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 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
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 University of Illinois Library 
 
Butler’s Miscellanies 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY, 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION, 
 AND OTHER PIECES. 
 
 By NOBLE BUTLER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF BUTLER’S GRAMMARS, AMERICAN SCHOOL READERS, ETC. 
 
 LOUISVILLE: 
 
 JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY. 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 CLAXTON, REMSEN, AND HAFFELFINGER. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Most of the things that I have written were burned with my 
 
 house. A few, however, escaped. The essay on Burns was written 
 
 at the request of George D. Prentice and published as editorial in 
 
 ... fi the “Louisville Journal,” and the essay on Wordsworth was written 
 
 at the request of Mr. Prentice’s partner, George W. Weissinger, and 
 
 it too was published as editorial in the same journal. Most of the 
 
 articles have been written in later years. 
 
 There are some verses in the volume; but the Muse’s visits to me 
 
 have been “short and far between.” Whenever she came — if it was 
 P'S ' 
 
 the Muse that came — she saw how busy I was and would not take 
 off her shawl and bonnet. 
 
 
 (3) 
 
 i 043 i 63 
 

 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Trial by Jury 7 
 
 Robert Burns 35 
 
 The Philosophy of Composition 43 
 
 Concerning Bulls 64 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 75 
 
 Home and School 86 
 
 Pronunciation of Certain Words 90 
 
 Helen and the Trojan Chiefs 98 
 
 “There can not be More than One First” 103 
 
 Some Verbal Forms 109 
 
 Lady Macbeth 123 
 
 Extracts from a Lecture on Entomology 136 
 
 The Parting of Hector and Andromache 144 
 
 What is a Pronoun? 147 
 
 The Druids 152 
 
 Ben Jonson on Shakespeare 157 
 
 The Eating Animal 167 
 
 Some Comments on Shakespeare’s Commentators 17 1 
 
 Coleridge’s Translation of Schiller 177 
 
 Some Shakespeare “Readings” 181 
 
 Wordsworth’s Poetry 186 
 
 Civilized Warfare 195 
 
 Longing 198 
 
 Horticulture 199 
 
 The Spirit of Chivalry 206 
 
 The Blue-jay 214 
 
 (5) 
 
/, 0 U 
 
 n ! !, \{\ VIKillriVir.ll 
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 Bridal Song of the Maidens of La Vendee 215 
 
 “Glorious Victory’’ 217 
 
 Shakespeare a Farmer 219 
 
 The Brahmin and the Rogues 228 
 
 Defense of General Hull 231 
 
 Fashion 237 
 
 Dreaming to Order 242 
 
 We have changed all that 245 
 
 American Songsters 250 
 
 Alexander Pope 255 
 
 The Daughter of Judah 259 
 
 The Bluebird 261 
 
 Thomas Hood 262 
 
 Note. Tom Hood the Younger 309 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 HE learned Sergeant Wynne, speaking of the trial by 
 
 jury, says, “ Caput inter nubila condit ” (it hides its head 
 among the clouds), referring not to the character of its decis- 
 ions, as some might suppose, but to its origin, which is lost in 
 the mists of antiquity. Palgrave and others assign a more 
 recent origin, asserting that trial by jury, in the sense in which 
 we use the term, was not known until the reign of Henry II. 
 From internal evidence I am inclined to believe in the cloudy 
 origin. The idea of binding twelve men by oath to give a 
 conscientious decision and then compelling them to unanimity 
 must have originated in an age of clouds;* and even in the 
 darkest age such a plan of obtaining justice could never have 
 presented itself at once in all its features. 
 
 Sharon Turner, who asserts that the principle of this system 
 may be traced to the earliest Anglo-Saxon times, f says, “ It is 
 not contested that the institution of a jury existed in the time 
 of the Conqueror,” and gives as proof of this the dispute be- 
 tween Gundulf, the bishop of Rochester, and Pichot, a sheriff. 
 “ The question was, Whether some lands belonged to the church 
 or to the king. The king commanded that all the men of the 
 county should be gathered together, that by their judgment it 
 
 *The Greeks had their dixaffTCU, the Romans their judices ; but the idea of 
 unanimity never entered their minds. 
 
 •{•This mode of trial has been generally considered of entirely Anglo-Saxon 
 origin; but recent investigation has shown among the Norman usages traces of 
 something resembling our trial by jury more than does any thing known to have 
 existed among the Anglo-Saxons. 
 
8 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 might be more justly ascertained to whom the land belonged. 
 They, being assembled, from fear of the sheriff affirmed that 
 the land was the king’s; but as the bishop of Bayeux, who 
 presided at that placitum, did not believe them, he ordered that, 
 if they knew that what they said was true, they should choose 
 twelve from among themselves, who should confirm with an 
 oath what all had declared. But these when they had with- 
 drawn to counsel, and were harassed by the sheriff through his 
 messenger, returned and swore to the truth of what they as- 
 serted. By this decision the land became the king’s. But a 
 monk, who knew how the fact really stood, assured the bishop 
 of Rochester of the falsehood of their oath, who communicated 
 the information to the bishop of Bayeux. The bishop, after 
 hearing the monk, sent for one of the twelve, who, falling at 
 his feet, confessed that he had forsworn himself. The man on 
 whose oath they had sworn theirs made a similar avowal. On 
 this the bishop ordered the sheriff to send the rest to London, 
 and twelve other men from the best in the county to be sum- 
 moned, who confirmed that to be true to which they had sworn. 
 They were all adjudged to be perjured, because the man whose 
 evidence they had accredited had avowed his perjury. The 
 church recovered the land, and when the last twelve wished to 
 affirm that they had not consented with those who had sworn, 
 the bishop said they must prove this by the iron ordeal. And 
 because they undertook this and could not do it, they were 
 fined ^300 to the king by the judgment of other men of the 
 county.” 
 
 Mr. Turner adds, “By this narration we find that a shire- 
 gemot determined on the dispute in the first instance ; but that 
 in consequence of the doubts of the presiding judge they 
 chose from among themselves twelve, who swore to the truth 
 of what they had decided, and whose determination decided 
 the case.” 
 
 If this not very perspicuous narration is a history of a trial 
 by jury, it is rather remarkable that the two first juries of which 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 9 
 
 we have an account were perjured — a not very creditable cir- 
 cumstance for the “palladium of our liberties. 7 ’ But the jury 
 in this case seems to have been in reality a jury of witnesses. 
 Their determination did not “decide the case;” for the land 
 went to the church contrary to the “determination” of the 
 juries. The verdict was rather, in mercantile language, an 
 “indorsement” of the witness; and because the jurors had 
 sworn to the credibility of one who afterward confessed that 
 his testimony was false they were fined for perjury, having first 
 attempted the ordeal of hot iron, and having succeeded only 
 in “burning their fingers” — a result, by the way, which is 
 attained by a large number of those who enter courts in our 
 own day. 
 
 Our forefathers settled their difficulties in the simplest man- 
 ner. If a man was accused of a crime, he had only to carry a 
 red-hot bar of iron a few steps without seriously burning him- 
 self, or plunge his arm into boiling water without scalding 
 himself, or swallow the consecrated morsel without choking 
 himself. The trial by ordeal is generally considered inferior 
 to the trial by jury; but there is something to be said on both 
 sides. If a good-natured priest could be met with, who, with- 
 out placing too high a price upon his good nature, could be 
 persuaded to see the iron hot when it was not so very hot, and to 
 see the water boil when it was not boiling so very violently, or 
 who could be taught to be ignorant of the means of keeping up 
 the fire, the case of the accused was not so very bad. And then 
 the trial by ordeal had this advantage, that the decision was con- 
 sidered by the people generally as a decision of Heaven. In our 
 day there have been found persons who believe that good and 
 wise men come from the spirit-land to talk nonsense, and persons 
 who believe in the virtue of professional politicians, but of one 
 who believes the decision in the trial by jury to be a decision 
 of Heaven we have never yet heard. 
 
 Another mode of trial among our ancestors was the trial by 
 compurgation. In this species of trial the party made his dec- 
 
IO 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 laration and produced a number of persons who on their oaths 
 expressed their belief in his veracity. The opposing party also 
 brought forward his compurgators, and the trial became a mere 
 arithmetical affair. The cause was gained by him who had the 
 greater number on his side — or rather the greater “worth;” for 
 the relative value of each man was fixed, one thegn, for instance, 
 being equal to six ceorls. In a “learned judge” of those times 
 nothing was required but the ability to count his fingers. It 
 must be admitted that a great advance has been made since 
 those times; for in our day even a juryman is presumed to 
 know how to “add up and divide by twelve.” 
 
 In the trial by compurgation the witnesses were not sup- 
 posed to know any thing of the point at issue, but in the course 
 of time the idea began to present itself dimly that it would be 
 better that witnesses should know something of the matter in 
 controversy. Then it became evident that the number of 
 people assembled in the gemots was inconveniently large when 
 the testimony required to be sifted. Nothing corresponding to 
 our idea of judge existed at that time. God himself was judge, 
 and gave his decision by the ordeal, or in a less direct way by 
 the compurgation. The assembled people could see whether 
 the hand was burned or scalded, and could see to whom the 
 favor of Heaven granted the greater number, or rather the 
 greater “worth,” of compurgators. The proceedings in the 
 trial by compurgation ‘assisted the people in coming to the idea 
 of a committee, and the fact of their taking an oath gave them 
 the name of jurors. At first the number of these jurors was 
 not always limited to twelve, and unanimity was not required 
 in a verdict. This last sublime principle was gradually attained 
 in later times. No single age could have risen to it; it required 
 several ages standing one upon the shoulders of the other to 
 reach it in its home among the clouds. 
 
 The connection between the old and the new principle seems 
 to be shown in the form once employed in the courts, “How 
 will you be tried?” To which the culprit was to reply, “By 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 II 
 
 God and my country ;” the former part of the culprit’s reply 
 being merely a reminiscence of the olden time, and the latter 
 referring to the theory of the jury-system. The clerk in his 
 statement to the jury said, “ For this trial he puts himself upon 
 God and the country, which country you are,” thus bidding a 
 decent farewell to God and separating him from the proceed- 
 ings. In more modern times the form has been changed, and 
 God is altogether forgotten. 
 
 I have said that we have never yet heard of one who con- 
 sidered the decision by jury a decision by Heaven; but Mr. 
 Sergeant Wynne comes very near it. He says that the jury- 
 system is “the noblest form of policy that was ever invented 
 on earth, and comes nearest the impartiality of Heaven.” And 
 many others have tried to lash themselves into enthusiasm on 
 the subject. Blackstone says, “ It is a constitution that I may 
 venture to affirm has, under Providence, secured the just liber- 
 ties of this nation for a long succession of ages. And therefore 
 a celebrated French writer* who concludes that because Rome, 
 Sparta, and Carthage have lost their liberties, therefore those 
 of England in turn must perish, should have recollected that 
 Rome, Sparta, and Carthage, at the time when their liberties 
 were lost, were strangers to the trial by jury.” 
 
 Sharon Turner speaks of the trial by jury as “a tree so beau- 
 tiful and so venerable.” Go into almost any court -room in 
 which a lawyer is addressing a jury, and you will hear him 
 speak of “the palladium of our liberties.” If you choose to 
 inquire what the learned advocate means by these words, you 
 will learn that he is describing the twelve gentlemen, learned in 
 the law, who are sitting in the box before him, and that the 
 idea he wishes to convey is that they are to decide in his favor. 
 You may also hear him, in the language of Sergeant Buzfuz, 
 congratulating his client on having appealed to “an enlight- 
 ened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispas- 
 sionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of his civilized 
 
 * Montesquieu. 
 
12 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 countrymen.” Dickens’s Sergeant Buzfuz is not the only one 
 of the family, nor has he an exclusive right to the use of those 
 truthful and significant epithets. His brethren have employed 
 them before him, and they will employ them after him, with all 
 the candor of Sergeant Buzfuz. To a lawyer in court the jury- 
 system in general is the palladium of our liberties, and the par- 
 ticular jury he is addressing is the palladium of palladiums, 
 being composed of the most intelligent, most high-minded, and 
 most impartial gentlemen that a jury-box is capable of holding. 
 
 What is a jury? The general theory of the trial by jury is 
 simple enough; namely, that the jury decides upon the facts of 
 the case, while the judge decides upon the law. It consists of 
 twelve men, who must never have formed and expressed an 
 opinion upon the subject before the court, and who must come 
 to a unanimous decision. 
 
 As to the number, Sir Edward Coke seems to think that 
 twelve is a very proper number, inasmuch as there were twelve 
 apostles, twelve tribes of Israel, etc. On the whole probably 
 the best reason is that twelve men make a dozen; and so we 
 may let the number pass. 
 
 As to the province of the jury, the practice makes sad havoc 
 of the general theory. Those who defend the system on gen- 
 eral principles always speak of the jurors as judges of fact 
 merely; but when we go into the courts we find that they are 
 judges of law as well as of fact. From the earliest time at 
 which the courts began to approach regularity in form there 
 has prevailed a controversy in regard to the powers and rights 
 of juries. The uncertainty probably arose from the unscientific 
 way in which matters were decided by the gemots or assemblies 
 of the Anglo-Saxon people. 
 
 In the first year of the English commonwealth Lieutenant- 
 colonel John Lilburn was prosecuted for high treason, the 
 specifications being that he had declared the government to 
 be “ tyrannical, usurped, and unlawful,” and that he had at- 
 tempted to stir up sedition in the army. In the course of the 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 r 3 
 
 trial Lilburn claimed the privilege of addressing the jury, 
 “who,” said he, “are in law judges of law as well as fact, and 
 you (the judges) only the pronouncers of their sentence, will, 
 and mind.” To which one of the judges, Lord Keble, replied, 
 “Master Lilburn, quietly express yourself, and you do well; 
 the jury are judges of matter of fact altogether, and Judge 
 Coke says so : But I tell you the opinion of the Court, they are 
 not judges of matter of law.” “The jury,” replies Lilburn, 
 “by law are not only judges of fact, but of law also; and you 
 that call yourselves judges of the law are no more but Norman 
 intruders; and indeed and in truth, if the jury please, are no 
 more but cyphers to pronounce their verdict.” At this another 
 of the judges, Justice Jermin, exclaimed in a rather Dogberryish 
 style, “Was there ever such a damnable, blasphemous heresy as 
 this is to call the judges of the law cyphers!” Lilburn then 
 offered to read from Coke in support of his position, and Judge 
 Jermin cried out, “You can not be suffered to read the law; 
 you have broached an erroneous opinion, that the jury are the 
 judges of the law, which is enough to destroy all the law in the 
 land. There was never such damnable heresy broached in this 
 nation before.” But Lilburn would read; and he produced 
 from Coke the following passage : “ In this case the recognitors 
 of the assize may say and render to the justices their verdict at 
 large upon the whole matter;” that is, give a general verdict 
 deciding both the law and the fact. The following passages 
 also he quotes from Coke : “ Here it is to be observed that a 
 special verdict or at large may be given in any action and upon 
 any issue, be the issue general or special.” “Although the jury, 
 if they will take upon them (as Littleton here saith) the knowl- 
 edge of the law, may give a general verdict.” The passage in 
 Littleton to which Coke refers is brought forward: “Also in 
 such case, where the inquest may give their verdict at large, if 
 they will take upon them the knowledge of the law, upon the 
 matter they may give their verdict generally.” In the course 
 of the proceedings Lilburn again says, “And therefore as a 
 
14 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 free-born Englishman, and as a true Christian that now stands 
 in the sight and presence of God, with an upright heart and 
 conscience, and with a cheerful countenance, I cast my life and 
 the lives of all the honest freemen of England into the hands 
 of God, and his gracious protection, and into the care and con- 
 science of my honest jury and fellow-citizens; who, I again 
 declare, by the law of England are the conservators and sole 
 judges of my life, having inherent in them alone the judicial 
 power of the law, as well as fact; you judges that sit there 
 being no more, if they please, but cyphers to pronounce the 
 sentence, or their clerks to say amen to them ; being at the best 
 in your original but the Norman Conqueror’s intruders-.” 
 
 The jury rendered a verdict of “not guilty.” In the report 
 of the proceedings in the collection of State Trials it is stated 
 that “immediately the whole multitude of people in the Hall, 
 for joy of the prisoner’s acquittal, gave such a loud and unani- 
 mous shout as is believed was never heard in Guild-Hall, which 
 lasted for about half an hour without intermission ; which made 
 the judges for fear turn pale and hang down their heads.” In 
 Neal’s “History of the Puritans” we are told that an engraving 
 was published representing Lilburn standing at the bar, and on 
 the upper part of the engraving was the head of Lilburn, with 
 this inscription, “John Lilburn, saved by the power of the 
 Lord and the integrity of his jury, who are judges of law as 
 well as fact. October 6, 1646.” The date is evidently a mis- 
 take for October 26, 1649. 
 
 John Lilburn was a man whose bravery it is impossible not 
 to admire. He feared neither king nor commons, bishops nor 
 assemblies. He had been before the Star Chamber for his 
 attacks on King Charles and the bishops, and had been con- 
 demned, among other punishments, to be whipped through the 
 streets of London at the tail of a cart. While the scourge was 
 flaying his back he denounced the king and the bishops. The 
 Star Chamber ordered him to be gagged, and the unconquered 
 man spoke with his feet and hands by stamping and furious 
 
TRiAL BY JURY. 1 5 
 
 gesticulations. It was said of him that he “ could not live with- 
 out a quarrel ; 77 that “if he were left alone in the world, he 
 would have to divide himself in two, and set the John to fight 
 with the Lilburn and the Lilburn with the John.' 7 * He ex- 
 pressed contempt for the Assembly of Divines at W estminster 
 by calling them an “Assembly of Dry-vines. 77 When Charles 
 and the bishops were gone he attacked Cromwell and the Par- 
 liament, was tried and, as we have seen, was acquitted. But 
 nothing could silence him, and in January, 1651, he was ban- 
 ished by act of Parliament. In June, 1653, he returned, and 
 was tried upon the act for his banishment. Another jury pro- 
 nounced a verdict of “not guilty 77 in his favor. The Council 
 of State wished to learn the grounds of the verdict, and sum- 
 moned the jurors before them. They assigned as the reason 
 for their verdict that they considered themselves judges of the 
 law as well as of fact; but they did not explain how this opinion 
 led to the verdict. “ James Stevens, of the Old-Baily, haber- 
 dasher, saith, ‘That he was satisfied that the prisoner was the 
 John Lilburn mentioned in the act; nor did he yet question 
 the validity of the act. But the jury having weighed all which 
 was said, and conceiving themselves (notwithstanding what was 
 said by the Council and Bench to the contrary) to be judges of 
 law as well as of fact, they found him not guilty. 77 f 
 
 This point, one would think, ought to have got itself settled 
 in some way between that time and the reign of George III. 
 But when Erskine made his celebrated argument on “ the rights 
 of juries, 77 in which his object was to prove that juries are 
 judges of law as well as of fact in prosecutions for libel, the 
 point was decided against him. Lord Mansfield in giving the 
 decision laid it down as a long-settled point that juries were to 
 determine the fact of publication and the meaning of particular 
 words, leaving the question of law to the court. In the course 
 of his remarks he referred to a prosecution of the Craftsman , a 
 
 * Henry Martin. See Forster’s Statesmen of the Commonwealth, 
 f State Trials, ii, 82. 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 I 6 
 
 paper opposed to the ministry of Sir Robert Walpole, “in which 
 case, said his lordship, to the great mortification of Sir Philip 
 Yorke, then Attorney General, the Craftsman was acquitted; ” 
 “and I recollect it,” continued his lordship, “from a famous 
 witty and ingenious ballad that was composed on the occasion 
 by Mr. Pulteney. Though it be a ballad,” said he, “I will 
 quote a stanza from it to show you the opinion upon this sub- 
 ject of the able men in opposition and the leaders of the pop- 
 ular party in those days. They had not an idea that the jury 
 had a right to determine upon a question of law, and they 
 rested the verdict on another and better ground: 
 
 ‘For Sir Philip well knows 
 That his innuendoes 
 Will serve him no longer 
 In verse or in prose; 
 
 For twelve honest men have decided the cause, 
 
 Who are judges of fact though not judges of laws.’” 
 
 It seems that Lord Mansfield made a serious mistake in his 
 quotation from the ballad, and that the close of the stanza as 
 written by Mr. Pulteney asserts the very opposite doctrine : 
 
 For twelve honest men have determined the cause, 
 
 Who are judges alike of the facts and the laws. 
 
 Notwithstanding former disputes, however, the matter is now 
 settled, and juries are judges of law and fact. And so a gradual 
 transition has been made. Jurors, who at first were witnesses, 
 have now become judges, and not judges merely, but legisla- 
 tors. Lord Erskine said, “I do not seek to erect jurors into 
 legislators or judges;” but he and others have done both. The 
 answer of the jury in Lilburn’s case to the questions proposed 
 by the Council of State show what jurors mean when they pro- 
 nounce themselves “judges of law as well as of fact.” James 
 Stevens was satisfied that the prisoner was the person men- 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 17 
 
 tioned in the act, and did not question the validity of the act. 
 At this point he had already performed the functions of a judge 
 of the fact and of a judge of the law; he had even made him- 
 self a judge of the validity, or as we should say, constitution- 
 ality of the law. “But the jury having weighed all which was 
 said, and conceiving themselves to be judges of law as well as 
 fact, they found him not guilty.” Here they took upon them- 
 selves legislative powers, and abrogated the law whose validity 
 they did not question. The court considers itself to be a judge 
 of what the law is; the jurors conceive themselves to be judges 
 of what the law should be. A judge of a horse is one who 
 knows whether the horse is good for any thing; and why 
 should not a juror, a judge of the law, take upon him to decide 
 whether the law is good for any thing? And juries take upon 
 themselves legislative powers not once in a while merely, but 
 almost everyday. “There is no doubt of his guilt; but no 
 jury will ever be found to convict him,” is a common expres- 
 sion. The meaning is that, however clear the facts and how- 
 ever positive the law, juries will take a solemn oath to support 
 the law and then deliberately proceed to annul it. Sir Jonah 
 Barrington gives an account of a duel between two opposing 
 candidates for office, during the heat of an election in Wexford 
 County, Ireland, in which one of the candidates killed his 
 opponent. “A more wanton duel,” says Sir Jonah, “a more 
 unnecessary, cruel, and in all respects illegal transaction never 
 occurred in the United Empire. . . . However, the then 
 
 politics of Wexford juries differed not infrequently both from 
 the laws of God and the statute-book, and the verdict returned 
 in this instance was, to the surprise of every one, a general 
 acquittal.”* Wexford juries are not confined to Wexford. 
 The most singular circumstance in the affair is the “ surprise 
 of every one.” A person who could be surprised at any verdict 
 of a jury would be lost in astonishment if he should toss a 
 copper and see it turn up either heads or tails. 
 
 * Personal Sketches, p. 189. 
 
i8 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 We all know that to be a judge of a fact often means with 
 juries to decide whether the fact is of the right sort. If the 
 fact does not prove what they wish it to prove, it is a very 
 impertinent sort of fact, having no right to thrust itself into 
 places in which it is not wanted. Some of them seem to think 
 that a fact, being, like a mule, a very stubborn thing, frequently 
 needs cudgeling. And in this dominion over the facts pre- 
 sented in evidence they have the support of the great advocate 
 of the rights of juries, Lord Erskine. He is striving to show 
 that juries are better qualified than judges to decide upon the 
 seditious tendency of a paper, and he says: “They may know 
 themselves , or it may be proved before them, that it has excited 
 sedition already. ... If they know that the subject of the 
 paper is the topic that agitates the country around them — if 
 they see danger in the agitation, and have reason to think that 
 the publisher intended it — they say that he is guilty. If, on 
 the other hand, they consider the paper to be legal and enlight- 
 ened in principle, likely to promote a spirit of activity and lib- 
 erty in times when the activity of such a spirit is essential to 
 the public safety, and have reason to believe it to be written 
 and published in that spirit, they say, as they ought to do, that 
 the writer or the publisher is not guilty. Whereas your lord- 
 ship’s judgment upon the language of the record must ever be 
 in the pure abstract; operating blindly and indiscriminately 
 upon all times, circumstances, and intentions; making no dis- 
 tinctions between the glorious attempts of a Sidney or a Russell 
 struggling against the terrors of a despotism under the Stuarts 
 and those desperate adventurers of the year ’45, who libeled 
 the person and excited rebellion against the mild and gracious 
 government of our late excellent sovereign, King George the 
 Second.” 
 
 Though in early times juries were expected to base their de- 
 cisions upon their own knowledge, yet the theory now is that they 
 are to regard nothing but the evidence presented in open court, 
 which the judge hears as well as the jury. But Lord Erskine 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 x 9 
 
 bases their superiority upon the assumption that they know 
 something which has not been given in evidence at all. And 
 according to his doctrine, all the distinction between what is a 
 libel and what is not a libel — all that constitutes the criminality 
 of the act — may be fixed by something not before the court, 
 something that perhaps is in direct opposition to the facts pre- 
 sented, something that the accused has no means of meeting — 
 the loose opinions of the jurors, which Lord Erskine would 
 dignify with the name of knowledge. Did the great advocate 
 of juries mean to assert that, though judges can not make a 
 distinction between “ the glorious attempts of a Sidney or a 
 Russell” and “ those desperate adventurers of the year ’45,” 
 yet juries can? They showed their ability to make the dis- 
 tinction by sending Sidney and Russell to the scaffold. 
 
 A stranger to our customs who should be informed that we 
 invest a body of men with despotic power over law and fact 
 would naturally infer that such a body of men is exceedingly 
 select, that it is composed of persons who understand thoroughly 
 all the principles of law and evidence. He would probably be 
 surprised to learn that they generally know nothing about law 
 and very often undergo examinations to show that they know 
 nothing about fact. The theory about the impartiality of juries 
 is a very fine one. A juror ought to be free from prejudice. It 
 would be an excellent thing if we could find men of powerful 
 minds in full activity and capable of deciding any point, who 
 have never formed an opinion upon any subject under heaven; 
 who are neither atheists nor theists, Roman Catholics nor Pro- 
 testants, monarchists nor republicans, nominalists nor realists, 
 Littleendians nor Bigendians; who have no theory about the 
 caseous constitution of the moon or the longitude of the north 
 pole; and who consequently would be free from any tendency 
 in any direction whatever. Every opinion in the mind has an 
 influence in the formation of the next opinion, no matter upon 
 what subject. One’s opinion about the height of the Hima- 
 laya Mountains .will have an influence in forming his opinion 
 
20 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 of hasty -pudding. And most certainly a man’s opinions on 
 history, religion, politics, or morals will have an influence in 
 forming his opinion of the justice of a claim or the criminality 
 of an act. 
 
 It would then be a thing desirable in itself to have jurors 
 free from all opinions in regard either to general principles or 
 to particular facts. Perhaps it might not be impossible to find 
 persons with almost the proper destitution of ideas; but such 
 persons are endowed also with a “plentiful lack of wit” and a 
 want of capacity for forming opinions on any subject. What 
 course then is dictated by common sense and the practice of 
 mankind? To what kind of man do we go for advice? Whom 
 do we select as umpire or arbitrator? Is it the man who pays 
 so little attention to what is going on around him or whose 
 mind is so sluggish that he forms no opinion upon passing 
 events? No; it is the man of intelligence, the man of active 
 mind, who has eyes to see the things around him and intellect 
 to form an opinion about them. We may have learned that he 
 has expressed an opinion against our cause; but we take him 
 nevertheless. We feel assured that he has formed his opinion 
 from what were presented to him as facts, and that when oppo- 
 sing facts are presented he will change his opinion in proportion 
 to their importance; that, if he is selected as umpire, he will 
 feel himself under obligation to investigate the circumstances 
 with the greater care; and that the only fear is that the fact of 
 his having previously formed an opinion may from excessive 
 caution rather make him lean in the opposite direction. 
 
 A different principle, however, prevails in the selection of 
 jurors. Suppose a case like that of Col. Burr, or any other 
 case to which the attention of all who attend to any thing is 
 attracted. In such a case every man of intelligence will have 
 formed some opinion. This opinion will, of course, be in 
 accordance with the alleged facts which have presented them- 
 selves to him. But he earnestly desires to arrive at the truth, 
 and is ready to change his opinion when the matter is presented 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 21 
 
 in a new light by proper testimony. A man may learn that A 
 has set fire to B’s house and may express his opinion about it; 
 but this will not prevent him from giving proper weight to the 
 testimony of one who avers that A set fire to the house acci- 
 dentally while he was trying to warm B’s freezing children. 
 
 But when a man’s fitness for serving on a jury is canvassed 
 he is asked, “ Have you formed and expressed an opinion in 
 regard to this case?” Some learned advocates put the question 
 in the disjunctive form, “Have you formed or expressed an 
 opinion?” Any one who admits that he can express an opin- 
 ion without having formed it ought to be excused. It is about 
 as wise to put the question in this form as to say to a hen, 
 “Have you formed' or laid an egg?” or to a school-boy, “Have 
 you learned or even recited your multiplication-table?”* The 
 answer to the question sets aside every man of intelligence and 
 honesty in the community, and the jury must be composed of 
 fools, rogues, or hermits. The villain who has received his 
 bribe is, of course, always on hand, ready to swear that he has 
 never even heard of the case. There may be honest people on 
 the jury, too — people as honest as a stump, which never tells a 
 falsehood or steals a purse or gets drunk. But what qualifica- 
 tion have they for deciding an intricate point? While every 
 one around them has felt a deep interest in an important mat- 
 ter, the only matter in which they have felt any concern are 
 how the hog got into the corn-field or when Brindle broke her 
 horn. They have undergone an examination the object of 
 which was to discover not how much they "know, but how much 
 they do n’t know, and how incapable they are of forming an 
 opinion upon events passing around them. Upon that jury is 
 your old acquaintance, Peter Muggins, before whom once in 
 an unguarded moment you happened to say that the earth is 
 round. “ Round ! ” exclaimed Mr. Muggins indignantly, “ it ’s 
 
 *A good part of the first form of the question is mere verbiage; for when a 
 man has expressed an opinion it is no very violent presumption to suppose that 
 he has formed it. 
 
22 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 square, sir! Doesn't the Bible say ‘the four corners of the 
 earth'? How can there be four corners if it isn’t square?" 
 By his side is Jacob Hoggins, who on the same occasion main- 
 tained that you were both wrong, and who, on being asked 
 what he considered the shape of the earth, replied, “What 
 shape? Why no shape at all; for the Bible says, ‘The earth 
 was without form and void.' " There, too, is Giles Scroggins, 
 who was rather inclined to believe that the earth is round; 
 “For," said he, “if the earth is not round, why do we say, 
 ‘world without end, amen'?" There is Patrick O' Flaherty, 
 who knocked down his neighbor for saying that Daniel O'Con- 
 nell was not the son of Saint Patrick. There is Peter Smith, 
 who is suspected of having too great an affection for his neigh- 
 bor's mutton, and whose wits now seem to be wool-gathering. 
 Next to him is Hans Dinkenspiel, who drank a hundred glasses 
 of lager-beer in one evening, and had as much sense at the 
 close of the performance as he had at the beginning. And 
 there is Mr. Thomas Tight, who has heard nothing of the mat- 
 ter because he has been “on a spree" for several weeks; and 
 now, to save time, he is evidently about to sleep it off while the 
 witnesses are giving in their testimony. With the other indi- 
 viduals that enter into the composition of this “palladium of 
 our liberties " you are unacquainted. When they were accepted 
 you saw a gleam of satisfaction on the faces of the lawyers on 
 one side, and you consequently take it for granted that the 
 jurors are well qualified. You know that it has been difficult 
 to procure the requisite number of jurors, and you may say to 
 the judge, 
 
 “The lovely jury sits beside thee — 
 
 Take the good the gods provide thee.” 
 
 We often hear of “the majesty of the law" — behold it incar- 
 nated in that jury! — a lion in an ass's skin — Themis disguising 
 herself as old Granny Gray! If ignorance is so necessary a 
 qualification, would not a school of ignorance be useful for 
 making “judges of law as well as of fact"? The old lady who 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 23 
 
 when told that the Savior had died for her exclaimed, “ What ! 
 is he dead? I hadn’t hearn of it,” was well qualified for a 
 juror. So was the lady who, after admiring Dubufe’s painting 
 of Adam and Eve, turned to her neighbor and said, “Mrs. 
 Jones, who. were Adam and Eve?” They would have had 
 worthy associates in the American who was looking for the 
 house of Washington in Mount Vernon Street, Boston; and in 
 that American traveler who wrote home from Genoa that he 
 had visited the house of Columbus, and 'was sorry that he did 
 not find Columbus at home, as he wished to thank him for 
 discovering America. David Copperfield’s indignant landlady 
 uttered a great truth when she declared she would appeal to a 
 “British Judy,” “meaning, it was supposed,” says Dickens, 
 “the bulwark of our national liberties.” 
 
 I beg leave to present here the true view of one of Shakes- 
 peare’s characters. It is generally believed that Dogberry very 
 much abused the English language. I wish to show that he is 
 unusually accurate. In the first place, Dogberry was conver- 
 sant with courts of law. This might easily be inferred from 
 his calling himself “ a fellow that hath had losses.” But he 
 asserts the same thing directly when he says that he is “one 
 that knows the law, go to.” Like Peter Peebles, “he knows 
 the forms of process.” When he is selecting the constable of 
 the watch he is thinking of the selection of jurors, and we may 
 accordingly substitute juror for constable. George Seacoal is 
 accepted, and Dogberry says to him, “You are thought here 
 to be the most senseless and fit man for juror.” Dogberry’s 
 charge reads like that of a judge, and if he had searched the 
 dictionary from beginning to end, he could not have found 
 more appropriate words. And how feelingly does he describe 
 the want of the proper qualifications in Goodman Verges: “An 
 old man, sir; and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I 
 would desire they were.” He shows himself familiar with the 
 operation of the trial by jury when he says, “ Masters, it is 
 proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and 
 
24 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 it will go near to be thought so shortly.” Every one knows 
 that when it is proved before a jury that a man is a false knave 
 it by no means necessarily follows that he should be thought 
 so by the jury. Now making allowance for a few expressions 
 which Dogberry may have caught unwittingly from jurors, his 
 language is a model of accuracy; every thing is in a “ concat- 
 enation accordingly,” as Tony Lumpkin’s friend says. 
 
 A celebrated Kentucky lawyer used to say, “ There is one 
 limit to the foreknowledge of God — he can not tell what will 
 be the decision of a petty jury.” And now can you look at 
 some of our juries without hoping that he may be forgiven for 
 the expression? The juror maybe called on to examine the 
 most complicated relations, to make the nicest distinctions, 
 which he is utterly unable to do. He is obliged to pitch on 
 something to which he is led by accident or prejudice. He is 
 thrown into a bottomless and shoreless sea, and in his drowning 
 struggles seizes any dispensation of straw, and clings to it as if 
 it were a life-boat. 
 
 Lord Eldon’s experience did not give him a very high opin- 
 ion of our palladium, and he used to relate some illustrative 
 anecdotes. “I remember,” said he, “Mr. Justice Gould trying 
 a cause at York; and when he had proceeded for about two 
 hours he observed, ‘ Here are only eleven jurymen; where is 
 the twelfth?’ ‘ Please you, my lord,’ said one of the eleven, 
 
 4 he is gone away about some business, but he has left his ver- 
 dict with me.’ ” Once, when he was only “ Lawyer Scott,” he 
 was leaving Newcastle after having been very successful. A 
 farmer rode up to him and said, “Well, Lawyer Scott, I was 
 glad that you carried the day so often; and if I had had my 
 way, you should never once have been beaten. I was foreman 
 of the jury, and you were sure of my vote; for you are my 
 countryman, and we are proud of you.”* 
 
 Here is an American illustration of the principles that often 
 govern the “judges of law as well as of fact.” The case was 
 
 * Campbell’s Lives of the Lord Chancellors, vii, 80. 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 2 5 
 
 as clear as daylight, the defendant not having the shadow of an 
 excuse for refusing to pay the debt. After the delivery of the 
 evidence, which was all on one side, the judge asked the coun- 
 sel whether they wished to make any argument, saying that he 
 thought it hardly necessary in so plain a case. The case was 
 submitted without argument. The jury retired, and returned 
 in a few moments with a verdict for the defendant. The 
 counsel for the plaintiff was curious to know the reason for the 
 verdict “Why, you see,” said the foreman, “we didn’t think 
 much of the lawyer agin you, and it was n’t strange he did n’t 
 have nothing to say; but, ’squire, the fact is we thought you 
 was about one of the smartest lawyers in this country, and 
 if you could n’t find any thing to say on your side, it must be 
 a purty hard case, and so we had to go agin you.” These are 
 only specimen bricks; but they are from a building homogene- 
 ous in structure. 
 
 How the principle of demanding unanimity was introduced 
 into the jury -system is not certainly known. Most probably 
 petty juries originally consisted of more than twelve, and the 
 agreement of twelve was required in the decision, as is still the 
 case with grand juries. The officers having sometimes found 
 it difficult to procure the proper number, some philosopher rea- 
 soned about the matter thus: “As twelve jurors make the ver- 
 dict, the others are superfluous.” All that is necessary is for 
 the twelve to see alike; and it is their duty to see alike, for the 
 truth is always one. If the arguments before the court should 
 not be sufficient, darkness, cold, and hunger will supply every 
 deficiency and bring them all to reason. It is rather wonderful 
 that some philosopher did not think of employing the peine 
 forte et dure , which had so beneficial an effect on obstinate 
 fellows who refused to plead either “guilty” or “not guilty.” 
 If a troublesome juror were laid on his back, with a weight on 
 his breast as great as he could bear, and furnished with only a 
 sup or two of water daily from the nearest puddle, he would 
 find his judgment very much enlightened. 
 
 3 
 
26 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 Blit, however this principle was introduced, it has proved 
 itself one of the most efficient aids in effecting “ how not to do 
 it.” When any legal point is submitted to a number of judges , 
 who understand the matter, it is decided by a majority; but if a 
 point is submitted to a jury , who understand very little about it, 
 the whole twelve are required to agree. The principle is so 
 absurd that if any one should propose it now for the first time, 
 he would be regarded by sober people as having just escaped 
 from the lunatic asylum; and any one who should seriously 
 attempt to refute him would be considered worthy to be sent 
 back with him.* Among us, if by any freak of chance — and 
 chance may bring about some very strange things — eleven wise 
 men should be got upon one jury, one fool may defeat the 
 whole of them! To make a man swear to give a conscientious 
 decision and then order him to agree with eleven others is 
 almost to force him to commit perjury. This principle, if prin- 
 ciple it must be called, has given rise to “ tossing coppers,” 
 “splitting the difference,” “adding up and dividing by twelve,” 
 and the various other measures to which the Palladium resorts 
 for the preservation of our liberties. Often the verdict comes 
 into court pretending to be unanimous when it does not express 
 the opinion of a single juror. For instance, one half of the 
 jury may be in favor of giving damages to the amount of one 
 thousand dollars, and the other half as strongly in favor of two 
 thousand. They agree to “split the difference,” and give a 
 verdict for fifteen hundred. Here is a verdict that pretends to 
 express the opinion of every juror, whereas it does not express 
 the opinion of one of them. 
 
 To a jury in one of our Western cities the following case 
 was submitted : A man had agreed with the owner to take a 
 boat-load of flour to New Orleans. At Memphis he got into 
 a drinking-frolic, and remained there two weeks. In the mean 
 
 * Trial by jury was adopted in France near the close of the last century; but 
 unanimity was found to be impossible, and a majority of eight in fifteen is all that 
 is required. 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 27 
 
 time the price of flour had fallen. The owner of the flour 
 brought an action for damages. The matter was of the sim- 
 plest nature. The jury had nothing to do but find the difference 
 between two sums — that which the flour actually produced and 
 that which it would have produced if it had been delivered in 
 time. This difference was $700. The jury brought in a ver- 
 dict for $166.66^3. The attorney for the plaintiff expressed 
 his indignation in the strongest terms. The foreman came up 
 
 and apologized. “Mr. M ,” said he, “you must not blame 
 
 me; I was for $800.” “It was not my fault/’ said another; 
 “I was for $700.” One after another made his explanation; 
 and it was found that three were in favor of $800, eight for 
 $700, and one for $500. “How then/’ said the attorney, 
 “could you render a verdict for $166.66^3, when not one of 
 you was for less than $500, and only one for that sum?” 
 “Why, we added up and divided by twelve — that is the way 
 juries do.” “ But how could it possibly be less than $500, 
 when that was the lowest sum?” “I don’t know,” said the 
 foreman; “but that was the way it came out.” He had abso- 
 lute faith in mathematics — the scientific man. 
 
 But some juries, having a suspicion that figures may lie, and 
 wishing to relieve the law from the reproach of uncertainty, 
 take another method, in which there is absolute certainty; they 
 toss up a copper, which is always certain to turn up one thing 
 or the other. In this case the verdict will express the opinion 
 of somebody. And then those who can do as Dick Swiveller’s 
 Marchioness did about the orange and water, “make believe 
 very much,” may consider this a decision of Heaven, as it is 
 somewhat in the nature of the trial by ordeal. 
 
 Some time ago I saw a minister of the gospel placed under 
 mesmeric influence. “ Did you ever hear of a person named 
 Abraham?” asked the operator. After some effort to recollect, 
 “No,” said the minister, “I never heard the name before.” 
 “Do you know any thing of a book called the Bible?” “No, 
 I have never heard of any such book.” No important applica- 
 
28 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 tion has ever been made of mesmerism; but is not a great 
 opportunity presented in the trial by jury? It would be an 
 excellent plan to appoint a mesmerizer for every court, who 
 could facilitate proceedings by throwing all the jurors at once 
 into a state of absolute ignorance, and thus qualify them for 
 the proper performance of their duties as guardians of the laws 
 and conservators of our liberties. It is difficult to find one so 
 well qualified for the office of juror that he will not retain some 
 vestige of intelligence, some disposition to observe what is 
 going on around him, and some tendency to form and express 
 (or to form or express) opinions. The mesmeric plan will 
 remove every difficulty, and make jurors as useful as if they 
 had never had minds at all — not even enough to constitute 
 them respectable members of the community of oysters. But 
 the great advantage of the mesmeric plan will appear in the 
 production of entire unanimity. Nothing will be required but 
 the will of the mesmerizer to make them agree in the smallest 
 point, just as if all had been cast in the same mold. There will 
 then be no necessity for adding and dividing or for tossing up 
 coppers. Let some statesman succeed in getting this principle 
 adopted, and he will be regarded by a grateful country as the 
 man who placed a head upon our Palladium. 
 
 If the principle of the jury-system is well founded, why may 
 it not be applied to other matters as well as to the law ? Let us 
 suppose a medical case, which would probably be managed in 
 a way somewhat like the following : A man, suspected of being 
 sick, is visited by a physician, who summons a jury of the 
 neighborhood to decide upon the disease and the medicine. 
 A sufficient number of those who are summoned are found to 
 possess the requisite negative qualifications. One has never 
 formed or expressed an opinion about any thing. Another has 
 never heard that this man or any one else is sick. A third has 
 heard of persons being sick, but has been inclined to consider 
 it a joke — has, however, never formed any opinion about it, 
 nor even expressed one. And so on with the rest. Attorney 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 2 9 
 
 for the commonwealth declares to the jury that he will prove 
 by the most irrefragable testimony that the man is sick of 
 chronic inflammation of the pericardium; that John Jones saw 
 him “ moping about; ” th&t Peter Wilkins will swear that he 
 saw the accused decline blood-pudding; that Jonas Smithers 
 saw something green about his eye, etc. Counsel for the 
 accused congratulates his client on having his case brought 
 before so intelligent, high-minded, and impartial a jury as he, 
 the said counsel, sees in the box before him. Witnesses disa- 
 gree very much about the name and the nature of the disease. 
 Physician gives his charge to the jury, telling them it is their 
 duty to decide upon the testimony of the witnesses whether the 
 accused is sick of chronic inflammation of the pericardium, or 
 whether he is sick of any other disease; and if he is sick, what 
 remedies must be employed. Jury retires. Mr. Baggs elected 
 foreman. Mr. Beggs immediately expresses his opinion that 
 the accused is evidently sick of chronic inflammation of the 
 pericardium. Mr. Biggs interrupts him — “ How can you say 
 so when the evidence was so clear that he is sick of tuberculous 
 diapason of the ephemerides ! ” One of the lawyers had men- 
 tioned this disease to ridicule the attorney for the common- 
 wealth. Mr. Boggs cries out, “ I am convinced that he is not 
 sick at all ; and you can’t convince me of any thing else between 
 this and doomsday.” Mr. Buggs becomes indignant and ex- 
 claims, “You may keep me here till judgment-day; but I will 
 maintain till the last moment that the sick man is sick. You 
 may starve me to death, but you can’t starve that out of me ! ” 
 Mr. Buggs’s energy and determination bring to his opinion 
 Mr. Huggs and Mr. Juggs, who feel that it is of no use to hold 
 any opinion against such a man as that. Great hubbub and 
 indignation. After the storm has spent its fury a proposition 
 is made to decide by tossing up a copper. It is decided that 
 he is sick, and that his disease is tuberculous diapason of the 
 ephemerides. 
 
 ■i 
 
30 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 “Well, gentlemen,” says the foreman, “we are all agreed 
 that the accused is sick of tuberculous diapason of the ephem- 
 erides — now about the medicine.” 
 
 “For my part,” says Mr. Beggs, “I am for giving him a 
 pound of calomel and a quart of castor-oil.” 
 
 “And I think,” says Mr. Biggs, “ that two pounds of chloride 
 of sodium is the medicine for him.” 
 
 “And I,” exclaims Mr. Boggs, “will never consent to give 
 him rank poison like chloride of sodium. I will consent to a pint 
 or so of prussic acid, but never to chloride of sodium — no, sir ! ” 
 “ Gentlemen,” says Mr. Buggs, “ so strong a disease requires 
 strong medicine, and I am determined he shall have nothing 
 but aqua fontis.” 
 
 Here the foreman interposes: “Gentlemen, we ’ll never get 
 out of this place unless we get on faster. The only way I can see 
 is to throw heads or tails again. Do you all consent? Well then, 
 I will throw first for calomel and castor-oil. Heads wins. Heads 
 it is. He has to take the pound of calomel and the quart of 
 castor-oil. Now for — what do you call your remedy, Mr. Biggs?” 
 “Chloride of sodium; and a great medicine it is.” 
 
 “Well, now for chloride of sodium,” continues the foreman. 
 “Tails. He is not to take the chloride of sodium. What was 
 yours, Mr. Boggs?” 
 
 “ Prussic acid, sir.” 
 
 “Well, now I will throw for prussic acid. Heads it is. He 
 has to take the prussic acid. The other, I believe, is — what did 
 you call your strong medicine, Mr. Buggs?” 
 
 “Aqua fontis, sir.” 
 
 “Tails it is,” cries the foreman. “The aqua fontis is to be 
 left out. Now let us see — he has to take a pound of calomel, 
 a quart of castor-oil, and a pint of prussic acid. Is it to be 
 taken hot or cold?” 
 
 “Boiling hot,” says one. “Cold,” exclaims another. After 
 various expressions of opinion one proposes that they now 
 “add up and divide.” Which being agreed to, the result of 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 3 1 
 
 the operation is lukewarm. The unanimous verdict of the jury 
 is then presented. 
 
 The question is asked, “What mode of trial can be substi- 
 tuted for trial by jury?'’ , The answer is evident. When we 
 have a medical case we resort to the physician, who has studied 
 the subject and prepared himself to be a judge; so when we 
 have a legal case nothing seems more natural than that we 
 should resort to one who has studied the subject and is quali- 
 fied to judge, and who has by practice acquired an ability to 
 sift facts. There is scarcely any one who, if he believes his 
 cause to be just, will not say that he would rather submit his 
 case to the judge of his district than to any jury. Ask the 
 lawyers, and, however glad they are to have a jury when they 
 see the weakness of the particular cause in which they may be 
 engaged, they will tell you that the jury-system is one of the 
 greatest obstacles in the way of justice. “The Palladium of 
 our liberties” they pronounce a “humbug.” When Dennis 
 O’ Blarney, having committed an offense against the law, was 
 summoned into court with the assurance that he should have 
 justice, “Faith,” exclaimed Dennis, “that’s jist what I ’m after 
 being afraid of.” Dennis’s counsel would have been pleased 
 with the idea of a jury, for he would have seen something to 
 encourage hope in the face of Granny Gray, while the coun- 
 tenance of Themis would have bid him despair. 
 
 One of the chief arguments in favor of trial by jury is that 
 it serves as a protection against the oppressions of government. 
 Sir James Mackintosh refers in illustration to the case of John 
 Lilburn, of which I have given an account. The acquittal of 
 the seven bishops, which caused all England to break out in 
 shouts and tears of joy, furnishes another illustration. But has 
 trial by jury defended the people against the oppressions of 
 government in England? “In legal murders of the great and 
 good,” says Archdeacon Hare, “notwithstanding the boasted 
 excellence of our laws and courts of justice, the history of 
 England is richer than that of any other country.” “ The truth 
 
3 2 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 is,” says Sir Archibald Alison, “ juries are and have been in 
 every age the judicial committee of the majority, and neither 
 more nor less. As such they have frequently rescued persons 
 prosecuted for offenses interesting to the majority from the 
 hands of oppression; but they have in many more cases, when 
 the majority itself was in power, committed the most atrocious 
 judicial iniquities. In one year juries perpetrated the long 
 catalogue of judicial murders consequent on the Popish Plot; 
 in another they were the instruments of the equally unjust 
 and sanguinary vengeance of the Rye House. The whole 
 state trials of England — the most appalling collection, as 
 Hallam has observed, of judicial iniquities which the history 
 of the world can exhibit — were conducted by means of 
 juries.” * 
 
 In the reign of Edward IV. a man in London kept an inn 
 called the Crown. In a merry mood one day he said to his 
 little son, “Tom, if thou behavest thyself well, I will make 
 thee heir to the Crown.” For this he was hanged, drawn, and 
 quartered. He had the benefit of trial by jury. 
 
 Edward IV. wantonly entered the park of Sir Thomas Bur- 
 det during the absence of the owner and killed a white buck 
 of which Sir Thomas was particularly fond. When the knight 
 heard of this he exclaimed, “ I wish the buck, horns and all, 
 were in the king’s belly.” He had the benefit of trial by jury, 
 and was hanged, drawn, and quartered. 
 
 Lord Erskine was particularly unfortunate when he implied 
 the ability of jurors to estimate properly “ the glorious attempts 
 of a Sidney or a Russell.” Lord Russell in his last speech 
 affectingly said, “ But I wish the rage of hot men and the par- 
 tialities of juries may be stopped with my blood.” “We know,” 
 said Titus Oates in the midst of his murders, “how juries have 
 gone a-late.” 
 
 The three hundred and twenty condemned to death and the 
 eight hundred and forty -one condemned to transportation at 
 
 * History of Europe, vol. v, 99. 
 
TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 33 
 
 Jeffrey’s Bloody Assizes had each of them, from Alice Lisle to 
 the last victim, the benefit of trial by jury. 
 
 It may be said that the bloody judge forced the juries to 
 decide as they did; but the fact remains that trial by jury did 
 not protect the victims. And it is doubtful whether Jeffreys 
 would have attempted to, swim in such a sea of blood if he 
 had not been held up by juries. Men will do things in con- 
 nection with others which they would not venture to do if 
 unsupported. 
 
 History would show that the majesty of the law has been 
 more frequently maintained against tyranny by judges than by 
 juries. The same reign that saw the inn-keeper condemned by 
 a jury to be hanged, drawn, and quartered for a pun, saw 
 Chief Justice Markham forfeit his office because he would not 
 prostitute it to the purposes of the king and his ministers, who 
 wished to make it an instrument for wreaking their vengeance 
 on a political opponent. 
 
 When Lord Mansfield’s house, with all his books and papers, 
 had been burned by Lord George Gordon’s mob, the leader 
 of the mob was tried before the man who had been so much 
 injured by it. “It was,” said Lord Campbell, “a high compli- 
 ment to the known impartiality of English judges that neither 
 the prisoner himself nor his counsel nor his friends were at all 
 alarmed at his fate being placed in the hand of one who had 
 suffered so deeply from the consequence of the acts to be 
 investigated, and who had already pronounced upon the char- 
 acter of those acts.” 
 
 The tyrant against which we need protection is ourselves, 
 our passions, our excitement. We need something to defend 
 the American people in its sober mood against the American 
 people in a state of madness. The people in a state of calm 
 and thoughtfulness is the real people, and the same people fren- 
 zied is the tyrant against whose oppressions it requires to be 
 defended. And this is the very thing which the jury-system 
 will not do. When our tyrant reigns the jury is its minion. It 
 
34 
 
 TRIAL BY JURY. 
 
 is the tool of our Jeffreys. When our people have become 
 maddened, when our tyrant has opened his Bloody Assizes, 
 somewhere in the providence of God there may be help for us, 
 but not in our juries. When in a state of lawlessness we appeal 
 to our juries we appeal not from Philip drunk to Philip sober, 
 but from Philip drunk to Philip mad. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 I N the year 1786 a volume of poems was printed at Kilmar- 
 nock, an obscure county-town of Scotland. The author, 
 a young man twenty-seven years of age, had had few of the 
 advantages of education. His whole life had been one of toil 
 and struggle. The rising sun had found him at his labor, and 
 the setting sun had seen him still toiling. His father had strug- 
 gled with poverty and misfortune, still giving way in the contest, 
 till death came as a friend and removed him from the midst of 
 his enemies. “After three years of tossing and whirling in the 
 vortex of litigation, he was just saved from the horrors of a 
 jail by a consumption. ” The son had been obliged to engage 
 in the contest from which his father had been snatched. But 
 unresting labor could not draw bread from the barren soil. 
 The more he toiled, the nearer he approached to starvation. 
 He saw that this would not do. In despair he determined to 
 give up the contest, leave his native land forever, and expose 
 himself to the fevers of an unhealthy climate. He had a soul 
 that was quick to feel, and all the hardships of his lot had not 
 been able to keep him from giving expression to his feelings. 
 He had composed poems while between the handles of the 
 plow, and these poems, circulated in manuscript, had gained 
 him some reputation among his rustic friends. While thinking of 
 the means of raising money to enable him to leave his country 
 the idea presented itself that perhaps a volume of his poems 
 might produce something* if any one could be induced to print 
 it. They printed books in Edinburgh; but the young man would 
 almost as soon have thought of trying to get his book printed 
 
3 6 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 in heaven as in that city. He looked upon himself as “ pos- 
 sessed of some poetic abilities,” but he declared that to the 
 genius of a Ramsay or the glorious dawnings of the poor unfor- 
 tunate Ferguson he had not the most distant pretensions “even 
 in his highest pulse of vanity.” Such poems as his were not 
 to be printed in Edinburgh. But John Wilson in Kilmarnock 
 might be induced to undertake the printing. “Wee Johnnie” 
 was applied to; but he was too prudent to incur the risk of 
 publication. He did not believe a sufficient number of copies 
 could be sold to pay for the printing. But some friends exerted 
 themselves to obtain subscriptions; and after three hundred 
 and fifty copies had been subscribed for, “Wee Johnnie” agreed 
 to print six hundred copies at the poet’s expense. While the 
 young man was correcting the proofs he found it difficult to 
 procure food. A piece of oat-cake and a bottle of two-penny 
 ale made his customary dinner; and this he was not always 
 sure of getting. 
 
 But the book was at last printed; and after “Wee Johnnie” 
 had been paid the sum of twenty pounds remained to the poet. 
 The poems found their way to the hearts of the Scottish peas- 
 antry. Some of the members of more polished society too saw 
 the book, and with a lofty and patronizing air looked at the 
 poems of the Ayrshire plowman. Soon a few of the better 
 spirits began to look with astonishment toward each other and 
 ask, “What does all this mean? If this is not poetry, what is 
 it?” and the conviction flashed upon the public mind that a 
 poet had arisen among men. 
 
 The poet had now the means of leaving his country, and 
 was waiting for the opportunity to go. But he was bound to 
 his country by ties so strong that the rupture of the bonds was 
 tearing his heart. The bursting tears declared his agony as he 
 thought of leaving forever “the bonny banks of Ayr.” He was 
 returning over a solitary moor after leaving some friends from 
 whom he had parted, as he supposed, forever. It was a gloomy 
 evening in the end of autumn. The wind was howling, the 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 37 
 
 dark clouds driving across the sky, and the cold rain dashing 
 itself in the face of the wanderer. All nature was in gloomy 
 harmony with his feelings. The voice of the moaning wind was 
 the voice of his own spirit, and the gloomy night that was gath- 
 ering fast over the moor was darkening upon his own soul. He 
 gave expression to his feelings in what he supposed to be the 
 last poem he should compose in Scotland : 
 
 The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
 
 Loud roars the wild inconstant blast; 
 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with rain; 
 
 I see it driving o’er the plain ; 
 
 The hunter now has left the moor, 
 
 The scattered coveys meet secure; 
 
 While here I wander, pressed with care, 
 
 Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 
 
 The autumn mourns her ripening corn 
 By early winter’s ravage torn ; 
 
 Across her placid azure sky 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly. 
 
 Chill runs my blood to see it rave — 
 
 I think upon the stormy wave, 
 
 Where many a# danger I must dare 
 Far from the bonny banks of Ayr. 
 
 5 T is not the surging billow’s roar ; 
 
 ’T is not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
 
 Though death in every shape appear, 
 
 The wretched have no more to fear! 
 
 But round my heart the ties are bound, 
 
 That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
 
 These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
 
 To leave the bonny banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell old Coila’s hills and dales, 
 
 Her heathy moors and winding vales;* 
 
 The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
 
 Pursuing past unhappy loves! 
 
 Farewell my friends! farewell my foes! 
 
 My peace with these, my love with those — 
 
 The bursting tears my heart declare — 
 
 Farewell the bonny banks of Ayr! 
 
33 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 But a letter from the good Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, 
 prevented his voyage to Jamaica. When the poems were read 
 to him his soul was filled with delight. “ I think / 7 said he, “ I 
 shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment 
 renewed and increased . 77 He insisted that the young man 
 must go to Edinburgh and have a new edition immediately 
 printed. This encouragement fired the poet so much that away 
 he “ posted off to Edinburgh without a single acquaintance or a 
 single letter of introduction . 77 Among “ Edina's palaces and 
 towers 77 he was out of place. Those who were in the habit of 
 estimating men by a conventional standard could not see his 
 greatness through the rough exterior. He was pointed out to a 
 fine lady in the street, who exclaimed, “What a clodhopper ! 77 
 She had probably just left a company of gentlemen whose gar- 
 ments were eloquent in the praise of their tailor, whose bow 
 was a recommendation of their dancing-master, and who were 
 skillful in pouring soft nonsense into soft receptacles. The 
 mind that could have added to itself all the intellect of all her 
 fashionable associates without feeling itself any larger by the 
 addition belonged to “a clodhopper ! 77 But the clodhopper's 
 poems were reprinted, and he returned to his clods. 
 
 Ten years after this “life’s fitful fever 77 was over, and the 
 body of the poet was sleeping in the kirkyard of Dumfries. 
 But within that time the name of the peasant bard had taken 
 its place among the great names of the earth. The body was 
 followed to the grave by a multitude amounting to many thou- 
 sands, and when the first shovelful of earth sounded on the 
 coffin-lid tears were seen on faces to which they had long been 
 strangers. A splendid mausoleum now marks the resting-place 
 of his remains. Within a short distance from this stands the 
 “auld clay biggin 77 in which the poet first drew the breath of 
 life — a rude structure built of clay by the hands of his father. 
 There is not so great a difference between these two structures 
 as there is between the condition of the young peasant and the 
 fame of the world-renowned poet. Those who erected the 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 39 
 
 mausoleum intended to do honor to the memory of the poet; 
 but he had himself already raised a monument more durable 
 than brass or marble. The princes and lords of his day have 
 flourished and faded; but the name of the peasant on whom 
 they looked down will be remembered when the institutions 
 that gave them their distinction shall be regarded as evidences 
 of the folly of a remote age. Pilgrimages are made to the 
 places consecrated by his labor or his song. He once lamented 
 that there had been “ no Scottish poet of any eminence to make 
 the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and seques- 
 tered scenes of Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source and 
 winding sweep of the Doon emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and 
 Tweed.” But Ayr, Lugar, Afton, and bonny Doon do not 
 merely emulate “Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed,” but they 
 have become classic, and flow on in the light of song by the 
 side of the Peneus and the Tiber. The highborn “ Lass of 
 Ballochmyle,” who refused to answer his letter, learned to con- 
 sider it the distinction of her life that she was the subject of 
 one of his poems. The editions of his works are counted by 
 the hundred. The noblest Scot is proud to call himself a coun- 
 tryman of the poet, and when men wish to do honor to the 
 land of his nativity they call it “the Land of Burns.” 
 
 The Saxon Caedmon had always refused to touch the harp 
 when it was passed round at the feast, feeling that he was not 
 able to bring music from its strings. He, the cowherd, could 
 not venture to lay his hands upon the “Wood of Joy,” and 
 when it was offered to him he fled with shame from the hall. 
 On one occasion, having retired with vexation to the stable in 
 which he was to keep guard during the. night, he lay down, and 
 was overcome with sleep. In the midst of his slumber a stran- 
 ger appeared to him and said, “ Caedmon, sing me some song.” 
 The cowherd replied that he could not sing. “Nay, but thou 
 must sing,” replied the apparition. The Saxon bard, to his own 
 astonishment, opened his mouth and sang. Burns, like Caed- 
 mon, had sprung from the people, and felt no ability to sing till 
 
4o 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Passion commanded him to sing. He sang, and was astonished 
 at his own song. If we ask ourselves what is the most striking 
 characteristic of his poems we shall find it to be deep feeling. 
 His poetry is the expression of the deep feelings of his soul, 
 whether in its gay or its pensive, its hopeful or its despairing 
 moods. It is the autobiography of his soul. He loves, and 
 his love forms itself into a song; mirth fills his soul, and over- 
 flows in song; he sins, and remorse and despair rage in his 
 verse. It is not necessary for moralists to speak of the sins of 
 Burns; for he has spoken of them himself in words of titanic 
 strength that they must despair of imitating. The pangs of 
 conscience are felt in his terrible lines. When thinking of his 
 follies the burden of life becomes too great to bear, and he wel- 
 comes Ruin — 
 
 No more I shrink, appalled, afraid; 
 
 I court, I beg thy friendly aid 
 To close this scene of care. 
 
 Burns looked upon the world in all its stern reality. To 
 him there was no fairyland — 
 
 4 ‘An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleam. ” 
 
 The Spenserian imagination was wanting to him. It was feeling 
 only that rendered life poetical. It was feeling that embalmed 
 the mouse and the daisy in immortal verse. Wordsworth looked 
 upon common objects, and saw 
 
 Splendor in the grass and glory in the flower. 
 
 The hues of imagination spread over the objects and gave the 
 splendor and the glory. Wordsworth’s eye is calm, but the eye 
 of Burns glows with passion. Burns could not write poems to 
 imaginary Phillises and Delias and other silly companions of 
 “ silly sheep.” 
 
 No idly-feigned poetic pains 
 
 My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
 
 No shepherd’s pipe — Arcadian strains; 
 
 No fabled tortures, quaint and tame. 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 41 
 
 He poured forth his burning words to real, living Marys and 
 Jeans. He was not smoking his cigar by a comfortable fireside 
 when he composed his address to “ Mary in Heaven” — 
 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast? 
 
 When we read some of Moore's songs we sometimes have a 
 suspicion that the ardor of feeling is assumed for the purpose 
 of introducing some pretty figure or some striking expression, 
 as ladies sometimes become pensive in order to display the jew- 
 eled hand on which the thoughtful brow reposes. One may 
 sometimes, for instance, be tempted to suspect that the song 
 “ Believe me if all those endearing young charms” was written 
 for the sake of the pretty simile of the sunflower. But in 
 regard to Burns's songs it is impossible for such suspicions to 
 enter the mind. Every thing speaks his sincerity. The “ words 
 that burn” represent “thoughts that breathe.” 
 
 Those Scottish songs and that Scottish music — the songs 
 worthy of the music and the music worthy of the songs, and 
 both worthy of the gods! The thought of them takes us back 
 to the time when a song was not admired merely because it gave 
 some cantatrice the opportunity of displaying her command 
 over the vocal organs — not because the notes rose high, but 
 because they came from the depths of the heart. 
 
 “Compared with these Italian trills are tame; 
 
 The tickled ear no lieart-felt raptures raise.” 
 
 Though those old airs may not be arranged according to the 
 rules of musical art , they are the language of musical nature ; 
 and 
 
 “Thirl the heart-strings through the breast, 
 
 A’ to the life.” 
 
 They seem to have been uttered by Nature herself and sent 
 floating among the hills and streams — immortal strains seeking 
 the immortal verse to which they belong, as Psyche wandered 
 in search of her Cupid, or Isis in quest of the limbs of her 
 
 4 
 
42 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 lost Osiris. Happy are those that have met with the verse of 
 Burns! 
 
 Throughout that vast empire “on whose dominions the sun 
 never sets,” wherever the “Queen of the Ocean” has sent emi- 
 grants, there are heard the songs of Burns. He who is about 
 to exile himself from home finds himself weeping to the strains 
 of “The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast;” and when on the 
 banks of the Ganges he meets the friends of his youth their 
 feelings burst forth in the notes of “Auld Lang Syne.” In the 
 wilds of Australia the lover sings to his mistress — 
 
 Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, 
 
 And a J is young and sweet like thee. 
 
 At the Cape of Good Hope the lover whose all in life is gone 
 is found dissolved in grief by “ Mary in Heaven,” while another 
 on the shores of Nova Scotia bewails his loss in the dirge of 
 “Highland Mary.” The deserted maiden finds a “Bonny 
 Boon” among the tributaries of the St. Lawrence, and sings a 
 remonstrance to the bird that minds her of joys “departed 
 never to return.” From the heart of the soldier who has 
 returned to his home on the banks of the Susquehanna his 
 happiness wells forth in the strains of “The Soldier’s Return.” 
 The blooming maiden in the joyousness of her heart sings, 
 “ O ! whistle and I will come to ye, my lad,” on the banks of 
 the Ayr, and in other days sings “John Anderson, my joe” to 
 her husband on the banks of the Ohio. In the fields of Britain 
 the honest laborer expresses his contempt for supercilious wealth 
 as he sings “For a’ that and a’ that,” and in the forests of Amer- 
 ica the patriot has been nerved to “ do or die ” by the trumpet 
 notes of “ Bruce’s Address.” 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 E DGAR A. POE has given us under this title a very inter- 
 esting essay, in which he professes to admit us into the 
 workshop in which “The Raven” was manufactured. He 
 describes the material he has selected, shows us all his tools, 
 enlarges on the merits of each one, and explains his manner of 
 using them. 
 
 Having been led by some circumstances to the determination 
 to write a poem, he first fixed upon the length. This he deter- 
 mined should be about one hundred lines, so that it might be 
 read at a single sitting, and derive all the advantages which 
 belong to “unity of impression.” He then fixed upon “beauty” 
 as the province of the poem, and upon “sadness” as the tone of 
 the highest manifestation of beauty. He then betook himself 
 “ to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic 
 piquancy which might serve as the key-note in the structure of 
 the poem — some pivot upon which the whole structure might 
 turn.” He found what he desired in the 1'efrain. This refrain, 
 he convinced himself, must be brief, sonorous, and susceptible 
 of protracted emphasis. These considerations led him to the 
 long o “as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with r as the 
 most producible consonant.” In seeking for a word embodying 
 the selected vowel and consonant and in keeping with the sad- 
 ness which he had fixed upon as the tone of the poem, the 
 word nevermore was the first which presented itself. 
 
