is 
 to be done and learned that will be valuable for
 
 12 
 
 life, it is the restoration to my family and friends 
 that I look forward to with delight. 
 
 Off Cadiz, working out of the Bay, 
 
 Nov. 8, 1810. 
 
 I am not sure where I left you, but I think off 
 Cape St. Vincent. We entered the Bay of Cadiz 
 on Monday, Nov. ,5, about noon, and anchored in 
 the harbour about a mile from the town before three 
 p. m., being a few hours less than a week from the 
 time of our leaving Spithead. The approach to 
 Cadiz is very striking, and we had, for the purpose 
 of observing it to advantage, a delightful day and 
 the sea as smooth as glass. The coasts, though 
 rather flat when you approach nearer, are at a dis- 
 tance mountainous and picturesque, running out to 
 Cape Trafalgar on the South-west, and Cape St. 
 Vincent towards the North. Behind, at a great 
 distance, are rude and very lofty mountains, and in 
 the centre the city of Cadiz appears floating on the 
 waters, and adorned on the harbour side with a 
 variety of shipping of all sizes ; from Admiral 
 Keates's flag-ship down to the latine-rigged fishing 
 boats, which come out in numerous groupes, and 
 add much to the beauty of the scene. The town of 
 Cadiz is by far the most beautiful thing of the kind 
 I have ever seen. I speak of its appearance towards 
 the ocean, on which side its principal face (and 
 indeed, the other is little inferior), is composed of
 
 13 
 
 Very handsome houses regularly built of a remark* 
 ably brilliant white stone, with flat roofs full of 
 turrets. There is a spacious rampart before them, 
 the base of which is washed by the ocean. These 
 residences must be delightful. Soon after our arri- 
 val, my Uncle and I went on shore with some other 
 of our messmates. We were landed at the market 
 place, which is a handsome and spacious opening, 
 though not large enough to claim the title of a 
 square, where was assembled the most motley group*' 
 of mortals I have ever beheld. I could have spent 
 half a day there with great satisfaction. We did 
 stay about a quarter of an hour waiting for a con- 
 veyance to Mr. DufFs. In that time I saw friars 
 black and white, and very striking they were. The 
 black friars wore a very large black deep scallopped 
 hat, and a full black robe covering them from the 
 neck to the feet. There appearance to a stranger is 
 somewhat gloomy and awful. The white friar was 
 of the order " des Carmes dechausses." His robe, 
 therefore, which was of white cloth, or other woollen 
 substance, did not reach his feet, that the naked- 
 ness of his legs might be apparent, and he wore a 
 round full hood instead of the large scalloped hat. 
 His appearance was curious, but to me less striking 
 than that of his dark brethren. There were ladies 
 walking about, generally in black, with a coloured 
 or black velvet or silk mantle thrown over the head 
 instead of a cap or hat. They were all brunettes, 
 very small, and none handsome. Presently passed 
 what I was informed to be a gentleman : he was
 
 14 
 
 driving himself in a tawdry, painted, gingerbread 
 whiskey, his horse covered with tassels and bells. 
 Then came a coach and four, such a thing as one 
 has seen in pictures of procession in Queen Anne's 
 time. Around were all sorts of people of a very pe- 
 culiar physiognomy, which I should have been glad 
 to have had a longer time to contemplate, and some 
 of them wore a cockade and sort of regimentals : 
 
 o 
 
 but those whom I saw in a military dress were 
 miserable looking creatures, their legs like thin 
 spindles, and their faces indicating nothing firm or 
 great ; a stout English blue-jacket would eat up half 
 a dozen of them : I understood that all the regulars 
 are of the same cast. The peasantry, who are a fine 
 race, will not enter into the army, and I do not won- 
 der at it. We got a couple of donkeys, and rode 
 away ; the cavalry rather too mean and ludicrous 
 for my taste (for they were no better than carry dust 
 in London, nor better caparisoned;) and thus we ar- 
 rived at Mr. Duff's. In the part of the town 
 which we passed through, the houses appeared good, 
 but the streets, though clean and decently paved, 
 are rather narrow. At Mr. Duff's we learnt that 
 the town was extremely crowded, and that there is 
 an epidemic in the place ; so it was determined to 
 give up our original plan of sleeping on shore, and 
 to return to the Apollo, which we did immediately, 
 and not without some difficulty. Mr. Duff's house 
 appeared to be very spacious, and gives a high idea 
 of the general size of the buildings, on the face 
 towards the sea. The Spaniards, I am sorry to say,
 
 15 
 
 are not much honester than their neighbours ; for 
 the boatman who carried us on shore modestly asked 
 five dollars for the trouble, which might occupy him 
 about twenty-five minutes ; (we gave him two ;) and 
 we were obliged to pay three dollars for our donkeys. 
 The next day we took a boat, and sailed along the 
 principal fronts of the town,. so near that we could 
 see and admire all their beauty, which is very great : 
 we then sailed up the harbour, as far as we could go 
 with safety, and returned. I am going to draw a 
 rude sketch of the situation of the town and har- 
 bour of Cadiz, in order to make the account of posts 
 intelligible. Probably you have plans of the place, 
 and perhaps all that follows is already known ; but 
 I must hazard that, rather than omit what may be a 
 subject of curiosity. 
 
 [Here followed the plan.] 
 
 Do not laugh at my plan, which though awk- 
 wardly done is accurate enough for the purpose for 
 which I want it. The French are in possession of 
 all the coast from Puerto Real to Kota, and so on- 
 ward. My judgment is not worth two-pence on 
 such a matter; but unless Lord Wellington 
 can find the French occupation in Portugal, I have 
 little doubt that they will be masters of Cadiz within 
 six or eight months after they seriously undertake 
 the siege. The defences of the town on th land 
 side are said to be pretty strong, but towards the 
 sea there is only a wall of thirty feet or thereabouts, 
 with small old brass cannon on it. I much wonder 
 we never attempted to storm it. The mouth of tin-
 
 16 
 
 harbour is commanded from the opposite shore, for 
 we were within reach of their shot where we lay, 
 and in order to get out, were obliged to go consider* 
 ably nearer ; so that whenever the French set about 
 the business, they will pretty effectually exclude all 
 large vessels. As far as I could learn, the Cortes 
 who meet at Isla, and consist of about one hundred 
 and thirty members, are a public-spirited respect- 
 able body, possessing, in the main, liberal senti- 
 ments, and disposed to act with vigour for the ge- 
 neral good. The accounts which I have heard of 
 the other public officers, and of the Spaniards in 
 general, are but indifferent. Though in public de- 
 bates the English are of course spoken of with 
 great respect and gratitude, they shew no great cor- 
 diality towards us ; no disposition to learn our lan- 
 guage, or imitate our manners, or even consult our 
 convenience. They appear to retain the same 
 formal, reserved, and rather suspicious character, 
 which used to belong to them before the late com- 
 motions. Captain T. was detained three days in 
 getting some gold changed, which he expected 
 would have been the work of an hour, though he 
 used every exertion to dispatch the business. One 
 day, wanting the Governor's signature to some ne- 
 cessary document, he waited on him, and found he 
 was asleep (it was about mid-day.) The captain 
 told his attendants, that he would thank them to 
 wake the Governor, as he was charged with dis- 
 patches of great moment to Gibraltar and the Me- 
 diterranean. But he pressed in vain. His Excel-
 
 17 
 
 lency's officers could not be persuaded to disturb 
 him, and one of them said to another (not suppos- 
 ing Captain T. understood him,) " These English- 
 men are always in a hurry." 
 
 Mediterranean, Monday, 
 
 Nov. 12, 1810. 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 My Journal is public property ; but it is time 
 that a portion of it should be inscribed to you, as 
 authors, you know, are fond of patrons and patro- 
 nesses, and those who are provident manage so to 
 divide their pieces, that they may get as many as 
 they can. I closed the second packet to my Father 
 before we entered the Straits. Shortly after that 
 concluded, we changed our course from south to 
 east, and stood into the Mediterranean. My Uncle 
 says, the Straits of Gibraltar are among the finest 
 things to be seen in Europe, and I can well believe 
 it. It was about two o'clock when we passed be- 
 tween Cape Spartel and Cape Trafalgar, which form 
 the entrance or gorge of the Straits ; the day was 
 delightfully fine, and the view highly grand and in- 
 teresting. The Straits lay directly before us like a 
 dark defile ramparted with hills. Those on the 
 Spanish side are lofty and irregular, and if seen alone 
 would be thought highly striking ; but the Harbary 
 mountains are much higher ; their faces exceedingly 
 dark, and their ridges running up into an endless 
 
 c
 
 18 
 
 variety of peaks and precipices. In front of them 
 all, towards the further end of the Straits, but form- 
 ing a principal object from its magnitude and de- 
 cided character, stands Apes Hill, a bare and lofty 
 mountain, breasting the waters from which it rises 
 almost perpendicular. Behind this, at a consider- 
 able distance, rise some very elevated mountains, 
 which stretch away to the south-east, till they be- 
 come invisible. These I understand to form part 
 of the western extremity of Atlas ; but I do not feel 
 quite sure of the fact. On the opposite side, and 
 also at considerable distance, the highest point of 
 the rock of Gibraltar was just visible, peering over 
 an intervening promontory. I am a bad landscape 
 painter at best, but in order to form any idea of the 
 scene I describe, you must observe, that at the point 
 of view from whence the picture is drawn, that is 
 between the Capes Spartel and Trafalgar, there is a 
 breadth of (I suppose) from thirty to forty miles at 
 least, the average breadth of the Straits being from 
 ten to fourteen, or thereabouts. Thus we entered 
 this celebrated pass, and the hour of dinner being 
 arrived, I left the deck, and went below. Some 
 short time before sun-set, we came up again. We 
 were now in the midst of the Straits, having passed 
 Tangier, and a little island and town called Tariffa ; 
 of the last of which I had a very good view. The 
 island is at present occupied by English troops. 
 Geuta was in view, a promontory in position not 
 unlike Gibraltar, to which it is nearly opposite, 
 being united to the continent of Africa by a neck
 
 of low land ; but its elevation is not in appearance 
 a fourth of that of our noble rock. This grand 
 fortress was now clearly visible, and amidst many 
 striking objects undoubtedly the most striking. It 
 stands out directly in front of the Straits, which 
 seem there to take a little bend to the south-east, 
 and the beams of the setting sun were resting upon 
 it . j Till this time the day had been remarkably 
 clear and brilliant. The sun now sunk into the 
 ocean directly behind us, and we were fortunate in 
 coming just at that period of the year, when every 
 thing conspired to give effect to the noble scenery 
 around us. It is obvious that there can be only a 
 small space of time during which a sun-set could 
 be seen through the Straits in the ocean, the hills 
 on each side obstructing the view during the greater 
 part of the year. The wind, which had been gen- 
 tle since our entering the Straits, now fell almost 
 entirely, and the moon, which was nearly full, gave 
 a new and softer character to the objects around us. 
 It was a peculiar advantage to be able to see the 
 triple effect of clear day-light, a setting sun, and 
 full moon, upon this romantic defile. I think the 
 last was the most interesting. There was so little 
 wind that we were now in some danger of not being 
 able to make the bay of Gibraltar; for a strong cur- 
 rent sets into the Mediterranean, which, if thore had 
 been literally no breeze, would have carried us by 
 the southern point of die rock. I remained upon 
 deck till near ten p. m. (for the softness of the air 
 removes all fear of cold) and we were tlu-n floating 
 
 C5
 
 20 
 
 very slowly and imperceptibly into the bay, with so 
 gentle a breeze that the sails flapped under it ; the 
 night was clear and beautiful, -and the sea quite 
 smooth. I here saw a sight perfectly new to me, 
 which proved what I believe I have already men- 
 tioned, respecting the clearness of the atmosphere : 
 this was Venus with a halo round her, like the 
 moon: And so to bed and to sleep, which I 
 manage now much better than I did. You will 
 observe that when I speak of the height of hills, 
 distances, and the positions of towns, capes, or 
 mountains, I speak of things as they appeared to 
 me. It is very likely that, if you look into charts 
 and gazetteers, you may find that the facts do not 
 accurately correspond with my descriptions ; but 
 do not therefore conclude that my narrative is in- 
 correct, for I profess only to tell what I see ; and 
 he must be a more skilful traveller than I, who has 
 learnt to correct all the errors of vision, and to make 
 the usual allowances of parallax and of refraction. 
 I said that I slept in the bay of Gibraltar, and if in 
 
 the morning I had awaked at H , and come 
 
 down to breakfast, I think I should have said that 
 I had had a very singular and pleasing dream ; so 
 strange does it appear to me to be actually, and in 
 very truth, on board the Apollo in the Mediterra- 
 nean. However, I believe it is a fact, and not a 
 vision ; for going upon deck the next, that is, Sa- 
 turday morning, I found our frigate safe at anchor 
 abreast of the rock, nearly opposite the Governor's 
 house, at a distance most favourable for viewing
 
 21 
 
 both the rock and the bay, rather less than half a 
 mile. I shall fatigue you if I go on with minute 
 descriptions, but Gibraltar bay is indeed worthy of 
 the Straits of which it forms a part ; I think it alto- 
 gether the finest thing I have seen. It is a direct 
 contrast to the bay of Cadiz, where every thing is 
 " riant" and highly brilliant. Here, on the con- 
 trary, you find yourself almost shut in by moun- 
 tains, the rock itself forming a noble rampart to the 
 east : opposite, across the bay, is Algeziras, with a 
 chain of high hills rising behind it and encircling 
 the bay ; the sun shone full on their bare sides, and 
 gave them a very fine appearance. To the north 
 is St. Rocque on a hill, and a still loftier mountain 
 rises beside it : these are places very celebrated dur- 
 ing the siege. Apes Hill seems to shut in the bay 
 on the south, and the Barbary mountains seen in a 
 new position range along in the horizon behind. I 
 was the more happy in seeing the bay so finely, for 
 about two hours afterwards a haze came on which 
 shut out more than half the objects. The town 
 and fortifications of Gibraltar were so near us, that 
 I believe we could not possibly have seen them bet- 
 ter without going on shore : the former of these we 
 surveyed pretty minutely, for lying on the side of 
 the hill, it is exposed to the view. It is closely 
 built, and said to be one of the most populous towns 
 in Europe, for its size ; but the number I do not 
 accurately know. I am concerned, however, to 
 hear that it at present contains eight thousand per- 
 sons unaccounted for, that is, of whom it is unknown
 
 whether they are friends or enemies. The town is 
 built neither in the Spanish nor the English fashion ; 
 but has a mode of its own, and that but a bad one. 
 The houses are roofed like ours, and generally with 
 tiles, the fronts white and long, with large windows 
 to the top, and apparently the largest at the top. 
 But I cannot speak very confidently, having only 
 surveyed them through a glass. The fortifications 
 of course could not be seen in any perfection, with- 
 out going on shore, which was impossible ; for having 
 touched at Cadiz, we are subject to quarantine, and 
 they are very strict ; however, this is little loss to 
 me, who am not equal to the fatigue of riding. I 
 got such a view and description of the defences as 
 gave me a pretty good idea of them, and very for- 
 midable they are ; I fancy (humanly speaking) im- 
 pregnable. They have been added to in every 
 direction since the siege, and I am told above a 
 thousand pieces of cannon are now mounted on the 
 different sides of the fortress. The rock itself is a 
 noble object, absolutely perpendicular on the Me- 
 diterranean side, and a very abrupt declivity with 
 occasional precipices on the other. It is like a half 
 wedge. The highest point, which is toward the 
 south, is, I am informed, one thousand four hundred 
 and seventy feet above the level of the sea ; from 
 thence runs a sharp ridge to the northern point, 
 which is a little, though only a little, lower. We 
 did not leave the bay till after sun-set, so that I had 
 again the peculiar pleasure of witnessing the effect 
 of a bright day and beautiful night on the rock and
 
 33 
 
 bay. The moon was just risen above tlte rock, 
 when we came upon deck after dinner, and she 
 lighted us round Europa Point, and shewed us the 
 back of the rock, and Mediterranean, in great beauty. 
 So night came on. The next day shewed us 
 the Grenada hills, a very fine range ; the summit, 
 and a part of the sides of which were cloathed with 
 snow. The snow did not extend over the whole 
 mountains, but it lay in large masses upon some of 
 the more distant hills, and reflected the sun beams 
 with great brilliancy. These are the only hills on 
 which snow has been distinctly visible ; though it 
 is not impossible that it might have been seen on 
 others, if they had been only equally distant. My 
 Uncle saw snow on these Grenada hills in a summer 
 month, and I understand they carry it all the year. 
 Their height, therefore, must be very considerable. 
 We passed Cape de Gates in the evening of yester- 
 day, and have since been running at the rate of 
 l>etween nine and ten knots an hour, (sometimes 
 faster) across that part of the Mediterranean which 
 lies between Cape de Gates and Sardinia. Ca- 
 gliari is our next port, (for we are to deliver mails 
 both there and on the south coast of Sicily, before 
 we go to Malta,) and this place we shall probably 
 make early on Wednesday morning. The sea is 
 not rough, but we have a fresh breeze, which is very 
 agreeable, for nobody wishes to lie becalmed in the 
 open sea, where there is nothing to attract attention. 
 Hitherto, (I thank God) our voyage has been pros- 
 perous to the highest point of prosperity. We al-
 
 24 
 
 most flew over the Bay of Biscay, and since we 
 have reached more interesting parts, I have enjoyed 
 the pleasure of seeing every object of curiosity, as 
 well as possible, if I may venture to trust either the 
 assurances of others, or my own judgment. These 
 things, to be sure, are not of great moment, but I 
 hope it is not presumptuous to consider them as 
 flowing from the bounty of the same gracious and 
 heavenly Father who has wonderfully softened the 
 trials he has wisely inflicted, by every alleviation 
 that in the ordinary course of events was possible. 
 I do assure you, that when I look back to the time 
 at which my illness began, the manner in which I 
 was saved from probable death, by meeting with 
 Doctor Reynolds, and the varied mercies which 
 have accompanied it ever since, I feel that I am 
 called upon in a peculiar manner, to the exercise of 
 continual and increasing faith and gratitude. 
 
 Wednesday, 10a.m. Nov. 14. 
 
 Human affairs are subject to great and sudden 
 mutations ; and I am sorry to observe, that this 
 maxim of philosophy holds true at sea, as well as 
 on shore. Having told you of our prosperity, I 
 must now come to a chapter (not a very woeful one) 
 of distresses and disasters. On Monday night the 
 wind changed ; a gale came up from the north-east, 
 and the sea began to roughen. During the whole
 
 25 
 
 of the former part of yesterday, we were a good deal 
 wung about, and most of our party (myself, how- 
 ever, not included) began to look pale, and get very 
 uncomfortable. About dinner time, the squall be- 
 came violent, and for a good many hours we rolled 
 about very unpleasantly. This was a matter of 
 considerable distress and danger, for every thing 
 that had legs, (alive or dead) except the Captain, 
 was overset, and some had very awkward tumbles. 
 I was among the number, being canted backward, 
 over a large trunk in our cabin, under a gim. Thanks 
 10 the goodness of an ever-present Providence, I re- 
 reived no injury whatever, (though the accident was 
 a frightful one,) not having even fallen on my head, 
 though why I did not is utterly unaccountable to 
 me. My Uncle had an accident also, which might 
 have been attended with very serious consequences; 
 a small bookcase having fallen upon him ; which, 
 however, only just grazed the skin in one part of 
 the head ; without giving him any contusion ; and 
 to-day he is quite well. One of our fellow-passen- 
 gers was tossed out of an arm-chair, by the rolling 
 of the ship, and thrown against the corner of a 
 washing-stand, which has cut his lip, and given an 
 unsightly wound. I had had a similar toss before, 
 but without receiving any harm. A carpenter broke 
 a rib ; and in short there was very little safety be- 
 low. I therefore went upon deck. My Uncle, 
 more wisely perhaps, took to his cot. Upon deck, 
 the scene was exceedingly sublime. We had car- 
 ried topsails longer, they said, than almost any other
 
 26 
 
 vessel in the navy would have attempted ; but these 
 were now hauled down, and we ran under bare poles, 
 except a close-reefed foresail. (I am not sure that 
 the phrase is correct, but the foresail was in part 
 taken in.) I now saw what gave me a better idea 
 of what a storm is, and what a fine ship can do, 
 than any thing in the Bay of Biscay had shewn. 
 There the waves, though violent, are longhand re- 
 gular ; here they are short and uncertain. While 
 I was upon deck, the ship rolled so deep, that the 
 body of the sea was above the carronades, on the 
 quarter deck ; but I did not see the heaviest part of 
 the gale ; for saying the next day to one of the of- 
 ficers, that I imagined the copper of the Apollo 
 must have been visible the preceding night, he said, 
 he did not doubt that her keel might have been seen 
 from another ship. I am told this squall was pro- 
 bably part of the skirts of a storm in the bay of 
 Lyons, which all describe as tremendous. 
 
 AT SEA IN A STORM. 
 
 The tempest drives along the main, 
 The straining vessel heaves in vain, 
 Her sails are rent, her tall masts bow ; 
 What hand, what hope can save us now ? 
 
 God of the Ocean as the Land, 
 The billows rise at thy command ; 
 At thine Almighty word they sleep, 
 Stretch'd on the bosom of the deep.
 
 27 
 
 Oh bless'd, whoe'er from danger free 
 Has lov'd, obey'd, and worshipped Thee, 
 In pain, in pleasure, constant still 
 To do his great Redeemer's will. 
 
 'Mid shrieks and sounds of wild affright 
 His heart is calm his hopes are bright ; 
 His stedfast eye the scene surveys, 
 Is closed in prayer, and wakes to praise. 
 
 We lived through the night, rough as it was, and 
 the next day, (Wednesday) we made Toro, a rock 
 standing out alone in the sea, a few miles from Sar- 
 dinia. The coast of that island from Cape Taloro, 
 or Talavero, eastward, soon appeared ; and as Ca- 
 gliari was our object, we kept pretty close in shore. 
 This part of the coast of Sardinia is lofty and bold 
 enough, but exceedingly dreary, being composed 
 almost entirely of rocky mountains, with no vestige 
 of cultivation, or of the footsteps of man, except in 
 a few white watch-towers planted along the hill. 
 We were now making into the bay of Cagliari, 
 which threatened to be a long business, as it runs 
 up to a considerable length, and there was little 
 wind ; when, greatly to the joy of every body but 
 my Uncle and myself, a brig of war was seen beat- 
 ing up in the same direction. We made our sig- 
 nals, and she proved to be the Nautilus going into 
 Cagliari to water. She sent her boat on board, and 
 very obligingly took charge of the mails for Sardi- 
 nia, which we were commissioned to deliver. So
 
 we have lost the sight of the bay and city of Ca- 
 gliari. Our interview with the Nautilus happened 
 about one p. m., and having dispatched that busi- 
 ness, we turned into the straight course for Sicily, 
 which it was supposed would be made some time 
 in the course of to-day. What was my astonish- 
 ment on waking this morning, to hear that Maritimo 
 was in sight, and had been visible since day-break. 
 The expedition of this vessel is really astonishing. 
 Had we neither gone into the bays of Cadiz or 
 Gibraltar, nor gone round by Sardinia, I have not 
 the smallest doubt that our passage from Portsmouth 
 to Sicily would have been made in eleven days, if 
 not in ten. 
 
 Maritimo is a large rock or island, lying a few 
 leagues west of Sicily, to which it is in effect joined 
 by two other smaller islands. It is not much un- 
 like Gibraltar in its appearance, but rather loftier, 
 and less ridgy. As it stands alone, it forms a 
 striking object. I am now writing between the 
 hours of one and two of Thursday. We are run- 
 ning abreast of the coast of Sicily, but only near 
 enough to see the hills and low land imperfectly, I 
 suppose eight or nine leagues off. Girgenti is our 
 next point, and then Malta ; from whence I hope 
 to dispatch this, and where I shall be rejoiced to 
 arrive. We are under considerable terror of quaran- 
 tine; but I hope the best. The weather is very 
 fine, but the wind coldish. Not like a wintry cold, 
 but a little autumnal.
 
 29 
 
 Friday night. I have already observed that hu- 
 man affairs are subject to great changes, and this 
 piece of philosophy may serve at once to illuminate 
 my pages, and account for the odd turns of my 
 Journal. After flying across the Atlantic and the 
 Mediterranean as we have done, here we are at last 
 completely becalmed, about five miles from the 
 shore, abreast of Sciaco, distant, I fear, forty or fifty 
 miles from Girgenti. The fact is, that we have 
 mistaken our port ; one little Sicilian town not 
 being very easily distinguishable from another. 
 Having got in shore for the purpose of making this 
 place, we have found it utterly impossible to get 
 out again ; for during the whole day the sea has 
 been as smooth as a mill-pond, not a breath of air 
 stirring, and the sun so hot that I could not support 
 it upon deck, and was obliged to come below. This 
 is the more peculiar, and truly Italian, as yesterday 
 evening we had a bitter tramontane wind, which, 
 though not quite equally severe, was of the same 
 character with our clear piercing north-easters. The 
 state in which we have lain the whole of the day 
 has given us an opportunity of surveying with some 
 minuteness the beautiful coast opposite to us. It is 
 for a considerable length an undercliff, not unlike 
 that in the Isle of Wight, but deeper, and the rocks 
 behind it more elevated. Indeed there is a double- 
 ridge of very fine rocks, and the second range rise 
 to pretty elevated mountains, on the tops of the 
 highest of which is snow, brought by the wind of 
 yesterday ; for the elevation is not such as to allow
 
 30 
 
 
 
 of the snow lying there regularly. The declivity, 
 or belt of ground lying between the second ridge 
 and the sea, has the appearance of being a highly 
 fertile and beautiful tract of country, along which 
 villas are dispersed among woods; and towns are 
 visible at greater distances. One in particular is 
 situated in a most romantic spot, nearly at the top 
 of the rock, which in that part is a mountain, backed 
 by some very high and craggy peaks, and encir- 
 cled on the sides by projections of the same rock. 
 Probably an old Moorish town. It is open towards 
 the ocean, and the ground gradually lowers away 
 from its feet. This town however has a dark ap- 
 pearance, being built as it seems of the stone from 
 the rocks around it, which are of a deep brown. It 
 is in this respect unlike the other Sicilian buildings 
 that I have observed, which are mostly white, though 
 not of the dazzling lustre which so much surprised me 
 at Cadiz. The appearance of these towns is novel 
 and curious ; the best buildings appear to be only one 
 story high, but that is a very handsome one : they 
 seem crowded a good deal together, but have on the 
 whole rather a handsome air, especially the erec- 
 tions and plantations in the skirts of the towns. 
 
 Harbour of Malta, on board the Apollo, 
 
 November 19, 1810. 
 My dear Mother, 
 
 Here we are, (I thank God,) safely arrived at our 
 place of destination. My last dispatch was broken
 
 31 
 
 
 
 off abruptly, by the intelligence of a packet for 
 England being in sight of Girgenti ; so I take up 
 my tale from the point where it concluded. Gir- 
 genti is a modern town, (if a town built in the time 
 probably of the Saracens can be so called,) standing 
 near the site of the ancient Agrigentum, a city more 
 renowned than any other of the same age for its 
 magnificence and luxury. The ancient city stood 
 near the sea shore, and was of a vast extent. The 
 modern city (for Girgenti has a bishop,) is planted, 
 where most of the Sicilian towns on the south-west 
 coast are situated, on an eminence. It is removed 
 about four miles from the shore ; and the undercliff, 
 for all this part of the coast is an undercliff, which 
 reaches from the foot of the city to the sea, has the 
 appearance of a very fertile and beautiful country. 
 There seems to be nothing very curious in the mo- 
 dern town, which, like all the others on that coast, 
 is built of a stone of rather a dingy colour, the houses 
 exceedingly close set, veiy unlike any thing English, 
 and though curious to an inexperienced eye, I think 
 rather ugly. At the top however of the city of 
 Girgenti, (for it stands on a steep declivity,) and 
 peering high over all the other buildings, are what 
 appear to be a monastry and bishop's palace, ad- 
 joining to and probably erected in a large old castle. 
 But in ranging round the adjoining declivities, which 
 looked very picturesque through the glass, brine: 
 adorned with villas and other buildings, 1 spied at 
 last, with great delight, the front of an ancient tem- 
 ple, quite complete, and so clearly seen that I could
 
 32 
 
 
 
 count the columns and enjoy the beauty of the 
 building. It stands a little way inland from the sea, 
 I should guess half a mile or a mile, on the west 
 end of a ridge of ground of moderate elevation ; and 
 pursuing the line of the ridge over a considerable 
 quantity of ruins, I discovered a second temple less 
 perfect than the first, for the pediment appeared to 
 have fallen, but quite perfect enough to leave no 
 doubt of what it was. The next day, I discovered, 
 as I at first thought, two more temples ; but on ex- 
 amining more accurately, perceived that in conse- 
 quence of a change in our position, the front of the 
 temples was no longer exposed to us, but we had 
 now a full view of their side columns, in number 
 fourteen, fifteen, or sixteen, all, or all but one, I 
 think, perfect in the temple first discovered, but 
 more broken in the other. I had now the pleasure 
 of seeing a Greek temple as well as it can be seen 
 by a person who is four or five miles off: the whole 
 form of the structure was very plainly discernible, 
 for the atmosphere was clear, and the sun rested on 
 the spot, so as to shew the ruins to great advantage. 
 I could even plainly discover the interior building, 
 (its proper name I do not know,) that is erected 
 behind the front columns and pediment. The tem- 
 ples are, as all these were, open. I am very gJad 
 to have seen these beautiful and interesting monu- 
 ments of antiquity, and the rather, as Girgenti lies 
 a good deal out of the beat of a Sicilian traveller, 
 and is not easily visited. The two temples which 
 we saw, 1 judge to be, from Brydone's account, those
 
 33 
 
 of Venus and Concord. The ruins may probably 
 have belonged to one of the larger ones of which he 
 speaks, for they were very extensive. The whole 
 of the southern Sicilian coast which we saw is ex- 
 ceedingly picturesque, consisting of one, two, or 
 three ranges of undercJiff, backed by craggy hills of 
 a considerable height. In many places, it is very 
 like the tract of ground in the'Isle of Wight which 
 is called the Undercliff, and it is all of the same 
 character, but generally a good deal broader, and 
 the rocky mountains behind it loftier. From Gir- 
 genti to this place we had, not a rapid, but a very 
 pleasant passage. We met the Canopus, Admiral 
 Boyle, from Messina, and lay to while our Captain 
 went on board. The Canopus had all her sails set, 
 and was a noble spectacle. We were not quite 
 half a mile off, and at that distance, a large second 
 rate in full sail, and tacking to meet another vessel, 
 and then lying to, is certainly one of the noblest 
 sights imaginable. The evenings in this climate are 
 delightful. I do not venture out in them much, for 
 the dew is heavy ; but the softness of the air, the 
 surprising brilliancy of the stars and planets glisten- 
 ing in every part of a cloudless sky, the gentle rip- 
 pling of the waters below, joined to the beauty of 
 the vessel we are in, whose yards, sails, and rigging 
 cast a faint shade to the lights of heaven, and nided 
 by a band of wind-instruments, produce an effect 
 the most soothing and delicious. We entered this 
 harbour about noon to-day, having first sailed along 
 tl|e little islands of Goza and a flattish rock, and of 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 Malta itself. ; I do not think this island appears to 
 much advantage as you sail along it. There are 
 few trees, and no very striking points, till the town 
 comes in sight. The entry into the harbour is very 
 fine, but it would (I think) be finer, if there were 
 more breadth. The town of La Valetta on a rock 
 or eminence is on the right, the forts of St. Elmo 
 and Ricasoli on the left. The fortifications of these 
 appear very strong. Many of the buildings of La 
 Valetta seem to be lofty and magnificent. The 
 houses are built of stone, whiter than that employed 
 in the Sicilian towns, but much inferior to the ma- 
 terials with which Cadiz is erected. Of the town 
 however, &c. &c. I shall be able to tell you more 
 hereafter, when we get out of quarantine ; for, alas ! 
 it is now settled that we must go thither ; I fear for 
 three weeks. We have hopes, however, of getting 
 a part of this remitted, and at all events may pro- 
 bably not find the Lazaretto a very uncomfortable 
 place. Be it what it may, after having enjoyed so 
 many advantages, and avoided so many perils or in- 
 conveniences, it would argue a very unhappy turn 
 of mind, to yield now to discontent or despondency. 
 I see from Lord Valentia's travels, that he was 
 obliged to make some stay in the Lazaretto, and he 
 describes it as a lofty stone building with large win- 
 dows. This sounds well. General Oakes is at 
 present in Goza. When he returns, or before, we 
 shall probably try if his interest can assist us. And 
 so adieu, for it is now late, and this must go to- 
 morrow morning early. I think I can now speak
 
 35 
 
 with some confidence of an improvement in my 
 health ; but whether I shall ever be qualified to pro- 
 secute my profession successfully, is still very pro- 
 blematical. This, however, and every other thing, 
 is in the hands of Him who will give what is truly 
 good ; and happy they who can cheerfully repose in 
 this confidence. 
 
 My affectionate remembrances ever attend all my 
 dear family and friends; they are much in my mind, 
 but to mention them particularly in each letter, 
 would be almost an idle ceremony. 
 
 Florian, Malta, Dec. 4, 1810. 
 
 My dear Father, 
 
 You will see by the date of my letter, that wo 
 are out of prison : 
 
 " Escaped the Stygian gloom, tho* long detain'd 
 In that obscure sojourn." 
 
 On Saturday arrived the pleasing intelligence, that 
 the Board of Health, taking all the circumstances 
 of our case into consideration, had determined to 
 remit the remainder of our quarantine, and allowed 
 us to be at large as early as we pleased on Sunday. 
 This intelligence was most politely communicated 
 to us by the General's Aide de Camp, sent on pur- 
 pose, who accompanied his welcome message with 
 an invitation to breakfast at the Palace on Sunday 
 
 morning, to my Uncle and myself, Mr. , 
 
 n a
 
 36 
 
 and a Mr. , who is an old acquaintance 
 
 and one of our party. It was accepted by all, but 
 I was afraid of the fatigue ; so while the party are at 
 breakfast, I may fill up the interval in my Journal. 
 I might have done this at the Lazaretto, for there 
 was time enough to be had there, whatever we 
 might want, but I did not like continuing my little 
 history till I could get rid of the gloomy associations 
 of that dark mansion. The entrance into the port 
 is very striking both for its beauty and originality. 
 Yaletta stands on a promontory washed by two in- 
 lets of the ocean, which divide it from two other 
 promontories/ I do not yet accurately know the 
 bearings of the place, but as you sail up to it, the 
 principal harbour is on the left of the town ; of 
 course in entering it you have the town on the 
 right. The entrance is so narrow, that it requires 
 some skill and good seamanship to get in without 
 running against either of the cliffs which guard the 
 opening. On the left as you enter, are Fort Rica- 
 soli, Fort St. Angelo, the dock-yard, and a con- 
 siderable town or suburb adjoining, called II Borgo, 
 or Bermula, together with a great variety of shipping 
 lying in what are called the English and French 
 harbours, as well as the water leading to the dock- 
 yard, which are three lateral inlets branching out of 
 the principal harbour. The mouth of the principal 
 harbour is guarded on the right by Fort St. Elmo, 
 and flanked through the whole length, which I 
 should guess to be between half a mile and three 
 quarters of a mile, by the high cliffs and fortifica-
 
 37 
 
 tiotis of Valetta, over the summits of which appear, 
 crowded curiously together, the towers and cupolas 
 and minarets, which adorn the various buildings in 
 the town. Under the cliffs, and nearly on a level 
 with the sea, are three successive crescents, which 
 have a pretty appearance, and are the places where 
 goods are landed, &c. with what had the appearance 
 of little shops and accommodations for merchandize. 
 The Apollo took her station at first in the lower 
 part of the harbour, having tacked in with great suc- 
 cess ; but afterwards, having been put in quarantine, 
 she moved up nearly to the top of the harbour, and 
 there we lay till Wednesday afternoon, when we 
 took our departure for the Lazaretto. The building 
 in which we were to be confined stands nearly at 
 the top of the harbour, which washes the other side 
 of Valetta. In our voyage thither, which was made 
 in the boats of the Apollo, we of course passed 
 down the whole length of the great harbour, round 
 the point which is a saliant angle of one of the bas- 
 tions of Fort St. Elmo, and up (nearly) the whole 
 length of the second, which is called the Quarantine 
 Harbour. Valetta is exceedingly beautiful on this 
 side. The buildings of the town are more distinctly 
 seen than on the other side, and beyond the build- 
 ings, a noble and extensive range of fortifications on 
 the land side stretch away to the distance of half a 
 mile. Indeed, few views can be more beautiful 
 than that which we had from the Lazaretto itself (it 
 is the only beautiful thing connected with it) ; a fine 
 sheet of water of various breadths, but never, 1
 
 38 
 
 think, less than a quarter of a mile across, washes 
 the base of the prison, beyond which are seen on 
 the left hand the buildings in Valetta, which are for 
 . the most part noble and picturesque, and opposite 
 and ranging away to the right, bastions, cavaliers, 
 and terraces, with the domes and towers of convents 
 and churches rising behind them. In the sight of 
 all this beauty, and with a setting sun to give effect 
 to it, we entered, not the town, nor the outworks, 
 nor the forts, but the gloomiest and ugliest of all 
 possible habitations, calling itself the Lazaretto. It 
 is an extensive stone building, resembling a jail. 
 The compartment allotted to us and our fellow suf- 
 ferers consisted of an internal square, in the middle 
 of which was a flight of from forty to fifty steps, 
 that carried us up to a narrow stone gallery run- 
 ning round the square ; on the north and south sides 
 of which were six large vaulted rooms or spacious 
 cells, three on each side, faced with stone, and 
 white-washed. On the two other sides of the gal- 
 lery were very long and lofty corridors. One of 
 these was devoted to the sick of the Apollo, who 
 were conveyed thither ; the other six rooms and 
 corridor were occupied by our quarantine party and 
 the servants. At first, every thing wore a very 
 gloomy, and in truth, rather an alarming appearance. 
 The three rooms on the south side of the square 
 were tolerably clean and airy, for they looked over 
 the water. The three on the opposite side were 
 very dark and dirty. One of these, by the unac- 
 countable taste of a gentleman who had offered us
 
 39 
 
 his services, was selected as a convenient lodging 
 for my Uncle and myself; and in this, (my cot for 
 the greater part of the night on the stones, my Un- 
 cle's on two trunks,) we lay awake during the Wed- 
 nesday night. The room really might have passed, 
 without the least impropriety, for the cell of con- 
 demned malefactors. It was entirely unfurnished, 
 the walls and floor dark with damp and cobwebs, 
 and unsightly scrawls of former unhappy residents. 
 A black folding door gave admission to those whose 
 calamity it was to enter it, and a window, twelve 
 jeet from the ground, and strongly barred without, 
 through which very little air, and certainly no sun- 
 beam ever passed, sufficiently explained that the 
 place of admission was the only place of exit. Here, 
 as 1 said, breathing a very impure air, and haunted 
 by musquitos and other vermin, we passed the first 
 night. However, through the goodness of God, 
 these distresses did not last long. My Uncle was 
 kind enough to apply for a better lodging for me in 
 one of the south rooms, which he obtained, and was 
 soon afterwards equally successful in a similar ap- 
 plication for himself. The difference really was 
 wonderful. In the first apartment, I think it most 
 probable my health would have suffered severely. 
 In the second it did not suffer at all. One of our 
 party being a Maltese, and others having friends in 
 Malta, the articles necessary for sitting, cooking, and 
 eating, with some few other little conveniences, were 
 soon procured. The table was well supplied, and 
 though my diet was of more difficult nuuiagement,
 
 good milk being an article very rarely got, I made 
 it out tolerably well, and notwithstanding the duress 
 we suffered, the Lazaretto was to me on the whole 
 more agreeable than the Apollo, as a residence ; 
 I do not say that our stay there was diversified 
 with as many new scenes. In this unlooked-for 
 residence we remained from Wednesday till the Sun- 
 day ae'nnight following. The prisoners consisted of 
 
 the passengers of the Apollo, and a Captain , 
 
 who' by ill-luck was touched by the 
 
 morning after our arrival, while he was paying a visit 
 
 with others to Major , and not having adroit- 
 
 ne$f or knowledge enough, to pull off" his coat and 
 leave it to perform quarantine, was obliged to undergo 
 that disagreeable ceremony himself. The number 
 of officers in our party converted the table, in a 
 good measure, into an officer's mess, which certain- 
 ly, after the ladies retired, was apt to be noisy ; but 
 the young men, though loud and vehement, were 
 exceedingly good-natured. I never received any 
 thing but civility from any, and from some a good 
 deal of it. In their noisy and licentious merriment, 
 I could not join, and I hope I need not say, would 
 not, if I had possessed strength for the purpose. 
 On the whole it went off very well. During our 
 stay at the Lazaretto two smokings took place : the 
 thing sounded formidable, but proved a meire formal 
 ceremony, from which I was wholly excused in con- 
 sideration of my pulmonary complaint. The rest 
 stood in the corridor, where some perfumes were 
 thrown on lighted straw, and more or less of the
 
 41 
 
 smoke of course spread through the room, which 
 was for five or ten minutes received by those who 
 stood in it. Our baggage also was examined, but 
 this proved an idler formality than the other. A 
 Guardiana, that is, one of the men appointed by the 
 Health Office to attend us, came and peeped into 
 such of the boxes as were large and easily opened ; 
 but for what conceivable purpose I know not, for 
 he left the things just as he found them, and indeed 
 did not examine any thing. The people belonging 
 to the place were very civil ; but the establishment 
 is not well conducted. Though it is difficult in 
 such a situation to supply many accommodations, 
 the rooms certainly should have been clean and dry ; 
 whereas some of them were very dirty, and all the 
 north rooms and corridor so damp, that for some 
 time we all thought the danger of acquiring diseases 
 in the Lazaretto much greater than that of commu- 
 nicating them to the town. Most of the servants 
 were ill, but by management their disorders were 
 prevented from becoming serious. Well, after the 
 breakfast at the General's was over, my Uncle came, 
 attended by the General's Aide de Camp, with his 
 barge, a boat for luggage, and a whole regiment of 
 servants. By the aid of these last, all our valuables 
 were hoisted down, and across the water we went 
 to Florian. Florian is the name given to the ex- 
 tensive outworks, which I have described before as 
 seen from the Lazaretto. The General's carriage 
 and carts met us at the landing place, and so we 
 reached our present mansion, which is termed, per
 
 42 
 
 Emphasin, Florian. It is a place difficult to de- 
 scribe, but more difficult to imagine correctly by the 
 aid of any description. As to its exterior, as seen 
 from a small distance, conceive a range of stupen- 
 dous fortifications of every description, with vast 
 fosses, gates, glacis, &c. and in the midst of these, 
 an elegant small pavilion of white stone, its balconies 
 painted green, the very contrast of every thing round 
 it, like Hebe in the arms of Hercules. Then for a 
 nearer view, suppose a number of the openings 
 which the lines and angles of the fortifications af- 
 ford, .planted with various sorts of flowers and 
 shrubs, which in England are cultivated in a hot- 
 house, and these still further subdivided into small 
 compartments, by walls running from the different 
 parts of the house, and either connecting it with 
 outhouses and offices near, or built for the express 
 purpose of inclosing gardens. Of these gardens 
 there are eight or ten at least, (for I do not well 
 know them yet,) some small, some larger, all full of 
 orange and lemon trees and geraniums ; some of the 
 latter now in flower. The interior of the house 
 consists of four principal apartments ; behind these 
 are four other rooms on a smaller scale, two of 
 which are usually the General's bed chamber and 
 dressing room, and now perform the , same offices 
 for my Uncle, and the two others are a lobby and 
 servant's hall. The kitchen and other offices, which 
 are spacious, are at some distance, at the bottom of 
 one of the smaller gardens. I have placed my cot 
 in the winter parlour, which, if it does not prove
 
 43 
 
 too cold, will make a delightful apartment. So from 
 this imperfect sketch you will see how great reason 
 we have to be thankful for our accommodations, 
 and for how much kindness to feel obliged to the 
 General. He sends us a supply of cow's milk and 
 fresh butter every morning, which are great luxuries 
 here, to be seen, I believe, at no tables but his and 
 the Commissioner's. He has furnished my Uncle 
 with a horse, and offered me one, but I declined, 
 not being yet equal to such exercise. The palace 
 is a noble building. It stands in the centre of Va- 
 letta, with a parade before it, and a considerable 
 opening on one side, in which a handsome library 
 has lately been erected. The lower parts of the 
 building are, I believe, appropriated to the servants, 
 or rooms of business; for you ascend a flight of se- 
 venty steps to get up to the principal range of 
 apartments, which however are so managed that the 
 fatigue is less than could be imagined. The suite 
 of rooms which I have seen, are a handsome saloon, 
 two smaller, but very nice and comfortable parlours, 
 or sitting rooms, as they happened to be used, a 
 very fine drawing room about fifty feet long (as I 
 guess,) and very lofty, but not of a breadth propor- 
 tionate. It is however a very fine room and richly 
 furnished, the walls covered with pictures, among 
 which is a noble portrait of La Valetto. To these 
 are to be added a dining room not quite so long or 
 so high as the drawing room, but considerably 
 broader, and well proportioned. /Hie palace is nearly 
 square. The drawing room which I have mentioned
 
 44 
 
 is at one of the front angles of the house ; between 
 that and the dining room lie the three other rooms 
 before mentioned, and the dining room may perhaps 
 be about the centre. I understand the ball room is 
 a very fine one, and that there are other suites of 
 apartments, as indeed the size of the building be- 
 speaks. The weather is beginning to assume a 
 wintry character : the three last days having resem- 
 bled rough days towards the end of October, with a 
 great deal of wind and violent shoots of rain and hail. 
 Previous to that time nothing could be more de- 
 licious than the climate, resembling the finest wea- 
 ther in September. Some days have been very hot. 
 On the 29th of November, while we were in the 
 Lazaretto, the thermometer, at half past twelve at 
 noon, in the shade where the sun had not been at 
 all, or certainly not for some hours, stood at sixty- 
 eight ; in the sun it stood at ninety, where there 
 was no reflected heat ; and in a place where there 
 was reflected heat, it stood, at nearly the same hour, 
 at one hundred and three ; there was little or no 
 wind, what there was, at north-north-west. The 
 weather is not now cold, but we have a fire, which, 
 however, is only a few bits of wood burning on a 
 stone hearth, and this we owe to the happy circum- 
 stance that the room we now sit in was built by 
 General Villettes, for in none of the others, which 
 were built by a Spanish Ambassador, is a fire place 
 to be found.
 
 45 
 
 On board the Alceste, off Cape Passaro, 
 
 March 13, 1811. 
 My clear Father, 
 
 Once more upon the waters, and so recommences 
 my Journal. Once more upon the waters ; but 
 how changed since I last quitted them. My health 
 and spirits are greatly recruited, and though not yet 
 a Hercules, I have enough of both, to do and enjoy 
 whatever is at present desirable, thanks be to Him, 
 who is the Author of all good. On Monday the 
 
 1 1th at noon, my Uncle and Mr. went in the 
 
 General's barge to the packet, which was lying 
 about two miles out of the harbour. They were 
 hardly off, when Captain Maxwell began to attempt 
 getting out. It was no easy matter, for there was a 
 heavy sea, and the wind, though not strong, blew 
 right in ; so there was nothing for it but warping. 
 They worked all hands till five, when the ship was 
 got as far as the point of Ricasoli, though the an- 
 chors were still out, and there was some doubt whe- 
 ther it would be possible to get clear. At this time 
 after taking an affectionate leave of the General, 
 whose kindness no language could paint too strongly, 
 I went off, and shortly arrived on board ; where I 
 was received with much politeness by Captain M. 
 I found, on going down, a very nice cabin and state 
 room, like the Apollo's: we did, as others do, 
 dined, chatted, walked upon deck, and went to bed. 
 
 March 14. By dint of sailing and working, we 
 are now actually alongside Cape Puerco, with a
 
 46 
 
 light breeze, not directly against us, and have good 
 hopes of getting to Messina before the end of the 
 month. Meanwhile we pass our time agreeably 
 enough. I had a good view of the coast of Sicily, 
 from near Girgenti, to Cape Passaro. It is finely 
 wooded, rich and romantic ; grander, I think, than 
 that above Girgenti, but, perhaps, less picturesque. 
 Cape Passaro is a very low point, stretching out a 
 good way to the east, with a large square tower near 
 its extremity. The character of the shore changes 
 after 'doubling this cape, the fine bay between that 
 and Cape Puerco being ramparted with high craggy 
 hills, yet rather beautiful than sublime, and neither 
 in an extreme degree. We are not very near them 
 at present ; but there appears to be a narrow line of 
 flat country lying at the feet of the mountains along 
 the sea, on which one town, probably Noto, is very 
 plainly discernible. Mount Etna presented a sin- 
 gular appearance this morning. The day being- 
 hazy, no land was visible between us and it, so it 
 appeared to float in the clouds, suspended over the 
 ocean. It is covered with snow down to the visible 
 base, with large black masses appearing in parts, and 
 at the summit a deep dark opening. Captain M. 
 thought he saw smoke, I could not discern it, but 
 believe I saw the cone of ashes which is thrown up 
 in the centre. By the way, for fear I should have 
 omitted to mention it before, let me inform you that 
 Mount Etna is frequently and very distinctly seen 
 from Malta, about one hundred and twenty miles. 
 I have seen it from that island repeatedly, and once
 
 47 
 
 with such clearness, that if there had been much 
 smoke, I think I must have perceived it. It is only 
 visible when there is a northely wind, and a clear 
 horizon. 
 
 I have never told you, I believe, any thing about 
 the Carnival at Malta, and as my stock of intelli- 
 gence is running low, it will serve for an episode 
 here. It is the strangest scene imaginable. The 
 people are ordinarily sober and rational enough ; 
 but for the three days preceeding Lent, no language 
 can describe their crazi ness. Dressed in all sorts of 
 antic fashions, and all masked, they ride, drive, and 
 walk about the streets, laughing, hooting, prattling, 
 and pelting one another with sweetmeats. They 
 support no characters, exhibit no wit, commit no 
 outrages, being strictly obedient to the laws of 
 masquerade, which opinion has established, and be- 
 have with perfect decorum towards all who are un- 
 masked ; but for harmless extravagance the scene is 
 unmatched. I am told the carnival is better worth 
 seeing at Malta than in most other places ; I cannot 
 say it is worth much, even there. The dances, 
 which young men, gaily drest, perform in the 
 streets, are lively and amusing. These are princi- 
 pally to be seen on the fourth day before Lent. 
 The masks begin parading about the town towards 
 one o'clock, and go on till dark ; then adjourn to 
 the theatre, where the same scene of merriment and 
 nonsense is continued. I did not go there, being as- 
 sured it was all alike, and the heat abominable. 
 One night, I ventured to an Italian comedy. At
 
 48 
 
 first, I could make nothing of it, such is my pro- 
 ficiency ; however, by degrees, I caught the accent 
 better, and could follow the tale with some pleasure. 
 The play was one of Goldoni's, and very well acted. 
 The theatre is but a poor one, and very dingy : we 
 were in the General's box, but even that is not 
 spacious. I fear there are no theatres open at Mes- 
 sina, else I should certainly play the truant by 
 going there frequently ; for by reading the play 
 beforehand, I am persuaded the language might be 
 learnt in great perfectness, with surprising rapidity. 
 I fear I shall find it difficult to make much progress 
 even at Messina, for I am so loaded with letters to 
 the English there, that it will be very difficult to 
 find opportunities for talking any thing but our 
 good homely tongue, which with all its defects I 
 love better, probably because I understand it better, 
 than any other. Yet the richness, beauty, and 
 flexibility of the Italian are really surprizing. 
 
 Two o'clock. We are really abreast of Syracuse, 
 and have a very good view of it. The town is not 
 fine, but the position very remarkable. It lies in 
 the centre, between Cape Puerco, and Cape Stag- 
 nove, the shore retiring in the middle, and running 
 on either side to these two points, which form, as 
 it were, arms to the city. A very fine interior bay 
 opens close to the town, which stands on, the north 
 side of it. There appears to be some flat ground 
 behind it, and at a moderate (distance rise hills, 
 which completely embrace it, of no extraordinary 
 height, yet of some elevation, and handsomely va-
 
 49 
 
 ried. The eye following the line of coast to the 
 north-west, by degrees loses it, and the island seems 
 to terminate ; but at some distance hanging* over 
 the ocean, and rising to a stupendous height, ap- 
 pears the enormous Mon-Gibello clothed in snow 
 as before described. The air is now calm, and the 
 weather mild, several vessels at a distance behind 
 are plainly seen with all their sails set : the whole 
 effept is very pleasing, and with a little more sun- 
 shine would be exceedingly brilliant. 1 have great 
 enjoyment of the scene, yet wonder that I have not 
 much greater. Thus I have always found it. 
 
