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THE 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS/ 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 BY 
 
 WM. M. THACKERAY. * 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 WILLARD SMALL, 
 
 24 Franklin Street. 
 
 1890. 
 
 6574 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRaUV 
 CHESTNUT HILL Mass 
 
Alfred Mudge & Son, Printers, 
 24 Franklin Street, 
 Boston. 
 
 127471 
 
THE ENGLISH HUMORISTS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 In treating of the English humorists of the 
 past age, it is of the men and of their lives, 
 rather than of their books, that I ask permis- 
 sion to speak to you ; and in doing so, you 
 are aware that I cannot hope to entertain you 
 with a merely humorous or facetious story. 
 Harlequin without his mask is known to pre- 
 sent a very sober countenance, and was him- 
 self, the story goes, the melancholy patient 
 whom the doctor advised to go and see Harle- 
 quin* — a man full of cares and perplexities 
 like the rest of us, whose Self must always 
 be serious to him, under whatever mask or 
 disguise or uniform he presents it to the pub- 
 lic. And as all of you here must needs be 
 grave when you think of your own past and 
 present, you will not look to find, in the histo- 
 ries of those whose lives and feelings I am 
 going to try and describe to you, a story that 
 is otherwise than serious, and often very sad. 
 
 * The anecdote is frequently told of our performer Rich. 
 
4 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 If Humor only meant laughter, you would 
 scarcely feel more interest about humorous 
 writers than about the private life of poor 
 Harlequin just mentioned, who possesses in 
 common with these the power of making you 
 laugh. But the men regarding whose lives 
 and stories your kind presence here shows that 
 you have curiosity and sympathy, appeal to a 
 great number of our other faculties, besides 
 our mere sense of ridicule. The humorous 
 writer professes to awaken and direct your 
 love, your pity, your kindness, — your scorn 
 for untruth, pretension, imposture, — your ten- 
 derness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed, 
 the unhappy. To the best of his means and 
 ability he comments on all the ordinary ac- 
 tions and passions of life almost. He takes 
 upon himself to be the week-day preacher, 
 so to speak. Accordingly, as he finds, and 
 speaks, and feels the truth best, we regard 
 him, esteem him — sometimes love him. And, 
 as his business is to mark other people’s lives 
 and peculiarities, we moralize upon his life 
 when he is gone ; and yesterday’s preacher 
 becomes the text for to-day’s sermon. 
 
 Of English parents, and of a good English 
 family of clergymen,* Swift was born in 
 
 *He was from a younger branch of the Swifts of Yorkshire. 
 His grandfather, the Rev. Thomas Swift, vicar of Goodrich, in 
 Herefordshire, suffered for his loyalty in Charles I. ’s time. That 
 gentleman married Elizabeth Dryden, a member of the family 
 of the poet. Sir Walter Scott gives, with his characteristic 
 minuteness in such points, the exact relationship between these 
 famous men. Swift was the “ son of Dryden’s second cousin.” 
 Swift, too, was the enemy of Dryden’s reputation. Witness the 
 “Battle of the Books”: “The difference was greatest among 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 5 
 
 Dublin in 1667, seven months after the death 
 of his father, who had come to practise there 
 as a lawyer. The boy went to school at Kil- 
 kenny, and afterwards to Trinity College, 
 Dublin, where he got a degree with difficulty, 
 and was wild, and witty, and poor. In 1688, 
 by the recommendation of his mother, Swift 
 was received into the family of Sir William 
 Temple, who had known Mrs. Swift in Ireland. 
 He left his patron in 1694, and the next year 
 took orders in Dublin. But he threw up the 
 small Irish preferment which he got and re- 
 turned to Temple, in whose family he remained 
 until Sir William’s death in 1699. His hopes 
 of advancement in England failing, Swift 
 returned to Ireland, and took the living of 
 Laracor. Hither he invited Hester Johnson,* * 
 Temple’s natural daughter, with whom he had 
 contracted a tender friend -hip, while they 
 were both dependants of Temple’s. And with 
 an occasional visit to England, Swift now 
 passed nine years at home. 
 
 In 1709 he came to England, and, with a 
 
 the horse,” says he of the moderns, ‘‘where every private 
 trooper pretended to the command, from Tasso and Milton to 
 Dryden and Withers.” And in “ Poetry, a Rhapsody,” he ad- 
 vises the poetaster to — 
 
 “Read all the Prefaces of Dryden, 
 
 For these our critics much confide in, 
 
 Though merely writ, at first for filling, 
 
 To raise the volume’s price a shilling.” 
 
 “ Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet,” was the phrase of 
 Dryden to his kinsman, which remained alive in a memory 
 tenacious of such matters. 
 
 * “ Miss Hetty ” she was called in the family", where her 
 face and her dress, and Sir William’s treatment of her, all made 
 the real fact about her birth plain enough. Sir William left 
 her a thousand pounds. 
 
6 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 brief visit to Ireland, during which he took 
 possession of his deanery of St. Patrick, he 
 now passed five years in England, taking the 
 most distinguished part in the political trans- 
 actions which terminated with the death of 
 Queen Anne. After her death, his party dis- 
 graced, and his hopes of ambition over, Swift 
 returned to Dublin, where he remained twelve 
 years. In this time he wrote the famous 
 “Drapier’s Letters” and “ Gulliver’s Travels.” 
 He married Hester Johnson, Stella, and buried 
 Esther Vanhomrigh, Vanessa, who had fol- 
 lowed him to Ireland from London, where 
 she had contracted a violent passion for him. 
 In 1726 and 1727 Swift was in England, which 
 he quitted for the last time on hearing of his 
 wife’s illness. Stella died in January, 1728, 
 and Swift not until 1745, having passed the 
 last five of the seventy-eight years of his life 
 with an impaired intellect and keepers to watch 
 him.* 
 
 You know, of course, that Swift has had 
 many biographers ; his life has been told by 
 
 * Sometimes, during his mental affliction, he continued walk- 
 ing about the house for many consecutive hours; sometimes he 
 remained in a kind of torpor. At times he would seem to 
 struggle to bring into distinct consciousness, and shape into 
 expression, the intellect that lay smothering under gloomy 
 obstruction in him. A pier-glass falling by accident, nearly 
 fell on him. He said he wished it had. He once repeated 
 slowly several times, “ I am what I am.” The last thing he 
 wrote was an epigram on the building of a magazine for arms 
 and stores, which was pointed out to him as he went abroad 
 during his mental disease : — 
 
 “ Behold a proof of Irish sense : 
 
 Here Irish wit is seen : 
 
 When nothing ’s left that ’s worth defence, 
 
 They build a magazine ! ” 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 7 
 
 the kindest and most good-natured of men, 
 Scott, who admires but can’t bring himself to 
 love him; and by stout old Johnson,* who, 
 forced to admit him into the company of poets, 
 receives the famous Irishman, and takes off 
 his hat to him with a bow of surly recognition, 
 scans him from head to foot, and passes over 
 to the other side of the street. Doctor Wilde 
 of Dublin,! who has written a most interest- 
 ing volume on the closing yea 1 s of Swift’s life, 
 calls Johnson u the most malignant of his 
 biographers ” : it is not easy for an English 
 critic to please Irishmen — perhaps to try and 
 
 * Besides these famous books of Scott’s and Johnson’s there 
 is a copious “Life” by Thomas Sheridan (Doctor Johnson’s 
 “Sherry”), father of Richard Brinsley, and son of that good- 
 natured, clever Irish Doctor Thomas Sheridan, Swift’s inti- 
 mate, who lost his chaplaincy by so unluckily choosing for a 
 text on the King’s birthday, “ Sufficient for the day is the evil 
 thereof.” Not to mention less important works, there is also 
 the “Remarks on the Life and Writings of Doctor Jonathan 
 Swift,” by that polite and dignified writer, the Earl of Orrery. 
 His lordship is said to have striven for literary renown, chiefly 
 that he might make up for the slight passed on him by his 
 father, who left his library away from him. It is to be feared 
 that the ink he used to wash out that stain only made it look 
 bigger. He had, however, known Swift, and corresponded with 
 people who knew him. His work (which appeared in 1751) pro- 
 voked a good deal of controversy, calling out, among other 
 brochures , the interesting “Observations on Lord Orrery’s 
 Remarks,” etc., of Doctor Delany. 
 
 t Doctor Wilde’s book was written on the occasion of the 
 remains of Swift and Stella being brought to the light of day, — 
 a thing which happened in 1835, when certain works going on 
 in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin, afforded an opportunity of 
 their being examined. One hears with surprise of these skulls 
 “ going the rounds ” of houses, and being made the objects of dil- 
 ettante curiosity. The larynx of Swift was actually carried off! 
 Phrenologists had a low opinion of his intellect from the observa- 
 tions they took. 
 
 Doctor Wilde traces the symptoms of ill health in Swift, 
 as detailed in his writings from time to time. He observes, 
 likewise, that the skull gave evidence of “diseased action ” of 
 the brain during life, such as would be produced by an in« 
 qreasing tendency to “ cerebral congestion.” 
 
8 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 please them. And yet Johnson truly admires 
 Swift : Johnson does not quarrel with Swift’s 
 change of politics, or doubt his sincerity of 
 religion : about the famous Stella and Yanessa 
 controversy the Doctor does not bear very 
 hardly on Swift. But he could not give the 
 Dean that honest hand of his ; the stout old 
 man puts it into his bre.ist, and moves off 
 from him.* 
 
 Would we have liked to live with him? 
 That is a question which, in dealing with these 
 people’s works, and thinking of their lives and 
 peculiarities, every reader of biographies must 
 put to himself. Would you have liked to be a 
 friend of the great Dean? I should like to 
 have been Shakespeare’s shoeblack — just to 
 have lived in his house, just to have wor- 
 shipped him — to have run on his errands, 
 and seen that sweet serene face. I should 
 like, as a young man, to have lived on Field- 
 ing’s staircase in the Temple, and after help- 
 ing him up to bed perhaps, and opening his 
 door with his latch-key, to have shaken hands 
 with him in the morning, and heard him talk' 
 and crack jokes over his breakfast and his 
 mug of small beer. Who would not give 
 something to pass a night at the club with 
 Johnson, and Goldsmith, and James Boswell, 
 Esq., of Auchinleck? The charm of Addi- 
 son’s companionship and conversation has 
 
 * “ He [Doctor Johnson] seemed to me to have an unaccounta- 
 ble prejudice against Swift; for I once took the liberty to ask 
 him if Swift had personally offended him, and he told me he 
 had not.” — Boswell’s Tour to the Hebrides . 
 
SWIFT . 
 
 9 
 
 passed to us by fond tradition — but Swift? 
 If you had been his inferior in parts (and 
 that, with a great respect for all persons 
 present, I fear is only very likely), his 
 equal in mere social stations, he would have 
 bullied, scorned, and insulted you ; if, un- 
 deterred by his great reputation, you had met 
 him like a man, he would have quailed before 
 you,* and not had the pluck to reply, and 
 gone home, and years after written a foul 
 epigram about you — watched for you in a 
 sjwer, and come out to assail you with a 
 coward’s blow and a dirty bludgeon. If you 
 had been a lord with a blue riband, who 
 flattered his vanity, or could help his ambi- 
 tion, he would have been the most delightful 
 company in the world. He would have been 
 so manly, so sarcastic, so bright, odd, and 
 
 *Few men, to be sure, dared this experiment, but yet their 
 success was encouraging. One gentleman made a point of 
 asking the Dean whether his uncle Godwin had not given him 
 his education. Swift, who hated that subject cordially, and 
 indeed, cared little for his kindred, said sternly, “ Yes; he gave 
 me the education of a dog.” “ Then, sir ” cried the other, strik- 
 ing his list on the table, “ you have not the gratitude of a dog! ” 
 Other occasions there were when a bold face gave the Dean 
 pause, even after his Irish almost-royal position was estab- 
 lished. But he brought himself into greater danger on a cer- 
 tain occasion, and the amusing circumstances may be once more 
 repeated here. He had unsparingly lashed the notable Dublin 
 lawyer, Mr. Serjeant Bettesworth — 
 
 “ Thus at the bar, the booby Bettesworth, 
 
 Though half-a-crown o’er-pays his sweat’s worth, 
 
 Who knows in law nor text nor margent, 
 
 Calls Singleton his brother-serjeant ! ” 
 
 The Serjeant, it is said, swore to have his life. He presented 
 himself at the deanery. The Dean asked his name. “ Sir, I am 
 Serjeant Bett-es-worth.” 
 
 “ In what regiment , pray ? ” asked Swift. 
 
 A guard of volunteers formed themselves to defend the Dean 
 at this time. 
 
10 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 original, that you might think he had no ob- 
 ject in view but the indulgence of his humor, 
 and that he was the most reckless, simple 
 creature in the world. How he would have 
 torn your enemies to pieces for you ! and 
 made fun of the Opposition ! His servility 
 was so boisterous that it looked like indepen- 
 dence : * he would have done your errands, 
 but with the air of patronizing you, and after 
 fighting your battles, masked, in the street or 
 the press, would have kept on his hat before 
 your wife and daughters in the drawing-room, 
 content to take that sort of pay for his tre- 
 mendous services as a bravo, j* 
 
 *“But, my Hamilton, I will never hide the freedom of my 
 sentiments from you. I am much inclined to believe that the 
 temper of my friend Swift might occasion his English friends to 
 wish him happily and properly promoted at a distance. His 
 spirit, for I would give it the softest name, was ever untractable. 
 The moiions of his genius were often irregular. He assumed 
 more the air of a patron than of a friend. He affected rather to 
 dictate than advise.” — Orrery. 
 
 t “ . . . An anecdote, which, though only told by Mrs. Pil- 
 kington, is well attested, bears, that the last time he was in 
 London he went to dine with the Earl of Burlington, who was 
 but newly married. The Earl, it is supposed, being willing to 
 have a little diversion, did not introduce him to his lady nor 
 mention his name. After dinner said the Dean, ‘ Lady Burling-' 
 ton, I hear you can sing; sing me a song.’ The lady looked on 
 this unceremonious manner of asking a favor with distaste, and 
 positively refused. He said, ‘She should sing, or he would 
 make her. Why, madam, I suppose you take me for one of 
 your poor English hedge-parsons; sing when I bid you.’ As 
 the Earl did nothing but laugh at this freedom, the lady was so 
 vexed that she burst into tears and retired. Ilis first compli- 
 ment to her when he saw her again was, ‘ Pray, madam, are you 
 as proud and ill natured now as when I saw you last? ’ To 
 which she answered with great good-humor, ‘No, Mr. Dean; 
 I ’ll sing for you, if you please.’ From which time he conceived 
 a great esteem for her.” — Scott’s Life. “ . . . He had not the 
 least tincture of vanity in his conversation. He was perhaps, as 
 he said himself, too proud to be vain. When he was polite, it 
 was in a manner entirely his own. In his friendships he was 
 constant and undisguised. He was the same in his enmities.’* 
 — Orrery. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 11 
 
 He says as much himself in one of his 
 letters to Bolingbroke : All my endeavors to 
 
 distinguish myself were only for want of a 
 great title and fortune, that I might be used 
 like a lord by those who have an opinion of 
 my parts ; whether right or wrong is no great 
 matter. And so the reputation of wit and 
 great learning does the office of a blue riband 
 or a coach and six.”* 
 
 Could there be a greater candor ? It is an 
 outlaw, who says, u These are my brains; 
 with these I ’ll win titles and compete with 
 fortune. These are my bullets; these I’ll 
 turn into g Ad ” ; and he hears the sound of 
 coaches and six, takes the road like Macheath, 
 and makes society stand and deliver. They 
 are all on their knees before him. Down go 
 my lord bishop’s apron, and his Grace’s blue 
 riband, and my lady’s brocade petticoat in the 
 mud. lie eases the one of a living, the other 
 of a patent place, the third of a little snug 
 post about the Court, and gives them over to 
 followers of his own. The great prize has 
 not come yet. The coach with the mitre and 
 crosier in it, which he intends to have for Jus 
 
 * “ I make no figure but at court, where I affect to turn from 
 a lord to the meanest of my acquaintances.” — Journal to Stella. 
 
 “ I am plagued with bad authors, verse and prose, who send 
 me their books and poems, the vilest I ever saw; but I have 
 given their nam?s to my man, never to let them see me.” — ■ 
 Journal to Stella. 
 
 The following curious paragraph illustrates the life of a 
 courtier : — 
 
 “ Did I ever tell you that the Lord Treasurer hears ill with 
 the left ear, just as I do? ... I dare not tell him that I am 
 so, for fear he should think that I counterfeited to make my 
 court ! ” — Journal to Stella . 
 
12 
 
 ENGLISH HTJMOBISTS. 
 
 share, has been delayed on the way from 
 St. James’s ; and he waits and waits until 
 nightfall, when his runners come and tell him 
 that the coach has taken a different road, and 
 escaped him. So he fires his pistols into the 
 air with a curse, and rides away into his own 
 country.* 
 
 Swift’s seems to me to be as good a name 
 to point a moral or adorn a tale of ambi- 
 
 * The war of pamphlets was carried on fiercely on one side 
 and the other: and the Whig attacks made the Ministry Swift 
 served very sore. Bolingbroke laid hold of several of the 
 Opposition" pamphleteers, and bewails their “ factitiousness ’* 
 in the following letter: — 
 
 Bolingbroke to the Earl of Strafford. 
 
 “ Whitehall, July 23, 1712. 
 
 “ It is a melancholy consideration that the laws of our 
 country are too weak to punish effectually those factitious 
 scribblers, who presume to blacken the brightest characters, 
 and to give even scurrilous language to those who are in the 
 first degrees of honor. This, my lord, among others, is a symp- 
 tom of the decayed condition of our Government, and serves to 
 show how fatally we mistake licentiousness for liberty. All I 
 could do was to take up Hart, the printer, to send him to New- 
 gate, and to bind him over upon bail to be prosecuted; this I 
 have done; and if I can arrive at legal proof against the author, 
 Ridpath, he shall have the same treatment.” 
 
 Swift was not behind his illustrious friend in this virtuous” 
 indignation. In the history of the four last years of the Queen, 
 the Dean speaks in the most edifying manner of the licentious- 
 ness of the press and the abusive language of the other party : — 
 “ It must be acknowledged that the bad practices of printers 
 have been such as to deserve the severest animadversion from 
 the public. . . . The adverse party, full of rage and leisure 
 since their fall, and unanimous in their cause, employ a set of 
 writers by subscription, who are well versed in all the topics of 
 defamation, and have a style and genius levelled to the generab 
 ity of their readers. . . . However, the mischiefs of the press 
 were too exorbitant to be cured by such a remedy as a tax upon 
 small papers, and a bill for a much more effectual regulation of 
 it was brought into the House of Commons, but so late in the 
 session that there was no time to pass it, for there always 
 appeared an unwillingness to cramp over-much the liberty of 
 the press.” 
 
 But to a clause in the proposed bill, that the names of 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 13 
 
 tion, as any hero’s that ever lived and failed. 
 But we must remember that the morality was 
 lax — that other gentlemen besides himself 
 took the road in his day — that public society 
 was in a strange disordered condition, and the 
 State was ravaged by other condottieri. The 
 Boyne was being fought and won, and lost ; 
 the bells rung in William’s victory, in the very 
 same tone with which they would have pealed 
 for James’s. Men were loose upon politics, 
 
 authors should be set co every printed book, pamphlet, or paper, 
 his Reverence objects altogether; for, says he, “besides the 
 objection to this clause from the practice of pious men, who, in 
 publishing excellent writings for the service of religion, have 
 chosen, out of an humble Christian spirit , to conceal their 
 names , it is certain that all persons of true genius or knowledge 
 have an invincible modesty and suspicion of themselves upon 
 first sending their thoughts into the world.” 
 
 This “ invincible modesty ” was no doubt the sole reason 
 which induced the Dean to keep the secret of the “ Drapier’s 
 Letters ” and a hundred humble Christian works of which he 
 was the author. As for the Opposition, the Doctor was for 
 dealing severely with them : he writes to Stella : — 
 
 Journal. Letter XIX. 
 
 “ London, March 25, 1710-11. 
 
 “ . . . We have let Guiscard be buried at last, after show- 
 ing him pickled in a trough this fortnight for twopence a 
 piece; and the fellow that showed would point to his body and 
 say, ‘ See, gentlemen, this is the wound that was given him by 
 his Grace the Duke of Ormond ’ ; and ‘ This is the wound,’ etc. ; 
 and then the show was over, and another set of rabble came in. 
 ’T is hard that our laws would not suffer us to hang his body in 
 chains, because he was not tried; and in the eye of the law 
 every man is innocent till then. ...” 
 
 Journal. Letter XXVII. 
 
 “ London, July 25, 1711. 
 
 “ I was this afternoon with Mr. Secretary at his office, and 
 helped to hinder a man of his pardon, who was condemned for 
 a rape. The Under Secretary was willing to save him; but I 
 told the Secretary he could not pardon him without a favorable 
 report from the Judge; besides, he was a fiddler, and conse- 
 quently a rogue, and deserved hanging for something else, and 
 so he shall swing.” 
 
14 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 and had to shift for themselves. They, as 
 well as old beliefs and institutions, had lost 
 their moorings and gone adrift in the storm. 
 As in the South Sea Bubble, almost everybody 
 gambled ; as in the Railwa}^ mania — not 
 many centuries ago — almost every one took 
 his unlucky share : a man of that time, of the 
 vast talents and ambition of Swift, could 
 scarce do otherwise than grasp at his prize, 
 and make his spring at his opportunity. His 
 bitterness, his scorn, his rage, his subsequent 
 misanthropy are ascribed by some panegyrists 
 to a deliberate conviction of mankind’s un- 
 worthiness, and a desire to amend them by 
 castigation. His youth was bitter, as that of 
 a great genius bound down by ignoble ties, 
 and powerless in a mean dependence ; his age 
 was bitter/ like that of a great genius, that 
 had fought the battle and nearly won it, and 
 lost it, and thought of it afterwards, writhing 
 in a lonely exile. A man may attribute to 
 the gods, if he likes, what is caused by his 
 own fury, or disappointment, or self-will. 
 What public man — what statesman projecting 
 a coup — what king determined on an invasion 
 of his neighbor — what satirist meditating an 
 onslaught on society or an individual, can’t give 
 a pretext for his move ? There was a French 
 general the other day who proposed to march 
 into this country and put it to sack and pillage, 
 in revenge for humanity outraged by our 
 conduct at Copenhagen : there is always some 
 
 * It was his constant practice to keep his birthday as a day 
 of mourning. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 15 
 
 excuse for men of the aggressive turn. They 
 are of their nature warlike, predatory, eager 
 for fight, plunder, dominion.* 
 
 As fierce a beak and talon as ever struck, 
 as strong a wing as ever beat, belonged to 
 Swift. I am glad, for one, that fate wrested 
 the prey out of his claws, and cut his wings 
 and chained him. One can gaze, and not 
 without awe and pity, at the lonely eagle 
 chained behind the bars. 
 
 That Swift was born at No. 7 Hoey’s Court, 
 Dublin, on the 30th November, 1667, is a 
 certain fact, of which nobody will deny the 
 sister island the honor and glory ; but, it 
 seems to me, he was no more an Irishman than 
 a man born of English parents at Calcutta is 
 a Hindoo. | Goldsmith was an Irishman, and 
 
 always an Irishman : Steele was an Irishman, 
 
 * “ These devils of Grub Street rogues, that write the 
 Flying Post and Medley in one paper, will not be quiet. They 
 are always mauling Lord Treasurer, Lord Bolingbroke, and me. 
 We have the dog under prosecution, but Bolingbroke is not 
 active enough ; but I hope to swinge him. He is a Scotch rogue, 
 one Ridpath. They get out upon bail, and write on. We take 
 them again, and get fresh bail; so it goes round.” — Journal to 
 Stella. 
 
 t Swift was by no means inclined to forget such considera- 
 tions; and his English birth makes its mark, strikingly enough, 
 every now and then in his writings. Thus in a letter to Pope 
 (Scott’s Swift, vol. xix. p. 97), he says : — 
 
 “ We have had your volume of letters. . . . Some of those 
 who highly value you, and a few who knew you personally, 
 are grieved to find you make no distinction between the English 
 gentry of this kingdom, and the savage old Irish (who are only 
 the vulgar, and some gentlemen who live in the Irish parts of 
 the kingdom) ; but the English colonies, who are three parts in 
 four, are much more civilized than many counties in England, 
 and speak better English, and are much better bred.” 
 
 And again, in the fourth Drapier’s Letter, we have the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 “A short paper, printed at Bristol, and reprinted here, re- 
 ports Mr. Wood to say, ‘ that he wonders at the impudence and 
 
16 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 and always an Irishman : Swift’s heart was 
 English and in England, his habits English, 
 his logic eminently English ; his statement is 
 elaborately simple ; he shuns tropes and meta- 
 phors, and uses his ideas and words with a 
 wise thrift and economy, as he used his money : 
 with which he could be generous and splendid 
 upon great occasions, but which he husbanded 
 when there was no need to spend it. He 
 never indulges in needless extravagance of 
 rhetoric, lavish epithets, profuse imagery. 
 He lays his opinion before you with a grave 
 simplicity and a perfect neatness.* * Dreading 
 ridicule too, as a man of his humor — above all 
 an Englishman of his humor — certainly would, 
 he is afraid to use the poetical power which he 
 really possessed ; one often fancies in reading 
 
 insolence of the Irish in refusing his coin.’ When, by the way, 
 it. is the true English people of Ireland who refuse it, although 
 we take it for granted that the Irish will do so too whenever 
 they are asked.” — Scott’s Swift, vol. vi. p 453. 
 
 He goes further, in a good-humored satirical paper, “ On 
 Barbarous Denominations in Ireland,” where (after abusing, as 
 he was wont, the Scotch cadence, as well as expression) he 
 advances to the “ Irish brogue ,” and speaking of the “ censure ” 
 which it brings dovrn, says : — 
 
 “ And what is yet worse, it is too well known that the bad 
 consequence of this opinion affects those among us who are not 
 the least liable to such reproaches farther than the misfortune 
 of being born in Ireland, although of English parents, and 
 whose education has been chiefly in that kingdom.” — Ibid., 
 vol. vii. p. 149. 
 
 But, indeed, if we are to make anything of Race at all, we 
 must call that man an Englishman whose father comes from an 
 old Yorkshire family, and his mother from an old Leicester- 
 shire one ! 
 
 * “ The style of his conversation was very much of a piece 
 with that of his writings, concise and clear and strong. Being 
 one day at a Sheriff’s feast, who amongst other toasts called out 
 to him ‘ Mr. Dean, The Trade of Ireland ! ’ he answered quick : 
 ‘ Sir, I drink no memories! ’ . . . 
 
 “ Happening to be in company with a petulant young man 
 who prided himself on saying pert things . . . and who cried 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 17 
 
 him that he dares not be eloquent when he 
 might ; that he does not speak above his voice, 
 as it were, and the tone of society. 
 
 His initiation into politics, his knowledge 
 of business, his knowledge of polite life, his 
 acquaintance with literature even, which he 
 could not have pursued very sedulously dur- 
 ing that reckless career at Dublin, Swift got 
 under the roof of Sir William Temple. He 
 was fond of telling in after life what quantities 
 of books he devoured there, and how King 
 William taught him to cut asparagus in the 
 Dutch fashion. It was at Sliene and at Moor 
 Park, with a salary of twenty pounds and a 
 dinner at the upper servants’ table, that this 
 great and lonely Swift passed a ten years’ 
 apprenticeship — wore a cassock that was 
 only not a livery — bent down a knee as 
 proud as Lucifer’s to supplicate my lady’s 
 good graces, or run on his honor’s er- 
 rands.* * It was here, as he was writing at 
 Temple’s table, or following his patron’s walk, 
 that lie saw and heard the men who had gov- 
 
 out, ‘You must know, Mr. Dean, that I set up for a wit ! ’ * Do 
 
 you so?’ says the Dean. ‘Take my advice, and sit down 
 again! * 
 
 “ At another time, being in company, where a lady whisking 
 her long train (long trains were then in fashion) swept down a 
 fine fiddle and broke it; Swift cried out — 
 
 * Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae ! ’ ” 
 
 — Dr. Delany, Observations upon Lord Orrery's “ Remarks , 
 etc., on Swift." London, 1754. 
 
 * “ Don’t you remember how I used to be in pain when Sir 
 William Temple would look cold and out of humor for three or 
 four days, and I used to suspect a hundred reasons? I have 
 plucked up my spirits since then, faith ; he spoiled a fine gen- 
 tleman.” — Journal to Stella. 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 erned the great world — measured himself 
 with them, looking up from his silent corner, 
 gauged their brains, weighed their wits, 
 turned them, and tried them, and marked 
 them. Ah ! what platitudes he must have 
 heard ! what feeble jokes ! what pompous 
 commonplaces ! what small men they must 
 have seemed under those enormous periwigs, 
 to the swarthy, uncouth, silent Irish secretary. 
 I wonder if it ever struck Temple, that that 
 Irishman was his master? I suppose that dis- 
 mal conviction did not present itself under the 
 ambrosial wig, or Temple could never have 
 lived with Swift. Swift sickened, rebelled, 
 left the service — ate humble pie and came 
 back again ; and so for ten years went on, 
 gathering learning, swallowing scorn, and sub- 
 mitting with a stealthy rage to his fortune. 
 
 Temple’s style is the perfection of practised 
 and easy good-breeding. If he does not pene- 
 trate very deeply into a subject, he professes 
 a very gentlemanly acquaintance with it ; if 
 he makes rather a parade of Latin, it wag the 
 custom of his day, as it was the custom for a 
 gentleman to envelop his head in a periwig 
 and his hands in lace ruffles. If he wears 
 buckles and square-toed shoes, he steps in 
 them with a consummate grace, and you never 
 hear their creak, or find them treading upon 
 any lady’s train or any rival’s heels in the 
 Court crowd. When that grows too hot or 
 too agitated for him, he politely leaves it. 
 He retires to his retreat of Shene or Moor 
 Park ; and lets the King’s party and the 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 10 
 
 Prince of Orange’s party battle it ont among 
 themselves. He reveres the Sovereign (and 
 no man perhaps ever testified to his loyalty by 
 so elegant a bow) ; he admires the Prince of 
 Orange ; but there is one person whose ease 
 and comfort he loves more than all the princes 
 in Christendom, and that valuable member of 
 society is himself, Gulielmus Temple, Baronet- 
 tus. One sees him in his retreat ; between 
 his study- chair and his tulip-beds,* clipping 
 his apricots and pruning his essays, — the 
 statesman, the ambassador no more ; but the 
 philosopher, the Epicurean, the fine gentle- 
 man and courtier at St. James’s as at Shene ; 
 where, in place of kings and fair ladies, he 
 pays his court to the Ciceronian majesty ; or 
 walks a minuet with the Epic Muse ; or dallies 
 by the south wall with the ruddy nymph of 
 gardens. 
 
 Temple seems to have received and exacted 
 
 * ** . . . The Epicureans were more intelligible in their 
 notion, and fortunate in their expression, when they placed a 
 man’s happiness in the tranquillity of his mind and indolence of 
 body; for while we are composed of both, I doubt both must 
 have a share in the good or ill we feel. As men of several lan- 
 guages say the same things in very different words, so in several 
 ages, countries, constitutions of laws and religion, the same 
 thing seems to be meant by very different expressions : what is 
 called by the Stoics, apathy, or dispassion; by the sceptics, in- 
 disturbance; by the Molinists, quietism; by common men, 
 peace of conscience, — seems all to mean but great tranquillity 
 of mind. . . . For this reason Epicurus passed his life 
 wholly in his garden; there he studied, there he exercised, 
 there he taught his philosophy; and, indeed, no other sort of 
 abode seems to contribute so much to both the tranquillity of 
 mind and indolence of body, which he made his chief ends. 
 The sweetness of the air, the pleasantness of smell, the verdure 
 of plants, the cleanness and lightness of food, the exercise of 
 
 working or walking; but, above all, the exemption from cares 
 and solicitude, seem equally to favor and improve both con- 
 templation and health, the enjoyment of sense and imagination, 
 
20 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 a prodigious deal of veneration from his 
 household, and to have been coaxed, and 
 warmed, and cuddled by the people round 
 about him, as delicately as any of the plants 
 which he loved. When he fell ill in 1693, the 
 household was aghast at his indisposition : 
 mild Dorothea his wife, the best companion of 
 the best of men — 
 
 “Mild Dorothea, peaceful, wise, and great, 
 Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate.” 
 
 As for Dorinda, his sister, — 
 
 “Those who would grief describe, might come and trace 
 Its watery footsteps in Dorinda’s face. 
 
 To see her weep, joy every face forsook, 
 
 And grief flung sables on each menial look. 
 
 The humble tribe mourned for the quickening soul, 
 That furnished spirit and motion through the whole.” 
 
 Is n’t that line in which grief is described as 
 putting the menials into a mourning livery, a 
 fine image? One of the menials wrote it, who 
 did not like that Temple livery nor those 
 
 and thereby the quiet and ease both of body and mind. . . . 
 Where Paradise was, has been much debated, and little agreed; 
 but what sort of place is meant by it may perhaps easier be 
 conjectured. It seems to have been a Persian word, since 
 Xenophon and other Greek authors mention it as what was 
 much in use and delight among the kings of those eastern 
 countries. Strabo describing Jericho: ‘Ibi est palmetum, cui 
 immixtse sunt etiam aliae stirpes hortenses, locus ferax palrais 
 abundans, spatio stadiorum centum, totus irriguus : ibi est Regis 
 Balsami paradisus.’ ” — Essay on Gardens. 
 
 In the same famous essay Temple speaks of a friend, whose 
 conduct and prudence he characteristically admires : — 
 
 “ . . . I thought it very prudent in a gentleman of my 
 friends in Staffordshire, who is a great lover of his garden, to 
 pretend no higher, though his soil be good enough, than to the 
 perfection of plums; and in these (by bestowing south walls 
 upon them), he has very well succeeded, which he could never 
 have done in attempts upon peaches and grapes; and a good 
 plum is certainly better than an ill peach,” 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 21 
 
 twenty-pound wages. Cannot one fancy the 
 uncouth young servitor, with downcast eyes, 
 books and papers in hand, following at his 
 honor’s heels in the garden walk ; or taking his 
 honor’s orders as he stands by the great chair, 
 where Sir William has the gout, and his feet 
 all blistered with moxa? When Sir AVilliam 
 has the gout or scolds, it must be hard work 
 at the second table ; * the Irish secretary 
 
 * Swift’s Thoughts on Hanging. 
 
 ( Directions to Servants . ) 
 
 “ To grow old in the office of a footman is the highest of all 
 indignities; therefore, when you find years coming on without 
 hopes of a place at court, a command in the army, a succession 
 to the stewardship, an employment in the revenue (which two 
 last you cannot obtain without reading and writing), or running 
 away with your master’s niece or daughter, I directly advise 
 you to go upon the road, which is the only post of honor left 
 you : there you will meet many of your old comrades, and live 
 a short life and a merry one, ancj make a figure at your exit, 
 wherein I will give you some instructions. 
 
 “The last advice I give you relates to your behavior when 
 you are going to be hanged : which, either for robbing your 
 master, for house breaking, or going upon the highway, or in a 
 drunken quarrel by killing the first man you meet, may very 
 probably be your lot, and is owing to one of these three quali- 
 ties: either a love of good fellowship, a generosity of mind, or 
 too much vivacity of spirits. Your good behavior on this arti- 
 cle will concern your whole community : deny the fact with all 
 solemnity of imprecations : a hundred of your brethren, if they 
 can be admitted, will attend about the bar, and be ready upon 
 demand to give you a character before the Court; let nothing 
 prevail on you to confess, but the promise of a pardon for dis- 
 covering your comrades; but I suppose all this to be vain ; for 
 if you escape now, your fate will be the same another da/. 
 Get a speech to be written by the best author of Newgate : some 
 of your kind wenches will provide you with a ho Hand shirt and 
 white cap, crowned with a crimson or black ribbon ; take leave 
 cheerfully of all your friends in Newgate; mount the cart with 
 courage; fall on your knees ; lift up your eyes ; hold a book in 
 your hands, although you cannot read a word ; deny the fact at the 
 gallows; kiss and forgive the hangman, and so farewell: you 
 shall be buried in pomp and at the charge of the fraternity : the 
 surgeon shall not touch. a limb of you: and your fame shall 
 continue until a successor of equal renown succeeds in your 
 place. ...” 
 
22 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 owned as much afterwards ; and when he 
 came to dinner, how he must have lashed and 
 growled and torn the household with his gibes 
 and scorn ! What would the steward say 
 about the pride of them Irish schollards — 
 and this one had got no great credit even at 
 his Irish college, if the truth were known — 
 and what a contempt his Excellency’s own 
 gentleman must have had for Parson Teague 
 from Dublin. (The valets and chaplains 
 were always at war. It is hard to say which 
 Swift thought the more contemptible.) And 
 what must have been the sadness, the sad- 
 ness and terror, of the housekeeper’s little 
 daughter w r ith the curling black ringlets and 
 the sweet smiling face, when the secretary 
 who teaches her to read and write, and whom 
 she loves and reverences above all things, — 
 above mother, above mild Dorothea, above 
 that tremendous Sir William in his square 
 toes and periwig, — when Mr. Swift comes 
 down from his master with rage in his heart, 
 and has not a kind word even for little Hester 
 Johnson ? 
 
 Perhaps, for the Irish secretary, his Excel- 
 lency’s condescension was even more cruel than 
 his frowns. Sir William would perpetually 
 quote Latin and the ancient classics ap o- 
 p)os of his gardens and his Dutch statues 
 and plates-bandes, and talk about Epicurus and 
 Diogenes Laertius, Julius Caesar, Semiramis, 
 and the gardens of the Hesperides, Maecenas, 
 Strabo describing Jericho, and the Assyrian 
 kings. Apropos of beans, he would mention 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 23 
 
 Pythagoras’s precept to abstain from beans, 
 and that his precept probably meant that wise 
 men should abstain from public affairs. He 
 is a placid Epicurean ; lie is a Pythagorean 
 philosopher ; lie is a wise man — that is the 
 deduction. Does not Swift think so? One 
 can imagine the downcast eyes lifted up for a 
 moment, and the flash of scorn which they 
 emit. Swift’s eyes were as azure as the 
 heavens ; Pope says nobly (as everything 
 Pope said and thought of his friend was good 
 and noble), His eyes are as azure as the 
 heavens and have a charming archness in 
 them.” And one person in that household, 
 that pompous, stately, kindly Moor Park, saw 
 heaven nowhere else. 
 
 But the Temple amenities and solemnities 
 did not agree with Swift. He was half-killed 
 with a surfeit of Shene pippins ; and in a gar- 
 den-seat which he devised for himself at Moor 
 Park, and where he devoured greedily the 
 stock of books within his reach, he caught a 
 vertigo and deafness which punished and tor- 
 mented him through life. He could not bear 
 the place or the servitude. Even in that 
 poem of courtly condolence, from which we 
 have quoted a few lines of mock melancholy, 
 he breaks out of the funereal procession with a 
 mad shriek, as it were, and rushes away crying 
 his own grief, cursing his own fate, foreboding 
 madness, and forsaken by fortune, and even 
 hope. 
 
 I don’t know anything more melancholy than 
 the letter to Temple, in which, after having 
 
24 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 broke from his bondage, the poor wretch 
 crouches piteously towards his cage again, and 
 deprecates his master’s anger. He asks for 
 testimonials for orders. “ The particulars re- 
 quired of me are what relate to morals and 
 learning ; and the reasons of quitting your 
 honor’s family — that is, whether the last was 
 occasioned by any ill action. They are left 
 entirely to your honor’s mercy, though in the 
 first I think I cannot reproach myself for any- 
 thing further than for infirmities . This is all 
 I dare at present beg from your honor, under 
 circumstances of life not worth your regard : 
 what is left me to wish (next to the health 
 and prosperity of your honor and family) is 
 that Heaven would one day allow me the op- 
 portunity of leaving my acknowledgments at 
 your feet. I beg my most humble duty and 
 service be presented to my ladies, your honor’s 
 lady and sister.” — Can prostration fall deeper ? 
 could a slave bow lower ? * 
 
 Twenty years afterwards Bishop Kennet, 
 
 * “ He continued in Sir William Temple’s house till the death 
 of that great man.” — Anecdotes of the Family of Swift, by the" 
 Dean. 
 
 “ It has since pleased God to take this good and great person 
 to himself.” — Preface to Temple's Works. 
 
 On all public occasions, Swift speaks of Sir William in the 
 same tone. But the reader will better understand how acutely 
 he remembered the indignities he suffered in his household, 
 from the subjoined extracts from the Journal to Stella : — 
 
 “ I called at Mr. Secretary the other day, to see what the 
 
 d ailed him on Sunday : I made him a very proper speech; 
 
 told him I observed he was much out of temper, that I did not 
 expect he would tell me the cause, but would be glad to see he 
 was in better; and one thing I warned him of, — never to appear 
 cold to me, for I would not be treated like a school-boy; that I 
 had felt too much of that in my life already ” (meaning Sir Wil- 
 liam Temple), etc., etc. — Journal to Stella. 
 
 “I am thinking what a veneration we used to have for Sir 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 25 
 
 describing the same man, says, u Dr. Swift 
 came into the coffee-house and had a bow 
 from everybody but me. When I came to the 
 antechamber [at Court] to wait before prayers, 
 Dr. Swift was the principal man of talk and 
 business. He was soliciting the Earl of Arran 
 to speak to his brother, the Duke of Ormond, 
 to get a place for a clergyman. He W'as prom- 
 ising Mr. Thorold to undertake, with my Lord 
 Treasurer, that he should obtain a salary of 
 £200 per annum as member of the English 
 Church at Rotterdam. He stopped F. G wynne, 
 Esq., going into the Queen with the red bag, 
 and told him aloud, he had something to say 
 to him from my Lord Treasurer. He took 
 out his gold watch, and telling the time of day. 
 complained that it was very late. A gentle- 
 man said he was too fast. 4 How can I help 
 it,’ says the Doctor, ‘if the courtiers give me 
 a watch that won’t go right?’ Then he in- 
 structed a 3 T oung nobleman, that the best poet 
 in England was Mr. Pope (a papist), who had 
 begun a translation of Homer into English, 
 for which he would have them all subscribe : 
 
 William Temple because he might have been Secretary of State 
 at fifty ; and here is a young fellow hardly thirty in that em- 
 ployment.” — Ibid. 
 
 “ The Secretary is as easy with me as Mr. Addison was. I 
 have often thought what a splutter Sir William Temple makes 
 about being Secretary of State.” — Ibid. 
 
 “ Lord Treasurer has had an ugly fit of the rheumatism, but 
 is now quite well. I was playing at one -arid-thirty with him 
 and his family the other night. He gave us twelvepence apiece 
 to begin with; it put me in mind of Sir William Temple.” — 
 Ibid. 
 
 “ I thought I saw Jack Temple [nephew to Sir William] and 
 his wife pass by me to-day in their coach; but I took no notice 
 of them. I am glad I have wholly shaken off that family.” — 
 
 to S ., /September, 1710. 
 
2 -; 
 
 ENGLISH II UNO HI STS. 
 
 4 For,’ says he, 4 lie shall not begin to print 
 till I have a thousand guineas for him.’* 
 Lord Treasurer, after leaving the Queen, 
 came trough the room, beckoning Doctor 
 Swift to follow him, — both went off just 
 before prayers.” There’s a little malice in 
 the Bishop’s 46 just before prayers.” 
 
 This picture of the great Dean seems a true 
 one, and is harsh, though not altogether un- 
 pleasant. He was doing good, and to deserv- 
 ing men, too, in the midst of these intrigues 
 and triumphs. His journals and a thousand 
 anecdotes of him relate his kind acts and 
 rough manners. 1 1 is hand w r as constantly 
 stretched out to relieve an honest man — he 
 was cautious about his money, but ready. If 
 you were in a strait would you like such a 
 benefactor? I think I would rather have had 
 a potato and a friendly word from Goldsmith 
 than have been beholden to the Dean for a 
 guinea and a dinner. f He insulted a man as 
 he served him, made women cry, guests look 
 foolish, bullied unlucky friends, and flung his 
 benefactions into poor men’s faces. No ; the 
 
 * “ Swift must be allowed,” says Doctor Johnson, “ for a time, 
 to have dictated the political opiuious of the English nation.” 
 
 A conversation on the Dean’s pamphlets excited one of the 
 Doctor’s liveliest sallies. “ One, in particular, praised his ‘ Con- 
 duct of the Allies.’ Johnson: ‘Sir, his “Conduct of the 
 Allies” is a performance of very little ability. . . . Why, sir, 
 Tom Davies might have written the “ Conduct of the Allies ! ” * ** 
 — Boswell’s Life of Johnson. 
 
 f “ Whenever he fell into the company of any person for 
 the first time, it was his custom to try their tempers and dispo- 
 sition by some abrupt question that bore the appearance of rude- 
 ness. If this were well taken, and answered with good-humor, 
 he afterwards made amends by his civilities. But if he saw any 
 marks of resentment, from alarmed pride, vanity, or conceit, he 
 dropped all further intercourse with the party. This will b§ 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 27 
 
 Dean was no Irishman — no Irishman ever 
 gave but with a kind word and a kind heart. 
 
 It is told, as if it were to Swift’s credit, that 
 the Dean of St. Patrick’s performed his family 
 devotions every morning regularly, but with 
 such secrecy that the guests in his house were 
 never in the least aware of the ceremony. 
 There was no need surely why a church digni- 
 tary should assemble his family privily in a 
 crvpt, and as if he was afraid of heathen per- 
 secution. But I think the world was right, 
 and the bishops who advised Queen Anne 
 when they counselled her not to appoint the 
 author of the “ Tale of a Tub ” to a bishopric, 
 gave perfectly good advice. The man who 
 wrote the arguments and illustrations in that 
 wild book, could not but be aware what must 
 be the sequel of the propositions which he laid 
 down. The boon companion of Pope and 
 Bolingbroke, who chose these as the friends of 
 his life, and the recipients of his confidence 
 and affection, must have heard many an argu- 
 ment, and joined in many a conversation over 
 Pope’s port or St. John’s burgundy, which 
 
 illustrated by an anecdote of that sort related by Mrs. Pilking- 
 ton. After supper, the Dean having decanted a bottle of wine, 
 poured w T hat remained into a glass, and seeing it was muddy, 
 presented it to Mr. Pilkington to drink it. ‘ For,’ said he, ‘ I 
 always keep some poor parson to drink the foul wine for me.’ 
 Mr. Pilkington, entering into his humor, thanked him, aud told 
 him ‘ he did not know the difference, but- was glad to get a 
 glass at any rate.’ ‘ Why, then,’ said the|Dean, ‘ you sha’n’t, for 
 
 I’ll drink it myself. Why, take you, you are wiser than 
 
 a paltry curate whom I asked to dine with me a few days ago ; 
 for upon my making the same speech to him, he said he did not 
 understand such usage, and so walked off without his dinner. 
 By the same token, I told the gentleman who recommended him 
 to me that the fellow was a blockhead, and I had done with 
 him.’ ” — Sheridan’s Life of Swift . 
 
28 
 
 ENGLISH IIUMOBISTS. 
 
 would not bear to be repeated at other men’s 
 boards. 
 
 I know of few things more conclusive as to 
 the sincerity of Swift’s religion than his advice 
 to poor John Gay to turn clergyman, and look 
 out for a seat on the Bench. Gay, the author of 
 the u Beggar’s Opera ” — Gay, the wildest of 
 the wits about town — it was this man that 
 Jonathan Swift advised to take orders — to 
 invest in a cassock and bands — just as he 
 advised him to husband his shillings and put 
 his thousand pounds out at interest. The 
 Queen, and the bishops, and the world, were 
 right in mistrusting the religion of that man.* 
 
 I am not here, of course, to speak of any 
 man’s religious views, except in so far as they 
 
 * From the Archbishop of Cashell. 
 
 “Cashell, May 31, 1735. 
 
 “ Dear Sir , — I have been bo unfortunate in all my contests 
 of late, that I am resolved to have no more, especially where I 
 am likely to be overmatched ; and as I have some reason to hope 
 what is past will be forgotten, I confess I did endeavor in my 
 last to put the best color I could think upon a very bad cause. 
 My friends judge right of my idleness; but, in reality, it has 
 hitherto proceeded from a hurry and confusion, arising from a 
 thousand unlucky unforeseen accidents rather than mere sloth. 
 I have but one troublesome affair upon my hands, which, by the 
 help of the prime serjeant, I hope soon to get rid of; and then 
 you shall see me a true Irish bishop. Sir James Ware has 
 made a very useful collection of the memorable actions of my 
 predecessors. He tells me, they were born in such a town of 
 England or Ireland; were consecrated such a year; and if not 
 translated, were buried in the Cathedral Church, either on the 
 north or south side. Whence I conclude, that a good bishop 
 has nothing more to do than to eat, drink, grow fat, rich, and 
 die ; which laudable example I propose for the remainder of my 
 life to follow; for to tell you the truth, I have for these four or 
 five years past met with so much treachery, baseness, and in- 
 gratitude among mankind, that I can hardly think it incum- 
 bent on any man to endeavor to do good to so perverse a gener- 
 ation. 
 
 “ I am truly concerned at the account you give me of your 
 health. Without doubt a southern ramble will prove the best 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 29 
 
 influence his literary character, his life, his 
 humor. The most notorious sinners of all 
 those fellow-mortals whom it is our business 
 to discuss — Harry Fielding and Dick Steele 
 — were especially loud, and I believe really 
 fervent, in their expressions of belief ; they 
 belabored freethinkers, and stoned imaginary 
 atheists on all sorts of occasions, going out 
 of their way to bawl their own creed, and 
 persecute their neighbor’s, and if they sinned 
 and stumbled, as they constantly did with 
 debt, with drink, with all sorts of bad be- 
 havior, they got upon their knees and cried 
 “ Peccavi 99 with a most sonorous orthodoxy. 
 Yes ; poor Harry Fielding and poor Dick 
 Steele were trusty and undoubting Church 
 
 remedy you can take to recover your flesh; aud I do not know, 
 except in one stage, where you can choose a road so suited to 
 your circumstances, as from Dublin hither. You have to Kil- 
 kenny a turnpike and good inns, at every ten or twelve miles’ 
 end. From Kilkenny hither is twenty long miles, bad road, and 
 no inns at all : but I have an expedient for you. At the foot of a 
 very high hill, just midway, there lives in a neat thatched cabin, 
 a parson, who is not poor; his wife is allowed to be the best 
 little woman in the world. Her chickens are the fattest, aud 
 her ale the best in all the country. Besides, the parson has a 
 little cellar of his own, of which he keeps the key, where he 
 always has a hogshead of the best wine that can be got, in 
 bottles well corked, upon their side; and he cleans, and pulls 
 out the cork better, I think, than Robin. Here I design to meet 
 you with a coach; if you be tired, you shall stay all night; if 
 not, after dinner, we will set out about four, and be at Cashell 
 by nine; and by going through fields and by-ways, which the 
 parson will show us, we shall escape all the rocky and stony 
 roads that lie between this place and that, which are certainly 
 very bad. I hope you will be so kind as to let me know a post 
 or two before you set out, the very day you will be at Kilkenny, 
 that I may have all things prepared for you. It may be, if you 
 ask him, Cope will come : he will do nothing for me. There- 
 fore, depending upon your positive promise, I shall add no 
 more arguments to persuade you, and am, with the greatest 
 truth, your most faithful and obedient servant, 
 
 “Theo. Cashell.” 
 
30 
 
 ENGLISH HUM 07 ? IS TS. 
 
 of England men ; they abhorred Popery, 
 atheism, and wooden shoes, and idolatries 
 in general ; and hiccupped Church and State 
 1 with fervor. 
 
 But Swift? His mind had had a different 
 schooling, and possessed a very different logi- 
 cal power. He was not bred up in a tipsy 
 guardroom, and did not learn to reason in a 
 Covent Garden tavern. lie could conduct an 
 argument from beginning to end. He could 
 i see forward with a fatal clearness. In his 
 old age, looking at the 44 Tale of a Tub,” 
 when he said, 44 Good God, what a genius 
 I had when I wrote that book ! ” I think he 
 was admiring, not the genius, but the conse- 
 quences to which the genius had brought him, 
 — a vast genius, a magnificent genius, a 
 genius wonderfully bright, and dazzling, and 
 strong, — to seize, to know, to see, to flash 
 upon falsehood and scorch it into perdition, 
 to penetrate into the hidden motives, and 
 expose the black thoughts of men, — an 
 awful, an evil spirit. 
 
 Ah man ! you, educated in Epicurean Tem- 
 ple’s library, you whose friends were Pope 
 and St. John, — what made you to swear to 
 fatal vows, and bind yourself to a life-long 
 hypocrisy before the Heaven which you adored 
 with such real wonder, humility, and rever- 
 ence? For Swift’s was a reverent, was a 
 pious spirit ; for Swift could love and could 
 pray. Through the storms and tempests of 
 his furious mind, the stars of religion and 
 love break out in the blue, shining serenely, 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 31 
 
 though hidden by the driving clouds and the 
 maddened hurricane of his life. 
 
 It is my belief that he suffered frightfully 
 from the consciousness of his own scepticism, 
 and that he had bent his pride so far down 
 as io put his apostasy out to hire.* The 
 paper left behind him, called u Thoughts on 
 Religion,” is merely a set of excuses for not 
 professing disbelief. He says of his sermons 
 that he preached pamphlets : they have scarce 
 a Christian characteristic ; they might be 
 preached from the steps of a synagogue, or 
 the floor of a mosque, or the box of a coffee- 
 house almost. There is little or no cant — 
 he is too great and too proud for that ; and, 
 in so far as the badness of his sermons goes, 
 he is honest. But having put that cassock 
 on, it poisoned him : he was strangled in his 
 bands. He goes through life, tearing, like a 
 man possessed with a devil. Like Abudali in 
 the Arabian story, he is always looking out 
 for the Fury, and knows that the night will 
 come and the inevitable hag with it. What 
 a night, my God, it was ! what a lonely 
 rage and long agony — what a vulture that 
 tore the heart of that giant ! f It is awful 
 
 *“Mr. Swift lived with him [Sir William Temple] some 
 time, but resolving to settle himself in some way of living, was 
 inclined to take orders. However, although his fortune was 
 very small, he had a scruple of entering into the Church merely 
 for support .” — Anecdotes of the Family of Swift , by the 
 Dean. 
 
 t “ Dr. Swift had a natural severity of face, which even his 
 smiies could scarce soften, or his utmost gayety render placid 
 and serene; but when that sternness of visage was increased by 
 rage, it is scarce possible to imagine looks or features that 
 carried in them more terror and austerity.” — Orrery. 
 
32 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 to think of the great sufferings of this great 
 man. Through life he always seems alone, 
 somehow. Goethe was so. I can’t fancy 
 Shakespeare otherwise. The giants must live 
 apart. The kings can have no company. 
 But this man suffered so ; and deserved so 
 to suffer. One j^ardly reads anywhere of 
 such a pain. 
 
