OF THE U N I VERS I T Y Of ILLINOIS 828 E« 738 Y Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library NOU ”8 I960 HP p P f huu u L161 — H41 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/essaystalesOOpopu ESSAYS AND TALES, BY popular Slutfjor. * CONSISTING OF A CUP OF TEA. THE YOUNG POET. THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. THE RECLAIMED. AN AUCTION. JOURNEY TO LONDON. FIRST DAY IN TOWN. LITTLE CHILDREN. RETROSPECTION. MY FIRST MANUSCRIPT. THE ONLY LOVE. AND A COLD, LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES, ST AM FORD-STREET. MDCCCXXXIII. CjuJULji^ % ^vxySc. uOCO*^ ^"' % 2 . 8 > t.s/Y2>8 A CUP OF TEA. C 3 ic as happy as monarchs, and looking at each other with the tried fondness of fifty summers. A little sober, seemly converse is going on between them : unpre- tended ejaculations for the mercies with which the Almighty surrounds them — the sermon they heard in the morning — the good parson’s looks — and the be- nevolent soul of his lady — a few parental criticisms respecting the propriety of certain oglings that took place in certain pews, — together with sudden and tear-raising allusions to their wild son Tom, who en- listed, and is now in a foreign land — form the princi- pal substance of their tea-table topics. There is nothing overdrawn here ; the same may be often witnessed ; and long may our dear country exhibit such bosom-scenes of tranquillity and humble enjoy- ment. We ought all to say amen to the lines of my gifted and venerated friend, Lisle Bowles — - ■ — Live, happy land, Where the poor peasant feels his shed, tho’ small. An independence and a pride, that fill His honest heart with joy — joy such as those Who crowd the mart of men may never feel. * Spirit of Discovery . A CUP OF TEA. 17 Next to family prayers, the hour for tea is the most important circumstance that takes place in a large family. It serves, like the bugle in the army, to collect the various members of it who are scat- tered about in their rooms, &c., and brings them together, fraught with all the recollections, jokes, and events of the day. Speaking of a family tea-party — alas ! that awakens the remembrance of one of the finest families that ever arranged themselves round the tea-table. The head of it was the master of an ancient academy, who wore on his cheeks, that had weathered the wear of sixty years, the ruddiness of five-and-twenty : his wife was an aged and portly lady, that made herself and every one around her comfortable . Then came three daugh- ters, all tall and handsome, with beautiful black ringlets dancing about their white temples, and eyes that rolled about in a blaze of expression. Two sons, one with a beard, and the other with a promise of one, on his chin, — an amiable bachelor with a faultless periwig, — a venerable old cousin that acted as a sort of second mother, — and myself, as 18 A CUP OF TEA. “ parlour-boarder, ” made up the company, who were wont to assemble at the tea-table. What a clatter of tea-cups ! what a jingle of spoons ! what witticisms, and funnycisms, and tales, and stories* and puns, and politics,— what a merry exchange of minds and glances were there ! Only five years have passed since that time, but we are all of us separated in the wide world. The last time I went to B , my first visit was to a hilly meadow, on whose brow I had often stood to mark the dark-tinted school-mansion, standing between tvvo immense poplar trees, in the valley beneath. But the very house was gone ; there was not a relic left of all that had once arrested the eye of many a pas- senger. I could have pardoned a tear, while I mused away an hour in recalling the revelries of those days that were passed there. Amid these retrospections the tea-parties were not unremem- bered, The old Saturday pie-woman happened to pass by me at this moment. I was immediately recognised, and saluted with a low curtesy, and soon learnt that the school had been “ long done A CUP OF TEA. 19 away with” — that the old lady was under the turf ■—two daughters were married — and the “ gover- nor” was wandering about, unaccompanied, amid the southern provinces of France. What a havoc a few years will make, thought I, as I rambled about the once-cheerful meadow ! In recurring to this family of tea-drinkers, I ought not to omit the mention of a captain on half- pay, who was accommodated with two spare rooms : his profession had given him a tolerable degree of attachment to wines and spirits, but no man more heartily paid his obeisance to a cup of tea ; and it' was over this refreshing beverage that his festive soul sparkled forth in all its youthful vigour. One word that was connected with camps or battles, — and he was off, like uncle Toby of old ! In a moment, he would conduct you through all the perils of an India campaign, till his eagle eyes glowed with martial fire ; then he would sip his tea, and with a sudden reference to his own misfortune, (for he had lost the use of his legs dur- c 6 20 A CUF OF TEA. ing his services in India,) exclaim — “ But those times will never return again ! 55 — Brave fellow ! if he could have led on his troops in his wheel chair, he would : he was “ every inch” a soldier, — and, like myself, venerated a cup of tea. But of all beings in the world, that useful, though humble, class of ladies who preside over soapsuds, — otherwise denominated “ washerwomen,” — are the most sincerely wedded in their affection to a cup of tea. Perhaps, the punctilious taste of some readers will be insulted by any allusion to the presidents of the tub : however, a knowledge of human life is not to be gained by confining the attention to a certain sphere ; ’tis this that fills the world with fools. We are not obliged to copy, because we survey the rude inelegancies of the vulgar ; but, by observing their manners and sympathies, we may learn to store our minds with traits of character. To return. There is something forbidding to a A CUP OF TEA. 21 man in every circumstance connected with washing. The sound of “ washing-day” is as unpleasant to the feelings, as a cold oblique gust of wind is to the person from a half-opened door. On a washing- day there seems to be a complete family revolution : all the male part become awfully unimportant, the servants assume magisterial airs, and the very cat frisks about with an insulting independence of tail. Then for those gawky deal-machines, called “ clothes-horses,” straddling before the kitchen fire-place with a most tyrannical monopoly — what husband will peep into a kitchen when they are there ? But this is all repaid by a glance at the linen-cleansing dames themselves while they are perched round their tea-table. At this time there is much serious colloquial business transacted. The eldest of the three generally leads the way, while her coddled fingers are industriously entwining the handle of the tea-pot. Tea speedily inspires their tongues into a brisk exertion, and then, woe be to the family affairs of their employers, if they be not in a prosperous condition ! Each of them is a Mrs. 22 A CUP OF TEA. Isaiah with respect to future events ; and there is not a house in the neighbourhood but is criticised with much grave assurance and severity. Being old; they do not altogether approve of the fine ribbons and caps of the young buxom housemaid ; while one smoothes her woollen apron and exclaims, “ Dear me! to be sure, how times be a-haltering!” — During the last cup the subject of the day’s labour is discussed : respecting their industry, there is an undivided opinion ; and now they settle their spoons in their cups, put on their washing-house bonnets, and waddle away highly satisfied with their meal and themselves. In opposition to the preceding eulogies of this beverage, it may be replied, that tea is by no means wholesome ; that it frequently occasions a nervous- ness, and is altogether unqualified for constant use. This is a most wicked accusation, and must have originated from some decrepid personage, who was malicious enough to ascribe the effects of youthful intemperance to tea ; or, what is more probable, it A CUP OF TEA. 23 arose from the mischievous spirit of innovation per- taining to the medical art. It really is quite melan- choly to observe the influence of medical pedantry over some people ; there is hardly anything upon the bountiful earth, but what is unhealthy. Butter creates bile, milk and eggs are heavy, cold pie indigestible, meat unnecessary, and tea is guilty of occasioning nervousness. A genuine cup of una- dulterated tea will hurt no man living, who is in a sound state of health. If he feels 6 4 nervous ’ 5 after drinking it, he has no reason to charge the