 Friday, 12 o'clock. 
 
 V * 
 
 Our advance has not been great since yesterday. 
 This morning at eight, we were about five miles 
 from shore, due east of Mount Etna, which of 
 course was the principal object. The mountain is 
 indeed a noble sight, yet not by any means of the 
 same apparent height when seen close, as at a 
 distance. This, I believe, is the case with all very 
 elevated points. It rises from an enormous base, 
 and though not a perfect cone, does not vary from 
 that figure very greatly. Several lesser mountains 
 are visible on its sides, and a considerable number 
 of points, which have probably been the craters of 
 different eruptions. At the summit are two peaks, 
 not verv distant from one another, from both of 
 
 V 
 
 which I could discern smoke issuing, but not in 
 very large quantities. I would not wish any thing 
 so tremendous as an eruption, but it must be the 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 finest sight in nature. The coast between Syracuse 
 and Etna does not appear to be striking. I saw it, 
 however, imperfectly. From Etna to Messina it is 
 very bold, lofty, and ragged not unlike part of the 
 coast of Portugal, but less magnificent, I think, than 
 that of Gallicia. The Calabrian mountains are 
 visible on the opposite side of the Faro ; these are 
 high, but not so picturesque as the Sicilian hills. 
 The wind is contrary, and I have no expectation of 
 reaching Messina to-night. 
 
 Saturday, four p. m. 
 
 In spite of expectations, at Messina I am. The 
 wind came aft soon after writing the above, and 
 continued tolerably fair till night. We anchored in 
 the harbour of Messina about half past eight p. m. ;, 
 and an awkward business it was, for the night was 
 dark, and the place by no means a pleasant one to 
 work into at that hour ; but the channel of the Faro 
 is so deep that it is difficult to anchor there in safety. 
 We were nearly aboard a transport, and actually 
 carried away one of her booms ; but by dint of ac- 
 tivity and good seamanship escaped further mischief. 
 The Captain did not like it, and I stood upon deck 
 in expectation of our being ashore, which was very 
 probable ; for the evening was so dark, that with all 
 the diligence that could be used we anchored too 
 far in, and were obliged to haul off during the night. 
 The approach to Messina is most noble. A back 
 ground of dark, lofty, and rugged mountains, runs 
 along the Sicilian coast, very near to the sea ; and
 
 the shades of evening gave them a deeper hue. In 
 front are smaller hills and knolls tossed about in 
 every shape of variety and beauty ; some bright with 
 verdure, and some clothed with wood, some rough 
 and craggy. Among these, in the most romantic 
 situations, enbosomed in surrounding cliffs, or glit- 
 tering on their summits, are planted towns and 
 convents. The whole effect is striking in the high- 
 est degree. The Calabrian shore is very fine, but 
 less so than the Sicilian, and I could not turn my 
 eyes from the fascinating scenery on the left. The 
 Faro resembles a little the Straits of Gibraltar. Being 
 on a smaller scale, it is less grand, but I think, in 
 parts, even more beautiful. Ascending the deck 
 this morning, I saw Messina. The situation of the 
 town is very peculiar and very handsome. It stands 
 on the edge of the sea, in the form of a crescent, 
 circled with mountains which rise to a great height 
 directly behind it, leaving only room for the houses ; 
 and where the houses are not, for knolls and ridges 
 clothed with wood and verdure. The opposite 
 shore seems so near that you might shoet an arrow 
 upon it. About seven miles to the north is the 
 Faro tower, standing on an arm of the coast, which 
 runs out like an extensive pier breasting the channel. 
 I shall endeavour to visit this and some neighbouring 
 points, before I leave the place, for it is a land of 
 enchantment. The weather being rainy, Captain M. 
 and I did not leave the ship till noon, when we 
 went on shore together and paid a visit to Sir John 
 Stuart, to whom I delivered four letters of intro- 
 
 E*
 
 52 
 
 duction. He received us very politely, and talked 
 freely and very agreeably for above half an hour ; 
 when we made our bows, having received and ac- 
 cepted an invitation to dinner at half past five, for 
 which I must soon prepare myself. We paid two 
 other visits, and found our way to the London Ho- 
 tel, where I have established myself. The house 
 had been recommended to me for cleanliness, and 
 is reputed the best in the place. It contains four 
 pigeon-holes, called bed-rooms, and one large com- 
 mon room. I shall sleep here to-night at least, and 
 perhaps as long as I stay here. I could have a room 
 
 (I believe) at Captain -'s, but whether I shall 
 
 accept it or not, may depend on his empressement. 
 This is foolish enough, but I have always great 
 difficulty in refusing a strong solicitation to any 
 thing ; of course I do not include the field of mo- 
 rals, and I mean to grow wiser about other things. 
 
 17th,' ten p.m. 
 
 I dined at Sir John Stuart's both yesterday and 
 to-day ; the parties large, the rooms handsome, the 
 entertainment noble. Ladies, to be sure, are rather 
 scarce, as at Malta, about two to two-and-twenty 
 of the other sex seems to be the allowance. I took 
 a drive to-day along the Marina for rather more 
 than four miles, towards the Faro tower. The 
 scenery is indeed most beautiful. On the left, little 
 hills tumbled one upon another in endless variety, 
 covered with vineyards below, and clothed on their 
 summits with olive trees and the Indian fig, which
 
 53 
 
 grows wild here as in Malta, and in greater abun- 
 dance. It is a species of gigantic aloe (as I take it), 
 having no resemblance at all to the fig-tree. On 
 the right is the sea, and beyond it the mountains of 
 Calabria stretching away to a considerable distance, 
 and of a great height. 'From the point at which I 
 arrived, there was an excellent view of Scylla, which 
 I examined with my glass, and saw very distinctly 
 the horrid phantom with her dogs howling about 
 her. To ordinary eyes nothing is visible but a very 
 bold and lofty rock standing out from the shore, on 
 the summit of which is a castle. It is close to the 
 Calabrian shore, from which it is divided by a nar- 
 row arm of the sea, as my Calessiore informed me, 
 for it is not visible ; (N. B. it is only avast fissure), 
 and being quite commanded by all the neighbouring 
 mountains, I cannot imagine how we managed to 
 hold it so long. Having heard of Scylla, you will 
 of course inquire for her old neighbour Charybdis ; 
 but of that lady I can give no certain account. 
 Some say she lives at the Faro tower ; others place 
 
 her post off the lighthouse in this bay ; but 
 
 tells me the most probable opinion is, that this 
 frightful whirlpool has been buried by the enlarge- 
 ment of the neighbouring shore. I like this theory 
 the best, for it saves a world of trouble.
 
 St. Agatha, April 4, 1811. 
 
 My dear Father, 
 
 On the second day after my arrival at Messina, 
 Mr. Burgman, the Commissary General for the 
 Forces in the Mediterranean, to whom I had 
 brought a letter from Mr. . , called on me, 
 and in a most friendly manner asked me to accept 
 an apartment in his house, and become one of his 
 family during my stay in Messina. I expected a 
 similar offer from Captain i . , but this coming 
 first, and being so exceedingly obliging, I did riot 
 hesitate to accept it. I lived a fortnight with Mr. 
 B., receiving from him daily fresh evidences of his 
 kindness and friendship (if I may dignify so short 
 an acquaintance by that honourable title). I really 
 cannot express how much I am indebted to him. 
 His rank and situation as Commissary General 
 would alone ensure him respect, but his character 
 and conduct have purchased for him the regard and 
 esteem of all the army in Sicily. In his house I 
 enjoyed every accommodation and advantage pos- 
 sible, and in order to complete his kind offices, he 
 has furnished me with letters of recommendation all 
 over Sicily ; and when we parted, begged me on my 
 return to Messina to ride straight up to his door, 
 and take possession again of my old apartment. Of 
 the situation and scenery of Messina I told you 
 
 something in my last. Mr. B carried me one 
 
 day to the Faro tower, from whence I had a very
 
 55 
 
 near view of the opposite coast. The Faro tower 
 is a very singular point at the end of a promontory 
 of low land which runs out across the strait. The 
 distance from shore to shore is rather more than 
 two miles ; and I say this with some confidence, 
 because an intelligent engineer officer assured me 
 he had measured it by throwing shot across, and 
 then trying how far the same pieces of ordnance, 
 with an equal charge of powder and equal elevation, 
 would carry by land. The French fire across, but 
 not so as to do much mischief, for point-blank the 
 shot will not reach ; and thrown as a bomb it is 
 evident they can only damage the spot where they 
 fall. They also fire at our ships as they pass, and 
 now and then hit them. The nearest point to th 
 Faro on the Calabrian coast is Torre di Cavallo. 
 Scylla is two miles above it. There are two lakes, 
 or rather largish sheets of water, on the low land 
 near the Faro ; and we are at present endeavouring 
 to cut a canal which, by their aid, may enable all 
 our gun-boats, and perhaps larger vessels, to pass 
 from the Northern Sea into the channel of Messina 
 without going round the Faro. All the country 
 from Messina to the Faro is lined with forts, and 
 now rendered so strong that a descent would be a 
 very desperate business. Murat's camp stretched 
 along the opposite coast, and was so plainly visible, 
 that he himself was very frequently seen through a 
 glass, parading about, (for he is a good deal of a 
 Gascon), and pointing in different directions. He 
 had last summer twenty-eight thousand men en-
 
 56 
 
 camped along the coast between Scylla and Rhegio ; 
 but the shore is now silent, that rung so late with 
 arms. I could distinctly see the different spots 
 where his army lay, and where the contests between 
 the gun-boats took place. 
 
 Hie Dolopum manus; hie saevus tendebat Achilles; 
 Classibus hie locus; hie acies certare solebant. 
 
 It is some time since you have ceased to read Vir- 
 gil, but I dare say you recollect the description of 
 the Trojans going out to view the seat of the Gre- 
 cian host, when they retired to Tenedos. I took a 
 variety of rides in the neighbourhood of Messina, 
 and might continue so to do for months, without 
 exhausting its stores of novelty. The country is 
 beautiful, and the rides perilous, in a very high de- 
 gree ; but one learns to disregard the latter long be- 
 fore the former ceases to please. There is not much 
 to be seen in the town of Messina. The Madre 
 Chiesa is a large old building, the west front of 
 which is carved with great labour and considerable 
 skill. It is certainly beautiful, but in a very gro- 
 tesque style of beauty. The interior has an ancient, 
 and not very inviting aspect; but the building is 
 supported by a range of pillars which are believed 
 to be, and have the appearance of being antique. 
 There is another church, I/Annunziata, which is 
 handsome, but much inferior to St. John's at Malta. 
 I went to see also a small church ; the name, I 
 think, is St. Rosorio ; it is very pretty, the pave- 
 ment, pillars, and all the walls being wrought in a
 
 57 
 
 sort of Mosaic with infinite labour, which has a 
 picturesque and pleasing effect. The streets of 
 Messina are not handsome, but there are a good 
 many of them: the principal one is the Strada del 
 Corso ; the houses good, but far inferior to those 
 in Valetta, which, though smaller, are much more 
 regular and better built. The Marina must have 
 
 o 
 
 been very magnificent before the earthquake. It 
 stretched for above a mile along the harbour and 
 port of Messina, forming a fine crescent of regular 
 and handsome buildings, which for situation cer- 
 tainly might have vied with any thing in Europe ; 
 but the terrible earthquake of 1783, which laid the 
 city in ruins, seems to have overpowered also the 
 courage and spirits of the Messinese, for the Marina 
 still presents to the eye only heaps of rubbish ; 
 indeed there remains hardly enough to testify it* 
 former grandeur. Since our arrival in the country, 
 there has been a plan for re-building it, but the pro- 
 gress has hitherto been slow. The harbour of Mes- 
 sina is most beautiful and most singular. The tra- 
 dition is, that Ceres, in kindness to the inhabitants 
 of this city, cast her sickle into the sea. You will 
 form a pretty correct idea from this fable, of the na- 
 ture of the harbour, which is a bason nearly cir- 
 cular, and about three fourths of a mile in diameter, 
 formed by an arm of low land that runs out into 
 the sea in the shape of a sickle. On the furthest 
 point of this stands the Lanterna, which ill deserves 
 its name ; for it gives no light at all, or next to 
 none. We have here a small arsenal for gun-boats,
 
 58 
 
 and a fine rope-walk. I went all over these ; they 
 are yet in their infancy, but promise to be very use- 
 ful establishments. Messina is surrounded with 
 convents. I cannot tell you the number, but it 
 exceeds all credibility. One would think that peo- 
 ple came into the world only to shut themselves up. 
 At present these vast buildings are very thinly peo- 
 pled, and many of them are turned into barracks 
 for our troops. I went over one of the Benedictine 
 order. It is large, and contains, as they all do, 
 cloisters, a library, a refectory, long corridors, and 
 cells on each side, with a large chapel attached to 
 the east end. This order is very rich, and the pro- 
 fessed all the sons of nobility. The monk who was 
 so good to shew me over the building is the son of 
 a Marquis. This convent has a very iine building 
 at St. Placido, about ten miles off, built on a rock 
 near the sea ; but the Abbot told me the place was 
 dangerous from the Corsairs, so they removed to 
 this Ospizio ; for large as it is, they do not dignify 
 it with the tide of monastery. The situation of 
 many of these buildings, near Messina, is highly 
 picturesque. To come to my acquaintance : Cap- 
 tain Hill called on me soon after Mr. Burgman 
 was gone, and though I could not accept a lodging 
 from him, I have received as much kindness, as 
 could well be crowded into ten days. From Sir 
 John Stuart I received a great deal of civility and 
 polite attention during his stay ; for he left Messina, 
 for Malta, a week after my arrival. I will close 
 my account of Messina, with saying that I passed
 
 a. fortnight there very pleasantly, and set off on my 
 journey to Palermo, on Tuesday, the 2d of April. 
 This is written at Santo Stephano, on Friday night, 
 just before going to bed, about one hundred miles 
 from Messina, and about seventy from Palermo : 
 safe, and well, and ready to renew my progress to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Cefalu, April 7. 
 
 Here I am actually twenty-four miles further ad- 
 vanced than yesterday, after being near ten hours 
 on the road but I must not anticipate. On Tues- 
 day, April 2d, at 10 a. m. (the date of such an 
 event ought to be accurately recorded) I set out 
 from Messina, for Palermo. Mr. Burgman had 
 been so good to provide me with proper mules and 
 a latiga for travelling, and my suite consisted of one 
 mule for riding, two carrying the latiga, and two 
 for luggage. Three men and a boy attended this 
 equipage, besides my own servant. A young mer- 
 chant of the name of H. being bound for Palermo 
 on the same day, we agreed to join company. Mr. 
 H. has a servant, so our regular company is eight, 
 but accidents have sometimes swelled it to ten or 
 eleven. Indeed, some traveller or other has gene- 
 rally joined us (probably for safety) ; so we are too 
 strong to fear ordinary assailant*.
 
 60 
 
 Vyn'rv) ho l^brtK ;^I}'tf*H?!Wi'f 'f'fs-i :v.^'!' ; JrfaVriJV ' 
 
 Palermo, April 8. 
 
 Here 1 am safely arrived, and without any se- 
 rious fatigue, or other unpleasant circumstance, 
 than the having been obliged (sorely against my 
 wish) to travel all yesterday, which was Sunday; 
 but the tardiness of my companion's horse made it 
 impossible for me to get through the journey, as I 
 intended, in five days; and after consideration, it 
 seemed to be better to proceed than to lie up a day 
 at Cefalu, at a serious additional expense, and 
 much inconvenience, as well as the hazard of dis- 
 pleasing my companion. I have said that Mr. H. 
 and I set out from Messina, on April 2d. I car- 
 ried a latiga with me, partly to provide against rain, 
 partly to* give me the opportunity of changing -my 
 mode of conveyance, and relieving myself from the 
 fatigue of riding, at pleasure. A latiga is a species 
 of carriage, that would be a good deal stared at in 
 England. Conceive a vis-a-vis (with room only for 
 one person before, and one behind) with three shut- 
 ters instead of windows, on each side, and one in 
 front, swung like a sedan chair upon two stout 
 poles ; and two mules, one in front, and one aft, 
 performing the office of chairman. Let it be ima- 
 gined reasonably shabby, and I do not think the 
 idea you will form of this vehicle will be incorrect. 
 The man who attends this machine carries a long 
 pole, with a bluntish point at one end, and a full 
 inch in diameter ; thickish therefore, and stiff: and 
 the method of urging the mules, who carry the la-
 
 61 
 
 tiga, forward, is partly by incessant cries of exhor- 
 tation, and, when these fail, by chucking the fore 
 mule smartly under the chin with the point of the 
 pole. When the baggage mules flag, the other end 
 of the pole is laid about their flanks and hocks, with 
 some severity. Having described my carriage, it is 
 proper to mention myself, that the whole picture 
 may be before your eyes. An English officer being 
 an object of great consideration in this island, civi- 
 lians who travel generally equip themselves in regi- 
 mentals. 1 did not think it necessary to go to the 
 expense of a complete suit, but I purchased a new 
 great coat, made en militaire, added a feather and 
 gold band to my hat, tied a black cravat round my 
 neck, and swung a sabre, which Captain H. lent 
 me, at my side. These altogether produced so 
 good an effect, that the nglish soldiers presented 
 anus, and the Sicilians bowed and were civil, wher- 
 ever I passed. Thus equipped, we parted for Me- 
 lazzo, where we proposed passing the first night. 
 Mr. Burgman lent me a horse to ride thus far, 
 twenty-five miles ; and 1 performed this day's jour- 
 ney, on horseback, without much fatigue. In cross- 
 ing the plain of Melazzo, an accident happened, 
 which occasioned me some uneasiness. One of 
 my muleteers got into a quarrel with a muleteer 
 that was on the road ; words were quickly followed 
 by knives, (for all these fellows carry a sort of sti- 
 letto,) and though they were parted, the stranger 
 muleteer said that he should meet with my mule- 
 teer at Melazzo, that night, and would do for him.
 
 This he said with a cool deliberation, that showed 
 very plainly he meant to keep his word. I made 
 Vincentio tell the man, that if ke was injured, I 
 would see him righted, but if he attempted to kill 
 the other man, I would certainly have him pu- 
 nished. He was not at all uncivil, but gave me to 
 understand, that if justice was done him, he should 
 be satisfied ; if not, he should take it. I found the 
 man was in the employment of the, commissariat, 
 and determined to talk with Mr. P. (to whom Mr. 
 Burgman had provided me with a letter) at Melazzo. 
 I did so, and he promised to see that no mischief 
 followed, and he said he had no doubt of being able 
 to prevent it. He told me, however, that the 
 stranger muleteer was a man well known, who went 
 by the name of Bibby Forker, because he had killed 
 one person, and should have been hanged, but 
 escaped ; and he mentioned various instances of the 
 coolness with which these men revenge on one an- 
 other the injuries they sustain ; and this, at anjf 
 distance of time. The fact is, the laws neither re- 
 dress their wrongs, nor punish their crimes. If a 
 man says, " Well, I shall go away for a few 
 months," he means, I am going to kill my enemy, 
 and must, therefore, hide myself for a short time : 
 and they will speak of these horrid resolutions with- 
 out fear or shame. But they do not like meddling 
 with the English, for we are apt to take pains to get 
 them hanged. Though, from what is said in the 
 last page, you will be led to form a bad opinion of 
 the Sicilians, their likeness ought not to be taken
 
 63 
 
 from this single feature. The truth is, (I believe) 
 that they are mere children endued with strength 
 and recollection: like children, they are grateful 
 and good-natured when kindly treated ; but if they 
 think themselves injured, their passions are terrible. 
 At Melazzo we arrived safely, and Mr. Burgman 
 had provided me with a comfortable lodging there, 
 at the house of Mr. P. Melazzo is very peculiarly 
 situated. The promontory on which it stands, is a 
 hi 11 of some height, (though lower than the neighbour- 
 ing mountains) that runs out due north, or therea- 
 bouts, into the sea, being connected with the rest of 
 the island by a neck of low land. The promontory 
 presents a very striking appearance, a little like Gi- 
 braltar, though much lower and less magnificent. I 
 could not ascend the castle, which I regretted, but 
 dared not add to the fatigue of the journey. We 
 were late in setting out from Melazzo, my com- 
 panion being lazy that morning; and soon after, 
 my own folly had nearly cost me dear ; for passing 
 close along the sea-side, and the mules proceeding 
 heavily, I spied some fishermen hauling in a large 
 drag-net, and as I knew I could move much faster 
 than the baggage, I had the impnidence to quit my 
 party, and go to the sea to observe what was caught. 
 The net was longer than I expected, and took some 
 time to get in. Meanwhile, I had been left at a 
 distance ; but not doubting to overtake the latiga, 
 I pushed after it, and my mule cantered briskly. 
 I inquired if a latiga had passed, and was told, Yes; 
 but after a while I inquired again, and was told, No.
 
 64 
 
 This was serious ; I had missed my way, and got 
 nearly up to Pozzo di Gotto. At last, I found 
 where I had diverged, and pressed forward to reco- 
 ver my lost ground ; but now my mule refused to 
 proceed. I spurred, he kicked ; I patted and 
 coaxed him, he moved a few steps, and stopped 
 again ; I dismounted, and lugged him on ; but 1 
 had now got down again to the beach, which was 
 sandy and fatiguing. I remounted, the mule was 
 motionless; I got a countryman to hallow and beat 
 him; he went a little way, and again stopped. I 
 tried every expedient^ but the dull obstinacy of the 
 beast foiled my utmost ingenuity, and I had almost 
 given the thing up in despair, when it occurred to 
 try what my sabre would do. I drew it, and with 
 the flat side beat the mule on his shoulders. Whe- 
 ther the steel had a charm in it, or the brute thought 
 I should slay him, I know not, but he now yielded, 
 and with a slow sullen motion proceeded, "and at 
 last, to my great joy, I reached my companions. 
 " O qui complexus, & gaudia quanta fuerunt !" not 
 that the muleteers actually threw their arms about 
 me, but we were all happy to meet, for they thought 
 me lost. We were still in -time (I believe) to have 
 reached Georisa Nova, which w r as the place at 
 which we intended to- sleep; but after travelling 
 some miles along the sea shore, it became necessary 
 to ascend a mountain, on the top of which stand 
 the ruins of the ancient Tyndaris. Here the road 
 became exceedingly rude and difficult : and it now 
 appeared that Mr. H/s Arabian liked sand better
 
 65 
 
 than stones. His feet were so tender, that he moved 
 forward, in a mincing step, like a fine lady ; and 
 my rough sulky mules got over the ground infinitely 
 better than this gallant courser. I halted, and ad- 
 vanced, and halted again. Still the Arabian fell 
 into the rear, and much time was lost in waiting 
 till he could join us. At length, we found our- 
 selves again on the sea side, near the foot of another 
 mountain, nine miles from Georisa ; and the day 
 was now beginning to close. On the left, about a 
 mile from the road, stood a town called Patti, most 
 beautifully situated on the summit of one hill, at 
 the base of another. I deliberated a while, and 
 wished much to proceed ; but the sun was sinking, 
 the mountain before us was lofty, and travelling 
 by night is no joke in Sicily. I resolved, therefore, 
 to turn out of the road, and march gallantly up to 
 Patti, trusting to the hospitality of the inhabitants 
 for providing us a lodging. Seeing some monks on 
 the road, I pushed forward, and made them un- 
 derstand that we were English travellers, unable to 
 reach Georisa, and desirous of finding some accom- 
 modation in that quarter. They replied with great 
 courtesy, and assured me that we should be lodged 
 in a convent at the top of N the town. Thither* 
 therefore, we advanced, and found a convent of 
 Capuchins, who received us very willingly, and 
 supplied us with a couple of empty cells for the 
 night. We got a late dinner in the refectory, (Mr. 
 Burginan having provided me with a cold turkey, 
 and three bottles of Madeira) and talked to the poor 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 monks till bed-time. The ruins of Tyndaris stand 
 on the summit of a lofty mountain, overhanging the 
 sea, about a quarter of a mile on the right hand of 
 the road. My companion having dropped a long 
 way astern, I stopped the mules at a convenient 
 place, and rode up to this summit ; but the way 
 was difficult, I was unwilling to lose time, and hav- 
 ing looked at some remains of the ancient walls, 
 which are not very curious, and seeing nothing else 
 that appeared peculiarly worthy of observation, I 
 returned. Tyndaris was once a large and flourish- 
 ing city ; it afterwards fell into decay, but the ruins 
 were considerable, till an earthquake, not many 
 centuries ago, tossed nearly the whole of them into 
 the sea. There are said to be some remains of an 
 old amphitheatre, but I did not discover it. There 
 is a convent now standing on part of the site of the 
 ancient city, and most magnificently bold the si- 
 tuation certainly is. I understand that many an- 
 cient coins have been dug up here, but I had neither 
 leisure nor inclination to go coin-hunting. From 
 Patti we took our departure early, and passed over 
 a long, steep, and rocky mountain, to Georisa Nova. 
 The experience of this road which was sufficiently 
 difficult by day, made us rejoice that we had not 
 attempted to push further the preceding evening. 
 After leaving Georisa Nova, we passed through the 
 Grotto della Pietra Perciata, a rocky defile close to 
 the sea, remarkable for its gloomy grandeur. In 
 one part, the rock is pierced through. It was, I 
 understand, at this place that robbers used formerly
 
 67 
 
 to fire on passengers from the clefts in the rocks : 
 the scenery, therefore, is accompanied with its pro- 
 per associations ; and to secure its full effect, just 
 as we had passed through the arched grotto, turning 
 a sharp corner, we came suddenly on a party of 
 horsemen, carrying each a fusee on his saddle. 
 Their wild farouche air made me doubt for a mo- 
 ment, who they might be, and 1 jumped out of the 
 latiga in some haste ; but I soon saw that they wore 
 a kind of uniform, and as they rode by, the leader 
 came up to me, and informed me, that they were a 
 party of guards, carrying two malefactors, who were 
 chained-, to suffer death for their crimes. We pro- 
 ceeded over another mountain, very lofty, very 
 beautiful, and more impracticable than all that had 
 preceded it. Having surmounted it with some dif- 
 ficulty, we came, near the end of the descent, to a 
 place where the road was for about twenty or thirty 
 feet literally almost perpendicular. I had dis- 
 mounted, and was leading my mule; but to conduct 
 him down this pass was impossible. I could by no 
 means walk down myself, but half sliding, half 
 tumbling, with some care, got safe to the bottom. 
 How the baggage mules were to descend, passed 
 my comprehension : but when the one who was 
 most heavily laden arrived, he did not hesitate an 
 instant ; but resting himself on his feet, or rather 
 his hocks, slid down with perfect coolnoss, and 
 safety. The skill and success of these animals in 
 getting through difficult places isreaJly astonishing; 
 when they cannot walk, they make a sort Of clumsy 
 
 F 2
 
 68 
 
 spring, but never tumble, or refuse the most im- 
 practicable passes. At St. Agatha at length we 
 arrived just before sunset. This is a small village, 
 standing on the sea shore, from which we could 
 expect little. On inquiry however we found there 
 was a locanda, containing one clean room for us, 
 of a sufficient size, and a room behind for the ser- 
 vants. This was quite sufficient for a single night, 
 and here, therefore, we determined to abide. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A LOCANDA (iNN), IN SICILY, IN 
 A STATE OF MUCH DEJECTION. 
 
 How many pensive visions have I wove, 
 Since first I wandered from my parent shore ; 
 How many fairy dreams of peace and love 
 Have stole at eve, with willing influence o'er 
 My aching heart, and bid it weep no more. 
 But all are faithless, vain each lighter dream, 
 And every mournful vision vainer still ; 
 For joy has vanished like the morning beam, 
 And real griefs my labouring bosom fill, 
 That mock the idle thought, which mus'd on fan- 
 cied ill. 
 
 The next day brought us to St. Stephano. The 
 road lies principally through the Bosco di Caronia, 
 which, in the parts we traversed near the sea, is 
 formed by large deep beds of myrtle, arbutus, and 
 rosa-marina, that spread over the sides of the hills, 
 and rise to the height of five or six feet and upwards.
 
 69 
 
 I need not say that the effect is in the highest de- 
 gree picturesque and pleasing. St. Stephano stands 
 on the top of a beautiful knoll, the sides of which 
 descend rapidly upon the shore. Its situation is 
 beautiful, but the town looks ragged, and the inha- 
 bitants poor and ill-favoured. I here went into the 
 church, which is not ugly. From St. Stephano, 
 one day's moderate exertion carried us to Cefalu, a 
 city of some magnitude, with a considerable popu- 
 lation, a good inn, a hospitable bishop, a handsome 
 cathedral, and beggars beyond the powers of arith- 
 metic to enumerate. We arrived late, enchanted 
 with the scenery near the town, which is rich and 
 picturesque beyond all imagination. The vegetation 
 is such as I never before witnessed. What are 
 shrubs in other parts become trees here ; and the 
 last three or four miles wind down the side of a hill 
 overhung with lofty beds of myrtle an(l rosella, the 
 air perfumed with a thousand odoriferous plants and 
 flowers ; and the whole landscape richly painted 
 with the yellow bloom of innumerable large bushes 
 of broom, that were perfectly hid under, their own 
 luxuriance. Jt is in truth 
 
 " A wilderness of sweets, for Nature here 
 Wantons as in her prime, &c." 
 
 And so, as I- before said, we arrived at Cefalu. I 
 had a letter to the Bishop, but it was late, and 1 
 rather fatigued ; so we thought it better to enjoy 
 our own humble liberty, than be pestered with ci- 
 vilities for which we felt no disposition. I have
 
 70 
 
 since regretted this, for I find the Bishop of Cefalu 
 is a very intelligent and liberal man, who thinks it 
 wrong to prevent clergymen from marrying, and 
 says there is much less difference between the Pa- 
 pists and Protestants than is generally supposed. 
 The cathedral at Cefalu is of a very old date ; the 
 architecture what we call Saxon in England ; though 
 how the Saxon order got into Sicily, I leave the 
 learned to decide. The building is large, curious, 
 and respectable ; and there is in the church a mo- 
 nument to the memory of one of their bishops in 
 white marble, which is worth going all the way 
 from London to Cefalu to see. We went over the 
 bishop's palace, which is a very handsome house, 
 containing a considerable number of large and well 
 proportioned rooms, elegantly ornamented, after the 
 Sicilian fashion, with fresco paintings, on the walls 
 and ceilings. It is the handsomest Sicilian residence 
 out of Palermo, that I have yet seen, except the 
 Prince of Belmonte's country house. The princi-r 
 pal feature at Cefalu is the rock under which it 
 stands, which is in truth a mountain scaled on 
 every side, and standing out boldly into the sea. It 
 is visible to a great distance, and forms an exceed- 
 ingly fine object. There is a large old castle planted 
 on the top, and at the bottom, on the west side of 
 it, stands Cefalu. The inn here was the first we 
 had arrived at, that could be called comfortable; 
 and we went early to bed, with the resolution of 
 rising early, that we might reach Palermo the next 
 (day. I should have mentioned that near Cefalu,
 
 the sides of the hills are clothed to the very top, 
 and often up very steep declivities, with manna 
 trees. These resemble young mountain ashes ; 
 their forms are airy and elegant, and their verdure 
 very luxuriant. I am informed the manna is pro- 
 cured from them by making an incision in the bark, 
 and suffering them to bleed as long as any of the 
 juices exude. From Cefalu to Palermo is about 
 forty-eight Sicilian miles, which may be equal to 
 near forty English, a long journey for this country 
 to be performed in a single day ; but I was desirous 
 of getting to an end of this first tour ; and we knew 
 that from Termini to Palermo, (about half the dis- 
 tance,) there is a good road, and carriages if we 
 chose to take them. We started early, and reached 
 Termini by eleven "o'clock. The road leads through 
 a country not very remarkable for any thing but the 
 rice grounds, which stretch along the swamps near 
 the sea shore. When we passed them, nothing was 
 visible but mud and water. At a more advanced 
 season, I suppose but it does not much signify 
 what I suppose, for I never saw a rice field in my 
 life, and therefore you can fancy the thing to the 
 full as well as I. Termini is a large town on the 
 side 6f a small hill, overlooked by a very lofty, 
 bold, craggy mountain, which lies behind it. I 
 inquired about the ancient baths from which this 
 town took its name, but found they were at the top 
 of the mountain just before mentioned. They 
 might as well have been at the top of Caucasus. I 
 did, however, take the trouble of climbing up the
 
 town on foot to see a church of very moderate 
 grandeur, and a collection of ancient inscriptions 
 that have been collected in a room near the Senate 
 house. Some of these are Arabic, some in a cha- 
 racter wholly unknown to me, some in Greek, some 
 in Latin. They are not very curious. The only 
 one that struck me was a Greek one. 
 
 XflHM 
 
 The second word was imperfect, the stone being- 
 broken, but I suppose it might be AI>WX, O I>W>> or 
 AW any thing else ; the beauty consists evidently 
 in the extreme simplicity of the inscription. There 
 is, near the same spot, a mutilated statue of Stesi- 
 chorus, which may be valuable for its antiquity, but 
 never could be so for its beauty. Thus a very plain 
 woman gets admired if she lives to one hundred and 
 twenty. I was tired with these miserable would-be 
 antiquities, and glad to get into my latiga, having 
 spent more than two hours, which I could ill spare, 
 in ascertaining that there was nothing to be seen. 
 The road from Termini to Palermo is less interest- 
 ing than any other part of the journey. There is 
 little of beauty till you reach the valley of, Palermo, 
 and no mountain grandeur. We passed through the 
 Bagaria, a flat between two mountains near the sea, 
 about four miles from Palermo, where most of the 
 country palaces of the nobility are seated ; and ar- 
 rived at the metropolis about an hour after dusk. 
 As we entered the city, the most obliging well-bred 
 gentleman in the world stepped up to the side of my
 
 73 
 
 Jatiga, and asked if there was any thing upon earth he 
 could do to serve me; professing his readiness to be of 
 every possible use, &c. &c. &c. My reply was surly 
 enough, consisting, to the best of my recollection, 
 of one word " niente ;" if I added " grazie," which I 
 doubt, it was more from a foolish habit of being civil, 
 than from any sense of obligation to this polite Paler- 
 mitan. By the way, (though it is out of its place,) I 
 will mention another plague of this kind that happened 
 a day or two afterwards, in which I did not acquit 
 myself so valiantly. I was sitting at breakfast one 
 morning, when a man, wholly unknown to me, made 
 me a sort of introductory bow, and taking a seat 
 near me, told me in baddish Italian, that he was a 
 person who had great pleasure in shewing the cu- 
 riosities of Palermo to English travellers; that he had 
 published a little account of them, which he produced; 
 and after a further periphrasis, added that he was 
 also a poet, and had taken the liberty to compose a 
 small piece on my arrival at Palermo ; at the same 
 time drawing out a little marble-covered paper book. 
 1 pretty well understood the meaning of all this, but 
 being taken thus a-back, and not well knowing how 
 to get rid of the fellow, I took his verses, and gave 
 him a dollar. I asked L. afterwards, if he had re- 
 ceived any similar visit. He said he had, but see- 
 ing by the looks of the man what he was, told him 
 sternly that he was busy and would not be inter- 
 rupted ; on which the hero disappeared. I admired 
 the gallantry of this, and was soon taught its wis- 
 dom; for having made a little tour to the western parts
 
 74 
 
 of the island, the morning after my return, this 
 hungry poet re-appeared, and walking up to me with 
 perfect sang froid, insisted on shaking hands with me. 
 I have no great objection to shaking hands with 
 any man whose fingers are clean ; but I thought my 
 friend an impertinent fellow. He sat himself down, 
 and began a speech to which I paid no attention, 
 but which concluded with producing a second poem, 
 on my return to Palermo. This he politely ten- 
 dered to my acceptance, and I as politely declined 
 it. He renewed his oration, and I read my letters. 
 He put the poem towards me ; I removed it. He 
 sat silent awhile, but did not seem at all disconcerted; 
 spoke between whiles,. but at last, finding I paid 
 him no attention, rose, and saying that he found 
 I was busy, again pressed his poem upon me, 
 and added with a smile, that it was necessary for 
 a poet to live. It was now needful to be expli- 
 cit, and I told him with some sharpness, that I had 
 one of his works, and would not have another. On 
 this he took up his verses and marched off. He 
 has haunted me no more ; but I find he makes a 
 practice of writing a copy of foolish verses on the 
 arrival of every Englishman ; and most of them, 
 I fancy, like me, are simple enough to give him 
 money. I hope someday he will light upon some 
 hair-brained youngster, and get a horse-whfpping ; 
 for this national plunder is intolerable. I believe 
 too he is a spy of the Court. Excuse this prosing 
 episode. I have not said much of the general cha- 
 racter of the scenery between Messina and Palermo*
 
 hut it would be difficult perhaps, out of Switzerland, 
 to find one hundred and fifty miles of more conti- 
 nued beauty and grandeur. The outline of the 
 country is this : lofty mountains sometimes clothed 
 with wood to their summits, sometimes bleak and 
 craggy, but always picturesque, press close upon 
 the sea, leaving in parts only a narrow marina, and 
 in other parts standing out in lofty promontories 
 into the water. It is on these occasions that it be- 
 comes necessary to ascend the hills, which are often 
 very difficult of access. In some . positions how- 
 ever the mountains retire, and leave a plain sur- 
 rounded by an amphitheatre of rocky hills ; thus it 
 is at Melazzo and Palermo ; and in other places 
 deep and extensive vistas open into the interior. 
 The ridges are always lofty, and broken with won- 
 derful variety their sides steep, and their summits 
 generally bleak and bare. The lower eminences 
 however are often either wooded or cultivated, and 
 on some of the most striking peaks towns are planted, 
 which present a very novel and characteristic ap- 
 pearance to the eye of an English traveller. On 
 the whole, it is a country well worth travelling 
 through, even if it did not lead to Palermo : yet 
 it is less known than most other parts of Sicily. 
 As for the roads, no language can speak their bad- 
 ness ; yet with a little care I do not think there is 
 any part really dangerous. A man may break his 
 neck if he will, almost any where, and the only 
 advantage in that respect which these mule paths 
 possess, is, that he certainly need be at no pains
 
 76 
 
 to do it. The roads which ascend the mountains are 
 like steep and ruinous stone staircases. There are 
 many parts where it is not safe to go in a latiga, 
 and some, where I do not think a man, not weary of 
 his life, would like to trust any thing under him but 
 his own legs. Yet with all this, I would go through 
 the mere danger of the journey again for half-a- 
 crown a day. In substance therefore there is no 
 real peril, if a man minds what he is about. I shall 
 not attempt at present to give any account of my 
 residence at Palermo. I will only mention, that 
 after spending ten days here very agreeably, I set 
 off on a tour in company with L. to Trapani, Mar- 
 salla, Sciacca, and so back by Cor Leone to Pa- 
 lermo. We were eight days on the tour, and this 
 is the fourth after our return. To my great joy, I 
 found Lord Amherst here when I first arrived. 
 From him and Lady Amherst 1 have received every 
 civility and kind attention possible. They are uni- 
 versal favourites, and most deservedly. They sail for 
 England on Wednesday. I shall probably leave 
 Palermo the very next day in company with L., 
 and few English will stay here after their departure. 
 Day closes when the sun sets. 
 
 t ^ 
 
 END OF THE JOURNAL.
 
 77 
 
 EXTRACTS 
 FROM LETTERS TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 26th March, 1801. 
 
 IT would not be very difficult to prove that the 
 period which we spend at School is the happiest 
 part of life ; it is not therefore wonderful that we 
 should look back on it with pleasure, as by a natural 
 connexion we blend many circumstances in our recol- 
 lection, which then added perhaps but little to our 
 happiness, and it is well known that we invariably 
 view events with greater pleasure as we recede from 
 them ; just as in a distant retrospect on a wood, we 
 view the mass of verdure with admiration, and forget 
 the thorns and brambles through which we were 
 obliged to effect our passage : but the pleasures of 
 recollection can seldom be unalloyed ; for either we 
 are now happier than we then were, or we are less 
 so: if the former be the case, recollection will soon 
 be laid aside : for who will view a waste, that is 
 sporting in paradise? but if the latter, it is too plain 
 that melancholy comparison will throw a dark shade 
 over the prospect. Again, we are either better or 
 worse ; if better, conscience will upbraid us for the
 
 78 
 
 past, and if worse, for the present. Yet with all these 
 disadvantages retrospection both is, and ought, in mo- 
 deration, to be indulged ; for, as Johnson observes, 
 " whatever draws off our attention from ourselves, 
 whateter makes the past, the uncertain, or the fu- 
 ture predominate over the present, advances us in the 
 scale of rational beings/* and I think the wopld is 
 under little obligation to those poetical moralists who 
 recommend the fixing our attention on the present 
 hour. They pretend indeed to inculcate a lesson 
 of happiness, but they certainly cut off a great ave- 
 nue to excellence ; and it will be difficult to prove 
 that he can increase our bliss, who diminishes our 
 virtue. Such sentiments serve only to shew the 
 miserable state of those who could find no better 
 refuge from uncertainty, than by recommending 
 that which they knew to be impossible, and degrad- 
 ing that reason, which they so much boasted of, to 
 a level with the beasts that perish : of such, it may 
 be said most truly, what Bishop Home applies to 
 Hume and his infidel disciples : 
 
 Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram, 
 Perque domos Ditis vacuas, et inania regna. 
 
 Indeed the more one examines their systems of theo^ 
 logy, the more despicable they appear ; being dark 
 and absurd in every part, except where they had ob- 
 tained a little borrowed or traditional light from the 
 Jews or their ancestors. Grotius among many other 
 curious quotations, extracts this from the Hymns 
 of Orpheus : 
 
 Nvxra QIU'J yEVcTf 'acy auJop-at, i)os xai otvo^uv.
 
 79 
 
 which is in plain English " We are totally ignorant 
 of the origin or creation of this World/' 
 
 I have just begun to learn a law book by heart ; it 
 contains 30,000 lines, and I hope to get it through 
 twice in six months, but it is most dry, and like 
 learning so many proper names Are you meant 
 for the Bar ? My eyes are nearly out, for it is just 
 ten at night, and I have written this between sleep- 
 ing and waking, having been at work almost unre- 
 mittingly since half past nine in the morning, which 
 is my daily dose. 
 
 June 11, 1801. 
 
 It would be absurd to advise you not to think 
 upon the subject, but I am serious when I say, that 
 it will be wise to restrain yourself from talking on 
 it (for the present), not only generally, but totally. 
 If you allow yourself to converse on the subject of 
 your loss, you will unwaringly say things which you 
 may hereafter wish unsaid. It was my case, and 
 therefore may be your's. To tell you the truth, the 
 subject is to me even at this distance of time a very 
 melancholy one. " I cannot but remember but 
 such things were, that were most precious to me," 
 says Madcuff, and this is my case. Your's is not 
 less distressing at present, though you will still have 
 opportunities of signalizing yourself at the univer- 
 sity, and you may there prove more successful. At 
 the time when I was in your situation, a relation of
 
 80 
 
 mine, a lady of very uncommon talents and acquire- 
 ments, wrote to my father on the subject, and as 
 what she says is far more sensible than any thing I 
 can offer, I will transcribe par^ of it " it will be 
 far from a disadvantage to him to have met with this 
 check, if it teach him not to make too sure of suc- 
 cess in any particular points, but to look forward to 
 the establishment of his reputation from the general 
 tenor of his conduct. I believe there is no more com- 
 mon cause of the failure of young men of shining 
 parts, than going on too long with the wind and tide in 
 their favour. They trust to their sails and neglect 
 the rudder, and the first adverse gale oversets them. 
 At school, boys should learn to bear their faculties 
 meekly, and recollect there was but one Caesar, and 
 that was one too many." What my father said on 
 the same subject, though much more solemn, is 
 equally true, and was peculiarly appropriate at that 
 time, because it was when he was under the great- 
 est affliction, my sister being supposed to be on her 
 deathbed. After observing, that it is something to 
 have deserved success by our endeavours, he adds, 
 " You have deserved it, and, if you persevere, you 
 will at length attain a crown, which the Lord, the 
 righteous Judge shall give you : and that crown 
 should be the great end and aim of all our exertions ; 
 the applause of a few men and women, (and very 
 few are judges even of an English composition,) is 
 as the small dust of the balance, when compared with 
 the applause of men anc[ angels, enlightened by, 
 and acceding to the sentence of that all-wise and
 
 81 
 
 righteous Judge : 4 Well done, good and faithful 
 servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.' ' 
 
 22dJune, 1801. 10 P. M. 
 
 I thought the first short note had come from you, 
 and under that idea was not at all surprized at its 
 conciseness, as it was very natural you should avoid 
 all explanation or discussion in the first moments 
 of disappointment. " A man/* (says Johnson,) " is 
 never deeply afflicted with any thing which he can 
 bear to write about." And this is universally true 
 as applied to the first effects of grief ; but as the 
 immediate pressure becomes lighter by degrees, and 
 we are more habituated to its weight, the mind will 
 feel desirous of venting its ideas ; for nothing is so 
 painful as that lifeless stagnation of sorrow which 
 perpetual and silent musing produces. I believe the 
 best possible method of easing and unloading the 
 mind, is by putting on paper all which we feel or 
 think ; for it relieves us for the present, and will 
 afford pleasure hereafter. The danger of talking 
 much on any painful subject is, that the mind un- 
 loads itself too rapidly ; the judgment has less time 
 to act, and the vehemence always attendant on dis- 
 
 tf 
 
 appointment is animated by opposition, or a sense of 
 injury, till we say that, which though it might be 
 very properly written down for our private perusal, 
 yet being open to perversion by those who are in- 
 terested in misrepresentation, exposes us to the 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 charge of insolence or malignity : but I will not 
 plague you by repeating dull truths with which every 
 one is acquainted, though I am the more earnest in 
 impressing the importance of " keeping your mouth 
 with all diligence," because I learnt the necessity of 
 so doing by neglecting to practise it. Nothing can 
 be more natural than to talk freely on the subject to 
 an intimate friend, but he ought to be very intimate, 
 and sufficiently candid, as well as kind, to forgive the 
 fretfulness of vexation. All general discussion should 
 be most strictly avoided. 
 
 5th September, 1801. 
 
 You say you are very indolent, and to tell you the 
 truth, I am inclined at length to believe from your 
 
 own confession what could never persuade me 
 
 of. If you really are so, be assured it is no small 
 or trifling defect, but one which, if unsubdued, will 
 be more fatal to your success and happiness, than 
 even the most heinous crime. Your first object, 
 therefore, should be to convince yourself of its im- 
 portance, and then, perhaps, you will manfully de- 
 termine to oppose it. No enemy is so dangerous as 
 when we despise it ; and it is for this reason that 
 many good men, who have with great pains secured 
 themselves against the inroad of serious crimes, are 
 perpetually hurried into follies and disgrace by the 
 most pitiful propensities, which, had they been more 
 important, would have been carefully eradicated.
 
 83 
 
 Learn therefore to consider Indolence not asa failing 
 but a crime, aad make up your mind calmly and de- 
 cidedly to check it in every instance, as an enemy 
 which, if unopposed now, will daily become more 
 formidable, till it has choaked up every avenue to 
 excellence. As the great patron of activity, as well 
 as the best guardian of it when acquired, permit me to 
 recommend THE STRICTEST TEMPERANCE, 
 which is equally indispenable whether you wish to 
 promote Health, Ability, Happiness, or Virtue. It 
 is remarkable that of the Homilies appointed by our 
 Church, the first which regards good works is on 
 fasting, evidently considering Ma/, which is only a 
 more rigid abstinence, as the first great ground-work 
 of virtue. The Temperance however, which I re- 
 commend, does not consist in temporary severities, 
 which, however useful, may be destroyed by succeed- 
 ing excess; but in acquiring a constant habit of 
 taking no more nourishment than will properly suf- 
 fice, and considering meals rather as matters of ne- 
 cessity than pleasure. 
 
 March, 1802. 
 
 Before I proceed to any other subject, let me re- 
 turn you my mostsinccre and unfeigned gratitude, for 
 the friendly advice which your last letter conveyed to 
 me, yet not so much for the advice itself, as the 
 manner in which it was given. To tell a friend of 
 his faults certainly requires courage, and is therefore
 
 84 
 
 laudable : yet courage is comparatively an inferior 
 virtue. But to mention to him his failings in such a 
 way, that he may be ultimately the better for the com- 
 munication, is a task of a much higher nature, and 
 involves in it essential requisites of a brighter stamp. 
 This can only be effected by a total rejection, " quoad 
 hoc," of all pride, vanity, and self-interest, vices so 
 closely inwoven in our nature, that their poison is 
 often infused into our actions without our consent. 
 No one is (abstractedly) willing to be instructed, for 
 instruction implies inferiority, and this we are never 
 willing to admit, unless some advantage, which is 
 more than equiponderant, will arise from the admission. 
 On the other hand, we are all of us ready enough to 
 instruct, and for the same reason reversed. Yet the 
 very cause which impels us so forcibly to communi- 
 cate our advice, will almost uniformly render the ad- 
 vice ineffectual. Instead of pointing out to our friend 
 his errors, we are displaying our excellencies, and 
 when we ought to be improving him, are in truth 
 flattering our own vanity. This, I believe, is one of 
 the reasons why advice so very rarely is attended 
 with advantage ; and though it must be confessed that 
 pride and obstinacy are too often the concomitants of 
 error,yet I believe it will be found, that failure isasof- 
 ten imputableto the vanity of him who gives, as to the 
 folly of him who receives. From hence it is evident, 
 that applause is really due, not to the act, but the 
 manner of bestowing, and it is on the last account 
 that I feel under particular obligations to you. 
 What you have said evidently proceeds from your
 
 85 
 
 hrart, and not from your head ; I receive it as 
 such, and hope I shall so remember it that it may 
 not fall on unprolific ground. God knows, I have 
 some faults, and many, very many failings; but as 
 one swallow does not make a summer, so neither, I 
 trust, does a single inflexion imply absolute de- 
 pravity. I hope I endeavour to combat against 
 some of my faults at least, though I cannot much 
 boast of my success, and God forbid that I should 
 boast, for " we must work out our work in fear and 
 trembling," " looking unto Jesus, the author and 
 finisher of our faith," " for he was meek arid lowly 
 of spirit." So " though our sins be red as scarlet, . 
 shall they be made white as snow," for " out of 
 the throne proceeds a river of pure water which is 
 the well of life." And may the same good God 
 who has guided us thus far, still continue to spread 
 the shield of Omnipotence around us, till by his 
 grace and the sufferings of an all-sufficient Re- 
 deemer, we may be clothed with the armour of 
 light, till this corruptible may put on incorruption, 
 and this mdVtal put on immortality ! 
 
 26th March, 1802. 
 
 For myself I go on much in my old routine, fag- 
 ging hard at Classics and harder at Law ; I have 
 lately been attacking " Trojani Belli Scriptorrm," 
 have nearly read through eight books and toivr 
 Irarnt A, which is a very long one, by heart. He
 
 86 
 
 helps to dispel the " Taedia vitae," and I may say as 
 justly of the mists of this city, as Gray did of the 
 frozen regions ; that " the muse has broke the twi- 
 light gloom." I have lately also read Juvenal, with 
 some of Persius, through two or three times, (omit- 
 ting the 6th and 9th Satires), and learnt about 1300 
 lines, which though certainly nothing to be named 
 as real labour, yet is fair enough for the lighter 
 hours of a stupid, illiterate quill-driver, bending over 
 a desk in these regions of Cimmerian darkness, 
 
 Where murky mists the struggling morn disclose, 
 And howling watchmen lull me to repose : 
 
 and I scarce hear of any thing but mortgages, re- 
 leases, and assumpsits. 
 
 21st April, 1802. 
 
 I had a letter from but yesterday ; he 
 
 is at Cork, and I fear will not return to London at 
 present, which is a great grievance to me, and still 
 greater disappointment ; for, as Solomon says, 
 *' hope deferred maketh the heart sick/' and who 
 shall deny Solomon's knowledge of human nature! 
 It strikes me, that- from his example, we may be 
 assisted in our estimation of human knowledge. 
 Solomon was endowed with all wisdom from above, 
 and it may be presumed he would leave to posterity 
 that part of it which he considered as most valuable. 
 What then are these writings ? They are neither
 
 87 
 
 critical, geometrical, or physiological, nor do they 
 embrace any other branches of science ; they con- 
 sist merely of precepts of religious obligation, and 
 axioms of daily prudence. I have always thought 
 that no truth should be more continually impressed 
 on the minds of those whose curiosity stimulates 
 them to laborious investigations, than the inference 
 thus arising from the example of Solomon, " (Eco- 
 nomy," says Burke, " consists less in parsimony 
 than comparison ;" and if we substitute industry 
 for parsimony, the same maxim will apply to learn- 
 ing. Perhaps I should rather use the word know- 
 ledge, which, (to entitle it to that name), ought to 
 be both useful and capable of communication, for 
 according to the old proverb, 
 
 Scire tuum nihil est, nisi tc scire h'oc sciat alter. 
 