 The next point was to find some pretext for the continuous 
 repetition of this word. The difficulty, he discovered, arose 
 from the assumption that the repetition was to be made by a 
 
 (43) 
 
44 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 human being; he therefore determined to select a non-reasoning 
 creature capable of speech. “A parrot/’ he says, “in the first 
 instance presented itself, but was superseded by a raven, as 
 equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with 
 the intended tone.” 
 
 The same sort of cold reasoning led him to the selection of 
 the death of a beautiful woman as most consonant with the 
 ideas of sadness and beauty which were to form the expression 
 of the poem and to the introduction of the bereaved lover as 
 the one whose lips are best suited to such a topic. He then 
 coolly arranged the relative strength of each stanza, the versifi- 
 cation, the locality, the mode of introducing the raven, the 
 placing of it upon the bust of Pallas, and all the other inci- 
 dents of the poem. 
 
 The process of decomposition could hardly go further than 
 this. What the young pupil generally considers “composition” 
 here begins with a single letter, the vowel o. 
 
 It is probable, however, that this ingenious decomposition 
 of “The Raven” is carried further than is warranted by the 
 truth. A more probable process may be imagined. In the 
 beginning of the essay he alludes to a correspondence between 
 Mr. Dickens and himself about the composition of “ Barnaby 
 Rudge;” and here is more probably to be found the key to 
 the composition of “The Raven.” Barnaby Rudge’s raven 
 struck Poe’s fancy, and the idea presented itself that the raven 
 might be employed with good effect in poetry as well as in 
 prose. Poe’s raven is nothing other than Dickens’s raven in 
 a melancholy mood. In “Barnaby Rudge” he is first men- 
 tioned by Gabriel Vardon. “‘Ah! he’s a knowing blade!’ said 
 Vardon, shaking his head. ‘I should be sorry to talk secrets 
 before him. Oh! he’s a deep customer. I’ve no doubt he 
 can read and write and cast accounts if he choses. What was 
 that? — him tapping at the door?’ ‘No,’ returned the widow. 
 ‘ It was in the street, I think. ’T is some one knocking softly 
 at the shutter. Who can it be ? ’ ” 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 45 
 
 Here is a tapping which Vardon supposes to be made by the 
 raven at the chamber-door; then the tapping is found to be at 
 the window-shutter. In the poem the lover says — 
 
 Suddenly there came a tapping, 
 
 As of some one gently rapping, 
 
 Rapping at my chamber-door. 
 
 But upon opening the door he finds nothing there. 
 
 Then into the chamber turning, 
 
 All my soul within me burning, 
 
 Soon I heard again a tapping 
 Somewhat louder than before: 
 
 Surely, said I, surely that is 
 Something at my window-lattice. 
 
 In “ Barnaby Rudge” the raven frequently exclaims, “I’m 
 a devil, I ’m a devil, I ’m a devil ! ” Seated on the back of an 
 easy-chair and breaking out into one of his strange speeches, 
 he makes Gabriel Vardon start as if the bird had been “some 
 supernatural agent.” Barnaby Rudge says of him: “Why, any 
 time of night you may see his eyes in my dark room shining 
 like two sparks.” After observing some of his actions, “the 
 locksmith shook his head — perhaps in some doubt of the 
 creature’s being really nothing but a bird.” In the prison poor 
 Barnaby says: “He never speaks in this place; he never says a 
 word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in this dark corner, doz- 
 ing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps 
 in through the bars and shines in his bright eye as if a spark 
 from those great fires had fallen into the room and were burn- 
 ing yet.”* 
 
 Now look at the result of these suggestions in the poem — 
 The fowl whose fiery eyes now 
 Burned into my bosom’s core. 
 
 “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — 
 
 Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether 
 Tempest tossed thee here ashore!” 
 
 And his eyes have all the seeming 
 Of a demon’s that is dreaming. 
 
4 6 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 Whatever may have been Poe’s object in giving his account 
 of the composition of “The Raven” — whether he wished to 
 gratify his vanity by exciting wonder, or whether he wished to 
 put the critics on the wrong scent — it is evident that the account 
 contains falsehoods. He never thought of introducing a parrot 
 repeating “nevermore” in a poem of sadness; his taste was too 
 good for any thing of that kind. He did not take o as “ the 
 most sonorous vowel” and r as the “most producible conso- 
 nant,” and afterward select the word “nevermore” because it 
 embodies those sounds. 
 
 It does not detract from Poe’s merit that he borrowed the 
 idea of the raven. Dickens used it for one purpose, Poe for 
 another. It was a merit in the latter that he discovered another 
 application of the idea. Greater freedoms than this are allowed 
 in the literary world. Goldsmith borrowed the idea of Croaker 
 in “The Good-natured Man” from Dr. Johnson’s “Suspirius;” 
 the laughable scene about the jewels between Tony Lumpkin 
 and his mother was suggested by a passage in Tiel Eulenspie- 
 gel ; yet the fame of Goldsmith is not impaired by such circum- 
 stances as these. The palace of Circe in the Odyssey suggested 
 to Tasso Armida’s palace, and to Ariosto the palace of Alcina. 
 Spenser’s “Bower of Bliss” is a reproduction of the palace of 
 Armida; and Ariosto’s Alcina and her sisters re -appear in 
 Spenser’s Medina, Perissa, and Elissa. “Shakespeare drama- 
 tized stories which had previously appeared in print, it is true,” 
 observed Nicholas Nickleby. “Meaning Bill, sir,” said the lit- 
 erary gentleman. “ So he did. Bill was an adapter, certainly, 
 so he was — and very well he adapted too, considering.” Who- 
 ever can adapt “very well too, considering,” is at liberty to 
 follow the example of Shakespeare, and “adapt.” But he is 
 not at liberty to deny the adaptation by attributing his inspira- 
 tion to the letter o. 
 
 But whatever falsehood there may be in the details, this 
 essay of Poe’s contains a great truth, that labor is necessary in 
 composition. After he had determined to introduce the raven 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 47 
 
 into a poem he probably arranged the details very much as he 
 has represented. 
 
 It is a very common idea that 
 
 “Songs gush from the heart 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 
 Or tears from the eyelids start.” 
 
 But no poem worthy of the name ever gushed forth in this 
 manner. A man may hear 
 
 “in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies;” 
 
 but when he attempts to give expression to these “ wonderful 
 melodies” he must 
 
 “Learn to labor and to wait;” 
 
 that is, he must exercise industry and patience. “ Genius is 
 patience,” says Buffon. “ 4 Genius’ means transcendent capacity 
 of taking trouble, first of all,” says Carlyle. He who under- 
 takes to build a poem must not expect the stones to come 
 dancing into the walls to the sound of the lyre. He must dili- 
 gently gather them up and put them in the right place. If one 
 can not be worked in, he must try another. The walls rise by 
 degrees, requiring continued exertion. It is true that not every 
 one can see the materials and discover their fitness. 44 The eye 
 sees what the eye brings means of seeing.” There must be 
 eyes, and not mere eye-sockets. He who thinks of nothing 
 but keeping his boots clean as he walks will not see the gems 
 that glitter in his path. Two persons may look at the same 
 object, and one will see merely a rough stone, while the other 
 will see a statue of Apollo surrounded by extraneous matter. 
 But the Apollo will not come forth without the aid of the ham- 
 mer and chisel. Southey says, in his 44 Lines to a Spider,” 
 
 Both busily our needful food to win 
 We work, as nature taught, with ceaseless pains ; 
 
 Thy bowels thou dost spin, 
 
 I spin my brains. 
 
48 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 Poe’s account of the composition of “The Raven” was 
 intended for the public eye. He threw open the doors of his 
 workshop and invited the public to walk in and admire the 
 skill with which he handled his tools. But circumstances have 
 enabled us to enter the workshop of genius and admire the 
 process in the absence of the workman, so that there is nothing 
 to excite suspicion of an attempt at display. Among the papers 
 of Sheridan Moore found sketches of the plan and dialogue of 
 what he calls “the best comedy in the English language,” the 
 “ School for Scandal.” From these sketches it appears that what 
 we might suppose to have been “the rapid offspring of a care- 
 less but vigorous fancy” was in reality “the slow result of many 
 and doubtful experiments, gradually unfolding beauties unfore- 
 seen even by him who produced them, and arriving at length, 
 step by step, at perfection.” It seems that the “ School for 
 Scandal” was gradually produced by combining what was 
 intended to be incorporated in two distinct plays; one of them 
 being more properly the “ School for Scandal,” the other being 
 a two-act play deriving its interest from the matrimonial difficul- 
 ties of the Teazles. From Solomon Teazle, an almost clownish 
 widower who has had five children, is gradually evolved the 
 gentlemanly Sir Peter Teazle, who has made but the one exper- 
 iment in matrimony. A silly country girl is transformed into the 
 lively, fashionable, and innocent though imprudent Lady Teazle. 
 To see how great a change was made in the character of the 
 husband, we have only to imagine such a soliloquy as the fol- 
 lowing in the mouth of Sir Peter Teazle — 
 
 “In the year ’44 I married my first wife; the wedding was 
 at the end of the year — aye! ’t was in December; yet before 
 Ann. Dom. ’45 I repented. A month before we swore we pre- 
 ferred each other to the whole world — perhaps we spoke truth; 
 but when we came to promise to love each other till death, 
 there I ’m sure we lied. Well, Fortune owed me a good turn: 
 in ’48 she died. Ah, silly Solomon, in ’52 I find thee married 
 again ! Here too is a catalogue of ills — Thomas, born February 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 49 
 
 1 2th; Jane, born January 6th; so they go on to the number of 
 five. However, by death I stand credited but by one. Well, 
 Margery, rest her soul! was a queer creature; when she was 
 gone I felt awkward at first, and being sensible that wishes 
 availed nothing, I often wished for her return. For ten years 
 more I kept my senses and lived single. Oh, blockhead, dolt 
 Solomon! within this twelvemonth thou art married again — 
 married to a woman thirty years younger than thyself, a fash- 
 ionable woman/’ etc. 
 
 “ It is chiefly, however, in Clerimont, the embryo of Charles 
 Surface,” says Moore, “that we perceive how imperfect may be 
 the first lineaments that Time and Taste contrive to mold grad- 
 ually into beauty.” Referring to the scene that introduces him 
 in the original sketch, Moore says: “No one ought to be dis- 
 heartened by the failure of a first attempt after reading it. The 
 spiritless language — the awkward introduction of the sister into 
 the plot — the antiquated expedient of dropping the letter — all, 
 in short, is of the most undramatic and unpromising descrip- 
 tion, and as little like what it afterward turned to as the block 
 is to the statue, or the grub to the butterfly.” 
 
 Moore gives the original sketch of that which afterward 
 became the spirited matrimonial quarrel between Sir Peter and 
 Lady Teazle, and says of it: “The greater part of this dialogue 
 is evidently experimental, and the play or repartee protracted 
 with no other view than to take the chance of a trump of wit 
 or humor turning up.” 
 
 In regard to style too Moore says: “There is not a page of 
 these manuscripts that does not bear testimony to the fastidious 
 care with which he selected, arranged, and molded his language 
 so as to form it into that transparent channel of his thoughts 
 which it is at present. His chief objects in correcting were to 
 condense and simplify — to get rid of all unnecessary phrases 
 and epithets, and, in short, to strip away from the thyrsus of his 
 wit every leaf that could render it less light and portable.” 
 He gives as a specimen the passage regarding those who utter 
 
 S 
 
50 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 scandals invented by others. In the original the idea is thus 
 expressed : “ People who utter a tale of scandal, knowing it to 
 be forged, deserve the pillory more than for a forged bank-note. 
 They can’t pass the lie without putting their names on the back 
 of it. You say no person has a right to come on you because 
 you didn’t invent it; but you should know that, if the drawer 
 of the lie is out of the way, the injured party has a right to 
 come on any of the indorsers.” How much more forcible is 
 this made by the condensing process ! 
 
 “Mrs. Candor. But sure you would not be quite so severe 
 on those who only report what they hear? 
 
 “Sir P. Yes, madam, I would have law-merchant for them 
 too; and, in all cases of slander currency, whenever the draVer 
 was not to be found, the injured party should have a right to 
 come on any of the indorsers.” 
 
 In his remarks on this subject Moore states this general 
 principle : “All we know of the works which Immortality has 
 hitherto marked with her seal sufficiently authorize the general 
 position that nothing great or durable has ever been produced 
 with ease, and that Labor is the parent of all the lasting won- 
 ders of this world, whether in verse or stone, whether in poetry 
 or pyramids.” 
 
 This may be regarded as an acknowledgment that Moore’s 
 poems did not gush from his heart without labor. 
 
 In describing the pleasure that there is in “poetic pains” 
 Cowper illustrates the idea of the necessity of labor : 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
 
 The expedients and inventions multiform, 
 
 To which the mind resorts in chase of terms 
 Though apt, yet coy and difficult to win — 
 
 To arrest the fleeting images that fill 
 
 The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, 
 
 And force them sit till he has penciled off 
 A faithful likeness of the forms he views ; 
 
 Then to dispose his copies with such art 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 5 1 
 
 That each may find its most propitious light, 
 
 And shine by situation, hardly less 
 Than by the labor and the skill it cost, — 
 
 Are occupations of the poet’s mind 
 So pleasing, and that steal away the thought 
 With such address from themes of sad import 
 That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
 
 He feels the anxieties of life, denied 
 Their wonted entertainment, all retire; 
 
 Such joy has he that sings. 
 
 A lady and her two brothers were once benighted in passing 
 through a forest inhabited by rough peasants. The lady for a 
 short time was separated from her brothers, who had gone to 
 explore the path. This apparently trifling adventure gave rise 
 to Milton’s “Comus,” a work which is as full of beauties as 
 the heaven is of stars. Its music “takes the prisoned soul 
 and laps it in Elysium.” But the poet did not find this music 
 gush forth from his lyre like the music of the ^Eolian harp, 
 by merely suffering the wind to breathe upon its strings. The 
 labor is shown by the fact that there is scarcely any thing en- 
 tirely original in the structure of the poem. Milton polishes 
 the gem, but the gem itself he finds in the stores of his prede- 
 cessors. He shows us new beauties in Fairyland, “an ampler 
 ether, a diviner air;” but he leads us thither by a path which 
 has been trodden before. Comus in the midst of his revelry, 
 surrounded by a rout of monsters who by drinking of his cup 
 have had their human countenance changed into some brutish 
 form, becomes aware of the presence of a virgin in the forest. 
 To secure her for his purposes, he changes himself into the 
 form of a shepherd and offers to conduct her to his lowly cot 
 till her brothers shall be found. While the brothers, in great 
 anxiety about the fate of their sister, console themselves by the 
 thought of the protection which Heaven affords to innocence 
 the attendant Spirit, whose duty it is to protect from the wiles 
 of Comus those who are favored of high Jove, presents himself 
 to them in the form of a shepherd. He informs them of the 
 
52 The philosophy of coimposition. 
 
 character of Comus and of the danger in which their sister is 
 placed; he also tells them that he has the herb haemony, which 
 is of sovereign use against all enchantments. With this herb 
 about them they are directed to rush upon the enchanter, break 
 his glass, spill the liquor, and seize his wand. In carrying out 
 the directions they neglect the seizing of the wand, which leaves 
 the lady still fixed to her enchanted seat. In this emergency 
 they invoke the water-nymph Sabrina, who delivers the lady. 
 The scene then changes to the castle, where country-dances are 
 introduced. The attendant Spirit restores the children to their 
 parents and flies off. 
 
 When Milton determined to gratify his patron, the Earl of 
 Bridgewater, by composing a mask founded upon the adventure 
 of his daughter, he set himself diligently to labor. In an old 
 play by George Peale, published about twelve years before the 
 birth of Milton, he found a story which he could use. The 
 story in the play is that a king had a beautiful daughter who 
 was stolen away by a necromancer. The king sent out all his 
 men to find his daughter. Then her two brothers went to seek 
 her. They met with a soothsayer, of whom they made inquiries 
 about the lady. They found that their sister was a captive to a 
 wicked magician, and that she had tasted his cup. The magi- 
 cian was killed by a Spirit in the shape of a beautiful page; but 
 the lady still remained enchanted. The disenchantment was at 
 last effected by breaking a glass and extinguishing a light, and 
 the sister returned home with her two brothers. In this old 
 play the magician is represented as having learned his art from 
 his mother Meroe; and Milton represents Comus as having 
 been taught by his mother Circe. The idea of transforming 
 men to beasts by drinking from the enchanter’s cup was taken 
 from the Odyssey. A few years before the composition of 
 “ Comus ” “The Faithful Shepherdess” of Fletcher appeared. 
 Milton found that he could derive good ideas from this also. 
 The Satyr of Fletcher becomes the attendant Spirit in “ Comus.” 
 The River-god in “The Faithful Shepherdess” is the Sabrina 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 S3 
 
 of “ Comus.” The readers of Homer need not be told that the 
 herb haemony is the herb moly under another name. The idea 
 of the country -dances was furnished by Shakespeare in the 
 “Tempest;” and the attendant Spirit himself at the close of 
 the mask becomes an Ariel. 
 
 But “ Comus” is not a work in which a horse’s neck is joined 
 to a human head, and the whole covered with parti -colored 
 plumage. Milton took the materials, polishing and adorning 
 them, and arranged them in a structure beautiful not only in 
 the separate parts but in the consistency of the whole. 
 
 To show how Milton “ invades like a conqueror,” let us look 
 at a passage in “The Faithful Shepherdess” and at the corre- 
 sponding passage in “Comus.” When the Satyr has left the 
 “pious shepherdess” she says: 
 
 And all my fears go with thee. 
 
 What greatness or what private hidden power 
 
 Is there in me to draw submission 
 
 From this rude man and beast? Sure I am mortal, 
 
 The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal, 
 
 And she that bore me mortal ; prick my hand 
 And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, 
 
 And the selfsame wind that makes the young lambs shrink 
 Makes me a-cold : my fear says I am mortal : 
 
 Yet I have heard (my mother told it me, 
 
 And now I do believe it), if I keep 
 
 My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, 
 
 No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, 
 
 Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves 
 Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion 
 Draw me to wander after idle fires 
 Or voices calling me in dead of night 
 To make me follow and so tole me on 
 Through mire and standing pools to find my ruin. 
 
 Else why should this rough thing, who 
 
 Never knew manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats 
 
 Are rougher than himself and more misshapen, 
 
 Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there ’s a power 
 In the great name of virgin that binds fast 
 All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites 
 
54 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, 
 
 Be thou my strongest guard ; for here I ’ll dwell 
 In opposition against fate and hell ! 
 
 In “Comus” the elder brother says to the second brother 
 
 My sister is not so defenseless left 
 
 As you imagine ; she has a hidden strength 
 
 Which you remember not. 
 
 Sec. Bro. What hidden strength, 
 
 Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that? 
 
 El. Bro. I mean that too ; but yet a hidden strength 
 Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own. 
 
 ’T is Chastity, my brother, Chastity : 
 
 She, that has that, is clad in complete steel ; 
 
 And, like a quiver’d nymph with arrows keen, 
 
 May trace huge forests, and unharbor’d heaths, 
 
 Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds, 
 
 Where, through the sacred rays of Chastity, 
 
 No savage fierce, bandit, or mountaineer, 
 
 Will dare to soil her virgin purity: 
 
 Yea, there where very desolation dwells, 
 
 By grots and caverns shagg’d with horrid shades, 
 
 She may pass on with unblench’d majesty, 
 
 Be it not done in pride or in presumption. 
 
 Some say, no evil thing that walks by night 
 In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, 
 
 Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost 
 That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, 
 
 No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, 
 
 Hath hurtful power o’er true virginity. 
 
 Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
 Antiquity from the old schools of Greece 
 To testify the arms of Chastity? 
 
 Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow, 
 
 Fair silver-shafted queen, forever chaste, 
 
 Wherewith she tamed the brinded lioness 
 
 And spotted mountain pard, but set at naught 
 
 The frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and men 
 
 Feared her stern frown, and she was queen of the woods. 
 
 What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield 
 
 That wise Minerva wore, unconquer’d virgin, 
 
 Wherewith she freesed her foes to congeal’d stone. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 55 
 
 By rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
 
 And noble grace that dash’d brute violence 
 With sudden adoration and blank awe? 
 
 So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, 
 
 That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 
 A thousand liveried angels lacky her, 
 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; 
 
 And in clear dreams and solemn vision 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear; 
 
 Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 Begins to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul’s essence 
 Till all be made immortal. 
 
 Illustration after illustration might be produced to show the 
 same great truth, that success in composition is the result of 
 labor. Every one who engages in composition needs that which 
 King Lear so earnestly prayed for — 
 
 Ye heavens, 
 
 Grant me that patience, patience I need. 
 
 The young student sits down to his desk, spreads out his 
 paper, dips his pen into the ink, points it toward the paper, 
 and expects the ideas to gush out from the end of his pen in a 
 stream. He sits awhile — no stream is visible. He then comes 
 to the conclusion that he “ can’t write,” and yields to despair. 
 He has been impressed with the belief that great writers are 
 overpowered by a divine afflatus; he regards them as a sort of 
 mesmeric patients who, without any will of their own, speak 
 what the mesmerizer wills. He thinks that Minerva steps forth 
 full-armed from the head of Jove without even causing a head- 
 ache. He has to be taught that the Muse is a maiden who 
 “ would be wooed, and not unsought be won,” and that on 
 Mount Parnassus there is no leap-year. 
 
 The simpleton Matthew in “ Every Man in his Humor” 
 says: “Sir, I am melancholy myself divers times, sir; and then 
 I do no more but take a pen and paper presently, and overflow 
 
56 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 you half a score or a dozen sonnets at a sitting.” There is just 
 as much truth in this as there is in the boasts of his friend 
 Captain Bobadil. 
 
 I will conclude these remarks by giving a few practical sug- 
 gestions on the subject of composition. 
 
 The object of what I have said is to show you the absolute, 
 inexorable necessity of labor, if you wish to produce any thing 
 of worth. The Abbe Marolles once boasting to a poet that his 
 verses cost him little, “ They cost you what they are worth,” 
 was the reply. I wish also to prevent you from giving way to 
 despair when you find how great the labor is. When a subject 
 is presented to you do not shrink from it because it seems un- 
 promising ; there may be more in it than you suppose. Cowper 
 at the age of eighteen wrote a poem of considerable merit on 
 finding the heel of a shoe; and what a poem he produced when 
 the sofa was given to him as a task ! 
 
 When you are about to write on any subject the first thing 
 for you to do is to think . As it is expressed in “Festus” — 
 
 Once 
 
 Begun, work thou all things into thy work, 
 
 And set thyself about it as the sea 
 About the earth, lashing it day and night. 
 
 Though all may seem dark at first, by patient thought one ray 
 of light after another will break in, until at last a flood of light 
 pours itself upon the subject. In an October afternoon Gibbon 
 sat musing among the ruins of the Capitol at Rome, while bare- 
 footed friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter. 
 His mind went back to the warlike men, the rulers of the 
 world, who in other days trod the same ground. Perhaps, as 
 the shades of evening closed around him, he saw the dim forms 
 of the old warriors stalking amid the ruins and frowning upon 
 their degenerate successors. He there determined to write the 
 history of the change. “At the outset,” says he, “all was dark 
 and doubtful; even the title of the work, the true era of the 
 decline and fall of the empire, the limits of the introduction, the 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 57 
 
 division of the chapters, and the order of the narration; and I 
 was often tempted to cast away the labor of seven years.” The 
 first chapter he rewrote three times, and the second and third 
 chapters twice; after which he proceeded with greater ease till 
 he finished what is regarded as the greatest historical work in 
 the English language. 
 
 Thackeray says of Macaulay, “Take at hazard any three 
 pages of the 4 Essays 5 or ‘ History, 5 and, glimmering below the 
 stream of the narrative, you, an average reader, see one, two, 
 three, or a half score of allusions to other historic facts, char- 
 acters, literature, poetry, with which you are acquainted. Your 
 neighbor, who has his reading and his little stock of literature 
 stowed away in his mind, shall detect more points, allusions^ 
 happy touches, indicating not only the prodigious memory and 
 vast learning of this master, but the wonderful industry, the 
 honest, humble previous toil of this great scholar. He reads 
 twenty books to write a sentence, he travels a hundred miles to 
 make a line of description.” After the publication of his two 
 first volumes Macaulay wrote in his journal, “I have now made 
 up my mind to change my plan about my ‘ History. 5 I will 
 first set myself to know the whole subject, to get by reading 
 and traveling a full acquaintance with William’s reign. I 
 reckon it will take me eighteen months to do this. I must 
 visit Holland, Belgium, Scotland, Ireland, France. The Dutch 
 archives and French archives must be ransacked. I will see 
 whether any thing is to be got from other diplomatic collec- 
 tions. I must see Londonderry, the Boyne, Aghrim, Limerick, 
 Kinsale, Namur again, Landen, Steinkirk. I must turn over 
 hundreds, thousands, of pamphlets; Lambeth, the Bodleian, 
 and other Oxford libraries, the Devonshire papers, the British 
 Museum, must be explored and notes made; and then I shall 
 go to work.” Mr. Trevelyan in the life of his uncle says, 
 “Macaulay never allowed a sentence to pass muster until it 
 was as good as he could make it. He thought little of recast- 
 ing a chapter in order to obtain a more lucid arrangement, and 
 
58 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 nothing whatever of reconstructing a paragraph for the sake of 
 one happy stroke or apt illustration. Whatever the worth of 
 his labor, at any rate it was a labor of love. 
 
 “‘Antonio Stradivari* has an eye 
 
 That winces at false work and loves the true.’ 
 
 “ Leonardo da Vinci would walk the whole length of Milan 
 that he might alter a single tint in his picture of the Last 
 Supper. Napoleon kept the returns of his army under his 
 pillow at night, to refer to in case he was sleepless; and would 
 set himself problems at the opera while the overture was play- 
 ing : 4 1 have ten thousand men at Strasbourg, fifteen thousand 
 men at Magdeburg, twenty thousand at Wurzburg. By what 
 stages must they march so as to arrive at Ratisbon on three 
 successive days?’ What his violins were to Stradivarius and 
 his fresco to Leonardo and his campaigns to Napoleon that was 
 his ‘ History’ to Macaulay.” Mr. Woodrow, in the preface to 
 his collection of the Indian Education minutes, says, “ Scarcely 
 five consecutive lines in any of Macaulay’s minutes will be 
 found unmarked by blots or corrections. . . My copyist 
 
 was always able instantly to single out his writing by the multi- 
 plicity of corrections and blots which mark the page. These 
 corrections are now exceedingly valuable. When the first 
 master of the English language corrects his own composition, 
 which appeared faultless before, the correction must be based 
 on the highest rules of criticism.” 
 
 In that efflorescence of Oriental wisdom, “The Thousand 
 and One Nights,” is a story of a fisherman whose custom it was 
 to cast his nets four times a day. On a certain day he threw 
 his nets into the sea, and, hauling them in, found that he had 
 caught the body of a dead ass. Greatly disappointed, he again 
 threw his nets, and this time drew out a basket filled with sand 
 
 * Antonio Stradivari, or Stradivarius, was a celebrated maker of violins — born 
 at Cremona, Italy, in the year 1644, died in 1737 — who spared no labor in striving 
 to make his instruments perfect. Some of his violins have sold for three thou- 
 sand dollars, 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 59 
 
 and mud. He angrily cast aside the basket, washed his nets 
 from mud, threw his nets again, and to his great disgust hauled 
 in stones, shells, and filth. After having prayed earnestly for 
 success, he for the last time threw in his nets. He again feels a 
 heavy weight as he hauls them in. What is this? A vase of 
 yellow copper, fastened with lead and sealed. He shakes it, 
 but there is no rattling. He opens it with his knife, turns it up, 
 but nothing comes out. Setting down the vase, he looks at it 
 intently. A thick smoke issues from the vase, rises almost to 
 the clouds, and spreads itself over the water and the shore. 
 Presently the smoke begins to condense itself; and soon it 
 takes the shape of a huge genie twice as large as any of the 
 giants. When you cast your nets for ideas be not discouraged 
 if the first attempt bring you nothing but what you will have to 
 throw aside. When you see smoke spreading around you look 
 at it steadily, and you will see it begin to assume a definite form. 
 
 Horace tells the writer that he should take a subject suited 
 to his strength; but whoever exerts all his powers will find him- 
 self possessed of much greater strength than he had supposed. 
 I would not seek to persuade every one that he can be a poet; 
 but there are many poets who have never written poems. 
 Many have had beautiful visions which they have never 
 attempted to render visible to others. Says Wordsworth: 
 
 O many are the poets that are sown 
 By Nature ! men endowed with highest gifts — 
 
 The vision and the faculty divine ; 
 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
 
 (Which in the docile season of their youth 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books; 
 
 Or haply by a temper too severe ; 
 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame), 
 
 Nor having e’er, as life advanced, been led 
 
 By circumstance to take into the height 
 
 The measure of themselves, these favored beings, 
 
 All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
 
 Husbanding that which they possess within, 
 
 And go to the grave unthought of. 
 
6o 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 When you have fixed upon a subject, and have begun to 
 think about it, write down whatever occurs to you on the sub- 
 ject. Many of your thoughts you will reject; but many that 
 you feel you must reject unfold themselves into unexpected 
 beauty. Olympus Pump, Esq., in the “ Charcoal Sketches,” 
 wishes that some prosaic mortal would invent an idea-catcher, 
 as he thinks it would be useful. When an idea flits through 
 your mind catch it if you can. Pope called up Lord Oxford’s 
 servants four times in one night and asked for paper, in order 
 that he might not lose a thought. At all hours Voltaire kept by 
 his bed or at his table pen, ink, and paper, that he might write 
 down any thing that occurred to him. 
 
 There has been preserved a memorandum of Dr. Johnson’s, 
 containing hints for his life of Pope. These hints he wrote 
 down as he read and reflected, and afterward he used them in 
 writing. I will give a few specimens: “ Nothing occasional. 
 No haste. No rivals. No compulsion. Practiced only one 
 form of verse. Facility from use. Emulated former pieces. 
 He had always some poetical plan in his head. Echo to the 
 sense. Extreme sensibility. Ill-health, headaches. He never 
 laughed. Six lines of Iliad.” 
 
 Sheridan meditated a comedy on the subject of Affectation. 
 Moore has given the memoranda made by Sheridan, and from 
 this we may learn his process. I can give but a few specimens : 
 
 An affectation of Business. 
 
 “ “ of Accomplishments. 
 
 “ “ of Love of Letters and Wit. 
 
 “ “ of Love of Music. 
 
 “ “ of Intrigue. 
 
 “ “ of Sensibility. 
 
 66 66 of Vivacity 
 
 “ “ of Silence and Importance. 
 
 “ “ of Modesty. 
 
 “ “ of Profligacy. 
 
 << “ of Moroseness. 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 6 1 
 
 Character — Mr. Bustle. 
 
 A man who delights in hurry and interruption — will take any one’s 
 
 business for them — leaves word where all his plagues may follow him 
 
 governor of all hospitals, etc. — Share in Ranelagh — speaker every where, 
 from the vestry to the House of Commons — “I am not at home — gad, 
 now he heard me, and I must be at home” — Here am I so plagued, and 
 there is nothing I love so much as retirement and quiet — “You never sent 
 after me ” — Let servants call in to him with such a message as “ ’Tis noth- 
 ing but the window-tax,” he hiding in a room that communicates. He 
 does not in reality love business, only the appearance of it. “Ha! ha! 
 did my Lord say I was always very busy? What, plagued to death?” 
 
 Among these hints is the celebrated passage which, in its 
 improved form, he used against Mr. Dundas in the House of 
 Commons : “ He certainly has a great deal of fancy and a good 
 memory; but with a perverse ingenuity he employs those qual- 
 ities as no other person does — for he employs his fancy in his 
 narratives, and keeps his recollections for his wit — when he 
 makes his jokes you applaud the accuracy of his memory, and 
 ’t is only when he states his facts that you admire the flights of 
 his imagination.’ ’ When this idea was ready for use it was in 
 the following compact form : “ The right honorable gentleman 
 is indebted to his memory for his jests and to his imagination 
 for his facts.” 
 
 Do not be satisfied with an important idea as it first presents 
 itself. Seize the Proteus, and hold on till he assumes his proper 
 shape. In the “Memorials of Thomas Hood” is given a fac- 
 simile of the original manuscript of the “Song of the Shirt.” 
 Here we are enabled to see the efforts of the poet to work out 
 his idea. The germ of one stanza is as follows : In one line is 
 “Work, work, work;” in the next line is nothing but the word 
 “Speed;” then follow two lines — 
 
 That works for a daily feed — 
 
 Nor time a tear to shed. 
 
 In another stanza we find in the first line “O but;” then the 
 three following lines — 
 
62 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 That give the soul relief, 
 
 A little leisure for love and hope 
 Or only time for grief. 
 
 What force, by a little change, is given to this idea in the 
 completed poem — 
 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 But only time for grief. 
 
 In the original crude form the seamstress has still left to her at 
 least the image of love and hope; but in the other she has 
 abandoned all hope, and asks for nothing but an hour of unin- 
 terrupted grief. 
 
 Men seem naturally inclined to think that works of genius 
 have been produced without labor. A passage in a work pub- 
 lished soon after the death of Thackeray, entitled “ Thackeray 
 the Humorist and the Man of Letters,” shows how men may 
 be deceived. In this volume the author, Theodore Taylor, 
 says: “Page after page of that small round hand would be 
 written by him absolutely — for he rarely altered his first 
 draughts in any way — without interlineation, blot, or blemish 
 of any kind.” In another part of the same volume Dickens 
 says: “The condition of the little pages of manuscript where 
 Death stopped his hand shows that he had carried them about 
 and often taken them out of his pocket here and there for 
 patient revision and interlineation.” 
 
 I will bring these remarks to a close with a quotation from 
 Akenside — 
 
 By degrees the mind 
 
 Feels her young nerves dilate ; the plastic powers 
 
 Labor for action; blind emotions heave 
 
 His bosom ; and with loveliest frenzy caught, 
 
 From earth to heaven he rolls his dancing eye, 
 
 From heaven to earth. Anon ten thousand shapes, 
 
 Like spectres trooping to the wizard’s call, 
 
 Flit swift before him. From the womb of earth, 
 
 From ocean’s bed they come; the eternal heavens 
 Disclose their splendors, and the dark abyss 
 
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. 
 
 6 3 
 
 Pours out her births unknown. With fixed gaze 
 He marks the rising phantoms. Now compares 
 Their different forms ; now blends th.em, now divides, 
 Enlarges and extenuates by turns; 
 
 Opposes, ranges in fantastic bands, 
 
 And infinitely varies. Hither now, 
 
 Now thither fluctuates his inconstant aim, 
 
 With endless choice perplexed. At length his plan 
 Begins to open. Lucid order dawns ; 
 
 And as from chaos old the jarring seeds 
 Of Nature at the voice divine repaired 
 Each to its place, till rosy earth unveiled 
 Her fragrant bosom, and the joyful sun 
 Sprung up the blue serene; by swift degrees 
 Thus disentangled, his entire design 
 Emerges. Colors mingle, features join, 
 
 And lines converge: the fainter parts retire; 
 
 The fairer eminent in light advance; 
 
 And every image on its neighbor smiles. 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 M Y subject is bulls; but you need not fear that I am about 
 to deliver an agricultural address. I am not going to 
 speak of the bull that broke into the china-shop and exhibited 
 his playful disposition amongst the crockery; nor of the Pope’s 
 bulls which have made such havoc of ecclesiastical crockery. 
 I do not intend to speak of the bulls which furnish such refined 
 amusement to the hidalgoes of Spain; nor of the bulls that 
 have such terrible struggles with the bears in the stock-market. 
 I shall avoid being carried off from my subject by the bull that 
 carried off Europa; and the golden fleece shall not entice me 
 to encounter the fire-breathing bulls of ^Eetes. I am not about 
 to describe the “ Bulls of Bashan,” which rioted in the rich 
 pastures of trans-Jordanic Palestine; nor of the bulls that roar 
 and paw the ground in the fertile meadows of England. I am 
 not about to treat of the comparative excellences of the breeds 
 of Durham, Alderney, and Ayrshire, of long-horned and short- 
 horned; nor of John Bull himself, who walks among the herds 
 with his ample proportions and red face, the greatest bull of 
 them all. 
 
 As I have dealt sufficiently in negatives, I will now come to 
 the positive, and inform you that I am about to treat of the bull 
 of bulls, the bos taurissimus , vulgarly called the Irish bull. A 
 great many have attempted definitions of this bull, but few per- 
 sons are satisfied with any of them. After I have given some 
 specimens I will attempt a definition or description. 
 
 (64) 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 65 
 
 Miss Edgeworth and her father wrote an Essay on Irish 
 Bulls, half humorous, half serious, the object of which is to 
 show that this bull is not a native of Ireland, at all at all . 
 They begin with Paddy Blake’s echo: “Faith,” said he, when 
 a gentleman was speaking of the echo at the Lake of Killarney 
 which repeats itself forty times, “ faith, that ’s nothing at all to 
 the echo in my father’s garden in the county of Galway; if 
 you say to it, 4 How do you do, Paddy Blake ? ’ it will answer, 
 4 Pretty well, I thank you, sir.’ ” They show that there is some- 
 thing like it in Bacon’s Natural History. 
 
 A gentleman was writing a letter in a coffee-house, when an 
 Irishman took the liberty of looking over him. The gentleman 
 concluded his letter thus : 44 1 would say more, but a great tall 
 Irishman is reading over my shoulder every word I write.” 
 44 You lie, you scoundrel!” exclaimed the Irishman. This bull 
 they trace to an Oriental origin. 
 
 I will quote a few more of the bulls which they mention. 
 The following was pronounced by Lord Orford the best bull he 
 had ever heard : 44 4 1 hate that woman,’ said a gentleman, look- 
 ing at one who had been his nurse, 4 1 hate that woman, for she 
 changed me at nurse.’ ” 
 
 44 Have you any brothers and sisters?” was a question put 
 to little Dominick at school. 44 No; I wish I had; perhaps 
 they would love me and not laugh at me,” said Dominick with 
 tears in his eyes; 44 but I have no brothers but myself.” 
 
 Two Irishmen, having traveled on foot from Chester to 
 Barnet, were confoundedly fatigued by their journey; and the 
 more so when they were told that they had still about ten miles 
 to go. 44 By my shoul and St. Patrick,” said one of them, 44 it 
 is but five miles apiece.” 
 
 44 How many years have you been dumb?” said a gentleman 
 to a beggar who pretended to be dumb. 44 Five years last St. 
 John’s eve, please your honor.” 
 
 44 1 am sorry to hear my honorable friend stand mute,” said 
 an Irish orator. 
 
 6 
 
66 
 
 CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 “ This house will stand as long as the world, and longer,” 
 said an Irish mason. 
 
 “When I first saw you,” said an Irishman on meeting an 
 acquaintance, “ I thought it was you ; but now I see it is your 
 brother.” 
 
 When Sir Richard Steele was asked how it happened that 
 his countrymen made so many bulls, he replied: “It is the 
 effect of climate, sir; if an Englishman were born in Ireland, 
 he would make as many.” 
 
 An Irishman declared that no English hen ever laid a fresh egg. 
 
 “That’s an incomparable, an inimitable picture,” said a 
 Hibernian connoisseur; “it is absolutely more like than the 
 original.” 
 
 “ How are you, my gay fellow?” said an Irishman to a pugil- 
 ist who had had an eye knocked out. “ Can you see at all with 
 the eye that ’s out?” 
 
 “I hate cats; and if I had been the English minister, I 
 would have laid the dog-tax upon cats.” 
 
 When there were great illuminations for a peace that had 
 just been made an Irishman stepped up to a crowd that was 
 standing before a house illuminated with extraordinary splen- 
 dor. He inquired whose the house was, and was informed that 
 it belonged to a contractor who had made an immense fortune 
 by the war. “ Then I am sure,” said he, “ that these illumina- 
 tions of his for the peace are none of the most sincere. If 
 this contractor had illuminated in character, it should have 
 been with dark lanterns.” 
 
 An Irishman ordered a painter to draw his picture and to 
 represent him standing behind a tree. 
 
 Another bought a pound of chocolate to make tea of. 
 
 A dealer in flax had violated one of the regulations at a fair 
 and was pleading ignorance. “I gave you notice,” said the 
 officer, “ at the fair of Edgerstown, that it was contrary to law.” 
 “I ax yer pardon, sir,” replied the offender; “it was not me — 
 it was my brother; for I was standing by and heard it.” 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 67 
 
 Among practical bulls is mentioned the anecdote of the 
 Irishmen who, having a spite against a certain banker, got 
 possession of as many of his notes as they could and burned 
 them, thus relieving him from the necessity of redeeming them. 
 The Edgeworths regard no Irish practical bull as so absurd as 
 one of Sir Isaac Newton, who after he had made a large hole 
 in his study-door for his cat to creep through made a smaller 
 hole to accommodate the kitten. 
 
 In the course of the Essay the authors present many English 
 bulls to counterbalance the Irish, introducing even Shakespeare 
 and Milton. 
 
 The English poet Blackmore says — 
 
 A painted vest Prince Vortigern had on, 
 
 Which from a naked Piet his grandsire won. 
 
 The title of an English advertisement of a washing-machine 
 was, “ Every man his own washer-woman.” 
 
 On the walls of an English coffee-house was this notice: 
 “This coffee-house removed up stairs.” 
 
 A correspondent of the English Royal Society speaks of 
 “ the earthquake that had the honor to be noticed by the Royal 
 Society.” 
 
 There was once the following inscription on an English 
 finger-post — 
 
 Had you seen these roads before they were made, 
 
 You ’d lift up your eyes and bless Marshal Wade. 
 
 Speaking of Satan, Milton says — 
 
 God and his Son except, 
 
 Created thing naught valued he nor feared. 
 
 which, logically interpreted, makes God and his Son created 
 things. 
 
 Milton is also accused of a bull in the following imitation of 
 the Greek idiom : 
 
 Adam, the goodliest man of men since born, 
 
 His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve. 
 
68 
 
 CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 As Milton professed to write English and not Greek, it is 
 something like a bull for him to use a form which represents 
 Adam as one of his own sons, and Eve as her own daughter, 
 just as truly as little Dominick represented himself as his own 
 brother. 
 
 Other passages from different authors are humorously intro- 
 duced — passages which are poetical but not logical, such as 
 that passage of Pope: 
 
 When first young Maro in his noble mind 
 A work to outlast immortal Rome designed. 
 
 At the end of the Essay is given, as an appendix, a collec- 
 tion of foreign bulls furnished by a French man of letters. 
 Among them are the following: 
 
 An abbe of Laval Montgomery was asked what was the age 
 of his younger brother, the marshal. “In two years / 5 replied 
 he, “we shall be of the same age . 55 
 
 The king was to be present at the observation of an eclipse. 
 M. de Jonville said to M. Cassini: “Shall we not wait for the 
 king before beginning the eclipse ? 55 
 
 A man saw coming toward him a physician who had 
 attended him during an attack of illness many years before. 
 He turned and concealed his face, that he might not be recog- 
 nized. When asked the reason he said, “ I am ashamed to see 
 him because it is so long since I was sick . 55 
 
 A man who wished to sell a horse was asked if the horse 
 was easily frightened. “O! not at all , 55 said he; “he has just 
 passed several nights in his stable all alone . 55 
 
 A father reproached his son with ingratitude. “ I am under 
 no obligations to you , 55 said the son; “if you had not been 
 born, I should have been the heir of my grandfather . 55 
 
 A man, seeing a boat so deeply laden that the edge was 
 nearly on a level with the water, exclaimed, “Heavens! if the 
 river were a little higher, the boat would go to the bottom . 55 
 
 It was related in conversation that M. de Buffon had dis- 
 sected one of his female cousins, and a lady cried out against 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 69 
 
 the inhumanity of the anatomist. “But, madame, she was 
 dead,” said M. de Mairan. 
 
 Some persons were speaking with admiration of the beauti- 
 ful old age of a man ninety years old, when one said : “ That 
 astonishes you, gentlemen; but my father, if he had not died, 
 would be now a hundred years old.” 
 
 A lover, having written to his mistress, slipped the note 
 under the door; but afterward thinking it might escape her 
 notice, he placed under the door another note containing these 
 words: “I have put a note under your door; look for it as you 
 go out.” 
 
 A man who had an only daughter said to a suitor: “No, sir; 
 if I had a hundred only daughters, you should not have one of 
 them.” 
 
 A merchant while writing a letter suddenly died. His clerk 
 added as a postscript : “ Since I wrote the preceding I died this 
 morning.” 
 
 A retail merchant pretended that he had paid three shillings 
 for what he was selling for two. “ Such trading will ruin you,” 
 said one. “ O, I save myself by the quantity I sell,” replied 
 the merchant. 
 
 It is evident that the writers of this Essay had never seen 
 the “Jests of Hierocles,” a work more than a thousand years 
 old, and written in venerable Greek. In the work of Hiero- 
 cles, Scholastikos, which means a pedant, takes the place of the 
 Irishman in modern times; and I remember that at college we 
 were sometimes guilty of the anachronism of translating lyco- 
 hiGTv/.o'- an Irishman. I will present some of the jests or bulls, 
 both verbal and practical; from which you will see that some 
 of the bulls attributed to Irishmen are very old, if not tough. 
 
 Scholastikos, meeting his physician, apologized for not hav- 
 ing been sick. 
 
 Scholastikos said to his brother Scholastikos : “ I saw you in 
 a dream last night and spoke to you.” “ Pardon me,” said the 
 other, “for not having returned your salutation.” 
 
7o 
 
 CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 Scholastikos, going into the water, came near being drowned. 
 He then swore that he would never touch water till he had 
 learned to swim. 
 
 Scholastikos, being in Greece, received a letter in which 
 the writer requested Scholastikos to buy some books for him. 
 When after his return he met his friend he said, “The letter 
 which you wrote to me about the books I did not receive.” 
 Being about to cross a river, he went into the ferry-boat on 
 horseback. Being asked why he did so, he said, “ I am in haste.” 
 One of two twins having died, Scholastikos, meeting the 
 survivor, said, “Was it you that died or your brother?” 
 
 Being in a ship which was about to sink, while the passen- 
 gers were seizing different articles to keep themselves up, 
 Scholastikos seized the anchor. 
 
 Having heard that crows live more than two hundred years, 
 Scholastikos bought one to try. 
 
 Meeting an acquaintance, Scholastikos said: “I heard that 
 you were dead.” “But you see that I am alive.” “But the 
 man that informed me was more worthy of belief than you are.” 
 Seeing some sparrows on a tree, Scholastikos slipped up to 
 the tree, held out his basket, and shook the tree. 
 
 Having purchased a cask of wine, Scholastikos sealed the 
 top of it; but a servant bored a hole in the bottom, and drew 
 out wine as he wished it. The master was very much surprised 
 to see the wine wasting away while the seal remained unbroken. 
 A friend advised him to examine the bottom. “But,” said he, 
 “ it is wasting at the top, not at the bottom.” 
 
 Wishing to see how he looked when he was asleep, Scholas- 
 tikos went to a mirror and shut his eyes. 
 
 Wishing to sell a house, Scholastikos carried a stone around 
 as a sample. 
 
 Wishing to teach his horse to do without eating, Scholastikos 
 gradually reduced the amount of food till the horse died. He 
 considered himself very unfortunate; “for,” said he, “just as 
 he had learned to do without eating he died.” 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 71 
 
 I will now give you a few samples of bulls of Louisville 
 production : 
 
 A lady was conversing with another who said in the course 
 of conversation that she had had the yellow fever three times. 
 “And did you recover?” 
 
 A lady inquired, “ Is this the last of this month or the first 
 of next?” 
 
 A lady who was sick inquired of her husband what time it 
 was. When he had told her she began to look at the watch very 
 intently. “Why are you looking at the watch?” said he; “I 
 told you the time.” “ But,” said she, “ I am trying to see what 
 time it was a little while ago.” 
 
 At the time of the appearance of a beautiful aurora borealis 
 her husband hastened into the house to tell her of it. “ Have 
 you seen the magnificent aurora?” said he. “Why, no,” said 
 she; “I thought it was very light for so dark a night.” 
 
 Though these samples show that bulls are not confined to 
 Ireland, yet it must be confessed that they flourish on the green 
 of the Emerald Isle. I have just heard of one of an Irish 
 schoolmaster, who set the following “copy” for one of his 
 pupils: “Idleness clothes a man with nakedness.” 
 
 When Barney O’Reirdon on board of a ship had slept a day 
 and a night, even through a terrible thunder-storm, the captain 
 expressed his admiration of Barney’s “power of sleep.” “O,” 
 said Barney, “ when I sleeps I pays attintion to it.” 
 
 But Sir Boyle Roche, a member of the Irish House of Com- 
 mons when Ireland had a parliament of her own, is preeminent 
 among the bull-makers. Like Jupiter, he has no second; like 
 Richter, he is der einzige , the only. 
 
 In one of his flights of oratory he said, “ I would give up half, 
 nay, the whole of the constitution to preserve the remainder.” 
 
 In a letter describing the dreadful condition of things around 
 him he wrote, “You may judge of our state when I tell you 
 that I write this with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the 
 other,” 
 
72 
 
 CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 “Admiral Howe,” said he at another time, “will sweep the 
 French fleet off the face of the earth.” 
 
 He denounced an apostate politician who “ turned his back 
 upon himself.” 
 
 “Sir,” said he, addressing the speaker of the Irish House 
 of Commons, “I smell a rat: I see him floating in the air; but, 
 mark me, I shall nip him in the bud.” 
 
 When some persons were enlarging upon the benefits which 
 posterity would derive from certain measures he replied, “ I 
 do n’t see, Mr. Speaker, why we should put ourselves out of 
 the way to serve posterity. What has posterity ever done for 
 us?” A laugh being the natural result of this, he explained, 
 “ By posterity, sir, I do n’t mean our ancestors, but those who 
 are to come immediately after them.” 
 
 Intending to be very polite to a noble lord, he said : “ I hope, 
 my lord, if you ever come within a mile of my house, you will 
 stay there all night.” 
 
 He had ordered a shoemaker to make him a pair of shoes, 
 one larger than the other. When he went to put them on he 
 became very indignant. “ I ordered you, sir, to make one shoe 
 larger than the other, and you have made one smaller than the 
 other — the very opposite.” 
 
 A bull has been defined to be “a laughable confusion of 
 ideas,” which is too indefinite for a definition. What produces 
 this confusion? I attribute it to an excessive development of 
 the power of abstraction and generalization, the power of which 
 makes the poet and the man of science. The poet sees a 
 resemblance between two objects and produces a metaphor, 
 the points in which the objects differ being left out of view. 
 The man of science generalizes his facts, the power of abstrac- 
 tion enabling him to separate the points of resemblance from 
 the points of difference. The man who makes a bull differs 
 from the man who makes a science and the man who makes a 
 poem merely in abstracting rather too much. A lady says to 
 her friend, “I have had the yellow fever three times.” The 
 
CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 73 
 
 mind of the friend immediately becomes occupied with a scien- 
 tific theory. She inquires within herself whether it is possible 
 for any one to have the yellow fever three times and recover. 
 So intently is she engaged in the examination of this point that 
 she loses sight of every thing around her, even of the lady who 
 is speaking to her, and asks the scientific question, “ Did you 
 recover ?” the word you representing to her not the person 
 before her, but the general idea of a human being. 
 
 I will close by saying a few words on the subject of confu- 
 sion of metaphors. This is a species of bull, though it may 
 not have received that name. I will give a few examples of 
 mixed metaphors. “ Young gentlemen/’ said a professor to a 
 class of graduates in the Louisville Medical College, “ young 
 gentlemen, you are about to embark on a new field of labor.” 
 “They will have dry sailing,” remarked a young lady in the 
 assembly. 
 
 “The proposition was like a fire-brand in the meeting, and 
 threw cold water on all the proceedings.” 
 
 “He was in an ocean of difficulties and surrounded by 
 mountains of troubles.” 
 
 “He was between the horns of a dilemma and could not 
 see his way out.” 
 
 “Though he was comparatively on a bed of ease, he was 
 still climbing the steeps of fame.” 
 
 “ This was the apple of discord which expanded into such 
 an ocean of confusion.” 
 
 Every one sees the absurdity of such expressions; but some 
 have undertaken to defend the use of mixed metaphors because 
 Shakespeare says “take arms against a sea of troubles.” Gar- 
 rick defended it; and Hackett becomes enthusiastic on the 
 subject. Now Shakespeare was a mortal man, and if he had 
 not made some mistakes I should never forgive him. He ought 
 to be defended against hypercriticism; but to regard every 
 thing he wrote as absolutely perfect and the foundation of a 
 rule of criticism is carrying devotion rather too far. When a 
 
 7 
 
74 
 
 CONCERNING BULLS. 
 
 writer employs two incongruous metaphors in connection it is 
 evident that one or the other is not employed by him as a 
 metaphor. The essence of the metaphor is comparison. In a 
 comparison between two things both the one and the other 
 must be before the mind. If the idea of the sea as a sea had 
 been before Shakespeare’s mind, he would not have spoken of 
 opposing it by arms. The word sea , as used in this passage, 
 represented to him merely a great number, and not the waves 
 of ocean. To say that he at the same time thought of the 
 waves of the sea and opposition by arms involves an absurdity. 
 There are no arms to oppose the sea, except, perhaps, the arms 
 of Mrs. Partington, who attempted to sweep out the Atlantic 
 Ocean with a broom. Mr. Hackett says : “As 4 from the full- 
 ness of the heart the mouth speaketh,’ so it may be natural to 
 a richly-endowed poetical genius to be apt to indulge in a pro- 
 fusion even unto redundancy occasionally, and the breaking 
 unavoidably sometimes, or a mixing of metaphors.” This is 
 all nonsense. It can not be natural to any one, whether richly 
 endowed or not, to mix two things which are inconsistent with 
 each other. If a man has the ordinary idea of an elephant in 
 his mind, no rich endowment can enable him to associate it 
 with the idea of flying. When Sir Boyle Roche said, 44 1 smell 
 a rat; I see him floating in the air; but, mark me, I will nip 
 him in the bud,” it is evident that he had no idea of a rat in 
 his mind. No endowment, however rich, could enable him to 
 think of nipping a rat in the bud. He merely made use of 
 some metaphorical expressions which had lodged in his mem- 
 ory. They were not metaphors to him. But expressions 
 originally metaphorical may come into common use to denote 
 certain ideas and lose their metaphorical character. The word 
 sea , for instance, may be used to denote a great number without 
 reference to the ocean. The passage in Shakespeare can be 
 defended on this ground only. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 FTER the perusal of Irving’s Life of Goldsmith, we feel 
 
 that justice has been done to the Author of “The De- 
 serted Village” and “The Vicar of Wakefield.” The literary 
 merits of Goldsmith it required the malignant meanness of a 
 Kerrick to decry; but to make his personal character the sub- 
 ject of unfeeling jests has been fashionable. We owe a debt 
 of gratitude to the American Goldsmith for a true portrait of 
 one who would not have disdained to call him brother. 
 
 We will not now attempt to speak of Goldsmith’s literary 
 character. His works are in the list of the world’s classics. His 
 poems the world has by heart. Every one who has gone 
 beyond the school-reader has read and felt “The Traveller” 
 and “The Deserted Village.” The simple and effective style, 
 the beautiful imagery, the noble sentiments, are appreciated at 
 all times and in all countries. No change of schools in poetry 
 has diminished Goldsmith’s fame. He spoke to the human 
 race, and the human race understands him. There is nothing 
 in his works to excite the stormy passions. It is to the gentle 
 feelings that he appeals. His poems are like landscapes, full 
 of quiet beauty and grace, where the tree bends calmly over 
 the water, and sees a sky below as unbroken as the sky above; 
 while over the whole is spread the gentle pensiveness of Indian 
 summer. His prose works are written in a style which, in 
 graceful freedom and transparency, can scarcely be surpassed, 
 and are full of exquisite delineations of character, sound obser- 
 vations on life, the most delicate humor, and the kindest feel- 
 
 ( 75 ) 
 
7 6 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ings. “ Few works,” says one of his biographers, referring to 
 “The Citizen of the World,” “exhibit a nicer perception or 
 more delicate delineation of life and manners. Wit, humor, 
 and sentiment pervade every page; the vices and follies of the 
 day are touched with the most playful and diverting satire, and 
 English characteristics in endless variety are hit off with the 
 pencil of a master.” He even made abridgements of history 
 delightful and natural history as entertaining “as a Persian 
 tale.” According to the inscription on his monument in West- 
 minster Abbey — one inscription that tells the truth — he left 
 scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched none that 
 he did not adorn: “ Qui nullum fere scribendo genus non tetigit , 
 nullum quod tetigit non ornavit .” 
 
 It is said that when Bennett Langton made his first visit to 
 Johnson he had, from perusing his writings, “expected to find 
 him a decent, well-dressed, in short a remarkably decorous 
 philosopher. Instead of which, down from his bed-chamber 
 about noon came, as newly-risen, a large, uncouth figure, with 
 a little dark wig which scarcely covered his head, and his 
 clothes hanging loosely about him.” It is seldom that the 
 appearance of distinguished men corresponds to our expec- 
 tations. But we do not know of any author whose external 
 appearance and conduct were so well calculated to disappoint 
 the readers of his works as were those of Oliver Goldsmith. 
 His works give you the idea of a most polished gentleman, 
 kind-hearted, indeed, but extremely shrewd — of one whom you 
 would not think of attempting to deceive. You imagine him 
 dressed in the most perfect manner, in which no part of the 
 dress excites particular observation, but the whole conveys an 
 inexpressible idea of becomingness. You expect to find one 
 who manages his affairs in so judicious a manner that all goes 
 on smoothly. 
 
 But he who became personally acquainted with Goldsmith, 
 after having formed such ideas of the man, was egregiously 
 disappointed. There was his little, plain person, decked in a 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 77 
 
 fantastic manner. A bailiff perhaps was entering the door 
 while a sturdy beggar was walking off with the money which 
 should have discharged the debt. He might have been per- 
 ceived cursing his credulity which had just been imposed upon 
 by one successful deceiver and pawning his clothes for the 
 benefit of another. With respect to worldly thrift, there was 
 nothing but wisdom in his mouth and nothing but folly in his 
 conduct. The visitor could almost imagine the mysterious 
 union of two persons in the same body — a man to think and 
 speak and a child to act. It seemed as if some charm pre- 
 vented his true nature from manifesting itself in action — as if 
 the thought, starting from his brain like an Oberon, was in its 
 passage to action changed into a Puck. 
 
 But this character, with all its strange contradictions, was 
 one which all but the envious man and the fool were forced to 
 love. When he died in the midst of his difficulties, the feelings 
 of his acquaintances burst forth in that expressive exclamation, 
 “ Poor Goldsmith ! 55 — an exclamation in which pity for his fail- 
 ings was overbalanced by affection for his virtues. 
 
 The principal charges that have been made against Gold- 
 smith are the charges of improvidence and vanity. That he 
 was improvident is too manifest, and a severe penalty did he 
 pay for the fault. He was led to incur debts which pressed 
 upon him continually and at last crushed him to the earth. 
 But we believe that he never entertained a dishonest intention 
 during his whole life. His “ knack at hoping ” led him into 
 innumerable difficulties. When he was about to incur some 
 debt Hope pointed to abundant sources of revenue and over- 
 whelmed Reason with her volubility. The kindness of heart 
 from which a great part of his carelessness with regard to 
 money proceeded affords some palliation for his faults. He 
 felt so much of the distress of the miserable that he found it 
 impossible to resist the inclination to relieve them. Even while 
 at college his benevolent feelings led him into difficulty. The 
 following story shows his disposition. He was doing the same 
 thing in different forms all his life, 
 
78 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 He was engaged to breakfast one day with a college inti- 
 mate, but failed to make his appearance. His friend repaired 
 to his room, knocked at the door, and was bidden to enter. To 
 his surprise he found Goldsmith in his bed, immersed to his 
 chin in feathers. A serio-comic story explained the circum- 
 stances. In the course of the preceding evening’s stroll he had 
 met with a woman with five children, who implored his charity. 
 Her husband was in the hospital; she was just from the 
 country, a stranger, and destitute, without food or shelter for 
 her helpless offspring. This was too much for the kind heart 
 of Goldsmith. He was almost as poor as herself, it is true, 
 and had no money in his pocket; but he brought her to the 
 college-gate, gave her the blankets from his bed to cover her 
 little brood and part of his clothes for her to sell and purchase 
 food; and, finding himself cold during the night, had cut open 
 his bed and buried himself among the feathers. 
 
 Poor Goldsmith was buried in feathers the greater part of 
 his life. While he was immersed in feathers to keep himself 
 warm if another sufferer had come to him with a piteous tale, 
 he would have given up the feathers too. He was totally inca- 
 pable of resisting an appeal to his charitable feelings. Crowds 
 of the needy surrounded him. He would pawn his property 
 to raise money for them. On one occasion the poor woman 
 whom he owed for the hire of his apartment entered his room 
 and told a piteous tale of distress, her husband having been 
 arrested in the night for debt and thrown into prison; his feel- 
 ings were so excited that he sent off to the pawn -broker a 
 borrowed suit of clothes and raised money enough to release 
 his landlord from prison. His answer to Griffiths, who had 
 lent him the suit and who threatened him with the jail, is a 
 most affecting outpouring of despondency. “ Sir,” says he, “ I 
 know no misery but a jail to which my own imprudence and 
 your letter seem to point. I have seen it inevitable for these 
 three or four weeks, and by heavens ! request it as a favor — as 
 a favor that may prevent something more fatal. I have been 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 79 
 
 some years struggling with a wretched being — with all that con- 
 tempt that indigence brings with it — with all those passions that 
 make contempt insupportable. What, then, has a jail that is 
 formidable? . . . . No, sir, had I been a sharper, had I 
 
 been possessed of less good nature and native generosity, I 
 
 might surely now have been in better circumstances. I am 
 guilty, I own, of meannesses which poverty unavoidably brings 
 with it; my reflections are filled with repentance for my impru- 
 dence, but not with any remorse for being a villain : that may 
 be a character you unjustly charge me with.” 
 
 Poor Goldsmith was conscious of his own imprudence, and 
 generosity was so natural to him that he did not think of it 
 
 as a palliation. He was able even to give good advice on the 
 
 subject of prudence, and knew all the maxims of thrift. In a 
 letter to his brother Henry, speaking of the education of his 
 nephew, he makes the following remarks, which are as prudent 
 as could well be imagined: “ Teach, then, my dear sir, to your 
 son thrift and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle’s exam- 
 ple be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be 
 disinterested and generous before I was taught from experience 
 the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits 
 and notions of a philosopher while I was exposing myself to 
 the approaches of insidious cunning; and often by being, even 
 with my narrow finances, charitable to excess. I forgot the 
 rules of justice, and placed myself in the very position of the 
 wretch who thanked me for my bounty. When I am in the 
 remotest part of the world tell him this, and perhaps he may 
 improve by my example. ” 
 
 Fortunately prudence is not the only virtue in the world. 
 If it were so, Goldsmith would have been the most incorrigible 
 wretch that ever breathed. But this man, who was so harassed 
 with pecuniary difficulties, could not be induced by any pros- 
 pect of gain to swerve from his principles or give up his ipde- ; 
 pendence. If his room had been filled with bailiffs — if starvation 
 or the jail had frowned upon him wherever he turned his eyes, 
 
8o 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 they could not have driven him from his principles. Those 
 who considered money the great god were astonished at his 
 childish simplicity in this respect. Instances of his firmness of 
 principle were related as excellent jokes by those who could 
 scarcely find words to express their virtuous abhorrence of his 
 imprudent generosity. While he was literally living from hand 
 to mouth, one Parson Scott, who had received two fat livings 
 for his political subserviency, was deputed to engage him in the 
 support of Lord North’s administration. The parson made 
 what he considered a “good story” out of his embassy. “I 
 found him,” said he, “in a miserable suite of chambers in the 
 Temple. I told him my authority. I told him I was empow- 
 ered to pay most liberally for his exertions. And, would you 
 believe it! he was so absurd as to say, 4 1 can earn as much as 
 will supply my wants without writing for any party; the assist- 
 ance you offer is therefore unnecessary to me.’ And so I left 
 him in his garret!” High-minded parson! We can imagine 
 the sublime contempt with which “ the round, fat, oily man of 
 God” looked upon the miserable sinner before him — “And so 
 I left him in his garret!” How Parson Scott’s eyes twinkled 
 as he related this story! No doubt he told it again and again, 
 and considered that he had performed his part of the entertain- 
 ment when he had got through with it. When the wise ones 
 called for “Parson Scott’s good story,” how complacently he 
 sat shaking his laurels as the bursts of uproarious laughter 
 pealed around him! 
 
 Sir John Hawkins relates another exceedingly “good story.” 
 The Earl of Northumberland, who then held the office of Lord 
 Lieutenant of Ireland, was willing to extend to Goldsmith the 
 patronage which his high post afforded. Sir John was at 
 Northumberland House when the poet made his appearance. 
 He waited in the outer room to learn the result of the visit. 
 Goldsmith, on coming out, told him that, in reply to the 
 gracious offers of assistance, he had mentioned the situation of 
 his brother, who stood in need of help. “Thus,” exclaims Sir 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 John, “did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his 
 fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out to assist 
 him!” The lawyer was as unfortunate as the parson in the 
 attempt to understand this singular idiot, who thought of others 
 more than he did of himself. 
 
 We will give another instance of his idiocy. Previous to 
 the publication of the “Deserted Village ” the bookseller gave 
 him a note for the price agreed upon — one hundred guineas. 
 As he was on his way home he met an acquaintance, to whom 
 he related the circumstance. The gentleman thought this was 
 a very large sum for so small a poem. “ In truth,” said Gold- 
 smith, “I think so too; it is much more than the honest man 
 can afford, or the piece is worth. I have not been easy since I 
 received it.” The idiot actually returned the note to the book- 
 seller, and left him to graduate the payment according to the 
 success of the work. Such idiocy is not very common in the 
 world, and men were astounded at such displays of it. As 
 there is not much danger of so great an increase in the number 
 of such idiots as to render them a public burden, we should be 
 glad to have a few more of them. Goldsmith was called “ an 
 inspired idiot” — we wish his acquaintances had had the grace 
 to consider such idiocy the gift of inspiration. 
 
 We now come to the other charge against Goldsmith — the 
 charge of vanity. This charge was made particularly by that 
 vainest of the vain, James Boswell, whose jaundiced eye saw 
 every thing in a yellow light. He seems to have been an 
 ardent believer in the doctrine to which Carlyle refers — that 
 need and greed and vainglory are the chief qualities of man- 
 kind, and that whatever can not be referred to the categories 
 of need and greed is without scruple ranged under that of vain- 
 glory. Goldsmith had need enough, it is true; but as he was 
 totally destitute of greed, Boswell thought that an extraordinary 
 number of his actions was to be attributed to vainglory. The 
 peacock who was so vain in regard to dress that, after having 
 been at court, he went to the printing-office with his trappings 
 
82 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 and summoned all the printer’s devils to admire him, accuses 
 Goldsmith of displaying vanity in dress! Mr. Irving, with 
 kind-hearted good sense, attributes his apparent vanity to 
 another feeling. “ This proneness to finery in dress,” says he, 
 “which Boswell and others of Goldsmith’s contemporaries, who 
 did not understand the secret plies of his character, attributed 
 to vanity, arose, we are convinced, from a widely different 
 motive. It was from a painful idea of his own personal defects, 
 which had been cruelly stamped upon his mind in his boyhood 
 by the sneers and jeers of his playmates, and had been ground 
 deeper into it by rude speeches made to him in every step of 
 his struggling career, until it had become a constant cause of 
 awkwardness and embarrassment. This he had experienced 
 more sensibly since his reputation had elevated him into polite 
 society; and he was constantly endeavoring by the aid of dress 
 to acquire that personal acceptability , if we may use the phrase, 
 which nature had denied him. If ever he betrayed a little self- 
 complacency on first turning out in a new suit, it may perhaps 
 have been because he felt as if he had achieved a triumph over 
 his ugliness.” He goes on to speak of circumstances existing 
 at the time of which he is treating, which may have rendered 
 Goldsmith more than usually attentive to his personal appear- 
 ance. He had become acquainted with the beautiful, sprightly, 
 intelligent, and agreeable Miss Hornecks, and was inspired 
 with tender feelings toward the younger, who went by the name 
 of the “J^essamy Bride.” “Alas, poor Goldsmith!” exclaims 
 Mr. Irving, “ how much of this silken finery was dictated, not 
 by vanity, but by humble consciousness of thy defects; how 
 much of it was to atone for the uncouthness of thy person, and 
 to win favor in the eyes of the Jessamy Bride!” A slight 
 personal defect caused Byron to hate his fellow-men; in Gold- 
 smith the consciousness of personal defect led to a well-meant 
 effort to remove its effects. 
 