tea with the cause ; the evil comes from some other quarter. Tea unwholesome ' Place me before the tea- table, and I’ll face the whole college of surgeons, with Abernethy, Cooper, and Tierney at the head of them, in defence of its virtues. They might batter me with learned compound words, and dis- quisitions respecting the fidgetty nature of the stomach, but they could never annihilate the fact of its being the national beverage for so many years. If tea were really so malevolently inclined as they 24 A CUP OF TEA. would represent it, people would not have continued its constant consumption : — ill-health, a more in- fluential argument than any in Mr. Abernethy’s lectures, would have banished it from our tables. And I should like to kno v, what we are to sub- stitute for tea? — black draughts and liquefied pills? or those brick-coloured, clammy-looking cakes, christened chocolate and cocoa ? or meagre sugar and water, such as they use in France? or that gritty, gravelly stuff, called coffee ? That man’s taste is not to be envied who prefers either of these to tea ! Tea stands apart from all these, in proud and peerless dignity, like an ancient jug on a dresser, amid a crowd of modern smooth-bellied rivals. From this devotion to tea, my opinion of those who can presume to offer their guest a weak and miser- able cup, may be easily guessed. It is one of the most sinful acts that can be committed, for people, in good circumstances, to offer weak tea to their company. What ! to profane the beautiful health- inspiring water with a niggard sprinkling of tea — to hand this ignoble mongrel kind of mixture to a A CUP OF TEA. 25 guest ! Let the reader deeply consider the matter, and he will agree with me, that it is in the highest degree sinful. It is bad, sloppy tea, that brings on nervousness ; this is the foundation of those sickly influences frequently elt, after drinking tea — so denoted. It is somewhat strange, that stingy tea-makers are more generally abundant in the genteel and middle classes of society, than in the humble grades of life. Old maids who wear expensive dresses, and widows who are desirous of retaining the ves- tiges of grandeur maintained during their dear husbands’ time, are very peccable in this respect. They ask you to tea, with much pomposity ; the china cups and glass-nobbed sugar basins are over- poweringly grand, — but what an apology they pro- duce for tea ! A pale brown dingy-looking medley, whose very countenance might make a Sampson nervous. This indecorous treatment ought never to be forgiven, but go down with us to the grave. c 26 A CUP OF TEA. All my friends resemble me in one respect — they venerate good tea, and never dream of brewing it w r eak and tasteless. My aunt is an excellent tea- maker. THE YOUNG POET . THE YOUNG POET. In sight Of Nature’s great original, we scan' The lively child of art.' Akenside. How sublime is the human mind. Centuries have rolled down the gulph of time ; empires have mouldered from the earth • the ashes of ruined cities and illustrious men have mingled with the elements* and wandered over the universe, and yet the mind of Homer still breathes on his page in all its pristine beauty 3 — burning on to eternity, like that orb whose brightness is an image of the Creator’s glory. Although there will never be another Homer, yet the recollection of the triumphant immortality of his mind is soul-stirring to his followers, albeit immeasurably removed from his proud heights 30 THE YOUNG POET. Yes, let the struggling, trembling, unobtrusive child of genius, when, in the bosom of solitude, he is holding converse with his mind, and sending it abroad on the wings of Imagination, and summoning shapes of beauty around him, — remember that, though a few feet of ground shall contain his mortal part, and though, in this world, he moves on like a deserted bark on a tempestuous ocean, he may raise a monument of mind that shall stand sublime amid the ruins of time ! — that when his spirit shall have winged to heaven, and melted into that fountain of light whence it sprang, its energies shall steal their silent course through the world below, and form the choice delight of many a studious admirer. No greater charm does the history of vanished ages afford, than that arising from contemplating the triumph of mind, under every variety of fortune and of country. Under the coldest skies, and among the most unenlightened people, we always read of some respect singularly evinced towards superiority THE YOUNG POET. 31 of intellect, however misdirected. We always find some Nestor of the woods, whose wisdom made him proudly eminent^ and whose words breathed fire and dignity into the counsels of his clan. Leaving the darker periods of history, and emerging into those illumined by refinement, we perceive un- numbered instances of the mind’s conquering supe- riority. To approach our precise subject : how is it that, amid the productions of mind, a love and taste for poetry seem to decline in the present day, and that poetry ceases to exert that commanding in- fluence which attended it in all ages ? To this a ready answer may be given : — of late years poetry has become an accomplishment, rather than the study of a life ; it has consequently degenerated into fantastical and airy verbosity, instead of being the harmonious element of ideas. In addition to this, the unceasing supply of sentimental sing- song from misses and masters, has given it an undig- nified appearance in the eyes of discerning critics, 32 THE YOUNG POET. till at length the censure applied to mock poetry, has been indiscriminately applied to the real. In the present day, every one who weaves a garland of fine-worded stanzas on his grandam’s grey hair, or his aunt’s poodle, expects to be saluted as a poet ! — as if poetry were the mere offspring of a brain that has been addled into conception by a continuous perusal of rhymes ! Among the an- cients, poesy was esteemed “ a divine art;” and Samuel Coleridge remarks, in his Biographical Memoirs, “ that there is no art under heaven so difficult as that of writing good poetry.” The benignant influence of good poetry — of poetry, not merely harmonious and elegantly ex- pressed, but lofty in moral, patriotic in sentiment, and sublime in thought, who shall tell ? Great as the admiration bestowed on genuine poetry has been, it is doubtful whether it has yet had its due ; inasmuch as it is impossible to trace all its inspiring influences, unless we could reveal the history of every heart that has beat in the human THE YOUNG POET. 33 breast. The influences of poetry are as se- cretly instilled into the soul, as are the fabled dews of the star into the meadow-green : a good line frequently fires a train of energetic feelings, feelings work themselves into thoughts, thoughts into desire, desire into ambition, and ambition into action. Of course the mis-directed efforts of poeti- cal genius have, on the other hand, effected much moral and social evil ; but for the honour of huma- nity, let us hope, that the good genius of poesy has presided : and woe to those who have prostituted their muse at the altar of impiety or impurity ! But what is a poet? Who shall define him? who shall describe the dream-like harmonies roll- ing around his soul, or illumining his page with a representation of those beams darting from the beauteous countenance of Nature into the recesses of his mind, and there glowing into ideal creations of fancy and of thought ? Perhaps the most pru- dent plan will be to consider the poet under two 34 THE YOUNG POET. circumstances, — his pleasures and his pains : if we can succeed in adequately painting these, some faint idea of his real character will arise from our investigation. It is presumed, that the reader will subscribe to the venerable adage, u poeta nascitur, non fit;” art may combine the materials which constitute poetry, but genius must find them : without this, there can be none of those nameless charms operating in the verse, which beautify, hallow, and stamp it for immortality. An assemblage of fine words may be moulded into musical couplets ; but there must be something more than a mechanical correctness in poetry, in order to clothe it with freshness, and fix it on the memory : that something is genius, define the term as you please. The genius of poetry dawns on the human mind at different stages : some “ lisp in numbers,” and others wear into middle life ere genius swells at their souls, and revels in verse. THE YOUNG POET. 35 But in order to make this errant essay sympa- thize with the title prefixed to it, we will imagine a young man somewhere between the age of twenty and thirty, and gifted'with