 However therefore we may be allowed to make 
 short irruptions into the different sciences, in order 
 to enrich our ideas, and ensure equality ; yet where 
 our studies arc optionary, they should ultimately 
 and generally be directed to such inquiries as are 
 connected with men and manners. We certainly 
 were all born to act, as well as to think, and it 
 should always be remembered that the first of these 
 is enjoined, the latter only permitted. Johnson, in 
 his life of Milton, observes that we are moralists by 
 necessity, but geometricians only by chance ; and 
 Paley's doctrine of Expediency and Benefit, though 
 wholly inapplicable to actions, is a just criterion to 
 direct investigation. 1 remember Johnson, as one
 
 88 
 
 of the mottos in his Rambler, has two Greek lines 
 which always pleased me, but I know not whence 
 they are borrowed : 
 
 Tetvr' tduf o-oQot; KrOi, 
 Ha TO 
 
 which he translates thus : 
 
 On life, on morals, be thy thoughts employed ; 
 
 Leave to the schools their atoms and their void. 
 v 
 
 With respect to the propriety of administering 
 any oath not enjoined or authorized by law, it might 
 perhaps be a fair subject for discussion ; and sup- 
 posing it to be right, I certainly do not think it re- 
 quisite that any option should be given to the boys. 
 I think it ought to be compulsive ; but then we 
 should differ in our definition of optionary, for I 
 consider every measure as compulsive, where the 
 alternative is attended with evils wholly dispropor- 
 tionate to the fault which incurs them. Thus if a 
 man demands my money with a pistol, I have the 
 option of death ; but both the law and common 
 sense would call this compulsion. Generally speak- 
 ing, I think where forfeiture of some benefit in pos- 
 session is the only alternative, we can scarcely be 
 said to have an option ; but where only an incapa- 
 city to attain such benefit is created, we certainly 
 have, I think therefore the oaths are at Winchester 
 compulsively administered ; and (supposing them 
 right) I think it is proper they should be so : all 
 the oaths generally required by law are of a different
 
 89 
 
 nature, and are necessary to qualify for the enjoy- 
 ment of some advantage ; and I think with you, 
 that they are wise and necessary, and certainly not 
 compulsive. You fight hard, I see, for the use of 
 the classics as conducted at Winchester, but I can- 
 not allow your defence. The object is to hinder 
 the mind of youth from being corrupted, which can 
 never be effected by the mere omission of every of- 
 fensive passage in the public lessons ; since we all 
 know that prohibition always provokes desire, and 
 perhaps no boy ever omitted an indecent line in 
 reading, merely because he knew he should not be 
 allowed to construe it. 
 
 29th January, 1803. 
 
 spent a week with us at Hayes, where 
 
 my father endeavoured to dissuade him from going 
 abroad ; but the plan was too far ripened to be inter- 
 rupted, and we must lose him for a year or more. 
 I hope and believe his principles will secure him 
 from infection, yet I cannot help doubting the pro- 
 priety of voluntarily exposing ourselves to tempta- 
 tions from which we daily pray to be exempted: 
 and no one who has not seen, can conceive the 
 dangers he will have to encounter in foreign coun- 
 tries. I wish our good friend was not going to 
 Italy ; yet in the midst of my fears and my scru- 
 ples, I cannot help envying the literary luxuries he 
 will enjoy in the land of taste and science. Cicero
 
 90 
 
 owns he felt a degree of enthusiasm when roaming 
 under the shade of the groves of Academus ; and 
 we are all too sensible of the effects of local attach- 
 ments, not to feel, even in idea, some inspiration 
 attached to the awful ruins of the Capitol, the Se- 
 nate-house, and the Forum, where so many orators, 
 poets, and heroes purchased immortality. 
 
 28th June, 1803. 
 
 For all your information on the subject of Bishop 
 Berkeley I thank you very much, as well as for 
 the labour which it gave you to procure : Your 
 anecdote of the Scriblerus Club pleased me mightily. 
 Warton indeed I formerly read, but it was eight 
 years since, and I was then too idle and too con- 
 ceited to read with much attention ; but idleness 
 brings its own punishment, and conceit its own re- 
 medy had I indulged neither at thirteen, I should 
 not now lament the want of those acquirements at 
 twenty, which might have otherwise been obtained. 
 His verses I shall look for with a curious eye, when- 
 ever I go to Hayes, but here I have no Dodsley 
 Where your quotation of " Coxcombs vanquish 
 Berkeley with a grin," comes from, I know not, 
 but it is happy ; for whoever means to vanquish 
 him, had better put on a merry face at first, for he 
 will have but a foolish one at last Berkeley's 
 theory is deep, acute, and remote from common 
 apprehension ; but to you I will say, (what I could
 
 91 
 
 not say to many,) that I am sure it is grand and 
 captivating, and I believe it is unanswerable. 
 Berkeley is not unique, nor aimed he at novelty ; 
 his object and his guides were equally great, the 
 first was the demolition of atheism, which in every 
 age, and particularly in his, had hinged itself on 
 materialism ; and his second were Plato and Aris- 
 totle with their schools ; nor can he be considered 
 as only " magni umbra ;" far otherwise " He lives 
 to build, not boast a generous race." Whoever will 
 read him with attention, will rise with his pride 
 humbled, his ideas enlarged, and (unless it be his 
 own fault) his piety elevated. But I will add no 
 more ; I hope you will read him, but whenever you 
 do, be not disheartened if you do not understand 
 the first twenty pages after the introduction : 1 am 
 not sure that I ever understood these at all. 
 
 1803. 
 
 It is impossible for you to conceive the labour 
 I go through, or at least the constant succession of 
 employment ; for I believe I may say, on an ave- 
 rage I am employed in reading or writing nearly 14- 
 hours every day. I am endeavouring, among my 
 other various occupations, to obtain a knowledge of 
 some branches of algebra and the mathematics, as 
 introductory to mechanics, optics, navigation, natu- 
 ral philosophy, &c. but now as my eyes, my head,
 
 92 
 
 my fingers, my pens, and my patience are all gone, 
 and the night also is going fast, I must subscribe 
 myself, &c. 
 
 Jan. 3, 1804. 
 
 Horace's rule of " Nil admirari" though formed 
 for cold imaginations and languid prudence, is not 
 without its use. They who venerate any one indi- 
 vidual to the neglect of others, generally do ill, for 
 they expect more than humanity can realize, and 
 being disappointed once, become indifferent to 
 merit. The same truth, perhaps varying according 
 to its various subjects, pervades life in general ; yet 
 I can never envy those beings who think all the 
 world equally good or wicked, equally happy or 
 miserable, equally pleasant or disgusting ; to whom 
 elegance and grossness, talents and stupidity, know- 
 ledge and ignorance, are matters of indifference ; 
 who can find an excuse for every fault, but balance 
 their charity by discovering a drawback from every 
 virtue. If political equality be destructive to so- 
 ciety, this sort of moral equality is fatal to every 
 virtue, destructive to every nascent principle of ho- 
 nour, generosity, and emulation, introductive of a 
 dull calm in the heart and understanding, which 
 resembles not the quiescence of a lake, but the 
 stagnation of a bog. I hate such frozen philoso- 
 phers. It is the lot of humanity to find their bless- 
 ings sullied with alloy, but this negative state is to,
 
 93 
 
 me defacated evil. The absence of all excellence 
 implies the prevalence of all that is odious, as 
 the departure of light would be reproductive of 
 
 chaos. 
 
 That ambition is but short-sighted, which looks 
 only to the applause of senates ; that avarice mea- 
 gre, which can count only guineas. " A breath 
 can make them as a breath has made." The only 
 solid ambition is that which presses forward to 
 a glory lasting as our immortal soul, and extensive 
 as its powers. The only avarice which can never 
 satiate, is an avarice of virtue and knowledge, the 
 perfection of our moral and intellectual principle. 
 A new year should be the commencement of a new 
 life, and what a new life should be, sense and reve- 
 lation, time and eternity will testify. May then 
 this season be to you the season of present felicity, 
 and the augury of future happiness and honour, in 
 every varied situation of your existence. 
 
 Worcester, Saturday Night. 
 
 March, 1806. 
 
 I suppose my affection for a contested election is 
 not much increased from apprehension of the dis- 
 comfort it threatened to produce ; but in truth I 
 have no great love for the thing upon principle. 
 Some people fancy that the licentious uproar and 
 tumult it occasions (though it may be bad for the 
 time) produces great political benefits ; that it gives
 
 94 
 
 the people a consciousness of their importance, and 
 keeps alive, by this sort of periodical stimulus, a 
 sense of liberty and its value. This is very true ; 
 but I am unpatriotic enough to think this cant 
 about popular liberty, only a bad argument adopted 
 by those who were determined to find some, and 
 could not hit upon a better. The people do not 
 want to be reminded of their liberty by being made 
 drunk, and bawling out " Lyttelton forever;" and 
 the patriot who thinks it a public duty thus to out- 
 rage decency, that he may keep alive a sense of his 
 own importance, should be put into the stocks to 
 learn better manners. The people are reminded of 
 their liberty by every dogs-eared newspaper which 
 they read at the alehouse on a Saturday evening ; 
 and the liberty thus prated about would be lost in 
 six months, if it were not better guarded by the 
 noble barriers of a free constitution, than it is or 
 can be by the turbulence of a mob. The only de- 
 fence for a contested election is, that it is an evil 
 necessarily incident to representation, a good so 
 great, that it is well bought at the price of fifty 
 evils ; but, considered simply per se, on its own 
 merits, a contested election is productive of infinite 
 mischief, and I verily believe, of no good whatever. 
 The wounds it creates in a county are frequently 
 not healed for half a century, and the waste of ge- 
 neral morals, by destroying habits of sobriety and 
 good order among the lower classes, is more easily 
 conceived than estimated. But enough of this I 
 cannot tell you how much pleasure my late visit to
 
 95 
 
 Oxford has afforded me, and I must add, that I feel 
 indebted to you for by much the largest portion ; 
 indeed all the pleasantest hours were spent in your 
 company. I should find it difficult to select three 
 hours from my whole life which have left a more 
 
 / 
 
 delightful impression on my mind, than those 
 passed in your room on Thursday night. Pray re- 
 member me very kindly to and , but 
 
 particularly to , who I suspect possesses a heart 
 
 and understanding considerably above the common 
 
 level. His affection for poor dear is alone 
 
 in my mind enough to render him very estimable. 
 That name I can neither write nor think of without 
 great pain ; it is, indeed, 
 
 for ever lov'd, for ever dear, 
 
 " Still breath'd with sighs, still utter'd with a tear." 
 
 I do not know what I should do if brought to the 
 test, but I feel as if I could walk round the world 
 barefoot, to restore that noble soul to life and hap- 
 piness ; and a pleasant walk it would be, for I know 
 I should have you for a companion. 
 
 Men mouth, Aug. 5th, 1806. 
 
 Alas ! Alas ! all my fair projects of an Irish ex- 
 pedition have been dashed since we parted ; and I 
 must traverse no new regions, visit no new scenes, 
 enjoy no new society, survey no new system of 
 manners. I take my disappointment with prudent
 
 96 
 
 good humour, considering that fretfulness is not 
 very wise, when it vexes only oneself. Yet I could 
 have wished to make a little range. I want it on 
 many accounts. My circuit, in which I have pro- 
 ceeded thus far, has been hitherto very pleasant, and 
 tolerably profitable, but has furnished little of no- 
 velty to communicate. I have read some books 
 since I have been out, of different descriptions 
 
 Cardinal Retz Dr. Doddridge's life, which 
 
 gave me, and recommended me to read ; and which 
 I advise you to get and read, with this assurance, 
 that you will find it very interesting, instructive, and 
 useful. It must be read however as a serious work, 
 for such it is, and the benefits to be derived from 
 reading it are of a serious nature ; but who is there- 
 that will not confess such benefits to be infinitely 
 the most valuable which we are capable of receiv- 
 ing ? And if we confess this, do we not act as 
 madmen if we take no pains to secure them ? I 
 have also been reading a little work on anatomy, 
 and am quite astonished at the Divine mechanism 
 displayed in our animal ceconomy: well might 
 Galen be cured of atheism by seeing a skeleton 
 yet " these are not His glory." The creation of an 
 immortal soul is beyond it all, and the mysteries of 
 redeeming mercy infinitely removed above that. 
 These are awful subjects for a letter, but it is good 
 to accustom the mind to contemplate great things ; 
 it exalts and refines it ; it raises us above the low 
 passions and pursuits of a sordid and grovelling
 
 97 
 
 world. It IB the parent of the true sublime, in ac- 
 tion as well as imagination. My good friend, re- 
 deem your time. 
 
 1st Oct. 1806. 
 
 Being at sea as to your present residence, and 
 knowing that you are of a most wandering disposition, 
 I must inclose this to your father as my only re- 
 source. Well, in a few months, your wanderings 
 will be over, and you will enter on a different sys- 
 tem of life. I never saw a person yet who was not 
 altered by marriage. It sobers even the sober. It 
 is the commencement of a state which has no defi- 
 nite period, but that which is assigned also to our 
 existence here ; so that a man may, as it were, take 
 a survey of the whole of earthly existence upon his 
 entry on connubial life. A survey we are too apt 
 to neglect; a survey indeed, which few are willing 
 to take, because it must issue eventually in that 
 awful change, which is no subject of pleasing con- 
 templation to those whose hearts and hopes are 
 chained down to this life. Let not us do so, my 
 
 friend . The mortality of the last year may 
 
 surely have taught us how fleeting are the shadows, 
 how shifting the scenes of this world. 
 
 ** Ubi nos devenimus illic, 
 Quo plus jfineas, quo dives Tullus, et Ancus, 
 Pulvis et umbra sumup." 
 H
 
 We too must fellow, follow soon-; 
 Must quit life's gay and gawdy noon, 
 
 Where thoughtless now we stray ; 
 To the same quiet mansion hie, 
 Where Pitt, and Fox, and Nelson lie, 
 
 And turn to dust as they. 
 
 I need not say, here is an extempore translation of 
 the passage quoted, for its badness must at once 
 betray it. Seriously however, the seeing such lives 
 as Pitt and Fox come to their close, has impressed 
 me with feelings (which I trust are salutary) of the 
 vanity of earthly honours, and even of splendid 
 talents and endowments. These will only heighten 
 their responsibility in that world to which they are 
 gone ; and it Would be a happy check to vanity, 
 if, whenever a feeling of superiority glances across 
 the mind, we could consider it as a memento of 
 the duties we have to perform, and the means we 
 enjoy of performing them. Think of this my friend 
 
 . You are soon to enter on that state which 
 
 I might almost call in the words of the poet, " lit- 
 tle understood, our greatest evil or our greatest 
 good." To you I trust and doubt not it will be 
 the latter ; but no truth is better worth the recol- 
 lection of every man in every station, than this, 
 that Christianity is the real bond of union; and 
 further, that it must be the source of our felicity in 
 this life, if we hope to enjoy the rewards it promises 
 in the next. 
 
 To change the subject. Have you heard any
 
 99 
 
 anecdotes of Fox's death 1 I have not heard much, 
 though Mr. mentioned, that he read Vir- 
 
 o 
 
 gil to the last, but desired to have prayers read, and 
 they were so. This is something ; but oh ! how 
 little, compared with that regular consecration of 
 our whole life and all our powers, which is the real 
 service God requires, and which alone can or ought 
 to satisfy him. 
 
 Tuesday, 9 August, 1808. 
 
 It is twilight, and I cannot see; having been 
 awake almost the whole of last night, I cannot 
 think. So if this should be neither legible nor in- 
 telligible, you must not wonder. Our late habits, 
 or rather our loss of habits, of correspondence, 
 which you allude to at the beginning of*your letter, 
 are a very pretty diatribe for an exordium, and serve 
 for me you see, as well as you ; yet the case I be- 
 lieve is a very common one between friends, and 
 proves nothing, but that they have grown so inti- 
 mate as to be careless of ceremonies. When two 
 youths (as you and I for example) of intelligence 
 and feelings, with active and curious minds, wann 
 affections, and a thousand other excellent qualities 
 which modesty forbids me to mention, first become 
 acquainted, they fall immediately to corresponding; 
 this creates confidence, and cements friendship; for 
 a while the passion is strong: they both write their 
 best, for each is desirous to please, and the orcu- 
 
 H2
 
 100 
 
 pation thence derives interest and activity, Thus it 
 continues with some for a great length of time, 
 where the parties are tolerably idle, and the corres- 
 pondence literary ; but more commonly exactly 
 that happens, which has happened to us. The 
 gloss of novelty wears off; each party grows pretty 
 well acquainted with the sentiments of the other, 
 they become so intimate that letters cease to be ne- 
 cessary for advancing or preserving friendship ; and 
 alas ! Indolence, the siren, generally disguised un- 
 der the mask of business, " obrepit non intellecta/' 
 And so ends my tale. No, for another circum- 
 stance has just occurred, which is so creditable an 
 excuse for a declining correspondence, that I cannot 
 omit it. If the two friends happen to be, (as you 
 and I again) very clear-headed and good natured, 
 nothing in the course of nature can keep the habit 
 of letter-writing alive above a year or two. If they 
 do but quarrel a little about any matter that interests 
 them, for want of sense or temper, they may go 
 on exchanging letters, or rather controversial pieces 
 in the epistolary style, till their passions cool, which 
 generally will be long after their wits are exhausted; 
 but good sense and good nature, it is clear, are 
 neutral qualities, and excite no agitation. There- 
 fore, as we, &c. &c. &c. "And this, Sir, is the 
 reason why we have both been dumb." 
 
 Wednesday. I hope you did not expect me, or 
 at least not so expect me as to feel the slightest dis- 
 appointment at my absence. To say the truth, I
 
 101 
 
 could not have come without great inconvenience ; 
 and thought, on re-consideration, that to travel 
 eighty miles on horseback, in order to spend a few 
 
 hours at , was being rather more romantic 
 
 than the sobriety of my years will allow ; for ro- 
 mance is generally over at five-and-twenty ; and 
 (though I have an instinctive love for it, which 1 
 fear will never be quite eradicated,) perhaps it would 
 be happy if its reign never commenced. In a 
 world such as this, it generally produces much 
 more misery than happiness ; and though it usually 
 bespeaks delicate feelings and some of those quali- 
 ties which we are too apt to admire, it is not very 
 consistent with that spirit of placid contentment 
 which Christianity inspires, and which a deep sense 
 of our utter unworthiness of any blessing in the 
 sight of God naturally must produce. Leaving 
 however romance and romancers to their fate, this 
 is to advise you, (as the merchants say) that my 
 visit, though postponed, is not given up. A man 
 may still keep his barouche, after he has laid down 
 his whiskey ; and though my shorter journey has 
 been relinquished, my longer remains still in project 
 and prospect; for if nothing hinders, (which how- 
 ever I cannot warrant, for I have business enough 
 to plague though not to enrich me,) I intend visiting 
 YOU on Saturday,
 
 102 
 
 11 P.M. 26th Aug. 1808. 
 
 My history since we parted is not very long or in- 
 teresting. I left you and Mrs. -- -, I could 
 almost say, with a heavy heart ; only that it is some- 
 what unmanly to allow of heaviness in an ordinary 
 separation from friends ; yet the recollection of 
 pleasure which is past, combined with quitting 
 those whose kindness has bestowed it, carries with 
 it a certain sentiment of melancholy, which is at 
 once sad and pleasing. In truth, I know not when 
 I have passed three days more delightfully, than 
 those which were spent at - , and the delight, 
 I trust, was not wholly selfish. It arose, in part at 
 least, from witnessing the solid and enviable happi- 
 ness you enjoy, of which, let me add, it is not the 
 least part, that you so well know how to value it. 
 May it very long be continued both to you and 
 Mrs. - , unalloyed, or, at least, with as slight 
 alloys, as in this our imperfect condition can be 
 hoped for. Pray give my kind and affectionate re- 
 gards. I hope my short visit has in some measure 
 advanced an acquaintance into friendship, from cul- 
 tivating which, I promise myself hereafter much 
 both of pleasure and improvement. Since my ar- 
 rival here, I have been idle enough, for my law 
 books are but just arrived ; but my leisure hours 
 have been occupied arid regaled with the new Edin- 
 burgh Review, and some of Dryden's prose works, 
 which are to me far more pleasant. I have read 
 two articles in the Edinburgh, the first and the last ;
 
 103 
 
 the reviews of Fox's book, and Mitford's new vo- 
 lume. Both certainly are very able, though the lat- 
 ter I think much the most elaborate, and on the 
 whole, the greater performance. There is consider- 
 ble frankness and independence in the former arti- 
 cle; and the writer has with great dexterity con- 
 trived to speak very highly of a wojk, the essential 
 defects of which he has yet honestly enough de- 
 clared. To be sure, expectation was most absurdly 
 raised about Mr. Fox's History, which 1 fancy was 
 principally owing to the author's high character for 
 taste and literature. People quite forget that writ- 
 ing, like speaking, is an art, and one too which re- 
 quires more of study and practice than the other, 
 as more perfectness is exacted in it, " tanto plus 
 oneris, quarito veniae minus." Fox evidently had 
 been very little accustomed to compose, or he could 
 not have constructed many of his sentences so 
 wretchedly as he has done ; though I still hold that 
 his style is in some parts eminently beautiful ; and 
 quite agree with him in thinking, as he seems to 
 have thought, that our modern writers have added 
 nothing to prose composition, which has not been 
 purchased at too high a price. I love the simple, 
 clear, and manly diction which was in use a cen- 
 tury and a half ago. Addison doubtless added 
 grace, though I think he sacrificed something of 
 vigour ; and the pleasure therefore which he gives 
 is more delicate than poignant. There is the same 
 difference between him and Dryden, that there is 
 between Horace and Juvenal, i dare not decide
 
 which is superior, but I find that I read Juvenal 
 most. Late writers I think have contributed no- 
 thing but affectation. Latin and French idioms 
 have been introduced, and an artificial way of writ- 
 ing, which is regular and glossy, but to my taste 
 it is deficient in variety, and has rather a constrained 
 elegance than native grace ; it has the ease of a 
 dancing master, not of a gentleman. The Scotch- 
 men (who had to write a foreign language,) have 
 been principally guilty of this. Smith is the best 
 writer among them, that I am acquainted with. 
 Hume's style would perhaps have been the first of 
 all our authors, if he had been born on this side of 
 the Tweed ; but like Theophrastus, who was dis- 
 covered to be an alien by his studied Atticisms, he 
 betrays his origin by his caution and refinement. 
 Ferguson, whom I dipped into at , I can- 
 not admire. He is perfectly ennuyant ; every sen- 
 tence is cast in the same mould ; and every part of 
 each sentence is of the same family with the rest 
 " Grove nods at grove, each alley has his brother." 
 Blair is sweet, but somewhat feeble ; and his 
 style, above all the rest, is like a piece of joiner' 
 work ; the parts fit too nicely. Here is a piece of 
 criticism for you, and of bold criticism too, consi- 
 dering that it is written to a Scotchman. Send me 
 in revenge your judgment on our English authors. 
 I know not how it is, but elegant literature has of 
 late become much more agreeable to me, than phi- 
 losophical speculations. In particular I find poli- 
 tics tiresome ; and though the groves of Academus
 
 105 
 
 are very solemn and composing, the myrtles of 
 Parnassus, and soft willows that weep around the 
 fountain of Arethuse, are more inviting. This I 
 fancy is the effect of contrast, and to be sure, legal 
 studies and occupations are an excellent foil to 
 whatever is gay and graceful. But this world was 
 not intended as a theatre of amusement, however 
 our pilgrimage here may be cheered with varied 
 pleasures. This plain but momentous truth must 
 be at the bottom of all lasting happiness, as the 
 neglect of it is too frequently the source of wretched 
 disappointment. May we ever recollect it; and 
 while we receive and enjoy with gratitude the plea- 
 sures bestowed on us, reflect, that He who gave 
 and continues both the objects of gratification and 
 our powers of tasting it, will not allow his gifts to 
 be perverted to his own dishonour, nor " the crea- 
 ture to be loved above the Creator/' Life I have 
 often thought is like a well contrived drama. 
 There is much of varied entertainment ; there are 
 sentiments, and characters, and shifting scenes ; 
 and even underplots, if cautiously managed, may 
 be admitted ; but there is only one great end, and 
 whatever does not tend, either directly or by moro 
 distant consequence, to advance the main plot and 
 work out the crisis, must be rejected as improper. 
 A good critic cannot permit the most glowing 
 thoughts, or happiest expression, or most passion- 
 ate scene, to stand, if the symmetry of the piece is 
 thereby injured, or its conduct disturbed. Adieu.
 
 396 
 
 r.ii My dear Tom, Sept, 11, 1809. 
 
 I will call you by a more respectful name in Lon- 
 don, but here I really cannot ; for every body talks 
 about Tom, and every body loves Tom, and I don't 
 see why I only should be upon my good behaviour. 
 I arrived here last Saturday morning at breakfast 
 
 time, having been kept by Mr. much longer 
 
 than I intended ; but he is like the old man in Sin- 
 bad's voyage. Woe be to the traveller that falls into 
 his grasp. It required a considerable effort to disen- 
 gage myself, and I have promised another short visit 
 an my return, which will be greatly to my inconve- 
 nience and delight. Mr. I think enjoys his 
 
 parsonage as much as possible ; to say that he is 
 happier than usual, is being very bold ; but cer 
 tainly he is as happy as I ever beheld a human be- 
 ing. He carried me one day to Weston, and we 
 wander'd over many a spot which Cowper's feet had 
 trod, and gazed on the scenes $vhich his pen has im- 
 mortalized. On another day we visited Stowe " a 
 work to wonder at," for we were still in the land of 
 
 poetry, and of music too, for Mr. made the 
 
 shades resound to his voice, singing like a blackbird 
 wherever he went. He always has the spirits of a 
 
 boy, but at not little Sam himself can beat him, 
 
 though he does his best. From the coach has 
 
 conveyed me (but alas ! not my portmanteau) to this 
 seat of piety and domestic happiness. How many 
 happy hours and days and years have been spent in
 
 107 
 
 this mansion. There was a time when the sight and 
 even the thought of such things touched me with a 
 sensation, which I can neither communicate nor de- 
 scribe, half joyful, half melancholy ; the pleasure .of 
 sympathy, the pain of contrast. I could feel it still, 
 in all its force, if I dared to cherish it ; but advanc- 
 ing life, though it may not teach wisdom, enforces 
 at least self command ; and I am a thorough convert 
 to the doctrine (though indeed a wretched practical 
 proficient,) that " true self love and social are the 
 same ;" that thorough benevolence of heart is one of 
 the most valuable secrets of happiness, and selfish 
 thoughts or desires, no less than selfish actions, to 
 be dismissed, as equally hostile to peace and virtue. 
 I need hardly say that I was welcomed here most 
 kindly, and I hope, (through the goodness of God) 
 that I may have reason to be thankful for much more 
 than the pleasure which I have received, and doubt 
 not 1 shall continue to receive, during this visit ; else 
 indeed I shall be responsible for great opportuni- 
 tu*s wasted. Yet to say the truth, the remembrance 
 of the past aflbrds me so little sense of satisfaction 
 or security, that I should greatly tremble for the fu- 
 ture, if the mercy of God were not greater even than 
 the corruption and waywardness of his creatures. 
 To be sure the depravity and blindness of man is a 
 most astonishing phenomenon. I was reading the 
 other day an article in the last Quarterly Review on 
 the South Sea Mission (which by the bye is a mighty 
 odd article for a number published in 1809 ;) from 
 whence it appears, that the profligacy, cruelty, and
 
 nameless abominations prevailing in those islands, 
 once deemed so innocent and happy, are such as to 
 threaten the actual destruction of the whole popu- 
 lation, which they have already thinned in an astonish- 
 ing manner. It seems as if God permitted such fear- 
 ful scenes to be acted in parts of his creation, for the 
 purpose of convincing those who in the sunshine of 
 peace and civilization are ready to forget both their 
 Maker and themselves, what sin is, and what its 
 effects, where less controlled by divine power. I can 
 well believe, that among the wise, though inscrutable, 
 purposes which the Almighty proposes to accomplish 
 in letting loose that monster the French Revolution, 
 is the setting before the eyes of European nations, 
 (who, alas ! too much needed the sad spectacle,) 
 a most awful proof and warning of the depths of de- 
 pravity to which the whole human race might fall, if 
 the sustaining arm of grace and power should be 
 withdrawn. , 
 
 We want in this country a number of persons who 
 without being in holy orders, or beset with party 
 prejudices, or particularly distinguished from others 
 in the same ranks of life, in respect of any thing 
 but those points which religion prescribes or affects, 
 shall be known as the faithful or avowed (though 
 humble and unobtrusive} servants of God, whose 
 piety, purity, activity, benevolence, deadness to the 
 world, and the like, may be manifest, while at the 
 same time their cheerful intermixture in the ordL 
 nary occupations and innocent pursuits of life may 
 make their characters familiar to others, and their
 
 109 
 
 talents and attainments enforce respect. Great 
 things I am persuaded might be effected ; for it is 
 impossible to converse with men indiscriminately, 
 without perceiving that religion exists in many 
 minds, and is even a principle of considerable force, 
 where it has never acquired a decided ascendancy : 
 that some want encouragement, that more want 
 knowledge, &c. Are you making a progress with 
 Bishop Hall ? It was the advice of Johnson to a 
 young writer, not to exact from himself the joint 
 labour of thought and composition at the same time. 
 I will give you a piece of advice also (being sage and 
 old and celebrated like the Doctor) if you are about 
 to write on any topic that requires thought, think it 
 fairly out before you put pen to paper. Industry is 
 the greatest saver of time I know. And now you 
 are set up for an author, do your best to be suf- 
 ficiently vain and irascible, with a tolerably large 
 share of pertinacity, and you cannot fail of the two 
 great blessings of penmanship fame and starvation. 
 I do not know that I have ever said, and perhaps 
 without saying it you will not have the grace to un- 
 derstand it, that my very bad library is entirely at 
 your disposal now and ever ; only beware of the 
 dust. 
 
 My dear Friend, 21st Sept. 1809. 
 
 I think your kindness and my perverseness pro- 
 ceed in parallels ; but the real reason why 1 have
 
 110 
 
 not written before is, that I managed to mislay your 
 
 former letter, forget Sir 's direction, and forget 
 
 too, both how long you proposed staying with him, 
 and where you were bound afterwards. In the 
 mean time arrives your last kind letter, ordering me 
 not to apologize for not answering your former one 
 (which order you see how I obey ;) and reminding 
 me of my faults, only by the kindness and confidence 
 jt expresses. Indeed I believe you in saying that 
 you do not impute my silence to any decay of affec- 
 tion, and I thank you for it. Your former letter 
 reached me in town before I set out on my late pil- 
 grimage. In your last but one, you made inquiries 
 
 about ecclesiastical history for , for whose kind 
 
 postscript I fear I never returned thanks. I fully in- 
 tended to have sent her my little stock of informa- 
 tion on this matter forthwith, as ladies are entitled to 
 expect alacrity in those who are honoured with their 
 commands ; and she will believe me when I say, 
 that I am much more eager to please her, than the 
 most perfect politeness could make me. This in- 
 tention however, like too many others, has hitherto 
 borne no fruit ; and in truth, now that I am actually 
 writing, I can do little more than confess my inca- 
 pacity to supply any useful information. This only 
 I know (which you probably know already with as 
 much certainty as I) that Mosheim has compiled a 
 tolerably correct and entertaining narrative of the 
 principal events which have happened in the history 
 of the Church, understanding that word in its loosest 
 sense : and that Milner has written an account of
 
 Ill 
 
 the changes which befel the Church, in the spiritual 
 sense of the word, from the death of our Saviour to 
 the time of the Reformation ; to which a pretty con- 
 siderable volume has lately been added (by Isaac 
 Milner, the Dean of Carlisle, brother to Joseph the 
 historian) treating of the Reformation. The three 
 authors together present a sufficient view of ecclesi- 
 astical concerns during the first 1550 years: but 
 they are rather voluminous. Pray give my kindest 
 
 regards to , and tell or read her this, and add, 
 
 what I am persuaded her own piety would suggest 
 (yet which she will forgive me for mentioning,) that 
 the holy Scriptures, particularly the New Testa- 
 ment, furnish by far the best light, direction, and 
 antidote to the reading of ecclesiastical history. I 
 know of no study in which it is more necessary 
 to carry along with us an intimate acquaintance 
 with the standard of faith and holiness delivered in 
 holy writ. It happens of necessity that the most 
 valuable part of the Church story, the lives, opinions, 
 tempers, and practices of the most eminent Saints, 
 has been lost. These men contributed in general 
 but little to the changes in Church or state, which 
 it is in the office of the annalist to record. They 
 lived and died servants of God in spirit and truth, 
 but, for the most part, disinclined to meddle in 
 worldly concerns, and certainly quite indifferent to 
 celebrity. Their kingdom, their hope, their prize, 
 their glory, was that inheritance which fades not 
 away, reserved for them in Heaven. We need not 
 therefore be surprized to find strange corruptions
 
 112 
 
 early over-running the Church ; shocking acts of 
 violence committed under the cover of religion ; and 
 even some of the best characters, whose actions are 
 preserved, tarnished with great faults. All these 
 these things were so ; and the wisdom of God, I 
 doubt not, permitted them so to be, that those onlv 
 who seek the truth in humbleness and sincerity may 
 find it. Yet there were undoubtedly in every age 
 many, whose very names are forgotten, that sustained 
 in their principles and exhibited in their lives the 
 purity of the Christian faith, following the steps of 
 their blessed Master, trusting in his merits, and 
 conformed to his example. To many I believe 
 ecclesiastical history is full of snares ; to the hum- 
 ble conscientious Christian it is full of instruction. 
 He who first published the glad tidings of salvation 
 to man, has ever watched over his servants with the 
 tenderest love. His eye is now on me who write, 
 and on you who read. I pray God, we, and all 
 who are dear to us, may continually become more 
 and more sensible of this. I have great need to 
 pray this for myself, and hope, my friend, that you 
 will have the kindness at all times to lend me your 
 assistance, to cherish and improve in me whatever 
 good thing it has pleased God to work in my heart, 
 .and to correct whatever is evil. I must bespeak also 
 
 my friend 's kind services ; promising to render 
 
 the same to both according to my knowledge and 
 opportunities.
 
 113 
 
 Dear Sir, Sept. 1810. 
 
 Your cover inclosed two letters, both so kind 
 and acceptable that I am rather unwilling to answer 
 them jointly, but the materials of a reply to each 
 are so much the same, that they will hardly bear 
 
 separation ; and Mrs. will not, I am sure, 
 
 think me the less sensible to the peculiar kindness 
 of her note, because 1 do not express the pleasure 
 and gratitude I feel tor it, directly to her. To be 
 
 remembered at , with interest and affection, 
 
 is, I can truly say, in my estimation, a happiness 
 that would over-balance much severer sufferings and 
 privations than those which I have been called on 
 to support. 
 
 I wish it was in health, as it is often observed to 
 be in character and manners, that men become what 
 they find themselves reputed to be ; for then the 
 congratulation which you received before the as- 
 sembly of magistrates would prove something bet* 
 ter than barren compliments ; however, 1 am glad 
 to hear that you have been able to endure the fa- 
 tigues and inconveniences of a long journey without 
 detriment to your health, though 1 had hoped that 
 the effects of such a tour would have been better 
 than merely negative. It is something to ascertain 
 that we are capable of exertions which were thought 
 doubtful ; for after all, health, like riches and rank, 
 is principally valuable as it confers power and liberty. 
 
 Your account of Loch Katrine, makes me feel 
 how much I have lost by my confinement thissum- 
 
 I
 
 114 
 
 mer-; but I do not despair of yet meeting you on 
 the ridges of Benbenue, if you realize your project 
 of a second visit to those quarters. 
 
 My own history is this : I was on the point of 
 setting out for Scotland, when half persuaded by 
 
 Mr. , and half led by what is commonly 
 
 called accident, I consulted Dr. Reynolds (who has 
 long attended my sister) about an old troublesome 
 cough to which I had paid very little attention. 
 This circumstance (through the goodness of God) 
 has probably saved my life. Dr. R. ordered me 
 immediately into the country, and by frequent 
 bleedings, with strict regimen, &c. has pretty ef- 
 fectually reduced an inflammation on the lungs, 
 which had gained some height, attended with pleu- 
 retic symptoms. The bleedings have now been 
 suspended for near a fortnight. Indeed I am to be 
 bled again to day on account of some slight indica- 
 tions of reviving inflammation ; but on the whole, I 
 am certainly much better, and though considerably 
 reduced in strength, should hardly acknowledge 
 myself an invalid, if the cough did not continue still 
 undiminished. Notwithstanding this, I feel con- 
 siderable confidence of a perfect recovery (I speak 
 according to the ordinary probability of things, 
 without forgetting who is the Sovereign Disposer 
 of every event) ; but I now fear it must be pur- 
 chased at a very high price. When I saw Rey- 
 nolds and Sir H. H. a week ago, they both strongly 
 intimated the necessity of a warmer climate. Yes- 
 terday the former came down here, and I asked him
 
 115 
 
 what prospect there was of my being able to resume 
 my profession in November. He told me, with 
 great kindness of manner, but very intelligibly, that 
 there was none. This however being a matter of 
 very great moment in regard to my future prospects 
 in life, it was determined that a fortnight more should 
 elapse ; that Sir H. H. should be called in ouce 
 more, and that he and Reynolds should give an 
 ultimate judgment. It is however too clear to my 
 conviction, from the language of both, that unless 
 some very unexpected and improbable change takes 
 place in the interval allowed, they will absolutely 
 insist on a cessation from business for some months. 
 This will be a very heavy blow. It must greatly 
 injure my professional prospects, and may prove 
 entirely fatal to them. Yet I know not why I 
 should feel uneasy, and am sure I ought not to re- 
 pine : for He who has made and governs us, cer- 
 tainly must know what is best for his creatures; and 
 I do not at all doubt that if I were better acquainted 
 with myself, and the real, state of things, I should 
 approve and prefer what he is pleased to appoint. 
 And this too is but cold philosophy, compared with 
 the feelings of joy, trust, resignation, and love, which 
 the Gospel encourages and commands us to cherish 
 towards God, as a reconciled and most merciful 
 Father in Christ Jesus. I am greatly obliged to 
 
 Mrs. for what she says on thi subject. 
 
 I must conclude shortly, for the time for bleed ing 
 is arrived, and the operation will disable my writing- 
 arm. I have only begged a few minutes to finish 
 
 12
 
 116 
 
 this. I am much obliged to you for your kind in- 
 tention of visiting me here ; but beino- debarred of 
 
 O O 
 
 speech by express order, I am afraid I must deny 
 myself the gratification, which would probably 
 prove iri some degree prejudicial. 
 
 When my destiny for the winter is decided, you 
 shall know it. If I am obliged to retire for a time 
 
 O 
 
 from my profession, I shall go to a southern climate, 
 probably Sicily ; and the thoughts of wandering 
 over the fields of Enna, and perhaps stretching my 
 travels to Greece and Constantinople, are so pleas- 
 ing, that I await the decision of my judges without 
 great uneasiness. Yet I know this is fancy against 
 judgment. My mind, I thank God, has been, 
 through my whole confinement, and continues to 
 be, perfectly tranquil and cheerful. 
 
 Thursday. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 I can write only a very few lines ; but a few I. 
 must write before I go. I hope you and Mr. 
 
 = will believe me very grateful for all the 
 
 varied kindness shewn me during my illness. I 
 assure you, not only I, but my Father and Mother 
 have felt it very strongly. 
 
 It was a real concern to me that I could not be 
 allowed to see you ; but the mischief done by over- 
 exertion was so serious, that a general order rC ex- 
 clusion became absolutely necessary, and his been
 
 117 
 
 rigorously observed. I am certainly better, but not 
 what I was. 
 
 I cannot conclude without assuring you, that no 
 change of place will alter the sincere and deep 
 feelings of gratitude and affection which I shall 
 
 always cherish toward you and Mr. . 
 
 Wherever I am, I shall think (and often) of 
 
 with peculiar feeling, and bless God for the lessons 
 of truth and piety which I have there received. 
 May I ask as a favour I shall greatly value, that 
 
 you and Mr. will remember me in your 
 
 prayers ; particularly I would request your petitions 
 for true repentance and a lively faith. 
 
 [At parting from his Father, when going abroad the 
 first time, he put into his hand a letter, desiring 
 him not to open it until next morning. It con- 
 tained the following passage :] 
 
 16th October, 1810. 
 
 I owe you more than I can ever repay, for all 
 your unwearied kindness and attentions to me dur- 
 ing my illness. I think it will be a satisfaction to 
 you to know, that I have enjoyed every comfort 
 during my illness that I could possibly desire, and 
 have suffered no inconvenience except what was 
 inseparable from the complaint ; and so much has 
 this been softened by your kindness and my Mo- 
 ther's, and that indeed of all around me, that the
 
 118 
 
 two months of my confinement have really passed, 
 on the whole, very happily, and I shall always look 
 back upon them with peculiar interest. May God 
 repay to you and my dear Mother all I owe you ! 
 
 To the Rev. 
 
 October 23rd, 1810. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your most kind and truly Christian letter reached 
 me here some days since, and believe me I am very 
 grateful for so affectionate a remembrance. I can 
 only send an invalid's reply, for writing has been ' 
 almost forbid ; but wherever I go, you shall not be 
 forgotten, and I shall never remember you without 
 recollecting also the warmth of friendship you have 
 always expressed and shewn towards me. I please 
 myself too, with believing that though far distant, I 
 shall live in your recollection, and even in your 
 prayers. It has pleased God to send to me what, 
 in common language, would be called a severe af- 
 fliction, but I cannot but humbly hope it is rather a 
 dispensation of mercy. After two months of lan- 
 guor and confinement, I am obliged to quit for 
 some time my profession and friends, and seek for 
 a restoration of health in a warmer climate. It is 
 indeed, my friend, but too probable that an impro- 
 per eagerness after advancement may have rendered 
 this chastisement necessary, and I sincerely
 
 119 
 
 you for the faithfulness and honesty of the sugges- 
 tion. May it work at least in me an humbler dis- 
 position, and then I shall have little cause to lament 
 any worldly losses it may occasion. I am at pre- 
 sent waiting for the sailing of the Hibernia, which 
 will probably take place in a few days. My present 
 state of health is not alarming, the worst symptoms 
 having been subdued ; but there is little prospect 
 of re-establishment in this country, and great danger 
 of course from an English winter. In the realms 
 where I am going, 1 fear I shall seldom be reminded 
 of the great concerns of religion by external insti- 
 tutions, or by the congenial feelings and conversa- 
 tion of pious friends. When you remember me in 
 your prayers, as I am sure you will, let me request 
 that you will ask for me an abundant supply of 
 grace to withstand temptation, and grow in the 
 knowledge and love of God and Jesus Christ. 
 Adieu, my dear friend. That you may enjoy every 
 blessing, spiritual and temporal, is the fervent wish 
 of your sincere and affectionate friend. 
 
 Florian, Malta, Dec. 16, closed Dec. 20, 1810. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Though I have not before found a convenient 
 opportunity for writing, I can truly say that you 
 
 and Mrs. , and your young circle, have 
 
 been very, very often in my thoughts since 1 left 
 England: and the remembrance of the happiness I
 
 120 
 
 have enjoyed at , and the active and affec- 
 tionate friendship shewn me at the time when I 
 most needed such supports will not be weakened 
 by time or distance. Yet 2000 miles seems a vas* 
 distance to be removed from every friend. I some' 
 times almost regret having come so far, and made 
 the separation so complete. I do not, however, de- 
 liberately regret it, for there was no nearer point 
 that would, all things considered, have been so eli- 
 gible. After so long a silence, you will have 
 some right to expect a letter full of valuable or 
 curious information ; but I have little as yet to 
 communicate, and write, partly because I know it 
 will give you pleasure to hear, partly to gratify 
 myself; for a letter is at least the shadow of con- 
 versation, and seems to bring our correspondent 
 nearer to us, I cannot help hoping too, that even 
 the distance which is now placed between us, will 
 not prevent my sometimes hearing from you and 
 
 Mrs. -- . Such packets will indeed be very 
 
 valuable to me, both as an assurance that I am re- 
 membered by those whom I most wish to remember 
 me, and (which is of still greater moment) as friendly 
 mementos on the most important of all subjects y 
 which is too apt to be forgotten, or at least less 
 earnestly pursued, amidst the novelties and distrac- 
 tions necessarily incident to a traveller. I trust you 
 will have heard, long before this reaches you, of our 
 safe arrival at this island. Our voyage was re- 
 markably prosperous, and as pleasant as an expedi- 
 tion by sea can be to an invalid, The truth is, h e
 
 121 
 
 requires many comforts which a ship cannot supply, 
 and is not fit to struggle with the roughnesses which 
 winds and waves will sometimes expose him to. 
 
 We entered the port of Valetta on the day and 
 hour three weeks after we went on board at Spit- 
 head. Thus was a prosperous voyage brought to a 
 happy conclusion, and every thing seemed to have 
 been ordained for our comfort and advantage, and I 
 was thinking, I hope with gratitude, of the peculiar 
 goodness of God in averting every danger, and sup- 
 plying so many gratifications ; when intelligence 
 was brought which cast a shade over the prospect. 
 It appeared that we were in quarantine for having 
 touched at Gibraltar, and (the Apollo being ordered 
 off to sea,) that the passengers on board must be 
 sent to the Lazaretto. This was disagreeable enough 
 to those who were in active health ; to me it was 
 extremely serious ; for the Lazaretto here, as indeed 
 in most places, is a wretched habitation. When 
 Howard was at Venice, he went, as he was accus- 
 tomed to do, into the Lazaretto from motives of 
 benevolence, and volunteered a quarantine. But it 
 nearly cost him his life; for notwithstanding the 
 firmness which long habit and regimen had given 
 to his constitution in resisting contagion, the stat<> 
 of the air in the apartment where they lodged him 
 was such, that he was seized with a fever, and would 
 probably there have perished, if he had not, with 
 characteristic presence of mind and fortitude, ap- 
 plied for a quantity of lime, and with his own hands 
 white-washed, and thereby purified, his room. 1
 
 122 
 
 have prosed on about this quarantine affair longer 
 than I intended, for I mentioned it at first, princi- 
 pally to introduce a religious observation on the 
 course of the dealings of Providence ; but it would 
 take up more room than I can now spare. 
 
 Mrs. , in one of her last letters, gave 
 
 me some very kind and important advice respecting 
 tranquillity of mind : will you be so good to assure 
 her that I have not forgotten what she said upon it, 
 in which I cordially concur, and for which I feel 
 sincerely grateful. I dare not say that my practice 
 is worthy of her precepts, yet it has pleased God to 
 bless me with considerable serenity of mind during 
 my late trials, so that though I have often been 
 deeply affected, I have really suffered very little 
 from any corroding anxiety respecting the future. 
 The past has been to me a source of great uneasi- 
 ness ; yet after some strong emotions, I thank God, 
 I was enabled to feel tranquil, and repose with 
 some confidence on the mercy and merits of my 
 Redeemer. I must close this long rambling epistle, 
 which indeed I do not expect that you should have 
 the patience to read through, but when you are tired 
 you will hand it on to Mrs. . 
 
 Florian, Malta, Jan. 27, 1811. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 I remember you mentioned in one of those letters 
 written to me during my confinement in England,
 
 123 
 
 which I shall ever recollect with the warmest gra- 
 titude, that you had learned from Mr. 
 
 to think of absent friends on a Sunday. I do not 
 
 know if Mr. would hold writing to them to 
 
 be within the spirit of the rule ; but as in my pre- 
 sent exile, I think on mine (I believe) every day, 
 and many times a day, I know not how otherwise 
 to give, in that particular, any distinction to the 
 first day of the week. This is a little like trifling 
 on a subject that is really serious, so I will have 
 done ; only I cannot think it a misemployment even 
 of the most sacred season, to converse by letter 
 with those, who are associated in the mind with its 
 best feelings and most pious recollections. I have 
 often longed since I left England for a continuance 
 of your correspondence, as I have often needed it ; 
 and it was some disappointment to me, when a 
 packet did at last arrive, to find that it brought me 
 
 no letter from ; but indeed the date of the 
 
 latest letter I received was so distant, that I am not 
 surprised I did not receive more. I should look for 
 another packet with considerable anxiety and inter- 
 est, if the intelligence I received by the last, respect- 
 ing my dear Sister's health, had been less melan- 
 choly. But now I dread the arrival of worse news, 
 and would willingly compromise to hear no news at 
 all from England, so that I might be left in posses- 
 sion of the little hope which uncertainty always 
 affords. It was my most earnest prayer that she 
 might not be taken from us in my absence, and in- 
 deed it would have been difficult to persuade me to
 
 124 
 
 leave England, had I anticipated such a blow ; and 
 yet I ought to have anticipated it. I do not know 
 Jiow you have felt on first receiving afflicting intelli- 
 gence ; probably very differently and far more 
 piously than I ; but I own I cannot boast of having 
 attained to that blessed state of mind, in which such 
 dispensations are received with a smile of heavenly 
 satisfaction. On the contrary, I think such occa- 
 sions have taught me more of the real corruption 
 of my nature than any other. They have taught 
 me also the importance of not trusting too exclu- 
 sively to the affections in religion ; these have been 
 dreadfully disturbed whenever unlooked-for dis- 
 tresses and disappointments have fallen on me ; and 
 had my whole stock of religion consisted in them, 
 I tremble to think what might have ensued. The 
 sheet anchor of the soul under such circumstances, 
 I have always found to be a deeply rooted and 
 settled intellectual conviction of the wisdom and 
 goodness of God ; this never has been shaken, be- 
 cause I well know that my little sufferings, how- 
 ever bitter, can never affect materially the weight 
 of evidence on which this great truth reposes. The 
 understanding therefore approved, even while the 
 heart rebelled, and so by degrees (through the mercy 
 of God) evil sentiments were overcome, and better 
 affections gradually attained. Forgive me all this 
 foolish egotism ; I have written what my feelings 
 dictated, without much reflection, trusting to that 
 kindness for forgiveness which I am not afraid of 
 over-estimating. Let me, however, add one ob?
 
 125 
 
 Nervation which grows naturally out of what I have" 
 been saying, and does not begin with the silliest of 
 all monosyllables. We find love inculcated in the 
 New Testament as the chief commandment and 
 great principle of Christianity : that in which we 
 are made perfect, and resemble God, who is most 
 emphatically described to be Love. Yet the Apos- 
 tles from time to time inculcate the necessity of 
 fearing God, and when St. John declares that per- 
 fect love casteth out fear, I own I think he means 
 more than a base servile fear. Is there not wonder- 
 ful wisdom and mercy in thus keeping alive a prin- 
 ciple which at first sight might have been expected 
 to be abandoned as belonging to a less perfect dis- 
 pensation ? Could the best among us be trusted, 
 if I may so speak, with the single injunction to 
 love God with all his heart/ I do myself believe, 
 and am indeed fully convinced, that it is of the 
 very highest moment to graft in the mind a most 
 awful and humbling sense of the Majesty, Su- 
 premacy, and unspeakable Perfection of the Al- 
 mighty, of moment, I mean, even to those who 
 in their best hours are able to act from an higher 
 principle, and delight in the service of their Maker. 
 The weakness of our nature doubtless requires a 
 principle to guard us against sin, as well as a prin- 
 ciple which may advance us in holiness ; that we 
 may dread to offend, even when for a little while 
 we cease to love. The fear of God seems to be 
 the great barrier which should be planted behind us, 
 when we endeavour to press forward in the path of
 
 righteousness ; lest losing through carelessness or 
 corruption the life of those heavenly affections 
 which at first inspired us with energy, we remain 
 exposed to the temptations of sin, without any in- 
 ternal principle of defence. And now instead of 
 asking forgiveness for egotism, I must ask it for 
 prosing 
 
 Florian, Feb. 12th, 1811. 
 