 The u saeva indignatio ” of which he spoke 
 as lacerating his heart, and which he dares to 
 inscribe on his tombstone, — as if the wretch 
 who lay under that stone waiting God’s judg- 
 ment had a right to be angry, — breaks out 
 from him in a thousand pages of his writing, 
 and tears and rends him. Against men in 
 office, he having been overthrown ; against 
 men in England, he having lost his chance of 
 preferment there, the furious exile never fails 
 to rage and curse. Is it fair to call the fa- 
 mous u Drapier’s Letters ” patriotism? They 
 are masterpieces of dreadful humor and in- 
 vective : they are reasoned logically enough 
 too, but the proposition is as monstrous and 
 fabulous as the Lilliputian island. It is not 
 that the grievance is so great, but there is his 
 enemy — the assault is wonderful for its ac- 
 tivity and terrible rage. It is Samson, w T ith 
 a bone in his hand, rushing on his enemies 
 and felling them : one admires not the cause 
 so much as the strength, the anger, the fury of 
 the champion. As is the case with madmen, 
 certain subjects provoke him, and awaken 
 his fits of wrath. Marriage is one of these: 
 in a hundred passages in his writings he rages 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 33 
 
 against it ; rages against children ; an object 
 of constant satire, even more contemptible in 
 his eyes than a lord’s chaplain, is a poor 
 curate with a large family. The idea of this 
 luckless paternity never fails to bring down 
 from him gibes and foul language. Could 
 Dick Steele, or Goldsmith, or Fielding, in his 
 most reckless moment of satire, have written 
 anything like the Dean’s famous 4 4 Modest 
 Proposal” for eating children? Not one of 
 these but melts at the thoughts of childhood, 
 fondles and caresses it. Mr. Dean has no 
 such softness, and enters the nursery with the 
 tread and gayety of an ogre.* 44 1 have been 
 assured,” says he in the 44 Modest Proposal,” 
 44 by a very knowing American of my acquaint- 
 ance in London, that a young healthy child, 
 well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious, 
 nourishing, and wholesome food, whether 
 stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled ; and I make 
 no doubt it will equally serve in a ragout .” 
 And taking up this pretty joke, as his way is, 
 he argues it with perfect gravity and logic. 
 He turns and twists this subject in a score of 
 different ways ; he hashes it ; and he serves 
 it up cold ; and he garnishes it ; and relishes 
 it always. He describes the little animal as 
 44 dropped from its dam,” advising that the 
 mother should let it suck plentifully in the 
 
 *“ London, April 10, 1713. 
 
 “ Lady Masham’s eldest boy is very ill : I doubt he will not 
 live; and she stays at Kensington to nurse him, which vexes us 
 all. She is so excessively fond, it makes me mad. She should 
 never leave the Queen, but leave everything, to stick to what is 
 so much the interest of the public, as well as her own, ...” — 
 Journal . 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 last month, so as to render it plump and fat 
 for a good table ! 44 A child/’ says his Rev- 
 
 erence, 44 will make two dishes at an enter- 
 tainment for friends ; and when the family 
 dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make 
 a reasonable dish,” and so on ; and the sub- 
 ject being so delightful that he can’t leave it, 
 he proceeds to recommend, in place of veni- 
 son for squires’ tables, 44 the bodies of young 
 lads and maidens not exceeding fourteen or 
 under twelve.” Amiable humorist! laughing 
 castigator of morals ! There was a process 
 well known and practised in the Dean’s gay 
 days ; when a lout entered the coffee-house, 
 the wags proceeded to what they called 44 roast- 
 ing ” him. This is roasting a subject with a 
 vengeance. The Dean had a native genius 
 for it. As the 44 Almanach des Gourmands” 
 says, u 0n ncut rotisseur 
 
 And it was not merely by the sarcastic 
 method that Swift exposed the unreasonable- 
 ness of loving and having children. In “Gul- 
 liver” the folly of love and marriage is urged 
 by graver arguments and advice. In the 
 famous Lilliputian kingdom, Swift speaks 
 with approval of the practice of instantly 
 removing children from their parents and 
 educating them by the State ; and amongst 
 his favorite horses, a pair of foals are stated 
 to be the very utmost a well-regulated equine 
 couple would permit themselves. In fact, 
 our great satirist was of opinion that conjugal 
 love was unadvisable, and illustrated the 
 theory by his own practice and example — 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 35 
 
 God help him ! — which made him about the 
 most wretched being in God’s world.* 
 
 The grave and logical conduct of an absurd 
 proposition, as exemplified in the cannibal 
 proposal just mentioned, is our author’s con- 
 stant method through all his works of humor. 
 Given a country of people six inches or sixty 
 feet high, and by the mere process of the logic, 
 a thousand wonderful absurdities are evolved, 
 at so many stages of the calculation. Turning 
 to the first minister who waited behind him 
 with a white staff near as tall as the mainmast 
 of the “Royal Sovereign,” the King of l>rob- 
 dingnag observes how contemptible a thing 
 human grandeur is, as represented by such a 
 contemptible little creature as Gulliver. 4 4 The 
 Emperor of Lilliput’s features are strong and 
 maculine ” (what a surprising humor there is 
 in this description !) — - 44 The Emperor’s fea- 
 tures,” Gulliver says, 44 are strong and mascu- 
 line, with an Austrian lip, an arched nose, his 
 complexion olive, his countenance erect, his 
 body and limbs well proportioned, and his 
 deportment majestic. He is taller by the 
 breadth of my nail than any of his court, 
 which alone is enough to strike an awe into 
 beholders.” 
 
 What a surprising humor there is in these 
 descriptions ! How noble the satire is here ! 
 how just and honest ! How perfect the image ! 
 Mr. Macaulay has quoted the charming lines 
 of the poet where the king of the pygmies is 
 
 * “ My health is somewhat mended, but at best I have an 
 ill head and an aching heart.”— In May , 1719. 
 
36 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 measured by the same standard. We have 
 all read in Milton of the spear that was like 
 u the mast of some great ammiral,” but th:se 
 images are surely likely to come to the comic 
 poet originally. The subject is before him. 
 He is turning it in a thousand ways. He is 
 full of it. The figure suggests itself naturally 
 to him, and comes out of his subject, as in 
 that wonderful passage, when Gulliver’s box 
 having been dropped by the eagle into the sea, 
 and Gulliver having been received into the 
 ship’s cabin, he calls upon the crew to bring 
 the bax into the cabin, and put it on the table, 
 the cabin being only a quarter the size of the 
 box. It is the veracity of the blunder which 
 is so admirable. Had a man come from such 
 a country as Brobdingnag he would have 
 blundered so. 
 
 But the best stroke of humor, if there be a 
 best in that abounding book, is that where 
 Gulliver, in the unpronounceable country, de- 
 scribes his parting from his master the horse * 
 
 * Perhaps the most melancholy satire in the whole of the- 
 dreadful book is the description of the very old people in the 
 “ Voyage to Laputa.” At Lugnag, Gulliver hears of some 
 persons who never die, called the Struldbrugs, and expressing a 
 wish to become acquainted with men who must have so much 
 learning and experience, his colloquist describes the Struldbrugs 
 to him. 
 
 “He said: They commonly acted like mortals, till about 
 thirty years old, after which, by degrees, they grew melan- 
 choly and dejected, increasing in both till they come to four- 
 score. This he learned from their own confession : for other- 
 wise there not being above two or three of that species born in 
 an age, they were too few to form a general observation by. 
 When they came to fourscore years, which is reckoned the ex- 
 tremity of living in this country, they had not only all the 
 follies and infirmities of other old men, but many more, which 
 arose from the dreadful prospect of never dying. They were 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 37 
 
 “ I took,” he says, “ a second leave of my 
 master, but as I was going to prostrate myself 
 to kiss his hoof, he did me the honor to raise 
 it gently to my mouth. I am not ignorant 
 how much I have been censured for mention- 
 ing this last particular. Detractors are pleased 
 to think it improbable that so illustrious a 
 person should descend to give so great a mark 
 
 not onlyopinionative, peevish, covetous, morose, vain, talkative, 
 but incapable of friendship, and dead to all natural affection 
 which never descended below their grandchildren. Envy and 
 impotent desires are their prevailing passions. But those ob- 
 jects against which their envy seems principally directed, are 
 the vices of the younger sort and the deaths of the old. By 
 reflecting on the former, they find themselves cut off from all 
 possibility of pleasure; and whenever they see a funeral, they 
 lament, and repine that others are gone* to a harbor of rest, to 
 which they themselves never can hope to arrive. They have no 
 remembrance of anything but what they learned and observed 
 in their youth and middle age, and even that is very imperfect. 
 And for the truth or particulars of any fact, it is safer to depend 
 on common tradition than upon their best recollections. The 
 least miserable among them appear to be those who turn to do- 
 tage, and entirely lose their memories ; these meet with more 
 pity and assistance, because they want many bad qualities w hich 
 abound in others. 
 
 “If a Struldbrug happen to marry one of his own kind, the 
 marriage is dissolved of course, by the courtesy of the kingdom, 
 as soon as the younger of the two comes to be fourscore. For 
 the law thinks it a reasonable indulgence that those who are 
 condemned, without any fault of their ow n, to a perpetual con- 
 tinuance in the world, should not have their misery doubled by 
 the load of a wife. 
 
 “As soon as they have completed the term of eighty years, 
 they are looked on as dead in law' ; their heirs immediately suc- 
 ceed to their estates, only a small pittance is reserved for their 
 support; and the poor ones are maintained at the public charge. 
 After that period, they are held incapable of any employment 
 of trust or profit, they cannot purchase lands or take leases, 
 neither are they allowed to be witnesses in any cause, either 
 civil or criminal, not even for the decision of meers and bounds 
 
 “ At ninety they lose their teeth and hair; they have at that, 
 age no distinction of taste, but eat and drink whatever they can 
 get without relish or appetite. The diseases they were subject 
 to still continue, without increasing or diminishing. In talking, 
 they forget the common appellation of things, and the names of 
 persons, even of those who are their nearest friends and rela- 
 tions. For the same reason, they can never amuse themselves 
 
38 
 
 ENGLISH HUM OBIS TS. 
 
 of distinction to a creature so inferior as I. 
 Neither have I forgotten how apt some trav- 
 ellers are to boast of extraordinary favors 
 they have received. But if these censurers 
 were better acquainted with the noble and 
 courteous disposition of the Houyhnhnms they 
 would soon change their opinion.” 
 
 The surprise here, the audacity of circum- 
 stantial evidence, the astounding gravity of 
 
 with reading, because their memory will not serve to carry them 
 from the beginning of a sentence to the end ; and by this defect 
 they arc deprived of the only entertainment whereof they might 
 otherwise be capable. 
 
 “ The language of this country being always upon the flux, 
 the Struldbrugs of one age do not understand those of another; 
 neither are they able, after two hundred years, to hold any con- 
 versation (further than by a few general words) with their 
 neighbors, the mortals ; and thus they lie under the disadvan- 
 tage of living like foreigners in their own country. 
 
 “ This was the account given me of the Struldbrugs, as near 
 as I can remember. I afterwards saw five or six of different 
 ages, the youngest not above two hundred years old, who were 
 brought to me at several times by some of my friends; but al- 
 though they were told ‘that I was a great traveller, and had 
 seen all the world,’ they had not the least curiosity to ask me a 
 question, only desired I would give them slumskudask, or a 
 token of remembrance; which is a modest way of begging, to 
 avoid the law, that strictly forbids it, because they are provided 
 for by the public, although indeed with a very scanty allow- 
 ance. 
 
 “They are despised and hated by all sorts of people; when 
 one of them is born, it is reckoned ominous, and their birth is 
 recorded very particularly; so that you may know their age 
 by consulting the register, which, however, has not been kept 
 above a thousand years past, or at least has been destroyed by 
 time or public disturbances. But the usual way of computing 
 how old they are, is by asking them what kings or great persons 
 they can remember, and then consulting history; for infallibly 
 the last prince in their mind did not begin his reign after they 
 were fourscore years old. 
 
 “They -were the most mortifying sight T ever beheld, and 
 the women more horrible than the men; besides the usual de- 
 formities in extreme old age, they acquired an additional ghast- 
 liness, in proportion to their number of yenrs, -which is not 
 to be described ; and among half a dozen, I soon distinguished 
 which was the eldest, although there was not above a century 
 or two between them.”— Gulliver's Travels . 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 39 
 
 the speaker, who is not ignorant how much he 
 has been censured, the nature of the favor 
 conferred, and the respectful exultation at the 
 leceiptof it, are surely complete : it is truth 
 topsy-turvy, entirely logical and absurd. 
 
 As for the humor and conduct of this famous 
 fable, I suppose there is no person who reads 
 but must admire ; as for the moral, I think it 
 horrible, shameful, unmanly, blasphemous ; 
 and giant and great as this Dean is, I say we 
 should hoot him. Some of this audience 
 mayn’t have read the last part of “Gulliver,” 
 and to such I would recall the advice of the 
 venerable Mr. Punch to persons about to 
 marry, and say, “Don’t.” When Gulliver 
 first lands among the Yahoos, the naked howl- 
 ing wretches clamber up trees and assault him, 
 and he describes himself as “ almost stifled 
 with the filth which fell about him.” The 
 reader of the fourth part of “ Gulliver’s 
 Travels ” is like the hero himself in this in- 
 stance. It is Yahoo language : a monster 
 gibbering shrieks, and gnashing imprecations 
 against mankind — tearing down all shreds of 
 modesty, past all sense of manliness and 
 shame ; filthy in word, filthy in thought, furi- 
 ous, raging, obscene. 
 
 And dreadful it is to think that Swift knew 
 the tendency of his creed — the fatal rocks 
 towards which iiis logic desperately drifted. 
 That last part of “ Gulliver ” is only a conse- 
 quence of what has gone before ; and the worth- 
 lessness of all mankind, the pettiness, cruelty, 
 pride, imbecility, the general vanity, the fool- 
 
40 
 
 ENGLISH II U M OBIS TS. 
 
 ish pretension, the mock greatness, the pom- 
 pous dulness, the mean aims, the base suc- 
 cesses — all these were present to him ; it was 
 with the clin of these curses of the world, 
 blasphemies against heaven, shrieking in his 
 ears, that he began to write his dreadful alle- 
 gory, of which the meaning is that man is 
 utterly wicked, desperate, and imbecile, and 
 his passions are so monstrous, and his boasted 
 powers so mean, that he is and deserves to be 
 the slave of brutes, and ignorance is better 
 than his vaunted reason. What had this man 
 done? What secret remorse was rankling at 
 his heart? What fever was boiling in him, 
 that he should see all the world bloodshot? 
 We view the world with our own eyes, each of 
 us ; and we make from within us the world we 
 see. A weary heart gets no gladness out of 
 sunshine ; a selfish man is sceptical about 
 friendship, as a man with no ear doesn't care 
 for music. A frightful self-consciousness it 
 must have been, which looked on mankind so 
 darkly through those keen eyes of Swift. 
 
 A remarkable story is told bv Scott, of De^ 
 lany, who interrupted Archbishop King and 
 Swift in a conversation which left the prelate 
 in tears, and from which Swift rushed away 
 with marks of strong terror and agitation in 
 his countenance, upon which the Archbishop 
 said to Delany, u You have just met the most 
 unhappy man on earth ; but on the subject of 
 his wretchedness you must never ask a ques- 
 tion.” 
 
 The most unhappy man on earth ; — Miser- 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 41 
 
 rimus — what a character of him 1 And at 
 this time all the great wits of England had 
 been at his feet. All Ireland had shouted after 
 him, and worshipped him as a liberator, a 
 savior, the greatest Irish patriot and citizen. 
 Dean Drapier Bickerstaff Gulliver — the most 
 famous statesmen, and the greatest poets of 
 his day, had applauded him, and done him 
 homage ; and at this time, writing over to 
 Bolingbroke from Ireland, he says, u It is time 
 for me to have done with the world, and so I 
 would if I could get into a better before I was 
 called into the best, and not die here in a rage , 
 like a poisoned rat in a ho 7 e.” 
 
 We have spoken about .the men, and Swift’s 
 behavior to them ; and now it behooves us not 
 to forget that there are certain other persons 
 in the creation who had rather intimate re- 
 lations with the great Dean A Two women 
 
 * The name of Varina has been thrown into the shade by 
 those of the famous Stella and Vanessa; but she had a story of 
 her own to tell about the blue eyes of young Jonathan. One 
 may say that the book of Swift’s Life opens at places kept by 
 these blighted flowers ! Varina must have a paragraph. 
 
 She was a Miss Jane Waryng, sister to a college chum of his. 
 In 1696, when Swift was nineteen years old, wo And him writing 
 a love-letter to her, beginning, “ Impatience is the most insep- 
 arable quality of a lover.” But absence made a great difference 
 in his feelings; so, four years afterwards, the tone is changed, 
 lie writes again, a very curious letter, offering to marry her, and 
 putting the offer in such a way that nobody could possibly 
 accept it. 
 
 After dwelling on his poverty, etc., he says, conditionally, 
 “I shall be blessed to have you in my arms, without regarding 
 whether your person be beautiful or your fortune large. Clean- 
 liness in the first, and competency in the second, is all I ask 
 for! ” 
 
 The editors do not tell us what became of Varina in life. 
 One would be glad to know that she met with some worthy 
 partner and lived long enough to see her little boys laughing 
 over Lilliput, without any arriere pensee of a sad character 
 about the great Dean ! 
 
42 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 whom he loved and injured are known by every 
 reader of books so familiarly that if we had 
 seen them, or if they had been relatives of 
 our own, we scarcely could have known them 
 better. Who has n’t in his mind an image of 
 Stella? Who does not love her? Fair and 
 tender creature : pure and affectionate heart ! 
 Boots it to you, now that you have been at 
 rest for a hundred and twenty years, not 
 divided in death from the cold heart which 
 caused yours, whilst it beat, such faithful 
 pangs of love and grief — boots it to you now, 
 that the whole world loves and deplores you ? 
 Scarce any man, I believe, ever thought of 
 that grave, that did not cast a flower of pity 
 on it, and write over it a sweet epitaph. Gen- 
 tle lady, so lovely, so loving, so unhappy ! 
 you have had countless champions ; millions 
 of manly hearts mourning for you. From gen- 
 eration to generation we take up the fond 
 tradition of your beauty ; we watch and fol- 
 low your tragedy, your bright morning love 
 and purity, your constancy, your grief, your 
 sweet martyrdom. We know your legend -by 
 heart. You are one of the saints of English 
 story. 
 
 And if Stella’s love and innocence are 
 charming to contemplate, I will say that, in 
 spite of ill-usage, in spite of drawbacks, in 
 spite of mysterious separation and union, of 
 hope delayed and sickened heart — in the 
 teeth of Vanessa, and that little episodical 
 aberration which plunged Swift into such 
 woful pitfalls and quagmires of amorous per- 
 
SWIFT . 
 
 43 
 
 plexity — in spite of the verdicts of most 
 women, I believe, who, as far as my experi- 
 ence and conversation go, generally take 
 Vanessa’s part in the controversy — in spite 
 of the tears which Swift caused Stella to shed, 
 and the rocks and barriers which fate and 
 temper interposed, and which prevented the 
 pure course of that true love from running 
 smoothly — the brightest part of Swift’s story, 
 the pure star in that dark and tempestuous 
 life of Swift’s, is his love for Hester Johnson. 
 It has been my business, professionally of 
 course, to go through a deal of sentimental 
 reading in my time, and to acquaint myself with 
 love-making, as it has been described in various 
 languages, and at various ages of the world ; 
 and I know of nothing more manly, more ten- 
 der, more exquisitely touching, than some of 
 these brief notes, written in what Swift calls 
 44 his little language ” in his journal to Stella.*' 
 He writes to her night and morning often. He 
 never sends away a letter to her but he begins 
 a new one on the same day. He can’t bear to 
 let go her kind little hand, as it were. He 
 knows that she is thinking of him, and long- 
 
 * A sentimental Champollion might find a good deal of mat- 
 ter for his art, in expounding the symbols of ihe “ Little Lan- 
 guage.” Usually, Stella is “ M. D.,” but sometimes her com- 
 panion, Mrs. Dingley, is included in it. Swift is “Presto”; 
 also P. D. F. R. We have “ Good-night, M. D. ; Night, M. D ; 
 Little M. D.; Stellakins; Pretty Stella; Dear, roguish, impu- 
 dent, pretty M. D.” Every now and then he breaks into rhyme, 
 as — 
 
 “ I wish you both a merry New Year, 
 
 Roast-beef, mince-pies, and good strong beer, 
 
 And me a share of your good cheer, 
 
 That I was there, as you were here, 
 
 And you are a little saucy dear,” 
 
44 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 ing for him far away in Dublin yonder. He 
 takes her letters from under his pillow and 
 talks to them, familiarly, paternally, with fond 
 epithets and pretty caresses — as he would 
 to the sweet and artless creature who loved 
 him. “Stay,” be writes one morning, — it 
 is the 14th of December, 1710, — u Stay, 
 I will answer some of your letter this morn- 
 ing in bed. Let me see. Come and appear, 
 little letter! Here I am, says he, and what 
 say you to Stella this morning fresh and 
 fasting? And can Stella read this writing 
 without hurting her dear eyes?” he goes on, 
 after more kind prattle and fond whispering. 
 The dear eyes shine clearly upon him then — 
 the good angel of his life is with him and bless- 
 ing him. Ah, it was a hard fate that wrung 
 from them so many tears, and stabbed piti- 
 lessly that pure and tender bosom. A hard 
 fate : but would she have changed it? I have 
 heard a woman say that she would have taken 
 Swift’s cruelty to have had his tenderness. 
 He had a sort of worship for her whilst he 
 wounded her. He speaks of her after she- is 
 gone ; of her wit, of her kindness, of her 
 grace, of her beauty, with a simple love and 
 reverence that are indescribably touching ; in 
 contemplation of her goodness his hard heart 
 melts into pathos ; liis cold rhyme kindles and 
 glows into poetry, and he falls down on his 
 knees, so to speak, before the angel whose life 
 he had embittered, confesses his own wretched- 
 ness and unworthiness, and adores her with 
 cries of remorse and love : — 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 45 
 
 “ When on my sickly couch I lay, 
 
 Impatient both of night and day, 
 
 And groaning in unmanly strains, 
 
 Called every power to ease my pains, 
 
 Then Stella ran to my relief, 
 
 With cheerful face and inward grief, 
 
 And though by heaven’s severe decree 
 She suffers hourly more than me, 
 
 No cruel master could require 
 From slaves employed for daily hire, 
 
 What Stella, by her friendship warmed, 
 
 With vigor and delight performed. 
 
 Now, with a soft and silent tread, 
 
 Unheard she moves about my bed : 
 
 My sinking spirits now supplies 
 With cordials in her hands and eyes. 
 
 Best pattern of true friends! beware 
 You pay too dearly for your care 
 If, while your tenderness secures 
 My life, it must endanger yours : 
 
 For such a fool was never found 
 Who pulled a palace to the ground, 
 
 Only to have the ruins made 
 Materials for a house decayed.” 
 
 One little triumph Stella had in her life — 
 one dear little piece of injustice was performed 
 in her favor, for which I confess, for my part, 
 I can’t help thanking fate and the Dean. 
 That other person was sacrificed to her — that 
 — that young woman, who lived five doors 
 from Doctor Swift’s lodgings in Bury Street, 
 and who flattered him, and made love to him 
 in such an outrageous manner — Vanessa was 
 thrown over. 
 
 Swift did not keep Stella’s letters to him in 
 reply to those he wrote to her.* He kept 
 
 * The following passages are froTn a paper begun by Swift 
 on the evening of the day of her death, Jan. 28, 1727-8 : — 
 
 “ She was sickly from her childhood, until about the age of 
 fifteen; but then she grew into perfect health, and was looked 
 upon as one of the most beautiful, graceful, and agreeable young 
 
46 
 
 English n imonisfs. 
 
 Bolinbroke’s, and Pope’s, and Harley’s, and 
 Peterborough’s: but Stella “ very carefully,” 
 the Lives say, kept Swift’s. Of course : that 
 is the way of the world ; and fo we cannot tell 
 what her style was, or of what sort were the 
 little letters which the Doctor placed there at 
 night, and bade to appear from under his pil- 
 low of a morning. But in Letter IV. of that 
 famous collection he describes his lodging in 
 Bury Street, where he has the first floor, a din- 
 ing-room and bedchamber, at eight shillings a 
 
 women in London — only a little too fat. Her hair was blacker 
 than a raven, and every feature of her face in perfection. 
 
 “. . . Properly speaking” — he goes on, with a calmness 
 which, under the circumstances, is terrible — ‘‘she has been 
 dying six months ! . . . 
 
 “ Never was any of her sex born with better gifts of the 
 mind, or who more improved them by reading and conversation. 
 
 . . . All of us who had the happiness of her friendship agreed 
 unanimously, that in an afternoon’s or evening's conversation 
 she never failed before we parted of delivering the best thing 
 that was said in the company. Some of us have written down 
 several of her sayings, or what the French call bons mots , 
 wherein she excelled beyond belief.” 
 
 The specimens on record, however, in the Dean’s paper, 
 called “ Bons Mots de Stella,” scarcely bear out this last part of 
 the panegyric. But the following prove her wit : — 
 
 “ A gentleman who had been very silly and pert in her com- 
 pany, at last began to grieve at remembering the loss of a child 
 lately dead. A bishop sitting by comforted him — that he 
 should be easy, because ‘ the child was gone to heaven.’ ‘No, 
 my lord,’ said she; ‘ that is it which most grieves him, because 
 he is sure never to see his child there.’ 
 
 “When she was extremely ill, her physician said, ‘ Madam, 
 you are near the bottom of the hill, but we will endeavor to get 
 you up again.’ She answered, ‘ Doctor, I fear I shall be out of 
 breath before I get up to the top.’ 
 
 “ A very dirty clergyman of her acquaintance, who affected 
 smartness and repartees, was asked by some of the company 
 how his nails came to be so dirty. He was at a loss; but she 
 solved the difficulty by saying, ‘ The Doctor’s nails grew dirty 
 by scratching himself.’ 
 
 “A Quaker apothecary sent her a vial, corked; it had a 
 broad brim, snd a label of paper about its neck. ‘ What is 
 that?’ said she, ‘my apothecary’s son!’ The ridiculous re- 
 semblance, and the suddenness of the question, set us all 
 a-laughing.” — SivifVs Works, Scott’s Ed., vol. ix. 295-6. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 47 
 
 Week ; and in Letter VI. he says “ he has 
 visited a lady just come to town,” whose name 
 \ somehow is not mentioned ; and in Letter 
 Vlir. he enters a query of Stella’s, 44 What 
 do you mean 4 that boards near me, that I 
 dine with now and then’? What the deuce! 
 You know whom I have dined with every 
 day since I left you, better than I do.” Of 
 course she does. Of course Swift has not 
 the slightest idea of what she means. But 
 in a few letters more it turns out that the 
 Doctor has been to dine 44 gravely” with a 
 Mrs. Vanhomrigh : then that he has been to 
 44 his neighbor”: then that he has been un- 
 well, and means to dine for the whole week 
 with his neighbor ! Stella was quite right in 
 her previsions. She saw from the very first 
 hint, what was going to happen ; and scented 
 Vanessa in the air.* The rival is at the 
 Dean’s feet. The pupil and teacher are read- 
 ing together, and drinking tea together, and 
 going to prayers together, and learning Latin 
 together, and conjugating amo, amas, amavi 
 together. The 44 little language” is over for 
 poor Stella. By the rule of grammar and the 
 course of conjugation, does n’t amavi come 
 after amo and amas ? 
 
 *“1 am so hot and lazy after my morning’s walk, that I 
 loitered at Mrs. Vanhorarigh’s, where my best gown and peri- 
 wig was, and out of mere listlessness dine there t very often; 
 so I did to-day.” — Journal to Stella. 
 
 Mrs. Vanhomrigh, “ Vanessa’s ” mother, was the widow of a 
 Dutch merchant who held lucrative appointments in King Wil- 
 liam's time. The family settled in London in 1709, and had a 
 house in Bury Street, St. James’s — a street made notable by 
 such residents as Swift and Steele; and, in our own time, 
 Moore and Crabbe. 
 
48 
 
 ENGLISH III ■ MOIHSTS . 
 
 The loves of Cadeiius and Vanessa* you 
 may peruse in Cadenus’s own poem on the 
 subject, and in poor Vanessa’s vehement ex- 
 postulatory verses and letters to him ; she 
 adores him, implores him, admires him, thinks 
 him something godlike, and only prays to be 
 admitted to lie at his feet.f As they are 
 bringing him home from church, those divine 
 feet of Dr. Swift’s are found pretty often in 
 Vanessa’s parlor. He likes to be admired and 
 adored. He finds Miss Vanhomrigh to be a 
 woman of great taste and spirit, and beauty 
 and wit, and a fortune too. He sees her 
 every day ; he does not tell Stella about the 
 
 * “ Vanessa was excessively vain. The character given of 
 her by Cadenus is line painting, but in general fictitious. She 
 was fond of dress; impatient to be admired; very romantic in 
 her turn of mind; superior, in her own opinion, to all her sex; 
 full of pertness, gayety, and pride; not without some agreeable 
 accomplishments, but far from being either beautiful or genteel; 
 . . . happy in the thoughts of being reported Swift’s concubine, 
 but still aiming and intending to be his wife.” — Lord Orrery. 
 
 t “ You bid me be easy, and you would see me as often as 
 you could. You had better have said as often as you can get 
 the better of your inclinations so much; or as often as you re- 
 member there was such a one in the world. If you continue to 
 treat me as you do, you will not be made uneasy by me long. 
 It is impossible to describe what I have suffered since I saw you 
 last : I am sure I could have borne the rack much better than 
 those killing, killing words of yours. Sometimes I have re- 
 solved to die without seeing you more; but those resolves, to 
 your misfortune, did not last long; for there is something in 
 human nature that prompts one so to find relief in this world 
 I must give way to it, and beg you would see me, and speak 
 kindly to me; for I am sure you’d not condemn any one to 
 suffer what 1 have done, could you but know it. The reason I 
 write to you is, because I cannot tell it to you, should I see you ; 
 for when I begin to complain, then you are angry, and there is 
 something in your looks so awful that it strikes me dumb. Oh! 
 that you may have but so much regard for me left that this com- 
 plaint may touch your soul with pity. I say as little as ever I 
 can ; did you but know what I thought, I am sure it Avould move 
 you to forgive me ; and believe I cannot help telling you this 
 and live.” — Vanessa. (M, 1714.) 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 43 
 
 business : until the impetuous Vanessa becomes 
 too fond of him, until the Doctor is quite 
 frightened by the young woman’s ardor, and 
 confounded hy her warmth. He wanted to 
 marry neither of them — that I believe was 
 the truth; but if he had not married Stella, 
 Vanessa would have had him in spite of him- 
 self. When he went back to Ireland, his 
 Ariadne, not content to remain in her isle, 
 pursued the fugitive Dean. In vain he pro- 
 tested, he vowed, he soothed, and bullied ; 
 the news of the Dean’s marriage with Stella at 
 last came to her, and it killed her — she died 
 of that passion.* 
 
 And when she died, and Stella heard that 
 
 * “ If we consider Swift’s behavior, so far only as it relates 
 to women, we shall find that he looked upon them rather as 
 busts than as whole figures.” — Orreby. 
 
 “You would have smiled to have found his house a constant 
 seraglio of very virtuous women, who attended him from morn- 
 ing till night.” — Orrery. 
 
 A correspondent of Sir Walter Scott’s furnished him with 
 the materials on which to found the following interesting pas- 
 sage about Vanessa, after she had retired to cherish her passion 
 in retreat : — 
 
 “Marley Abbey, near Celbridge, where Miss Vanhomrigh 
 resided, is built much in the form of a real cloister, especially 
 in its external appearance. An aged man (upwards of ninety, 
 by his own account) showed the grounds to my correspondent. 
 He was the son of Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s gardener, and used to 
 work w:’th his father in the garden when a boy. He remem- 
 bered tne unfortunate Vanessa w r ell; and his account of her 
 corresponded with the usual description of her person, especially 
 as to her embonpoint. He said she went seldom abroad, and 
 saw little company ; her constant amusement was reading, or 
 walking in the garden. . . . She avoided company, and was 
 always melancholy, save when Dean Swift was there, and then 
 she seemed happy. The garden was to an uncommon degree 
 crowded with laurels. The old man said that when Miss Van- 
 homrigh expected the Dean, she always planted with her own 
 hand a laurel or two against his arrival. He showed her favor- 
 ite seat, still called ‘ Vanessa’s bower.’ Three or four trees 
 and some laurels indicate the spot. . . . There were two seats 
 and a rude table within the bower, the opening of which com- 
 manded a view of the Liffey. . . . Iu this sequestered spot, 
 
50 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 Swift had written beautifully regarding her, 
 “ That doesn’t surprise me,” said Mrs. Stella, 
 u for we all know the Dean could write beau- 
 tifully about a broomstick.” A woman — a 
 true woman ! Would you have had one of 
 them forgive the other? 
 
 In a note in his biography, Scott says that 
 
 according to the old gardener’s account, the Dean and Vanessa 
 used Often to sit, with books and writing materials on the table 
 before them.” — Scott’s Swift , vol. i. pip. 246-7. 
 
 “ . . . But Miss Vanhonirigh, irritated at the situation in 
 which she found herself, determined on bringing to a crisis 
 those expectations of a union with the object of her affections, 
 to the hope of which she had clung amid every vicissitude of his 
 Conduct towards her. The most probable bar was his undefined 
 connection with Mrs. Johnson, which, as it must have been 
 perfectly known to her, had, doubtless, long excited her secret 
 jealousy, although only a single hint to that purpose is to be 
 found in their correspondence, and that so early as 1713, when 
 she writes to him, — then in Ireland, — ‘If you are very happy, 
 It is ill-natured of you not to tell me so, except His what is in- 
 consistent with mme.’ Her silence and patience under this state 
 of uncertainty for no less than eight years, must have been 
 partly owing to her awe for Swift, and partly, perhaps, to the 
 weak state of her rival’s health, which from year to year 
 seemed to announce speedy dissolution. At length, however, 
 Vanessa’s impatience prevailed, and she ventured on the deci- 
 sive step of writing to Mrs. Johnson herself, requesting to know 
 the nature of that connection. Stella, in reply, informed her 
 of her marriage with the Dean; and full of the highest resent- 
 ment against Swift for having given another female such a right 
 in him as Miss Vanhomrigh’s inquiries implied, she sent to him 
 her rival’s letter of interrogation, and, without seeing him L or 
 awaiting his reply, retired to the house of Mr. Ford, near Dub- 
 lin. Every reader knows the consequence. Swift, in one of 
 those paroxysms of fury to w 7 hich he was liable, both from 
 temper and disease, rode instantly to Marley Abbey. As he 
 entered the apartment, the sternness of his countenance, which 
 was peculiarly formed to express the fiercer passions, struck 
 the unfortunate Vanessa with such terror that she could scarce 
 ask whether he would not sit down. He answered by flinging 
 a letter on the table, and, instantly leaving the house, mounted 
 his horse, and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa opened the 
 packet, she only found her own letter to Stella. It was her 
 death-warrant. She sunk at once under the disappointment of 
 the delayed yet cherished hopes which had so long sickened her 
 heart, and beneath the unrestrained wrath of him for whose 
 sake she had indulged them. How long she survived this last, 
 interview is uncertain, but the time does not seem to have ex 
 ceeded a few w T eeks.” — Scott. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 51 
 
 his friend Doctor Tuke, of Dublin, has a lock 
 of Stella’s hair, inclosed in a paper by Swift, 
 on which are written, in the Dean’s hand, the 
 words: u Only a woman’s hair An in- 
 stance, says Scott, of the Dean’s desire to 
 veil his feelings under the mask of cynical 
 indifference. 
 
 See the various notions of critics ! Do 
 those words indicate indifference or an attempt 
 to hide feeling? Did you ever hear or read 
 four words more pathetic? Only a woman’s 
 hair ; only love, onty fidelity, only purity, inno- 
 cence, beauty ; only the tenderest heart in the 
 world stricken and wounded, and passed away 
 now out of reach of pangs of hope deferred, 
 love insulted, and pitiless desertion : — only 
 that lock of hair left ; and memory and re- 
 morse, for the guilty, lonely wretch, shudder- 
 ing over the grave of his victim. 
 
 And yet to have had so much love, he must 
 have given some. Treasures of wit and wis- 
 dom, and tenderness, too, must that man have 
 had locked up in the caverns of his gloomy 
 heart, and shown fitfully to one or two whom 
 he took in there. But it was not good to 
 visit that place. People did not remain there 
 long, and suffered for having been there.* He 
 shrank away from all affections sooner or 
 
 * “ M. Swift est Rabelais dans son bon sens, et vivant en 
 bonne compagnie. II n’a pas, a la verite, la gaite du premier, 
 mais il a toute la finesse, la raison, le choix, le bon gofit qui 
 manquent a notre cure de Meudon. Ses vers sont d’un gout 
 singulier, et presque inimitable ; la bonne plaisanterie est son 
 partage en vers et en prose; mais pour le bien entendre il faut 
 faire un petit voyage dans son pays.” —Voltaire, Lettres sur 
 les Anglais. Let. 22. 
 
52 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 later. Stella and Vanessa both died near 
 him, and away from him. He had not heart 
 enough to see them die. He broke from his 
 fastest friend, Sheridan ; he slunk away from 
 his fondest admirer, Pope. His laugh jars 
 on one’s ear after seven-score } T ears. He was 
 always alone — alone and gnashing in the 
 darkness, except when Stella’s sweet smile 
 came and shone upon him. When that went, 
 silence and utter night closed over him. An 
 immense genius : an awful downfall and ruin. 
 So great a man he seems to me, that thinking 
 of him is like thinking of an empire falling. 
 We have other great names to mention ; none 
 I think, however, so great or so gloomy. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 A great number of years ago, before the 
 passing of the Reform Bill, there existed at 
 Cambridge a certain debating club, called the 
 kt Union” ; and I remember that there was a 
 tradition amongst the undergraduates who 
 frequented that renowned school of oratory, 
 that the great leaders of the Opposition and 
 Government had their eyes upon the Univer- 
 sity Debasing Club, and that if a man distin- 
 guished himself there he ran some chance of 
 being returned to Parliament as a great no- 
 bleman’s nominee. So Jones of John’s, or 
 Thomson of Trinity, would rise in their might, 
 and draping themselves in their gowns, rally 
 round the monarchy, or hurl defiance at priests 
 and kings, with the majesty of Pitt or the fire 
 of Mirabeau, fancying all the while that the 
 great nobleman’s emlss .ry was listening to the 
 debate from the back benches, where he was 
 sitting with the family seat in his pocket 
 Indeed, the legend said that one or two young 
 Cambridge men, orators of the u Union,” 
 were actually caught up thence, and carried 
 down to Cornwall or old Sarum, and so into 
 Parliament. And many a young fellow de- 
 serted the jogtrot University curriculum, to 
 hang on in the dust behind the fervid wheels 
 of the parliamentary chariot. 
 
 Where, I have often wondered, were the 
 

 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 sons of Peers and Members of Parliament in 
 Anne’s and George’s time? Were they all 
 in the army, or hunting in the country, or 
 boxing the watch? How was it that the young 
 gentlemen from the University got such a 
 prodigious number of places? A lad com- 
 posed a neat copy of verses at Christchurch or 
 Trinity, in which the death of a great person- 
 age was bemoaned, the French king assailed, 
 the Dutch or Prince Eugene complimented, or 
 the reverse ; and the party in power was pres- 
 en tl}' to provide for the young poet ; and a 
 commissionership, or a post in the Stamps, or 
 the secretaryship of an Embassy, or a clerk- 
 ship in the Treasury, came into the bard’s pos- 
 session. A wonderful fruit-bearing rod was 
 that of Busby’s. What have men of letters 
 got in our time ! Think, not onlj r of Swift, a 
 king fit to rule in any time or empire, but 
 Addison, Steele, Prior, Tickell, Congreve, 
 John Gay, John Dennis, and many others, 
 who got public employment, and pretty little 
 pickings out of the public purse.* The wits 
 
 * The following is a conspectus of them : — 
 
 Addison. — Commissioner of Appeals; Under Secretary of 
 State; Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ire- 
 land; Keeper of the Records in Ireland; Lord of 
 Trade; and one of the Principal Secretaries of 
 State, successively. 
 
 Steele. — Commissioner of the Stamp Office; Surveyor of the 
 Royal Stables at Hampton Court; and Governor 
 of the Royal Company of Comedians; Commis- 
 sioner of “ Forfeited Estates in Scotland.” 
 
 Prior. — Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague; Gentleman of 
 the Bedchamber to King William ; Secretary to 
 the Embassy in France; Under Secretary of State ; 
 Ambassador to France. 
 
 Tickell. — Under Secretary of State; Secretary to the Lords 
 Justices of Ireland. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 55 
 
 of whose names we shall treat in this lecture 
 and two following, all (save one) touched the 
 King’s coin, and had, at some period of their 
 lives, a happy quarter-day coming round for 
 them. 
 
 They all began at school or college in the 
 regular way, producing panegyrics upon pub- 
 lic characters, what were called odes upon 
 public events, battles, sieges, Court marriages 
 and deaths, in which the gods of Olympus 
 and the tragic muse were fatigued with invo- 
 cations, according to the fashion of the time 
 in France and in England. “Aid us, Mars, 
 Bacchus, Apollo,” cried Addison, or Congreve, 
 singing of William or Marlborough. “ic- 
 courez , chastes nymphes da Permesse ,” says 
 Boileau, celebrating the Grand Monarch. 
 u Des son^ que ma lyre enfante marquez-en 
 bien la cadence, et vans, vents, faites silence! 
 je vais parler de Louis ! ” School-boys’ themes 
 and foundation exercises are the only relics 
 left now of this scholastic fashion. The 
 Olympians are left quite undisturbed in their 
 mountain. What man of note, what contrib- 
 utor to the poetry of a country newspaper, 
 would now think of writing a congratulatory 
 ode on the birth of the heir to a dukedom, or 
 the marriage of a nobleman? In the past 
 
 Congreve. — Commissioner for licensing Hackney-Coaches; 
 
 Commissioner for Wine Licenses ; place in the 
 Pipe Office; post in the Custom House; Secretary 
 of Jamaica. 
 
 Gay. — Secretary to the Earl of Clarendon (when Ambassador 
 to Hanover). 
 
 John Dennis. — A place in the Custom House. 
 
 “ En Angleterre . . . les lettres sont plus en honneur 
 qu’ici.”— Voltaire, lettres sur les Anglais. Let. 20, 
 
56 
 
 ENGLISH HUM 0 LISTS. 
 
 century the young gentlemen of the Univer- 
 sities all exercised themselves at these queer 
 compositions ; and some got fame, and some 
 gained patrons and places for life, and many 
 more took nothing by these efforts of what 
 they were pleased to call their muses. 
 
 William Congreve’s* Pindaric Odes are still 
 to be found in u Johnson’s Poets,” that now 
 unfrequented poets’-corner, in which so many 
 forgotten big-wigs have a niche ; but though 
 he was also voted to be one of the greatest 
 tragic poets of any day, it was Congreve’s wit 
 and humor which first recommended him to 
 courtly fortune. And it is recorded that his 
 first play, the “Old Bachelor,” brought our 
 author to the notice of that great patron of 
 English muses, Charles Montague Lord Hali- 
 fax — who, being desirous to place so eminent 
 a wit in a state of ease and tranquillity, in- 
 stantly made him one of the Commissioners 
 for licensing hacknej^-coaches, bestowed on 
 him soon after a place in the Pipe Office, and 
 likewise a post in the Custom House of the 
 value of £ 600 . 
 
 A commissionership of hackney-coaches — 
 a post in the Custom House — a place in the 
 Pipe Office, and all for writing a comedy! 
 Does n’t it sound like a fable, that place in the 
 Pipe Office? f u Ah, Vheureux temps que celui 
 
 * He was the soil of Colonel 'William Congreve, and grandson 
 of Richard Congreve, Esq., of Congreve and Stretton, Stafford- 
 shire — a very ancient family. 
 
 t “ Pipe. — Pipa, in law, is a roll in the Exchequer, called 
 also the great roll. 
 
 “ ripe Office is an office in which a person called the Clerk 
 of the Pipe makes out leases of Crown lands, by warrant from 
 
CONGEE VE AND ADDISON. 
 
 57 
 
 de ces fables /” Men of letters there still be : 
 but I doubt whether any Pipe Offices are left. 
 The public has smoked them long ago. 
 
 Words, like men, pass current for a while 
 with the public, and being known everywhere 
 abroad, at length take their places in societ} 7 ; 
 so even the most secluded and refined ladies 
 here present will have heard the phrase from 
 their sons or brothers at school, and wfill per- 
 mit me to call William Congreve, Esquire, the 
 most eminent literary u swell ” of his age. In 
 my copy of “Johnson’s Lives,” Congreve’s 
 wig is the tallest, and put on with the jauntiest 
 air of all the laurelled worthies. “I am the 
 great Mr. Congreve,” he seems to say, looking 
 out from his voluminous curls. People called 
 him the great Mr. Congreve.* * From the be- 
 ginning of his career until the end everybody 
 admired him. Having got his education in 
 Ireland, at the same school and college with 
 Swift, he came to live in the Middle Temple, 
 
 the Lord Treasurer, or Commissioners of the Treasury, or Chan- 
 cedor of the Exchequer. 
 
 “Clerk of the Pipe makes up all accounts of sheriffs, etc.** 
 — Rees, Cyclopced ., Art. Pipe. 
 
 “ I'ipe Office. — Spelraan thinks so called, because the papers 
 were kept in a large pipe or cask. 
 
 “ ‘ These be at last brought into that office of Her Majesty’s 
 Exchequer, which we, by a metaphor, do call the pipe . . . 
 because the whole receipt is finally conveyed into it by means 
 of divers small pipes or quills.’ — Bacon, The Office of Alien- 
 ations ” 
 
 [We are indebted to Richardson’s Dictionary for this frag- 
 ment of erudition. But a modern man of letters can know little 
 on these points — by experience.] 
 
 * It has been observed that no change of Ministers affected 
 him iu the least; nor was he ever removed from any post that 
 was given to him, except to a better. His place in the Custom 
 
 house, and his office of Secretary in Jamaica, are said to have 
 brought him in upwards of twelve hundred a year.’ , — Blog . 
 Dr it., Art. Congreve. 
 
58 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 London, where he luckily bestowed no atten- 
 tion to the law ; but splendidly frequented the 
 coffee-houses and theatres, and appeared in 
 the side-box, the tavern, the Piazza, and the 
 Mall, brilliant, beautiful, and victorious from 
 the first. Everybody acknowledged the young 
 chieftain. The great Mr. Dryden* declared 
 that he was equal to Shakespeare, and be- 
 queathed to him his own undisputed poetical 
 crown, and writes of him: 66 Mr. Congreve 
 has done me the favor to review the c iEneis,’ 
 and compare my version with the original. I 
 shall never be ashamed to own that this ex- 
 
 * Dryden addressed his “ twelfth epistle ” to “ My dear friend, 
 Mr. Congreve,” on his comedy called the “ Double Dealer,” in 
 which he says : — 
 
 “ Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please; 
 
 Yet, doubling Fletcher’s force, he wants his ease. 
 
 In differing talents both adorned their age : 
 
 One for the study, t’ other for the stage. 
 
 But both to Congreve justly shall submit, 
 
 One match’d in judgment, both o’ermatched in wit. 
 
 In him all beauties of this age we see,” etc., etc. 
 
 The “ Double Dealer,” however, was not so palpable a hit as the 
 “ Old Bachelor,” but, at first, met with opposition. The critics 
 having fallen foul of it, our “ Swell ” applied the scourge to that 
 presumptuous body, in the “ Epistle Dedicatory ” to the “ Right 
 Honorable Charles Montague.” 
 
 “ I was conscious,” said he, “ where a true critic might have 
 put me upon my defence. I was prepared for the attack, . . . 
 but I have not heard anything said sufficient to provoke an 
 answer.” 
 
 He goes on : — 
 
 “But there is one thing at which I am more concerned thau 
 all the false criticisms that are made upon me; and that is, some 
 of the ladies are offended. 1 am heartily sorry for it; for I de- 
 clare, I would rather disoblige all the critics in the world than 
 one of the fair sex. They are concerned that I have represented 
 some women vicious and affected. How can I help it? It is 
 the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of 
 humankind. . . . I shall be very glad of an opportunity to make 
 my compliments to those ladies who are offended. But they can 
 no more expect it in a comedy, than to be tickled by a surgeon 
 when he is letting their blood” 
 
CONGBEVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 59 
 
 cellent young man has showed me many faults 
 which I have endeavored to correct.” 
 
 The ‘‘excellent young man” was but three 
 or four and twenty when the great Dryden thus 
 spoke of him : the greatest literary chief in 
 England, the veteran field-marshal of letters, 
 himself the marked man of all Europe, and the 
 centre of a school of w T its who daily gathered 
 round his chair and tobacco-pipe at Wills. 
 Pope dedicated his “Iliad” to him;* Swift, 
 Addison, Steele, all acknowledged Congreve’s 
 rank, and lavish compliments upon him. Vol- 
 taire went to wait upon him as on one of the 
 Representatives of Literature ; and the man 
 who scarce prais°s any other living person — 
 who flung abuse at Pope, and Swift, and Steele, 
 and Addison — the Grub Street Timon, old 
 John Dennis,! was hat in hand to Mr. Con- 
 greve ; and said that when he retired from the 
 stage, Comedy went with him. 
 
 Nor was lie less victorious elsewhere. He 
 was admired in the drawing-rooms as well as 
 the coffee-house ; as much beloved in the side- 
 
 *“ Instead of endeavoring to raise a vain monument to my- 
 self, let me leave behind me a memorial of my friendship with 
 one of the most valuable men as well as finest writers of my age 
 and country — one who has tried, and knows by his own expe- 
 rience, how hard an undertaking it is to do justice to Homer — 
 and one who, I am sure, seriously rejoices with me at the period 
 of my labors. To him, therefore, having brought this long work 
 to a conclusion, I desire to dedicate it, and to have the honor 
 and satisfaction of placing together in this manner the names of 
 Mr. Congreve and of — A. Pope.” — Postscript to Translation 
 of the Iliad of Homer, March 25, 1720. 
 
 t “ When asked why he listened to the praises of Dennis, he 
 said he had much rather be flattered than abused. Swift had a 
 particular friendship for our author, and generously took him 
 under his protection in his high authoritative manner. ’’ — Thos, 
 Davies, Dramatic Miscellanies, 
 
60 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 box as the on stage. He loved, and conquered, 
 and jilted the beautiful Bracegirdle,* the hero- 
 ine of all his plays, the favorite of all the town 
 of her day ; and the Duchess of Marlborough, 
 Marlborough’s daughter, had such an admira- 
 tion of him, that when he died she had an 
 ivory figure made to imitate him, I and a large i 
 wax doll with gouty feet to be dressed just as 
 the great Congreve’s gouty feet were dressed 
 in his great lifetime. He saved some money 
 by his Pipe Office, and his Custom House 
 office, and his Hackney-Coach office, and 
 nobly left it, not to Bracegirdle,}; who wanted 
 
 *“ Congreve was very intimate for years with Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle, and lived in the same street, his house very near hers, 
 until his acquaintance with the young Duchess of Marlborough. 
 He then quitted that house. The Duchess showed me a diamond 
 necklace (which Lady Di. used afterwards to wear) that cost 
 seven thousand pounds, which was purchased with the money 
 Congreve left her. How much better would it have been to 
 have given it to poor Mrs. Bracegirdle.” — Dr. Young. Spence's 
 Anecdotes. 
 
 t “ A glass was put in the hand of the statue, which was 
 supposed to how to her Grace and to nod in approbation of what 
 she spoke to it.” — Thos. Davies, Dramatic Miscellanies. 
 
 J The sum Congreve left Mrs. Bracegirdle was £200, as 
 is said in the “Dramatic Miscellanies ” of Tom Davies; where 
 are some particulars abo at this ch .rming actress and beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 ^he had a “lively aspect,” says Tom, on the authority of 
 Cibber, and “ such a glow of health and cheerfulness in her 
 countenance, as inspired everybody with desire.” “Scarce an 
 audience saw her that were not half of them her lovers.” 
 
 Congreve and Rowe courted her in the persons of their 
 lovers. “ In ‘ Tamerlane,’ liowe courted her Selima, in the per- 
 son of Axalla. . . . ; Congreve insinuated his addresses in his 
 Valentine to her Angelica, in ‘ Love for Love in his Osmyn to 
 her Almena, in the ‘ Mourning Bride and. lastly, in his Mirabel 
 to her Millamant, in the ‘ Way of the World.’ Mirabel, the 
 tine gentleman of the play, is, I believe, not very distant from 
 the real character of Congreve.”— Dramatic Miscellanies, vol. 
 iii. 1784. 
 
 She retired from the stage when Mrs. Oldfield began to be 
 the public favorite, She died in 1748, in the eighty-fifth year 
 of her age, 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 61 
 
 it, but to the Duchess of Marlborough, who 
 did n’t.* 
 
 How can I introduce you to that merry and 
 shameless Comic Muse who won him such a 
 reputation? Nell Gwynn’s servant fought the 
 other footman for having called his mistress a 
 bad name ; and in like manner, and with 
 pretty like epithets, Jeremy Collier attacked 
 that godless, reckless Jezebel, the English 
 comedy of his time, and called her what Nell 
 Gwynn’s man’s fellow-servants called Nell 
 Gwynn’s man’s mistress. The servants of 
 the theatre, Dryden, Congreve, f and others, 
 defended themselves with the same success, 
 and for the same cause which set Nell’s lackey 
 
 * Johnson calls his legacy the “accumulation of attentive 
 parsimony, which,” he continues, “ though to her (the Duchess) 
 superfluous and useless, might have given great assistance to the 
 ancient family from which he descended, at that time, by the 
 imprudence of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress.” 
 — Lives of the Poets. 
 
 file replied to Collier, in the pamphlet called “ Amend- 
 ments of Mr. Collier’s False and Imperfect Citations,” etc. A 
 specimen or two are subjoined : — 
 
 “ The greater part of these examples which he has produced 
 are only demonstrations of his own impurity : they only savor 
 of his utterance, and were sweet enough till tainted by his 
 breath. 
 
 “ Where the expression is unblamable in its own pure and 
 genuine signification, he enters into it, himself, like the evil 
 spirit; he possesses the innocent phrase, and makes it bellow 
 forth his own blasphemies. 
 
 “ If I do not return him civilities in calling him names, it is 
 because I am not very well versed in his nomenclatures. . . . 
 I will only call him Mr. Collier, and that I will call him as often 
 as I think he shall deserve it. 
 
 “ The corruption of a rotten divine is the generation of a 
 sour critic.” 
 
 “Congreve,” says Dr. Johnson, “ a very young man, elated 
 with success, and impatient of censure, assumed an air of con- 
 fidence and security. . . . The dispute was protracted through 
 ten years; but at last comedy grew more modest, and Collier 
 lived to see the reward of his labors in the reformation of the 
 theatre.” — Life of Congreve. 
 
62 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 fighting. She was a disreputable, daring v 
 laughing, painted French baggage, that Comic 
 Muse. She came over from the Continent 
 with Charles (who chose many more of his 
 female friends there) at the Restoration — a 
 wild, dishevelled Lai's, with eyes bright with 
 wit and wine — a saucy court favorite that sat 
 at the King’s knees, and laughed in his face, 
 and when she showed her bold cheeks at her 
 chariot window, had some of the noblest and 
 most famous people of the land bowing round 
 her wheel. She was kind and popular enough, 
 that daring Comedy, that audacious poor Nell : 
 she w r as gay and generous, kind, frank, as 
 such people can afford to be : and the men 
 ’who lived with her and laughed with her took 
 her pay and drank her wine, turned out when 
 the Puritans hooted her, to fight and defend 
 her. But the jade was indefensible, and it is 
 pretty certain her servants knew it. 
 