poetical genius ; — and first let us consider his pleasures. Nature is the young poet’s grand fountain of inspiration : from her exhaustless spring, a thousand rills of imagined beauty, splendour, and sublimity gush into his soul, and water the flowers of fancy, until they ripen into full-grown life. To him, all the rich variety of sun and shade, calm and storm, the roar of ocean, and the flow of distant fountains, — the breeze and blast, — the trees, and flowers, and fruits, — are sources of intense and inexplicable delight; and the sky! — it is from her radiant bosom he draws flashes of immortality, when alone in the meads, or glades, his imagination wanders among the clouds, and returns with dilated eye and glowing wing. In short, creation may be said to roll across the poet’s soul, while his panoramic gaze 36 THE YOUNG POET. catches every tint of beauty, every line of splen- dour, and every form of sublimity, upon its surface. Here then is the master pleasure of our young poet — that which is derived from his mental com- munion with the universe, under every change and circumstance. It may be said, that other people, as well poets, reap a delight from their survey of this magnificent world : and so they do ; but their de- light is not of that ethereal nature which it is the privilege of poetical genius to enjoy. A poet beholds the universe through a magic mirror, which magnifies, graces, and beautifies every object in a manner totally unimagined by those unblessed with a mind congenial with his own. To him, creation is covered with glory ; to his eye, all her works are more or less wonderful, interesting, or sublime : his feelings are exquisitely refined, and capable of an electric excitement: he intellec- tualizes every blade of grass, and can perceive something to admire in the meanest offspring of the garden or the field. We have said nothing of THE YOUNG POET. 37 the astounding scenes and representations of na- ture ! How a poet’s spirit follows the thunder as it rolls athwart the muttering heavens ! how his eye glances with the lightning ! — and when the black waves howl along the shore, and echo round the rocks, his Imagination plumes her wing, and rides round the deep, and feasts her eyes with shadowy sights too terrible to relate. The mention of Imagination leads us to con- sider this faculty as one of the lovely handmaids that administer to the young minstrel’s delights. Through her daring flights he is enabled to cheat time of' duration, and distance of length : around her wizard cell, the future and the past career, and darken or brighten according to the radiance of her countenance : she is the centre of a system of thoughts, as the sun is of a system of rolling worlds. And what a privilege does she give the poet ! — He can sit by his fire-side, and by the en- chantment of his genius, invoke hurricanes upon the ocean, bury a vessel beneath the billows, and 38 THE YOUNG POET. hear the mariner’s death-screams rolling on the blast: launch the thunders, wing the lightnings, and shake the universe with storms. Or, if in a milder mood, he can stretch his wand across the world, and summon islets of beauty from the deep, where the winds shall be melodious,, the flowers full of fragrance, and the fruits ripening at every gleam of the sun. This power of Imagination is the soul of poetry, and gives wings to thoughts, and fire to ideas : — at the same time, it must be admitted, that Imagination requires judgment to regulate her sallies, or she will be useless from her very luxuriance ; and of course her magic tends equally as much to painful as to pleasurable emotions ; but we shall have to speak of the pains arising from a poetical imagination, after a brief allusion to another of the poet’s pleasures — composition ; or the embodying of ideas in harmonious words and modifications. As soon as the soul of the young poet awakens THE YOUNG POET. 39 at the glowing touch of genius, it pants to pour forth its ardent feelings in melody, accordant with the springs of music playing in his mind. The first gush of song will be wild and wandering as the thoughts which give it birth. His ideas are yet in embryo, and it requires time, toil, and study, to enable him to draw them from the chaos which surrounds them, into light, and lovely order. In effecting this, the inward gratification he feels is not unmixed : a feverish restlessness, a burning brow, and a whirling brain, often attend him in his hours of composition. He has a harvest of ideas, but as yet he is tortured in his endeavours to husband them with propriety. Suppose, for instance, he has enjoyed a ramble at the hour of twilight, and having mused on the mellow landscape with a poet’s eye, he returns home, and, full of the inspiring scenes that are imaged on the clear mirror of his soul, wishes to represent them in verse. As soon as he takes his pen in hand, his fancy grows bewildered with the promiscuous objects that dance before him. Clouds, trees, banks, brooks, meads and 40 THE YOUNG POET. woods, simultaneously crowd on his view ; and al- though, as they whirl around his soul in airy forms, he may be enabled to snatch at them abruptly, and dash them into verse, yet his representation of the whole scene will be very harsh and obscure. The mental struggle of the young poet must not be confounded with the fret and fume of a rhymer who screws himself half-way into his chair ere he can reap a thought or image from his barren soul. Paradoxical as it may seem, the man of mere poetical talent , that is, a versifier, whose inspiration has been w T holly derived from books, is far less faulty in the vulgar sense of the expression, than he, w 7 hose towering genius, like a lofty mountain, stands out to the w 7 orld in all its abrupt and disordered magnificence : for this reason, supposing we had never previously read a line of Shakspeare, a cavilling critic might find more matter for ridicule and pedantic triumph in the pages of that mighty spirit, than in those of some of our smooth modern bards, w hose cautious talent THE YOUNG POET. 41 and careful dulness are equally removed from cen- sure and from admiration. Those who have studied the poetry of Byron must have perceived that the rough features of his genius frown through all his works. He could not tame his energies, and compel them to work ac- cording to the laws established by his poetical pre- decessors. He plunges heaven into hell, and hell into heaven ; roots up the deep, and dashes the billows around him as if they were the playmates j of his thoughts, and, in a few stanzas, hurls the reader through the universe, until Admiration her- self is exhausted. But who will not take the pages glowing with genius, in preference to the mediocre ones of creeping talent P — Not but that it is pru- dent for Genius to curb her Pegasus as much as possible : but there never was, and never will be, a poet of original genius, whose works will not be abrupt, or obscure. Besides all these sources of inward pleasure to 42 THE YOUNG POET. the young and gifted poet, he has his warm unpar- ticipated hours, when Hope and Fancy, the hand- maids of Poesy, appear to insure him that immor- tality which his ambition desires. Bursting through all the barriers that now impede his progress, Imagi- nation wafts him down the flood of ages, and dazzles his enamoured eye with glimpses of fame and triumph. How his heart leaps at the thought of hereafter administering to the energies of some solitary student, -who, like himself, devotes his soul and being to renown ! How his bosom swells with the proud desire of being classed among those whose minds illumine and delight the universe ! Dreamy and faithless as these hours may be, they are fraught with exquisite pleasure to a young poet, whose ambition is high, and whose aim is propor- tionately exalted. But, against his many and ennobling gratifica- tions, we must balance an equal, if not a greater, number of pains and agonies, and doubts, and de- spondencies, of which the worldly matter-of-fact THE YOUNG POET. 43 man has no idea ; or, if he has, they serve him as matter for triumphant sarcasm. That very faculty, which is the nurse of the young minstrel’s mind, imagination, is likewise the fountain of fears, and undefinable sensations, which often come like icicles upon the flushed heart, and cool it into still despondency. Of course all minds are more or less the victims of imagination, but the young poet suffers from its dominion with reference to his fame, as well as to the ordinary affairs of life. As yet he is but at the base of the Heliconian hill, gazing upward with a timid but ardent eye ; how many toilsome hours — how