 But Boswell represents Goldsmith as “strutting about and 
 bragging of his dress,” It is easy to see that, on the occasion 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 83 
 
 to which Boswell alludes, Goldsmith was indulging his humor, 
 of which he possessed a great share. Such a fool as Boswell 
 was incapable of understanding Goldsmith. 
 
 We will give two other instances of what the incorrigible 
 dunce considers displays of vanity. He went with the Miss 
 Hornecks to France. While stopping at a hotel in Lisle, they 
 were drawn to the windows by a military parade in front. The 
 extreme beauty of the Miss Hornecks immediately attracted 
 the attention of the officers, who broke forth with enthusiastic 
 speeches and compliments intended for their ears. Goldsmith 
 was amused for a while, but at length affected impatience at 
 this exclusive admiration of his beautiful companions, and 
 exclaimed with mock severity, “ Elsewhere I also would have 
 my admirers.” It required a Boswell to construe this into an 
 evidence of mortified vanity. On another occasion he went 
 with Burke to witness the performances of some puppets. 
 When Burke praised the dexterity with which one of them 
 tossed a pike, “Pshaw,” said Goldsmith, with some warmth , 
 according to Boswell, “ I can do it better myself.” “ The same 
 evening,” adds this prince of fools, “he broke his shin by 
 attempting to exhibit to the company how much better he 
 could jump over a stick than the puppets.” Well did Johnson 
 describe Boswell as a fellow who had missed his only chance 
 of immortality by not having been alive when the “Dunciad” 
 was written. It is true he gained immortality in a way not 
 expected by Johnson; but his work is like treason — we are 
 pleased with the thing itself, but despise the author. He was 
 so anxious to be “written down an ass” that, in the absence of 
 the sexton, he wrote it down himself. 
 
 Croker, in his notes to Boswell, relates an occurrence which 
 has been considered a ludicrous display of Goldsmith’s vanity. 
 It was related to Croker by Colonel O’ Moore, of Cloghan 
 Castle, in Ireland, who was a party concerned. The Colonel 
 and Burke, walking one day through Leicester Square on their 
 way to Sir Joshua Reynolds, with whom they were to dine, 
 
8 4 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 observed Goldsmith, who was likewise to be a guest, standing 
 and regarding a crowd which was staring and shouting at some 
 foreign ladies in the window of a hotel. “ Observe Goldsmith,” 
 said Burke to O’ Moore, “and mark what passes between us at 
 Sir Joshua’s.” They passed on and arrived there before him. 
 Burke received Goldsmith with affected reserve and coldness. 
 Being pressed to explain the reason, “ Really,” said he, “ I am 
 ashamed to keep company with a person who could act as you 
 have just done in the Square.” Goldsmith protested he was 
 ignorant of what was meant. “ Why,” said Burke, “ did you not 
 exclaim, as you were looking up at those women, what stupid 
 beasts the crowd must be for staring with such admiration at 
 those painted Jezebels, while a man of your talents passed by 
 unnoticed?” “Surely, surely, my dear friend,” cried Gold- 
 smith, with alarm, “surely I did not say so?” “Nay,” replied 
 Burke, “if you had not said so, how should I have known it?” 
 “That’s true,” answered Goldsmith; “I am very sorry — it was 
 very foolish; I do recollect that something of the kind passed 
 through my mind , hut I did not think that I had uttered it .” 
 Now this proves nothing in the world but Goldsmith’s child- 
 like simplicity of character. He was unsuspicious of a trick, 
 and could be made to believe almost any thing. We do believe 
 the thoughts no more passed through his mind than the words 
 passed from his lips. But his mind, having no suspicion of 
 deception, was seeking a cause for the effect before him, and 
 could find no other explanation than that he must have spoken 
 the words and thought the thoughts. When a man, in a very 
 earnest manner, insists that you do know some particular per- 
 son, you will begin to think you do know him, though you 
 have never seen him in your life. If water is thrown upon the 
 face of a sleeping man, his mind goes to work to invent a 
 cause. He dreams that he sees clouds gathering slowly in the 
 west. They become gradually thicker and darker. At last 
 they approach, the whole heaven is overspread, and the rain 
 pours down in torrents upon his head. All this is dreamed in 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 85 
 
 the very moment of waking. The sleeper dreams of a storm 
 to account for the water on his face. We believe that Gold- 
 smith’s thoughts were as imaginary as the sprinkled sleeper’s 
 clouds. Burke threw water in his face, and his mind invented 
 an explanation. 
 
 The little peculiarities of Goldsmith never impaired the 
 affection of his friends. The same Burke that had amused 
 himself with tricks upon his simplicity burst into tears when 
 he heard of his death. Sir Joshua Reynolds threw by his 
 pencil and grieved more than he had done in times of great 
 family distress. Johnson felt the blow deeply and gloomily. 
 The object of such affection must have had a noble soul. We 
 feel that we could have clasped such a man to our bosom and 
 loved him with all his debts. A Goldsmith is not given to us 
 every day. Let us love his virtues and forget his failings. 
 
HOME AND SCHOOL.” 
 
 44 TT MM A, who was it that was walking with you to school 
 
 1 v this morning?" said Alice Melville to her schoolmate 
 Emma Thorndyke. 
 
 “Oh, that was young Mr. Knottslowe! He is continually 
 watching for me, and takes every opportunity to walk with me 
 to school." 
 
 “Why do you permit him to do so, Emma?" 
 
 “Why, how can I help it? I can’t drive him away, can I? 
 Do you wish me to be rude?" 
 
 “Well, Emma, I don’t wish to set myself up as a monitor; 
 but if you wish to know my opinion I will give it to you." 
 
 “Well, Alice, I should like to hear what you have to say 
 about it." 
 
 “Why, then, Emma, have you ever shown that you objected 
 to his walking to school with you?" 
 
 “No; I do n’t know that I ever have. How could I do so?" 
 
 “ It is very easy for you to do so, and without being guilty 
 of rudeness either. If he could not be made to understand 
 you in any other way, you could tell him candidly that you 
 consider it improper for him to walk with you to school. If he 
 has any sense, he could take no offense at it. But I think you 
 have encouraged him by your actions, showing him that you do 
 not consider his course improper." 
 
 “Well, I don’t consider it improper. What harm is there 
 in it?" 
 
 ( 86 ) 
 
HOME AND SCHOOL. 
 
 *7 
 
 “ Ah, that is another question. But I think you can answer 
 it yourself. Does Mr. Knottslowe walk like a man up to the 
 door of the school-room with you ? Or does he not stop before 
 he comes in sight of the school-room? As I was coming up 
 behind you this morning I heard Mr. Knottslowe say, ‘Well, I 
 must stop here, or old Smith will see me ! ’ Did he not show 
 that he considered himself as doing something not right? And 
 if you had believed him to be doing what was altogether proper, 
 you would, I think, have urged him to go on.” 
 
 “ O ! but Mr. Smith does not understand these things ! He 
 does n’t know that young people like to be in each other’s com- 
 pany, and he turns up his nose at it.” 
 
 “On the contrary, Emma, I have heard him say that he 
 considers it natural for boys and girls to wish to be together, 
 and he has always shown a disposition to encourage their meet- 
 ing on proper occasions and in a proper way. He says what 
 he objects to is the habits and manners of the precocious young 
 ladies and young gentlemen, as they call themselves. This is 
 what he turns up his nose at. He says he considers simplicity 
 one of the most lovely things in the young, and that when he 
 sees girls losing their simplicity, and ‘putting on airs’ in the 
 company of ‘ young gentlemen,’ he loses confidence in them. 
 He told Mr. Williamson the other day that Lizzie Williamson, 
 though one of the oldest girls in school, was one of the most 
 childlike, and that he considered this the greatest compliment 
 he could pay her. But I declare, I am beginning to talk like 
 ‘old folks.’ However, I am merely repeating the remarks of 
 other people. Suppose we speak to Mr. Smith about it to-day.” 
 “ O ! no, Alice ! I would n’t speak to him about it for the 
 world. He would be as mad as a whole nest of hornets.” 
 
 “ I think, Emma, you are very much mistaken about ‘ Old 
 Smith,’ as Mr. Knottslowe calls him. I believe he likes noth- 
 ing so much as straightforward candor. I have often heard 
 him say he can overlook every thing but deception. But if you 
 are unwilling to speak to him on this subject, there is one that 
 
88 
 
 HOME AND SCHOOL. 
 
 you can speak to; and that is your mother. I have heard 
 mamma say she considered your mother one of the most sen- 
 sible women in the world.” 
 
 The reader may be surprised to learn that these sober words 
 were spoken by one who, on proper occasions, was one of the 
 most laughing, romping girls in Mr. Smith’s school. She had 
 as much judgment as if she had not a particle of fun, and as 
 much fun as if she had not a particle of judgment. But neither 
 character was ever out of place. She had a delicate sense of 
 propriety, and nothing could induce her to swerve from what 
 she considered right. Emma Thorndyke was not a girl of bad 
 intentions; but her perceptions of the becoming were not so 
 acute as those of Alice. Her love of admiration made her 
 inclined to be “ fast.” Her moral nature was strong when her 
 love of admiration suffered it to act. But there was a hard 
 struggle. In the present instance she was at first unwilling to 
 speak to her mother, as Alice had suggested; but when she had 
 thought about the matter for some time her better nature pre- 
 vailed, and she became convinced by Alice’s remarks that her 
 unwillingness to speak to her mother showed that there was 
 something very wrong in her conduct. 
 
 In reply to Emma her mother said, “My daughter, I am 
 glad that you have consulted me about this matter; for I have 
 perceived an unpleasant change to be taking place in your 
 character. You are not the same unaffected girl that you used 
 to be. I have seen you make use of unworthy arts to attract 
 admiration. That lovely simplicity which is the greatest charm 
 of girlhood is in danger of being destroyed. It is your wish to 
 attract admiration which causes the boys to follow you through 
 the streets. If it were not for this love of admiration your own 
 innate modesty would be offended by their conduct. You will 
 find that every parent has the same feeling upon this subject. 
 I heard a lady tell her daughter the other day that she wished 
 her to break off her acquaintance with another girl, ‘ because,’ 
 said she, ‘I see her every day accompanied by some boy or 
 
HOME AND SCHOOL. 
 
 other on her way to school, and I do n’t wish you to be intimate 
 with such fast young ladies.’ I hope, Emma,” continued Mrs. 
 Thorndyke, “that you will keep in mind that the business of 
 your life now is to attend to the improvement of your mind, 
 and not to entertain beaux. And remember, too, that the 
 proper kind of admiration is gained, not by the arts of affec- 
 tation or by precocious young-ladyism, but by simple, natural 
 manners suited to your age.” 
 
 Just at this point Emma’s father entered the room, and on 
 inquiry was made acquainted with the state of things. Being 
 a rather impetuous sort of man, he was about to storm a little, 
 but a look from Mrs. Thorndyke’s mild eye calmed him. She 
 said, “ I think Emma will now change her conduct. She has 
 shown herself a dutiful child by coming to me, and I think she 
 had better not be scolded.” 
 
 “I was not going to scold her,” replied Mr. Thorndyke, 
 “but I wished to express my contempt for the puppies that 
 follow school-girls about when they ought to be attending to 
 their own business. If one of my boys were to act so, I would 
 take his puppy-skin off him — I would. Those are the boys that 
 make our worthless, good-for-nothing, do-nothing men. The 
 boys that are to make the real men of our country are engaged 
 in study or other business while these scamps are watching for 
 school-girls in the streets. If I were a police-officer, I would 
 flog every rascal that I saw following a school-girl about, and if 
 he resisted I would hang him to a lamp-post, law or no law.” 
 
 a O! come, husband,” said Mrs. Thorndyke, who knew how 
 to manage her husband’s moods, “such doings at the lamp-post 
 would be no light matter. It is mere thoughtlessness in the boys, 
 and they do n’t deserve so severe a punishment. Think how 
 unpleasant it would be to see a boy hanging to each lamp-post.” 
 
 “At any rate,” said Mr. Thorndyke, laughing at his own 
 violence, “the boys ought to be taught to know better.” 
 
 “Well, husband, there is some difference between that and 
 hanging.” 
 
 8 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 ** ORTINBRAS! You sound the sf I have always 
 
 heard that word pronounced fortinbrah. Why do you 
 sound the s?” 
 
 44 Because Shakespeare did.” 
 
 “ Because Shakespeare did! How do you know that?” 
 
 “ Fortinbras, you know, is composed of three words, fort, in , 
 and bt'as, arm. Now turn to Shakespeare’s 4 King Henry V.’ 
 In Act iv, Sc. 4, you will find that Pistol has taken a French- 
 man prisoner. Pistol, understanding nothing of the French- 
 man’s language, seizes upon such words as sound like some 
 English words. When the prisoner asks, Est il impossible E 
 eschapper la force de ton bras ? 4 Brass, cur ! ’ exclaims Pistol. 
 
 4 Thou damned and luxurious mountain-goat, offer’ st me brass!’ 
 44 Pistol would not have made this exclamation if the French- 
 man had said la force de ton brah. It is evident therefore that 
 Shakespeare pronounced the name of his Norwegian Strong-in- 
 arm Fortinbrass , not Fortinbrah. And Shakespeare was right. 
 Originally the ^ in bras was sounded by the French. Littre in 
 his great dictionary says, 4 Dans 1’ ancien frangais le nominatif 
 est bras , le regime est brae. C’ est le nominatif qui a forme le 
 mot actuel; de la vient Y s que nous y mettons.’* When the 
 form brae , derived from the Latin brachium , was changed to 
 bras the ^ was not a mere ornament; it represented a sound. 
 
 * In the ancient French the nominative is bras, and the objective is brae. It 
 is the nominative that has formed the present word; from that comes the ^ which 
 we put in it. 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 9 1 
 
 Some seem to regard the omission of the sound of the final 
 consonant as an elementary principle of the French language; 
 but it was only by degrees that the sound was dropped, just as 
 it was by degrees that the sound of e final was dropped in 
 English words. The Anglo-Saxons sounded the e in every 
 case; in Chaucer e at the end of words sometimes makes a 
 syllable and sometimes is mute; the sound passed away gradu- 
 ally. The verbal termination ed formerly made a syllable in 
 every case; in the time of Shakespeare it sometimes made a 
 syllable and sometimes did not; in our day it never makes a 
 syllable except when the verb ends with a sound which can not 
 unite with that of d; or if a poet wishes to have this termina- 
 tion make a syllable, he must indicate his wish by some mark. 
 
 “Not long ago the French l mouille was sounded, the word 
 tailleur , for instance, being pronounced talyur ; in Paris this 
 word is now pronounced tahyur , the sound of / having been 
 gradually dropped. In some parts of France, no doubt, the 
 l is still sounded. A French-speaking hackney-coachman in 
 Brussels once asked me if I did not wish to go the Bwahce 
 ( Bois ) de la Cambre. I have no doubt that he would have 
 sounded the ^ in bras. The title of one of the Erckman-Chat- 
 rian novels is often pronounced Blocu; the proper pronunciation 
 is Blocus , with the ^ sounded. The French word for lily, Us, is 
 pronounced leece , though the sound of the s is dropped in fleur- 
 de-lis. But formerly the s was sounded in fleur-de-lis , as is 
 shown in the fact that the French wits applied to the order of 
 the Fleur-de-Lys the double entendre of Compagnons d’ Ulysse , or 
 Companions of Ulysses, meaning the swine into which the 
 companions of Ulysses were transformed. A well-educated 
 French gentleman in Louisville pronounces the name of a cel- 
 ebrated French writer Dumas s, not Dumah; and he says that 
 he has been where members of the family live, and that there 
 the name is always pronounced Dumass. A gentleman who 
 was introduced to the younger Dumas in Paris told me that at 
 the introduction the name was pronounced Dumah; so the 
 
92 
 
 PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 sound of the s has been gradually dropped. I will continue to 
 pronounce the Norwegian's name Fortinbrass , as Shakespeare 
 pronounced it." 
 
 “ Then I suppose you pronounce the name of the hero of 
 Butler’s poem Hudibrass , not HudibrahV ’ 
 
 “ Certainly I do, as Butler himself did." 
 
 a How do you know that Butler pronounced it so?" 
 
 “ Look at this passage : 
 
 As Montaigne, playing with his cat, 
 
 Complains she thought him but an ass, 
 
 Much more she would Sir Hudibras. 
 
 If you change Hudibras to Hudibrah , you will have to change 
 ass to ah /" 
 
 “We shall next hear you sound the ^ in the name of Le 
 Sage’s Spanish adventurer." 
 
 “ If you ever hear me pronounce the name, you will hear 
 me sound the s. There is the new illustrated edition of Web- 
 ster’s Dictionary: look in the 4 Vocabulary of the Noted Names 
 of Fiction,’ etc., and see how Gil Bias is pronounced there." 
 
 44 Here it is, pronounced Zheel Blass. Now we are on Span- 
 ish ground, do you pronounce the name of Cervantes’s hero 
 Quixote or KehotayV ’ 
 
 44 Quixote , with the English sound of the letters." 
 
 44 But it is a Spanish name, and it is pronounced Kehotay by 
 the Spaniards." 
 
 44 Yes; and Paris is a French name, and it is pronounced 
 Paree by the French; and Mexico is a Spanish name, and it is 
 pronounced Mehheco by the Spaniards. I should as soon think 
 of pronouncing Paris and Mexico Paree and Mehheco as I 
 should think of pronouncing Don Quixote Don Kehotay. These 
 words have been anglicized, and it would be pedantic to give 
 them the foreign pronunciation. The attempt to change the 
 name of our old favorite is a Kehotic attempt. Sooner than 
 come down to Don Kehotay I believe I could even bring 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 93 
 
 myself to call a wind a wind , to which desperate act I hope 
 no distressing circumstances will ever drive me.” 
 
 “ Why, do you not pronounce the word wind when you are 
 reading poetry ?” 
 
 “No. Why should I do so? Men have agreed to call a 
 certain thing a wind , and you might as well call it a ventus as a 
 wind. If people hear of a ventus or a wind , they have in either 
 case to translate the word to wind before they understand what 
 is meant.” 
 
 “But it must be pronounced wind in order to rhyme with 
 kind and other words ending in ind .” 
 
 “ Then you must suppose that Rosalind read Orlando’s love- 
 verses in the following pleasing style : 
 
 From the east to western Ind (ined), 
 
 No jewel is like Rosa lind. 
 
 Her worth, being mounted on the wind , 
 
 Through all the world bears Rosa lind. 
 
 All the pictures, fairest lined. 
 
 Are but black to Rosa/zW. 
 
 Let no face be kept in mind 
 But the fair of Rosa lind. 
 
 You seem to forget that poets use ‘imperfect rhymes.’ There 
 is the ‘ Lay of the Last Minstrel.’ Open it, and you will find 
 at the very beginning borne rhyming with morn , gone with 
 throne , poor with door , God with rode. Because a stranger filled 
 the Stuart’s throne shall we say, 
 
 Old times were changed, old manners gone? 
 
 Here is ‘ Maud Muller.’ Let us read a few couplets, making 
 the rhymes perfect, 
 
 And I ’d feed the hungry and clothe the poor , 
 
 And all should bless me who left our door. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the judge went on , 
 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs , 
 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues. 
 
94 PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 The old proverb says that ‘he that eats with the devil should 
 have a long spoon ;’ but I have never seen it stated that law- 
 yers have need of endless tongs. I will read these two lines 
 of Emerson: 
 
 To those who go and those who come — 
 
 Good-by, proud world! I ’m going home (hum). 
 
 Listen to a few lines of ‘Alexander’s Feast’: 
 
 Deserted in his utmost need , 
 
 By those his former bounty fed, 
 
 ’T was but a kindred sound to move , 
 
 For pity melts the soul to love. 
 
 It would be proper punishment for the winders to yell out to 
 them in the same style all their favorite poems. While I have 
 the floor let me tell you another thing. Wind was originally 
 pronounced with the i short, as it is now in German. The 
 sound of a crept in gradually before the i in words ending in 
 ind ; for the sound of i is diphthongal, being composed of the 
 sounds of a as in ah and of i lengthened into i as in machine . 
 I think that Skakespeare pronounced kind with the i short. 
 
 A little more than kin and less than kind. 
 
 When kind was pronounced kind (short i) there was a play 
 upon the words, and this play gave to the passage whatever 
 significance it had; with the present pronunciation all the sig- 
 nificance is lost. In ‘Piers Ploughman’ we find ‘and unkynde 
 to hur kynne,’ which evidently means unkinned (unkind) to 
 their km, the y having the same sound in kynde that it has in 
 kynne. Kind derives its present signification from its being of 
 the same origin with kin.” 
 
 “What would be thought of a clergyman who should say, 
 ‘The wind bloweth where it listeth ’ ? He would render him- 
 self ridiculous. The lawyer who should say in court, ‘The 
 damage was caused by the wind ’ would be laughed at by judge 
 and jury. If a physician should order his patient to be kept 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 95 
 
 out of the wind , he would add to the sickness of the sick and 
 make several other persons sick. If a gentleman meeting a 
 lady in the street should say, 4 How the wind blows ! ; the lady 
 would find it difficult to avoid laughing in his face, and he 
 would become the laughing-stock of the town. And yet some 
 who are entirely free from affectation themselves, and who 
 would almost be ashamed to be seen in the company of one 
 who should say, 4 The wind blows/ will borrow the affectation 
 of others, take up a book, and tell us to listen to the voice of 
 the wind! Perhaps we may learn from their reading that we 
 sometimes have windy weather and that the wind turns the 
 windmill. 
 
 44 Wind is the pronunciation of the stage, and the actors are 
 afraid to be natural and to pronounce the word as cultivated 
 ladies and gentlemen pronounce it. The stage has its tradi- 
 tions about pronunciation, attitude, and other things, and by 
 these traditions the actors are enslaved. In the sleep-walking 
 scene in 4 Macbeth J it had always been the custom to keep the 
 candle in the hand. Mrs. Siddons when she was about to 
 appear as Lady Macbeth determined to set the candle on the 
 table while she rubbed her hand to wash off the blood. Just 
 before she was going upon the stage Mr. Sheridan, the man- 
 ager, knocked at her door and begged to be admitted. She 
 entreated that she should not be disturbed; but Sheridan pro- 
 tested that he must speak to her on a matter of a very serious 
 nature concerning her interests. At last she was compelled to 
 admit him, when he told her that he had heard with the greatest 
 surprise and concern that she intended to act the part without 
 keeping the candle in her hand, insisting that if she did set the 
 candle down, it would be considered a presumptuous innova- 
 tion. But Mrs. Siddons adhered to her idea, and the innova- 
 tion was received with so much approbation that Sheridan 
 himself congratulated her on her obstinacy. Since that time 
 the candle is always set down. If any eminent actor should 
 have the courage to pronounce wind as people in the real 
 
9 6 
 
 PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 world pronounce it, his 4 innovation 7 would be as well received 
 as was that of Mrs. Siddons. 
 
 “ Scarcely any of the dictionaries mention wind . Cooley, 
 whose dictionary affords a faithful view of the prevailing style 
 of pronunciation characterizing the general body of cultivated 
 speakers in Great Britain and Ireland, gives ‘ wind, pedantically , 
 
 wind.’ 
 
 “Similar remarks are to be made about the pronunciation 
 of my and mine. Some persons in reading, though never in 
 speaking, always pronounce these words with the vowel short, 
 my and min. They read ‘My proud boy Absalom 7 and ‘For- 
 give min iniquities . 7 This is a theatrical pronunciation contrary 
 to the usage of cultivated people throughout the English-speak- 
 ing world. Smart, one of the highest English authorities, says, 
 ‘ When this word (mine) is used adjectively before a word be- 
 ginning with a vowel or h mute, as in saying, On mine honor, 
 the complete absence of accentual force and a style quite collo- 
 quial will permit the shortening of the sound into min’ He 
 evidently decides against shortening mine into min except in a 
 very colloquial style, and Worcester approves his decision. With 
 respect to my we find in Webster, ‘The word my when used 
 without emphasis takes its regular short sound in England, and 
 to some extent in this country; as, I took down my hat. This 
 sound, however, should not be given in serious or solemn dis- 
 course, nor should the y ever be turned into long e, after the 
 Irish fashion; as, I took down mee hat . 7 
 
 “A short time ago I heard the familiar name Israel pro- 
 nounced Is-raw-ale , and the speaker said he was giving it the 
 Hebrew pronunciation ! The Hebrew name begins with a yodh, 
 and to carry out his notion, he should have pronounced it Yis- 
 raw-ale. I suppose the same person would give the name of 
 the great Roman orator as Kikero. 
 
 “The mention of proper names reminds me of the very 
 common mispronunciation of the name of the Italian artist 
 Guido. It is gallicized into geedo. But the Italians do not sup- 
 
PRONUNCIATION OF CERTAIN WORDS. 
 
 97 
 
 press the sound of u before i. The name should be pronounced 
 gweedo. And the sound of u (pronounced like w) is retained 
 even in some French proper names. Guise is pronounced gweeze , 
 not geese. The name of the French historian Guizot is correctly 
 pronounced gwezo. But enough for one time.” 
 
 9 
 
HELEN AND THE OLD TROJAN CHIEFS. 
 
 I N the preface to his translation of the Iliad, Lord Derby 
 says: “ Numerous as have been the translators of the Iliad, 
 or parts of it, the metres which have been selected are almost 
 as various; the couplet in rhyme, the Spenserian stanza, the 
 trochaic or ballad metre, all have had their partisans, even to 
 that pestilent heresy of the so-called English hexameter; a 
 metre wholly repugnant to the genius of our language; which 
 can only be pressed into the service by a violation of every 
 rule of prosody; and of which, notwithstanding my respect 
 for the eminent men who have used it, I could never read ten 
 lines without being reminded of Canning’s 
 
 Dactylics callest thou them ? God help thee, silly one ! 
 
 The metre of Homer is to all English-speaking people noth- 
 ing but English hexameter. We know the Greek hexameter as 
 composed of long syllables and short syllables, but we feel it 
 as composed of accented syllables and unaccented syllables. 
 Whenever Lord Derby feels the melody of any verse of Homer 
 he feels it as an Englishman; the melody to him is produced 
 by accent, not by quantity. He may think that his ear distin- 
 guishes a difference between Greek hexameter and English 
 hexameter; but he is deluded. He must have a very indefinite 
 idea of the “ rules of prosody.” English hexameter verse is a 
 regular arrangement of syllables according to accent, and it no 
 more violates the rules of prosody than English heroic verse 
 does. English hexameter verse has not been a failure. Who 
 would wish Longfellow’s “ Evangeline” in any other metre? 
 Kingsley’s “ Andromeda ” is acknowledged to be written with 
 
 (98) 
 
HELEN AND THE OLD TROJAN CHIEFS. 
 
 99 
 
 correctness and spirit. German poetry is like English poetry 
 in being arranged according to accent, and Voss has made 
 an elegant translation of Homer in German hexameter verse. 
 Goethe’s “Der Reineke Fuchs” is in hexameter verse, and 
 full of melody it is. 
 
 Homer in English heroic verse does not sound to me like 
 Homer, however excellent the translation. I have tried my 
 hand at a translation of the passage relating the interview 
 between Helen and the old Trojan chiefs on the walls of 
 Troy. I should have been glad to make the translation 
 better. 
 
 Then there came to the white-armed Helen the messenger Iris, 
 
 In the form of her sister-in-law Laodice, fairest 
 Daughter of Priam, and wife to Antenor’s son, Helicaon. 
 
 Her in her chamber she found. An ample web she was weaving, 
 
 Purple and double in fold, presenting the many sad contests 
 Of the Trojans, the tamers of steeds, and the brass-clad Achaians, 
 
 Which they for her were enduring. Then said the swift-footed Iris, 
 
 “Come with me, dear lady, to see the singular doings 
 
 Of the Trojans, the tamers of steeds, and the brass-clad Achaians ; 
 
 Those who were bringing till now the tear-causing war on each other, 
 Eagerly longing for murderous fight, are now sitting in silence, 
 
 Leaning themselves on their shields, their spears in the ground fixed 
 beside them. 
 
 Two though are going to fight, the brave Menelaus and Paris, 
 
 With their long spears, and thou art to be the wife of the victor.” 
 Having said this, the goddess infused her soul with sweet yearning 
 For her husband of other days, for her city and parents. 
 
 Hastily throwing over herself a robe of white linen, 
 
 Pouring down the tender tear, she rushed from her chamber. 
 
 With her were Aethra, the daughter of Pittheus, and Clymene, full-eyed. 
 Soon did they come to the Scaean gate. And there, with attendants, 
 
 Sat King Priam, Panthous, Clytius, Lampus, Thymoetes, 
 
 Wise Ucalegon, wise Antenor, and brave Hicetaon. 
 
 These on the rampart were seated, the elders of Troy, who, no longer 
 Able for war, were eloquent speakers, resembling cicadae, 
 
 Which from the tree in the wood send forth their lily-like * voices. 
 
 * Translators have shown themselves shy of this Homeric epithet. Pope trans- 
 lates “ feeble Lord Derby and Mr. Bryant translate it “ delicate.” No one who 
 has ever heard the “voice” of this cicada would think of calling it feeble ; certainly 
 
100 
 
 HELEN AND THE OLD TROJAN CHIEFS. 
 
 Such were the Trojan chiefs who were sitting there in the tower. 
 
 When they saw Helen approaching they said in low tones to each other, 
 “It is no cause for anger that Trojans and well-greaved Achaians 
 For a woman like her should endure such long-lasting troubles. 
 Wondrously like in her face is she to a goddess immortal. 
 
 Fair as she is, let her go, nor bring sorrow on us and our children.” 
 
 Thus did they say. But Priam called, “Come hither, dear daughter! 
 
 Sit here before me, to see thy first husband, thy friends and thy kindred. 
 Thou art in nowise to blame; ’t is the gods have brought on me these 
 sorrows ; 
 
 They have stirred up against me the tear-causing war of Achaians, 
 
 Come and tell me now the name of yon wonderful chieftain. 
 
 Who is that wonderful man so gallant and noble of stature ? 
 
 Other men indeed have I seen a head taller than he is ; 
 
 But a form so noble my eyes have never yet looked on, 
 
 Nor so stately of bearing; in truth his appearance is king-like.” 
 
 Thus said he. Then answered him Helen, the fairest of women : 
 
 “O beloved father-in-law, I revere and I fear thee. 
 
 Would I had chosen to die before with thy son I came hither, 
 
 Leaving my husband, my daughter, my kindred, and dear young 
 companions. 
 
 Homer does not call it feeble. What is the objection to a literal translation of Homer’s 
 epithet ? The idea in Homer is that the voice of the cicada gives to the mind through 
 the ear a pleasure similar to that which the lily gives to the mind through the eye. 
 This is highly poetic. When Byron says, 
 
 The mind, the music, breathing from her face, 
 he means that her lovely face causes a feeling similar to that which is caused by 
 lovely music. Longfellow says of Evangeline, 
 
 “ When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music,” 
 implying that her sweet presence affected the mind like sweet music. We find in 
 one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s poems, 
 
 I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven, 
 
 Singing at dawn on the alder-bough. 
 
 I brought him home in his nest at even. 
 
 He sings the song, but it pleases not now; 
 
 For I did not bring home the river and sky; 
 
 He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. 
 
 Richard Lovelace (born 1618) says : 
 
 O ! could you view the melody 
 Of every grace, 
 
 And music of her face, 
 
 You ’d drop a tear; 
 
 Seeing more harmony 
 In her bright eye 
 Than now you hear. 
 
HELEN AND THE OLD TROJAN CHIEFS. 
 
 IOI 
 
 But my fate was not so, and therefore I pine away weeping. 
 
 But I will answer thy question. The man about whom thou inquirest, 
 He is the son of Atreus, the wide-ruling king Agamemnon, 
 
 Who is both a good monarch and also a powerful warrior. 
 
 He was my brother-in-law, if so I, shameless, dare call him.” 
 
 Thus said she. But the old man admiringly gazed on him, saying, 
 “Happy Atrides, favored of fate! O fortunate monarch! 
 
 Truly very large numbers of Greeks by thee are commanded. 
 
 Once in vine-clad Phrygia was I and saw many soldiers, 
 
 Men of swift steeds, the soldiers of Otreus and Mygdon the godlike, 
 Who were then encamped on the banks of the Phrygian river, 
 
 At the time when to Phrygia came the Amazon warriors ; 
 
 But not these were so many as are the quick-glancing Achaians.” 
 
 Seeing Ulysses, he said, “ Dear child, pray tell me of this one, 
 
 Shorter indeed by the head than Agamemnon Atrides, 
 
 Broader, however, in shoulders and chest. On the ground are his 
 weapons ; 
 
 But among the ranks of his soldiers he moves about ram-like. 
 
 Liken him do I to a thick-fleeced ram that keeps moving 
 Through the large flock of white sheep.” Then Helen, divinely — 
 descended : 
 
 “This one indeed is the son of Laertes, sagacious Ulysses; 
 
 In the land of Ithaca, rugged isle, he was nourished. 
 
 He is skilled in all kinds of wiles and in circumspect counsels.” 
 
 Then said the wise Antenor, “O lady, the truth thou hast spoken. 
 
 Once came hither the godlike Ulysses with brave Menelaus, 
 
 Coming to treat about thee. In my house as my guests I received them. 
 Then did I learn the genius of each and his wisdom in counsel. 
 
 When indeed they mingled themselves with the Trojans assembled, 
 
 If they stood, Menelaus’ broad shoulders rose over Ulysses ; 
 
 But when sitting Ulysses presented the nobler appearance. 
 
 When indeed they were giving in public their words and their counsels 
 Truly then Menelaus spoke fluently, clearly, and sweetly, 
 
 Being one of not many words, not a talker at random, 
 
 Though he is younger. But when arose the sagacious Ulysses 
 Motionless stood he, looking down, on the ground his eyes fixing; 
 
 And his staff he did not turn either backward or forward, 
 
 Holding it stiff in his hand and looking like one who knows nothing. 
 You would regard him as one very angry and so without reason. 
 
 When, however, came forth his voice and his words like to snow-flakes 
 Then indeed no mortal man could compare with Ulysses. 
 
 Truly then no longer we thought of his outward appearance.” 
 
 Then, seeing Ajax, the old man inquired, “Who is this other, 
 
102 
 
 HELEN AND THE OLD TROJAN CHIEFS. 
 
 This Achaian man brave-looking and noble of stature ? 
 
 By the head and broad shoulders he towers above all the others.” 
 
 And then answered him flowing-robed Helen, the fairest of women, 
 •‘That is the wall of the Greeks, the huge and terrible Ajax. 
 
 There in the midst of the Cretans I see Idomeneus standing, 
 
 Godlike, and about him the chiefs of the Cretans are gathered. 
 
 Often brave Menelaus as a guest has received him 
 In our house in Sparta when from Crete came the hero. 
 
 But 1 see all the rest of the quick-sighted Greeks and could name them 
 Two yet I look for in vain, my brothers, the sons of my mother, 
 
 Castor, the tamer of steeds, and Pollux, the victor in boxing. 
 
 Did they not come with the chieftains to Troy from dear Lacedaemon ? 
 Or having come in the sea-going ships, do they stay from the battle, 
 Fearing the shames and many reproaches that cling to their sister?” 
 Thus did she say. But now in the bosom of earth lay her brothers, 
 
 Far away in the dear fatherland, their own Lacedaemon. 
 
THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST. 
 
 A GREEK philosopher said that if the greatest absurdity in 
 the world should be repeated to a person every morning 
 when he rises, he will in time come to believe it. But some 
 absurdities are believed without the labor implied in the philos- 
 opher’s remark. Among these is the statement that there can 
 not be more than one first. Some fatuous individual with a 
 high opinion of himself,* whom I hope the world will willingly 
 let die if he still cumbers the earth, one day proclaimed that 
 “ there can not be more than one first,” and the number of 
 persons who have believed him is as yet indefinite. I would 
 not be less charitable toward him than Burns is toward “the 
 De’il,” and “ wad he tak’ a thought and men’,” I should hope 
 that he may “still hae a stake.” But how much charity is re- 
 quired in order to feel this hope ! Think how many he has led 
 astray ! 
 
 This individual — he was too small in mind to be divided — 
 one day found himself among the ordinal numbers, the state of 
 his intellect confining him, no doubt, to a few of the first num- 
 bers. With intense excitement he observed that after “first” he 
 said “second.” His mind became suddenly ablaze with the 
 light of a new idea, and he exclaimed, “ Every body says the 
 two first , when, behold ! there can not be. more than one first ! 
 I will proclaim my discovery to the world.” Which he did. 
 Let us hope that this was one of his first efforts in one of the 
 
 * He was probably the person intended in the following lines : 
 
 Of all speculations the market holds forth, 
 
 The best that I know for a lover of pelf 
 Is to buy up this man at the price he is worth, 
 
 And then sell him at that which he sets on himself. 
 
io4 
 
 “ THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST.” 
 
 first years of his life, made in one of the first hours of the morn- 
 ing, before the first rays of the sun had completely opened his 
 eyes, and before the first songs of the birds entered his ears; 
 and that in the last years of his life he had — more sense. 
 
 To speak more seriously, the confusion of mind concerning 
 the word first is a remarkable thing. Persons who are con- 
 stantly using the word in connection with plural nouns, will say 
 confidently, “ There can not be more than one first.” Indeed 
 it is not an uncommon thing to hear expressions like this, “ In 
 my first articles for the magazine, I used to write ‘ the two first/ 
 not reflecting that there can not be more than one first.” In 
 despair of finding any other solution of this matter, I am 
 tempted to ascribe the whole thing to “ the depravity of human 
 nature.” 
 
 The word first , an adjective in the superlative degree, was 
 pressed into service as a numeral adjective, as a poker may 
 be used to knock down a burglar. But as the poker that has 
 knocked down the burglar is still used to poke the fire, so first, 
 besides its use as a numeral, is still an adjective in the superla- 
 tive degree. To say that there can be but one first is as absurd 
 as to say that a poker is an instrument made to knock down 
 burglars, and that it can not have more than one use. First 
 means “preceding all others of the class or kind,” and we may 
 take one or two or three or more as preceding all others of the 
 class or kind. When we say “the first hours of the day,” we 
 mean the hours that come before all the other hours, and when 
 we say so we are not numbering the hours. 
 
 The Anglo-Saxons made use of other as the second ordinal 
 number. If that usage had come down to us, we might have 
 heard some persons object to such expressions as other men, and 
 assert that there can not be more than one other. 
 
 Malcolm says to the thanes assembled after the death of 
 Macbeth, _ _ , ... 
 
 My thanes and kinsmen, 
 
 Henceforth be earls — the first that ever Scotland 
 In such an honor named. 
 
THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST. 
 
 u 
 
 
 io 5 
 
 If there can be only one first, it must have taken several of 
 those thanes to make one ; which would imply that each of the 
 thanes, Macduff in the number, was only a fraction of a man. 
 When Worcester, speaking of himself, Northumberland, and 
 Hotspur, says to Henry IV., 
 
 We were the first and dearest of your friends, 
 
 the king might have annihilated them and prevented a battle 
 by saying in the sternest tones, 
 
 Learn to speak English ere I treat with you. 
 
 How could you be the first, when you were three ? 
 
 Know that the first is followed by the second, 
 
 As that is by the third. So there can be 
 No more than one first. Hence and quit my sight ! 
 
 Let the earth hide thee — aye, all three of thee! 
 
 If Henry had only known that there can not be more than one 
 first, he might have changed the world’s history! 
 
 Only among English-speaking people has there been found a 
 person who could discover that there can not be more than 
 one first. In this respect our language is like Orator Phillips’s 
 Napoleon, “ grand, gloomy, and peculiar.” Other languages 
 permit a writer to take, without fear of any remonstrance, one 
 object or a group of several objects as first, as coming before 
 the other objects of the class. For instance, Sallust says of 
 Jugurtha, “ Leonem atque alias feras primus aut in primis ferirefi 
 he was the first or among the first to strike the lion and other 
 wild beasts; that is, he was before all the others or among those 
 that were before all the others. The same author says that in 
 the battle in which Catiline was slain, Manlius and the Faesulan 
 fell “ in primis ,” among the first. Horace says, “ prceponens 
 ultima primis ,” placing the last [words] before the first [words]. 
 In the Iliad, Ulysses is about to make a speech, and Minerva, 
 in the form of a herald, commands silence, in order that the 
 first and the last of the Greeks may hear the speech. If there 
 can be only one first and one last, Ulysses must have had a 
 
106 “ THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST.” 
 
 small audience. He might have taken the two out and “ given 
 them a talking ” in private without troubling Minerva. 
 
 To some it may seem that time is wasted when it is spent in 
 proving that there may be more than one first, the thing being 
 so plain; but when hundreds of people repeat this absurdity to 
 us, what are we to do? When we follow reason and our class- 
 ical writers in saying “ the two first,” a large number of people 
 will rise up and say, “ That's wrong; it ought to be the ‘ first 
 two;’ for there can not be more than one first.” O people that 
 have left the ways of truth and soberness, and gone running 
 after a blind guide, what are we to do with you? We can not 
 annihilate you. We can only earnestly beg you to bring out 
 some of your concealed common sense and make use of it on 
 this subject. 
 
 Those who assert that there can not be more than one first 
 also assert that there can not be more than one last, and they 
 accordingly say “the last two” instead of “the two last.” 
 
 In the account of Dido’s death Virgil says, “ dixitque novis- 
 sima verba” she spoke her last words , and then he gives eight 
 verses of last words. Every one knows the last words of Mar- 
 mion, the three last of which are “ On, Stanley, on ! ” 
 
 Those who say “the first two,” “the last two,” have begun 
 to use such expressions as “the following two words,” “the 
 preceding two years,” and other abominations of the kind, as 
 if the whole universe were counted off in twos for a militia- 
 muster.* A correspondent of one of our daily journals, in a 
 spasmodic effort to arrange objects in twos, puts asunder what 
 have been joined together, and, instead of “the two last-named 
 parties,” writes “ the last two parties named.” O mortal to be 
 pitied! To such things hast thou been led by the assertion that 
 there can not be more than one last! To carry out the prin- 
 ciple it will be necessary to say, instead of “the two hand- 
 somest women in the room,” “ the handsomest two women in 
 
 * The first two is correct when we speak of objects arranged in twos, so that 
 after the first two we have a second two, etc. 
 
“ THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST.” 107 
 
 the room;” for there can not be more than one handsomest. 
 Then for similar reasons it will be necessary to say “the most 
 expressive two words,” “the highest two characters,” “the 
 blackest two persons,” “the chief two men,” “the principal' 
 two officers”! 
 
 In the following extracts is shown the usage of those who 
 have not been frightened from their propriety by the assertion 
 that there can not be more than one first : “ The two first and 
 the four tasty — Scott. “The two first verses.” — lb. “The three 
 first monarchies of the world.” — Raleigh . “The seven first cen- 
 turies.” — Gibbon. “The three first years of his reign.” — lb. 
 “ The two first Georges.” — Jeffrey. “A breach of the four first 
 commandments of the decalogue.” — William Cullen Bryant. 
 “The three first stanzas.” — Addison. “The twelve last are to 
 my purpose.” — lb . “The foitr first acts already passed.” — 
 Bishop Berkeley. “The four first acts.” — Sherida?i. “These 
 two last groups.” — Prof. Whitney. “ The two first parliaments 
 of William.” — Macaulay. “ Her six first French kings.” — lb. 
 “The two first requisitions.” — Thomas Hughes. “The five last 
 scenes.” — Moore. “The two first sheets of his poem.” — Sydney 
 Smith. “The three first days of their sitting.” — Swift. “The 
 two last housekeepers.” — Thackeray. “The three first acts of 
 his Hamlet.” — Dickens. “The four greatest names in English 
 poetry are almost the four first we come to.” — Hazlitt. “The 
 two first years.” — Charles Kingsley. “The four first.” — Izaak 
 Walton. “The five first lines of the Iliad.” — Fielding. “The 
 two last may enter Carleton or any other house, and the two 
 first are limited to the opera.” — Byron. “The three first gener- 
 ations.” — Edward Eve?'ett. “The two first years.” — Bancroft. 
 “The two next lines in that ode.” — Johnson. “Procure tran- 
 script of the ten or twenty first lines.” — lb. “The two first 
 days.” — Irving. “The four first centuries.” — Prescott. “The 
 three first of his longer poems.” — Southey. Prof. March says, 
 Forma (first) and other (second, other) are sometimes used in 
 the plural describing a class, and are then arranged as descrip- 
 
108 u THERE CAN NOT BE MORE THAN ONE FIRST.” 
 
 tives;* tha threo f orman gebedu , the three first prayers; twegen 
 othre manfulle, two other malefactors. So in other languages : 
 hepta tas eschatas, Latin, septem novissimas , the seven last 
 [plagues]. — Eng . Bible , Rev. xv, i ; xxi, 9. “ I read to Albert 
 
 the three first cantos of the Lay of the Last Minstrel.” — Queen 
 Victoria , Life in the Highlands , p. 4 6. “ Our two eldest chil- 
 dren.” — /A, pp. 76, 234. “ Two other keepers.” — lb., p. 70. 
 
 “ In den sechs ersten Conjugationen (in the six first conjugations).” 
 Grimm , D. G. 1038. u Les onze premiers chapiires (the 
 eleven first chapters).” — Renan, Hist. Sem. Lang. /, 27. u Las 
 dos primeras partes (the two first parts).” — Don Carlos , quoted in 
 Motley , R. D. R. ILL, 193. u Las cuairo primeras (the four 
 first! — Don Quixote , 353. “/ die ci primi libri (the ten first 
 
 books). — Diez, 3, 436. Anglo-Saxon Grammar, p. 217. 
 
 * Qualifying adjectives following adjectives. 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 I N a Canada magazine there is a notice of “ Butler’s Prac- 
 tical and Critical Grammar,” in which the writer dissents 
 from the-grammar in respect to the form “is being built,” though 
 the notice is in general highly commendatory. The writer says : 
 “Note O (and last) is devoted to 4 is being built,’ Mr. Butler 
 taking the adverse side. It is a pity grammarians can not 
 understand that a grammar can no more put a stop to the 
 growth of a living language than a German emperor could 
 change a dead one. Whether this form is found in the best 
 writers or not, one thing is certain, it has become rooted in 
 English speech, meeting what was felt to be a want. It would 
 be far better for writers to examine the laws of its formation 
 than to take a prejudiced stand on either side. There is a law 
 governing the use of auxiliaries, and that law will allow of this 
 form, but not of many of the forms quoted on page 102 from 
 Mason’s English Grammar. If this should meet the eye of 
 Mr. Butler, let him examine for the rule. We have never seen 
 it given in any grammar, yet he (Mr. Butler) has in one case 
 called a violation of it ‘a vulgarism.’” In a note the writer 
 says, “'Is being taught’ is used by the Rev. E. A. Abbott, the 
 author of 'A Shakespearian Grammar’ and other almost unri- 
 valled works on English. That a distinct form for the pro- 
 gressive passive is needed will be recognized by any one who 
 pays attention to the speech of uneducated persons and of chil- 
 dren. How common is the substitute use of the middle in 
 getting.’ This morning I heard a little four -year -old say, 
 ‘while I was getting washed.’” 
 
no 
 
 SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 Now to represent getting as a substitute for being is like repre- 
 senting ale as a substitute for the orange-peel and water of Dick 
 Swiveller’s Marchioness. The little four-year-old used an ap- 
 propriate word. Getting, as the child used the word, means 
 becoming, coming to be, not being . The little fellow was acquiring 
 the condition expressed by washed, not yet being in it. Words- 
 worth says, “The boy is father of the man;” the man who is to 
 be the son of that boy will never say “is being washed” or “is 
 being built,” unless he should prove to be one of those grace- 
 less wretches who show no respect for their parents. The man 
 who is under the hands of the barber is getting shaved, but being 
 shaved he walks out of the shop. Horace was getting rid of 
 the bore when he was witnessing the arrest, but being rid of him 
 he continued his walk. 
 
 When the reverened author of “A Shakespearian Grammar” 
 uses “is being taught” to denote progressive action he does 
 what Shakespeare never did. Shakespeare says, 
 
 We but teach 
 
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught , return 
 To plague the inventor. 
 
 Does Shakespeare mean to imply that the bloody instructions 
 “are being taught” while they are returning to plague the in- 
 ventor? Does he mean to tell us that the teaching is going on, 
 not completed? Antony, furious when he sees the messenger 
 of Caesar kissing the hand of Cleopatra, cries out, 
 
 Whip him, fellows, 
 
 Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face 
 And cry aloud for mercy. Being whipped , 
 
 Bring him again. 
 
 Did Antony order his servants to bring the messenger while 
 they were whipping him? When he was started on his way 
 back to Antony, the messenger was under the impression that 
 the whipping had been done, unless indeed his skin was harder 
 than even the skull of the colored person who when a thunder- 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 bolt struck him scratched his head doubtfully, with the passing 
 remark, “ I thought I felt something hit my head.” When Bas- 
 sanio says, 
 
 These things being bought and orderly bestowed , 
 
 Return in haste, 
 
 does he direct Leonardo to return in haste while he is buying 
 and bestowing the things ? 
 
 Falstciff \ These nine in buckram that 
 I told thee of, their points being broken , — 
 
 Poins. Down fell their hose. 
 
 Does Poins mean that the hose fell before the points that held 
 them up were broken? 
 
 In Tennyson’s “ Holy Grail” King Arthur says to the knights 
 that have vowed to go in quest of the holy cup, 
 
 Go, since your vows are sacred, being made. 
 
 And afterward to those that have returned he says, 
 
 The king must guard 
 
 That which he rules, and is but as the hind 
 To whom a space of land is given to plough, 
 
 Who may not wander from the allotted field 
 Before his work be done ; but, being done , 
 
 Let visions of the night or of the day 
 Come as they will. 
 
 Being denotes actual existence in the state expressed by the 
 word with which it is connected, not coming into existence. 
 Being when referring to present time has the same meaning 
 that is has; being , the participle, assuming what is , the indica- 
 tive, asserts. Compare these two sentences: “He is wealthy, 
 and he can afford to do this;” “ Being wealthy, he can afford to 
 do this.” Here by employing is we assert that he is wealthy, 
 and by employing being we assume that he is wealthy. Each of 
 the sentences expresses present existence in the state denoted 
 
112 
 
 SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 by wealthy , not coming into that state. In other words, the dif- 
 ferences between asserting and assuming is all the difference 
 between is and being. Being does not denote coming to be any 
 more than is denotes coming to be. Imogen says to Belarius, 
 
 I have a kinsman who 
 
 Is bound for Italy ; he embarked at Milford ; 
 
 To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, 
 
 I am fallen in this offence. 
 
 Macbeth, referring to the ghost of Banquo, says, 
 
 Unreal mockery, hence! Why, so; being gone, 
 
 I am a man again. 
 
 In the first of these passages is expressed something con- 
 tinuing, in the second something completed; but being has the 
 same meaning in the one that it has in the other; it denotes 
 existence in the state denoted by the word with which it is 
 connected. 
 
 If instead of an adjective we use a participle after is and 
 being , there is no change made in the meaning of either of 
 them, being still assuming the same thing that is asserts. “ The 
 letter is written, and I will now seal it;” “The letter being 
 written, I will now seal it.” Here being as well as is denotes 
 actual existence in the state expressed by written , is asserting 
 and being assuming. If we say “The letter is being written” 
 we do nothing but assert and assume at the same time; as 
 if we should say “The letter is written being written.” If 
 it is true that “the house is being built,” then it is time 
 for the workmen to go home; for the house is built being 
 built; though to ordinary mortal eyes nothing may be visi- 
 ble except a foundation or mayhap a row or two of bricks 
 besides. 
 
 Built , written , finished , done , and all words of this kind 
 denote completed states, and being used with any of them 
 denotes existence in the completed state. 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 IJ 3 
 
 The discussion may be brought down to this single point: 
 Does being denote in the participial form what be and is de- 
 note in other forms ? Does being denote existing, as be denotes 
 exist and is denotes exists ? The objection to is being built is 
 that being does not denote coming to be, which it must mean 
 if the expression is correct. If is does not denote coming to 
 be, and being does not denote coming to be, and built does not 
 denote coming be, how can is being built denote coming to be ? 
 
 But some persons confuse themselves by speaking of the 
 “ progressive ” being . A writer who is in general very clear- 
 headed says, “ Being built is made up of two elements, (i) being, 
 which is present, continuous, and (2) built, which is perfect, 
 complete.” Here he has the correct idea of the meaning of 
 being. It denotes a continuous state; but however prolonged 
 the state may be, it is still the same state, the state of being, 
 not of becoming. A little further on the writer has the “pro- 
 gressive” being. He has changed from continuous to progressive, 
 as if these two words denoted the same thing, whereas progress- 
 ive denotes not continuance in the same state, but change from 
 one state to another. The word which a moment ago denoted 
 existence in connection with a certain state has gone back, and 
 now denotes non-existence, mere progress toward existence. In 
 this change the word being has made a progress backward. The 
 shower of rain pouring upon us changes suddenly to the little 
 cloud rising in the west. The fire blazing before us sinks back 
 to a lucifer match and a possibility. Our wishes influence our 
 judgments, and we may be so intensely anxious to have an 
 elephant that we may come to regard our mule as being the 
 same thing as an elephant. 
 
 It is said that the form is being built meets “what was felt 
 to be a want,” that it came “ of necessity and by growth into 
 existence,” that “ it had doubtless existed in speech long before 
 it showed itself in literature.” This form did not originate in 
 a call for it. Our classical writers had gone on from generation 
 to generation without feeling any need of such form as is being 
 
 10 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 114 
 
 built. The need of this expression was not felt by Shakespeare, 
 or Bacon, or Ben Jonson, or Beaumont and Fletcher, or Flooker, 
 or Hobbes, or Clarendon, or Jeremy Taylor, or Milton, or Dry- 
 den, or Dr. Johnson, or Cowper, or Young, or Thomson, or 
 Swift, or Pope, or Steele, or Addison, or Burke, or Pitt, or Fox, 
 or Goldsmith, or Sheridan, or Sterne, or Hume, or Gibbon, or 
 Robertson, or Paley, or Blackstone, or Locke, or Newton, or 
 Fielding, or Smollett, or Richardson, or Irving, or Macaulay. 
 The remark has been made that Chatterton’s poems might have 
 been shown to be forgeries by their containing the word its, 
 which was not in use in the fifteenth century. Tennyson in his 
 “ Queen Mary ” attributes to Sir Thomas White, Lord Mayor 
 of London, language that was never used by him or any of his 
 contemporaries — “ While this same marriage question was being 
 argued .” In other places Tennyson employs the gerund in a 
 passive sense. “ Philip . Simon, is supper ready? Renard. Ay, 
 my liege, I saw the cover laying .” Green in his “ History of 
 the English People ” says, “ ‘ Irishmen/ wrote one of the lord 
 justices to Cromwell, ‘were never in such fear as now. The 
 king’s sessions are being kept in five shires more than formerly.’ ” 
 Now, we will wager our finest castle in Spain that the lord jus- 
 tice never wrote that to Cromwell or to any other person. In 
 the first place, are kept would have expressed his idea; and in 
 the second place, he had no knowledge of any such phrase as 
 are being kept. 
 
 The form is being built was not introduced because any one 
 felt the want, but because some one “ could not tell a lie.” An 
 ardent lover of truth was one day struck with the thought that 
 when we say “the house is building” we tell a lie, making the 
 house a mason or a carpenter. A strong imagination may per- 
 haps form some idea of the agony of his soul. “How can 
 we,” he cried, “how can we thus lead the world astray and 
 hope to be saved?” In desperation he seized upon is being 
 built and he never again made any one believe that houses 
 build. 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 IT 5 
 
 One gentleman says that the fact that Shakespeare, Irving, 
 Macaulay, and others of the same class did not use this modern 
 form does not prove that we should not use it any more than 
 the fact that these worthies did not ride on railways or write by 
 telegraph proves that we, their more fortunate descendants, 
 should not enjoy these improvements. Irving and Macaulay 
 did “ride on railways’" and did “write by telegraph,” and many 
 others have done the same, and yet have refused to corrupt the 
 language by the use of the barbarous form is being built . The 
 fact that we ride on railways and write by telegraph does not 
 prove that we may adopt any proposed innovation in language. 
 Our forefathers used flour for making bread, and flour was 
 found to be very good for this purpose; but some innovator 
 comes to the conclusion that sawdust is much better. An ob- 
 jector to sawdust may say, “Our forefathers used flour for 
 making bread, and they had wholesome reasons for using this 
 material.” “But,” says the advocate for sawdust, “our fore- 
 fathers did not ride on railways nor write by telegraph; and 
 their use of flour does not prove that we, their more fortunate 
 descendants, shall not use sawdust.” A philosopher proposes 
 that we shall get our sunbeams from cucumbers, and a cautious 
 individual says, “ Our forefathers always got their sunbeams from 
 the blessed sun himself, and on the whole we prefer the old way.” 
 “ How can you be so old-fogyish ! ” exclaims the man of cucum- 
 bers. “Our forefathers never rode on railways or wrote by 
 telegraph, and you must therefore see the absurdity of depend- 
 ing on the sun for sunbeams. So cucumbers forever! and out 
 with the sun! The sun may do for old fogies, but the ‘pro- 
 gressives’ demand cucumbers. A fig for your natural philoso- 
 phy and your astronomy ! give us cucumbers ! ” 
 
 But not only was the form is being built unknown to our 
 forefathers, but it is avoided by all modern writers who aim at 
 a classical style. Take this passage at random from Hallam’s 
 “History of Literature”: “The laity might have remained in 
 as gross ignorance as before, while topics so removed from 
 
ii 6 
 
 SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 common utility were treated in an unknown tongue.” Were 
 treated would be in the new style were being treated . Here is 
 Motley’s “Rise of the Dutch Republic;” let us open the first 
 volume at random: “The Netherlands still remained faithful to 
 the empire. Batavian blood was still poured out in its defense.” 
 New style, was being poured. “The Netherlands are succes- 
 sively or simultaneously trampled by Franks, Vandals, Alaric.” 
 New style, are being trampled. “The Netherlands, like the other 
 provinces of the great monarch’s domain, were governed by 
 crown-appointed functionaries.” New style, were being governed. 
 “There was no redress against the lawless violence to which 
 they were perpetually exposed .” New style, were being perpetually 
 exposed. “At the very epoch when the greatness of Burgundy 
 was most swiftly ripening another weapon was secretly forging. 
 New style, was secretly being forged. Here is the third volume 
 of Prescott’s “Ferdinand and Isabella;” let us open it at ran- 
 dom : “ From the moment that the French forces had descended 
 into Lombardy the eyes of all Italy were turned with breath- 
 less expectation on Gonsalvo and his army in Italy.” New 
 style, were being turned. “ The soldiers loudly complained that 
 their general found treasures to squander on foreigners, while 
 his own troops were defrauded of their pay.” New style, were 
 being defrauded of their pay. “ Care was taken at the same time 
 to secure a party in the French councils to the interests of Fer- 
 dinand.” New style, was being taken. “Ferdinand had no 
 better fortune at Venice, where his negotiations were conducted 
 by Lorenzo Suarez de la Vega.” New style, were being con- 
 ducted. “But the republic was too sorely pressed by the Turk- 
 ish war to allow leisure for other operations.” New style, was 
 being pressed. The suggestions of the Spanish envoy received 
 additional weight from the report of a considerable armament 
 then equipping in the port of Malaga.”* New style, being 
 
 *“An act not less horrible was perpetrating in Eskdale.” — Macaulay. “The near- 
 est chapel where divine service was performing — Macaulay. “This new tragedy 
 was acting .” — Edward Everett. “ Which have been made or are making.” — Henry 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 117 
 
 equipped. “In consequence of these inducements some of Gon- 
 salvo’s men were found to desert every day, while those who 
 remained were becoming hourly more discontented.” Why did 
 not Prescott write were being hourly more discontented l Simply 
 because he knew that being denotes being (present existence), 
 not coming to be. It might be said that the advocates of the 
 new style would hardly write “were being hourly more discon- 
 tented.” But this would be a rash assertion. Some of them 
 are like Horace’s painter, who, believing himself to be skillful 
 in painting cypress -trees, wished to put cypress -trees even in 
 the painting of a shipwreck. A story is related that a certain 
 preacher was accustomed to scatter through the manuscript of 
 his sermons, as a sort of stage direction, “ Cry here.” Some 
 writers seem to be always looking out for a place into which 
 they can thrust is being. They are as much charmed with is 
 being as Sir Andrew Ague-cheek was with the three words of 
 Viola, and they are forever getting is being ready for use. Like 
 Mrs. Sanders in the trial of Mr. Pickwick, they keep their 
 thumbs on the springs of their umbrellas, ready to put them up 
 on the slightest provocation. 
 
 To prove the truth of the statement, let us open this news- 
 paper. Here we find such as the following: “The same old 
 plays of years ago are constantly being taken down from the 
 dusty shelves of the manager’s room.” “It has long been 
 known by the department at Washington that contraband goods 
 were being constantly landed at San Francisco.” “These men 
 
 Clay . “ The whilst this play is playing .” — Shakespeare. “ I saw that a way was 
 
 opening for the establishment of real liberty, that a foundation was laying for the 
 deliverance of man.” — Milton. “ While the temple of the Lord was building .” — 
 Milton. “ Designs are carrying on against their liberties.” — Locke. “He begged 
 the honor of his Majesty’s accepting a dinner while his carriage was repairing , and 
 while the dinner was preparing begged leave to amuse his Majesty with a collection 
 of pictures .” — Horace Walpole. “While this necessary movement row — 
 
 Janies Fennimore Cooper. “An attempt is making in the English Parliament.” 
 — Daniel Webster. “ While these things were transacting in England.” — Bancroft. 
 “While innocent blood was shedding under the forms of justice Parliament met.” — 
 Macaulay. “ There is always mason’s work doing.” — Ruskin. “ The excellent edi- 
 tion of Shakespeare now publishing in Boston .” — George P. Marsh. “Now that the 
 deed is done or doing.” — Coleridge. “The fortress was building .” — Irving. 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 1 18 
 
 that are now being prosecuted and investigated.” “The effort 
 is being made to stir up strife between the Protestant and Roman 
 Catholic churches.” “ Examinations are being held in the Ro- 
 man Catholic schools this week.” “Nine persons have been 
 baptized since the commencement of the revival which is being 
 conducted by the Rev. Mr. C.” “ He takes a lively interest in 
 
 whatever subject is being discitssed before him.” “Work on the 
 new German Catholic church is being pushed forward rapidly.” 
 “ This is a part of the general attack that is being 7nade against 
 him by those who fear his nomination.” “ R. thought we 
 might better dispense with obituaries, have them published in 
 the transactions without being read before the society, or else 
 observe due decorum while they were being read.” “The gospel 
 meetings are being well attended .” “This movement is being 
 very much more talked of than is generally supposed.” “The 
 Evening Post says it is being rumored in well-informed circles in 
 this city.” “The translation of the ‘Sacred Books of the East/ 
 under the editorship of Prof. Max Mueller, is now being actively 
 begun.” The writer evidently meant by this that the translation 
 is actively begun; but his fondness for is being was, in the lan- 
 guage of one of Dickens’s characters, “ too many for him.” 
 If these extracts are read without being, it will be seen that no 
 being is needed in any of them. As Sir Lucius O’Trigger says 
 of Mrs. Malaprop’s words, being as used in such passages as these 
 “would get its habeas corpus from any court in Christendom.” 
 In some of them the verbs themselves denote continuous 
 action; in others the context shows that continuous action is 
 meant. If we say that a thing is continually done, we need no 
 being to show that the doing is continued. 
 
 In a recent speech John Bright pathetically said, “For me 
 the final chapter is now writing; it may be already written.” 
 Suppose he had said, “For me the final chapter is now being 
 written; it may already be written.” In that case we could 
 almost wish that chapter to be done being written. Othello 
 says of Cassio, “I would have him nine years a killing.” If 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 n 9 
 
 he had said, “ I would have him nine years a being killed ,” who 
 would say that he killed himself a day too soon? 
 
 One gentleman in effect takes the position that emphasis on 
 being in the expression being built changes the meaning of being, 
 so that that which with the emphasis on built denoted a com- 
 pleted state now denotes merely progress toward that state. 
 But emphasis does not change the meaning of a word; it only 
 makes the meaning more prominent. No one knows this better 
 than the accomplished gentleman himself. But “ company, vil- 
 lainous company, hath been the spoil of him” — there is none 
 of us that has not at some time been led astray in language as 
 well as other things by villainous company — and his ear has 
 become so accustomed to hearing the word being used in a 
 “ progressive ” sense that that sense continually thrusts itself 
 upon him. Though he should drive it out with a pitchfork, 
 that sense will continually run back. Take this sentence: “The 
 fire should not have been kindled; but bemg kindled (since it is 
 kindled), it must burn on.” Here being kindled, with the em- 
 phasis on being, certainly denotes a completed action, and em- 
 phasis from the lungs of Stentor himself could not change the 
 meaning of being. Emphasis is regulated by the context or 
 other circumstance, and it never changes the meaning of the 
 emphatic words. The gentleman gives another illustration : 
 “ Have built, with the emphasis on built , is a simple perfect; 
 have built, with emphasis on have is a present causative. Com- 
 pare the house which I had built with the house which I had 
 built — the one pluperfect, the other simple past.” In this it is 
 implied that emphasis on has or had gives the word a causative 
 signification. “I wish you would read this book. Why, I 
 have read it.” “They wished me to build a new house; but I 
 thought that the house which I had built was good enough.” 
 Does emphasis on have and had in such sentences as these give 
 a causative signification to these words? 
 
 In “ the house is building” what is the nature of the word 
 building ? It is a gerund, a verbal noun. A gerund merely 
 
120 
 
 SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 presents in the form of a noun what is denoted by the verb, 
 and whether a gerund in any passage is active or passive is de- 
 termined by the context. Beatrice, speaking of Benedict, says, 
 “ I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? 
 But how many hath' he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all 
 of his killing.” Here killing is active in sense. When Cassius 
 learns that Brutus during their quarrel knew of the terrible 
 death of Portia he exclaims, “ How ’scaped I killing when I 
 crossed you so ! ” Here killing has a passive sense. Luciana 
 in “The Comedy of Errors,” believing that she is speaking to 
 the husband of her sister, says : 
 
 And may it be that you have quite forgot 
 A husband’s office? Shall unkind debate 
 Even in the spring of love thy love-springs rot ? 
 
 Shall love in building grow so ruinate ? 
 