 There is life and dentil going on in every- 
 thing : truth and lies always at battle. Pleas- 
 ure is always warring against self-restraint. 
 Doubt is always crying PsLa ! and sneering. 
 A man in life, a humorist, in writing about 
 life, sways over to one principle or the other, 
 and laughs with the reverence for right and the 
 love of truth in his heart, or laughs at these 
 from the other side. Didn’t I tell you that 
 dancing was a serious business to Harlequin? 
 I have read two or three of Congreve’s pla} r s 
 over before speaking of him ; and my feelings 
 were rather like those, which I dare say most 
 of us here have had, at Pompeii, looking at 
 
CONGEE VD AND ADDISON'. 
 
 63 
 
 Sallust’s house and the relics of an orgy : a 
 dried wine-jar or two, a charred supper-table, 
 the breast of a dancing-girl pressed against 
 the ashes, the laughing skull of a jester : a 
 perfect stillness round about, as the cicerone 
 twangs his moral, and the blue sky shines 
 calmly over the ruin. The Congreve Muse is 
 dead, and her song choked in Time’s ashes. 
 We gaze at the skeleton, and wonder at the 
 life which once revelled in its mad veins. We 
 take the skull up, and muse over the frolic and 
 daring* the wit, scorn, passion, hope, desire, 
 with which that empty bowl once fermented. 
 We think of the glances that allured, the tears 
 that melted, of the bright eyes that shone in 
 those vacant sockets ; and of lips whispering 
 love, and cheeks dimpling with smiles, that 
 once covered yon ghastly yellow framework. 
 They used to call those teeth pearl once. See, 
 there ’s the cup she drank from, the gold chain 
 she wore on her neck, the vase which held the 
 rouge for her cheeks, her looking-glass, and 
 the harp she used to dance to. Instead of a 
 feast we find a gravestone, and in place of a 
 mistress, a few bones ! 
 
 Reading in these plays now, is like shutting 
 your ears and looking at people dancing. 
 What does it mean ? the measures, the grim- 
 aces, the bowing, shuffling and retreating, the 
 cavalier seul advancing upon those ladies — 
 those ladies and men twirling round .-it the end 
 in a mad galop, after which everybody bows 
 and the quaint rite is celebrated. Without the 
 music we can’t understand that comic dance 
 
64 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 of the last century— its strange gravity and 
 gayety, its decorum or indecorum. It has a 
 jargon of its own quite unlike life ; a sort of 
 moral of its own quite unlike life too. I am 
 afraid it ’s a Heathen mystery symbolizing a 
 Pagan doctrine ; protesting — as the Pom- 
 peians very likely were, assembled at their 
 theatre and laughing at their games ; as 
 Sallust and his friends, and their mistresses, 
 protested, crowned with flowers, with cups in 
 their hands — against the new, hard, ascetic, 
 pleasure-hating doctrine whose gaunt disciples, 
 lately passed over from the Asian shores of 
 the Mediterranean, were for breaking the fair 
 images of Venus and flinging the altars of 
 Bacchus down. 
 
 I fancy poor Congreve’s theatre is a temple 
 of Pagan delights, and mysteries not per- 
 mitted except among heathens. I fear the 
 theatre carries down that ancient tradition 
 and worship, as Masons have carried their 
 secret signs and rites from temple to temple. 
 When the libertine hero carries off the beauty 
 in the play, and the dotard is laughed to scorn 
 for having the young wufe : in the ballad, 
 when the poet bids his mistress to gather roses 
 while she may, and warns her that old Time is 
 still a-flying : in the ballet, when honest Cory- 
 don courts Pliidis under the treillage of the 
 pasteboard cottage, and leers at her over the 
 head of grandpapa in red stockings, who is 
 opportunely asleep ; and when seduced by 
 the invitations of the rosy youth she comes 
 forward to the footlights, and they perform on 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 65 
 
 each other's tiptoes that pas which you all 
 know, and which is only interrupted by old 
 grandpapa awaking from his doze at the paste- 
 board chalet (whither he returns to take 
 another nap in case the young people get an 
 encore) : when Harlequin, splendid in youth, 
 strength, and agility, arrayed in gold and a 
 thousand colors, springs over the heads of 
 countless perils, leaps down the throat of be- 
 wildered giants, and, dauntless and splendid, 
 dances danger down : when Mr. Punch, that 
 godless old rebel, breaks every law and laughs 
 at it with odious triumph, outwits his lawyer, 
 bullies the beadle, knocks his wife about the 
 head, and hangs the hangman — don't you see 
 in the comedy, in the song, in the dance, in 
 the ragged little Punch’s puppet-show — the 
 Pagan protest? Doesn’t it seem as if Life 
 puts in its plea and sings its comment ? Look 
 how the lovers walk and hold each other’s 
 hands and wdiisper ! Sings the chorus — 
 “ There is nothing like love, there is noth- 
 ing like youth, there is nothing like beauty of 
 your springtime. Look ! how old age tries 
 to meddle with merry sport ! Beat him with 
 his own crutch, the wrinkled old dotard ! 
 There is nothing like youth, there is noth- 
 ing like beauty, there is nothing like strength. 
 Strength and valor win beauty and youth 
 Be brave and conquer. Be young and happy. 
 Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy ! Would you know the 
 Segreto per esser felice? Here it is, in a 
 smiling mistress and a cup of Falernian.” 
 As the boy tosses the cup and sings his 
 5 
 
66 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS, 
 
 song — hark ! what is that chant coming nearer 
 and nearer ? What is that dirge which will dis- 
 turb us? The lights of the festival burn dim 
 
 — the cheeks turn pale — the voice quavers 
 
 — and the cup drops on the floor. Who ’s 
 there? Death and Fate are at the gate, and 
 they will come in. 
 
 Congreve’s comic feast flares with lights, 
 and round the table, emptying their flaming- 
 bowls of drink, and exchanging the wildest 
 jests and ribaldry, sit men and women, 
 waited on by rascally valets and attendants as 
 dissolute as their mistresses — perhaps the 
 very worst company in the world. There 
 doesn’t seem to be a pretence of morals. At 
 the head of the table sits Mirabel or Belmour 
 (dressed in the French fashion and waited on 
 bv English imitators of Scapin and PTontin). 
 Their calling is to be irresistible, and to con- 
 quer everywhere. Like the heroes of the 
 chivalry story, whose long-winded loves and 
 combats they were sending out of fashion, 
 they are always splendid and triumphant — - 
 overcome all dangers, vanquish all enemies, 
 and win the beauty at the end. Fathers, hus 
 bands, usurers are the foes these champions 
 contend with. They are merciless in old age, 
 invariably, and the old man plays the part in 
 the dramas wdiicli the wicked enchanter or the 
 great blundering giant performs in the chivalry 
 tales, who threatens and grumbles and resists 
 
 — a huge stupid obstacle always overcome by 
 the knight. It is an old man with a money- 
 box : Sir Belmour his son or nephew spends 
 
CONGEE VE AND ADDISON 
 
 67 
 
 his money and laughs at him. It is an old 
 \ man with a young wife whom he locks up : 
 Sir Mirabel robs him of his wife, trips up his 
 gouty old heels and leaves the old hunks. 
 The old fool, what business has he to hoard 
 his money, or to lock up blushing eighteen? 
 Money is for youth, love is for youth, away 
 with the old people. When Millamant is sixty, 
 having of course divorced the first Lady Milla- 
 mant, and marries his friend Doricourt’s 
 granddaughter out of the nursery — it will be 
 his turn ; and young Belmour will make a fool 
 of him. All this pretty morality you have 
 in the comedies of William Congreve, Esq. 
 They are full of wit. Such manners as he 
 observes, he observes with great humor ; but 
 ah ! it ’s a weary feast, that banquet of wit 
 where no love is. It palls very soon ; sad in- 
 digestions follow it and lonely blank headaches 
 in the morning. 
 
 I can’t pretend to quote scenes from the 
 splendid Congreve’s plays * — which are unde- 
 
 * The scene of Valentine’s pretended madness in “ Love for 
 Love ” is a splendid specimen of Congreve’s daring manner : — 
 
 Scandal. And have you given your master a hint of their 
 plot upon him? 
 
 Jeremy. Yes, sir; he says he’ll favor it, and mistake her 
 for Angelica. 
 
 Scandal. It may make us sport. 
 
 Foresight. Mercy on us ! 
 
 Valentine. Iluslit — interrupt me not — I’ll whisper pre- 
 dictions to thee, and thou shalt prophesie ; — I am truth, and can 
 teach thy tongue a new trick, — I have told thee what ’s passed — 
 now I’ll tell what’s to come: — Dost thou know what will 
 happen to-morrow? Answer me not — for I will tell thee. 
 To-morrow knaves will thrive thro’ craft, and fools thro’ for- 
 tune : and honesty will go as it did, frost-nipt in a summer suit 
 Ask me questions concerning to-morrow. 
 
 Scandal. Ask him, Mr. Foresight. 
 
 Foresight. Pray what will be done at Court? 
 
68 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 niably bright, witty, and daring — any more 
 than I could ask you to hear the dialogue of a 
 
 Valentine . Scandal will tell you ; — I am truth, I never come 
 there. 
 
 Foresight. In the city? 
 
 Valentine. Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at 
 the usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous faces behind 
 counters as if religion were to be sold in every shop. Oh, things 
 will go methodically in the city, the clocks will strike twelve 
 at noon, and the horn’d herd buzz in the Exchange at two. 
 Husbands and wives will drive distinct trades, and care and 
 pleasure separately occupy the family. Coffee-houses will be 
 full of smoke and stratagem. And the cropt ’prentice that 
 sweeps his master’s shop in the morning, may, ten to one, dirty 
 his sheets before night. But there are two things that you will 
 see very strange; which are, wanton wives with their legs at 
 liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about their necks. But 
 hold, I must examine you before I go further; you look sus- 
 piciously. Are you a husband? 
 
 Foresight. 1 am married. 
 
 Valentine. Poor creature ! Is your w r ife of Covent-Garden 
 Parish? 
 
 Foresight. No; St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields. 
 
 Valentine. Alas, poor man ! his eyes are sunk, and his hands 
 shrivelled; his legs dwindled; and his back bow’d. Pray, pray 
 for a metamorphosis — change thy shape, and shake off age; 
 get thee Medea’s kettle and be boiled anew; come forth with 
 lab’ring callous hands, and chine of steel, and Atlas’ shoulders. 
 Let Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make 
 thee pedestals to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the 
 face. Ha, ha, ha! That a man should have a stomach to a 
 wedding supper, when the pidgeons ought rather to be laid to 
 his feet ! 11a, ha, ha ! 
 
 Foresight. Ilis frenzy is very high now, Mr. Scandal. 
 
 Scandal. I believe it is a spring tide. 
 
 Foresight. Very likely — truly; you understand these mat- 
 ters. Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you about 
 these things he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious 
 and hieroglyphic »1. 
 
 Valentin ?. Oh! why would Angelica be absent from my 
 eyes so long? 
 
 Jeremy. She ’s here, sir. 
 
 Mrs. Foresight. Now, sister? 
 
 Mrs. Frail. O Lord! what must I say? 
 
 Scandal. Humor him, madam, by all means. 
 
 Valentine. Where is she? Oh! I see her: she comes, like 
 Riches. Health, and Liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, 
 and abandoned wretch. Oh welcome, welcome! 
 
 Mrs. Frail. How d’ ye, sir? Can I serve you? 
 
 Valentine. Hark’ee — I have a secret to tell you. Endy- 
 mion and the moon shall meet us on Mount Latmos, and we ’ll 
 be married in the dead of night. Bu': say not a word. Hymen 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 69. 
 
 witty bargeman and a brilliant fiskwomaa 
 exchanging compliments at Billingsgate ; but 
 
 shall put his torch into a dark lanthorn, that it may be secret; 
 and Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he may fold 
 his ogling tail; and Argus’s hundred eyes be shut — ha! No- 
 body shall know, but Jeremy. 
 
 Mrs. Frail. No, no; we’ll keep it secret; it shall be done 
 presently. 
 
 Valentine. The sooner the better. Jeremy, come hither — 
 closer — that none may overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you 
 news : Angelica is turned nun, and I am turning friar, and yet 
 we ’ll marry one another in spite of the Pope. Get me a cowl 
 and beads, that I may play my part; for she’ll meet me two 
 hours hence in black and white, and a long veil to cover the 
 project, and we won’t see one another’s faces till we have 
 done something to be ashamed of, and then we ’ll blush once for 
 all. . . . 
 
 Enter Tattle. 
 
 Tattle. Do you kuow me, Valentine? 
 
 Valentine. You ! — who are you? No, I hope not. 
 
 Tattle. I am Jack Tattle, your friend. 
 
 Valentine. My friend ! What to do? I am no married man, 
 and thou canst not lye with my wife ; I am very poor, and thou 
 canst not borrow money of me. Then what employment have I 
 for a friend? 
 
 Tattle. Hah ! A good open speaker, and not to to be trusted 
 with a secret. 
 
 Angelica. Do you know me, Valentine? « 
 
 Valentine. Oh, very well. 
 
 Angelica. Who am I? 
 
 Valentine. You ’re a woman, one to whom Heaven gave 
 beauty when it grafted roses on a brier. You are the reflection 
 of Heaven in a pond; and he that leaps at you is sunk. You 
 are all white — a sheet of spotless paper — when you first are 
 born ; but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every goose’s 
 quill. I know you; for I loved a woman, and loved her so long 
 that I found out a strange thing : I found out what a woman was 
 good for. 
 
 Tattle. Ay! pr’ythee, what ’s that? 
 
 Valentine. Why, to keep a secret. 
 
 Tattle. O Lord ! 
 
 Valentine. Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret ; for, though 
 she should tell, yet she is not to be believed. 
 
 Tattle. Hah! Good again, faith. 
 
 Valentine. I would have musick. Sing me the song that I 
 like. — Congreve, Love fur Love. 
 
 There is a Mrs. Nickleby, of the year 1700, in Congreve’s 
 comedy of “ The Double Dealer,” in whose character the 
 author introduces some wonderful traits of roguish satire. She 
 is practised on by the gallants of the play, and no more knows 
 
TO 
 
 ENGLISH HTJMOBXSTS. 
 
 some of his verses — they were amongst the 
 most famous lyrics of the time, and pronounced 
 
 how to resist them than any of the ladies above quoted could 
 resist Congreve. 
 
 Lady Plyant. Oh ! reflect upon the horror of your conduct ! 
 Offering to pervert me [the joke is that the gentleman is pressing 
 the lady for her daughter’s hand, not for her own] — perverting 
 me from the road of virtue, in which I have trod thus long, and 
 never made one trip — not one faux pas. Oh, consider it : what 
 would you have to answer for, if you should provoke me to 
 frailty ! Alas ! humanity is feeble, heaven knows ! Very feeble 
 and unable to support itself. 
 
 Mellefont. Where am I? Is it day? and am I awake? 
 Madam — 
 
 Lady Plyant. O Lord, ask me the question! I swear I’ll 
 deny it. Therefore don’t ask me; nay, you sha’n’t ask me, I 
 swear I ’ll deny it. O Gemini, you have brought all the blood 
 into my face; I warrant I am as red as a turkey-cock. O fie, 
 cousin Mellefont! 
 
 Mellefont. Nay, madam, hear me; I mean — 
 
 Lady Plyant Hear you? No, no; I’ll deny you first, and 
 hear you afterwards. For one does not know how one’s mind 
 may change upon hearing — hearing is one of the senses, and 
 all the senses are fallible. I won’t trust my honor, I assure you ; 
 my honor is infallible and uncomatable. 
 
 Mellefont. For heaven’s sake, madam — 
 
 Lady Plyant. Oh, name it no more. Bless me, how can 
 you talk of heaven, and have so much wickedness in your heart? 
 May be, you don’t think it a sin. They say some of you gentle- 
 men don’t think it a sin ; but still, my honor, if it were no sin 
 — But, then, to marry my daughter for the convenience of fre- 
 quent opportunities — I ’ll never consent to that : as sure as can 
 be I ’ll break the match. 
 
 Mellefont. Death and amazement! madam, upon my 
 knees — 
 
 Lady Plyant. Nay, nay, rise up! come, you shall see nay 
 good-nature. I know love is powerful, and nobody can help his 
 passion. ’T is not your fault; nor I swear it is not mine. How 
 can I help it, if I have charms? And how can you help it, if 
 you are made a captive? I swear it is pity it should be a fault; 
 but, my honor. Well, but your honor, too — but the sin! 
 Well, but the necessity. O Lord, here’s somebody coming. I 
 dare not stay. Well, you must consider of your crime, and 
 strive as much as can be against it — strive, be sure; but don’t 
 be raelancholick — don't despair; but never think that I’ll grant 
 you anything. O Lord, no ; but be sure you lay aside all 
 thoughts of the marriage, for though I know you don’t love Cyn- 
 thia, only as a blind to your passion for me — yet it will make 
 me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? Jealous ! No, no, I can’t 
 be jealous; for I must not love you. Therefore, don’t hope; but 
 don’t despair neither. Oh, they ’re coming ; I must fly. — The 
 Double Dealer , Act II., Scene 5, p. 156, 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 71 
 
 equal to Horace by his contemporaries — may 
 give an idea of his power, of his grace, of his 
 daring manner, his magnificence in compli- 
 ment, an l his polished sarcasm. He writes 
 as if he was so accustomed to conquer, that 
 he has a poor opinion of his victims. Noth- 
 ing ’s new except their faces, says he : u every 
 woman is the same.” He says this in his first 
 comedy, which he wrote languidly* in illness, 
 when he was an u excellent young man.” 
 Richelieu at eighty could have hardly said a 
 more excellent thing. 
 
 When he advances to make one of his con- 
 quests, it is with a splendid gallantry, in full 
 uniform and with the fiddles playing, like 
 Grammont’s French dandies attacking the 
 breach of Lerida. 
 
 “ Cease, cease to ask her name,” he writes 
 of a young lady at the Wells at Tunbridge, 
 whom he salutes with a magnificent compli- 
 ment — 
 
 “ Cease, cease to ask her name, 
 
 The crowned Muse’s noblest theme, 
 
 Whose glory by immortal fame 
 Shall only sounded be. 
 
 But if you long to know, 
 
 Then look round yonder dazzling row : 
 
 Who most does like an angel show, 
 
 You may be sure ’t is she.” 
 
 Here are lines about another beauty, who, 
 
 * “ There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of 
 appearing to have done everything by chance. The ‘ Old 
 Bachelor ’ was written for amusement in the languor of conva- 
 lescence. Yet it is apparently composed with great elaborate- 
 ness of dialogue and incessant ambition of wit.” — Johnson, 
 Lives of the Poets. 
 
72 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 perhaps was not so well pleased at the poet's 
 manner of celebrating her : — 
 
 “ When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, 
 
 With eyes so bright and with that awful air, 
 
 I thought my heart which durst so high aspire 
 As bold as his who snatched celestial fire. 
 
 “But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke, 
 
 Forth from her coral lips such folly broke : 
 
 Like balm the trickling nonsense heal’d my wound, 
 And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound.” 
 
 Amoret is a cleverer woman than the lovely 
 Lesbia, but the poet does not seem to respect 
 one much more than the other ; and describes 
 both with exquisite satirical humor : — 
 
 “ Fair Amoret is gone astray : 
 
 Pursue and seek her every lover. 
 
 I ’ll tell the signs by which you may 
 The wandering shepherdess discover. 
 
 “ Coquet and coy at once her air, 
 
 Both studied, though both seem neglected; 
 Careless she is with artful care, 
 
 Affecting to seem unaffected. 
 
 “ With skill her eyes dart every glance, 
 
 Yet change so soon you ’d ne’er suspect them, 
 For she ’d persuade they wound by chance, 
 Though certain aim and art direct them. 
 
 “ She likes herself, yet others hates 
 
 For that which in herself she prizes ; 
 
 And, while she laughs at them, forgets 
 She is the thing that she despises.” 
 
 What could Amoret have done to bring down 
 such shafts of ridicule upon her? Could she 
 have resisted the irresistible Mr. Congreve? 
 Could anybody? Could Sabina, when she 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 73 
 
 woke and heard such a bard singing under her 
 window? “ See,” he writes — 
 
 “ See ! see, she wakes — Sabina wakes ! 
 
 And now the sun begins to rise. 
 
 Less glorious is the morn, that breaks 
 From his bright beams, than her fair eyes. 
 
 With light united, day they give; 
 
 But different fates ere night fulfil : 
 
 How many by his warmth will live ! 
 
 How many wfill her coldness kill ! ” 
 
 Are you melted? Don’t you think him a 
 divine man? If not touched by the brilliant 
 Sabina, hear the devout Selinda ; — 
 
 “ Pious Selinda goes to prayers, 
 
 If I but ask the favor ; 
 
 And yet the tender fool ’s in tears, 
 
 When she believes I ’ll leave her : 
 
 Would I were free from this restraint, 
 
 Or else had hopes to win her : 
 
 Would she could make of me a saint, 
 
 Or I of her a sinner ! ” 
 
 What a conquering air there is about these ! 
 What an irresistible Mr. Congreve it is ! Sin- 
 ner ! of course he will be a sinner, the delight- 
 ful rascal. Win her ! of course he will win h r, 
 the victorious rogue ! He knows he will : he 
 must — with such a grace, with such a fashion, 
 with such a splendid embroidered suit. You 
 see him with red-heeled shoes deliciously 
 turned out, passing a fair jewelled hand 
 through his dishevelled periwig, and deliver- 
 ing a killing ogle along with his scented billet. 
 And Sabina? What a comparison that is 
 between the nympli and the sun ! The sun 
 gives Sabina the pas , and does not venture to 
 
74 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 rise before her ladyship : the morn’s bright 
 beams are less glorious than her fair eyes: 
 but before night everybody will be frozen by 
 her glances : everybody but one lucky rogue 
 who shall be nameless. Louis Quatorze in all 
 his glory is hardly more splendid than our 
 Phoebus Apollo of the Mall and Spring Gar- 
 dens.* 
 
 When Voltaire came to visit the great Con- 
 greve, the latter rather affected to despise his 
 literary reputation, and in this perhaps the 
 great Congreve was not far wrong. f A touch 
 of Steele’s tenderness is worth all his finery ; 
 a flash of Swift’s lightning, a beam of Addi- 
 son’s pure sunshine, and his tawdry playhouse 
 
 *“ Among: those by whom it (‘Will’s’) was frequented* 
 Southerne and Congreve were principally distinguished by 
 Dryden’s friendship. . . . But Cougreve seems to have gained 
 yet farther than Southerne upon Dryden’s friendship. He was 
 introduced to him by his first play, the celebrated ‘ Old Bach- 
 elor,’ being put into the poet’s hands to be revised. Dryden, 
 after making a few alterations to fit it for the stage, returned it 
 to the author with the high and just commendation, that it was 
 the best first play he had ever seen.” — Scott’s Dryden, vol. i, 
 p. 370. 
 
 fit was in Surrey Street, S rand (where he afterwards died), 
 that Voltaire visited him, in the decline of his life. 
 
 The anecdote relating to his saying that he wished “ to be 
 visited on no other footing than as a gentleman who led a life 
 of plainness and simplicity,” is common to all writers on the 
 subject of Congreve, and appears in the English version of Vol- 
 taire’s “ Letters concerning the English Nation,” published in 
 London, 1733, as also in Goldsmith’s “Memoir of Voltaire.” 
 But it is worthy of remark, that it does not appear in the text 
 of the Letters in the edition of Voltaire’s “ CEuvres Completes ” 
 in the “Pantheon Lifct<§raire.” Vol. v. of his works. (Paris, 
 1837.) 
 
 “ Celui de tous les Anglais qui a porte le plus loin la gloire 
 du theatre comique est feu M. Congreve. 11 n’a fait que peu 
 de pieces, mais toutes sont excellentes dans leur genre. . . . 
 Vous y voyez partout le langage des honnetes gens avec des 
 actions de fripon; ce qui prouve qu’il connaissait bien son 
 monde, et qu’il vivait dans ce qu’on appelle la bonne com- 
 j>agnie.” — Voltaire, Lettres sur les Anglais. Let. 19. 
 
CONGE EVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 75 
 
 taper is invisible. But the ladies loved him, 
 and he was undoubtedly a pretty fellow.* 
 
 We have seen in Swift a humorous phi- 
 losopher, whose truth frightens one, and whose 
 laughter makes one melancholy. We have 
 had in Congreve a humorous observer of 
 another school, to whom the world seems to 
 have no morals at all, and whose ghastly doc- 
 trine seems to be that we should eat, drink, 
 and be merry when we can, and go to the 
 deuce (if there be a deuce) when the time 
 comes. We come now to a humor that flows 
 from quite a different heart and spirit — a wit 
 
 * On the death of Queen Mary he published a Pastoral — 
 “The Mourning Muse of Alexis ” Alexis and Menalcas sing 
 alternately iu the orthodox way. The queen is called Pastora. 
 
 “ I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn, 
 
 And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn,” 
 
 says Alexis. Among other phenomena, we learn that — 
 
 “With their sharp nails themselves the Satyrs wound, 
 
 And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground ” — 
 
 (a degree of sensibility not always found in the Satyrs of that 
 period) . . . It continues : — 
 
 “ Lord of these woods and wide extended plains, 
 
 Stretch’d on the ground and close to earth his face, 
 Scalding with tears the already faded grass. 
 
 To dust must all that Heavenly beauty come? 
 
 And must Pastora moulder in the tomb? 
 
 Ah Death ! more fierce and unrelenting far 
 Than wildest wolves or savage tigers are! 
 
 With lambs and sheep their hungers are appeased, 
 
 But ravenous Death the shepherdess has seized.” 
 
 This statement that a woif eats but a sheep, whilst Death eats a 
 shepherdess — that figure of the “Great Shepherd” lying 
 speechless on his stomach, in a state of despair which neither 
 winds nor floods nor air can exhibit — are to be remembered in 
 poetry surely; and this style was admired in its time by the 
 admirers of the great Congreve ! 
 
 In the “ Tears of Amaryllis for Amyntas ’’ (the young Lord 
 
76 
 
 EXGLISH IIUMOBlSTS. 
 
 that makes us laugh and leaves us good and 
 happy ; to one of the kindest benefactors that 
 society has ever had ; and I believe you have 
 divined already that I am about to mention 
 Addison’s honored name. 
 
 From reading over his writings, and the 
 
 Blandford, the great Duke of Marlborough’s only son), Amaryl- 
 lis represents Sarah Duchess! 
 
 Tne tigers and wolves, nature and motion, rivers and echoes, 
 come into work here again. At the sight of her grief — 
 
 “Tigers and wolves their wonted rage forego, 
 
 And dumb distress and new compassion show, 
 
 Nature herself attentive silence kept, 
 
 And motion seemed suspended while she wept! ” 
 
 And Pope dedicated the “Iliad” to the author of these lines, 
 and Dryden,wrote to him in his great hand : — 
 
 “ Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, 
 
 But Genius must be born and never can be taught. 
 
 This is your portion, this your native store; 
 
 Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, 
 
 To Shakespeare gave as much, she could not give him more. 
 
 Maintain your Post : that ’s all the fame you need, 
 
 For ’t is impossible you should proceed; 
 
 Already I am worn with cares and age, 
 
 And just abandoning th’ ungrateful stage : 
 
 Unprofitably kept at Heaven’s ex pence, 
 
 I live a Rent-charge upon Providence : 
 
 But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, 
 
 Whom I foresee to better fortune born, 
 
 Be kind to my remains, and oh ! defend 
 Against your Judgment your departed Friend! 
 
 Let not the insulting Foe my Fame pursue; 
 
 But shade those Lawrels which descend to You : 
 
 And take for Tribute what these Lines express; 
 
 You merit more, nor could my Love do less.” 
 
 This is a very different manner of welcome to that of our own 
 day. In Shadwell, Higgons, Congreve, and the comic authors of 
 their time, when gentlemen meet they fall into each other’s 
 arms, with “ Jack, Jack, I must buss thee ” ; or, “ Fore George, 
 Harry, I must kiss thee, lad.” And in a similar manner the poets 
 saluted their brethren. Literary gentlemen do not kiss now; I 
 wonder if they love each other better? 
 
 Steele calls Congreve “Great Sir” and “Great Author”; 
 says “ Well dressed barbarians knew his awful name/’ and ad. 
 dresses him as if he were a prince; and speaks of “ Pastora ” ae 
 one of the most famous tragic compositions. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 77 
 
 biographies which we have of him, amongst 
 which the famous article in the Edinburgh 
 Review * may be cited as a magnificent statue 
 of the great writer and moralist of the last 
 age, raised by the love and the marvellous 
 skill and genius of one of the most illustrious 
 artists of our own ; looking at that calm, fair 
 face, and clear countenance, those chiselled 
 features pure and cold, I can’t but fancy 
 that this great man — in this respect, like 
 him of whom we spoke in the last lecture — 
 was also one of the lonely ones of the world. 
 Such men have very few equals, and they 
 don’t herd with those. It is in the nature 
 of such lords of intellect to be solitary — they 
 are in the world, but not of it ; and our 
 minor struggles, brawls, successes, pass under 
 them. 
 
 Kind, just, serene, impartial, his fortitude 
 not tried beyond eas } 7 endurance, his affec- 
 tions not much used, for his books were his 
 family, and his society was in public ; admira- 
 
 *“ To Addison himself we are bound by a sentiment much 
 affection as any sentiment can be which is inspired by one who 
 has been sleeping a hundred and twenty years in Westminster 
 Abbey. . . . After full inquiry and impartial reflection we have 
 long been convinced that he deserved as much love and esteem 
 as can justly be claimed by any of our infirm and erring race.” 
 — Macaulay. 
 
 “ Many who praise virtue do no more than praise it. Yet it 
 is reasonable to believe that Addison's profession and practice 
 were at no great variance; since, amidst that storm of faction 
 in which most of his life was passed, though his station made 
 him conspicuous, and his activity made him formidable, the 
 character given him by his friends was never contradicted by 
 his enemies. Of those with whom interest or opinion united 
 him, he had not only the esteem but the kindness; and of 
 others whom the violence of opposition drove against him, 
 though he might lose the love, he retained the reverence.” — 
 < t qhnson. 
 
78 
 
 ENGLISH MEMO El STS. 
 
 blv wiser, wittier, calmer, and more instructed 
 than almost every man with whom he met, 
 how could Addison suffer, desire, admire, 
 feel much? I may expect a child to admire 
 me for being taller or writing more cleverly 
 than she ; but how can I ask my superior to 
 say that I am a wonder when he knows better 
 than I ? In Addison’s days you could scarcely 
 show him a literary performance, a sermon, 
 or a poem, or a piece of literary criticism, 
 but he felt he could do better. "His justice 
 must have made him indifferent. He didn’t^ 
 praise, because he measured his compeers by 
 a higher standard than common people have.* 
 How was he who was so tall to look up to any 
 but tbe loftiest genius? He must have stooped 
 to put himself on a level with most men. By 
 that profusion of graciousness and smiles with 
 which Goethe or Scott, for instance, greeted 
 almost every literary beginner, every small 
 literary adventurer who came to his court and 
 went away charmed from the great king’s audi- 
 ence, and cuddling to his heart the compliment 
 which his literary majesty had paid him — each 
 of the two good-natured potentates of letters 
 brought their star and riband into discredit. 
 Everybody had his majesty’s orders. Every- 
 body had his majesty’s cheap portrait, on a 
 box surrounded by diamonds worth twopence 
 apiece. A very great and just and wise man 
 
 * “ Addison was perfect good company with intimates, and 
 had something more charming in his conversation than I ever 
 knew in any other man f hut with any mixture of strangers, and 
 sometimes only with one, he seemed to preserve his dignity 
 much, with a stiff sort of silence.”— Pope. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
CONG JR EVE AND ADDISON 
 
 79 
 
 | ought not to praise indiscriminately, but give 
 
 I his idea of the truth. Addison praises the 
 ingenious Mr. Pinkethman : Addison praises 
 the ingenious Mr. Doggett, the actor, whose 
 benefit is coming off that night : Addison 
 praises Don Saltero : Addison praises Milton 
 with all his heart, bends his knee and frankly 
 pays homage to that imperial genius.* But 
 between those degrees of his men his praise is 
 very scanty. I don’t think the great Mr. Ad- 
 dison liked young Mr. Pope, the Papist, much ; 
 I don’t think he abused him. But when Mr. 
 Addison’s men abused Mr. Pope, I don’t think 
 Addison took his pipe out of his mouth to con- 
 tradict them.f 
 
 Addison’s father was a clergyman of good 
 repute in Wiltshire, and rose in the church. J 
 His famous son never lost his clerical training 
 and scholastic gravity ,. and was called “a 
 
 * “ Milton’s chief talent, and indeed his distinguishing excel 
 lence, lies in the sublimity of his thoughts. There are others of 
 the moderns who rival him in every other part of poetry ; but in 
 the greatness of his sentiments he triumphs over all the poets, 
 both modern and ancient, Homer only excepted. It is impossi- 
 ble for the imagination of man to distend itself with greater 
 ideas than those which he has laid together in his first, second, 
 and sixth books.” — Spectator, No. 279. 
 
 “ If I were to name a poet that is a perfect master in all these 
 arts of working on the imagination, I think Milton may pass for 
 one.” — Ibid., No. 417. 
 
 These famous papers appeared in each Saturday’s Spectator, 
 from Jan. 19 to May 3, ]712. Beside his services to Milton, we 
 liiay place those he did to sacred music. 
 
 t “ Addison was very kind to me at first, but my bitter 
 enemy afterwards.” — Pope. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 “•Leave him as soon as you can,’ said Addison to me, 
 speaking of Pope ; ‘ be will certainly play you some devilish trick 
 else: he has an appetite to satire.’” — Lady Wortley Mon- 
 tagu. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 | Lancelot Addison, his father, was the son of another Lan- 
 celot Addison, a clergyman in Westmoreland. He became Dean 
 of Lichfield and Archdeacon of Coventry. 
 
80 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 parson in a tye-wig,” * in London afterwards, 
 at a time when tye-wigs were only worn by the 
 laity, and the fathers of theology did not think 
 it decent to appear except in a full bottom. 
 Having been at school at Salisbury, and the 
 Charterhouse, in 1687, when he was fifteen 
 years old, he went to Queen’s College, Oxford, 
 where he speedily began to distinguish himself 
 by the making of Latin verses. The beautiful 
 and fanciful poem of “ The Pigmies and the 
 Cranes ” is still read by lovers of that sort of 
 exercise ; and verses are extant in honor of 
 King William, b}^ which it appears that it was 
 the loyal youth’s custom to toast that sovereign 
 in bumpers of purple Lyse us ; many more 
 works are in the Collection, including one on 
 the Peace of Ryswiek, in 1697, which was so 
 good that Montague got him a pension of £300 
 a year, on which Addison set out on his travels. 
 
 * “The remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an 
 evening in his company, declared that he was ‘ a parson in a tye* 
 wig,’ can detract little from his character. He was always re- 
 served to strangers, and was not incited to uncommon freedom 
 by a character like that of Mandeville.” — Johnson, Lives of 
 the Poets . 
 
 “Old Jacob Tonson did not like Mr. Addison: he had a 
 quarrel with him, and, after his quitting the secretaryship, used 
 frequently to say of him : ‘ One day or other you ’ll see that man 
 a bishop; I’m sure he looks that way; and indeed, I ever 
 thought him a priest in his heart.’” — Pope. Spence's Anec- 
 dotes. 
 
 “Mr. Addison stayed above a year at Blois. He would rise 
 as earl}’ - as between two and three in the height of summer, and 
 lie abed till between eleven and twelve in the depth of winter. 
 He was untalkative whilst here, and often thoughtful; some- 
 times so lost in thought, that I have come into his room and 
 stayed five minutes there before he has known anything of it. 
 He had his masters generally at supper with him ; kept very lit- 
 tle company besides; and had no amour that I know of; and I 
 think I should have known it if he had had any.” — Abb£ Phil- 
 ippeaux of Blois. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 8i 
 
 
 I 
 
 During his ten years at Oxford, Addison 
 had deeply imbued himself with the Latin 
 poetical literature, and had these poets at his 
 fingers’ ends when he travelled in Italy . * His 
 patron went out of office, and his pension was 
 unpaid : and hearing that this great scholar, 
 now eminent and known to the literati of 
 Europe (the great Boileau,| upon perusal of 
 Mr. Addison’s elegant hexameters, was first 
 made aware that England was not altogether 
 a barbarous nation), — hearing that the cele- 
 brated Mr. Addison, of Oxford, proposed to 
 travel as governor to a young gentleman on 
 the grand tour, the great Duke of Somerset 
 proposed to Mr. Addison to accompany his 
 son, Lord Hertford. 
 
 Mr. Addison was delighted to be of use to 
 
 his Grace, and his lordship his Grace’s son, 
 and expressed himself ready to set forth. 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Somerset now an- 
 nounced to one of the most famous scholars 
 of Oxford and Europe that it was his gracious 
 intention to allow my Lord Hertford’s tutor 
 one hundred guineas per annum. Mr. Addi- 
 son wrote back that his services were his 
 Grace’s, but he by no means found his account 
 in the recompense for them. The negotiation 
 was broken off. They parted with a profusion 
 of congees on one side and the other. 
 
 * His knowledge of the Latin poets, from Lucretius and Ca- 
 tullus down to Claudian and Prudentius, was singularly exact 
 and profound.’’ — Macaulay. 
 
 t “ Our country owes it to him, that the famous Monsieur 
 Boileau first conceived an opinion of the English genius for 
 poetry, by perusing the present he made him of the ‘ Musae 
 Anglicanae.’ ”~-Tickell, Preface to Addison's Works. 
 
ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 
 Addison remained abroad for some time, 
 living in the best society of Europe. How 
 could lie do otherwise? He must have been 
 one of the finest gentlemen the world ever saw : 
 at all moments of life serene and courteous, 
 cheerful and calm.* He could scarcely ever 
 have had a degrading thought. He might have 
 omitted a virtue or two, or many, but could 
 not have committed many faults for which he 
 need blush or turn pale. When warmed into 
 confidence, his conversation appears to have 
 been so delightful that the greatest wits sat 
 rapt and charmed to listen to him. No man 
 bore poverty and narrow fortune with a more 
 lofty cheerfulness. His letters to his friends 
 at this period of his life, when he had lost his 
 government pension and given up his college 
 chances, are full of courage and a gay confi- 
 dence and philosophy : and they are none the 
 worse in my eyes, and I hope not in those 
 of his last and greatest biographer (though Mr. 
 Macaulay is bound to own and lament a cer- 
 tain weakness for wine, which the great and 
 good Joseph Addison notoriously possessed, in 
 common with countless gentlemen of his time), 
 because some of the letters are written when 
 his honest hand was shaking a litttle in the 
 morning after libations to purple Lyseus over- 
 night. He was fond of drinking the healths 
 of his friends : he writes to Wyche, of Ham- 
 
 * “ It was ray fate to be much with the wits ; my father 
 was acquainted with all of them. Addison was the best com- 
 pany in the icorld . I never knew anybody that had so much 
 wit as Congreve.” — Lady Wortley Montagu. Spence's An- 
 ecdotes. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 S3 
 
 burg,* gratefully remembering Wyche’s “ hoc.” 
 u T have been drinking your health to-day 
 with Sir Richard Shirley,” he writes to Bath- 
 urst. “ I have lately had the honor to meet 
 my Lord Effingham at Amsterdam, where w r e 
 have drunk Mr. Wood’s health a hundred times 
 in excellent champagne,” he writes again. 
 Swift f describes him over his cups, when 
 Joseph yielded to a temptation which Jonathan 
 
 * “Mr. xIddison to Mr. Wyche. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, — My hand at present begins to grow steady 
 enough for a letter, so the properest use I can put it to is to 
 thank y e honest gentleman that set it a shaking. I have had this 
 morning a desperate design in my head to attack you in verse, 
 which I should certainly have done could I have found out a 
 rhyme to rummer. But though you have escaped for y« pres- 
 ent, you are not yet out of danger, if I can a little recover my 
 talent at crambo I am sure, in whatever way I write to you, it 
 will be impossible for me to express y e deep sense I have of 
 y e many favors you have lately shown me. I shall only tell 
 you that Hambourg has been the pleasantest stage I have met 
 with in my travails. If any of my friends wonder at me for 
 living so long in that place, I dare say it will be thought a very 
 good excuse when I tell him Mr. Wyche was there. As your 
 company made our stay at Hambourg agreeable, your wine has 
 given us all y e satisfaction that we have found in our journey 
 through Westphalia. If drinking your health will do you any 
 good, you may expect to be as long-lived as. Methuselah, or, to 
 use a more familiar instance, as y e oldest hoc in y e cellar. I 
 hope y e two pair of legs that was left a swelling behind us are 
 by this time come to their shapes again. I can’t forbear troub- 
 ling you with my hearty respects to y e owners of them, and de- 
 siring you to believe me always, Dear Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 “ To Mr. Wyche, His Majesty’s Resident at Hambourg, 
 
 May, 1703.” 
 
 — From the Life of Addison, by Miss Aikin, vol. i. p 146. 
 
 f It is pleasing to remember that the relation between Swift 
 and Addison was, on the whole, satisfactory from first to last. 
 The value of Swift’s testimony, when nothing personal inflamed 
 his vision or warped his judgment, can be doubted by nobody. 
 
 “Sept. 10, 1710. — I sat till ten in the evening with Addison 
 and Steele. 
 
 “11. — Mr. Addison and I dined together at his lodgings, and 
 I sat with him part of this evening. u f' 
 
 “ 18. — To-day I dined with Mr. Stratford at Mr. Addison’s 
 
84 
 
 ENGLISH HUM01USTS. 
 
 resisted. Joseph was of a cold nature, and 
 needed perhaps the fire of wine to warm his 
 blood. If he was a parson, he wore a t}'e-wig, 
 recollect. A better and more Christian man 
 scarcely ever breathed than Joseph Addison. 
 If he had not that little weakness for wine — 
 why, we could scarcely have found a fault 
 with him, and could not have liked him as we 
 do.* 
 
 At thirty-three years of age, this most dis- 
 tinguished wit, scholar, and gentleman was 
 without a profession and an income. His 
 book of “Travels” had failed: his “Dia- 
 logues on Medals ” had had no particular 
 success : his Latin verses, even though re- 
 ported the best since Virgil, or Statius at 
 
 retirement near Chelsea. ... I will get what good offices I can 
 from Mr. Addison. 
 
 “27. — To-day all our company dined at Will Frankland’s, 
 with Steele and Addison, too. 
 
 “29. — I dined with Mr. Addison,” etc. — Journ l to Stella. 
 
 Addison inscribed a presentation copy of his Travels “ To 
 Dr. Jonathan Swift, the most agreeable companion, the truest 
 friend, and the greatest genius of his age.” — (Scott. From 
 the information of Mr. Theophilus Swift.) 
 
 Mr. Addison, who goes over first secretary, is a most excel- 
 lent person; and being my most intimate friend, I shall use i*ll 
 my credit to set him right in his notions of persons and things.” 
 •— Letters. 
 
 “ I examine my heart, and can find no other reason why I 
 write to you now, besides that great love and esteem I have 
 always had for you. I have nothing to ask you either for my 
 friend or for myself.’’ — Swift to Addison (1717). Scott’s 
 Swift, vol.xix. p. 274. 
 
 Political differences only dulled for a while their friendly 
 communications. Time renewed them : and Tickell enjoyed 
 Swift’s friendship as a legacy from the man with whose memory 
 his is so honorably connected. 
 
 *“ Addison usually studied all the morning; then met his 
 party at Button’s; dined there, and stayed five or six hours, and 
 sometimes far into the night. I was of the company for about 
 a year, but found it too much for me : it hurt my health, and so 
 I quitted it.” — Pope. Spence’s Anecdotes. 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 85 
 
 any rate, had not brought him a Govern- 
 ment place, and Addison was living up three 
 shabby pair of stairs in the Haymarket (in a 
 poverty over which old Samuel Johnson rather 
 chuckles), when in these shabby rooms an 
 emissary from Government and Fortune came 
 and found him.* A poem was wanted about 
 the Duke of Marlborough’s victory of Blen- 
 heim. Would Mr. Addison write one? Mr. 
 Boyle, afterwards Lord Carle ton, took back 
 the reply to the Lord Treasurer Godolphin, 
 that Mr. Addison would. When the poem 
 had reached a certain stage, it was carried to 
 Godolphin; and the last lines which he read 
 were these : — 
 
 “ But, O my Muse ! what uumbers wilt thou find 
 To sing the furious troops in battle join’d ? 
 
 Methinks I hear the drum’s tumultuous sound 
 The victors’ shouts and dying groans confound; 
 
 The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, 
 
 And all the thunder of the battle rise. 
 
 ’T was then great Marlborough’s mighty soul was 
 proved, 
 
 That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
 
 Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
 
 Examined all the dreadful scenes of war : 
 
 In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, 
 
 To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
 
 Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
 
 So when an angel, by divine command, 
 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty laud 
 
 * “ When he returned to England (in 1702). with a meanness 
 of appearance which gave testimony of the diliiculties to which 
 he had been reduced, he found his old patrons out of power, and 
 was, therefore, for a time, at full leisure for the cultivation of 
 his mind.” — Johnson, Lives of the Poets. 
 
ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 $6 
 
 (Such as of late o’er pale Britannia passed), 
 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; 
 
 And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform, 
 Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.” 
 
 Addison left off at a good moment. That 
 simile was pronounced to be of the greatest 
 ever produced in poetry. That angel, that 
 good angel, flew off with Mr. Addison, and 
 landed him in the place of Commissioner of 
 Appeals - — vice Mr. Locke providentially pro- 
 moted. In the following year Mr. Addison 
 went to Hanover with Lord Halifax, and the 
 year after was made Under Secretary of State. 
 O angel visits! you come u few and far 
 between ” to literary gentlemen’s lodgings ! 
 Your wings seldom quiver at second-floor 
 windows now ! 
 
 You laugh? You think it is in the power 
 of few writers nowadays to call up such an 
 angel? Well, perhaps not ; but permit us to 
 comfort ourselves by pointing out that there 
 are in the poem of the u Campaign ” some as 
 bad lines as heart can desire ; and to hint that 
 Mr. Addison did very wisely in not going fur- 
 ther with my Lord Godolphin than that angel- 
 ical simile. Do allow me, just for a little 
 harmless mischief, to read you some of the 
 lines which follow. Here is the interview be- 
 tween the Duke and the King of the Romans 
 after the battle : — 
 
 “ Austria’s young monarch, whose imperial sway 
 Sceptres and thrones are destined to obey, 
 
 Whose boasted ancestry so high extends 
 That in the Pagan Gods his lineage ends, 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON. 
 
 87 
 
 Comes from afar, in gratitude to own 
 The great supporter of his father’s throne. 
 
 What tides of glory to his bosom ran 
 Clasped in th’ embraces of the godlike man ! 
 
 How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt, 
 
 To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt ! 
 
 Such easy greatness, sucli a graceful port, 
 
 So turned and finished for the camp or court ! ” 
 
 How many fourth-form boys at Mr. Addison’s 
 school of Charterhouse could write as well as 
 that now? The 4 ‘ Campaign ” has blunders, 
 triumphant as it was ; and weak points like all 
 campaigns.* 
 
 In the year 1713 u Cato came out. Swift 
 has left a description of the first night of the 
 performance. All the laurels of Europe were 
 scarcely sufficient for the author of this pro- 
 digious poem.f Laudations of Whig and Tory 
 chiefs, popular ovations, complimentary gar- 
 lands from literary men, translations in all 
 
 *“ Mr. Addison wrote very fluently ; but he was sometimes 
 very slow and scrupuldus in correcting. He would show his 
 verses to several friends ; and would alter almost everything that 
 any of them hinted at as wrong. He seemed to be too diffident 
 of himself; and too much concerned about his character as a 
 poet; or (as he worded it) too solicitous for that kind of praise 
 which, God knows, is but a very little matter after all ! ’* — Pope. 
 Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 t “ As to poetical affairs,” says Pope, in 1713, “ I am content 
 at present to be a bare looker-on. . . . Cato was not so much the 
 wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours; and 
 though all the foolish industry possible has been used to make 
 it thought a party play, yet what the author once said of another 
 may the most properly in the world be applied to him on this 
 occasion : — 
 
 “ ‘ Envy itself is dumb — in wonder lost ; 
 
 And factions strive who shall applaud him most.* 
 
 “ The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the 
 one side of the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the 
 other; while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern 
 to find their applause proceeding more from the hand than the 
 head, . . , I believe you have heard that, after all the applauses 
 
88 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 languages, delight and homage from all, save 
 from John Dennis in a minority of one. Mr. 
 Addison was called the “ great Mr. Addison” 
 after this. The Coffee-house Senate saluted 
 him Divus : it was heresy to question that 
 decree. 
 
 Meanwhile he was writing political papers 
 and advancing in the political profession. He 
 went Secretary to Ireland. He was ap- 
 pointed Secretary of State in 1717. And let- 
 ters of his are extant, bearing date some year 
 or two before, and written to young Lord 
 Warwick, in which he addresses him as u my 
 dearest lord,” and asks affectionately about 
 his studies, and writes very prettily about 
 nightingales and birds’-nests, which he has 
 
 of the opposite faction, my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, 
 who played Cato , into the box, and presented him with fifty 
 guineas in acknowledgment (as he expressed it) for defending 
 the cause of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator.” — 
 Pope’s Letters to Sir W. Trumbull. 
 
 “ Cato ” ran for thirty-five nights without interruption. Pope 
 wrote the Prologue, and Garth the Epilogue. 
 
 It is worth noticing how many things in “Cato ” keep their 
 ground as habitual quotations, e. g . : — 
 
 “ . . . big with the fate 
 Of Cato and of Rome.” 
 
 “ ’Tis not in mortals to command success, 
 
 But we ’ll do more, Sempronius, we ’ll deserve it.” 
 
 “ Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.” 
 
 “ I think the Romans call it Stoicism.” 
 
 “ My voice is still for war.” 
 
 “ When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, 
 
 The post of honor is a private station.” 
 
 Not to mention — 
 
 “ The woman who deliberates is lost.” 
 
 And the eternal — 
 
 “ Plato, thou reasonest well,” 
 
 which avenges, perhaps, on the public their neglect of the play} 
 
COXGBEVE AXD AD DISOX. 
 
 89 
 
 found at Fulham for his lordship. Those 
 nightingales were intended to warble in the ear 
 of Lord Warwick’s mamma. Addison married 
 her ladyship in 1716; and died at Holland 
 House three years after that splendid but dis- 
 mal union. * 
 
 But it is not for his reputation as the great 
 author of u Cato ” and the 44 Campaign,” or 
 
 * “ The lady was persuaded to marry him on terms much 
 like those on which a Turkish princess is espoused — to whom 
 the Sultau is reported to pronounce, ‘ Daughter, I give thee this 
 m;in for thy slave.’ The marriage, if uncontradicted report can 
 be credited, made no addition to his happiness; it neither found 
 them, nor made them equal. . . . Howe’s ballad of ‘The 
 Despairing Shepherd’ is said to have been written, either 
 before or after marriage, upon this memorable pair.” — Dr. 
 Johnson. 
 
 “ I received the news of Mr. Addison’s being declared Sec- 
 retary of State, with the less surprise, in that 1 knew that post 
 was almost offered to him before. At that time he declined it, 
 and I really believe that he would have done well to have 
 declined it now $uch a post as that, and such a wife as the 
 Countess, do not seem to be, in prudence, eligible for a man that 
 is asthmatic, and we may see the' day when he will be heartily 
 glad to resigu them both.” — Lady Wortley Montagu to 
 Pope : Work s Lord Whar acliffe 1 s edition, vol ii. p. 111. 
 
 The issue of this marriage was a daughter, Charlotte Addi- 
 son, who inherited, on her mother’s death, the estate of Bilton, 
 near Rugby, which her father had purchased. She was of weak 
 intellect, and died unmarried, at an advanced age. 
 
 Rowe appears to have been faithful to Addison during his 
 courtship, for his Collection contains “Stanzas to Lady War- 
 wick, on Mr. Addison’s going to Ireland,” in which her ladyship 
 is called “ Chloe,” and Joseph Addison “ Lycidas ” ; besides the 
 ballad mentioned by the Doctor, and which is entitled “ Colin’s 
 Complaint.” But not even the interest attached to the name of 
 Addison could induce the reader to peruse this composition, 
 though one stanza may serve as a specimen : — 
 
 “ What though I have skill to complain — 
 
 Though the Muses my temples have crowned; 
 
 What though, when they hear my soft strain, 
 
 The virgins sit weeping around. 
 
 “ Ah, Colin ! thy hopes are in vain ; 
 
 Thy pipe and thy laurel resign ; 
 
 Thy false one inclines to a swain 
 Whose music is sweeter than thine.” 
 
90 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 for his merits as Secretary of State, or for 
 his rank and high distinction as my Lady 
 Warwick’s husband, or for his eminence as an 
 Examiner of political questions on the Whig 
 side, or a guardian of British liberties, that 
 we admire Joseph Addison. It is as a Tat- 
 ler of small talk and a Spectator of man- 
 kind, that we cherish and love him, and owe 
 as much pleasure to him as to any human 
 being that ever wrote. He came in that arti- 
 ficial age, and began to speak with his noble, 
 natural voice, lie came, the gentle satirist, 
 who hit no unfair blow ; the kind judge who 
 castigated only in smiling. While Swift went 
 about, hanging and ruthless, — a literary Jef- 
 freys, — in Addison’s kind court only minor 
 cases were tried ; only peccadilloes and small 
 sins against society ; only a dangerous liber- 
 tinism in tuckers and hoops ; * or a nuisance 
 
 * One of the most humorous of these is the paper on IIoops, 
 which, the Spectator tells us, particularly pleased his friend Sir 
 Roger : — 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, — You have diverted the town almost a 
 whole month at the expense of the country ; it is now high time 
 that you should give the country their revenge. Since your 
 withdrawing from this place, the fair sex are run into great 
 extravagances. Their petticoats, which began to heave and swell 
 before you left us, are now blown up into a most enormous 
 concave, and rise every day more aud more; in short, sir, since 
 our women know themselves to be out of the eye of the Spec- 
 tator, they will be kept within no compass. You praised them 
 a little too soon, for the modesty of their head-dresses; for as 
 the humor of a sick person is often driven out of one limb into 
 another, their superfluity of ornaments, instead of being entirely 
 banished, seems only fallen from their heads upon their lower 
 parts. What they have lost in height they make up in breadth, 
 and, contrary to all rules of architecture, widen the foundations 
 at the same time that they shorten the superstructure. 
 
 “The women give out, in defence of those wide bottoms, that 
 they are airy and very proper fof the season ; but this I look 
 upon to be only a pretence and a piece of art, for it is well 
 known we have not had a more moderate summer these many 
 
CONGE EVE AND ADDISON. 91 
 
 in the abuse of beaux’ canes and snuff-boxes. 
 It may be a lady is tried for breaking the 
 peace of our sovereign lady Queen Anne, and 
 ogling too dangerously from the side-box ; 
 or a Templar for beating the watch, or break- 
 ing Priscian’s head ; or a citizen’s wife for 
 coxing too much for the puppet-show, and too 
 little for her husband and children : every one 
 of the little sinners brought before him is 
 amusing, and he dismisses each with the pleas- 
 antest penalties and the most charming words 
 of admonition. 
 
 Addison wrote his papers as gayly as if he 
 was going out for a holiday. When Steele’s 
 u Tatler ” first began his prattle, Addison, 
 then in Ireland, caught at his friend’s notion, 
 poured in paper after paper, and contributed 
 the stores of his mind, the sweet fruit of his 
 
 years, so that it is certain the heat they complain of cannot be 
 in the weather; besides, I would fain ask those tender-consti- 
 tuted ladies, why they should require more cooling than their 
 mothers before them? 
 