many uncommunicated agonies must be endured before he reach the summit ! And, what if, after all his endurances, and struggles, and toils, he should never succeed P What, if he has over- rated the powers of his mind, by mistaking desire for ability, and the world will not acknowledge his claims ? These are the fearful surmises to which he is frequently subject : these are the dark thoughts 44 THE YOUNG POET. which sometimes creep over his soul, like thunder clouds along a glittering sky, and darken away every gleam of hope and success. Rut the pains arising from the timidity of genius W’orrM appear less inauspicious, if, after a long en- durance of them, a fair field was open for the display of a young poet’s energies. But this is far from being always the case. It would be foreign to the present attempt to inquire into the cause of this seeming paradox : let us mention, as one example, Wordsworth. After allowing for all his alleged sleepiness, puerility, and metaphysical gloonq there is more original poetry left than can be found in any author of the present era — not excepting Byron himself. But has Words- worth’s popularity been at all commensurate with his merit ? Another circumstance is very discouraging to a young poet who wishes to send his •mind abroad in the present day, — the infinite number of light THE YOUNG POET, 45 authors, hopping, and sparkling, and buzzing before the public, like fire-flies on a summer stream. With these, literature is a trade, and their endea- vours consist in pampering, not endeavouring to regulate and refine, the public taste. Amid the mass of their publications, a maiden volume, un- aided by literary connexions and puffery, stands a poor chance of meeting with attention, much less encouragement. A multitude of authors has given birth to a multitude of critics, that is, gentlemen who write pert paragraphs upon new works. Each of these critics has his peculiar clan and creed, and, amongst too many of them the author , and not his volume , is the dial to his praise or censure. There seems to be no criterion for literary merit in the present times ; judgment is made synonymous with whim, and taste with fancy. In venturing these remarks, the w 7 riter w 7 ould not be confounded w 7 ith those who lavish indiscriminate abuse on the criticism of the day. He holds that man 46 THE YOUNG POET. high in his estimation who exercises* with a re- fined mind and classical taste, the independent and honourable office of a critic ; but it is not slander to assert, that some of those who arro- gantly assume the graces, and wield the sceptre of criticism, are much better calculated to criticise a “ pot of porter,” than a new poem. A few more remarks on the difficulties against which a young poet has to contend, and this sketch shall be concluded. We have presumed that our imagined bard is endowed with genius ; he has then* besides the multitude of authors and critics, to struggle against those fretful agonies which are continually awakened by the surmises of friends, and the bickerings of foes. It may seem injudicious to say, that a man’s “ friends” are not his good advisers ; but, most assuredly, they are not always so* and least of all when he happens to have a mind stamped in the mould of originality. Out of a numerous circle of “ friends,” it is a rare chance if our poet THE YOUNG POET. 47 meet with one capable of measuring the loftiness of his mind, or sympathizing with the energies that glow within it. By way of solace, then, “ friends” continually remind him, that Shakspeare is the greatest poet in existence, that Milton is sublime, and Byron not to be equalled; and this jealous common-place is repeated by way of encourage- ment, and with the pedantic presumption of ex- perience! Sometimes a “ friend,” who “ most sin- cerely wishes him every success his industry de- serves,” lengthens his face, and solemnly informs him, that poetry is a very perilous profession, and that “ many are called, but few are chosen.” These tender “ friends” likewise generally prove their friendship by kindly communicating to him all malignant remarks made by those who dislike him, and wind up their counsels by advising him to attend to something more substantial than poetry. And as for those pestful gnats in society who always buzz around the progress of the young poet in his road to fame, it would be needless to discuss 48 THE YOUNG POET. them. There never will be an independent genius who is not beset by them. Accustomed to grope along the course of every-day life, they are too mean-minded to raise their thoughts, and rightly estimate the exaltation of one, formerly “ one of us.” Undistinguished themselves, they can hardly conceive it possible that a supposed equal should so far outstrip them : to these creatures his en- thusiasm is conceited, his ambition egotistic, and his merit doubtful. Upon the whole, a young poet, with all the ad- vantage of true genius, high aspirations, and ho- nourable efforts, must not be classed among the happy of the sons of earth. He has to endure all the afflictions that await the common toil, united with those immediately allied to his own pursuit. His energies may be powerful and his mind un- daunted ; but the course is rugged, the race weari- some, and the goal far distant. THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. * THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. As in our various rambles, we- find it agreeable, sometimes, to forsake the garish structures of mo- dem luxury, for the retired and venerable ruin ; so in human life, methinks, it is equally delight- ful, occasionally, to leave the circle of [mirth and beauty, for the quiet converse of old age. Indeed, there is an irresistible something about the aged that fills the heart of a spectator with kind and tender sympathies. Who can look on the time-stained brow — the rayless eye that once beamed forth so brilliantly, — observe the veiny hand and tottering step, or hear the mild music of an old man’s voice, nor think of the days of his youth? He is age-bent now, and a stick must bear up his feeble d 2 UNIVERSITY Of IUINUU library 52 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. frame : but the time was, when, like ourselves, he lifted his head up, and joyed in the light of heaven. We think of this, and then, by a melancholy association, we revert to the grave, to which he is fast approaching. The period will arrive when we, too, shall no longer display the lustiness of youth ; our eyes will grow dim, and our tresses grey ; like him, we must drop into the grave ! But to come to our immediate subject : — An amiable old English lady is at times a delightful companion for the young of either sex. A stress is laid on “ amiable,” because old women are too fre- quently peevish, carping, and enviously wedded to the “ days when they were young.” Such unfortu- nate ladies are very trying personages to the most complacent ; and an hour’s meek endurance of their whims and tempers once in six months is quite sufficient for one who is bound to them by no bonds of relationship. The amiable old lady is altogether a superior person^ as the reader will perceive by perusing her character in the following sketch. THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 53 In these times of delicacy and sensibility, it would be very venturesome to pronounce the num- ber of years necessary to constitute an old lady : — every reader may therefore enjoy his own peculiar creed in this respect. In her apparel, the amiable old lady is remarkably neat, precise, and particular : she is rather inclined to the old cut, and therefore has her gown distinguished by the gown-laws of half a century ago. Nevertheless, she is not quite a bigot in this respect, and has no objection to yield now and then to the suggestions of her eldest married daughter, who is very fond of mo- dernizing her mamma’s dresses. The colour of her gown is generally blacky and seldom displays any obtrusive rumples ; it being always legally folded up at night. On this point she lectures her young grand-daughters with considerable fluency, and concludes by smoothing down her gown, as a tri- umphant proof of her attention to this department. Her head-dress is equally neat, consisting generally of a plain muslin cap bound with a narrow ribbon : — under this, the grey locks are tucked up with 54 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. faultless regularity, and lie on her head in a form approaching to an inverted bunch of radishes. She has no desire for ringlets, but smiles when an ac- quaintance reminds her of them, and their luxuriant tendrils round her once ivory neck. She has