 In this passage building is passive in sense. Horatio says, 
 
 If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing 
 And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft. 
 
 Here the two gerunds playing and detecting are used in a pas- 
 sive sense. The assertion may seem rash, but I will venture 
 to make it, that among all who attended at the performance of 
 “Hamlet,” including Queen Elizabeth, the courtiers, and the 
 citizens, there was not one who believed that Horatio was rep- 
 resenting the play as about to go upon the stage as one of the 
 actors. 
 
 The gerund had originally the preposition on expressed be- 
 fore it. On became o’, which is so often used for on by Shakes- 
 peare; and in rapid pronunciation o’ could not be distinguished 
 from a , which became established as a preposition. “The 
 house is on building ” became “The house is o’ building’’ “The 
 house is a building’’ “The house is building , building in this last 
 form being the object of a preposition understood. The prep- 
 osition in, which in Anglo-Saxon is another form of on, has 
 been used; as, “Forty and six years was this temple in build - 
 
SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 121 
 
 ingP — English Bible . “ Whilst these sentences are in reading .” — 
 Book of Common Pi'ayer . “ The preliminaries were not long in 
 
 arranging, .” — Lever . “ While Tenderden Steeple was in build- 
 
 ingP — Bishop Latimer. “ It is reported to have taken a year 
 in erecting .” — -John Evelyn. 
 
 The modern innovation was for some time confined to the 
 present and past tenses; but one recent grammarian dashes 
 without any “ mitigation or remorse of voice ” through all the 
 tenses : “ I am being smitten, I have been being smitten, I was 
 being smitten, I had been being smitten, I shall be being smit- 
 ten, I shall have been being smitten, I should be being smitten, 
 I should have been being smitten, etc.” — English Grammar, by 
 C. P. Mason , B.A., Fellow of the University College , London. 
 
 One advocate of is being built says, “When the form first 
 showed itself in literature is immaterial; it had doubtless long 
 before existed in speech.” It sometimes happens that language 
 is corrupted by what some seem to consider a kind of deity, 
 Common Speech. This Common Speech may introduce such 
 corruptions as most for almost , way for away ; but Common 
 Speech does not change “the Miss Browns” to “the Misses 
 Brown.” It is easy to see that it is French Affectation, not 
 Common Speech, that strives to introduce this corruption. 
 Common Speech is not for ever looking out for opportunities 
 to make changes. Would Common Speech, which has from 
 generation to generation said “ the first hours of the day,” “ the 
 first years of his life,” have made the discovery that there can 
 be but one first? 
 
 Some are greatly charmed with the idea of the growth of 
 language. It is not all change that is growth, unless we have 
 such a thing as growth downward. In the decline of the Latin 
 language, which kept pace with the decline of the Latin people, 
 the innovators contended that the changes introduced were the 
 result of growth. When the name Valens was not considered 
 strong enough and grew to Valentins, Valentinus, and Valentini- 
 anus the Romans thought that these changes indicated growth. 
 
122 
 
 SOME VERBAL FORMS. 
 
 When the classical language of Cicero, Virgil, and Horace was 
 becoming corrupted (that is, was being corrupted) by rhetoricians 
 and courtiers the innovators contended that the language must 
 grow, and it did grow — in a certain direction. The first empe- 
 ror in Rome was Augustus, the last was Augustulus (Little 
 Augustus); so the lingua Latina by the process of growth be- 
 came what may be called the lingua Latinula . When John 
 Lyly was introducing his affectations into the English language 
 he regarded himself as promoting the growth of the language. 
 When the young courtier Osric was pouring forth his euphuisms 
 he no doubt looked on Hamlet “ as far behind the age.” When 
 men in their preaching brought in their “ crumbs of comfort 
 baked in the oven of charity for the chickens of the church, 
 the sparrows of the spirit, and the sweet swallows of salvation” 
 they thought they were contributing to the growth of the lan- 
 guage. The expression “ idiomatic life and growth” is sono- 
 rous, but it may sometimes be merely a convenient euphemism 
 for corruption and decay. Change in itself is not a good, but 
 an evil. The greater the changes we make in our language, 
 the greater strangers do we make of the great writers in our 
 language; and it is on account of this fact that Milton esteems 
 worthy of so great honor “the man who strives to establish 
 in maxims and rules the method and habit of speaking and 
 writing derived from a good age of the nation, and, as it were, 
 to fortify the same round with a kind of wall, the daring to 
 overleap which a law only short of that of Romulus should 
 be used to prevent.” 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 AMONG the works of art at the Centennial Exposition in 
 Philadelphia was Maclise’s painting of the Banquet-scene 
 in “ Macbeth.’’ In that painting Lady Macbeth is represented 
 as a large and masculine woman, looking as if she could and 
 would bear down every thing before her. With one hand she 
 holds down Macbeth, and with the other she commands the 
 guests to keep their seats. She looks like one whose requests 
 are commands. This painting sets forth the idea generally 
 entertained of Lady Macbeth, which is thus expressed by 
 Steevens: “ Shakespeare has supported the character of Lady 
 Macbeth by repeated efforts, and never omits an opportunity 
 of adding a trait of ferocity, or a mark of the want of human 
 feelings, to the monster of his own creation. The softer pas- 
 sions are more obliterated in her than in her husband, in 
 proportion as her ambition is greater. She meets , him here on 
 his arrival from an expedition of danger with such a salutation 
 as would become one of his friends or vassals; a salutation 
 apparently fitted rather to raise his thoughts to a level with her 
 own purposes than to testify her joy at his return or manifest 
 an attachment to his person; nor does any expression of love 
 or softness fall from her throughout the play; whilst Macbeth 
 himself, amidst the horrors of his guilt, still retains a character 
 less fiend-like than that of his queen, talks to her with a degree 
 of tenderness, and pours his complaints and fears into her 
 bosom, accompanied with terms of endearment.” Mrs. Siddons 
 and Mrs. Jameson make her a less hateful character; but both 
 represent ambition as her ruling passion. My opinion is that 
 
 ( I2 3> 
 
124 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 her ruling passion is love for her husband, a love carried to 
 such excess that all other feelings are subdued to it. A thing 
 that is good when properly regulated may become a great evil 
 when in excess ; an excess of rain destroys the crop to which a 
 moderate amount of rain is absolutely necessary; sunshine is 
 necessary to plants, but an excess of sunshine kills them. He- 
 rodotus says of the Atarantes, a people of Lybia, “They curse 
 the sun when at his height and rail at him with all kinds of 
 abusive words, because he burns and destroys both the men 
 and their country.” Humanity is liable to 
 
 “The o’ergrowth of some complexion 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason.’’ 
 
 In her castle at Inverness Lady Macbeth has in the absence 
 of her husband led a lonely life. She has no newspapers to 
 excite an interest in what is going on in the outer world. She 
 hears of nothing but what couriers from her husband tell her 
 of his valiant deeds. In the morning she awakes to think of 
 him. At the board her thoughts are on him who used to fill 
 the place now vacant. If she walks out on the walls, it is to 
 peer into the distance for some courier from her husband. He 
 is her world. 
 
 One day while she is anxiously looking out a courier arrives 
 in sweaty haste and delivers her a letter. She seizes it, reads 
 the account of his success in the battle and of the meeting with 
 the weird sisters on the blasted heath. The letter contains a 
 description of the appearance of these beings, mentioning them 
 afterward as “ these weird sisters,” which shows that they have 
 been already described. The part of the letter which she reads 
 at her first appearance is not the part which contains the first 
 mention of the prophecy that Macbeth is to be king. “ When 
 I burned in desire to question them further ” shows that the 
 writer has already related what took place before they “ made 
 themselves air.” She has read the letter before, perhaps more 
 than once; and other letters have passed between them since 
 
LADY MACBETH. I 25 
 
 the first reading. She says that she has received letters , not 
 merely a letter about her husband 7 s becoming king: 
 
 Thy letters have transported me beyond 
 
 This ignorant present, and I feel now 
 
 The future in the instant. 
 
 In one letter he informed her of his intention to kill the 
 king at a certain time and place, and she, feeling from her 
 knowledge of his irresolute character that the attempt would 
 end in failure, probably remonstrated with him in her reply. 
 “Nor time nor place did then adhere 77 refers to the time of his 
 writing or to the time he had selected for the execution of his 
 purpose. She may at first have tried to divert him from his 
 intention to commit murder. However this may be, she sees 
 that his resolution is fixed, and that he will never be satisfied 
 till he shall be king. She knows that he is irresolute, that he 
 will make himself miserable by longing for that which he will 
 not “catch the nearest way 77 to attain. Her affection makes 
 her give a favorable coloring to his character, and she calls his 
 irresolution “the milk of human kindness . 77 But nowhere in 
 his whole course does “the milk of human kindness 77 show 
 itself. He murders men, women, and children — whoever 
 stands in his way. When he hesitates it is from fear of the 
 consequences; he fears that the “bloody instructions 77 will 
 “return to plague the inventor ; 77 he fears that it will not be 
 “done when 7 t is done ; 77 that “the assassination 77 will not “tram- 
 mel up the consequence . 77 If he could be saved from the 
 consequences “here, upon this bank and shoal of time , 77 he 
 would disregard “the life to come . 77 When he thinks of the 
 virtues of Duncan he fears that the love which the character of 
 the good king has gained will be fraught with dangerous conse- 
 quences to the murderer, that his virtues will plead like angels 
 trumpet-tongued against the “deep damnation of his taking-off . 77 
 He does not “ catch the nearest way , 77 which is to do the mur- 
 der himself; but he employs agents, and in the houses of the 
 
126 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 thanes he has his spies to tell him whom to kill. Even when 
 he believes that Macduff has no power to harm him he deter- 
 mines to kill him, to “make assurance double sure and take a 
 bond of fate.” And when he finds that Macduff has escaped 
 him he determines to 
 
 Give to the edge of the sword 
 His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
 That trace him in his line. 
 
 When Lady Macbeth finds that her husband is determined 
 to gain the crown by the murder of the king she resolves to 
 give him all the support and assistance in her power, to drive 
 away that torturing irresolution, and make an end of the busi- 
 ness. Her love prevents her from regarding the criminality of 
 the act which her husband has in his thoughts. 
 
 ‘ 1 1 know not, I ask not if guilt ’s in that heart, 
 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.” 
 
 Some have seemed to look upon Lady Macbeth as the first 
 to suggest the murder, but Macbeth’s own mind suggested the 
 crime before he wrote the first letter. Just after the disappear- 
 ance of the witches he says: 
 
 This supernatural soliciting 
 Can not be ill, can not be good ; if ill, 
 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
 
 Commencing in a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor. 
 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 Are less than horrible imaginings. 
 
 My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, 
 
 Shakes so my single state of man that function 
 Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is 
 But what is not. 
 
 “That suggestion” was the murder of his king. This was 
 before Malcolm was named “Prince of Cumberland.” This 
 
LADY MACBETH. 127 
 
 appointment of Malcolm as heir to the crown serves to inten- 
 sify the “ suggestion.” 
 
 The Prince of Cumberland ! That is a step 
 On which I must fall down or else overleap, 
 
 For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; 
 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires ; 
 
 The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. 
 
 He has resolved upon the murder, though his vacillating 
 spirit sometimes leads him to hope that he may become king 
 without the murder; but, whatever means may be necessary, 
 he is determined to be king. The weird sisters are the outward 
 projections of his own murderous thoughts, as the gigantic 
 Spectre of the Brocken is the projection of the form of the 
 person that sees it; they are his thoughts materialized, while to 
 Banquo they are merely external phenomena, bubbles of the 
 earth. 
 
 When she learns that her husband is soon to arrive Lady 
 Macbeth opens again that letter which relates the meeting with 
 the weird sisters. When Charlotte Cushman read this passage : 
 “ When I burned in desire to question them further they made 
 themselves air,” at the word “air” she gave a start which 
 expressed the utmost astonishment; her notion being that this 
 is the first reading of the only letter that the lady has received 
 on the subject of the meeting and the prophetic announcement, 
 though this notion is contrary to Lady Macbeth’s own state- 
 ment that she has received “letters” on the subject. The lady 
 has ambition, no doubt; but her ruling passion is love for her 
 husband. ... . . . 
 
 “In this one passion man can strength enjoy, 
 
 As fits give vigor just when they destroy.” 
 
 She sees well what is wanting in her husband: 
 
 Thou ’dst have, great Glamis, 
 
 That which cries, “Thus thou must do, if thou have it; 
 
 And that which rather thou dost fear to do 
 
128 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 Than wishest should be undone.’ Hie thee hither, 
 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 
 
 And chastise with the valor of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round 
 Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
 To have thee crowned withal. 
 
 Now the messenger enters and announces the coming of the 
 king. Notwithstanding this energetic soliloquy, she is not a 
 strong woman, and she feels that she is not strong. 
 
 Come, you spirits 
 
 That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here. 
 
 “ Unsex me” means “take away all the tender and merciful 
 feelings that belong to my sex, and which I feel belong to me 
 as one of that sex — take away all those feminine feelings that 
 would interfere with my husband’s design of gaining the crown 
 by the murder of him that now wears it.” 
 
 And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full 
 
 Of direst cruelty. 
 
 4 
 
 This implies that she does not consider herself full of direst 
 cruelty. One can not fill a vessel that is already full. She 
 fears that remorse, “the compunctious visitings of nature” may 
 “ shake her full purpose,” or make her pause before the purpose 
 is accomplished. Every thing shows that to free herself from 
 her natural character she has to make great exertions. 
 
 Come to my woman’s breasts 
 And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers, 
 
 Wherever in your sightless substances 
 You wait on nature’s mischief. 
 
 She prays that something outside of herself, the invisible 
 ministers that urge on to murder, may change the tenderness 
 which she feels that as a woman she possesses, to direst cruelty, 
 the milk of human kindness to gall. She calls for the deepest 
 darkness, fearing that the slightest gleam of the knife may 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 I29 
 
 frighten her from her purpose; for she expects, in order to 
 catch the nearest way, to have to do the deed herself. 
 
 Come, thick night, 
 
 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, 
 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, 
 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark 
 To cry “Hold, hold!” 
 
 Now enters Macbeth, and so spasmodic is the effort to screw 
 her courage to the sticking-place that she fails to give him an 
 affectionate reception; she can not relax the tension of her 
 nerves without losing all that up to which she has wrought her- 
 self; she must go impetuously forward; if the fit is checked 
 the vigor is gone. 
 
 When Antonio in “The Tempest ” is suggesting to Sebastian 
 to make himself king by the murder of his brother, the latter 
 pretends that he does not understand, though all the time he 
 cherishes the purpose in his heart. Antonio says to him, 
 
 O! 
 
 If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 
 While you thus mock it ! how in stripping it 
 You more invest it ! 
 
 And the hypocrite talks as if he wished that Ferdinand is 
 not drowned, speaks of Claribel as the heir to the throne of 
 Naples, and mentions conscience. So Macbeth acts the hypo- 
 crite, and when his wife exclaims, 
 
 Great Glamis ! worthy Cawdor ! 
 
 Greater than both by the all-hail hereafter ! 
 
 Thy letters have transported me beyond 
 This ignorant present, and I feel now 
 The future in the instant, 
 
 he affects calmness and an ordinary tone of voice, speaks as if 
 he had never thought of such a thing as murder and hardly 
 knew what it is: 
 
 My dearest love, 
 
 Duncan comes here to-night. 
 
i3° 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 To her question, “And when goes hence ?” he replies, “To- 
 morrow, as he purposes,” as coolly as if he were going to add, 
 “ Perhaps we may induce him to stay longer.” But his wife 
 sees in his face what she fears others may see: 
 
 O ! never shall sun that morrow see ! 
 
 Your face, my thane, is as a book where men 
 May read strange matters. To beguile the time, 
 
 Look like the time. 
 
 Only look up clear; 
 
 To alter favor ever is to fear. 
 
 When after Macbeth’s first soliloquy in his castle his wife 
 enters he makes another hypocritical speech: 
 
 We will proceed no further in this business; 
 
 He hath honored me of late ; and I have bought 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 
 Not cast aside so soon. 
 
 She understands him, knows that his object is to get her 
 support, and she answers with spasmodic vehemence, 
 
 Was the hope drunk 
 
 Wherein you dressed yourself? Hath it slept since? 
 
 And wakes it now to look so green and pale 
 At what it did so freely ? From this time 
 Such I account thy love. Art thou afear’d 
 To be the same in thine own act and valor 
 As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that 
 Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, 
 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem, 
 
 Letting ‘ I dare not ’ wait upon 4 1 would,’ 
 
 Like the poor cat i’ the adage ? 
 
 Like Sebastian, the husband keeps up this transparent 
 hypocrisy : 
 
 Prithee, peace : 
 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more is none. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 !3I 
 
 The lady remembering his declarations of his purpose, 
 becomes disgusted at his talk of what is becoming to a man 
 and exclaims, 
 
 What beast was ’t, then, 
 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 
 When you durst do it, then you were a man ; 
 
 And to be more than what you were, you would 
 Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : 
 
 They have made themselves, and that their fitness now 
 Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know 
 How tender ’t is to love the babe that milks me; 
 
 I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
 
 Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums 
 And dashed the brains out, had I so sworn 
 As you have done to this. 
 
 When the mother says she would dash out the brains of her 
 child she is in a spasm of excitement; she who is deterred 
 from killing the king by his resemblance to her father, and who 
 can say that she knows how tender it is to love the -babe that 
 milks her, is not the woman to dash out the brains of that babe. 
 
 All through this scene runs the idea that Macbeth was the 
 first to suggest the murder; he was so blindly eager to do the 
 murder that he proposed to perpetrate it when time and place 
 were strong both against the deed; to screw his courage to the 
 sticking-place he had taken the strongest oath to do the murder. 
 
 What beast was ’t then 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 
 Nor time nor place 
 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. 
 
 Had I so sworn 
 As you have done to this. 
 
 Both Lady Macbeth and her husband have understood that 
 they are to do the murder together. She says, 
 
 When in swinish sleep 
 Their drenched natures lie as in a death 
 
i3 2 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 What can not yoti and I perform upon 
 The unguarded Duncan ? What not put upon 
 His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt 
 Of our great quell ? 
 
 And Macbeth says: 
 
 Will it not be received 
 
 When we have marked with blood those sleepy two 
 Of his own chamber and used their very daggers, 
 
 That they have done ’ t ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth joins herself with her husband in order to 
 give him resolution by making him feel that he is to have the 
 support of her presence and assistance. This promise to assist 
 in the murder makes him exclaim, 
 
 Bring forth men children only ; 
 
 For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
 Nothing but males. 
 
 The lady does not yet consider herself sufficiently unsexed, 
 and to prepare in herself the requisite degree of boldness and 
 fire, she resorts to intoxication; as the Old Man of the Moun- 
 tain prepared his followers for their murderous deeds by intox- 
 icating them with hasheesh. 
 
 That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold ; 
 
 What hath quenched them hath given me fire. 
 
 With the boldness and fire thus artificially produced, she 
 determines to do the murder herself, in order to save her hus- 
 band as much as possible from the “ compunctious visitings of 
 nature.” She goes into Duncan’s chamber; but as she bends 
 over the sleeping king she sees a likeness to her father, and for 
 a moment she is sexed again. The tender feelings of daugh- 
 terly affection rush to her heart, and she withdraws from the 
 chamber to her husband, whom she tells that she has laid the 
 daggers ready for him and he has nothing to do but strike. 
 While he is about the deed she stands intently listening to 
 every sound. She hears a noise and starts, saying in an ago- 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 *33 
 
 nized whisper, “ Hark ! Peace ! ” But it was only the shriek of 
 the owl. She hears Macbeth, who thinks there is some one in 
 the court, cry out, “ Who 7 s there? what ho!” and she expresses 
 her fear that he has made the attempt and failed. She thinks 
 now it would have been better if she had done the deed, and 
 she makes the resemblance to her father a kind of apology to 
 herself. 
 
 Now Macbeth rushes in and announces that he has done the 
 deed. In the most cowardly manner he whines to make his 
 wife bear his burden. It is too heavy for her, and she sinks 
 under it. She makes every effort to quiet him, and in her 
 anxiety to save him she concentrates all her strength in one 
 exhausting effort, and takes the daggers back to “the place.” 
 Every one feels the profoundest contempt for him who makes 
 his wife thus suffer for him. He has the power to control his 
 feelings, as he shows by his calmness when he conducts Macduff 
 to the door of the fatal chamber ; but before his wife he acts in 
 a manner suited to make her mad. She says : 
 
 A little water clears us of this deed ; 
 
 How easy is it, then ! 
 
 But the blood has sunk into the soul, where no water can 
 reach it. She feels madness approaching: 
 
 These deeds must not be thought 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 She rushes into the place where the excited thanes are dis- 
 cussing the murder, and after a vain effort to disguise her feelings 
 she faints and is carried out; the thoughts of the selfish hus- 
 band are centered on himself, and he pays no attention to her 
 condition. He does not think she is feigning; for, if he did, 
 he would feign to be very much concerned, in order to assist in 
 the deception. 
 
 At her next appearance she sends a message to her husband, 
 now king, that she would attend his leisure for a few words. 
 
*34 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 While she is waiting for him her despair expresses itself in the 
 saddest words : 
 
 Nought ’s had, all ’s spent, 
 
 Where our desire is got without content. 
 
 ’T is safer to be that which we destroy 
 Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. 
 
 But when her husband enters she conceals her pain, like the 
 Spartan boy who suppressed all signs of suffering while the fox 
 was gnawing to his heart. She urges him to forget the past: 
 
 How now, my lord ! Why do you keep alone, 
 
 Of sorriest fancies your companious making; 
 
 Using those thoughts which should indeed have died 
 With them they think on ? Things without all remedy 
 Should be without regard. What ’s done is done. 
 
 She fears that at the banquet which is to be held the coming 
 night he will expose himself : 
 
 ' Come on ; 
 
 Gentle my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks ; 
 
 Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night. 
 
 At the banquet she seats herself on the throne, with the res- 
 olution to support her husband in his efforts to be bright and 
 jovial among his guests. She attempts to act the part of the dig- 
 nified queen; but the mask can not altogether hide the misery 
 behind it. When her husband is betraying himself at sight of 
 the ghost of the murdered Banquo she does all she can to save 
 him; she descends from the throne and remonstrates with him. 
 When she finds that this is ineffectual she hastily dismisses the 
 company, lest he should expose himself more completely. It 
 might be expected that in a fit of vexation she would reproach 
 him for his unmanly conduct; but she utters no reproach, gives 
 no sign of vexation. When he asks her the time of night she 
 answers in a tone the mildness of which makes it sad : 
 
 Almost at odds with morning, which is which. 
 
LADY MACBETH. 
 
 135 
 
 When he asks her what she says about Macduff’s refusing to 
 come to the banquet she says in a tone that shows she has 
 abandoned hope, “Did you send to him, sir?” She has been 
 struck with paralysis of the soul. She lives no longer in the 
 world around her; but in the affliction of her terror what 
 passes as her life is spent in living over that dreadful night. 
 The past is her present. That sleep-walking scene, the most 
 terribly sublime in all literature, tells the tale. We are now 
 prepared for that dreadful cry of women and for “The queen, 
 my lord, is dead.” 
 
FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 
 
 I F a menagerie containing some very remarkable animals 
 should arrive in our city, all who take any interest in the 
 works of nature would hasten to visit it. They would pull out 
 their “dimes” and distribute them cheerfully among their chil- 
 dren, admonishing the little ones to learn all in their power 
 about the appearance and habits of the animals, and consider 
 the “dimes” exceedingly well spent. Let us suppose an adver- 
 tisement of a menagerie of this kind. We can imagine one 
 that would be expressed in words like these — for the exhibitors 
 of menageries sometimes use rather lofty language : 
 
 “THE WONDER OF THE WORLD!! 
 
 Grand and Sublime Attraction ! 
 
 The Most Stupendous Menagerie the World has ever seen ! ! 
 
 “ Messrs. Caraboy & Expense will exhibit to the Louisville 
 public on the 29th proximo their wonderful and unrivaled men- 
 agerie, comprising the greatest marvels of creation ! 
 
 “Among the wonders in their collection is a lion ! unlike 
 every other lion that has been exhibited in our country, both in 
 appearance and habits. It is so terrible in appearance that it is 
 obliged to hide itself in its den when it waits for its prey to 
 approach. Its head is armed with very remarkable flexible 
 horns terrible to behold. If any of the animals on which it 
 preys venture to look into its den they are doomed. It seizes 
 them furiously between its flexible horns and ferociously sucks 
 all the juice from their bodies. If its prey attempts to escape, 
 the lion, wonderful and incredible as the statement may seem, 
 actually discharges at the escaping animal a volley of stones 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 137 
 
 and earth, a full supply of which it keeps constantly on hand. 
 At the entrance of the den might be appropriately written the 
 inscription which Dante has placed over the gates of hell, “ Let 
 him that enters here abandon all hope ! 57 The carcasses of its 
 unhappy victims it throws out of its den that others may not be 
 deterred from entering the cave of this Giant Despair. But the 
 limits of an advertisement will not permit us to enter into a 
 fuller description of this terrible lion. Books giving a complete 
 account of its habits, etc., will be offered for sale on the day of 
 exhibition. ......... 
 
 “ One of the most wonderful objects in this wonderful col- 
 lection is an animal with immensely long arms, which has the 
 power of erecting the fore part of its body and extending its 
 arms in the attitude of prayer. Its sanctimonious aspect has 
 made it in some countries the object of religious veneration. 
 
 “We give these only as samples of the marvels of this most 
 wonderful of all menageries. The largest volume would be 
 insufficient to describe the collection. There are other facts 
 connected with these animals which the proprietors hesitate to 
 mention, lest the apparent incredibility of the facts should deter 
 the public from visiting the collection. Yet, with truth on their 
 side, they will run the risk. The wonderful lion they have 
 mentioned in about two years from its first appearance actually 
 takes wings and flies away ! a total change having been made 
 in its appearance and habits ! ! 
 
 “During the stay of this menagerie it is hoped that every 
 man, woman, and child in the city will visit it, that all may learn 
 what a wonderful world is that which they inhabit!” 
 
 We must suppose this advertisement garnished with an indef- 
 inite number of capital letters and notes of admiration ad libitum. 
 With all this it would tell nothing but the truth in regard to the 
 wonders of the animal kingdom. The lion the entomologist will 
 recognize as the myrmeleon formicaleo , or ant-lion; the other is 
 the mantis. There are wonders throughout creation — it is not 
 the telescope alone that discloses them. The same Great Being 
 
 12 
 
138 EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 
 
 with one hand throws a world into infinite space, and with the 
 other sows the seeds of life in a drop of water. To be filled 
 with admiration of the Creator, it is not necessary to look 
 through the telescope, when world after world flashes upon the 
 eye; nor to look through the microscope, which transforms a 
 drop of water into a world. We have only to open our eyes. 
 
 The ant-lion is so common an insect in our country, and so 
 remarkable in its habits, that I will undertake to give some 
 account of it. How many boyish hours have I spent calling, 
 “ Doodle! doodle !” over the funnel-shaped holes of these 
 insects! In German universities, for one student to call an- 
 other dumme junge , stupid youngster, is equivalent to a challenge. 
 The ant-lion, in this point, is a German student. If you call 
 him a doodle, or simple fellow, you call him out, and he pre- 
 pares to shoot. 
 
 This insect seems to be one of the most helpless beings in 
 existence. He lives on the juices of other animals, particularly 
 of ants; and yet he can not advance a step toward them. He 
 can move only backward, and that very slowly. Besides, he is 
 an epicure and will taste of no animal except such as he has 
 himself killed. What is he to do ? The ants are not likely to 
 run to his ugly embrace; and if he himself moves, he can only 
 “back out.” But this backward motion at last enables him to 
 reach his object; though, it must be confessed, in a roundabout 
 way. He chooses a spot suitable for his purpose, and then by 
 a circular, retrograde movement, traces out a circular furrow; 
 then placing himself on the inside of this furrow, he thrusts 
 under the sand the hind part of his body, which is pointed 
 like a plowshare; he uses one of his fore legs as a shovel, and 
 throws the sand on his flat head ; then by a quick motion of his 
 head he throws the sand off to a distance. The whole process 
 is very much like digging a cellar among the race of men. He 
 has his plow and his shovel, using his head as a kind of cart. 
 The little stones he places upon his head, and jerks out as he 
 does the sand. If he should meet with one too heavy to be 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 139 
 
 disposed of in this way, he deliberately places it upon his back 
 and walks off with it. 
 
 After he has completed his conical den he places himself at 
 the bottom to wait for prey. Knowing that his personal appear- 
 ance is no recommendation, he conceals all his body except the 
 points of his expanded forceps. A Paul Pry of an ant passes 
 along, and concludes to “look in.” But he pays dearly for his 
 curiosity; for the treacherous sand gives way, and his struggles 
 only assist to bring him into the jaws of the lion. If there 
 should be any prospect of his escape, his terrible enemy shovels 
 up a load of sand and discharges it at him. If this is not suf- 
 ficient, a second discharge generally brings him down. 
 
 After living in this way for about two years the ant-lion 
 passes into the pupa state. It glues together a crust that sur- 
 rounds its body. It then spins a thread infinitely finer than 
 that of the silk-worm, and weaves for the interior of its dwelling 
 a satin tapestry exquisitely tinged with the color of pearls. Here 
 it remains for about two months, preparing for the great change. 
 Its ugly skin and paws fall off, and it comes forth regenerated 
 and disenthralled. It is now a large and beautiful fly, resem- 
 bling the dragon-fly. With expanded wings it gayly sports 
 about in the new world that is opened before it. It has lost its 
 gloomy disposition, and its heart is now as light as its wings. It 
 is Giant Despair transformed into golden Hope. The change 
 could not be greater if the Satan of the popular mythology, 
 with horns, tail, and hoof, should take the wings and face and 
 disposition of an angel of light. ..... 
 
 Among the orthoptera one of the most remarkable insects is 
 the mantis. This insect is called in our vernacular “ the devil’s 
 race-horse.” Why this name is given to it I can not tell, as the 
 animal is not remarkable for its locomotive powers, and the 
 individual to whom it is assigned is considered one of the 
 fast ones. Perhaps the name is on the principle of lucus a non 
 lucendo , or “Nick Bottom’s dream, because it has no bottom.” 
 The name mantis , from the Greek, is of quite different import, 
 
140 EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 
 
 signifying seer or prophet. As was said before, the mantis 
 religiosa , or praying mantis, is, in some countries, the object of 
 superstitious reverence. An old author says, “So divine a 
 creature is this esteemed, that if a child ask the way to such 
 a place, she will stretch out one of her feet and show him the 
 right way, and seldom or never misse.” The reason these 
 insects have a sacred character attached to them is that they 
 will raise their bodies and remain for hours with their arms 
 stretched out in the attitude of prayer. But woe to the fly that 
 places confidence in this sanctimonious attitude! When the 
 mantis sees a fly it never takes its eyes off its intended prey. 
 It moves forward almost imperceptibly, so as to conceal its 
 approaches from its victim. When near enough, those praying 
 hands descend like lightning — its prey is in the jaws of fate 
 and is devoured limb by limb. The destroyer then cleans his 
 jaws and head, stretches his arms, and waits for another victim. 
 In listening to some prayers I have found myself obliged to 
 think of the mantis. There are mantes in a class of animals 
 that have not so many legs as the one before us. Look at that 
 man with his arms stretched out, and rounding and polishing 
 the sentences which he pretends to be addressing to the Deity. 
 He seems to be praying, but he is only watching for his prey. 
 He is a mantis, watching for applause. He who “ delivered the 
 most eloquent prayer ever addressed to a Boston congregation ” 
 was a mantis. Whoever, forgetting the severe simplicity which 
 an address to the Deity demands, suffers himself to make use of 
 his prayer to address the congregation, even if it be to enforce 
 religious truth, is a mantis. Much more is he a mantis who 
 stretches out his hands to acquire a reputation for sanctity or 
 to gain the applause of the listeners or to accomplish any other 
 private end. 
 
 The construction of the fore leg of the mantis is not unlike 
 that of a sabre. With this sabre the insect can take off heads 
 in the most dexterous manner. When two mantes are confined 
 together they are seized with the greatest fury. They rush at 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 141 
 
 each other, cutting away with their sabres, as Roesel says, like 
 two infuriated hussars. The Chinese are said to keep them in 
 separate cages for the purpose of having them to fight, like 
 game-cocks among us. And yet they are so cowardly that they 
 will turn away from an ant in the greatest terror. 
 
 The Arabians represent the locust as saying to Mohammed, 
 “We are the army of the Great God; we produce ninety-nine 
 eggs; if the hundred were completed, we should consume the 
 whole earth and all that is in it.” And indeed no greater plague 
 than this insect has ever visited the earth. The accounts given 
 of its ravages and of the famine and pestilence it has caused 
 are among the most horrible that history presents. Mighty con- 
 querors have spread ruin and desolation; but they have done 
 nothing to equal the deeds of the locust. The most “glorious” 
 conqueror that has overrun the earth, though he may have left 
 over whole countries widows and orphans wailing in burning 
 cities, must yield the palm to a greater destroyer than himself, 
 and acknowledge his inferiority to the locust. Alexander and 
 Bonaparte created consternation in their march; but their ap- 
 proach did not altogether destroy hope, and they did not leave 
 behind them remediless ruin. But imagine a country in the 
 enjoyment of profound peace, the earth covered with a growing 
 crop that promises a rich reward to the labors of the husband- 
 man. While the farmer is looking at the crop and congratu- 
 lating himself upon the prospect, a black cloud appears in the 
 distance; the whole sky is darkened; and a roaring sound, like 
 that of a flame of fire rushing before the wind, announces the 
 coming of the instruments of destruction. Every green thing is 
 covered with them and immediately stripped of every sign of 
 verdure. In the sublime language of the prophet Joel, it is 
 “a day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds and of 
 thick darkness.” “A fire devoureth before them, and behind 
 them a flame burneth ; the land is as the Garden of Eden before 
 them, and behind them a desolate wilderness.” Nothing can 
 be more expressive than this sublime description. Nature 
 
142 EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 
 
 suffers a change like that which would take place if a human 
 being glowing with health and beauty should suddenly become 
 a putrid corpse. And when these insects die the end is not 
 yet. When dead they often cover the earth to the depth of 
 several feet and emit a stench that breeds the most noisome 
 pestilence. Thousands upon thousands in a small extent of 
 country have fallen victims in one visitation of these dreadful 
 insects. In an account of one of these visitations in Africa it 
 is said that the locusts, after flying off to sea, were drowned 
 and, being cast upon the shore, “ they emitted a stench greater 
 than could have been produced by the carcasses of one hundred 
 thousand men” A historian relates that in the year 591a large 
 army of locusts ravaged part of Italy, “and being at last cast 
 into the sea, from their stench arose a pestilence that carried off 
 near a million of men and beasts.” It is scarcely necessary to 
 say that our “ locust,” the cicada septemdecim , is a different kind 
 of insect, the destructive locust being allied to the grasshopper. 
 
 Insects are found in the largest numbers in the torrid zone. 
 In Brazil the woods are overflowing with life. All around there 
 is a ceaseless din, the notes of the cicada, shrill-sounding over 
 all, being sometimes heard at the distance of a mile. Touch a 
 shrub, and insects fall from it like living fruit. The herbaceous 
 plants glow with the most brilliant beetles, as if all the precious 
 stones had become charged with life. The gorgeous flowers 
 seem to take wings and sport about among the plants to which 
 they once belonged. And when night comes on the woods are 
 “all alive with light;” for glow-worms cover the shrubs, and 
 fire-flies glance in all directions through the air. 
 
 Some of the most remarkable species of beetles are those 
 which have the power of emitting light. The principal of these 
 are the English glow-worm, the Italian glow-worm, and the fire- 
 fly of South America. In England they never see the beautiful 
 spectacle which is presented in our climate, when the landscape 
 is lighted up by thousands of little flying stars. It is only the 
 
EXTRACTS FROM A LECTURE ON ENTOMOLOGY. 
 
 I 43 
 
 female of the English glow-worm ( lampyris noctiluca) that is 
 very luminous, and she never flies. The males that fly around 
 her have little luminousness, though in form they resemble the 
 Italian glow-worm ( lampyris Italica) which the Italians call 
 lucciole , little lights, and we call “ fire-flies” or “ lightning-bugs.” 
 If we were not familiar with the sight, we should be filled with 
 rapture by the beauty of our calm summer evenings when these 
 little insects speak so charmingly to the eye in words of light. 
 The effect which their appearance may have upon those who 
 know nothing about them may be seen in a story told of some 
 Moorish women of rank, who had been taken captive and con- 
 fined in a villa near Genoa. A party going to see them one 
 summer evening after a hot day, were surprised to find all their 
 doors and windows closely shut, and the ladies in the utmost 
 terror and distress. They had conceived the idea that these 
 luminous flies were' the disturbed souls of their relatives. In 
 some countries, it is said, the ladies imprison these insects in a 
 gauze net, and wear them on their heads, a crown of living 
 gems. 
 
PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
 
 T HUS then replied to Helen the mighty shining-helmed Hector: 
 “Do not ask me to sit; thou art kind, but canst not persuade me; 
 I must go to the aid of the Trojans, who long for me absent. 
 
 But do thou stir up this Paris and cause him to hasten, 
 
 So that he may overtake me before I go out of the city. 
 
 Now my wife and my son I am going to see ; for I know not 
 Whether ever again I shall come from the battle to see them 
 Or the gods decree I fall by the hands of Achaians.” 
 
 Soon he came to his well-sited house ; but not in her chamber 
 Did he the white-armed Andromache find ; for she on the tower 
 With her son and the well-robed nurse was standing and weeping. 
 
 But when Hector found not his blameless wife in her chamber, 
 
 Coming to the threshold, he stood and said, “Handmaidens, tell me, 
 Whither has white-armed Andromache gone away from her chamber? 
 Seeks she her sisters-in-law or the well-robed wives of my brothers? 
 
 Or has she gone where the Trojan dames at the temple of Pallas 
 Now are offering prayers to the fair-haired powerful goddess?” 
 “Hector,” the diligent housekeeper said, “the truth I will tell thee: 
 Nor does she seek her sisters-in-law nor the wives of thy brothers; 
 
 Nor has she gone where the Trojan dames at the temple of Pallas 
 Now are offering prayers to the fair-haired powerful goddess. 
 
 To the great tower of Troy she has gone, having heard that the Trojans, 
 Overpowered by the strength of the Greeks, are sorely afflicted. 
 
 Now indeed to the rampart she hastes, like a woman distracted; 
 
 And to attend her has gone the nurse, who carries the infant.” 
 
 Thus did the housekeeper say. But Hector rushed from his mansion 
 Back by the way that he came, through the populous streets of the city. 
 At the Scaean gates, through which to the field he was going, 
 
 There to meet him Andromache ran, the rich-dowered daughter 
 Of Eetion, great-hearted prince, who dwelt at Mount Placus, 
 
 In Hypoplacian Thebe, and ruled the Cilician people; 
 
 And his daughter to Hector was given in marriage. 
 
 She her husband now met, having with her the nurse, who was bearing 
 On her bosom a tender young child, the loved son of Hector, 
 
 Like to a beautiful star, Scamandrius called by his father, 
 
THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
 
 145 
 
 By others Astyanax* called in honor of Hector, 
 
 Who was the only hope of Troy. The father in silence 
 Looked on his beautiful child ; but Andromache, weeping, 
 
 Pressed to his side and clung to his hand, thus tearfully speaking : 
 
 “ Rashly brave, thou art doomed to fall. Thou feelest no pity 
 For thy infant child, nor for me unhappy, a widow 
 Destined soon to be ; for soon the Achaians will kill thee, 
 
 All rushing on thee at once. And then for me it were better, 
 
 Having lost thee, to go into the ground ; for left is no comfort, 
 
 Nothing but sorrow, for me. I have nor father nor mother. 
 
 For indeed my father was slain by high-born Achilles 
 When he thoroughly sacked the well-built Cilician city, 
 
 High-gated Thebe. He slew my father, but did not despoil him, 
 
 From a feeling of awe; but in the well-fashioned armor 
 Burned he the dead; and then a mound he raised o’er his ashes; 
 
 Where by mountain-nymphs, daughters of Jove segis-bearing, 
 
 Elm-trees were planted, which grew. In our house were once seven 
 brothers ; 
 
 All in one day were slain by the swift-footed high-born Achilles, 
 
 By the side of their slow-going oxen and sheep with white fleeces. 
 
 As for my mother, who reigned at the foot of woody Mount Placus, 
 
 Her he afterward hither brought with the rest of his booty. 
 
 But he released her and sent her away, countless ransom receiving. 
 
 She in her father’s house was struck down by the bow-queen Diana. 
 
 Thou now only art left me. Now thou art my mother and father and 
 brother 
 
 And my husband. And now have pity and stay at this tower. 
 
 Make not thy child an orphan, thy wife a desolate widow. 
 
 Place thine army near to the fig-tree, there where the city 
 Can be most easily entered, the walls being easy of scaling. 
 
 Thrice in this place has the wall been attacked by the bravest Achaians ; 
 Both the Ajaces, Idomeneus famed, the two sons of Atreus, 
 
 And Tydides the brave, whether moved by one skilled in divining 
 Or their own minds.” Then answered the mighty shining-helmed Hector : 
 “I have thought of these things, O wife; but shame would confound me 
 In the presence of Trojan men and trailing-robed women, 
 
 If, like a coward, I stay and skulk away from the battle. 
 
 Nor does my spirit prompt me to stay, having learned to be valiant 
 Always, and always to fight in the foremost ranks of the Trojans, 
 
 Seeking to gain great glory for both myself and my father. 
 
 Yet a day will come, I know, when Troy’s sacred city 
 
 5:5 King of the city. 
 
 !3 
 
THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 
 
 Is to perish, and Priam and the people of Priam. 
 
 But I grieve not so much for the coming woes of the Trojans, 
 
 Nor for the woes of Hecuba’s self, nor for those of King Priam, 
 
 Nor do I grieve for the fate of my brothers, who, many and valiant, 
 
 May be laid in the dust by the hands of the pitiless foeman, 
 
 As I grieve for thee when thou shalt be led away weeping 
 By somfe brass-clad Achaian chief who has robbed thee of freedom. 
 
 Thou in Argos shalt ply the loom at command of a mistress; 
 
 And from the fount of Hyperea or the fount of Messeis 
 Thou shalt draw water, much unwilling, necessity-driven. 
 
 ‘This,’ one will say when he sees thee in tears, ‘was the wife of great Hector, 
 Bravest of all the steed-taming Trojans that fought round their city.’ 
 Thus will some then say. But greater sorrow shall seize thee 
 When thou shalt think of him who might thee have saved from enslave- 
 ment.” 
 
 Then to take his son stretched his arms the illustrious Hector ; 
 
 But the boy to his well-zoned nurse’s bosom shrunk crying, 
 
 Scared by the glittering helmet and the plume with its horse-hair 
 On the top fiercely nodding. Then laughed the father and mother. 
 Straight from his head the illustrious Hector removing his helmet, 
 
 Laid it all bright on the ground. Then he kissed and dandled his darling; 
 Afterward uttered a prayer to Jove and the other immortals: 
 
 “Jove, and all ye gods! may my son become as distinguished 
 ’Mong the Trojans as I am, as able to govern the people. 
 
 May it then be said, ‘ He greatly surpasses his father ’ — 
 
 As he returns from the war. May he bring the blood-sprinkled booty, 
 Having sla'in the foe. May his mother’s bosom be gladdened.” 
 
 Thus having said, he placed the boy in the hands of his mother, 
 
 Who to her sweet-scented bosom pressed him, through her tears smiling. 
 Then her husband her pitied and soothed with his hand, and thus said he : 
 “Strangely hast thou spoken. Be not too grieved in thy spirit. 
 
 No one before my time is come can send me to Hades. 
 
 No one can avoid his fate, whether brave man or coward. 
 
 Go now into the house and ’tend the affairs of thy household ; 
 
 See to the loom and the distaff and set thy handmaids to labor. 
 
 War will be the concern of men, of all native Trojans, 
 
 But of me most of all.” Thus speaking he took up his helmet 
 Waving with horse-hair. The wife of his bosom then went away homeward, 
 Turning oft to look back, the swelling tears sadly shedding. 
 
 Soon she came to the well-sited mansion of man-slaying Hector. 
 
 There she found many attendants, who all joined in her wailing. 
 
 So in his house lamentings arose for Hector yet living; 
 
 For they thought he would never return from the fight with Achaians. 
 
WHAT IS A PRONOUN? 
 
 HE pronoun is thus described in Girault-Duvivier’s Gram- 
 
 maire des Grammaires : “To judge from the etymology, 
 the pronoun properly so called is a word which has no significa- 
 tion in itself, and which is put in the place of a noun previously 
 mentioned, to be a substitute for it and to avoid a repetition of 
 it. Since the pronoun takes the place of a noun, it must by 
 necessary consequence call up the idea such as it is, such as the 
 noun itself would call it up, that is without adding any thing to 
 it or taking any thing from it.” 
 
 The doctrine here expressed is that which is found in nearly 
 all grammars. “A pronoun is a word used instead of a noun, 
 to avoid repeating it in the same sentence.” — Hiley’s English 
 Grammar. “'A pronoun is a word used as a substitute for a 
 noun.” — Tower’s English Grammar. “The pronouns, on the 
 contrary, are only the representatives of nouns , not the direct 
 signs of things .” — Mulligan’ s Grammat. Structure of the English 
 Language . This expresses the common idea in the clearest 
 manner. 
 
 As the pronoun is used instead of a noun, every pronoun 
 must be referred to some noun for which it stands — to some 
 noun which expresses exactly the same thing. Properly speak- 
 ing, this should be some noun previously mentioned, as it is 
 called the “antecedent.” The search for this antecedent has 
 in many cases been as unsuccessful as the search for the “ north- 
 west passage.” “ Pronouns are words used instead of nouns. 
 Examples — / see you , etc. In the first sentence I stands for 
 the name of the speaker, and you for the name of the person 
 addressed.” — Sill’s Synthesis of the English Sentence. One writer 
 
WHAT IS A PRONOUN? 
 
 after saying, “ That word , phrase , or sentence for which the pro- 
 noun stands is called the antecedent/’ goes on to make the 
 objects themselves the antecedents: u We is a pronoun, personal, 
 its antecedent the company of which the speaker is one, with 
 which it agrees in the first, plural, common.” “It rains. It is a 
 pronoun, personal, ant. weather understood, with which it agrees 
 in the third, singular, neuter.” — Holbrooks Comp. English Gram. 
 Is the company of which the speaker is one a word , a phrase , or 
 a sentence ? 
 
 Let us examine this matter and see whether pronouns are 
 any thing but nouns — whether they are not “ the direct signs of 
 things ” instead of being “only the representatives of nouns! I 
 say to a person whom I have never seen before, “ I see you.” 
 He knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about him; 
 he does not know whether I have a name, and I do not know 
 whether he has a name; and yet / and you express ideas 
 which we both understand thoroughly. They have no refer- 
 ence whatever to other words. I expresses the idea of a per- 
 son, not of a word. In a dark night I hear a voice cry from a 
 pit “ Help me out,” and I immediately know there is a person 
 in the pit. What has conveyed this idea? The word me. I 
 do not stop to ask what word this me represents. I know that 
 if I help any thing out of the pit it is a person , not the repre- 
 sentative of a word. I should understand “Help me out,” 
 though all the other words in the language were blotted from 
 my memory. When Shylock says, “ Shylock is my name,” he 
 does not mean “Shylock is Shylock’s name,” but “Shylock is 
 the name of the person who is speaking to you.” My has 
 nothing to do with the name; the same word would have been 
 employed if some one had said, “Shylock is not my name.” 
 When I say, “ I will tell you my name,” you know that it is 
 the person speaking that makes the promise; when I fulfill my 
 promise and tell you my name you have some additional knowl- 
 edge of me. The I and the name do not express the same 
 idea. 
 
WHAT IS A PRONOUN? 
 
 149 
 
 “ The pronouns / and thou or you , with their plurals we and 
 you , are especially important, as they stand instead of the names 
 of the speaker and the person or persons addressed. For exam- 
 ple, it would be very inconvenient for a speaker to call the name 
 of every one of his audience instead of saying you ” — Bingham's 
 English Gram?nar. It would be very inconvenient, particularly 
 if the speaker did not know the name of a single person before 
 him; but, however great his ignorance in this respect, he knows 
 what he means by you , and every one that hears him knows. 
 
 “A pronoun is* a word used in the place of a noun. The 
 common definition that a pronoun is a word used instead of a 
 noun is inaccurate. It is scarcely possible to substitute a noun 
 for the personal pronoun of the first or second person, for the 
 interrogative, or for the relative pronouns. But a pronoun 
 always occupies the place and receives the construction of a 
 noun, either substantive or adjective. 57 — Holmes' s Eng. Grammar. 
 It is strange that the writer of this was not convinced that pro- 
 nouns are nouns. If the pronoun is not a word used instead 
 of a noun, not a substitute for a noun, but a word that always 
 occupies the place and receives the construction of a noun, 
 what is it but a noun? 
 
 Are the personal pronouns of the third person “only the 
 representatives of nouns , not the direct signs of things" ? “He 
 who runs may read . 55 This sentence expresses the idea as 
 independently as it would be expressed by “ The man who runs 
 may read . 55 He no more stands for another word than man 
 stands for another word. When Lear on seeing Kent in the 
 stocks exclaims, “ Death on my state ! wherefore should he sit 
 here ? 55 he expresses the idea as independently of other words 
 as if he had said, “Wherefore should this man sit here ? 55 “He 
 that gathereth in summer is wise . 55 We may substitute the man 
 for he, and is it not as correct to say that the man represents he 
 as that he represents the man ? “ They say that house is haunted . 55 
 If we substitute people for they , is people a pro-p?vnounl “It 
 rains , 55 Here the word it has so peculiar a sense that there is 
 
WHAT IS A PRONOUN? 
 
 150 
 
 no word which can be substituted for it. Neither the weather 
 itself nor the word weather can get into this sentence. It is not 
 the weather that rains; it would be more correct to say that it is 
 the rain that weathers . It is the rain that makes the wet weather, 
 the weather being a condition of the atmosphere produced by 
 the rain. The word it is used to denote indefinitely the cause 
 which produces the rain, whatever that cause may be. 
 
 It may be shown that even when an object has been previ- 
 ously mentioned the pronoun refers not to the word but to the 
 object itself. “ You should not have scolded James; he did not 
 deserve it.” Here he does not denote the word James ; it de- 
 notes the person himself. “ You should not have scolded James; 
 the boy did not deserve it.” The context here shows that the 
 boy denotes James. As used in these two sentences the two 
 expressions the boy and he are synonymous. They each denote 
 the person James, not the word . In the former sentence he is 
 employed not because of any grammatical dependence upon 
 the word James, but because the sense demands he, and she or it 
 would make nonsense. A speaker would avoid saying, “You 
 should not have scolded James; she did not deserve it,” for the 
 same reason that he would avoid saying, “You should not have 
 scolded James; the girl did not deserve it.” 
 
 If we suppose that in “it rains” it denotes the same thing 
 as weather, then it is a synonym of weather, not a substitute for 
 it, not a representative of the word weather; and synonymy 
 furnishes a reason for placing words in the same class, not for 
 placing them in different classes. “The way of transgressors 
 is hard.” “The way of sinners is hard.” An “oral exercise” 
 of the following kind may be imagined : “ What word in the 
 latter sentence stands instead of transgressors in the former? 
 Ans. Sinners . Then as pronoun means Jor a noun, and sinners 
 stands for the noun transgressors, what shall we call sinners ? 
 Ans. A pronoun.” 
 
 An interrogative pronoun is said to be “ a relative in search 
 of an antecedent.” This antecedent has been found in the 
 
WHAT IS A PRONOUN? 
 
 ISI 
 
 “subsequent.” “The subsequent of an interrogative pronoun is 
 that part of the answer which is represented by it. An inter- 
 rogative must agree with its subsequent in gender, person, and 
 number.” “The person, gender, and number of an interroga- 
 tive pronoun are indeterminate when no answer is given to the 
 question in which it is found; as, ‘ Who owns that vessel?’ 
 The answer may be ‘Mr. Gordon owns it,’ ‘Jones and Smith own 
 it,’ ‘I own it,’ ‘He and / own it,’ or ‘ You yourself own it.’ 
 When an answer is given, or when one can be inferred from 
 well-known facts, these properties are determinate ; as, 4 Who 
 owns that vessel?’ ‘I own it.’ ‘Who’ is in the first person, 
 singular number, agreeing with ‘ I.’ ” — Harvey' s Eng. Grammar. 
 If this is correct, then owns, third person, agrees with who, first 
 person. This is what the interrogative has come to in “its 
 search of an antecedent.” The truth is that the interrogative 
 has nothing to do with the answer. Who is synonymous with 
 what person , and it is never of any person but the third. It 
 is sometimes plural and sometimes singular; but the number 
 depends not on the answer, but on what is in the speaker’s mind. 
 If the speaker thinks that a certain vessel has two owners, he 
 will say, “Who own that vessel?” If he thinks it has but one 
 owner, he will say, “Who owns that vessel?” The question 
 “Who is here?” may be answered by “I am here.” Now, if 
 who takes its person from I, the inquirer, after he has learned 
 from the answer that who is of the first person, should go back 
 and change his question to “Who am here?” 
 
THE DRUIDS. 
 
 P LINY says, “The Druids, who are the magi of Gaul, 
 esteem nothing more sacred than the mistletoe and the 
 tree on which it grows, if only it is an oak. Indeed they 
 choose out groves of oak and use their leaves in all their 
 sacred rites; so that their very name, Druids, may seem to 
 be derived from dpus, the Greek word for oak." 
 
 Many derivations have been given of the word Druid. It 
 has been deduced from the Saxon dry , a magician; from the 
 Irish drui or draui, a sacred person; and from various other 
 sources. But a simpler etymology is that quoted by Parke 
 Godwin from De Chinese, who gives De , God, and ra-wydd , a 
 speaker. Derawydd , God’s speaker, or a theologian. 
 
 In Caesar’s account of the Druids (. De Bello Gallico , vi, 13, 
 etc.) he states that the Druids and the Equites, or military 
 order, formed the only two honorable classes in Gaul, the com- 
 mon people being almost in the condition of slaves. The 
 Druids attended to divine affairs, managed public and private 
 sacrifices, and explained religious matters. A great number of 
 youths resorted to them for the sake of education. The Dru- 
 ids, he says, were in great honor among the Gauls; for they 
 decided in all disputes public and private. If any crime had 
 been committed, if murder had been done, if there was a con- 
 troversy about inheritance or about boundaries, they made the 
 decision. If any person either private or public did not obey 
 their decrees they interdicted them from the sacrifices. This 
 was with them the severest punishment. Those who were thus 
 interdicted were regarded as impious and infamous. Every 
 one withdrew from them and shunned all intercourse with them. 
 
 2) 
 
THE DRUIDS. 
 
 I 53 
 
 They were debarred from the protection of the law and from all 
 offices of honor. The Druids had a chief. When the chief 
 died, if any one was preeminent above the rest, he succeeded; 
 if several of them were equal, a chief was elected by the Dru- 
 ids; sometimes also the contest was carried on with arms. At a 
 certain time of the year the Druids assembled in a consecrated 
 place in the country of the Cornutes, which was believed to be 
 the center of Gaul. Hither from every side assembled those 
 who had controversies, and they submitted to the decisions of 
 the Druids. The Druids were exempt from military duty and 
 from all taxes. Attracted by such advantages, many youths 
 of their own accord came to be trained in their discipline, and 
 many were sent by their parents and relations. There these 
 persons learned by heart a great number of verses, and some 
 remained there twenty years. They did not think it right to 
 commit those things to writing, though in almost all other mat- 
 ters they used the Greek letters. Caesar supposes two reasons 
 for not committing their doctrines to writing; the first being 
 that they did not wish their system to be communicated to the 
 vulgar, the second that the learners might not impair their 
 power of memory by trusting to writing. Their chief doctrine 
 was that the soul does not perish, but after death passes from 
 one body to another. They discoursed about the stars and 
 their motion, about the greatness of the universe and of the 
 earth, about the nature of things, and about the power of the 
 immortal gods. 
 
 Caesar does not mention Druidesses; but other writers tell 
 of a female order which had some mysterious connection with 
 the religious rights of the Celts. 
 
 The Druids sacrificed human beings as well as beasts. Caesar 
 says that they preferred the bodies of such as had been guilty 
 of some crime; but that when such were wanting they con- 
 tented themselves with innocent persons. 
 
 One of the most singular doctrines of the Druids was that 
 of the sacred character of the mistletoe of the oak. Wherever 
 
154 
 
 THE DRUIDS. 
 
 mistletoe was found on the sacred oak, as it rarely was, a pro- 
 cession was made to it with great pomp and ceremony. Two 
 white bulls or heifers were bound to the oak with their horns. 
 Then a Druid, clothed in white, ascended the tree, and with a 
 knife of gold cut the mistletoe, which another Druid below 
 held his robe to receive. Then the victims were sacrificed, 
 and great rejoicings and festivities followed. It has been sug- 
 gested that the Druids saw in the perpetual verdure of this 
 plant an emblem of the immortality of the soul. 
 
 The opera of Norma, as is well known, is founded on the 
 Druidical superstition. Pollio, a Roman proconsul, was the 
 governor of Gaul, and he had induced the priestess Norma, 
 daughter of the arch-Druid Oroveso, to marry him in secret. 
 None knew of the marriage except Norma’s friend Clotilda. 
 After two children had been born to them Pollio deserted 
 Norma for Adalgisa, another priestess. 
 
 The opera opens with the grand march of the Druids, who 
 are proceeding to the oak from which the sacred mistletoe is 
 to be cut. The chorus .of Gauls demands when the mighty* 
 prophetess Norma is going to strike the sacred shield as the 
 signal for them to attack the Romans. Norma comes among 
 them, and they clamor for battle. She reproaches them for 
 their clamor, telling them that the hour is not yet come and 
 that Rome is to be destroyed by her own crimes. She is anx- 
 ious to prevent a collision between the Romans and the Gauls, 
 her husband being on one side and her father and friends on 
 the other. It is at this time that she sings the Casta Diva , a 
 prayer to the moon to calm the fury of those who are cLamor= 
 ing for battle. 
 
 Casta diva che inargenti 
 Queste sacre antiche pianti, 
 
 A noi volgi il bel sembiante, 
 
 Senza nube e senza vel. 
 
 Tempra tu de’cori ardenti; 
 
 Tempra ancor lo zelo audace ; 
 
 Spargi in terra quella pace 
 Che regnar tu fai nel ciel. 
 
THE DRUIDS. 155 
 
 We give here a translation of the prayer in the meter and 
 arrangement of the original. 
 
 Goddess chaste, whose silver splendor 
 O’er our ancient oaks is gleaming, 
 
 With thy mild face on us beaming 
 Cause the envious clouds to fly ! 
 
 Fiery hearts submissive render! 
 
 Calm the souls with fury glowing, 
 
 On the earth that peace bestowing 
 
 Which thou spreadest through the sky ! 
 
 In the second act Pollio, who has been recalled to Rome, 
 urges Adalgisa to fly with him. She, stung with remorse, flies 
 to Norma and confesses that she loves a Roman; but she does 
 not at first tell his name. Norma’s own love makes her sym- 
 pathize with that of Adalgisa. While they are speaking Pollio 
 appears, and Adalgisa cries out, “That is he!” Norma is ex- 
 cited to fury. In the third act she is represented as about to 
 kill herself and her children. She is just going to strike the 
 children, when the mother’s love stays her hand. She sends 
 for Adalgisa, who is kneeling at the altar and praying to be 
 forgiven. She makes Adalgisa swear to protect the children. 
 For the sake of the children Norma permits Adalgisa to make 
 an effort to bring Pollio back to her. While Norma is indulg- 
 ing in hope Clotilda enters and tells her that Adalgisa has wept 
 and prayed in vain. The infuriated priestess strikes the sacred 
 shield, and the Druids and warriors rush in, furious for battle. 
 Clotilda enters and announces that a Roman has been discov- 
 ered within the sacred forest. Pollio is dragged forward, and 
 Norma is commanded to slay him. She begs to be left alone 
 with him so that she may question him about his motive for 
 committing the crime. In the interview she threatens to destroy 
 the children, and Pollio begs her rather to plunge the knife into 
 his bosom. She then threatens to destroy Adalgisa. While 
 Pollio is attempting to wrest the knife from her she summons 
 the Druids to enter. She then tells them that a priestess has 
 
THE DRUIDS. 
 
 !S6 
 
 broken her vow for this stranger. They demand the name, 
 crying out that she shall die. “It is Norma!” Pollio is struck 
 with admiration, and the Druids with horror. While the pile 
 is preparing Norma begs her father to save the children. He 
 is at last overcome with pity. A black vail is then thrown over 
 Norma, and Pollio is seized by Gallic soldiers. The light of 
 the burning pile flashes upon the close. 
 
[FROM THE AGE.] 
 
 BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 WRITER in Appleton’s Magazine, not satisfied with what 
 
 has already been written on the subject, makes his con- 
 tribution to the attempts to prove that Shakespeare was not the 
 author of the works attributed to him. Those who advocate 
 this notion must do so for the purpose of displaying their inge- 
 nuity, or perhaps they do so because subjects are scarce. If 
 they are at a loss for subjects to write on, they might go back 
 to some of the matters discussed in the middle ages, and inquire 
 how many angels can stand on the point of a needle, or whether 
 a hog is led to market by the rope or by the man who holds the 
 rope. Archbishop Whately wrote a work, “ Historic Doubts 
 Relative to Napoleon Bonaparte,” going to show that there was 
 no such person as Napoleon Bonaparte; but he had an object, 
 which was to show the absurdity of the principles which skep- 
 tics had laid down in regard to what is recorded in the New 
 Testament. But the object of those who write to prove that 
 Shakespeare was not the author of Shakespeare’s works seems 
 to be merely to show that “ some things can be done as well as 
 others.” What is the use of wasting time in writing such things 
 and causing others to waste time in reading them ? It is “ but 
 time lost to hear such a foolish song.” 
 
 This writer says, “That he ever composed, on his own 
 account, we have only a sort of innuendo of his brother actors 
 and playwrights and a Stratford tradition, which we can trace 
 to no other source than the source of the belief outside — that 
 is to say, to the fact that the plays were produced under his 
 management in London.” 
 
BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 158 
 
 Ben Jonson’s well-known poem, “To the memory of my 
 beloved, the author, Mr. William Shakespeare, and what he 
 hath left us,” is sufficient to refute all the stuff that has been 
 written to show that Shakespeare did not write his works. Ben 
 Jonson was intimately acquainted with Shakespeare, and had 
 every opportunity of knowing his calibre. Thomas Fuller, who 
 was in his eighth year when Shakespeare died, in his “ Worthies 
 of England” says, “Many were the wit combats between him 
 and Ben Jonson; which two I behold like a Spanish great gal- 
 leon and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the for- 
 mer, was built far higher in learning; solid, but slow in his 
 performances. Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser 
 in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack 
 about, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness of his 
 wit and invention.” And Ben himself says, “I remember the 
 players have often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare 
 that in his writing — whatever he penned — he never blotted a 
 line.* My answer hath been, would he had blotted a thousand ! 
 which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told pos- 
 terity this, but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance 
 to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted, and to 
 justify mine own candor; for I loved the man, and do honor 
 his memory on this side of idolatry as much as any. He was 
 indeed honest and of an open and free nature; had an excel- 
 lent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he 
 flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he 
 should be stopped, sufflaminandus erat , as Augustus said of 
 Haterius.” Is this mere innuendo? 
 
 * The writer in Appleton’s Magazine regards this as referring to Shakespeare’s 
 hand-writing ! “And that Mr. Shakespeare rewrote for the stage what his unknown 
 poet composed we have the tolerable hearsay testimony of his fellow -actor, Ben 
 Jonson, who tells us that he remembers to have heard the players say that the stage 
 copies of the plays were written in Shakespeare’s autograph, and were all the more 
 available on that account, because he (Shakespeare) was a good penman, in that 
 ‘whatever he penned he never blotted a line.’ ” If it were not for the seriousness 
 of the rest of the article we should suppose the writer intended this for a joke. If 
 he did so intend it, the sooner he leaves off joking the better for himself and his fam- 
 ily and friends. 
 
BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 1 59 
 
 In his poem, mentioned above, Ben Jonson calls Shakes- 
 
 Peare Soul of the age, 
 
 The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage. 
 
 Alluding to some lines by W. Basse, in which that writer 
 urges Spenser, Chaucer, and Beaumont to make room for 
 Shakespeare in their tomb, he says: 
 
 I will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further off to make thee room ; 
 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
 
 And art alive still while thy book doth live 
 And we have wits to read and praise to give. 
 
 He then proceeds to place him above all English, all Greek, 
 all Roman dramatists: 
 
 Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 He w*as not of an age, but for all time ! 
 
 And all the Muses still w T ere in their prime 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! 
 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 
 And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines, 
 
 Which were so richly spun and woven so fit 
 As since she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
 
 A little further on we have the following: 
 
 Look how the father’s face 
 Lives in his issue, even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare’s mind and manners brightly shines 
 In his well-tuned and true-filed lines ; 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandished at the eyes of Ignorance. 
 
 Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 That so did take Eliza and our James! 
 
 But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there ! 
 
l6o BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Is this an innuendo, “an oblique hint”? We advise this 
 writer and all others of his class to betake themselves to some 
 useful employment. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S LEGAL ACQUIREMENTS. 
 
 Sir : In your eighth number a writer attempts to show the 
 absurdity of denying that Shakespeare wrote the plays attrib- 
 uted to him. He says, “ Those who advocate this notion must 
 do so for the purpose of displaying their ingenuity, or perhaps 
 they do so because subjects are scarce.” He goes on to quote 
 from Ben Jonson to prove that Shakespeare was “an author.” 
 Well might he have been “an author,” and yet he may not 
 have written the plays attributed to him. That he composed 
 “Venus and Adonis,” and several other pieces of the same 
 stamp I have little doubt; but I have always been puzzled to 
 account for the wonderful legal knowledge evinced in these 
 plays. The use of legal technicalities is so frequent and so 
 accurate as to point strongly to a trained and skillful lawyer as 
 their author. 
 
 In the “Comedy of Errors” we have a dialogue between 
 Antipholus of Syracuse and his man Dromio, in Act II, 
 scene 2: 
 
 Dro. S. There ’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald 
 by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery? 
 
 Dro . S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the lost hair of 
 another man. 
 
 Though this is mere jesting it shows that the author was 
 familiar with some of the most abstruse proceedings in English 
 jurisprudence. 
 
 Again, in Act IV, scene 2, Adriana asks Dromio of Syra- 
 cuse, “Where is thy master, Dromio? Is he well?” and Dromio 
 replies : 
 
BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 161 
 
 Dro. S. No, he ’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell, 
 
 A devil in an everlasting garment hath him. 
 
 One whose hard heart is buttoned up with steel; 
 
 A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough ; 
 
 A wolf ; nay, worse, a fellow all in buff ; 
 
 A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands 
 The passages and alleys, creeks and narrow lands ; 
 
 A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry foot well; 
 One that before the judgment carries poor souls to hell. 
 
 Adr. Why, man, what is the matter ? 
 
 Di'O. S. I do not know the matter; he ’s*’ rested on the case. 
 
 Adr. What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit. 
 
 Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well ; 
 
 But he ’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I tell. 
 
 Adr. This I wonder at, 
 
 That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. 
 
 Tell me, was he arrested on a bond ? 
 
 Dro. S. Not on a bond , but on a stronger thing, 
 
 A chain ! a chain ! 
 