 “ I find several speculative persons are of opinion that our 
 sex has of late years been very saucy, and that the hoop-petti- 
 coat is made use of to keep us at a distance. It is most certain 
 that a woman’s honor cannot be better entrenched thau after 
 this manner, in circle within circle, amidst such a variety of out- 
 works of line of circumvallation. A female who is thus invested 
 in whalebone is sufficiently secured against the approaches of 
 an ill-bred fellow, who might as well think of Sir George 
 Etherege’s way of making love in a tub as in the midst of so 
 many hoops. 
 
 “Amongst these various conjectures, there are men of 
 superstitious tempers who look upon the hoop-petticoat as a 
 kind of prodigy. Some will have it that it portends the down- 
 fall of the French king, and observe, that the farthingale 
 appeared in England a little before the ruin of the Spanish mon- 
 archy. Others are of opinion that it foretells battle and blood- 
 shed, and believe it of the same prognostication as the tail of a 
 blazing star. For ray part, I am apt to think it is a sign that 
 multitudes are coming into the world rather than going out oi 
 it,” etc., etc, — Spectator , No. 127. 
 
92 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 reading, the delightful gleanings of his daily 
 observation, with a wonderful profusion, and 
 as it seemed an almost endless fecundity. He 
 was six-and- thirty years old, full and ripe. He 
 had not worked crop aftercrop from his brain, 
 manuring hastily, subsoiling indifferently, cut- 
 ting and sowing and cutting again, like other 
 luckless cultivators of letters, lie had not 
 done much as yet ; a few Latin poems, grace- 
 ful profusions ; a polite book of travels ; a 
 dissertation on medals, not very deep ; four 
 acts of a tragedy, a great classical exercise ; 
 and the “ Campaign,” a large prize poem that 
 won an enormous prize. But with his friend’s 
 discovery of the “ Tatler,” Addison’s calling 
 was found, and the most delightful talker in 
 the world began to speak. He does not go 
 very deep : let gentlemen of a profound genius, 
 critics accustomed to the plunge of the bathos, 
 console themselves by thinking that he couldn't 
 go very deep. There are no traces of suffer- 
 ing in his writing. He was so good, so hon- 
 est, so healthy, so cheerfully selfish, if I must 
 use the word. There is no deep sentiment. 
 1 doubt, until after his marriage, perhaps, 
 whether he ever lost his night’s rest or his 
 day’s tranquillity about any woman in his life ;* 
 whereas poor Dick Steele had capacity enough 
 to melt, and to languish, and to sigh, and to 
 cry his honest old eyes out, for a dozen. His 
 writings do not show insight into or reverence 
 
 o o 
 
 * “Mr. Addison has not had one epithalamium that I can 
 hear of, and must even be reduced, like a poorer and a better 
 poet, Spenser, to make bis own.” — Pope’s Letters . 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 93 
 
 for the love of women, which I take to be, 
 one the consequence of the other. He walks 
 about the world watching their pretty humors, 
 fashions, follies, flirtations, rivalries ; and not- 
 i g them with the most charming archness, 
 lie sees them in public, in the theatre, or the 
 assembly, or the puppet show ; or at the toy- 
 shop higgling for gloves and lace ; or at the 
 auction, battling together over a blue porcelain 
 dragon, or a darling monster in Japan ; or at 
 church, eying the width of their rival’s hoops, 
 or the breadth of their laces, as they sweep 
 down the aisles. Or he looks out of his 
 window at the “Garter” in St. James’s 
 Street, at Ardelia’s coach, as she blazes to the 
 drawing-room with her coronet and six foot- 
 men ; and remembering that her father was a 
 Turkey merchant in the city, calculates how 
 many sponges went to purchase her ear-ring, 
 and how many drums of figs to build her coach- 
 box ; or he demurely watches behind a tree in 
 Spring Garden, as Saccharissa(whom he knows 
 under her mask) trips out of her chair to the 
 alley where Sir Fopling is waiting. He sees 
 only the public life of women. Addison was 
 one of the most resolute club-men of his day. 
 He passed many hours daily in those haunts. 
 Besides drinking — which alas, is past praying 
 for — you must know it, he owned, too, ladies, 
 that he indulged in that odious practice of 
 smoking. Poor fellow ! He was a man’s man, 
 remember. The only woman he did know, he 
 did n’t write about. I take it there would not 
 have been much humor in that story. 
 
ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 94 
 
 He likes to go and sit in the smoking-room 
 at the “ Grecian/' or the 64 Devil to pace 
 ’Change and the Mall ; * to mingle in that 
 great club of the world — sitting alone in it 
 somehow ; having good-wili and kindness -for 
 every single man and woman in it ; having 
 need of some habit and custom binding him to 
 some few ; never doing any man a wrong 
 (unless it be a wrong to hint a little doubt 
 about a man’s parts, and to damn him with faint 
 praise) ; and so he looks on the world and 
 plays witli the ceaseless humors of all of us. — 
 laughs the kindest laugh, points our neigh- 
 
 * “ I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book 
 with pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black 
 or a fair man, of a mild or a choleric disposition, married or a 
 bachelor; with other particulars of a like nature, that conduce 
 very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify 
 this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper 
 and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writings; 
 and shall give some account in them of the persons that are en- 
 gaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling, digest- 
 ing, and correcting will fall to my share, I must do myself the 
 justice to open the work with my own history. . . . There runsa 
 story in the family, that when my mother was gone with child of 
 me about three months, she dreamt that she was brought to bed 
 of a judge. Whether thi-t might proceed from a lawsuit which 
 was then depending in the family, or my father’s being a justice 
 of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not so vain as to 
 think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my future 
 life, though that was the interpretation which the neighborhood 
 put upon it. The gravity of my behavior at my very first ap- 
 pearance in the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed 
 to favor my mother’s dream; for, as she has often told me, I 
 threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would 
 not make use of my coral till they had taken away the bells 
 from it. 
 
 “ As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it 
 remarkable, I shall pass it over in silence. I find that during 
 my nonage I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was 
 always the favorite of my schoolmaster, who used to say that 
 my parts were solid and loould wear well. I had not been long 
 at the university before I distinguished myself by a most pro- 
 found silence; for during the space of eight years, excepting in 
 the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity 
 
CONGREVE AND ADDISON 
 
 95 
 
 bor’s foible or eccentricity out to us with the 
 most good-natured, smiling confidence ; and 
 then, turning over his shoulder, whispers oar 
 foibles to our neighbor. What would Sir 
 Roger de Coverley be without his follies and 
 his charming little brain-cracks ? * If the good 
 knight did not call out to the people sleeping 
 in church, and say u Amen” with such a 
 delightful pomposity : if he did not make a 
 speech in the assize court apropos de bottes , 
 and merely to show his dignity to Mr. Spec- 
 
 of a hundred words; and, indeed, I do not remember that I ever 
 spoke three sentences together in my whole life. . . . 
 
 “I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am fre- 
 quently seen in most public places, though there are not more 
 than half a dozen of my select friends that know me. . . . There 
 is no place of general resort wherein I do not often make my 
 appearance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a 
 round of politicians at ‘ Will’s,’ and listening with great atten- 
 tion to the narratives that are made in these little circular audi- 
 ences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at ‘ Child’s,’ and whilst I seem 
 attentive to nothing but the Postman, overhear the conversation 
 of every table in the room. I appear on Tuesday night at ‘ St. 
 James’s Coffee-House ’ ; aud sometimes join the little committee 
 of politics in the inner room, as one who comes to hear and im- 
 prove. My face is likewise very well known at the ‘Grecian,’ 
 the * Cocoa-tree,’ and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and the 
 Haymarket. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Ex- 
 change for above these two years ; and sometimes pass for a Jew 
 in the assembly of stock jobbers at ‘Jonathan’s.’ In short, 
 wherever I see a cluster of people, I mix with them, though I 
 never open my lips but in my own club. 
 
 “Thus I live in the world rather as a * Spectator 9 of man- 
 kind than as one of the species; by which means I have made 
 myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, 
 without ever meddling in any practical part in life. I am very 
 well versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can dis- 
 cern the errors in the economy, business, and diversions of 
 others, better than those who are engaged in them — as standers- 
 by discover blots which are apt to escape those who are in the 
 game. ... In short, I have acted, in all the parts of my life, as 
 a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this 
 paper.” — Spectator, No. 1. 
 
 * “ So effectually, indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery 
 which had recently been directed against virtue, that, since his 
 time, the open violation of decency has always been considered, 
 amongst us, the sure mark of a fool.” — Macaulay. 
 
96 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 tator : * if he did not mistake Madam Doll 
 Tearsheet for a lady of quality in Temple Gar- 
 den : if he were wiser than he is : if had not 
 his humor to salt his life, and were but a 
 mere English gentleman and game preserver 
 — of what worth were he to us? We love 
 him for his vanities as much as his virtues. 
 What is ridiculous is delightful in him ; we 
 are so fond of him because we laugh at him so. 
 And out of that laughter, and out of that 
 sweet weakness, and out of those harmless 
 eccentricities and follies, and out of that 
 touched brain, and out of that honest man- 
 hood and simplicity, — we get a result of happi- 
 ness, goodness, tenderness, pit\ T , piety ; such 
 as, if my audience will think their reading and 
 hearing over, doctors and divines but seldom 
 have the fortune to inspire. And why not? 
 Is the glory of Heaven to be sung only by gen- 
 tlemen in black coats? Must the truth be only 
 
 * “ The court was sat before Sir Roger came; but, notwith- 
 standing all the justices had taken their places upon the bench, 
 they made room for the old knight at the head of them ; who for 
 his reputation in the country took occasion to whisper in the 
 judge’s ear that he leas glad his lordship had met with so much 
 good weather in his circuit. I was listening to the proceedings 
 of the court with much attention, and inlinitely pleased with 
 that great appearance and solemnity which so properly accom- 
 panies such a public administration of our laws; when, after 
 about an hour’s sitting, I observed, to my great surprise, in the 
 midst of a trial, that my friend Sir Roger was getting up to 
 speak. I was in some pain for him, till I found he had acquitted 
 himself of two or three sentences, with a look of much business 
 and great intrepidity. 
 
 “Upon his first rising, the court was hushed, and a general 
 whisper ran among the country people that {Sir Roger was up. 
 The speech he made was so little to the purpose, that I shall not 
 trouble my readers with an account of it, and I believe was not 
 so much designed by the knight himself to inform the Court as 
 to give him a figure in my eyes, and to keep up his credit in the 
 country.” — Spectator , No, 122, 
 
CONGBEVE AND ADDISON 
 
 97 
 
 expounded in gown and surplice, and out of 
 those two vestments can nobody preach it? 
 Commend me to this dear preacher without 
 orders — this parson in the tye-wig. When 
 this man looks from the world, whose weak- 
 nesses he describes so benevolently, up to the 
 Heaven which shines over us all, I can hardly 
 fancy a human face lighted up with a more 
 serene rapture, a human intellect thrilling with 
 a purer love and adoration, than Joseph Addi- 
 son’s. Listen to him : from your childhood 
 you have known the verses ; but who can hear 
 their sacred music without love and awe? — 
 
 “ Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth ; 
 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
 
 What though no real voice nor sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found ; 
 
 In reason’s ear they all rejoice, 
 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 
 Forever singing as'they shine, 
 
 The hand that made us is divine.” 
 
 It seem to me those verses shine like the 
 stars. They shine out of a great deep calm. 
 When he turns to Heaven, a Sabbath comes 
 over that man’s mind : and his face lights up 
 from it with a glory of thanks and prayer. 
 His sense of religion stirs through his whole 
 being. In the fields, in the town : looking at 
 the birds in the trees : at the children in the 
 7 
 
1>8 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 streets : in the morning or in the moonlight : 
 over his books in his own room : in a happy 
 party at a country merrymaking or a town 
 assembly, good-will and peace to God’s crea- 
 tures, and love and awe of Him who made 
 them, fill his pure heart and shine from his 
 kind face. If Swift’s life was the most 
 wretched, I think Addison’s was one of the 
 most enviable. A life prosperous and beau- 
 tiful — a calm death — an immense fame and 
 affection afterwards for his happy and spotless 
 name.* 
 
 * “ Garth sent to Addison (of whom he had a very high 
 opinion) on his death-bed, to ask him whether the Christian 
 religion was true.” — Dr. Young. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 “ I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter 
 I consider as an act, the former as an habit of the mind. Mirth 
 is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those 
 are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth who are 
 subject to the greatest depression of melancholy: on the con- 
 trary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind such an 
 exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of 
 sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning that breaks through a 
 gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps 
 up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and 
 perpetual serenity.” — Addison, Spectator , No. 381. 
 
STEELE. 
 
 What do we look for in studying the history 
 of a past age? Is it to learn the political 
 transactions and characters of the leading 
 public men ? is it to make ourselves acquainted 
 with the life and being of the time? If we 
 set out with the former grave purpose, where 
 is the truth, and who believes that he has it 
 entire ? What character of what great man is 
 known to you ? You can but make guesses as 
 to character more or less happy. In common 
 life don’t you often judge and misjudge a 
 man’s whole conduct, setting out from a wrong- 
 impression? The tone of a voice, a word said 
 in joke, or a trifle in behavior— the cut of his 
 hair or the tie of his neckcloth may disfigure 
 him in your eyes, or poison your good opinion ; 
 or at the end of years of intimacy it may be 
 your closest friend says something, reveals 
 something which had previously been a secret, 
 which alters all your views about him, and 
 shows that he has been acting on quite a differ- 
 ent motive to that which you fancied you 
 knew. And if it is so with those you know, 
 how much more with those you don’t know ! 
 Say, for example, that I want to understand 
 the character of the Duke of Marlborough. I 
 read Swift’s history of the times in which he 
 took a part ; the shrewdest of observers and 
 initiated, one would think, into the politics of 
 
100 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 the age — lie bints to me that Marlborough 
 was a coward, and even of doubtful military 
 capacity : he speaks of Walpole as a contempt- 
 ible boor, and scarcely mentions, except to 
 flout it, the great intrigue of the Queen’s latter 
 days, which was to have ended in bringing 
 back the Pretender. Again, I read Marlbor- 
 ough’s life by a copious archdeacon, who has 
 the command of immense papers, of sonorous 
 language, of what is called the best informa- 
 tion ; and I get little or no insight into this 
 secret motive which, I believe, influenced the 
 whole of Marlborough’s career, which caused 
 his turnings and windings, his opportune fidel- 
 ity and treason, stopped his army almost at 
 Paris gate, and landed him finally on the Han- 
 overian side — the winning side : I get, I say, 
 no truth, or only a portion of it, in the narra- 
 tive of either writer, and believe that Coxe’s 
 portrait, or Swift’s portrait, is quite unlike the 
 real Churchill. I take this as a single instance, 
 prepared to be as sceptical about any other, 
 and say to the Muse of History, u O venerable 
 daughter of Mnemosyne, I doubt every single 
 statement you ever made since your ladyship 
 was a Muse ! For all your grave airs and high 
 pretensions, you are not a whit more trust- 
 worthy than some of your lighter sisters on 
 whom your partisans look down. You bid me 
 listen to a general’s oration to his soldiers : 
 Nonsense ! He no more made it than Turpin 
 made his dying speech at Newgate. You pro- 
 nounce a panegyric on a hero : I doubt it, and 
 say you flatter ourtageously. You utter the 
 
STEELE. 
 
 101 
 
 condemnation of a loose character : I doubt 
 it, and think you are prejudiced and take the 
 side of the Dons. You offer me an autobiog- 
 raphy : I doubt all autobiographies I ever 
 read ; except those, perhaps, of Mr. Robinson 
 Crusoe, Mariner, and writers of his class. 
 These have no object in setting themselves 
 right with the public or their own consciences ; 
 these have no motive for concealment or half- 
 truths ; these call for no more confidence than 
 I can cheerfully give, and do not force me to 
 tax my credulity or to fortify it by evidence. 
 I take up a volume of Doctor Smollett, or a 
 volume of the Spectator , and say the fiction 
 carries a greater amount of truth in solution 
 than the volume which purports to be all true. 
 Out of the fictitious book 1 get the expression 
 of the life of the time ; of the manners, of 
 the movement, the dress, the pleasures, the 
 laughter, the ridicules of s >ciety — the old 
 times live again, and I travel in the old coun- 
 try of England. Can the heaviest historian 
 do more for me?” 
 
 As we read in these delightful volumes of 
 the Tatter and Spectator the past age returns, 
 the England of our ancestors is revivified. 
 The Maypole rises in the Strand again in Lon- 
 don ; the churches are thronged with daily 
 worshippers ; the beaux are gathering in the 
 coffee-houses ; the gentry are going to the 
 drawing-room ; the ladies are thronging to the 
 toy-shops ; the chairmen are jostling in the 
 streets ; the footmen are running with links 
 before the chariots, or fighting round the theatre 
 
102 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 doors. In the country I see the young Squire 
 riding to Eton with his servants behind him, 
 and Will Wimble, the friend of the family, to 
 see him safe. To make that journey from the 
 Squire’s and back, Will is a week on horse- 
 back. The coach takes five days between 
 London and Bath. The judges and the bar 
 ride the circuit. If my lad } 7 conies to town in 
 her post-chariot, her people carry pistols to 
 fire a salute on Captain Macheath if he should 
 appear, and her couriers ride ahead to prepare 
 apartments for her at the great caravanserais 
 on the road ; Boniface receives her under the 
 creaking sign of the 44 Bell” or the 44 Ram,” 
 and he and his chamberlains bow her up the 
 great stair to the state-apartments, whilst her 
 carriage rumbles into the court-yard, where the 
 44 Exeter Fly” is housed that performs the 
 journey in eight days, God willing, having 
 achieved its d ulv flight of twenty miles, and 
 landed its passengers for supper and sleep. 
 The curate is taking his pipe in the kitchen, 
 where the Captain’s man — having hung up 
 his master’s half pike — is at his bacon and 
 eggs, bragging of Ramillies and Malplaquet 
 to the townsfolk, who have their club in the 
 chimney-corner. The Captain is ogling tin 
 chambermaid in the wooden gallery, or bribing 
 her to know who is the pretty young mistress 
 that has come in the coach. The pack-horses 
 are in the great stable, and the drivers and 
 ostlers carousing in the tap. And in Mrs. 
 Landlady’s bar, over a glass of strong waters, 
 sits a gentleman of military appearance, who 
 
STEELE. 
 
 103 
 
 travels with pistols, as all the rest of the 
 world does, and has a rattling gray mare in 
 the stables which will be saddled and away 
 with its owner half an hour before the u Fly ” 
 sets out on its last day’s flight. And some 
 five miles on the road, as the 4 4 Exeter Fly” 
 comes jingling and creaking onwards, it will 
 suddenly be brought to a halt by a gentleman 
 on a gray mare, with a black vizard on his 
 face, who thrusts a long pistol into the coach 
 window, and bids the company to hand out 
 their purses. ... It must have been no small 
 pleasure even to sit in the great kitchen in 
 those days, and see the tide of humankind 
 pass by. We arrive at places now, but we 
 travel no more. Addison talks jocularly of a 
 difference of manner and costume being quite 
 perceivable at Staines, where there passed a 
 young fellow 44 with a very tolerable periwig,” 
 though, to be sure, his hat was out of fashion, 
 and had a Ramillies cock. I would have liked 
 to travel in those days (being of that class of 
 travellers who are proverbially pretty easy 
 coram latronibus) and have seen my friend 
 with the gray mare and the black vizard. 
 Alas ! there always came a day in the life of 
 that warrior when it was the fashion to accom- 
 pany him as he passed — without his black 
 mask, and with a nosegay in his hand, accom- 
 panied by halberdiers and attended bv the 
 sheriff — in a carriage without springs, and a 
 clergyman jolting beside him, to a spot close 
 by Cumberland Gate and the Marble Arch, 
 where a stone still records that here Tyburn 
 
104 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 turnpike stood. What a change in a century, 
 in a few years ! Within a few yards of that 
 gate the fields began : the fields of his exploits, 
 behind the hedges of which he lurked and 
 robbed . A great and wealthy city has grown 
 over those meadows. Were a man brought to 
 die there now, the windows would be closed 
 and the inhabitants keep their houses in sick- 
 ening horror. A hundred years back, people 
 crowded to see that last act of a highwayman’s 
 life, and make jokes on it. Swift laughed at 
 him, grimly advising him to provide a Holland 
 shirt and white cap crowned with a crimson or 
 black ribbon for his exit, to mount the cart 
 cheerfully — shake hands with the hangman, 
 and so — farewell. Gay wrote the most 
 delightful ballads, and made merry over the 
 same hero. Contrast these with the writings 
 of our present humorists ! Compare those 
 morals and ours — those manners and ours! 
 
 We can’t tell — you would not bear to be 
 told the whole truth regarding those men and 
 manners. You could no more suffer in a Brit- 
 ish drawing-room, under the reign of Queen 
 Victoria, a fine gentleman or fine lady of 
 Queen Anne’s time, or hear what they heard 
 and said, than you would receive an ancient 
 Briton. It is as one reads about savages, 
 that one contemplates the wild ways, the bar- 
 barous feasts, the terrific pastimes, of the men 
 of pleasure of that age. We have our fine 
 gentlemen, and our ‘ k fast men”; permit me 
 to give you an idea of one particularly fast 
 nobleman of Queen Anne’s days, whose biog- 
 
STEELE . 
 
 105 
 
 raphy has been preserved to us by the lav- 
 reporters. 
 
 In 1691, when Steele was a boy at school, 
 my Lord Mohun was tried by his peers for the 
 murder of William Mountford, comedian. In 
 “ Howell’s State Trials,” the reader will find 
 not only an edifying account of this exceed- 
 ingly fast nobleman, but of the times and 
 manners of those days. Mv lord’s friend, a 
 Captain Hill, smitten with the charms of the 
 beautiful Mrs. Bracegirdle, and anxious to 
 marry her at all hazards, determined to carry 
 her off, and for this purpose hired a hackney- 
 coach with six horses, and a half-dozen of 
 soldiers, to aid him in the storm. The coach 
 with a pair of horses (the four leaders being 
 in waiting elsewhere) took its station opposite 
 my Lord Craven’s house in Drury Lane, by 
 which door Mrs. Bracegirdle was to pass on 
 her way from the theatre. As she passed in 
 company of her mamma and a friend, Mr. 
 Page, the Captain seized her by the hand, the 
 soldiers hustled Mr. Page and attacked him 
 sword in hand, and Captain Hill and his noble 
 friend endeavored to force Madam Bracegirdle 
 into the coach. Mr. Page called for help : 
 the population of Drury Lane rose : it was 
 impossible to effect the capture ; and bidding 
 the soldiers go about their business, and the 
 coach to drive off, Hill let go of his prej r sulk- 
 ily, and waited for other opportunities of 
 revenge. The man of whom he was most jeal- 
 ous was Will Mountford, the comedian ; Will 
 removed, he thought Mrs. Bracegirdle might 
 
106 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 be his ; and accordingly the Captain and his 
 lordship lay that night in wait for Will, and 
 as he was coming out of a house in Norfolk 
 Street, while Mohun engaged him in talk, Hill, 
 in the words of the Attorney-General, made a 
 pass and ran him clean through the body. 
 
 Sixty-one of my lord’s peers finding him not 
 guilty of murder, while but fourteen found 
 him guilty, this very fast nobleman was dis- 
 charged ; and made his appearance seven 
 years after in another trial for murder, when 
 he, my Lord Warwick, and three gentlemen of 
 the military profession, were concerned in the 
 fight which ended in the death of Captain 
 Coote. 
 
 This jolly company were drinking together 
 in u Lockit’s ” at Charing Cross, when angry 
 words arose between Captain Coote and Cap- 
 tain French ; whom my Lord Mohun and my 
 Lord the Earl of Warwick* and Holland en- 
 deavored to pacify. My Lord Warwick was 
 a dear friend of Captain Coote, lent him a 
 
 * The husband of the Lady Warwick who married Addison, 
 and the father of the young Earl, who was brought to his step- 
 father’s bed to see “ how a Christian could die.” He was 
 amongst the wildest of the nobility of that day; and in the curi- 
 ous collection of Chap-Books at the British Museum, I have 
 seen more than one anecdote of the freaks of the gay lord. He 
 was popular in London, as such daring spirits have been in our 
 time. The anecdotists speak very kindly of his practical jokes. 
 Mohun was scarcely out of prison for his second homicide, 
 when he went on Lord Macclesfield’s embassy to the Elector of 
 Hanover, when Queen Anne sent the garter to his Highness. 
 The chronicler of the expedition speaks of his lordship as an 
 amiable young man, who had been in bad company, but was 
 quite repentant and reformed. He and Macartney afterwards 
 murdered the Duke of Hamilton between them, in which act 
 Lord Mohun died. This amiable baron’s name was Charles, 
 and not Henry, as a recent novelist has christened him. 
 
STEELE . 
 
 107 
 
 hundred pounds to buy his commission in the 
 Guards ; once when the Captain was arrested 
 for £13 by his tailor, my lord lent him five 
 guineas, often paid his reckoning for him, and 
 showed him other offices of friendship. On 
 this evening the disputants, French and Coote, 
 being separated whilst they were upstairs, 
 unluckily stopped to drink ale again at the 
 bar of Lockit’s.” The row began afresh — 
 Coote lunged at French over the bar, and at 
 last all six called for chairs, and went to 
 Leicester Fields, where they fell to. Their 
 lordships engaged on the side of Captain 
 Coote. My Lord of Warwick was severely 
 wounded in the hand, Mr. French also was 
 stabbed, but honest Captain Coote got a 
 couple of wounds — one especially, 44 a wound 
 in the left side just under the short ribs, and 
 piercing through the diaphragm a,” w r hich did 
 for Captain Coote. Hence the trials of my 
 Lords Warwick and Mohun ; hence the assem- 
 blage of peers, the report of the transaction in 
 which these defunct fast men still live for the 
 observation of the curious. My Lord of War- 
 wick is brought to the bar by the Deputy Gov- 
 ernor of the Tower of London, having the axe 
 carried before him by the gentleman gaoler, 
 who stood with it at the bar at the right hand 
 of the prisoner, turning the edge from him ; 
 the prisoner, at his approach, making three 
 bows, one to his Grace the Lord High Stew- 
 ard, the other to the peers on each hand ; and 
 his Grace and the peers return the salute. 
 And besides these great personages, august in 
 
108 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 periwigs, and nodding to the right and left, a 
 host of the small come lip out of the past and 
 pass before us — the jolly captains Drawling 
 in the tavern, and laughing and cursing over 
 their cups — the drawer that serves, the bar- 
 girl that waits, the bailiff on the prowl, the 
 chairmen trudging through the black lampless 
 streets, and smoking their pipes, by the rail- 
 ings, whilst swords are clashing in the garden 
 within. u Help there ! a gentleman is hurt ! ” 
 The chairmen put up their pipes, and help the 
 gentleman over the railings, and carry him, 
 ghastly and bleeding, to the Bagnio, in Long 
 Acre, where they knock up the surgeon — a 
 pretty tall gentleman : but that wound under 
 the short ribs has done for him. Surgeon, 
 lords, captains, bailiffs, chairmen, and gentle- 
 man gaoler with your axe, where be you now? 
 The gentleman axeman’s head is off his own 
 shoulders ; the lords and judges can wag theirs 
 no longer ; the bailiff’s writs have ceased to 
 run ; the honest chairmen’s pipes are put out, 
 and with their brawny calves they have walked 
 away into Hades — alias irrecoverably done 
 for as Will Mountford or Captain Coote. The 
 subject of our night’s lecture saw all these 
 people — rode in Captain Coote’s company of 
 the Guards very probably — wrote and sighed 
 for Bracegirdle, went home tipsy in many a 
 chair, after many a bottle, in many a tavern — - 
 fled from many a bailiff. 
 
 In 1709, when the publication of the Tatlev 
 began, our great-great-grandfathers must have 
 seized upon that new and delightful paper 
 
STEELE. 
 
 109 
 
 with much such eagerness as lovers of light 
 literature in a later day exhibited when the 
 Waverley novels appeared, upon which the 
 public rushed, forsaking that feeble entertain- 
 ment of which the Miss Porters, the Anne of 
 Swanseas, and worthy Mrs. Radcliffe herself, 
 with her dreary castles and exploded old 
 ghosts, had had pretty much the monopoly. I 
 have looked over many of the comic books 
 with which our ancestors amusi d themselves, 
 from the novels of Swift’s coadjutrix, Mrs. 
 Manley, the delectable author of the “ New' 
 Atlantis,” to the facetious productions of Tom 
 Durfey, and Tom Brown, and Ned Ward, 
 writer of the u London Spy 99 and several other 
 volumes of ribaldry. The slang of the taverns 
 and ordinaries, the w r it of the Bagnios, form 
 the strongest part of the farrago of which 
 these libels are composed. In the excellent 
 newspaper collection at the British Museum, 
 you may see, besides, the Craftsmen and Post- 
 boy specimens, and queer specimens they are, 
 of the higher literature of Queen Anne’s time. 
 Here is an abstract from a notable journal 
 bearing date Wednesday, October 13, 1708, 
 and entitled The British Apollo ; cr, curious 
 amusements for the ingenious , by a society of 
 gentlemen. The British Apollo invited and 
 professed to answer questions upon all sub- 
 jects of wit, morality, science, and even re- 
 ligion ; and tw r o out of its four pages are filled 
 with queries and replies much like some of the 
 oracular penny prints of the present time. 
 
 One of the first querists, referring to the 
 
iiO ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 passage that a bishop should be the husband 
 of one wife, argues that polygamy is justifi- 
 able in the laity. The society of gentlemen 
 conducting the British Apollo are posed by 
 this casuist, and promise to give him an 
 answer. Celinda then wishes to know from 
 “ the gentleman/’ concerning the souls of the 
 dead, whether they shall have the satisfaction 
 to know those whom they most valued in this 
 transitory life. The gentlemen of the Apollo 
 give but poor comfort to poor Celinda. They 
 are inclined to think not ; for, say they, since 
 every inhabitant of those regions will be in- 
 finitely dearer than here are our nearest rela- 
 tives, what have we to do with a partial 
 friendship in that happy place? Poor Ce- 
 linda ! it may have been a child or a lover 
 whom she had lost, and was pining after, 
 when the oracle of British Apollo gave her 
 this dismal answer. She has solved the ques- 
 tion foi herself by this time, and knows quite 
 as well as the society of gentlemen. 
 
 From theology we come to physics, and 
 Q. asks, u Why does hot water freeze sooner 
 than cold ! ” Apollo replies, “ Hot water can- 
 not be said to freeze sooner than cold ; but 
 water once heated and cold, may be subject 
 to freeze by the evaporation of the spirituous 
 parts of the water, which renders it less able 
 to withstand the power of frosty weather.” 
 
 The next query is rather a delicate one. 
 u You, Mr. Apollo, who are said to be the 
 God of wisdom, pray give us the reason why 
 kissing is so much in fashion : what benefit 
 
STEELE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 
 one receives by it, and who was the inventor, 
 and you will oblige Corinna.” To this queer 
 demand the lips of Phoebus, smiling, answer : 
 ‘‘ Pretty innocent Corinna ! Apollo owns that 
 he was a little surprised by your kissing ques- 
 tion, particularly at that part of it where you 
 desire to know the benefit you receive by it. 
 Ah ! madam, had you a lover, you would not 
 come to Apollo for a solution ; since there is 
 no dispute but the kisses of mutual lovers 
 give infinite satisfaction. As to its inven- 
 tion, ’tis certain nature was its author, and it 
 began with the first courtship. ” 
 
 After a column more of questions, follow 
 nearly two pages of poems, signed by Philan- 
 der, Armenia, and the like, and chiefly on the 
 tender passion ; and the paper winds up with 
 a letter from Leghorn, an account of the 
 Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene be- 
 fore Lille, and proposals for publishing two 
 sheets on the present state of ^Ethiopia, by 
 Mr. Hill ; all of which is printed for the 
 authors by J. Mayo, at the Printing Press 
 against Water Lane in Fleet Street. What 
 a change it must have been — how Ap>ollo’s 
 oracles must have been struck dumb, when 
 the Tcitler appeared, and scholars, gentlemen, 
 men of the world, men of genius, began to 
 speak ! 
 
 Shortly before the Boyne was fought, and 
 young Swift had begun to make acquaint- 
 ance with English Court manners and English 
 servitude, in Sir William Temple’s family, 
 another Irish youth was brought to learn his 
 
112 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 humanities at the old school of Charterhouse, 
 near Smithfield ; to which foundation he had 
 been appointed by James Duke of Ormond, 
 a governor of the House, and a patron of the 
 lad’s family. The boy was an orphan, and 
 described, twenty years after, with a sweet 
 pathos and simplicity, some of the earliest 
 recollections of a life which was destined to 
 be checkered by a strange variety of good 
 and evil fortune. 
 
 I am afraid no good report could be given 
 by his masters and ushers of that thick-set, 
 square-faced, black-eyed, soft-hearted little 
 Irish boy. He was very idle. He was 
 whipped deservedly a great number of times. 
 Though he had very good parts of his own, 
 he got other boys to do his lessons for him, 
 and only took just as much trouble as should 
 enable him to scuffle through his exercises, 
 and by good fortune escape the flogging- 
 block. One hundred and fifty years after, I 
 have myself inspected, but only as an ama- 
 teur, that instrument of righteous torture still 
 existing, and in occasional use, in a secluded 
 private apartment of the old Charterhouse 
 School ; and have no doubt it is the very 
 counterpart, if not the ancient and interest- 
 ing machine itself, at which poor Dick Steele 
 submitted himself to the tormentors. 
 
 Besides being very kind, lazy, and good- 
 natured, this boy went invariably into debt 
 with the tart- woman ; ran out of bounds, and 
 entered into pecuniary, or rather promissory, 
 engagements with the neighboring lollipop- 
 
STEELE. 
 
 113 
 
 renders and piemen ; exhibited an early 
 fondness and capacity for drinking mum and 
 sack, and borrowed from all his comrades 
 who had money to lend. I have no sort of 
 authority for the statements here made of 
 Steele’s early life ; but if the child is father 
 of the man, the father of young Steele of 
 Merton, who left Oxford without taking a 
 degree, and entered the Life Guards — the 
 father of Captain Steele of Lucas’s Fusiliers, 
 who got his company through the patronage 
 of my Lord Cutts — the father of Mr. Steele 
 the Commissioner of Stamps, the editor of 
 the Gazet'e , the Tat’er , and Spectator , the ex- 
 pelled Member of Parliament, and the author 
 of the “Tender Husband” and the “Con- 
 scious Lovers ” ; if man and boy resembled 
 each other, Dick Steele the school-boy must 
 have been one of the most generous, good-for- 
 nothing, amiable little creatures that ever 
 conjugated the verb tupto , I beat, tuptomai , 
 I am whipped, in any school in Great Britain. 
 
 Almost every gentleman who does me the 
 honor to hear me will remember that the 
 very greatest character which he has seen in 
 the course of his life, and the person to whom 
 he has looked up with the greatest wonder and 
 reverence, was the head boy at his school. 
 The schoolmaster himself hardly inspires such 
 an awe. The head boy construes as well as 
 the schoolmaster himself. When he begins 
 to speak, the hall is hushed, and every little 
 boy listens. He writes off copies of Latin 
 verses as melodiously as Virgil. He is good- 
 8 
 
114 
 
 EXGLISII HUMORISTS. 
 
 natured, and, his own masterpieces achieved, 
 pours out other copies of verses for other 
 boys with an astonishing ease and fluency ; 
 the idle ones only trembling lest they should 
 be discovered on giving in their exercises and 
 whipped because their poems were too good. 
 I have seen great men in my time, but never 
 such a great one as that head boy of my 
 childhood ; we all thought he must be Prime 
 Minister, and I was disappointed on meeting 
 him in after life to find he was no more than 
 six feet high. 
 
 Dick Steele, the Charterhouse gownboy, con- 
 tracted such an admiration in the years of his 
 childhood, and retained it faithfully through 
 his life. Through the school and through 
 the world, whithersoever his strange fortune 
 led this erring, wayward, affectionate creature, 
 Joseph Addison was always his head boy. 
 Addison wrote his exercises. Addison did 
 his best themes. He ran on Addison’s mes- 
 sages ; fagged for him and blacked his shoes : 
 to be in Joe’s company was Dick’s greatest 
 pleasure ; and he took a sermon or a caning 
 from his monitor with the most boundless 
 reverence, acquiescence, and affection.* 
 
 Steele found Addison a stately college Don 
 at Oxford, and himself did not make much 
 
 *“ Steele had the greatest veneration for Addison, and used 
 to show it, in all companies, in a particular manner. Addison, 
 now and then, used to play a little upon him; but he always 
 took it well.” — Pope. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 “ Sir Richard Steele was the best natured creature in the 
 world : even in his worst state of health, he seemed to desire 
 nothing but to please and be pleased.” — Dr. Young. Spence's 
 Anecdotes. 
 
STEELE. 
 
 115 
 
 figure at this place. He wrote a comedy, 
 which, by the advice of a friend, the humble 
 fellow burned there ; and some verses, which 
 I dare say are as sublime as other gentle- 
 men’s compositions at that age ; but being 
 smitten with a sudden love for military glory, 
 he threw up the cap and gown for the saddle 
 and bridle, and rode privately in the Horse 
 Guards, in the Duke of Ormond’s troop — 
 the second — and, probably, with the rest of 
 the gentlemen of his troop, all mounted on 
 black horses with white feathers in their hats, 
 and scarlet coats richly laced,” marched by 
 King William, in Hyde Park, in November, 
 1699, and a great show of the nobility, be- 
 sides twenty thousand people, and above a 
 thousand ci aches. u The Guards had just 
 got their new clothes,” the London Post said ; 
 “they are extraordinary grand, and thought 
 to be the finest body of horse in the world.” 
 But Steele could hardly have seen any actual 
 service. He who wrote about himself, his 
 mother, his vife, his loves, his debts, his 
 friends, and the wine he drank, would have 
 told us of his battles if lie had seen any. 
 His old patron, Ormond, probably got him 
 his cornetcy in the Guards, from which he 
 was promoted to be a captain in Lucas’s 
 Fusiliers, getting his company through the 
 patronage of Lord Cutts, whose secretary he 
 was, and to whom he dedicated his work 
 called the u Christian Hero.” As for Dick, 
 whilst writing this ardent devotional work, 
 he was deep in debt, in drink, and in all the 
 
116 
 
 ENGLISH H U MOB IS TS. 
 
 follies of the town ; it is related that all the 
 officers of Lucas’s, and the gentlemen of the 
 Guards, laughed at Dick.* And in truth a 
 theologian in liquor is not a respectable ob- 
 ject, and a hermit, though he may be out at 
 elbows, must not be in debt to the tailor. 
 Steele says of himself that he was always 
 sinning and repenting. lie beat his breast 
 and cried most piteously when he did repent : 
 but as soon as crying had made him thirsty, 
 
 * “ The gayety of his dramatic tone may be seen in this 
 little scene between two brilliant sisters, from his comedy “ The 
 Funeral, or Grief a la Mode.” Dick wrote this, he said, from 
 “a necessity of enlivening his character,” which, it seemed, the 
 “Christian Hero ” had a tendency to make too decorous, grave, 
 and respectable in the eyes of readers of that pious piece. 
 
 [ Scene draws and discovers Lady Charlotte, reading at a 
 table ; Lady Harriet, playing at a glass to and fro y and 
 viewing herself.] 
 
 L. Ha. Nay, good sister, you may as well talk to me [looking 
 at herself as she spe ks 1 as sit staring at a book which I know 
 you can’t attend. Good Dr. Lucas may have writ there what 
 he pleases, but there ’s no putting Francis, Lord Hardy, now 
 Earl of Brumpton, out of your head, or making him absent 
 from your eyes. Do but look on me now, and deny it if you can. 
 L. Ch. You are the maddest girl [smiling] . 
 
 L. Ila. Look ye, I knew you could not say it and forbear 
 laughing. [Looking over Charlotte.] Oh! I see his name, 
 as plain as you do — F-r-a-n, Fran, — c i-s, Francis, ’t is in 
 every line of the book. 
 
 L. Ch. [rising]. It’s in vain, I see, to mind anything in 
 such impertinent company; but, granting ’twere as you say, 
 as to my Lord Hardy, ’t is more excusable to admire another 
 than one’s self. 
 
 I. Ha. No, I think not, — yes, I grant you, than really to 
 be vain of one’s person, but I don’t admire myself, — Pish! I 
 don’t believe my eyes to have that softness. [Looking in the 
 glass.] They a’n’t so piercing: no, ’t is only stuff, the men will 
 be talking. Some people are such admirers of teeth — Lord, 
 what signifies teeth? [Showing her teeth.] A very black-a- 
 moor has as white a set of teeth as I. No, sister, I don’t ad- 
 mire myself, but I ’ve a spirit of contradiction in me : I don’t 
 know I ’m in love with myself, only to rival the men. 
 
 L. Ch. Ay, but Mr. Campley will gain ground ev’n of that 
 rival of his, your dear self. 
 
 L. Ha. Oh, what have I done to you, that you should name 
 
STEELE. 
 
 117 
 
 he fell to sinning again. In that charming 
 paper in the T. tier, in which he records his 
 father’s death, his mother’s griefs, his own 
 most solemn and tender emotion*, he says he 
 is interrupted by the arrival of a hamper of 
 wine, u the same as is to be sold at Garra- 
 way’s, next week” ; upon the receipt of which 
 lie sends for three friends, and they fall to in- 
 stantly, 6 ‘drinking two bottles apiece, with 
 great benefit to themselves, and not separat- 
 ing till two o’clock in the morning.” 
 
 His life was so. Jack the drawer was al- 
 
 that insolent intruder? A confident, opinionative fop. No, in- 
 deed, if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of 
 both sexes, 
 
 The public envy and the public care, 
 
 I sha’n’t be so easily catched — I thank him — T want but to be 
 sure I should heartily torment him by banishing him, and then 
 consider whether he should depart this life or not. 
 
 L. Ch. Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this vanity in 
 your humor does not at all become you. 
 
 L. Ha. Vanity! All the matter is, we gay people are more 
 sincere than you wise folks : all your life’s an art. Speak your 
 soul. Look you there. | Hauling her to the glass. J Are you 
 not struck with a secret pleasure when you view that bloom in 
 your look, that harmony in your shape, that promptitude in 
 your mien? 
 
 L. Ch. Well, simpleton, if I am at first so simple as to be a 
 little taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take pains to 
 correct it. 
 
 L. Ha. Pshaw! Pshaw! Talk this musty tale to old Mrs. 
 Fardingale, ’t is too soon for me to think at that rate. 
 
 L. Ch. They that think it too soon to understand themselves 
 Avill very soon find it too late. But tell me honestly, don’t you 
 like Campley? 
 
 L. 11a. The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward 
 thing did not think of getting me so easily. Oh, I hate a heart 
 I can’t break when 1 please. What makes the value of dear 
 china, but that ’t is so brittle? — were it not for that, you 
 might as well have stone mugs in your closet — The Funeral , 
 Oct. 2. 
 
 “ We knew the obligations the stage had to his writings 
 [Steele’s] ; there being scarcely a comedian of merit in our 
 whole company whom his Tatters had not made better by his 
 recommendation of them.” — Cibber, 
 
118 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 ways interrupting it, bringing him a bottle 
 from the “ Eose,” or inviting him over to 
 a bout there with Sir Plume and Mr. Diver ; 
 and Dick wiped his eyes, which were whim- 
 pering over his papers, took down his laced 
 hat, put on his sword and wig, kissed his wife 
 and children, told them a lie about pressing 
 business, and went off to the “ Eose ” to the 
 jolly fellows. 
 
 While Mr. Addison was abroad, and after 
 lie came home in rather a dismal way to wait 
 upon Providence in his shabby lodging in the 
 Haymarket, young Captain Steele was cutting 
 a much smarter figure than that of his classical 
 friend of Charterhouse Cloister and Maudlin 
 Walk. Could not some painter give an inter- 
 view between the gallant Captain of Lucas’s, 
 with his hat cocked, and his lace, and face too, 
 a trifle tarnished with drink, and that poet, 
 that philosopher, pale, proud, and poor, his 
 friend and monitor of school-days, of all days? 
 How Dick must have bragged about his 
 chances and his hopes, and the fine company 
 he kept, and the charms of the reigning toasts 
 and popular actresses, and the number of 
 bottles that he and mv lord and some other 
 pretty fellows had cracked over night at the 
 “Devil,” or the “ Garter”! Cannot one 
 fancy Joseph Addison’s calm smile and cold 
 gray eyes following Dick for an instant, as he 
 struts down the Mall to dine with the Guard at 
 St. James’s before he turns, with his sober 
 pace and threadbare suit, to walk back to his 
 lodgings up the two pair of stairs ? Steele’s 
 
STEELE. 
 
 119 
 
 name was down for promotion, Dick always 
 said himself, in the glorious, pious, and im- 
 mortal William’s last table-book. Jonathan 
 Swift’s name had been written there by the 
 same hand too. 
 
 Our worthy friend, the author of the 
 u Christian Hero,” continued to make no small 
 figure about town by the use of his wits.* He 
 was appointed Gazetteer: he wrote, in 1703, 
 “ The Tender Husband,” his second play, in 
 which there is some delightful farcical writing, 
 and of which he fondly owned in after life, 
 and when Addison was no more, that there 
 were “ many applauded strokes ” from Addi- 
 son’s beloved hand.f Is it not a pleasant 
 partnership to remember? Can’t one fancy 
 Steele full of spirits and youth, leaving his 
 gay company to go to Addison’s lodging, 
 where his friend sits in the shabby sitting - 
 
 * “ There is not now in his sight that excellent man, whom 
 Heaven made his friend and superior, to be at a certain place 
 in pain for what he should say or do. I will go on in his fur- 
 ther encouragement. The best woman that ever man had can- 
 not now lament and pine at his neglect of himself.” — Steele 
 [of himself], The Theatre. No. 32, Feb. 1719-20 
 
 f“ The Funeral” supplies an admirable stroke of humor, 
 — one which Sydney Smith has used as an illustration of the 
 faculty in his Lectures. 
 
 The undertaker is talking to his employe about their duty. 
 Sable. — “Ha, you ! — A little more upon the dismal 
 [, forming their countenances ]; this fellow has a good mortal 
 look, — place him near the corpse; that wainecot-face must be 
 o’ top of the stairs; that fellow ’s almost in a fright that looks 
 as if he were full of some strange misery) at the end of the hall. 
 So — But I’ll fix you all myself. Let’s have no laughing now 
 on any provocation. Look yonder, — that hale, well-looking 
 puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take 
 you out of a great man’s service, and show you the pleasure of 
 receiving wages? Did not I give you ten , then fifteen , and 
 twenty shillings a week to be sorrowful ? ~ and the more I give 
 you I think the gladder you are !* 9 
 
120 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 room, quite serene, and cheerful, and poor? 
 In 1704, Steele came on the town with another 
 comedy, and behold it was so moral and reli- 
 gious, as poor Dick insisted, — so dull the 
 town thought, — that the “ Lying Lover ” 
 was damned. 
 
 Addison’s hour of success now came, and 
 he was able to help our friend the “Christain 
 Hero ” in such a way, that, if there had been 
 any chance of keeping that poor tipsy champion 
 upon his legs, his fortune was safe, and his 
 competence assured. Steele procured the place 
 of Commissioner of Stamps ; he wrote so 
 richly, so gracefully often, so kindly always, 
 with such a pleasant wit and easy frankness, 
 with such a gush of good spirits and good- 
 humor, that his early papers may be compared 
 to Addison’s own, and are to be read, by a 
 male reader at least, with quite an equal 
 pleasure.* 
 
 After the Tatler in 1711, the famous Spec- 
 
 * “From my own Apartment, Nov. 16. 
 
 “There are several persons who have many pleasures and 
 entertainments in their possession, which they do not enjoy; it 
 is, therefore, a kind and good office to acquaint them with their 
 own happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of 
 their good fortune as they are apt to overlook. Persons in the 
 married state often want such a monitor ; and pine away their 
 days by looking upon the same condition in anguish and mur- 
 muring, which carries with it, in the opinion of others, a com- 
 plication of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its 
 inquietudes. 
 
 “I am led into this thought by a visit I made to an old friend 
 who was formerly my school fellow. He came to town last 
 week, with his family, for the winter; and yesterday morning 
 sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. I am, as it were, 
 at home at that house, and every member of it knows me for 
 their well-wisher. I cannot, indeed, express the pleasure it is 
 to be met by the children with so much joy as I am when I go 
 thither. The boys and girls strive who shall come first, when 
 
STEELE. 
 
 121 
 
 tator made its appearance, and this was fol- 
 lowed, at various intervals, by many periodi- 
 cals under the same editor — the Guardian — 
 the Englishman — the Lover , whose love was 
 
 they think it is I that am knocking at the door; and that child 
 which loses the race to me runs back again to tell the father it 
 is Mr. Bickerstaff. This day I was led in by a pretty girl that 
 we all thought must have forgot me ; for the family has been out 
 of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a mighty 
 subject with us, and took up our discourse at the first entrance; 
 after which, they began to rally me upon a thousand little sto- 
 ries they heard in the country, about my marriage to one of my 
 neighbor’s daughters; upon which, the gentleman, my friend, 
 said, ‘Nay; if Mr. Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his old 
 companions, I hope mine shall have the preference; there is 
 Mrs. Mary is now sixteen, and would make him as fine a widow 
 as the best of them. But I know him too well ; he is so enam- 
 oured with the very memory of those who flourished in our 
 youth, that he will not so much as look upon the modern 
 beauties. I remember, old gentleman, how often you went 
 home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress when Ter- 
 aminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the coach, I 
 repeated to my wife some of your verses on her.’ With such 
 reflections on little passages which happened long ago, we 
 passed our time during a cheerful and elegant meal. After 
 dinner his lady left the room, as did also the children. As soon 
 as we were alone, he took me by the hand : ‘ Well, my good 
 friend,’ says he, ‘I am heartily glad to see thee; I was afraid 
 you would never have seen all the company that dined with you 
 to-day again. Do not you think the good woman of the house 
 a little altered since you followed her from the playhouse to find 
 out who she was for me? ’ I perceived a tear fall down his 
 cheek as he spoke, which moved me not a little. But, to turn 
 the discourse, I said, ‘ She is not, indeed, that creature she was 
 when she returned me the letter I carried from you, and told 
 me, “ She hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be employed no 
 more to trouble her, who had never offended me; but would 
 be so much the g ntleman’s friend as to dissuade him from a 
 pursuit which he could never succeed in.” You may remember 
 1 thought her in earnest, and you were forced to employ your 
 cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her for 
 you. You cannot expect her to be forever fifteen.* ‘Fifteen! * 
 replied my good friend. ‘Ah! you little understand — you, that 
 have lived a bachelor — how great, how exquisite a pleasure 
 there is in being really beloved ! It is impossible that the most 
 beauteous face in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas 
 as when I look upon that excellent woman. That fading in her 
 countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with me in my 
 fever. This was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like 
 to have carried me off last winter. I tell you, sincerely, I have 
 eo many obligations to her that I cannot, with any sort of mod- 
 
122 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 rather insipid — the Reader , of whom the 
 public saw no more after his second appear- 
 ance — the Theatre , under the pseudonyme of 
 
 eration, think of her present state of health. But, as to what 
 you say of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasure beyond what 
 I ever knew in the possession of her beauty when I was in the 
 vigor of youth. Every moment of her life brings me fresh 
 instances of her complacency to my inclinations, and her pru- 
 dence in regard to my fortune. Her face is to me much more 
 beautiful than when 1 first saw it ; there is no decay in any fea- 
 ture which I cannot trace from the very instant it was occa- 
 sioned by some anxious concern for my welfare and interests. 
 Thus, at the same time, methinks, the love I conceived towards 
 her for what she was, is heightened by my gratitude for what 
 she is. The love of a wife is as much above the idle passion 
 commonly called by that name, as the loud laughter of buffoons 
 is inferior to the elegant mirth of gentlemen. Oh! she is an 
 inestimable jewel! In her exam nation of her household affairs, 
 she shows a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her 
 servants obey her like children ; and the meanest we have has 
 an ingenuous shame for an offence not always to be seen in 
 children in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend; 
 ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy be- 
 fore turn now to a certain anxiety. As tbe children play in the 
 next room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am con- 
 sidering what they must do should they lose their mother in 
 their tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my 
 boy stories of battles, and asking my girl questions about the 
 disposal of her baby, and the gossiping of it, is turned into in- 
 ward reflection and melancholy.’ 
 
 “ He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good 
 lady entered, and, with an inexpressible sweetness in her coun- 
 tenance, told us ‘ she had been searching her closet for some- 
 thing very good to treat such an old friend as I was. Her hus- 
 band’s eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of her 
 countenance; and I saw all his fears vanish in an instant. The 
 lady observing something in our looks which showed we had 
 been more serious than ordinary, and seeing her husband receive 
 her with great concern under a forced cheerfulness, immediately 
 guessed at what we had been talking of; and applying herself 
 to me, said, with a smile, ‘ Mr. Bickerstaff, do not believe a word 
 of what he tells you ; I shall still live to have you for my second, 
 as I have often promised you, unless he takes more care of him- 
 ejlf than he has done since his coming to town. You must know 
 he tells me that he finds London is a much more healthy place 
 than the country ; for he sees several of his old acquaintances 
 and school-fellows are here — young fellows icith fair , full- 
 bottomed periwigs . I could scarce keep him this morning from 
 going out open-breasted.' My friend, who is always extremely 
 delighted with her agreeable humor, made her sit down with us. 
 Phe did it with that easiness which is peculiar to women of 
 
STEELE . 
 
 123 
 
 Sir John Edgar, which Steele wrote while 
 Governor of the Royal Company of Come- 
 dians, to which post, and to that of Surveyor 
 
 sense; and to keep up the good-humor she had brought in with 
 her, turned her raillery upon me. ‘ Mr. Bickerstaff, you remem- 
 ber you followed me one night from the playhouse; suppose 
 you should carry me thither to-morrow night, and lead me in 
 the front box.’ This put us into a long field of discourse about 
 the beauties who were the mothers to the present, and shined in 
 the boxes twenty years ago. I told her, ‘ I was glad she had 
 transferred so many of her charms, and I did not question but 
 her eldest daughter was within half a year of being a toast.’ 
 “We were pleasing ourselves with this fantastical prefer- 
 ment of the young lady, when, on a sudden, we were alarmed 
 with the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little god- 
 son to give me a point of war. His mother, between laughing 
 and chiding, would have put him out of the room; but I would 
 not part with him so. I found, upon conversation with him, 
 though he was a little noisy in his mirth, that the child had ex- 
 cellent parts, and was a great master of all the learning on the 
 other side of eight years old. I perceived him a very great his- 
 torian in * HCsop's Fables’ ; but he frankly declared to me his 
 mind, ‘that he did not delight in that learning, because he did 
 not believe they were true’; for which reason I found he had 
 very much turned his studies, for about a twelvemonth past, 
 into the lives of Don Bellianis of Greece, Guy of Warwick, ‘ the 
 Seven Champions,’ and other historians of that age. I could 
 not but observe the satisfaction the father took in the forward- 
 ness of his son, and that these diversions might turn to some 
 profit. I found the boy had made remarks which might be of 
 service to him during the course of his whole life. He would 
 tell you the mismanagement of John Hiekathrift, find fault 
 with the passionate temper in Bevis of Southampton, and loved 
 St. George for being the champion of England ; and by this 
 means had his thoughts insensibly moulded into the notions of 
 discretion, virtue, and honor. I was extolling his accomplish- 
 ments, when his mother told me ‘ that the little girl who led me 
 in this morning was, in her way, a better scholar than he. 
 Betty,’ said she, ‘ deals chiefly in fairies and sprights ; and 
 sometimes in a winter night will terrify the maids with her 
 accounts, until they are afraid to go up to bed.’ 
 