ear- rings, too, but seldom, wears them : — they are safe in the custody of an old-fashioned wool-lined box up-stairs, together with sundry other relics. On her forefinger, the wedding ring still remains in its primeval situation: — this often serves for a “ memoria technical and she has not the least objection to exhibit this finger, and reply to the pretty little impertinences of the afore-mentioned grand- daughters. The amiable old lady is as cleanly as she is neat : and though her hands are somewhat shrivelled and imbrowned by time, the nails are in the best order and perfectly taintless : — of course she does not take snuff, this being a vulgar and uncleanly prac- tice: in her countenance there is the mingled expression of reflection, goodness, tenderness, and THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 55 truth . Though the fresh plumpness of youth no longer covers her face, her features are still bland and pleasing — mellowed, as it were, into a mournful hue, becoming her age. Her eyes are retired into the head, but occasionally they seem to be relumed with a spark of other days, and shoot forth little streams of intellectual meaning. Her mouth is small, and you may yet trace on the upper lip the graceful remains of youtlTs wild smiles, when it is curved by mirth. She has but few teeth herself, but is a great admirer of good ones : she once had them, and has an extensive acquaintance with all sorts of tooth-powders, &c. In fine, the old lady’s countenance is far from displeasing : in conversa- tion it deepens in expressiveness, and wins you by its bland and passive changes from awakened interest to composure and gravity. In her manner of life the amiable old lady is dis- tinguished for mildness and philanthropy. Her prejudices are numerous, but they are so gently exhibited that no one refuses to give way to them 56 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. As one of the old school, she seldom fails to enforce her dictates by some reference to fifty years ago, — and cannot help thinking that society was a little better regulated than it is now. Merit she certainly esteems before birth ; nevertheless she is fond of naming a few distant relations of her own, of con- siderable family pretensions ; and when she is com- mending a young person, is pleased if she can add “ she is come of a good family.” She has a re- verence for all established customs and pure Eng- lish manners, and looks with a suspicious eye on any innovation. Order and regularity stand high in her estimation : — “ Order is Heaven’s first law” she will repeat when arranging her room ; and in the distribution of her time she is very minute. Meals she deems most wholesome when taken at fixed hours. With respect to ali- ment she generally prefers the substantial to the luxurious, and is a great advocate for what she denominates “ plain food ;” not that she is by any means penurious, or thinks that it is criminal to enjoy occasional feasts and banquetings: on the THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 57 contrary, she likes to see these laid out in a style of plenty, and hates anything approaching to the confines of what is “ shabby.” “ Company ought to be received well,” she observes, “ if re- ceived at all.” With respect to the amusements and gaieties of life, she is moderate and prudent : they are all to be enjoyed at proper seasons, but not too often : a frequent indulgence lessens their zest, and unfits the mind for the stern realities of life. Of all amuse- ments, the theatre is her favourite. “ Virtue,” she remarks, “ is there displayed in the most triumph- ant colours, while vice is always convicted and pu- nished ; consequently, the youthful heart may gain improvement from the spectacle.” She has no objection, old as she is, to go now and then with a few old cronies and see a modern play, but she cannot relish the performances as she did in Mack- lin’s, Siddons’s and Kemble’s time : she remem- bers the two latter in the full bloom of their fame, and frequently bridles herself up to show her daugh- 58 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. ter the stateliness with which Mrs. Siddons paraded the boards. Dancing she admires, and is fond of alluding to her first appearance at the Bath Assem- bly Rooms. She perfectly recollects Mrs. Piozzi, and repeats, with accuracy and emphasis, “ The tree of deepest root is found,” Though too old herself to dance, she delights to see the “ young people 55 amuse themselves. Danc- ing is healthy, and tends to refine their deportment and promote the circulation of the blood : for this reason she is ready to get up a “ snug little party ” at any time, and takes great pleasure in seeing her grandchildren in their ball-room dresses, and hop- ping about in their tiny pumps. Quadrilles are certainly elegant, but cotillions are far more to her taste. She remembers the beautiful Mrs. W in them ; — what grace, what majesty was there !— But her chief pleasure connected with balls, &c., is, after a comfortable game at whist with her old friends, to trot away in company with one of them, and take a peep at the iC young people” in the ball- THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 59 room. Here, in a corner, she sits, and looks on with unaffected delight. At this time there is much motherly criticism indulged in : one Miss appears “ rather too forward,” but no doubt her good sense, as she grows older, will correct this ; Miss Louisa is a sweet young lady, — modest and beautiful ; she must be a treasure to her parents, and, no doubt, will “ settle well.” And here a few matrimonial speculations are frequently hinted. She is likewise very fond of taking one of the “ little ones” who are jigging about, on her knees, and after parting her frolicsome ringlets and kissing her forehead, she counsels her not to “ overheat herself,” and says she will dance, by and by, as well as “ one of the best of them.” But though a moderate encourager of innocent amusements, the old lady is a strict, but unphari- saical observer of her religious duties. “ Without the Almighty’s blessing,” she remarks, “ nothing can prosper.” She regularly receives the sacra- ment, and may be seen in her family pew, with a 60 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. large-lettered Bible and cloth-covered Prayer-book before l^er : her relatives are generally near her, and she sometimes holds up her finger at some irreverent little rogue who is scratching a pew with his nail. The book of “ Proverbs ” and “ Ecclesi- astes” are among her favourite books in the Bible* and she likes to have a “ sound plain sermon” preached from one of these. With regard to doc- trines, she is staunch and unyielding in her compli- ance with the rites of the Church of England. Though no bigot, she is far from admiring the Dis- senters, and cannot help thinking the Methodists “ a deceitful set.” On the Sabbath evening the amiable old lady is generally surrounded by her granddaughters and grandsons, together with two or three “ friends of her husband’s time.” The conversation is mostly tinged with reflections taken from the hallowed offices of the day, and mournful allu- sions to times past and departed friends. A tear will often roll down her withered cheek, at the THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 61 mention of some name; and she likes to record the virtues and actions of her husband. As the duties of religion cannot be taught to youth too soon, she seats a forward “ Master Henry ” (her grandson) on an old quarto Bible, placed on a chair, and listens to him with great attention while he reads one of Blair’s Sermons. When this is over, he generally receives an applausive pat on the head from the company round ; and . one old gen- tleman, who is a sort of twopenny banker to all the children of his acquaintance, dives his hand into his pocket, and presents the youngster with a penny, for “ the nice manner in which he has read out the sermon.” In the moral duties, obligations, and customs of life, no one is so strict, so just, and so sage as the amiable old lady. Her reputation has not a taint upon it, and it is her principal glory that, during a long life, she has preserved her u good name” un- sullied. All the tradesmen consider her name and ready cash almost of equal value ; for although her 62 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. fortune may not permit her to be a great customer, yet her bills are all unfailingly discharged on the appointed days : and every shop has some kind word to say of her regularity in “ settling the ac- counts.” Among her neighbours there are few who do not feel well inclined