 Here is a full, detailed, and graphic account of an arrest in 
 England on mesne process (“ before judgment”) in an action o?i 
 the case , for the price of a gold chain, by a sheriff’s officer, or 
 bumbailiff, in his buff costume, and carrying his prisoner to a 
 sponging-house. 
 
 In the “ Merry Wives of Windsor”' we have another evi- 
 dence of legal learning which Shakespeare could hardly have 
 acquired. In Act II, scene 2, where Ford, under the name of 
 Master Brook, tries to induce Falstaff to assist him in his 
 intrigue with Mrs. Ford, and states that from all the trouble 
 and money he had bestowed upon her, he had had no bene- 
 ficial return, we have the following question and answer: 
 
 Fal. Of what quality was your love then ? 
 
 Ford. Like a fair house built upon another man’s ground ; so that I 
 lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. 
 
 Here is evinced a knowledge of real property. A writer 
 unfamiliar with law would suppose that if, by mistake, a man 
 builds a fine house on the land of another, when he discovers 
 
 14 
 
162 
 
 BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 his error he will be permitted to remove all the materials of the 
 structure, and particularly the marble pillars and carved chimney- 
 pieces with which he has adorned it; but the writer of the play 
 knew better. He was aware that, being fixed to the freehold, 
 the absolute property in them belonged to the owner of the 
 soil, and he recollected the maxim, Cujus est solum , ejus est 
 usque ad coelum. 
 
 In the second scene of the fourth act, this dialogue occurs : 
 
 Mrs. Page. I ’ll have the cudgel hallowed, and hung o’er the altar; it 
 hath done meritorious service. 
 
 Mrs. Ford. What think you ? May we, with the warrant of woman- 
 hood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with further 
 revenge ? 
 
 Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him: if 
 the devil have him not in fee simple , with fine and recovery , he will never, 
 I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. 
 
 Here this merry wife of Windsor is supposed to know that 
 the highest estate which the devil could hold in any of his vic- 
 tims was a fee simple strengthened by fine and recovery. 
 
 “The Merchant of Venice ” contains many more illustrations 
 of the legal acquirements of the author, whoever he was; but 
 enough have been introduced to show that whoever wrote them 
 had an accurate knowledge of the technicalities as well as the 
 general principles of English law. Lord Campbell, who dis- 
 cusses the subject at length, says that, “while novelists and 
 dramatists are constantly making mistakes as to the law of mar- 
 riage, of wills and inheritance — to Shakespeare’s law, lavishly 
 as he propounds it, there can neither be demurrer, nor bill of 
 exceptions, nor writ of error.” 
 
 Shakespeare may have been, as Lord Campbell intimates, 
 an attorney’s clerk; but an attorney’s clerk could hardly have 
 acquired so profound a knowledge of the profession. I should 
 like, therefore, for the writer in your paper to get over this 
 argument in favor of the proposition that Lord Bacon wrote 
 these plays. B. 
 
 Lexington, March 13, 1879. 
 
BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 1 63 
 
 Sir: Your correspondent “B.” in his communication on 
 “ Shakespeare’s Legal Acquirements” seems to think that 
 Ben Jonson’s poem on Shakespeare may refer to him as the 
 author of “Venus and Adonis,” and “several other pieces of 
 the same stamp.” But Jonson refers directly to Shakespeare’s 
 dramatic works. He calls Shakespeare “ the applause, delight, 
 the wonder of our stage.” And then he makes him superior 
 to Lily, to Kid and Marlow, to HCschylus and Euripides and 
 Sophocles, to Pacuvius and Accius and Seneca, to Aristoph- 
 anes and Terence and Plautus. He would call the Greek 
 and Roman dramatists 
 
 To life again, to hear thy buskin tread 
 And shake a stage ; or when the socks were on 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 
 And he closes the poem with the following lines: 
 
 Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage 
 Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage, 
 
 Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, 
 And despairs day but for thy volume’s light. 
 
 “B.” seems to think that the works attributed to Shakespeare 
 show a more profound knowledge of law than could have been 
 acquired by an attorney’s clerk. He instances the author’s 
 knowledge of the process of procuring the fee simple of an 
 estate by “fine and recovery,” his knowledge of the course of 
 proceeding in arrest on mesne process , and his knowledge of the 
 fact that when a person builds a house on another’s land he 
 loses the house. Now we venture to say that no young man 
 writing in the office of an attorney could fail to know such 
 things, if he is any thing more than a writing-machine. The 
 fictitious proceedings in “fine and recovery” are very easily 
 understood, and the employment of the attorney in a single 
 case of the kind would make the intelligent clerk familiar with 
 
164 
 
 BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 the process. How could he possibly fail to know of all the 
 proceedings in every kind of arrest? And as to the loss of the 
 house, one case of the kind in the attorney’s hands would be 
 sufficient to give the clerk the knowledge of the law. Any 
 person who had seen one instance of the loss of a house would 
 know the law on the subject. It did not require a person to be 
 Lord Chancellor in order to know such things. 
 
 It was said of John Quincy Adams that if he conversed with 
 you about clothes you would suppose him to be a tailor; if 
 about farming, you would suppose him to be a farmer; if about 
 naval matters, you would suppose him to be a sailor. He had 
 kept his eyes open for every thing. So did Shakespeare keep 
 his eyes open. Goethe was many-sided, but Shakespeare was 
 all-sided. As Peter Schlemihl’s mysterious man in the gray 
 coat pulled out of his pocket any thing that was required, 
 whether sticking-plaster, telescope, carpet, tent, or horses, so 
 you may get out of Shakespeare’s works proof that he was 
 any thing you please to name. The author of these works 
 was thoroughly acquainted with all the operations of garden- 
 ing, and plausible reasons might be adduced to show that the 
 works were written by Bishop Corbet’s father, who was a gar- 
 dener. It would not be difficult to prove that the author was 
 some horse-jockey. Who could describe the points of a fine 
 horse better than he does? 
 
 So did this horse excel a common one 
 In shape, in courage, color, pace, and bone. 
 
 Round-hoof ’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, 
 
 Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, 
 
 High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, 
 
 Thick mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide. 
 
 [ Venus and Adonis. 
 
 How well he knew the diseases of the horse is shown in the 
 description of Petruchio’s horse : 
 
 His horse hipped, with an old mothy saddle, and stirrups of no 
 kindred ; besides possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the 
 
BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 I ^5 
 
 chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions [farcy], full 
 of wind-galls, sped with spavins, raied with the yellows, past cure of the 
 fives [vives], stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots ; 
 swayed in the back, and shoulder - shotten ; ne’er legged before. — 
 Taming of the Shrew . 
 
 Now, it might be asked, how could any one but a horse- 
 jockey know of all these diseases? And who but a horse- 
 jockey could have written this description of “ distressed 5 ’ 
 horses ? 
 
 Their poor jades 
 
 Lob down their heads, dropping their hides and hips, 
 
 The gum down-roping from their pale, dead eyes, 
 
 And in their pale, dull mouths the gimmal-bit 
 
 Lies foul with chewed grass, still and motionless . — Henry V. 
 
 And in the animated presentation of the Dauphin’s enthusi- 
 asm about his horse who does not recognize the style of the 
 horse-jockey? 
 
 I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pas- 
 terns. He bounds from the earth as if his entrails were hairs. When I 
 bestride him, I soar. He trots the air ; the earth sings when he touches 
 it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes. 
 It is a beast for Perseus. He is pure air and fire, and the dull elements 
 of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while 
 his rider mounts him. He is, indeed, a horse, and all other jades you 
 may call beasts. He is the prince of palfreys ; his neigh is like the bid- 
 ding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. Nay, the 
 man hath no wit that can not from the rising of the lark to the lodging 
 of the lamb vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It is a theme fluent as 
 the sea. Turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my horse is an argu- 
 ment for them all. ’T is a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for a 
 sovereign’s sovereign to ride on, and for the world (familiar to us, and 
 unknown), to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. — 
 Henry V. 
 
 See with what enthusiasm the horse-jockey describes a good 
 rider. It will be observed, however, that the modern practice 
 of rising up and bumping down on the horse’s back was not 
 characteristic of the good rider in the times of Shakespeare; 
 then the rider “grew into his seat.” 
 
i66 
 
 BEN JONSON ON SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 I ’ve seen myself, and served against the French, 
 
 And they can well on horseback ; but this gallant 
 Had witchcraft in ’t ; he grew into his seat; 
 
 And to such wondrous doing brought his horse 
 As he had been incorps’d and demi-natured 
 With the brave beast. — Hamlet . 
 
 If all this does not prove that the author of the works 
 attributed to Shakespeare was a horse -jockey, what does it 
 prove ? 
 
THE EATING ANIMAL. 
 
 I MADE a kind of promise that I would send you a disserta- 
 tion on eating in its relations to man. I will not give you 
 a formal dissertation at present; but I will state in a promis- 
 cuous way some of the points. Philosophers have troubled 
 themselves to find out what it is that peculiarly distinguishes 
 man from the rest of creation. Some have called man “the 
 talking animal ;” as if man only had the power of expressing 
 his ideas in language. But this will not do. Most animals 
 have sounds by which they express their thoughts and feelings; 
 and some may be made even to articulate. Some have asserted 
 that man only has the power to laugh, and they have called 
 him “the laughing animal/’ But laughter is merely the exter- 
 nal sign of an, inward feeling; and who will assert that no other 
 animal has the feeling and some mode of expressing it exter- 
 nally? The monkey as it plays its tricks certainly has the 
 feeling of the ludicrous; and who does not see it laughing out 
 “as far as the skin”? The monkey does not break out in loud 
 guffaws, it is true; but the term which we employ to denote the 
 loudest kind of laughter is derived from another of the lower 
 animals, the horse. If the word “horse-laugh” does not show 
 that horses laugh, what, I beg leave to ask, does it show? For 
 Prof. Teufelsdrockh’s laughter of a whole life-time compressed 
 into one gigantic outburst Carlyle could find no fitter similitude 
 than “the neighing of all Tattersall’s” — TattersalFs, as is known 
 to several, being an immense livery-stable. And did not that 
 Australian bird, “the laughing jackass,” when we first saw it 
 in Phoenix Park laugh in so hearty a way that it threw all our 
 company into paroxysms of laughter that might have been 
 
1 68 
 
 THE EATING ANIMAL. 
 
 heard by a considerable portion of Ireland, if Ireland had 
 been standing with “ erect ears”? Did not the laughter of 
 a parrot set the table on a roar at the house of one of our 
 friends so that the guffaws met the dinner and prevailed over 
 it. Man then is not entitled to the appellation of “ the laugh- 
 ing animal.” 
 
 In the same way I could dispose of other philosophers' 
 speculations. You ask me then in what does man's distinctive 
 peculiarity consist — what is man? I reply man is the eating 
 animal. You ask me if I deny that other animals eat. By no 
 means. That the lower animals eat is a fact too well established 
 to admit of discussion. But in comparison with man they are 
 exceedingly limited in their range of eating. Some animals are 
 carnivorous, some herbivorous, some granivorous, others gram- 
 inivorous; but man is omnivorous. He searches throughout 
 creation for something to put in his stomach. If you show 
 any beautiful object to “the infant man,” he instantly draws 
 it to his mouth, the opening to his stomach. Toys and clothes, 
 shovel and tongs, cups and saucers, knives and forks are all 
 drawn to this vortex, and would be swallowed if the aperture 
 were large enough. The little cannibal opens his mouth to 
 swallow his father and mother, his brothers and sisters. He 
 reaches out his hands to get the sun, moon, and stars into his 
 mouth, and he would swallow every one of them, if he could. 
 Planet after planet, and system after system would go plunging 
 into his stomach, if he could only make them find their way 
 down. Like the deity of the pantheists, he would absorb all 
 into himself. The objective would be lost in the subjective — 
 the “not me” would be swallowed up, or rather down, in 
 the “me.” 
 
 In this, as in other respects, “ the child is father of the man.” 
 The grown-up man, it is true, does not attempt to swallow the 
 sun, moon, and stars, because experience has shown him that 
 the thing can not be done. He does not offer to eat his broth- 
 ers and sisters, because these brothers and sisters have invented 
 
THE EATING ANIMAL. 
 
 169 
 
 the gallows and other ingenious contrivances to deter him from 
 the attempt. He does not try to devour the shovel and tongs, 
 the pots and the pans; because, not to speak of the danger 
 of choking himself, he finds they can be made more useful to 
 him in putting other things in an eatable condition. . But still 
 he goes about the world seeking what he may devour. With 
 the greatest earnestness he is ever inquiring, “ Who will show us 
 something good to eat?” He sees a beautiful plant and imme- 
 diately determines to try if it can be eaten, running the risk of 
 poisoning himself in the experiment. The beautiful plumage 
 and song of the bird can not keep it out of his stomach. He 
 sees a little shell creep along the bottom of the ocean, and he 
 is not deterred by its unsightliness but cracks it open to see if it 
 does not contain something good to eat. Nothing comes amiss, 
 if it comes at all. There man stands with his mouth open, and 
 the fowl of the air, the beast of the field, the fish of the sea, 
 and the creeping thing all go tumbling one over the other into 
 the great pit of his stomach, which as it receives them still 
 cries, “ Give ! give ! ” 
 
 Man may be regarded as an ingenious self-operating trap, 
 which goes about the world, setting itself in the air, on the 
 land, in the water. Is he not then the eating animal? Can 
 the inferior animals when compared with man be said to 
 eat at all? 
 
 A philosopher of the middle ages asserts that man’s stomach 
 is the seat of his soul. A good deal may be said in favor of 
 this doctrine. Do we not always act as if the soul were in the 
 stomach? There comes among us a great man whom we wish 
 to honor and affect with pleasurable sensations. What do we 
 do? We immediately give him a public dinner; that is, we put 
 food in his stomach, as if we knew that there is the place in 
 which his feelings reside. A friend comes to visit us, and we 
 touch his affections by touching his stomach. We wish to cele- 
 brate the return of a great day, and we fill our souls with joy 
 by filling our stomachs with food. We invite our friends to a 
 
 iS 
 
I JO THE EATING ANIMAL. 
 
 wedding or a party, and we wish them to enjoy the greatest 
 possible amount of pleasure. We immediately set ourselves to 
 work to get something good to eat. No expense, no labor is 
 spared. Cooks and confectioners work for us night and day. 
 We labor, we struggle, we exhaust ourselves and our pockets 
 that gladness may reach the soul in its very inmost seat, which 
 we have learned to be the inmost folds of the stomach. O! 
 great is the stomach, and man is its expansion ! 
 
SHAKESPEARE’S COMMENTATORS. 
 
 T HE other day I happened to meet with the volume of 
 Furness’s “New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare” that 
 contains “ Macbeth.” In looking over the work I find some 
 passages which I think none of the notes by the various com- 
 mentators explain. One passage in particular all the commen- 
 tators have, I think, totally misunderstood. After Lady Macbeth 
 has swooned, and while the attention of all the thanes is fixed 
 upon her, Malcolm says to Donalbain : 
 
 Malcolm. Why do we hold our tongues 
 
 That may most claim this argument for ours? 
 
 Donalbain . What should be spoken here, where our fate, 
 
 Hid in an auger-hole, may rush and seize us? 
 
 Let ’s away ; our tears are not yet brewed. 
 
 Malcolm. Nor our strong sorrow 
 
 Upon the foot of motion. 
 
 Banquo. Look to the lady ! 
 
 And when we have our naked frailties hid, 
 
 That suffer in exposure, let us meet 
 
 And question this most bloody piece of work, 
 
 To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us. 
 
 In the great hand of God I stand, and thence 
 Against the undivulged pretence I fight 
 Of treasonous malice. 
 
 Macduff. And so do I. 
 
 All. So all. 
 
 Macbeth. Let ’s briefly put on manly readiness 
 And meet in the hall together. 
 
 All. Well contented. 
 
 [. Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain. 
 Malcolm. What will you do? Let ’s not consort with them. 
 
 To show an unfelt sorrow is an office 
 
 Which the false man does easy. I ’ll to England. 
 
 ( J 7i) 
 
172 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S COMMENTATORS. 
 
 Donalbain . To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune 
 
 Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are 
 There ’s daggers in men’s smiles : the near in blood 
 The nearer bloody. 
 
 Malcolm. This murderous shaft that ’s shot 
 
 Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way 
 Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; 
 
 And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, 
 
 But shift away : there ’s warrant in that theft 
 
 Which steals itself when there ’s no mercy left . — Act II. sc. 3. 
 
 All the commentators say that by “the near in blood” Don- 
 albain means Macbeth, whom he suspects of the murder. My 
 opinion is that he means himself and Malcolm. We who are 
 near in blood to the murdered king are nearer to being made 
 bloody; that is, murdered. The word bloody is here employed 
 not in an active but in a passive sense, as it is in “ Romeo and 
 Juliet” : 
 
 Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 
 
 Lies festering in his shroud. 
 
 The meaning seems to me so obvious that I can not see how 
 any one could avoid it, except by going purposely out of the 
 way. How could nearness of blood in Macbeth make him 
 “the nearer bloody”? If he has killed Duncan, how can he 
 be nearer bloody, either in disposition or in act, than he is? 
 If by saying “the nearer bloody” Donalbain means that Mac- 
 beth is more likely to kill them than is any one else, what has 
 that to do with their danger? To be murdered by Macbeth is 
 no worse than to be murdered by any other. All that Donal- 
 bain means to say is that their relationship to the murdered 
 Duncan puts them in danger. Whoever has murdered the 
 father will not stop till he has murdered the sons. 
 
 It is amusing to see how the commentators often mislead 
 themselves. 
 
 He died 
 
 As one that had been studied in his death, 
 
 To throw away the dearest thing he owed 
 As ’t were a careless trifle. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S COMMENTATORS. 
 
 I73 
 
 Johnson says that studied means “instructed in the art of dying.” 
 Here what is plain enough is rendered unintelligible by the 
 explanation. The meaning is that he died as if he had studied 
 to throw away his life as a careless trifle. The comma after 
 death should be omitted. The participial form is often employed 
 for an adjective form, as in “the guiled shore to a most danger- 
 ous sea” (“Merchant of Venice,” iii, 2), where guiled= guileful. 
 In act iv, scene 1, of this drama “the ravined salt-sea shark” 
 
 means the ravenous salt-sea shark. 
 
 After Rosse has given his eloquent description of the state 
 of Scotland — 
 
 Alas, poor country ! 
 
 Almost afraid to know itself! It can not 
 
 Be called our mother, but our grave ; where nothing 
 
 But who knows nothing is once seen to smile ; 
 
 Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air 
 Are made, not marked ; where violent sorrow seems 
 A modern ecstasy : the dead man’s knell 
 Is there scarce asked for whom, and good men’s lives 
 Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
 
 Dying or ere they sicken — 
 
 Macduff says: ^ 
 
 J O relation 
 
 Too nice and yet too true ! — Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
 By which he means that notwithstanding the relation is so full 
 of distressing particulars, it is yet too true. Who could have 
 suspected that any human being would assert that Macduff in 
 this excited state of feeling stopped to make criticisms? And 
 yet we have such remarks as these: “Affected, elaborate; it 
 refers to the rhetorical style decked out with antithesis and 
 jnetaphors in which Rosse had announced the state of Scot- 
 land.” — Delius. “It seems here to mean ‘fancifully minute/ 
 ‘set forth in fastidiously chosen terms.’” — Clarendon. “Too 
 nice, because too elaborate, or having to much of an air of 
 study and art; and so not like the frank utterance of deep 
 feeling.” — Hudson . O that a pen should be dipped in ink to 
 write such things! 
 
174 
 
 SHAKESPEARE S COMMENTATORS. 
 
 Rosse . Your castle is surprised, your wife and babes 
 Savagely slaughtered. To relate the manner 
 Were, on the quarry of these murdered deer, 
 To add the death of you. 
 
 Malcolm. 
 
 Merciful heaven! 
 
 What, man ! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows : 
 Give sorrow words ; the grief that does not speak 
 Whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break. 
 
 Macduff. My children too ? 
 
 Rosse. 
 
 Wife, children, servants, all 
 
 That could be found. 
 
 Macduff. 
 
 And I must be from thence ! 
 
 My wife killed too? 
 
 Rosse. 
 
 Malcolm. 
 
 I have said. 
 
 Be comforted. 
 
 Let ’s make us medicines of our great revenge 
 To cure this deadly grief. 
 
 Macduff. He has no children. — All my pretty ones? 
 
 Did you say all ? — O hell-kite ! — All ? 
 
 What, all my pretty chickens and their dam 
 At one fell swoop ? — Act IV. sc. 3. 
 
 Who is “he” that has no children? Some of the commen- 
 tators say that Macbeth is “he,” and that Macduff’s meaning 
 is that Macbeth has no children to be killed, and that full 
 revenge is therefore impossible. A horrible idea! They object 
 to regarding “he” as referring to Malcolm, because, they say, 
 Macduff would not be so impolite as to speak at his sovereign 
 in such a manner. But Macduff is full of other thoughts than 
 thoughts of etiquette. Rosse, the bringer of the dreadful news, 
 is to him at this time the most important person in existence. 
 He can not turn away from him. When Malcolm speaks of 
 curing this deadly grief the desolate man says to Rosse almost 
 parenthetically, “ He has no children,” and is immediately ab* 
 sorbed in his loss. An avalanche has overwhelmed him, and 
 he can not make a bow to those who are looking on. 
 
 Lady Macbeth. Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! One, two : why, then 
 ’t is time to do ’t. — Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and 
 afeard ! What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power 
 
SHAKESPEARE’S COMMENTATORS. 1 75 
 
 to account? — Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so 
 much blood in him ? — Act V. sc. I. 
 
 Because “Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier and afeard!” follows so 
 closely “ Hell is murky ! ” it has been supposed that Lady Mac- 
 beth imagines herself reproaching her husband for his fear of 
 hell, which he is supposed to have expressed in “Hell is 
 murky.” But it seems better to regard this latter expression 
 as revealing her own dread of hell. All through the speech 
 she passes abruptly from one feeling to another. She first tries 
 to rub out the “damned spot;” then suddenly turns to listen to 
 the clock; then is excruciated with the dread of hell; then im- 
 agines herself urging on Macbeth to the commission of the 
 deed from which he is shrinking. 
 
 Messenger. As I did stand my watch upon the hill 
 
 I looked toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
 
 The wood began to move. 
 
 Macbeth. Liar and slave ! 
 
 Messenger. Let me endure your wrath, if ’t be not so. 
 
 Within this three mile may you see it coming: 
 
 I say a moving grove . — Act V. sc. 5. 
 
 Delius says, “For dramatic purposes Shakespeare has here 
 somewhat shortened the distance of twelve miles between 
 Birnam and Dunsinane.” The messenger does not say he 
 saw as far as Birnam. “I looked toward Birnam.” When 
 he looked in that direction he saw a moving grove. To him it 
 began to move when he first set eyes on it at the distance of 
 three miles. 
 
 Macduff. Then yield thee, coward, 
 
 And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time : 
 
 We ’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, 
 
 Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, 
 
 “ Here may you see the tyrant .” — Act V. sc. 7. 
 
 Instead of pole , one suggests cloth , another suggests scroll , 
 apparently thinking that Macbeth could not be painted upon a 
 
176 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S COMMENTATORS. 
 
 pole. But the pole was merely to hold up the board or cloth 
 on which was the painting. If Shakespeare had foreseen that 
 any one would find difficulty about the pole he might have 
 made Macduff say, “ We ’ll have thee painted upon a board, 
 which board shall be supported by a pole, and held up high so 
 that all may see it! Take care to observe, Macbeth, that what 
 is to be painted upon the pole will not be thyself, but only thy 
 image; and that will not be painted on the pole itself, but on 
 that which is to be upheld by the pole.” 
 
COLERIDGE’S TRANSLATION OF SCHILLER. 
 
 VERY one knows that Coleridge’s translation of Schiller’s 
 
 Wallenstein dramas is in general admirably done; but 
 occasionally it fails to express the exact meaning. In the scene 
 between Wallenstein and the Countess Terzky, after they have 
 learned of the death of Max Piccolomini, Wallenstein tells his 
 sister that the death of his young friend has destroyed for him 
 all the beauty of life — that, however successful he may be, the 
 beautiful is gone — that comes no more. 
 
 Was ich mir ferner auch erstreben mag, 
 
 Das Schone ist doch weg ; das kommt nicht wieder. 
 
 Coleridge does not bring out clearly the idea of success, and 
 he does not translate the emphatic das. “ Whatever fortunes 
 wait my future toils” means whether I have good or bad for- 
 tunes. This is Coleridge’s translation : 
 
 Of Piccolomini. What was his death? 
 
 The courier had just left thee as I came. 
 
 [ Wallenstein by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to be silent. ] 
 Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view ; 
 
 Let us look forward unto sunny days ; 
 
 Welcome with joyous heart the victory ; 
 
 Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day, 
 
 For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead ; 
 
 To thee he died when first he parted from thee. 
 
 Wall. This anguish will be wearied down, I know ; 
 
 What pang is permanent with man? From the highest 
 
 Wallenstein. 
 
 O ! ’t is well 
 
 With him ! but who knows what the coming hour 
 Veiled in thick darkness brings for us ! 
 
 Countess. 
 
 Thou speakest 
 
i7» 
 
 Coleridge’s translation of schiller. 
 
 As from the vilest thing of every day 
 He learns to wean himself ; for the strong hours 
 Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost 
 In him. The bloom is vanished from my life; 
 
 For O! he stood beside me, like my youth, 
 
 Transformed for me the real to a dream, 
 
 Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
 With golden exhalations of the dawn. 
 
 Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, 
 
 The beautiful is vanished — and returns not. 
 
 Another translation of the passage is here given : 
 
 Wall. O all is well with him ; but who can tell 
 What the next hour, black-veiled, may bring to us. 
 
 Count. Thou speak’st of Piccolomini. How died he? 
 
 The messenger was going from thee as I entered. 
 
 [ Wallenstein makes a sign with his hand for her to be silent .] 
 No longer turn thy look, I pray thee, backward; 
 
 But forward let us look to sunny days. 
 
 Enjoy the victory, forget its cost. 
 
 ’T was not to day thy friend was taken from thee; 
 
 When first he left thee, then he died to thee. 
 
 Wall. I shall recover from this blow, I know. 
 
 What does not man outlive? From the highest, 
 
 As from the commonest, he weans himself ; 
 
 For he is conquered by the mighty hours. 
 
 But yet I feel what I have lost in him. 
 
 The bloom is vanished from my life for ever ; 
 
 And cold and colorless it lies before me. 
 
 For he stood by me like my early youth ; 
 
 He changed for me the real to a dream, 
 
 Around the plain and common things of life 
 Spreading the golden vapors of the dawn. 
 
 Whate’er success attend my future toils, 
 
 The beautiful is gone — that comes no more. 
 
 Coleridge’s translation of the beautiful Song of Thekla is as 
 follows : 
 
 The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar; 
 The damsel paces along the shore ; 
 
Coleridge’s translation of schiller. 
 
 !79 
 
 The billows they tumble with might, with might ; 
 
 And she flings out her voice in the darksome night ; 
 
 Her bosom is swelling with sorrow : 
 
 The world it is empty, the heart it will die, 
 
 There’s nothing to wish for beneath the sky. 
 
 Thou Holy One, take thy child away! 
 
 I ’ve lived and loved, and that was to-day — 
 
 Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow. 
 
 In a note Coleridge says, “ I found it not in my power to 
 translate this song with literal fidelity, preserving at the same 
 time the Alcaic movement; and have therefore added the orig- 
 inal with a prose translation. Some of my readers may be 
 more fortunate.” 
 
 Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn, 
 
 Das Magdlein wandelt an Ufers Griin, 
 
 Es bricht sich die Welle mit Macht, mit Macht, 
 
 Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre Nacht, 
 
 Das Auge von Weinen getriibet: 
 
 Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer, 
 
 Und weiter giebt sie dem Wunsche nichts mehr. 
 
 Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind curiick; 
 
 Ich habe genossen das irdische Gliick, 
 
 Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 
 
 This is the literal translation: 
 
 “The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to and 
 fro on the green of the shore ; the wave breaks with might, with might, 
 and she sings out into the dark night, her eye discolored with weeping : 
 The heart is dead, the world is empty, and further gives it nothing more 
 to the wish. Thou Holy One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the 
 happiness of this world, I have lived and have loved.” 
 
 Instead of representing the heart as already dead, Coleridge 
 says it will die. But the greatest fault is in the close. The 
 chief beauty of the original is in the concluding point, “ I have 
 lived and loved,” 
 
 Ich habe gelebt und geliebet. 
 
180 Coleridge’s translation of schiller. 
 
 But Coleridge has weakened the sentiment by adding a line 
 and a half, in order to make a rhyme for sorrow. 
 
 The following attempt to comply with Coleridge’s invitation 
 is at least free from the faults mentioned : 
 
 The dark clouds rush ! hear the forest roar ! 
 
 The maiden wanders along the shore. 
 
 The waves are breaking with might, with might ! 
 
 And the maiden sings out to the murky night, 
 
 Her tear-troubled eye upward roving : 
 
 My heart is dead, the world is a void ; 
 
 There is nothing in it to be enjoyed. 
 
 O Father, call home thy child to thee; 
 
 For all the bliss that on earth can be 
 I have had in living and loving. 
 
SOME SHAKESPEARE “READINGS.” 
 
 I N reading, some years ago, Eckermann’s “ Conversations 
 with Gothe,” I was, I remember, amused with the cool- 
 ness with which Eckermann would, as he represents the matter 
 in his book, say in effect to the poet, “ I think you meant so 
 and so in this passage/' giving some meaning entirely different 
 from what Gothe supposed he had expressed. “ Perhaps I did 
 mean that," Gothe would say. We have no record of any 
 conversation in which Shakespeare was coaxed to mean some- 
 thing which he did not mean — more ’s the pity ! What a help 
 such a conversation would have been to M. Taine in some of 
 his brilliant (and silly) generalizations! But there are some 
 who, like Goneril, will take the thing they beg; and as Shake- 
 speare can not protest, they will make him say what they 
 please. When the foolish and self-conceited old courtier who 
 has just boastingly said, 
 
 » I will find 
 
 Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed 
 Within the center, 
 
 comes to Hamlet to find out the cause of his madness, or 
 rather to get a confirmation of his opinion already formed, 
 Hamlet speaks to him in a purposely flippant manner. 
 
 Polonius. How does my good lord Hamlet? 
 Hamlet. Well, God-’a-mercy. 
 
 Polonius. Do you know me, my lord? 
 
 Hamlet. Excellent well. You are a fishmonger. 
 Polonius. Not I, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. Then I would you were so honest a man. 
 Polonius . Honest, my lord? 
 
182 
 
 SOME SHAKESPEARE “ READINGS.” 
 
 Hamlet. Ay, sir ; to be honest as this world goes is to be one man 
 picked out of ten thousand. 
 
 Polonius. That ’s very true, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god 
 kissing carrion — have you a daughter? 
 
 Polonius . I have, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. Let her not walk i’ the sun. Conception is a blessing ; but 
 not as your daughter may conceive — friend, look to ’t. 
 
 Polonius. [Aside.] How say you by that? Still harping on my daugh- 
 ter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far 
 gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for 
 love, very near this. I ’ll speak to him again. — What do you read, my 
 lord ? 
 
 Hamlet. Words, words, words. 
 
 Polonius. What is the matter, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. Between whom ? 
 
 Polonius. I mean the matter that you read, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men 
 have grey beards, etc. 
 
 In what tone does Hamlet say “ words, words, words ”? 
 Evidently in the same flippant tone which he uses in the rest 
 of the dialogue — “ words, words, words,” with the rising inflec- 
 tion, meaning “ Words of course, what could I be reading but 
 words ?” But actors and readers have coaxed an entirely dif- 
 ferent meaning out of these “words.” They read them in a 
 solemn and sententious manner with the falling inflection, as 
 if Hamlet were satirizing his book as containing nothing but 
 words. Salvini’s version is 
 
 Parole, e poi parole, e poi parole. 
 
 These words he utters in such a way as to give the greatest 
 force to the (supposed) satire — “Parole, e poi parole, e poi — 
 parole,” making an expressive pause and lowering his voice to 
 its deepest tones at the last parole — “Words, and then words, 
 and then — words.” Now Hamlet’s intention is not to satirize 
 his book; he is merely “answering a fool according to his 
 folly.” To try to turn the answer into a satire completely spoils 
 the whole passage. 
 
SOME SHAKESPEARE “READINGS.” 183 
 
 The Italian version shows that the translator had a correct 
 idea of the meaning of a passage which is generally misunder- 
 stood, as I think. Speaking of Hamlet’s father, Horatio says, 
 
 I saw him once, he was a goodly king. 
 
 Hamlet replies, 
 
 He was a man take him for all in all 
 I shall not look upon his like again, 
 
 which is generally supposed to mean “He was a man upon 
 whose like I shall not look again, take him for all in all.” The 
 passage according to this reading has no points except the two 
 commas which separate “take him for all in all” from the rest 
 of the sentence — 
 
 He was a man, take him for all in all, 
 
 I shall not look upon his like again. 
 
 But I think that Hamlet’s meaning is, “He was more than a 
 king; he was a man” and I should place a semicolon after 
 man and give a strong emphasis to the word — 
 
 He was a man; take him for all in all, 
 
 I shall not look upon his like again. 
 
 Mr. Hudson says he sees no reason for this reading; but I 
 think there are very good reasons for it. One reason is that 
 the passage is not in the proper form to express the meaning 
 usually attributed to it. To express that meaning whose , not 
 his , should be employed — “ He was a man upon whose like I 
 shall not look again.” Another reason is that Hamlet’s highest 
 idea of his father is that he was a man. 
 
 See what a grace was seated on this brow : 
 
 Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; 
 
 An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; 
 
 A station like the herald Mercury 
 New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; 
 
 A combination and a form indeed 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal, 
 
 To give the world assurance of a man. 
 
184 
 
 SOME SHAKESPEARE u READINGS. 1 
 
 Salvini’s translator understood the passage; but he did not 
 know the weakening effect of an attempt to strengthen Shake- 
 speare; with his props he has pushed the building over. 
 
 Oraz. Nobil monarca egli era ! 
 
 Ami. Era un uom, nel verace e miglior senso : 
 
 Ne alcun mai rivedro che lo pareggi. 
 
 Horatio. A noble monarch he was ! 
 
 Hamlet. He was a man, in the true and better sense. 
 
 Nor shall I ever see any one to equal him. 
 
 I call to mind another striking passage of Shakespeare which 
 is generally read in such a way as to show that it is misunder- 
 stood. When the death of the wretched queen is announced 
 to him Macbeth says: 
 
 She should have died hereafter; 
 
 There would have been a time for such a word. 
 
 To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow, 
 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 
 Life ’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 
 And then is heard no more. It is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 
 Signifying nothing. 
 
 Place the emphasis on hereafter and time — 
 
 She should have died hereafter ; 
 
 There would have been a time for such a word — 
 
 and you convey the idea that it would have been better for her 
 to die at some future time than now. But this is contrary to 
 the whole tenor of the speech. Macbeth’s meaning is that she 
 was destined to die at some time or other, and life being so 
 insignificant an affair — a brief candle, a walking shadow, a 
 poor player, an idiot’s tale — it was as well for her to die now 
 
SOME SHAKESPEARE u READINGS.” 1 85 
 
 as at any other time. The emphasis should be placed on 
 should and would — 
 
 She should have died (was destined to die) hereafter ; 
 
 There would have been a time for such a word — 
 
 and she has lost nothing by dying now. 
 
 There happens to come to my mind another passage which 
 I think is generally read incorrectly. In the fight with Douglas 
 Falstaff falls to the ground and counterfeits death. After the 
 fight with Hotspur Prince Henry sees him on the ground, 
 and says, 
 
 What ! old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh 
 Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! 
 
 I could have better spared a better man. 
 
 O ! I should have a heavy miss of thee, 
 
 If I were much in love with vanity. 
 
 Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, 
 
 Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. 
 
 Embowelled will I see thee by and by ; 
 
 Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. 
 
 Falstaff rises slowly and says, 
 
 Embowelled ! if thou embowel me to-day, I ’ll give you leave to pow- 
 der me, and eat me too to-morrow. ’Sblood ! ’t was time to counterfeit, 
 or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. 
 
 In “ ? twas time to counterfeit” the actors place the emphasis 
 on counlerfeit; but it should be placed on time . Falstaff had * 
 been counterfeiting for some time, and he says now that it was 
 time to do what he did. 
 
WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 ORDSWORTH slowly gained his place among the 
 
 world’s great bards, and he will retain it. In his 
 progress to the eminence which he gained he met with the 
 most determined opposition, and was obliged to force his way 
 against ridicule and contempt. Like Psyche on her way to 
 the charmed fountain, he saw before him sleepless dragons and 
 heard innumerable voices forbidding him to proceed. But he 
 went on in the true spirit of heroism. 
 
 The principal cause of the violence against Wordsworth was 
 his theory that the humblest subjects are fit for poetry, and that 
 the language should be the “ real language of men in a state of 
 vivid sensation.” It was contended that some of his subjects 
 are essentially low and utterly destitute of all poetical capabili- 
 ties; that garden -spades, sparrows’ nests, leech -gatherers, and 
 peddlers can have no connection with poetical feeling but that 
 which is forced, strained, and unnatural. 
 
 Lord Jeffrey, by whom chiefly the charges against Words- 
 worth were made, was not the man to appreciate the genius of 
 this poet, or of any one who disregarded the conventionalities 
 of poetry. He acknowledged the right of the muse to all the 
 property which she had held “time whereof the memory of 
 man runneth not to the contrary,” but he was unwilling to 
 see her making any addition to her possessions. Society had 
 agreed to consider certain subjects poetical, and no others were 
 to be viewed in a poetical light. Especially was poetry to be- 
 ware of touching any subjects which society had agreed to 
 consider ridiculous or contemptible. But, notwithstanding the 
 magisterial decisions of the Edinburgh Review,, there is truth 
 
 (186) 
 
WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 x8 7 
 
 in the theory of the poet. The true poet, according to the 
 etymology of the word, is a maker — a creator. He himself 
 throws upon the object the hues of poetry. The poetic spirit 
 is a prism that casts upon even the commonest objects the 
 splendor of the rainbow. It is the poet’s soul that “gives 
 splendor to the grass” and “glory to the flower.” To him 
 whose soul is full of poetry “every common sight” seems 
 
 “ Apparelled in celestial light, 
 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream.’’ 
 
 And in general nature is to each one what his own spirit makes 
 it. When Hamlet had “lost all his mirth,” the whole aspect 
 of nature was changed into gloom. “This goodly frame, the 
 earth,” says he, “seems to me a sterile promontory; this most 
 excellent canopy, the air, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this 
 majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appeareth noth- 
 ing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.” 
 The dark soul rays out darkness on every thing around, and 
 of course sees every thing in dark colors. Even the silver 
 moonbeam is blackened by the medium through which it 
 passes. The purple and gold of the beautiful flowers are 
 only variations of the same sombre hue. 
 
 No objects are poetical to any but a poetic soul. The most 
 gorgeous sunset is to some minds nothing but colored clouds. 
 The lofty mountain clad in heaven’s own blue is to the man 
 of mere facts nothing more than elevated land rendered misty 
 by the distance. Even the Falls of Niagara to some may be 
 merely a fine place for sponging a coat. When Peter Bell 
 looked out upon nature — 
 
 “ A primrose by the river’s brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 
 And it was nothing more.” 
 
 To the Peter Bells a rainbow is a rainbow; but another may 
 say: 
 
 “My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in the sky.” 
 
1 88 
 
 WORDSWORTH S POETRY. 
 
 If then it is the spirit of the beholder that adds to the objects 
 around “the consecration and the poet’s dream,” where is the 
 limit? Why may not even garden - spades and birds’ nests 
 be clothed with the glory that radiates from the poet’s soul ? 
 A glove is a piece of leather made to fit the hand; but the 
 lover, when he sees the glove of his mistress, exclaims, 
 
 4 ‘Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! ” 
 
 The lover is filled with poetical feelings, and the meanest objects 
 appear to him in golden hues. To use the language of Words- 
 worth himself — 
 
 His present mind 
 Was under fascination; he beheld 
 A vision, and adored the thing he saw. 
 
 Arabian fiction never filled the world 
 
 With half the wonders that were wrought for him : 
 
 Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring, 
 
 Life turned the meanest of her implements 
 Before his eyes to price above all gold ; 
 
 The house she dwelt in was a sacred shrine, 
 
 Her chamber-window did surpass in glory 
 The portals of the dawn ; all paradise 
 Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
 
 Let itself in upon him ; pathways, walks, 
 
 Swarmed with enchantment. 
 
 Wordsworth’s soul was like that of a lover — he was a lover, 
 and Nature was his mistress. He showed his devotion, not in 
 violent outbursts of passion, but in a calm, deep-seated affection 
 that centered in his heart and spread over his whole being. An 
 atmosphere of love floated around him, and the meanest objects 
 glowed in its splendor. What object was unpoetical to him, 
 when it was robed in the hues of his own spirit ? When the 
 glory has departed from the trees of the forest — when the 
 leaves are fallen, and the bare branches in the roaring of the 
 wind seem to wail for the lost ones, few would look for images 
 of beauty in the forest. But, as if to make the scene more 
 dreary still, the cold rains fall and freeze, and tree and shrub 
 
WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 189 
 
 are covered with chilling ice. Common eyes see no beauty 
 there. But the sun rises and looks out upon this gloomy scene 
 and beholds a forest of diamonds. Every twig sparkles and 
 flashes. The meanest shrub is decked with the most brilliant 
 gems. It is the sun’s own light that has transformed sluggish 
 ice into gems of unrivaled splendor. Wordsworth’s spirit was 
 like the sun, and to it a garden-spade flashed in light and the 
 eggs in a sparrow’s nest sparkled like diamonds. 
 
 Mr. Hudson somewhere says : “ He that does not see poetry 
 in every thing will scarcely see it in any thing.” In other 
 words, he that sees it in any thing will see it in every thing. 
 The true poet can say — 
 
 “To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” 
 
 “The vision and the faculty divine” may be considered the 
 sense by which the beautiful is perceived as color is perceived 
 by the eye. The poet is a seer — one who “sees into the life 
 of things” by means of “the vision and the faculty divine.” 
 In the language of Mrs. Hemans, 
 
 There ’s beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes 
 Can see it in familiar things and in their lowly guise. 
 
 But to him who has not “the vision” it is as imperceptible as 
 are colors to the blind. 
 
 In regard to Wordsworth’s theory of poetical expression there 
 has been great misrepresentation. It has been said that he was 
 in favor of using the ordinary language of common conversa- 
 tion as the means of presenting poetical ideas. But it was 
 “the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation ” that he 
 professed to adopt, and not only this, but a selection from that 
 language. He sometimes carried his theory too far; but, if we 
 look at the fashionable poetical diction of the time at which he 
 began to write, we shall not wonder at his remonstrance against 
 it. The polished, artificial style of Pope had been imitated by 
 
190 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S POETRY. 
 
 “base mechanicals" till it had become disgusting. Many of 
 Pope's imitators, who were entirely destitute of genius, could 
 equal Pope himself in the mechanical construction of verses. 
 Cowper complains that Pope has 
 
 Made poetry a mere mechanic art, 
 
 And every warbler has his tune by heart. 
 
 His resounding line, his artificial caesura, his turns of expression, 
 had been attained even by the scribblers of the Della Cruscan 
 school. Many thought they were writing poetry if they could 
 manufacture sonorous lines filled with muses and nymphs and 
 Pierian springs. They seemed to suppose that mankind could 
 be warmed by the glitter of ice. A set of Salmoneuses tried 
 to imitate Jupiter's thunder by driving wagons over a bridge, 
 and the credulous world, unconscious of the absence of the 
 lightning, seemed to be satisfied with the sound. Dr. Darwin, 
 in glittering verse filled with the fashionable poetical language 
 of the time, celebrated the loves of pistils and stamens, and the 
 world considered his work poetry. 
 
 Against poetry of this kind one might exclaim as Chaucer's 
 host did against the “Rime of Sire Thopas" — 
 
 Now swiche a rime the devil I beteche, 
 
 This may well be rime doggerel. 
 
 It was against this frigid conventional language that Wordsworth 
 protested. Percy's Reliques showed that poetry could exist with- 
 out the fashionable dress that had been supposed necessary — 
 that the most homely words might contain fire enough to make 
 them “words that burn." Wordsworth saw the swelling hol- 
 lowness and the cold glitter of the style in vogue, and formed a 
 theory directly opposed to the prevailing laws. When greatly 
 disgusted with the empty sounds that passed for poetry, he 
 sometimes went to the opposite extreme. When ridiculed and 
 abused on all sides, he may have written some things from a 
 feeling of obstinacy. But those who suppose that his poems in 
 
WORDSWORTH S POETRY. 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 general are written in the style of ordinary life are greatly mis- 
 taken. His verse is not filed and polished till you see nothing 
 but glitter, but it glows with internal heat. It has the elevation 
 that elevated sentiments select for themselves. It does not 
 turn aside for ornaments, but it takes the richest that lie in 
 its way. 
 
 While the critical world was ridiculing Wordsworth, Scott 
 and Byron appeared. While Scott was celebrating the knightly 
 deeds of “ the olden time,” and Byron was giving exhibitions 
 of scorn and hate, the calm voice which invited men to hold 
 communion with nature was disregarded. Men were unwilling 
 to leave the company of “ lords and ladies gay” to walk among 
 the woods and fields. The glitter of diamonds was more attract- 
 ive than the visionary gleam of the grass and flower. The 
 flaming passion of bandits and corsairs blinded the eye to the 
 gentle radiance of the loving soul. The roar of ocean made 
 the ear deaf to the soft music that ascends from mountain-top 
 and valley. Those who were “in beauty’s circle proudly gay,” 
 laughed at the recluse who invited them to view “the bare 
 earth and mountains bare.” But those who followed him found 
 “new heavens and a new earth.” The familiar objects of 
 nature had been re-created, and glowed in a light which was 
 not of “the common day.” Inanimate objects were clothed 
 with life, and the light of eternity beamed upon the things of 
 time. Bryant told the poet Dana “that upon opening Words- 
 worth a thousand springs seemed to gush up at once in his 
 heart, and the face of nature of a sudden to change into a 
 strange freshness and life.” 
 
 Wordsworth was one of the most ardent worshipers of nature 
 that ever lived. But it was not the mere outward form that he 
 adored. In the dark forms of matter he saw a spirit — the eter- 
 nal spirit of love and beauty that pervades the universe. He 
 loved nature, not with ungovernable outbursts of burning pas- 
 sion, but with 
 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
 
192 
 
 WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 He believed in the sentiment expressed by Protesilaus in that 
 exquisite poem, “Lodamia’’ — 
 
 The gods approve 
 
 The depth and not the tumult of the soul. 
 
 He is not like HHna or Vesuvius, raging and spouting forth 
 flames and smoke, but rather like Atlas, in majestic calmness 
 supporting the heavens. His quietism, however, is the very 
 opposite of apathy. He enjoys 
 
 “ Deep self-possession, an intense repose.” 
 
 The quiet of his eye was “the rest of infinite motion.” He 
 described nature in her material aspects. See, for instance, the 
 gorgeous description of clouds after a storm. But generally he 
 throws a spiritual hue over nature — 
 
 “From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift is won ; 
 
 An intermingling of Heaven’s pomp is spread 
 On ground which British shepherds tread.” 
 
 There is a heaven-descended soul in nature which awakens a 
 soul in the spectator. See his description of a youthful poet’s 
 feelings : 
 
 What soul was his, when from the naked top 
 
 Of some bold headland he beheld the sun 
 
 Rise up and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 
 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean’s liquid mass beneath him lay 
 In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, 
 
 And in their silent faces could he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 
 Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live, 
 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 
 Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. 
 
 No thanks he breathed; he proffered no request; 
 
 \ 
 
WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 193 
 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him — it was blessedness and love. 
 
 A herdsman on the lonely mountain-top, 
 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 
 Oh ! then how beautiful, how bright appeared 
 The written promise! Early had he learned 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which can not die ; 
 
 But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
 
 All things, responsive to the writing, there 
 Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
 
 And greatness still revolving, infinite; 
 
 There littleness was not ; the least of things 
 Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe — he saw. 
 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, 
 
 Low thoughts had there no place. 
 
 We have quoted this passage at length, because it shows 
 better than we could do the light in which nature appeared to 
 the poet. A true priest of nature, he saw a divinity in the 
 image. 
 
 The poem of Wordsworth to which we turn oftenest and 
 with the greatest pleasure is the “Ode on the Intimations of 
 Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood.” We have 
 read it again and again, and every time with new pleasure. It 
 is pure nectar. There is something in it far above the reach of 
 Pindar. It is Pindar and Plato united. 
 
 And yet the Edinburgh Review pronounced this poem “be- 
 yond all doubt, the most illegible and unintelligible part” of 
 a volume which it had decided to be full of nonsense ! The 
 reviewer passes it by, seeming to make a merit of seeing no 
 possible explanation of it! The man who can not understand 
 this should be careful how he sets himself up as a standard of 
 taste. The first passage quoted as unintelligible is one in which 
 
 i7 
 
194 
 
 WORDSWORTH’S POETRY. 
 
 the poet complains that some of the glory which surrounded 
 objects in his childhood has passed away. One tree and one 
 field in particular are not what they were. The pansy at his 
 feet has suffered the same loss, and the poet exclaims, “ Whither 
 has the glory fled!” It is just as intelligible in Wordsworth’s 
 poetry as in our prose — 
 
 But there ’s a tree, of many, one, 
 
 A single field which I have looked upon, 
 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 
 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat — 
 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 This passage is given up as one which the critic can not 
 understand, and the intimation is given that no one else need 
 attempt to fathom its meaning. 
 
 Let him who would see more in nature than he has ever 
 seen before become familiar with Wordsworth. Let him accom- 
 pany this pious worshiper of nature, and he will have 
 
 “A sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky and in the mind of man.” 
 
CIVILIZED WARFARE. 
 
 T HESE two words may seem almost opposed to each 
 other; but civilization has had some influence even on 
 war. The savage tortures his enemy, scalps him, eats him, and 
 kills his wife and children. But among civilized nations the 
 warrior does not live on the flesh of his enemies, as the com- 
 missary’s accounts abundantly show; nor does he adorn his 
 person with strings of scalps, nor murder women and children 
 without disapprobation. War has even its virtues, not reckon- 
 ing personal courage, which is by no means the highest. The 
 true soldier is merciful and generous, frank and truthful, court- 
 eous to all, and prompt to acknowledge the merits even of an 
 enemy. In short there is no occasion why every soldier may 
 not be in his sphere a Chevalier Bayard, “ without fear and 
 without reproach.” A “ rowdy” can not be a good soldier; 
 the “rowdies” failed in the time of their trial in the battle of 
 Manassas. When we read accounts of generous conduct in 
 times of war, every one feels a thrill of pleasure, no matter on 
 what side his sympathies may be enlisted. Men may be kind- 
 hearted and even polite without being the less brave. “The 
 bravest are the tenderest.” It is related that when some of the 
 English soldiers met the French Guards in the battle of Fonte- 
 noy, the English cried out, “ Gentlemen of the Guards, fire ! ” 
 The Frenchmen replied, “The French Guards never fire first.” 
 French politeness conquered, and the English were obliged to 
 fire first. History, though urged thereto by the most weighty 
 considerations, has never furnished the documents for estab- 
 lishing the truth of this story; and we are inclined to think 
 that it is not necessary to carry politeness quite so far. But the 
 
196 
 
 CIVILIZED WARFARE. 
 
 combatants may extend to each other many courtesies.* In 
 the battle of Talavera the combat was suspended during the 
 extreme heat of the day. “The troops on either part/’ says 
 Alison, “ overcome by thirst, straggled down in great numbers 
 to the streamlet which ran in the bottom of the ravine which 
 separated the two armies. Not a shot was fired, not a drum 
 was beat ; peaceably the foemen drank from the opposite banks 
 of the same rill; and not unfrequently the hands which had so 
 recently before been dyed in mutual slaughter were extended 
 and shaken across the water, in token of their mutual admira- 
 tion of the valor and constancy displayed on both sides.” This 
 was characteristic of the true soldier. Let us make war in this 
 spirit, and not strive to show that we are fighting against fiends 
 from the lowest deep of hell. Let us conquer by fighting; or, 
 if we lose the victory, let us not lose our manhood. 
 
 It were no great loss if we should get rid of the magnilo- 
 quent tone of some of our dispatches. What is the use of 
 talking about “countless hosts,” “regal array,” and all those 
 other things that belong to tales of genii and giants sixty feet 
 high, more or less? Twenty or thirty thousand men do not 
 form a “countless host” among nations who have even a mod- 
 erate faith in arithmetic, and a “regal array” is supposed to 
 include something more than a few epaulets. Why then should 
 we resort to these high-sounding phrases? What is the use of 
 saying that at every step we feel our advanced head knock 
 out a star in heaven? The probability is that people will not 
 believe us. Bombastes Furioso and Captain Bobadil are not 
 models for gentlemen soldiers. A French officer in Lever’s 
 
 * Prince de Ligne, giving an account of a visit of his to Frederick the Great, 
 reports himself as saying: “Apropos of M. de Voghera, is your Majesty aware of a 
 little thing he did before charging? He is a boiling, restless, ever -eager kind of 
 man, and has something of the good old chivalry style. Seeing that his regiment 
 would not arrive quick enough, he galloped ahead of it; and coming up to the com- 
 mander of the Prussian regiment of cavalry which he meant to attack, he saluted 
 him as on parade; the other returned the salute; and then, Have at each other like 
 madmen.” To which Frederick replies, “A very good style it is ! I should like to 
 know that man ; I would thank him for it.” — Carlyle's Life of Frederick the Second , 
 VI. 506. 
 
CIVILIZED WARFARE. 
 
 197 
 
 “ Maurice Tiernay” gives Tiernay the skeleton of a report 
 which he is to fill up. In this skeleton the word “bom” fre- 
 quently occurs, and Tiernay does not understand it. “As to 
 the mysterious monosyllable,” says the officer, “it is nothing 
 more than an abbreviation for ‘bombast/ which is always to be 
 done to the taste of each particular commanding officer.” The 
 following is a specimen of the skeleton report: “First gun cap- 
 tured — bom; bayonet charge — -bom, bom; three guns taken — 
 bom, bom, bom.” Did some of the officers in the present war 
 ever serve under this Frenchman? 
 
 Nearly allied to this “bom” is the free use which is made of 
 the name of God in military dispatches and in proclamations. 
 This thing is too often done merely for effect; and it is a kind 
 of blasphemy. A commander gains a battle, and to round off 
 his report and make it sonorous he intersperses it with the 
 name of the Deity. Marlborough, in one of his dispatches, 
 says: “Our success is, in a great measure, owing to the particular 
 blessing of God and the unparalleled bravery of your troops.” 
 The awkward way in which he drags in the name of God 
 shows that he did not feel what he said. Wellington’s good 
 sense and good taste made him avoid all such language. 
 
 The noble spirit of Brutus should animate every soldier: 
 
 Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. 
 
 We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, 
 
 And in the spirit of men there is no blood. 
 
 O that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, 
 
 And not dismember Caesar ! But, alas ! 
 
 Caesar must bleed for it ! And, gentle friends, 
 
 Let ’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully. 
 
[FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.] 
 
 LONGING. 
 
 F ROM this valley low and dreary, 
 
 By the chilling mists oppressed, 
 
 Could I but a way discover, 
 
 How supremely were I blessed! 
 
 There I see the sunny hillsides, 
 
 Ever green and ever gay ; 
 
 O! if I were blessed with pinions, 
 
 To the hills I ’d soar away ! 
 
 Harmonies I hear resounding, 
 
 Soothing tones of heavenly calm; 
 
 And the gentle breezes tell me 
 Of the fragrance-breathing balm. 
 Golden fruit I see there glowing, 
 
 Beckoning ’mid the dark-green leaves; 
 And those flowers of their beauty 
 No stern winter e’er bereaves. 
 
 Ah! how happy, how delightful 
 In the eternal sunshine there! 
 
 And upon those lovely summits 
 O ! how fresh must be the air ! 
 
 But I ’m frightened by the river 
 Which between us madly raves; 
 
 And my soul is filled with horror 
 As I view its swelling waves! 
 
 On the stream a boat is rocking; 
 
 But, alas ! the pilot fails ! 
 
 Enter boldly without shrinking; 
 
 Full of life thou ’It find its sails. 
 
 Thou must trust, and thou must venture 
 Heaven will pledge no helping hand; 
 Nothing but a wonder takes thee 
 To the glorious Wonder-land. 
 
[ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE KENTUCKY HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY.] 
 
 HORTICULTURE. 
 
 T HE first abode built by the devil was a palace; while the 
 first residence prepared by God was a garden. For the 
 facts in regard to the palace we are indebted to Milton, who 
 tells us that after some lofty speeches the fallen angels ran to a 
 hill and digged out ribs of gold, which they fashioned to their 
 purposes, when — 
 
 Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 
 Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet, 
 
 Built like a temple, where pilasters round 
 Were set and Doric pillars overlaid 
 With golden architrave ; nor did there want 
 Cornice or frieze with bossy sculpture grown : 
 
 The roof was fretted gold ! 
 
 It may be said that the authority of Milton is not decisive; but 
 it is very certain that these fallen angels would not have made 
 a garden for a place in which to hold their meetings. Such a 
 place would not have been in harmony with the evil feelings 
 that filled their bosoms. And it is very doubtful whether the 
 greater part of mankind would not follow the fallen angels and 
 make a palace in preference to a garden, if it were as easy for 
 them to do one thing as another. If we were about to select 
 an abode for two innocent beings, how few of us would not 
 prefer a splendid palace with its graceful columns, its sculp- 
 tured pediment, and its gorgeous chambers, to the most beau- 
 tiful garden taste could produce ! Man has fallen from purity 
 both of character and of taste. The most pleasant place that 
 
 ( T 99) 
 
200 
 
 HORTICULTURE. 
 
 even Infinite Wisdom could devise was a garden. A garden 
 was the place best calculated to preserve man’s innocence — 
 the place best adapted to the development of his powers and 
 the improvement of his heart. The Garden of Eden, it is true, 
 was something more than a potato -patch. Divine taste was 
 exercised in its arrangement. This paradise, or landscape- 
 garden as we should perhaps call it, was, according to Milton, 
 who knew at least as much about it as any other human being, 
 
 A happy rural seat of various view ; 
 
 Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and balm, 
 
 Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, 
 
 Hung amiable — Hesperian fables true, 
 
 If true, here only — and of delicious taste. 
 
 Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 
 Grazing the tender herb, were interposed ; 
 
 Or palmy hillock or the flowery lap 
 Of some irriguous valley spread her store, 
 
 Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. 
 
 Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 
 Of cool recess, o’er which the mantling vine 
 Lays forth her purple grape and gently creeps 
 Luxuriant ; meanwhile murmuring waters fall 
 Down the slope hills, dispersed, or in a lake, 
 
 That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned 
 Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. 
 
 This was a place in which the Deity could hold intercourse 
 with man. This was a place which could invite angels to make 
 visits to him. But now, 
 
 “No more of talk where God or angel guest 
 With man as with his friend familiar used 
 To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
 Rural repast.” 
 
 The sins of man have driven him from that mode of life 
 which was adapted to perfect innocence alone. The vicissi- 
 tudes of the seasons require other abodes. We must now 
 shelter ourselves from the rage of the elements; and the shade 
 of the vine and the fig-tree is no longer sufficient. We can 
 
HORTICULTURE. 
 
 201 
 
 still, however, do something to imitate the lost Eden. .Eneas 
 built in the land of his exile a miniature representation of his 
 much-loved Troy. We have not lost all our original brightness: 
 
 “Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 From God who is our home.” 
 
 The light which once shone upon us in Eden has followed us, 
 and is not yet lost in the “ light of common day.” The glory 
 may have been changed into a dream; but the dream itself is 
 splendid, if we only take time to look at it. We need only 
 turn our eyes from our cares and our follies, and visions of 
 Eden will still burst upon us. When gold or ambition daz- 
 zles our sight these visions disappear; we turn our backs upon 
 our Eden homes and wander off among the swamps and briars 
 of the world. But — 
 
 “In a season of calm weather, 
 
 Though inland far we be, 
 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 That brought us hither.” 
 
 A taste for gardening is a taste for the innocence of Eden. 
 No one can devote himself to horticulture from the love of it 
 without becoming a purer being. You would not go to a man 
 in the midst of a beautiful garden if you were seeking for an 
 accomplice in crime. There would be no need of an angel 
 with his sword to keep you back, for you would seem to see 
 an angel in every rose warning you away. The pure air of a 
 beautiful garden is more efficacious than any moral essay. The 
 simple pleasures of horticulture tend to give its votaries a dis- 
 taste for the grosser enjoyments of the animal nature. Though 
 the angels can not now be tempted to alight in the gardens of 
 man, yet they will hover over them. Old Andrew Marvel, the 
 incorruptible patriot, must have been fresh from the garden 
 he so sweetly describes when he met Lord Danby, whom King 
 Charles II. had sent to bribe him. The patriot answered the 
 
202 
 
 HORTICULTURE. 
 
 monarch’s treasurer by calling his servant to witness that he 
 had dined three days in succession on a shoulder of mutton. 
 It is almost impossible to refrain from quoting his “ Thoughts 
 in a Garden”: 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear ? 
 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 
 Your sacred plants, if here below, 
 
 Only among the plants will grow. 
 
 Society is all but rude 
 In this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 
 Cut in these trees their mistress’ name. 
 
 Little, alas ! they know or heed 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 
 Fair trees ! where’er your barks I wound, 
 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 
 Ripe apples drop about my head; 
 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 
 
 The nectarine and curious peach 
 Into my hands themselves do reach. 
 
 Stumbling on melons as I pass, 
 
 Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Here, at the fountain’s sliding foot, 
 
 Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, 
 
 Casting the body’s vest aside, 
 
 My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
 
 Here like a bird it sits and sings, 
 
 Then whets and claps its silvery wings, 
 
 And, till prepared for longer flight, 
 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 And after speaking of a Flora’s dial, he closes by saying, 
 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ! 
 
HORTICULTURE. 
 
 203 
 
 No wonder that Marvel was the friend of Milton, that he 
 could dine three days consecutively on a shoulder of mutton, 
 refuse a place at court and a thousand pounds in hand when 
 he was obliged the next moment to borrow a guinea from a 
 friend. Such incorruptibility as that of Marvel was indeed a 
 wonderful thing in those times; and no doubt a great deal of 
 the purity of his character was derived from the purity of his 
 tastes. 
 
 Few pleasures can equal those of the cultivator of flowers. 
 From the time that he plants the seed he derives enjoyment 
 from every stage in the progress of the plant. He sees it open- 
 ing its way through the ground, and he welcomes it with joy. 
 He watches its growth and feels something of the pleasure of 
 creative power. He anticipates the joy of seeing it expand its 
 petals and become “a star in earth’s firmament.” If one flower 
 gives him so much pleasure, how much greater is the joy when 
 his garden becomes a star-spangled firmament, when constella- 
 tions and galaxies of earth’s stars shine upon him! A Pleiad 
 may be lost — even a constellation may disappear — but other 
 stars and constellations replace them. It is said that 
 
 “In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
 
 And tell in a garland their loves and cares ; 
 
 Each flower that blooms in the garden bowers 
 On its leaves a mystic language bears.” 
 
 But there is in flowers a higher language than that referred to 
 in this stanza — a language which is understood by the lover of 
 nature in Western as well as Eastern lands. To converse in 
 this language the lover of flowers requires not the intervention 
 of another person. He converses with the flowers themselves. 
 They express to him “ thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
 tears.” Their language can not be translated into any human 
 tongue; but well their lover understands it. It is a language 
 which they brought with them from Eden, and it tells of their 
 other home. Why is it that flowers are so dear to the sick? 
 Why do they always impart a glow to the eye that has been 
 
204 
 
 HORTICULTURE. 
 
 dimmed by disease? Is it not because, as the human being is 
 less and less under the influence of the body and approaches 
 more nearly to the state of a pure intelligence, the soul can 
 more readily understand the mystic language of flowers? 
 
 Among the highest enjoyments with which the Prophet of 
 Islam promised to reward his followers stands the tooba-tree, or 
 tree of happiness. This tree is so large that the fleetest horse 
 could not gallop from one end of its shadow to the other in a 
 hundred years. The boughs, loaded with dates, grapes, and all 
 manner of fruits of the largest and most beautiful kinds, extend 
 to the couch of every believer and bow down spontaneously to 
 his hand, inviting him to pluck. And should the believer wish 
 it, he can gather from the boughs any kind of meat he chooses, 
 beef, mutton, fish, fowl, roasted, boiled, or fried. If he wishes 
 a new dress, the finest vestments of green silk will burst forth 
 from the expanding blossoms. If he wishes to take a ride, he 
 has but to reach a bough and pluck a horse ready saddled and 
 bridled. Now some may consider this a great fib and think 
 worse of the Prophet for having told it; but I confess that I 
 am inclined to respect him for having given so much impor- 
 tance to a fruit-tree. Of course we all refuse to swallow the 
 meat and the horses and the silk dresses. These things were 
 grafted on the tree to gratify the taste of his barbarous follow- 
 ers; but the man who could give in his paradise so prominent 
 a place to so fine a fruit-tree was far elevated above barbarism. 
 
 The love of fruit may not be a spiritual appetite, but it is not 
 like the vulgar corporeal appetites. The poet who said he did 
 not like to see a beautiful lady eating could have had no objec- 
 tion to her eating fruit. And it is difficult to decide which is the 
 most delightful, fruit-eating or fruit-cultivation. It is no wonder 
 that every one found it so difficult to get the consent of Pomona 
 to marry him. The Satyrs and other rural deities tried in vain; 
 she was too much engaged in looking at her trees to turn her 
 eyes upon any of them. Vertumnus came wooing her as a 
 mower, but did not reap the fruits of his exertions. He pre- 
 
HORTICULTURE. 
 
 205 
 
 sented himself as an ox-driver; but she was too happy in her 
 employment to be drawn away. He came as a soldier, but 
 could not captivate her. He came as a fisherman, but caught 
 nothing. She thought nothing else could equal the pleasure of 
 attending to her fruit-trees; and she would never have listened 
 to her wooer if he had not taken the form of an old lady and 
 scared her into his measures. 
 
 In that fascinating book of travels, Eothen, is a kind of 
 sample of the conversations that are carried on between Euro- 
 pean travelers and their Eastern hosts. An Englishman is rep- 
 resented as visiting a Pasha of I-do n’t-know-how-many tails, 
 and engaging in conversation with the aid of his dragoman. 
 The Pasha wishes to show that he knows all about England, 
 and is continually talking about steam : “ Whirr ! ” exclaims he, 
 “ whirr! all by wheels! Whiz! whiz! all by steam !” The 
 Englishman becomes tired of this, and says to his dragoman, 
 “Well, tell the Pasha I am exceedingly gratified to find that he 
 entertains such a high opinion of our manufacturing energy; 
 but I should like him to know, though, that we have something 
 in England besides that. These foreigners are always fancying 
 that we have nothing but ships and railways and East -India 
 companies. Do just tell the Pasha that our rural districts 
 deserve his attention, and that even within the last two hun- 
 dred years there has been an evident improvement in the cult- 
 ure of the turnip.” We are too apt to be like the Pasha, and 
 to think there are no evidences of well-being but whirring and 
 whizzing; whereas an improvement in the culture even of the 
 turnip may indicate more substantial prosperity than is shown 
 by all the whirring of wheels and the whizzing of steam. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY* 
 
 I F you turn your eyes to one of the churches of the feudal 
 times, you may see a young man engaged in solitary prayer. 
 He is a candidate for knighthood, and is now keeping the vigil 
 of arms. He has passed through the preliminary education, 
 and has been adjudged worthy to have his name inscribed in 
 the rolls of chivalry. He has come out of the bath, the symbol 
 of purification. He has been clothed in the white tunic, the 
 symbol of purity; in the red robe, the symbol of the blood 
 which he is bound to shed in the cause of religion; and in the 
 black coat, the symbol of the death that comes to all. When 
 he rises from his knees his heart beats high. He is about to 
 become the defender of the oppressed, the protector of the 
 widow and the orphan. His imagination brings before him 
 crowds of sufferers imploring his assistance. The weeping 
 widow clasps her hands and prays for relief against strong- 
 handed oppression, and he arms himself for the combat. He 
 hears the cry of the orphan, and compels the oppressor to do 
 justice. 
 