 “ I sat with them until it was very late, sometimes in 
 merry, sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular 
 pleasure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a 
 sense that every one of us liked each other. 1 went home, con- 
 sidering the different conditions of a married life and that of a 
 bachelor ; and I must confess it struck me with a. secret concern, 
 to reflect, that whenever I go off I shall leave no traces behind 
 me. In this pensive mood I return to my family; that is to say, 
 to my maid, my dog, my cat, who only can be the better or 
 worse for what happens to me.” — The Tatler. 
 
124 
 
 ENGLISH HVMOBISTS . 
 
 of the Ro} T al Stables at Hampton Court, and 
 to the Commission of the Peace for Middlesex, 
 and to the honor of knighthood, Steele had 
 been preferred soon after the accession of 
 George I. ; whose cause honest Dick had 
 nobly fought, through disgrace, and danger, 
 against the most formidable enemies, against 
 traitors and bullies, against Bolingbroke and 
 Swift in the last reign. With the arrival of 
 the King, that splendid conspiracy broke up ; 
 and a golden opportunity came to Dick Steele, 
 w T hose hand, alas, was too careless to gripe it ! 
 
 Steele married twice, and outlived his places, 
 his schemes, his wife, his income, his health, 
 and almost everything but his kind heart. 
 That ceased to trouble him in 1729, when he 
 died, worn out and almost forgotten by his 
 contemporaries, in Wales, where he had the 
 remnant of a property. 
 
 Posterity has been kinder to this amiable 
 creature ; all women especially are bound to 
 be grateful to Steele, as he was the first of our 
 writers who really seemed to admire and re- 
 spect them. Congreve the Great, who alludes 
 to the low estimation in which women were 
 held in Elizabeth’s time, us a reason why the 
 women of Shakespeare make so small a figure 
 in the poet’s dialogues, though he can himself 
 pay splendid compliments to women, yet looks 
 on them as mere instruments of gallantry, and 
 destined, like the most consummate fortifica- 
 tions, to fall, after a certain time, before the 
 arts and bravery of the besieger, man. There 
 is a letter of Swift’s entitled u Advice to a 
 
STEELE. 
 
 125 
 
 very Young Married Lady,” which shows the 
 Dean’s opinion of the female society of his 
 day, and that if he despised man he utterly 
 scorned women too. No lady of our time could 
 be treated by any man, were he ever so much 
 a wit or Dean, in such a tone of insolent pat- 
 ronage and vulgar protection. In this per- 
 formance, Swift hardly takes pains to hide his 
 opinion that a woman is a fool : tells her to 
 read books, as if reading was a novel accom- 
 plishment; and informs her that “ not one 
 gentleman’s daughter in a thousand has been 
 brought to read or understand her own natural 
 tongue.” Addison laughs at women equally ; 
 but, with the gentleness and politeness of his 
 nature, smiles at them and watches them, as 
 if they were harmless, half-witted, amusing, 
 pretty creatures, only made to be men’s play- 
 things. It was Steele who first began to pay 
 a manly homage to their goodness and under- 
 standing, as well as to their tenderness and 
 beauty.* In his comedies the heroes do not 
 rant and rave about the divine beauties of 
 Gloriana or Statira, as the characters were 
 
 * “ As to the pursuits after affection and esteem, the fair sex 
 are happy in this particular, that with them the one is much 
 more nearly related to the other than in men. The love of a 
 woman is inseparable from some esteem of her; and as she is 
 naturally the object of affection, the woman who has your es- 
 teem has also some degree of your love. A man that dotes on a 
 woman for her beauty, will whisper his friend, ‘ That creature 
 has a great deal of wit when you are well acquainted with her.* 
 And if you examine the bottom of your esteem for a woman, 
 you will find you have a greater opinion of her beauty than any- 
 body else. As to us men, I design to pass most of my time with 
 the facetious Harry Bickerstaff; but William Bickerstaff, the 
 most prudent man of our family, shall be my executor.” — Tatler , 
 No. 206. 
 
126 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 made to do in the chivalry romances and the 
 high-flown dramas just going out of vogue ; 
 but Steele admires women’s virtue, acknowl- 
 edges their sense, and adores their purity and 
 beauty, with an ardor and strength which 
 should win the good-will of all women to their 
 hearty and respectful champion. It is this 
 ardor, this respect, this manliness, which makes 
 his comedies so pleasant and their heroes such 
 fine gentlemen. He paid the finest compliment 
 to a woman that perhaps ever was offered. 
 Of one woman, whom Congreve had also ad- 
 mired and celebrated, Steele says, that “ to 
 have loved her was a liberal education.” 
 u How often,” he says, dedicating a volume 
 to his wife, — how often has your tenderness 
 removed pain from my sick head, how often 
 anguish from my afflicted heart ! If there are 
 such beings as guardian angels, they are thus 
 employed. I cannot believe one of them to be 
 more good in inclination, or more charming in 
 form than my wife.” His breast seems to 
 warm and his eyes to kindle when he meets 
 with a go d and beautiful woman, and it is 
 with his heart as well as with his hat that he- 
 salutes her. About children, and all that re- 
 lates to home, he is not less tender, and more 
 than once speaks in apology of what he calls 
 his softness. He would have been nothing 
 without that delightful weakness. It is that 
 which gives his works their worth and his style 
 its charm. It, like his life, is full of faults and 
 careless blunders ; and redeemed, like that, by 
 his sweet and compassionate nature. 
 
STEELE . 
 
 127 
 
 We possess of poor Steele’s wild and check- 
 ered life some of the most curious memoranda 
 that ever were left of a man’s biography.* 
 
 * The Correspondence of Steele passed after his death into 
 the possession of his daughter Elizabeth, by his second wife, 
 Miss Scurlock, of Carmarthenshire. She married the Hon. John, 
 afterwards third Lord Trevor. At her death, part of the letters 
 passed to Mr. Thomas, a grandson of a natural daughter of 
 Steele’s; and part to Lady Trevor’s next of kin, Mr. Scurlock. 
 They were published by the learned Nichols — from whose later 
 edition of them, in 1809, our specimens are quoted. 
 
 Here we have him, in his courtship — which was not a very 
 long one : — 
 
 “ To Mrs. Scurlock. 
 
 “ Aug. 30, 1707. 
 
 “ Madam, — I beg pardon that my paper is not finer, but I am 
 forced to write from a coffee-house, where I am attending about 
 business. There is a dirty crowd of busy faces all around me, 
 talking of money; while all my ambition, all my wealth, is love! 
 Love which animates my heart, sweetens my humor, enlarges 
 my soul, and affects every action of my lire. It is to my lovely 
 charmer I owe, that many noble ideas are continually affixed to 
 my words and actions; it is the natural effect of that generous 
 passion to create in the admirer some similitude of the object 
 admired. Thus, my dear, am I every day to improve from so 
 sweet a companion. Look up, my fair one, to that Heaven which 
 made thee such; and join with me to implore its influence on 
 our tender innocent hours, and beseech the Author of love to 
 bless the rites He has ordained — and mingle with our happiness 
 a just sense of our transient condition, and a resignation to His 
 will, which only can regulate our minds to a steady endeavor to 
 please Him and each other. 
 
 “ I am for ever your faithful servant, 
 
 “ Rich. Steele.” 
 
 Some few hours afterwards, apparently, Mistress Scurlock 
 received the next one — obviously written later in the day ! — 
 
 ** Saturday Night (Aug. 30, 1707). 
 
 “ Dear , Lovely Mrs. Scurlock , — I have been in very good 
 company, where your health, under the character of the woman 
 I loved best, has been often drunk; so that I may say that I am 
 dead drunk for your sake, which is more than T die for you. 
 
 “ Rich. Steele.” 
 
 “ To Mrs. Scurlock. 
 
 “ Sept. 1, 1707. 
 
 “ Madam , — It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, 
 and yet attend business. As forme, all who speak to me find me 
 
128 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 Most men’s letters, from Cicero down to Wal- 
 pole, or down to the great men of our own 
 time, if you will, are doctored compositions, 
 
 out, and I must lock myself up, or other people will do it 
 for me. 
 
 “ A gentleman asked me this morning, ‘ What news from 
 Lisbon?’ and I answered, ‘She is exquisitely handsome.’ An- 
 other desired to know ‘ when I had last been at Hampton Court? ’ 
 I replied, ‘It will be on Tuesday come se’nnight.’ Pr’ythee 
 allow me at least to kiss your hand before that day, that my 
 mind may be in some composure. O Love ! 
 
 ‘ A thousand torments dwell about thee, 
 
 Yet who could live, to live without thee? * 
 
 “ Methinks I could write a volume to you ; but all the language 
 on earth would fail in saying how much, and with w T hat disin- 
 terested passion, 
 
 “I am ever yours, 
 
 “ Rich. Steele.” 
 
 Two days after this, he is found expounding his circum- 
 stances and prospects to the young lady’s mamma. He dates 
 from “Lord Sunderland’s office, Whitehall”; and states his 
 clear income at £1,025 per annum. “I promise myself,” says 
 he, “ the pleasure of an industrious and virtuous life, in studying 
 to do things agreeable to you.” 
 
 They were married, according to the most probable conjec- 
 tures, about the 7th of September. There are traces of a tiff about 
 the middle of the next month ; she being prudish and iidgety, as 
 he was impassioned and reckless. General progress, however, 
 may be seen from the following notes. The “ house in Bury 
 Street, St. James’s,” was now taken. 
 
 “ To Mrs. Steele. 
 
 “ Oct. 16, 1707. 
 
 “ Dearest Being on Earthy — Pardon me if you do not see 
 me till eleveL o’clock, having met a school-fellow from India, by 
 whom I am to be informed on things this night which expressly 
 concern your obedient husband, 
 
 “Rich. Steele,” 
 
 “To Mrs. Steele. 
 
 “ Eight O’clock, Fountain Tavern, 
 Oct. 22, 1707. 
 
 “ My Bear, — I Leg of you not to be uneasy ; for I have done 
 a great deal of business to-day very successfully, and wait an 
 hour or tw T o about my Gazette .” 
 
 “ Dec. 22, 1707. 
 
 “ My dear, dear Wife , — I write to let you know I do not 
 come home to dinner, being obliged to attend some business 
 abroad, of which I shall give you an account (when I see you in 
 the evening), as becomes your dutiful and obedient husband.” 
 
STEELE. 
 
 129 
 
 and written with an eye suspicious towards 
 posterity. That dedication of Steele’s to his 
 wife is an artificial performance, possibly ; at 
 
 “ Devil Tavern, Temple Bar, 
 Jan. 3, 1707-8. 
 
 “ Dear Prue , — I have partly succeeded in my business to-day, 
 and inclose two guineas as earnest of more. Dear Prue, I can- 
 not come home to dinner. I languish for your welfare, and will 
 never be a moment careless more. 
 
 “ Your faithful husband,” etc. 
 
 “Jan. 14, 1707-8. 
 
 “ Dear Wife , — Mr. Edgecombe, Ned Ask, and Mr. Lumley 
 have desired me to sit an hour with them at the ‘ George,’ in 
 Pall Mall, for which I desire your patience till twelve o’clock, 
 and that you will go to bed,” etc. 
 
 “ Gray’s Inn, Feb. 3, 1708. 
 
 ** Dear Prue , — If the man who has my shoemaker’s bill calls, 
 let him be answered that I shall call on him as I come home. I 
 stay here in order to get Jonson to discount a bill for me, and 
 shall dine with him for that end. He is expected at home every 
 minute. 
 
 “ Your most humble, obedient servant,” etc. 
 
 “ Tennis-court, Cofpee-house, 
 May 5, 1708. 
 
 “ Dear Wife, — I hope I have done this day what will be 
 pleasing to you ; in the mean time shall lie this night at a baker’s, 
 one Leg, over against the ‘ Devil Tavern,’ at Charing Cross. I 
 shall be able to confront the fools who wish me uneasy, and shall 
 have the satisfaction to see thee cheerful and at ease. 
 
 “If the printer’s boy be at home, send him hither; and let 
 Mrs. Todd send by the boy my night-gown, slippers, and clean 
 linen. You shall hear from me early in the morning,” etc. 
 
 Dozens of similar letters follow, with occasional guineas, little 
 parcels of tea, or walnuts, etc. In 1709 the Tatler made its ap- 
 pearance. The following curious note dates April 7, 1710 : — 
 
 “ I inclose to you [* Dear Prue ’]a receipt for the saucepan 
 and spoon, and a note of £23, of Lewis’s, which will make up the 
 £50 I promised for your ensuing occasion. 
 
 “ I know no happiness in this life in any degree comparable 
 to the pleasure I have in your person and society. I only beg of 
 you to add to your other charms a tearfulness to see a man that 
 loves you in pain and uneasiness, to make me as happy as it is 
 possible to be in this life. Rising a little in a morning, and being 
 disposed to a cheerfulness . . . would not be amiss.” 
 
 In another, he is found excusing his coming home, being 
 “ invited to supper to Mr. Boyle’s.” “ Dear Prue,” he says on 
 this occasion, “ do not send after me, for I shall be ridiculous,” 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 least, it is written w T ith that degree of artifice 
 which an orator uses in arranging a statement 
 for the House, or a poet employs in preparing 
 a sentiment in verse or for the stage. But 
 there are some four hundred letters of Dick 
 Steele’s to his wife, which that thrifty woman 
 preserved accurately, and which could have 
 been written but for her and her alone. They 
 contain details of the business, pleasures, 
 quarrels, reconciliations of the pair ; they 
 have all the genuineness of conversation ; they 
 are as artless as a child’s prattle, and as con- 
 fidental as a curtain-lecture. Some are writ- 
 ten from the printing office, where he is waiting 
 for the proof-sheets of his Gazette , or his Tat - 
 lev; some are written from the tavern, whence 
 he promises to come to his wife u within a pint 
 of wine,” and where he has given a rendezvous 
 to a friend or a money-lender : some are com- 
 posed in a high state of vinous excitement, 
 when his head is flustered with burgundy, and 
 his heart abounds with amorous warmth for 
 his darling Prue : some are under the influence 
 of the dismal headache and repentance next 
 morning ; some, alas, are from the lock-up 
 house, where the lawyers have impounded him, 
 and where he is waiting for bail. You trace 
 many years of the poor fellow’s career in these 
 letters. In September, 1707, from which day 
 she began to save the letters, he married the 
 beautiful Mistress Scurlock. You have his 
 passionate protestations to the lady ; his re- 
 spectful proposals to her mamma ; his private 
 prayer to Heaven when the union so ardently 
 
STEELE. 
 
 131 
 
 desired was completed ; his fond professions 
 of contrition and promises of amendment, 
 when, immediately after his marriage, there 
 began to be just cause for the one and need 
 for the other. 
 
 Captain Steele took a house for his lady upon 
 their marriage, u the third door from Germain 
 Street, left hand of Berry Street,” and the next 
 year he presented his wife with a country house 
 at Hampton. It appears she had a chariot 
 and pair, and sometimes four horses : he him- 
 self enjoyed a little horse for his own riding. 
 He paid, or promised to pay, his barber fifty 
 pounds a year, and always went abroad in a 
 laced coat and a large black buckled periwig, 
 that must have cost somebody fifty guineas. 
 He was rather a well-to-do gentleman, Captain 
 Steele, with the proceeds of his estates in 
 Barbadoes (left to him by his first wife), his 
 income as a writer of the Gazette , and his office 
 of gentleman waiter to his Royal Highness 
 Prince George. His second wife brought him 
 a fortune too. But it is melancholy to relate, 
 that with these houses and chariots and horses 
 and income, the Captain was constantly in 
 want of money, for which his beloved bride 
 was a -king as constantly. In the course of a 
 few pages we begin to find the shoemaker call- 
 ing for money, and some directions from the 
 Captain, who has not thirty pounds to spare. 
 He sends his wife, u the beautif idlest object in 
 the world,” as he calls her, and evidently in 
 reply to applications of her own, which have 
 gone the way of all waste paper, and lighted 
 
132 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . . 
 
 Dick’s pipes, which were smoked a hundred 
 and fort}^ years ago — he sends his wife now a 
 guinea, then a half guinea, then a couple of 
 guineas, then half a pound of tea ; and again 
 no money and no tea at all, but a promise that 
 his darling Prue shall have some in a day or 
 two : or a request, perhaps, that she will send 
 over his night-gown and shaving-plate to the 
 temporary lodging where the nomadic Captain 
 is lying, hidden from the bailiffs. Oh ! that a 
 Christian hero and late Captain in Lucas’s 
 should be afraid of a dirty sheriff’s officer ! 
 That the pink and pride of chivalry should 
 turn pale before a writ ! It stands to record 
 in poor Dick’s own handwriting — the queer 
 collection is preserved at the British Museum 
 to this present day — that the rent of the 
 nuptial house in Jermyn Street, sacred to un- 
 utterable tenderness and Prue, and three doors 
 fiom Bury Street, was not paid until after the 
 landlord had put in an execution on Captain 
 Steele’s furniture. Addison sold the house 
 and furniture at Hampton, and, after deducting 
 t ! e sum which his incorrigible friend was in- 
 debted to him, handed over the residue of the 
 proceeds of the sale to poor Dick, who was n’t 
 in the least angry at Addison’s summary pro- 
 ceeding, and I dare say was very glad of any 
 sa’e or execution, the result of wdiich w r as to 
 give him a little ready money. Having a small 
 house in Jermyn Street for which he couldn’t 
 pay, and a country house at Hampton on which 
 he had borrowed money, nothing must content 
 Captain Dick but the taking, in 1712, a much 
 
STEELE. 
 
 133 
 
 finer, larger, and grander house in Bloomsbury 
 Square : where his unhappy landlord got no 
 better satisfaction than his friend in St. 
 James’s, and where it is recorded that Dick 
 giving a grand entertainment, had a half-dozen 
 queer-looking fellows in livery to wait upon his 
 noble guests, and confessed that his servants 
 were bailiffs to a man. U I fared like a dis- 
 tressed prince,” the kindly prodigal writes, 
 generously complimenting Addison for his as- 
 sistance in the Tatler , — “I fared like a dis- 
 tressed prince, who calls in a powerful neighbor 
 to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary ; 
 when I had once called him in, I could not 
 subsist without dependence on him.” Poor, 
 needy Prince of Bloomsbury ! think of him in 
 his palace with his allies from Chancery Lane 
 ominously guarding him. 
 
 All sorts of stories are told indicative of his 
 recklessness and his good-humor. One nar- 
 rated by Doctor Hoadly is exceedingly charac- 
 teristic ; it shows the life of the time ; and our 
 poor friend very weak, but very kind both in 
 and out of his cups. 
 
 “ My father,” says Doctor John Hoadly, the 
 Bishop’s son, u when Bishop of Bangor, was, 
 by invitation, present at one of the Whig meet- 
 ings, held at the 4 Trumpet,’ in Shire Lane, 
 when Sir Richard, in his zeal, rather exposed 
 himself, having the double duty of the day 
 upon him, as well to celebrate the immortal 
 memory of King William, it being the 4th 
 November, as to drink his friend Addison up 
 to conversation pitch, whose phlegmatic con- 
 
134 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 stitution was hardly warmed for society by that 
 time. Steele was not fit for it. Two remark- 
 able circumstances happened. John Sly, the 
 hatter of facetious memory, w r as in the house ; 
 and John, pretty mellow, took it into his head 
 to come into the company on his knees, with 
 a tankard of ale in his hand to drink off to the 
 immortal memory , and to return in the same 
 manner. Steele, sitting next my father, whis- 
 pered him, Do laugh. It is humanity to laugh. 
 Sir Richard, in the evening, being too much 
 in the same condition, was put into a chair, 
 and sent home. Nothing would serve him but 
 being carried to the Bishop of Bangor’s, late 
 as it was. However, the chairmen carried him 
 home, and got him up-stairs, when his great 
 complaisance would wait on them down-stairs, 
 which he did, and then was got quietly to 
 bed.” * 
 
 There is another amusing story which, I 
 believe, that renowned collector, Mr. Joseph 
 Miller, or his successors, have incorporated 
 into their work. Sir Richard Steele, at a time 
 when he was much occupied with theatrical 
 affairs, built himself a pretty private theatre y 
 and before it was opened to his friends and 
 guests, was anxious to try whether the hall 
 was well adapted for hearing. Accordingly 
 he placed himself in the most remote part of 
 the gallery, and begged the carpenter who had 
 built the nouse to speak up from the stage. 
 
 *Of this famous Bishop, Steele wrote, — 
 
 “ Virtue with so much ease on Bangor sits, 
 
 All faults he pardons, though he none commits/* 
 
STEELE. 
 
 135 
 
 The man at first said that he was unaccustomed 
 to public speaking, and did not know what to 
 say to his honor ; but the good-natured knight 
 called out to him to say whatever was upper- 
 most ; and, after a moment the carpenter 
 began, in a voice perfectly audible: 44 Sir 
 Richard Steele ! ” he said, 44 for three months 
 past me and my men has been a working in 
 this theatre, and we’ve never seen the color 
 of your honor’s money : we will be very much 
 obliged if you’ll pay it directly, for until you 
 do we won't drive in another nail.” Sir Rich- 
 ard said that his friend’s elocution was perfect, 
 but that he didn’t like his subject much. 
 
 The great charm of Steele’s writing is its 
 naturalness. He wrote so quickly and care- 
 lessly that he was forced to make the reader 
 his confidant, and had not the time to deceive 
 him. He had a small share of book-learning, 
 but a vast acquaintance with the world. He 
 had known men and taverns. He had lived 
 with gownsmen, with troopers, with gentlemen 
 ushers of the Court, with men and women of 
 fashion ; with authors and wits, with the in- 
 mates of the spunging-houses, and with the 
 frequenters of all the clubs and coffee-houses 
 in the town. He was liked in all company 
 because he liked it ; and you like to see his 
 enjoyment as you like to see the glee of a box- 
 ful of children at the pantomime, lie was not 
 of those lonely ones of the earth whose great- 
 ness obliged them to be solitary ; on the con- 
 trary, he admired, I think, more than any man 
 who ever wrote ; and full of hearty applause 
 
136 
 
 ENGLISH IIUMOBISTS. 
 
 and sympathy, wins upon you by calling you 
 to share his delight and good-humor. His 
 laugh rings through the w r hole house. He 
 must have been invaluable at a tragedy, and 
 have cried as much as the most tender young 
 lady in the boxes. He has a relish for beauty 
 and goodness wherever he meets it. He ad- 
 mired Shakespeare affectionately, and more 
 than any man of his time : and according to 
 his generous expansive nature, called upon all 
 his company to like what he liked himself. 
 He did not damn with faint praise : he was 
 in the world and of it ; and his enjoyment of 
 life presents the strangest contrast to Swift’s 
 savage indignation and Addison’s lonely se- 
 renity.* Permit me to read to you a passage 
 
 * Here we have some of his later letters : — 
 
 “To Lady Steele. 
 
 “ Hampton Court, March 16, 1716-17. 
 
 “ Dear Prue, — If you have written anything to me which I 
 should have received last night, I beg your pardon that I cannot 
 answer till the next post. . . . Your son at the present writing 
 is mighty well employed in tumbling on the floor of the room 
 and sweeping the sand with a feather. He grows a most delight- 
 ful child, and very full of play and spirit. He is also a very great 
 scholar: he can read his primer; and I have brought down my 
 Virgil. He makes most shrewd remarks about the pictures. 
 AVe are very intimate friends and play-fellows. He begins to" 
 be very ragged; and I hope I shall be pardoned if I equip him 
 with new clothes and frocks, or what Mrs. Evans and I shall 
 think for his service.” 
 
 “ To Lady Steele. 
 
 [Undated.] 
 
 “ You tell me you want a little flattery from me. I assure 
 you I know no one who deserves so much commendation as 
 yourself, and to whom saying the best things would be so little 
 jike flattery. The thing speaks for itself, considering you as a 
 very handsome woman that loves retirement — one who does 
 not want wit, and yet is extremely sincere; and so I could go 
 through all the vices which attend the good qualities of other 
 people, of which you are exempt. But, indeed, though you have 
 
STEELE . 
 
 137 
 
 from each writer, curiously indicative of his 
 peculiar humor : the subject is the same, and 
 the mood the very gravest. We have said 
 that upon all the actions of man, the most 
 trifling and the most solemn, the humorist 
 takes upon himself to comment. All readers 
 of our old masters know the terrible lines of 
 Swift, in which he hints at his philosophy and 
 describes the end of mankind : — * 
 
 “ Amazed, confused, its fate unknown, 
 
 The world stood trembling at Jove’s throne ; 
 
 While each pale sinner hung his head, 
 
 Jove, nodding, shook the heavens and said : 
 
 every perfection, you have an extravagant fault, which almost 
 frustrates the good in you to me; and that is, that you do not 
 love to dress, to appear, to shine out, even at my request, and 
 to make me proud of you, or rather to indulge the pride I have 
 that you are mine. . . . 
 
 “ Your most affectionate, obsequious husband, 
 
 “Richard Steele. 
 
 “A quarter of Molly’s schooling is paid. The children are 
 perfectly well.” 
 
 “ To Lady Steele. 
 
 “ March 26 , 1717 . 
 
 “ My dearest Prue, — I have received yours, wherein you 
 give me the sensible affliction of telling me enow of the con- 
 tinual pain in your head. . . . When I lay in your place, and 
 on your pillow, I assure you I fell into tears last night, to think 
 that my charming little insolent might be then awake and in 
 pain ; aud took it to be a sin to go to sleep. 
 
 “ For this tender passion towards you, 1 must be contented 
 that your Prueship will condescend to call yourself my well- 
 wisher. . . .” 
 
 At the time when the above later letters were written, Lady 
 Steele was in Wales, looking after her estate there. 'Steele, 
 about this time, was much occupied with a project for convey- 
 ing tish alive, by which, as he constantly assures his wife, he 
 firmly believed he should make his fortune. It did not succeed, 
 however. 
 
 Lady Steele died in December of the succeeding year. She 
 lies burried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 * Lord Chesterfield sends these verses to Voltaire in a char, 
 acteristic letter. 
 
138 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 1 Offending race of human kind, 
 
 By nature, reason, learning, blind ; 
 
 You who through frailtv stepped aside, 
 
 And you who never err’d through pride ; 
 
 You who in different sects were shamm’d, 
 
 And come to see each other damn’d ; 
 
 (So some folk told you, but they knew 
 No more of Jove’s designs than you ;) 
 
 The world’s mad business now is o’er, 
 
 And I resent your freaks no more ; 
 
 / to such blockheads set my wit, 
 
 I damn such fools — go, go, you ’re bit ! ’ ” 
 
 Adclison, speaking on the very same theme, 
 but with how different a voice, says, in his 
 famous paper on Westminster Abbey ( Spec- 
 tator , No. 26) : “ For my own part, though 
 I am always serious, I do not know what it is 
 to be melancholy, and can therefore take a 
 view r of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, 
 with the same pleasure as in her most gay and 
 delightful ones. When I look upon the tombs 
 of the great, every emotion of envy dies within 
 me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, 
 every inordinate desire goes out ; when I meet 
 with the grief of parents on a tombstone, my 
 heart melts with compassion ; when I see the 
 tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the 
 vanity of grieving for those we must quickly 
 follow." (I have owned that I do not think 
 Addison’s heart melted very much, or that he 
 indulged very inordinately in the “vanity of 
 grieving.") “ When," he goes on, “ when 1 
 see kings lying by those who deposed them : 
 when I consider rival wits placed side by side, 
 or the holy men that divided the world with 
 their contests and disputes, — I reflect with 
 
STEELE. 
 
 139 
 
 sorrow and astonishment on the little compe- 
 titions, factions, and debates of mankind. 
 And, when I read the several dates on the 
 tombs of some that died yesterday, and some 
 six hundred years ago, I consider that great 
 day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, 
 and make our appearance together.” 
 
 Our third humorist comes to speak on the 
 same subject. You will have observed in the 
 previous extracts the characteristic humor of 
 each writer — the subject and the contrast — 
 the fact of Death, and the play of individual 
 thought by which each comments on it, and 
 now hear the third writer, death, sorrow, and 
 the grave being for the moment also his theme. 
 “ The first sense of sorrow I ever knew,” Steele 
 says in the Toiler, “was upon the death of 
 my father, at which time I was not quite five 
 years of age : but was rather amazed at what 
 all the house meant, than possessed of a real 
 , understanding why nobody would play with us. 
 I remember I went into the room where his 
 body lay, and my mother sate weeping alone 
 by it. I had my battledore in my hand, and 
 fell a beating the coffin and calling papa ; for, 
 I know not how, I had some idea that he was 
 locked up there. My mother caught me in her 
 arms, and, transported beyond all patience of 
 the silent grief she was before in, she almost 
 smothered me in her embraces, and told me in 
 a flood of tears, 4 Papa could not hear me, and 
 would play with me no more : for they were 
 going to put him under ground, whence he 
 Would never come to us again.’ She was a 
 
140 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit, and 
 there was a dignity in her grief, amidst all the 
 wildness of her transport, which methought 
 struck me with an instinct of sorrow that, be- 
 fore I was sensible what it was to grieve, seized 
 my very soul, and has made pity the weakness 
 of my heart ever since. ” 
 
 Can there be three more characteristic moods 
 of minds and men? u Fools, do you know 
 anything of this mystery ? ” says Swift, stamp- 
 ing on a grave, and carrying his scorn for man- 
 kind actually beyond it. “ Miserable, purblind 
 wretches, how dare you to pretend to compre- 
 hend the Inscrutable, and how can } 7 our dim 
 e} T es pierce the unfathomable depths of yonder 
 boundless heaven ? ” Addison, in a much kinder 
 language and gentler voice, utters much the 
 same sentiment : and speaks of the rivalry of 
 wits, and the contests of holy men, with the 
 same sceptic placidity. u Look what a little 
 vain dust we are,” he says, smiling over the 
 tombstones ; and catching, as is his wont, quite 
 a divine effulgence as he looks heavenward, he 
 speaks, in words of inspiration almost , of 66 the 
 Great Day, when we shall all of us be contem- 
 poraries, and make our appearance together.” 
 The third, whose theme is Death, too, and 
 who will speak his word of moral as Heaven 
 teaches him, leads you up to his father’s coffin, 
 and shows you his beautiful mother weeping, 
 and himself an unconscious little boy wonder- 
 ing at her side. His own natural tears flow as 
 he takes your hand and confidingly asks your 
 sympathy. u See how good and innocent and 
 
STEELE . 
 
 14 L 
 
 beautiful women are,” he says ; 44 how tender 
 little children ! Let us love these and one 
 another, brother — God knows we have need 
 of love and pardon.” So it is each looks with 
 his own eyes, speaks with his own voice, and 
 prays his own prayer. 
 
 When Steele asks your sympathy for the 
 actors in that charming scene of Love and 
 Grief and Death, who can refuse it? One 
 yields to it as to the frank advance of a child, 
 or to the appeal of a woman. A man is seldom 
 more manly than when he is what you call un- 
 manned — the source of his emotion is cham- 
 pionship, pit} T , and courage ; the instinctive 
 desire to cherish those who are innocent and 
 unhapp} 7 , and defend those who are tender and 
 weak. If Steele is not our friend he is nothing. 
 He is by no means the most brilliant of wits 
 nor the deepest of thinkers : but he is our 
 friend : we love him, as children love their 
 love with an A, because he is amiable. Who 
 likes a man best because he is the cleverest or 
 the wisest of mankind ; or a woman because 
 she is the most virtuous, or talks French or 
 plays the piano better than the rest of her sex? 
 I own to liking Dick Steele the man and Dick 
 Steele the author, much better than much bet- 
 ter men and much better authors. 
 
 The misfortune regarding Steele is, that most 
 part of the company here present must take 
 his amiability upon hearsay, and certainly can’t 
 make his intimate acquaintance. Not that 
 Steele was worse than his time ; on the con- 
 trary, a far better, truer, and higher-hearted 
 
142 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 man than most who lived in it. But things 
 were done in that society, and names were 
 named, which would make you shudder now. 
 What would be the sensation of a polite 3’outh 
 of the present day, if at a ball he saw the 
 young object of his affections taking a box 
 out of her pocket and a pinch of snuff : or if 
 at dinner, by the charmer’s side, she deliber- 
 ately put her knife into her mouth? If she 
 cut her mother’s throat with it, mamma would 
 scarcely be more shocked. I allude to these 
 peculiarities of by-gone times as an excuse for 
 my favorite Steele, who was not worse, and 
 often much more delicate than his neighbors. 
 
 There exists a curious document descriptive 
 of the manners of the last age, which describes 
 most minutely the amusements and occupa- 
 tions of persons of fashion in London at the 
 time of which we are speaking ; the time of 
 Swift, and Addison, and Steele. 
 
 When Lord Sparkish, Tom Neverout, and 
 Colonel Alwit, the immortal personages of 
 Swift’s polite conversation, came to breakfast 
 with my Lady Smart, at eleven o’c’ock in the 
 morning, my Lord Smart was absent at the 
 levee. His lordship was at home to dinner at 
 three o’clock to receive his guests ; and we may 
 sit down to this meal, like the Barmecide’s, 
 and see the fops of the last century before us. 
 Seven of them sat down at dinner, and were 
 joined by a country baronet who told them 
 they kept Court hours. These persons of 
 fashion began their dinner with a sirloin of 
 beef, fish, a shoulder of veal, and a tongue. 
 
STEELE. 
 
 143 
 
 My Lady Smart carved the sirloin, my Lady 
 Auswerall helped the fish, and the gallant 
 Colonel cut the shoulder of veal. All made 
 a considerable inroad on the sirloin and the 
 shoulder of veal wi h the exception of Sir 
 John, who had no appetite, having already 
 partaken of a beefsteak and two mugs of ale, 
 besides a tankard of March beer as soon as he 
 got out of bed. They drank claret, which the 
 master of the house said should always be 
 drunk after fish ; and my Lord Smart particu- 
 larly recommended some excellent cider to my 
 Lord Sparkish, which occasioned some brilliant 
 remarks from that nobleman. When the host 
 called for wine, he nodded to one or other of his 
 guests, and said, u Tom Neverout, my service 
 to you.” 
 
 After the first course came almond-pudding, 
 fritters, which the Colonel took with his hands 
 out of the dish, in order to help the brilliant 
 Miss Notable ; chickens, black puddings, and 
 soup ; and Lady Smart, the elegant mistress 
 of the mansion, finding a skewer in a dish, 
 placed it in her plate wfith directions that it 
 should be carried dow r n to the cook and 
 dressed for the cook’s owm dinner. Wine and 
 small beer were drunk during the second 
 course ; and when the Colonel called for beer, 
 he called the butler Friend, and asked 
 whether the beer was good. Various jocular 
 remarks passed from the gentlefolks to the 
 servants ; at breakfast several persons had a 
 word and a joke for Mrs. Betty, my lady’s 
 maid, who warmed the cream and had charge 
 
144 
 
 ENGLISH II U MO It IS TS. 
 
 of the canister (the tea cost thirty shillings a 
 pound in those days) . When my Lady Spark- 
 ish sent her footman out to my Lady Match 
 to come at six o’clock and play at quadrille, 
 her ladyship warned the man to follow his 
 nose, and if he fell by the way not to stay to 
 get up again. And when the gentleman 
 asked the hall-porter if his lady was at home, 
 that functionary replied, with manly waggish- 
 ness, u She was at home just now, but she’s 
 not gone out yet/’ 
 
 After the puddings, sweet and black, the 
 fritters and soup, came the third course, of 
 which the chief dish was a hot venison pasty, 
 which was put before Lord Smart, and carved 
 by that nobleman. Besides the pasty, there 
 was a hare, a rabbit, some pigeons, partridges, 
 a goose, and a ham. Beer and wine were 
 freely imbibed during this course, the gentle- 
 men always pledging somebody with every 
 glass which they drank ; and by this time the 
 conversation between Tom Neverout and Miss 
 Notable had grown so brisk and lively, tl at 
 the Derbyshire baronet began to think the 
 young gentlewoman was Tom’s sweetheart : 
 on which Miss remarked, that she loved Tom 
 u like pie.” After the goose, some of the 
 gentlemen took a dram of brandy, u which 
 was very good for the wholesomes,” Sir John 
 said ; and now having had a tolerably sub- 
 stantial dinner, honest Lord Smart bade the 
 butler bring up the great tankard full of 
 October to Sir John. The great tankard was 
 passed from hand to hand and mouth to 
 
STEELE . 
 
 m 
 
 mouth $ but when pressed by the noble host 
 upon the gallant TomNeverout, he said, u No, 
 faith, my lord ; I like your wine, and won't 
 put a churl upon a gentleman. Your honor's 
 claret is good enough for me." And so, the 
 dinner over, the host said, “ Hang saving, 
 bring us up a ha’porth of cheese." 
 
 The cloth was now taken away, and a bottle 
 of burgundy was set down, of which the ladies 
 were invited to partake before they went to 
 their tea. When they withdrew, the gentle- 
 men promised to join them in an hour : fresh 
 bottles were brought ; the u dead men," mean- 
 ing the empty bottles, removed ; and u D’ you 
 hear, John ! bring clean glasses," my Lord 
 Sm^t said. On which the gallant Colonel 
 Alwit said, u I'll keep my glass ; for wine is 
 the best liquor to wash glasses in." 
 
 After an hour the gentlemefF joined the 
 ladies, and then they all sat and played qua- 
 drille until three o’clock in the morning, when 
 the chairs and flambeaux came, and this noble 
 company went to bed. 
 
 Such were manners six or seven score years 
 ago. I draw no inference from this queer pic- 
 ture : let all moralists here present deduce their 
 own. Fancy the moral condition of that society 
 in which a lady of fashion joked with a foot- 
 man, and carved a sirloin, and provided besides 
 a great shoulder of veal, a goose, hare, rabbit, 
 chickens, patridges, black puddings, and a 
 ham for a dinner for eight Christians. What 
 — what could have been the condition of that 
 polite world in which people openly ate goose 
 10 
 
1 4 6 ENGLISH H UM01US TS. 
 
 after almoncl-pudding, and took their soup in 
 the middle of dinner? Fancy a Colonel in the 
 Guards putting his hand into a dish of beignets 
 d'abricot and helping his neighbor, a young 
 lady du monde! Fancy a noble Lord calling 
 out to the servants, before the ladies at his 
 table, u Hang expense, bring us a ha’porth of 
 cheese ! ” Such were the ladies of St. James’s, 
 such were the frequenters of “White’s Choc- 
 olate-House,” when Swift used to visit it, and 
 Steele described it as the centre of pleasure, 
 gallantry, and entertainment, a hundred and 
 forty years ago ! 
 
 Dennis, who ran amuck at the literary soci- 
 ety of his clay, falls foul of poor Steele, and 
 thus depicts him: 46 Sir John Edgar, of the 
 county of in Ireland, is of a middle stat- 
 
 ure, broad shoulders, thick legs, a shape like 
 the picture of somebody over a farmer’s chim- 
 ney — a short chin, a short nose, a short fore- 
 head, a broad flat face, and a dusky counte- 
 nance. Yet wflth such a face and such a 
 shape, he discovered at sixty that he took 
 himself for a beauty, and appeared to be more 
 mortified at being told that he was ugly, than 
 he was by any reflection made upon his honor 
 or understanding. 
 
 44 He is a gentleman born, witness himself, 
 of very honorable family ; certainly of a very 
 ancient one, for his ancestors flourished in 
 Tipperary long before the English ever set 
 foot in Ireland. He has testimony of this 
 more authentic than the Herald’s Office, or 
 any human testimony. For God has marked 
 
STEELE, 
 
 147 
 
 him more abundantly than he did Cain, and 
 stamped his native country on his face, his 
 understanding, his writings, his actions, his 
 passions, and, above all, his vanity. The 
 Hibernian brogue is still upon all these, 
 though long habit and length of days have 
 worn it off his tongue.”* 
 
 Although this portrait is the work of a man 
 who was neither the friend of Steele nor of 
 
 * Steele replied to Deunis in an “ Answer to a Whimsical 
 Pamphlet, called the Character of Sir John Edgar.” What 
 Steele had to say against the cross-grained old Critic discovers a 
 great deal of humor : — 
 
 ‘‘Thou never didst let the sun into thy garret, for fear he 
 should bring a bailiff along with him. . . . 
 
 “Your years are about sixty-five, an ugly, vinegar face, that 
 if you had any command you would be obeyed out of fear, from 
 your ill-nature pictured there; not from any other motive. 
 Your height is about some five feet five inches. You see I can 
 give your exact measure as well as if I had taken your dimen- 
 sion with a good cudgel, which I promise you to do as soon as 
 ever I have the good fortune to meet you. . . . 
 
 “Your doughty paunch stands before you like a firkin of 
 butter, and your duck legs seem -to be cast for carrying burdens. 
 
 “Thy works are libels upon others, and satires upon thyself; 
 and while they bark at men of sense, call him knave and fool 
 that wrote them. Thou hast a great antipathy to thy own 
 species; and hatest the sight of a fool but in thy glass.” 
 
 Steele had been kind to Dennis, and once got arrested on 
 account of a pecuniary service which he did him. When John 
 heard of the fact— “ S’death ! ” cries John; “ why did not he 
 keep out of the way as I did? ” 
 
 The “Answer” concludes by mentioning that Cibber had 
 offered ten pounds for the discovery of the authorship of Den- 
 nis’s pamphlet; on which, says Steele, “I am only sorry he 
 has offered so much, because the twentieth part would have 
 over valued his whole carcase. But I know the fellow that he 
 keeps to give answers to his creditors will betray him ; for he 
 gave me his word to bring officers on the top of the house that 
 should make a hole through the ceiling of his garret, and so 
 bring him to the punishment he deserves. Some people think 
 this expedient out of the way, and that he would make his 
 escape upon hearing the least noise. I say so too ; but it takes 
 him up half an hour every night to fortify himself with his old 
 hair trunk, two or three joint-stools, and some other lumber, 
 which he ties together with cords so fast that it takes him up 
 the same time in the morning to release himself.” 
 
148 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 imy other man alive, yet there is a dreadful 
 resemblance to the original in the savage and 
 exaggerated traits of the caricature, and 
 everybody who knows him must recognize 
 Dick Steele. Dick set about almost all the 
 undertakings of his life with inadequate 
 means, and, as he took and furnished a house 
 with the most generous intentions towards his 
 friends, the most tender gallantry towards his 
 wife, and with this only drawback, that he 
 had not wherewithal to pay the rent when 
 quarter-day came, — so, in his life he proposed 
 to himself the most magnificent schemes of 
 virtue, forbearance, public and private good, 
 and the advancement of his own and the na- 
 tional religion ; but when he had to pay for 
 these articles — so difficult to purchase and so 
 costly to maintain — poor Dick’s money was 
 not forthcoming : and when Virtue called with 
 her little bill, Dick made a shuffling excuse 
 that he could not see her that morning, hav- 
 ing a headache from being tipsy overnight ; or 
 when stern Duty rapped at the door with his 
 account, Dick was absent and not ready to 
 pay. He was shirking at the tavern ; or had 
 some particular business (of somebody’s else) 
 at the ordinary : or he was in hiding, or worse 
 than in hiding, in the lock-up house. What a 
 situation for a man ! — for a philanthropist — 
 for a lover of right and truth — for a magnifi- 
 cent designer and schemer ! Not to dare to 
 look in the face the Religion which he adored 
 and which he had offended : to have to shirk 
 down back lanes and alleys, so as to avoid the 
 
STEELE. 
 
 149 
 
 friend whom he loved and who had trusted 
 him ; to have the house which he had intended 
 for his wife, whom he loved passionately, and 
 for her ladyship’s company which he wished to 
 entertain splendidly, in the possession of a 
 bailiff’s man ; with a crowd of little creditors 
 — grocers, butchers, and small-coal men — 
 lingering round the door with their bills and 
 jeering at him. Alas ! for poor Dick Steele ! 
 For nobody else, of course. There is no man 
 or woman in our time who makes fine projects 
 and gives them up from idleness or want of 
 means. When Dut } 7 calls upon ws, we no 
 doubt are always at home and ready to pay 
 that grim tax-gatherer. When ive are stricken 
 with remorse and promise reform, we keep 
 our promise, and are never angry, or idle, or 
 extravagant any more. There are no cham- 
 bers in our hearts, destined for family friends 
 and affections, and now occupied b } 7 some 
 Sin's emissary and bailiff in possession. 
 There are no little sins, shabby peccadilloes, 
 importunate remembrances, or disappointed 
 holders of our promises to reform, hover- 
 ing at our steps, or knocking at our door ! 
 Of course not. We are living in the nine- 
 teenth century ; and poor Dick Steele stum- 
 bled and got up again, and got into jail 
 and out again, and sinned and repented, and 
 loved and suffered, and lived and died, scores 
 of years ago. Peace be with him ! Let us 
 think gently of one who was so gentle : let us 
 speak kindly of one whose own breast exu- 
 berated with human kindness. 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 Matthew Prior was one of those famous 
 and lucky wits of the auspicious reign of 
 Queen Anne, whose name it behooves us not 
 to pass over. Mat was a world-philosopher 
 of no small genius, good-nature, and acumen.* 
 
 * Gray calls him, “ Dear Prior . . . beloved by every muse.” 
 — Mr. Pope's Welcome from Greece. 
 
 Swift and Prior were very intimate, and he is frequently 
 mentioned in the “ Journal to Stella.” “ Mr. Prior,” says 
 Swift, “ walks to make himself fat, and I to keep myself 
 down. . . . We often walk round the park together.” 
 
 In Swift’s works there is a curious tract called “Remarks 
 on the Characters of the Court of Queen Anne.” [Scott’s edi- 
 tion, vol. xii.] The remarks are not by the Dean; but at the 
 end of each is an addition in italics from his hand, and these are 
 always characteristic. Thus, to the Duke of Marlborough, he 
 adds, “ Detestably covetous ,” etc. Prior is thus noticed : — 
 
 “Matthew Prior, Esq., Commissioner of Trade. 
 
 “ On the Queen’s accession to the throne, he was continued 
 in his office ; is very well at court with the ministry, and is an 
 entire creature of my Lord Jersey’s, whom he supports by his 
 advice; is one of the best poets in England, but very facetious 
 in conversation. A thin, hollow-looked man, turned of forty 
 years old. This is near the truth." 
 
 “ Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, 
 
 His virtues and vices were as other men’s are. 
 
 High hopes he conceived and he smothered great fears, 
 
 In a life party colored — half pleasure, half care. 
 
 “ Not to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, 
 
 He strove to make interest and freedom agree; 
 
 In public employments industrious and grave, 
 
 And alone with his friends, Lord, how merry was he! 
 
 “ Now in equipage stately, now humble on foot, 
 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; 
 
 And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about, 
 
 He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust,” 
 Prior’s Poems. \For my own monument .] 
 
PRIOR, GAY ; AND POPE. 
 
 151 
 
 He loved, he drank, he sang. He describes 
 himself, in one of his lyrics, u in a little 
 Dutch chaise on a Saturday night ; on his left 
 hand his Horace, and a friend on his right,” 
 going out of town from the Hague to pass 
 that evening, and the ensuing Sunday boozing 
 at a Spielhaus with his companions, perhaps 
 bobbing for perch in a Dutch canal and not- 
 ing down, in a strain and with a grace not 
 unworthy of his Epicurean master, the charms 
 of his idleness, his retreat, and his Batavian 
 Chloe. A vintner’s son in Whitehall, and a 
 distinguished pupil of Busby of the Rod, 
 Prior attracted some nolice by writing verses 
 at St. John’s College, Cambridge, and, com- 
 ing up to town, aided Montague* in an attack 
 on the noble old English lion, John Dryden ; 
 in ridicule of whose work, “The Hind and 
 the Panther,” he brought out that remarkable 
 and famous burlesque, “The Town and 
 Country Mouse.” Aren’t you all acquainted 
 with it? Have you not all got it by heart? 
 What! have you never heard of it? See 
 what fame is made of ! The wonderful part of 
 the satire was, that, as a natural consequence 
 of “ The Town and Country Mouse,” Matthew 
 Prior was made Secretary of Embassy at the 
 Hague ! I believe it is dancing, rather than 
 
 * “ They joined to produce a parody, entitled the ‘ Town 
 and Country Mouse,’ part of which Mr. Bayes is supposed to 
 gratify his old friends, Smart and Johnson, by repeating to 
 them. The piece is therefore founded upon the twice-told 
 jest of the ‘ Rehearsal.’ . . . There is nothing new or original 
 in the idea. ... In this piece, Prior, though the younger man, 
 seems to have had by far the largest share,” — Scott’s Dryden , 
 vol. i. p. 330. 
 
152 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 singing, which distinguishes the young English 
 diplomatists of the present day ; and have 
 seen them in various parts perform that part 
 of their duty very finely. In Prior’s time it 
 appears a different accomplishment led to pre- 
 ferment. Could you write a copy of Alcaics? 
 that was the question. Could you turn out a 
 neat epigram or two? Could you compose 
 “ The Town and Country Mouse”? It is 
 manifest that, by the possession of this fac- 
 ulty, the most difficult treaties, the laws of 
 foreign nations, and the interests of our own 
 are easily understood. Prior rose in the dip- 
 lomatic service, and said good things, that 
 proved his sense and his spirit. When the 
 apartments at Versailles were shown to him, 
 with the victories of Louis XIV. painted on 
 the walls, and Prior was asked whether the 
 palace of the king of England had any such 
 decorations, “ The monuments of my master’s 
 actions,” Mat said, of William, whom he cor- 
 dially revered, “are to be seen everywhere 
 except in his own house.” Bravo, Mat ! 
 Prior rose to be full ambassador at Paris,* 
 
 * “ He was to have been in the same commission with the 
 Duke of Shrewsbury, but that that nobleman,” says Johnson,” 
 “ refused to be associated with one so meanly born. Prior 
 therefore continued to act without a title till the Duke’s return 
 next year to England, and then he assumed the style and dignity 
 of ambassador.” 
 
 He had been thinking of slights of this sort when he wrote 
 his Epitaph : — 
 
 “ Nobles and heralds, by your leave, 
 
 Here lies what once was Matthew Prior, 
 
 The son of Adam and of Eve ; 
 
 Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher? ” 
 
 But, in this case, the old prejudice got the better of the old 
 joke. 
 
PRIOR , GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 153 
 
 where he somehow was cheated out of his am- 
 bassadorial plate ; and in an heroic poem, 
 addressed by him to her late lamented Maj- 
 esty, Queen Anne, Mat makes some magnifi- 
 cent allusions to these dishes and spoons, of 
 which Fate had deprived him. All that he 
 wants, he says, is her Majesty’s picture ; 
 without that he can’t be happy. 
 
 “ Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I adore : 
 
 Thee, Queen of Peace, if Time and Fate have power 
 Higher to raise the glories of thy reign, 
 
 In words sublimer and a nobler strain 
 May future bards the mighty theme rehearse. 
 
 Here, Stator Jove, and Phoebus, king of verse, 
 
 The votive tablet I suspend.” 
 
 With that word the poem stops abruptly. The 
 votive tablet is suspended forever, like Ma- 
 homet’s coffin. News came that the Queen 
 was dead. Stator Jove, and Phoebus, king of 
 verse, were left there, hovering to this day, 
 over the votive tablet. The picture was never 
 got, any more than the spoons and dishes : 
 the inspiration ceased, the verses were not 
 wanted — the ambassador wasn’t wanted. 
 Poor Mat was recalled from his embassy, suf- 
 fered disgrace along with his patrons, lived 
 under a sort of cloud ever after, and disap- 
 peared in Essex. When deprived of all his 
 pensions and emoluments, the hearty and 
 generous Oxford pensioned him. They played 
 for gallant stakes — the bold men of those 
 days — and lived and gave splendidly. 
 
 Johnson quotes from Spence a legend, that 
 Prior, after spending an evening with Harley, 
 
154 
 
 ENGLISH HUM OBIS TS. 
 
 St. John, Pope, and Swift, would go off and 
 smoke a pipe with a couple of friends of his, 
 a soldier and his wife, in Long Acre. Those 
 who have not read his lave Excellency’s poems 
 should be warned that they smack not a little 
 of the conversation of his Long Acre friends. 
 Johnson speaks slightingly of his lyrics; but 
 with due deference to the great Samuel, Prior’s 
 seem to me amongst the easiest, the richest, 
 the most charmingly humorous of English 
 lyrical poems.* ** Horace is a’wa} T s in his mind ; 
 and his song, and his philosophy, his good 
 sense, his happy easy turns and melody, his 
 loves and his Epicureanism bear a great re- 
 semblance to that most delightful and accom- 
 plished master. In reading his works one is 
 
 * His epigrams have the genuine sparkle : 
 
 t( The Remedy worse than the Disease, 
 
 “ I sent for Radcliff ; was so ill, 
 
 That other doctors gave me over : 
 
 He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill, 
 
 And I was likely to recover. 
 
 “ But when the wit began to wheeze, 
 
 And wine had warmed the politician, 
 Cured yesterday of my disease, 
 
 I died last night of my physician.” 
 
 ” Yes, every poet is a fool ; 
 
 By demonstration Ned can show it; 
 Happy could Ned’s inverted rule 
 Prove every fool to be a poet.” 
 
 ” On his death-bed poor Lubin lies, 
 
 His spouse is in despair; 
 
 With frequent sobs and mutual cries, 
 
 They both express their care. 
 
 ** 1 A different cause,’ says Parson Sly, 
 
 * The same effect may give ; 
 
 Poor Lubin fears that he shall die, 
 
 His wife that he may live.’ ” 
 
PBIOB , GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 155 
 
 struck with their modern air, as well as by 
 their happy similarity to the songs of the 
 charming owner of the Sabine farm. In his 
 verses addressed to Halifax, he says, writing 
 of that endless theme to poets, the vanity of 
 human wishes : — 
 
 “ So whilst in fevered dreams we sink, 
 
 And waking, taste what we desire, 
 
 The real draught but feeds the fire, 
 
 The dream is better than the drink. 
 
 “ Our hopes like towering falcons aim 
 At objects in an airy height : 
 
 To stand aloof and view the flight, 
 
 Is all the pleasure of the game.” 
 
 Would not you fancy that a poet of our own 
 days was singing? and in the verses of Chloe 
 weeping and reproaching him for his incon- 
 stancy, where he says : — 
 
 “ The God of us versemen, you know, child, the Sun, 
 How, after his journeys, he sets up bis rest. 
 
 If at morning o’er earth ’t is his fancy to run, 
 
 At night he declines on his Thetis’s breast. 
 
 “ So, when I am wearied with wandering all day, 
 
 To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : 
 
 No matter what beauties I saw in my way ; 
 
 They were but my visits, but thou art my home! 
 
 “ Then finish, Dear Chloe, this pastoral war, 
 
 And let us like Horace and Lydia agree : 
 
 For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, 
 
 As he was a poet sublimer than me.” 
 
 If Prior read Horace, did not Thomas Moore 
 study Prior? Love and pleasure find singers 
 in all days. Poses are always blowing and 
 fading — to-day as in that pretty time when 
 
156 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 Prior sang of them, and of Chloe lamenting 
 their cleca}? : — 
 
 “ She sighed, she smiled, and to the flowers 
 Pointing, the lovely moralist said : 
 
 See, friend, in some few fleeting hours, 
 
 See yonder what a change is made! 
 
 “ ivh me ! the blooming pride of May 
 And that of Beauty are but one : 
 
 At morn both flourish, bright and gay, 
 
 Both fade at evening, pale and gone. 
 
 “ At dawn poor Stella danced and sung, 
 
 The amorous youth around her bowed: 
 
 At night her fatal knell was rung ; 
 
 I saw, and kissed her in her shroud. 
 