 My dearest Mother, 
 
 The packet from England is arrived, and has 
 brought us intelligence of the solemn and afflicting 
 event which has lately taken place. That my dear- 
 est Sister's happiness is unspeakably increased by 
 her great change, I do not feel the slightest degree 
 of doubt. For her therefore it is impossible to 
 mourn. For you and my dear Father and all her 
 near relatives, I do indeed feel very deeply ; but I 
 doubt not that God, who is full of compassion, has 
 given, and will give, support and strength propor- 
 tioned to the affliction. I have yet learned no par- 
 ticulars, having declined, for the present, reading 
 the letters ; but hereafter, perhaps, we shall both be 
 sufficiently composed to talk these things over toge- 
 ther, with a melancholy pleasure ; but with feelings 
 far different from those who have not the conso- 
 lations of Christianity ; or having, disregard them. 
 The separation which it has pleased God to ordain, 
 is but for a time; for those who are dead in Christ
 
 127 
 
 will God bring with him ; and St. Paul would not 
 have used this as an argument why we should not 
 mourn as those who have no hope, if it did not im- 
 ply a re-union to those we have loved on earth. 
 This text appears to me very conclusive, on a point 
 which has been often agitated, and is peculiarly in- 
 teresting to all who are parted from what is dear to 
 them. But indeed, the whole tenor of the Gospel 
 seems to me to speak the same language. When 
 the saints or true servants of God are spoken of, 
 they are described as " the joint-heirs with Christ/' 
 " the children of God/* " his family in heaven and 
 earth," " the citizens of a city that hath founda- 
 tions/' " the inhabitants of the new Jerusalem :" 
 and in the Revelations, the redeemed are repre- 
 sented as surrounding the throne in great multi- 
 tudes, ,and following the Lamb whithersoever he 
 goeth. Surely all this implies that in Heaven there 
 is a society of the faithful, somewhat, though faintly, 
 resembling that on earth. Indeed, it is difficult to 
 say what is meant by the doctrine of the resurrec- 
 tion of the body, so much insisted on by St. Paul 
 in the fifteenth chapter to the Corinthians, if the 
 mutual recognition of friends and relatives is not 
 implied in it. I do not therefore myself in the 
 least doubt, that all of us, who by the Holy Spirit 
 shall be sanctified and made meet for the enjoy- 
 ment of everlasting life, will again meet the dear 
 departed saint from whom we are now separated. 
 And thanks be to God, though the way is strait, it 
 is not dark. We need but consider what our Sa-
 
 128 
 
 viour was, and labour to be like him. I have often 
 thought, and the idea was first suggested by a very 
 excellent man, that one of the best ways of repress- 
 ing evil passions and resolving doubts, when cir- 
 cumstances arise that give birth to either, is to con- 
 sider for a moment, if this event had happened to 
 our blessed Saviour while on earth, or in his pre- 
 sence, how he would have acted, or directed a dis- 
 ciple to act. May I request, my dear Mother, your 
 prayers and my Father's, for such spiritual assist- 
 ance, that I may grow continually in grace, and 
 daily be made more conformable to the image of 
 Him " who gave himself for us, that he might 
 purify to himself a peculiar people, zealous of good 
 works." So shall we all meet at last before the 
 throne of grace, whatever partial and temporary 
 separations may precede our final and eternal 
 union. 
 
 My health and strength have gone on improving, 
 without any relapse, and I hope I am now out of 
 the reach of danger from any such change of season 
 as is to be apprehended in these parts. What I 
 have always dreaded most is, lest the means adopted to 
 cure the complaint on my lungs, should bring me 
 into a low nervous state, like that in which my 
 dearest Sister lingered for so many years ; and which 
 she supported with such angelic patience and hea- 
 venly-m i nded n ess . 
 
 I do most willingly renew my assurance to my 
 Father and you, that the recovery of my health 
 shall be my first object during the whole time I re-
 
 129 
 
 main abroad. Pray thank my Father very much 
 tor his letter, and portion of a letter. One passage 
 
 in Mrs. 's letter I will transrcibe. After 
 
 speaking of your visit to , and of my Fa- 
 ther, and you, and Aunt H. very kindly, she adds, 
 " I did not think when I saw your sweet Sister, 
 that God, in his love and mercy, had intended 
 thus to cut short her sufferings. It is a great plea- 
 sure to me to think that I saw her; the impression 
 of her angelic countenance, and her cheerful efforts 
 to bring forward your favourable symptoms, while 
 she calmly mentioned her own fatal ones, struck me 
 with admiration and respect." 
 
 My dear Mother, the few lines you added to 
 my Father's letter have given me unspeakable sa- 
 tisfaction and comfort. Had you wished for me at 
 Hastings, on any other account than for my own 
 gratification, or if my dear Sister had wanted me 
 there, it would have wounded me to the soul. 
 
 13th Feb. 
 
 I do not venture to trust myself with thinking 
 much on the subject which most presses on my 
 mind ; there are so many things that 1 could wish 
 to have said or done, and so many afflicting: associ- 
 ations accompanying, that 1 feel it my duty to busy 
 myself as much as 1 can about other things ; but 
 there is one idea which has been continually present 
 to my mind, and has given me great consolation, 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 and even pleasure. My dear Sister's feelings were 
 so sensitively awake, and the general system of her 
 health so fatally disturbed, that I have often grieved 
 at heart, to think how little of satisfaction and hap- 
 piness she was likely to find in that after life, from 
 which it has pleased God in mercy to remove her. 
 Now she is with One who will shield her from 
 every suffering ; whose peculiar attribute is tender- 
 ness, for so He was described by the prophet : " the 
 bruised reed he shall not break, nor quench the 
 smoaking flax ;" " He shall not strive nor cry ;" 
 and his very mission was " to bind up the broken- 
 hearted." I do not know that the matter will bear 
 a close examination, but I assure you, in thinking 
 of my dear Sister, I have felt a consolation and de- 
 light in recollecting passages of this kind, which I 
 am persuaded I should not have felt, if the Scrip- 
 tures had described our Redeemer only as wise, holy, 
 just, and good. I mention it because what is re- 
 lieving to one mind may be so to another, and 
 happy indeed should I be, if by any means I could 
 lessen the weight of affliction which must be felt by 
 you and my dear Father. It will be a satisfac- 
 tion, I am sure, both to you and my Father, to 
 know that my Uncle and I have lived together, and 
 continue to do so, in* perfect harmony and good will. 
 He is very kind to me, and I hope I feel grateful 
 for it. The unvaried kindness and friendly atten- 
 tions, which I have ever received from General 
 Oakes, are such as I shall remember through life 
 with the warmest gratitude. His behaviour to my
 
 131 
 
 Uncle has also been most kind and friendly. There 
 are others in this place for whom 1 feel much affec- 
 tion, and from whom I shall part with regret. This 
 is one of the pains, and indeed the great pain of short 
 residences. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Mother, begging my kindest love 
 to my Father, to whom I shall write by the next 
 opportunity. I am your ever affectionate J. B. 
 
 Florian, Feb. 17, 1811. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Your very kind letter reached me at a time when 
 I stood greatly in need of the consolation it is cal- 
 culated to produce : for the small packet which con- 
 veyed it, brought me the news of one of the very 
 heaviest afflictions which could have befallen me 
 the loss of my doarest Sister ; a stroke for which a 
 letter from my Father, about three weeks before, 
 had in some measure prepared me ; but the heavi- 
 ness of which preparation might divide, but could 
 not diminish. I loft England, certainly with no 
 reasonable hope of seeing her again ; but hope and 
 reason are too often strangers to each other ; and the 
 pain I suffered in imagining such an event was so 
 great, that I in a manner set myself against it, and 
 did not believe, because I would not believe, that 
 this winter would prove more fatal than those which 
 had preceded it. A week which has now passed since 
 the arrival of the packet, has in some degree calmed 
 
 K ?
 
 132 
 
 my feelings ; and every circumstance attending the 
 departure from this world, of one little fitted to 
 struggle through it, is so consolatory and indeed 
 delightful, that I am almost ashamed of being so 
 much affected : but there is something in death na- 
 turally terrible to man. It is the first separation 
 from any near relative, or friend, that I have expe- 
 rienced ; and at such a time a thousand recollections 
 of past scenes of pleasure or endearment crowd 
 upon the mind, and bring with them the bitter re- 
 flection that they are gone by for ever. Yet let me 
 assure you, (indeed you must have known it expe- 
 rimentally far better than I,) that notwithstanding 
 these weaknesses, Christianity vindicates all her 
 greatness in the midst of sorrows such as these ; 
 the full and undoubted persuasion which I entertain, 
 that my dearest Sister now rests with Him who will 
 shield her from every suffering, is a satisfaction such 
 as I would not exchange for the wealth of worlds. 
 I would not recall her if I could ; and feel a new 
 and powerful incentive to holy exertion, in the hope 
 that I may one day be allowed to join her. Forgive 
 me, my dear Sir, for employing so much of the 
 short letter it is in my power at present to send, on 
 this subject. I am greatly obliged to you for your 
 very kind and pious suggestions respecting it ; they 
 have I hope already some, influence, and I trust they 
 will acquire more. 
 
 You express a wish to know what I imagine 
 may be the probable effect of the changes which 
 the French revolution has wrought in the world,
 
 133 
 
 upon the States bordering on the Mediterranean. 
 1 shall be more competent to form an opinion on 
 this subject after having visited Sicily, as I propose 
 shortly to do ; but I confess (though I quite agree 
 with you in thinking that the evils arising from bad 
 forms of government and absurd institutions have 
 been much under-rated,) I have some doubts whe- 
 ther the advantages which you hope may result from 
 the changes that have taken place, can reasonably be 
 anticipated. I have not room here to state the rea- 
 sons which make me hesitate in hailing with joy your 
 brighter auguries ; but shall be exceedingly glad on 
 some future occasion, either on paper or (if it please 
 God to permit) orally, to discuss this subject, which 
 is one of the most sublime and interesting that the 
 political world has ever supplied. One thing I 
 plainly see, and there I think you will agree with 
 me, that the example of successful violence is very 
 dangerous. The leaders of the French revolution, 
 (and above all the extraordinary person who at pre- 
 sent governs that country) by the union of great abi- 
 lities with the most daring disregard of all moral 
 restraints, have conquered Europe. This is a tre- 
 mendous precedent ; but of these things more here- 
 after. I wrote to Mrs. about a fortnight ago, 
 
 and will write again the next opportunity. The 
 few lines in which she speaks of my dearest Sister are 
 to me inestimable. I do yet not exactly know wh*>n 
 we shall leave this place, or what our motions will 
 be hereafter. My idea was, to have spent March 
 in Sicily, and in April to have made a short cxcur-
 
 134 
 
 sion by way of Zante into Greece ; but my taste for 
 the amusement of rambling is now lessened, and 
 the earnest entreaties which I receive from home 
 not to hazard my health or life, make me feel bound 
 to be much more considerate than I might otherwise 
 be. The temptations on the other hand are really 
 great. It was but yesterday that one of the plea- 
 santest men in the navy offered to take me on a 
 cruize up the Adriatic in his frigate I really think 
 I would give any one of the fingers on my left hand 
 to go, but I believe it must not be. The kindness 
 and friendly attentions we have received in this place 
 have been such, that I shall feel some pain in leav- 
 ing it ; to General Oakes in particular I am bound 
 by the strongest ties of gratitude. He understands 
 the true secret of winning affection ; which is not 
 to be purchased by one or two great favours, but 
 may always be secured by continued attentions, and 
 that detail of kindness which can only be the fruit 
 of a true benevolence and real interest in your hap- 
 piness. The climate of Malta is certainly very fine : 
 the rains, when they fall, are semi-oriental, coming 
 down like a cataract and breaking up the roads ; 
 the winds too are such as might have justified the 
 ancients in feigning;' this to be the habitation of 
 
 ~ o , 
 
 yEolus himself: but in spite of these inconveniences 
 which are but occasional, the purity of the air, and 
 mildness of the temperature during winter, make 
 the island a very eligible residence for an invalid. 
 It wants trees and English laws for its convenience 
 and beauty.
 
 135 
 
 Leskard, Cornwall, Aug. 6th, IS 11. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I am sure it will give you and Mrs. - plea* 
 sure to hear that, by the favour of God, I am safely 
 landed in England, after along passage in the packet 
 of very near two months. We cast anchor in Fal- 
 mouth harbour an hour or rather more after midnight 
 on Saturday last (a readier pen would have said be- 
 tween one and two on Sunday morning,) having 
 been at sea since the 12th of June. I have come 
 home contrary I confess to the advice which 
 Mrs. -- has more than once given me in her 
 very kind letters, but not I assure you in any 
 manner from a neglect or forgetfulness of it. The 
 same advice has I own been enforced from other 
 quarters ; but none of ray friends in England were 
 fully aware of the extreme difficulty, not to say im- 
 possibility, of finding any station in the Mediterra- 
 nean, which would be at all a proper residence for 
 me during the summer months. 1 know but of one 
 Castrogiovanni, which indeed was sometimes 
 mentioned to me, and respecting which I might 
 |>erhaps have hesitated, if I had not been there : 
 but to have seen it, is enough to determine any be- 
 ing with eyes (most undoubtedly any one possessed 
 of rational faculties,) rather to make the circuit of 
 the globe, than fix his residence there.* The far- 
 famed Enna (for such is Castrogiovanni) the theme 
 of so many delightful effusions in poetry and elo- 
 quence, is now the very bathos of wretchedness ;
 
 136 
 
 and, that wretchedness may have its proper accom- 
 paniments, it is at present garrisoned by a large 
 corps of Neapolitan troops, who hate the English 
 from loyalty as well as instinct, and are like most 
 other English-haters, themselves hateful to every 
 body else. In short (for I perceive I am somewhat 
 prolix) I thought it much more expedient, after 
 frequently considering the subject, to sail to Eng- 
 land, even though it should be necessary to return 
 after a short time, than stand the hazard of a sum- 
 mer in the Mediterranean I am a good deal later 
 than I intended or wished to be : but this has been 
 rather a trying voyage ; for our vessel was crowded, 
 and a little lady of six months old, who slept in the 
 cabin behind me, very innocently (but very unfor- 
 tunately) kept me awake two nights out of three 
 during the whole passage ; a ratio which in eight 
 weeks makes a large sum total : the consequence is, 
 that I have derived much less benefit from this voyage 
 than I had hoped, and the pain of feeling myself re- 
 cede, when I should have been advancing, was much 
 increased by the very great anxiety I felt, to cherish 
 and nurse up all the health and strength I could, for 
 my arrival in England ; having reason to fear that 
 my friends there, and particularly my dear Mother, 
 entertained much higher expectations, than I could 
 hope at the very best to realize. The truth is, that 
 though recruited, I am far from being recovered. 
 
 I have never answered a very kind letter which 
 you wrote me ; for though I filled a sheet and a half 
 at Messina, during my second visit to that place in
 
 137 
 
 May last, intending to send it to you, I thought it 
 approached so near to the Irishman delivering his 
 letter with his own hands, that I destroyed my la- 
 bours. There was one passage in your letter which 
 strongly fixed my attention at the time, and has lived 
 in my recollection ever since: it is that, in which 
 you say, that you " have enjoyed enough of the 
 happiness of life to convince you of the benevolence 
 of the Giver, and that it is the characteristic scheme 
 of his providence to provide for the happiness of 
 his creatures in every state of being, if they do not 
 deliberately rebel against him." I too am fully con- 
 vinced of this great truth, more deeply and sacredly 
 convinced of it (I think,) than of any other in the 
 whole circle of moral science and yet I do assure you, 
 there have been many seasons in which ,1 have felt 
 my best convictions almost sink under me, and have 
 leant as it were on the support of your authority, 
 tflad to find a prop for my own weakness. The 
 f>ains of protracted illness are indeed very great: 
 ' to be weak, is to be wretched, doing or suffering." 
 I know full well, that I have merited far severer 
 chastisement than that which has been inflicted ; 
 and the divines sometimes direct us to reflect on 
 this, in our seasons of trial Indeed it may well 
 silence complaining, but it is sad consolation. He 
 who believes that he is afflicted only that he may 
 be made more perfect and meet for a never-fading 
 inheritance, who can measure the favour of God by 
 his chastisements, may well suffer joyfully ; but hou 
 difVrrent is the case of that man, who fears that his
 
 138 
 
 chastisements are penal judgments, rather than mer- 
 cies. I do not however mean exactly to describe 
 myself under either of these two characters, and 
 indeed am almost ashamed to speak of my little 
 pains, as if they were a great matter ; but it has 
 struck me very forcibly of late, that a deep convic- 
 tion of the real characteristic essential goodness of 
 God, not resting on that slight acquiescence with 
 which it is generally received, but founded on a 
 careful examination of the Scriptures, and a diligent 
 and considerate survey of the nature and course of 
 His providence in the constitution and government 
 of the world, which may furnish the mind in the 
 hour of trial with sufficient evidences for this great 
 truth ; is of infinitely of more importance than is 
 ordinarily imagined, and forms indeed a very large 
 part of that faith, which is always represented as 
 the main spring of all virtuous action, and only source 
 of genuine and abiding holiness. Of course I do 
 not mean a blind goodness, which has no respect to 
 the character of, those towards whom it is exercised ; 
 and yet is it not true (I think the sentence in your 
 letter to which I have alluded implies it) that the 
 terms in which the goodness of God is spoken of in 
 the Scriptures, and the evidences to which the ex- 
 ternal world supplies, prove a benevolence which 
 vastly transcends a mere readiness to reward those 
 who obey him 1 Are we not justified in saying, 
 that where there is but a willingness to obey, ay 
 perhaps but a faint willingness, He will watch, and 
 cherish, and encourage, and improve it, and wait
 
 139 
 
 to be gracious, and bear with many infirmities, and 
 finally abandon no one till every hope of reformation 
 is past? This is a great and elevating subject, and 
 happy are they whose knowledge of it is both just 
 and settled. But the night has stolen on me, and I 
 have slept so little of late, that I have no inclination 
 to abridge the seasons of repose. 
 
 Plymouth, Wednesday Evening. 
 
 On looking over what I wrote last night, 1 feel a 
 little discomposed to see how much appearance 
 there is of a complaining dissatisfied spirit. But I 
 will not alter it, for I am sure your candour and 
 kindness will make large allowances larger than I 
 merit. 
 
 1 have wandered a good deal since I wrote to 
 you, Messina, Malta, Gibraltar, and so to England, 
 a country which I valued before I left it, but the 
 value of which I never adequately knew till then. 
 1 am corne home a most passionate patriot, proud 
 of being an Englishman. The feeling has vulgarity 
 enough in it, for as far as I can observe, it is uni- 
 versal ; and yet I know not in matters of feeling 
 whether universality may not be the best criterion 
 of truth. Why is it that this noble land has been 
 so little celebrated in song, while the best poets of 
 Scotland, Thompson, Burns, and W. Scott, have 
 all written in praise of their native country. Are 
 " the mountain and the flood," " the glen of green 
 Breckan, and burn stealing under the lon^ r yellow
 
 140 
 
 broom ;" are all that is great and beautiful in nature, 
 objects of juster admiration, or more truly sublime, 
 than that moral elevation, that genuine dignity of 
 character, courage softened with humanity, freedom 
 chastised and heightened by loyalty, the intelligence, 
 the knowledge, the activity, the fervour of love, that 
 pervade and glow through every quarter of this asto- 
 nishing island ? I have yet to thank you for the 
 very kind reception which you gave to the rhymes 
 I sent you some months ago ; I have woven a few 
 more in the course of my wanderings through Sicily, 
 and on my passage home. They are very few, and 
 very slight, but such as they are I will send them. 
 If I continue an invalid, (which I consider as by 
 no means improbable, so far at least as to shut me 
 out from my profession,) I shall probably cultivate 
 the fine arts, much more than would have been pos- 
 sible or proper in a life of business ; and I look for- 
 ward with eagerness to the study both of drawing 
 and music, yet in some respects poetry is much 
 above them both ; they hold a sort of border terri- 
 tory between sense and intellect, admirably suited 
 to entertain and refine a being such as man, com- 
 posed of opposite qualities, and subject to the in- 
 fluence of his senses, as well as bound to cultivate 
 his higher faculties. But poetry is almost wholly 
 conversant with intellectual and moral objects, and 
 speaks far more to the understanding and feelings, 
 than to the senses ; its field too, is far more exten- 
 sive, as no less an authority than Mr. Burke has 
 shewn. But what in point of convenience is above
 
 HI 
 
 all, is, that poetry may be composed at any time 
 when the mind is free ; it requires no apparatus 
 " pernoctat nobiscum, peregrinatur, rusticatur." 
 
 Cavvsand Bay, Oct. 26, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Father, 
 
 We had rather an awkward accident coming off 
 on Thursday ; the barge, which was quite full, 
 struck twice on a reef of sunk rocks that are very 
 dangerous, and where many have been lost. Pro- 
 videntially, we only just brushed them ; but had 
 there been three inches less water, it is probable the 
 next wave would have filled the boat, and those 
 who could not save themselves by swimming would 
 have perished. Of the many imminent dangers to 
 which we are exposed how few are there which we 
 notice or remember with a becoming gratitude ! 
 
 I am happy to say that we are at last fairly at sea. 
 I passed the rest of Saturday and the greater part of 
 Sunday alone on board ; the weather very unpro- 
 mising and the rain falling in torrents. But on 
 Sunday afternoon, the wind, which had been veer- 
 ing eastward for some hours, seemed to assume a 
 more settled character. The whole party came off 
 with some dispatch, and we were under weigh soon 
 after four. There was so little wind that I thought 
 we must have warped out. However we managed 
 to get round Penlee point, and finding more wind 
 in the Channel, were soon running at the rate of
 
 142 
 
 nine knots, for the Menelaus understands flying as 
 well as the Apollo. Nothing could be more beau- 
 tiful than the moment when we were clearing the 
 bay. The north-easterly wind had swept away all 
 the darkness that had for some days filled the at- 
 mosphere ; the sun was setting on the right with 
 more magnificence than I remember to have seen 
 since I left the Mediterranean ; the moon on the 
 opposite quarter, though half veiled in clouds, threw 
 a bright gleam on the waves, and the increasing 
 darkness made this line of light every moment more 
 beautiful ; in the horizon the Ediston was visible, 
 and, last but not least, our noble frigate, with all 
 her sails set, was gliding majestically down the 
 waters. 
 
 Falmouth, Oct. 31, 1811. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 A few lines I know will be acceptable, though I 
 have no very agreeable intelligence to communicate. 
 We got out of Cawsand Bay on Sunday evening, 
 after having made two previous attempts, and sailed 
 down Channel with a fair wind. But on Monday 
 the wind got round to the West and became ex- 
 ceedingly heavy ; we were at that time near Ushant, 
 within sight of the French coast. The night of 
 Monday was trying, the ship rolled violently, and 
 any thing like rest was impossible, and on Tuesday 
 the weather continuing very wild and the wind quite
 
 143 
 
 contrary, we were glad to take shelter in this har- 
 bour. Here we shall stay till there is a prospect, 
 which we have not at present, of putting to sea in 
 better auspices. I was much harassed by the two 
 nights spent in the Channel, and had some very 
 unpleasant sensations about the chest, though thank 
 God without any worse symptoms. Two quiet 
 nights have restored me a good deal, but the sleep- 
 ing accommodations on board are so bad, that I 
 cannot look forward to the voyage without appre- 
 hension. I endeavour however to consider, that all 
 these things, and their issue, are appointed from 
 above, by Him who is too wise to err, and too mer- 
 ciful not to desire the happiness even of the least of 
 his creatures ; that life is short, and those things 
 may much more justly be deemed good and de- 
 sirable, which tend to fit us for a better state, than 
 those which only promote our happiness in this. 
 
 Where the mind is fully persuaded that death only 
 occasions a change in the nature of our existence, 
 not the termination of it, everything assumes a new 
 character ; pain and pleasure, prosperity and sorrow, 
 lose their ordinary meaning. But such is the weak- 
 ness of human nature, that not only is death terrible, 
 but it is generally difficult to be heartily pleased 
 with any thing that is good only with reference to 
 a state of existence different from that which we 
 now enjoy. Do you remember a scene in a play, 
 (objectionable enough in some parts,) Measure for 
 Measure, between Claudio and his Sister, on the
 
 144 
 
 approaching death of the former* It is very fine 
 and almost dreadfully so. 
 
 I have mentioned my fears for the approaching 
 voyage ; it is but right that I should notice the 
 agremens. These consist in a very fine vessel, and 
 a very pleasant party. I have seen enough of Lord 
 William to be very well pleased that he is to be 
 the Commander in Chief on board the Menelaus. 
 There are other very pleasant men on board, who 
 would be thought so, even in select society. A 
 cough warns me to conclude. 
 
 November, 1811. 
 
 While waiting for a boat on the beach at Tangier, 
 we met with a French sailor, a petty captain who 
 commanded a little privateer that cruizes about and 
 robs in those quarters. Some of our party fell into 
 conversation with him. The man spoke with horror 
 and hatred of the Spaniards, who he said murdered 
 
 the French wherever they met them. General 
 
 asked him what the French did in Spain, and why, 
 having a good country at home, they could not be 
 content to stay there : the man seemed to feel the 
 pertinency of the remark, but replied only to the 
 last part, " Ah ! Je le scais bien, il n'y a qu'une 
 France !"
 
 145 
 
 Palermo, Dec. 14th, 1811. 
 
 My dear , 
 
 I have just now taken possession of two rooms 
 
 which has been kind enough to give me in 
 
 his house, (or ' piano' rather, for we live here as you 
 do at Edinburgh, in stories,) and I cannot better 
 employ a vacant hour, than in telling you how much 
 I am indebted to your friend, and thanking you for 
 it. I do not say this in joke, but in unfeigned sin- 
 cerity, being well assured that I am .chiefly indebted 
 to the favourable, 1 fear, flattering, reports of me, 
 which your kindness has led you to make, for the 
 facility I have experienced in obtaining his good will 
 and friendly offices. I rejoiced very much in find- 
 ing that he was at Palermo when I arrived here, and 
 1 need not say that my pre-disposition to think 
 highly of him has been in perfect unison with the 
 impressions that a personal acquaintance has pro- 
 duced ; for certainly there are not many men under 
 whoso roof I should venture to place myself upon 
 so little previous knowledge. I exceedingly like 
 what I have seen of him, and (which is a testimony 
 of more value) he is very much approved and ad- 
 mired by all here whose good opinion is worth pos- 
 sessing. He knew me to be an invalid, and heard 
 that I had found no convenient lodging ; the rest 
 I have already told, and you will believe that I feel 
 sincerely grateful for such an attention. At the dis- 
 tance from London which I suppose you now to be, 
 
 L
 
 146 
 
 you will not readily hear much of me ; so I may ven- 
 ture to tell you a little of my history without fear 
 of repeating what is already known. I embarked on 
 board the Menelaus, a remarkably fine frigate com- 
 manded by Captain Peter Parker, on Sunday 13th 
 October, having being hurried into Portsmouth from 
 Widley, by an express, the same day ; that evening 
 we dropped down to St. Helen's, and the next set 
 sail for Plymouth, which place we reached on Wed- 
 nesday after a prosperous voyage. From Portsmouth 
 
 I had only tw r o compagnons de voyage, Major 
 
 and Mr. ; at Plymouth we waited about ten 
 
 days, and after having weighed anchor from Caw- 
 sand Bay three several times unsuccessfully, at last 
 cleared Penlee Point on one of the sweetest even- 
 ings that ever shone on Mount Edgcumbe, and 
 surely the fairest lights of Heaven might be proud 
 of illuminating such a Paradise. No wonder I 
 should write poetry, and still less wonder that being 
 written, I should suspend my prose narration to 
 insert it. La voila : 
 
 Adieu ! adieu ! dear happy shore, 
 
 Where Freedom reigns, where Beauty smiles ; 
 Long may the circling Ocean roar 
 
 The Guardian of these favoured Isles. 
 
 When high the crested billows swell, 
 When tempests chafe his angry breast, 
 
 The deafening peal to me shall tell 
 Of social bliss and sacred rest.
 
 147 
 
 And as the mingling sounds decay, 
 
 And as the surging waves repose, 
 When sinks the gale with dawning day 
 
 In fitful murmurs to its close. 
 
 The hollow gust that travels by, 
 
 Shall many a kindred thought renew ; 
 
 And sad remembrance heave a sigh 
 To early Love and Absence due. 
 
 For there my infant tales were told, 
 
 And there my boyish sports were played, 
 
 When blythe the careless moments roll'd, 
 From morn to evening's twilight shade. 
 
 And there on manhood's opening year 
 
 The rising star of rapture shone ; 
 Ah hope ! too long to Fancy dear, 
 
 To bleeding Fancy only known. 
 
 When parch'd beneath the solar ray, 
 Far from the tamarind's friendly bough, 
 
 Or stretch'd where evening gales allay 
 With dewy breath my burning brow, 
 
 How oft shall memory's eye retrace 
 The scenes of earlier hope and joy ! 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 That's all. But I have written more stanzas than 
 these, on a different and higher subject, which I 
 
 L :
 
 148 
 
 will transcribe at the close of this, for though I 
 do not like to double an enormous postage, I ra- 
 ther think you will have as much pleasure in reading 
 my rhymes, as in any thing which can ordinarily 
 be purchased for five shillings. Is this vanity, or 
 is it the confidence of a long-tried friendship ? I 
 am willing to hope the latter. Yet I principally 
 rely on the subject for covering the defects of the 
 poetry. To proceed with my narrative ; at Ply- 
 mouth we took on board La Sua Eccellenza Lord 
 William Bentinck, his brother Lord Frederic, Fre- 
 deric Lambe, Sec. de Leg., General M'Farlane, and 
 Colonel Adam. The two last I had known in Si- 
 cily, and liked. With the latter indeed I am be- 
 come quite intimate, and a very sensible, friendly, 
 and worthy man he is. I am indebted to him for 
 much kindness. It would have been most unthink- 
 ing of the winds and waves if they had overwhelmed 
 such a party as this ; but they are thoughtless crea- 
 tures enough, and I cannot say what might have 
 happened if the Menelaus had not proved an excel- 
 lent sea-boat ; for we encountered off Ushant, on 
 the second night of our voyage, such a gale as 
 would make most of us look very serious, had we 
 been on board a worse vessel ; and as it was, we 
 were all glad, after driving about under storm-stay- 
 sails for twenty-four hours, to shelter ourselves in 
 Falmouth harbour. At Falmouth we staid waiting 
 the winds' pleasure rather more than a week ; so that 
 we did not ultimately sail from England till the 7th 
 of November, on which dav, with considerable
 
 149 
 
 difficulty, we got to sea. Again we met with a 
 stiff breeze directly in our teeth, at the entrance 
 of the Channel, and were beginning to think we 
 must run for Cork, when appearances began to im~ 
 prove ; the wind first abated, and then shifted, and 
 so rapid are the vicissitudes of a sea-life, that in 
 four days after our rough usage, one hundred miles 
 to the west of the Lizard, we were gliding swiftly 
 round Cape St. Vincent, without any sensible mo- 
 tion, and on one of the softest and most delicious 
 summer evenings imaginable. I doubt if a transi- 
 tion more complete or more striking can any where 
 be felt, than that which I have twice experienced 
 in sailing southward. What the weather is in our 
 Channel in the month of November you may rea- 
 dily imagine ; but that month, which is one of the 
 worst with us, is the delight of the more southern 
 regions 1'Ete de St. Martin. I do not know that 
 1 ever experienced in England weather so perfectly 
 delicious as that which prevails during this season in 
 latitudes 35 and 36. At Tangier we shortly arrived, 
 and there we all spent some hours on shore, and 
 I, for the first time, saw a specimen of oriental 
 manners. We went first to the English Consul, 
 (where by the way, we met the celebrated Colonel 
 Charmilly who resides there,) and from thence were 
 carried by a fine, venerable, Moorish guide, first to 
 the Sub-Governor (for the Chief, \vho is a great man, 
 was at Tetuan) ; he was sitting cross-leeg^d on a 
 mat, in a sort of stone lodge, and the whole appear- 
 ance was so humble, that we with difficulty re-
 
 150 
 
 pressed our smiles : we made our bows respectfully ; 
 " he from his state inclined not," or at least the 
 inclination, if any, was scarce perceptible. But we 
 were not punctilious, and went on to visit the castle, 
 where the Governor resides. It~was striking from 
 its novelty, and by no means a contemptible habita- 
 tion. The apartments belonging to his Haram were 
 really elegant, and retained marks of the ancient 
 Saracenic grandeur. We next visited the Bazar, 
 where I was much amused with the busy scene 
 around me, and particularly pleased to see a groupe 
 of camels reclining on some rising ground, expect- 
 ing their burthens. They looked as savage as every 
 thing else around them. The dress and physiognomy 
 of the Moors are highly striking. The interior of 
 the town miserable, the exterior picturesque to- 
 wards the sea ; the surrounding country grand and 
 desolate. All this was new to me, and I am glad 
 to have seen it. But it is time to leave Tangier. 
 Of Gibraltar I have nothing new to say. During 
 a whole fortnight after leaving it we beat against 
 contrary winds on the Barbary coast almost as high 
 as Algiers, and were beginning to murmur a little at 
 our ill fortune, when a favouring breeze reached us, 
 and after a pause of a few hours at Cagliari, brought 
 us ^safe to Palermo.
 
 151 
 
 Malta, March, 1812. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 The experience of the last winter has, I hope, 
 strengthened one Christian principle, and that not 
 the least valuable ; I mean Trust in the goodness 
 and watchful providence of God. I expected a very 
 dreary winter, I have passed a very pleasant one; 
 and that owing to a coincidence of little events which I 
 could in no manner foresee, and had not the slightest 
 
 share in arranging. Had I not came out with , 
 
 had not happened to be at Palermo, had he 
 
 not had a house just where it was, and what it was, 
 &c. &c. &c., my winter must have passed very dif- 
 ferently ! Such things seem little, but I cannot 
 help thinking it is intended by Providence that we 
 should observe them ; and if the consideration of 
 them awakens (as it ought) gratitude for the past, 
 and a cheerful resignation for the future, it must 
 be beneficial. I have been often struck with the 
 indications of the justice, wisdom, and goodness 
 of God, which are furnished in the passing events 
 of this life: how he defeats the wishes, yet satis- 
 fies the wants of his creatures ; how he punishes 
 their sins in ways they little feared, yet makes the 
 very punishment so to abound with mercy, that it 
 becomes not only a school of instruction, but a 
 source of every grateful and pious affection. I am 
 sometimes puzzled by the dispensations to which 
 others are subjected, but can truly say, that in thr 
 little events which befall mvself, I see abundant 
 
 J
 
 152 
 
 cause for increased faith, thankfulness, and adora- 
 tion. On the whole, I by no means regret having 
 made the passage as I did. The party was so 
 pleasant that it was in a great measure a compen- 
 sation for the inconveniences to which I was sub- 
 jected. Indeed, they were considerably diminished 
 by the kindness and attention which I received 
 from all my companions. Certainly, whatever 
 may be the faults or deficiencies of our nature, 
 good-nature and benevolence are not wanting 
 among our fellow creatures. I meet with them 
 every where. 
 
 Jan. 
 
 I am much in your debt, and really have intended 
 writing ; but though I have on the whole been sur- 
 prizingly well, I had for some little time a slight 
 complaint which made writing inconvenient to me. 
 It has passed by, and I have stood all the cold 
 weather with great success and vigour. I can per- 
 fectly enter into all your " little desagremens" de- 
 scribed in your former letter. But, my friend, this 
 is nearly the history of all situations in life. When 
 I first entered on the law, I was surprized and dis- 
 gusted to find how large a portion of time and labour 
 must be bestowed upon matters which appeared not 
 even to enlarge my stock of professional knowledge, 
 still less to have any value not purely technical. 
 Depend upon it that although your labours and ac-
 
 153 
 
 quirements may not be very nicely proportioned, 
 you will be able by the active application of your 
 mind to extract, from occupations which may appear 
 little, much knowledge of mankind and of business 
 which will be useful in after life ; and I am quite 
 sure that you will gradually acquire habits which, 
 though perhaps rather painfully gained, will be of 
 great value, if you accustom yourself to consider all 
 the little circumstances that you would be glad to 
 alter, as constituting a system of discipline for the 
 mind which it is your business to render profitable. 
 This seems rather stoic philosophy, and you will 
 think me perhaps, as Job did his friends " a mi- 
 serable comforter;" but I know your kindness too 
 well to fear being misunderstood ; and am persuaded 
 that if it is of great importance to acquire that ef- 
 fectual vigour of character and understanding which, 
 like a sound digestion, renders all aliment nutritious. 
 Will you forgive me for suggesting two things more? 
 Endeavour to form a well-weighed opinion on most 
 of the topics of public discussion, or on the most 
 important. Hut let it be an opinion. Do not stop 
 half-way, content with knowing a good deal that 
 may be said on both sides of the question. This 
 is just the bewildering ramble of idleness, and leads 
 no whure. In forming your project seize generals, 
 do not be embarrassed with details and little cir- 
 cumstances, more than the nature of the question 
 renders unavoidable. This advice-giving spirit is 
 very troublesome Is it not ? If you arc angry, send 
 me some in rrturn.
 
 154 
 
 Jan. 16, 1813. 
 
 All you say respecting young women in the higher 
 classes of society, is I believe very true, and very 
 important. It is now many years, since I was first 
 struck with the very curious arrangement which 
 takes place in a rich and highly civilized society in 
 these respects. Young women who move in the 
 more polished circles, not only enjoy, in a state of 
 gay and thoughtless idleness, the wealth which has 
 been earned by hard labour and severe privations, 
 but they acquire almost unavoidably, an idea of 
 refinement and high breeding, which leads them to 
 ridicule or despise ihose very qualities, which either 
 have been the means of procuring the riches of 
 which they are tasting the sweets, or are inseparably 
 united to the industrious habits by which they are 
 acquired. The fortune of women seems always to 
 be in extremes : in a rude state of society they are 
 the slaves of men, in a polished community their 
 idols. Did it ever occur to you to observe the sort 
 of praise bestowed on different qualities in different 
 classes of society, and how it varies with an exact 
 reference to the demands (if I may so say) of the 
 class ? In the religious world the term of eulogy is 
 " a very pious man/' In more active life <( a man 
 of very considerable ability." Among elegant 
 scholars and literati " a man of a fine taste, an ele- 
 gant scholar, &c." Among the money-making and 
 trading classes " a very industrious fellow/' In 
 the army and navy " a very gallant officer." Among
 
 ladies in the fashionable circles " a very agreeable 
 
 / o 
 
 man, quite a delightful creature." It has often 
 struck me exceedingly to hear these titles applied 
 by amiable young women of the better class, to per- 
 sons destitute of almost every respectable quality, 
 but of polished manners, and an easy flow of gaiety 
 in mixed circles." 
 
 Feb. 22, 1813. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 1 have not time to write both to you and Mr. 
 
 , though much in debt to both. But though 
 
 the assurance is not I am persuaded necessary, and 
 can be of little value, I am anxious to say how 
 sincerely I felt for you in your late loss, as well ns 
 in your present anxieties. I do not ask to hear 
 again at present, because I would not add to the 
 trouble and weariness which such seasons, and trre 
 anxiety of other friends, always create. But Vou 
 
 .' V J 
 
 will readily believe that there are few, and I shall 
 not easily be persuaded that there are any, who can 
 feel a more lively interest upon this occasion than 
 myself. I too am under considerable anxiety at 
 present ; for my dear mother has been ill, and 
 though I hope better, was by no means recovered 
 when I last heard, and I am so very strongly at- 
 tached to her, that I do not well know how I shall 
 sustain that separation which according to the ordi- 
 nary laws of our existence can hardly be at a very
 
 156 
 
 great distance. I believe it is almost instinctive 
 in us to refuse to contemplate what appears very 
 dreadful ; for though I know all this, it rarely oc- 
 curs to me, or is dismissed so eagerly, that the 
 system of my life is little affected by an event 
 which every day brings nearer without making me 
 better fitted to sustain it. However there is no di- 
 vine precept of which I have felt the wisdom more 
 than the maxim of our Saviour, " Take no thought 
 for the morrow." Our present state of existence is 
 besieged by so many possible calamities, that a re- 
 medy must be found either in the distractions of 
 our daily occupations, or in that far better wisdom 
 which an implicit resignation to the will of God 
 will bestow. The more I see and feel, the more 
 deeply I am persuaded that the only true wisdom, 
 virtue, and happiness of man is to be found in the 
 absolute surrender of himself and every thing that 
 can affect him, into the hands of his Creator ; ac- 
 cepting his will as the law of his life, with a cheer- 
 ful humility, and resting on him with implicit 
 confidence, for the bestowal of whatever is good. 
 But you know all this better than I do. 
 
 May 10, 1813. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 I am in a mood so nearly bordering on melan- 
 choly, that it is but common charity to be brief. 
 It is, perhaps, reason enough for sadness, that I
 
 157 
 
 am about to leave those who for near seven months 
 have contributed all that the most delicate and un- 
 varied kindness can contribute to my happiness. 
 But, as somebody has said, life is made up of adieus. 
 Indeed, indeed, perfect resignation is no easy 
 duty. However, I have lived long enough to know 
 that we serve a gracious and tender Parent, who 
 " keepeth not his anger for ever.** " Heaviness may 
 endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning!" 
 
 May 18, 1813. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 It is a considerable disappointment to me not to 
 be able to spend a day with you before Friday, but 
 I must be in London to see friends and arrange 
 
 o 
 
 some business. A fine lady would clear the whole 
 list of the former in a morning, and die of ennui 
 before dinner, but I dare not hazard fatigue ; and 
 do not think me a mere child, but I have grown so 
 tender from sickness and indulgence, that it is really 
 all I can do to find nerves and courage for facing 
 tins rough world. 
 
 When 1 see you at , it will be a twelve- 
 month since I arrived there last year, and the roses 
 will again be blowing, and the sofa again on the 
 lawn. I was going to add a few expressions of 
 sadness, but it is far better to acknowledge with a 
 grateful heart the goodness of God, who has pro
 
 158 
 
 served us through another year, and blessed us, and 
 given to us the cheering hope and promise 
 
 That Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive, 
 
 And man's majestic beauty bloom again 
 
 Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant reign. 
 
 May 21, 1813. 
 
 I do feel strongly that a perfect and cheerful re- 
 signation is true wisdom, and to say the truth I 
 have such a conviction of our blindness, and the 
 uncertainty of all earthly good, that though my ima- 
 gination cannot but sometimes shape events, so as 
 to form some bright visions in perspective, I really 
 would not, even if it were permitted me, presume 
 to arrange the very least of them according to my 
 notions of convenience and happiness. And thus 
 all musings end where they should indeed have be- 
 gun ; " Trust in the Lord and be doing good." 
 " Through faith and patience we inherit the pro- 
 mises." 
 
 I could say a great deal about your letter, but I 
 have only room for one remark which I endeavour 
 'frequently to keep in mind. It is this* Unhappy 
 tempers, jealousies, &c. &c. being exceedingly 
 painful to those who suffer under them, almost un- 
 avoidably become objects of horror and dislike, in a 
 
 *[This related to a person almost unknown to either 
 party.]
 
 159 
 
 degree quite disproportioned to what we feel to- 
 wards other faults. Now the proper measure of 
 our love to each other should not be agreeableness, 
 but goodness ; and it is absolutely necessary through 
 the whole range of Christian philosophy, not to let 
 our judgment be disturbed by temporary pains and 
 pleasures. 
 
 Sep. 16, 1813. 
 
 The narrative of Buonaparte's force is very curi- 
 ous and would be very frightful, if we did not know 
 that he is a weak, blind, miserable being, fulfilling 
 the purposes of the Almighty, (while he fancies he 
 is establishing his own greatness,) and liable every 
 instant to be confounded and overwhelmed, adding 
 another to the many examples of the vanity of hu- 
 man projects and achievements when not coinci- 
 dent with the law of their Creator. It is a curious 
 subject of speculation, how far these vast exertions 
 really undermine his strength. 
 
 Widley, Nov. 18, 181:;. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 It is very considerate in you not to date your let- 
 ters, it saves your correspondents much self-reproach. 
 1 really do not know how long it is since your last 
 arrived. Yes, I see bv the covers it is onlv a week,
 
 160 
 
 which is a pleasing surprize. I know it was very 
 welcome, though the account it contained of your 
 health was of a kind to make me feel anxious, a 
 sensation which these cold winds have not dimi- 
 nished. I cannot help hoping (for it is necessary 
 to hope something) that you will be better in town, 
 which I believe to be a much warmer winter resi- 
 dence than its rural vicinity. 
 
 Thank you for not commending my last essay. 
 
 I wish you and Mr. would tell me the 
 
 faults without reserve. It is my own folly if I am 
 displeased, and I shall certainjy be ashamed to own 
 it. My brains are out poor brains indeed to be so 
 soon exhausted. Their dimensions appear to be just 
 equivalent to three-fourths of a sheet of paper. 
 Finally, then, my health is good ; I think I have 
 gained strength, and gather courage for the winter. 
 But " all is in his hands." 
 
 Dec. 21, 1813. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 I am delightfully in arrear to you. But 'first let 
 me thank Mr. for his criticism, which ap- 
 pears to be very just. I assure you I shall feel 
 much indebted to him, and to you, for all criticism 
 literary and moral, and it is my sincere intention to 
 profit by it. But alas ! I know too well, and expe- 
 rimentally, that of human uncertainties, my inten- 
 tions are among the most uncertain. Your two
 
 161 
 
 contain a great deal more than I have room 
 to answer so imperfect a thing is correspondence. 
 Indeed philosophers say, that language is very im- 
 perfect too, and 1 cannot deny it ; but it does pretty 
 well for such beings as Men and Women. Is not 
 the pleasure which we find in social intercourse, a 
 striking part of the evidence of the goodness of 
 God? Language was necessary for the acquisition 
 and diffusion of knowledge ; but it was not neces- 
 sary that the employment of it should be so agree- 
 able in common conversation, and so high y delight- 
 ful in an intimate friendly intercourse. The more I 
 see, and feel, and observe, the more deeply 1 am 
 persuaded of the bounty and mercy of our Heavenly 
 Benefactor. I am persuaded that the most glow- 
 ing description of his goodness, is but a faint and 
 shaded delineation of that bright Original, which, 
 through the worthiness of the Redeemer, all his sin- 
 cere servants shall hereafter behold. 
 
 18 14. 
 
 It is by comparing considerable intervals of time, 
 that we feel how great are the changes which it 
 pleases God gradually to effect in our situation and 
 circumstances. One day is generally much like 
 another day, or like some other days which have 
 preceded it ; and if we only -attend to the present 
 
 moment, such is the force of habit, which grows 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 almost as quickly as the events which govern it, 
 that we seem still to be moving along the same road, 
 while every occurrence appears quite in the ordinary 
 and natural couse of things. But no person, I think, 
 can cast his eyes backward, and consider how many 
 unlooked-for coincidences have concurred to produce 
 any existing state of things, without feeling asto- 
 nished at the originality, (if I may so speak) even if 
 he be insensible to the wisdom and goodness which 
 characterize the economy of God. I love to recall 
 such images from time to time, that the details of 
 life may not so fill and occupy the mind, as to shut 
 out those nobler views of the government of our All- 
 wise and Heavenly Father. I feel too a delight not 
 unmingled with awe ; while I recollect the evidence 
 of beneficience which they contain, and the weight 
 of greatful obligations which they bear with them. 
 Oh ! what should we be without a Saviour ! surely 
 if that source of hope and consolation were with- 
 drawn, it would be almost as fearful to taste the 
 mercies of God, as to feel his chastisements : " Thanks 
 be to God for his unspeakable gift." 
 
 Happiness will not rest on the wretched instabi- 
 lity of worldly honours or possessions, which a 
 single breath of fortune can dissipate, and which, 
 even while they are retained, for the most part pro- 
 duce misery rather than peace, by presenting false 
 colours to the mind, and teaching men to find satis- 
 faction in things which God never intended for their 
 proper good. Happiness depends upon character, not 
 upon circumstances. These few words contain atruth,
 
 163 
 
 which, if thoroughly believed, would go far to con- 
 vert even this fallen and degraded world into a Pa- 
 radise. " Having food and raiment let us be there- 
 with content." " A man's life consisteth not in 
 the abundance of the things which he possessed! ;" 
 his happiness is to be found in a conformity to God, 
 his original, and his end.
 
 SELECT PIECES 
 
 IN VERSE. 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 1798. 
 
 THOU dearest object of my earliest love, 
 
 Whom Nature's voice first taught me to adore, 
 
 Ere rising Reason's mandate could approve, 
 
 What Heaven-taught Instinct had inspired before; 
 
 O what a race my weary feet have run, 
 Since last thy image met my wishful eye ! 
 
 Then waft me hence, thou quick revolving sun, 
 To that lov'd region of eternal joy. 
 
 For where can man in Heaven's high realms beside, 
 Heart-soothing peace and gentle pleasure find ; 
 
 If senseless Apathy in Stoic pride, 
 Constrain each nobler feeling of the mind !
 
 166 
 
 'Tis warm Affection's links that mildly join 
 In sacred sympathy each kindred soul, 
 
 When rich with mercies from the hand divine, 
 Days, months, and years in blissful silence roll. 
 
 Such were the hours that once in rapture flew, 
 While every day increase of bliss supplied : 
 
 With every hour some sweeter pleasure grew, 
 Each wish prevented, and each want untried. 
 
 Yet, e'en while Freedom spread her charms around, 
 While laugh'd the Morn, and every joy was mine, 
 
 Could fancied sorrows real pleasures wound, 
 And Passion thwart Reflection's cool design. 
 
 Fool that I was full oft I vow'd in vain, 
 To rule my life with Reason's sober sway ; 
 
 'Till headstrong Passion snatch'd the slacken'd rein, 
 And chas'd Reflection's milder power away. 
 
 Then, when o'erwhelm'd I lay with fancied woe, 
 Thy present image cheer'd the darkling scene ; 
 
 Methinks e'en now thy gentle dictates flow, 
 Queen of each thought, of each affection queen. 
 
 O yet while Youth smiles in its earliest prime, 
 This ruffian soul with meekest thoughts inspire, 
 
 Thoughts like thine own ; e'er the rude hand of Time 
 Light every spark, and fan the rising fire.
 
 167 
 
 While thus entranc'd I sooth'd each wishful care, 
 With silent Meditation's gentle power, 
 
 Slow sunk the sun, while pour'don Night's dull ear, 
 These awful dictates charm'd the sacred hour : 
 
 " Say why, my son, thus pensive and alone, 
 
 " Does thy sad heart with fancied sorrows mourn? 
 
 " Think'stthou these childish sighs, this abject groan, 
 " Can bid the scenes of former bliss return ? 
 
 " Know then, that years on hasty pinions fly, 
 " Not pleasure's poison can their force destroy ; 
 
 " Silent we steal thro' life, are born, and die, 
 " Catch fancied bliss, and taste unreal joy. 
 
 " But oh ! how wretched he, whose infant heart 
 "No mother's tender precepts e'er refin'd ; 
 
 " To him no joys can Love's sweet balm impart, 
 " Or soft Affection soothe his tortur'd mind. 
 
 " Go then, to Heaven thy pure devotions pay, 
 " Go soothe thy mother's soul with filial zeal, 
 
 " Tear from her heart each anxious care away, 
 " Feel what you are, and dare be what you feel."
 
 168 
 
 ON THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 A SCHOOL EXERCISE. 
 
 YE fields, where yet in sunny pride, 
 The limpid streams of Avon glide ; 
 How oft, your vocal banks along, 
 Has s well*d the rapture-darting song, 
 While Shakspeare pour'd the swelling strain, 
 And Echo sooth'd the listening plain ? 
 Again, ye fairy phantoms, rise 
 In mystic visions to my eyes ; 
 Again, again appear, ye airy throng ; 
 See where the scenic sisters glide along ! 
 First comes blithe Comedy with jovial air, 
 Gaily she flings her loose robe round, 
 Lightly swimming o'er the ground ; 
 To their lov'd Queen the sportive Nymphs repair ; 
 Wit, Humour, Fancy, Whim, around her move, 
 Now swell the soul with joy, now melt with love. 
 Mirth roars aloud, as reeling o'er the plain 
 In FalstafTs form he leads the jocund train.
 
 169 
 
 Hark ! the glad woods with songs resound ! * 
 Echoes the sylvan scene around ; 
 Every heart dilates with pleasure, 
 Each (since worldly cares are gone) 
 In himself enjoys a treasure ; 
 All are jovial all but one: 
 He alone with cheerless eye 
 Pores pensive o'er the brawling brook, 
 Or, lost in native melancholy, 
 Roams through the woods with down-cast look ; 
 Through Nature's walks expatiates unconfin'd, 
 And stores her latent treasures in his mind. 
 
 " Ye spirits, by whose magic aidf 
 " Sol's noontide beams I have obscur'd ; 
 * Have Neptune's raging billows staid, 
 " Or darkness through the ether pour'd ; 
 u Ye, to whose quick celestial care 
 " The wondrous power is given, 
 " To shake with elemental war 
 14 The kindling vault of heaven ; 
 '* To chase the ebbing waters as they flow, 
 " Tread the salt ooze, or plumb the abyss below ; 
 
 At you like it." f " Tempo*."
 