 As he gives himself up to these lofty thoughts, the night 
 passes away and morning comes. To prepare himself thor- 
 oughly for his holy calling he continues his religious exercises. 
 After confession he receives the communion and attends the 
 mass of the Holy Ghost. He then listens to a sermon by the 
 priest on the duties of the new life on which he is about to 
 enter. The priest describes the glorious career which is before 
 him; warns him of its temptations; sets before him the claims 
 
 -•Lecture before the pupils of the Female High School, Louisville, Ky. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 207 
 
 of magnanimity, justice, and mercy; urges him to emulate the 
 glorious deeds of his ancestors; to cherish truth, to scorn the 
 mean, to be a pattern of courtesy and humility. He exhorts 
 him to become such a knight as we find described by the 
 Father of English poetry: 
 
 A knight there was, and that a worthy man, 
 
 That fro the time that he first began 
 To riden out he loved chivalrie, 
 
 Trouthe and honor, fredom and curtesie. 
 
 Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
 
 And thereto had-he ridden, none more ferre, 
 
 As wel in Cristendom as in Hethenesse, 
 
 And ever honored for his worthinesse. 
 
 And though that he was worthy, he was wise, 
 
 And of his port as meek as is a mayde ; 
 
 He never yet no vilanie ne sayde 
 In alle his lif unto no manner wight. 
 
 He was a very parfit gentil knight. 
 
 After the sermon the young man, with his sword suspended 
 from his neck, advances to the priest, who takes it from him, 
 blesses it, and again puts it on his neck. His sword, having 
 been thus consecrated, he advances to a noble knight and 
 kneels before him. “ With what design,” asks the knight, “ do 
 you desire to enter the order? If it is in order to become rich, 
 to repose yourself, and be honored without doing honor to 
 chivalry, you are unworthy of the order of knighthood to 
 which you aspire.” After the young man has promised to 
 acquit himself well, the knight consents to admit him. 
 
 And now the knights present, assisted by ladies, proceed to 
 equip him with his spurs, his defensive armor, and his sword. 
 The knight who has consented to admit him into the order 
 then advances, gives him the accolade, which consists of three 
 blows on the shoulder with the flat of the sword, and pro- 
 nounces the words: “In the name of God, St. Michael, and 
 St. George, I dub thee knight; be faithful, bold, and true.” 
 The new-made knight then leaps upon his horse, displays, to 
 
208 the spirit of chivalry. 
 
 the admiration of the spectators, his skill in managing his steed 
 and in the use of the sword and lance. He is now ready to en- 
 gage in the noble deeds to which the laws of chivalry bind him. 
 
 We will not follow him in his career. We feel that wherever 
 he may appear, in joust or tourney, on the battle-field or in 
 single combat, in the council of war or in lady's bower, in the 
 church or in the lists, at home or abroad, he will display the 
 qualities belonging to the true knight. In all circumstances he 
 will be brave, magnanimous, courteous; always despising the 
 false and the mean; ever ready to acknowledge the merit of 
 his antagonist; ever ready to grasp his hand when the combat 
 is over; never feeling tempted to resort to underhand practices 
 himself, he will suspect nothing of the kind in others. Even 
 the heat of combat will be unable to drive him from his lofty 
 courtesy, his high-minded generosity. He will never insult a 
 fallen foe. A terror to evil-doers when duty demands, at other 
 times he will be “of his port as meek as is a mayde." His 
 rivalry will be free from envy and every malignant feeling. 
 Rejoicing when others do well, he will himself strive to do 
 better. He will never attempt to exalt his own merits by low- 
 ering those of others. He may sometimes fail to reach his 
 high ideal, for he is human; but when he has done injustice to 
 any one he will hasten to make as ample a reparation as pos- 
 sible. False pride will never prevent him from making an 
 apology or asking pardon, as it does in meaner souls. With 
 him the next best thing to doing right will be asking forgive- 
 ness for doing wrong. 
 
 We will not seek to discover the end of his life. He may 
 die in a ripe old age, having “that which should accompany 
 old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends." When 
 Europe, crying “ It is the will of God!" precipitates itself upon 
 Asia, he may be one of those whose bones are destined to 
 whiten the plains of Hungary; or he may be scorched with 
 fever under the burning sun of Palestine. He may die under 
 the walls of Damascus or within sight of the Holy Sepulchre. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 209 
 
 But, whenever or wherever he does depart, the world will feel 
 its loss. 
 
 “The knights are dust, 
 
 And their good swords are rust ; 
 
 Their souls are with the saints, we trust.” 
 
 But has the spirit of chivalry gone to dust with the bodies 
 of the knights ? We have read the eloquent lament of Burke : 
 “The age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, 
 and calculators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is 
 extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold 
 that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, 
 that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart which 
 kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted free- 
 dom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, 
 the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone ! It 
 is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which 
 felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it miti- 
 gated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under 
 which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness.” 
 
 A melancholy thing, indeed, would it be if the soul of chiv- 
 alry were gone. But it is not gone. The external form, the 
 body, is gone; but the spirit lives, and has ever lived. Histo- 
 rians have labored to discover the time at which chivalry came 
 into existence, but to little purpose. All that constituted the 
 excellence of chivalry — its soul — has existed wherever man has 
 retained a memory of the lost Eden. Living a deathless life, 
 it is seen now in one form, now in another. In what is called 
 “the age of chivalry’’ it girded on the sword, because in those 
 days the sword was the instrument with which wrongs were 
 redressed. We are too apt to think that the carrying of arms 
 was of the essence of chivalry. But so far is this from being 
 true, that in our own day those who load themselves with arms 
 are generally destitute of every principle of chivalry. A mere 
 readiness to fight does not raise man above the wild beast. 
 In mere animal courage man is surpassed by the bulldog and 
 
 18 
 
210 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 the tiger. It is the spirit with which he is animated that makes 
 the hero; and this spirit may be shown where not a weapon is 
 to be seen as well as in the midst of arms. Howard was ani- 
 mated with the spirit of chivalry, but he did not go through the 
 prisons of Europe with the sword and lance. The hero of the 
 immortal work of Cervantes possessed all the highest qualities 
 of chivalry. He was brave, generous, magnanimous, truthful; 
 and we feel almost conscience-smitten when we laugh at him. 
 What is it that makes Don Quixote ridiculous ? He is laughed 
 at because of the incongruity between his lofty principles and 
 the means which he employed to carry them out; because he 
 resorted to arms in a state of things with which arms were not 
 consistent; because he attempted to force the spirit of chivalry 
 into a dead body. 
 
 The memory of the Chevalier Bayard, the knight sans peur 
 et sans reproche , who has been called “a real type of the ideal 
 knight-errant of romance,’’ is honored not so much because he 
 was without fear as because he was without reproach. “ His 
 words were bonds; his oaths were oracles.” His generosity 
 caused him to be almost adored, even by his enemies. In the 
 fatal retreat through the Yal d’ Aosta his spine was shattered by 
 a stone from an arquebuse. “J esu > my God!” he exclaimed, 
 “ I am a dead man ! ” Then commanding that he should be 
 placed in sitting posture, with his back against a tree and his 
 face to his foes, he had the cross-hilt of his sword held up 
 before him as a crucifix, “ confessed his sins to his squire, sent 
 his adieux to his king and his country, and died in the midst 
 of weeping friends and admiring enemies.” His magnanimity 
 produced magnanimity in his foes, who embalmed his body, 
 and, unsolicited, returned it to his country. 
 
 In September, 1585, a small body of English troops in the 
 Netherlands was encountered by a large force of Spaniards 
 near Zutphen; and a desperate battle ensued, in which the 
 Spaniards were defeated. But the English met with a loss far 
 greater than the loss which had fallen upon their foes. Among 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 21 1 
 
 the mortally wounded was one who had been called by his sov- 
 ereign “the jewel of her times/’ He was distinguished for his 
 skill in the manly exercises and still more distinguished for the 
 accomplishments of his mind. He was a poet, a general, and 
 a statesman. He had written the “Arcadia” and the “Defense 
 of Poesie.” Though loving the quiet of a literary life, he could 
 not remain in retirement when injustice was to be repelled or 
 his country was to be served. His lofty soul was incapable of 
 taking what he considered a mean advantage. On this occa- 
 sion he had seen the Spanish commander going into battle 
 lightly armed, and with a spirit of chivalry that some may call 
 too refined he determined to imitate his example. The death 
 wound was the result. Those of you who are at all acquainted 
 with history or literature have recognized in the dying warrior 
 the noble, the magnanimous, the frank, the amiable, the accom- 
 plished and modest Sir Philip Sidney. On many occasions he 
 had displayed the highest attributes of chivalry; but on no 
 occasion had he shown the spirit brighter than in this closing 
 scene of his chivalrous life. The blood was flowing from him 
 in streams. Tormented with violent thirst he called for drink. 
 As the drink was presented to him he saw a poor, wounded 
 soldier whom his comrades were carrying by, and who cast a 
 ghastly look at the bottle. “ Thy necessity is yet greater than 
 mine,” said the noble Sidney, as he took the bottle from his 
 mouth and gave it to the soldier. Here was the spirit of chiv- 
 alry! Here was that grand spirit of self-denial — that generous 
 devotion to the welfare of others which gave to chivalry its 
 glory. The warrior had performed an act of daring at the 
 beginning of the battle; this act he performed at the close. 
 The former could have been performed by thousands of men; 
 the latter by none but Sidney and those like Sidney. After a 
 few weeks of agony Sidney’s body was interred in St. Paul’s 
 Cathedral, and has mouldered into dust; but the spirit that 
 animated him did not die. It has reappeared in every age, 
 and lives in our own day. 
 
212 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 Who are the successors of the knights of old? Not they 
 who make themselves conspicuous merely by obeying the in- 
 stincts of the animal or showing insensibility to danger; but 
 they who show the same frankness, the same generosity, the 
 same lofty courtesy, the same forgetfulness of self and devotion 
 to others that characterized the heroes of those other days. 
 Spenser represents the Knight of the Red Cross as destroying 
 the dragon, which represents social evil. Whoever attacks this 
 dragon in the true spirit is the true knight. The missionary 
 who exposes his life for the salvation of his fellow-men is a true 
 knight. John Howard was a true knight when, in the language 
 of Burke, he “ visited all Europe, not to survey the sumptuous- 
 ness of palaces or the stateliness of temples; not to make accu- 
 rate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to 
 form a scale of the curiosities of modern art; not to collate 
 medals or collect manuscripts, but to dive into the depths of 
 dungeons, to plunge into the infections of hospitals, to survey 
 the mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gauge and dimen- 
 sions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the 
 forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and 
 to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all coun- 
 tries.” In the preface to the work which he published just 
 before leaving England for the last time he said: “ Should it 
 please God to cut off my life in the prosecution of this design, 
 let not my conduct be imputed to rashness or enthusiasm, but 
 to a serious conviction that I am pursuing the path of duty.” 
 The mournful presentiment was realized, and he died of camp- 
 fever, which he had contracted from a patient at Kherson, on 
 the Black Sea, exhibiting to the end of his life the courage and 
 devotion of chivalry. 
 
 As the spirit of chivalry is not confined to any age, so it is 
 not limited by clime or sex. The sex which is styled “ gentle” 
 is not prevented by its gentleness from performing deeds that 
 would have done honor to the noblest knight of them all. 
 “The bravest are the tenderest,” and the tenderest are the 
 
THE SPIRIT OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 213 
 
 bravest. As the noble knight of Chaucer was “ of his port as 
 meek as is a mayde,” so the meek maiden may be as coura- 
 geous and devoted as the warlike knight. Poets of chivalry 
 seem to have felt that its glories should not be confined to one 
 sex, and they have their female knights performing martial 
 deeds. Tasso had his Clorinda, Ariosto his Bradamante, and 
 Spenser his Belphoebe. But these creatures of fiction did not 
 display the knightly qualities in as high a degree as they were 
 displayed by many a woman in real life, even in the days 
 when the career of arms was accounted so glorious. Those 
 feats of arms are not so chivalrous as the deeds of mercy per- 
 formed by many a noble woman. In those days too were 
 women who exposed their lives in performing deeds like those 
 of the “ Angels of Buena Vista” — 
 
 But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
 
 Through the long dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; 
 Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, 
 
 And the dying foemen blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. 
 
 In our day Florence Nightingale can well bear a comparison 
 with even Bayard and Sidney. And there is many a noble 
 woman who, though not so famous, has as great a portion of 
 the spirit of chivalry as was exhibited by Florence Nightingale; 
 many a one who displays in their full perfection the knightly 
 qualities of courtesy, truthfulness, and generosity. 
 
 And now, if you who have not yet entered upon the career 
 of active life admire the spirit of chivalry, you may consider 
 yourselves as the neophytes of chivalry undergoing the neces- 
 sary training. When you are gentle, modest, courteous, frank, 
 truthful, self-denying; when you are ready to acknowledge the 
 merits of others, and to emulate without envying, you exhibit 
 the character which we admire in the knights of old; and, 
 though no knightly sword gives you the accolade, you are as 
 truly chivalrous as if you had been dubbed “in the name of 
 God, St. Michael, and St. George.” 
 
THE BLUE JAY* 
 
 Jay! jay! jay! jay!. 
 
 In the name of wonder what is to pay! 
 
 Are all the birds engaged in a fray? 
 
 No, it is only the old blue jay. 
 
 Jayd jay! you old blue jay! 
 
 Your noise is as bad as a donkey’s bray. 
 
 Jay! jay! jay! jay! 
 
 You flutter and perk in your proud array, 
 Your blue and white and your top-knot gay, 
 And think you make a grand display. 
 Display ! display ! you old blue jay ! 
 
 That you are a dandy all must say! 
 
 Jay! jay! jay! jay! 
 
 You have always had a very bad way 
 Of eating the eggs which other birds lay, 
 And even making their young a prey. 
 
 Prey! prey! you old blue jay! 
 
 That you are a thief you can not gainsay. 
 
 Jay! jay! jay! jay! 
 
 Take yourself off" as soon as you may! 
 
 The birds regard it as not fair play 
 To take their eggs and their young away. 
 Away! away! you old blue jay! 
 
 It will not be pleasant for you to stay. 
 
 * Written for some children. 
 
 (214) 
 
BRIDAL SONG OF MAIDENS OF LA VENDEE. 
 
 [At marriages the bridesmaids present the bride with a distaff and 
 spindle, to remind her of her domestic duties, and with a branch of 
 thorn ornamented with ribbons and fruit or sweetmeats, emblematical of 
 the sorrows as well as the pleasures of the state which she is about to 
 enter: at the same time a marriage-song is sung; its tenor is that the 
 season of joy and thoughtlessness is past, that the morning of life is gone 
 by, that the noon is full of cares, and that as the day advances we must 
 prepare for trouble and grief — a mournful but wholesome lesson, which 
 is seldom heard without tears. — Quarterly Review .] 
 
 D EAREST sister, thou must leave us! 
 
 Bid thy maiden joys farewell! 
 
 That this hour to us is grievous 
 These our swelling tears must tell. 
 
 Back upon thy girlhood pleasures, 
 
 When life’s burden on thee weighs, 
 
 As a miser on his treasures 
 Wilt thou look in other days. 
 
 On the shaded grass reclining, 
 
 With the broad oak overhead, 
 
 Loving arms around thee twining — 
 
 How the sunny hours have sped! 
 
 To the laughing streamlet rushing, 
 
 With its waters did we toy, 
 
 And our heart-born song out-gushing 
 Filled the woodland with our joy. 
 
 Then the gladsome hours flew o’er thee 
 Like the glories of a dream, 
 
 Every thing that lay before thee 
 Glowing in a rosy gleam. 
 

 216 bridal song of maidens of la vendee. 
 
 Then did not December’s sorrow 
 Blast the flowers of thy May, 
 
 Nor the darkness of to-morrow 
 Gloom the sunshine of to-day. 
 
 Take these symbols of the labor 
 That must fill thy future life, 
 
 As the warrior takes the sabre, 
 
 Emblem of the coming strife. 
 
 Like these ribbons gayly streaming 
 Seems thy future life to thee; 
 
 But beneath this gallant seeming 
 Hide the thorns thou dost not see. 
 
 Soon the splendors of the morning 
 Fade before the heat of noon; 
 
 And the evening’s twilight warning 
 Gathers o’er thy pathway soon. 
 
 Soon the gloomy night descending 
 Shall its horrors o’er thee roll, 
 
 Then may daylight never-ending 
 Break in glory on thy soul. 
 
“GLORIOUS VICTORY.” 
 
 H OW often do we see these words placed at the head of 
 accounts of bloody battles in which thousands were 
 killed and wounded and whole cities ruined! The reception 
 of the news of the victory is followed by joyful shouts and 
 the firing of cannon. It is well to guard against being carried 
 away by a one-sided view of things. It is sometimes good to 
 have a skeleton at the feast. 
 
 The lofty self-devotion of some who have exposed their 
 lives from pure love of country has made their memories dear 
 to mankind; but no one with feelings above the feelings of the 
 savage will ever think of fighting for “ glory. ” The true-hearted 
 man will regret the necessity that drives him to shed the blood 
 of his fellow-men, as the benevolent officer weeps when called 
 to execute the stern sentence of the law. The time will come 
 when men will look back and wonder how it was possible for 
 human beings to seek for glory in butchering one another. 
 They will look on this as we now look on the custom of 
 offering human sacrifices. The one thing is as barbarous as 
 the other. The savage makes him an idol of wood or stone 
 and sacrifices his enemies to it; the civilized man makes an 
 idol of Glory and sacrifices his fellow-man to her. “ Moloch, 
 horrid king!” was not more “ besmeared with blood” than 
 Glory has been. 
 
 In the sacrifices to Moloch the cries of the victims were 
 drowned by “ the noise of drums and timbrels loud;” those 
 who sacrifice to Glory have devised many plans for drowning 
 the cries of bereaved fathers and mothers, the shrieks of the 
 widow and the orphan; and too often the shouts of “ Glory” 
 
 19 (217) 
 
2lS 
 
 GLORIOUS VICTORY. 
 
 « 
 
 )y 
 
 have risen above every other sound. Suppose that on the eve 
 of a battle for “ glory ” all who are to be affected by it should 
 be collected on the field. In the sight of those who are about 
 to shed each others’ blood for “ glory” are the fathers and 
 mothers, the brothers and sisters, the wives and children, the 
 friends and loved ones, whose lives are to be rendered wretched 
 by the conflict. If after the firing of a volley all the woe 
 it has caused should rise in one scream of agony, who would 
 have the heart to fire again ? Ah ! it must be a great cause that 
 requires the slaying of our brothers. The patriot warrior should 
 be as pure in heart as are the angels that surround the throne 
 of God. 
 
 He that makes widows and orphans for mere military fame 
 should have, not the eagle, but the carrion vulture painted on 
 his banner. If a material form were to be selected for the 
 glory which mere military heroes worship, the most horrid 
 images that have ever visited the dreams of the sick would be 
 too tame for the purpose. The Grecian artist selected the most 
 lovely features from the most lovely women to form his master- 
 piece; the most horrible features from all that is hateful and 
 disgusting should be blended together in one appalling picture 
 to represent Glory. Her car should be drawn by jackals and 
 hyenas over a road paved with human hearts. Her seat should 
 be formed of the coils of the most loathsome and deadly ser- 
 pents. The most disgusting birds of prey should flap their 
 wings around her head. The blood of those whom she is 
 devouring should gush from her mouth and stream down her 
 breast, and all around her should be masses of black and putre- 
 fying gore. The only light that attempts to pierce the thick 
 gloom that surrounds her should be the red glare from burning 
 cities. 
 
SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 RD CAMPBELL and others have attempted to show that 
 
 Shakespeare before he went to London passed his time 
 in a lawyer’s office. We intend to prove from his knowledge 
 of agricultural and horticultural matters that in his early life he 
 was engaged in rural pursuits, and consequently had no time to 
 devote to the study of the law. This will be in effect to prove 
 an alibi; and we hope our correct application of this term may 
 induce Lord Campbell, in the next edition of his work, to do 
 justice to our legal acquirements. 
 
 We suppose that Shakespeare had not only a farm, but a 
 garden and a vineyard connected with it — 
 
 “A garden circummured with brick, 
 
 Whose western side was with a vineyard backed. ” 
 
 Whether he held this property in fee simple, or had only a 
 life-estate, or a copy-hold, or merely “ farmed it,” we can not 
 determine. From the way in which he refers to the modes of 
 barring entails by fines and recoveries, we suspect the property 
 was in some way entailed, that he was engaged in a lawsuit 
 about it, that at the close of the suit, however it may have been 
 determined, there was no remainder to him either of real or 
 personal property, and that he then went upon the stage. But 
 these are merely conjectures; let us proceed to our well-known 
 facts. 
 
 The great dramatist shows in all his writings so accurate a 
 knowledge of agricultural processes and productions, of the 
 various kinds of “live stock” and the proper management 
 thereof, of flowers and fruits, of rural games and pastimes, 
 
 (219) 
 
220 
 
 SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 and the various adjuncts of country life, that he who after an 
 investigation of the matter is not convinced that Shakespeare 
 was a farmer should himself “keep a farm and carters 7 ’ till he 
 learns something. 
 
 Our farmer knew where good husbandry should begin, being 
 well acquainted with the value of manure: 
 
 The cold blood he did naturally inherit from his father he hath, like 
 lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded, and tilled. — 2 Hen. IV. 
 
 Compost was familiar to him : 
 
 And do not spread the compost on the weeds, 
 
 To make them ranker. — Hamlet. 
 
 He was aware of the importance of good seed: 
 
 If you can look into the seeds of time, 
 
 And say which grains will grow, and which will not. — Macbeth. 
 
 Sowed cockle, reaped no corn. — Love's Labor's Lost. 
 
 After the ground has been prepared, the seed sown, and the 
 plant “full of growing,” how our husbandman enjoys the prospect! 
 
 How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! — Tempest . 
 
 Your tongue’s sweet air 
 More tunable than lark to shepherd’s ear 
 When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. 
 
 [Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 It will be observed that in this passage Shakespeare shows 
 himself to have been as familiar with the song of the lark and 
 the blossom of the hawthorn as was the plowman Burns. How 
 could he have been so accurate if he had not followed the 
 plow like Burns? 
 
 We shall see what thorough knowledge he has of the process 
 of growth, and of the difficulties to be encountered : 
 
 He can not so precisely weed this land, 
 
 As his misdoubts present occasion : 
 
 His foes are so enrooted with his friends, 
 
 That, plucking to unfix an enemy, 
 
 He doth unfasten so and shake a friend. — 2 Henry IV. 
 
SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 221 
 
 Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds. — lb. 
 
 He ’s a rank weed, Sir Thomas, 
 
 And we must root him out. — Henry VIII. 
 
 Sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste. — Richard III. 
 
 Biron is like an envious sneaping frost, 
 
 That bites the first-born infants of the spring. 
 
 {Love's Labor's Lost. 
 
 He weeds the corn and still lets grow the weeding. — lb. 
 
 Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, 
 
 And hang their heads with sorrow. — Henry VIII. 
 
 Though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down .-Macbeth. 
 
 These tidings nip me, and I hang the head, 
 
 As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. 
 
 [ Titus Andronicus. 
 
 Grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
 
 Mingle their spurs together. Grow, patience! 
 
 And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine 
 
 His perishing root with the increasing vine. — Cymbeline. 
 
 Shakespeare, it is evident, never lost his crop from being 
 ignorant of the injurious effects of weeds. But he sometimes 
 suffered from unfavorable seasons. How could he have given 
 this description if he had not seen and felt the disastrous effects 
 of such a season ? 
 
 Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, 
 
 As in revenge, have sucked up from the sea 
 Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land, 
 
 Have every pelting river made so proud 
 That they have overborne their continents. 
 
 The ox hath therefore stretched his neck in vain, 
 
 The plowman lost his sweat ; and the green corn 
 Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard ; 
 
 The fold stands empty in the drowned field, 
 
 And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. 
 
 And thorough this distemperature we see 
 The seasons alter. Hoary-headed frosts 
 Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; 
 And on old Hymns’ chin and icy crown 
 
222 
 
 SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds 
 Is, as in mockery, set ; the spring, the summer, 
 
 The childing autumn, angry winter, change 
 Their wonted liveries . — Midsummer Night's Dream. 
 
 How accurate in every particular is the following description 
 of neglected land! No farmer that had passed his life at the 
 handles of the plow could have described the scene in a better 
 
 manner . ^h e husbandry doth lie on heaps, 
 
 Corrupting in its own fertility. 
 
 Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart, 
 
 Unpruned lies. Her hedges, even-pleached, 
 
 Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, 
 
 Put forth disordered twigs. Her fallow leas 
 The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory 
 Doth root upon ; while that the coulter rusts 
 That should deracinate such savagery. 
 
 The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth 
 The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, 
 
 Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, 
 
 Conceives by idleness ; and nothing teems 
 But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, 
 
 Losing both beauty and utility . — Henry V. 
 
 But the season having been favorable, and the corn ripe, 
 then comes the reaping. The references to this operation are 
 numerous and are all perfectly accurate : 
 
 They that reap must sheaf and bind, 
 
 Then to cart with Rosalind . — As You Like It. 
 
 It may be objected to this that those who reap do not bind 
 the sheaves. But the objectors show their ignorance of ancient 
 customs. In Shakespeare’s time, and even later, the reaper, 
 after having cut to the end of the field returned the same way, 
 binding what he had cut : 
 
 O, let me teach you how to knit again 
 
 This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf. — Titus Andronicus. 
 
 We have no doubt that Shakespeare could have given 
 instruction in this art to many a modern farmer. 
 
SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 223 
 
 The harvest is reaped, bound, and carted; the “ stubble-land 
 at harvest-home” shows like the new-reaped chin of Hotspur’s 
 courtier, and now comes the feast of harvest-home, with its 
 dancing and merriment: 
 
 You sun-burned sicklemen; of August weary, 
 
 Come hither from the furrow and be merry ; 
 
 Make holiday ; your rye-straw hats put on, 
 
 And these fresh nymphs encounter every one 
 In country footing. — Tempest. 
 
 We will introduce two quotations referring to the last opera- 
 tion, the winnowing of the grain. It must be kept in mind 
 that Shakespeare had no wheat-fan, but, in the language of 
 Mause Headrigg, “ waited for any dispensation of wind that 
 Providence might please to send on the shealing-hill ” : 
 
 We shall be winnowed with so rough a wind 
 That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff, 
 
 And good from bad find no partition. — 2 Henry IV. 
 
 I humbly thank your highness, 
 
 And am right glad to catch this good occasion 
 Most thoroughly to be winnowed, where my chaff 
 And corn shall fly asunder . — Henry VIII. 
 
 We could bring forward any number of quotations going to 
 show that Shakespeare was thoroughly acquainted with all the 
 processes of farming, and therefore must have been a farmer. 
 We will give a few extracts showing his knowledge of other 
 products of the farm than those mentioned already : 
 
 We ’ll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pompion. — 
 Merry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 Bowled to death with turnips. — lb. 
 
 Let the sky rain potatoes. — lb . 
 
 This reference to potatoes is remarkable on account of the 
 recency of the introduction of that vegetable. It shows that 
 our farmer was ready to adopt new things. 
 
224 
 
 SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 To turkeys, which, like potatoes, came from America, he was 
 so accustomed that he seems to have regarded them as having 
 been in England “ time whereof the memory of man runneth 
 not to the contrary/’ for he speaks of them as familiar objects 
 in the time of Henry IV., whereas they did not appear in 
 England till more than a hundred years afterward. 
 
 Shakespeare was well acquainted with the difference between 
 red and white wheat; but we have not been able to discover 
 which he preferred: 
 
 Mildews the white wheat. — King Lear . 
 
 Davy . Shall we sow the headland with wheat? 
 
 Shallow . With red wheat, Davy. — 2 Henry IV. 
 
 Here is the process of making bacon: 
 
 Evans . I pray you, have your remembrance, child : Accusativo , hung , 
 hang , hog. 
 
 Quickly. Hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. — Merry Wives 
 of Windsor. 
 
 Shakespeare had a garden attached to his farm. His farm 
 was the prose, his garden the poetry of his life. When the 
 labors of the farm were over for the day, when he had unyoked 
 his oxen and returned to the house, he laid aside his ox-whip 
 and said to his wife, “Anne, give me a drink of water, and I 
 will labor a while in the garden.” His good wife brought him 
 some fresh sparkling water in one hand and in the other some 
 of her home-brewed ale, saying, as she presented the latter, 
 “ William, I know thou art weary with the plowing, therefore I 
 have brought thee some ale to refresh thee before thou goest 
 into the garden.” Of which ale farmer William took a deep 
 draught, both because it was of his wife’s brewing, and also be- 
 cause it was not unpleasant in itself. He then proceeded to 
 his garden. 
 
 How well he cultivated his garden, and how thoroughly he 
 was versed in the principles of horticulture, his work in the gar- 
 den showed, and his works now show. He was well acquainted 
 
SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 225 
 
 with the old proverb of thrift, “A stitch in time saves nine/' and 
 he accordingly rooted out the weeds while they were young : 
 
 Now ’t is the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; 
 
 Suffer them now, and they ’ll o’ergrow the garden, 
 
 And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. — 2 Henry VI. 
 
 He knew the advantage of having the soil deep, so that the 
 plants might be firmly rooted. The following figure was sug- 
 gested by the sight of a garden belonging to a neighbor who 
 neglected this important principle: 
 
 Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already ; the least wind i’ the world 
 will blow them down. — Anto?iy and Cleopatra. 
 
 It is evident that he watered his young plants; but we have 
 not been able to discover what was the particular form of the 
 watering-pot which he used. We infer from the following pas- 
 sage that the holes in the rose of the pot were small, so that 
 the water as it fell resembled dew : 
 
 He watered his new plants with the dews of flattery. — Coriolanus. 
 
 From his garden our farmer derived the most useful moral 
 lessons. One of his neighbors complaining that his garden did 
 not produce so well as William Shakespeare’s did, and attrib- 
 uting his want of success to the soil, etc., and not to his lack 
 of industry and skill, William was reminded of those persons 
 who attribute their moral failures to something out of them- 
 selves. He thought of this neighbor when he wrote the fol- 
 lowing passage: 
 
 Our bodies are gardens, to which our wills are gardeners; so that, if 
 we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, sup- 
 ply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many; either to have 
 it sterile with idleness or manured with industry ; why, the power and 
 corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. — Othello. 
 
 This same neighbor’s unweeded garden affected William’s 
 mind so deeply that year’s afterward it presented itself as the 
 strongest image of utter desolation: 
 
226 
 
 SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 
 Fie on ’t ! O fie ! ’t is an un weeded garden 
 
 That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature 
 
 Possess it merely. — Hamlet . 
 
 Shakespeare's was not a mere kitchen -garden filled with 
 cabbage, beans, and lettuce. These had their appropriate 
 place; but other parts of the garden contained not only the 
 richest fruits but the fairest flowers. How could he have 
 known so well the peculiarities of the different flowers if not 
 from actual observation in his own garden? 
 
 Reverend sirs, 
 
 For you there ’s rosemary and rue ; these keep 
 Seeming and savour all the winter long. 
 
 Sir, the year growing ancient — 
 
 Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter — the fairest flowers of the season 
 Are our carnations and streaked gilliflowers. 
 
 Here ’s flowers for you : 
 
 Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 
 
 The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun 
 And with him rises, weeping : these are flowers 
 Of middle summer, and I think they are given 
 
 To men of middle age. 
 
 Daffodils, 
 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 
 Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses, 
 
 That die unmarried ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady 
 Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and 
 And the crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
 
 The flower-de-luce being one. — The Winter's Tale . 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 
 While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 
 I ’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack 
 The flower that ’s like thy face, pale primrose ; nor 
 The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
 Qutsweetened not thy breath. — Cy?nbeline t 
 
SHAKESPEARE A FARMER. 
 
 227 
 
 We could give any quantity of quotations of this kind. 
 What lawyer in our times knows when the different flowers 
 bloom? “A question to be asked.” 
 
 Our gardener was thoroughly acquainted with the operations 
 of hybridizing, pruning, trellising, and grafting : 
 
 Go, bind thou up yond’ dangling apricocks, 
 
 Which, like unruly children, make their sire 
 Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight ; 
 
 Give some supportance to the bending twigs. 
 
 Go thou, and, like an executioner, 
 
 Cut off the heads of too-fast growing sprays . — Richard II. 
 
 When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, 
 
 Is full of weeds ; her fairest flowers choked up, 
 
 Her fruit-trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, 
 
 Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs 
 Swarming with caterpillars. — lb. 
 
 We at time of year 
 
 Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 
 
 Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, 
 
 With too much riches it confound itself. — lb. 
 
 Superfluous branches 
 
 We lop away that bearing boughs may live. — lb . 
 
 Perdita. I have heard it said 
 
 There is an art which in their piedness shares 
 With great creating nature. 
 
 Polixenus. Say there be ; 
 
 Yet nature is made better by no mean 
 
 But nature makes that mean ; so, o’er that art 
 
 Which you say adds to nature is an art 
 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 
 A gentler scion to the wildest stock 
 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 
 By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
 
 Which does mend nature — change it rather ; 
 
 But the art itself is nature . — The Winter's Tale. 
 
 O ! if we could only see Shakespeare’s garden as it was ! 
 Armida’s enchanted grounds were nothing to it ! Should n’t 
 we enjoy eating half a dozen of those “ apricocks”? A ques- 
 tion requiring no immediate answer. 
 
THE BRAHMIN AND THE ROGUES* 
 
 An ancient Brahmin, as they say, 
 
 Had vowed that on a certain day 
 He to the gods a sheep would slay 
 In solemn sacrifice. 
 
 When forth to buy a sheep he went, 
 Three rogues, who knew of his intent, 
 Together did a plan invent 
 To cheat his very eyes. 
 
 * Macaulay relates this as one of Pilpay’s fables. He says: “Thus, or nearly 
 thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanskrit Aesop. The moral, like 
 the moral of every fable that is worth the telling, lies on the surface. The writer 
 evidently means to caution us against the practices of puffers — a class of people who 
 have more than once talked the people into the most absurd errors, but who surely 
 never played a more curious or a more difficult trick than when they passed Mr. Rob- 
 ert Montgomery off upon the world as a great poet.” Macaulay’s memory deceived 
 him. The fable is not Pilpay’s. There is a fable of Pilpay’s which, no doubt, sug- 
 gested Macaulay’s fable ; but in Pilpay’s fable a sheep is transformed to a dog, not a 
 dog to a sheep; and the moral is “What can not be done by force must be done by 
 policy.” This is Pilpay’s fable : 
 
 “A dervise had once made a purchase of a fine fat sheep, with intent to offer it 
 up in sacrifice; and having tied a cord about its neck, he was leading it to his habita- 
 tion. But as he led it along four thieves perceived him and determined to steal his 
 sacrifice for less holy uses. They dared not, however, take it away from the dervise 
 by force, because they were too near the city ; therefore they made use of this strat- 
 agem : they first parted company, and then accosted the dervise (whom they knew 
 to be an honest and inoffensive man, who thought of no more harm in others than he 
 had in himself) as if they had come from several different parts. Said the first of 
 them who had contrived to come up directly in front of him, ‘Father, whither are 
 you leading this dog?’ At this instant the second came up from another direction 
 and cried out, ‘Venerable old gentleman, I hope you have not so far forgotten your- 
 self as to steal this dog.’ Immediately the third came up and said, * Whither will you 
 go a-coursing with that handsome dog?’ The poor dervise began to be lost in doubt, 
 when the fourth thief came up and asked, ‘ Pray, reverend father, what did this dog 
 cost you ? ’ The dervise, convinced that four men coming from four several places 
 could not all be deceived, verily believed that the grazier who had sold him the 
 sheep was a conjurer, who had bewitched his sight and made him take a dog for a 
 sheep. He went back to the grazier to demand his money, leaving the sheep with 
 the thieves.” 
 
 Some peculiar circumstances induced the “present writer” to versify Macau- 
 lay’s fable. 
 
THE BRAHMIN AND THE ROGUES. 
 
 The first rogue cunningly drew nigh 
 And said, “O Brahmin, wilt thou buy 
 A sheep to-day? I have one here 
 That on the earth has not its peer.” 
 
 “O! yes,” the holy man replies; 
 
 “I want a sheep for sacrifice. 
 
 To buy one came I forth to-day : 
 
 So let me see thy sheep, I pray.” 
 
 The rogue complied, 
 
 His bag untied — 
 
 The pious man stood horrified! 
 
 For out there came 
 A dog diseased and blind and lame. 
 
 “O wretch polluted by things unclean!” 
 
 Exclaims the Brahmin, “what dost thou mean 
 By calling that horrible dog a sheep ! ” 
 
 “A dog! O Brahmin, art thou asleep! 
 
 Callest thou this a thing unclean — 
 
 A sheep as lovely as ever was seen, 
 
 Of the finest fleece, and of flesh so sweet 
 That the gods must esteem it an offering meet!” 
 
 “Friend,” said the Brahmin, “art thou out of thy mind 
 A loss must have happened to one of us two. 
 
 If thou takest that beast to be either a ewe 
 Or ram 
 Or lamb — 
 
 If thou art not totally blind, 
 
 I am.” 
 
 Just then approached the second rogue, 
 
 Exclaiming as he viewed the dog, 
 
 “A thousand thanks to the gods I owe! 
 
 I need not to the market go ; 
 
 My wishes are crowned ; 
 
 For here I have found 
 A sheep that ’s unequaled above the ground ! 
 
 For what wilt thou sell it? 
 
 The price now — pray tell it!” 
 
 The Brahmin’s mind waved to and fro, 
 
 Now here, now there, 
 
 As in the air 
 The swingers go. 
 
230 
 
 THE BRAHMIN AND THE ROGUES. 
 
 “Friend,” said he, “thou dost surely err; 
 This is no sheep, but an unclean cur.” 
 
 “Cur!” cried the rogue, as back he shrunk, 
 “O Brahmin, art thou mad or drunk?” 
 
 The third confederate drew near. 
 
 “Come, let us ask this stranger here,” 
 
 The Brahmin said; “let him decide; 
 
 By what he says I will abide.” 
 
 “Agreed! agreed!” the rogues replied. 
 
 “Stranger,” said the ’wildered priest, 
 
 “Pray tell us what thou call’st this beast.” 
 
 “What do I call it! A sheep of course.” 
 The Brahmin bowed his head, 
 
 And sighing said 
 In accents hoarse, 
 
 “To punish me for my offenses, 
 
 The gods have taken away my senses.” 
 
 Then, turning to the crafty knave, 
 
 Most humbly did his pardon crave. 
 
 He paid for the dog a monstrous price, 
 
 A pot of ghee and measures of rice; 
 
 And taking it home as a precious prize, 
 Offered it up in sacrifice; 
 
 By which the gods he did displease, 
 
 Who smote him with a sore disease. 
 
DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL* 
 
 UR readers may imagine a company of men undertaking 
 
 to establish a magnetic telegraph line, and in their eager- 
 ness to put it in operation forgetting many necessary matters. 
 At one end they have forgotten to provide a battery ; in another 
 place they have failed to make a connection between the wires. 
 In great haste they attempt to send a message, and it will not 
 go. The public is on the tiptoe of expectation. Murmurs 
 begin to float around the ears of the company. The members 
 begin to look aghast at each other. Mobs and various other 
 disagreeable things rise before their imaginations. A tremen- 
 dous note of preparation had been sounded, and it is now 
 echoed back broken up into hisses and curses. Something 
 must be done; what shall it be? Very opportunely one pre- 
 sents himself who is willing to declare that the failure was 
 caused by the individual who had no battery — that, in fact, he 
 had a very powerful battery and plenty of material to keep it 
 in activity. Here a way of deliverance presents itself. The 
 poor man is made a scapegoat, and they are redeemed. 
 
 This is an illustration of the way in which General Hull was 
 treated. The administration plunged into a war without the 
 necessary preparation. The whole country was made to believe 
 that the conquest of Canada was a matter that did not present 
 the slightest difficulty; that at the first gleam of an American 
 sword the British forces would disappear. Preparation, cooper- 
 ation, and other things which hitherto had been considered of 
 some importance in military movements, were supposed to be 
 
 *Life of General Hull, by his grandson, James Freeman Clarke. 
 
232 DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL. 
 
 entirely superfluous matters. The country was not prepared 
 for the news of a failure; and when the news did come, our 
 people were ready to attribute the failure to the first crime 
 which should happen to be mentioned. One man mentions 
 cowardice : “ O yes, it was cowardice ! 77 all are ready to cry out. 
 The word treachery happens to find its way to another 7 s tongue. 
 “ Certainly, it was treachery. 77 A third succeeds in bringing 
 out both cowardice and treachery in the same breath. “To be 
 sure, it was cowardice and treachery; no doubt of it. 77 
 
 In February, 1812, William Hull, then Governor of Michi- 
 gan, was in Washington City. Accounts reached him that the 
 inhabitants of the territory were in fear of hostile attacks from 
 the Indians. He urged upon the administration the necessity 
 of providing means of defense. The President called upon 
 the Governor of Ohio to detach twelve hundred militia and 
 prepare them for actual service. This force was to be joined 
 by the Fourth United States Regiment, then at Post St. Vin- 
 cennes. The Secretary of War stated to Governor Hull that 
 the President wished him to take the command of these troops 
 with the rank of brigadier -general. Governor Hull declined 
 the appointment in the most unqualified manner. Colonel 
 Kingsbury was then ordered to take the command. He fell 
 sick and was unable to perform the duty. The commission 
 was again offered to Governor Hull, and he accepted it, with 
 no other object, he says, than to aid in the protection of the 
 inhabitants of Michigan against the savages. 
 
 General Hull was not of the opinion that the conquest of 
 Canada would be so very easy a matter. He had earnestly 
 stated that to conquer Canada, or even to preserve Michigan, 
 it was necessary either to have command of Lake Erie, by 
 means of a fleet superior to that of the British, or to invade 
 Upper Canada with two powerful and cooperating armies at 
 Detroit and Niagara. On May 25 th he was invested with the 
 command of the militia, and a few days afterward set out 
 toward Detroit. War had not yet been declared. 
 
DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL. 
 
 2 33 
 
 On the 1 8th day of June, the day on which war was declared, 
 two letters were written to General Hull by the Secretary of 
 War, one of which contained the information that war had 
 been declared; in the other no mention was made of the 
 matter. One of these letters was dispatched by a special mes- 
 senger; the other was sent by the public mail to Cleveland, 
 and thence through a wilderness of one hundred miles by such 
 conveyance as “ accident might supply ” It might be supposed 
 that the letter which was sent so carefully contained the an- 
 nouncement of the declaration of war, seeing it was rather 
 important than otherwise that the commander of the army 
 should be apprised of this event. But no — it was the other 
 letter that engrossed the care of the secretary. This compara- 
 tively unimportant letter reached the camp on the 24th of June. 
 Eight days afterward the one containing information of the 
 declaration of war — which seems to have been too sensible of 
 its own importance to make any vulgar haste — presented itself 
 in camp. Two days before this the enemy, at Malden, had 
 received the intelligence. General Hull had placed on board 
 a vessel important baggage, stores, and the invalids of the 
 army. The British garrison at Malden, having been apprised 
 of the declaration of war, quietly took possession of the vessel 
 as it was passing the fort. 
 
 Such a beginning leads us naturally to expect the events 
 which followed. In a short time Michilimackinac was taken, 
 and this encouraged the Indians to resort in great numbers to the 
 British standard. General Hulks supplies were cut off, for the 
 enemy commanded the lake with their ships and the forest with 
 their Indians. General Dearborn, instead of cooperating with 
 General Hull, had made an armistice with the British com- 
 mander, excluding General Hull from its operation. General 
 Brock was thus enabled to send reinforcements to act against 
 General Hull. We quote Mr. Clarke’s strong statement: 
 
 “General Hull found himself therefore entirely deprived of the assist- 
 ance on which he had depended. He is told by the Secretary of War, 
 
 20 
 
234 
 
 DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL. 
 
 June 24th — which letter was not received until the 9th of July — that ‘an 
 adequate force can not soon be relied upon for the reduction of the en- 
 emy’s posts below you.’ From the north he hears of the fall of Michili- 
 mackinac and of the approach of two thousand hostile Indian warriors 
 and twelve hundred employees of the Northwest Company. In front of 
 his own army he finds reinforcements continually arriving of regulars and 
 militia to strengthen the British troops at Malden. On the lake his com- 
 munications were cut off by the British fleet; on the south, by land, his 
 communications were cut off by the Indians, and an attempt to restore 
 them by Van Horne’s detachment had been unsuccessful. Within his 
 own army, ignorant and incapable of understanding this state of things, 
 there was a spirit of insubordination and mutiny, fostered and encouraged 
 even by the militia officers themselves. In this state of affairs, on the 
 7th of August, he received letters from General Hall and General Porter, 
 commanding at Niagara and Black Rock, informing him that a large 
 number of boats filled with British troops had passed over Lake Ontario 
 to the west part of it, and were directing their course to Malden ; and 
 likewise that the British forces, with the Canadian militia and savages, on 
 the opposite side of the Niagara River, were moving by water to the 
 same point ; and what was more decisive still, General Hull was informed 
 by the same letters that no assistance or cooperation would be afforded 
 from that quarter to the troops under his command. 
 
 “Under these circumstances to attack Malden, even if the attack were 
 successful, would have been useless. To take Malden would not open 
 the lake nor the forest, would bring no supplies to his troops, and it must 
 soon have fallen again for want of them. The first thing to be done was 
 to reopen the communication through the wilderness to Ohio. For this 
 purpose General Hull re-crossed with his army to Detroit on the evening 
 of the 7th of August, leaving a sufficient body of troops intrenched and 
 fortified on the other bank to enable him to regain the British shore as 
 soon as his communications were clear.” 
 
 General Brock crossed from Malden to Detroit, and was 
 preparing for an assault upon the fort, when General Hull 
 determined to surrender ; an act which Mr. Clarke regards as 
 “the bravest and noblest action of a life hitherto universally 
 regarded as that of a brave and patriotic man” 
 
 “It would have required very little courage to fight. General Hull 
 had been in many battles of the Revolution. There probably was not an 
 officer or soldier in his whole army who had seen half as much of war as 
 himself. He had led a column of seven companies at the taking of Stony 
 Point with the bayonet, under General Wayne; for his conduct in which 
 
DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL. 
 
 235 
 
 action he received the thanks of Washington and promotion in the serv- 
 ice. He was in the midst of the battle of White Plains, and was there 
 wounded. He was in the battles of Trenton and Princeton, and was pro- 
 moted for his conduct in those engagements. He fought at Ticonderoga, 
 at Bernis’ Pleights in the battle of October 7th, at Monmouth, Morris- 
 sania, and other places, and led regiments and battalions in most of these 
 actions. Now the courage which can engage in a battle is very much a 
 thing of habit. Many men are cowards in their first battle ; almost all men 
 are brave in the tenth. Is it likely, therefore, that General Hull should 
 have been the only man in his army disabled by fear from fighting Gen- 
 eral Brock? Is not this supposition an absurdity? What, then, were 
 his reasons, as given by himself? General Hull was now in the position 
 in which, as he had stated before the war to the administration, Detroit 
 must fall. His communications with Ohio were cut off by the Indians in 
 the woods, his communication by the lake by the British vessels, and he 
 had no cooperation below at Niagara. Under these circumstances the 
 fall of Detroit was inevitable. If he should fight a battle and defeat the 
 British army, this result would not be less inevitable ; for a victory would 
 not reopen his communications. Besides this, his forces were vastly infe- 
 rior to those of the enemy ; his provisions were nearly exhausted, and 
 there was no possibility of obtaining a supply from any quarter. If he 
 were to fight he would save his own reputation, but could not save the 
 army or territory, and he would be exposing the defenseless inhabitants 
 of Michigan to all the horrors of Indian warfare without a reason or an 
 object. Under these circumstances it would have been the part of a selfish 
 man to fight ; it was the part of a brave and generous man to hazard the 
 sacrifice of his own reputation as a soldier and his own selfish feelings to 
 his duty as a governor and a man. General Hull did the last — and to the 
 time of his death never regretted it for a moment. In disgrace, con- 
 demned to death as a coward, believed to be a traitor by the ignorant, 
 seeing the success of his calumniators who built their fortunes on the ruin 
 of his own, he was always calm, tranquil, and happy. He knew that his 
 country would one day also understand him, and that history would at 
 last do him justice. He was asked on his death-bed whether he still 
 believed he had done right in the surrender of Detroit, and he replied 
 that he did, and was thankful that he had been enabled to do it. 
 
 “The defense of General Hull rests mainly on the following propo- 
 sitions: 1. An army in the situation of that of General Hull, August 
 16th — cut off from its supplies and with no adequate means of opening 
 its communications — must inevitably fall. 2. That, in this situation, to 
 fight would have been a useless expenditure of life, and would have 
 unnecessarily exposed the inhabitants of the territory to Indian cruelties. 
 3. That this situation was not his fault, but that of the general govern- 
 
236 
 
 DEFENSE OF GENERAL HULL. 
 
 ment, of General Dearborn, and of circumstances for which no one is 
 perhaps responsible. 4. That the troops of General Hull, on August 
 1 6th, were much inferior in number to General Brock’s. 5. That the 
 provisions of the army were nearly exhausted, and no further supplies 
 could be obtained.” 
 
 Mr. Clarke brings forward the strongest proofs in support of 
 his positions. No one who reads this book, it seems to us, can 
 avoid the conclusion that General Hull was a much-injured man, 
 who was made to suffer in order to relieve others from odium. 
 The charge of cowardice against him is, to any one who looks 
 at his previous life, one of the most absurd ever brought 
 against a human being. The man who marched his troops 
 up to the batteries at Stony Point a coward! The man who 
 commanded the expedition against Morrissania, and received 
 for his gallant conduct the thanks of Washington and of 
 Congress a coward! 
 
FASHION. 
 
 T O obey the commands of Fashion, her votaries are obliged 
 to devote their whole souls. She will not submit to a 
 divided allegiance. Her worshipers labor night and day to 
 enjoy her favors. Her will is all-powerful, and her worshipers 
 will sacrifice any thing and every thing at her command. We 
 are shocked at the sacrifice of children; but in this Christian 
 land thousands of children are every day sacrificed to Fashion 
 by parents who hold up their hands in horror when they hear 
 of the worship of Moloch. We pity the deluded Hindoo whose 
 body is crushed beneath the car of his idol; but his fate is not 
 more pitiable than is that of thousands who prostrate themselves 
 before the car of Fashion. In the one case the suffering is mo- 
 mentary, in the other it is prolonged through years. Indeed, 
 what will not the votary of Fashion do to gratify the object of 
 his worship! There is no god with an influence over the souls 
 of his votaries so potent as that of Fashion. It is true that no 
 magnificent temples rise in her honor; but the devotion is not 
 on this account less ardent nor the sacrifices less costly. The 
 fire upon her altars is never extinguished, and nothing is too 
 precious to be sacrificed. Her votaries worship her in the 
 streets and in the privacy of home. They awake in the morn- 
 ing and devote their earliest thoughts to her ; they retire to their 
 beds and she is still before them. Even in dreams she visits 
 them in new and brighter glory. Their lives are “one contin- 
 ued hymn of praise” to her. 
 
 She is exalted “above all Greek above all Roman” gods. 
 So unlimited is the devotion of her worshipers that their ideas 
 of the beautiful and the ugly are entirely controlled by her. 
 
 ( 2 3 7 ) 
 
238 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 They see not with their own eyes, nor hear with their own ears. 
 That is beautiful which Fashion decides to be so, and that is ugly 
 which meets with her disapprobation. She is capricious too, 
 and changes without the slightest reason. She speaks, and that 
 which was the ugliest becomes the most beautiful; she waves 
 her sceptre, and the most beautiful becomes so disgusting that 
 her votary will not look upon it. She commands, and her sub- 
 jects violate the plainest laws of morality. They subject them- 
 selves to the greatest tortures; they destroy their health and 
 bring themselves to an untimely grave, self-sacrificed to Fashion. 
 We pity the benighted followers of Juggernaut; but among 
 ourselves is a Juggernaut more terrible than that of Hindostan. 
 The ground of a small district round the temple of the Hindoo 
 Juggernaut is covered with bones; but if all that the Christian 
 Juggernaut has done were made to appear, every hill-side would 
 be white with bones and every valley red with blood. 
 
 Suppose that the Emperor of Russia, or all the potentates 
 Europe combined, should order us to wear an inch of a partic- 
 ular kind of ribbon on our dress, at the same time furnishing 
 us with the ribbon and relieving us from all trouble in regard 
 to it, would any one in our country for a moment think of 
 obeying the order? No, not all the armies of Europe could 
 compel us to wear the little inch of ribbon. But a mysterious 
 power, residing we know not where, tells us to clothe ourselves 
 in the most uncomfortable dress, to torture ourselves into un- 
 natural shapes, to make ourselves more ridiculous than court- 
 fools in the eye of good taste, to carry with us through life 
 burdens which we lay down only when they have brought us to 
 the grave. And to all this we submit without a murmur ; nay, 
 we are eager to perform the commands of the tyrant. We know 
 not who it is that exerts this power. Its origin is covered with 
 darkness like that which veiled the doings of the secret tribunals 
 in the Middle Ages. We know that this power has its source 
 somewhere in Paris ; and if we could trace it up to the centre 
 from which it radiates, we should probably find that centre in 
 
FASHION. 
 
 2 39 
 
 the shop of a French milliner. There sits the little female who 
 tells the world of fashion wherewithal it shall be clothed; who 
 orders the proudest lady of the land to put this on, and she 
 puts it on ; to take that off, and she tramples it under her feet ; 
 to burden herself with a weight that she can scarcely bear, and 
 she takes it up without a murmur; to enlarge or diminish her 
 outer dimensions, and she expands or contracts at the word. 
 Hers is a power such as despotic kings have in vain attempted 
 to exercise. Even kings have found themselves obliged to 
 submit to this power. Charles II. attempted to resist it; but 
 a sensible observer saw from the first that the attempt was vain. 
 “It was a comely and manly habit / 5 says Evelyn, “too good to 
 hold, it being impossible for us in good earnest to leave the 
 Monsieur 1 s vanities long . 55 
 
 There is no part of the human frame which fashion has not 
 succeeded in deforming. E T pon the head have been placed 
 towers like those of churches, plumes waving high in the air 
 like the banners of an army, and immense structures of paste- 
 board, ribbon, and wire piled up like Pelion upon Ossa, and 
 seeming to defy heaven itself. The poor head has been forced 
 to carry coiffures like the tusks of an elephant, the ears of an 
 ass, the covering of a tent, or the curtains of a bed. Then the 
 face has been patched up with black spots shaped like suns, 
 moons, stars, hearts, and even carriages and horses. The neck 
 has been stiffened and smothered with great ruffs, expanding 
 like wings as high as the head or falling over the shoulders like 
 flags. The bust and waist have been tortured with whalebone 
 and cords till nature sank under the torture. Then hoops, 
 “ from the size of a butter-churn to the circumference of three 
 hogsheads , 55 have come in rotation, blocking up the streets and 
 the doors, and sometimes presenting the wearer in the form of 
 an infinitessimal portion of humanity fastened in the top of a 
 pyramid. Then furbelows and flounces have done all in their 
 power to destroy all beauty and grace. The foot too has suf- 
 fered, being sometimes pinched and sometimes incased in masses 
 
240 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 of leather that impeded locomotion and made it almost impos- 
 sible for the wearer to kneel in prayer. 
 
 One might be tempted to think that, when it reached the 
 feet, the force of fashion could no further go. But let us not 
 deceive ourselves. Who shall fix the limit to fashion? When 
 it reaches the ground is there not left the whole surface of the 
 terraqueous globe to expatiate in? Long trains have perhaps 
 been oftener in fashion than almost any other article of dress. 
 In the time of Henry I. the skirts of the dress lay trailing upon 
 the ground. A writer of the thirteenth century says, “The 
 pies have long tails that trail in the mud; so the ladies make 
 their tails a thousand times longer than those of peacocks and 
 pies.” 
 
 But we pass over the long trains which had to be carried by 
 pages, and come to our own times. We have had monstrosities 
 enough, many of which have been banished by good taste. If 
 we look at some of the engravings of fashion issued during the 
 present century, we shall find that in regard to taste we have 
 very slight claims to superiority over our ancestors. Look at 
 that picture, which seems to represent a pole between two 
 bacon hams, with something resembling a human face on top, 
 looking as if it were placed there to guard the bacon. That 
 is one of the fashions of the second quarter of the nineteenth 
 century. Look at this other, which suggests the idea of a 
 modern Andromeda or Angelica, who, instead of being fast- 
 ened to a rock, is enveloped from her waist downward in a 
 hay-stack, and is waiting for some monster to come and de- 
 vour her. 
 
 But it is to the train that we show the most decided inclina- 
 tion. Other things we can give up, but the train we must keep. 
 It is true we have no train-bearers, and on this account we find 
 ourselves “cabined, cribbed, confined,” but we take as much 
 of the train as the nature of the case will permit. Our women 
 have become tail-bearers. We have taken the most inconvenient 
 and ungraceful length that could be devised. If we had a little 
 
FASHION. 
 
 241 
 
 more, there might be something respectable in it, as there is 
 something respectable in any thing bold and decided, even if 
 it is decided rascality. But we have become afraid, and 
 
 “Back recoiled , we know not why, 
 
 Even at the tail ourselves have made.” 
 
 If a long train made a bold sweep of dirt and mud, without any 
 “ compunctious visitings of nature,” it might be admired for 
 its boldness. Something bold like this would have a masculine 
 effect and change milliners to tail- ors. But now the fair one 
 says, like the ghost in Hamlet, “I would a tail unfold,” but 
 she dares not. 
 
 21 
 
DREAMING TO ORDER. 
 
 M Y friend Maggie gave me a piece of cake left by Jenny 
 Lind, and I promised her to dream over it. As bed- 
 time approached, I said to myself, “Now, as I have some 
 dreaming to do, I must try to get into a dreamy state. For 
 Maggie’s sake I should like to do the job in the very best 
 style.” I looked into the fire, and soon began to see a num- 
 ber of forms, animate and inanimate, playing fantastic tricks in 
 the grate. The boundary line between the real world and the 
 dream world began to waver, and the two worlds seemed to run 
 into each other. A beautiful haze spread itself around me, and 
 for a time I could see nothing else. Then my body itself 
 seemed to acquire a kind of hazy feeling, the particles retaining 
 their form, but becoming etherealized. A sense of lightness 
 and expansion pervaded my system. I raised my arm and it 
 did not seem willing to fall. I started to walk, and found that 
 I acquired such an impetus by touching one foot to the ground 
 that I could scarcely get the other down. I felt myself becom- 
 ing more and more ethereal. My soul seemed to expand from 
 its seat in the brain, spreading itself till it filled every pore of 
 my body. I floated along without being able to touch the 
 ground. I felt uncomfortable, and wished for some one to steady 
 me. I was too light for the earth and too heavy for the air. 
 Suddenly I felt a thrill of ineffable pleasure in every part of my 
 system. The power of gravitation was overcome, and I shot 
 away from the earth with the speed of lightning. I could no 
 longer even see the planet I had left. I was in an atmosphere 
 of glory, bright beyond all human imagination ; but the most 
 gorgeous colors were so blended and harmonized that there was 
 (242) 
 
DREAMING TO ORDER. 
 
 243 
 
 nothing glaring. I breathed the splendor, and it seemed the 
 appropriate food for my ethereal nature. There was an exquis- 
 ite sense of harmony throughout my system. There was not 
 merely a visible but an audible adaptation of one part to an- 
 other. The arm seemed to be a musical accompaniment to the 
 body; and even the fingers, and different parts of the fingers, 
 were audibly harmonious with each other. Indeed, when I saw 
 or heard it, I soon discovered that the glory around me was the 
 harmony of the spheres. The colors were the sounds that the 
 heavenly bodies make in their motion, as each of them “ like an 
 angel sings, still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim.” They 
 literally “sang to my eye” as well as to my ear. 
 
 It is impossible to describe in the language of mortals the 
 ecstatic delight of my whole being as I perceived the harmony 
 of the spheres with two senses at the same time, and those 
 senses in so heavenly a degree of refinement. I saw with my 
 ear and heard with my eye, and “each lent to each a double 
 charm.” The pleasure was not merely doubled by being de- 
 rived from two senses at the same time, but rendered a thousand- 
 fold more intense by the harmony between the two senses. A 
 heavenly tone would throw off a beautiful color, and it sounded 
 as if all the beauties of music had been collected into one note. 
 Again, I would hear a sweet note, and all beautiful colors 
 would seem to be mingled together in the most enchanting 
 glow. Then the harmony between the two manifestations of 
 the same thing added intensely to the emotion. 
 
 Mortals may make some approximation to a conception of 
 my idea by imagining the rose to sing out its colors, and the 
 nightingale’s notes to form a rainbow of song around it. But 
 this is not all. The rainbow must be heard as well as seen, and 
 the song of the rose must be seen as well as heard. Nor is 
 even this all. The exquisite harmony between the visible and 
 the audible manifestations must be heard and must be seen. 
 
 While my delighted spirit was looking and listening, seeming 
 to be at the same time all eye and all ear, suddenly a tone more 
 
244 
 
 DREAMING TO ORDER. 
 
 beautiful than any I had heard went sounding through the em- 
 pyrean. I looked, and traced the brightness of its course as it 
 floated through the sea of harmony. It had over me an irre- 
 sistible power of fascination. I was obliged to follow, and away 
 I flew. As I looked, the sound seemed to form itself into the 
 features of a soul. On it flew as if earnestly seeking for some- 
 thing. A dim spot came in view, and I found we were rapidly 
 approaching the earth. The northern ocean was soon beneath 
 us. The object I was following flew on rapidly and eagerly as 
 ever till I saw it enter a cottage in Sweden. I saw it no more ; 
 but a Swedish maiden in the cottage opened her lips, and the 
 sound was there. 
 
 I started — There was a bright fire in the grate; the tea- 
 kettle which had been left on the fire was singing and spouting 
 steam. The vapor seemed to be the sound showing itself to 
 the eye. “Have I been dreaming with my eyes open?” said 
 I to myself, “and is my music of the spheres nothing but the 
 music of this sphere of a teakettle? In one way or the other, 
 however, I have fulfilled my promise to Maggie.” 
 
WE HAVE CHANGED ALL THAT. 
 
 Geronte. II n’y a qu’une seule chose qui m’a choque: c’est l’endroit 
 du foie et du coeur. II me semble que vous les placez autrement qu’ils ne 
 sont ; que le coeur est du cote gauche et le foie du cote droit. 
 
 Sganarelle . Oui ; cela etait autrefois ainsi ; mais nous avons change 
 tout cela, et nous faisons maintenant la medecine d’une methode toute 
 nouvelle. 
 
 Geronte. C’est ce que je ne savais pas, et je vous demande pardon de 
 mon ignorance. 
 
 Sganarelle. II n’y a pas de mal ; et vous n’etes pas oblige d’etre ainsi 
 habile que nous. — Moliere. Le Medecin Malgre Lui , Acte ii, sc. 6. 
 
 [Free Translation.] Geronte. There is only one thing which has 
 staggered me; that is the place of the nominative and the objective. It 
 seems to me that you place them differently from what they are ; that the 
 objective follows a transitive verb and the nominative an intransitive verb. 
 
 Sganarelle. Yes ; that was so formerly; but we have changed all that, 
 and we now teach grammar on a principle entirely new. 
 
 Geronte. I did not know that ; and I beg pardon for my ignorance. 
 
 Sganarelle. There is no harm done ; and you are not obliged to be as 
 knowing as we [us]. 
 
 I ’ll grammar with you. — Beaumont and Fletcher. Laws of Candy , 
 Act ii, sc. i. 
 
 The me or the not me. [Original translation.] — Kant. Kritik der 
 Reinen Vernunft , passim. 
 
 HAT are we to believe? Is there nothing fixed? The 
 
 truth of Newton’s theory of gravitation has seemed to 
 be pretty well established; but of late days that has been dis- 
 puted. I have been accustomed to regard vaccination as a 
 preventive of smallpox; but public meetings have been held in 
 London to denounce it. The name of William Tell has from 
 time immemorial been employed to nerve the patriot’s arm; 
 but Tell is now pronounced a myth. Richard III. has been 
 
 ( 2 45 ) 
 
246 
 
 WE HAVE CHANGED ALL THAT. 
 
 declared to be a very respectable person ; and I should not be 
 surprised to find Lucrezia Borgia and her brother turn out to 
 be saints, the odor of whose sanctity is destined to regale the 
 olfactories of the remotest generations. 
 
 But it is necessary to believe in something; every one must 
 have something to stand on. After making a careful survey I 
 had fixed upon “ It is I ” as the thing in which I might believe 
 to the end of time — as the thing on which I might stand with- 
 out any fear of having it knocked from under my feet. But 
 alas! Dr. Latham came forward and contended for It is me. 
 This was to me like the shock given by an electric eel. I 
 recovered, and still believed in it is I Dr. Latham, I said, 
 may be a good etymologist; but it is evident that he has not 
 read the English classics. This is merely an etymological freak 
 of his; for he condemns it is him , it is her. Then came Dean 
 Alford, who contended for it is me , it is him , it is her , it is them. 
 I felt it is I shaking under me; but as I perceived that Dean 
 Alford could not write good English, I could not give up it is I 
 for him. Then came an American Grammar, the author of 
 which says, with the air of one who knows, “ Latham and Alford 
 are right in considering the phrases [// is me, it will be me] to be 
 idiomatic and more correct than it is 1 , it will be II And then 
 comes a monthly magazine and in three numbers discusses the 
 point. The result is I give up it is I to “ grammarians of the 
 smaller order ” and “ schoolmasters of the lower kind,” as Dean 
 Alford styles those who object to it is me. 
 
 I held out against the monthly magazine till I came to the 
 Danish language and the dativus ethicus. Every child knows 
 that the Danish language was invented merely for the purpose 
 of showing how to speak English, and the dativus ethicus is — 
 the dativus ethicus. When I learned that me is the dativus eth- 
 icus I had nothing more to say. Mr. Ellis had said that me is 
 in the dative; but that did not entirely destroy my confidence 
 in it is I. It was the dativus ethicus that poured a flood of light 
 on the subject, and I can now say with Mr. Ellis, “The conclu- 
 
WE HAVE CHANGED ALL THAT. 
 
 247 
 
 sion seems to be that it's me is good English, and it's I a mis- 
 taken purism.” Of course it is we , it is thou , it is she , it is he, 
 it is they follow it is I, giving place to it is us, it is thee, it is her, 
 it is him, it is them; and who is it? must give place to whom is it? 
 