toward the amiable old lady. She is not fond of petty slanders and malicious gossip ; she never haunts houses for the sake of “ dipping into other people’s affairs,” and then spreading dis- mal news over the town by means of sly whispers and semi-hints, — she wishes every one to be good, and tries to believe them so, — her maxim is, “ that it is unwise to make enemies where we may make friends.” For this purpose she is not haughty, or fastidious to those who are her inferiors. At all times, as far as reason and propriety will allow, she is ready to perform little acts of courtesy, and can be affable without betraying a sense of her conde- scension. To the poor she is most humane. She has generally some poor family under her benevo- THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 63 lent patronage, and is ever willing to exert her in- fluence in behalf of virtuous want. In the street she is often seen stopping to converse with a pass- ing vagrant, particularly if some shoeless babes are clinging to her gown : she is likewise fond of inter- fering whenever she beholds any pugilistic urchins spurred on by bystanders to pursue the combat : she never scruples to push between the throng, and exclaim against the cruelty of 44 men encouraging children to fight.” The amiable old lady is a firm friend to propri- ety in all its important branches ; from the cut of a cap to the position of a pin — from a hole in the wall to one in the human heart. Her eyes retain the acute vision of youth in these matters : no un- seemly behaviour, whether it be in sly glances or colloquial merriment, can escape her detection. She perceives the dawning of love in a look, and gives “ Miss” a lecture, with her hands crossed and her head bridled up with pretty considerable dig- nity : — Love ! indeed ! before she has sense to 64 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. understand her love ! fie ! There, she has brought a little drop of repentance in Miss Amelia's eye. Amelia retires, and writes a letter, brimful of sighs and sorrows, to a pale-faced sentimental cousin who lives in an old castle. Some other points must be mentioned : — the old lady always places the sugar in the middle of her tea-cup, folds her pocket-handkerchief with cere- monious precision, never lends an umbrella, seldom walks out in rainy weather, and when she does, steps into no puddles, says grace before and after meat, and retires to bed at the motherly hour of ten. Among the various branches of her own family, the amiable old lady is revered and consulted by all. She thinks that her most distant relative has a peculiar claim on her advice and assistance — even dislike will not overcome her inclination to obey the “ ties of blood. ” But it is among her grandchildren that her tenderness and wisdom are most profusely displayed ; — she is exceedingly proud THE AMIABLE OLD LADY, 65 and fond of her “ dear daughter and likes to hear an acquaintance descant on her likeness to herself, her merits, and the “ high obligations she is under to the affection of her mother.’’ To see this daugh- ter happy and prosperous is “ all she desires on this side of the grave.” Careful of creating matrimonial broils, she does not reside with her daughter ; but scarcely a day passes without her visit. Fraught with the wisdom and experience of old age, she is her faithful and affectionate counsellor at all times^ and her advice comes with the best recommendations. Among her daughter’s children, she is a great and de- served favourite — they all love to leap and prattle about her; and^ indeed, with adequate reason, for her visit is mostly accompanied with some toy or sweetmeat ; nevertheless she is no ad- vocate for over-indulgence, — on this point she sometimes lectures her son-in-law, and tells him, if he humour him so, “ Charles will grow up in his faults, and turn out bad.” Miss Emma, whose 66 THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. eyes are very much like her mamma’s, is fre- quently lectured on the old lady’s knee respecting the duty of “ obeying her mother at all times.” It must not be omitted, that the old lady is a living “ family receipt-book;” — a broken-head, a whitlow, or a cut finger, is soon cured under her direc- tions. She has taken care to have all her grand- children vaccinated, and gives very profound opinions concerning the treatment of headaches and fevers. She is, however, no advocate for “ quacking the children,” and advises their mamma to accustom them to healthful walks on the downs and in the meadows ; for “ the cook,” she wisely observes, “ is better called in, than the doctor.” Regarding the education of young children, the amiable old lady is of opinion that it should not commence “ too early, or too late ,” — “ procrasti- nation is the thief of time.” — In the choice of books, and the manner of tuition, she is rather prejudiced in favour of the old plan.” She has considerable respect for all “ who are engaged in the arduous THE AMIABLE OLD LADY. 67 task of eduaction . 55 “ To mould the infant mind,” she remarks, “ is a thing of the first consequence . 55 On this account, she is very anxious that her daugh- ter should select a lady “ in every respect qualified for the task . 55 She admires the old-fashioned way of whipping, and giving half-yearly prizes. — Altoge- ther, the amiable old lady may be termed a second “ book of life . 55 THE RECLAIMED. THE RECLAIMED. A few weeks after my arrival in the metropolis, the two “ Great Houses ” opened ; and on the first night I repaired to Drury Lane. The impression a first view of this magnificent theatre made on me may easily be guessed; — in the ardour of the moment, I almost fancied myself in some fairy palace ! The giddy roof, with its enormous chandelier — the circling tiers of boxes, rising one above the other till the last is almost lost in its altitude, — together with the undefinable spirit of grandeur thrown over the whole scene, — made me gaze around till the eye ached with the fulness of its own delight : this was increased by remembering I was now in a theatre, whose name was enlinked with the names of departed genius, — 72 THE RECLAIMED. with those whose personations still live in the me- mories of thousands, and afford a theme for conver- sation during many a long winter’s night. The musicians soon appeared, and the national heart-stirring air of God save the King” burst on the house with its full gush of melody — like a roll- ing flood, pouring on all sides volumes of harmony and soul. Othello was the play for the night, and Kean was to perform its hero. The admiration of his country has long been evinced by the homage that is paid to his powers in this cha- racter. One observation, however, I will venture to make, at the risk of its being ridiculed. There seems to me to be an intimate connexion be- tween Byron’s poetry, and Kean’s acting, — and that many of the poet’s finest passages of pas- sionate excitement are but the translations of Kean’s looks and electrifying fervor into verse. Observe Kean when worked up to a sublime mad- ness, — his eyes half bursting from their sockets in flashes of soul — his brow knotted into veiny coil- THE RECLAIMED. 73 vulsions — his lips quivering with glowing transports his nostrils dilated and pale — and his whole frame almost scorched by the fire of his genius ; — and then compare him in such a state, to the wild and impassioned spirit burning through some of Byron’s poetry — and, I think, a close relationship will be found between the actor and the poet. Being a stranger to the various doors of the theatre, at the close of the evening’s performances I found myself immersed in a crowd, without the least capability of discovering my way homeward. — Blazing torches, bickering wheels, galloping horses, and bawling coachmen, did not lessen my difficulties, and it was in no enviable state of mind that I stood on the pavement opposite to the box- doors, ruminating on my situation. There were no watchmen visible, and I thought it madness to trou- ble hurrying strangers with a topographical question. I was on the point of procuring a hackney-coach, when I observed several gentlemen entering very gaily through a lamp-lit passage. Concluding that 74 THE RECLAIMED. this entrance led to some house of entertainment provided for play-goers, I very innocently fol- lowed ) and after ascending a brief train of car- peted stairs, found myself in a comfortable room, provided with long narrow tables, a hand- some pier-glass, seats, &c., &c., together with a commanding John Bull fire. The room was soon crowded with company of both sexes; and never was Eastern Harem more replete with female beauty — forms from which the Rhodian artist might have “stole a grace,” were gliding about, in robes of silk and purple velvet, on all sides. I trust there is no impropriety in saying, that among these unfortunate creatures there are, perhaps, some of the handsomest and most beautiful women in the metro- polis. True, they have lost that bloom of innocence^ that fresh-breathing spirit of purity and modesty, which lends the finishing grace to personal charms. But regarded as to their mere features and formsj they are frequently exquisitely perfect and lovely. But who, with his heart in the right place, can THE RECLAIMED. 