 “ Such as she is who died to-day, 
 
 Such I, alas, may be to-morrow: 
 
 Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display 
 The justice of thy Chloe’s sorrow'.” 
 
 Damon’s knell was rung in 1721. May his 
 turf lie lightly on him ! Deus sit propitius huic 
 potatori , as Walter cle Mapes sang.* Perhaps 
 
 * Prior to Sir Thomas Hanmer. 
 
 ‘ Aug. 4, 1709. 
 
 “ Dear Sir , — Friendship may live, I grant you, without 
 being fed and cherished by correspondence; but with that addi- 
 tional benefit I am of opinion it will look more cheerful and 
 thrive better: for in this case, as in love, though a man is sure 
 of his own constancy, yet his happiness depends a good deal upon 
 the sentiments of another, and while you and Chloe are alive, 
 ’t is not enough that 1 love you both, except I am sure you both 
 love me again ; and as one of her scrawls fortifies my mind more 
 against affliction than all Epictetus, with Simplicius’s comments 
 into the bargain, so your single letter gave me more real pleas- 
 ure than all the works of Plato. ... I must return my answer 
 to your very kind question concerning my health. The Bath 
 waters have" done a good deal towards the recovery of it, and 
 the great specific, Cape caballum , will, I think, confirm it. 
 Upon this head I must tell you that my mare Betty grows blind, 
 and may one day, by breaking my neck, perfect my cure : if at 
 Rixham fair any pretty nag that is between thirteen and four, 
 teen hands presented himself, and you would be pleased to pur. 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE . 
 
 157 
 
 Samuel Johnson, who spoke slightingly of 
 Prior’s verses, enjoyed them more than he 
 was willing to own. The old moralist had 
 studied them as well as Mr. Thomas Moore, 
 
 chase him for me, one of your servants might ride him to Euston, 
 and I might receive him there. This, sir, is just as such a thing 
 happens. If you hear, too, of a Welch widow, with a good 
 jointure, that has her goings and is not very skittish, pray, be 
 pleased to cast your eye on her for me too. You see, sir, the 
 great trust I repose in your skill and honor, when I dare put two 
 such commissions in your hand. ...” — The Hanmer Corre- 
 spondence, p. 120. 
 
 “From Mr. Prior. 
 
 “ Paris, 1st — 12th May, 1714. 
 
 “ My Dear Lord and Friend , — Matthew never had so great 
 occasion to write a word to Henry as now : it is noised here that 
 I am soon to return. The question that I wish I could answer 
 to the many that ask, and to our friend Colbert de Torcy (to 
 whom I made your compliments in the manner you commanded) 
 is, what is done for me; and to what I am recalled? It may 
 look like a bagatelle, what is to become of a philosopher like 
 me? but it is not such : what is to become of a person who had 
 the honor to be chosen, and sent hither as intrusted, in the midst 
 of a war, with what the Queen designed should make the peace; 
 returning with the Lord Bolingbroke, one of the greatest men in 
 England, and one of the finest heads in Europe (as they say 
 here, if true or not, n’importe) ; having been left by him in the 
 greatest character (that of Her Majesty’s Plenipotentiary), exer- 
 cising that power conjointly with the Duke of Shrewsbury, and 
 solely after his departure; having here received more distin- 
 guished honor than any Minister, except an Ambassador, ever 
 did, and some which were never given to any but who had that 
 character; having had all the success that could be expected; 
 having (God be thanked!) spared no pains, at a time when at 
 home the peace is voted safe and honorable — at a time when the 
 Earl of Oxford is Lord Treasurer and Lord Bolingbroke First 
 Secretary of State? This unfortunate person, I say, neglected, 
 forgot, unnamed to anything that may speak the Queen satisfied 
 with his services, or his friends concerned as to his fortune. 
 
 “ Mr. de Torcy put me quite out of countenance, the other 
 day, by a pity that wounded me deeper than ever did the cruelty 
 of the late Lord Godolphin. He said he would write to Robin 
 and Harry about me. God forbid, my lord, that I should need 
 any foreign intercession, or owe the least to any Frenchman 
 living, besides the decency of behavior and the returns of com- 
 mon civility : some say I am to go to Baden, others that I am to 
 be added to the Commissioners for settling the commerce. In 
 all cases I am ready, but in the mean time, die aliquid de tribus 
 Capellis . Neither of these two are, I presume, honors or re- 
 
158 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOIIISTS. 
 
 and defended them and showed that he re* 
 membered them very well too, on an occasion 
 when their morality was called in question 
 by that noted puritan, James Boswell, Esq., of 
 Auchinleck.* 
 
 wards, neither of them (let me say to my dear Lord Bolingbroke, 
 and let him not be angry with me) are what Drift may aspire 
 to, and what Mr. Whitworth, who was his fellow-clerk, has or 
 may possess. I am far from desiring to lessen the great merit 
 of the gentleman I named, for I heartily esteem and love him; 
 but in this trade of ours, my lord, in which you are the general, 
 as in that of the soldiery, there is a certain right acquired by 
 time and long service. You would do anything for your Queen’s 
 service, but you would not be contented to descend, and be 
 degraded to a charge, no way proportioned to that of Secretary 
 of State, any more than Mr. Ross, though he would charge a 
 party with a halbard in his hand, would be content all his life 
 after to be Serjeant. Was my Lord Dartmouth, from Secretary, 
 returned again to be Commissioner of Trade, or from Secretary 
 of War, would Frank Gwyn think himself kindly used to be 
 returned again to be Commissioner? In short, my lord, you 
 have put me above myself, and if I am to return to myself, I 
 shall return to something very discontented and uneasy. I am 
 sure, my lord, you will make the best use you can of this hint 
 for my good. If I am to have anything, it will certainly be for 
 Her Majesty’s service, and the credit of my friends in the Minis- 
 try, that it be done before I am recalled from home, lest the 
 world may think either that I have merited to be disgraced, or 
 that ye dare not stand by me. If nothing is to be done, fiat vo- 
 lant rs Dei. I have w rit to Lord Treasurer upon this subject, 
 and having implored your kind intercession, I promise you it is 
 the last remonstrance of this kind that I will ever make. Adieu, 
 my lord; all honor, health, and pleasure to you. 
 
 “ Yours ever, Matt.” 
 
 “ P. S. — Lady Jersey is just gone from me. We drank your 
 healths together in usquebaugh after our tea : we are the great- 
 est friends alive. Once more adieu. There is no such thing as 
 the ‘Book of Travels’ you mentioned; if there be, let friend 
 Tilson send us more particular account of them, for neither I 
 nor Jacob Tonson can find them. Pray send Barton back to me, 
 I hope with some comfortable tidings.” — Bolingbroke' s Letters. 
 
 * “ I asked w T hether Prior’s poems were to be printed entire; 
 Johnson said they were. I mentioned Lord Hales’ censure of 
 Prior in his preface to a collection of sacred poems, by various 
 hands, published by him at Edinburgh a great many years ago, 
 where he mentions ‘ these impure tales, w'hich will be the eter- 
 nal opprobrium of their ingenious author.’ Johnson : * Sir, 
 Lord Hales has forgot. There is nothing in Prior that will 
 excite to lewdness. If Lord Hales thinks there is, he must be 
 
PRIOR , GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 159 
 
 In the great society of the wits, John Gay 
 deserved to be a favorite, and to have a good 
 place.* * In his set all were fond of him. His 
 success offended nobody. He missed a for- 
 tune once or twice. He was talked of for 
 Court favor, and hoped to win it ; but the 
 Court favor jilted him. Craggs gave him some 
 South Sea stock ; and at one time Gay had 
 very nearly made his fortune. But Fortune 
 shook her swift wings and jilted him too : and 
 so his friends, instead of being angry with him, 
 and jealous of him, were kind and fond of 
 honest Gay. In the portraits of the literary 
 worthies of the early part of the last century, 
 Gay's face is the pleasantest perhaps of ail. 
 It appears adorned with neither periwig nor 
 nightcap (the full dress and negligee of learn- 
 
 raore combustible than other people.* I instanced the tale of 
 ‘ Paulo Purganti and his Wife.’ Johnson : ‘ Sir, there is noth- 
 ing there but that his wife wanted to be kissed, when poor Paulo 
 was out of pocket. No, sir, Prior is a lady’s book. No lady is 
 ashamed to have it standing in her library.” — Boswell’s Life 
 of Johnson. 
 
 * Gay was of an old Devonshire family, but his pecuniary pros- 
 pects not being great, was placed in his youth in the house of a 
 silk-mercer in London. lie was born in 1688 — Pope’s year, 
 and in 1712 the Duchess of Monmouth made him her secretary. 
 Next year he published his “ Rural Sports,” which he dedicated 
 to Pope, and so made an acquaintance, which became a memo- 
 rable friendship. 
 
 “Gay,” says Pope, “ w r as quite a natural man, — wholly 
 without art or design, and spoke just what he thought and as he 
 thought it. He dangled for twenty years about a court, and at 
 last was offered to be made usher to the young princesses. Sec- 
 retary Craggs made Gay a present of stock in the South Sea 
 year; and he was once worth £20,000 but lost it all again. He 
 got about £400 by the first ‘Beggar’s Opera,’ and £1,100 or 
 £1,200 by the second. He was negligent and a bad manager. 
 Latterly, the Duke of Queensberry took his money into his keep- 
 ing, and let him only have what was necessary out of it, and, 
 as he lived with them, he could not have occasion for much. 
 He died worth upwards of £3,000,”— • Pope. Spence's Anec- 
 dotes. 
 
160 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 ing, without which the painters of those days 
 scarcely ever portrayed wits), and he laughs 
 at you over his shoulder with an honest boy- 
 ish glee — an artless sweet humor. lie was 
 so kind, so gentle, so jocular, so delightfully 
 brisk at times, so dismally wobegone at others, 
 such a natural good creature, that the Giants 
 loved him. The great Swift was gentle and 
 sportive with him,* as the enormous Brobding- 
 nag maids of honor were with little Gulliver. 
 He could frisk and fondle round Pope,f and 
 sport, and bark, and caper, without offending 
 the most thin-skinned of poets and men ; and 
 when he w r as jilted in that little Court affair 
 of which we have spoken, his warm-hearted 
 patrons the Duke and Dutchess of Queens- 
 berry \ (the “ Kitty, beautiful and young/’ of 
 Prior), pleaded his cause with indignation, 
 
 * “ Mr. Gay is, in all regards, as honest and sincere a man 
 as ever I knew.” — Swift, To Lady Betty Germaine , Jan., 
 1733. 
 
 f “ Of manners gentle, of affections mild; 
 
 In wit a man ; simplicity, a child ; 
 
 With native humor temp’ring virtuous rage, 
 
 Form’d to delight at once and lash the age; 
 
 Above temptation in a low estate, 
 
 And uncorrupted e’en among the great : 
 
 A safe companion, and an easy friend, 
 
 TJnblamed through life, lamented in thy end. 
 
 These are my honors ; not that here thy bust 
 Is mixed with heroes, or with kings thy dust; 
 
 But that the worthy and the good shall say, 
 
 Striking their pensive bosoms, ‘ Here lies Gay.’ ” 
 
 Pope’s Epitaph on Gay. 
 
 “ A hare who, in a civil way, 
 
 Complied with everything, like Gay.” 
 
 Fables , “ The Hare and many Friends .” 
 I “ I can give you no account of Gay,” says Pope, curiously, 
 since he was raffled for, and won back by his Duchess.” — 
 VLorkSy Roscoe’s Ed ., vol. ix. p. 392. 
 
 Here is the letter Pope wrote to him when the death of 
 
PRIOR , a AY : .4JVZ) POP#. 
 
 161 
 
 and quitted the Court in a lmff, carrying off 
 with them into their retirement their kind gen- 
 tle protege. With these kind lordly folks, a 
 real Duke and Duchess, as delightful as those 
 
 Queen Anne brought back Lord Clarendon from Hanover, and 
 lost him the Secretaryship of that nobleman, of which he had 
 but a short tenure. 
 
 Gay’s Court prospects were never happy from this time. 
 His dedication of the “ Shepherd’s Week ” to Bolingbroke, 
 Swift used to call the “ original sin ” which had hurt him with 
 the house of Hanover : — 
 
 “ Sept. 23 , 1714 . 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Gay, — Welcome to your native soil! welcome 
 to your friends! thrice welcome to me! whether returned in 
 glory, blest with court interest, the love and familiarity of the 
 great, and filled with agreeable hopes; or melancholy with de- 
 jection, contemplative of the changes of fortune, and doubtful 
 for the future; whether returned a triumphant Whig or a 
 desponding Tory, equally all hail ! equally beloved and welcome 
 to me ! If happy, I am to partake in your elevation ; if unhappy, 
 you have still a warm corner in my heart, and a retreat at Bin- 
 field in the worst of times at your service. If you are a Tory, 
 or thought so by any man, I know it can proceed from nothing 
 but your gratitude to a few people who endeavored to serve 
 you, and whose politics were never your concern. If you are a 
 Whig, as I rather hope, and as I think your principles and mine 
 (as brother poets) had ever a bias to the side of liberty, I know 
 you will be an honest man and an inoffensive one. Upon the 
 whole, I know you are incapable of being so much of either 
 party as to be good for nothing. Therefore, once more, what- 
 ever you are or in whatever state you are, all hail ! 
 
 “ One or two of your own friends complained they had 
 heard nothing from you since the Queen’s death; I told them 
 no man living loved Mr. Gay better than I, yet I had not once 
 written to him in all his voyage. This I thought a convincing 
 
 E roof how truly one may be a friend to another without telling 
 im so every month. But they had reasons, too, themselves to 
 allege in your excuse, as men who really value one another 
 will never want such as make their friends and themselves 
 easy. The late universal concern in public affairs threw us all 
 into a hurry of spirits : even I, who am more a philosopher 
 than to expect anything from any reign, was borne away with 
 the current, and full of the expectation of the successor. Dur- 
 ing your journeys, I knew not w T hither to aim a letter after you ; 
 that was a sort of shooting flying: add to this the demand 
 Homer had upon me, to write fifty verses a day, besides learned 
 notes, all w r hich are at a conclusion for this year. Rejoice with 
 me, O my friend ! that my labor is over; come and make merry 
 with me in much feasting. We will feed among the lilies (by 
 the lilies I mean the ladies). Are not the Rosalindas of Britain 
 as charming as the Blousalindas of the Hague? or have the two 
 
 11 
 
162 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 who harbored Don Quixote, and loved that 
 dear old Sancho, Gay lived, and was lapped 
 in cotton, and had his plate of chicken, and 
 his saucer of cream, and frisked, and barked, 
 and wheezed, and grew fat, and so ended.'* * 
 He became very melancholy and lazy, sadly 
 plethoric, and only occasionally diverting in 
 his latter days. But everybody loved him, 
 and the remembrance of his pretty little tricks ; 
 and the raging old Dean of St. Patrick’s, chaf- 
 ing in his banishment, was afraid to open the 
 letter which Pope wrote him announcing the 
 sad news of the death of Gay.j 
 
 great Pastoral poets of our nation renounced love at the same 
 time? for Philips, immortal Philips, hath deserted, yea, and 
 in a rustic manner kicked his Rosalind. Dr. Parnell and I have 
 been inseparable ever since you went. We are now at the 
 Bath, where (if you are not, as I heartily hope, better engaged) 
 your coming would be the greatest pleasure to us in the world. 
 Talk not of expenses : Homer shall support his children. I beg 
 a line from you, directed to the Post-house in Bath. Poor Par- 
 nell is in an ill state of health. 
 
 “ Pardon me if I add a word of advice in the poetical way. 
 Write something on the King, or Prince, or Princess. On what- 
 soever foot you may be with the court, this can do no harm. I 
 shall never know where to end, and am confounded in the many 
 things I have to say to you, though they all amount but to this, 
 that I am, entirely, as ever, “ Your,” etc. 
 
 Gay took the advice “ in the poetical way,” and published 
 “ An Epistle to a Lady, occasioned by the arrival of her Royal 
 Highness the Princess of Wales.” But though this brought 
 him access to Court, and the attendance of the Prince and 
 Princess at his farce of the “What d’ye call it? ” it did not 
 bring him a place. On the accession of George II., he was 
 offered the situation of Gentleman Usher to the Princess Louisa 
 (her Highness being then two years old) ; but “ by this offer,” 
 says Johnson, “ he thought himself insulted.” 
 
 * “ Gay was a great eater. — As the French philosopher 
 used to prove his existence by Cogito, ergo sum , the greatest 
 proof of Gay’s existence is, Edit, ergo est.” — Conoreve, in a 
 Letter to Pope. Spence’s Anecdotes. 
 
 f Swift endorsed the letter: “ On my dear friend Mr. Gay’s 
 death; received Dec. 15, but not read till the 20th, by an im- 
 pulse foreboding some misfortune.” 
 
 “ It was by Swift’s interest that Gay was made known to 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 163 
 
 Swift’s letters to him are beautiful ; and 
 having no purpose but kindness in writing to 
 him, no party aim to advocate, or slight or 
 anger to wreak, every word the Dean says to 
 his favorite is natural, trustworthy, and kindly. 
 His admiration for Gay’s parts and honesty, 
 and his laughter at his weaknesses, were alike 
 just and genuine. He paints his character in 
 wonderful pleasant traits' of jocular satire. 
 44 I writ lately to Mr. Pope,” Swift says, writ- 
 ing to Gay : 4 4 I wish you had a little villakin 
 in his neighborhood ; but you are yet too vol- 
 atile, and any lady with a coach and six 
 horses would carry you to Japan.” 44 If your 
 ramble,” says Swift, in another letter, 44 was 
 on horseback, I am glad of it, on account 
 of your health ; but I know your arts of patch- 
 ing up a journey between stage-coaches and 
 friends’ coaches — for you are as arrant a 
 cockney as any hosier in Cheapside. I have 
 often had it in my head to put it into yours, 
 that you ought to have some great work in 
 scheme, which may take up seven years to fin- 
 ish, besides two or three under-ones that may 
 
 Lord Bolingbroke, and obtained his patronage.” — Scott’s 
 Swift, vol. i. p. 156. 
 
 Pope wrote on the occasion of Gay’s death, to Swift, thus : — 
 
 [Dec. 5, 1732.] 
 
 “ . . . One of the nearest and longest ties I have ever had 
 is broken all on a sudden by the unexpected death of poor Mr. 
 Gay. An inflammatory fever hurried him out of this life in 
 three days. . . . He asked of you a few hours before when in 
 acute torment by the inflammation in his bowels and breast. . . . 
 II is sisters, we suppose, will be his heirs, who are two widows. 
 . . . Good God! how often are we to die before we go quite 
 off this stage? In every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and 
 the best part. God keep those we have left ! few are worth 
 praying for, and one’s self the least of all.” 
 
164 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 add another thousand pounds to your stock. 
 And then I shall be in less pain about you. I 
 know you can find dinners, but you love 
 twelvepenny coaches too well, without con- 
 sidering that the interest of a whole thousand 
 pounds brings you but half a crown a day.” 
 And then Swift goes off' from Gay to pay 
 some grand compliments to her Grace the 
 Duchess of Queensberry, in whose sunshine 
 Mr. Gay was basking, and in whose radiance 
 the Dean would have liked to warm himself 
 too. 
 
 But we have Gay here before us, in these 
 letters — lazy, kindly, uncommonly idle ; rather 
 slovenly, I ’m afraid ; forever eating and say- 
 ing good things ; a little round French abbe 
 of a man, sleek, soft-handed, and soft-hearted. 
 
 Our object in these lectures is rather to 
 describe the men than their works ; or to deal 
 with the latter only in as far as they seem to 
 illustrate the character of their writers. Mr. 
 Gay’s 44 Fables,” which were written to benefit 
 that amiable Prince, the Duke of Cumberland, 
 the warrior of Dettingen and Culloden, I have 
 not, I own, been able to peruse since a period 
 of very early youth ; and it must be confessed 
 that they did not effect much benefit upon the 
 illustrious young Prince, whose manners they 
 were intended to modify, and whose natural 
 ferocity our gentle-hearted satirist perhaps 
 proposed to restrain. But the six pastorals 
 called the 44 Shepherd’s Week,” and the bur- 
 lesque poem of 44 Trivia,” any man fond of 
 lazy literature will find delightful at the pres- 
 
PBIOB, GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 165 
 
 ent day, and must read from beginning to end 
 with pleasure. They are to poetry what 
 charming little Dresden china figures are to 
 sculpture : graceful, minikin, fantastic ; with 
 a certain beauty alwa} T s accompanying them. 
 The pretty little personages of the pastoral, 
 with gold clocks to their stockings, and fresh 
 satin ribbons to their crooks and waistcoats 
 and bodices, dance their loves to a minuet- 
 tune played on a bird-organ, approach the 
 charmer, or rush from the false one daintily 
 on their red-heeled tiptoes, and die of despair 
 or rapture, with the most pathetic little grins 
 and ogles ; or repose, simpering at each other, 
 under an arbor of pea green crockery ; or 
 piping to pretty flocks that have just been 
 washed with the best Naples in a stream of 
 Bergamot. Gay’s gay plan seems to me far 
 pleasanter than that of Phillips — his rival and 
 Pope’s — a serious and dreary idyllic cockney ; 
 not that Gay’s u Bumkinets ” and 66 Hobne- 
 lias ” are a whit more natural than the would- 
 be serious characters of the other posture -mas- 
 ter ; but the quality of this true humorist was 
 to laugh and make laugh, though always with 
 a secret kindness and tenderness, to perform 
 the drollest little antics and capers, but always 
 with a certain grace, and to sweet music — as 
 you may have seen a Savoyard boy abroad, 
 with a hurdy-gurdy and a monkey, turning 
 over head and heels, or clattering and pirouet- 
 ting in a pair of wooden shoes, yet always 
 with a look of love and appeal in his bright 
 eyes, and a smile that asks and wins affection 
 

 166 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 and protection. Happy they who have that 
 sweet gift of nature ! It was this which made 
 the great folks and Court ladies free and 
 friendly with John Gay — which made Pope 
 and Arbuthnot love him — which melted the 
 savage heart of Swift when he thought of 
 him — and drove away, for a moment or two, | 
 the dark frenzies which obscured the lonely 
 tyrant’s brain, as he heard Gay’s voice with j 
 its simple melody and artless ringing laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 What used to be said about Rubini, qu'il 
 avait des larmes dans la , voix , may be said of 
 Gay,* and of one other humorist of whom we 
 shall have to speak. In almost every ballad 
 of his, however slight, f in the “ Beggar’s 
 
 *“ Gay, like Goldsmith, had a musical talent. ‘He could 
 play on the flute,’ says Malone, ‘ and was, therefore, enabled to 
 adapt so happily some of the airs in the “ Beggar’s Opera.” * ” 
 — Notes to Spence. 
 
 f “ ’T was when the seas were roaring 
 With hollow blasts of wind, 
 
 A damsel lay deploring 
 All on a rock reclined. 
 
 Wide o’er the foaming billows 
 She cast a wistful look ; 
 
 Tier head was crown’d with willows 
 That trembled o’er the brook. 
 
 “ ‘ Twelve months are gone and over, 
 
 And nine long tedious days; 
 
 Why didst thou, venturous lover — 
 
 Why didst thou trust the seas? 
 
 Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean, 
 
 And let my lover rest ; 
 
 Ah ! what ’s thy troubled motion 
 To that within my breast? 
 
 M * The merchant, robb’d of pleasure, 
 
 Sees tempests in despair; 
 
 But what ’s the loss of treasure 
 To losing of my dear? 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 167 
 
 Opera ” * and in its wearisome continuation 
 (where the verses are to the full as pretty as 
 
 Should you some coast be laid on, 
 
 Where gold and diamonds grow , 
 
 You ’d lind a richer maiden, 
 
 But none that loves you so. 
 
 “ * How can they say that Nature 
 Has nothing made in vain ; 
 
 Why, then, beneath the water 
 Should hideous rocks remain? 
 
 No eyes the rocks discover 
 That lurk beneath the deep, 
 
 To wreck the wandering lover, 
 
 And leave the maid to weep ? * 
 
 “ All melancholy lying, 
 
 Thus wailed she for her dear; 
 
 Repay’d each blast with sighing, 
 
 Each billow with a tear; 
 
 When o’er the white wave stooping, 
 
 His floating corpse she spy’d ; 
 
 Then like a lily drooping, 
 
 She bow’d her head and died.” 
 
 A ballad from the “ What d * ye call it 7 ” 
 
 “ What can be prettier than G a y’s ballad, or, rather, Swift’s, 
 Arbuthnot’s, Pope’s, and Gay?s, in the ‘What d’ye call it?’ 
 ‘ ’T was when the seas were roaring’? I have been well in- 
 formed that they all contributed.” — Cowper to Unwin , 1783. 
 
 * “ Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an 
 odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay 
 was inclined to try at such a thing for some time, but after- 
 wards thought it would be better to write a comedy on the same 
 plan. This was what gave rise to the ‘ Beggar’s Opera.* He 
 began on it, and when he first mentioned it to Swift, the Doctor 
 did not much like the project. As he carried it on, he showed 
 what he wrote to both of us; and we now and then gave a cor- 
 rection, or a word or two of advice; but it was wholly of his 
 own writing. When it was done, neither of us thought it would 
 succeed. We showed it to Congreve, who, after reading it 
 over, said, ‘ It would either take greatly or be damned con- 
 foundedly.’ We were all the first night of it, in great uncer- 
 tainty of the event, till we were very much encouraged by 
 overhearing the Duke of Argyle, who sat in the next box to us, 
 say, * It will do — it must do ! — I can see it in the eyes of them ! ’ 
 This was a good while before the first act was over, and so 
 gave us ease soon; for the Duke [besides his own good taste] 
 has a more particular knack than any one now living in discov- 
 ering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this as 
 usual; the good-nature of the audience appeared stronger and 
 stronger every act, and epded in a clamor of applause.” — Pope. 
 Spence* s Anecdotes , 
 
168 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 in the first piece, however) , there is a peculiar, 
 hinted, pathetic sweetness and melody. It 
 charms and melts you. It’s indefinable, but 
 it exists ; and is the property of John Gay’s 
 and Oliver Goldsmith’s best verse, as fragrance 
 is of a violet, or freshness of a rose. 
 
 Let me read a piece from one of his letters, 
 which is so famous that most people here are 
 no doubt familiar with it, but so delightful 
 that it is always pleasant to hear : — 
 
 “ I have just passed part of this summer at an old 
 romantic seat of my Lord Harcourt’s which he lent me. 
 It overlooks a common field, where, under the shade of 
 a haycock, sat two lovers — as constant as ever were 
 found in romance — beneath a spreading beech. The 
 name of the one (let it sound as it will) was J ohn Hewet ; 
 of the other Sarah Drew. John was a well-set man, 
 about five-and-twenty ; Sarah a brown woman of eigh- 
 teen. John had for several months borne the labor of 
 the day in the same field with Sarah ; when she milked, 
 it was his morning and evening- charge to bring the 
 cows to her pail. Their love was the talk, but not the 
 scandal, of the whole neighborhood, for all they aimed 
 at was the blameless possession of each other in mar- 
 riage. It was but this very morning that he had obtained 
 her parents’ consent, and it was but till the next week 
 that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps this very 
 day, in the intervals of their work, they were talking of 
 their wedding-clothes ; and John was now matching 
 several kinds of poppies and field-dowers to her com- 
 plexion, to make her a present of knots for the day. 
 While they were thus employed (it was on the last of 
 July), a terrible storm of thunder and lightning arose, 
 that drove the laborers to what shelter the trees or 
 hedges afforded. Sarah, frightened and out of breath, 
 sunk on a haycock; and John (who never separated 
 from her) sat by her side, having raked two or three 
 heaps together, to secure her. Immediately there was 
 heard so loud a crack, as if heaven had burst asunder. 
 The laborers, all solicitous for each other’s safety, called 
 to one another : those that were nearest our lovers, hear- 
 ing no answer, stepped to the place where they lay: 
 they first saw a little smoke, and after, this faithful 
 
PPIOB, GAY , AND POPE . 
 
 169 
 
 pstii — John, with one arm about his Sarah’s neck, and 
 the other held over her face, as if to screen her from 
 the lightning. They were struck dead, and already 
 grown stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was 
 no mark or discoloring on their bodies — only that 
 Sarah’s eyebrow was a little singed, and a small spot 
 between her breasts. They were buried the next day 
 in one grave.” 
 
 And the proof that this description is de- 
 lightful and beautiful is, that the great Mr. 
 Pope admired it so much that he thought 
 proper to steal it and to send it off to a cer- 
 tain lady and wit, with whom he pretended 
 to be in love in those days — my Lord Duke 
 of Kingston’s daughter, and married to Mr. 
 Wortley Montagu, then his Majesty’s Ambas- 
 sador at Constantinople. 
 
 We are now come to the greatest name on 
 our list — the highest among the poets, the 
 highest among the English wits and humor- 
 ists with whom we have to rank him. If the 
 author of the u Dunciad” be not a humorist, 
 if the poet of the u Rape of the Lock ” be not 
 a wit, who deserves to be called so? Besides 
 that brilliant genius and immense fame, for 
 both of which we should respect him, men of 
 letters should admire him as being the greatest 
 literary artist that England has seen. He pol- 
 ished, he refined, he thought ; he took thoughts 
 from other works to adorn and complete his 
 own ; borrowing an idea or a cadence from 
 another poet as he would a figure or a simile 
 from a flower, or a river, stream, or any object 
 which struck him in his walk, or contemplation 
 of Nature. He began to imitate at an early 
 
170 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 • 
 
 age ; * and taught himself to write by copy* 
 ing printed books. Then he passed into the 
 hands of the priests, and from his first clerical 
 master, who came to him when he was eight 
 years old, he went to a school at Twyford, 
 and another school at Hyde Park, at which 
 places he unlearned all that he had got from 
 his first instructor. At twelve years old, he 
 went with his father into Windsor Forest, and 
 there learned for a few months under a fourth 
 priest. 44 And this was all the teaching I ever 
 had,” he said, 44 and God knows it extended 
 a very little way.”. 
 
 When he had done with his priests he took 
 
 * “ Waller, Spenser, and Dryden were Mr. Pope’s great 
 favorites, in the order they are named, in his first reading, 
 till he was about twelve years old.” — Pope. Spence's Anec- 
 dotes. 
 
 “ Mr. Pope’s father (who was an honest merchant, and dealt 
 in Hollands, wholesale) was no poet, but he used to set him to 
 make English verses when very young. He was pretty difficult 
 in being pleased; and often used to send him back to new turn 
 them. ‘ These are not good rhimes’ ; for that was my husband’s 
 word for verses.” — Pope’s Mother. Spence. 
 
 “ I wrote things, I ’m ashamed to say how soon. Part of an 
 Epic Poem when about twelve. The scene of it lay at Rhodes 
 and some of the neighboring islands ; and the poem opened un- 
 der water with a description of the Court of Neptune.” — Pope. 
 Ibid. 
 
 “His perpetual application (after he set to study of himself) 
 reduced him in four years’ time to so bad a state of health, that, 
 after trying physicians for a good while in vain, he resolved to 
 give way to his distemper; and sat down calmly in a full ex- 
 pectation of death in a short time. Under this thought, he 
 wrote letters to take a last farewell of some of his more partic- 
 ular friends, and, among the rest, one to the Abbe Southcote. 
 The Abbe was extremely concerned, both for his very ill state 
 of health and the resolution he said he h;id taken. He thought 
 there might yet be hope, and went immediately to Dr. Radcliffe, 
 with whom he was well acquainted, told him Mr. Pope’s case, 
 got full directions from him, and carried them down to Pope in 
 Windsor Forest. The chief thing the Doctor ordered him was 
 to apply less, and to ride every day. The following his advice 
 soon restored hint to his health.”*— Pope. Spence . 
 
PRIOR, GAY, A YD POPE . 
 
 171 
 
 to reading by himself, for which he had a very 
 great eagerness and enthusiasm, especially for 
 poetry. He learnt versification from Dryden, 
 he said. In his youthful poem of 44 Alcander,” 
 he imitated every poet, Cowley, Milton, Spen- 
 ser, Statius, Homer, Virgil. In a few years 
 he had dipped into a great number of the Eng- 
 lish, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek poets. 
 44 This I did,” he says, 44 without any design, 
 except to amuse myself ; and got the lan- 
 guages by hunting after the stories in the 
 several poets I read, rather than read the 
 books to get the languages. I followed every- 
 where as my fancy led me, and was like a boy 
 gathering flowers in the fields and woods, just 
 as they fell in his way. These five or six 
 years I looked upon as the happiest in my 
 life.” Is not here a beautiful holiday picture ? 
 The forest and the fairy story-book — the boy 
 spelling Ariosto or Virgil under the trees, bat- 
 tling with the Cid for the love of Chimene, or 
 dreaming of Armida’s garden — peace and 
 sunshine round about — the kindest love and 
 tenderness waiting for him at his quiet home 
 yonder — and Genius throbbing in his young 
 heart, and whispering to him, 44 You shall be 
 great, you shall be famous ; you too shall love 
 and sing ; you will sing her so nobly that some 
 kind heart shall forget you are weak and ill- 
 formed. Every poet had a love. Fate must 
 give one to you too,” — and day by day he 
 walks the forest, very likely looking out for 
 that charmer. 44 They were the happiest days 
 of his life,” he says, when he was only dream- 
 
172 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 ing of bis fame ; when he had gained that mis- 
 tress she was no consoler. 
 
 That charmer made her appearance, it would 
 seem, about the year 1705, when Pope was 
 seventeen. Letters of his are extant, ad- 
 dressed to a certain Lady M , whom the 
 
 youth courted, and to whom he expressed his 
 ardor in language, to say no worse of it, that 
 is entirely pert, odious, and affected. He imi- 
 tated love-compositions as he had been imitat- 
 ing love-poems just before — it was a sham 
 mistress he courted, and a sham passion, ex- 
 pressed as became it. These unlucky letters 
 found their way into print years afterwards, 
 and were sold to the congenial Mr. Curll. If 
 any of my hearers, as I hope they may, should 
 take a fancy to look at Pope’s correspondence, 
 let them pass over that first part of it ; over, 
 perhaps, almost all Pope’s letters to women ; 
 in which there is a tone of not pleasant gal- 
 lantry, and, amidst a profusion of compliments 
 and politenesses, a something which makes one 
 distrust the little pert, prurient bard. There 
 is very little indeed to say about his loves, and 
 that little not edifying. He wrote flames and 
 raptures and elaborate verse and prose for 
 Lady Marv Wortley Montagu ; but that pas- 
 sion probably came to a climax in an imperti- 
 nence and was extinguished by a box on the 
 ear, or some such rebuff, and he began on a 
 sudden to hate her with a fervor much more 
 genuine than that of his love had been. It 
 was a feeble puny grimace of love, and pal- 
 tering with passion. After Mr. Pcpe had 
 
PBIOJR , GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 173 
 
 sent off one of his fine compositions to Lady 
 Mary, he made a second draft from the rough 
 copy, and favored some other friend with it. 
 He was so charmed with the letter of Gay’s 
 that I have just quoted, that he had copied 
 that and amended it, and sent it to Lady Mary 
 as his own. A gentleman who writes letters 
 d deux Jins , and after having poured out his 
 heart to the beloved, serves up the same dish 
 rechauffe to a friend, is not very much in ear- 
 nest about his loves, however much he may be 
 in his piques and vanities when his imperti- 
 nence gets its due. 
 
 But, save that unlucky part of the “ Pope 
 Correspondence,” I do not know, in the range 
 of our literature, volumes more delightful.* ** 
 
 * “Mr. Pope to the Rev. Mr. Broom, Fulham, Norfolk. 
 
 “ Aug. 29th, 1730. 
 
 ** Dear Sir , — I intended to write to you on this melancholy 
 subject, the death of Mr. Fenton, before yours came, but stayed 
 to have informed myself and you of the circumstances of it. 
 All I hear is, that he felt a gradual decay, though so early in 
 life, and was declining for five or six months. It was not, as I 
 apprehended, the gout in his stomach, but, I believe, rather a 
 complication first of gross humors, as he was naturally corpu- 
 lent, not discharging themselves, as he used no sort of exercise. 
 No man better bore the approaches of his dissolution (as I am 
 told), or with less ostentation yielded up his being. The great 
 modesty which you know was natural to him, and the great 
 contempt he had for all sorts of vanity and parade, never ap- 
 peared more than in his last moments : he had a conscious satis- 
 faction (no doubt) in acting right, in feeling himself honest, 
 true, and unpretending to more than his own. So he died as he 
 lived, with that secret, yet sufficient contentment. 
 
 “ As to any papers left behind him, I dare say they can be 
 but few ; for this reason he never wrote out of vanity, or thought 
 much of the applause of men. I know an instance when he did 
 his utmost to conceal his own merit that way; and if we join 
 to this his natural love of ease, I fancy we must expect little of 
 this sort : at least, I have heard of none, except some few fur- 
 ther remarks on Waller (which his cautious integrity made him 
 leave an order to be given to Mr. Tonson), ana perhaps, though 
 
174 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 You live in them in the finest company in the 
 world. A little stately, perhaps ; a little ap- 
 prete and conscious that they are speaking to 
 
 it is many years Bince I Raw it, a translation of the first book of 
 ‘ Oppian.’ lie had begun a tragedy of ‘ Dion,’ but made small 
 progress in it. 
 
 “ As to his other affairs, he died poor but honest, leaving no 
 debts or legacies, except of a few pounds to Mr. Trumbull and 
 my lady, in token of respect, gratefulness, and mutual esteem. 
 
 “I shall with pleasure take upon me to draw this amiable, 
 quiet, deserving, unpretending, Christian, and philosophical 
 character in his epitaph. There truth may be spoken in a few 
 words; as for flourish, and oratory, and poetry, I leave them 
 to younger and more lively writers, such as love writing for 
 writing’s sake, and would rather show their own fine parts than 
 report the valuable ones of any other man. So the elegy I 
 renounce. 
 
 “ I condole with you from my heart on the loss of so worthy 
 a man, and a friend to us both. . . . 
 
 “ Adieu ; let us love his memory and profit by his example. 
 Am very sincerely, dear sir, 
 
 “ Your affectionate and real servant.” 
 
 “To the Earl of Burlington. 
 
 “ August, 1714. 
 
 “ J/y Lord, — If your mare could speak, she would give 
 you an account of what extraordinary company she had on the 
 road, which, since she cannot do, I will. 
 
 “ It was the enterprising Mr. Lintot, the redoubtable rival 
 of Mr. Tonson, w T ho, mounted on a stone-horse, overtook me in 
 Windsor Forest. He said he heard I designed for Oxford, the 
 seat of the Muses, and would, as my bookseller, by all means 
 accompany me thither. 
 
 “ I asked him where he got his horse. He answered he got 
 it of his publisher; ‘ for that rogue, my printer,’ said he, ‘ dis'- 
 appointed me. I hoped to put him in good humor by a treat at 
 the tavern of a brown fricassee of rabbits, which cost ten shil- 
 lings, with two quarts of wine, besides my conversation. I 
 thought myself cock-sure of his horse, which he readily prom- 
 ised me, but said that Mr. Tonson had just such another design 
 of going to Cambridge, expecting there the copy of a new kind 
 
 of Horace from Dr. ; and if Mr. Tonson went, he was pre- 
 
 engaged to attend him, being to have the printing of the said 
 copy. So, in short, I borrowed this stone-horse of my pub- 
 lisher, which he had of Mr. Oldmixon, for a debt. lie lent me, 
 too, the pretty boy you see after me. He was a smutty dog 
 vesterday, and cost me more than two hours to wash the ink off 
 his face; but the devil is a fair-conditioned devil, and very for- 
 ward in his catechism. If you have any more bags he shall 
 carry them.’ 
 
 “ I thought Mr. Lintot’s civility not to be neglected, so gave 
 
.PRIOR , GAY i ^4A r Z> POP#. 
 
 175 
 
 whole generations who are listening ; but in 
 the tone of their voices — pitched, as no doubt 
 they are, beyond the mere conversation key — 
 
 the boy a small bag containing three shirts and an Elzevir Vir- 
 gil, and, mounting in an instant, proceeded on the road, with 
 my man before, my courteous stationer beside, and the aforesaid 
 devil behind. 
 
 “Mr. Lintot began in this manner: ‘Now, damn them! 
 What if they should put it into the newspaper how you and I 
 went together to Oxford? What would I care? If I should go 
 down into Sussex they would say I was gone to the Speaker; 
 but what of that ? If my son were but big enough to go on with 
 the business, by G— d, I would keep as good company as old 
 Jacob.’ 
 
 “ Hereupon, I inquired of his son. ‘ The lad,’ says he, ‘ has 
 fine parts, but is somewhat sickly, much as you are. I spare 
 for nothing in his education at Westminster. Pray, don’t you 
 think Westminster to be the best school in England? Most of 
 the late Ministry came out of it; so did many of this Ministry. 
 I hope the boy will make his fortune.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Don’t you design to let him pass a year at Oxford ! * ‘ To 
 
 what purpose?’ said he. ‘The Universities do but make 
 pedants, and I intend to breed him a man of business.’ 
 
 “ As Mr. Lintot was talking, I observed he sat uneasy on 
 his saddle, for which I expressed some solicitude. ‘Nothing,’ 
 says he. ‘I can bear it well 'enough; but, since we have the 
 day before us, methinks it would be very pleasant for you to 
 rest awhile under the woods.’ When we were alighted, * See, 
 here, what a mighty pretty Horace I have in my pocket! What 
 if you amused yourself in turning an ode till we mount again? 
 Lord ! if you pleased, what a clever miscellany might you make 
 at leisure hours!’ ‘Perhaps I may,’ said I, ‘if we ride on: 
 the motion is an aid to my fancy; a round trot very much 
 awakens my spirits; then jog on apace, and I ’ll think as hard 
 as I can.’ 
 
 “Silence ensued for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintot 
 lugged the reins, stopped short, and broke out, * Well, sir, how 
 far have you gone?’ I answered, seven miles. ‘Z — ds, sir,’ 
 said Lintot, ‘ I thought you had done seven stanzas. Oldis- 
 worth, in a ramble round Wimbledon Hill, would translate a 
 whole ode in half this time. I ’ll say that for Oldisworth 
 [though I lost by his Timothy’s], be translates an ode of Horace 
 the quickest of any man in England. I remember Dr. King 
 would write verses in a tavern, three hours after he could not 
 speak : and there is Sir Richard, in that rumbling old chariot of 
 his, between Fleet Ditch and St. Giles’s Pound, shall make you 
 half a Job.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Pray, Mr. Lintot,’ said I, ‘now you talk of translators, 
 what is your method of managing them?’ ‘Sir,’ replied he, 
 4 these are the saddest pack of rogues in the w T orld : in a hungry 
 fit, they ’ll swear they understand all the languages in the uni 
 
EXGLISH HUM0BI8T8. 
 
 176 
 
 in the expression of their thoughts, their vari- 
 ous views and natures, there is something 
 generous, and cheering, and ennobling. You 
 
 verse. I have known one of them take down a Greek book 
 upon my counter and cry, “Ah, this is Hebrew, and must read 
 it from the latter end.” By G — d, I can never be sure in these 
 fellows, for I neither understand Greek, Latin, French, nor 
 Italian myself. But this is my way : I agree with them for ten 
 shillings per sheet, with a proviso that I will have their doings 
 corrected with whom I please; so by one or the other they are 
 led at last to the true sense of an author; my judgment giving 
 the negative to all my translators.’ ‘Then how are you sure 
 these correctors may not impose upon you?’ ‘Why, I get any 
 civil gentleman (especially any Scotchman) that conies into my 
 shop, to read the original to me in English; by this I know 
 whether my first translator be deficient, and whether my cor- 
 rector merits his money or not. 
 
 “ ‘ I ’ll tell you what happened to me last month. I bargained 
 
 with S for a new version of “ Lucretius,” to publish 
 
 against Tonson’s, agreeing to pay the author so many shillings 
 at his producing so many lines, lie made a great progress in a 
 very short time, and I gave it to the corrector to compare with 
 the Latin; but he went directly to Creech’s translation, and 
 found it the same, word for word, all but the first page. Now 
 what d’ ye think I did? I arrested the translator for a cheat; 
 nay, and I stopped the corrector’s pay, too, upon the proof that 
 he had made use of Creech instead of the original.’ 
 
 “* Pray tell me next how you deal with the critics.’ * Sir,’ 
 said he, ‘ nothing more easy. I can silence the most formidable 
 of them : the rich ones for a sheet apiece of the blotted manu- 
 script, which cost me nothing; they ’ll go about with it to their 
 acquaintance, and pretend they had it from the author, who sub- 
 mitted it to their correction : this has given some of them such 
 an air, that in time they come to be consulted with and dedicated 
 to as the tiptop critics of the town. — As for the poor critics, 
 I’ll give you one instance of my management, by which you may 
 guess the rest : A lean man, that looked like a very good scholar, 
 came to me t’ other day; he turned over your Homer, shook 
 his head, shrugged up his shoulders, and pish’d at every line of 
 it. “ One would wonder,” says he, “ at the strange presump- 
 tion of some men ; Homer is no such easy task as every strip- 
 ling, every versifier — ” He was going on when my wife 
 called to dinner. “ Sir,” said I, “ will you please to eat a piece 
 of beef with me? ” “ Mr. Lintot,” said he, “ I am very sorry 
 
 you should be at the expense of this great book : I am really con- 
 cerned on your account.” “ Sir, I am much obliged to you : if 
 you can dine upon a piece of beef , together with a slice of pud- 
 ding—” “Mr. Lintot, I do not say but Mr. Pope, if he 
 would condescend to advise with men of learning — ” “Sir, 
 the pudding is upon the table, if you please to go in.” My 
 critic complies; he comes to a taste of your poet.y, and tells 
 
PPIOli , GAY, AND POPE . 
 
 177 
 
 are in the society of men who have filled the 
 greatest parts in the world’s story — you are 
 with St. John, the statesman ; Peterborough, 
 
 me in the same breath that the book is commendable, and the 
 pudding excellent. 
 
 “ ‘Now, sir,’ continued Mr. Lintot, ‘ in return for the frank- 
 ness I have shown, pray tell me, is it the opinion of your friends 
 at court that my Lord Lansdowne will be brought to the bar or 
 not? ’ I told him I heard he would not, and I hoped it, my lord 
 being one I had particular obligations to. ‘ That may be,’ 
 replied Mr. Lintot; ‘ but by G— if he is not, I shall lose the 
 printing of a very good trial.’ 
 
 “These, my lord, are a few traits with which you discern 
 the genius of Mr. Lintot, which I have chosen for the subject of 
 a letter. I dropped him as soon as I got to Oxford, and paid a 
 visit to my Lord Carleton, at Middleton. . . . 
 
 “lam,” etc. 
 
 “ Dr. Swift to Mr. Pope. 
 
 “ Sept. 29, 1725. 
 
 “ I am now returning to the noble scene of Dublin — into the 
 grand monde — for fear of burying my parts ; to signalize my- 
 self among curates and vicars, and correct all corruptions crept 
 in relating to the weight of bread-and-butter through those 
 dominions where I govern. I have employed my time (besides 
 ditching) in finishing, correcting, amending, and transcribing 
 my‘Travels’ [Gulliver’s], in four parts complete, newly aug- 
 mented, and intended for the press when the world shall deserve 
 them, or rather, when a punter shall be found brave enough to 
 venture his ears. I like the scheme of our meeting after dis- 
 tresses and dispersions; but the chief end I propose to myself 
 in all my labors is to vex the world rather than divert it; and 
 if I could compass that design without hurting my own person 
 or fortune, I would be the most indefatigable writer you have 
 ever seen, without reading. I am exceedingly ple ased that you 
 have done with translations; Lord Treasurer Oxford often 
 lamented that a rascally world should lay you under a necessity 
 of misemploying your genius for so long a time; but since you 
 will now be so much better employed, when you think of the 
 world, give it one lash the more at my request. I have ever 
 hated all nations, professions, and communities ; and all my love 
 is towards individuals — for instance, T hate the tribe of lawyers, 
 but I love Councillor Such-a-one and Judge Such-a-one : it is so 
 with physicians (I will not speak of my own trade), soldiers, 
 English, Scotch, French, and the rest. But principally I hate 
 and detest that animal called man — although I heartily love 
 John, Peter, Thomas, and so forth. 
 
 “ . . . I have got materials towards a treatise proving 
 the falsity of that definition animal rationale , and to show it 
 should be only rationv s c apax, . . . The matter is so clear 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 the conqueror ; Swift, the greatest wit of all 
 times; Gay, the kindliest laugher — it is a 
 privilege to sit in that company. Delightful 
 
 that it will admit of no dispute — nay, I will hold a hundred 
 pounds that you and I agree in the point. . . . 
 
 “ Mr. Lewis sent me an account of Dr. Arbuthnot’s illness, 
 which is a very sensible affliction to me, who, by living so long 
 out of the world, have lost that hardness of heart contracted by 
 years and general conversation. I am daily losing friends, and 
 neither seeking nor getting others. Oh ! if the world had but a 
 dozen of Arbuthnots in it, I would burn my ‘ Travels ! ’ ” 
 
 “Mr. Pope to Dr. Swift. 
 
 “ October 15 , 1725 . 
 
 “I am wonderfully pleased with the suddenness of your 
 kind answer. It makes me hope you are coming towards us, 
 and that you incline more and more to your old friends. . . . 
 Here is one [Lord Bolingbroke] who was once a powerful 
 planet, but has now (after long experience of all that comes of 
 shining) learned to be content with returning to his first point 
 without the thought or ambition of shining at all. Here is 
 another [Edward, Earl of Oxford], who thinks one of the great- 
 est glories of his father was to have distinguished and loved you, 
 and who loves you hereditarily. Here is Arbuthnot recovered 
 from the jaws of death, and more pleased with the hope of see- 
 ing you again than of reviewing a world, every part of which he 
 has long despised but what is made up of a few men like 
 yourself. . . . 
 
 “ Our friend Gay is used as the friends of Tories are by 
 Whigs — and generally by Tories too. Because he had humor, 
 he was supposed to have dealt with Dr. Swift, in like manner 
 as when any one had learning formerly, he was thought to have 
 dealt with the devil. . . . 
 
 “ Lord Bolingbroke had not the least harm by his fall ; I 
 wish he had received no more by his other fall. But Lord Bol- 
 ingbroke is the most improved mind since you saw him, that 
 ever was improved without shifting into a new body, or being 
 paullo minus ab ctngelis . I have often imagined to myself, that 
 if ever all of us meet again, after so many varieties and changes, 
 after so much of the old world and of the old man in each of us 
 has been altered, that scarce a single thought of the one, any 
 more than a single atom of the other, remains just the same; I 
 have fancied, I say, that we should meet like the righteous in 
 ihe millennium, quite in peace, divested of all our former pas- 
 sions, smiling at our past follies, and content to enjoy the king, 
 dom of the just in tranquillity. 
 
 “ I designed to have left the following page for Dr. Arbuth- 
 not to fill, but he is so touched with the period in yours to 
 me concerning him, that he intends to answer it by a whole 
 letter. . , . ” 
 
PBIOR , GAY , AND POPE . 
 
 170 
 
 and generous banquet ! with a little faith and 
 a little fancy any one of us here may enjoy it, 
 and conjure up those great figures out of the 
 past, and listen to their wit and wisdom. 
 Mind that there is always a certain cachet 
 about great men — they may be as mean on 
 many points as you or I, but they carry their 
 great air — they speak of common life more 
 largely and generously than common men do 
 — they regard the world with a manlier coun- 
 tenance, and see its real features more fairly 
 than the timid shufflers who only dare to look 
 up at life through blinkers, or to have an 
 opinion when there is a crowd to back it. He 
 who reads these noble records of a past age, 
 salutes and reverences the great spirits who 
 adorn it. You may go home now and talk 
 with St. John ; you may take a volume from 
 your library and listen to Swift and Pope. 
 
 Might I give counsel to any young hearer, 
 I would say to him, Try to frequent the com- 
 pany of your betters. In books and life that 
 is the most wholesome society ; learn to ad- 
 mire rightly ; the great pleasure of life is that. 
 Note what the great men admired ; they ad- 
 mired great things : narrow spirits admire 
 baselv, and worship meanly. I know nothing- 
 in any story more gallant and cheering than 
 the love and friendship which this company of 
 famous men bore towards one another. There 
 never has been a society of men more friendly, 
 as there never was one more illustrious. Who 
 dares quarrel with Mr. Pope, great and famous 
 himself, for liking the society of men great 
 
180 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 and famous ? and for liking them for the qual- 
 ities which made them so? A mere pretty 
 fellow from White’s could not have written 
 the “ Patriot King,’’ and would very likely 
 have despised little Mr. Pope, the decrepit 
 Papist, whom the great St. John held to be 
 one of the best and greatest of men : a mere 
 nobleman of the Court could no more have 
 won Barcelona, than he could have written 
 Peterborough’s letters to Pope,* which are as 
 witty as Congreve : a mere Irish Dean could 
 
 * Of the Earl of Peterborough, Walpole says : “ He was 
 one of those men of careless wit and negligent grace, who 
 scatter a thousand bon-mots and idle verses, which we painful 
 compilers gather and hoard, till the authors stare to find them- 
 selves authors. Such was this lord, of an advantageous figure 
 and enterprising spirit; as gallant as Amadis and as brave; but 
 a little more expeditious in his journeys : for he is said to have 
 seen more kings and more postilions than any other man in 
 Europe. . . . He was a man, as his friend said, who would 
 neither live nor die like any other mortal.” 
 
 “From the Earl of Peterborough to Pope. 
 
 “ You must receive my letters with a just impartiality, and 
 give grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day; I sink 
 grievously with the weather-glass, and am quite spiritless when 
 oppressed with the thoughts of a birthday or a return. 
 
 “ Dutiful affection was bringing me to town; but undutiful 
 laziness, and being much out of order, keep me in the country : 
 however, if alive, I must make my appearance at the birth- 
 day. ... 
 
 “You seem to think it vexatious that I shall allow you but 
 one woman at a time either to praise or love. If I dispute with 
 you upon this point, I doubt every jury will give a verdict 
 against me. So, sir, with a Mahometan indulgence, I allow 
 your pluralities, the favorite privilege of our church. 
 
 “I find you don’t mend upon correction; again I tell you 
 you must not think of women in a reasonable way; you know 
 we always make goddesses of those we adore upon earth; and 
 do not all the good men tell us we must lay aside reason in 
 what relates to the Deity? 
 
 “ . . . I should have been glad of anything of Swift’s. 
 Pray, when you write to him next, tell him I expect him with 
 impatience, iu a place as odd and as much out of the way as 
 himself. “ Yours.” 
 
 Peterbough married Mrs. Anastasia Robinson, the celebrated 
 singer. 
 
FBI OB, GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 181 
 
 not have written u Gulliver ” ; and all these 
 men loved Pope, and Pope loved all these men. 
 To name his friends is to name the best men 
 of his time. Addison had a senate ; Pope 
 reverenced his equals. lie spoke of Swift 
 with respect and admiration always. His ad- 
 miration for Bolingbroke was so great, that 
 when some one said of his friend, There is 
 something in that great man which looks as if 
 he was placed here by mistake, ” u Yes,” Pope 
 answered, “ and when the comet appeared to 
 us a month or two ago, I had sometimes an 
 imagination that it might possibly be come to 
 carry him home as a coach comes to one’s door 
 for visitors.” So these great spirits spoke of 
 one another. Show me six of the dullest mid- 
 dle-aged gentlemen that ever dawdled round a 
 club table so faithful and so friendly. 
 