 And now will not some lover of the human race take upon 
 himself the task of revising all our classic authors so as to 
 restore the dativus ethicus to its place ? It is true that the labor 
 will be immense; for all our classic authors have been misled 
 by “ grammarians of the smaller order,” so that they never 
 wrote good English unless by accident. The philanthropist 
 who undertakes this benevolent work will have to devote his 
 life to it. In going through our translation of the Bible he will 
 not find a single instance of this dativus ethicus, the nominative 
 being always employed. The translators thought they were 
 writing English when they wrote “It is I; be not afraid,” which 
 must now be changed to “It is me; be not afraid.” Poor fel- 
 lows! they had been taught by “grammarians of the smaller 
 order” and “schoolmasters of the lower kind.” Indeed, all 
 the grammarians before Latham, Alford, and the American 
 author were of the “ smaller order,” and all the schoolmasters 
 from Roger Ascham down were “of the lower kind.” 
 
 Spenser will have to be corrected, so as to be made to say, 
 
 Even him it was that earst would have supprest 
 
 Faire Una ; 
 
 For her it is that did my lord be thrall. 
 
 What a sensation will that actor create who first says, “ This 
 is me, Hamlet the Dane ” ! I will give a few more specimens 
 of the changes that must be made by every actor who looks 
 down upon “grammarians of the smaller order.” 
 
 Is ’t not me 
 
 That undergo this charge ? — King John . 
 
 And I am me, howe’er I was begot. — lb. 
 
 He is not her. — lb . 
 
 ’T was me, but ’t is not me. — As You Like It. 
 
248 
 
 WE HAVE CHANGED ALL THAT. 
 
 Is not that him ? 
 
 No; this was him , Messala. —Julius Coesar. 
 
 If it be him I mean. — Hamlet. 
 
 It is both him and her. — Lear. 
 
 Ingrateful fox ! ’t is him . — lb . 
 
 It was him 
 
 That made the overture of thy treason to us. — lb . 
 
 Alack ! ’t is him . — lb . 
 
 The honorable lady of the house, which is her? — T. Night . 
 
 And now I do bethink me, it was her 
 First told me thou wast mad. — lb . 
 
 ’T is him. — Macbeth. 
 
 As it is a murderer that is speaking, perhaps this may be per- 
 mitted to stand V is he. 
 
 Milton's if thou beest he may also be permitted to stand, 
 since it is the devil that speaks. But the speech of Death 
 should be corrected: 
 
 Art thou the traitor angel ? Art thou him 
 Who first broke peace in heaven ? 
 
 I will give a few more specimens of passages corrected: 
 
 It was him 
 
 Encouraged young Antinous to affront 
 The devil his father . — Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Was ’t not him, wench? — Id. 
 
 ’T is me accuse thee, Silius . — Ben Jonson. 
 
 Thou wert him 
 That saved the empire. — Id. 
 
 Shadwell alone of all my sons was him 
 
 Who stands confirmed in all stupidity. — Dryden . 
 
 Her , her it is 
 
 Affords that bliss . — George Wither. 
 
 What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade 
 Invites my steps and points to yonder glade? 
 
 ’T is her ! — but why that bleeding bosom gored ? 
 
 Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? — Pope . 
 
WE HAVE CHANGED ALL THAT. 
 
 249 
 
 This reading, besides being correct according to gramma- 
 rians of the larger order, tends to remove any little objection 
 one might have to seeing that bleeding bosom gored. 
 
 I have taken these passages from our older writers, in order 
 to show that from the beginning “grammarians of the smaller 
 order ” have corrupted our language. 
 
 Mr. G. W. Moon says to Dean Alford: “You sneer at 
 ‘Americanisms/ but you would never find an educated Amer- 
 ican who would venture to say ‘7/ is me ’ for ‘ It is I ; ’ or, ‘7/ is 
 him 9 for ‘It is he;’ or, ‘ different to : for ‘ different from.’ ” 
 
 This remark applies to the state of things existing before we 
 had been instructed by grammarians of the larger order; but 
 we shall soon be able to say, “We have changed all that.” 
 
 Note. — Sauerteig, Thomas Carlyle’s friend, says: “O foolish mortals! 
 why will ye equip balloons at enormous expense for the purpose of going 
 to the moon for green cheese, when cheese of any required degree of 
 greenness is waiting for you and the needful pence at the corner grocer' s- 
 store? Why will ye resort to the Danish language and the dativus ethicus 
 for an explanation of it is me when so ready an explanation is to be found 
 in the inability of the vulgar to distinguish one class of verbs from an- 
 other? When they see a sick man recover after having eaten cabbage do 
 they not go stumbling into the generalization that cabbage is good for all 
 sick men? When they have learned to say, ‘It hits me,’ ‘It loves me,’ 
 ‘It has me,’ is it not natural for them to say, ‘ It is me,’ blundering along 
 in their undistinguishing way? And do not men who are not of the vul- 
 gar occasionally, in their thoughtless moments, use the language of the 
 vulgar ? O ye who waste your time in seeking support for vulgar usage 
 in your Danish language and your dativus ethicus , are there not bedposts 
 and cords accessible to you? And are not strychnine and prussic acid to 
 be procured at a comparatively moderate price? ” 
 
 Thus Sauerteig in the last number of the Weissnichtwd sche Anzeiger, 
 of which I have received the only copy yet issued from the press. But 
 Sauerteig is a sour, disappointed man, having been disappointed in love 
 or something of the sort, and he is utterly destitute of veneration for the 
 dativus ethicus. He has even been known to speak disrespectfully of the 
 postpositive article and the Hebrew sheva. 
 
AMERICAN SONGSTERS. 
 
 O UR feathered songsters are not sufficiently appreciated, 
 though the woods are vocal with their claims to admira^ 
 tion. We are too ready to acknowledge the inferiority of our 
 sylvan minstrels to those of the old world. Almost every one 
 is afraid to speak of any of our songsters in connection with 
 the nightingale and other European birds. Our poets have 
 seldom ventured to give full expression to the feelings excited 
 by the choristers of our groves. The nightingale has been ceh 
 ebrated by thousands of poets in innumerable languages; but 
 we have birds whose strains yield not even to those of the 
 nightingale. The Greeks have immortalized their tettix , an 
 insect resembling the grasshopper. Plato calls it the “ Prophet 
 of the Muses.” The Latin poets have celebrated the same 
 insect under the name of cicada . The chirping noise of this 
 little insect was continually used by the poets as a simile for 
 sweet sounds. Those Greek poets had souls. If they could 
 make so much of the tettix , what could they not do with the 
 nightingale? We do not intend to decry the nightingale. It 
 has earned its honors, and let it wear them. But our feathered 
 songsters are too much like the brave men before Agamemnon, 
 who had no Homer to celebrate their praises. 
 
 Many persons would be astonished to hear any one who has 
 listened to both prefer the notes of our mocking-bird to those 
 of the nightingale. Alexander Wilson does not speak from his 
 own observation, for he had not heard the nightingale; but he 
 quotes the Hon. Daines Barrington, who almost unwillingly 
 acknowledges the excellence of the mocking-bird’s note, and 
 infers from Barrington s own statement that our American bird 
 ( 2 5°) 
 
AMERICAN SONGSTERS. 25 I 
 
 is superior to the European. “If,” says Wilson, “we believe 
 with Shakespeare that 
 
 “The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 
 
 When every goose is cackling, would be thought 
 No better a musician than the wren, 
 
 what must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, 
 when a multitude of songsters are straining their throats in 
 melody, overpowers all competition; and, by the superiority of 
 his voice, expression, and action, not only attracts every ear, 
 but frequently strikes dumb his mortified rivals; when the 
 silence of night as well as the bustle of day bears witness to 
 his melody; and even when in captivity in a foreign country 
 he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to be fully 
 equal in song to their sweetest bird in its whole compass?” 
 
 But let us listen to one who has heard the strains both of 
 the mocking-bird and the nightingale — to Audubon himself: 
 “The musical powers of this bird,” says he, “have often been 
 taken notice of by European naturalists and persons who find 
 pleasure in listening to the songs of different birds while in con- 
 finement or at large. Some of these persons have described the 
 notes of the nightingale as occasionally fully equal to those of 
 our bird. I have frequently heard both species in confinement 
 and in the wild state, and without prejudice have no hesitation 
 in pronouncing the notes of the European philomel equal to 
 those of a sonbrette of taste, which, could she study under a 
 Mozart, might perhaps in time become very interesting in her 
 way. But to compare her essays to the finished talent of the 
 mocking-bird is, in my opinion, quite absurd.” 
 
 We would not for a moment hurt the feelings of the 
 
 “Sweet bird, that shuns the noise of folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melancholy.” 
 
 We would not pluck a feather from the “light-winged Dryad of 
 the woods;” but she must not engage in a contest with the 
 monarch of songsters — with the Shakespeare of the grove. If 
 
252 
 
 AMERICAN SONGSTERS. 
 
 she does so, she will certainly meet with a defeat in this 
 “music’s duel.” She may aspire to the honors of lyric poetry; 
 she may be the Collins, the Gray, or the Hemans of the woods, 
 but she must not claim to be 
 
 “ Sweetest Shakespeare, fancy’s child.” 
 
 That title among the feathered songsters belongs peculiarly to 
 the minstrel of the American forest. 
 
 The name applied to our songster does not give a proper 
 representation of his character. Though he takes the notes of 
 others, he utters them with a grace of his own. Like Shakes- 
 peare, he “invades others like a conqueror.” He is no mere 
 imitator. He is one 
 
 “Whom Nature’s selfe has made 
 To mock herselfe and Truth to imitate.” 
 
 Neither is the bard of the forest always dramatic. Like Shakes- 
 peare, he is subjective as well as objective. He has his own notes, 
 his sonnets as well as his dramas. 
 
 Superficial critics too have brought against him the same 
 accusation that men of the Hume school have brought against 
 Shakespeare — that he mingles together the serious and the ludi- 
 crous. But in this both Shakespeares follow nature. In nature 
 the mournful and the mirthful are found side by side, like light 
 and shadow in a picture. No painting can be all light or all 
 shadow. Our songster is Democritus and Heraclitus in one. 
 At one time wit and humor flash from him like lightnings from 
 a summer evening cloud, or rather the flashes come in such 
 rapid succession that they form a continuous gleam, an aurora 
 borealis of humor. Soon he changes to a plaintive strain, and 
 a beautiful melancholy spreads itself over all things. He brings 
 up before you the memory of joys departed, the spirits of the 
 beautiful and beloved whose forms are with you no more. As 
 you listen to him, even the laugh and the song of other days are 
 echoed by memory in pensive tones, and the brightest scenes 
 of past enjoyment are enveloped in a sombre though soft and 
 
AMERICAN SONGSTERS. 253 
 
 pleasant atmosphere. You seem to listen to a pitying angel 
 singing a lamentation over man’s perishing hopes. 
 
 But let us leave the “bard sublime” and turn to 
 
 “The humbler poets, 
 
 Whose songs gush from the heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer 
 Or tears from the eyelids start.” 
 
 Let us first turn to other songsters of the same family — of the 
 genus turdus. Here we have the thrushes, the cat-bird, the 
 robin, etc. Some of these, like the mocking-bird, are dramatic. 
 They are the Beaumonts and Fletchers and Ben Jonsons, but 
 not the Shakespeares of the forest. We think even the poet- 
 ical Wilson has not done justice to the cat-bird. He who rises 
 in the early twilight of summer will hear from the neighboring 
 tree notes which send gladness to the heart, and some which 
 even remind him faintly of the mocking-bird. We are inti- 
 mately acquainted with one of these birds whom for several 
 years we have delighted to call friend. He leaves us at the 
 approach of winter; but we know of few happier moments in 
 the following spring than when we awake on a beautiful morn- 
 ing and hear his first greeting. His cat-cry, it must be con- 
 fessed, is not the most beautiful sound in the world; but the 
 facetious fellow only does the thing for sport, just as well- 
 educated men sometimes make use of cant terms and popular 
 phrases. His eye has a mischievous twinkle while he is at it, 
 and he laughs in his feathers at the simpleton who thinks him 
 in earnest. He is our feathered Charles Lamb. 
 
 The song of the brown thrush is generally preferred to that 
 of the robin; but the robin is our Chaucer. There is such a 
 simple gladness in his morning notes — he pours forth his song 
 with such zealous and hearty good-will that we can not refuse 
 him this title. He resembles Chaucer too in the fact that his 
 strains form a prelude to the general burst of harmony in spring. 
 He is the “ mornmg-star ” of bird poetry, as Chaucer is of the 
 English. 
 
254 
 
 AMERICAN SONGSTERS. 
 
 But we hear the numerous tribe of warblers — the genus 
 sylvia — all clamorous to be heard. Here is the little indigo- 
 bird, rattling away with its busy song, not of the most elevated 
 kind, but still pleasing. He is the bird Anacreon, who makes 
 no pretensions to any deep feeling, and is too careless even to 
 laugh at the manifestation of deep feeling in others. But leave 
 we him to listen to the delicious notes of the bluebird, our little 
 bird-angel, whom we love as we love the sunshine or the blue 
 sky. The notes of this favorite bird of ours are few, but they 
 are notes from heaven. On a warm day in spring, when the 
 earth is about to burst out in its song of flowers, when the mild 
 air itself seems to be music from the blue sky, then our little 
 warbler opens his throat and Nature herself sings in his voice. 
 His notes are few, for there are few such notes to be found in 
 the stores of harmony. Those few notes speak of other climes 
 
 * ‘ Where the emerald fields are of dazzling glow, 
 
 And the flowers of everlasting blow.” 
 
 His notes affect us like the poetry of Spenser, and, though his 
 song is so short, he is our Spenser of the grove. 
 
 We will only mention here our feathered Wordsworth, the 
 Baltimore oriole; our Hemans, the dove; our Aristophanes, the 
 bob-o-linkum, without referring to our other feathered poetical 
 friends innumerable. 
 
 “And now wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear 
 With earth’s delicious sounds, or charm the eye 
 With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth 
 And find them midst those many-colored birds 
 That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues 
 Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones 
 Are sweeter than the music of the lute, 
 
 Or the harp’s melody, or the notes that gush 
 So thrillingly from Beauty’s ruby lip.” 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 P OPE brought the art of versification to the highest degree 
 of elegance. In his hands the heroic couplet received such 
 a degree of polish that it dazzled the sight of the poet’s con- 
 temporaries and successors. The world seemed to think there 
 had never been a poet before. “ The varying verse, the full re- 
 sounding line,” seemed to be the highest effort of human genius. 
 But the very admiration excited by Pope’s refined versification 
 led to a depreciation of his merits. Whole tribes of versifiers 
 began to write heroic couplets in imitation of Pope. The public 
 became surfeited. Pope’s verses had something in them more 
 than sound, but his imitators produced nothing but sound. 
 Mr. Lover tells a story of a contest between a Frenchman and 
 an Irishman concerning the merits of their respective countries. 
 The Frenchman, to illustrate the excellence of his countrymen 
 in the fine arts, pointed to his beautiful ruffles. “ O yes,” said 
 the Hibernian, “but we have made an improvement upon that; 
 we attach a shirt to the ruffles.” Most of Pope’s imitators had 
 nothing but the ruffles. The world began to find out that all 
 this fine versification might exist without any poetry. The idea 
 then suggested itself to some that Pope himself might not be a 
 poet. But, in the language of Hazlitt, the question “ is hardly 
 worth settling; for, if he was not a great poet, he must have 
 been a great prose-writer, that is, he was a great writer of some 
 sort.” 
 
 But Pope was a poet; not one of the “grand old masters,” 
 it is true, but still a poet. He was not a Shakespeare, a Spenser, 
 or a Milton, but among the first of another order of poets. He 
 never “passed the flammg bounds of space,” nor “held con- 
 
 (25s) 
 
256 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 verse with the stars,” but he created many beauties in his little 
 garden. He could not even appreciate the very highest kind 
 of poetry. The majestic simplicity of Homer he could not 
 understand. He has stripped the Greek bard of his flowing 
 robe and dressed him with a powdered wig and ruffles. The 
 translation is “ Pope's Homer.” It is said that once when Dr. 
 Bentley and Pope met at dinner at Dr. Mead’s, Pope, anxious 
 to obtain Dr. Bentley’s opinion of the translation, said to him, 
 “Dr. Bentley, I ordered my bookseller to send you your books; 
 I hope you received them.” “Books! books!” said Bentley, 
 “what books?” “ My Homer,” replied Pope, “which you did 
 me the honor to subscribe for.” “O! ” said Bentley; “ay, now 
 I recollect — your translation. It is a pretty poem, Mr. Pope; 
 but you must not call it Homer.” Macaulay wittily says that 
 the word translated can not be applied to the work except in the 
 sense in which Peter Quince uses it in “Midsummer Night’s 
 Dream,” when Nick Bottom makes his appearance with an ass’s 
 head instead of his own — “Bless thee, Bottom!” exclaims he, 
 “bless thee! thou art translated.” Pope could not translate 
 Homer; few modern poets could. One of the writers of the 
 old ballads in Percy’s Reliques could have done better. Sir 
 Walter Scott would have done better. Our modern poets are 
 generally too fond of ornament to translate Homer. They 
 would encumber a beautiful Greek statue with silken orna- 
 ments. Cowper, for instance, says “serenest lymph,” when 
 Homer, if he had used the English language, would have said 
 pure water . 
 
 But notwithstanding all that may be said about his Homer, 
 Pope wrote poetry that will endure as long as the English lan- 
 guage lasts. He was not one of those 
 
 “Who in the love of nature hold 
 Communion with her visible forms.” 
 
 but he could 
 
 “Shoot folly as it flies, 
 And catch the manners living as they rise.” 
 
ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 257 
 
 Some would be surprised to find how many of their standard 
 quotations — their “ household words ” — are from the writings 
 of Pope. We could present almost any number of lines famil- 
 iar to every one, all from Pope. Many a one without preten- 
 sions to literature, who has never read Pope, would be surprised 
 on taking up his works at the number of familiar faces he would 
 meet with. Take, for instance, the Rape of the Lock, and we 
 have at the beginning such lines as these : 
 
 On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore 
 
 Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore. 
 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; 
 
 Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 
 Look on her face and you ’ll forget them all. 
 
 At every word a reputation dies. 
 
 Here thou, great Anna, whom three realms obey, 
 
 Dost sometimes counsel take, and sometimes tea. 
 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul. 
 
 There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 
 
 Shows in her cheeks the roses of eighteen. 
 
 Wretches hang that jurymen may dine. 
 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike ; 
 
 And like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
 
 The work from which these extracts are taken is acknowl- 
 edged by all to be the most exquisite poem of its kind in 
 existence. It is absolutely perfect — a gem that sparkles from 
 every point of view. After the publication of the first edition, 
 Addison considered it complete, and tried to dissuade Pope 
 from introducing the Rosicrucian mythology, fearing that any 
 attempt at improvement might injure the poem. And yet how 
 much beauty has been added to that which seemed already 
 perfect! 
 
 Of the Essay on Criticism Dr. Johnson says: “If he had 
 written nothing else, it would have placed him among the first 
 
 22 
 
258 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 critics and the first poets, as it exhibits every mode of excel- 
 lence that can embellish or dignify didactic composition, selec- 
 tion of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept, 
 splendor of illustration, and propriety of digression/’ This 
 may seem extravagant praise; but every one who reads the 
 work will admit that in general it is deserved. Some of the 
 rules of criticism are perhaps too narrow, but this defect will 
 be overlooked by those who read the work in a true spirit. 
 The poem is like the poet’s Belinda: 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall, 
 
 Look on her face and you ’ll forget them all. 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF JUDAH. 
 
 NE of the most striking characteristics of the Hebrew 
 
 bards is their intense power of vision. They are seers. 
 Their eyes are opened, and they see. The mountain-side, which 
 to the eyes of others is bare, to their sight is covered with 
 horses and chariots of fire. They see not the shadows of 
 coming events, but the events themselves. The lifeless ab- 
 stractions of the intellect appear before them glowing in the 
 hues of life. A nation to them is not a cold abstraction, but a 
 living, sentient being. They do not speak of the Jewish nation, 
 but of the Daughter of Judah. Instead of an abstract idea of 
 the nation, they see a lovely woman to whom the interests of 
 the people are intrusted, and the seer asks her, “ Where is the 
 flock that was given thee, thy beautiful flock ?” 
 
 44 Where is the flock that zvas given thee , thy beautiful flock?” 
 
 Daughter of Judah! once in pride 
 Thou sat’st upon thy lofty throne 
 Bedecked with jewels, like a bride, 
 
 The delicate and comely one ! 
 
 And in the waving palm-tree’s shade 
 Was heard thy harp’s exulting strain; 
 Jehovah’s flock around thee played 
 And bounded o’er the flowery plain. 
 
 Daughter of Judah! where is now 
 The glory that around thee shone? 
 
 Where are the gems that graced thy brow? 
 Where is thy proud and lofty throne? 
 
 ( 2 59 ) 
 
26 o 
 
 THE DAUGHTER OF JUDAH. 
 
 Where is the harp whose glad tones broke 
 The stillness of the balmy air? 
 
 Where is the flock, the lovely flock, 
 
 Jehovah trusted to thy care? 
 
 Daughter of Judah! sad and lone 
 
 Thou sit’st in sackcloth on the ground; 
 
 The woods are vocal with thy moan, 
 
 The distant hills thy groans resound. 
 
 The harp from which sweet music gushed, 
 
 As gushed the stream ’neath Horeb’s brow, 
 
 That harp of thine, decayed and crushed, 
 Hangs voiceless on the willow’s bough. 
 
 Thou seest no flock around thee play; 
 
 All, all the lovely ones are gone ; 
 
 Scattered in distant lands they stray — 
 Daughter of Judah, still weep on! 
 
THE BLUEBIRD. 
 
 T HOUGH Winter’s power fades away, 
 
 The tyrant does not yield; 
 
 But still he holds a waning sway 
 O’er hill and grove and field. 
 
 But while he still is lingering 
 Some lovely days appear — 
 
 Bright heralds from the train of Spring 
 To tell that she is near. 
 
 It is as if a day of heaven 
 Had fallen from on high, 
 
 And God’s own smiles, for sunlight given, 
 Were beaming through the sky. 
 
 The bluebird now with joyous note 
 His song of triumph sings; 
 
 Joy swells melodious in his throat, 
 
 Joy quivers in his wings. 
 
 No cunning show of art severe, 
 
 But soft and low his lay — 
 
 A sunbeam shining to the ear, 
 
 Spring’s softest, brightest ray. 
 
 Those magic tones call from the past 
 The sunny hours of youth; 
 
 And shining hopes come thronging fast 
 From worlds of love and truth. 
 
 The harmony is seen and heard ; 
 
 For notes and rays combine, 
 
 And joys and hopes and sun and bird 
 All seem to sing and shine. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 I N the Kensal Green Cemetery, near London, may be seen 
 a monument which on one side shows a bas-relief repre- 
 senting a conscience-smitten man looking at some boys engaged 
 in play, and on the opposite side another bas-relief representing 
 some men tenderly lifting the body of a woman. Near the 
 upper part of the monument is the legend, “ He sang the Song 
 of the Shirt/’ and on the top is the bust of a man whose life 
 was one long disease, and who ceased to die only a few days 
 before his body was placed under the ground on which this 
 monument stands, but who manfully struggled and labored to 
 the last, showing 
 
 “How sublime a thing it is 
 To suffer and be strong!” 
 
 Thomas Hood was born on the 23d of May, 1799. The 
 sudden death of his father, who was a bookseller of cultivated 
 taste, left the family in straitened circumstances, and Thomas, 
 at the age of fifteen or sixteen, was apprenticed to his uncle, 
 Mr. Robert Sands, to learn the business of an engraver. At 
 this business he spent some years, but the sedentary employ- 
 ment was injurious to his health, which had always been delb 
 cate, and he was sent to some relatives in Scotland, with whom 
 he remained two years. 
 
 While he was in Scotland he contributed some verses to a 
 Dundee magazine. After his return he followed the business 
 of engraving for a short time; but a more congenial employ- 
 ment soon offered itself. Mr. John Scott, the editor of the 
 “ London Magazine,” having been killed in a duel, that peri- 
 (262) 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 263 
 
 odical passed into the hands of two of Hood’s friends, who 
 engaged him as a kind of sub-editor. 
 
 In this magazine he published twenty-five or thirty pieces, 
 and through his connection with it became acquainted with 
 Charles Lamb, T. N. Talfourd, Horace Smith, William Hazlitt, 
 and other literary persons. 
 
 On the 5th of May, 1824, he married Jane Reynolds, daugh- 
 ter of the head writing-master at Christ’s Hospital, a noble 
 woman, as all who have read the “ Memorials”* know. Her 
 daughter says: “In spite of all the sickness and sorrow that 
 formed the greatest portion of the after-part of their lives, the 
 union was a happy one. My mother was a woman of culti- 
 vated mind and literary tastes, and well suited to him as a 
 companion. He had such confidence in her judgment that 
 he read, and re-read, and corrected with her all that he wrote.” 
 Mrs. Balmanno, who was intimate with them, says : “ She per- 
 fectly adored her husband, tending him like a child, whilst he 
 with unbounded affection seemed to delight to yield himself to 
 her guidance.” 
 
 In 1826 appeared the first series of “Whims and Oddities,” 
 which were so favorably received that a second edition was 
 soon published. In 1827 a second series appeared, dedicated 
 to Sir Walter Scott. This work was followed by two volumes 
 of “National Tales.” “The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies” 
 appeared in 1827. 
 
 In the winter of 1827-28 Hood had a very severe attack of 
 rheumatic fever, and on his recovery he was ordered to Brigh- 
 ton to recruit his strength. He was so weak that it was neces- 
 sary to lift him into the coach at starting; but the sea air 
 improved his health as much as so frail a thing could be 
 improved by any means. 
 
 In 1829 appeared “The Dream of Eugene Aram” in an 
 
 * Memorials of Thomas Hood. Collected, arranged, and edited by his daughter. 
 With a preface and notes by his son. A new and revised edition. London : E. 
 Moxon, Son & Co., 1869. 
 
264 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 annual called “The Gem/’ of which Hood was at that time 
 editor. In the same year he removed from London to a pretty 
 cottage on Winchmore Hill, where he resided about three years. 
 Here his daughter was born. 
 
 In 1830 the first “Comic Annual” appeared. This was 
 dedicated to Sir Francis Freeling, for whom Hood had the 
 greatest regard on account of the reforms he effected in post- 
 age, and who was the godfather of his daughter, Frances Free- 
 ling Hood. The dedication was as follows : 
 
 To SIR FRANCIS FREELING, Bart. 
 
 The Great Patron of Letters, Foreign, General, and Twopenny ; 
 distinguished alike for his fostering care of the 
 Bell Letters; 
 
 And his antiquarian regard for the 
 Dead Letters; 
 
 Whose increasing efforts to forward the spread of intelligence, as 
 Corresponding Member of All Societies (and no 
 man fills his Post better) have 
 
 Singly, Doubly, and Trebly 
 
 Endeared him to every class, this first volume of “The Annual” is, 
 with Frank permission, gratefully inscribed by 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 Hood sent copies of the work to the Duke of Devonshire, 
 and received the following letter of thanks, dated London, 
 February 8, 1831: 
 
 Sir: Accept my best thanks for the beautiful copies of the “Comic 
 Annual” which I have had the pleasure of receiving from you; you 
 could not have selected a person who has enjoyed more the perusal of 
 your works. 
 
 I am almost afraid of making the following request ; but perhaps it 
 may be as amusing as it must be easy to you to comply with it, in which 
 case alone I beg you to do it. 
 
 It is necessary to construct a door of sham books, for the entrance of 
 a library at Chatsworth; your assistance in giving me inscriptions for 
 these unreal folios, quartos, and i2mos is what I now ask. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 One is tired of the “Plain Dealings,” “Essays on Wood,” and “Per- 
 petual Motion” on such doors. On one I have seen “Don Quixote’s 
 Library,” and on others impossibilities, such as “Virgilii Odaria,” 
 “Herodoti Poemata,” “Byron’s Sermons,” &c., &c. ; but from you I 
 venture to hope for more attractive titles — at your perfect leisure and 
 convenience. I have the honour to be, sir, with many excuses, 
 
 Your sincere humble servant, Devonshire. 
 
 Among the titles sent to the Duke are the following: 
 
 Percy Vere. In 40 volumes. 
 
 Lamb on the Death of Wolfe. 
 
 Tadpoles ; or Tales out of my own Head. 
 
 McAdam’s Views in Rhodes. 
 
 Spenser, with Chaucer’s Tales. 
 
 The Life of Zimmermann. By Himself. 
 
 Pygmalion. By Lord Bacon. 
 
 Mackintosh, MacCulloch, and Macaulay on Almacks. 
 
 Rules for Punctuation. By a Thorough-bred Pointer. 
 
 Chronological Account of the Date-tree. 
 
 Book-keeping by Single Entry. 
 
 Kosciusko on the Right of the Poles to stick up for Themselves. 
 
 Voltaire, Volna, Volta. 3 vols. 
 
 Elegy on a Black-Cock, shot amongst the Moors. By W. Wilberforce. 
 
 Cursory Remarks on Swearing. 
 
 Chantrey on the Sculpture of the Chipaway Indians. 
 
 Hoyle on the Game Laws. 
 
 The Duke was well pleased with the titles, as is shown in 
 the following letter: 
 
 Sir : I am more obliged to you than I can say for my titles. They 
 are exactly what I wanted, and invented in that vein of humor which 
 has in your works caused me and many of my friends so much amuse- 
 ment and satisfaction. 
 
 I shall anxiously await the promised additions ; but I hope that on 
 my return to London you will allow me an opportunity of thanking you 
 in person. There is hardly any day on which you would not find me at 
 home at twelve o’clock, and after the 13th of this month I shall be set- 
 tled in London. I have the honour, Sir, to be 
 
 Most truly and sincerely yours, Devonshire. 
 
 The Duke was a firm friend to Hood during the poet’s life, 
 doing him many favors, such as voluntarily lending him money 
 
 23 
 
266 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 when he was in a difficulty. In a letter to His Grace, asking 
 permission to dedicate “Tylney Hall” to him, Hood says: “I 
 hesitate to intrude with details; but I know the goodness which 
 originated one obligation will be gratified to learn that the 
 assistance referred to has been, and is, of the greatest service 
 in a temporary struggle — though arduous enough to one of a 
 profession never overburdened with wealth, from Homer down- 
 wards. Indeed the Nine Muses seem all to have lived in one 
 house for the sake of cheapness.” 
 
 “The Comic Annual” for 1831 was dedicated to the Duke 
 of Devonshire. 
 
 “The Comic Annual” for 1832 was dedicated by permission 
 to King William IV., who, after receiving a copy of the work, 
 invited the author to visit him. Hood was much taken with 
 His Majesty’s cordial manner. On leaving the royal presence 
 he backed to the wrong door. The king laughed and con- 
 ducted him to the right door. 
 
 In 1832 he removed to Lake House, Wanstead. During 
 his residence there he wrote his novel, “Tylney Hall,” much 
 of the scenery described in it being that of Wanstead and its 
 neighborhood. 
 
 At the end of 1834 he suffered a very heavy loss by the 
 failure of a firm. In a letter giving a statement of his affairs 
 he says: “In this extremity, had he listened to the majority of 
 his advisers, he would at once have absolved himself of his 
 obligations by one or other of those sharp but sure remedies 
 which the legislature has provided for all such evils. But a 
 sense of honor forbade such a course, and emulating the illus- 
 trious example of Sir W alter Scott he determined to try whether 
 he could not score off his debts as effectually and more credita- 
 bly with his pen than with legal whitewash or a wet sponge.” 
 For the sake of economy he determined to leave England and 
 to live on the Continent, believing that living there was less 
 expensive than in England. 
 
 After the birth of a son, January 19, 1835, Mrs. Hood was 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 267 
 
 so dangerously ill that her life was for some time despaired of. 
 When she had partially recovered Hood left her, she being to 
 follow as soon as she should be able to bear the fatigue of trav- 
 eling. In the “ Memorials” are found some beautifully affec- 
 tionate letters which he wrote from Coblenz to his wife. 
 
 He remained at Coblenz for more than two years, writing, 
 in the midst of intense sufferings, “ Up the Rhine ” and other 
 works that convulsed the public with laughter. As he felt 
 himself under the necessity of constant labor, there was little 
 chance of amending his health; and the feeling that disease 
 prevented him from doing as much as he was anxious to do 
 added mental to physical suffering. But notwithstanding his 
 sufferings he maintained a remarkable degree of cheerfulness. 
 His letters to his friends abound in puns and accounts of prac- 
 tical jokes and ludicrous occurrences. 
 
 Referring to their ignorance of German, Mrs. Hood writes 
 from Coblenz to her friend, Mrs. Elliot: 
 
 I regret very much that I can not converse with one of our landlady’s 
 daughters; she has such a sweet voice, so pretty a face, that Hood is quite 
 in love with her; but fortunately he can not declare himself. Female 
 beauty, or even prettiness, is a rarity at Coblenz. A miller’s daughter, a 
 mile off, is the paragon ; Hood calls her the “ Flour.” They say she is 
 well educated too. I mean, if possible, to walk out and see her. Strange 
 to say, she is single. 
 
 Joe Miller says , because there are two dams to ask instead of one.* 
 
 We heard of her through a young English officer in the Prussian service 
 here. He introduced himself to us during our evening walk, being at- 
 tracted by our King’s English ; and we were equally by his, as well as by 
 his dog, which seemed home-made ; for you must know the Coblenz dogs 
 are remarkably ugly and naturally like foxes ; but after the first warm 
 summer day they are all converted, by clipping their hinder parts, into 
 mock lions. He seemed determined to know us. First he told" Fanny, 
 who was not at all timid, to have no fear of his dog, who was not at all 
 ferocious. As that failed to lead to an introduction, he walked back after 
 us and introduced himself. In truth we were equally glad to give him 
 
 *The italicized passage is an interpolation of Hood’s. When his wife was called 
 off from any letter she was writing Hood delighted to interpolate his remarks and to 
 observe her look of wonder when she returned. 
 
 267 
 
268 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 change for his English, which he declared he had had by him till it had 
 become burdensome. He has since called. He has been fourteen years 
 in the Prussian service ; but his heart seems to yearn after England and 
 his family — his mother is an English woman. He is a very nice, unas- 
 suming young man. As he is stationed at Ehrenbreitstein, he has offered 
 some day to help us to scale that impregnable fortress. 
 
 Their daughter writes : 
 
 My father found in M. de Franck a very pleasant and agreeable friend, 
 and a great help in all difficulties of German usage and language. He 
 was his constant companion in all his fishing rambles and excursions, and 
 used to drop in, in a quiet friendly way, of an evening, and play crib- 
 bage with my father and mother. They made the merriest and cosiest 
 little party imaginable, generally finishing with some dainty treat of Eng- 
 lish cookery for supper. During my mother’s enforced absences to super- 
 intend the cooking of these little edibles the “ tw*o knaves” took the 
 opportunity of changing her cards, moving her pegs, &c., secretly de- 
 lighted at her puzzles and wonderings on her return. On these occasions 
 my father generally kept them in a continual laugh by his flow of witty 
 anecdotes and jokes. 
 
 The following anecdotes, related in a letter from Mrs. Hood 
 to Mrs. Elliot, will show on what familiar terms these three 
 amiable persons associated: 
 
 So much for Hood’s New Year’s eve. I must now tell you my story 
 about the Christmas pudding. The Lieutenant [De Franck ] was with 
 us on Christmas day, and enjoyed my plum - pudding so much that I 
 promised to make one for him. Hood threatened to play some tricks 
 with it — either to pop in bullets or tenpenny nails ; and I watched over 
 my work with great vigilance, so that it was put in to boil without any 
 misfortune. I went to bed early, telling Gradle [the servant] to put it, 
 when done, in the drawing-room till the morning. Hood was writing, 
 and he says it was put down smoking under his very nose, and the spirit 
 of mischief was irresistible. I 1 ad bought a grosclien’s worth of new 
 white wooden skewers that very morning. He cut them a little shorter 
 than the pudding’s diameter and po ed them in across and across in all 
 directions so neatly that I never perceived any sign of them when I 
 packed and sealed it up the next day for De Franck’s man to carry over 
 to Ehrenbreitstein. He came to thank me, and praised it highly. I find 
 that while I was out of the room Hood asked him if it was not well 
 trussed, and he answered “Yes” so gravely that Hood thought he was 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 269 
 
 meditating some joke in retaliation, and was on his guard. At the ball the 
 truth came out — he actually thought it was some new method of making 
 plum-puddings, and gave me credit for the wood-work. He had invited 
 two of his brother officers to lunch upon it, and Hood wanted to per- 
 suade me that the “Cardinal” officer had swallowed one of the skewers! 
 Now was not this an abominable trick? 
 
 Her son says in a note: 
 
 And nearly succeeded in doing so [in persuading her], innocently 
 assisted by the officer in question, with whom the pudding had not alto- 
 gether agreed. As he did not speak English, and my mother was not yet 
 up in German, a pantomime ensued on his part expressive of indigestion, 
 but construed by my father as descriptive of the agonies of an internal 
 skewer. 
 
 Referring to an excursion made by her and her husband to 
 Metternich, Mrs. Hood writes : 
 
 That was our last excursion from home till we went to the Lurlei ; for 
 Hood, getting better, set to work — it was then “all work and no play,” 
 but I do not recollect seeing him get through it better — he finished with 
 good spirits, and boiled over afterwards with some droll sketches for the 
 work I told you of [“Up the Rhine”]. Talking of boiling, I must in 
 self-conceit say that I am improving decidedly in my cooking, having 
 started several things “in the fancy line.” Yesterday morning I set to 
 work very seriously to make some potted beef, and succeeded, little think- 
 ing what ungrateful jests I should draw on my poor head from Hood. 
 Being proud of my own fabrication, I produced it at tea, when De Franck 
 came, and then commenced the jokes of the good-for-nothing. He asked 
 with apparent interest how it was made, and I said, “I pounded it with 
 a pestle and mortar.” “ But then, dear, we have not got one, you know.” 
 In short, he insisted that, like the Otalieitan cooks, I had chewed it small ; 
 and as I happened, having the face-ache, to put my hand to my jaw at 
 the time, it seemed a corroboration, of which he made full use. Upon 
 this hint he huddled joke upon joke till we were convulsed with laugh- 
 ter ; and to-day Franck declares he laughed in the middle of the night. 
 Hood called it “Bullock Jam,” and when I asked him what he would 
 eat he replied, “What you chews.” 
 
 In October, 1836, De Franck’s regiment, the Nineteenth 
 Polish Infantry, was ordered to Bromberg, and Hood was asked 
 by De Franck and the other officers of the regiment to “ march 
 
270 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 with them. The Colonel, who had translated his Eugene Aram 
 into German, sent him a handsome message and invitation. 
 De Franck advised him to buy a horse, which when he should 
 wish to return he could sell it and travel by diligence . As he 
 could not start with the regiment, De Franck took the horse 
 with him, an arrangement having been made that they should 
 meet at or near Eisenach. At Langen Seltzers he suffered so 
 much during the night that "he could not venture to go on 
 horseback, and an arrangement was made that he should join 
 the regiment at Halle, if he should become well enough. He 
 did join the regiment at Halle, and greatly enjoyed his “march.” 
 In his letters to his wife, Mr. Dilke, editor of the Athenaeum, 
 and Mr. Wright, the engraver, he gives pleasing accounts of 
 his journey, more pleasing indeed than the more formal account 
 in “Up the Rhine.” He writes to Mrs. Hood: 
 
 I rose with the larks, was well up to my time, marched to the muster, 
 mounted my nag, and here I am, at a quarter past one, writing to you, 
 after completing not only my first march but a hearty dinner. Luck 
 turned at last ; for I rose without any pain for the first time, and conse- 
 quently in good spirits. I am delighted with my nag. Franck has got 
 him into such excellent order, I was only off him twice, but thank good- 
 ness without hurting myself, as it was merely dismounting according to 
 the regular mode when we halted. Tell Fanny he walks after Franck 
 and knows him like a dog. I expect to be equally good friends with him, 
 by feeding him with bread. Fanny herself might ride him, and I only 
 fear I shall be sorry to part with him at last. I rode so well as to pass 
 muster for a trooper, and did the turnpikes. At one village a man said, 
 “There goes the doctor!” ... I did wish you could have gone with 
 us ; the first halt was very amusing, such miscellaneous breakfasting ; 
 and a boy with a large tin of hot sausages sold all off in a minute to his 
 surprise, and a regret that he did not bring a whole barrow full. The 
 Colonel passed in a carriage: I did not see him, but he stopped Franck 
 
 to ask if I was there, and sent his compliments Franck will 
 
 write to you next, as I shall be busy ; but I determined to show you 
 to-day by a long letter how well I was after my march. I shall also 
 write a few lines at the end of this to Fanny, who, I hope, helps and 
 pleases you as much as she can. If the Dilkes are not gone, give my 
 love to them, and say all that is kind. I left in a sad hurry and had not 
 even time to thank Mrs. Dilke, without whom I should never have been 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 2 7 I 
 
 launched.* Tell her I shall be as grand over my march as if I had 
 crossed the Simplon. 
 
 . . . . We rise at four, and march about five or half-past. It is 
 
 moonlight earlier, but then becomes dark; so I march till I can see the 
 road and then mount; after about three quarters of an hour we halt for 
 a quarter of an hour, and then on again to the general rendezvous, over- 
 taking or passing other companies on the road ; for we are quartered 
 sometimes widely apart. At the rendezvous we halt and breakfast — a 
 sort of picnic — each bringing what he can : if I had been searched yes- 
 terday, they would have found on me two cold pigeons and a loaf split 
 and buttered. I have learned to forage, and always clear the table at my 
 quarters into my pocket. It is an amusing scene when we sit down by 
 the roadside ; some of the officers, who have had queer quarters, bring 
 sketches of them ; one the other day had such a ruinous house for his that 
 his dog stood and howled at it. At the inn at Kremnitz I had dinner, 
 supper, bed, and breakfast for 7 good groschen, about 1 1 pence ! . . . 
 
 We had but two beds, one for me, and one for Bonkowski, and Franck 
 was on the straw. Thence we went to Schlunkendorf (what a name !) 
 near Belitz. Quartered at a miller’s, very clean and wholesome, but only 
 two beds ; so Franck was littered down. I wanted the host to give him 
 corn [wheat] instead of straw, and then come and thrash them both out 
 together. 
 
 From Berlin he writes: 
 
 The country round Berlin is bitter bad, deep sand, almost a desert : I 
 do n’t wonder the great Frederick wanted something better. Some parts 
 of our marches, through the forests, with the bugles ringing, were quite 
 romantic ; and the costume of the villagers, when they turned out to 
 see us pass, really picturesque. I have made five marches, and am not 
 fatigued to speak of. I am sworn comrade with most of the officers ; 
 one rough-looking old captain told me that when we got to Berlin he 
 should have his Polish cook, and then he should ask me to dinner, prom- 
 ising me an “ overgay ” evening, which I shall take care to get out of. 
 By the by, when we were at the burgomaster’s I saw said captain striding 
 up and down in a great fume before the house ; it turned out that he was 
 to sleep in the same room with a man, his wife, and seven children ! which 
 he declined. Finally, I believe, he was put in the schoolroom in an ex- 
 
 *They had paid for their passage in the coach which was to start at six a. m., 
 the servant having been directed to call them at four. She was fast asleep when 
 Hood chanced to wake at half past five. “ By a miracle — I can not imagine how — 
 Mrs. Dilke helping, we somehow got Jane’s bag and my portmanteau rammed full, 
 and caught the coach just setting off.” 
 
272 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 tempore bed. We are often short of knives, spoons, and forks, but the 
 poor creatures do their best and cheerfully, so that it quite relishes the 
 victuals. I shake their hands heartily when we part. 
 
 In another letter from Berlin he writes : 
 
 My dearest love, here I am safe — but my marching is over! The 
 Prince Radziwill has invited Franck to stay two or three weeks here; so 
 he of course stays. As he was the pretext for my journey, I can not 
 well go without him. 
 
 Four or five days afterward he writes: 
 
 I have been very busy sight-seeing, and very gay. The day before 
 yesterday Franck brought me an invitation from Prince William Radziwill, 
 the head of the family, to dine with him at three o’clock. I was run for 
 time, having to get dress-boots, &c. ; and to crown all, a coach ordered 
 at half-past two did not arrive till three, nor could I make them under- 
 stand to get another. Thank heaven, the dear Princesses were long in 
 dressing ; for it would have been awful to have kept them waiting. 
 
 They say no man is a prophet in his own country, and here literature 
 came in for its honors. The Prince introduced me himself to every one 
 of his family, who all tried to talk to me, most of them speaking English 
 very well. Some spoke French ; so I got on very well, save a little deaf- 
 ness. The Prince placed me himself next to him at dinner, on his right 
 hand, and talked with me continually during dinner, telling me stories 
 and anecdotes, &c., and I tried to get out of his debt by some of mine. 
 There were present Prince William, Prince Boguslaw Radziwill, Prince 
 Adam Czartoriski, Prince Edmund Clary, Count Wildenbruch (whom I 
 had met before), Count Lubienski, Councillor Michalski, Hofrath Kup- 
 sach, Captain Crawford, R. N., Princess Clary, Princess Felicia Clary, 
 Princess Euphemia Clary, Princess Boguslaw Radziwill, Princess Wanda 
 Czartoriski, and Miss Von Lange, lady-in-waiting. So I was in august 
 company. (Franck was obliged to dine at the Duke of Cumberland’s.) 
 I was quite delighted with the whole family: they are all excellent. I 
 stayed till seven. We were very merry after dinner. Franck came in, 
 and the Princes kept telling me sporting anecdotes about themselves and 
 him. Prince William proposed to call on me and see my sketches, but I 
 told him I had none, and then beggedhis acceptance of my books, which I 
 am to send. The Princesses asked me to send them this year’s “Comic.” 
 Both the Prince Radziwills shook hands with me at parting. ... I 
 have more particulars to tell you when we meet ; but I knew you would be 
 pleased to hear this. The Duke of Cumberland asked Franck who that 
 gentleman was who marched with his regiment, and was surprised to hear 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 273 
 
 it was I ; he had been told it was an officer. Prince George spoke in 
 such handsome terms of me that I left my card for him. . . . I do 
 
 not know whether I shall see any of the Princes again before I go ; but I 
 expect I must call to take leave. They had even read “Tylney Hall!” 
 . . . . Since writing the above I have been unwell, and could not 
 
 meet Franck, as I promised, at the Exhibition. I think principally it 
 arose from a sudden change in the weather, from really severe frost to 
 
 rain I have seen Franck, however, at the cafe where I dine, 
 
 and he told me Prince William called on me yesterday, and the other 
 Princes to-day, also Count Wildenbruch. This is really most flattering 
 attention. I sent to-day to one of the Princes a written account of 
 Franck’s tumble into the Lahn, which I expect will make them laugh, as 
 I had highly embellished it. Franck is gone again to-night to the Duke 
 of Cumberland’s. We meet only by snatches. 
 
 He writes to De Franck after his return to Coblenz: 
 
 “Tim, says he,”* It was odd enough that I should have my accident 
 too as if to persuade me that German eilwagens are the most dangerous 
 vehicles in the world — but about four o’clock on the third morning, after 
 a great “leap in the dark,” the coach turned short round, and brought 
 up against the rails of the roadside; luckily they were strong, or we 
 should have gone over a precipice. There we were on the top of a bleak 
 
 * The following dialogue between an improvident Irishman, who is opposed to 
 wasting his money “on old musty debts or any such nonsense,” and his more prudent 
 servant seems to have tickled the fancy of Hood and his friend De Franck. They 
 must have had a great laugh over it. They found something very amusing, as was 
 very natural, in the master’s expressing his unwillingness to pay his debts by telling 
 his servant to hang up his hat. They addressed each other by “Tim, says he,” much 
 more frequently than by their own names. Sometimes Hood, and sometimes De 
 Franck, is “Tim, says he,” or “Tim.” They seem to run into one another like 
 Agnello and the serpent in Dante. The name “Johnny” came also to be used be- 
 tween them. 
 
 “Tim,” says he. 
 
 “ Sir,” says he. 
 
 “ Fetch me my hat,” says he, 
 
 “That I may go,” says he, 
 
 “To Timahoe,” says he, 
 
 “And go to the fair,” says he, 
 
 “ And see all that ’s there,’’ says he. 
 
 “ First pay what you owe,” says he, 
 
 “ And then you may go,” says he, 
 
 “ To Timahoe,” says he, 
 
 “ And go to the fair,” says he, 
 
 “And see all that's there,” says he. 
 
 “ Now by this and by that,” says he, 
 
 “ Tim, hang up my hat,” says he. 
 
274 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 hill, the pole having broken short off, till we were brought by beiwagens to 
 the next station, where a new pole was made; but it delayed us six hours. 
 Here I got the first of my cold, for the weather and wind were keen ; the 
 night journey from Frankfort to Mayence confirmed it. I could not help 
 falling asleep from cold. So I came home looking well, as ruddy as ba- 
 con ; but the very next day turned white with a dreadful cough, which 
 ended in spitting blood. But I sent for the doctor, was bled, and it was 
 stopped; but I am still weak To make things better, I had not sent 
 enough for the “Comic,” and was obliged to set to work again, willy- 
 
 nilly, well or illy I found all well at home. Tom stared 
 
 his eyes out at me, almost, and for two days would scarcely quit my lap. 
 He talks and sings like a parrot. .... Perhaps my painter will 
 come out early; as Jane has told you I am to be “done in oil.” I have 
 no news — how should I have? for I have at least been room- ridden. I 
 shall take to my rod again as soon as the season begins ; but I shall miss 
 you, Johnny, and your “wanting in.”* I must promise you a better 
 letter next time. This only a brief from, 
 
 Dear Johnny, yours ever truly, Johnny. 
 
 Fanny and Tom send their little loves. 
 
 He set himself to work on “Up the Rhine ” and on finishing 
 the “Comic Annual” for the year. In one of Mrs. Hood’s 
 letters she says: 
 
 You will be glad to hear Hood intends seriously to study German 
 during the winter, and I do n’t mean to let his purpose cool. He talks 
 of seeing more of Germany in the spring. [“Here,” says his daughter, 
 “my father seems to have been at his old tricks again of embellishing my 
 mother’s letters, for there follows in his own handwriting”] : At present 
 Germany has seen him. As at Berlin there was London porter, reasona- 
 ble Cheshire cheese, to say nothing of caviare , smoked goose-breasts, and 
 other relishes; he says he regularly “filled his cavities.” After the dis- 
 cipline his stomach underwent in such villages as Schlunkendorf and 
 Nichel it is so improved in its tone that I have very little of my old 
 trouble — and it was a trouble — in suiting it. He swears that he eats 
 “wiirst” even with a relish. I wish he had marched a year ago, and I 
 almost regret with Mrs. Dilke that he is not in the army. I mean to 
 make him a present of a walking-stick on New-Year’s day and to make 
 him trot out on errands. 
 
 '"“Mr. Franck had so far forgotten his English,” says Tom Hood the Younger, 
 ! as to make little mistakes sometimes, and he once said he ‘wented in’ somewhere.” 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 2 75 
 
 In a letter to De Franck, dated April 23, 1837, he writes: 
 
 My Dear Johnny, Are n’t you glad to hear now that I ’ve only been 
 ill and spitting blood three times since I left you, instead of being very 
 dead indeed, as you must have thought from my very long silence. 
 
 Tim, says he, I laughed heartily at your description of the fishing at 
 Bromberg, for you seemed in a whimsical dilemma enough, and so, after 
 wishing with all your heart, soul, and strength to be within reach of sal- 
 mon, you were frightened at them when you had them at hand! 
 
 For myself, Johnny, I must give up all hope of ever wetting a line at 
 Bromberg ; not only are my marching days over, but I fear I shall never 
 be able to travel again. I am now sure that this climate, so warm in 
 summer and so cold in winter, does not suit my English blood. Inflam- 
 matory disorders are the besetting sin of the place. Witness poor Dilke. 
 
 . It is a miserable thing, Tim, to be such a shattered old fellow 
 as I am ; when you, who are in years my senior, are gallivanting about 
 like a boy of nineteen ! The artist who is coming out to take my portrait 
 will have a nice elderly grizzled head to exhibit! What! that pale, thin, 
 long face the Comic ! Zounds ! I must gammon him and get some friend 
 
 to sit for me What do you think, Tim, of a black man who 
 
 by dancing and singing one little song called “Jim Crow ” has cleared, in 
 London and America, ^30,000 ! There ’s one string to your bow for 
 you! .... Fanny is very well again and very good; Jane is as 
 usual ; she is now drinking porter, at which I look half savage. Only 
 think, porter and Cheshire cheese, and I daren’t take both! I mustn’t 
 even sip, and I long to swig. Nothing but water. I shall turn a fish 
 soon, and have the pleasure of angling for myself. I am almost melan- 
 choly, for I never had any serious fears about my health before; my 
 lungs were always good. But now I think they are touched too. I ’ve 
 had a sort of plaster on my chest, which will not heal. But I wo n’t 
 bother you with my symptoms. In spite of all this, I ordered this morn- 
 ing a new fishing-jacket — a green one; so you see I mean to show fight, 
 
 and keep on my legs as long as I can I say, Tim, says he, 
 
 if I were at Bromberg would n’t we have fun ; but that ’s over. So as 
 Mahomet said to the mountain, “Why, if I can’t come to you, you must 
 come to me.” Farewell and Amen says, my dear Johnny, 
 
 Yours ever truly, Thomas Hood. 
 
 The day after his return he became so ill that he was con- 
 fined to his bed. “ My marching, in fact,” he writes to his 
 friend Dilke, editor of the Athenaeum, “ ended like Le Fevre’s, 
 in a sick bed — my regiment came to a regimen.” 
 
276 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Hood missed his friend De Franck sadly; and Coblenz be- 
 came “ very dreary and tedious to him,” says his daughter. He 
 began to think the climate of Coblenz injurious to him and to 
 regard the long time, a month, required for the passage of pack- 
 ages between Coblenz and London, a great drawback. In May, 
 1837, he removed to Ostend, where he remained till the sum- 
 mer of 1840. The history of his life at Ostend is given in one 
 sentence of a letter to Lieutenant de Franck: “You know how 
 my time is divided; first I am very ill, then very busy to make 
 up for lost time, and then in consequence very much jaded and 
 knocked up, which ends generally in my being very ill again.” 
 
 In March, 1840, Hood wrote a statement of his symptoms 
 to his friend, Dr. Elliot, of Stratford, who immediately wrote to 
 invite him to come and stay with him for some time, that he 
 might have an opportunity of examining the symptoms. The 
 invalid accordingly sailed for England. The first night after 
 his arrival at Dr. Elliot 7 s he was seized with a very violent hem- 
 orrhage which utterly prostrated him. From the good Elliots 
 he received every attention, and Mrs. Hood hastened over to 
 be with him. Dr. Elliot having given it as his opinion that his 
 patient would never be so well in any other country as in Eng- 
 land, it was resolved that his future residence should be in his 
 native land. In July he and his wife went to Ostend and 
 brought over the children. 
 
 On his return he made an engagement with Mr. Colburn to 
 write for the “New Monthly Magazine, 77 then edited by Theo- 
 dore Hook. In this periodical was published the famous poem, 
 “ Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg. 77 
 
 On the death of Hook, in 1841, the editorship of the “New 
 Monthly 77 was given to Hood, the salary being ^300 a year. 
 The charming letters of Mrs. Hood to Mrs. Elliot show what 
 joy was excited by this event. Under date of August 31, 1841, 
 she writes: 
 
 Dear Mrs. Elliot: Mr. Colburn’s Mr. S has been here to offer 
 
 Hood the editorship of the “New Monthly”! There’s good news. I 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 277 
 
 have scarcely wits to write to you ; but you, our kindest and best friends 
 in adversity, must be the first to rejoice with us at better prospects. 
 Perhaps you may not have heard of Mr. Theodore Hook’s death, which 
 happened a week ago. We have had some anxiety whether Mr. Colburn, 
 with the disadvantages of Hood’s having been of late unable to do any 
 thing for the Magazine, would consider him competent. I have thought 
 of it night and day, and truly thankful am I to God for the blessing. I 
 can not settle my thoughts to write, for the messenger of good has only 
 just left, and I am in what the servants call a “mizzy maze.” Hood, 
 with all the proper dignity of his sex, is more calm and sedate upon the 
 subject, and begs, as all is not yet settled, that you will not mention it to 
 any one. Love to you all. 
 
 Your ever affectionate Jane Hood. 
 
 Hood added to the letter: 
 
 My Dear Friends : It was only a semi-official visit of S ’s. Still 
 
 a very good chance — perhaps, having spit so much blood away, I am not 
 quite so sanguine as Jane. Time will show. Seriously it would be 
 comfort at last and, I think, go far to cure me of some of my ailments. 
 Should I get appointed, be sure the editor will come and show himself at 
 Stratford to receive your congratulations. God bless you ail ; kisses for 
 all my little dear friends and love to the big boys. 
 
 Yours most truly, Thomas Hood. 
 
 Three days afterward Mrs. Hood writes in a kind of ecstasy 
 of happiness: 
 
 My Dear Mrs. Elliot: All is settled, and Hood is to be the editor 
 of the “New Monthly”! We were until this morning on “tenter- 
 hooks;” and so was S , who understood he was to hear from Hood 
 
 when he should have made up his mind ; but not hearing, came over 
 to-day to know why. I saw Mr. Dilke yesterday, who could not tell us 
 what Hook had. So Hood has accepted it on the understanding he is to 
 
 receive the same as Hook did. S in an awkward way said he knew 
 
 he might say ^200; but we saw by his manner that it had been more. 
 So Hood stuck to his text of the same as Mr. Hook ; and of course it will 
 be so, for I see they are eager to have him, and Mr. Dilke says that 
 Hood’s name will be a good card for them. 
 
 The prospect of a certainty makes me feel “passing rich.” Poverty 
 has come so very near of late that, in the words of Moore’s song, “Hope 
 grew sick as the witch drew nigh.” I know how delighted you will 
 both feel that it is now a certainty. Hood was poorly yesterday ; but it 
 was the delay and uncertainty. To-day he is pretty well, and getting on 
 
278 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 with his writing. He says you may now suppose the Magazine on his 
 lap ; and really thinks, considering the circumstances, that he ought to 
 
 be allowed his porter This is a most disgraceful letter for 
 
 the wife of an editor, I must say ; but you must make allowance for me — 
 I am in a dream, and my sentences and my expressions have all the 
 
 obscurity of that twilight state 
 
 Yours affectionately, Jane Hood. 
 
 It was settled that Hood should receive ^300 a year, inde- 
 pendent of any articles he should write, which were to be paid 
 for at the usual rates. 
 
 At the end of 1841 Hood removed from Camberwell and 
 took lodgings in Elm-tree Road, St. John’s Wood. Here he 
 used to have little modest dinners now and then, to which his 
 intimate friends were invited, where he gave full rein to his fun. 
 
 In a letter, dated February 20, 1842, to De Franck, who was 
 then stationed at Hamburg, Hood says : 
 
 Tim, says he, You can’t be a Jew or you wouldn’t live in Ham. 
 
 I made cock-sure of you, when you did not answer our last letter, that 
 you were coming with the king ;* why did n’t you ? I think it will make 
 me disloyal to Frederick that he did n’t bring you. 
 
 However, write soon, and I will send you what has long been made 
 up, and let me know what tackle you want. I have a “Comic” for you 
 and one for Mr. Riihe [who in conjunction with Von Franck had trans- 
 lated “Eugene Aram” into German], with a letter, and one for Prince 
 Radziwill, to your care. It has come meanwhile to a new edition. 
 
 As editor of the “New Monthly Magazine,” I stand higher than ever. 
 There was great competition for it, but I did not even apply, and was 
 therefore selected 
 
 I believe, thanks to our dear Dr. Elliot, I have got over the blood- 
 spitting; but England has a capital climate after all, as is proved by the 
 life-tables. 
 
 Mind, come and see us, and won’t we have some fun? God bless 
 you, Tim, says Your faithful friend (in great haste), 
 
 Thos. Hood, E. N. M. M! ! ! 
 
 P. S, There are several very nice young English ladies in this country 
 quite disengaged ; I do not know how many exactly, but will answer for 
 five or six. 
 
 *The King of Prussia had visited England at the beginning of this year. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 279 
 
 Mrs. Hood wrote at the same time, and Hood made the 
 following interpolation in her letter: 
 
 Hood will copy at the end the direction to be sent on the box. I am 
 pretty well, much the same as Hood, and my wife is not over strong, 
 neither is Jane, and Mrs. Hood seems to be no better than she is; but I 
 hope she will mend, and so does Hood. As to Johnny, he is as well as 
 can be expected, but Hood does not expect he shall ever be very strong 
 again. So we must all make the best of it, the Editor and all, who seems 
 to sympathise in his ailments with me, and Hood, and Johnny; but he 
 can not expect to be better than we are ; for he and we have the same 
 complaint, a sort of monthly eruption, which we think is better “out” 
 than in ; my wife, Jane, and Mrs. Hood call it the “ Magazine.” It is a 
 sort of black and white literary rash of a periodical nature, chiefly affect- 
 ing the head. As yet none of the children have caught it. [Mrs. Hood 
 resumes the pen] : What a rigamarole Hood has written during my ab- 
 sence ; but you are used to his tricks. 
 
 A letter from Hood to Mrs. Elliot, dated July 11, 1842, 
 gives an account of a dinner — apparently in honor of Dickens 
 on his return from America — at which he was to have been 
 chairman : 
 
 Jordan was the vice, and a certain person not well adapted to Jill a chair 
 was to have occupied the opposite virtue ; but on the score of ill-health I 
 begged off, and Captain Marryat presided. [There were present Dickens, 
 Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton), Barry Cornwall (Procter), Cruick- 
 shank, Father Prout, and other celebrities to the number of twenty-seven.] 
 As to myself I had to make my second maiden speech , for Mr. Monckton 
 Milnes proposed my health in terms my modesty might allow me to 
 repeat to you , but my memory won’t. However, I ascribed the toast to 
 my notoriously bad health and assured them that their wishes had already 
 improved it — that I felt a brisker circulation, a more genial warmth about 
 the heart — and explained that a certain trembling of my hand was not 
 from palsy or my old ague, but an inclination of my hand to shake itself 
 with every one present. Whereupon I had to go through the friendly 
 ceremony with as many of the company as were within reach, besides a 
 few more who came express from the other end of the table. Very grati- 
 fying, was n’t it? Though I can not go quite so far as Jane, who wants 
 me to have that hand chopped off, bottled, and preserved in spirits. She 
 was sitting up for me very anxiously, as usual when I go out, because I am 
 so domestic and steady ; and she was down at the door before I could ring 
 at the gate, to which Boz kindly sent me in his own carriage. Poor girl ! 
 what would she do if she had a wild husband instead of a tame one ! 
 
28 o 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 The secretaries of the Bazaar Committee for the benefit of 
 the Manchester Athenaeum requested of Hood leave to place 
 his name in the list of their patrons. He wrote them a letter, 
 which was printed and sold at the Bazaar. The following is a 
 portion of the letter: 
 
 (FROM MY BED.) 
 
 17, Elm Tree Road, St. John’s Wood, July 18, 1843. 
 
 Gentlemen : If my humble name can be of the least use for your 
 purpose, it is heartily at your service, with my best wishes for the pros- 
 perity of the Manchester Athenaeum and my warmest approval of the 
 objects of that Institution. 
 
 I have elsewhere recorded my own deep obligations to Literature — 
 that a natural turn for reading and intellectual pursuits probably pre- 
 served me from the moral shipwreck so apt to befal those who are 
 deprived in early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least my 
 books kept me aloof from the ring, the dog -pit, the tavern, and the 
 saloons, with their degrading orgies. For the closest associate of Pope 
 and Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble though silent discourse 
 of Shakespeare and Milton will hardly seek or put up with low company 
 and slang. The reading animal will not be content with the brutish 
 wallowings that satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world. 
 
 In September of 1843 h e m ade a visit to Scotland, taking 
 with him his little son. The health of both was much improved 
 by the trip. In connection with the trip the son writes: 
 
 My father was received with open arms by the Scotch ; and having 
 some Scotch blood in him, was not slow in meeting their advances. He 
 used at hotels always to go into the public coffee-room, where his genial 
 disposition and courtesy invariably got him a good reception. I dare say 
 there are many still living that remember that thin, serious-looking gen- 
 tleman who often set the table “on a roar” by an unexpected turn or a 
 dry remark, and who was so fond of a certain brown -skinned urchin 
 much given to the devouring of books. To any such I take this oppor- 
 tunity of returning my thanks for the great and unvarying kindness I 
 met with wherever I went, for the sake of my father. Nor shall my 
 thanks cease with that early period. Up to this present hour, for the 
 same reason, the mere mentioning of my name in any part of England 
 has ever insured me a welcome, such as people are wont to give when 
 they recognize in a stranger the son of an old and valued familiar 
 friend. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 281 
 
 Hood was delighted with Edinburgh. He says, in a letter 
 to his wife: 
 
 The weather is beautiful, and I mean now to ramble all day and see 
 all I can ; so you must not expect me to write again. I look longingly 
 up at Salisbury Crags and Arthur’s Seat, but “who can tell how hard it 
 is to climb”? I don’t think I shall manage it, but mean to try some 
 cool evening. . . . . . In one thing I have been unlucky, that it is 
 
 the Long Vacation, and most of the lions are out of town; Wilson thirty 
 miles off, Napier gone too. I left my letter for him, and also for Lord 
 Jeffrey, who has just sent me an invitation to dinner to-morrow at his 
 seat, three miles hence. 
 
 He visited D. M. Moir at Musselburgh, six miles from Edin- 
 burgh, and was charmed with him, his wife, and his children. 
 
 Toward the close of 1843 Hood determined to publish a 
 magazine of his own and to call it “ Hood’s Magazine and 
 Comic Miscellany.” 
 
 In the Christmas number of “Punch” for this year appeared 
 the “ Song of the Shirt,” which ran through the land like wild- 
 fire. It was quoted by paper after paper, and it became the 
 talk of the day. “There was no little speculation as to its 
 author,” says his daughter; “although several, I believe Dick- 
 ens in the number, attributed it at once to its true source.” 
 Hood was astonished at its popularity, though Mrs. Hood had 
 said when she was folding the packet ready for the press, “Now 
 mind, Hood, mark my words, this will tell wonderfully! It is 
 one of the best things you ever did ! ” It was translated into 
 several foreign languages. It was printed on cotton handker- 
 chiefs and, like other popular poems, was parodied time after 
 time. “ But what delighted, and yet touched, my father most 
 deeply was that the poor creatures to whose sorrows and suffer- 
 ings he had given such eloquent voice seemed to adopt its 
 words as their own by singing them about the streets to a rude 
 air of their own adaptation.” In a letter to Dr. Elliot Mrs. 
 Hood writes: 
 
 I inclose a “ Punch ” paper, though you may have seen Hood’s “ Song 
 of the Shirt,” as it was in the “Times.” I think he has scarcely ever 
 
 24 
 
282 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 written any thing that has been so much talked of as this song. We hear 
 of it every where, and both morning and evening papers have quoted it 
 and spoken of it. To-day I received a note from Mrs. S. C. Hall, offer- 
 ing to send him occasional sketches for his magazine, stipulating to name 
 her own terms, the payment to be “the pleasure she will feel in assisting, 
 however humbly, in the success of his periodical: as a tribute of venera- 
 tion to the author of the ‘ Song of the Shirt.’ ” 
 
 Just after Christmas, 1843, Hood removed to another house, 
 which he called “ Devonshire Lodge” in honor of the Duke of 
 Devonshire, who had been so exceedingly generous to him. 
 