 170 
 
 " This my last command obey : 
 
 " Hence to freedom, hence away ! 
 
 " Thou wonder-working wand, 
 
 " Sceptre of supreme command ; 
 
 " Subject once to Prosperous hand, 
 
 " In the deep waves buried lie, 
 
 " Buried in obscurity. 
 
 " Hence, ye elves, the charm is gone. 
 
 " The spell is broke, the work is done." 
 
 Next came pale Tragedy, with down-cast eye, 
 While from her breast she heav'd full many a sigh : 
 With native dignity, the moving queen 
 Pass'd gently on, in sable stole array M ; 
 With cheerless eye she view'd the sprightly scene. 
 Nor crystal fountain, nor embosom'd glade 
 Could charm the sorrows of her heart to rest ; 
 For pensive grief was heavy at her breast. 
 On Shakspeare's tomb she cast a mournful look, 
 While from her lips these mingled accents broke: 
 " Farewell, my favourite son ! No more 
 " Shall Shakspeare grace the British shore ! 
 " Who now shall try the genuine art 
 " To charm the passions, and to mend the heart ? 
 " With thee that art to Heaven is fled, 
 " For thou art number'd with the dead."
 
 171 
 
 See the faded monarch's form 
 O'er the bleak heath wildly roam ! * 
 Spurn'd from his perjur'd daughter's home, 
 He braves with frantic rage the howling storm. 
 Ye dread vindictive thunders roll, 
 
 Ye wild winds roar around, 
 Ye lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
 
 And blast the affrighted ground. 
 Ye winds, ye lightnings, thunders dread, 
 Touch not yon sire's anointed head : 
 See where aghast he stands, and spurns relief, 
 In all the maddening agony of grief. 
 
 Are the weird sisters gone ?) 
 On airy wings they darted on. 
 The deed is done ! 
 Oh balmy peace ! Oh inward rest ! 
 Thou guerdon of the virtuous breast, 
 Where Heaven-born pleasures dwell ! 
 Macbeth, Macbeth, the deeds of death, 
 With dread control, oppress thy soul, 
 And weigh it down to hell : 
 No pomp can drown the voice of conscious sin, 
 Tho' all seem fair without, still gnaws the worm within . 
 
 King Lar." f " Macbeth."
 
 172 
 
 Hark ! heard ye not an half-sunk groan ? * 
 Methought I heard an angel moan ! 
 Look where he comes, while madness fires his brain. 
 Can drowsy opiates soothe the fiend 
 That preys upon his tortur'd mind, 
 And give him back to balmy peace again ? 
 Ah no ! Othello's occupation *s o'er, 
 The great, the bold Othello is no more ! 
 Thou thundering cannon's fatal roar, 
 Ye plumed troops, and the big war, 
 Farewell, farewell, farewell ! 
 Ye trumps, ye piercing fifes, ye horrors fel! 5 
 That make ambition virtue, all farewell ! 
 Yet say, lost peace, and wilt thou ne'er return ? 
 Must sad Othello then for ever mourn ? 
 Methought I heard a spirit cry, 
 " For ever." Yet let pity plead. 
 No, Desdemona's parting sigh 
 Has call'd down vengeance on thy head. 
 Ah, fond deluded wretch ! lago's art 
 Has poison'd all the treasures of thy heart. 
 
 Pity touch the trembling strings :f 
 Hark ! a maniac wildly sings, 
 
 * " Othello." f " Hamlet."
 
 173 
 
 
 
 While she scatters here and there 
 
 The beauties of the lavish year : 
 
 " They laid him down deep in the ground, 
 
 44 And flow'rs they scattered around : 
 
 " A grassy bed supports his head, 
 
 "In earth they laid him low ; 
 
 44 Yet where he lies, the lilies rise, 
 
 44 And violets round him blow. 
 
 44 There's dill for you, and pungent rue, 
 
 " With rosemary so rare: 
 
 " Ah weep for me, whom thus you see 
 
 4 ' A prey to wild despair !" 
 
 She said, and with a wild scream 
 
 Flew to her father's grave ; 
 
 Then plung'd into the cold stream 
 
 And sunk beneath the wave. 
 
 'Tis now the dead of night; o'er half the globe* 
 Deep gloomy Darkness spreads his murky robe. 
 Hark ! what a groan was there ! 
 Tis gone, and seem'd to cry, 
 44 Richard, despair ! despair ! 
 44 Remember me, and die !" 
 O Conscience, Conscience ! thy divine control 
 Freezes each nerve, and harrows up my soul. 
 
 ' Ricliard III."
 
 174 
 
 O yawn not, thou insatiate tomb, 
 
 Enwrapt within whose awful gloom 
 
 Death sleeps in dull repose : 
 
 See, see, where now aghast they stand, 
 
 A meagre, pale, and grisly band. 
 
 Avaunt, avaunt, dull shades ! O let mine eyelids close. 
 
 Yet say, my soul, can Richard dread 
 
 The empty shadows of the dead ? 
 
 Avaunt ! I sicken at the sight ; 
 
 With horror from my couch I start ; 
 
 O Conscience, how dost thou affright 
 
 With fancied fears the guilty heart ! 
 
 Avaunt ! not shallow Richmond's utmost power 
 
 Can match the tortures of this midnight hour. 
 
 Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once 
 
 more, * 
 
 Shall British heroes give the combat o'er ? 
 On, on, my friends, be men indeed, 
 And spurn the insulting foe ; 
 Know, glory is the warrior's meed, 
 The height of bliss below. 
 In peace let soft humanity 
 Each fiercer thought assuage, 
 
 * " Henrv V."
 
 175 
 
 While meek-eyed mild humility 
 
 Shall mitigate your rage ; 
 
 But when the war-denouncing sound 
 
 Thunders our sea-girt isle around, 
 
 Let haughty Gallia know, 
 
 While on the slaughter-reeking plain 
 
 She views her noblest heroes slain, 
 
 Britannia is her foe. 
 
 See, see, e'en now the Gallic warriors fly ; 
 
 On, on, my friends ! St. George and victory ! 
 
 'Twas thus in Fancy's airy cell 
 The heaven-taught poet sweetly sung, 
 While music flow'd like nectar from his tongue, 
 And own'd his powerful spell. 
 Then hail thou bard of endless praise, 
 The wonder of our later days ! 
 United we behold in thee 
 The glories of the tragic three, * 
 Their feeling, grace, and energy. 
 Thy honours shall with ages grow, 
 Like streams enlarging: as they flow ; 
 Time shall new beauties still explore, 
 Till time and thou shall be no more ! 
 
 Euripides, Sophocles, and
 
 176 
 
 ABRADATES AND PANTHEA. 
 
 A SCHOOL EXERCISE. 
 
 1799- 
 
 THE brazen trump, hoarse thundering from afar, 
 Had rung the signal of approaching war ; 
 When wildly starting from disturb'd repose, 
 Rouz'd by the sound, the sad Panthea rose, 
 While each dread summons, tike a poison'd dart, 
 Shot through her frame, and rankled at her heart. 
 Trembling, at length, 'mid thousands gather'd round, 
 With hasty steps she reach'd the martial ground ; 
 Where fiercely burning with unconquer'd zeal, 
 Bold Abradates cas'd his limbs in steel. 
 Her tender arms a pleasing burthen brought, 
 Love-prompted labours which herself had wrought, 
 A figur'd shield with circling orbs enrolled, 
 And a rich belt whose texture flam'd with gold. 
 These to her lord, (ah ! impotent to save !) 
 Trembling she stretch'd, and kiss'd them as she gave ; 
 Then all collected spoke, and speaking prcst 
 His manly bosom to her aching breast.
 
 177 
 
 " Go, Abradates, arm'd in virtue go, 
 " Assert thy worth, and crush th* insulting foe ; 
 44 May Heaven propitious on thy arms attend, 
 " From dangers guard thee, and from wounds defend ; 
 " May this firm shield each hostile dart repel, 
 *' That lord protecting whom I love so well ; 
 " Whose form, more faithful than the sculptor's art, 
 " Impressive love hasstamp'd upon this heart. 
 " For O ! where'er thy fates or fortune lead, 
 " In life to flourish, or in death to bleed, 
 " My kindred spirit shall attend thy call, 
 " With thee shall triumph, or with thee shall fall. 
 44 Then let thy love this parting pledge receive, 
 " Perhaps the last Panthea e'er shall give ; 
 " And when thousink'stoppress'd withtoiland pain, 
 44 Say, shall my image nerve thy ami again, 
 " Edge thy keen sword, inspire thy latest breath, 
 " And point the way to conquest or to death ? 
 41 For know, this throbbing heart would less bemoan 
 44 Thy fall untimely, than thy honour gone ; 
 41 Since fate, tho' adverse, grasps the meed of fann-. 
 44 And death is glory, when to live is shame." 
 
 She ceas'ct, and half suppress'd a rising sigh, 
 While the big tear stood trembling in her eye. 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 Through his bold heart the soft infection stole, 
 And kindred feelings touch'd his manly soul. 
 " Adieu," he cried, and rais'd her drooping head 
 She wishful follow'd where the warrior led ; 
 Then silent turning, sought her Virgin train, 
 And oft look'd back, slow moving o'er the plain. 
 
 Ah ! hapless pair, your loves, your lives are o'er, 
 And Fate exulting cries, " Ye meet no more !" 
 E'en as the dauntless hero mov'd to war, 
 Death shook his lance triumphant o'er the car ; 
 Funereal spirits stamp'd the warrior's doom, 
 And Pity wept o'er Virtue's early tomb : 
 For ah ! no more shall fond Panthea's care 
 For her Tost lord the fragrant bath prepare : 
 From his tir'd brow unbind the beaming crest, 
 Or clasp the robe of triumph o'er his breast. 
 E'en now, while trembling at some cause unknown. 
 Pensive she mourns her Abradates gone, 
 While oft her bosom heaves with anxious pain, 
 While oft her eye starts wistful to the plain, 
 And each low groan that strikes her wakeful ear, 
 Thrills thro' her heart, and speaks of danger near ; 
 E'en now, o'erthrown beneath the Egyptian sword. 
 Lies the pale image of her bleeding lord,
 
 179 
 
 While the grim ruffian, ere his sense has flown, 
 Stamps on his breast, and taunts his dying groan. 
 
 Ere yet arriv'd the messenger of woe, 
 Her heart presaging felt the fatal blow ; 
 Onward she rush'd impatient of delay, 
 THro* warring crowds, while phrenzy led the way ; 
 Her maddening aspect calm'd the raging storm, 
 A nd swords play'd harmless round her beauteous form . 
 Heedless she pass'd, and mute with horror sped 
 O'er mangled heaps, the dying and the dead. 
 But, when her lord's expiring corse she found, 
 The life-warm blood yet welling from the wound, 
 Aghast, she paus'd ; nor spake, nor wept, norsigh'd, 
 Big passion swelled, and feeble utterance died. 
 Her fainting limbs the weeping train upbore, 
 And safe convey'd her to Pactolus' shore. 
 Then, when at length from transient death she rose, 
 And life returning brought returning woes, 
 The first sad sight her opening eyes explored, 
 Was the pale shroud that wrapp'd her conquer'd lord. 
 She saw, and starting up in wild dismay, 
 Hath'd his wide wounds, and clasp'd his death-cold 
 
 clay; 
 
 Each stiffening limb with burning kisses press'd. 
 His head reclining on her panting breast : 
 
 N
 
 180 
 
 And " O !" she cried, " my ever-honour'd lord I 
 " In death lamented, as in life ador'd ; 
 " Say, must we part ? Shall conquering fate divide 
 " Souls whom one love inspir'd, one friendship tied I 
 " While yet we flourish'd in life's little day, 
 " My pride was love, my pleasure, to obey. 
 " Thy will was sacred, and thy wish once known, 
 " Each want prevented, and each wish my own. 
 " Did hunting call thee, or did music fire ? 
 " I snatch'd the spear, or touch'd the warbling lyre. 
 " But what avails to count my sorrows o'er, 
 "Or dream of pleasures I can taste no more 1 
 " Can Love's gay flower in Death's cold regions- 
 bloom, 
 
 " Bud o'er the urn, or blossom in the tomb ! 
 " Yet, e'en within those melancholy shades, 
 " Tho' passion sleeps, and fond affection fades, 
 " My love through life shall still with ardour glow, 
 " In death unconquer'd seek the realms below, 
 " Then to thy kindred soul in peace return, 
 " For ever triumph, and for ever burn. 
 
 " O had these arms but rais'd thy languid head, 
 " Ere the last breath of fluttering life was fled ; 
 " Then might Panthea o'er thy corpse have hung, 
 " And caught the whispers of thy clying tongue;
 
 181 
 
 44 Then might her tender cares, with lenient power, 
 " Have calm'd the tortures of thy parting hour. 
 " Now on this shore, a prey to wild despair, 
 *' I deck thy shroud and braid thy golden hair ; 
 44 Or gaze with horror on that faded form, 
 44 Once young in vigour and in beauty warm. 
 
 " How chang'd the scene, since first my youth- 
 ful charms 
 
 44 Kind fate intrusted to thy faithful arms ; 
 " When smiling Hope, in glowing colours strove 
 ** To trace the fictions which my fancy wove, 
 " Of endless rapture and connubial love ! 
 44 Ah ! dear delusive visions, all farewell ! 
 44 Grief enters now where fancy lov'd to dwell ; 
 44 Gay thoughts no more my pensive soul employ, 
 44 But Sorrow sickening tracks the steps of Joy. 
 
 44 Thro* these grim festering wounds that gore 
 
 thy clay, 
 
 44 Burst the keen point that ravish'd life away ; 
 44 Those death-cold drops that chill thy pallid brow 
 44 Mark the fierce tortures of the fatal blow. 
 14 Where was Panthea, when the hostile sword 
 44 Pierc'd the lov'd bosom of her bleeding lord !
 
 182 
 
 " Perhaps, O killing thought, that ruffian blade 
 " Her arm had warded, or her prayers had staid ; 
 " Perhaps herself its fury had withstood, 
 t c And bought her Consort's safety with her blood. 
 
 " Hence, coward arms, that faithless to your care 
 " Betray 'd that glory ye were form'd to share. 
 "Did not my hands your death-fraught texture frame, 
 " To guard my Hero through the paths of fame ? 
 " Horror ! these thoughts my faultering words con- 
 trol, 
 
 " And dreadful day-light bursts upon my soul. 
 " Ah, hapless Damsel, blame not us, ye cry, 
 " For thou who bad'st him conquer, bad'st him die ! 
 
 " Great Gods ! no more. My throbbing pulse 
 
 beats slow ; 
 
 " This yet was wanting to complete my woe. 
 " Yes ; 'tis enough. Dear injur'd Lord, I come, 
 " And she who kill'd thee shall attend thy doom." 
 She spoke, and fell. Yet ere her spirit fled, 
 On his pale corse she laid her languid head, 
 Her twining arms around his body press'd. 
 These last sad words slow issuing from her breast ;
 
 183 
 
 " Tis done, lov'd ghost. Ah, yet a moment stay, 
 " Till my freed spirit burst th j encumb'ring clay ; 
 " Beneath one marble may our limbs repose, 
 " The end of all our love, and all our woes. 
 " There future ages shall our tomb adorn, 
 " The thoughtless listen, the unfeeling mourn ; 
 "And every realm that hears our deathless fame, 
 " With Abradates blend Panthea's name !" 
 
 LETTER TO HIS SISTER JANE. 
 
 1803. 
 
 My pretty pen, the Muses say 
 You must resume your former play, 
 
 Tho' now forgotten long : 
 For Jenny bids you rhyme again ; 
 And say, shall Jenny ask in vain 
 
 The tribute of a song? 
 
 You see, my dear, (nor think it rare,) 
 I low complaisant we Poets are, 
 
 When gentle Ladies sue : 
 Your letter came, your vows were heard, 
 And lo ! the nonsense of vour Bard 
 
 / 
 
 Comes dancing back to you.
 
 184 
 
 Yet heed not thou the Poet's trim, 
 But deem this idle child of whim 
 
 A simple letter still : 
 Then, tho' the words in numbers flow, 
 My thoughts are privileged, you know, 
 
 To wander as they will. 
 
 And trust me, tho' they wander wide, 
 The Muse their little flight shall guide 
 
 To rest at last on you : 
 And oh ! forgive the artless theme, 
 Should serious numbers ill beseem 
 
 A Bard of twenty-two. 
 
 I own that Fancy, gaily drest, 
 May suit a youthful Poet best, 
 
 To bribe a youthful ear : 
 And e'en my Jane perchance would smile, 
 Should Flattery's voice her heart beguile, 
 
 The Siren tale to hear. 
 
 But Fancy is an idle thing, 
 That flutters high on gilded wing, 
 
 The sport of every wind : 
 And Flattery, as she murmurs by, 
 Tho' sweet her hum and honied, thigh, 
 
 May leave a sting behind.
 
 185 
 
 Then pass the follies of the day, 
 
 The noontide breakfast, midnight play, 
 
 That charm the simpering Belle ; 
 Gay parties blest by Ladies fair, 
 Where we poor Poets seldom are, 
 
 For reasons sad to tell. 
 
 Pass too the soft and tinkling chime, 
 That shepherd's smit with love of rhyme 
 
 To frowning maids rehearse ; 
 When Damon grovelling on the earth, 
 Sighs Goddesses and Angels forth 
 
 In Namby Pamby verse. 
 
 Alas ! those humble strains alone, 
 Which Truth's severer eye may own, 
 
 My simple love can give : 
 A kindred love, by nature taught 
 To breathe in every ardent thought, 
 
 And triumph while we live. 
 
 
 
 And life, my Jane, wears on apace, 
 Though yet to us the busy race 
 
 Appear but now begun ; 
 Swift glides the smiling morn away, 
 And r veiling hastes in mantle gray 
 
 To hail the setting sun.
 
 186 
 
 Oh ! may your morn unclouded shine, 
 And pleasures genuine, pure, divine, 
 
 In transport dance along ; 
 And evening, as it closes in, 
 Unhurt by care, unstainM by sin, 
 
 The blissful scene prolong. 
 
 And see, the spirits bounding high, 
 The frolic wit, the sparkling eye, 
 
 A buoyant heart declare ; 
 The rosy cheek of purest bloom, 
 That smiles at dangers yet to come, 
 
 If dangers yet there are. 
 
 Then hence each dark presage of ill ; 
 That roving eye shall sparkle still, 
 
 Those playful accents flow : 
 That joy is transient all agree, 
 But if the mind be pure and free, 
 
 Why so is sorrow too. 
 
 Chillis the wisdom, e'en tho* true, 
 That paints in shades of deepest hue 
 
 The path we all must tread : 
 Blest, who to shadowy prospects blind, 
 Can move with firm yet cheerful mind, 
 
 By Faith and Virtue led.
 
 187 
 
 < 
 
 Heaven knows, my Jane, what you or me 
 Some fifty summers hence may be ; 
 
 And Heaven that knows will guide : 
 The present is our proper care, 
 And they who study what they are, 
 
 For future years provide. 
 
 Oh ! I could tell how wasted time 
 But Jenny sure will seize the prime, 
 
 And every hour employ ; 
 And better may her care succeed ; 
 So shall a purer virtue lead 
 
 To more substantial joy. 
 
 Say, would she live the Poet's theme ? 
 Let ev'ry artless feature beam 
 
 With innocence and truth ; 
 Where modesty and goodness shine, 
 The female face is half divine 
 
 Without the aid of youth. 
 
 So shall the charms which Nature gave, 
 (For charms you know all Ladies have,) 
 
 The fleeting years survive ; 
 A nd emulous of brighter days, 
 Brauty shall lend her mildest rays 
 
 To beam at fifty-five.
 
 188 
 
 
 Say would she win [Here about fifteen stan- 
 zas are lost, of which the writer has only 
 recollection enough to speak to their general 
 excellence, as greatly superior to that of any 
 which precede or follow them.] 
 
 Adieu ! Be this my Jenny's boast, 
 E'en from the friends who lov'd her most 
 
 She pilfer'd all she could : 
 As Bess was gentle and resigned ; 
 Cheerful as Willy, Harriet kind, 
 
 As either Parent good. 
 
 Domestic thus when least at home, 
 Her kindred heart, where'er she roam, 
 
 Shall tell us whence she came ; 
 And Phoebus, as her just reward, 
 Will sure inspire a better Bard 
 
 To celebrate her fame.
 
 189 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written before he went abroad fur the Recovery of 
 his Health. 
 
 1810. 
 
 TRANQUIL and blest my years have flow'd 
 
 By no rude fortune tried ; 
 For life was young, and Hope bestow 'd 
 
 What wiser Heaven denied. 
 Then shall I shrink or murmur now, 
 If pain and sickness chill my brow, 
 And praise the gracious God no more, 
 Who gave me health and joy before ? 
 
 Though gloomy Winter in his train 
 
 Lead Darkness, Want, and Fear, 
 Wilt thou Almighty Love arraign, 
 
 And mourn the ruin'd year! 
 See, see, the vernal fountains flow, 
 And Summer bends his golden bow, 
 Till Autumn's mother lap be crown'd 
 And Mirth and Plenty dance around.
 
 Then let the low'ring storm increase, 
 
 Around the darkness roll, 
 Some wandering gleam of joy and peace 
 
 Shall reach my fainting soul : 
 Mid the deep shade, the roaring wind 
 Shall speak of brighter heavens behind, 
 And bid me through the veil survey 
 The chambers of eternal day. 
 
 God bids the sun ascend the skies, 
 
 And Heaven and Earth rejoice ; 
 He speaks, the rushing whirlwind flies, 
 
 Obedient to his voice. 
 Through the dull eve, the blithsome morn, 
 He leads the changing Seasons on, 
 And still those smiling Seasons tell, 
 That He who rules them, rules them well. 
 
 Thus over life's wide darkling plain, 
 
 Unheeding as we roam, 
 Thro* many a path of joy and pain 
 
 He leads his children home. 
 And though sometimes in prospect view'd, 
 The winding way seem dark and rude ; 
 Ah ! who the backward scene hath scann'd, 
 Nor bless'd his Father's guiding hand !
 
 191 
 
 On leaving England for the South of Europe, in 
 consequence of Illness. 
 
 1810. 
 
 OH ! tell me not of happier hours 
 Mid summer vales and myrtle bowers, 
 Of Cities that in sunny pride 
 Float on the softly-circling tide, 
 And every dream that hovers o'er 
 Eretria's* bright and classic shore. 
 I know that southern climes are gay, 
 I see their Zephyrs gently stray ; 
 Soft as they breathe o'er hill and plain, 
 My weary senses wake again ; 
 Yet other joys my heart would know, 
 Than these can feel, or those bestow. 
 
 / 
 
 For e'en beneath the olive shade 
 Disease, and Pain, and Death invade, 
 And soon my wasted strength may know 
 The sad return of former woe. 
 
 * A classical name for Sicilv.
 
 192 
 
 Say, will those laughing fields supply 
 Attendant Friendship's cheering eye ; 
 A Mother's soft and ceaseless care, 
 A Sister's smile, a Father's pray'r ? 
 Where these dear joys my heart sustain, 
 I'll think eternal summers reign ; 
 But reft of these where'r I be, 
 The gayest clime is sad to me. 
 
 Health has a thousand stores to boast, 
 Sweet are its joys, and light their cost : 
 Boon Exercise : the genial hour ; 
 With Melody's enchanting power : 
 And Wit and Art the triumph share ; 
 And Love's soft smile is speaking there. 
 Nor needs the firm and hardy hind 
 These joys from simpler sense refin'd ; 
 Blithe as he carols o'er the leas 
 He dreams perchance of joys like these ; 
 Then laughs aloud, the vision flown, 
 For Health is rich in health alone. 
 
 But when the fading eye grows dim, 
 And fails each faint and wasted limb, 
 And short and frequent pantings shew 
 The sad disease that lurks below ;
 
 193 
 
 Will Mirth allay, can Pleasure calm. 
 The hurried pulse, the burning palm? 
 Go bid the festal board be crown'd, 
 Let the soft voice of Music sound, 
 And Art and Wit and Learning spread 
 Their treasures round the sick man's bed ; 
 With deafen'd ear, with heedless eye, 
 The silent sufferer turns to die. 
 
 Yet e'en in Misery's sharpest pains 
 
 One dear and sacred joy remains ; 
 
 When the worn eye, that wakes in fear 
 
 From fever'd visions hovering near, 
 
 Meets some lov'd smile, whose angel power 
 
 Has cheer'd and grac'd a gayer hour ; 
 
 Still, still, its magic charm is there, 
 
 Tho' touch'd with Pity's softer air ; 
 
 And dear to love, to memory dear, 
 
 It brightens through the starting tear; 
 
 Like the glad bow, by fancy drest, 
 
 That beams on Evening's watery vest. 
 
 Then blame me not, if sad and slow, 
 
 My parting accents faintly flow. 
 
 Yon bark, whose gallant streamers fly, 
 
 Shall waft me to a southern sky; 
 o
 
 194 
 
 There, if my curious steps explore 
 Girgenti's bright and classic shore, 
 Coy Arethusa's fabled tide, 
 Or giant ^Etna's mountain pride, 
 Yet shall one viewless form be nigh, 
 One dearer image fill my eye ; 
 From vulgar joy, from grief renVd, 
 The shade of all I leave behind. 
 
 ELIZA'S URN. 
 
 MALTA, FEB. 1811, 
 
 I CANNOT pause where thy ashes sleep, 
 
 And moulder in decay ; 
 O'er thy grass-green sod I must not weep 
 
 To chase my griefs away : 
 
 But oh ! in the last faint light of even, 
 
 I can lift a secret pray'r ; 
 1 can raise my streaming eyes to Heaven 
 
 And see thy spirit there.
 
 195 
 Wide to the horizon's utmost veree 
 
 O 
 
 The circling billows roar, 
 And far, far away is the western surge 
 That beats on my native shore ; 
 
 But yon fair orb that I gaze on now, 
 
 I lov'd ere I learn'd to mourn, 
 And the beam that lightens this throbbing brow, 
 
 Rests on Eliza's urn. 
 
 1812. 
 
 THINK not, because thy quiet day 
 In silent goodness steals away ; 
 Think not, because to me alone 
 Thy deeds of cheerful love are known, 
 That in the grave's dark chamber laid, 
 With thee those gentle acts shall fade : 
 From the low turf where Virtue lies, 
 Shall many a bloodless trophy rise, 
 Whose everlasting bloom shall shame 
 
 The JaurelPd Conqueror's proudest n; 
 o ?
 
 196 
 
 For there the hoary Sire shall come, 
 And lead his Babes to kiss thy tomb ; 
 Whose manlier steps shall oft repair 
 To bless a Parent buried there. 
 The Youth, whose grateful thought reveres 
 The hand that ruled his wayward years ; 
 The tender Maid, whose throbbing breast 
 Thy gentle Wisdom sooth'd to rest ; 
 And he, who well thy virtues knew, 
 When Fortune fail'd, and Friends were few ; 
 All who thy blameless course approved, 
 Who felt thy goodness, or who lov'd, 
 Shall crowd around thy honour'd shrine, 
 Arid weep, and wish an end like thine. 
 
 And still, as wint'ry suns go down, 
 When winds are loud, and tempests frown r 
 And blazing hearths a welcome give ; 
 Thy name in many a tale shall live. 
 And still, as cheerful May resumes 
 Her hawthorn sweets and heathy blooms ; 
 By upland bank and mossy lee 
 Shall many a heart remember thee. 
 But chief shall Fancy love to trace 
 Each mental charm, each mortal grace ; 
 
 ! v 
 
 H
 
 197 
 
 These, these shall live through many a year, 
 To Truth, to Love, to Virtue dear ; 
 And pour a mild instructive strain, 
 When Wisdom lifts her voice in vain ; 
 Shall Youth's unthinking heart assuage, 
 And smooth the brow of careful Age. 
 
 CANZONETTE. 
 
 'Tis sweet, when in the glowing West 
 Thesun's bright wheels theircourse are leaving, 
 
 Upon the azure Ocean's breast, 
 
 To watch the dark wave slowly heaving. 
 
 And oh ! at glimpse of early morn, 
 
 When holy monks their beads are telling, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn 
 From glen to mountain wildly swelling. 
 
 And it is sweet, at mid-day hour, 
 
 Beneath the forest oak reclining, 
 To hear the driving tempest pour, 
 
 Each sense to fairy dreams resigning.
 
 "Tis sweet, where nodding rocks around 
 The nightshade dark is wildly wreathing, 
 
 To listen to some solemn sound 
 
 From harp or lyre divinely breathing. 
 
 9 
 
 And sweeter yet the genuine glow 
 
 Of youthful Friendship's high devotion, 
 
 JRLesponsive to the voice of woe, 
 
 When heaves the heart with strong emotion. 
 
 And youth is sweet with many a joy, 
 That frolick by in artless measure ; 
 
 And Age is sweet, with less alloy, 
 
 In tranquil thought and silent pleasure. 
 
 For He who gave the life we share, 
 With every charm His gift adorning, 
 
 Bade Eve her pearly dewdrops wear, 
 
 And dress'd in smiles the blush of Morning.
 
 199 
 
 1812. 
 
 " TRAVELLER, whence comest thou ?" 
 " From dark ./Etna's burning brow ; 
 " From the vineyards that recline 
 " On the sunny Apennine ; 
 " From Hymettus wet with dew* 
 " And the walls of stout Corfu ; 
 " From the isles whose bright array 
 " Gems Byzantium's spangled bay; 
 " From the fields where Peleus' son 
 " Deathless fame in battle won ; 
 ' From Assyria's cloudless sky, 
 " And the happy Araby; 
 " From Imaus* marble pile, 
 "And the cliffs, whose dark defile 
 " Shades the fountains of the Nile. 
 
 " I have wander'd empires o'er, 
 
 ' Many a sea, and many a shore ; 
 
 ' I have trod the utmost plain 
 
 * Of ancient Shinaar's haughty reign, 
 
 ; Where, in shapeles ruin, lie 
 
 " The mouldering masses dark and hi^li. 
 
 44 Trophies that old Time has won 
 
 " From the mighty Babylon.
 
 200 
 
 " I have pierced the desert deep, 
 " Where huge Tadmor's glories sleep ; 
 * And my weary limbs have laid 
 " To slumber in the marble shade. 
 " Oft the boding night-bird's sound 
 " Woke the drowsy echoes 'round ; 
 " Oft, upon my startled ear 
 " Distant fell the voice of fear ; 
 " And, as I listen'd, from below 
 " Faintly clang'd the Tartar bow. 
 
 " I have pressed with pilgrim feet 
 ' ; Sion's high and holy seat, 
 " And wept to see the Paynim dare 
 ' ; Lift his godless falchion there. 
 
 " I have watch'd the day go down, 
 " By Delphi's crags, and forests brown, 
 " And seen her rising glories thrown 
 " On the sun-bright Parthenon. 
 " Many a fierce meridian beam, 
 " Many a night-dew's drenching stream, 
 " Damps of death, and winds of flame, 
 " Have pierced my faint and faded frame. 
 ** Woe, woe, the luckless hour, that tore 
 '* The wanderer from his parent shore !"
 
 201 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 1812. 
 
 WHEN God from dust created man, 
 Six days beheld the growing plan, 
 
 Six days his Power confessed ; 
 The seventh, in festal joy arrayed, 
 His perfect work, well-pleased, surveyed 
 
 The Almighty Sire, and bless'd. 
 
 And, mindful of that solemn Day, 
 His grateful sons their homage pay 
 
 Before the eternal throne ; 
 With hymns of praise and pious prayer, 
 His everlasting rest declare, 
 
 And, joyful, wait their own. 
 
 For not in vain by twilight here, 
 With many a doubt, and many a fear, 
 
 Our pilgrim path we tread ; 
 A little learn, a little do, 
 Observo, discover, hope, pursue, 
 
 And mingle with the dead.
 
 202 
 
 Beyond the dark and stormy bound 
 That guards our dull horizon round, 
 
 A lovelier vale extends ; 
 Messiah rules in mercy there, 
 And o'er his Altar, bright in air, 
 
 The morning star ascends*. 
 
 Oh ! holy Seat of Love and Peace, 
 The sounds of war and conflict cease 
 
 Within thy quiet reign ; 
 And every flower of fairest hue, 
 That once in favoured Eden grew, 
 
 Shall rise and bloom again. 
 
 For thee the early Patriarch sighed, 
 Thy distant glory faint descried, 
 
 And hailed the blest abode ; 
 A stranger here, he sought a home, 
 Fixed in a city yet to come, 
 
 The city of his God. 
 
 And oft by Siloa's haunted stream, 
 In heavenly trance, or holy dream, 
 
 To faithful Israel shewn, . 
 Triumphant over all her foes, 
 The true, the living Salem rose, 
 
 Jehovah's promised throne. 
 
 * Revel. 2. 28. 22. 1 6.
 
 203 
 
 Yet, yet, a few short hours must run, 
 And, God's unchanging purpose done, 
 
 The immortal day shall dawn ; 
 Even now on yonder mountains grey, 
 Methinks I see a wandering ray 
 
 Proclaim the approaching morn. ' 
 
 Come, Saviour, come, Creator Lord, 
 Substantial Light, eternal Word, 
 
 Thy chosen Seed redeem ; * 
 Awake as in the elder time, 
 And marshal all thy hosts sublime, 
 
 And bid thy banner stream. 
 
 And oh ! while yet we linger here", 
 With promised grace descend and cheer 
 
 Our doubtful path below ; 
 That strong in Faith, and warm with Love, 
 With steady aim our feet may move, 
 
 Our grateful bosoms glow. 
 
 Isaiah, 51.9- F?v. 19. II 14.
 
 204 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 <* For ye are not come unto the mount that might be 
 touched, &c. &c." Hebrews, xii. v. 18. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1813. 
 
 CHI-LDREN of God, who pacing slow 
 
 Your pilgrim path pursue, 
 In strength and weakness, joy and woe, 
 
 To God's high calling true ; 
 
 Why move ye thus with lingering tread, 
 
 A doubtful mournful band ? 
 Why faintly hangs the drooping head, 
 
 Why fails the feeble hand ? 
 
 Was the full orb that rose in light 
 
 To cheer your early way, 
 A treacherous meteor falsely bright, 
 
 That blazed and passed away ? 
 
 Was the rich vale that proudly shone 
 
 Beneath the morning beam, 
 A soft illusion swiftly gone, 
 
 A fair and faithless dream ?
 
 205 
 
 Oh ! weak to know a Saviour's power, 
 
 To feel a Father's care : 
 A moment's toil, a passing shower, 
 
 Is all the grief ye share. 
 
 The Lord of Light, though veil'd awhile 
 
 He hide his noontide ray, 
 Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile 
 
 To gild the closing day ; 
 
 And bursting through the dusky shroud 
 That dared his power invest, 
 
 Ride throned in light o'er every cloud 
 Triumphant to his rest. 
 
 And there, beneath his beam renew'd, 
 That glorious vale shall shine, 
 
 So long by trembling hope pursued, 
 And now for ever thine. 
 
 Then, Christian, dry the falling tear, 
 
 The faithless doubt remove ; 
 Redeem'd at last from guilt and fear, 
 
 Oh ! wake thy heart to love. 
 
 A Saviour's blood hath bought thy peace, 
 
 Thy Saviour God adore ; 
 He bade the throb of terror cease, 
 
 The pains of guilt He bore.
 
 06 
 
 For not to Sinai's flaming height 
 
 We lift the fearful eye, 
 Where clouds and shades of fiercest night 
 
 Proclaim Jehovah nigh : 
 
 The lightning shaft in vengeance aim'd, 
 
 The tempest's awful hour, 
 Whose funeral notes too well proclaimed 
 
 The law's condemning power ; 
 
 All, all are fled ; in Levi's line 
 
 The anointed Elders fail ; 
 An holier voice, an arm divine 
 
 Hath rent the mystic veil. - 
 
 No more, &c. &c. &e. 
 
 THANKFULNESS. 
 
 JANUARY, 1814. 
 
 SING to the Lord with cheerful voice, 
 
 From realm to realm the notes shall sound, 
 
 Arid Heaven's exulting Sons rejoice 
 To bear the full Hosanna round.
 
 207 
 
 When, starting from the shades of night 
 
 At dread Jehovah's high behest, 
 The Sun arrayed his limbs in light, 
 
 And Earth her virgin beauty dress'd ; 
 
 Thy praise transported Nature sung 
 
 In pealing chorus wide and far; 
 The echoing vault with rapture rung, 
 
 And shouted ev'ry morning star. 
 
 When, bending from his native sky, 
 The Lord of Life in mercy came, 
 
 And laid his bright effulgence by, 
 To bear on earth a human name ; 
 
 The song by Cherub voices raised, 
 
 Roll'd through the dark blue depths above, 
 
 And Israel's Shepherds heard amazed 
 The Seraph notes of peace and love. 
 
 And shall not Man the concert join, 
 For whom this bright creation rose ; 
 
 For whom the fires of morning shine 
 And eve's still lamps that woo repose ? 
 
 And shall not he the chorus swell, 
 
 Whose form the incarnate Godhead wore? 
 
 Whose guilt, whose fears, whose triumphs tell 
 How deep the wounds his Saviour bore !
 
 208 
 
 Long as yon glittering arch shall bend, 
 Long as yon orbs in glory roll, 
 
 Long as the streams of life descend 
 To cheer with hope the fainting soul ; 
 
 Thy praise shall fill each grateful voice, 
 Shall bid the song of rapture sound ; 
 
 And Heaven's exulting sons rejoice 
 To bear the full Hosanna round. 
 
 JULY, 1814, 
 
 GOD from his throne above the skies 
 This darkling orb surveys ; 
 
 And bids the sun in glory rise 
 To cheer a guilty race. 
 
 Alike to court and lowly glen, 
 
 Alike to friend and foe, 
 Freely for all the sons of men 
 
 His daily bounties flow.
 
 209 
 
 Nor rich with mercies less divine 
 
 Immanuel's holy name, 
 When Heir and Lord of Judah's line 
 
 The great Deliverer came. 
 
 No bounded love, no partial grace, 
 
 The Heavenly Heralds sung ; 
 They told of joy to every race, 
 
 Of praise in every tongue. 
 
 For wide as ocean ranges round, 
 
 And far as winds can rove, 
 From Salem swell'd the solemn sound 
 
 Of pardon, peace, and love. 
 
 Oh ! then, while wing'd to Heaven in prayer 
 
 Our grateful accents flow, 
 For all the gifts we freely share, 
 
 And all the hopes we know ; 
 
 Be our's the joy with ready zeal 
 
 To hail a Father's will ; 
 The love a Saviour felt to feel, 
 
 The work He wrought fulfil.
 
 210 
 
 So through the earth shall mercy reigrr, 
 
 And God by mercy won, | 
 Receive his long-lost world again, 
 
 The kingdom of his Son. 
 
 -I 
 
 PSALM XXIV. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 JEHOVAH'S throne is fix'd above, 
 And bright through all the courts of love 
 
 His Cherub Choirs appear ; 
 Ah ! how shall man ascend so hisfh, 
 
 O 7 
 
 A feeble race condemned to die, 
 The heirs of guilt and fear ! 
 
 ^on. A 3V/ 2^.'0*d ^>ij life *.',/ 
 
 Shall towering strength, or eagle flight, 
 Essay to win the sacred height 
 
 By Saint and Seraph trod ? 
 That living light, that holiest air, 
 The guileless heart alone shall share. 
 
 The pure behold their God.
 
 Yet think not that with fruitless pain, 
 One tear shall drop, one sigh in vain 
 
 Repentant swell thy breast ; 
 See, see the great Redeemer come, 
 To bear his exiled children home 
 
 Triumphant to their rest. 
 
 Even now from Earth's remotest end 
 Ten thousand thousand voices blend 
 
 To bless the Saviour's power : 
 Within thy temple, Lord, we stand 
 With willing heart, a pilgrim band, 
 
 And wait the promised hour. 
 
 Then high your golden portals raise, 
 Ye everlasting gates of praise, 
 
 Ye heavens the triumphs share; 
 Messiah comes with all his train, 
 He comes to claim his purchas'd reiern, 
 
 And rest for ever there !
 
 212 
 
 PSALM XLII. PARAPHRASED. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 As panting in the sultry beam 
 The hart desires the cooling stream, 
 So to thy presence, Lord, I flee, 
 So longs my Soul, O God ! for thee, 
 Athirst to taste thy living grace, 
 And see thy glory face to face. 
 
 But rising griefs distress my soul, 
 And tears on tears successive roll : ,. 
 
 For many an evil voice is near 
 
 
 
 To chide my woe, and mock my fear, 
 
 And silent memory weeps alone 
 
 O'er hours of peace and gladness flown. 
 
 For I have walk'd the happy round, 
 That circles Sion's holy ground, 
 And gladly swell'd the choral lays 
 That hymn'd my great Redeemer's praise, 
 What time the hallow'd arch along 
 Responsive swell'd the solemn song.
 
 213 
 
 Ah ! why, by passing clouds oppressed, 
 Should vexing thoughts distract thybreast ? 
 Turn, turn to Him, in every pain, 
 Whom never Suppliant sought in vain ; 
 Thy strength, in joy's extatic day, 
 Thy hope, when joy has pass'd away. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 O GOD ! my heart within me taints, 
 And pours in sighs her deep complaints ; 
 Yet many a thought shall linger still 
 By Carmers height and labor's rill, 
 The Olive Mount my Saviour trod, 
 The rocks that saw and own'd their God. 
 
 The morning beam that wakes the skies, 
 Shall see my matin incense rise ; 
 The evening Seraphs as they rove, 
 Shall catch the notes of joy and love, 
 And sullen night, with drowsy ear, 
 The still repeated anthem hear.
 
 214 
 
 My soul shall cry to thee, O Lord, 
 To thee, supreme incarnate Word, ^ 
 My rock and fortress, shield and friend, 
 Creator, Saviour, source, and end ; 
 And thou wilt hear thy servant's prayer, 
 Though death and darkness speak despair. 
 
 Ah ! why, by passing clouds oppressed, 
 Should vexing thoughts distract thy breast ? 
 Turn, turn to Him, in every pain, 
 Whom never suppliant sought in vain ; 
 Thy strength, in joys extatic day, 
 Thy hope, when joy has pass'd away. 
 
 PSALM CXXI. PARAPHRASED, 
 
 To Heaven I lift mine eye, 
 
 To heaven, Jehovah's Throne ; 
 For there my Saviour sits on high, 
 And thence shall strength and aid supply 
 To all He calls His own.
 
 He will not faint nor fail, 
 
 Nor cause thy feet to stray ; 
 For Him no weary hours assail, 
 Nor evening darkness spreads her vail 
 O'er His eternal day. 
 
 Beneath that light divine 
 
 Securely shalt thou move ; 
 The sun with milder beams shalj shine, 
 And eve's still queen her lamp incline 
 
 Benignant from above. 
 
 For He, thy God and Friend, 
 
 Shall keep thy soul from harm, 
 In each sad scene of doubt attend 
 
 And guide thy life, and bless thine end, 
 
 
 
 With His Almighty Arm. 
 
 PSALM CXXIII. PARAPHRASED 
 
 LORD, before thy throne we bend, 
 Lord, to thee our eyes ascend ; 
 Servants to our Master true, 
 Lo, we yield the homage due;
 
 216 
 
 Children, to our Sire we fly, 
 Abba, Father, hear our cry ! 
 
 To the dust our knees we bow ; 
 We are weak, but mighty Thou ; 
 Sore distressed, yet suppliant still 
 We await thy holy will : 
 Bound to earth and rooted here 
 Till our Saviour God appear. 
 
 From the Heavens, thy dwelling place, 
 Shed, O shed, thy pardoning grace : 
 Turn to save us : none below 
 Pause to hear our silent woe ; 
 Pleased or sad, a thoughtless throng, 
 Still they gaze and pass along. 
 
 Leave us not beneath the power 
 Of temptation's darkest hour ; 
 Swift to seal their captive's doom, 
 See our foes exulting come : 
 Jesus, Saviour, yet be nigh, 
 Lord of Life and Victory !
 
 217 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 1814. 
 
 " AND what is God?" the Grecian Tyrant cried. 
 " The question claims a pause," the Sage replied. 
 A day he ask'd ; the hours their course fulfil ; 
 A second came ; a day was wanting still. 
 A third ; in vain, for still the subject grew, 
 Too vast to measure, and too bright to view. 
 Nor think, that he, whose reason proved too small 
 To grasp the mind that made and governs all, 
 In Superstition's mystic mazes stray 'd, 
 By ancient song and Delphic dreams betray'd. 
 No fabled God he sought ; no Pagan Jove 
 On Ida's height, or in Dodona's grove ; 
 Or where retir'd on Libya's thirsty plain, 
 The dark impostor held his humbler reign : 
 A brighter field his wakeful eye explor'd, 
 And labouring thought pursued as fancy soar'd. 
 Where Morn's bright tresses stream along the skies, 
 lie mark'd the Orb of day majestic rise; 
 He saw his bright wheels track the ethereal plain. 
 And mild descending meet the western main :
 
 218 
 
 Then, as still Evening came, serenely shone 
 The Moon refulgent on her silver throne, 
 With every star that leads the circling year, 
 Or gems the girdle of the vaulted sphere. 
 Intent the sage their marshall'd hosts surveyed, 
 And paus'd, and worshipped in the midnight shade ; 
 But onward soon his active spirit flew, 
 And still new wonders open'd on his view. 
 In thought he saw bright Nature stand displayed 
 With all her charms, in all her wealth array 'd, , . 
 Mother of arts and arms, whose ancient sway 
 A thousand realms, a thousand lords obey ; 
 From where Euphrates swells with eastern pride, 
 And rapid Tigris rolls his bridge-less tide ; 
 From the deep shade whence Nilus* fountains pour 
 Their fruitful streams to Egypt's utmost shore ; 
 From pine-clad Atlas, and the fabled Isles 
 Where plenty reigns, and spring for ever smiles, 
 To those fair fields that fam'd Hydaspes laves, 
 The Chersonese, and Ister's turbid waves ; 
 And Scythia's farthest wilds. Before him lay 
 The mighty prospect, mountain, lake, and bay, 
 Forest, and sounding flood, and hill, and plain, 
 Dark with perpetual storm, or waving rich with grain. 
 Lo ! where Sabea's happy shores extend, 
 Fresh odours breathe, and spicy clouds ascend ;
 
 219 
 
 See Phrygia's lawns in flowery verdure gay, 
 
 See purer gales o'er bright Ilissus stray ; 
 
 Eternal clouds on huge Ripheus roll'd, 
 
 And Thracia flaming with barbaric gold. 
 
 Here frosts for ever reign, and winter roars ; 
 
 There the full vine her purple tribute pours : 
 
 A thousand herds on rich Emathia low, 
 
 And flocks unnumber'd fleece her hills with snow ; 
 
 O'er Libya's fields the lordly lion roves, 
 
 In Tempe's vale the turtle tells her loves ; 
 
 Beside those lofty towers, that fruitful plain, 
 
 Where Agrigentum holds her wealthy reign, 
 
 The fiery coursers flew, inured to bear 
 
 Her dames in peace, her mighty chiefs in war; 
 
 For Agragas was then, nor prouder shone 
 
 The jewell'd pomp of Persia's regal throne. 
 
 Now sad and silent all her glory lies, 
 
 Save where yon Fanes in mouldering beauty rise; 
 
 They, sole surviving, grace the classic scene, 
 
 And mark the spot where greatness once has been. 
 
 Above, below, through ocean, earth, and air, 
 
 All all is lite ; the God is every where. 
 
 lie form'd the Eagle's rapid wing for flight, 
 
 Curv'd his strong beak, and clear'd his piercing sight ; 
 
 Hr bade the timid Ostrich scour the plain ; 
 
 lie frincr'd with gold the Peacock's painted train.
 
 220 
 
 The Halcyon's plume is His ; and every song 
 
 That sweetly sounds fair Hybla's woods among. 
 
 There, ever mindful of her early day, 
 
 Sad Philomela pours her plaintive lay ; 
 
 The blue Jay roving o'er the thymy vale, 
 
 Drops his spread wing and drinks the thrilling tale. 
 
 Around ten thousand busy insects play, 
 
 The thoughtless tenants of the noon-tide ray. 
 
 Born with the beam, their happy race they run, 
 
 And sink to silence with the falling sun. 
 
 Yet oh ! approach, that short-lived form behold, 
 
 Mark his blue helm, his cuirass strip'd with gold, 
 
 His silken limbs in filmy lustre spread, 
 
 And the lithe antlers waving o'er his head ; 
 
 How firm the threads that bind each springy limb ! 
 
 How beams that eye which one short hour shall dim ! 
 
 Immense profusion, which could thus array 
 
 A worm, a mite, to frolic for a day ! 
 
 Nor less old Ocean's azure fields declare 
 
 Unbounded power in wisdom working there. 
 
 But oh ! what voice can tell, or thought explore, 
 
 The countless tribes that people every shore, 
 
 Or peaceful slumber in the coral cave, 
 
 Or ride exulting on the roaring wave ! 
 
 For every form is there ; they float, they swim, 
 
 Ply the soft oar, and bend the jointed limb ;
 
 221 
 
 There is the slimy Seal, the unweildy Whale, 
 The Oyster valv'd, the Lobster cas'd in mail, 
 The Dolphin brightest of the watery train, 
 And Turtle slumbering; on the milky main. 
 There sails the ravenous Shark in tyrant pride, 
 His faithful Pilot fearless at his side ; 
 There the huge Porpoise floats, while sportive round 
 The spangled Trout and active Tunny bound. 
 Oft by those shores, where stretch'd in slumber lay 
 The summer wave in Oran's peaceful bay, 
 Or far on western seas with side-long sail 
 Haul'd close and brac'd to meet the adverse gale, 
 What time fast sinking to his rosy bed, 
 The Sun's full beams a prouder lustre shed ; 
 Oft have I seen the mingled troops advance, 
 Bask in the smooth, or lead the liquid dance ; 
 Or bounding swift and high in gambols rude, 
 Dash through the brine pursuing and pursued. 
 Joy play'd around them, Pleasure blithe and strong 
 Curl'd the blue billows as they shot along: 
 That my sad heart has leapM, though prcss'd w ith pai n , 
 And felt the pulse of rapture beat again. 
 
 Oh ! then, what gladness wak'd the Sage's soul 
 Whose ardent thought survey'd the amazing whole !
 
 222 
 
 From sea, from shore, tall cliff, and lowly dell, 
 He heard Creation's choral anthem swell ; 
 The high Hosanna, borne upon the gale, 
 Breath' d through each grove, and streamed from every 
 
 vale ; 
 
 Bright Arno's waves responsive murmurs sung, 
 Dark Ida's heights with echoing rapture rung ; 
 And air and ocean, as it swept along, .-,.,. 
 Raised a glad shout to swell the general song. 
 
 ARETHUSA. 
 
 Written on the road from Palermo to Syracuse. 
 
 " WHO is he, whose toil worn brow 
 " Bends towards my crystal cave ? 
 
 " Lives there one who worships now 
 " Arethusa's slighted wave ? 
 
 " Many a summer's sun has pass'd 
 " O'er Eretria's burning plain, 
 
 " Many a howling western blast 
 " Swept along the wint'ry main.
 
 223 
 
 "Still beside my sacred stream, 
 " None the song of joy renew, 
 
 " Silent springs the morning beam, 
 " Sad descends the evening dew. 
 
 " Not such was Freedom's early day, 
 " By haunted stream and hallow'd grove, 
 
 " When rapture poured the festive lay, 
 " When rung the lyre to mirth and love ; 
 
 " And youths in Fancy's wizard hour 
 " Would on this favour'd marge recline, 
 
 " And maidens hung the votive flower. 
 "An offering at my virgin shrine. 
 
 " But fierce around this lowly dell, 
 
 " The flames of war and conquest spread, 
 
 " My sons for freedom fought and fell, 
 " My frighted maidens wept and fled. 
 
 * Ah ! woe betide the cruel sword, 
 " And woe befal the luckless day, 
 
 ' That gave me to a tyrant lord, 
 
 " That swept my children all away ! 
 
 ' Now strangers hold this classic bower, 
 
 " My meads, my groves, my altars spurn. 
 4 ' And rudely crush each hallow'd flower, 
 That lightly wreathed my agate urn.
 
 224 
 
 " Yet still, when sinks the dewy eve, 
 " The Muses love to wander here, 
 
 c *And many a mystic dance they weave, 
 " Beside my current deep and clear. 
 
 " And sacred still that current flows, 
 " Though lost to Fame, and silent long, 
 
 " The seat of joy and soft repose, 
 " The fount of harmony and song. 
 
 " Stranger, welcome : lay thee down 
 " Where the vernal roses grow, 
 
 " Weaving many a flaunting crown 
 " For the Nymph that glides below. 
 