75 look on them, nor pity their hapless and guilty lot? — Pity was the only feeling that touched me when I looked around, and thought on the dis- mal road they were taking to eternity. Every face was a biographical history ; — on one, the guilt- glaring eye betrayed a long course of crime ; on another, a glimmering relic of innocency’s smile was yet left, that spoke of days of virtue and peace. And all these frail creatures were once innocent! A fond mother has mused by their cradles, and raised future scenes of happiness for them, over their slumbers. Many a one was the bosom com- fort of an aged father, whose intense prayers were offered up for her every night and morn. My fancy went to the desert homes, and pictured the heart- broken mother hastening day by day into an un- timely grave, — a father with his child’s dishonour burning on his brain, scaring his midnight sleep, and withering his very soul. And were they who caused these parental agonies happy ? — There they 76 THE RECLAIMED. were before me ; and could I have looked into the depths of their hearts, I should have found misery cankering in every one of them. Led by one un- happy step to forsake the paths of virtue, they had not courage to return, “ and sin no more but were struggling to bury shame by plunging further into guilt. Alas ! let the sated passion and the wasted frame — let the forced smile, the cold damp wintry walks in the unsheltering streets — let all the name- less barbarities endured, tell their “ happiness!” — But they continue their wretched course, — though wrecked and ruined, like shattered vessels that ride on madly over the deep, till their last wreck is bosomed in the waves, and not a plank remains to track their path! In the midst of these mournful, but natural, re- jections, my attention was attracted by the entrance of a female whose features, at the first hasty glimpse, appeared familiar to me ; but, not remembering any time or place in which I had seen her, I instantly banished the thought. She was apparently between THE RECLAIMED* 77 eighteen and nineteen, and, though in a decayed dress, her symmetrical figure lost none of its beauty. She had evidently undergone illness, and its dreamy hues were yet lingering round her pale-worn fea- tures. Her eyes were rather sunk, and shot forth a feverish lustre, while her parched lips pouted for- ward in sad and melancholy composure. Oh God ! If there be a piteous object on the earth, it is Sor- row wearing the mask of pleasure: nothing, nothing; is so miserable and drear. And this was what the haggard-looking stranger was struggling to do — she smiled, but it was the smile of agony — she laughed, but it was the hollow laugh of despair. She walked about, and now and then attempted to be gay with some passing acquaintance ; but sad- ness was in her eye, while her tongue murmured forth false sounds of joy. What attracted me most, was her deportment, which, compared with that of many around her, might be called modest and retiring. Once only was she addressed, and very roughly, by a coarse countryman ; but she 78 THE RECLAIMED. turned away with disgust, and continued to parade up and down the room unmolested, and with the same sorrowful aspect, as when she first entered. Happening to approach me nearer than she had yet done, I was enabled to observe her features with more precision. Again I fancied they bore a re- semblance to those I had formerly seen ; and, after fathoming my memory, at last recollected where I had seen them. Determining to ascertain the truth, I rose, and without much difficulty com- menced conversation. After some vague remarks on both sides, I ventured to ask her name, — “ B ” was the reply. This was not the name I expected ; but as it was improbable that she would be distinguished by her real name, I looked very hard in her face, and said, “ Is B — your real name P If I mistake not, it is M .” At the sound of the word her cheeks reddened, her eyelids drooped with shame, and, in a flutter of astonishment, she asked me how I knew it? THE RECLAIMED. 79 Previous to coming to London, the writer made a little excursion through the county of S ; and at the close of a bright summer’s day, found himself at a romantic little village, and hospitably settled for the night in the snug parlour of an inn kept by “ David M The whole village- scene is pictured on my heart to this day ; and, were this a proper place, it would be pleasing to depict the appearance of spectacled matrons knit- ting stockings before the door of their cottages, wreathed with roses and honeysuckles ; or of churchyard grave-stones spread out on the decli- vity of a hill, and the entrance of waggons loaded with new hay into the farm-yards ; but this would be too digressive, and so the reader will accompany me to the afore-mentioned parlour. My host and hostess were unpretending-looking personages, evidently contented with their lot, and not desirous of appearing with greater importance than becomes the owners of a village inn. Not so with their daughter, who made Ci her first appear- so THE RECLAIMED. ance” in all the fripperies of a city milliner ; fine hair twisted in the fashionable vogue, ear-rings glit- tering, and a golden long sash streaming like the tail of a comet, from a waist whose slenderness would have raised envy in many a City miss, — all were displayed with surprising effect. On my return home I again stopped at the inn where I had before met with such comfortable quarters ; but there were no longer neatness and order in its external appearance. Though a fortnight only had elapsed since my absence, the front garden was running to waste, and the whole place looked cheerless and neglected. This w T as soon explained : — instead of being w aited on by the fine miss, her father entered, and imme- diately, on recognizing me, his aged eye filled with tears. The story was brief : his daughter had fled, and left a doting mother and father to guess her retreat. Nothing w 7 as certain, but it was supposed that she had been lured aw 7 ay by the steward of a neighbouring squire, and had accompanied him to THE RECLAIMED. 81 London. An iron heart would have softened at the sight of the despairing father ; the mother soon entered, and, dipping the corner of her apron into her weeping eyes, bewailed her ruined daughter. Their only pride and hope was gone ; all that made toil a pleasure, all that shed happiness round their days r had left them; and now they had no care to live ; they should go down to the grave heart-broken and disgraced. This, then, was the erring girl before me ; she for whom her parents were pining so hopelessly. Instead of replying to her question, I persuaded her to leave the detestable place she was now in, and accompany me in a hackney-coach to her lodgings. On our way she narrated to me the story of her ruin. As her friends had suspected, she had suffered herself to be wiled away by the glittering promises of this “ steward,” who assured her that on their arrival in London they were to be married. For the first few weeks he eluded her pressing entreaties to hasten their marriage,. 82 THE RECLAIMED, fabricating preliminary difficulties, and keeping her spirits in a flush of surprise, by resorting to the theatres and other places of amusement. But these soon palled ; her mind was ill at ease, and day after day she besought him to marry her ; however, he continued his artifices, and drove away her re- flections by unceasing visits to the various novelties in the metropolis. Often, amid these scenes, she told me, a thought of her parents — a vision of her home, would flash across her brain, and dim her eyes with tears, while all around her was a throng of joyous faces. At last it became evident the seducer had no thought of becoming a husband. He had gra- tified his passion, and cared not for the ruin that had purchased it. The unfortunate changed entreaties into reproaches ; she bade him recollect the pro- mise he had so sacredly made; she besought him, on her knees, to pity her broken-hearted parents : the only answer was an unmanly curse, and his sudden departure. THE RECLAIMED. 