 We have said before' that the chief wits of 
 this time, with the exception of Congreve, 
 were what we should now call men’s men. 
 They spent many hours of the four-and-twenty, 
 a fourth part of each day nearly, in clubs and 
 coffee-houses, where they dined, drank, and 
 smoked. Wit and news went by word of 
 mouth; a journal of 1710 contained the very 
 smallest portion of one or the other. The 
 chiefs spoke, the faithful habitues sat round ; 
 strangers came to wonder and listen. Old 
 Dryden had Lis headquarters at u Will’s,” in 
 Russell Street, at the corner of Bow Street : 
 at which place Pope saw him when he was 
 twelve years old. The company used to as- 
 semble on the first floor — what was called 
 
182 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 the dining-room floor in those days — and sat 
 at various tables smoking their pipes. It is 
 recorded that the beaux of the day thought it 
 a great honor to be allowed to take a pinch 
 out of Dryden’s snuff-box. When Addison 
 began to reign, he with a certain crafty propri- 
 ety — a policy let us call it — which belonged 
 to his nature, set up his court, and appointed 
 the officers of his royal house. His palace 
 was 44 Button’s,” opposite ‘ 4 Will’s.” * A 
 quiet opposition, a silent assertion of empire, 
 distinguished this great man. Addison’s min- 
 isters were Budgell, Tickell, Philips, Carey ; 
 his master of the horse, honest Dick Steele, 
 who was what Duroc was to Napoleon, or 
 Hardy to Nelson ; the man who performed 
 his master’s bidding, and would have cheer- 
 fully died in his quarrel. Addison lived with 
 these people for seven or eight hours every 
 day. The male society passed over their 
 punch-bowls and tobacco-pipes about as much 
 time as ladies of that age spent over Spadille 
 and Handle. 
 
 For a brief space, upon coming up to town, 
 Pope formed part of King Joseph’s court, and 
 was his rather too eager and obsequious hum- 
 
 * “ Button had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick’s 
 family, who under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee- 
 house on the south side of Russell Street, about two doors from 
 Covent Garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to 
 assemble. It is said that when Addison had suffered any vexa- 
 tion from the Countess, he withdrew the company from Button’s 
 house. 
 
 “ From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where 
 he often sat late and drank too much wine.” — Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Will’s coffee-house was on the west side of Bow Street, and 
 “ corner of Russell Street.” See “ Handbook of London.” 
 
PRIOR, GAY ; AND POPE. 
 
 183 
 
 ble servant.* Dick Steele, the editor of the 
 Tatler , Mr. Addison's man, and his own man 
 too, a person of no little figure in the world 
 of letters, patronized the young poet, and set 
 him a task or two. Young Mr. Pope did the 
 tasks very quickly and smartly (he had been 
 at the feet, quite as a boy, of Wycherley’s f 
 decrepit reputation, and propped up for a year 
 that doting old wit) : he was anxious to be 
 well with the men of letters, to get a footing 
 and a recognition. He thought it an honor 
 to be admitted into their company ; to have 
 the confidence of Mr. Addison’s friend, Cap- 
 tain Steele. His eminent parts obtained for 
 
 * “ My acquaintance with Mr. Addison commenced in 1712 : 1 
 liked him then as well as I liked any man, and was very fond 
 of his conversation. It was very soon after that Mr. Addison 
 advised me ‘ not to be content with the applause of half the 
 nation.’ He used to talk much and often to me, of moderation 
 in parties : and used to blame his dear friend Steele for being 
 too much of a party man He encouraged me in my design of 
 translating the ‘ Iliad,’ which was begun that year, and finished 
 in 1718.” — Pope. Spence’s Anecdotes. 
 
 “Addison had Budgell, and I think Philips in the house with 
 him. — Gay they would call one of my eleves. — They were 
 angry with me for keeping so much with Dr. Swift and some of 
 the late Ministry.” — Pope. Spence’s Anecdotes. 
 
 f“ To Mr. Blount. 
 
 “Jan. 21, 1715-16. 
 
 “I know of nothing that will be so interesting to you at 
 present as some circumstances of the last act of that eminent 
 comic poet and our friend, Wycherley. He had often told me, 
 and I doubt not he did all his acquaintance, that he would 
 marry as soon as his life was despaired of. Accordingly, a few 
 days before his death, he underwent the ceremony, and joined 
 together those two sacraments which wise men say we should 
 be the last to receive ; for, if you observe, matrimony is placed 
 after extreme unction in our catechism, as a kind of hint of the 
 order of time in which they are to be taken. The old man then 
 lay down, satisfied in the consciousness of having, by this one 
 act, obliged a woman who (he was told) had merit, and shown 
 an heroic resentment of the ill-usage of his next heir. Some 
 hundred pounds which he had with the lady discharged his 
 debts; a jointure of £500 a year made her a recompense; and 
 
184 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 him the honor of heralding Addison's triumph 
 of 4 ‘Cato” with his admirable prologue, and 
 heading the victorious procession as it were. 
 Not content with this act of homage and ad- 
 miration, he wanted to distinguish himself by 
 assaulting Addison's enemies, and attacked 
 John Dennis with a prose lampoon, which 
 highly offended his lofty patron. Mr. Steele 
 was instructed to write to Mr. Dennis, and 
 inform him that Mr. Pope’s pamphlet against 
 him was written quite without Mr. Addison’s 
 approval.* Indeed, u The Narrative of Dr. 
 Robert Norris on the Phrenzy of J. D.” is a 
 vulgar and mean satire, and such a blow as 
 
 the nephew was left to comfort himself as well as he could with 
 the miserable remains of a mortgaged estate. I saw our friend 
 twice after this was done — less peevish in his sickness than he 
 used to be in his health ; neither much afraid of dying, nor (which 
 in him had been more likely) much ashamed of marrying. The 
 evening before he expired, he called his young wife to the bed- 
 side, and earnestly entreated her not to deny him one request — 
 the last he should make. Upon her assurances of consenting to 
 it, he told her : ‘My dear, it is only this — that you will never 
 marry aji old man again.’ I cannot help remarking that sick- 
 ness, which often destroys both wit and wisdom, yet seldom 
 has power to remove that talent which we call humor. Mr. 
 Wycherley showed his even in his last compliment ; though I 
 think his request a little hard, for why should he bar her from 
 doubling her jointure on the same easy terms? 
 
 “ So trivial as th* se circumstances are, I should not be dis- 
 pleased myself to know such trifles when they concern or char- 
 acterize any eminent person. The wisest and wittiest of men 
 are seldom wiser or wittier than others in these sober moments ; 
 at least, our friend ended much in the same character he had 
 lived in; and Horace’s rule for play may as well be applied to 
 him as a playwright : — 
 
 “ ‘ Servetur ad iraum 
 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit et sibi constet.’ 
 
 “ I am,” etc. 
 
 * “ Addison, who was no stranger to the world, probably 
 saw the selfishness of Pope’s friendship ; and resolving that he 
 should have the consequences of his ofiiciousness to himself, 
 informed Dennis by Steele that he was sorry for the insult.” — 
 Johnson, Life of Addison. 
 
PBIOB , GAY, AND POPE . 
 
 185 
 
 the magnificent Adclison could never desire to 
 see any partisan of his strike in any literary 
 quarrel. Pope was closely allied with Swift 
 when he wrote this pamphlet. It is so dirty 
 that it has been printed in Swift’s works, too. 
 It bears the foul marks of the master hand. 
 Swift admired and enjoyed with all his heart 
 the prodigious genius of the } T oung Papist lad 
 out of Windsor Forest, who had never seen a 
 university in his life, and came and conquered 
 the Dons and the doctors with his wit. He 
 applauded, and loved him, too, and protected 
 him, and taught him mischief. I wish Addi- 
 son could have loved him better. The best 
 satire that ever has been penned would never 
 have been written then ; and one of the best 
 characters the world ever knew would have 
 been without a flaw. But he who had so few 
 equals could not bear one, and Pope was more 
 than that. When Pope, trying for himself, 
 and soaring on his immortal young wings, 
 found that iiis, too, was a genius, which no 
 pinion of that age could follow, he rose and 
 left Addison’s company, settling on his own 
 eminence, and singing his own song. 
 
 It was not possible that Pope should remain 
 a retainer of Mr. Addison ; nor likely that 
 after escaping from his vassalage and assum- 
 ing an independent crown, the sovereign whose 
 allegiance he quitted should view him amica- 
 bly.* They did not do wrong to mislike each 
 
 *“ While I was heated with what I heard, I wrote a letter to 
 Mr. Addison, to let him know ‘ that I was not unacquainted with 
 this behavior of his; that if I was to speak of him severely in 
 return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; that I should 
 
186 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBIS TS. 
 
 other. They but followed the impulse of na- 
 ture, and the consequence of position. When 
 Bernadotte became heir to a throne, the 
 Prince Royal of Sweden was naturally Napo- 
 leon’s enemy. 44 There are many passions 
 and tempers of mankind,” says Mr. Addison 
 in the Spectator , speaking a couple of years 
 before the little differences between him and 
 Mr. Pope took place, 44 which naturally dis- 
 pose us to depress and vilify the merit of one 
 rising in the esteem of mankind. All those 
 who made their entrance into the world with 
 the same advantages, and were once looked 
 on as his equals, are apt to think the fame of his 
 merits a reflection on their own deserts. Those 
 who were once his equals envy and defame 
 him, because they now see him the superior ; 
 and those who were once his superiors, because 
 they look upon him as their equal.” Did Mr. 
 Addison, justly perhaps thinking that, as young 
 Mr. Pope had not had the benefit of a univer- 
 sity education, he couldn’t know Greek, there- 
 fore he could n’t translate Homer, encourage 
 his young friend Mr. Tickell, of Queen’s, to 
 translate that poet, and aid him with his own 
 known scholarship and skill? f It was nat- 
 
 rather tell him himself fairly of his faults, and allow his good 
 qualities; and that it should be something in the following 
 manner.’ I then subjoined the first sketch of what has since 
 been called my satire on Addison. He used me very civilly 
 ever after; and never did me any injustice, that I know of, from 
 that time to his death, which was about three years after.” — 
 Pope. Spence's Anecdotes. 
 
 t “ That Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to 
 us highly improbable; that Addison should have been guilty of 
 a villany seems to be highly improbable ; but that these two 
 men should have conspired together to commit a villany, seoms, 
 to us 3 improbable in a tenfold degree.” — Macaulay. 
 
PRIOR, GAY , AND POPE. 
 
 187 
 
 ural that Mr. Addison should doubt of the 
 learning of an amateur Grecian, should have 
 a high opinion of Mr. Tickell, of Queen’s, 
 and should help that ingenious young man. 
 It was natural, on the other hand, that Mr. 
 Pope and Mr. Pope’s friends should believe 
 that this counter-translation, suddenly adver- 
 tised and so long written, though Tickell’s 
 college friends had never heard of it — though, 
 when Pope first wrote to Addison regarding 
 his scheme, Mr. Addison knew nothing of the 
 similar project of Tickell, of Queen’s — it was 
 natural that Mr. Pope and his friends, having 
 interests, passions, and prejudices of their own, 
 should believe thatTickell’s translation was but 
 an act of opposition against Pope, and that 
 they should call Mr. Tickell’s emulation Mr. 
 Addison’s envy — if envy it were. 
 
 “ And were there one whose fires 
 True genius kindles and fair fame inspires, 
 
 Blest with each talent and each art to please. 
 
 And born to write, converse, and live with ease ; 
 Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, 
 
 Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne ; 
 
 View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes, 
 
 And hate, for arts that caused himself to rise; 
 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
 
 And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 
 
 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike ; 
 
 Alike reserved to blame as to commend 
 A timorous foe and a suspicious friend ; 
 
 Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged, 
 
 And so obliging that he ne’er obliged : 
 
 Like Cato give his little senate laws, 
 
 And sit attentive to his own applause ; 
 
 While wits and templars every sentence raise, 
 
 And wonder with a foolish face of praise; 
 
 Who but must laugh if such a man there be, 
 
 Who would not weep if Atticus were he ? ” 
 
188 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 “ I sent the verses to Mr. Addison,” said Pope, 
 “ and he used me very civilly ever after.” No 
 wonder he did. It was shame very likely more 
 than fear that silenced him. Johnson recounts 
 an interview between Pope and Addison after 
 their quarrel, in which Pope wus angry, and 
 Addison tried to be contemptuous and calm. 
 Such a weapon as Pope’s must have pierced any 
 scorn. It flashes forever, and quivers in Addi- 
 son’s memory. His great figure looks out on 
 us from the past — stainless but for that — 
 pale, calm, and beautiful : it bleeds from that 
 black wound. He should be drawn, like St. 
 Sebastian, with that arrow in his side. As he 
 sent to Gay and asked his pardon, as he bade 
 his step-son come and see his death, be sure he 
 had forgiven Pope, when he made ready to 
 show how a Christian could die. 
 
 Pope then formed part of the Addisonian 
 court for a short time, and describes himself 
 in his letters as sitting with that coterie until 
 two o’clock in the morning over punch and 
 burgundy amidst the fumes of tobacco. To 
 use an expression of the present day, the 
 u pace” of those viveurs of the former age 
 was awful. Peterborough lived into the very 
 jaws of death ; Godolphin labored all day and 
 gambled at night ; Bolingbroke,* writing to 
 
 *“Lord Bolingbroke to the Three Yahoos of 
 Twickenham. 
 
 “ July 23, 1726. 
 
 “Jonathan, Alexander, John, most excellent Trium- 
 virs of Parnassus, — 
 
 “ Though you are probably very indifferent where I am, or 
 what I am doing, yet I resolve to believe the contrary. I per- 
 suade myself that you have sent at least fifteen times within this 
 
PBIOB, GAY, AND POPE . 
 
 189 
 
 Swift, from Dawley, in liis retirement, dating 
 his letter at six o’clock in the morning, and 
 rising, as he says, refreshed, serene, and calm, 
 calls to mind the time of his London life ; 
 when about that hour he used to be going to 
 bed, surfeited with pleasure, and jaded with 
 business ; his head often full of schemes, and 
 his heart as often full of anxiety. It was too 
 hard, too coarse a life for the sensitive, sickly 
 Pope. He was the only wit of the day, a 
 friend writes to me, who wasn’t fat.* * ** Swift 
 was fat ; Addison was fat ; Steele was fat ; 
 Gay and Thomson were preposterously fat — 
 all that fuddling and punch* drinking, that club 
 and coffee-house boozing, shortened the lives 
 and enlarged the waistcoats of the men of that 
 age. Pope withdrew in a great measure from 
 this boisterous London company, and being 
 put into an independence by the gallant exer- 
 tions of Swift | and his private friends, and 
 by the enthusiastic national admiration which 
 
 fortnight to Dawley farm, and that you are extremely mortified 
 at my long silence. To relieve you, therefore, from this great 
 anxiety of mind, I can do no less than write a few lines to you ; 
 and I please myself beforehand with the vast pleasure w hich 
 this epistle must needs give you. That I may add to this pleas- 
 ure, and give further proofs of my beneficent temper, I will 
 likewise inform you, that I shall be in your neighborhood again, 
 by the end of next week : by which time I hope that Jonathan’s 
 imagination of business will be succeeded by some imagination 
 more becoming a professor of that divine science, la bagatelle . 
 Adieu. Jonathan, Alexander, John, mirth be with you! ” 
 
 * Prior must be excepted from this observation. “He was 
 lank and lean.” 
 
 t Swift exerted himself very much in promoting the 
 
 ** Iliad ” subscription; and also introduced Cope to Harley and 
 Bolingbroke. — Pope realized by the “Iliad” upwards of 
 £5,000, which he laid out partly in annuities, and partly in the 
 purchase of his famous villa. Johnson remarks that “ it would 
 De hard to find a man so well entitled to notice by his w T it, that 
 ever delighted so much in talking of his money..” 
 
190 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 justly rewarded his great achievement of the 
 44 Iliad,” purchased that famous villa of Twick- 
 enham which his song and life celebrated ; 
 duteously bringing his old parent to live and 
 die there, entertaining his friends there, and 
 making occasional visits to London in his little 
 chariot, in which Atterbury compared him to 
 44 Homer in a nutshell.” 
 
 44 Mr. Dry den was not a genteel man,” Pope 
 quaintly said to Spence, speaking of the man- 
 ner and habits of the famous old patriarch of 
 44 Will’s.” With regard to Pope’s own man- 
 ners, we have the best contemporary authority 
 that they were singularly refined, and polished. 
 With his extraordinary sensibility, with his 
 known tastes, with his delicate frame, with 
 his power and dread of ridicule, Pope could 
 have been no other than what we call a highly 
 bred person.* His closest friends, with the 
 exception of Swift, were among the delights 
 and ornaments of the polished society of their 
 age. Garth, f the accomplished and benevo- 
 
 lent, whom Steele has described so charmingly, 
 of whom Codrington said that his character- 
 was 44 all beauty,” and whom Pope himself 
 called the best of Christians without knowing 
 
 * “ His (Pope’s) voice in common conversation was so nat- 
 urally musical, that I remember honest Tom Southerne used 
 always to call him ‘ the little nightingale.’ ” — Orrery. 
 
 f Garth, whom Dryden calls “ generous as his Muse,” was 
 a Yorkshireman. He graduated at Cambridge, and was made 
 M. D. in 1691. He soon distinguished himself in his profession, 
 by his poem of the “Dispensary,” and in society, and pro. 
 nounced Dryden’s funeral oration. He was a strict "Whig, a 
 notable member of the “ Kit-Cat,” and a friendly, convivial, 
 able man. He was knighted by George I., with the Duke of 
 Marlborough’s sword, He died in 1718. 
 
PPIOP, GAY , AND POPE. 
 
 191 
 
 it ; Arbuthnot,* one of the wisest, wittiest, 
 most accomplished, gentlest of mankind ; Bo- 
 lingbroke, the Alcibiades of his age ; the gen- 
 erous Oxford ; the magnificent, the witty, the 
 famous and chivalrous Peterborough : these 
 were the fast and faithful friends of Pope, the 
 most brilliant company of friends, let us re- 
 peat, that the world has ever seen. The 
 favorite recreation of his leisure hours was 
 
 * “ Arbuthnot was the son of an episcopal clergyman in 
 Scotland, and belonged to an ancient and distinguished Scotch 
 family. He was educated at Aberdeen ; and, coming up to Lon- 
 don — according to a Scotch practice often enough alluded to 
 — to make his fortune — first made himself known by ‘An Ex- 
 amination of Dr. Woodward’s Account of the Deluge.’ He be- 
 came physician successively to Prince George of Denmark and 
 to Queen Anne. He is usually allowed to have been the most 
 learned, as well as one of the most witty and humorous mem- 
 bers of the Scriblerus Club. The opinion entertained of him by 
 the humorists of the day is abundantly evidenced in their 
 correspondence. When he found himself in his last illness, he 
 wrote thus, from his retreat at Hampstead, to Swift : — 
 
 “ ‘ Hampstead, Oct. 4, 1734. 
 
 “ ‘ My Dear and Worthy Friend , — You have no reason to 
 put me among the rest of your forgetful friends, for I wrote 
 two long letters to you, to which I never received one word of 
 answer. The first was about your health ; the last I sent a great 
 while ago, by one De la Mar. I can assure you with great truth 
 that none of your friends or acquaintance has a more warm 
 heart towards you than myself. I am going out of this trouble- 
 some world, and you, among the rest of my friends, shall have 
 my last prayers and good wishes. 
 
 “ ‘ . I came out to this place so reduced by a dropsy and 
 
 an asthma, that I could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor move. I 
 most earnestly desired and begged of God that he would take 
 me. Contrary to my expectation, upon venturing to ride (which 
 Iliad forborne for some years), I recovered my strength to a 
 pretty considerable degree, slept, and had my stomach again. 
 . . . What I did, I can assure you, was not for life, but ease; for 
 I am at present in the case of a man that was almost in harbor, 
 and then blown back to sea — who has a reasonable hope of 
 going to a good place, and an absolute certainty of leaving a 
 very bad one. Not that I have any particular disgust at the 
 world; for I have as great comfort in my own family and from 
 the kindness of my friends as any man, but the world, in the 
 main, displeases me, and I have too true a presentiment of 
 calamities that are to befall my country. However, if I should 
 
ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 102 
 
 the society of painters, whose art he practised. 
 In his correspondence are letters between him 
 and Jervas, whose pupil he loved to be, — 
 Richardson, a celebrated artist of his time, 
 and who painted for him a portrait of his old 
 mother, and for whose picture he asked and 
 thanked Richardson in one of the most delight- 
 ful letters that ever were penned,* — and the 
 
 have the happiness to see you before I die, you Mill find that I 
 enjoy the comforts of life with my usual cheerfulness. I cannot 
 imagine why you are frightened from a journey to England : 
 the reasons you assign are not sufficient — the journey I am 
 sure would do you good. In general, I recommend riding, of 
 which I have always had a good opinion, and can now’ confirm 
 it from my own experience. 
 
 “ ‘ My family give you their love and service. The great 
 loss I sustained in one of them gave me my first shock, and the 
 trouble I have with the rest to’bring them to a right temper to 
 bear the loss of a father who loves them, and whom they love, 
 is really a most sensible affliction to me. I am afraid, my dear 
 friend, w r e shall never see one another more in this world. I 
 shall, to the last moment, preserve my love and esteem for you, 
 being well assured you will never leave the paths of virtue and 
 honor; for all that is in this wrnrld is not w r orth the least devia- 
 tion from the way. It Mill be great pleasure to me to hear from 
 you sometimes; for none are with more sincerity than I am, my 
 dear friend, your most faithful friend and humble servant.’ ” 
 “Arbuthnot,” Johnson says, “ M as a man of great compre- 
 hension, skilful in his profession, versed in the sciences, ac- 
 quainted with ancient literature, and able to animate his mass 
 of knowledge by a bright and active imagination ; a scholar with 
 great brilliance of wit; a wit M ho, in the crowd of life, retained 
 and discovered a noble ardor of religious zeal.” 
 
 Dugald SteM T art has testified to Arbuthnot’s ability in a 
 department of which he w r as particularly qualified to judge : 
 “ Let me add, that, in the list of philosophical reformers, the 
 authors of ‘ Martinus Scriblerus ’ ought not to be overlooked. 
 Their happy ridicule of the scholastic logic and metaphysics is 
 universally knowm ; but few are aware of the acuteness and 
 sagacity displayed in their allusions to some of the most vulner- 
 able passages in Locke’s ‘ Essay.’ In this part of the work it is 
 commonly understood that Arbuthnot had the principal share.” 
 — See Preliminary Dissertation to Encyclopedia Dritannica, 
 note to p. 242, and also note b. b. b., p. 285. 
 
 * “ To Mr. Richardson. 
 
 “ Twickenham, June 10, 1733. 
 
 ** As I know you and I mutually desire to see one another, 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AXD POPP. 
 
 193 
 
 wonderful Kneller, who bragged more, spelt 
 worse, and painted better than any artist of 
 his day.* * 
 
 It is affecting to note, through Pope’s Cor- 
 respondence, the marked way in which his 
 friends, the greatest, the most famous, and 
 wittiest men of the time — generals and 
 statesmen, philosophers and divines — all 
 have a kind word and a kind thought for the 
 good simple old mother, whom Pope tended 
 so affectionately. Those men would have 
 scarcely valued her, but that they knew how 
 much he loved her, and that they pleased him 
 by thinking of her. If his early letters to 
 women are affected and insincere, whenever 
 he speaks about this one, it is with a childish 
 
 I hoped that this day our wishes would have met, and brought 
 vou hither. And this for the very reason, which possibly might 
 Linder you coming, that my poor mother is dead. I thank God, 
 her death was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost 
 her not a groan, or even a sigh, there is yet upon her counte- 
 nance such an expression of tranquillity, nay, almost of pleas- 
 ure, that it is even amiable to behold it. It would afford the 
 finest image of a saint expired that ever painting drew; and it 
 would be the greatest obligation which even that obliging art 
 could ever bestow on a friend, if you could come and sketch it 
 for me. I am sure if there be no very prevalent obstacle, you 
 will leave any common business to do this; and I hope to see 
 you this evening, as late as you will, or to-morrow morning as 
 early, before this winter flower is faded. I will defer her 
 interment till to-morrow night. I know you love me, or I could 
 not have written this — I could not (at this time) have written 
 at all. Adieu ! May you die as happily ! 
 
 “ Yours,” etc. 
 
 * “ Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, when 
 his nephew, a Guinea trader, came in. ‘ Nephew,’ said Sir 
 Godfrey, ‘ you have the honor of seeing the two greatest men 
 in the world.’ — ‘ I don’t know how great you may be,’ said the 
 Guinea man, * but I don’t like your looks : I have often bought 
 a man much better than both of you together, all muscles 
 and bones, for ten guineas.’” — Dr. Warburton. Spence’ 9 
 Anecdotes . 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 tenderness and an almost sacred simplicity. 
 In 1713, when young Mr. Pope had, by a 
 series of the most astonishing victories and 
 dazzling achievements, seized the crown of 
 poetry, and the town was in an uproar of ad- 
 miration, or hostility, for the young chief ; 
 when Pope was issuing his famous decrees for 
 the translation of the 44 Iliad ” ; when Dennis 
 and the lower critics were hooting and assail- 
 ing him ; when Addison and the gentlemen of 
 his court were sneering with sickening hearts 
 at the prodigious triumphs of the young con- 
 queror ; when Pope, in a fever of victory, and 
 genius, and hope, and anger, was struggling 
 through the crowd of shouting friends and 
 furious detractors to his temple of Fame, his 
 old mother writes from the country, 6 ‘My 
 deare,” says she, — <4 M} r deare, there ’s Mr. 
 Blount, of Mapel Durom, dead the same day 
 that Mr. Inglefield died. Your sister is well ; 
 but your brother is sick. My service to Mrs. 
 Blount, and all that ask of me. I hope to 
 hear from you, and that you are well, which 
 is my daily prayer ; and this with my bless- 
 ing.” The triumph marches by, and the car 
 of the young conqueror, the hero of a hun- 
 dred brilliant victories ; the fond mother sits 
 in the quiet cottage at home and says, 44 I 
 send you my daily prayers, and I bless you, 
 my deare.” 
 
 In our estimate of Pope’s character, let us 
 always take into account that constant tender- 
 ness and fidelit} 7 of affection which pervaded 
 and sanctified his life, and never forget that 
 
PBIOP, GAY i AND POPE. 
 
 195 
 
 maternal benediction,* It accompanied him 
 always : his life seems purified by those artless 
 and heartfelt prayers. And he seems to have 
 received and deserved the fond attachment of 
 the other members of his family. It is not a 
 little touching to read in Spence of the enthu- 
 siastic admiration with which his half-sister 
 regarded him* and the simple anecdote by 
 which she illustrates her love. 44 I think no 
 man was ever so little fond of money.” Mrs. 
 Rackett says about her brother, 44 I think my 
 brother when he was young read more books 
 than any man in the ’world ” ; and she falls to 
 telling stories of his school-days, and the man- 
 ner in which his master at Twyford ill-used 
 him. 44 1 don't think my brother knew what 
 fear was,” she continues : and the accounts 
 of Pope’s friends bear out this character 
 for courage. When he had exasperated the 
 dunces, and threats of violence and personal 
 assault were brought to him, the dauntless 
 little champion never for one instant allowed 
 fear to disturb him, or condescended to take 
 any guard in his daily walks except occasion- 
 ally his faithful dog to bear him company. 
 44 1 had rather die at once,” said the gallant 
 little cripple, 44 than live in fear of those ras- 
 cals.” 
 
 * Swift’s mention of him as one 
 
 “ . . . whose filial piety excels 
 Whatever Grecian story tells,” 
 
 is well known. And a sneer of Walpole’s may be put to a 
 better use than he ever intended it for, apropos of this subject. — 
 He charitably sneers, in one of his letters, at Spence’s “ fondling 
 an old mother — in imitation of Pope ! ” 
 
1% 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 As for his death, it was what the noble 
 Arbuthnot asked and enjoyed for himself — 
 a euthanasia — a beautiful end. A perfect 
 benevolence, affection, serenity, hallowed the 
 departure of that high soul. Even in the very 
 hallucinations of his brain, and weaknesses 
 of his delirium, there was something almost 
 sacred. Spence describes him in his last days, 
 looking up and with a rapt gaze as if some- 
 thing had suddenly passed before him. “ He 
 said to me, 4 What ’s that ? ’ pointing into the 
 air with a very steady regard, and then looked 
 down and said, with a smile of the greatest 
 softness, c ’T was a vision ! ’ ” He laughed 
 scarcely ever, but his companions describe 
 his countenance as often illuminated by a 
 peculiar sweet smile. 
 
 “ When,” said Spence,* the kind anecdotist 
 whom Johnson despised, — u When I was tell- 
 ing Lord Bolingbroke that Mr. Pope, on every 
 catching and recovery of his mind, was 
 always saying something kindly of his present 
 or absent friends ; and that this was so sur- 
 prising, as it seemed to me as if humanity had 
 outlasted understanding, Lord Bolingbroke 
 said, ; It has so/ and then added, c I never in 
 my life knew a man who had so tender a 
 
 * Joseph Spence was the son of a clergyman, near Winches- 
 ter. He was a short time at Eton, and afterwards became a 
 Fellow of New College, Oxford, a clergyman and professor of 
 poetry. He was a friend of Thomson’s, whose reputation he 
 aided. He published an “ Essay on the Odyssey ” in 1726, 
 which introduced him to Pope. Everybody liked him. His 
 “Anecdotes” were placed, while still in MS., at the service of 
 Johnson and also of Malone. They were published by Mr. Singer 
 in 1820, 
 
PRIOR , GAY, AND POPE. 
 
 197 
 
 heart for his particular friends, or a more 
 general friendship for mankind. I have 
 known him these thirty years, and value 
 myself more for that man’s love than — ’ 
 Here,” Spence says, “ St. John sunk his head 
 and lost his voice in tears.” The sob which 
 finishes the epitaph is finer ,than words. It is 
 the cloak thrown over the father’s face in the 
 famous Greek picture, which hides grief and 
 heightens it. 
 
 In Johnson’s “ Life of Pope ” you will find 
 described, with rather a malicious minuteness, 
 some of the personal habits and infirmities of 
 the great little Pope. His body was crooked, 
 he was so short that it was necessary to raise 
 his chair in order to place him on a level with 
 other people at table.* He was sewed up in 
 a buckram suit every morning and required a 
 nurse like a child. His contemporaries reviled 
 these misfortunes with a strange acrimony, 
 and made his poor deformed person the butt 
 for many a bolt of heavy wit. The facetious 
 Mr. Dennis, in speaking of him, says, “If 
 you take the first letter of Mr. Alexander 
 Pope’s Christian name, and the first and last 
 letters of his surname, you hive A. P. E.” 
 Pope catalogues, at the end of “ Dunciad,” 
 
 *He speaks of Arbuthnot’s having helped him through 
 “ that long disease, my life.” But not only was he so feeble as 
 is implied in his use of the “ buckram,” but “ it now appears,” 
 says Mr. Peter Cunningham, “ from his unpublished letters, that 
 like Lord Hervey, be had recourse to ass’s milk for the preser- 
 vation of his health.” It is to his lordship’s use of that simple 
 beverage that he alludes when he says, — 
 
 “ Let Sporus tremble ! — A. What, that thing of silk, 
 8porus, that mere white-curd of ass’s milk? ” 
 
198 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 with a rueful precision, other pretty names, 
 besides Ape, which Dennis called him. That 
 great critic pronounced Mr. Pope a little ass, 
 a fool, a coward, a Papist, and therefore a 
 hater of Scripture, and so forth. It must be 
 remembered that the pillory was a flourish- 
 ing and popular institution in those days. 
 Authors stood in it in the body sometimes, 
 and dragged their enemies thither morally, 
 hooted them with foul abuse and assailed them 
 with garbage of the gutter. Poor Pope’s 
 figure was an easy one for those clumsy cari- 
 caturists to draw. Any stupid hand could 
 draw a hunchback and write Pope underneath. 
 They did. A libel was published against 
 Pope, with such a frontispiece. This kind of 
 rude jesting was an evidence not only of an 
 ill nature, but a dull one. When a child 
 makes a pun or a lout breaks out into a laugh, 
 it is some very obvious combination of words, 
 or discrepancy of objects, which provokes the 
 infantine satirist, or tickles the boorish wag ; 
 and many of Pope’s revilers laughed not so 
 much because they were wicked, as because 
 they knew no better. 
 
 Without the utmost sensibility, Pope could 
 not have been the poet he was ; and through 
 his life, however much he protested that he 
 disregarded their abuse, the coarse ridicule of 
 his opponents stung and tore him. One of 
 Cibber’s pamphlets coming into Pope’s hands, 
 whilst Richardson the painter was with him, 
 Pope turned round and said, 4 4 These things 
 are my diversions”; and Richardson, sitting 
 
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE . 
 
 199 
 
 by whilst Pope perused the libel, said he saw 
 his features u writhing with anguish.’’ How 
 little human nature changes ! Can’t one see 
 that little figure? Can’t one fancy one is 
 reading Horace? Can’t one fancy one is 
 speaking of to-day? 
 
 The tastes and sensibilities of Pope w T hich 
 led him to cultivate the society of persons 
 of fine manners, or wit, or taste, or beauty, 
 caused him to shrink equally from that shabby 
 and boisterous crew which formed the rank 
 and file of literature in his time : and he was 
 as unjust to these men as they to him. The 
 delicate little creature sickened at habits and 
 company which were quite tolerable to robuster 
 men : and in the famous feud between Pope 
 and the Dunces, and without attributing any 
 peculiar wrong to either, one can quite un- 
 derstand how the two parties should so hate 
 each other. As I fancy, it was a sort of 
 necessity that when Pope’s triumph passed, Mr. 
 Addison and his men should look rather con- 
 temptuously down on it from their balcony ; 
 so it was natural for Dennis and Tibbald, and 
 Welsted and Cibber, and the worn and hungry 
 pressmen in the crowd below, to howl at him 
 and assail him. And Pope was more savage 
 to Grub Street than Grub Street was to Pope. 
 The thong with which he lashed them was 
 dreadful ; he fired upon that howling crew 
 such shafts of flame and poison, he slew 
 and wounded so fiercely, that in reading the 
 u Dunciad ” and the prose lampoons of Pope, 
 ( one feels disposed to side against the ruthless 
 
200 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 little tyrant, at least to pity those wretched 
 folks on whom he was so unmerciful. It was 
 Pope, and Swift to aid him, who established 
 among us the Grub Street tradition. He 
 revels in base descriptions of poor men’s 
 want ; he gloats over poor Dennis’s garret, and 
 flannel nightcap and red stockings ; he gives 
 instructions how to find Curb’s authors, the 
 historian at the tallow-chandler’s under the 
 blind arch in Petty France, the two translators 
 in bed together, the poet in the cock-loft in 
 Budge Row, whose landlady keeps the ladder. 
 It was Pope, I fear, who contributed, more 
 than any man who ever lived, to depreciate 
 the literary calling. It was not an unprosper- 
 ous one before that time, as we have seen ; at 
 least there were great prizes in the profession 
 which had made Addison a Minister, and 
 Prior an Ambassador, and Steele a Commis- 
 sioner, and Swift all but a Bishop. The pro- 
 fession of letters was ruined by that libel of 
 the u Dunciad.” If authors were wretched 
 and poor before, if some of them lived in hay- 
 lofts, of which their landladies kept the lad-“ 
 ders, at least nobody came to disturb them in 
 their straw ; if three of them had but one coat 
 between them, the two remained invisible in 
 the garret, the third, at any rate, appeared 
 decently at the coffee-house and paid his two- 
 pence like a gentleman. It was Pope that 
 dragged into light all this poverty and mean- 
 ness, and held up those wretched shifts and 
 rags to public ridicule. It was Pope that has 
 made generations of the reading world (de- 
 
PRIOR, GAY , AND POPE . 
 
 201 
 
 lighted with the mischief, as who would not be 
 that reads it?) believe that author and wretch, 
 author and rags, author and dirt, author and 
 drink, gin, co wheel, tripe, poverty, duns, 
 bailiffs, squalling children and clamorous land- 
 ladies, were always associated together. The 
 condition of authorship began to fall from the 
 days of the u Dunciad ” : and I believe in my 
 heart that much of that obloquy which has 
 since pursued our calling was occasioned by 
 Pope’s libels and wicked wit. Everybody 
 read those. Everybody was familiarized with 
 the idea of the poor devil, the author. The 
 manner is so captivating that young authors 
 practise it, and begin their career with satire. 
 It is so easy to write, and so pleasant to read ! 
 to fire a shot that makes a giant wince, per- 
 haps ; and fancy one’s .self his conqueror. It 
 is easy to shcot — but not as Pope did. The 
 shafts of his satire rise sublimely : no poet’s 
 verse ever mounted higher than that wonder- 
 ful flight with w hich the u Dunciad ” con- 
 cludes : — * 
 
 “ She comes, she comes! the sable throne behold 
 Of Night primeval and of Chaos old ; 
 
 Before her, Fancy’s gilded clouds decay, 
 
 And all its varying rainbows die away; 
 
 Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires, 
 
 The meteor drops, and in a dash expires. 
 
 As, one by one, at dread Medea’s strain 
 The sick’ning stars fade off the ethereal plain; 
 
 As Argus’ eyes, by Hermes’ wand oppress’d, 
 
 Closed, one by one, to everlasting rest ; — 
 
 Thus, at her fell approach and secret might, 
 
 Art after Art goes out, and all is night. 
 
 *“He (Johnson) repeated to us, in his forcible melodious 
 manner, the concluding lines of the ‘ Dunciad.’ ” — Boswell. 
 
202 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, 
 Mountains of casuistry heaped o’er her head ; 
 Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before, 
 
 Shrinks to her second cause and is no more. 
 Religion, blushiner, veils her sacred fires, 
 
 And, unawares, Morality expiivs. 
 
 Not public flame, nor private, dares to shine, 
 
 Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine. 
 
 Lo! thy dread empire, Chao* *, is restored, 
 
 Light dies before thy uncreating word; 
 
 Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, 
 
 And universal darkness buries all.” * 
 
 In these astonishing lines Pope reaches, I 
 think, to the very greatest height which his 
 sublime art has attained, and shows himself 
 the ecjual of all poets of all times. It is the 
 brightest ardor, the loftiest assertion of truth, 
 the most generous wisdom illustrated by the 
 noblest poetic figure, and spoken in words the 
 aptest, grandest, and most harmonious It is 
 heroic courage speaking : a splendid declara- 
 tion of righteous wrath and war. It is the 
 gage flung down, and the silver trumpet ring- 
 ing defiance to falsehood and tyranny, deceit, 
 dulness, superstition. It is Truth, the cham- 
 pion, shining and intrepid, and fronting the 
 great world-tyrant with armies of slaves at his 
 back. It is a wonderful and victorious single- 
 combat, in that great battle, which has always 
 been waging since society began. 
 
 In speaking of a work of consummate art 
 one does not try to show what it actually is, 
 for that were vain ; but what is it like, and 
 
 * “ Mr. Langton informed me that he once related to Johnson 
 (on the authority of Spence), that Pope himself admired these 
 lines so much that when he repeated them his voice faltered. 
 
 * And well it might, sir,’ said Johnson, ‘ for they are noble 
 lines.’” — J, Boswell, Junior. 
 
PBlOB , GAY i .4AD POPE. 
 
 203 
 
 what are the sensations produced in the mind 
 of him who views it. And in considering 
 Pope’s admirable career, I am forced into 
 similitudes drawn from other courage and 
 greatness, and into comparing him with those 
 who achieved triumphs in actual war. I think 
 of the works of young Pope as I do of the 
 actions of young Buonaparte or young Nelson. 
 In their common life you will find frailties 
 and meannesses, as great as the vices and 
 follies of the meanest men. But in the pres- 
 ence of the great occasion, the great soul 
 flashes out, and conquers transcendent. In 
 thinking of the splendor of Pope’s young vic- 
 tories, of his merit, unequalled as his renown, 
 I hail and salute the achieving genius, and do 
 homage to the pen of a hero. 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND 
 FIELDING. 
 
 I suppose, as long as novels last and au- 
 thors aim at interesting their public, there 
 must always be in the story a virtuous and 
 gallant hero, a wicked monster his opposite, 
 and a pretty girl who finds a champion ; 
 bravery and virtue conquer beauty ; and vice, 
 after seeming to triumph through a certain 
 number of pages, is sure to be discomfited in 
 the last volume, when justice overtakes him 
 and honest folks come by their own. There 
 never was perhaps a greatly popular story but 
 this simple plot was carried through it : mere 
 satiric wit is addressed to a class of readers 
 and thinkers quite different to those simple 
 souls who laugh and weep over the novel. I 
 fancy very few ladies, indeed, for instance, 
 could be brought to like u Gulliver” heartily, 
 and (putting the coarseness and difference of 
 manners out of the question) to relish the 
 wonderful satire of “ Jonathan Wild.” In 
 that strange apologue, the author takes for 
 a hero the greatest rascal, coward, traitor, 
 tyrant, hypocrite, that his wit and experience, 
 both large in this matter, could enable him to 
 devise or depict ; he accompanies this villain 
 through all the actions of his life, with a grin- 
 ning deference and a wonderful mock respect : 
 and does n’t leave him, till he is dangling at 
 
HOGARTH \ SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING. 205 
 
 the gallows, when the satirist makes him a low 
 bow and wishes the scoundrel good day. 
 
 It was not by satire of this sort, or by scorn 
 and contempt, that Hogarth achieved his vast 
 popularity and acquired his reputation.* His 
 art is quite simple,! he speaks popular para- 
 bles to interest simple hearts, and to inspire 
 them with pleasure or pity or warning and ter- 
 ror. Not one of his tales but is as easy as 
 44 Goody Twoshoes”; it is the moral of 
 Tommy was a naughty boy and the master 
 flogged him, and Jacky was a good boy and 
 had plum-cake, which pervades the whole work 
 
 * Coleridge speaks of the “beautiful female faces” in 
 Hogarth’s pictures, “in whom,” he says, “ the satirist never 
 extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a 
 poet.” — The Friend. 
 
 f (< I was pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being 
 asked which book he esteemed most in his library, answered, 
 
 ‘ Shakespeare ’ : being asked which he esteemed next best, 
 replied, ‘Hogarth.’ His graphic representations are indeed 
 books: they have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of 
 words. Other pictures we look at — his prints we read. . . . 
 
 “ The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every 
 picture would almost unvulgarize every subject which he might 
 choose. . • . 
 
 “ I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have 
 necessarily something in them to make us like them; some are 
 indifferent to us, some in their nature repulsive, and only made 
 interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the 
 painter; but I contend that there is in most of them that sprink- 
 ling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away 
 and disperses the contagion of the bad. They have this in 
 them, besides, that they bring us acquainted with the every-day 
 human face, — they give us skill to detect those gradations of 
 sense and virtue (which escape the careless or fastidious 
 observer ) in the circumstances of the world about us ; and 
 prevent that disgust at common life, that tcedium quotidi- 
 anarum formnrum , which an unrestricted passion for ideal 
 forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this, as in 
 many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of 
 Smollett and Fielding.” — Charles Lamb. 
 
 “It has been observed that Hogarth’s pictures are exceed- 
 ingly unlike any other representations of the same kind of sub- 
 jects : that they form a class, and have a character peculiar to 
 
206 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 of the homely and famous English moralist. 
 And if the moral is written in rather too Jarge 
 letters after the fable, we must remember how 
 simple the scholars and schoolmaster both 
 were, and like neither the less because they 
 are so artless and honest. u It was a maxim of 
 Dr. Harrison’s, ” Fielding says, in i4 Amelia,”— 
 speaking of the benevolent divine and philoso- 
 pher who represents the good principle in that 
 novel, — u that no man can descend below him- 
 self, in doing any act which may contribute to 
 protect an innocent person, or to bring a rogue 
 to the gallows." The moralists of that age had 
 no compunction, you see ; they had not begun 
 
 themselves. It may be worth while to consider in what this 
 general distinction consists. 
 
 “In the first place, they are, in the strictest sense, historical 
 pictures; and if what Fielding says be true, that his novel of 
 ‘Tom Jones ’ ought to be regarded as an epic prose-poem, 
 because it contained a regular development of fable, manners, 
 character, and passion, the compositions of Hogarth w ill, in 
 like manner, be found to have a higher claim to the title of epic 
 pictures than many which have of late arrogated that denomi- 
 nation to themselves. When we say that Hogarth treated his 
 subject historically, we mean that his works represent the 
 manners and humors of mankind in action, and their characters 
 by varied expression. Everything in his pictures has life and 
 motion in it. Not only does the business of the scene never 
 stand still, but every feature and muscle is put into full play; 
 the exact feeling of the moment is brought out, and carried ta 
 its utmost height, and then instantly seized and stamped on the 
 canvas forever. The expression is always taken en passant , in 
 a state of progress or change, and, as it were, at the salient 
 point. . . . His figures are not like the background on which 
 they are painted : even the pictures on the wall have a peculiar 
 look of their own. Again, with the rapidity, variety, and scope 
 of history, Hogarth’s heads have all the reality and correctness 
 of portraits. He gives the extremes of character and expres- 
 sion, but he gives them with perfect truth and accuracy. This 
 is, in fact, what distinguishes his compositions from all others 
 of the same kind, that they are equally remote from caricature, 
 and from mere still life. . . . His faces go to the very verge of 
 caricature, and yet never (we believe in any single instance) 
 go beyond it,” — Hazlitt. 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING . 20? 
 
 to be sceptical about the theory of punishment, 
 and thought that the hanging of a thief was a 
 spectacle for edification. Masters sent their 
 apprentices, fathers took their children, to see 
 Jack Sheppard or Jonathan Wild hanged, and 
 it was as undoubting subscribers to this moral 
 law, that Fielding wrote and Hogarth painted. 
 Except in one instance, where, in the mad- 
 house scene in the “ Rake’s Progress,” the 
 girl whom he has ruined is represented as still 
 tending and weeping over him in his insanity, 
 a glimpse of pity for his rogues never seems 
 to enter honest Hogarth’s mind. There ’s not 
 the slightest doubt in the breast of the jolly 
 Draco. 
 
 The famous set of pictures called u Marriage 
 a la Mode,” and which are now exhibited in 
 the National Gallery in London, contains the 
 most important and highly wrought of the 
 Hogarth comedies. The care and method 
 with which the moral grounds of these pictures 
 are laid is as remarkable as the wit and skill of 
 the observing and dexterous artist. He has 
 to describe the negotiations for a marriage 
 pending between the daughter of a rich citizen 
 Alderman and young Lord Viscount Squan- 
 derfield, the dissipated son of a gouty old 
 Earl. Pride and pomposity appear in every 
 accessory surrounding the Earl. He sits in 
 gold-lace and velvet — as how should such an 
 Earl wear anything but velvet and gold-lace ? 
 His coronet is everywhere : on his footstool, 
 on which reposes one gouty toe turned out ; 
 on the sconces and looking-glasses ; on the 
 
208 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 clogs ; on his lordship’s very crutches ; on his 
 great chair of state and the great baldaquin 
 behind him ; under which he sits pointing 
 majestically to his pedigree, which shows that 
 his race is sprung fiom the loins of William 
 the Conqueror, and confronting the old Aider- 
 man from the City, who has mounted his 
 sword for the occasion, and wears his Alder- 
 man’s chain, and has brought a bag full of 
 money, mortgage-deeds and thousand-pound 
 notes, for the arrangement of the transaction 
 pending between them. Whilst the steward 
 (a Methodist — therefore a hypocrite and 
 cheat : for Hogarth scorned a Papist and a 
 Dissenter) is negotiating between the old 
 couple, their children sit together, united but 
 apart. My lord is admiring his countenance 
 in the glass, while his bride is twiddling her 
 marriage ring on her pocket-handkerchief, and 
 listening with rueful countenance to Counsellor 
 Silvertongue, who has been drawing the settle- 
 ments. The girl is pretty, but the painter, 
 with a curious watchfulness, has taken care to 
 give her a likeness to her father ; as in the 
 young Viscount’s face you see a resemblance 
 to the Earl, his noble sire. The sense of the 
 coronet pervades the picture, as it is supposed 
 to do the mind of its W( arer. The pictures 
 round the room are sly hints indicating the 
 situation of the parties about to marry. A 
 martyr is led to the fire ; Andromeda is offered 
 to sacrifice ; Judith is going to slay Holof ernes. 
 There is the ancestor of the house (in the pic- 
 ture it is the Earl himself as a young man), 
 
HOGARTH \ SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING. 209 
 
 with a comet over his head, indicating that the 
 career of the family is to be brilliant and brief. 
 In the second picture, the old lord must be 
 dead, for Madam has now the Countess’s coro- 
 net over her bed and toilet-glass, and sits 
 listening to that dangerous Counsellor Silver- 
 tongue, whose portrait now actually hangs up 
 in Her room, whilst the counsellor takes his 
 ease on the sofa by her side, evidently the 
 familiar of the house, and the confidant of the 
 mistress. My lord takes his pleasure else- 
 where than at home, whither he returns jaded 
 and tipsy from the “Rose,” to find his wife 
 yawning in her drawing-room, her whist-party 
 over, and the daylight streaming in ; or he 
 amuses himself with the very worst company 
 abroad, whilst his wife sits at home listening 
 to foreign singers, or wastes her money at 
 auctions, or, worse still, seeks amusement at 
 masquerades. The dismal end is known. 
 My lord draws upon the counsellor, who kills 
 him, and is apprehended whilst endeavoring to 
 escape. My lady goes back perforce to the 
 Alderman in the City, and faints upon reading 
 Counsellor Silvertongue's d}fing speech at Ty- 
 burn, where the counsellor has been executed 
 for sending his lordship out of the world. 
 Moral : — Don’t listen to evil silver-tongued 
 counsellors : don’t marry a man for his rank, 
 or a woman for her money : don’t frequent 
 foolish auctions and masquerade balls unknown 
 to your husband : don’t have wicked com- 
 panions abroad and neglect your wife, other- 
 wise you will be run through the body, and 
 14 
 
210 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOJUSTS . 
 
 ruin will ensue, and disgrace, and Tyburn. 
 The people are all naughty, and Bogey carries 
 them all off. In the u Rake’s Progress ” a 
 loose life is ended by a similar sad catastrophe. 
 It is the spendthrift coming into possession of 
 the wealth of the paternal miser ; the prodigal 
 surrounded by flatterers, and wasting his sub- 
 stance on the very worst company ; tire- oauiffs, 
 the gambling-house, and Bedlam for an end. 
 In the famous story of “Industry and Idle- 
 ness/' the moral is pointed in a manner simi- 
 larly clear. Fair-haired Frank Goodchild 
 smiles at his work, whilst naughty Tom Idle 
 snores over his loom. Frank reads the edify- 
 ing ballads of “ Whittington” and the u Lon- 
 don 'Prentice,” whilst that reprobate Tom 
 Idle prefers “ Moll Flanders,” and drinks 
 hugely of beer. Frank goes to church of a 
 Sunday, and warbles hymns from the gallery ; 
 while Tom lies on a tombstone outside play- 
 ing at “ halfpenny-undcr-the-hat ” with street 
 blackguards, and is deservedly caned b}^ the 
 beadle. Frank is made overseer of the busi- 
 ness, whilst Tom is sent to sea. Frank is 
 taken into partnership and marries his master's 
 daughter, sends out broken victuals to the 
 poor, and listens in his nightcap and gown, 
 with the lovely Mrs. Goodchild by his side, 
 to the nuptial music of the City bands and 
 the marrow-bones and cleavers ; whilst idle 
 Tom, returned from sea, shudders in a gar- 
 ret lest the officers are coming to take him 
 for picking pockets. The Worshipful Fran- 
 cis Goodchild, Esq., becomes Sheriff of Lon- 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 211 
 
 don, and partakes of the most splendid din- 
 ners which money can purchase or Alderman 
 devour ; whilst poor Tom is taken up in a 
 night-cellar, with that one-eyed and disrepu- 
 table accomplice who first taught him to play 
 chuck-farthing on a Sunday. What happens 
 next? Tom is brought up before the justice 
 of liis country, in the person of Mr. Aider- 
 man Goodchild, who weeps as he recognizes 
 his old brother ’prentice, as Tom’s one-eyed 
 friend peaches on him, and the clerk makes 
 out the poor rogue’s ticket for Newgate. 
 Then the end comes. Tom goes to Tyburn in 
 a cart with a coffin in it ; whilst the Right 
 Honorable Francis Goodchild, Lord Mayor of 
 London, proceeds to his Mansion House, in 
 his gilt coach with four footmen and a sword- 
 bearer, whilst the Companies of London march 
 in the august procession, whilst the trainbands 
 of the City fire their pieces and get drunk in 
 his honor; and — O crowning delight and 
 glory of all — whilst his Majesty the King 
 looks out from his royal balcony, with his rib- 
 bon on his breast, and his Queen and his star 
 by his side, at the corner house of St. Paul’s 
 Churchyard. 
 
 How the times have changed ! The new 
 Post Office now not disadvantageous^ oc- 
 cupies that spot where the scaffolding is in 
 the picture, where the tipsy 1 ' trainband-man is 
 lurching against the post, with his wig over one 
 eye, and the ’prentice-bov is trying to kiss 
 the pretty girl in the gallery. Passed away 
 ’prentice-bov and pretty girl ! Passed away 
 
212 
 
 ENGLISH HUM OB I STS. 
 
 tipsy trainband-man with wig and bandolier ! 
 On the spot where Tom Idle (for whom 1 
 have an unaffected pity) made his exit from 
 this wicked world, and where you see the 
 hangman smoking his pipe as he reclines on 
 the gibbet and views the hills of Harrow or 
 Hampstead beyond, a splendid marble arch, a 
 vast and modern city — clean, airy, painted 
 drab, populous with nursery-maids and chil- 
 dren, the abode of wealth and comfort — the 
 elegant, the prosperous, the polite Tyburnia 
 rises, the most respectable district in the 
 habitable globe. 
 
 In thnt last plate of the London Appren- 
 tices, in which the apotheosis of the Right 
 Honorable Francis Goodchild is drawn, a rag- 
 ged fellow is represented in the corner of the 
 simple, kindly piece, offering for sale a broad- 
 side, purporting to contain an account of the 
 appearance of the ghost of Tom Idle, exe- 
 cuted at Tyburn. Could Tom’s ghost have 
 made its appearance in 1847, and not in 1747, 
 what changes would have been remarked by 
 that astonished escaped criminal ! Over that 
 road which the hangman used to travel con- 
 stantly, and the Oxford stage twice a week, go 
 ten thousand carriages every day : over yonder 
 road, by which Dick Turpin fled to Windsor, 
 and Squire Western journeyed into town, when 
 he came to take up his quarters at the u Her- 
 cules Pillars ” on the outskirts of London, 
 what a rush of civilization and order flows 
 now ! What armies of gentlemen with um- 
 brellas march to banks, and chambers, and 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AMD FIELDING . 213 
 
 counting-houses ! What regiments of nursery- 
 maids and pretty infantry ; what peaceful pro- 
 cessions of policemen, what light broughams 
 a ndwhat gay carriages, what swarms of bus}^ 
 apprentices and artificers, riding on omnibus- 
 roofs, pass daily and hourly ! Tom Idle’s 
 times are quite changed : many of the institu- 
 tions gone into disuse which were admired in 
 his day. There ’s more pity and kindness and 
 a better chance for poor Tom’s successors now 
 than at that simpler period when Fielding 
 hanged him and Hogarth drew him. 
 