 " Resting oft on balanced wing, 
 " Here the wild-coot tells his tale ; 
 
 " Here the bending reed doth sing 
 " Blithly to the passing gale. 
 
 " Art thou weary ? soft descending, 
 " Gentle airs shall round thee breathe, 
 
 " And my tinkling current blending 
 " Pour its liquid notes beneath." 
 
 [Having arrived at Syracuse, and visjted the 
 filthy pool now termed Arethusa, I deter- 
 mined to write no more.]
 
 225 
 
 TRANSLATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET 
 
 ( Written upon the summit of Plinlimmon, a mountain in 
 
 Wales.} 
 
 WITH pensive heart and trembling steps I tread 
 These savage heights, with Alpine horrors crown'd ; 
 
 While eagles scream around their stormy head, - 
 And the hoarse torrents pour a solemn sound. 
 
 'Tis awful ! here no grovelling thought can dwell, 
 Where all is vast, magnificent, and high ; 
 
 I feel, I feel the ascending spirit swell, 
 
 Though faint the foot, and wearied be the eye. 
 
 A h ! treacherous heart, by earth-born cares depress 'd, 
 Why rove thy thoughts amid the sordid throng, 
 
 Where sensual pleasures clog each vulgar breast, 
 And gold and glory trail their pomp along? 
 
 Oh ! mount at length to Heaven on rapid wing, 
 There in thy native empyrean glow ; 
 
 And blest with peace, and bright in endless spring- 
 Smile at the clouds that shade a world IK lew. 
 
 Q
 
 DECEMBER, 1814. 
 
 "CHILD of Man^ whose seed belov? 
 " Must fulfil their race of woe, 
 " Heir of want, and doubt, and pain, 
 * c Does thy fainting heart complain ? 
 " Oh ! in thought one night recall, 
 " The night of grief in Herod's hall : 
 ^ There I bore the vengeance due, 
 " Freely bore it all for you. 
 
 " Child of Dust, Corruption's son, 
 " By Pride deceiv'd, by Pride undone, 
 " Willing Captive, yet he free, 
 " Take my yoke, and learn of me ; 
 "I, of Heaven and Earth the Lord, 
 " God with God, the eternal Word, 
 " I forsook my Father's side, 
 " Toil'd, and wept, and bled, and died. 
 
 " Child of doubt, cjoes fear surprize, 
 " Vexing thought within thee rise ; 
 ". Wondering, murmuring, dost thou gaze 
 " On evil men and evil days ?
 
 227 
 
 " Oh ! if darkness round thee lower, 
 " Darker far my dying hour ; 
 " Which bade that fearful cry awake, 
 " My God, my God, dost thon forsake ! 
 
 " Child of Sin, by guilt oppress'd, 
 " Heaves at last thy throbbing breast? 
 " Hast thou felt the mourner's part ? 
 " Fear'st thou now thy failing heart? 
 " Bear thee on, belov'd of God, 
 " Tread the path thy Saviour trod, 
 " He the Tempter's power hath known, 
 " He hath pour'd the garden groan. 
 
 " Child of Heaven, by me restored, 
 44 Love thy Saviour, serve thy Lord ; 
 " Seal'd with that mysterious Name, 
 44 Bear the cross, and scorn the shame ; 
 11 Then, like me, thy conflict o'er, 
 14 Thou shall rise to sleep no more : 
 44 Partner of my purchas'd Throne, 
 44 One in Joy, in Glory one."
 
 SELECT PIECES 
 
 IN PROSE. 
 
 ON THE COMPARATIVE MERITS 
 
 
 
 OF PRIVATE AND PUBLIC EDUCATION. 
 
 Ill AT Education is necessary to improvement, and 
 that youth is the season best fitted for it, are truths 
 too evident to need demonstration. 
 
 1 ain aware that, in this " Age of Reason/' some 
 are willing to deny the latter; but 'being not yet so 
 far advanced in the theory of modern argumentation, 
 as to think the caprices of the weak, or the sophistry 
 of the wicked, sufficient to overthrow a system esta- 
 blished for ages, and sanctioned by the approbation 
 of the best, and the practice of all, I assume these 
 truths as axioms. 
 
 It would be happy if the same unanimity which 
 prevails as to the general principle, could be discerned 
 in the application of it. But here opinion and pre- 
 judice interpose ; and on no subject, perhaps, are the
 
 230 
 
 plans proposed more widely dissentient. Nor can 
 this be matter of astonishment. The mind of every 
 man is, in some degree, warped by constitution, ha- 
 bit, or example ; in addition to which, we' have rea- 
 son from the fairest analogy to believe, that the ori- 
 ginal constitution of our minds is not less various 
 than the formation of our faces ; which are so inti- 
 mately allied, yet so artfully distinguished, as alone 
 sufficiently to prove the Omnipotence of their Maker. 
 Our minds then being thus dissimilar, we shall ne- 
 cessarily differ most in those subjects, on which we 
 think most ; and Education must always be a pro- 
 minent object of contemplation, as in its success or 
 failure nothing less than the welfare of empires is 
 involved. 
 
 The ancients thought, and justly, that the tuition 
 of youth was a matter of public moment, and the 
 civil power was called in, to regulate, direct, and 
 enforce it : but whatever considerations might im- 
 press on their minds the importance of the subject, 
 must surely in these days act with double effect ; 
 for, in proportion as Revelation is greater than 
 Philosophy, and things eternal than things tempo- 
 ral, so much should the Education of a Christian be 
 raised above that of an Heathen. 
 
 I am far from wishing to decry personal accom- 
 plishments : superiority of every nature is desirable ; 
 but all more minute excellencies must be omitted, 
 because their comparative importance is very dispro- 
 portionate, and the subject is at best too wide. The 
 acquisition of Virtue and Knowledge are the two
 
 231 
 
 reat objects in Education ; not that even these can 
 be considered as competitors for eminence. So 
 much superior are the qualities of the Heart to those 
 of the Understanding, that could unsullied Innocence 
 be purchased by the sacrifice of every other consi* 
 deration, the price would be cheap, and the purchase 
 inestimable ; but such was not the will of our great 
 Creator. It is therefore our business, while we cul- 
 tivate every moral virtue, to promote at the same 
 time every intellectual attainment ; and those who 
 will be content to pursue the latter, in subservience 
 to the former, will be gratified by discovering, that 
 Science is to Religion what Pope describes Criticism 
 once to have been to Poetry ; 
 
 " Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid prov'd 
 
 " To deck her charms, and make her more belov'd." 
 
 When I thus allow every superiority to moral ex- 
 cellence, sbme perhaps will think the contest ended; 
 but I cannot think myself maintaining a paradox, 
 when I doubt at least, whether a private education 
 be most congenial to Virtue. 
 
 At first view, I confess, Innocence and Retire- 
 ment seem to be twin-sisters, and the imagination 
 expands with rapture in surveying her fair creations ; 
 where Youth is trained up in Simplicity and Piety ; 
 where the heart beats with genuine emotions ; 
 where no competition alarms, no temptations allure, 
 and no examples vitiate. Alas! these Elysian Re- 
 gions only want existence to realize perfection ; but 
 that is a requisite which experience informs us
 
 232 
 
 they shall never have : for even beneath the shade 
 of privacy, can the Serpent of Sin distil his poison ; 
 and though the world with all its luxuries and all its 
 corruptions be excluded, yet human nature will re- 
 main, nor will all the sanctity of obscurity preserve 
 its shades from violation. The beams of Ambition 
 perhaps may be excluded, the splendour of Great- 
 ness be eclipsed, or the charm of Competition be 
 dissolved; but the less exalted passions may still riot 
 without control ; Hatred, and Revenge, Envy, and 
 Discontent, Fraud, Lust, and Duplicity, will find 
 an ample field even amid the gloom of Solitude. 
 These are enemies whom no art can elude ; who 
 laugh at the fear of extirpation, and set prevention 
 at defiance. Planted at our birth, they have fixed 
 their roots even in the recesses of the Heart ; and, 
 when they are eradicated, it must cease to beat. 
 Whatever labour may be required to mature the pro- 
 duce of Virtue, we can all bear melancholy testi- 
 mony to the prolific vegetation of Vice. The pas- 
 sions are self sown, self reared, self ripened ; and 
 stand little in need of examples to instruct, or op- 
 portunities to encourage them. Happy they, who 
 in Solitude shall be able to check their growth by 
 the restrictive aids of Religion : but I fear even the 
 the fondest Enthusiast must confess with the inimi- 
 table Johnson, that " The life of a solitary man 
 is certainly wretched, but not certainly devout. 3 ' 
 
 Nor are the dangers of a private education con- 
 fined to the corruptions of Nature. No one is, in 
 fact, totally secluded. Even those who are most
 
 233 
 
 rigidly confined, must be under the eye of a Parent, 
 a Guardian, or a Tutor ; and, if the principles of 
 these be bad, how desperate is the situation of the 
 Pupil! The very possibility of such an event, 
 where even the hope of safety seems precluded, will 
 be a considerable weight to throw into the balance 
 against all the perils of public tuition. Yet could 
 we, indeed, be always private ; could the seclusion 
 of youth be protracted to our old age ; and a whole 
 life glide away, " The world forgetting, by the world 
 forgot ;" I should not hesitate to prefer a private 
 education with all. its disadvantages, to the hazards 
 of a public school. But, alas ! such is not the lot 
 assigned to a man. A wider field must be opened 
 to us ; we have nobler duties to perform, and other 
 virtues to exercise. The gay images of childhood 
 must melt away, the visions of youth be dissipated, 
 and infancy ripen into manhood ; and the bark, 
 which has long rode iu the harbours of Security, be 
 launched at once on the ocean of Life. Are there 
 then, in this awful voyage, no eddies to be avoided, 
 no difficulties to be subdued 1 Will the rocks glide 
 away before the helm of Innocence, the current 
 yield to the oar of Simplicity, or the tempest cease 
 to howl around the canvas of Confidence? Surely, 
 if there be dangers, Ignorance and Inexperience can 
 be Jittle qualified to encounter them: for how will 
 he, who has been basking in the beams of parental 
 Fondness, be able to elude the seductions of Volup- 
 tuousness, or penetrate the veil of Hypocrisy ? Folly 
 will entangle her minion in mazes, from which
 
 234 
 
 Fraud can alone extricate him* or Violence will 
 terrify him into meanness, which will first appear 
 useful, then necessary, and at last justifiable. 
 
 Yet let it not be imagined, that I am an advocate 
 for the morals of public schools ; I know their de- 
 pravity. Man is too corrupt to be innocent even 
 when alone, and our propensity to ill is increased, 
 in proportion as it is countenanced. There is hardly 
 a crime in the whole catalogue of enormities which 
 does not pervade the walls of our public academies : 
 but, though the temptations are more, I am not sure 
 that the dangers are greater : and though not so vain 
 as to suppose, that the dreams of Philosophical 
 Purity can ever be realized in these nurseries of 
 Learning, yet I cannot but think that some enor- 
 mities might be checked, and some virtues fostered. 
 In the present comparison, therefore, I am not 
 bound to suppose the line of public Education so 
 impure, as at present it is: yet, even in its present 
 state of depravity, it must not be forgotten, that 
 many noble qualities, if I may not call them virtues, 
 are necessarily inherent in it. Courage and Gene- 
 rosity, Candour and Activity, Obedience and Con- 
 tent, if not universal, are certainly prevalent ; and 
 though I can hardly venture to eke these out into a 
 catalogue of merits, yet surely they may operate as 
 a counterpoise to some of the deformities. Upon the 
 whole, I believe, that though purity may in theory 
 seem peculiar to domestic instruction, yet it will not 
 often be found, that those who are estimable in life 
 owe their merits only to the privacy of their early years.
 
 235 
 
 Should it be thought, that, after every deduction, 
 the balance still preponderates in favour of that form 
 of instruction) whence temptation is most excluded ; 
 some allowance must still be admitted for the su- 
 periority which the other side will claim in point 
 of Science, and from which, if justly arrogated, an 
 argument may perhaps be drawn in defence of its 
 morality, since it is at least to be hoped, that as we 
 grow wiser, we shall grow better. This superiority, 
 however, will doubtless be contested, nor am I pre- 
 pared to say that the contest will be rash. It is 
 extremely difficult, in such cases, to balance exactly 
 the claims of either party, since each peculiar ex- 
 cellence is opposed by some competitor. The 
 principal advantages attendant on public Schools 
 and Universities, are: 1st. The learning of the Prae- 
 ceptors, for, as Quintilian justly observes, " Optimus 
 quisque Fraeceptor frequentia gaudet, ac majore sc 
 theatro dignum putat." 2dly. The company, con- 
 versation, and advice of many characters celebrated, 
 at least in those pigmy stages, for Virtue, Learning, 
 or Talents: such acquaintance serves, at the same 
 time, to increase our knowledge, and repress our 
 vanity; for Solitude is the nurse of Pride: " necesse 
 est enim sibi nimium tnlurat. qui se ncmini com- 
 parat." 3dly. and principally, That spirit of emu- 
 lation which " gives motion to the active, and 
 elevation to the eminent;" that " fever of renown," 
 which electrifies the most torpid, which calls the 
 sluggard into action, and impels the heedless to ex- 
 ertion ; that principle of ambition in short, " qua?
 
 236 
 
 licet ipsa vitium frequenter tamen causa virtutum 
 est." He who sees excellence cannot but admire 
 it, he who admires will envy, and he who envies 
 will imitate; till, like the Czar, he is taught to con- 
 quer by the victories of his enemies. This is the 
 nostrum which has formed the Hero, the Statesman, 
 and the Scholar, and in this peculiarly rests the ad- 
 vantage of public seminaries, where we catch the 
 fire by a kind of attractive infection, and grasp that 
 generous principle inculcated by the Prince of Poets, 
 
 *' any agio-Twin/, am vjrt^oxp E/^Eiat aXAwy." 
 
 On the other hand it must be confessed, that the 
 opposite system is not without its advantages. If 
 the tutor is less able, he is generally more attentive ; 
 and it may even be started as a doubtful proposition, 
 whether the greatest men make the best masters. If 
 the society of Learning be excluded, the factions of 
 idleness, and cabals of the ignorant, are also shut 
 out ; and, though I never can admit any principle 
 to be of equal cogency with the spirit of emulation, 
 yet, certainly, the respect and affection generally 
 contracted for a private guardian, may operate 
 powerfully, while leisure and abstraction from hurry 
 and tumult will allow every good intention its full 
 play. Thus the characteristic excellencies of each, 
 though differently distributed, are nearly equivalent ; 
 nor, in this general view, can it be easily decided to 
 which superiority may belong. When, however, 
 these qualities are considered in reference to any 
 particular character, the motives of choice may be- 
 come evident ; since it is obvious, that peculiar
 
 237 
 
 forms will be suitable to peculiar dispositions : thus 
 the timid must be animated by encouragement, and 
 the licentious repressed by severity : yet, even here, 
 the disparity is perhaps less than may be supposed ; 
 for diffidence may be roused by scholastic tumult, 
 and riot circumscribed by tutorial vigilance. In 
 comparing the acquirements for which each situation 
 is celebrated, experience will be a better guide than 
 theory : and, I believe, it will generally be found, 
 that the public scholar is superior in classical know- 
 ledge, and the private in general information : here 
 then again contrarieties clash, and here again must 
 comparison be waived. Perhaps it may be agreed, 
 that a strong inference may be drawn in favour of 
 Academical Institution from public usage and uni- 
 versal approbation, but I know not whether much 
 ran be hoped from this evidence : that most practise 
 it, is certain, but that most approve it, is, at least, 
 problematical ; and though it must be owned that 
 the uniform consent of mankind forms in general a 
 violent presumption in favour of that to which it 
 has been annexed ; yet, perhaps, the present case 
 may be allowed as an exception ; for the conve- 
 nience, relaxation, and indolence allowed to the 
 parent by the intervention of public schools, offer 
 so strong a temptation for preference, that the evi- 
 dence is thereby rendered suspicious : and though 
 the records of glory may be unrolled, and the titles 
 of the illustrious displayed to dazzle and confound 
 us, yet surely that system can stand little in need 
 of exculpation, in which St. Paul and St. Polycarp
 
 238 
 
 were educated ; which has produced an Homer, a 
 Pascal, and a Pitt. Such names, though they can- 
 not ensure superiority, at least preclude contempt, 
 and pour a cloud of glory round their tutoress like 
 Venus before her son : 
 
 Screen'd from the foes behind whose shining veil, 
 The swords wave harmless> and the javelins fail. 
 
 Thus far, then, if my conclusions be correct, little 
 pre-eminence can be claimed by either party, and 
 thus far, therefore, my proposition remains still dis- 
 putable ; but, however equal the immediate advan- 
 tages may appear, a consideration is yet reserved 
 which would incline the balance, were it less equally 
 suspended. Surely, all who have been blessed with 
 a liberal education must anticipate my sentiments, 
 when I say, that the treasures to which I allude, 
 are to be found in the acquaintance, connexions, 
 and friendships usually contracted there, where 
 choice is most widely diversified. With these no 
 minute accomplishments can be set in competition. 
 From these even the voice of envy dares not detract. 
 It is in vain to urge the dangers of combination of 
 vice, and the evils resulting from the society of the 
 wicked ; all blessings must be attended with hazard 
 proportionate to their eminence ; and the same ar- 
 gument, if extended, would forbid us to act, to read, 
 or to meditate. But shall the apprehension of pos- 
 sible misfortune rob us of those endearments which 
 are the balm of life ! Shall we never taste the cup
 
 239 
 
 of satisfaction for fear its beverage should be poison ? 
 or leave the rose to wither in neglect, because a 
 thorn may wound the unwary? They surely can 
 have little sense of the happiness to be derived from 
 virtuous attachment, who would instill so frigid an 
 opiate, or freeze every feeling of the heart into the 
 rigour of torpid Apathy, Whatever be the peril, 
 every generous mind will grasp at attainment, where 
 the blessings of acquisition are so disproportionate ; 
 and he who has either virtue or feeling, who can 
 study his own happiness, or promote that of man- 
 kind, must foster with ardour those connexions, 
 whose advice may regulate the great, whose exam- 
 ple may animate the indifferent, whose affection 
 may cheer ttie unfortunate. If life be indeed but 
 too wretched, let us not despise that alleviation 
 which a gracious Providence has bestowed. If hu- 
 man wisdom be but too fallible, let us not reject 
 the only prop which can support it. Carte closes 
 a laboured panegyric on the great Duke of Bucking- 
 ham, by observing, that his defects were owing to 
 the want of a friend and counsellor. Pitiable in- 
 deed must be his lot, who stands single in this 
 tempestuous ocean, with no confident to trust, no 
 companion to cheer, and no friend to support him. 
 As for me, let me be poor, oppressed, or unfortu- 
 nate, but let me not be friendless, and Distress 
 herself will be powerless. Surely of all curses which 
 human malice has framed, that ancient one is the; 
 most horrible, " Ultimus suorum moriatur." 
 
 Thus, then, we have hastily touched on the prin-
 
 240 
 
 cipal points of competition, which distinguish each 
 great outline of education : much indeed has been 
 omitted, and most of what has been said will appear 
 obvious ; but the latter, if an imperfection, could 
 hardly be avoided, on a subject which has been, 
 from age to age, a common-place of discussion ; and 
 the former is less to be lamented, because the dis- 
 quisition is at best theoretical. Should the question, 
 as is probable, remain for ever undecided, the dif- 
 ficulties of choice will not, therefore, be increased, 
 or the world be precluded from growing wiser, 
 abler, or better nay, it may be doubted, whether a 
 decision which would close the dispute for ever 
 might, in any degree, tend to disembarrass the old, 
 or forward the hopes of the rising generation. The 
 real question which it is our interest to determine, 
 is, whether a public or private education be best 
 adapted to my particular child; and even this is 
 oftener decided by accident or convenience, than 
 from conviction or argument. This, at least, is 
 clear, that it is the duty of every parent to pursue 
 that plan which will ultimately conduce most to the 
 welfare of his offspring ; and though the diffident 
 may sometimes hesitate, or necessity compel an in- 
 voluntary adoption, yet, where choice is fairly open, 
 no one need long hesitate -what system to prefer. 
 The great Creator, when he implanted qualities, af- 
 forded us also the means of displaying them. These 
 then, we must watch, and to these refer, as the lines 
 of direction. All plants are not .indigenous, and 
 while the Briton triumphs in his oak, the Indian
 
 241 
 
 reclines under his palm tree. Thus it is with ani- 
 mals, with seasons, and with climates : the rugged 
 liberty of the Spartan would have ill suited the effe- 
 minacy of Asian dependence: but though panaceas 
 are rejected, many medicines may possess powers of 
 general utility ; and as the constitution of this coun- 
 try, though unadapted to every state, might diffuse 
 blessings over the majority of mankind, so will it be 
 found, that a public Education, however dangerous 
 to some, is preferable on the whole for the generality 
 of students: " Alieno in loco haud stabile regnum 
 est." Seneca.
 
 242 
 
 THOUGHTS ON THE PROPOSED IMPROVE- 
 MENT OF FEMALE EDUCATION. 
 
 1808. 
 
 <- 
 
 Les femmes docteurs ne sont point de mon gout ; 
 Je consens qu'une femme ait des clartes de tout, 
 Mais je ne lui veux point la passion choquante, 
 De se rendre savante & fin d'etre savante. 
 
 MOLIERE. 
 
 REFORMERS, if they are honest, deserve well of 
 their countrymen ; for the office is troublesome and 
 invidious. Yet there are errors, which they are 
 apt to fall into, so considerable, as to render their 
 labours sometimes worse than useless. One, in 
 particular, is very common, because a small share of 
 vanity will occasion it. This is an anxiety, of 
 which the reformer himself is perhaps hardly con- 
 scious, to fix upon some subject for improvement, 
 wherein no striking deficiency had been before ob- 
 served, and towards which, therefore, the public at- 
 tention had not been directed. The love of origin- 
 ality, which is common to all ingenious men, ob- 
 viously points to this : but it is equally obvious, 
 that he who is determined to be original, is in 
 great danger of being wrong ; and that if the world
 
 243 
 
 has not noticed a particular deficiency, some pre- 
 sumption exists that there is no deficiency to be no- 
 ticed. 
 
 There is another fault, of which reformers are 
 sometimes guilty, that grows very naturally out of 
 the last. Having, according to the acknowledged 
 liberties of their company, expressed a great deal of 
 astonishment that their countrymen should have paid 
 so little attention to the object in whichtljey pro- 
 pose an amendment, they go on wondering, and de- 
 claring their wonder, on the same account, long 
 after the cause has ceased, and when, it may be, 
 men, women, and children, are writing and talking 
 about nothing else. 
 
 I am not sure whether the most intelligent of 
 those who have lately published on the subject of 
 female improvement, have not fallen into both these 
 errors. They have written largely, and very 
 earnestly, on the propriety of elevating, in no small 
 degree, the studies and intellectual attainments of 
 women. Yet it is very questionable (as shall pre- 
 sently be considered) whether, attending to the ac- 
 tual state of things, and not forgetting the neces- 
 sary imperfections of our nature, such an alteration 
 is at all needed. They have complained too, and 
 still complain loudly, that the world, in both sexes, 
 either from levity or a judicial blindness, is insensi- 
 ble to the importance of this their favourite theme ; 
 though it so happens, more attention has lx?en paid 
 to it, and morr letter-press expended upon it, 
 
 R2
 
 244 
 
 within the last fifteen years, than during the fif- 
 teen, or even fifty, centuries which preceded them. 
 
 The last of these facts will hardly be denied, 
 but the first deserves to be more fully inquired 
 into. 
 
 Among the persons who have engaged in dis- 
 cussions respecting female improvement, there sub- 
 sists a great difference of sentiments ; but both 
 sides l\ave, as by consent, proceeded on the assump- 
 tion of the point which I wish to see more fully 
 considered. They have each taken for granted, 
 that the existing state of female attainments is very 
 low. Proceeding on this hypothesis, one class of 
 writers maintain, that thus it ought to continue. 
 The other, with much more liberality, but perhaps 
 with less of sound judgment than of good inten- 
 tion, contend that improvements are very desirable. 
 I venture to doubt whether both these bodies of 
 disputants are not in error. The first indeed are so 
 wrong, that they have no chance of ever getting 
 right. Yet the mistake of the latter class may be 
 the most serious, because it is a practical one. If 
 the cultivation of female talents is at present, on 
 the whole, about such as it ought to be, no inter- 
 ference is necessary, and tampering will probably 
 do harm. At the least, this is a question which 
 must be examined before we can advance a step 
 securely ; and this is just the question which, with 
 their pardon be it said, all our worthy reformers have 
 hitherto slipped by. 
 
 It may be as well here to dismiss at once those
 
 245 
 
 writers and talkers (thinkers they are not) who are 
 pleased to insist, not only that women actually are 
 ignorant and foolish, but that they ought always to 
 be so. Nothing truly can be more impertinent than 
 the liberties which such gentlemen take in this mat- 
 ter. They profess a jealousy of female improve- 
 ment. It is natural, that, being stationary them- 
 selves, they should feel no pleasure in the advances 
 of others : but what right have they to He thus 
 jealous ? Is the sex subject to their control ? Are 
 women bound to make choice of occupations ac- 
 cording to their fancy? What concern have they 
 with those whose discretion they think themselves 
 authorized to question ? This only that, they may 
 some day wish to marry, and have therefore a slight 
 interest in the character of the body from which 
 they must then select. They need not, however, 
 to feel any alarm. Were women much more highly 
 (educated than they generally are, there must still 
 be very many of slender wit, and still more slender 
 attainments, who will make them suitable compa- 
 nions. Such "congenial souls" they may easily 
 find, and will have the satisfaction of transmitting 
 simpleness to their common offspring; 
 
 " So Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first." 
 
 But the other body of writers on this subject are, 
 in every view, well entitled to a grave reply ; for 
 professing, as I do, to agree with them, in respect 
 to the general benefits of intellectual cultivation ;
 
 and holding it clear that we have not the slightest 
 right to debar women of those benefits if they wish 
 to possess them ; it is plain that my doubts, as to 
 the soundness and safety of their conclusions, must 
 arise from an original difference in our facts. If, 
 however, they are mistaken in these, the inferences, 
 of which they feel so secure, may not only be 
 false, but dangerous ; and the amendment they 
 propose, nothing better than mischievous med- 
 dling. 
 
 In considering whether the present state of fe- 
 male knowledge is below its just level, we must 
 bear in mind the infirmities and imperfections 
 necessarily incident to the mechanism of society, 
 and to man himself, the mechanist. Doubtless 
 it would be very desirable to increase, in a ten- 
 fold ratio, the wisdom and virtue now subsisting in 
 the world ; to make men, as well as women, much 
 more knowing than they are. But this we are sure 
 is impracticable by any sudden efforts. The whole 
 of the social system must move on together; and 
 though one part may accidentally, and for a short 
 time, get the start of the rest, such an advantage is 
 seldom great or lasting : chances come to all, and 
 the race, in a long run, is pretty even. Whatever 
 wishes, therefore, 'we may cherish for the general 
 improvement of our species, or of woman, the 
 loveliest part of it, if upon the whole it appears, 
 that the average attainments of the sex are at pre- 
 sent such, as with reference to the general state of 
 things, of civilization and social advancement, they
 
 247 
 
 ought in reason to be, so that they are not lagging 
 in the inarch ; there seems to be no occasion for 
 special interference in that quarter, and there is 
 even room to fear that it may not be altogether 
 harmless. 
 
 If, in order to determine on the main fact which 
 is disputed, no evidence could be resorted to but 
 the personal testimony of writers, the decision 
 might be adjourned to the Greek Calends ; for what 
 authorities could be adduced which must not be 
 questionable ? Men can judge only from what they 
 know, and no one in this country knows many 
 women intimately. We can tell of singular speci- 
 mens of ignorance or knowledge; but this is of 
 little service. An average is wanted ; and, upon 
 such limited observation, how shall an average be 
 taken > The laws, too, by which the intercourse 
 between the sexes is regulated, are so peculiar, that 
 female excellencies and dcficiences are seldom 
 fairly estimated. Women are either adored or 
 despised ; for who can resist the fascination of wit 
 and elegance united ? And how few are those who 
 will inquire for other merits, where these cannot be 
 found ? Some better assistance, then, is desirable 
 in the solution of this problem ; and two consider- 
 ations, at least, may be mentioned, which make it 
 generally improbable that feminine talents should 
 be insufficiently cultivated in an age of wealth and 
 improvement. 
 
 1. We all know that, in the advance of social 
 prosperity, riches, ease, and knowledge gradually
 
 248 
 
 rise out of each other ; and no one will deny that 
 women, in some measure, partake of the common 
 improvement. Let those who do, look into the re- 
 ceipt-books of our great-grandmothers. But there 
 is this peculiarity observable, that the very increase 
 of wealth, which supplied men at first both with 
 the means and motives for cultivating their under- 
 standings, soon bars their progress. The order of 
 the world makes it unavoidable, " Opposuit na- 
 tura ;" for as industry is augmented in every quar- 
 ter, each art and profession is more perfectly sepa- 
 rated from its neighbours ; and men, from the 
 growing eagerness of competition, are forced to 
 yield themselves more entirely to the course of pro- 
 fitable employment they have chosen. They be- 
 come, therefore, more technical. Less of that 
 which tends to elevate or embellish the mind, can 
 be learned in a profession, and less can be learned 
 out of it. But no similar obstacles oppose them- 
 selves to the growing condition and accomplish- 
 ments of the female world. The accumulation of 
 riches only gives to them a greater command of 
 ease, books, and every facility for instruction. It 
 multiplies, too, continually the number of those 
 who will be ambitious of some intellectual attain- 
 ments ; and by multiplying their number, at once 
 gives a price to knowledge, and withdraws the re- 
 proach of singularity. One may venture then to 
 say, that women must have a tendency to improve 
 longer than men ; and whoever considers the state 
 of things in this island, will find it difficult to per-
 
 
 
 suade himself, that the causes above mentioned 
 are not already acting on both the sexes with great 
 force. 
 
 2. Educated and intelligent men have so strong 
 an interest in the cultivation of the female mind, 
 that it is hardly to be thought intellectual pursuits 
 can become general in one sex, without a similar 
 spirit being communicated to the other. This must 
 be done before knowledge can really become a 
 blessing to us. At the best, till then it is only a 
 solitary blessing : and none more keenly feel the 
 wretchedness of solitude than the speculative and 
 studious. To them, conversation is a medicine as 
 well as an amusement. But the coarse joyousness, or 
 coarser contentions of men, afford them little relief: 
 the kindness, the vivacity, the grace, the facility of 
 women these are what they seek ; and these possess 
 a charm which neither the discovery of truth nor thr 
 attainment of the highcs| honours can bestow. The 
 rigid brow of philosophy is relaxed, the languid 
 eye of erudition lightens with rapture. Wit is 
 heard with pleasure where it can excite no jealousy ; 
 and the flattery of female attentions steals to the 
 heart with a softness and poignancy which never 
 yet belonged to the loudest paeans of triumph. 
 But who are the women who will thus reward tin- 
 wise and learned ? Are they the airy, giddy things, 
 whose hours are wasted between the toilet and ball- 
 room, whose industry never approaches nearer their 
 brains than the adjusting a head-dress ? They will 
 prattle at a rout with a petit-maitre, and flutter
 
 found the circle of gaiety, like butterflies in a par- 
 terre. But a man of sense and knowledge Quelle 
 bete ! A scholar a scarecrow ! They look at 
 him, as they would at an Otho or mummy, with a 
 mixture of curiosity and contempt, and turn away 
 to giggle. He seems an antique, lately discovered 
 at Pompeii, with the dust brushed away, and 
 
 " Stepped from his pedestal to take the air." 
 
 In truth, nothing can be more distressing to a man 
 of letters little accustomed to the world, than the 
 buzz and frolics of a girlish circle. But it is not to 
 be credited, that, in an age of knowledge, those 
 qualities which principally confer superiority among 
 men, should long be permitted to deprive their pos- 
 sessors of all pleasure in their intercourse with the 
 softer sex. The wisest and most intelligent on both 
 sides will discover the mistake, and folly be pushed 
 aside. Knowledge enjoys so decided a superiority 
 above ignorance, and the interests of both sexes so 
 strongly favour its just appreciation, that we may 
 venture to say, it is impossible for women to con- 
 tinue their admiration of flippancy and folly for any 
 great length of time after genius and learning are 
 become frequent. They must feel some desire of 
 being approved by those to whom the public world 
 does homage : and men too well know the value of 
 female attention not to cherish the growth of a prin- 
 ciple, which, whether rooted in vanity or reflection, 
 must prove in its developement their happiness and
 
 251 o 
 
 honour. Let it be recollected how long it is since 
 learning has been highly esteemed in this island, and 
 the inference flowing from these remarks will be very 
 obvious. 
 
 Upon general views then, without looking about 
 tor instances, there seems little reason to appre- 
 hend that women are at present less intellectual than 
 they ought to be. If we turn to life, I cannot think 
 we shall see reason to alter our judgment. 
 
 Women are not profound scholars and philoso- 
 phers: it is admitted. They know but little of the 
 Greek accents, of the doctrines of curves, of ex- 
 changes, and of paper credit ; those learned ladies 
 excepted, who are at home in every thing. But there 
 is one sort of philosophy which they understand 
 more practically, and more deeply too, than any 
 of us. I mean the philosophy of the human heart. 
 This is their great field of inquiry ; and the know- 
 ledge they here acquire is not gained by reading or 
 thinking, but by observation on common life. In 
 the midst of company and diversions, in the quiet of 
 the domestic circle, in happiness and in distress, they 
 are still gaining new acquaintance with the human 
 sentiments, passions, and affections, in their sim- 
 plest forms, and in all their combinations, natural 
 and sophisticated. These they reach by that deli- 
 cacy and justness of feeling which is peculiarly 
 their own, and which a more scientific system of 
 education would probably disturb. Now this know- 
 ledge of the human heart is just that which to the 
 sex is most valuable. Condemned as they are,
 
 252 
 
 partly by the ordinance of Providence, and partly 
 by the ungenerous tyranny of men, to a state of de- 
 pendence, their condition would be wretched indeed, 
 if they possessed no resources by which to qualify 
 or elude the domination of strength. But what they 
 cannot attempt openly, they can, and frequently do, 
 indirectly effect. As daughters, sisters, wives, and 
 mothers, they have continual occasion to improve 
 and exercise their knowledge of the heart, in foiling 
 the passions and violence of men, in fixing or reco- 
 vering their affections, in preserving the peace and 
 animating the dulness of domestic life, and in train- 
 ing the infant mind to whatever is fair and ami- 
 able. Their attainments in humanity are their best 
 arms, which serve for defence, and use, and orna- 
 ment. Let us not insidiously or cruelly attempt to 
 tear these from their hands, under the pretence of re- 
 commending a more regular system of mental disci- 
 pline. They are necessary for the happiness of both 
 sexes. Nor let us deceive ourselves and them, by the 
 silly pedantry of fancying that human nature can 
 only be studied to advantage in Hartley or Hut- 
 cheson. 
 
 There are many walks too of literature, and even 
 science, in which women pretty generally excel. 
 A great proportion of the higher classes are familiar 
 with French and Italian ; and German has of late 
 been introduced into that fashionable coterie. What 
 stores of instruction and elegant amusement are thus 
 opened to them ! They do not perhaps enter into 
 nice disquisitions on the structure of the different
 
 253 
 
 languages ; they trouble themselves little with the 
 prosody, and never inquire why the French com- 
 pose in alexandrines, the Italians in stanza, and the 
 Germans in hexameter: but their tastes are cultivated, 
 and their minds enriched. Who is there, capable 
 of relishing the grace and dignity of Racine, the 
 ever-varying charms of Ariosto, or the sublime effu- 
 sions of Klopstock, that would spend his thought 
 to examine the merits and defects of French versifi- 
 cation, with its alternations of male and female 
 couplets ; or lose himself in the angry squabbles of 
 Corneille and Monsieur Scudery, about the old and 
 new drama? Women are pretty good linguists, 
 though not deeply versed in philology; and if they 
 only read what is best worth their reading, should 
 we call them shallow and ignorant, because they 
 have a quicker sense than we of the beautiful and 
 sublime? If I am to judge between Madame 
 Dacier and Madame de Sevigne, saving the dig- 
 nity of criticism, I must really give the apple to 
 the latter. 
 
 I would willingly recount every province of know- 
 ledge, whether elegant or profound, which is become 
 tributary to the ladies ; but their encyclopedic is too 
 extensive for my feeble grasp. History and belles- 
 lettres, chemisty, botany, natural philosophy, with 
 twenty sub-divisions of science, the names of which 
 are hardly known in the vulgar world, now flourish 
 under the female patronage " All sciences, all arts, 
 their spoil !" What can writers mean by calling 
 women ignorant ? A poor man, whose time is oc-
 
 254 
 
 cupied in the business of common life, hardly dares 
 to open his lips in a fashionable circle, for fear of 
 getting into some confusion about the composition 
 of a favourite gas, or the history of a semi-metal. 
 Formerly if a man knew enough of botany to ob- 
 serve, that the petals of a particular plant are cruci- 
 form and divaricated, he passed for a prodigy ; but 
 now, the lady turns short upon him, and adds, that 
 it has been since discovered they are gash-serrated 
 with peduncles in whirls round the stem. In truth, if 
 the weekly lectures at the Institution were continued 
 through the autumn, the conversation of fashionable 
 females, like the sacred languages of Egypt and 
 Hindostan, would be quite unintelligible to common 
 mortals ; but thanks to their good memories, the 
 fair students have all to begin again the next 
 spring. 
 
 Seriously however; though there is enough of af- 
 fectation among ladies on these subjects, would there 
 be affectation of knowledge if knowledge were not 
 become creditable ? The truth is, that there is 
 scarcely any thing new or curious, elegant or amus- 
 ing, to which female attention is not directed. 
 Amidst such restlessness of research, it is surely too 
 much to expect us to believe that women are gene- 
 rally uninformed. 
 
 Nor let us forget what are termed accomplish- 
 ments. We hear it frequently insisted, that tot) 
 much time is dedicated to these. It may be so; but 
 they are of no mean value. The polite arts, among 
 which music and painting are without doubt the
 
 255 
 
 most excellent, are to society what the entablature 
 is in architecture. They do not sustain the build- 
 ing, but they adorn it. And by whom can every 
 graceful art be so properly cultivated, as by those in 
 whom the most finished ideas of beauty are seen 
 embodied ? For what is beauty without grace ? 
 " Vera incessu patuit dea." 
 
 Upon the whole, if quickness of perception, de- 
 licacy and justness of taste, an easy flow of senti- 
 ments and language, flexibility and facility of under- 
 standing, wit both subtile and poignant, original com- 
 binations, and a deep acquaintahce with the human 
 heart, are any indications of a cultivated mind, we 
 need not feel alarmed for the present race of females 
 in the higher classes. Their attainments indeed, in 
 the different walks of knowledge, must vary with 
 their opportunities. Women who are married in 
 early life cannot, and ought not, to devote their 
 hours to speculative occupations : they have nearer 
 and deaivr interests to attend to. But single women 
 generally supply the absence of domestic affections 
 by those intellectual pursuits, which may divert their 
 minds, and render their company and conversation 
 attractive. These are the natural and (if the plea- 
 sures of religion are excepted) the best resources of 
 solitude. Even among them, it must be owned, wi- 
 never see a Cotes or Newton, a Clarke, or Klumkcti : 
 perhaps rarely a Corelli or Reynolds. And why 
 should we desire it ? Yet, without flattering the sex, 
 we- may observe, that some of the first literary cha- 
 racters of the present age and the last have been
 
 256 
 
 found among them. When I mention Mrs. Carter, 
 Mrs. More, Mrs. Barbauld, and Miss Burney, need 
 I add any thing to justify the assertion ? 
 
 " I call that," says Milton, " a complete and ge- 
 nerous education, which fits a person to perform 
 justly, skilfully, and magnanimously, all the of- 
 fices both of public and private life." In public 
 life, women cannot be tried ; but let the sufficiency 
 of their education be judged by the general pro- 
 priety of their behaviour, their constancy in dis- 
 tress, their moderation in prosperity, their fulfil- 
 ment of every active and every passive duty. We 
 talk freely of their love of follies, and delight to 
 dwell on the foibles visible in the sex foibles 
 sometimes growing out of their very excellencies ; 
 but if the merits of education may be judged by 
 the character and conduct of the students, Cam- 
 bridge, and Oxford, and Edinburgh, must yield the 
 palm to that course of female institution which has 
 not hitherto been thought worthy even of being 
 formed into a system. There are great mistakes 
 about these matters. We deceive ourselves with 
 the word education. Formerly this meant learning 
 Latin and Greek at school, and going through the 
 old courses of philosophy at college. It is still 
 confined, with men, principally to intellectual dis- 
 cipline. But the present modes of instruction 
 among women have this advantage, that the head 
 and heart are trained together. Their dispositions 
 are regulated ; their manners are formed. Girls 
 might be made excellent scholars as well as men ;
 
 257 
 
 but then, other things must be neglected. How 
 would the poor things tremble at entering a draw- 
 ing room ! How would they mangle a fricandeau ! 
 Should we like to see their caps awry, or perhaps a 
 group of sister students in Palmyrene simars and 
 stomachers after the fashion of queen Zenobia ! 
 Let women be compared with men, in taste, curi- 
 osity, thirst of knowledge, and a quick relish of 
 whatever is brilliant, lofty, or affecting ; in propriety 
 of manners, in their dispositions and affections, in 
 prudential and moral conduct ; and it may boldly be 
 affirmed, that men would be " honoured by the 
 rivalry/' If such be the effects of their present 
 system of education, I repeat with Milton, that 4 - I 
 call that a complete and generous education/' 
 
 So much for the alleged deficiencies in tire tair 
 sex. When, after listening to the deep-drawn sighs 
 that are breathed around me, I turn to the living 
 world of women full of spirit and intelligence, my 
 mind is irresistibly drawn to the image of the evil 
 genius surveying Athens, whose tears indeed were 
 less unreasonable, because they were the tears of 
 malignity: 
 
 Tritonida conapicit arcem 
 Ingeniis, opibusque, et lapta pace vircntem, 
 Vixque tenet lachrymas, quia nil lachrymabik cemit. 
 
 I shall now endeavour to point out how serious 
 ;ire the mischiefs which would attend any strik- 
 ing change in the existing system of female disci- 
 pline. 
 
 s
 
 258 
 
 Though the writers on this subject decline to 
 propose any specific plan for supplying the present 
 deficiencies in the education of women, (a reserve, 
 by the bye, which does more credit to the prudence 
 than to the generosity of such practical philoso- 
 phers,) it is evidently their wish to give it throughout 
 a character of greater severity. They are anxious 
 that women should be taught to think more and 
 reason better. Doubtless, thought and reason are 
 noble faculties ; but our masculine censors seem to 
 be but poor moral arithmeticians ; for while they 
 calculate their gains pretty confidently, for a mere 
 project of speculation, we hear nothing of any op- 
 posite account, of any waste in this shifting of ca- 
 pital. It is natural, however, that those who think 
 highly of women as they are, should estimate with 
 some seriousness the value of what is put in hazard 
 by a new adventure. Let us see whether the 
 amount is inconsiderable. Let us see, too, whether 
 the proposed improvements may not bring with 
 them some inconveniences not generally anticipated. 
 
 Women are at present remarkable for grace. This 
 quality breathes through their whole character, and 
 is perhaps its greatest charm. Yet who can doubt 
 that habits of severe attention to the sciences, or 
 even to their usual studies cast into a more scientific 
 shape, would destroy something of that delicacy and 
 flexibility of understanding for which the sex have 
 hitherto been admired ? We may rest assured that 
 the same causes and effects will ever be found allied, 
 whether men or women are the subjects of our ex-
 
 259 
 
 periment: and what a regular system of discipline 
 produces in one sex, it will produce in the other : 
 " Abeunt studia in mores." Their characters will 
 alter with their pursuits. The number of our phi- 
 losophers may be multiplied, but Philosophy must 
 then be seen only cased in mail and armed at all 
 points, instead of moving in a light drapery, with 
 the Graces dancing round her. Women are at pre- 
 sent celebrated tor the activity and glow of their 
 imaginations. We shall be told, that this faculty 
 will rather be regulated than injured by a rigid sys- 
 tem of institution. It may be doubted, however, 
 whether so artificial a regulation would be desirable ; 
 and it is far more doubtful whether thus to regulate 
 will not be to destroy. Whoever considers the na- 
 ture of this enchanting faculty will perceive, that 
 the ideas which it presents to the mind, however 
 grand or beautiful, are generally very inaccurate ; as 
 objects seen through a mist will lose in distinctness 
 what they gain in magnitude. Indistinctness is one 
 source of the sublime ; and a principal reason why 
 women possess a greater command than men over 
 those images which raise the thoughts and touch tin* 
 feelings, doubtless is, that they are less accustomed 
 to define their ideas accurately ; that first impres- 
 sions are received and retained in all their vividness, 
 without being squared and nicely measured by the 
 rule and compass of reason. Mr. Gibbon stud lu- 
 relinquished the mathematics because they injured 
 his imagination ; and though we may think, as a 
 man, he cherished hi* favourite faculty too fond I v.
 
 260 
 
 it would be difficult to contest the truth of his ex* 
 perience. 
 
 Is it, then, desirable that women should sacrifice 
 their present grace of mind and richness of imagina- 
 tion, in order to become forcible and accurate rea- 
 soners ? If reason were a rare commodity, it would 
 be necessary to procure it at any price ; but, in the 
 occupations of our busy world, there is such a con- 
 stant demand for this great article of necessity, that 
 we need not trouble ourselves to make laws and 
 give bounties for providing a supply. On the con- 
 trary, it should seem prudent to secure, if possible, 
 a fund of the more delicate faculties, which are not 
 absolutely requisite for our existence, though they 
 administer very largely to our happiness. Such are 
 those which still flourish in the female world. Is 
 there not also a natural affinity between that cha- 
 racter of the understanding now peculiar to women, 
 and the qualities we love to contemplate in the sex? 
 Can we, without a sort of revulsion in our feelings, 
 consider a timid, gentle, affectionate creature, disen- 
 tangling all the mazes of metaphysics, floundering 
 in the Serbonian bog of politics, lost in infinite si- 
 mals, or deep in dust and lore amidst the antiquities 
 of history and languages ? In a social view the mat- 
 ter is of great importance. " Manners make the 
 man ;" and women make the manners. Surely 
 these are of some moment. A true delicacy in all 
 the offices of social and domestic life is one of the 
 best criteria, as it is one of the fairest fruits, of ci- 
 vilization. Woe to the nation that shall renounce
 
 261 
 
 it. They will descend fast into barbarism and bru- 
 tality ; for the gates of that dark passage stand open 
 day and night it is only the ascent which is dif- 
 ficult. Let us not rashly put in hazard that elegant 
 refinement which is at once our honour and happi- 
 ness. Science cannot civilize a people; and, in a 
 busy community, such as ours, we may be sure that 
 the belles-letters and polite arts will not long conti- 
 nue to flourish, if they are discouraged among those 
 who principally possess taste and leisure to cultivate 
 them. Even morals are interested in this question, 
 for there is a close alliance between every part of 
 the human microcosm. " L'imagination tient de 
 plus pres, qu'on ne croit, a la morale." This is a 
 great and sublime truth, though too extensive to be 
 here expanded. It is also beyond a doubt that de- 
 licacy of sentiment and manners is, at least in an 
 irreligious age, the very sanctuary in which female 
 honour is enshrined. Let me add too, that this 
 scheme of working up men and women into the 
 same sort of coarse, heavy, marketable commodities, 
 has a sort of " bourgeoisie" about it that is quite 
 odious. It is contrary even to our nature, which 
 hates uniformity, delighting in contrast, variety, 
 light, and shade. Thus the grandest harmonies of 
 Handel owe much of their effect to his rich and 
 ever-varying modulation ; his airs are as delightful 
 as his fugues. Painters do not finish the fore-ground 
 and the off-skip in the same style. 
 
 The social evils, then, which may probably flow 
 from a new system of female instruction, are of no
 
 262 
 
 trifling amount. There is a loss, too, which men 
 must suffer, so serious that I cannot omit it, though 
 I do not think the inquiry should, in general, have 
 much reference to our convenience. We know the 
 charms of female conversation ; their grace, their 
 ease, their vivacity, the inimitable justness of their 
 ideas, and simple propriety of their language. Alas ! 
 
 How shall we live without them, how forego 
 Such sweet converse? 
 
 Yet these, too, must be resigned, if the projected 
 improvements take effect : for we must not hope 
 that the scholar will ever condescend to that careless 
 prattle, which now delights our faculties, and re- 
 lieves the weariness of this work-day world. Will 
 not the metaphysician weigh her ideas, and measure 
 her words 1 Women, like men of talents who are 
 without occupation, will consider company as a field 
 where their powers are to be exhibited. Conversa- 
 tion will become a struggle of wits ; and then adieu 
 for ever to that easy, playful interchange of sense 
 and nonsense, which is the charm of charms, the 
 light fringe that skirts the sable drapery of life. If 
 such are the blessings of a high state of social im- 
 provement, may we ever be humble and happy. In 
 truth, civilization is a sad leveller. It destroys the 
 most striking objects in the natural world, and all 
 originality of character and energy of the passions in 
 the moral. Something, however, it has still left us, 
 the vale, the babbling stream, the sunny meadow,
 
 263 
 
 with the smiles and simple vivacity of woman, 
 sweeter than all the inanimate world can give. Why 
 should we deprive ourselves also of these pleasures! 
 Why should we force nature to our own unhap- 
 piness ? 
 
 But the most singular, and, from its boldness, the 
 most amusing circumstance in this dispute is, the 
 confidence with which our masters of wisdom are 
 pleased to assume, that women, at least, will be 
 greatly benefited by their reforms. This they think 
 a sufficient indemnity against any other losses ; and, 
 supposing their self-complacency reasonable, it might 
 indeed be accepted as such. But the perfect ease 
 with which these gentlemen announce the advan- 
 tages of their own system, is, I confess, far from 
 convincing me of its real efficiency. On the con- 
 trary, one is reminded of a ruse de guerre sometimes 
 practised in a certain great assembly, when the mi- 
 nister, having a measure to propose of the most 
 questionable nature, takes occasion, in introducing 
 it, to anticipate with confidence the unanimous 
 concurrence of the house. Let us advert only to 
 three considerations, and the reader will then judge 
 how far women are really interested in the adoption 
 of a new style of education. 
 
 1. It has been observed, that the most valuable 
 knowledge which the sex at present possess, is, 
 their acquaintance with human nature. Now, if it 
 were only matter of doubt whether an altered sys- 
 tem of mental discipline would affect thrm in this 
 particular, surely they ought to refuse to place so
 
 264 
 
 great a treasure in jeopardy. " Fiat experimental)! 
 in corpore vili." Let not women put in hazard 
 their principal weapon of defence. But it really is 
 not doubtful. The experience of ages has proved, 
 that those who analyze are less intimately acquainted 
 with human nature than those who feel ; and if 
 women, instead of piercing to the recesses of the 
 heart by a perception peculiarly their own, acquire 
 a habit rather of curiously dissecting the various 
 phaenomena that are witnessed, they will soon lose 
 that practical intimacy with the passions which they 
 now possess, and which is necessary to their happi- 
 ness. They will know the anatomy of the mind 
 better, but they will sacrifice the power they enjoy 
 of directing all its movements. They will under- 
 stand men like Marivaux, not like the Duchesse de 
 Longueville, or Madame de Maintenon. This is a 
 difference of great moment ; it is the same we can 
 imagine to subsist between a rhetorician and an 
 orator; between the pedant who would have in- 
 structed Hannibal how to win battles and Hannibal 
 who won them. 
 