83 For three clays after this, she sat at the window of their apartment, in expectation of seeing him, or at least of receiving some letter of advice. But neither he nor letter came : he had left her to a solitary lot. Totally unacquainted with the metropolis, without a friend to consult, but thirty shillings in her purse, and with a heart gnawed by the remembrance of her own crime, — her dis- mal situation may easily be pictured. More than i once she took her pen to write to her father, to reveal her situation, and appeal to him for for- giveness. But there was a reluctance clinging to her mind ; an overpowering sense of crime, that held down her hand when she attempted it. She had met with the warmest sympathies a parent could feel for his offspring, — how had she repaid them ! The thought made her shudder, and, in- stead of writing, she paraded her room in the agonies of remorse. In a few days her slender stock of money was exhausted, her landlord became surly, and ended 84 THE RECLAIMED. by turning her out of doors, with nothing but the clothes on her back for her possessions. It was a moonlight nighty and she wandered about she knew not where, through streets and squares, ex- posed to the rude hand of every midnight bully that passed her, till, weary and fainting with fatigue, she sat down on the steps of a mansion in Russell Square. Five weeks since, and she was innocent and shel- tered in the happy home of doating parents, and now — worse than an outcast. Her troubled fancy brought that home before her. She thought she beheld the blank misery there : — a mother wasting away in silent heart-deep sorrow ; her father venting his anger in groans and parental curses. The picture made her sob aloud ; — and in a moment a watchman seized her, and was attempting to drag her away, when the benevolence of a passing stranger released her from his grasp, and she wandered on in search of lodgings. THE RECLAIMED. 85 A stranger to the streets and their characters, she hired a room in an obscure quarter, princi- pally occupied by that class, in whose society the author found her ; and here, on the second day, she was attacked by a fever, and had it not been for the generosity of an unfortunate girl in the house, her landlord would have turned her into the streets in this piteous state. She spoke in heart-warm terms of her protectress ; how she had sat by her couch, administered to her sufferings, and, by night and day, attended to all her wants, and supplied them from her own scanty store. On her recovery, she could not think of living on one almost as poor as herself : — what remained for her to do ? She was unfit for toil, and ignorant of the duties of a metropolitan servant, and she could not persuade herself to address her natural guar- dians after so long and cruel a silence. The only chance that appeared open to her was one she shuddered to seize. She had been weak and crimi- nal, but not so far sunk in infamy — so dismally de- 86 THE RECLAIMED. based — as to level herself with the most degraded of her sex. The heart turned sick at the thought ; but, pressed by want, and strongly and artfully persuaded by some females in the house, she had finally as- sented to visit the house where I had now met her. She had paraded up and down the door for an hour before her entrance, and when she did enter, scarcely knew whether her feet were on the ground* Her eyes grew dim, her brain giddy, and her whole frame appeared dissolving — under the burden of her shame. Such was the poor girl’s tale ; and he who re- cords it has endeavoured to tell it in as plain a manner as it was related. But no pen can equal the simple eloquence of her remorse* After much entreaty, and explanation, I persuaded her to re- turn to her parents on the morrow, wrote a sooth- ing epistle to the father, and supplied her with finances for the journey. The morrow came ; and, deeming it possible she THE RECLAIMED. 87 might regret her promise, I hastened to the coach- office to satisfy myself of her departure. The coach was on the point of starting, and the “ Re- claimed” seated at the back part of it, wrapt in melancholy thought, I had barely time to shake hands, and to hear her faintly mutter, as she turned her face full upon me, “ God bless you, Sir.'” AN AUCTION. AN AUCTION. I never like to see a house tricked out in auction fineries : the lazy stair-carpets lolling from the upper windows; and the lower ones patched like a vulnerated face, — all convey an idea of dis- grace and dishonour. Within the house^ dis- like deepens into melancholy. Who can bear to see the penetralia of any place, that has once been the abode of human beings, thrown open to the brazen stare and the rude rush of strangers, who flock in, on all sides, with craving eyes and gaping mouths, like harpies snuffing about for food and plunder ? Often have I panted for the ability of seeing some superannuated poker in my way, and clearing the mansion of its intruders ! When an auction occurs, people imagine that a 92 AN AUCTION. house has lost all title to respect. This is a barbarous feeling, Unworthy of being fostered in any bosom that beats in the nineteenth cen- tury. What, shall we wander with pauseful re- verence among the ruins of antiquity, and yet burst into an unoccupied house, with grins that might grace a troop of hungry bears? The re- spect due to the very stones piled up into walls, might dictate more dutiful conduct. But there is something that ought to be still more influential in restraining “ rude advances, 5 5 — the recollection that it has been inhabited. Every man who has a home is capable of estimating the delights arising from its retirement and privacy ; and he ought to carry a homely feeling with him when he attends any dwelling that is exposed to the calamities of an auction-day; let him remember, that, though all is now blank and cheerless, the sounds of family voices, the sweet buzzes of home, once murmured through the deserted chambers ! And who shall describe the hurly-burly at the AN AUCTION. 93 hall-door of a hotise under the endurance of an auction ? Insequitur clamorque virum, stridorque rudentium ! ' / This is the hour for unimportant Importance to swagger, and look on with an aristocratical stare of indifference. This is themoment for littleness to be greatness, and men of money to stir about their pockets, and dig the pavement with their steel-tipped boots. See yonder punchy little fellow, with what an air he taps his foot on the stones^ whistles out his consequence, and surveys the house from top to bottom. There, approaches a round-faced personage, who swells herself along with fat disdain, and waddles into the hall as if the house itself would recede from her advance. But the most presuming is yonder white-cheeked man, dressed in black, and strutting up and down the hall, and into the parlours, with a hissing impu- dence on his lip, and an echo accompanying his feet. How architecturally he measures the lofty walls with his glance, opens the cupboards, and 94 AN AUCTION. wades, with his body on a dubious balance, from room to room! He would fain persuade those around him, that he is something great — that his house is far beyond this in size and magnifi- cence, and, therefore, all that he sees is unworthy any look of surprise. And is he truly a man of consequence ? no ! Behind, in the small square garden, graver, but not less snarling people, are traversing round the winding gravel walks, curling their noses at the bare remnants of fruit-trees and flower-beds, and kicking the straggling rows of box, with most imperti- nent hauteur; and here it is that the family af- fairs of the owner of the house undergo a severe inquisition. This piece of business is generally transacted by two elderly men, who, with their hands crossed behind them, circle round the garden, re- gardless of anybody else, and in loud, but critical tones, explode their sentiments and opinions. If the “ old gentleman,” who belonged to the AN AUCTION. 95 mansion, has departed this life, his stinginess, his cruel treatment of his first wife, and the dreadful habit he had of cursing, are duly exposed and cen- sured. It is, moreover, hinted by one of these in- quisitors, that the “ old gentleman” has left a few awkward impressions of himself in divers parts of the country! If it be in consequence of the proprie- tor's extravagant style of living, that his dwelling is u to be sold by auction,” his crimes are visited with showers of anathemas and sarcasms. What business had he with three men-servants, and six different wines on his table every day ? why did his