 In January, 1844, the first number of “Hood’s Magazine” 
 appeared, meeting with great success. But Hood had trouble 
 about the publishing. Mrs. Hood writes to Dr. Elliot: 
 
 You will be sorry to hear that Mr. , the proprietor of “Hood’s 
 
 Magazine,” has engaged in the speculation without sufficient means to 
 carry it on — having been tempted by the goodness of the speculation and 
 hoping to scramble through it. Hood is obliged of course to get rid of 
 him and find some one else. The first alarm we had was his quarreling 
 with Bradbury and Evans, the printers, about payment. This was on 
 the 27th of January. Hood then got another man in February, who could 
 not manage it; and on the 12th he engaged another, who had new type 
 to buy and could not begin to print till the 16th — this in the shortest 
 month of the year. The worry laid Hood up ; and all these things of 
 course prevented the Magazine from coming out in time. It is doing 
 
 well. B told Mr. Phillips he had never before heard of such a sale 
 
 as 1,500 for a first number. 
 
 Hood was very fond of Dr. Elliot’s children, and he wrote 
 some very amusing and charming letters to them. Little May 
 and he at a picnic in the Forest had an accidental roll down a 
 bank, landing in a bush of furze at the bottom : 
 
 17, Elm Tree Road, St. John’s Wood, Monday, Apr., 1844. 
 
 My Dear May : I promised you a letter, and here it is. I was sure 
 to remember it ; for you are as hard to forget as you are soft to roll down 
 a hill with. What fun it was! only so prickly; I thought I had a porcu- 
 pine in one pocket, and a hedgehog in the other. The next time, before 
 we kiss the earth we will have its face well shaved. Did you ever go to 
 Greenwich Fair ? I should like to go there with you, for I get no rolling 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 283 
 
 at St. John’s Wood. Tom and Fanny only like roll and butter, and as 
 for Mrs. Hood, she is for rolling in money. 
 
 Tell Dunnie that Tom has set his trap in the balcony and has caught 
 a cold, and tell Jeanie that Fanny has set her foot in the garden, but it 
 has not come up yet. Oh, how I wish it was the season when “March 
 winds and April showers bring forth May flowers ” ! for then of course 
 you would give me another pretty little nosegay. Besides it is frosty and 
 foggy weather, which I do not like. The other night, when I came from 
 Stratford, the cold shriveled me up so that when I got home I thought I 
 was my own child ! 
 
 However I hope we shall all have a merry Christmas ; I mean to 
 come in my most ticklesome waistcoat, and to laugh till I grow fat, or at 
 least streaky. Fanny is to be allowed a glass of wine, Tom’s mouth is 
 to have a hole holiday, and Mrs. Hood is to sit up to supper ! There will 
 be doings ! And then such good things to eat ; but pray, pray, pray, 
 mind they do n’t boil the baby by mistake for a plump pudding instead of 
 a plum one. 
 
 Give my love to every body, from yourself down to Willy;* ** with 
 which, and a kiss, I remain, up hill and down dale, 
 
 Your affectionate lover, Thomas Hood. 
 
 In May he had a severe attack of sickness, which was 
 brought on by hard work on his new magazine and doubts 
 as to the solvency of his partner. In a letter dated May 2 2d 
 Mrs. Hood writes to Dr. Elliot: 
 
 Hood could not give up the hope of getting the magazine out till last 
 night ; for it is quite a sin to let what might be so good fall to the ground. 
 Could he have got a publisher it might have been done, but now it ’s too 
 late. Last night he fretted dreadfully, and at one this morning was 
 seized so suddenly with short breathing and fullness of the chest I 
 
 thought he could not live He lies very quiet reading in 
 
 his bed, not speaking ; but I fear he is very ill. I do not write this to 
 ask you to come, my dear Dr. Elliot ; for what can be done to relieve his 
 poor mind, which feels cruelly this failure of a work he has labored at 
 night and day, and which would have been a good property if carried 
 on ! I dare not write more, or I shall be unfit to do my best for him. 
 
 In the midst of his sickness and distress his friends rallied 
 
 * “ Willy at that time being very tall for his age, and May, his youngest sister, 
 
 not very tall for her age,” says Tom Hood the Younger. 
 
284 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 round him, Mr. F. O. Ward installing himself as unpaid sub- 
 editor. May 23d Hood himself writes to Dr. Elliot: 
 
 Dear Doctor: Put on six leeches yesterday on the pit of the stomach 
 (my stomach ought to be all pit by this time): the bites bled a good deal. 
 I slept at night, but was very much exhausted. .... Great noises 
 in the chest when I swallow, as of renewed action. Heart quiet and 
 pulse stronger; beat equal and not too fast. I think it is a turn for the 
 better ; but I am dreadfully reduced. I find brown bread and honey a 
 good diet. Yours ever affectionately, T. Hood. 
 
 P. T. O. A pleasant party to you. To-day is my birthday — forty-five; 
 but I can’t tell you how old I feel; enough to be your grandfather at 
 least, and give yew advice! viz., do n’t over-polka yourself. 
 
 Epigram on Dr. Robert Elliot,* of Camberwell. 
 Whatever Dr. Robert’s skill be worth, 
 
 One hope within me still is stout and hearty, 
 
 He would not kill me till the 24th, 
 
 For fear of my appearing at his party. 
 
 In “The Echo” at the end of the number for June the 
 acting editor says: 
 
 It is with feelings of the deepest concern that we acquaint our sub- 
 scribers and the public with the circumstances that have during the past 
 month deprived this Magazine of the invaluable services of its Editor. 
 A severe attack of the disorder to which he has long been subject, haem- 
 orrhage from the lungs, occasioned by enlargement of the heart (itself 
 brought on by the wearing excitement of ceaseless and excessive literary 
 toil) has in the course of a few weeks reduced Mr. Hood to a state of such 
 extreme debility and exhaustion that during several days fears were en- 
 tertained for his life. Nevertheless, up to Thursday the 23d he did not 
 relinquish the hope that he should have strength to continue in the pres- 
 ent number the novel which he began in the last ; and he even directed 
 his intentions to be announced in the advertisements which were sent out 
 on that day to the Saturday journals On the same evening, sitting up 
 in bed, he tried to invent and sketch a few comic designs ; but even this 
 effort exceeded his strength and was followed by the wandering delirium 
 of utter nervous exhaustion. Next morning his medical attendants de- 
 clared that the repetition of any such attempt at that critical period of 
 his illness might cost him his life. We trust that this brief explanation 
 
 * Brother of Dr. Elliot, of Stratford. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 285 
 
 will obtain for Mr. Hood the sympathy and kind indulgence of our sub- 
 scribers; and especially that it will satisfy them of the perfect bona fides 
 with which the promise of a contribution from his pen was advertised in 
 the Saturday papers. Mr. Hood, we are happy to say, is now gradually 
 recovering strength ; and there is every reason to expect that he will be 
 able in the next number to give the promised new chapters and illustra- 
 tions, at present of necessity deferred. 
 
 Conscious of his enfeebled powers and uncertain hand, Mr. Hood 
 threw aside the above-mentioned sketches 'as too insignificant for pub- 
 lication. But it has been thought that the contrast of their sprightly 
 humor with the pain and prostration in the midst of which they were 
 produced might give them a peculiar interest, independent of any merit 
 of their own ; suggesting perhaps the reflection (never too trite to be 
 repeated so long as it is too true to be denied) by what harassing efforts 
 the food of careless mirth is furnished, and how often the pleasure of the 
 Many costs bitter endurance to the One. Disobeying therefore for once 
 the direction of our chief, we have preserved two of these “sick-room 
 fancies,” which will enable us to convey, in his own quaint picture- 
 language, to the readers of “Hood’s Mag.” “The Editor’s Apologies.” 
 
 “Hood’s Mag.” was a magpie with a hawk’s hood on; “The 
 Editor’s Apologies” a collection of bottles and leeches and 
 blisters. 
 
 As has been seen, Hood could not even in his letter to Dr. 
 Elliot describing the symptoms of his severe attack repress his 
 sense of humor. The three following letters, written in one 
 day to three of Dr. Elliot’s children, who were spending a few 
 weeks by the sea at Sandgate, overflow with fun such as would 
 make children cry with laughing. But there is an undertone 
 of sadness running through them; the “string attuned to 
 mirth” has “its chord of melancholy.” The melancholy it- 
 self, however, takes on a ludicrous appearance. The writer 
 seeming to see Death approaching on his pale horse amuses 
 himself with the jingling of the bridle: 
 
 Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road, St. John’s Wood, j 
 J uly 1st (1st of Blebrew falsity). / 
 
 My Dear Dunnie: I have heard of your doings at Sandgate, and 
 that you were so happy at getting to the sea that you were obliged to be 
 flogged a little to moderate it, and keep some for next day. I am very 
 
286 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 fond of the sea too, though I have been nearly drowned by it ; once in a 
 storm in a ship, and once under a boat-bottom when I was bathing. Of 
 course you have bathed, but have you learned to swim yet? It is rather 
 easy in salt water, and diving is still easier even than at the sink . I 
 only swim in fancy, and strike out new ideas. 
 
 Is not the tide curious? Though I can not say much for its tidiness; 
 it makes such a slop and litter on the beach. It comes and goes as regu- 
 larly as the boys of a proprietary school, but has no holidays. And what 
 a rattle the waves make with the stones when they are rough ! You will 
 find some rolled into decent marbles and bounces. And sometimes you 
 may hear the sound of a heavy sea at a distance like a giant snoring. 
 Some people say that every ninth wave is bigger than the rest. I have 
 often counted, but never found it come true, except with tailors, of whom 
 every ninth is a man. But in rough weather there are giant waves, bigger 
 than the rest, that come in trios, from which I suppose Britannia rules the 
 waves by the rule of three. When I was a boy I loved to play with the 
 sea, in spite of its sometimes getting rather rough . I and my brother 
 chucked hundreds of stones into it, as you do ; but we came away before 
 we could fill it up. In those days we were at war with France. Unluck- 
 ily it ’s peace now, or with so many stones you might have good fun for 
 days in pelting the enemy’s coast. Once I almost thought I nearly hit 
 Boney ! Then there was looking for an island, like Robinson Crusoe. 
 Have you ever found one yet, surrounded by water ? I remember once 
 staying on the beach, when the tide was flowing, till I was a peninsula, 
 and only by running turned myself into a continent. 
 
 Then there ’s fishing at the seaside. I used to catch flatfish with a 
 long string line. It was like swimming a kite ! But perhaps there are 
 no flatfish at Sandgate — except your shoe-soles. The best plan, if you 
 want flatfish where there are none, is to bring codlings and hammer them 
 into dabs. Once I caught a plaice; and, seeing it all over red spots, 
 thought I had caught the measles. 
 
 Do you ever long, while you are looking at the sea, for a voyage? 
 If I were off Sandgate with my yacht (only she is not yet built), I would 
 give you a cruise in her. In the meantime you can practice sailing any 
 little boat you can get. But mind that it does not flounder or get 
 squamped, as some people say instead of “founder” and “swamp.” I 
 have been swamped myself by malaria and almost foundered ; which re- 
 minds me that Tom, junior, being very ingenious, has made a cork model 
 of a diving-bell that won’t sink. 
 
 By this time I suppose you are become, instead of a land-boy, a regu- 
 lar sea-urchin ; and so amphibious that you can walk on the land as well 
 as on the water — or better. And don’t you mean, when you grow up, 
 to go to sea? Should you not like to be a little midshipman? or half a 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 287 
 
 quarter-master, with a cocked-hat, and a dirk that will be a sword by the 
 time you are a man? If you do resolve to be a post-captain, let me 
 know, and I will endeavor, through my interest with the Commissioners 
 of Pavements, to get you a post to jump o T er of the proper height. 
 Tom is just rigging a boat, so I suppose that he inclines to be an admiral 
 of the marines. But before you decide, remember the port-holes, and 
 that there are great guns in those battle-doors that will blow you into 
 shuttlecocks, which is a worse game than whoop and hide — as to a good 
 hiding ! 
 
 And so farewell, young “Old Fellow/’ and take care of yourself so 
 near the sea, for in some places they say it has not even a bottom to go 
 to if you fall in. And remember when you are bathing, if you meet 
 with a shark, the best way is to bite off his legs, if you can, before he 
 walks off with yours. And so, hoping you will be better soon, for some- 
 body told me you had the shingles, I am, my dear Dunnie, 
 
 Your affectionate friend, T. Hood. 
 
 P. S. I have heard that at Sandgate there used to be lobsters; but 
 some ignorant fairy turned them all by a spell into bolsters . 
 
 Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road, July 1, 1844. 
 
 My Dear Jeanie: So you are at Sandgate! Of course wishing for 
 
 your old play-fellow, M H (he can play — it ’s work to me), to 
 
 help you make little puddles in the Sand and swing on the Gate. But 
 perhaps there are no sand and gate at Sandgate, which in that case nom- 
 inally tells us a fib. But there must be little crabs somewhere, which you 
 can catch if you are nimble enough, so like spiders I wonder they do not 
 make webs. The large crabs are scarcer. 
 
 If you do catch a big one with strong claws — and like experiments — 
 you can shut him up in a cupboard with a loaf of sugar, and you can see 
 whether he will break it up with his nippers. Besides crabs, I used to 
 find jelly-fish on the beach, made, it seemed to me, of sea-calves’ feet 
 and no sherry. 
 
 The mermaids eat them, I suppose, at their wet water-parties, or salt 
 soirees. There were star-fish also, but they did not shine till they were 
 stinking, and so made very uncelestial constellations. 
 
 I suppose you never gather any sea-flowers, but only sea-weeds. The 
 truth is Mr. David Jones never rises from his bed, and so has a garden 
 full of weeds, like Dr. Watts’ sluggard. 
 
 Oysters are as bad, for they never leave their beds willingly, they get 
 such oceans of “cold pig.” At some seasides you may pick up shells; 
 but I have been told that at Sandgate there are no shells, except those 
 of passive green peas and lively maggots. 
 
288 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 I have heard that you bathe in the sea, which is very refreshing, but 
 it requires care ; for if you stay under water too long you may come up a 
 mermaid, who is only half a lady, with a fish’s tail, which she can boil 
 if she likes. You had better try this with your doll, whether it turns her 
 into half a “doll-fin.” 
 
 I hope you like the sea. I always did when I was a child, which was 
 about two years ago. Sometimes it makes such a fizzing and foaming, I 
 wonder some of our London cheats do not bottle it up and sell it for ginger- 
 pop. When the sea is too rough, if you pour the sweet-oil out of the 
 cruet all over it , and wait for a calm, it will be quite smooth — much 
 smoother than a dressed salad. 
 
 Some time ago exactly, there used to be about the part of the coast 
 where you are large white birds with black-tipped wings, that went flying 
 and screaming over the sea, and now and then plunged down into the 
 water after a fish. Perhaps they catch their sprats now with nets or 
 hooks and lines. Do you ever see such birds? We used to call them 
 “gulls;” but they didn’t mind it! Do you ever see any boats or vessels? 
 And do n’t you wish, when you see a ship, that somebody was a sea- 
 captain instead of a doctor, that he might bring you home a pet lion or a 
 calf elephant, ever so many parrots, or a monkey, from foreign parts? I 
 knew a little girl who was promised a baby whale by her sailor brother, 
 and who blubblered because he did not bring it. 1 suppose there are no 
 whales at Sandgate ; but you might find a seal about the beach, or at 
 least a stone for one. The sea stones are not pretty when they are dry, 
 but look beautiful when they are wet — and we can always keep sucking 
 them ! If you can find one, pray pick me up a pebble for a seal. I pre- 
 fer the red sort, like Mrs. Jenkins’s brooch and ear-rings, which she calls 
 “red chameleon.” * 
 
 Well, how happy you must be! Childhood is such a joyous, merry 
 time ; and I often wish I were two or three children ! But I suppose I 
 can’t be, or else I would be Jeanie and May and Dunnie Elliot. And 
 would n’t I pull off my three pairs of shoes and socks and go paddling in 
 the sea up to my six knees ! And oh ! how I would climb up the downs, 
 and roll down the ups on my three backs and stomachs ! Capital sport, 
 only it wears out the woolens. Which reminds me of the sheep on the 
 downs — and little May, so innocent, I daresay she often crawls about on 
 all-fours and tries to eat grass like a lamb. Grass is n’t nasty ; at least 
 not very, if you take care while you are browsing not to chump up the 
 dandelions. They are large, yellow star-flowers, and often grow about 
 dairy-farms, but give very bad milk. 
 
 When I can buy a telescope powerful enough I shall have a peep at 
 
 *Mrs. Jenkins is a character in Smollett’s “Humphrey Clinker.’ 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 289 
 
 you. I am told, with a good glass you can see the sea at such a distance 
 that the sea can not see you! Now I must say good-bye, for my paper 
 gets short but not stouter. Pray give my love to your ma, and my com- 
 pliments to Mrs. H and no mistake, and remember me, my dear 
 
 Jeanie, as your affectionate friend, Thomas Hood. 
 
 The other Tom Hood sends his love to every body and every thing. 
 
 P. S. Do n’t forget my pebble. And a good naughty-lass would be 
 esteemed a curiosity. 
 
 Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road, July 1, 1844. 
 
 My Dear May : How do you do, and how do you like the sea? Not 
 much perhaps, it ’s “so big.” But should n’t you like a nice little ocean 
 that you could put in a pan ? Yet the sea, although it looks rather ugly 
 at first, is very useful ; and, if I were near it this dry summer, I would 
 carry it all home to water the garden with at Stratford, and it would be 
 sure to drown all the blights, mayfties and all ! 
 
 I remember that, when I saw the sea, it used sometimes to be very 
 fussy and fidgety, and did not always wash itself quite clean; but it was 
 very fond of fun. Have the waves ever run after you yet and turned 
 your little two shoes into pumps full of water? 
 
 If you want a joke, you might push Dunnie into the sea and then fish 
 for him as they do for a jack. But do n’t go in yourself, and do n’t let 
 the baby go in and swim away, although he is the shrimp of the family. 
 Did you ever taste the sea-water? The fishes are so fond of it they keep 
 drinking it all the day long. Dip your little finger in, and then suck it 
 to see how it tastes. A glass of it warm, with sugar and a grate of nut- 
 meg, would quite astonish you! The water of the sea is so saline I 
 wonder nobody catches salt fish in it. I should think a good way would 
 be to go out in a butter-boat with a little melted for sauce. Have you 
 been bathed yet in the sea, and were you afraid? I was the first time, 
 and the time before that; and, dear me, how I kicked and screamed — 
 or, at least, meant to scream, but the sea, ships and all, began to run 
 into my mouth, and so I shut it up. I think I see you dipped in the 
 sea, screwing your eyes up and putting your nose like a button into your 
 mouth like a button-hole, for fear of getting another smell and taste! 
 By the bye, did you ever dive your head under water, with your legs up 
 in the air like a duck, and try whether you could cry “ Quack ” ? Some 
 animals can ! I would try, but there is no sea here, and so I am forced 
 to dip into books. I wish there were such nice green hills here as there 
 are at Sandgate. They must be very nice to roll down, especially if there 
 are no furze-bushes to prickle one at the bottom ! Do you remember how 
 the thorns stuck in us like a penn’orth of mixed pins at Wanstead? I 
 
 25 
 
290 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 have been very ill, and am so thin now I could stick myself into a prickle. 
 My legs, in particular, are so wasted away that somebody says my pins 
 are only needles; and I am so weak I dare say you could push me down 
 on the floor and right through the carpet, unless it was a strong pattern. 
 I am sure, if I were at Sandgate, you could carry me to the post-office 
 and fetch my letters. Talking of carrying, I suppose you have donkeys 
 at Sandgate, and ride about on them. Mind and always call them “don- 
 keys,” for if you call them asses it might reach such long ears! I knew 
 a donkey once that kicked a man for calling him Jack instead of John. 
 
 There are no flowers I suppose on the beach, or I would ask you to bring 
 me a bouquet, as you used to do at Stratford. But there are little crabs ! 
 If you would catch one for me, and teach it to dance the Polka, it would 
 make me quite happy ; for I have not had any toys or playthings for a 
 long time. Do you ever try, like a little crab, to run two ways at once? 
 See if you can do it, for it is good fun ; never mind tumbling over your- 
 self a little at first. It would be a good plan to hire a little crab, for an 
 hour a day, to teach baby to crawl, if he can’t walk, and, if I was his 
 mamma, I would too ! Bless him ! But I must not write on him any 
 more — he is so soft, and I have nothing but steel pens. 
 
 And now good-bye; Fanny has made my tea, and I mqst drink it 
 before it gets too hot, as we all were last Sunday week. They say the 
 glass was eighty-eight in the shade, which is a great age ! The last fair 
 breeze I blew dozens of kisses for you, but the wind changed and I am 
 afraid took them all to Miss H or somebody that it should n’t. 
 
 Give my love to every body and my compliments to all the rest, and 
 remember I am, my dear May, 
 
 Your loving friend, Thomas Hood. 
 
 P. S. Do n’t forget my little crab to dance the Polka ; and pray write 
 to me as soon as you can’t, if it ’s only a line. 
 
 In July, 1844, after his serious illness, he went to Blackheath, 
 where his health was greatly improved. After a stay of two 
 months he returned to London and resumed the management 
 of the Magazine. In a note to Dr. Elliot, dated July 20, 1844, 
 he writes: “I have had a little more spinning material in the 
 last few days and have nearly done three chapters.” 
 
 To the secretaries of the Manchester Athenaeum, who had 
 invited him to a soiree , he writes a letter dated October 1, 1844: 
 
 Dear Sirs: I should sooner have answered your obliging letter and 
 the flattering invitation it conveyed ; but my state was so precarious that 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 291 
 
 it seemed presumptuous without a morning certain in September to spec- 
 ulate on a soiree in October. It would indeed afford me very great pleas- 
 ure to be present at the meeting on the 3d, but really I have not “man” 
 or “chest” enough for Manchester; and as for Mr. Disraeli, might as 
 well hope for an introduction to Ben Ledi or Ben Nevis. For me all 
 long journeys, save one, are over. 
 
 In the month of October he was again very ill. Mrs. Hood 
 writes to De Franck : 
 
 He is now in the midst of work for the Magazine. He only last week 
 resumed the labor of it. A friend did it for him, as he was forbidden 
 even to write, though he did break through the injunction. He was 
 more seriously ill than ever I saw him — for three weeks in extreme dan- 
 ger, three physicians attending. Dr. Elliot came daily ten miles to see 
 him, which we feel was an extraordinary act of friendship, with his 
 extensive practice in his own neighborhood. Hood suffered dreadfully 
 from spasmodic shortness of breath, and the doctors are astonished at his 
 recovery ; but he is sadly shaken and reduced in strength. 
 
 In a postscript to this letter Hood adds: 
 
 Dear Johnny, “ Jack ’s alive ! ” Three doctors could not kill me ; so 
 I may live a year or two. But I almost went a-fishing in Lethe for for- 
 gotten fishes. You talk of my excess! Why, I am hardly allowed table- 
 beer and water, and never go out to balls! Now you are in the “John 
 d’ armes,” you ought to come and take a lesson of our new police, who 
 are almost as military as yours, and more civil, I suspect. If you want a 
 job, you shall mount guard at my Magazine and fight all my duels. Ed- 
 itors get into them now and then. I will write to the Prince. 
 
 In a letter to Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, returning thanks for a 
 contribution to the Magazine, Hood says : 
 
 I resumed the management of the Magazine last month, from which 
 you may conclude that I am better — as well probably as I ever can be, 
 from the nature of my complaints. It is not well, perhaps, for me to 
 work so much ; but besides the necessity for exertion, from long habit my 
 mind refuses to be passive, and seems the more restless from my inability 
 to exert much bodily activity. I sleep little, and my head, instead of a 
 shady chamber, is like a hall with a lamp burning in it all night. And 
 so it will be to the end. I must “die in harness” like a Hero — ora 
 horse. 
 
292 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Near the end of 1844 some friends exerted themselves to 
 procure him a pension, and a semi-official notice was sent to 
 Hood, desiring him to name one of his female relatives on 
 whom a pension might be conferred, as his own life was so 
 very precarious. He sent by Lord Francis Egerton the name 
 of his wife. The letters that passed between him and Sir 
 Robert Peel do honor to both the men. This is Hood’s let- 
 ter of thanks: 
 
 November, 1844. 
 
 Sir : In your comparative leisure at Brighton, if a Prime Minister has 
 even comparative leisure, you may find time to accept and taste the grate- 
 ful acknowledgments of one whom you have served from motives rarely 
 attributed to such Patrons. 
 
 Complaints have been often made of the neglect of literature and 
 literary men by the state and its ministers. I have joined in them myself, 
 but with reference to authors in general — I am quite aware of my own 
 unfitness for any of those posts alluded to by Mr. Smythe in his speech, 
 especially for those official employments which, if I had any ambition 
 that way, I should be physically unable to fulfil. Almost too thin to rep- 
 resent myself, I should make a very indifferent ambassador, consul, or 
 attache. You may therefore rely, Sir, on my entertaining no such grati- 
 tude for “favours to come.” 
 
 Such impressions have occasionally received confirmation from un- 
 lucky oversights, such as I suppose to have caused the omission of 
 “Literature” from the Queen’s answer to the Civic address, in which 
 it was inserted. An unlucky omission I presume to say ; for whatever 
 differences may obtain in society, that will be an unlucky one which 
 distinguishes a Sovereign from a reading public, rapidly becoming a 
 reading people. 
 
 As an author, I can not but think it a good omen for the cause that 
 this mark of your favour has fallen on a writer so totally unconnected 
 with party politics as myself, whose favourite theory of Government is, 
 “An Angel from Pleaven and a Despotism.” 
 
 As a man, I am deeply sensible of a consideration and kindness which 
 have made this “work-a-day” world more park-like to me as well as to 
 the people of Manchester, and will render the poor remnant of my life 
 much happier and easier than it could be with the prospect that was 
 before me. 
 
 My humble name has sufficiently occupied your thoughts already, yet 
 may it, with its pleasanter associations, recur to you whenever you meet 
 with a discontented partisan or a political ingrate ! 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 2 93 
 
 Lord F. Egerton, having kindly offered to convey my acceptance and 
 choice to you, I have forwarded them, but could not resist the direct 
 expression of my sentiments as to a “Premier pas” which, instead of 
 “costing,” enriches me. I have the honour to be, &c., 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 Sir Robert acknowledged the receipt of this letter in the 
 following kind manner: 
 
 Brighton, November io, 1844. 
 
 Sir : I am more than repaid by the personal satisfaction which I have 
 had in doing that for which you return me warm and characteristic 
 acknowledgments. 
 
 You perhaps think that you are known to one with such multifarious 
 occupations as myself merely by general reputation as an author ; but I 
 assure you that there can be little which you have written and acknowl- 
 edged which I have not read ; and that there are few who can appreciate 
 and admire more than myself the good sense and good feeling which have 
 taught you to infuse so much fun and merriment into writings correcting 
 folly and exposing absurdities, and yet never trespassing beyond those 
 limits within which wit and facetiousness are not very often confined. 
 You may write on with the consciousness of independence, as free and 
 unfettered as if no communication had ever passed between us. I am 
 not conferring a private obligation upon you, but am fulfilling the inten- 
 tions of the Legislature, which has placed at the disposal of the Crown a 
 certain sum (miserable, indeed, in amount) to be applied to the recogni- 
 tion of public claims on the Bounty of the Crown. If you will review 
 the names of those whose claims have been admitted on account of their 
 literary or scientific eminence, you will find an ample confirmation of the 
 truth of my statement. 
 
 One return, indeed, I shall ask of you — that you will give me the 
 opportunity of making your personal acquaintance. 
 
 Believe me to be faithfully yours, Robert Peel. 
 
 Sir Robert sent the formal announcement of the Queen’s 
 approval of the pension by his servant. Hood writes to Dr. 
 Elliot : 
 
 Dear Doctor : Sir R. Peel came up from Burleigh on Tuesday night 
 and went down to Brighton on Saturday. If he had written by post, I 
 should not have had it till to-day [Monday]. So he sent his servant with 
 the following [the announcement of the Queen’s approval] on Saturday 
 night } another mark of considerate attention ! 
 
294 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Hood wrote to acknowledge Sir Robert’s kindness: 
 
 November, 1844. 
 
 Sir : I have to acknowledge the receipt of your very gratifying com- 
 munication and the considerate kindness which provided for my receiving 
 it on Saturday night. If it be well to be remembered at all by a minister, 
 it is better still not to be forgotten by him in a “hurly Burleigh ! ” 
 
 I am so inexperienced a pensioner (unlike the father of a friend of 
 mine, who was made in his infancy a superannuated postman) as to be 
 quite ignorant of the etiquette of such cases; but, in the absence of 
 knowledge, I feel that it would be quite proper to thank the Queen for 
 her gracious approval. May I request of your goodness, at a fit oppor- 
 tunity, to lay my humble and grateful acknowledgments at Her Majesty’s 
 feet, with the respectful assurance that a man, who has lived conscious of 
 his good name being the better part of his children’s inheritance, will 
 never disgrace the royal favour. 
 
 Your letter of the 10th inst., which is deposited amongst my literary 
 heir-looms, I hesitated to answer, partly because it gave rise to feelings 
 which would keep without congealing, and partly from knowing edito- 
 rially the oppression of too many “Communications from Correspond- 
 ents.” But I may say here how extremely flattered I am by your liberal 
 praise and handsome judgment of my writings; nearly all of which you 
 must have seen, if you have read the acknowledged ones. The anony- 
 mous only comprise a few trifles and reviews ; and even against these, as 
 a set-off, I have had my name affixed to some pieces I had not written, 
 for example a poem on the Sale of the Stud of the late King William. 
 
 As you have done me the high honour to seek, beyond this, my per- 
 sonal acquaintance, I can only say I shall be most proud and happy to 
 have the pleasure of waiting on you at your convenience. 
 
 I have the honour to be, Sir, your most obedient servant, 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 The year 1845 found the great-hearted sufferer confined to 
 the bed from which he was never more to rise, except to be 
 propped up for a few moments in an easy-chair. The chapter 
 in the “ Memorials” which gives an account of the last days of 
 the loving and beloved father and husband few can read with- 
 out tears. His daughter says : 
 
 The Christmas number of the Magazine had come out, sparkling with 
 fun and merriment. “Mrs. Peck’s Pudding” and its grotesque illustra- 
 tions afforded seasonable Christmas amusement at all firesides but its 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 295 
 
 author’s. His own family never enjoyed his quaint and humorous fan- 
 cies, for they were all associated with memories of illness and anxiety. 
 Although “Hood’s Comic Annual,” as he himself used to remark with 
 pleasure, was in every house seized upon and almost worn out by the fre- 
 quent handling of little fingers, his own children did not enjoy it till the 
 lapse of many years had mercifully softened down some of the sad recol- 
 lections connected with it. The only article that I can remember we ever 
 really thoroughly enjoyed was “Mrs. Gardiner, a Horticultural Romance,” 
 and even this was composed in bed. But the illness he was then suffering 
 from was only rheumatic fever, not one of his dangerous attacks, and he 
 was unusually cheerful. He sat up in bed, dictating it to my mother, 
 interrupted by our bursts of irrepressible laughter as joke after joke came 
 from his lips, he all the while laughing and relishing it as much as we 
 did. But this was a rare, indeed almost solitary, instance ; for he could 
 not usually write so well at any time as at night, when all the house was 
 quiet. Our family rejoicings were generally when the work was over, 
 and we were too thankful to be rid of the harass and hurry to care much 
 for the results of such labor. 
 
 At the time of this last Christmas (a memorable one to us) my father, 
 having painfully and laboriously finished his allotted task, took to his 
 bed, from which he was never more to arise, except as a mere temporary 
 refreshment to sit up in an easy-chair, propped by pillows and wrapped 
 in blankets. On Christmas day he crawled out, for our sakes more than 
 his own, into a little dressing-room next to his bed-room for a few hours ; 
 but it was a painful mockery of enjoyment. The cheerful spirit that had 
 struggled so long and so bravely with adverse circumstances and compli- 
 cated diseases was quelled at last ; and he scarcely attempted to appear 
 cheerful. .... Now he saw that a few months — possibly a few 
 weeks — must end his labours and his sufferings and his life with them. 
 This he could not but feel keenly when he saw that this was the last 
 Christmas we were all to share in this world. 
 
 In intervals of comparative freedom from pain he had him- 
 self propped up in bed and wrote some chapters of “Our 
 Family ” for the January and February numbers of the Maga- 
 zine. In the February number appeared the following beautiful 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Farewell Life ! my senses swim, 
 
 And the world is growing dim ; 
 
 Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
 
 Like the advent of the night, — 
 
296 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Colder, colder, colder still, 
 
 Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
 
 Strong the earthy odor grows — 
 
 I smell the Mould above the Rose! 
 
 Welcome Life! The Spirit strives! 
 
 Strength returns, and hope revives ; 
 
 Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
 Fly like shadows at the morn, — 
 
 O’er the earth there comes a bloom, 
 
 Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
 
 Warm perfume for vapors cold — 
 
 I smell the Rose above the Mould ! 
 
 The rose was destined to rise above the mould only in another 
 clime. He had been more than once, as he said himself, “so 
 near Death’s door that he could almost fancy he could hear the 
 creaking of the hinges.” Now, knowing that his feeble step 
 was on the very threshold, he wrote the following letter to 
 Sir Robert Peel: 
 
 Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road. 
 
 Dear Sir : We are not to meet in the flesh. Given over by my phy- 
 sicians and by myself, I am only kept alive by frequent installments of 
 mulled port wine. In this extremity I feel a comfort, for which I can not 
 refrain from again thanking you with all the sincerity of a dying man — 
 and, at the same time, bidding you a respectful farewell. 
 
 Thank God my mind is composed and my reason undisturbed, but my 
 race as an author is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in a 
 steel pen, otherwise I would have written one more paper — a forewarning 
 one — against an evil, or the danger of it, arising from a literary move- 
 ment in which I have had some share, a one-sided humanity, opposite to 
 that catholic Shakespearean sympathy which felt with King as well as 
 Peasant, and duly estimated the moral temptations of both stations. 
 
 Certain classes at the poles of society are already too far asunder; it 
 should be the duty of our writers to draw them nearer by kindly attrac- 
 tion, and not aggravate the existing repulsion and place a wider moral 
 gulf between Rich and Poor, with Hate on the one side and Fear on the 
 other. But I am too weak for this task, the last I had set myself. It is 
 death that stops my pen, you see, and not the pension. 
 
 God bless you, sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit of 
 my beloved country. I have the honour to be, Sir, 
 
 Your most grateful and obedient servant, Thomas Hood. 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 297 
 
 Sir Robert replied in the following note: 
 
 Whitehall. 
 
 Dear Sir : I must write one line to express an earnest hope that it 
 will please God to restore you to health and strength; and that you may 
 be enabled to apply your unimpaired faculties to the inculcation of those 
 just and really benevolent doctrines which are shadowed out in the letter 
 you have addressed to me. With my best wishes, believe me, 
 
 Dear sir, faithfully yours, Robert Peel. 
 
 Hood’s devoted friend, Mr. Ward, edited the Magazine for 
 him. In the number for March appeared the following: 
 
 We can hardly congratulate our readers on presenting them this 
 month with an effigy of Thomas Hood’s outward features instead of that 
 portraiture of his mind and those traces of his kindly heart which he has 
 been wont with his own pen to draw in these pages. And we lament 
 still more that we must add a regret to the disappointment of our readers 
 by communicating to them the sad tidings that the aching original of that 
 pictured brow is again laid low by dangerous illness, again scarred (to 
 use an expression of his own) “by the crooked autograph of pain.” 
 Through many a previous paroxysm of his malady, when life and death 
 hung trembling in the balance, Mr. Hood has worked on steadily for our 
 instruction and amusement, throwing often into a humorous chapter or 
 an impassioned poem the power which was needed to restore exhausted 
 nature. During the past month, however, his physical strength has com- 
 pletely given way ; and almost as much through incapacity of his hand 
 to hold the pen as of his brain for any length of time to guide it, he has 
 at last been compelled to desist from composition. Those in whom ad- 
 miration of the writer has induced also a friendly feeling toward the man 
 will have some consolation in learning that amidst his sufferings, which 
 have been severe, his cheerful philosophy has never failed him ; but that 
 around his sick bed, as in his writings and in his life, he has known how 
 to lighten the melancholy of those about him and to mingle laughter 
 with their tears. We have thought it due to our readers and the public 
 thus briefly to make known that Mr. Hood is more seriously ill than even 
 he has ever been before, avoiding to express any hopes or forebodings of 
 our own or to prejudge the uncertain issues of life and death. 
 
 All that the warmest friendship could do was done for him. 
 Loving friends were ready to write for him, even literary men 
 who were pressed for time. Old and new friends alike came 
 to see him, expressing their sympathy and bidding him farewell. 
 
298 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 And for all he had kind and cheerful words. Game, wine, and 
 fruit were sent to tempt his appetite, even unknown persons 
 giving evidence of thoughtful kindness. As one instance 
 among many, a note came, written in a feigned hand, con- 
 taining a bank-note for jQ 20 and these words: “A SHIRT! 
 and a sincere wish for health.” His daughter says : 
 
 The very neighbors (in London, where next-door neighbors are almost 
 sure to be strangers) were kind and interested, one gentleman sending in 
 his coachman almost daily to lift the poor invalid tc his chair ; and others 
 knocking on the wall, on hearing any unusual disturbance at night, to 
 offer help. One lady sent violets from the country to place by his bed- 
 side, hearing he loved the perfume of these little flowers. All these kind 
 offices touched his grateful heart most deeply, at times almost to tears ; 
 and if these pages should ever come before any of those who performed 
 them, it may be some pleasure to know of the soothing consolation and 
 pleasure they afforded the dying man and the gratitude his children will 
 never cease to feel toward them. 
 
 An engraving had been made from a bust executed by Mr. 
 Edward Davis, and Hood sent impressions from the engraving 
 to many friends as dying legacies. On each copy he wrote at 
 intervals, as he found strength to sit up in bed, his name and a 
 few kind words. His daughter writes : 
 
 His presence of mind was remarkable ; as his was, I think, naturally, 
 and eventually from illness, a nervous nature. One night I was sitting 
 up with him, my mother having gone to rest for a few hours, worn out 
 with fatigue. He was seized, about twelve o’clock, with one of his 
 alarming attacks of hemorrhage from the lungs. When it had for a mo- 
 ment ceased he motioned for paper and pencil, and asked if I was too 
 much frightened to stay with him. I was too much used to it now, and 
 on my replying “No,” he quietly and calmly wrote his wishes and direc- 
 tions on a slip of paper, as deliberately as if it was an ordinary matter. 
 He forbade me to disturb my mother. When the doctor came and ordered 
 ice to be applied, my father wrote to remind me of a pond close by where 
 ice could be procured; nor did he forget to add a hint for refreshments to 
 be prepared for the surgeon, who was to wait some hours to watch the 
 case. This was in the midst of a very sudden and dangerous attack 
 which was at the time almost supposed to be his last. 
 
 No words can describe his patience and resignation amidst all the 
 fierce sufferings of the last month or two of his dying, as he said himself, 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 299 
 
 “inch by inch.” In the intervals between the terrible agonies that racked 
 that exhausted frame he talked quite calmly to us all of our future plans, 
 and what he wished to be done. At times we were obliged to leave him 
 for the purpose of trying to check the emotions that overpowered us. 
 With such an example before us, we were obliged to keep brave hearts 
 and cheerful countenances. It was a difficult task ; but the beloved suf- 
 ferer was the first to exhort and console us. My dear mother bore up 
 with all the strength of a true woman’s devotion, and with a calmness 
 that after the necessity of control was over reacted fatally on her worn- 
 out frame. 
 
 It was a lovely spring, and my father loved to see and feel all he could 
 of it, drinking in his last measure of sunshine and fresh air more eagerly 
 than he used to do. He always loved all nature like a child and, I think, 
 possessed to the full that rare faculty of enjoyment which even a clear 
 day or a beautiful flower can bring to a finely sensitive mind, which, if it 
 suffers keenly enjoys keenly as well. He said once to us, “It ’s a beauti- 
 ful world, and since I have been lying here I have thought of it more 
 and more. It is not so bad, even humanly speaking, as people would 
 make it out. I have had some very happy days while I lived in it, and I 
 could have wished to stay a little longer. But it is all for the best, and 
 we shall all meet in a better world.” 
 
 In his illness he was at times delirious with pain, though his 
 mind was ordinarily tranquil. His daughter says : 
 
 We shall never forget one night, when his mind was wandering in 
 this way, his repeating Lady Nairne’s lovely words: 
 
 I ’m wearin’ awa’, Jean, 
 
 Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean; 
 
 I ’m wearin’ awa’ 
 
 To the land of the leal. 
 
 How fare ye well, my ain Jean, 
 
 This warld’s cares are vain, Jean; 
 
 We ’ll meet, and aye be fain, 
 
 In the land of the leal. 
 
 On the Thursday evening, May 1st, he seemed worse; and, knowing 
 himself to be dying, he called us around him — my mother, my little 
 brother, who was just ten years old, and myself. He gave us his last 
 blessing tenderly and fondly; and then gently clasping my mother’s 
 hand, he said, “Remember, Jane, I forgive all, all as I hope to be for- 
 given!” He lay for some time calmly and peacefully, but breathing 
 slowly and with difficulty. My mother bending over him heard him say 
 
3 °° 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 faintly, “O Lord! say ‘Arise, take up thy cross and follow me.’” His 
 last words were, “Dying, dying,” as if glad to realize the rest implied in 
 them. He then sank into what seemed a deep slumber. This torpor 
 lasted all Friday; and on Saturday at noon he breathed his last without 
 a struggle or a sigh. 
 
 May was an eventful month to him. He was born on the 
 23d of May, 1799; married on the 5th of May, 1824; and he 
 died on the 3d of May, 1845. He was buried on the 10th. 
 
 Mrs. Broderip, referring to her father’s exile to Coblenz and 
 Ostend, says: 
 
 But for his exile to these countries — an exile which he underwent for 
 the faults of others — he might still be delighting the world with the later 
 fruit of a genius that had barely attained its maturity at the time of his 
 death. 
 
 Her father had, no doubt, seen some of those “ others ” pros- 
 pering “in this world’s goods” while he on a bed of sickness 
 was wearing out his life in efforts to discharge the debts into 
 which they had plunged him. In “Tylney Hall” is a vigorous 
 protest against the doctrine that “honesty is the best policy,” 
 this world only being considered. After relating the death of 
 Sir Mark Tyrrel he says: 
 
 Thus fell the head of this devoted house, the last main obstacle that 
 had interposed between the Creole and his guilty object. In some minds 
 such a consummation would almost incur a denial, or at least a doubting, 
 of Providence, looking at the inequality of the dispensation. But poet- 
 ical justice is one of the merest fictions, and consists, as the term imports, 
 rather with Utopian views than with the real rugged course of human 
 life. To place virtue or vice in one scale, and an adequate portion of 
 good or evil as reward and punishment in the other, may produce food 
 meet for babes; but the picture has little reference to the true course of 
 events in this variegated world, where the base and bad rejoice and revel 
 in the high places, whilst excellence mourns in the dust. Honesty begs 
 for bread, and knavery prospers, adding houses to houses and land to 
 land. The just suffer, while the unjust judge is in ermine. Folly rules, 
 and Wisdom pines unheard. Vanity is caressed at the expense of genius, 
 and sanctimonious hypocrisy tramples on humble piety. The mortal bal- 
 ance, indeed, preponderates in favor of the wicked. It follows necessa- 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 3°i 
 
 rily that the unscrupulous man, who justifies all means by the end and 
 rejects neither fraud nor cruelty when they conduce to his purpose, must 
 arrive more frequently, and by a shorter path, at his object, than the 
 conscientious one who will not strain a principle or deviate one step from 
 the line of rectitude. Thus wealth, power, and worldly honor are apt to 
 become the prizes of the crafty and the violent, the corrupt and the de- 
 praved, the swindler, the perjurer, and the tamperer with blood. Hence 
 such anomalous awards as the traitor’s death to the patriot, the felon’s 
 imprisonment to the honest debtor, and persecution and poverty to the 
 benefactor of mankind. The child, however, is taught by his copy-book 
 that “Virtue is its own Reward;” every volume in his juvenile library 
 not only inculcates the same principle, but holds out a direct promise of 
 an equitable adjustment in this world, which is only to be looked for in 
 another. An absurd system, by which, instead of being forearmed and 
 forewarned by a practical prospect of the trials to come, the good boy 
 grows up a good man, and is astonished to find himself, instead of being 
 even a silver-gilt Whittington, a contemned object, walking the world 
 barefoot and penniless, with the reward of virtue hanging upon his neck 
 in the likeness of one of those tin or pewter medals of merit that used to 
 decorate him at his academy. This is an evil in our literature that de- 
 mands correction. As our preparatory schooling is chiefly derived from 
 the writings and the teaching of the female sex, it would be well if the 
 school-mistress would go abroad with the school-master and pick up some 
 principle of conduct for youth superior to the selfish servile one of the 
 puppy, who is conscious of the breaker behind his heels, with a dog-whip 
 in one hand and a piece of liver in the other. 
 
 The body was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Eighteen 
 months afterward his devoted wife, worn down by the labor 
 she had undergone in his sickness and by grief for his loss, was 
 buried by his side. 
 
 In 1852 the grave of Thomas Hood was without a tomb- 
 stone. Some lines by Miss Eliza Cook drew attention to this 
 fact, and “ what the children of Thomas Hood had long planned 
 to do in a modest and unpretending manner was undertaken by 
 the public.” In numerous letters to Miss Cook a public sub- 
 scription was suggested, and after a time a committee was 
 appointed. This committee performed its duties well. Noble- 
 men, members of Parliament, men of letters, old friends and 
 acquaintances gave their aid, and the people added their shil- 
 
3° 2 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 lings and pence. At the commencement of 1853 sculptors 
 were invited to furnish designs, and Mr. Matthew Noble’s de- 
 sign was selected by the committee. On the 18th of July, 
 1854, the completed monument was unveiled, and a speech 
 was made by Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). 
 
 In the elegant edition of Hood’s prose works edited by 
 Epes Sargent there is an engraving representing a writer with 
 what seems to be a serious face, holding up before his face a 
 laughing mask; the intended idea seeming to be that the comic 
 was not natural to Hood. The engraving does not express the 
 truth; the comic was as natural to him as was the serious. He 
 overflowed with fun. He enjoyed playing harmless practical 
 jokes on his lovely wife, who bore them with the sweetest tem- 
 per. Whenever she was taken in she said she would never be 
 taken in again; but such was her thorough confidence in him 
 that she was taken in at each successive time as easily as at the 
 first. From the character of this amiable woman it may be half 
 suspected that to please her husband, so fond of his joke, she 
 sometimes pretended to be taken in when she understood the 
 whole thing. 
 
 Soon after their marriage, having been ordered to Brighton 
 for his health, as has been mentioned, he told his wife that, 
 having had a good deal of experience of the sea, he would 
 give her some advice about buying fish. “Above all things, 
 Jane, as they will endeavor to impose upon your inexperience, 
 let nothing induce you to buy a plaice that has any appearance 
 of red or orange spots, as such spots are sure signs of an ad- 
 vanced stage of decomposition.” Red spots, “as,” in the lan- 
 guage of Carlyle, “is known to several,” being characteristic 
 of the living plaice. When the fish-woman came she had very 
 little except plaice ; and these she turned over and over, prais- 
 ing their size and freshness. When Mrs. Hood hinted a doubt 
 of their freshness the woman said they were not long out of the 
 water, having been caught that morning. Mrs. Hood gravely 
 shook her head, mildly observing, “ My good woman, it may be 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 303 
 
 as you say; but I could not think of buying any plaice with 
 those very unpleasant red spots.” “Lord bless your eyes, 
 mum!” shouted the woman, “who ever seed any without 
 ’em ! ” A suppressed giggle on the stairs revealed the per- 
 petrator of the joke. Hood rushed off in a paroxysm of 
 laughter, leaving his wife to appease the angry woman as she 
 could. 
 
 The story of the skewered plum-pudding is related in one 
 of Mrs. Hood’s letters to Mrs. Elliot; also in the same letter 
 the joke about making potted beef by chewing. These little 
 things gave rise to many a joke and much “unextinguished 
 laughter,” the remembrance of which caused frequent allusion 
 to them in conversation and letters. 
 
 The following extracts will show Hood’s own opinion. In 
 a letter from Ostend to De Franck he says: 
 
 For the fun of the thing I must tell you there has been a short memoir 
 of me published. You will judge how well the author knows me when 
 he says, “ We believe his mind to be more serious than comic; we have 
 never known him to laugh heartily either in company or in rhyme.” But 
 my Methodist face took him in; for he says, “The countenance of Mr. 
 Hood is more solemn than merry.” 
 
 In a letter from Ostend to Dr. Elliot, he says: 
 
 I was amused at a remark of old Dr. Jansen’s (for he is quite a vet- 
 eran). I said my sedentary profession was against me* And when he 
 understood it was literary, “Ah!” said he, with a glance at a thin, yel- 
 lowish face, “a serious writer, of course.” Akin to this, I one day over- 
 heard a dispute between Tom and Fanny as to what I was. “ Pa ’s a 
 literary man,” said Fanny. “ He ’s not ! ” said Tom ; “I know what he 
 is.” “What is he, then?” “Why,” says Tom, “he’s not a literary 
 man — he ’s an invalid.” 
 
 The serious character was as natural to him as was the 
 comic. He says himself, 
 
 There is no music in the life 
 
 That sounds with idiot laughter solely. 
 
3°4 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 In a letter from Coblenz to Mr. Dilke, dated June 20, 1836, he 
 writes : 
 
 Jane goes all lengths with me in her love, and so does Fanny, and so 
 would Hood, Jun., if he could as he should. The manoeuvres will begin 
 the last week in August, and then the King will be here; so, dear Mrs. 
 Dilke, mind you keep Dilke in marching order. I have only post time to 
 add God bless you all in my more serious style, which some prefer to my 
 comic, and Jane says Amen religiously, though she has fished of a Sunday. 
 She denies it ; and I believe it is an error — she only went to an equestrian 
 
 play.* 
 
 Most persons are like “some,” preferring his more “ seri- 
 ous” style to his “comic.” There is no doubt that it was the 
 pressure of circumstances that led him to write more in the 
 “comic” than in the “serious” style. He was anxious to pay 
 his debts, and he thought the “ comic ” style would take better 
 with the public. It was natural for him to mingle the two 
 styles, and in “Tylney Hall” he gives his reasons: 
 
 There is an old saying that extremes meet, and no adage can be more 
 strikingly verified than this is in human life by the frequent encounter of 
 the serious and the ludicrous on the same occasion. There can not be a 
 more erroneous notion than that popular one which appropriates to mirth 
 and grief each its own peculiar stage, like the Parisian theatres, where 
 one house is devoted to tragedy and another to comedy; whereas the 
 world is a vast stage, whereon tragedy, comedy, and farce are not only 
 
 acting at once, but sometimes by the same performer Even 
 
 thus closely lie the domains of laughter and tears, divided not by an im- 
 passable frontier, as some suppose, but dubiously separated by a debatable 
 land, leaving easy access to either territory, and of course subjecting the 
 rival kingdoms to frequent incursions. Thus tears are seen at festivals, 
 and smiles at funerals; nay, laughter, in the writer’s experience, has 
 mingled with lamentation in the chamber of death. Nevertheless even 
 Shakespeare, the best judge of man next to his Maker, and the best 
 acquainted with the human heart, has been moused at by some of his 
 owlish critics for his abrupt transitions from the pathetic to the humorous, 
 as if such were not the very warp and woof of our variegated fabric. 
 These alternations* of lights and shadows are imperatively necessary to a 
 faithful picture of life; but it is sometimes made a cause of reproach to 
 
 *This of course is Hood’s joke; it is like saying, “She did not steal — she only 
 committed murder.” 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 3°5 
 
 the painter that he should be accessible at a tragical occurrence to any 
 livelier associations, as if the same tearful eye that appreciates the sor- 
 rows of the inmates of a house of mourning should see nothing but 
 melancholy in the smirks of the two smug mutes at the door. 
 
 In the preface to the “ National Tales,” most of which are 
 of a serious character, Hood says : 
 
 The serious character of the generality of the stories is a deviation 
 from my former attempts, and I have received advice enough on that 
 account to make me present them with some misgiving. But because I 
 have jested elsewhere it does not follow that I am incompetent for grav- 
 ity, of which any owl is capable; or proof against melancholy, which 
 besets even the ass. Those who can be touched by neither of these 
 moods rank lower, indeed, than both these creatures. It is from none of 
 the player’s ambition, which has led the buffoon by a rash step into the 
 tragic buskin, that I assume' the sadder humor, but because I know from 
 certain passages that such affections are not foreign to my nature. During 
 my short lifetime I have often been as “sad as night,” and not, like the 
 young gentlemen from France, merely from wantonness. It is the con- 
 trast of such leaden and golden fits that lends a double relish to our 
 days. A life of mere laughter is like music without its bass, or a picture 
 (conceive it) of vague unmitigated light ; whereas the occasional melan- 
 choly, like those grand, rich glooms of old Rembrandt, produces an 
 incomparable effect and a very grateful relief.” 
 
 It is only a master that can venture to follow Shakespeare 
 and nature. It w r ill be remembered that in “The Antiquary” 
 Sir Walter Scott has an old barber, “a praiser of the time past,” 
 in which every person of any importance wore his wig. But 
 times had so changed that there were left only three wigs in the 
 parish, one of which was worn by “ Monkbarns,” the antiquary. 
 Caxon, the barber, was naturally solicitous about these three 
 wigs, the only remnants of the prosperous times in which his 
 skill was employed in dressing so many wigs. In the account 
 of the terrible condition of Sir Arthur Wardour and his daughter 
 — one of the most thrilling descriptions ever written — Monk- 
 barns is represented as pressing forward to the very brink of 
 the crag and extending his head over the dizzy height. “ Haud 
 a care, haud a care, Monkbarns ! ” cried Caxon, clinging to the 
 skirts of his patron and withholding him from danger as far as 
 
 26 
 
3°6 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 his strength permitted — “ God’s sake, haud a care ! Sir Arthur’s 
 drowned already; an ye fa’ over the cleugh too, there will be 
 but ae wig left in the parish, and that’s the minister’s.” This 
 ‘•'comic” incident does not impair the effect of the “serious” 
 description; but an inferior writer would not have ventured to 
 introduce it. The author was a master who was able to follow 
 nature. 
 
 Mrs. Broderip, speaking of herself and her brother after the 
 return from the Continent to England, says in the memoir of 
 her brother : “ Two or three uneventful years passed so far as 
 we were concerned, though during these years my father had 
 made his mark on the literature of the time in that wonderful 
 poem, ‘ Miss Kilmansegg,’ which was the first popular develop- 
 ment of his more serious powers.” But though the tenor of 
 this poem is “serious,” yet there are “comic” tones which 
 unite harmoniously with the “ serious,” like the falsetto which 
 the Tyrolese minstrels join to the chest-voice without showing 
 any break. For instance : 
 
 She was not doomed, for bread to eat, 
 
 To be put to her hands as well as her feet — 
 
 To carry home linen from mangles — 
 
 Or heavy-hearted and weary-limbed 
 To dance on rope in a jacket trimmed 
 With as many blows as spangles. 
 
 Then as to the choice of a name for the infant heiress is 
 the following stanza, in answer to Shakespeare’s “ What ’s in 
 a name?” 
 
 A name? If the party had a voice, 
 
 What mortal would be a Bugg by choice, 
 
 As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice, 
 
 Or any such nauseous blazon ? 
 
 Not to mention many a vulgar name, 
 
 That would make a doorplate blush for shame, 
 
 If doorplates were not so brazen ! 
 
 1 And what a comic picture is this of the father at the 
 christening, who was rubbing his hands with delight! There 
 
. u i» km; ) 
 
 IH. ■ tiiavi v nf iif :: 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 307 
 
 is scarcely to be found in any language a more ludicrous 
 passage : 
 
 And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bowed, 
 
 And smiled to himself, and laughed aloud, 
 
 To think of his heiress and daughter — 
 
 And then in his pockets he made a grope, 
 
 And then in the fullness of joy and hope, 
 
 Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap 
 In imperceptible water. 
 
 In the account of Miss Kilmansegg’s education is the fol- 
 lowing stanza, in which the very “serious” meaning is clothed 
 with a “comic” dress: 
 
 The very metal of merit they told, 
 
 And praised her for being as “good as gold” 
 
 Till she grew as a peacock haughty; 
 
 Of money they talked the whole day round, 
 
 And weighed desert like grapes by the pound, 
 
 Till she had an idea from the very sound 
 That people with nought were naughty. 
 
 Most of Hood’s serious poems will be “a possession forever.” 
 With some of them most persons are more familiar than they 
 are with any other poems. His poems that make their dwelling 
 in the mind are particularly the poems that express sympathy 
 with the poor and the suffering, such as “The Song of the 
 Shirt,” “The Lay of the Laborer,” “The Bridge of Sighs,” 
 “The Lady’s Dream.” And such poems as these have exerted 
 greater influence on the public mind than all the essays of 
 political economists and professed philanthropists. The poems 
 enter the heart, while the essays only touch the head. 
 
 The splendid close of the “Ode to Melancholy” shows in 
 the most conspicuous manner one side of Hood’s double char- 
 acter : 
 
 All things are touched with melancholy, 
 
 Born of the secret soul’s mistrust 
 To feel her fair ethereal wings 
 Weighed down with vile degraded dust; 
 
 Even the bright extremes of joy 
 Bring on conclusions of disgust, 
 
3°8 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Like the sweet blossoms of the May, 
 
 Whose fragrance ends in must. 
 
 O! give her then her tribute just, 
 
 Her sighs and tears and musings holy ! 
 
 There is no music in the life 
 
 That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; 
 
 There ’s not a string attuned to mirth 
 But has its chord in melancholy. 
 
 Hood said that he had spit more blood and made more puns 
 than any other person. In regard to punning he says, “ I am 
 informed that certain monthly, weekly, and very every-day 
 critics have taken great offense at my puns; and I can not con- 
 ceive how some gentlemen with one idea must be perplexed by 
 a double meaning. To my own notion a pun is an accommo- 
 dating word, like a farmer’s horse, with a pillion for an extra 
 sense to ride behind; it will carry single, however, if required.” 
 There are puns and puns, Hood’s puns “ carrying double” better 
 than those of any other writer, as may be seen in the extracts 
 from “Miss Kilmansegg.” To Lieutenant (afterward Captain) 
 de Franck, who had been laid up at Posen and had had his 
 head shaved, and who was expecting promotion, he writes, 
 “You will see the colonel, I guess, or are you the colonel your- 
 self? It would be fatal now to your hair to have many go over 
 your head.” 
 
 In the haughty letter of Lady Jubb to her housekeeper after 
 “The Great Conflagration” the lady says, “By this time what 
 has happened will be known in Shropshire, but I forbid your 
 talking. Politics belong to people of property, and those who 
 have no voice in the country ought not to speak. In your infe- 
 rior situations it ’s a duty to be ignorant of what you know. . . 
 Sir Jacob himself will write to the bailiff; and whatever may be 
 the nature of his directions, I desire that no curiosity may be 
 indulged in, and above all that you entertain no opinions of 
 your own. You can not square with the upper circles. I 
 would write more, but I am going to a meeting, I need not 
 say where or upon what subject.” 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 309 
 
 The following are found in “Tylney Hall” : 
 
 As some of the cuts designed for the rider fell upon the beast’s crup- 
 per, she resented them in kind, by wheeling round and dashing out so 
 vigorously as greatly to enlarge the circle of her acquaintance. 
 
 The physician again descended the stairs with the noise peculiar to 
 persons of his stamp. 
 
 Mrs. Hanway was one of those good managers who in modelling a 
 figurative statue of Economy are apt to make both ends meet by allowing 
 no waste. 
 
 At so early an hour as noon she appeared to be dressed for dinner ; 
 and, to tell the truth, a little overdone. 
 
 It was with just pride that he could say: 
 
 If I may modestly appropriate a merit it is that, whatever faults I have, 
 at least I have been a decent writer. In a species of composition where, 
 like the ignis fatnus that guides into a bog, a glimmer of the ludicrous 
 is apt to lead the fancy into an indelicacy, I feel some honest pride in 
 remembering that the reproach of impurity has never been cast upon me 
 by my judges. It has not been my delight to exhibit the Muse, as it has 
 been tenderly called, “high-kilted.” I have had my gratification there- 
 fore in seeing my little volumes placed in the hands of boys and girls; 
 and as I have children of my own to survive me I hope, I have the inex- 
 pressible comfort of thinking that hereafter they will be able to cast their 
 eyes over the pages inscribed with my name without a burning blush on 
 their young cheeks to reflect that the author was their father. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In 1868 I said to some friends, “Before I leave London I must go to 
 the Kensal Green Cemetery to see the monument to Hood. Since I read 
 the ‘Memorials’ prepared by his daughter and son I have the greatest 
 affection for his memory. His character was one of the noblest. I should 
 very much like to learn something about his son and daughter, whom the 
 ‘Memorials’ have led me to connect so closely with him.” “His son,” 
 said a friend, “ lives in the city and edits a paper called ‘ Fun.’ ” 
 
 The day after visiting the monument I was in the office of the great 
 bookseller, Sampson Low, which is near the office of “Fun,” when I 
 said, “I have so great a regard for the memory of Thomas Hood that I 
 
3 IQ 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 think of going over and introducing myself to his son.” “ I shall be glad 
 to give you a letter to him,” said Mr. Low. 
 
 With Mr. Low’s letter I went to the office of “Fun,” when I found 
 that Mr. Hood lived at Sydenham, about seven miles from his office, and 
 that he would not be in town again till the next week. On returning to 
 London, after several weeks spent on the Continent, I again went to Mr. 
 Hood’s office and was fortunate enough to find him there. Expecting to 
 find a person inheriting some of his father’s bad health, I was surprised 
 to see a large and handsome man, looking robust enough to be the son of 
 Hercules and Hebe. He told me that his sister, Frances Freeling Brod- 
 erip, was a widow; that she had been married, not, as I had supposed, 
 to Broderip the Naturalist, but to a clergyman, cousin of the Naturalist, 
 and that her husband was dead. At another visit, to my inquiry about 
 the health of his children he replied, “They are well — here is one of them,” 
 pointing to a fine-looking lad with every indication of vigorous health. 
 
 In 1872 I found him well, and I had a very pleasant time with him. 
 But before my next visit, in 1878, he was dead. He died the 20th of 
 November, 1874, of disease brought on by months of anxious watching 
 and grief by the sick-bed of his wife, who died in 1872. In 1877 his 
 sister published a volume entitled “Poems, Humorous and Pathetic, by 
 Thomas Hood the Younger. Edited, with a Memoir, by his sister, Frances 
 Freeling Broderip.” He always called himself Tom Hood, and he believed 
 that he was christened so till his sister convinced him to the contrary. 
 After the death of his father Tom was removed from the school which he 
 had been attending and placed in a larger school, the junior school of the 
 London University. After the mother’s death kind friends took charge 
 of his education and placed him to board with one of the masters of the 
 college. At the age of sixteen he became co-editor of a juvenile period- 
 ical, “The London University College School Miscellany,” which was 
 printed for circulation in the school. His sister says, “I dare say I shall 
 surprise many with the fact that his most ambitious dreams and hopes 
 were to be an artist. And yet evidently his father, no mean judge, had 
 years before discovered his tendencies in this way, and I am sure, and 
 have always believed so, that this was his real vocation. That he pos- 
 sessed the true artist’s eye for form and harmony of color, besides the 
 wealth of imagination which does not always accompany the two first 
 gifts, most of those who knew him could testify.” It was decided that 
 he should have a university education, and after some preliminary instruc- 
 tion with that view he was in 1853 entered as a commoner in Pembroke 
 College, Oxford. It was understood that he should study with a view to 
 taking holy orders; but he found that the church was not his vocation. 
 He made a visit of some length to a friend at Liskeard, in Cornwall, and 
 there took a lesson in practical editorship. The editor of the little local 
 
THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 311 
 
 newspaper, “The Liskeard Gazette,” had died, leaving the widow in 
 some trouble about the management of the paper. Tom undertook to 
 edit it and entered with zeal into all the details of the printing-office. 
 During his stay here appeared his first book, entitled “Pen and Pencil 
 Pictures.” 
 
 His next work, “Quips and Cranks,” was dedicated to Lady Moles- 
 worth, who had been very kind to him while he was in Cornwall. By 
 her influence he obtained a temporary clerkship in the War Office, he 
 being just too old for the permanent staff. In the autumn of 1859 he 
 came to stay with his sister in order to assist her in completing the “Me- 
 morials.” “On the completion of this work,” says Mrs. Broderip, “we 
 went to London to superintend the publication, my dear friend, Mrs. S. 
 C. Hall, opening her home to me as she has always done, and giving us 
 all the aid her generous heart could bestow.” He contributed to the 
 “St. James’s Magazine.” He also published another volume of verse, 
 prose, and woodcuts, dedicated to Lady Molesworth. 
 
 In 1862 he became for a short time the editor of a little weekly period- 
 ical called “Saturday Night.” His sister says that in the following years 
 he also worked well, having written three or four charming children’s 
 books as well as another novel, “For Valour.” He also edited a com- 
 plete edition of his father’s works, with notes and explanations. 
 
 In 1865 he accepted the editorship of “Fun,” and, in the language of 
 Mrs. Broderip, “he worked up ‘Fun’ from a very low ebb, by painful 
 and conscientious work, to the rank it has now attained.” Besides editing 
 “Fun” he wrote two novels, “A Lost Link” and “A Golden Heart.” 
 During his temporary clerkship, which he resigned for “Fun,” he was 
 married. 
 
 In 1868 he published his first “Comic Annual.” In the “Address to 
 the Reader” is the following paragraph : “It has always been my aim to 
 do nothing unworthy of my father’s name, and I do not think I have ever 
 been guilty of endeavouring to associate my efforts with his achievements 
 or to use his fame as a guarantee for my humble attempts in the field of 
 literature. If I have seemed at any time to imitate his style, I would ask 
 those who think so to remember that it was the school in which I was 
 brought up, and that I have all my life considered him — not unnaturally 
 you may say, if you please — the best model I could copy either in life or 
 in literature.” This annual series he continued even up to the last Christ- 
 mas of his life ; for, ill as he was, he managed to edit it and write for it, 
 and it was published about a month before his death. 
 
 “About this time” (1872), says his sister, “an offer came which I 
 very deeply regret fell through — a proposition that he should go to Amer- 
 ica and lecture on our father’s life and works. He was so eminently fitted 
 for this, and the entire change of scene, the sea voyage and its consequent 
 
3 12 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 rest, would have been so good for him that it is a sore regret that he did 
 not go.” 
 
 In August, 1873, h e married a second wife. “We all hoped the 
 brightness and tender care of his wife would prolong the fragile life a 
 little longer; but it was too late; there was left only the last flickering in 
 the socket.” He died, as has been stated, on the 20th of November, 
 1874. “He employed himself almost to the last in drawing and dic- 
 tating, till the feeble power failed at last, and he gave in. He asked to 
 see his friends and bid all farewell, and made all his last arrangements.” 
 
 He was of a gentle and loving nature, ever more than willing to add 
 to the pleasures of those around him. On his leaving Penge, near Syden- 
 ham, the neighbors presented him with a very elegant inkstand, which 
 was accompanied with a dainty workstand for his wife. Like his father, 
 he loved children and was greatly beloved by them. In his sickness he 
 received from them letters and flowers, of which he was as proud, says 
 his sister, “as if they had been laurel crowns; and his kind little friends 
 have so honoured his grave by sending their subscriptions to the ‘ Memo- 
 rial Fund’ that I can only compare it to the grave of the music-singer, 
 Walter von der Vogelweide, where the old legend says the birds came to 
 drink and feed. These little human nightingales and robins sang many 
 a song of peace to the weary invalid who loved them so well,”