 2. The education of women naturally adjusts 
 itself with greater or less accuracy to the station 
 they must fill and the duties they have to perform 
 in life. Thus at least it is, when things are allowed 
 to pursue their own course ; and one of the great 
 mischiefs of an ill-advised interference is, that this 
 natural adjustment is apt to be deranged. For 
 scarcely any thing can be said to be good or bad in 
 this world, unless its dependence upon or relation
 
 265 
 
 to some other things be. considered. Thus we all love 
 refinement : yet who is there that does not see, how 
 a too delicate taste unfits the possessor for the duties 
 of common life ? Sensibility is the first of charms ; 
 but woe to the wretch, who, regardless of the 
 coarseness and apathy of mankind, cherishes feelings 
 exquisitely alive to every sentiment of pain and 
 pleasure. Imagination fascinates and delights us : 
 imagination is the rack of exalted spirits. All these 
 thing's are so, because we can neither wholly sepa- 
 rate ourselves from the world as it is, nor alter it at 
 pleasure. In a higher state of being, it may perhaps 
 be safe to cultivate the best instincts of our nature 
 to the most exquisite perfection ; but here we must 
 bow to the necessity of our condition ; and let us 
 bow cheerfully, for it is the ordinance of God. Why 
 is it then that these things are overlooked, when we 
 talk of improvements in the sex? Surely our be- 
 nevolence slumbers, or we should recollect, that if, 
 by a more elevated course of education, women 
 should be qualified for higher employments than the 
 order of the world will permit them to engage in, 
 their industry will have purchased for them a more 
 exquisite misery than the inventive malice of man 
 ever has contrived. What! can we form no idea of 
 that agony and rebellion of soul, that storm of con- 
 flicting passions, which tosses and agitates a spirit 
 conscious of |>owers that have no field for exertion, 
 that we are willing so carelessly to lead the softer 
 sex, now cheerful and contented, to an elevation, 
 which, like the Assyrian mount when Satan alighted
 
 266 
 
 on it, must be to them a scene of distempered and 
 distracting emotions ? Women at present are happy 
 in the simplest occupations. An airing, a dance, 
 the fire-side, the tea-table all are grateful in their 
 turns : 
 
 With art so subtly true 
 
 From ev'ry herb they draw the healing dew. 
 
 Happy indeed, if they but know their happiness ! 
 How changed will be the whole prospect, should 
 their minds, invigorated by a hardier discipline, pant 
 for the exertions of active life ! The pursuits that 
 now occupy their attention will appear unmeaning, 
 and nothing be left them but the turbulence of dis- 
 content, or the uneasy languor of indifference. 
 Should such a state of things arrive, our sex will 
 certainly be bound to admit them to a fair partici- 
 pation in the business and honours of the world. 
 If we seduce them to quit their " happy valley," 
 we are at least bound to give them a settlement in 
 our rocky and inclement region. 
 
 3. Women and men must be mutually dependent 
 on each other; the happiness of neither sex can be 
 solitary. Nothing then can be more ill-judged, 
 than any plan which has a tendency to give to one 
 an unreasonable advantage. It is plain too, from 
 the constitution of nature and the declaration of 
 God, that women are subjected to some inferiority ; 
 an attempt, therefore, to push them into an undue 
 eminence, can only issue in general wretchedness.
 
 267 
 
 Now we have already seen, that the course of things 
 must, in the progress of civilization, give to women 
 some advantage over men, by advancing them in 
 knowledge and intellectual improvement after we 
 have begun to recede. This is a moral distortion, 
 which it would be our wisdom to correct rather than 
 encourage. But if, instead of controlling, we che- 
 rish the natural infirmity, nothing but disorder can 
 ensue. Women already are apt to despise their 
 husbands. In truth, an intelligent female often 
 finds it very difficult to feel any respect for her ig- 
 norant or sottish lord. She does not " thunder 
 quotations in his ears ;" but she is obliged to check 
 his passions and direct his weakness; nor even with 
 her Bible in her hand can she always reverence a 
 being, who knows nothing but the chances at ha- 
 zard, and is seldom sensible of his existence after 
 nine at night. These are not " moral caricatures," 
 to use the words of an intelligent writer; they art* 
 portraits from real life ; and reformers would be 
 more profitably employed in teaching our men sense, 
 than in persuading women to covet acquirements 
 of which they do not feel the want ; though they 
 may perhaps one day know the wretchedness. 
 
 There is another particular in which I entirely 
 differ. It is said, " that with the men must ori- 
 ginate the scheme of reformation, and that under 
 thrir superintendence and protection alone can it 
 efficaciously be carried into execution." Truly, 
 wliHt the French call " amour propre" is sexual as
 
 268 
 
 well as personal ; but self-love is proverbially de- 
 lusive. 
 
 I suspect the proper remedy is, not to attempt 
 making the fair sex wiser, but becoming wiser our- 
 selves. As, however, reforms are in fashion, and 
 particularly reforms among women, it may gratify 
 iny male readers if two particulars are mentioned in 
 which improvement really seems desirable. The 
 first is a practice, almost universal with women, to 
 defend tjieir own sex, with more warmth than dis- 
 crimination, whenever either its general credit or a 
 single individual is arraigned. There is some- 
 thing too corporate in this. It seems selfish. It 
 betrays, too, a sense of weakness, which might more 
 prudently be disguised. Men let their fellows take 
 their chance ; sometimes approving, sometimes con- 
 demning them. But if a woman be attacked, the 
 whole sex is in arms. They seem to say with Alfieri : 
 
 Servi siamsi, ma servi ognor frementi. 
 
 The second reprehensible habit, is the common 
 one of laughing at men who are engaged in busi- 
 ness, because their manners are embarrassed and 
 their conversation wants airiness. Now women 
 should recollect, that it is neither wise nor grateful 
 to ridicule the necessary effects of that industry to 
 which they are indebted for every comfort they en- 
 joy. While men devote their time and sacrifice 
 their health to provide them the means of gratifica-
 
 269 
 
 tion, surely it is not asking too much, to expect 
 that they will deny themselves the paltry pleasure 
 of rendering their benefactors contemptible. 
 
 A few words only on religion, and these remarks 
 shall be concluded. This indeed should be first, 
 and last, and midst. Yet this too, I fear, is not 
 likely to be benefited by the proposed alterations. 
 We have been told, that " though Christianity does 
 not require that every one should defend its autho- 
 rity, it seems to require that every one should un- 
 derstand its principles/' It is granted. And who 
 better understand those principles than pious fe- 
 males? I have heard of a zealous minister who 
 said, that he had found a deeper acquaintance with 
 Christianity in some old women of the lowest rank, 
 than in any other persons of either sex. We are 
 told, too, that " not one in a large proportion of 
 pious women could advance any satisfactory reason 
 for her belief." In one sense this is equally true of 
 a great number of pious men ; in another, it is true 
 of neither. A satisfactory reason they have for 
 themselves, in the peace and consolation they ex- 
 perience ; but they have it not for others, because 
 these are personal feelings. Hut it may even be 
 doubted, whether " a systematic view of Christian- 
 ity, with its various kinds of evidence," is needful; 
 whether, in short, the religion of men and women 
 ought to be exactly similar. In men, perhaps reason 
 should preside; in women, affection. Thus each 
 may improve the other. But if, by a novel system 
 of discipline, the female character should be altered,
 
 270 
 
 and their feelings become cold, religion must lose 
 its fervour, and with that, I fear, its life and energy. 
 For though reason is the regulator, affection is the 
 mainspring ; and that devotion which resides only 
 in the understanding, resembles rather the homage 
 which a contemplative philosopher pays to his 
 Creator, than the humble and grateful adoration 
 which the repentant prodigal should render to his 
 parent, the redeemed sinner to his God. In truth, 
 a religion of mere reason is very suspicious. I once 
 asked a French gentleman what were his guides in 
 these matters. He replied, " Ma Bible, mes pre- 
 tres, et ma logique ; et ma logique me serve plus 
 que tout le reste." My readers will not be sur- 
 prized to hear, that I found it impossible to con- 
 vince my catholic that it was his duty to forgive 
 some persons by whom he thought himself deeply 
 injured. 
 
 Reforms, however, in religion, can never be need- 
 less, whether for men or women. Let the latter 
 then, since their improvement is in question, more 
 seriously consider its inexpressible importance, and 
 live more entirely under the influence of its pre- 
 cepts. Let them deeply and practically be per- 
 suaded, that the favour of God is far above every 
 earthly blessing ; that one act of charity or self-de- 
 nial, one real exercise of humility or devotion, is 
 better worth than the most flattering display of wit 
 and accomplishments, with all the brilliancy of 
 beauty to lend them lustre. So shall the loveliness 
 of women be twice lovely ; so shall the evening as
 
 271 
 
 well as the morn of life shine with unclouded 
 brightness ; and He, " before whose face the hea- 
 vens and earth shall flee away," smile on them in 
 that awful hour, when the charms of the fair and 
 the wisdom of the wise shall alike>be vain, and ho- 
 liness alone retain its value.
 
 272 
 
 STRICTURES ON A REVIEW OF 
 THE FAMILY SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 1808. 
 
 " Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros." 
 
 I HAVE read your review of the Family Shak- 
 speare, and it reminds me of an anecdote, which is 
 told no matter where. It occurred in the reign of 
 Louis the Fourteenth. 
 
 A general complaint had prevailed in France for 
 many years of the disorderly state of the capital. 
 There was no walking in the Fauxbourgs after five 
 o'clock, without danger of being murdered ; every 
 table-d'hote was a scene of uproar ; and the lowest 
 class of profligate women infested the streets with- 
 out number. Colbert (who was a great man for po- 
 lice and privileged companies) undertook to reform 
 this evil ; and, after applying himself for sometime 
 diligently to the business, had the vanity to think 
 he had succeeded. But a zealous Jansenist of that 
 day, whose name was Bussy-Guitot, understood the 
 matter differently. He published a small piece, by 
 which he shewed, in the first place, that Paris was 
 a town where no reputable gentleman should think
 
 273 
 
 of residing ; that all towns indeed were to be 
 avoided as hostile to the simplicity of country life ; 
 and, therefore, that the labour of purifying them was 
 quite misplaced. And, as to the minister's boasted 
 success in Paris, he observed that nothing could be 
 more imperfect ; for he himself had heard the barge- 
 men swearing at the Pont-Neuf, and a lad of four- 
 teen had actually been hustled not three weeks be- 
 fore in the Rue St. Honore. My readers will in- 
 quire, perhaps, how this ended. I am sorry to 
 say, that the pamphlet had a run ; Colbert, rind- 
 ing his reforms unpopular, threw them up ; and 
 the city soon became as riotous and profligate as 
 ever. 
 
 Now this Jansenist, it should be known, was an 
 exceedingly worthy person. He read his Bible con- 
 tinually ; and cordially believed every sentence he 
 gave to the public. How happened it then that he 
 was the occasion of so much mischief? Why just 
 thus. He had been bred in the College of Port- 
 Royal, and understood all the points of controversy 
 with the Jesuits to perfection. But Pere Arnauld, 
 who was his oracle, could teach only what he knew ; 
 and of the ways of the world he had the happi- 
 ness to know nothing. In this only he was wiser 
 than his pupil, that he meddled but little with its 
 concerns. 
 
 I could not refrain troubling you with fhis little 
 history, because I really think it very parallel to 
 what has lately happened, saving only the size of 
 the respective subjects. 
 
 T
 
 274 
 
 All the world read Shakspeare, and ail the world 
 would read him. He had been, for more than two 
 centuries, the pride and delight of his countrymen. 
 His finer passages were quoted by every body. His 
 familiar dialogues had become the language of com- 
 mon life. Meantime, all serious persons lamented 
 that dramas so justly admired should be deformed 
 in every page with indecency and profaneness ; yet 
 still the years rolled by without any attempt to pu- 
 rify them. If we may guess by the lateness of the 
 undertaking, the task should seem to have been dif- 
 ficult. At length, twenty of the plays are pub- 
 lished; cleared for the most part from offensive 
 passages, without being deprived of their original 
 interest ; and the intentions of the editor appear, 
 from his preface, to have been equally moral and 
 good-natured.* A critique soon afterwards appears 
 
 * In justice to the editor, it should be observed, that the play 
 (1st part of Henry IV.) which alone the reviewers thought it 
 necessary to examine, and from which they hare selected all their 
 specimens of impropriety, is that which every one will allow to 
 have been the least susceptible of a perfect reform, without material 
 mutilation: while at the same time its transcendent excellence 
 made it impossible that it should be omitted. Notwithstanding 
 the bead-roll of defects with which the review has presented us, I can- 
 not but think an impartial examiner w ill feel surprized at the suc- 
 cess with which the editor has executed this part of his labours. 
 Asto the integrity of the motives which prompted this publication, 
 let the editor himself be heard: " Though the works of our im- 
 mortal bard have been presented to the public in a great variety 
 of editions, and are already the ornaments of every library, and 
 the delight of every reader ; I flatter myself that the present 
 publication may still claim the attention, and obtain the appro-
 
 275 
 
 in a very valuable religious publication, the sum of 
 which is this : Shakspeare ought never to be read at 
 all the other dramatists are in the same case it is 
 therefore idle to reform them: and as to this attempt, 
 it has quite failed; for the name of the evil spirit is 
 retained at p. 334, an oath at p. 360, Falstaff is al- 
 lowed to quibble upon grace, and " Oh major tan- 
 dem parcas, &c." 
 
 The writers of the article alluded to must allow 
 me to remonstrate a little, both on the spirit and the 
 justice with which their office has been executed. 
 Was it necessary, in reviewing a work which indi- 
 cated at least good wishes to religion and morals, to 
 exhibit only a censorious disposition, ready to carp 
 at every defect ; and to fill three columns (in which 
 their whole critique is included) with a detail of im- 
 proprieties, left probably, in many instances, from 
 the difficulty of removing them, and which in their 
 aggregate amount to nothing? One is reminded of 
 the old tale in Boccalini, where a gentleman shewed 
 his industry, by picking out with care every particle 
 of chaff to be found in a bushel of sifted wheat 
 He was rewarded for his pains by a free gift of his 
 precious collection. 
 
 bation of those who value every literary production in proportion 
 to the effect it may produce in a religious and moral point of 
 view. Twenty of the most unexceptionable of Shakspeare's 
 plays art- here selected, in which not a single line is added, but 
 from which I have endeavoured to remove every thing that ronltl 
 give just offence to the religions and virtuous mind." Prefm-eto 
 the Family Shakspeare. 
 
 T .'
 
 276 
 
 Why (ask the reviewers,) are the three Parts of 
 Henry the Sixth omitted ? A plain man would 
 imagine, because they are dull. Why retain Othello, 
 yet discard Antony and Cleopatra and Measure for 
 Measure* 1 Truly these things are matters of taste ; 
 and it is taste, too, that seduces us to read Dryden, 
 and send Marvel and Elkanah Settle to the Pastry- 
 cook. But Romeo and Juliet this too omitted ! 
 Here indeed I sympathize with the reviewers ; yet, 
 considering their dread of the romantic, one is rather 
 surprised to hear them breathing after a drama, which 
 excites the passions, perhaps, more powerfully than 
 
 t^V.vi .;? P . v ; i'.ao--.,'. "<(}* -v\--. : s*! > , ' 
 
 * I suspect the reviewers are but ill-read in Shakspeare. The 
 three Parts of Henry the Sixth undoubtedly contain very 
 striking passages. Such are the deaths of Cardinal Beaufort 
 and the Earl of Warwick, with many of Henry's speeches. But 
 Warburton declares these plays not to have been written by 
 Shakspeare. It is indeed likely (though denied by Johnson) that 
 his master hand was only employed to throw in a few strokes and 
 some of the boldest colouring. They are besides very heavy, 
 and a most unfaithful transcript of the history of those days. 
 Antony and. Cleopatra, though too busy to be dull, is a poor 
 performance. It contains no original sketches of character, and 
 ver^ little of good sentiment; and is preserved from putrefaction 
 only by its restless activity. Dryden's All for Love, though not 
 good, is generally thought a better performance. Measure for 
 Measure has many beauties. In particular the scene between 
 Isabella and Claudio, in the third act, is inferior to very few in 
 Shakspeare ; but the plot of this drama is so radically indecent, 
 that no skill or labour can purify it. Surely if the reviewers 
 were sensible of these things, they ought not to have indulged 
 in such weak and cynical exceptions. If they were ignorant, 
 how could they presume to write with more than the authority 
 of knowledge.
 
 277 
 
 any that Shakspeare has furnished. But there is no 
 end to such objections they may be supplied at the 
 rate of fifty to the minute. Twenty plays forsooth ! 
 why not thirty / why not all ? And then Shakspeare 
 must be reformed^ while Otway, Rowe, Congreve, are 
 forgotten ! 
 
 To the whole array of verbal peccadillos, that are 
 marshalled so ostentatiously, it is enough to reply, 
 that if the work had been performed by the greatest 
 master of taste and morals in the empire, every school- 
 boy would have been able to select twenty times 
 their amount. 
 
 I willingly believe that the authors of this review 
 have been actuated by good intentions. Yet let me 
 observe, that good intentions and ill-humour match 
 very indifferently together. Should they suggest 
 that these remarks partake of the spirit they con- 
 demn, I freely plead guilty. Their article has made 
 me splenetic ; and it may be useful for them to have 
 an opportunity of observing how ungraceful spleen 
 and petulance appear in men who sit in judgment 
 upon others. 
 
 On the general merits of the Family Shakspeare I 
 shall say nothing. Let it live or perish as it deserves. 
 The editor, however, will probably refuse the deci- 
 sion of critics, who doubt whether the drama can 
 lawfully be studied, and therefore, if true to their 
 principles, acknowledge their incapacity to judire in 
 the act of pronouncing sentence. From such a 
 bench the reformer of Shakspeare i> entitled to up-
 
 278 
 
 peal, and say, with the old Romans, " Provoco ad 
 populum." 
 
 I must, however, observe a little on the moral 
 charge presented by the critics against their literary 
 culprit. They seem to think even his undertaking 
 somewhat reprehensible. " Let it" say they, " be 
 considered, that the ground-work of almost every 
 dramatic story is passion" Let it be considered, 
 that, of the twenty plays now edited, scarcely one 
 is, in strictness, grounded on passion. Love min- 
 gles in their actions, as in common life, and not 
 much more. " It is scarce possible for a young 
 person of fervid genius to read Shakspeare without a 
 dangerous elevation of fancy." In an age so fertile of 
 genius as our own, this is melancholy intelligence. 
 But comfort is at hand. Johnson says, the poet " is 
 not long soft or pathetic without some idle conceit 
 or contemptible equivocation ;" and a writer, whose 
 discernment the reviewers at least will not question, 
 observes, that " this deformity in the dramatic per- 
 son of Shakspeare, repulsive as it is to our intellec- 
 tual feelings, renders his works less seductive and 
 pernicious. Where the judgment is offended, the 
 passions sometimes resent the injury as offered to 
 themselves. The redundant absurdity of Shakspeare 
 occasionally operates as an antidote to his seductions. 
 We refuse to sympathize with the lover or hero, who 
 in the article of death is eager to find rhymes, and 
 expires in giving utterance to a quibble." This last 
 authority is decisive, .
 
 279 
 
 But the general doctrine of this review deserves 
 notice. It is this. Mankind are by nature vastly 
 too romantic. All stimulants therefore should be 
 avoided. Not only the theatre, but dramatic com- 
 positions in general, are to be condemned. Other 
 works of imagination follow ; novels en masse * ; 
 and, by parity of reasoning (for philosophers at least 
 are answerable for the consequences of their princi- 
 ples,) the most animated effusions of eloquence the 
 .finest pieces of history and" thou, sweet Poetry." 
 Thus " art after art goes out, and all is night/* 
 Adieu to every thing that can soften the mind, or 
 elevate, or refine it. Science only is left us ; and that 
 too, as it nurses pride and scepticism, may as well 
 go with the rest. In conclusion we hear, " the ob- 
 
 * The reviewers are somewhat inconsistent. While Shak- 
 speare is banished, the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Madame 
 D f Arblay are to be retained, (in the upper shelves in the library 
 indeed, where young ladies and gentlemen cannot reach them,) 
 because their heroes and heroines are on the whole tolerably 
 moral personages. Do these writers then possess no power over 
 the heart? Is not " passion the ground-work of their stories ?" 
 Or if those works only can lie permitted, in which the character* 
 |K)Urtrayed are not deformed by great crimes, what shall we say of 
 Thucydides, Livy, Guicciardini, and Clarendon ? I own I am 
 unable to perceive why the histories of Macbeth, John, and 
 Henry the Eighth, dramatized by Shaktpeare, are more |>enii- 
 < ious than the histories of the Pazzi and Cfezar Jiorgia, drama- 
 tized by Machiavel. Both colour strongly, and in both, the 
 strength of their colouring renders vice more odious. I pre- 
 sume, of course, that the impurities of the first of fhe- wri- 
 ters are to be cleared away ; but the reviewers will not 
 of reform.
 
 280 
 
 jector must not plead that imagination is annihilated, 
 for every intellectual power finds its place in reli- 
 gion. The prophetic imagery of the Old Testament, 
 and the parables of the New, may be regarded as 
 properly the offspring of the inventive faculty*." 
 Let me not be thought insensible to the sublimity and 
 beauty of the Holy Scriptures ; yet surely it could 
 scarcely have been expected, that in the nineteenth 
 century the fable of the Egyptian caliph should be 
 realized ; who is reported to have burnt the Alexan- 
 drian library, because the contents of those volumes, 
 if found in the Koran, would not be missed, if not 
 found there, must be wicked. 
 
 I join issue with the reviewers on their main 
 postulate, by denying at once that the world is 
 too romantic. Will they, however, do me the ho- 
 nour to consider of a reply to a few preliminary 
 questions ? 
 
 1. While nine-tenths of mankind are indulging in 
 licentious systems of principles and conduct, if an 
 opportunity offers of drawing them away from vice, 
 or the probable contagion of vice, in any material 
 instance, is it wise to neglect the occasion, because 
 
 * The reviewers do not seem to have possessed themselves well 
 of their own theory. If there is any thing of principle in their 
 article, it is, that whatever excites the imagination is hurtful. 
 This renders all inquiries into the moral character of works fall- 
 ing within that description, superfluous ; and an adversary would 
 certainly have sought an *' ex absurdo" refutation of this doctrine, 
 in those passages of Scripture which the reviewers have above 
 alluded to. Yet theSe writers proceed with a flowing sail, and 
 never suspect they are among breakers.
 
 281 
 
 we cannot bring them upon their knees in confession 
 and penitence? Shall we do nothing, because we 
 cannot do everything ; and treat those who are more 
 active than we, with sarcastic severity ? To me this 
 seems the worst sort of optimism, joined to the worst 
 sort of Zoilism ; two things, which, like some 
 others ending in urn, might very conveniently be 
 spared. 
 
 2. Is it not true, that literature, as distinguished 
 from science, and addressing principally the imagi- 
 nation and feelings, is one of the most powerful 
 causes of civilization ? Or have all the masters of 
 political wisdom, from Plato to Burke, been mis- 
 taken in this matter? Perhaps we shall hear it 
 doubted, whether civilization is itself a blessing. 
 Really there is no debating these points anew. If 
 they are not now settled, when we have thrown our 
 l)ooks into the fire, we may as well throw our heads 
 after them. 
 
 If our system of education is to be wholly recast, 
 and a Christian youth, instead of reading reformed 
 copies of Herodotus and Horace, must sit down to 
 Sozomen and Prudentius ; if he must study Quarles 
 instead of Pope-, and throw aside Addison for John 
 Bunyan, where shall we find able or enlightened 
 defenders of that religion for which these sacrifice* 
 are to be made? While wit, elegance, and philoso- 
 phy, are combined against us, can we think that 
 the battle will be well fought by men of contracted 
 minds and mean attainments ? Doubtless truth will 
 ever be triumphant ; but the promise of our Redeemer
 
 282 
 
 to his Church can no more supersede the necessity 
 of adopting all wise means to advance the interests 
 of religion, than the promises made to the elect re- 
 lease them from unwearied endeavours after perfect 
 holiness. Should the principles promulged in the 
 article under examination be generally embraced by 
 the readers of the Review, they would probably in 
 the next age be reduced to a sect of low bigots, and 
 in ,the following be divided between weak enthusi- 
 asts and furious fanatics. Meantime it is likely the 
 spirit and essence of Christianity would escape ; and 
 in the third generation, perhaps, a few of the most 
 pious and enlightened would discover the sin and 
 folly of their forefathers, and gradually Avithdrawjng 
 themselves to a better school, bear again that testi- 
 mony, which every age has furnished, to the na- 
 tural alliance between knowledge and Christia- 
 nity, a liberalised understanding and an improved 
 heart. 
 
 And now a few words on romance. Is this the 
 sin of the present day ? Is it, in its nature, a sin 
 of great malignity ? I venture to reply in the ne- 
 gative to both these queries ; and to doubt whether 
 the dangers, apprehended on this subject, are not 
 even more imaginary than the evils supposed to ex- 
 ist in our system of feminine education. 
 
 Of all things in the world a terrorist is the most 
 troublesome. He sighs and grumbles till other me- 
 lancholy souls catch the infection ; and then, as 
 numbers give confidence, the prophesy ings begin. 
 All who are silly, ignorant, timid, or discontented,
 
 283 
 
 become possessed. Old bachelors, tyrannical hus- 
 bands, country gentlemen of decayed fortunes with 
 their ancient housekeepers, the second rates of a 
 party, doctors of physic who have no patients, citi- 
 zens retired to Finchley, with an hundred more, 
 join in the clamour, and alarm spreads in every di- 
 rection. We all remember an epidemical phrenzy 
 of this kind during a season of scarcity ; and in pri- 
 vate life, tea, carpets, short waists, and romance, 
 have taken their turns. I cannot think the last 
 much more fearful than its predecessors. They, 
 whether harmless or innocent, at least existed ; they 
 were visible and tangible ; whereas, after rubbing my 
 eyes, and casting a lynx's look around me, I confess 
 the only romancers J have been able to discover, are 
 those who declaim against romance. 
 
 In what quarter of the town or country is it, that 
 this fever has spread! We see hundreds of young 
 men continually. Among these, it must be owned, 
 there are vices and follies enough ; but the most com- 
 mon of all their vices is selfishness, and the rarest 
 of all their follies is romance. The industrious, for 
 the most part, attend to their books at college, and 
 to their business afterwards. The idle sport away 
 life according to their fancies ; they hunt, drink, 
 game, lounge about St. James's, get upon the turf, 
 light duels, stand contested elections; but neither 
 fancy nor fashion leads them to be romantic. Girls, 
 however, we hear, have lively imaginations. Whe- 
 iher their natural disposition to romance is greater 
 fluin ours I know not, but the cherks upon it are
 
 284 
 
 greater, and they have no inducement to cherish it. 
 They live under the empire of manners ; and the 
 manners of the female world are with us very unfa- 
 vourable to the developement of strong feelings ; nor 
 is it possible that romance should be common in one 
 sex while it is neglected and despised in the other. 
 Facts support the theory ; and both observation and 
 inquiry will convince us, that the offence, so dreaded 
 and so talked of, is almost as rare among women as 
 men. It is evident, indeed, that the genius of this 
 age and country opposes it. In France, where the 
 ancient noblesse were separated from the bourgeoisie 
 by a broad interval ; where they were generally un- 
 employed except during the campaigns, and depen- 
 dent upon a court famous for -its magnificence and 
 gallantry ; where the spirit of chivalry was still high, 
 and devotion to the sex was the pride of every gen- 
 tleman ; in France, I say, such as it once was, 
 there may have been a redundance of romantic sen- 
 timent. Some infusion of it, however, there must be 
 in a polished society ; and he surely is inattentive 
 to the .course of human affairs, who thinks that, 
 in a community so commercial and calculating as 
 ours, it is likely to be excessive. It may be rea- 
 sonably suspected that we have too little, but some- 
 thing more than a dry affirmation is necessary to 
 convince us that we have too much. 
 
 The reviewers, however, are under great appre- 
 hensions lest their " half-employed son" should think 
 himself into an Orlando. To say the truth, if they 
 educate him no better than they propose to educate
 
 285 
 
 others, there is little danger of his thinking himself 
 into any thing. But suppose the worst. The 
 young gentleman is dying for Rosalind. What 
 then ? He may be very silly, but he is not very 
 criminal. Romance is not virtue ; it is not reason ; 
 but it is better than selfishness and her litter of 
 puppy follies. The reign of imagination favours at 
 least the growth of generous and exalted feelings, 
 which, though ludicrous from their extravagance, 
 have something about them, that, in youth, is not 
 wholly unamiable or unbecoming. Life, too, sup- 
 plies correctives abundantly. The romancer of 
 eighteen is sad and sober at thirty ; and if he pur- 
 chases that lesson of the highest wisdom, for which 
 most of us pay in suffering, more dearly than others, 
 the impression, it may be hoped, will prove the more 
 deep and lasting. 
 
 To return, in conclusion, to the Family Shak- 
 speare. I would not be understood to deny, that 
 some words may be found in the reformed copy, 
 which it would have been more proper to omit. 
 Had the reviewers offered a kind and friendly re- 
 monstrance on these points, the editor would pro- 
 bably have confessed that his vigilance had some- 
 times slumbered, and have seized the first occasion 
 of repairing the defects. Hut no man was ever 
 goaded into a sincere acknowledgment or conviction 
 of errors by the stings and scourges of persecution. 
 Neither can it be admitted that those errors are nu- 
 merous. On the contrary, I am persuaded that 
 they who are. the most competent to estimate the
 
 merits of this performance, will not, upon an accu- 
 rate examination, think its execution unworthy of 
 the virtuous and disinterested motives which gave it 
 birth. 
 
 To find fault is the easiest of all things ; and one 
 of the least becoming of all things, is, to find fault 
 pettishly. In men too, who, upon all moral ques- 
 tions, assume a severe tone, and refer continually 
 
 V 
 
 to the highest and only just standard of action, we 
 are entitled to expect a very guarded practice. A 
 face of beauty renders every blemish remarkable. To 
 declaim against theatres and theatrical compositions, 
 routs, balls, and card-parties, while we are unkind, 
 ungentle, fretful, or censorious, is exactly of a piece 
 with the old morality of the Pharisees, the more 
 modern casuistry of the Jesuits, and the inconsis- 
 tencies of formalism in all ages. Whether public 
 amusements are lawful may be questionable ; but 
 there can be no question at all, as to evil tempers 
 being criminal, in all degrees, and of every descrip- 
 tion. For myself, though I am not now in the 
 habit either of reading dramas or attending their re- 
 presentation, I have no difficulty in confessing, 
 that my mind would be far less burthened with 
 the recollection of having spent an evening in the 
 stage-box at Drury-lane, than of having given to 
 the world the review of the Family Shakspeare.
 
 287 
 
 EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM A REVIEW OF THE TABLEAU DE 
 LA LITTERATURE PENDANT LE DIX- 
 HUITIEME SIECLE. 
 
 POLITICAL institutions, in order that they may be 
 either permanent or beneficial, as they have had their 
 origin in the wants of those for whom they are pro- 
 vided, must also accord in the main with the charac- 
 ter and wishes of the community. It is true, in- 
 deed, that most governments have been originally 
 founded in violence. It is also true, that an exact 
 mathematical correspondence, a perfect and unvary- 
 ing sympathy, between the constituted authorities 
 of state and the groat body of its population, is 
 neither necessary nor possible. It is moreover true, 
 that to denounce all political establishments as illegi- 
 timate which have had their origin in violence, or 
 which, being" more quietly erected, no longer retain 
 in every particular their primitive character, is rash 
 and wicked. Yet after every reasonable concession 
 has been made, and every proper allowance for the 
 imperfections of all human performances, it still re- 
 mains certain, that wherever the government of a
 
 288 
 
 country, including both its formal constitution and 
 the general spirit of its administration, is decidedly 
 at variance with the settled sentiments and wishes of 
 the prevailing part of the community, there is not 
 only a manifest departure from all just theory, but 
 there is also imminent danger of some national con- 
 vulsion. 
 
 But this is not all. The characters of nations 
 change like the characters of individuals ; not so 
 rapidly, but almost as certainly. Wherever the ad- 
 vancement of industry and knowledge has not been 
 violently excluded, a great revolution is silently ef- 
 fected in the morals, manners, habits, opinions, and 
 affections of a whole people. Kings and princes are 
 no longer the captains of their armies, renowned for 
 courage and enterprize. The steel-clad barons of a 
 rougher age are softened into silken courtiers, or 
 trained perhaps by a happier discipline into well- 
 bred and very peaceable gentlemen. The middle 
 class of society is swelled far beyond its natural di- 
 mensions, and becomes the depository of a large 
 part of the more active virtues and vices of the 
 community. The sympathy between this body and 
 the lower orders grows at the same time to be quick 
 and powerful. Prejudices which once held the world 
 in awe become feeble or contemptible. Sentiments 
 and attachments which supplied the place of reason, 
 and carried men away sometimes to wisdom and 
 sometimes to folly, sometimes to their benefit and 
 sometimes to their hurt, but always with a mighty 
 energy, are obliterated, or superseded by principles
 
 289 
 
 of action wholly differing in their origin and in their 
 objects. " New forms arise and different views en- 
 gage;" and for a new state of forms and views a 
 new constitution of public authority is evidently 
 required. It is not enough, therefore, that the go- 
 vernment of a country be originally framed with 
 wisdom, or at any given period well suited to a 
 particular community: it is necessary that there 
 should be in its organization elements of softness ; a. 
 power and a disposition to conform to the varying 
 conditions and characters of mankind ; not indeed 
 too rapidly, for it is the very office of government 
 to forbid sudden changes, but slowly and steadily, 
 for the purpose of preventing that very evil which 
 an exwssive pliability would occasion. It is with 
 nations as with parties, " we must follow in order 
 that we may load." There must be some avenue 
 or organ through which the public sentiments may 
 be received, with a corresponding capacity of gradu- 
 ally approximating in principle and practice to the 
 actual state of the community. Without these all 
 b darkness and danger. 
 
 The French revolution was an earthquake. 'In 
 Franco there was little which indicated to a super- 
 ficial observer the approach of that terrible convul- 
 sion. Her temples were yet standing, and the 
 priests ministered at the altars. The balance of 
 justice was suspended in her halls. The palaces 
 were blazoned with the ensigns of royalty. The 
 whole structure of her constitution was entire, its 
 proportions unimpaired, its bulwarks uninjured ; 
 
 U
 
 290 
 
 when the wild elements of nature suddenly broke 
 loose, and the labour and the pride of ages were in- 
 gulphed in an instant. Men who were contempo- 
 rary with this tremendous event could hardly be ex- 
 pected to form a just estimate of its character. 
 They saw a furious anarchical democracy trampling 
 on the fragments of a mild and venerable govern- 
 ment ; they saw a base and impious atheism profan- 
 jng the sanctuaries of Christianity ; they saw the 
 refined and imposing manners of the politest capital 
 in Europe succeeded by a barbarous licentiousness; 
 they were struck with horror at the contemplation 
 of such a spectacle, and could imagine no expli- 
 cation of so astonishing a scene, but to suppose 
 that a gang of ruffians, by the dexterous use of 
 a momentary advantage, had possessed themselves 
 of the seat of authority, and communicated their 
 own savage dispositions to every thing around 
 them. 
 
 But though this supposition was doubtless in 
 some degree just, it was very far from embracing 
 the whole truth. Those who have had an oppor- 
 tunity of contemplating " with reverted eye" the 
 whole of this dismal tragedy, and who have been 
 enabled on this account to survey it, probably in its 
 truer dimensions, certainly through a less confused 
 medium, are disposed, we believe, to attribute much 
 more in this portentous history to general causes, 
 which had long been silently operating, than to any 
 momentary imprudence in the old government, or 
 even to the ambition and ferocity of a particular class
 
 291 
 
 of individuals. The true explanation of the French 
 revolution we have no doubt is given by the writer 
 before us : the perfect and radical opposition which 
 existed between the institutions and the sentiments of 
 the French nation. 
 
 The ancient government of France was certainly 
 not worse than that of other neighbouring coun- 
 tries*; but events peculiar to herself had rendered 
 it during a century and a half entirely monarchical. 
 Rich lieu broke the power of the old feudal aristo- 
 cracy; and though the Fronde in the early part of 
 Louis the Fourteenth's reign breathed in some mea- 
 sure a spirit of liberty, it was irregular, unsettled, and 
 quickly evaporated. Louis, the most dazzling and 
 heartless of princes, partly by the splendour of his 
 victories, partly by the munificence of his presents, 
 partly by his personal qualities, subdued or softened 
 whatever principles of resistance remained in the 
 French nation, and established the throne upon the 
 ruins of the ancient constitution^. The struggle for 
 
 * We are aware that this opinion has been strenuously combated 
 by Lord Bolingbroke in his Dissertation upon Parties, who quotes 
 Mezeruy and other French writers- But it is admitted that the 
 people were represented in the titrt etat ; and that this formed a 
 part of the French constitution from the beginning of the fourteenth 
 to the beginning of the seventeenth century. Let any man con- 
 sider what our House of Commons was in early times, or even o 
 late as the reign of Henry VIII. 
 
 f To Louis may be applied what Cicero says of a much more 
 extraordinary man; " Muneribus, raonumentis, congiariis, epulis 
 multitudinem imperitam lenierat; suoe praemtis, adversaries <! - 
 mentise specie, devinxerat. Quid multa? attulerat juui liberr 
 civitati, parti m metu, parti m patkntia.con-neliulinpni iPrviMidi." 
 
 U 2
 
 292 
 
 * 
 
 religious independence had been at one time very 
 obstinate ; but after the nominal conversion of 
 Henry IV. little hope remained for the Protestant 
 party. The whole power of the crown was armed 
 against them, and they, as well as the nobility, sunk 
 under the iron rod of Richlieu. Popery, with all 
 its superstitions and much of its intolerance, was 
 solemnly allied to the state ; was enshrined in its 
 dignity, sustained its authority, and participated 
 both its glory and its dangers. 
 
 Thus an uniform and systematic character was 
 given to the political and religious establishments 
 of France ; and those whose industry had consoli- 
 dated this great edifice doubtless imagined that its 
 strength was equal to its grandeur. The people, 
 for the most part, applauded their labours ; and 
 bowed with equal veneration before the throne of 
 the grande monarque and the altar of the Catholic 
 Church. But time, " the great innovator," the re- 
 lentless destroyer of all earthly structures, soon be- 
 gan that silent sap which was one day to bring the 
 whole of this lofty edifice to the dust. Louis was 
 unable to retain, even through his own life, the ad- 
 miration and homage which his youthful graces and 
 youthful fortunes had inspired. He was succeeded 
 by the " godless regent," whose impiety appalled 
 the good, and whose profligacy astonished the 
 wicked ; by Louis XV. whose weakness would 
 have disgraced a far humbler station ; and by his 
 unfortunate and much injured grandson, who brought 
 little but good desires to sustain a tottering empire.
 
 293 
 
 The princes of the blood and hereditary nobility 
 caught the spirit of the court, and though not per- 
 haps greatly inferior to men of the same order in 
 other countries, were certainly but little distin- 
 guished for those eminent qualities which at once 
 adorn. their rank and protect it. But while they 
 declined from the stern and lofty virtues of their 
 forefathers, they abated nothing of the sentiments 
 of dignity and exclusion which those virtues only 
 could rescue from contempt. The ministers of re- 
 ligion accompanied with respectful conformity the 
 steps of their sovereigns and patrons. Bossuet 
 poured forth no more in the ears of kings the 
 thunders of his terrific eloquence. The sweet and 
 angel spirit of Fenelon was withdrawn to happier 
 regions. Massillon, who for a while upheld the 
 dignity and displayed the beauty of religion, ex- 
 pired at last, and dropped no mantle behind him. 
 The clergy were not indeed contemptible for igno- 
 rance or immorality; but neither were they emi- 
 nently distinguished for learning and piety. Still 
 the dogmas of the ancient faith were maintained 
 with uncompromising strictness ; and the implicit 
 belief of the tenth century was imposed upon the 
 eighteenth. Meanwhile the general population and 
 industry of France were rapidly increasing. With 
 industry came wealth ; and with wealth, pride and 
 independence. Letters and knowledge began to 
 circulate, and IxDth religion and government became 
 subjects of discussion. Opinions which at an ear- 
 lier period would have been heard with abhorrence
 
 294 
 
 were first whispered in secret, then insinuated less 
 obscurely, and at length confidently maintained and 
 promulgated; and so rapid was the progress of 
 events, that within half a century after the death of 
 Louis XIV. theories subversive of all established 
 governments, and insulting to Christianity, were 
 circulated with general applause throughout that 
 very community, which had worshipped the ma% 
 who established in his government an unmixed mo- 
 narchy, and in his churches the entire body of the 
 Popish superstitions. The new state of things in 
 France was so manifest, that, more than twenty 
 years before the revolution, an approaching crisis 
 was seen and foretold by Lord Chesterfield ; and 
 an intelligent Englishman, who returned from that 
 country about a year before the tiers Hat were sum- 
 moned, declared that an option only remained be- 
 tween a total change in the government, and a great 
 national convulsion. What was visible to indifferent 
 spectators, was anticipated with eager and turbu- 
 lent confidence by the great body of the nation : 
 thoroughly disgusted with institutions entirely ho- 
 stile to their opinions, and still formidable enough 
 to be detested. The court and the privileged or- 
 ders were alone ignorant of what they were above 
 all others interested to know ; for they had cut 
 themselves off from all channels of regular inter- 
 course with the nation. But their ignorance was 
 only for a moment : 
 
 " Mora parvula, dum res 
 Note urbi et populo contingat principis aures :''
 
 295 
 
 a single error was committed, and the crown and 
 the hierarchy perished. 
 
 Such is the short history of the French revolu- 
 tion. The horrors, the guilt, the national confusion 
 which attended it, have left a deep impression on 
 the minds of men, and awakened a just and salutary 
 dread of sudden political changes. But half the 
 wisdom which may be derived from that event will 
 certainly be lost, if it inspires no feelings but those 
 of terror. Of the many momentous truths which 
 it is calculated to teach, (some of which we may 
 perhaps notice hereafter,) one of the most obvious 
 and most important is, the necessity of paying a 
 continual attention to the middle and inferior classes 
 of society ; of regarding them, not with a mean 
 jealousy, or meaner contempt, but with a liberal 
 and enlarged benevolence, and with a constant 
 readiness to open to them every avenue to dignity 
 and power, so soon as they become qualified to pos- 
 MM them. It is in politics as in morals ; candour 
 kindness, liberality, and a cheerful preference of 
 others to ourselves, are the elements of true wisdom ; 
 and wisdom alone is safety and happiness. 
 
 Of all controversies, that which respects neces- 
 sity, is, in all its aspects, to us the most uninviting. 
 But a few sentences may be useful to shew the 
 inaccuracy and want of discrimination with which
 
 296 
 
 4 theory, such. as. that which some extracts [here 
 omitted] in strictness import,, is justly chargeable. 
 
 Every individual is, doubtless, in a very consider- 
 able measure, under the. influence of the circum- 
 stances which surround him. We all feel this in 
 ourselves, and readily acknowledge it in others. 
 The extent and operation of this influence is one of 
 the leading considerations to which we attend, in the 
 moral estimate we form of our fallow-creatures. It 
 is considered as an apology for many defects, and it 
 softens our censure even of serious faults : but no 
 man, not bewildered by a disputatious philosophy, 
 ever thought that disadvantages of example and 
 education afford a satisfactory apology for all the 
 enormities and follies which are exhibited on this 
 sad theatre of guilt and wretchedness. When men 
 judge naturally, they allow for circumstances, but 
 they do not cease to condemn guilt. The moral 
 sense of mankind, therefore, is plainly against a 
 theory which, in truth, confounds all ideas of right 
 .arid wrong, and would render it perfectly inconceiv- 
 able,, why any .capacity of moral decision has been 
 bestowed upon us at all. And let it be recollected, 
 that this moral judgment is not an instinctive sally, 
 " but a determination founded upon intimate self- 
 knowledge and extensive experience. 
 Then * in regard to nations. These are composed 
 of individuals ; but as general truths are always the 
 least apt to 'fail irr their application when the expe- 
 riment is made upon a great scale, this theory, 
 which, though false, contains a large proportion of
 
 297 
 
 truth in it, is certainly much more nearly true with 
 respect to large masses of men, than it is with re- 
 spect to particular individuals. Yet, let any one 
 suffer his mind, for a few minutes, to run through 
 the chief events which have signalized the annals 
 of different countries, and let him then say, whether 
 it is possible to believe, that the strange incidents, 
 changes, and reverses, which history has recorded, 
 have all been developed, quite in the natural course 
 of things, from certain pre-existing causes in which 
 they were safely folded up and secured till the 
 spring-time arrived, when they began to germinate. 
 Was Lycurgus, who trained and disciplined by his 
 laws a hardy race of aristocratic freemen through 
 the course of many centuries, the mere puppet of a 
 moral mechanism ? Was Solon, who about the same 
 period, laid the foundations of the most polite and 
 most profligate democracy which the world has 
 known, like an earth or an oxyde, the creature of 
 moral affinities ? Were Philip and Alexander, De- 
 mosthones and Aristotle, Scipio, Caesar, and Con- 
 stantine, purely the children of preceding events, 
 by which they were dropped upon the earth, when 
 the season came, like acorns from an oak? or did 
 ihese men exercise no influence upon mankind, 
 and produce no change in the relations around 
 them ? There is a sort of absurdity even in pro- 
 pounding such questions as these, when we very 
 well know that all mankind (except, perhaps, two 
 or three dozen sages) would' agree, without hesita- 
 tion, to return the same answer. The truth is, that
 
 men have always been convinced, and at this mo- 
 ment we too sensibly feel, that the fate of empires, 
 the fortunes of societies, and the happiness of man- 
 kind, do very materially depend upon things which 
 cannot by any sagacity of which we are possessed 
 be resolved into general principles ; upon that 
 strange thing which ignorance calls chance, and 
 upon those stranger persons who burst forth from 
 time to time, like subterraneous fires, sometimes 
 to illuminate, but more frequently to desolate and 
 destroy. It is indeed curious to observe how the 
 stoutest theorists, when they are talking of ordinary 
 matters, forget their systems, and relapse into com- 
 mon sense. Hume is perhaps the most acute, cer- 
 tainly the most plausible, of all the necessitarians ; 
 yet, if we recollect rightly, in the very same volume 
 which contains his Essay on Liberty (if not, cer- 
 tainly in one of his subsequent essays,) he expresses 
 an opinion, that if the French line of monarchs had 
 ruled in the Escurial, and the Spanish at the Louvre, 
 the condition of the two countries might probably 
 have been changed ; that France might have been 
 Spain, and Spain France. 
 
 The writer whose inaccuracy has led to these re- 
 flections was probably seduced into an exaggerated 
 statement of his own theory by a fact, which his 
 sagacity enabled him to discover, and which, in the 
 progress of his work, he has illustrated and enforced 
 with uncommon ability. It is this; that a large 
 proportion of the French writers in general, but 
 more especially the authors who acquired such high
 
 299 
 
 celebrity during the eighteenth century, were the 
 creatures of the age in which they lived. But why 
 were there so? Partly because they were not men 
 of the first rank in point of genius: chiefly, how- 
 ever (for they certainly did not want parts), because 
 they were the dupes of vanity, dependent upon ad- 
 miration, and destitute of strong independent prin- 
 ples in morals and religion. They had none of the 
 resources of true greatness. They had no deep 
 springs of consolation and happiness within them to 
 supply them with refreshment in the desert. It was 
 not thus with greater men ; with Socrates, and Ga- 
 lileo, and Lord Verulam, and Milton, and Newton. 
 They thought and wrote, not in subservience to the 
 opinions around them, but with a noble disdain of 
 all intellectual slaver} r , to instruct and improve the 
 men by whom they were neglected or reviled. It 
 has been ever thus. Little minds are carried away 
 by the current of fashion and prejudice ; superior 
 spirits resist and overcome it. Vanity is fond of a 
 quick growth and luxuriant foilage. Vera gloria 
 radices agit. True glory strikes deep its roots, and 
 can be content to remain a while in obscurity, till 
 the period is arrived when it towers aloft, the ad- 
 miration and ornament of ages. 
 
 Voltaire was disposed, in early life, to be respect- 
 ful to existing authorities, and was not far removed 
 from the character of a courtier. It was not till the
 
 applauses of die Theatre had given him confidence, 
 and the paltry persecutions of some dignitaries in 
 church and state had irritated his most irritable na- 
 ture, that he assumed that tone of entire levity and 
 bitter sarcasm which became afterwards habitual to 
 him. Indeed, it is impossible to be acquainted 
 with his writings without discovering that his taste 
 and dispositions adapted him much better to the 
 sphere of a court, and the polite circles of a luxu- 
 rious metropolis, than the simple and stern temper 
 of a republic. His genius was monarchical ; he 
 was a poet and a wit; he became a philosopher, or 
 tried to become one, only from vanity, and a sort of 
 necessity imposed upon him by the circumstances 
 of his life. 
 
 We all recollect the old and eloquent description 
 of man, " a being of large discourse, looking before 
 and after." Voltaire answered sufficiently well to 
 the first half of the portrait, but he had no sort of 
 resemblance to the other. He was a semivir. His 
 avidity for enjoyment, and his habitual disregard of 
 the future, made him in truth a child through life. 
 Such he is described by contemporary writers, and 
 such he proved himself to be in every feature of his 
 character; by his inextinguishable gaiety, and his 
 ridiculous irritability ; by the exquisite playfulness 
 which gave life to his productions on the verge of 
 fourscore, and by that last sally of literary vanity 
 which snapped the feeble thread that sustained his 
 earthly existence. Voltaire appears to have been 
 entirely the, slave of prese.nt /eelings ; the con se-
 
 201 
 
 quences of his conduct to himself or others never 
 disturbed him : and this is the moral definition of 
 childishness. But, unhappily, that entire thought- 
 lessness, which allied to the weakness and ignorance 
 of youth is pardoned and even loved, when com- 
 bined with mature knowledge and with faculties 
 and passions fully developed, assumes a very dif- 
 ferent character. The gambols of the kitten are 
 amusing, but not so the bounds of the tiger. The 
 childish 'vanity, the childish irritability, the childish 
 love of pleasure, which were characteristic of Vol- 
 taire from his earliest years to his late decline, were 
 all thought to be very entertaining by his friends, 
 who, with less excuse perhaps from natural temper, 
 were for the most part just as careless of conse- 
 quences as himself. But mark the effects. Vanity 
 tempted him to hazard a few sallies against 
 churchmen. The clergy noticed them, and he was 
 banished. Provoked by the persecution of those, 
 whom he despised, what was at first only mirth 
 rankled into hatred. The spirit of his age and 
 country encouraged him. His passion for literary 
 applause allied itself to his resentments. The 
 gratification he felt in indulging his talents for 
 pleasantry was irresistible. He attacked every 
 thing f he ridiculed every thing, he sported with 
 every thing. Nothing so sacred, nothing so ve- 
 nerable, nothing so useful or necessary, as to b 
 secure from his merriment. By degrees he grew 
 almost serious in his folly. He aspired to the
 
 502 
 
 glory of* crutsiuug that infamous religion which was 
 proclaimed by Angels from heaven, with the song 
 of Glory to God and good- will tow r ards men : and 
 he enjoys the bad pre-eminence of having contri- 
 buted indirectly, more perhaps than any other man, 
 to the revolution in France, and all its wasteful re- 
 sults in Europe. But we turn gladly from the man 
 to his writings. 
 
 Voltaire acquired his earliest celebrity as a dra- 
 matic writer, and perhaps he will owe his reputa- 
 tion in future ages chiefly to his Theatre. In his 
 first pieces (our author observes) he imitated his 
 predecessors. CEdipe and Mariamne were com- 
 posed in the style of Corneille and Racine. At 
 length the impatience of his genius broke through 
 those shackles, and then appeared Zayre, with 
 its faults, which hare been so often assailed, and 
 its beauties, which so entirely redeem them. It is 
 here that Voltaire impressed the stamp of his talents 
 as a tragedian. It is not the perfection and melody 
 of Racine. It is not the lofty imagination and 
 simplicity of Corneille ; and yet there is something 
 which one does not find in either of them, and the 
 absence of which may be regretted. There is a 
 certain warmth of passion, a complete self-aban- 
 donment, a vivacity of feeling, which carries us 
 away, and awakens profound emotion, a grace 
 which charms and which subdues. 
 
 * Ecrasez Tinfanie- was the common watchword of the phi- 
 losopher.
 
 303 
 
 We have already made a few remarks on the 
 French drama, and the complaints made by English- 
 men of its deficiency in interest. If we wish to jus- 
 tify the opinions of our countrymen by a single and 
 decisive experiment, we should request an impartial 
 person thoroughly acquainted with both languages 
 to compare Zayre and Othello. The former is ce- 
 lebrated, perhaps above all other specimens of the 
 French theatre, for its passion and depth of feeling. 
 44 If any thing (says the writer of the Tableau) can 
 give the idea of an author perfectly transported with 
 passion and poetry, it is a work such as Zayre." 
 Unquestionably it is a very fine collection of verses ; 
 the speech of Lusignan, when he discovers that 
 his daughter has renounced her faith, is one of the 
 noblest effusions of passionate declamation extant 
 iu any language, and the concluding scene is very 
 affecting. This conclusion, however, Voltaire ma- 
 nifestly imitated from Shakspeare ; and it is one of 
 the instances in which he was content to enrich his 
 soil by borrowing from that grand fumier (as he was 
 pleased to call him) without acknowledging the obli- 
 gation. In taste, correctness, and spirited declama- 
 tion, Zayre is above Othello ; it is not without 
 merits of a higher kind ; and it exercises some in- 
 fluence over the feelings. But for that powerful 
 magic which opens all the springs of emotion in the 
 soul ; for that master genius which pours down tho 
 whole torrent of passion, sweeping away every 
 other thought, uml hurrying us \ve know not and
 
 304 
 
 care not whither; for whatever belongs to tlie 
 phrenzy and inspiration of poetry to contrast 
 Zayre with Othello ! truly we should as soon think 
 of comparing a cascade at Versailles to the cataracts 
 of Niagara. 
 
 Zayre was succeeded by many other pieces of 
 great celebrity and merit, by which Voltaire is very 
 well known even in this country. But our author 
 remarks that his later dramatic works fell into the 
 same train with his other productions. He would 
 fain teach and philosophize even upon the stage ; 
 and this sort of sententious emphatic tone could 
 not but infuse a certain chillness into the most ani- 
 mated scenes, "Nothing (it is justly added) so 
 much injures imagination as to give it an aim^ to 
 subject it to a system." Of all his theatrical per- 
 formances Zayre was, we believe, the most popu- 
 lar ; but the author of the Tableau gives the palm 
 on the whole to Merope ; and D'Alembert ap- 
 pears, by one of his letters, to have preferred Al- 
 zire. 
 
 The Henriade was a poem in a very different 
 style, and aspired to the dignity of the Epopee. 
 That Voltaire should have the vanity to think him- 
 self equal to any thing, is not very extraordinar\ r , 
 considering what he had performed and how he 
 was flattered ; but that he should have the weak- 
 ness to fancy a series of correct couplets about a 
 great monarch, with the help of a few .of the 
 heathen deities, could deserve the character of an
 
 305 
 
 epic poem, is marvellous. However, g-/eat men 
 make great blunders. Addison probably thought 
 his Campaign a very fine poem. 
 
 " Nobody (says our author) contests the attrac- 
 tion of Voltaire's fugitive poetry." The principal 
 charm of these pieces is, that they express real feel- 
 ings : that they catch and embody those transient 
 impressions which were continually passing, like 
 summer clouds, over the mind of the writer. They 
 contain, in some measure, the history of his life, 
 which was composed of a prodigious multitude of 
 shifting sensations, varying with his years, and 
 subject to no sort of control from 6xed principles 
 or designs. For the rest, to say, that they are full 
 of vivacity, facility, and grace, is only to say they 
 were written by Voltaire. There is a sentence here 
 so just in its sentiment, and so incapable of trans- 
 lation, that we extract it as it stands. "La grid? 
 comme le sublime demande line sorle de naivete et tie 
 bonne foi. Elle nc resemble pas au persiflage et d 
 la raillcric" 
 
 Voltaire's historical pieces, we think, have been 
 over-rated; with the exception, however, of the lite 
 of Charles XII. which is extremely agreeable, and 
 could aspire to nothing greater. No one indeed can 
 dispute the power of this writer to render any sub- 
 ject in a very high degree picturesque and entertain- 
 ing; and it happened in the last mentioned instance, 
 that the prince was exactly suited to the historian ; 
 for he was, as the author of the Tableau happily 
 says, tout en dehors. In attempting the life of lYu-r, 
 
 X
 
 Voltaire undertook a much higher style of compo- 
 sition. He was now to give an account of the rise 
 and advancement of a great empire under the coun- 
 sel and auspices of a very savage, but very forcible 
 and comprehensive genius. This was manifestly a 
 great undertaking, and it proved too much for the 
 philosophizing poet ; 
 
 viribus ille 
 Confisus periit admirandisque lacertis. 
 
 The failure is not scandalous, but it is manifestly a 
 failure. There is a still more discreditable fault to 
 be objected to the historian of Charles and Peter. 
 His heroes unfortunately were rivals. It was diffi- 
 cult therefore to reconcile their respective preten- 
 sions. Voltaire, we fear, was apt to be more stu- 
 dious of effect than of accuracy ; and it so happens 
 that, the same facts are told in a different manner and 
 with opposite colouring by the same historian in his 
 narrative of the two princes. There is such a care- 
 lessness of reputation, as well as disregard to truth 
 in these contradictions, that we think them sufficient 
 alone to throw considerable doubt on the general ve- 
 racity of Voltaire. 
 
 The Siecle de Louis XV. has acquired so much 
 celebrity, and in our judgment has, notwithstand- 
 ing its real merits, been appreciated so much above 
 its deserts, that we are happy in being able to give 
 to our sentiments the authority of a writer such as 
 that before us. The following extract contains also 
 an admirable picture, in a few words, of ancient
 
 307 
 
 history, so much superior in interest, so much in- 
 ferior in philosophy, to what has passsed in modern 
 days under the same appellation. 
 
 "To delineate the reign of Louis XIV. was a very diffi- 
 cult undertaking. One may say that the more civilized a 
 nation becomes, the more its manners and its history lose 
 those highly relieved and picturesque forms of early times 
 which constitute the charm of narration. The office of an 
 historian becomes also more arduous. We exact impar- 
 tiality, and we reproach him with wanting warmth and in- 
 terest. We require details upon the commerce, the arts, 
 die spirit of the government, and we complain that an at- 
 tention to matters of philosophy interrupts the narrative 
 of facts. We demand erudition, and we blame the writer 
 when he descants. Formerly historians were not subject 
 to these fetters. They wrote with all their prejudices, 
 they preserved their individual character, without assum- 
 ing a cold impartiality, which has more of form than sub- 
 stance. They recounted the victories of their own 
 country without any anxiety to publish the history of the 
 vanquished. They Surrendered neither their opinions nor 
 their feelings. Xenophon in the centre of Athens did not 
 conceal his admiration for the Lacedaemonians. Tacitus 
 did not conceal or compromise his detestation of tyrants. 
 Every one professed to be what he really was, and it was 
 for the reader to judge of the credibility of the historian, 
 and the confidence he should repose in him. In history, 
 as in every thing else, we have talent only in depicting our 
 own impressions. 
 
 " We will not reproach Voltaire in particular with the 
 faults which belong to the whole school of modern histo- 
 rians. But if we allow the style of composition which 
 they have adopted, still -considering history as a series of 
 
 X 2
 
 308 
 
 impartial researches destined to furnish the memory and 
 exercise the reason, Voltaire is exposed to much criticism. 
 The little of depth there is in his thoughts, his imperfect 
 knowledge of characters, the tendency of his style to please, 
 rather than to invite reflection, have been the subjects of 
 frequent strictures, and we may add to them some still 
 more serious. Voltaire in the reign of Louis XIV. saw 
 nothing but the brilliancy of his victories, of literature, and 
 the arts. He never thought of examining the character of 
 the government and of the administration of the king ; the 
 influence which it has had on the character of the nation: 
 and the consequences which thence resulted. He has not 
 remarked, that perhaps no epoch of the history of France 
 was more important, by the change effected in the man- 
 ners, the social relations, and the ancient spirit of the 
 constitution. It is to the brilliant colouring of Voltaire 
 that we are to ascribe the unbounded admiration of 
 the reign of Louis XIV. He has made us forget that 
 a king has other duties than to acquire glory for his em- 
 pire." p. 3133. 
 
 To these remarks, in the justness of which we 
 perfectly concur, we must take the liberty of adding 
 one or two further observations. The Age of Louis 
 XIV. has the misfortune to belong neither to the 
 ancient nor the modern style of history. It is not, 
 like the first, impassioned and picturesque ; or, at 
 least, it is so only in a very inferior degree. It is 
 not, like the second, grave, candid, and reflective. 
 The besoin de succh (in English, the horror of being 
 tiresome), which haunted Voltaire through life, 
 furnishes, we think, the real key to the deficiencies 
 of this work. It was this which made him adopt a 
 light and rapid style, brilliant undoubtedly, and at-
 
 309 
 
 tractive, but ill suited to the dignity of his under- 
 taking. It was this which made him so fearful of 
 prolixity, that he has not allowed space to develope 
 with sufficient fulness the events of so long and so 
 busy a reign. It was this which tempted him to 
 fill a third part of his second volume with trifling 
 anecdotes, which might suit the Memoires de St. 
 Simon, but which ought not to have found a place 
 in a serious and comprehensive history. It was this 
 which led him in his account of Jansenism and 
 Quietism to treat with entire levity disputes which 
 are allied to the highest and the deepest feelings of 
 the human heart, and which agitated some of the 
 most forcible, most devoted, and most virtuous 
 spirits that have ornamented our nature. To be 
 sure, dulncss is a very heavy crime, more especially 
 among Frenchmen : but, as Mr. Burke observes of 
 obstinacy, that though one of the most unpopular 
 of vices, it is connected with almost all the mascu- 
 line virtues ; so may it be said of tediousness ; for 
 though never forgotten or forgiven, it is unquestion- 
 ably allied to some of the first qualities which a 
 writer can possess ; to accuracy, order, gravity, re- 
 flection. It is a sort of high treason in literature ; 
 .nid as none are so little in danger of falling into 
 that great political offence as men absolutely desti- 
 tute of all noble and patriotic sentiments, so in let- 
 ters none are so clear of the kindred crime as those 
 whose writings are uniformly slight and superficial. 
 However, notwithstanding all this, such is the powi-r 
 of manner, and so happy is the style both in nar-
 
 310 
 
 rative and expression, of the Age of Louis XIV. 
 that it will probably at all times be read more 
 eagerly and more universally than any other piece 
 of history in the French language. We are afraid 
 indeed, after all this criticism, of being understood 
 to say that its merits are small. This we by no 
 means think ; but in- our estimation they are con- 
 siderably below both its celebrity and its preten- 
 sions. 
 
 The Essay on the manners of nations has been, 
 perhaps, the most highly admired of all Voltaire's 
 historical pieces by the graver and more judicious 
 of his readers. Our author pays it some high com- 
 pliments ; but he observes, that it is open to much 
 of the criticism offered upon the work last noticed, 
 and he adds, " It merits besides a still graver cen- 
 sure : we there meet with little traces of that sec- 
 tarian spirit adopted by Voltaire in the latter part of 
 his life. His hatred to religion frequently betrays 
 him into * bad faith and bad taste." 
 
 Besides the works and classes of works already 
 noticed, Voltaire was the author of a vast mass of 
 miscellaneous productions, which it is impossible 
 to reduce under any regular heads. " I have not 
 been in Paris," said he, " these twenty years, but I 
 have kept four presses constantly at work during 
 the whole of that time. He wrote various articles 
 for the Encyclopaedia; he published a variety of 
 little Romans, such as Candide, Zadig, La Prin- 
 
 * Mauvaise foi, in blunt English, a falsehood.
 
 311 , 
 
 cesse dc Babylone, &c. &c. ; and he scribbled an 
 innumerable number of pamphlets, some acknow- 
 ledged, some anonymous, which were chiefly di- 
 rected against his personal or literary enemies, a 
 class of men which his extreme violence and ridi- 
 culous irritability daily multiplied. His contribu- 
 tions to the Encyclopaedia are chiefly composed of 
 smart sallies or grave attacks on revealed religion ; 
 and his Romans contain much exquisite raillery 
 against foolish political institutions and opinions, 
 together with some very merry impeachments of 
 the general economy of Providence in the natural 
 and moral government of mankind. Of religion in 
 all its branches Voltaire was profoundly and con- 
 temptibly ignorant. We are fully persuaded that 
 he never reflected seriously for one half hour on a 
 single phenomenon in the dispensations of God. 
 He had dipped into the Bible, but he had never 
 read it ; and his misrepresentations are so gross and 
 silly as to seem hardly worthy of refutation. Had 
 a work such as the Lettres de quelques Jitifs d M. 
 Voltaire appeared against any other system in phi- 
 losophy, the poor philosopher would have been dis- 
 credited for ever. In politics, Voltaire was not 
 wrong-headed, but he was somewhat superficial, 
 and so rash, irregular, and petulant, that his writings 
 could scarcely have been tolerated under any go- 
 vernment, or useful to any people. Many of them 
 also contain passages which are highly offensive to 
 good morals. With a considerable proportion of 
 his smaller pieces we have no acquaintance. Those
 
 312 
 
 which we have formerly read, are generally remark- 
 able for the exquisite pleasantry with which they 
 expose many prevailing absurdities, and they are 
 usually sullied with some passages of abominable 
 impurity or profaneness. 
 
 These strictures are slight and imperfect, but 
 they may serve to introduce the more comprehen- 
 sive and penetrating observations which we are 
 about to extract : the truth and impartiality of which 
 are not less remarkable than the sagacity which they 
 indicate, 
 
 " It remains for us to speak of the spirit which he car- 
 ried into philosophy : that is to say, of his opinions in re- 
 lation to religion, morals, and politics. He has been ac- 
 cused of a formal design to overturn these three bases of 
 the honour and the happiness of mankind. But whoever 
 should attempt to find in Voltaire a system of philosophy, 
 cpnnected principles, a centre of opinions, would be greatly 
 embarrassed. Nothing is less conformable to the serious 
 idea which one forms of a philosopher than the kind of 
 understanding an4 talents which belonged to Voltaire : 
 perhaps it could only be in the eighteepth century that one 
 could have thought of calling such a man by the name of 
 philosopher. That he had the design of pleasing his own 
 age, of exercising an influence over it, of revenging him- 
 self against his enemies, of forming a party to praise and 
 defend him all this is perfectly credible. He lived at a 
 time when manners were lost, at least in the superior 
 classes of society ; and he did not respect morals. Envy 
 and hatred employed against him the arms of religion 
 when it was no longer respected by its own defenders ; he 
 considered it only as the means of persecution. His coun- 
 try had a -government without force, without considera^
 
 313 
 
 tion, and which did nothing to obtain them ; he had the 
 spirit of independence and opposition. Such were the 
 real sources of his opinions. We can conceive how he 
 acquired them, without, on that account, excusing them. 
 He proclaimed them continually without thinking of the 
 effects which they might produce. However, he was far 
 from showing in his errors the invariable confidence and 
 extreme presumption of some writers of the same age. 
 
 " He himself, in one of his romances, has given us a 
 just idea of his philosophy. Babouc, charged to examine 
 the manners and institutions of Persepolis, discovers all its 
 faults with great quickness, laughs at all its absurdities, 
 attacks every thing with the most licentious liberty. But 
 when in the end he thinks that the ruin of Persepolis may- 
 be the consequence of his definitive judgment, he finds 
 advantages in every thing, and refuses to overturn the city. 
 This was Voltaire. He wished to have the liberty of cri- 
 ticizing carelessly, and would laugh at anything; but a 
 revolution was quite out of his thoughts ; he had too just 
 an understanding, too great a contempt of vulgarity and 
 the populace, to form such a wish. Unhappily, when 
 a nation has got to philosophizing, like Babouc, it knows 
 not how, like him, to stop and weigh its decision; it is 
 only by a deplorable experience that it discovers, when 
 too late, that it ought not to have destroyed Persepolis." 
 p. bo 57. 
 
 We believe these observations to be true; and 
 are persuaded that Voltaire, had he lived, would 
 have resisted with all his power the revolutionary 
 torrent which his writings, during half a century, 
 had contributed to swell, and would practically have 
 renounced those very opinions for which altars wen* 
 erected to his memory in the Champ de Mars.
 
 314 
 
 Even before his death, he lamented, with as much 
 bitterness as perhaps he was capable of reeling, the 
 mad and horrible excesses to which Diderot and 
 Others among the philosophers had advanced in their 
 outrages upon religion and morals. He did not 
 deliberately intend to overturn the foundations of 
 either ; but he had wantonly insulted both : and 
 the same righteous law which has permitted us in 
 some measure to command futurity, by the wise 
 employment of present opportunities, has established 
 also a limit, beyond which recollection is vain, and 
 the consequences of guilt irrevocable : 
 
 Sua cuique exorsa laborem 
 
 Fortunamque ferent*. 
 
 Having necessarily said a good deal in dispraise 
 of Voltaire, it is but just to notice some particulars 
 in which hejnerits approbation. Like other human 
 beings, his character was mixed : with great vices 
 he was not wholly destitute of good qualities ; and 
 there are several actions of his life which well de- 
 serve to be applauded. He appears to have been 
 naturally humane, though his passions too frequently 
 clouded his benevolence : he was often liberal ; and 
 he pleaded the causes of some unfortunate and in- 
 jured families with much perseverence, generosity, 
 and feeling. He was the first who powerfully re- 
 commended inoculation in France. He was among 
 
 * jEneid. X. in.
 
 315 
 
 the first who endeavoured to dispel the national 
 prejudices, and directed the eyes of his country- 
 men to the political institutions, the science, and 
 the literature of England. He justly appreciated 
 the soundness of the Newtonian philosophy, at a 
 time when it had made but little progress on the 
 continent ; and though his encomiums of Mr. Locke 
 are exaggerated, and indicate very little depth in 
 metaphysics, his clear sense enabled him to perceive 
 that the process of investigation adopted by that 
 great master was far more just and natural than that 
 of his predecessors. In his sentiments respecting 
 the political establishments and opinions of his own 
 country, he was often substantially right, though 
 the language in which he presented them was ge- 
 nerally dangerous and unbecoming: and he had the 
 courage to laugh at the project of a territorial tax, 
 though all the wise heads of the economists pro- 
 nounced the expedient infallible. 
 
 For the miserable and devoted fury with which 
 Voltaire assailed Christianity we are neither willing 
 nor able to attempt the slightest apology. It dis- 
 graced his life, it debased his writings, and it will 
 cast the deepest shade over his memory for ever. 
 
 Next to Voltaire in celebrity, and at least his 
 rqual in genius and learning, stands the President 
 Montesquieu ; a name less idolized perhaps in 
 France, but much more generally respected in other 
 countries. 
 
 It is very curious to compare his great work on
 
 516 
 
 the Spirit of Laws, with some of the principal phi- 
 losophical compositions of a neighbouring country ; 
 such, for instance, as the political disquisitions of 
 Hume, Smith, Ferguson, and others. These are 
 generally full, orderly, and well reasoned disserta- 
 tions. The subject in hand is examined with great 
 gravity ; a series of facts and observations are drawn 
 forth and marshalled with much skill and caution ; 
 the assumptions, the intermediate truths, the transi- 
 tions, the digressions all are managed with ad- 
 mirable prudence and propriety ; the whole texture 
 of the composition is woven with care ; and the great 
 results are at last announced with a decent pomp and 
 a tolerable share of self-complacency. We read, 
 assent, approve, admire ; agree that the writer is very 
 able ; and take care not to let any body know that 
 we thought him very tiresome. Now, in Mon- 
 tesquieu every thing is different. Art there is 
 none ; and of order very little. The subjects 
 chosen as heads of thought are connected only by 
 being allied to a common ancestor mere collaterals, 
 not succeeding by any regular devolutions. The 
 paragraphs which compose the dissertations are, for 
 t^ie most part, independent of pne another ; each 
 taking its chance alone, and leaving its neighbours 
 to fight their own battles. The positions are short, 
 brilliant, imperative : and the whole, instead of bear- 
 ing any resemblance to an elaborate and finished 
 dissertation, gives rather the idea of a man confident 
 of great powers, and possessed of ample materials, 
 who pronounces his dicta with authority, and ex-
 
 317 
 
 pects his audience to qualify and apply them : who 
 supplies thoughts, and leaves it to others, if they 
 like the labour, to fill up the interstices. 
 
 Montesquieu has been accused of idleness by 
 those who admire a more orderly system of com- 
 position. But to charge a writer with idleness, who 
 gave twenty years to the prosecution of a single 
 design, seems a little imprudent. If the Spirit of 
 Laws had been expanded into essays, with the 
 usual allowance for fine observations and flowing 
 periods, it would have filled a library. 
 
 Another charge which has been made against the 
 President is, that he has raked up all sorts of fables 
 from the narratives of obscure travellers, and made 
 them the foundations of important theories. It 
 must be acknowledged that Montesquieu was a little 
 fond of odd out-of-the-way reading ; and he is apt 
 to talk rather too much of Japan and the kingdom 
 of Bantam, and the people of- Meaco. But this 
 fault, if it be one, is, in our estimation, far more 
 venial than that of supposing, with most writers, 
 that human nature is only to be studied in the his- 
 tory of the Roman and Greek republics. A com- 
 prehensive mind will naturally desire an extensive 
 range; and if general inductions respecting the hu- 
 man race are to be attempted, men ought to be seen 
 and considered under all the forms which they ha\v 
 presented, and every fact and institution be con- 
 templated, whether preserved in the monuments of 
 ancient nations, or caught by the hasty glance* of a 
 wandering missionary !
 
 318 
 
 It is impossible to recollect the performances 
 of Montesquieu, without being impressed with a 
 powerful admiration of his genius and attainments. 
 The herculean vigour which was a match for so vast 
 an undertaking as the Spir.it of Laws ; the unshaken 
 perseverance which could prosecute its work for 
 twenty years, united as they were to an imagination 
 highly picturesque, present an image of such great- 
 ness, that little minds bow down before it; and 
 even those of a firmer texture, and more sanguine 
 complexion, are compelled to do it homage. The 
 mind, too, which could throw a rapid and compre- 
 hensive glance over twelve centuries, and sketch, as 
 it were upon a single canvas, the growth, the pleni- 
 tude, and the declension of Roman greatness, must 
 unquestionably have been possessed of uncommon 
 elevation and energy. If authority could add any 
 thing to a reputation which reposes on so substantial 
 a basis, it would be sufficient to mention a writer 
 capable of justly appreciating the merits of the 
 French philosopher, both from the similarity of his 
 pursuits and the extent of his own genius. Mon- 
 tesquieu has been twice mentioned by Mr. Burke 
 in* terms of the highest admiration; in the Thoughts 
 on the Cause of the present Discontents, as the first 
 writer of the age ; and in the Appeal from the New 
 Whigs to the Old, as an authority so high, that even 
 the glory of the British constitution is increased by 
 his suffrage. 
 
 And yet we little beings must be indulged in our. 
 little criticism. Somebody at Paris said, that the
 
 319 
 
 work called L* Esprit des Loix should have been en- 
 titled L* Esprit stir les Loix; and the remark is true 
 as well as clever. After making every reasonable 
 allowance for varieties in composition, and surren- 
 dering much of established usage to the despotism 
 of genius, still it must be confessed that Mon- 
 tesquieu has in his great work indulged too freely 
 the natural bias of his mind, and furnished rather a 
 collection of desultory reflections, than the complete 
 digest or discussion of a comprehensive subject. In 
 part, this may justly be imputed to the extent of 
 his undertaking, which rendered a sententious and 
 somewhat authoritative manner almost unavoidable. 
 But it must doubtless, in part, also be attributed to 
 the poetical cast of his imagination, which could 
 not tolerate the appearance of dulness, and de- 
 lighted in brilliancy and effect. The disadvantages 
 incident to this fault are considerable. One of 
 them is, that the very object of the writer, who in- 
 tended to render his work attractive, is, in some 
 degree, counteracted ; for, among the generality of 
 readers, more perhaps are fatigued by making a se- 
 ries of desperate leaps across the chasms which 
 separate the different theorems, than by the labour 
 of travelling through the diffuse expositions, and 
 connecting details, which abound in a different class 
 of reasoners. 
 
 Nearly allied to, and, indeed, growing out of the 
 last defect, is another and more serious fault. Mon- 
 tesquieu's reflections, though remarkably original, 
 and frequently profound, are at times hasty and in-
 
 320 
 
 accurate. He acquiesced too readily in his first 
 thoughts. His mind was so constituted, that he 
 rather caught the truth by a rapid and penetrating 
 glance, than discovered it through the medium of a 
 close investigation. He was not accustomed to ve- 
 rify his impressions by a close and vigilant induc- 
 tion ; and though his intellect was of that vigorous 
 and comprehensive character which made even his 
 guesses valuable, it certainly is not always safe to 
 acquiesce in his positions without examination. His 
 work frequently furnishes rather excellent materials 
 for thinking, than the results of patient thought. 
 Indeed his carelessness, both in accepting facts and 
 propounding conclusions, is sometimes perfectly 
 surprising. " We are informed, (says he, speaking 
 of the proportion of the sexes born in different 
 countries,) that at Bantam there are ten girls to one 
 boy ;" and then he proceeds to reason upon this 
 ridiculous assumption, only because a Mr. Kempfer 
 had so affirmed of that which no conceivable affirma- 
 tion could render credible. " It would be an ex* 
 celient law," he observes in another place, " for all 
 countries to ordain, that none but real money should 
 be current." This reflection was suggested by con- 
 sidering the inconveniences incident to a debased 
 coin, or, as he terms it, ideal money. He seems 
 wholly to have overlooked the prodigious saving of 
 value, time, and labour, which is effected by a con- 
 ventional currency, which has its foundation in no 
 sort of fraud, but in the wants and resources of 
 mankind, and the advantages of which a great mind
 
 321 
 
 ought to have perceived, even at so early a period 
 in the history of the economy of nations. In the 
 same spirit, speaking of exchanges, he says, " The 
 relative abundance and scarcity of specie in different 
 countries forms what is called the course of ex- 
 change." " Exchange is a framing of the actual 
 and momentary value of money," and " when a 
 state has occasion to remit a sum of money into 
 another country, it is indifferent in the nature of the 
 thing whether specie be conveyed thither, or they 
 take bills of exchange." Yet, certainly, Montesquieu 
 had sagacity enough to discover, had he reflected, 
 that the exchanges will depend, not merely, as he 
 supposes, on the state of the currency in different 
 countries, but on the state, also, of their mutual 
 debts and credits ; and, that even if their currency 
 were fixed, there may be a manifest saving by re- 
 mitting in bills instead of remitting in commodities 
 or bullion. We mention these inaccuracies, not 
 that we attach much importance to them, but for 
 the sake of exhibiting the character of Montesquieu's 
 genius. Powerful and intuitive glances into human 
 nature will enable a great mind to appreciate with 
 wonderful sagacity many branches of legislation, and 
 many fonns of political administration ; but if a 
 subject is in its nature scientific, a very different 
 process is requisite. No man can determine a tra- 
 jectory, or find a fluent, by a single coup (Tail. 
 Now, political economy is in all its branches strictly 
 scientific. 
 
 It is rather fatiguing to follow the errors of a great 
 
 Y
 
 322 
 
 man, yet one other fault in Montesquieu's writings 
 deserves to be noticed, because it is considerable, 
 and has attracted a vast deal of attention and dis- 
 cussion. He is too systematic, and is, therefore, 
 sometimes, like all system-makers, paradoxical ; 
 more especially in his observations respecting the 
 influence of climate upon character, he has exposed 
 himself to much severe and just animadversion. 
 We incline to think, however, that his opinions 
 on this subject have been a little misunderstood, 
 and that the remark which we have extracted from 
 the work before us, " that a powerful genius is apt 
 to seize on general ideas, and to take it for granted 
 that others will understand how to modify them," 
 is peculiarly applicable to this part of the Spirit of 
 Laws. It is scarcely conceivable that a writer such 
 as Montesquieu should have deliberately held, in its 
 full extent, the theory which some passages in the 
 fourteenth book of the Spirit of Laws appear to 
 imply. Such a theory is contradicted not only by 
 the history of nations, its natural enemy ; but even 
 by geography, its natural ally. Travel from Tus- 
 cany into the Campagna, cross the Faro of Messina 
 from Calabria into Sicily, pass from Bourdeaux to 
 Burgos : the heart of the stoutest believer in the 
 despotism of physical causes would fail before he 
 had completed three little tours of discovery. Large 
 allowances, we are persuaded, must be made for 
 what Montesquieu has left unsaid ; yet,- all allow- 
 anaes made, he still remains chargeable with great 
 inaccuracy arid much exaggeration in this part of
 
 323 
 
 his work. To determine on the nature and pro- 
 priety of laws by a metaphysical materialism; to 
 introduce grave speculations on the action of the 
 nerves, and experiments on the papillae of a sheep's 
 tongue ; to resolve the liberties of England into the 
 constitutional misery of its inhabitants ; to swallow 
 greedily the falsehoods of Bernier respecting India, 
 and then exclaim, " Happy climate ! which gives 
 birth to purity of manners, and produces lenity of 
 laws ;" these are follies so considerable, that it re- 
 quired nothing less than the genius of Montesquieu 
 to redeem them, nothing lower than his renown to 
 shelter them from ridicule. How much superior, 
 in this instance, is the poet to the philosopher ! 
 
 " Can opener skies and suns of fiercer flame 
 O'erpower the fire that animates our frame? 
 As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray. 
 Fade and expire beneath the eye of day. 
 Need we the influence of the northern star, 
 To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war? 
 And where the face of nature laughs around, 
 Must sickening virtue fly the tainted ground? 
 Unmanly thought !" GRAY. 
 
 It is a little curious, that the author of the work 
 before us propounds a theory directly opposite to 
 that of the writer whose defects we have been touch- 
 ing; and that both have been led to the very verge 
 of fatalism by not watching with sufficient vigilance 
 the progress of their speculations. How much in the 
 Characters of nations and of individuals i to br attri- 
 
 y .
 
 324 
 
 buted to the influence of natural propensities, how 
 much to the operation of moral motives, and how 
 much, (if any thing,) to the self-determining agency of 
 the soul, we do not believe any measure of Ifuman 
 sagacity is sufficient to determine. This, however, is 
 clear, that physical causes are limited in their opera- 
 tion, while moral influences are capable of a regular 
 and indefinite progression. Of the two systems of 
 necessity which have infested philosophy, we have no 
 hesitation in saying that the latter is the less vulgar 
 and the less dangerous ; that it has more of proba- 
 bility and more of truth. And though we steadily 
 renounce every necessitarian theory, we are per- 
 suaded that the hypothesis which has its foundation 
 in the subjection of the will to moral motives, may 
 be, and has been held by many in union with the 
 highest truths and the deepest piety ; while the op- 
 posite theory, we have little doubt, will generally be 
 found connected at its root with materialism in philo- 
 sophy, and scepticism in religion. 
 
 It would be easy to multiply little criticisms on 
 the Spirit of Laws, but there is something equally 
 contrary to generosity and good taste in thus coun- 
 ing " the motes that people the sun-beam. " This 
 great performance will remain, in defiance of cri- 
 ticism, an imperishable monument of the genius 
 and learning, the enterprize and perseverance of 
 its author. Some parts, indeed, have fallen away, 
 and the proportions are incomplete; but, like the 
 structures of antiquity, enough will remain to testify
 
 325 
 
 to the grandeur of the edifice, and attract the admira- 
 tion of all succeeding ages. 
 
 There are few things which, to a comprehensive 
 and feeling spirit, are so afflicting as the sense of its 
 inability to resist the torrent with which violence al- 
 lied to guilt can desolate mankind. There is some- 
 thing so mean in the evil passions, something so base 
 and contemptible in the gross and brutal force which 
 alone renders them formidable, that beings of a 
 nobler nature feel a mixture of agony and humili- 
 ation in submitting to an authority at once illegiti- 
 mate, violent, and degrading. They feel astonished 
 that wisdom and virtue are unable to rescue man- 
 kind from so miserable a servitude ; and after strug- 
 gling perhaps a while in vain against audacious and 
 triumphant guilt, relinquish the contest in despair, 
 and begin to doubt whether virtue be not a name, 
 and all the moral excellence and beauty which they 
 have been accustomed to contemplate with admira- 
 tion, the visions of a bright but delusive fancy. It 
 is here that religion steps in to rescue us from de- 
 spair; and raising our thoughts to that Almighty 
 Being with whom " a thousand years are as one 
 day," and carrying forward our hopes to a fairer 
 and immortal region, teaches us to repose in hum- 
 ble confidence on the wisdom and the faithfulness of 
 Him, who has declared that a day of retribution 
 is approaching, which shall fully vindicate his righ-
 
 teousness, and ascertain the final and everlasting 
 triumphs of virtue and piety. Happy they who 
 find in faith that abiding consolation, which can 
 compose the disquietudes of anxiety and silence 
 the murmurings of discontent; which can infuse 
 a secret and vital energy that no resistance can 
 subdue, no disappointments deaden ; the spring of 
 benevolent activity, even under the pressure of the 
 darkest afflictions, " performing in despair the offices 
 of hope." 
 
 In the same rank with Voltaire and Montesquieu 
 the author of the Tableau places two other writers, 
 undoubtedly of great, though in this country of un- 
 equal, renown Rosseau and Buffon. Of the first 
 of these we are unwilling to say a little, and we 
 have not space to say much. Those who wish to 
 see an examination of the works of this singular 
 writer, that will undoubtedly well repay the trouble 
 of perusing it, may consult from the 120th to the 
 140th pages of the work before us. It is not per- 
 haps written exactly in the tone which we should 
 have adopted (if indeed it be not presumptuous to 
 name ourselves in the same breath with such a 
 writer); but it is full of acuteness, depth, candour, 
 and sensibility. We shall make only two short ex- 
 tracts, the first on account of its intrinsic value ; the 
 second for the sake of its severity : for though we 
 do not ordinarily favour such passages, yet the writ-
 
 ings of llosseau have presented to the world such 
 facinating counterfeits of whatever is truly excellent, 
 and under the colour of an ardent devotion to reli- 
 gion, virtue, and feeling, in their native simplicity* 
 have advanced such fearful lengths towards the de- 
 struction of them all, that we hold any honest me- 
 thod of dissipating so dangerous an illusion to be 
 just and valuable. 
 
 Speaking of the celebrated profession of faith 
 by the Vicaire Savoyard, the author of the Ta- 
 bleau says, 
 
 " One is surprised to see him ascend at first by a noblt- 
 flight up to the knowledge of a God, and then take his de- 
 parture from that point to the rejection of all positive re- 
 ligion and forms of worship. But such a march is confor- 
 mable to the whole philosophy of Rosseau. The idea of 
 a Divinity, a vague sentiment of gratitude and respect to- 
 wards him, in a word, whatever is called Natural Reli- 
 gion, all this is within the province of imagination. One 
 may be continually impressed with these noble thoughts 
 without feeling their influence in our actions; but worship 
 is the positive application of these sentiments; it is through 
 this medium that they become useful; it is by this alone 
 that they acquire a body, that they assume a reality, and 
 become possessed of some influence over our conduct In 
 examining Rosseau one sees that there is an analogy be- 
 tween religion without worship, and virtue without prac- 
 tice." p. 131,13-2. 
 
 To this just and noble passage it is only necessary 
 to add, that the homage which God requires of his 
 creatures is not that of postures and rituals, but of 
 their hearts and lives ; a service such as it become*
 
 328 
 
 him to receive, and which it constitutes our true 
 happiness to render. Doctrines which float only in 
 the imagination are contemplated rather than be- 
 lieved. The reception of divine truths, of which 
 the Scriptures speak, is their reception by the whole 
 man, understanding them, feeling them, and lov- 
 ing them. It is difficult to comprehend how any 
 person should have been led to suppose that Ros- 
 seau at heart believed in Christianity. The Vicaire 
 Savoyard pays some Jim compliments to the New 
 Testament; but he argues at great length against 
 the credibility of Revelation ; and the sum of his 
 reasoning is this, that it requires a great deal of time 
 and labour to ascertain that Christianity is true, and 
 therefore it must be false ! 
 
 The other passage which we promised to extract 
 is immediately connected with the author's observa- 
 tions on the confessions of Rosseau, and it closes 
 his criticisms upon that writer : 
 
 " No one knew better than Rosseau how to lay open 
 the interior of his soul. Who has not felt himself moved 
 and charmed' in reading the lively description of those 
 bewildering thoughts, of those hopes for ever deceived 
 and for ever reviving, of those delights of imagination, 
 of those romances of virtue and happiness, always false 
 and still renewed, of those storms which rage in the very 
 depths and recesses of the soul, in short, of the whole his- 
 tory of a mind pensive and solitary ? After having thus 
 placed us, by the magic of truth, in his own situation, 
 Rosseau makes us share in all his thoughts and as it were 
 in his actions. We fall with him by an irresistible declen- 
 sion into all his errors; we assume his Insane pride ; we see
 
 529 
 
 nothing but outrage and injustice: we become the enemies 
 of all mankind, and we prefer ourselves to them. But a 
 sounder reflection enables us to perceive, that the man who 
 has known how thus to lead us along with him, uniformly 
 led a life of full egotism ; that he drew every thing towards 
 himself; that the enjoyments which he sought were always 
 from something solitary, in which others had no share ; 
 that he never sacrificed his interest but to his pride; that 
 he was envious of every thing he did not obtain, though 
 he often refused to possess it ; that even his affections had a 
 character of egotism, that he loved for his own satisfaction 
 and not for the satisfaction of others. In the end we repent 
 of having suffered our selves to be abused into the belief 
 of the superiority of such a man; we comprehend suffi- 
 ciently all his faults, but we pardon them no longer, and 
 we confound no more explanation with excuse.'* p. 140. 
 
 In order that we may justly estimate the merit of 
 this passage, it is proper to add, that the writer is 
 so tar from being insensible to the talents of Ros- 
 seau, that he appears, by some passages in his work, 
 to think him the most eloquent and fascinating of all 
 those who gave celebrity to the eighteenth century. 
 
 His imagination and feeling rendered him deeply 
 sensible of the powers of that singular genius ; and 
 the rectitude of his understanding enabled him to 
 perceive, that such powers, so vitiated, only make 
 the possessor wretched and contemptible, an enemy 
 to himself, and to all his kindred. 
 
 If the author of the Tableau has ever been se- 
 duced into exaggeration, perhaps it is in his praises 
 of BurTon, the last of the illustrious four to whom 
 he assigns the first rank in literature. He is per-
 
 330 
 
 haps a little too much captivated by the brilliant 
 fancy and highly picturesque style of the naturalist ; 
 and he is rather too merciful to his extravagant love 
 of hypothesis. Eloquence is not the highest praise 
 of a philosophical writer ; and after allowing all that 
 can be said in admiration of particular descriptive 
 passages, still we venture to ask, whether it be cha- 
 racteristic of a profound or an exalted mind, to resolve 
 every phenomenon into physical causes, and wander 
 through all the vastness of creation without evincing 
 the smallest sensibility to the power, the ma- 
 jesty, or the goodness of Him who made and sus- 
 tains it ? 
 
 In a view of the writers of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury it is impossible that D'Alembert should be 
 omitted. He occupies some space in this work, 
 but he is not a favourite of the writer. His sci- 
 entific acquirements are not disputed, and that part 
 of his preliminary discourse to the Encyclopaedia 
 which relates to the exact sciences is highly ap* 
 plauded ; but he is described as rather a shallow 
 metaphysician ; and his pretensions in literature are 
 dismissed somewhat contemptuously with the terms 
 < " un ecrivain assez froid." 
 
 We have not much disposition to become the cham- 
 pions of D'Alembejt in any thing. He probably 
 was not very profound in metaphysics. We suspect 
 that the French writers of this age were in general 
 but superficial in the science of mind. Their ex- 
 travagant admiration of Locke, whom they but half 
 understood; the bustle and parade they kept up
 
 331 
 
 about sensations, connected with a certain prevail- 
 ing: and almost instinctive tendency towards materi- 
 alism, concur to make it probable that they were 
 neither deep nor original in this part of knowledge. 
 Indeed, we do not recollect that a new hypothesis 
 in metaphysics was started by any of the modern 
 French writers, or any old one considerably illus- 
 trated or improved. The schools in that science 
 have been English, Scotch, or German. However, 
 it is no inconsiderable compliment to D'Alembert, 
 that he is placed next to De Gerando among the 
 French metaphysicians, by the* most competent 
 judge upon such subjects of this, or perhaps 
 any, age. As a writer, it is perhaps true, that 
 
 D'Alembert is cold ; but so were Middleton, Hume, 
 and others, whom it would be idle to depreciate. 
 He is certainly acute, discriminating, and elegant. 
 Hiselogcs are generally interesting; and the con- 
 clusion of that upon M. de Sacy is exceedinly elo- 
 quent. Yet it is by an effort of candour that we 
 make these concessions. We have lately had the 
 misfortune to read, for the first time, some of this 
 writer's correspondence with Frederick the Second, 
 and the temerity of some passages, in which he 
 insolently impeaches and ridicules not Christia- 
 nity, for that all the philosophers thought they 
 were privileged to insult but the ordinary provi- 
 dence and economy of God, is so offensive, that we 
 could almost wish that the very name of the writer 
 and .ill his productions were buried in oblivioR. 
 
 * Mr. D. Stewart.
 
 332 
 
 Better were it that science and literature should pe- 
 rish for ever; better that men should crawl upon the 
 earth in brutish stupidity and ignorance ; than that 
 the bests gifts of God should be employed by his 
 ungrateful creatures to desecrate his name and insult 
 his goodness. Is there in the universe a spectacle 
 so wretched, so disgusting, so contemptible, as that 
 of a being dependent for his hourly existence on the 
 will of his Creator, and spending a portion of the 
 little breath he has, in blaspheming him ? 
 
 Before we close this long article we must be 
 allowed a few hasty remarks on some peculiarities 
 which distinguished French philosophy during the 
 eighteenth century. One naturally conceives of 
 philosophers as of a serious reflective class of men : 
 the subjects about which they are conversant are 
 both grave and important ; the investigation of truth 
 necessarily demands the exercise of the severer 
 powers of the understanding ; and the results of 
 their inquiries so nearly affect the happiness of the 
 human race, that the alliance of frivolity with such 
 pursuits exhibits an incongruity of ideas that would 
 be ridiculous if it were not shocking ; a confusion 
 of images too monstrous to be comical. In perus- 
 ing the works of the French writers who called 
 themselves philosophers during the last age, the first 
 feeling is a sort of distressing amazement, a kind of 
 horrible surprise; such as overtakes us on beholding
 
 333 
 
 an extravagance of nature, or which travellers are 
 said to experience on entering the mansion of the 
 Prince Palagonia in Sicily, who has crowded into his 
 rooms every fantastic image which a depraved and un- 
 natural fancy could assort. These men write of God ; 
 of creation, providence, redemption ; of man and vir- 
 tue ; of life, death, and eternity: ideas of which the 
 very names are awful ; to which the mind approaches 
 purified and chastised by reverence ; and they are as 
 merry as monkeys. They chatter and grin, and talk of 
 the government of the universe, and jest a little, and 
 come back with a light turn to the origin of morals, 
 and then a clever story against priestcraft, and a merry 
 pass at Providence, and adieu mon c/ter philosophe ! 
 What shall we say to reasoners such as these? 
 Were they sane? Is it rational for beings who can 
 think and feel, who hope, and fear, and suffer, 
 for mortal beings, who in a few years must mingle 
 with the dust they tread, to sport with things in 
 which they are the most vitally concerned, and 
 which may determine their happiness or misery for 
 ever? Is it decent for a feeble creature, crawling 
 upon the earth for a moment, and ready to sink 
 under the pressure of the very atmosphere he breathes, 
 to canvass with levity the ways of his Creator, and 
 clap or hiss as if it were a scene at the opera? If 
 this be the fruit of knowledge, indeed " ignorance is 
 bliss." If this be philosophy, it is that of the petites 
 maisons. 
 
 We always suppose philosophers to be possessed 
 of some fixed principles, whether right or wrong ;
 
 a system, a centre of opinions. Else why do they 
 think ; what is the value of reflection, if they are 
 exactly as ignorant as their neighbours ? If philo- 
 sophers therefore attack existing institutions or sen- 
 timents, though we may doubt their wisdom, we at 
 least give them credit for wishing to substitute no- 
 tions which they think sounder and more valuable. 
 But the philosophes of France had no opinions at 
 all ; they were mere haters ; they attacked every 
 thing and recommended nothing. We have diffi- 
 culties enough to perplex us upon any hypothesis ; 
 but these men, instead of applying their skill to un- 
 ravel the entanglement, only wove new labyrinths in 
 every direction. They contradicted one another, 
 and they contradicted themselves ; 
 
 " Chaos umpire sits 
 And by decision more embroils the fray." 
 
 Neither in the works of the philosophical writers of 
 France considered as a body, nor in the productions 
 of the individuals, is there any thing to be found 
 worthy of the name of a religious and moral system; 
 unless Helvetius's paradoxes, which they all laughed 
 at, are to claim such a character. They dismissed, 
 indeed, Revelation by general consent, as quite un- 
 worthy of the just ideas of a Deity ; and having 
 mastered so easily the great despot which had sub- 
 dued mankind, it was to be imagined that they 
 would open some peculiarly noble and comprehen- 
 sive view of God and his government, and furnish 
 a solution to some of the great moral questions that
 
 335 
 
 had so long distressed the contemplative part of 
 mankind. How did they answer to these expecta- 
 tions? The more daring spirits, such as Diderot 
 and Condorcet, shot up boldly into atheism ; defied 
 religion, and insulted morality. D'Alembert, more 
 cool and cautious, seems to have oscillated long, 
 but at last (as La Harpe tells us) judged that pro- 
 bability was in favour of the existence of a God. 
 However, he had so little respect for his probable 
 divinity, that he could sneer bitterly at the moral 
 administration of the world; and declare in one of 
 his letters, that he was much of the same mind 
 with Alphonsus, who said, that if he had been in 
 the divine councils at the commencement of things, 
 he could have shewn how to make a better creation. 
 Voltaire and Rousseau clung stoutly to their theism ; 
 but the former, who furiously assailed the Penta- 
 teuch, because it dishonoured God by the represent- 
 ations it gives of his character, has more passages 
 in his writings of scandalous impiety and profane- 
 ness, than could, we verily believe, be collected 
 from all the works of Jews and Christians during 
 three thousand years ; and the latter, though less 
 impious, has done more to recommend licentious- 
 ness and confound all moral sentiments, than per- 
 haps any other author that ever lived. So it was in 
 substance with the rest. They patronized nega- 
 tives. And though our very instincts direct us to 
 the attainment of knowledge, and truth has been 
 thr object most ardently pursued by the highest 
 minds in oven' ago, these great masters of wisdom
 
 336 
 
 were content to live and die in a willing and sense- 
 less scepticism respecting every thing which best 
 deserves to be investigated, which speaks in accents 
 the most thrilling to our hopes and our fears. 
 
 Philosophers should be humble. Those, more 
 especially, who question rather than decide, should 
 recommend their doubts by a tone of caution and 
 modesty. The new academy never dogmatized: 
 but the philosophers of France were superior to. pre- 
 cedent and authority. If a prize were offered to 
 the most imperious, irritable, scornful, dogmatic, 
 and polemical body that has ever existed among 
 lettered men, the authors of the Encyclopaedia 
 would bear away the palm. Not their brethren the 
 old Epicureans, not the followers of Abelard and 
 Ockham among the schoolmen ; not the pedants of 
 the sixteenth century ; not the colleges of the Je- 
 suits, or the doctors of the Sorbonne, could in such 
 a contest maintain a rivalry with that illustrious fra- 
 ternity. Touch but one of the brotherhood, and 
 all the corporation WPS in arms ; neither virtue, nor 
 talents, nor character, nor station, could protect 
 the miserable offender from the stings of the exas- 
 perated hive. Almost all who were not their friends 
 were treated as their enemies ; and their enemies 
 were fools or hypocrites. They despised every 
 thing and every body (themselves excepted) ; and 
 at last they despised one another. It is quite 
 amusing to see how by continually living in their 
 own little circle of antipathies, they acquired the 
 true sectarian spirit ; and though they began with
 
 S3? 
 
 exclaiming against want of charity in the church* 
 men, learnt to discard even the appearance of charity 
 towards all, but men of their own party. It was 
 thus towards Frenchmen, it was thus towards 
 foreigners. Hume and Gibbon were tolerated, but 
 Johnson was "a superstitious dog;" and Mr. Burkt- 
 complains that there was an air of contemptuouss- 
 uess about them which greatly detracted from tho 
 pleasure of their society. Among all the European 
 communities they seem to have respected none but 
 this country ; and one of the principal reasons for 
 this partiality appears to have been given by the 
 learned Marquis de Condorcet, who tells us, that 
 " the philosophy of Bolingbroke, commented on by 
 Pope, had established in England a system of 
 rational theism, with morals suited to firm and reflec- 
 tive spirits." However, as Frenchmen are apt to 
 ridicule without reason, so for once they applauded 
 without knowledge: for Boitugbroke's pompous ina- 
 nities never deceived any body but his scholar, who 
 was frightened out of his wits when he heard they 
 meuut infidelity; and ui spite of Bolingbroke, and 
 of men much abler than he, Christianity has at ail 
 times been heartily believed and loved by the muss 
 of the population in this country. 
 
 Christianity, considered apart from its divine cre- 
 dentials, was a great c-xpt rinu-nt upon mankind ; 
 and no one, we think, will deny that it inaU-rUHy 
 exalted the general tone of morals, and product <! 
 the best specimens of individual <'X< f e!!< tire \vhi-li 
 Hir world has witnessed. Thr rrrrlinn of ( hn*-
 
 tianity and return to a more natural condition was 
 also an experiment ; and it was fairly made, though 
 upon a smaller scale. Let its value be estimated 
 by its results. Revelation was first rejected in 
 France by men of education and reflection ; by the 
 literary and scientific members of the community. 
 Can a single individual of the body be mentioned 
 who accredited his principles by a strict and con- 
 sistent morality ? We have never heard of one ; 
 and all the most considerable characters among them 
 were notoriously sullied with great and flagitious 
 vices. Voltaire told the most deliberate falsehoods, 
 which even his biographer, M. de Condorcet, does 
 not attempt to excuse ; though (to shew the severity 
 of his own morals) he maintains that lying is justi- 
 fiable if oppression makes it expedient. Rousseau 
 abandoned his own offspring. D'Alembert insulted 
 his Creator. Diderot cheated his patroness ; and 
 his writings are an outrage on all decency. Mar- 
 montel deserted the object of his early affections, 
 who had been faithful to him through years of ab- 
 sence and silence; and he had the heartlessness to 
 put his infamy upon record for the amusement of 
 his grandchildren, without breathing a single sigh 
 of contrition or regret. In the midst of all these 
 things they continued to applaud each other abun- 
 dantly, and talked loudly of reason and virtue. Bv 
 degrees the principles of the philosophers were dif- 
 fused among the people, and at length the whole 
 nation, by a general effort, threw off the yoke, and 
 publicly renounced Christianity. What ensued I
 
 339 
 
 What bright gleams of opening glory and happiness 
 illuminated the auspicious enterprize? What new 
 constellation arose to shed their influence on a hap- 
 pier era ? All was darkness and horror. The hea- 
 vens seemed to be " hung with black." France 
 was for a moment blotted out of Europe ; and then 
 reviving, like a Bedlamite from his trance, poured 
 out her frantic rage on every surrounding nation. 
 The fall of Christianity* instead of being hailed 
 like its birth by angelic voices, speaking peace and 
 love, was proclaimed by the groans of widows and 
 orphans, and the savage bowlings of demons. The 
 Gospel descended upon earth attended with a hca- 
 venlv train of graces and virtues, with the charities 
 which soften and embellish this life, and prepare 
 us for a better. The religion of nature ascended 
 from beneath with a company suited to her charac- 
 ter; murder, profligacy, proscription; and civil 
 anarchy and military despotism. 
 
 And yet some feelings of compassion are due to 
 the men and to the nation whom we have con- 
 demned. They saw not the religion of Christ 
 such as it proceeded from the hands of its divine 
 Author, lowly and self-denied, benevolent and spi- 
 ritual, separated from sin, and superior to the 
 vanities and the sufferings of this transient scene. 
 They saw it debased by its alliance to a super- 
 stitious establishment, ami sustained by a rivil 
 authority at once arbitrary and contemptible. They 
 saw the profession of Christianity often united f> 
 the practice of vire. or the policy of a worldly
 
 ambition ; its dogmas peremptorily enforced, and 
 its precepts habitually relaxed. The rapid pro- 
 gress of infidelity in France sufficiently proves 
 the decay in that country of essential religion. 
 The Gospel in all its power, appealing to the con- 
 sciences of men, and carrying its credentials in 
 the practice of those who acknowledge it, is alone 
 capable of contending long against the pride and 
 passions of a people who have once thrown off 
 the bondage of an ignorant and implicit faith ; 
 and those who have the weakness to place their 
 reliance on the authority of ancient institutions, 
 or the seemly pomp of rituals and services, will 
 assuredly discover, when it is too late, that these 
 are but the perishable forms in which religion is 
 enshrined, not the living and immortal spirit which 
 can alone protect itself and us in the hour of 
 danger. This is a truth which the guilt and the 
 sufferings of France are peculiarly calculated to 
 enforce. While we reprobate the men who con- 
 spired against Christianity, and deplore their suc- 
 cess, let us never forget that there were other 
 conspirators still more formidable, and to whom 
 that success is chiefly to be attributed ; the un- 
 faithful ministers and professors of religion, who 
 rendered it weak by their dissentions, odious 
 by their bigotry; and contemptible by their crimes. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 DAVIDSON, PRINTER, OLD BO5WKLL COliKT, LONDON 
 
 NDON. J^J
 
 Umm* ol Ctffemt 
 
 L 005 488 857 3 
 
 ,,..i i mRARY FACILITT