 To the student of history, these admirable 
 works must be invaluable, as they give us the 
 most complete and truthful picture of the man- 
 ners, and even the thoughts, of the past cen- 
 tury. We look, and see pass before us the 
 England of a hundred years ago — the peer in 
 his drawing-room, the lady of fashion in her 
 apartment, foreign singers surrounding her, 
 and the chamber filled with gewgaws in the 
 mode of that day ; the church, with its quaint 
 florid architecture and singing congregation ; 
 the parson with his great wig, and the beadle 
 with his cane : all these are represented before 
 us, and we are sure of the truth of the por- 
 trait. We see how the Lord Mayor dines in 
 state ; how the prodig »1 drinks and sports at 
 the bagnio ; how the poor girl beats hemp in 
 Bridewell ; how the thief divides his booty and 
 drinks his punch at the night-cellar, and how 
 he finishes his career at the gibbet. We may 
 depend upon the perfect accuracy of these 
 strange and varied portraits of the by-gone 
 
214 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 generation : we see one of Walpole’s Members 
 of Parliament chaired after his election, and 
 the lieges celebrating the event, and drinking 
 confusion to the Pretender : we see the grena- 
 diers and trainbands of the City marching out 
 to meet the enemy ; and have before us, with 
 sword and firelock, and u White Hanoverian 
 Horse” embroidered on the cap, the very 
 figures of the men who ran away with Johnny 
 Cope, and who conquered at Culloden. The 
 Yorkshire wagon rolls into the inn yard ; the 
 country parson, in his jack-boots, and his 
 bands and short cassock, comes trotting into 
 town, and we fancy it is Parson Adams, with 
 his sermons in his pocket. The Salisbury fly 
 sets forth from the old “ Angel ” — -you see 
 the passengers entering the great heavy vehi- 
 cle, up the wooden steps, their hats tied down 
 with handkerchiefs over their faces, and under 
 their arms, sword, hanger, and case-bottle ; 
 the landlady — apoplectic with the liquors in 
 her own bar — is tugging at the bell; the 
 hunchbacked postilion — he may have ridden 
 the leaders to Humphrey Clinker — is begging 
 a gratuity ; the miser is grumbling at the bill ; 
 Jack of the 44 Centurion ” lies on the top of 
 the clumsy vehicle, with a soldier bv his side — 
 it may be Smollett’s Jack Hatchway — it has 
 a likeness to Lismahago. You see the subur- 
 ban fair and the strolling company of actors ; 
 the pretty milkmaid singing under the win- 
 dows of the enraged French musician : it is 
 such a girl as Steele charmingly described in 
 the Guardian, a few years before this date, 
 
HOGABTII ; SMOLLETT , AMD FIELDING. 215 
 
 singing, under Mr. Ironside’s window in Shire 
 Lane, her pleasant carol of a May morning. 
 You see noblemen and blacklegs bawling and 
 betting in the Cockpit : you see Garrick as he 
 was arrayed in u King Richard”; Macheath 
 and Polly in the dresses which they wore 
 when they charmed our ancestors, and when 
 noblemen in blue ribbons sat on the stage and 
 listened to their delightful music. You see 
 the ragged French soldiery, in their white 
 coats and cockades, at Calais Gate : they are 
 of the regiment, very likely, which friend 
 Roderick Random joined before he was res- 
 cued by his preserver Monsieur de Strap with 
 whom he fought on the famous day of Det- 
 tingen. You see the judges on the bench; 
 the audience laughing in the pit ; the student 
 in the Oxford theatre ; the citizen on his 
 country walk ; you see Broughton the boxer, 
 Sarah Malcolm the murderess, Simon Lovat 
 the traitor, John Wilkes the demagogue, leer- 
 ing at you with that squint which has become 
 historical, and that face which, ugly as it was, 
 he said he could make as captivating to 
 woman as the countenance of the handsomest 
 beau in town. All these sights and people 
 are with you. After looking in the “Rake’s 
 Progress ” at Hogarth’s picture of St. James’s 
 Palace Gate, } T ou may people the street, but 
 little altered within these hundred years, with 
 the gilded carriages and thronging chairmen 
 that bore the courtiers your ancestors to Queen 
 Caroline’s drawing-room more than a hundred 
 years ago. 
 
216 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 What manner of man * was he who executed 
 these portraits — so various, so faithful, and 
 so admirable? In the National Collection of 
 Pictures most of us have seen the best and 
 
 * Hogarth (whose family name was Ilogart) was the grand- 
 son of a Westmoreland yeoman. His father came to London, 
 and was an author and schoolmaster. William was born in 
 1698 (according to the most probable conjecture) in the parish 
 of St. Martin Ludgate. He was early apprenticed to an en- 
 graver of arms on plate. The following touches are from his 
 “ Anecdotes of Himself ** (edition of 1833) : — 
 
 “ As I had naturally a good eye, and a fondness for drawing, 
 shows of all sorts gave me uncommon pleasure when an infant; 
 and mimicry, common to all children, was remarkable in me. 
 An early access to a neighboring painter drew my attention 
 from play; and I was, at every possible opportunity, employed 
 in making drawings. I picked up an acquaintance of the same 
 turn, and soon learnt to draw the alphabet with great correct- 
 ness. My exercises, when at school, were more remarkable for 
 the ornaments which adorned them, than for the exercise itself. 
 In the former, I soon found that blockheads with better memo- 
 ries could much surpass me; but for the latter I was particu- 
 larly distinguished. . . . 
 
 “ I thought it still more unlikely that by pursuing the com- 
 mon method, and copying old drawings, I could ever attain the 
 power of making new designs, which was my first and greatest 
 ambition. I therefore endeavored to habituate myself to the 
 exercise of a sort of technical memory; and by repeating in my 
 own mind the parts of which objects were composed, I could 
 by degrees combine and put them down with my pencil. Thus, 
 with all the drawbacks which resulted from the circumstances 
 I have mentioned, I had one material advantage over my com- 
 petitors, viz., the early habit I thus acquired of retaining in my 
 mind’s eye, without coldly copying it on the spot, whatever I 
 intended to imitate. 
 
 “ The instant I became master of my own time, I determined 
 to qualify myself for engraving on copper. In this I readily 
 got employment; and frontispieces to books, such as prints to 
 ‘Hudibras,’ in twelves, etc., soon brought me into the way. 
 
 ' But the tribe of booksellers remained as my father had left 
 them . . . which put me upon publishing on my own account. 
 But here again I had to encounter a monopoly of printsellers, 
 equally mean and destructive to the ingenious; for the first 
 plate I published, called ‘The Taste of the Town,’ in which 
 the reigning follies were lashed, had no sooner begun to take a 
 run, than 1 found copies of it in the print-shops, vending at half 
 price, while the original prints were returned to me again, and 
 I was thus obliged to sell the plate for whatever these pirates 
 pleased to give me, as there was no place of sale but at their 
 shops. Owing to this, and other circumstances, by engraving, 
 
HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , ^iVZ> FIELDING . 217 
 
 most carefully finished series of his comic 
 paintings, and the portrait of his own honest 
 face, of which the bright blue eyes shine out 
 from the canvas and give you an idea of that 
 
 until I was near thirty, I could do little more than maintain 
 myself; but even then , I was a punctual paymaster . 
 
 “ I then married, and — ” 
 
 [But William is going too fast here. He made a “ stolen 
 union,” on March 23, 1729, with Jane, daughter of Sir James 
 Thornhill, serjeant-painter. For some time Sir James kept 
 his heart and his purse-strings close, but “ soon after became 
 both reconciled and generous to the young couple.” — Hogarth's 
 Works , by Nichols and Steevens, vol. i. p. 44.] 
 
 “ — commenced painter of small Conversation Pieces, from 
 twelve to fifteen inches high. This, being a novelty, succeeded 
 for a few years.” 
 
 [About this time Hogarth had summer lodgings at South 
 Lambeth, and did all kinds of work, “embellishing” the 
 “Spring Gardens” at “Vauxhall,” and the like. In 1731, he 
 published a satirical plate against Pope, founded on the well- 
 known imputation against him of his having satirized the Duke 
 of Chandos, under the name of Tim'>n , in his poem on “ Taste.” 
 The plate represented a view of Burlington House, with Pope 
 whitewashing it, and bespattering the Duke of Chandos’s couch. 
 Pope made no retort, aud has never mentioned Hogarth.] 
 
 “ Before I had done anything of much consequence in this 
 walk, I entertained some hopes of succeeding in w T hat the 
 puffers in books call The Great Style of History Painting; 
 so that without having had a stroke of this grand business 
 before, I quitted small portraits and familiar conversations, and 
 with a smile at my own temerity, commenced history-painter, 
 and on a great staircase at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, painted 
 two Scripture stories, the ‘Pool of Bethesda’ and the ‘Good 
 Samaritan,’ with figures seven feet high. . . . But as religion, 
 the great promoter of this style in other countries, rejected it 
 in England, I was unwilling to sink into a portrait manufac- 
 turer; and still ambitious of being singular, dropped all expec- 
 tations of advantage from that source, and returned to the pur- 
 suit of my former dealings with the public at large. 
 
 “As to portrait painting, the chief branch of the art by 
 w T hich a painter can procure himself a tolerable livelihood, and 
 the only one by which a lover of money can get a fortune, a man 
 of very moderate talents may have great success in it, as the 
 artifice aud address of a mercer is infinitely more useful than the 
 abilities of a painter. By the manner in w’hich the present race 
 of professors in England conduct it, that also becomes still 
 life.” 
 
 “ By this inundation of folly and puff ” ( he has been speak- 
 ing of the success of Vanloo t who came over here in 1737), “ I 
 
218 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 keen and brave look with which William 
 Hogarth regarded the world. No man was 
 ever less of a hero ; you see him before 
 you, and can fancy what he was — a jovial, 
 honest London citizen, stout and sturdy ; a 
 
 must confess I was much disgusted, and determined to try if by 
 any means I could stem the torrent, and, by opposing , end it. I 
 laughed at the pretensions of these quacks in coloring, 
 ridiculed their productions as feeble and contemptible, and 
 asserted that it required neither taste nor talents to excel their 
 most popular performances. This interference excited much 
 enmity, because, as my opponeKts told me, my studies were in 
 another way. ‘ You talk,’ added they, ‘ with ineffable con- 
 tempt of portrait painting; if it is so easy a task, why do not 
 you convince the world, by painting a portrait yourself?* 
 Provoked at this language, I, one day at the Academy in St. 
 Martin’s Lane, put the following question : ‘ Supposing any man, 
 at this time, were to paint a portrait as well as Vandyke, would 
 it be seen or ncknowledged, and could the artist enjoy the benefit 
 or acquire the reputation due to his performance? ’ 
 
 “ They asked me in reply, if I could paint one as well; and 
 I frankly answered, I believed I could. . . . 
 
 “ Of the mighty talents said to be requisite for portrait paint- 
 ing I had not the most exalted opinion.” 
 
 Let us now hear him on the question of the Academy : — 
 
 “ To pester the three great estates of the empire, about 
 twenty or thirty students drawing after a man ora horse, appears, 
 as must be acknowledged, foolish enough: but the real motive 
 is, that a few bustling characters, who have access to people of 
 rank, think they can thus get a superiority over their brethren, 
 be appointed to places, and have salaries, as in France, for tell- 
 ing a lad when a leg or an arm is too long or too short. . . . 
 
 “ France, ever aping the magnificence of other nations, has 
 in its turn assumed a foppish kind of splendor sufficient to 
 dazzle the eyes of the neighboring states, and draw vast sums of 
 money from this country. . . . 
 
 “To return to our Royal Academy: I am told that one of 
 their leading objects will be, sending young men abroad to study 
 the antique statues, for such kind of studies may sometimes im- 
 prove an exalted genius, but they will not create it; and what- 
 ever has been the cause, this same travelling to Italy has, in 
 several instances that I have seen, seduced the student from 
 nature and led him to paint marble figures, in which he has 
 availed himself of the great works of antiquity, as a coward does 
 when he puts on the armor of an Alexander; for, with similar 
 pretensions and similar vanity, the painter supposes he shall be 
 adored as a second Raphael U rhino.” 
 
 We must now hear him on his “ Sigismunda ’* : — 
 
 “ As the most violent and virulent abuse thrown on * Sigis- 
 munda* was from a set of miscreants, with whom I am proud of 
 
HOGABTH , SMOLLETT , ^Z> FIELDING. 219 
 
 heart} 7 , plain-spoken man,* loving his laugh, 
 his friend, his glass, his roast-beef of Old 
 England, and having a proper bourgeois scorn 
 for French frogs, for mounseers, and wooden 
 
 having been ever at war — I mean the expounders of the myste- 
 ries of old pictures — I have been sometimes told they were 
 beneath my notice. This is true of them individually ; but as 
 they have access to people of rank, who seem as happy in being 
 cheated as these merchants are in cheating them, they have a 
 power of doing much mischief to a modern artist. However 
 mean the vendor of poisons, the mineral is destructive : — to me 
 its operation was troublesome enough. Ill nature spreads so 
 fast that now was the time for every little dog in the profession 
 to bark ! ” 
 
 Next comes a characteristic account of his controversy with 
 Wilkes and Churchill : — 
 
 “ The stagnation rendered it necessary that I should do some 
 timed thing, to recover my lost time, and stop a gap in my in- 
 come. This drew forth my print of ‘ The Times,’ a subject 
 which tended to the restoration of peace and unanimity, and put 
 the opposers of these humane objects to a light which gave great 
 offence to those who were trying to foment disaffection in the 
 minds of the populace. One of the most notorious of them, till 
 now my friend and flatterer, attacked me in the B/oi'th Briton , 
 in so infamous and malign a style, that he himself, when pushed 
 even by his best friends, was driven to so poor an excuse as to 
 say he was drunk when he wrote it. . . . 
 
 “This renowned patriot’s portrait, drawn like as I could as 
 to features, and marked with some indications of his mind, fully 
 answered my purpose. The ridiculous was apparent to every 
 eye! A Brutus! A savior of his country with such an aspect 
 — was so arrant a farce, that though it gave rise to much laugh- 
 ter in the lookers-on, galled both him and his adherents to the 
 bone. . . . 
 
 “ Churchill, Wilkes’s toad-echo, put the Nort h Briton attack 
 into verse, in an Epistle to Hogarth ; but as the abuse was pre 
 cisely the same, except a little poetical heightening, which goes 
 for nothing, it made no impression. . . . However, having an 
 old plate by me, with some parts ready, such as the background 
 and a dog, I began to consider how I could turn so much work 
 laid aside to some account, and so patched up a print of Master 
 Churchill in the character of a Bear. The pleasure and pecun- 
 iary advantage which I derived from these two engravings, 
 together with occasionally riding on horseback, restored me to 
 as much health as can be expected at my time of life ” 
 
 * “ It happened in the early part of ilogarth’s life, that a 
 nobleman who was uncommonly ugly and deformed came to sit 
 to him for his picture. It was executed with a skill that did 
 honor to the artist’s abilities; but the likeness was rigidly 
 observed, without even the necessary attention to compliment or 
 flattery. The peer, disgusted at this counterpart of himself, 
 
220 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 shoes in general, for foreign fiddlers, foreign 
 singers, and, above all, for foreign painters, 
 whom he held in the most amusing contempt. 
 
 It must have been great fun to hear him rage 
 against Correggio and the Caracci ; to watch 
 him thump the table and snap his fingers, and 
 say, “ Historical painters be hanged ! here ’s the 
 man that will paint against any of them for a 
 hundred pounds. Correggio’s 4 Sigismuncla ! 5 
 Look at Bill Hogarth’s 4 Sigismunda ’ ; look at 
 my altar-piece at St. Mary Redcliffe, Bris- 
 tol ; look at my 4 Paul before Felix,’ and see 
 whether I ’m not as good as the best of them.” * 
 
 Posterity has not quite confirmed honest 
 Hogarth’s opinion about his talents for the 
 sublime. Although Swift could not see the 
 difference between tweedle-dee and tweedle- 
 dum, posterity has not shared the Dean’s con- 
 tempt for Handel ; the world has discovered 
 
 never once thought of paying for a reflection that would only 
 disgust him with his deformities. Some time was suffered to 
 elapse before the artist applied for his money ; but afterwards 
 many applications were made by him v who had then no need of 
 a banker) for payment, without success. The painter, however, 
 at last hit upon an expedient. ... It was couched in the fol 
 lowing card : — 
 
 “ ‘ Mr. Hogarth’s dutiful respects to Lord . Finding that 
 
 he does not mean to have the picture which was drawn for him, 
 is informed again of Mr. Hogarth’s necessity for the money. 
 If, therefore, his Lordship does not send for it, in three days 
 it will be disposed of, with the addition of a tail, and some 
 other little appendages, to Mr. Hare, the famous wild-beast 
 man : Mr. Hogarth having giveu that gentleman a conditional 
 promise of it, for an exhibition-picture, on his Lordship’s re- 
 fusal.’ 
 
 “This intimation had the desired effect. ’> — Works, by 
 Nichols and Steevens, vol. i. p. 25. 
 
 * “Garrick himself was not more ductile to flattery. A 
 word in favor of ‘ Sigismunda ’might have commanded a proof- 
 print or forced an original print out of our artist’s hands. . . . 
 
 “The following authenticated story of our artist (furnished 
 
HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , 4i\TZ) FIELDING . 221 
 
 a difference between tweedle-dee and tweedle- 
 dum, and given a hearty applause and admi- 
 ration to Hogarth, too, but not exactly as a 
 painter of scriptural subjects, or as a rival 
 of Correggio. It does not take away from 
 one’s liking for the man, or from the moral 
 of his story, or the humor of it — from one’s 
 admiration for the prodigious merit of his 
 performances, to remember that he persisted 
 to the last in believing that the world was in 
 a conspiracy against him with respect to his 
 talents as an historical painter, and that a set 
 of miscreants, as lie called them, were em- 
 ployed to run his genius down. They say it 
 was Liston’s firm belief, that he was a great and 
 neglected tragic actor ; they say that every one 
 of us believes in his heart, or would like to have 
 others believe, that he is something which he is 
 not. One of the most notorious of the “ mis- 
 creants,” Hogarth says, was Wilkes, who as- 
 sailed him in the North Briton; the other was 
 Churchill, who put the North Briton attack into 
 heroic verse, and published his “Epistle to 
 
 by the late Mr. Belchier, F. R. S., a surgeon of eminence) will 
 also serve to show how much more easy it is to detect ill-placed 
 or hyperbolical adulation respecting others, than when applied 
 to ourselves. Hogarth, being at dinner with the great Chesel- 
 den and some other company, was told that Mr. John Freke, 
 surgeon of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, a few evenings before 
 at Dick’s Coffee-House, had asserted that Greene was as 
 eminent in composition as Handel. ‘That fellow Freke,’ re- 
 plied Hogarth, ‘ is always shooting his bolt absurdly, one way 
 or another. Handel is a giant in music; Greene only a light 
 Florimel kind of a composer.’ ‘Ay,’ says our artist’s inform- 
 ant, ‘ but at the same time Mr. Freke declared you were as good 
 a portrait-painter as Vandyke.’ ‘ There he was right,’ adds 
 Hogarth, ‘and so, by G — , I am, give me my time and let me 
 choose my subject.’” — Works, by Nichols and Stkevens, 
 vol. i. pp. 236, 237. 
 
222 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 Hogarth.” Hogarth replied by that caricature 
 of Wilkes, in which the patriot still figures be- 
 fore us, with his Satanic grin and squint, and 
 by a caricature of Churchill, in which he is 
 represented as a bear with a staff, on which, lie 
 the first, lie the second — lie the tenth, are en- 
 graved in unmistakable letters. There is very 
 little mistake about honest Hogarth’s satire : if 
 he has to paint a man with his throat cut, he 
 draws him with his head almost off ; and he tried 
 to do the same for his enemies in this little con- 
 troversy. 4 ‘Having an old plate by me,” says 
 he, 44 with some parts ready, such as the back- 
 ground, and a dog, I began to consider how 
 I could turn so much work laid aside to some 
 account, and so patched up a print of Master 
 Churchill, in the character of a bear ; the pleas- 
 ure and pecuniary advantage which I derived 
 from these two engravings, together with occa- 
 sionally riding on horseback, restored me to as 
 much health as I can expect at my time of life.” 
 And so he concludes his queer little book of 
 Anecdotes : 44 1 have gone through the circum- 
 stances of a life which till lately passed pretty 
 much to my own satisfaction, and I hope in no 
 respect injurious to any other man. This I may 
 safely assert, that I have done my best to make 
 those about me tolerably happy, and my great- 
 est enemy cannot say I ever did an intentional 
 injury. What may follow, God knows.”* 
 
 *Of Hogarth’s kindliness of disposition, the story of his 
 rescue of the drummer girl from the ruffian of Southwark Fair 
 is an illustration : and in this case virtue was not its own 
 reward, since her pretty face afterwards served him for a model 
 in many a picture. 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 223 
 
 A queer account still exists of a holiday 
 jaunt taken by Hogarth and four friends of 
 his, who set out like the redoubted Mr. Pick- 
 wick and his companions, but just a hundred 
 years before those heroes ; and made an excur- 
 sion to Gravesend, Rochester, Sheerness, and 
 adjacent places.* One of the gentlemen 
 noted down the proceedings of the journey, 
 for which Hogarth and a brother artist made 
 drawings. The book is chiefly curious at this 
 moment from showing the citizen life of those 
 days, and the rough jolly style of merriment, 
 not of the five companions merely, but of 
 thousands of jolly fellows of their time. 
 Hogarth and his friends, quitting the u Bed- 
 ford Arms,” Covent Garden, with a song, 
 took water to Billingsgate, exchanging compli- 
 ments with the bargemen as they went down 
 the river. At Billingsgate, Hogarth made a 
 u earacatura” of a facetious porter, called the 
 Duke of Puddledock, who agreeably enter- 
 tained the party with the humors of the place. 
 Hence they took a Gravesend boat for them- 
 selves ; had straw to lie upon, and a tilt over 
 their heads, they say, and went down the river 
 at night, sleeping and singing jolly choruses. 
 
 They arrived at Gravesend at six, when 
 they washed their faces and hands, and had 
 their wigs powdered. Then they sallied forth 
 for Rochester on foot, and drank by the way 
 three pots of ale. At one o’clock they went 
 
 *He made this excursion in 1732, his companions being John 
 Thornhill (son of Sir James), Scott the landscape painter, 
 Tothall and Forrest. 
 
224 
 
 jUNULISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 to dinner with excellent port, and a quantity 
 more beer, and afterwards Hogarth and Scott 
 played at hopscotch in the town hall. It would 
 appear that they slept most of them in one 
 room, and the chronicler of the party describes 
 them all as waking at seven o’clock, and tell- 
 ing each other their dreams. You have rough 
 sketches by Hogarth of the incidents of this 
 holida} 7 excursion. The sturdy little painter is 
 seen sprawling over a plank to a boat at Graves- 
 end ; the whole company are represented in 
 one design, in a fisherman’s room, where they 
 had all passed the night. One gentleman in a 
 nightcap is shaving himself ; another is being 
 shaved by the fisherman ; a third, with a hand- 
 kerchief over his bald pate, is taking his break- 
 fast ; and Hogarth is sketching the whole scene. 
 
 They describe at night how they returned to 
 their quarters, drank to their friends, as usual, 
 emptied several cans of good flip, all singing 
 merrily. 
 
 It is a jolly party of tradesmen engaged at 
 high jinks. These were the manners and 
 pleasures of Hogarth, of his time very likely, 
 of men not very refined, but honest and merry. 
 It is a brave London citizen, with John Bull 
 habits, prejudices, and pleasures.* ** 
 
 * Doctor Johnson made four lines once, on the death of poor 
 Hogarth, which were equally true and pleasing; I know not 
 why Garrick’s were preferred to them : — 
 
 ** ‘ The hand of him here torpid lies, 
 
 That drew th’ essential forms of grace; 
 
 Here, closed in death, th’ attentive eyes, 
 
 That saw the manners in the face.’ 
 
 “ Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of kindnesses shown to 
 me when I was too young to have a proper sense of them, was 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , ANT) FIELDING . 226 
 
 Of Smollett’s associates and maimer of 
 life the author of the admirable u Humphrey 
 Clinker ” has given us an interesting account 
 in that most amusing of novels.* 
 
 I have no doubt that this picture by Smol- 
 
 used to be very earnest that I should obtain the acquaintance, 
 and if possible the friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose conver- 
 sation was, to the talk of other men, like Titian’s painting com- 
 pared to Hudson’s, he said : ‘ but don’t you tell people now 
 that I say so,’ continued he : ‘ for the connoisseurs and I are at 
 war, you know; and because I hate them , they think I hate 
 Titian — and let them ! * . . . Of Dr. Johnson, when my father 
 and he were talking about him one day, ‘ That man,’ says 
 Hogarth, ‘is not contented with believing the Bible; but he 
 fairly resolves, I think, to believe nothing but the Bible. John- 
 son,’ added he, ‘ though so wise a fellow, is more like King 
 David than King Solomon, for he says in his haste, All men are 
 liars) ” — Mrs. Piozzi. 
 
 Hogarth died on the 26th of October, 1764. The day before 
 his death, he was removed from his villa at Chiswick to Leices- 
 ter Fields, “ in a very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful.” 
 He had just received an agreeable letter from Franklin. He 
 lies buried at Chiswick. 
 
 *“To Sir W atkin Phillips, Bart., op Jesus College, 
 Oxon. 
 
 “ Dear Phillips , — In my last, I mentioned my having 
 spent an evening with a society of authors, who seemed to be 
 jealous and afraid of one another. My uncle was not at all sur- 
 prised to hear me say I was disappointed in their conversa- 
 tion. ‘A man may be very entertaining and instructive upon 
 paper,’ said he, * and exceedingly dull in common discourse. I 
 have observed, that those who shine most in private company 
 are but secondary stars in the constellation of genius. A small 
 stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner displayed, 
 than a great quantity crowded together. There is very seldom 
 anything extraordinary in the appearance and address of a good 
 writer; whereas a dull author generally distinguishes himself 
 by some oddity or extravagance. For this reason I fancy that 
 an assembly of grubs must be very diverting.* 
 
 “ My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend 
 Dick Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which 
 
 was Sunday last. He carried me to dine with S , whom you 
 
 and I have long known by his writings. He lives in the skirts of 
 the town; and every Sunday his house is open to all unfortu- 
 nate brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef, pudding, 
 and potatoes, port, punch, and Calvert’s entire butt beer. He 
 has fixed upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his 
 hospitality, because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 lett is as faithful a one as any from the pencil 
 of his kindred humorist, Hogarth. 
 
 We have before us, and painted by his own 
 hand, Tobias Smollett, the manly, kindly, 
 honest, and irascible ; worn and battered, but 
 
 other, for reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly re- 
 ceived in a plain, yet decent habitation, which opened back- 
 wards into a very pleasant garden, kept in excellent order; and 
 indeed, I saw none of the outward signs of authorship either in 
 the house or the landlord, who is one of those few writers of 
 the age that stand upon their own foundation, without patron- 
 age, and above dependence. If there was nothing characteristic 
 in the entertainer, the company made ample amends for hisi 
 want of singularity. 
 
 “ At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten mess- 
 mates seated at table; and I question if the whole kingdom 
 could produce such another assemblage of originals. Among 
 their peculiarities, I do not mention those of dress, which may 
 be purely accidental. What struck me were oddities originally 
 produced by affectation, and afterwards confirmed by habit. 
 One of them wore spectacles at dinner, and another his hat 
 flapped ; though (as Ivy told me) the first was noted for having 
 a seaman’s eye when a bailiff was in the wind ; and the other was 
 never known to labor under any weakness or defect of vision, 
 except about five years ago, when he was complimented with a 
 couple of black eyes by a player, with whom he had quarrelled 
 in his drink. A third wore a laced stocking, and made use 
 of crutches, because, once in his life, he had been laid up with 
 a broken leg, though no man could leap over a stick with more 
 agility. A fourth had contracted such an antipathy to the 
 country, that he insisted upon sitting with his Lack towards 
 the window that looked into the garden; and when a dish of 
 cauliflower was set upon the table, he snuffed up volatile salts 
 to keep him from fainting; yet this delicate person was the_ 
 son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and had many years run 
 wild among asses on a common. A fifth affected distraction : 
 when spoke to he always answered from the purpose. Some- 
 times he suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath; 
 sometimes he burst out a laughing; then he folded his arms, 
 and sighed; and then he hissed like fifty serpents. 
 
 “At first, I really thought he was mad; and, as he sat 
 near me, began to be under some apprehensions for my own 
 safety; when our landlord, perceiving me alarmed, assured me 
 aloud that I had nothing to fear. ‘ The gentleman,’ said he, ‘ is 
 trying to act a part for which he is by no means qualified : if he 
 had all the inclination in the world, it is not in his power to be 
 mad ; his spirits are too flat to be kindled into phrenzy.’ ‘ ; T is no 
 bad p-p-puff, how-owever,’ observed a person in a tarnished laced 
 coat : ‘ aff-ffected m-madness w-ill p-pass for w-wit w-with nine 
 nineteen out of t-twenty.’ * And affected stuttering for humor,’ 
 
HOGABTH , SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING- . 22? 
 
 still brave and full of heart, after a long strug- 
 gle against a hard fortune. His brain had 
 been busied with a hundred different schemes ; 
 he had been reviewer and historian, critic, 
 medical writer, poet, pamphleteer. He had 
 
 replied our landlord; * though, Ood knows! there is no affinity 
 between them.’ It seems this wag, after having made some 
 abortive attempts in plain speaking, had recourse to this 
 defect, by means of which he frequently extorted the laugh of 
 the company, without the least expense of genius; and that 
 imperfection, which he had at first counterfeited, was now 
 become so habitual, that he could not lay it aside. 
 
 “ A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner. 
 
 had, on his first introduction, taken such offence at S , 
 
 because he looked and talked, and ate and drank, like any other 
 man, that he spoke contemptuously of his understanding ever 
 after, and never would repeat his visit, until he had exhibited 
 the following proof of his caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, hav- 
 ing made some unsuccessful advances towards an intimacy with 
 
 S , at last gave him to understand, by a third person, that 
 
 he had written a poem in his praise, and a satire against his 
 person : that if he would admit him to his house, the first should 
 be immediately sent to press; but that if he persisted in de- 
 clining his friendship, he would publish the satire without 
 
 delay, S replied, that he looked upon Wyvil’s panegyric 
 
 as, in effect, a species of infamy, and would resent it accord- 
 ingly with a good cudgel; but if he published ihe satire, he 
 might deserve his compassion, and had nothing to fear from 
 his revenge. Wyvil having considered the alternative, resolved 
 
 to mortify S by printing the panegyric, for which he re 
 
 ceived a sound drubbing. Then he swore the peace against the 
 aggressor, who, in order to avoid a prosecution at law, admitted 
 him to his good graces. It was the singularity in S ’s con- 
 
 duct on this occasion, that reconciled him to the yellow-gloved 
 philosopher, who owned he had some genius; and from that 
 period cultivated his acquaintance. 
 
 “ Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of 
 my fellow-guests were employed, I applied to my communica- 
 tive friend Dick Ivy, who gave me to understand that most of 
 them were, or had been, understrappers, or journeymen, to more 
 creditable authors, for whom they translated, collated, and 
 compiled, in the business of bookmaking; and that all of them 
 had, at different times, labored in the service of our landlord, 
 though they had now set up for themselves in various depart- 
 ments of literature. Not only their talents, but also their 
 nations and dialects, were so various that our conversation re- 
 sembled the confusion of tongues at Babel. We had the Irish 
 brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, twanged off by 
 the most discordant vociferation ; for as they all spoke together, 
 no man had any chance to be heard, unless he could bawl louder 
 
228 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOEISTS . 
 
 fought endless literary battles ; and braved 
 and wielded for years the cudgels of contro- 
 versy. It was a hard and savage tight in 
 those days, and a niggard pay. He was op- 
 pressed by illness, age, narrow fortune ; but 
 his spirit was still resolute, and his courage 
 steady ; the battle over, he could do justice 
 
 than his fellows. It must be owned, however, there was noth- 
 ing pedantic in their discourse; they carefully avoided all 
 learned disquisitions, and endeavored to be facetious : nor did 
 their endeavors always miscarry; some droll repartee passed, 
 and much laughter was excited ; and if any individual lost his 
 temper so far as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he was 
 effectually checked by the master of the feast, who exerted a 
 sort of paternal authority over this irritable tribe. 
 
 “ The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who 
 had been expelled the university for atheism, has made great 
 progress in a refutation of Lord Bolingbroke’s metaphysical 
 works, which is said to be equally ingenious and orthodox : but, 
 in the mean time, he has been presented to the grand jury as a 
 public nuisance for having blasphemed in an alehouse on the 
 Lord’s day. The Scotchman gives lectures on the pronunciation 
 of the English language, which he is now publishing by sub- 
 scription. 
 
 “ The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name 
 of My Lord Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a 
 Minister, hoping his zeal would be rewarded with some place 
 or pension; but finding himself neglected in that quarter, he 
 whispered about that the pamphlet was written by the Minister 
 himself, and he published an answer to his own production. 
 In this he addressed the author under the title of * your lord- 
 ship,’ with such solemnity, that the public swallowed the deceit 
 and bought up the w'hole impression. The wise politicians of 
 the metropolis declared they were both masterly performances, 
 and chuckled over the flimsy reveries of-an ignorant garreteer, 
 as the profound speculations of a veteran statesman, acquainted 
 with all the secrets of the cabinet. The imposture was detected 
 in the sequel, and our Hibernian pamphleteer retains no part 
 of his assumed importance, but the bare title of ‘my lord,’ and 
 the upper part of the table at the potato-ordinary in Shoe 
 Lane. 
 
 “ Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the 
 public with a humorous satire, entitled ‘ The Balance of the 
 English Poets ’ ; a performance which evinced the great modesty 
 and taste of the author, and, in particular, his intimacy with 
 the elegances of the English language. The sage, who labored 
 under the aypo^oSia, or, ‘ horror of green fields,’ had just fin- 
 ished a treatise on practical agriculture, though, in fact, he had 
 
HOG AB Til, SMOLLETT , AMD FIELDING. 229 
 
 to the enemy with whom he had been so 
 fiercely engaged, and give a not unfriendly 
 grasp to the hand that had mauled him. He 
 is like one of those Scotch cadets, of whom 
 history gives us so many examples, and whom, 
 with a national fidelity, the great Scotch nov- 
 elist has painted so charmingly. Of gentle 
 
 never seen corn growing in hi8 life, and was so ignorant of 
 grain, that our entertainer, in the face of the whole company, 
 made him own that a plate of hominy was the best rice-pudding 
 he had ever eat. 
 
 “ The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe 
 and part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of 
 the King’s Bench, except in term-time with a tipstaff for his 
 companion : and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious 
 member of the whole society, he had happily wound up the 
 catastrophe of a virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which he 
 promised himself a large fund of profit and reputation. Tim 
 had made shift to live many years by writing novels, at the rate 
 of five pounds a volume; but that branch of business is now 
 engrossed by female authors, who publish merely for the prop- 
 agation of virtue, with so much ease, and spirit, and delicacy, 
 aud knowledge of the human heart, and all in the serene tran- 
 quillity of high life, that the reader is not only enchanted by 
 their genius, but reformed by their morality. 
 
 “ After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where lob- 
 served Mr. S give a short separate audience to every indi- 
 
 vidual in a small remote filbert-walk, from whence most of them 
 dropped off one after another, without further ceremony. ” 
 
 Smollett’s house was in Lawrence Lane, Chelsea, and is now 
 destroyed. See Handbook of London, p 115. 
 
 “ The person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his 
 features prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of all his 
 surviving friends, his conversation, in the highest degree, in- 
 structive aud amusing. Of his disposition, those who have 
 read his works (and who has not?) may form a very accurate 
 estimate; for in each of them he has presented, and sometimes 
 under various points of view, the leading features of his own 
 character without disguising the most unfavorable of them. 
 . . . When unseduced by his satirical propensities, he was 
 kind, generous, and humane to others; bold, upright, and inde- 
 pendent in his own character; stooped to no patron, sued for 
 no favor, but honestly and honorably maintained himself on 
 his literary labors. . . . He was a doating father, and an affec- 
 tionate husband; and the warm zeal with which his memory 
 was cherished by his surviving friends showed clearly the reli- 
 ance which they placed upon his regard.” — Sir Walter 
 Scott, 
 
230 
 
 ENGLISH HTJMOBISTS. 
 
 birth * and narrow means, going out from his 
 northern home to win his fortune in the world, 
 and to fight his way, armed with courage, 
 hunger, and keen wits. His crest is a shat- 
 
 * Smollett of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire. Arms, azure, a 
 bend, or, between a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw a 
 banner, argent, and a bugle-horn, also ppr. Crest , an oak-tree, 
 ppr. Motto , Vires co. 
 
 Smollett’s father, Archibald, was the fourth son of Sir 
 James Smollett of Bonhill, a Scotcn Judge and Member of Par- 
 liament, and one of the commissioners for framing the Union 
 with England. Archibald married, without the old gentleman’s 
 consent, and died early, leaving his children dependent on their 
 grandfather. Tobias, the second son, was born in 17*21, in the 
 old house of Dalquharn, in the valley of Leven ; and all his life 
 loved and admired that valley and Loch Lomond beyond all the 
 valleys and lakes in Europe. He learned the “ rudiments ” at 
 Dumbarton Grammar School, and studied at Glasgow. 
 
 But when he was only ten, his grandfather died, and left 
 hfm without provision (figuring as the old judge in “ Roderick 
 Random in consequence, according to Sir Walter). Tobias 
 armed with the “ Regicide, a Tragedy” — a provision precisely 
 similar to that with which Doctor Johnson had started, just 
 before came up to London. The “ Regicide ” came to no 
 good, though at first patronized by Lord Lyttelton (“one of 
 those little fellows who are sometimes called great men,” 
 Smollett says) ; and Smollett embarked as“ surgeon’s mate ” on 
 board a line-of-battle ship, and served in the Carthagena expe- 
 dition, in 1741. He left the service in the West Indies, and 
 after residing some time in Jamaica, returned to England in 
 1746. 
 
 He was now unsuccessful as a physician, to begin with; 
 published the satires, “ Advice ” and “ Reproof,” without any 
 luck; and (1747) married the “beautiful and accomplished Miss 
 Lascelles.” 
 
 In 1748 he brought out his “ Roderick Random,” which at 
 once made a “ hit.” The subsequent events of his life may be 
 presented, chronologically, in a bird’s-eye view : — 
 
 1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he chiefly wrote “ Pere- 
 grine Pickle.” 
 
 1751. Published “ Peregrine Pickle.” 
 
 1753. Published “ Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom.” 
 
 1755. Published version of “ Don Quixote.” 
 
 1756. Began the “Critical Review.” 
 
 1758. Published his “ History of England.” 
 
 1763-1766. Travelling in France and Italy; published his 
 “ Travels.” 
 
 1769. Published “ Adventures of an Atom.” 
 
 1770. Set out for Italy; died at Leghorn 21st of October, 
 1771, in the fifty-first year of his age. 
 
HOGABTH , SMOLLETT , J.YZ> FIELDING. 231 
 
 tered oak-tree, with green leaves yet spring- 
 ing from it. On his ancient coat-of-arms 
 there is a lion and a horn ; this shield of his 
 was battered and dinted in a hundred fights 
 and brawls,* through which the stout Scotch- 
 man bore it courageously. You see somehow 
 that ho is a gentleman, through all his battling 
 and struggling, his poverty, his hard-fought 
 successes, and his defeats. His novels are 
 recollections of his own adventures ; his char- 
 acters drawn, as I should think, fron person- 
 ages with whom he became acquainted in his 
 own career of life. Strange companions he 
 must have had ; queer acquaintances he made 
 in the Glasgow College — in the country 
 apothecary’s shop ; in the gun-room of the 
 man-of-war where he served as surgeon ; and 
 in the hard life on shore, where the sturdy 
 adventurer struggled for fortune. He did 
 
 * A good specimen of the old “ slashing” style of writing is 
 presented by the paragragh on Admiral Knowles, which sub- 
 jected Smollett to prosecution and imprisonment. The ad- 
 miral’s defence on the occasion of the failure of the Rochefort 
 expedition came to be examined before the tribunal of the 
 “Critical Review.” 
 
 “ He is,” said our author, “ an admiral without conduct, an 
 engineer without knowledge, an officer without resolution, and 
 a man without veracity ! ” 
 
 Three months’ imprisonment in the King’s Bench avenged 
 this stinging paragraph. 
 
 But the “ Critical ” was to Smollett a perpetual fountain of 
 “ hot water.” Among less important controversies may be 
 mentioned that with Grainger, the translator of “Tibullus.” 
 Grainger replied in a pamphlet; and in the next number of the 
 “ Review” we find him threatened with “castigation,” as an 
 “ owl that has broken from his mew ! ” 
 
 In Doctor Moore’s biography of him is a pleasant anecdote. 
 After publishing the “ Don Quixote,” he returned to Scotland 
 to pay a visit to his mother : — 
 
 “On Smollett’s arrival, he was introduced to his mother 
 with the connivance of Mrs. Telfer (her daughter), as a gentle- 
 man from the West Indies, who was intimately acquainted with 
 
232 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 not invent much, as I fancy, but had the 
 keenest perceptive faculty, and described 
 what he saw with wonderful relish and de- 
 lightful broad humor. I think Uncle Bowling, 
 in 14 Roderick Random, ” is as good a charac- 
 ter as Squire Western himself ; and Mr. Mor- 
 gan, the Welsh apothecary, is as pleasant as 
 Doctor Caius. What man who has made his 
 inestimable acquaintance — what novel-reader 
 who loves Don Quixote and Major Dalgetty — 
 will refuse his most cordial acknowledgments 
 to the admirable Lieutenant Lismahago? The 
 novel of 44 Humphrey Clinker ” is, I do think, 
 the most laughable story that has ever been 
 written since the goodly art of novel-writing 
 began. Winifred Jenkins and Tabitha Bram- 
 ble must keep Englishmen on the grin for ages 
 yet to come ; and in their letters and the story 
 
 her son. The better to support his assumed character, he endeav- 
 ored to preserve a serious countenance, approaching to a frown ; 
 but while his mother’s eyes were riveted on his countenance, 
 he could not refrain from smiling; she immediately sprung 
 from her chair, and throwing her arms round his neck, ex- 
 claimed, * Ah, my son ! my soil ! I have found you at last ! * 
 
 “ She afterwards told him, that if he had kept his austere 
 looks and continued to gloom, he might have escaped detection 
 some time longer, but, * your old roguish smile,’ added she ‘ be- 
 trayed you at once.’ ” 
 
 "“Shortly after the publication of ‘The Adventures of an 
 Atom,’ disease again attacked Smollett with redoubled violence. 
 Attempts being vainly made to obtain for him the office of Con- 
 sul in some part of the Mediterranean, he was compelled to 
 seek a warmer climate, without better means of provision than 
 his own precarious finances could afford. The kindness of his 
 distinguished friend and countryman, Doctor Armstrong (then 
 abroad), procured for Doctor and Mrs. Smollett a house at 
 Monte Nero, a village situated on the side of a mountain over- 
 looking the sea, in the neighborhood of Leghorn, a romantic 
 and salutary abode, where he prepared for the press, the last, 
 and like music £ sweetest in the close,’ the most pleasing of his 
 compositions, ‘ The Expedition of Humphrey Clinker.* This 
 delightful -work was published in 1771.” — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 233 
 
 of their loves there is a perpetual fount of 
 sparkling laughter, as inexhaustible as Bla- 
 chiefs well. 
 
 Fielding, too, has described, though with 
 a greater hand, the characters and scenes 
 which he knew and saw. He had more than 
 ordinary opportunities for becoming acquainted 
 with life. His family and education, first, 
 his fortunes and misfortunes afterwards, 
 brought him into the society of every rank 
 and condition of man. He is himself the 
 hero of his books : he is wild Tom Jones, he 
 is wild Captain Booth ; less wild, I am glad to 
 think, than his predecessor : at least heartily 
 conscious of demerit, and anxious to amend. 
 
 When Fielding first came upon the town in 
 1727, the recollection of the great wits was 
 still fresh in the coffee-houses and assemblies, 
 and the judges there declared that young 
 Harry Fielding had more spirits and wit than 
 Congreve or any of his brilliant successors. 
 His figure was tall and stalwart ; his face 
 handsome, manly, and noble-looking ; to the 
 very last days of his life he retained a gran- 
 deur of air, and although worn down by dis- 
 ease, his aspect and presence imposed respect 
 upon the people round about him. 
 
 A dispute took place between Mr. Fielding 
 and the captain * ** of the ship in which he was 
 
 *The dispute with the captain arose from the wish of that 
 functionary to intrude on his right to his cabin, for which he 
 had paid thirty pounds. After recounting the circumstances of 
 the apology, he characteristically adds : — 
 
 ** And here, that I may not be thought the sly trumpeter of 
 
234 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 making his last voyage, and Fielding relates 
 how the man finally went down on his knees, 
 and begged his passenger’s pardon. He was 
 living up to the last days of his life, and 
 his spirit never gave in. His vital power 
 must have been immensely strong. Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montagu* * prettily character- 
 izes Fielding and this capacity for happiness 
 which he possessed, in a little notice of his 
 death when she compares him to Steele, who 
 was as improvident and as happy as he was, 
 and says that both should have gone on living 
 forever. One can fancy the eagerness and 
 gusto with which a man of Fielding’s frame, 
 
 my own praises, I do utterly disclaim all praise on the occasion. 
 Neither did tiie greatness of my mind dictate, nor the force of 
 my Christianity exact this foigiveness. To speak truth, I for- 
 gave him from a motive which would make men much more 
 forgiving, if they were much wiser than they are : because it 
 was convenient for me so to do.” 
 
 * Lady Mary was his second cousin — their respective grand- 
 fathers being sons of George Fielding, Earl of Desmond, son of 
 William, Earl of Denbigh. 
 
 In a letter dated just a week before his death, she says : — 
 
 “H. Fielding has given a tiue picture of himself and h-is 
 first wife in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth , some compli- 
 ments to his own ligure excepted ; and I am persuaded, several 
 of the incidents he mentions are real matters of fact. I w r onder 
 he does not perceive Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoun- 
 drels. . . . Fielding has really a fund of true humor, and 
 was to be pitied at his first entrance into the world, having 
 no choice, as he said himself, but to be a hackney writer or a 
 hackney coachman. His genius deserved a better fate; but I 
 cannot help blaming that continued indiscretion, to give it the 
 softest name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid still 
 remains. . . . Since I was born no original has appeared 
 excepting Congreve, aud Fielding, who would, I believe, have 
 approached nearer to his excellences, if not forced by his 
 necessities to publish without correction, and throw many pro- 
 ductions into the world he would have thrown into the fire, if 
 meat could have been got without money, or money without 
 scribbling. ... I am sorry not to see any more of Pere- 
 grine Pickle’s performances; I wish you would tell me his 
 name.” — Letters and Works (Lord Wharncliffe’s Ed.), vol. 
 iii. pp. 93, 94. 
 
HOGARTH; SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 235 
 
 with his vast health and robust appetite, his 
 ardent spirits, his joyful humor, and his keen 
 and healthy relish for life, must have seized 
 and drunk that cup of pleasure which the 
 town offered to him. Can any of my hearers 
 remember the youthful feats of a college 
 breakfast — the meats devoured and the cups 
 quaffed in that Homeric feast? I can call to 
 mind some of the heroes of those youthful 
 banquets, and fancy young Fielding from 
 Le}’den rushing upon the feast, with his great 
 laugh, and immense healthy young appetite, 
 eager and vigorous to enjoy. The young 
 man’s wit and manners made him friends 
 everywhere : he lived with the grand Man’s 
 society of those days ; he was courted by 
 peers and men of wealth and fashion. As he 
 had a paternal allowance from his father, 
 General Fielding, which, to use Henry’s own 
 phrase, any man might pay who would ; as 
 he liked good wine, good clothes, and good 
 company, which are all expensive articles to 
 purchase, Harry Fielding began to run into 
 debt, and borrow money in that easy manner 
 in which Captain Booth borrows money in the 
 novel : was in nowise particular in accepting 
 a few pieces from the purses of his rich friends, 
 and bore down upon more than one of them, 
 as Walpole tells us only too truly, for a dinner 
 or a guinea. To supply himself with the lat- 
 ter, he began to write theatrical pieces, having 
 already, no doubt, a considerable acquaintance 
 amongst the Oldfields and Bracegirdles behind 
 the scenes. He laughed at these pieces and 
 
236 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 scorned them. When the audience upon one 
 occasion began to hiss a scene which he was 
 too lazy to correct, and regarding which, when 
 Garrick remonstrated with him, he said that 
 the public was too stupid to find out the bad- 
 ness of his work : when the audience began to 
 hiss, Fielding said with characteristic cool- 
 ness, “ They have found it out, have they?” 
 He did not prepare his novels in this way, and 
 with a very different care and interest laid the 
 foundations and built up the edifices of his 
 future fame. 
 
 Time and shower have very little damaged 
 those. The fashion and ornaments are, per- 
 haps, of the architecture of that age ; but the 
 buildings remain strong and lofty, and of ad- 
 mirable proportions — masterpieces of genius 
 and monuments of workmanlike skill. 
 
 I cannot offer or hope to make a hero of 
 Harry Fielding. Why hide his faults ? Why 
 conceal his weaknesses in a cloud of peri- 
 phrases? Why not show him, like him as he 
 is, not robed in a marble toga, and draped and 
 polished in an heroic attitude, but with inked 
 ruffles, and claret stains on his tarnished laced 
 coat, and on his manly face the marks of 
 good-fellowship, of illness, of kindness, of 
 care and wine. Stained as you see him, and 
 worn by care and dissipation, that man retains 
 some of the most precious and splendid human 
 qualities and endowments. He has an ad- 
 mirable natural love of truth, the keenest 
 instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happi- 
 est satirical gift of laughing it to scorn. His 
 
EOGABTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 237 
 
 wit is wonderfully wise and detective ; it 
 flashes upon a rogue and lightens up a rascal 
 like a policeman’s lantern. He is one of the 
 manliest and kindliest of human beings : in 
 the midst of all his imperfections, he respects 
 female innocence and infantine tenderness as 
 you would suppose such a great-hearted, cour- 
 ageous soul would respect and care for them. 
 He could not be so brave, generous, truth- 
 telling as he is, were he not infinitely merciful, 
 pitiful, and tender. He will give any man his 
 purse — he can’t help kindness and profusion. 
 He may have low tastes, but not a mean mind ; 
 he admires with all his heart good and virtu- 
 ous men, stoops to no flattery, bears no ran- 
 cor, disdains all disloyal arts, does his public 
 duty uprightly, is fondly loved by his family, 
 and dies at his work.* 
 
 If that theory be — and I have no doubt it 
 is — the right and safe one, that human nature 
 is always pleased with the spectacle of inno- 
 cence rescued by fidelity, purity, and courage, 
 I suppose that of the heroes of Fielding’s 
 three novels, we should like honest Joseph 
 Andrews the best, and Captain Booth the 
 second, and Tom Jones the third. f 
 
 * He sailed for Lisbon, from G-ravesend, on Sunday morn- 
 ing, June 30th, 1754; and began “The Journal of a Voyage ” 
 during the passage. He died at Lisbon, in the beginning of 
 October of the same year. He lies buried there, in the English 
 Protestant church-yard, near the Estrella Church, with this in- 
 scription over him : — 
 
 “ HENRICUS FIELDING. 
 
 LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM 
 FOVERE NATUM.” 
 
 t Fielding himself is said by Doctor Warton to have pre- 
 ferred “ Joseph Andrews” to his other writings. 
 

 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS. 
 
 Joseph Andrews, though he wears Lady 
 Booby’s east-off livery, is, I think, to the full 
 as polite as Tom Jones in his fustian suit, or 
 Captain Booth in regimentals. lie has, like 
 those heroes, large calves, broad shoulders, a 
 high courage, and a handsome face. The 
 accounts of Joseph’s bravery and good quali- 
 ties ; his voice, too musical to halloo to the 
 dogs ; his bravery in riding races for the gen- 
 tlemen of the county, and his constancy in 
 refusing bribes and temptation, have some- 
 thing affecting in their naivete and freshness, 
 and prepossess one in favor of that handsome 
 young hero. The rustic bloom of Fanny, and 
 the delightful simplicity of Parson Adams, 
 are described with a friendliness which wins 
 the reader of their story ; we part from them 
 with more regret than from Booth and Jones. 
 
 Fielding, no doubt, began to w r rite this 
 novel in ridicule of “Pamela,” for which 
 work one can understand the hearty contempt 
 and antipathy which such an athletic and bois- 
 terous genius as Fielding’s must have enter- 
 tained. He could n’t do otherwise than laugh 
 at the puny cockney bookseller, pouring out 
 endless volumes of sentimental twaddle, and 
 hold him up to scorn as a mollcoddle and a 
 milksop. His genius had been nursed on sack 
 posset, and not on dishes of tea. His muse 
 had sung the loudest in tavern choruses, had 
 seen the daylight streaming in over thousands 
 of emptied bowls, and reeled home to cham- 
 bers on the shoulders of the watchman. Rich- 
 ardson’s goddess was attended by old maids 
 
HOGARTH ; SMOLLETT , ,4AT> FIELDING . 239 
 
 and dowagers, and fed on muffins and bokea. 
 “Milksop!” roars Harry Fielding, clatter- 
 ing at the timid skop-skutters. u Wretch ! 
 Monster ! Mohock ! ” shrieks the sentimental 
 author of u Pamela” ; * and all the ladies of 
 his court cackle out an affrighted chorus. 
 Fielding proposes to write a book in ridicule 
 of the author, whom he disliked and utterly 
 scorned and laughed at ; but he is himself of 
 so generous, jovial, and kindly a turn that he 
 begins to like the characters which he invents, 
 can’t help making them manly and pleasant 
 as well as ridiculous, and before he has done 
 with them all, loves them heartily every one. 
 
 Richardson’s sickening antipathy for Harry 
 Fielding is quite as natural as the other’s 
 laughter and contempt at the sentimentalist. 
 I have not learned that these likings and dis- 
 likings have ceased in the present day : and 
 every author must lay his account not only to 
 misrepresentation, but to honest enmity among 
 critics, and to being hated and abused for 
 good as well as for bad reasons. Richardson 
 disliked Fielding’s works quite honestly : Wal- 
 pole quite honestly spoke of them as vulgar 
 and stupid. Their squeamish stomachs sick- 
 
 * “ Richardson,’* says worthy Mrs. Barbauld, in her Memoir 
 of him, prefixed to his Correspondence, “ was exceedingly hurt 
 at this ‘ Joseph Andrews,’ the more so as they had been on good 
 terms, and he was very intimate with Fielding’s two sisters. 
 He never appears cordially to have forgiven it (perhaps it was 
 not in human nature he should), and he always speaks in his 
 letters with a great deal of asperity of ‘Tom Jones,’ more 
 indeed than was quite graceful in a rival author. No doubt he 
 himself thought his indignation was solely excited by the loose 
 morality of the work and of its author, but he could tolerate 
 Cibber.” 
 
ENGLISH H UM OH 1ST S. 
 
 240 
 
 enecl at the rough fare and the rough guests 
 assembled at Fielding’s jolly revel. Indeed 
 the cloth might have been cleaner : and the 
 dinner and the company were scarce such as 
 suited a dandy. The kind and wise old John- 
 son would not sit down with him.* But a 
 greater scholar than Johnson could afford to 
 admire that astonishing genius of Harry Field- 
 ing : and we all know the lofty panegyric which 
 Gibbon wrote of him, and which remains a 
 towering monument to the great novelist’s 
 memory. “ Our immortal Fielding,” Gibbon 
 writes, u was of the j'ounger branch of the 
 Earls of Denbigh, who drew their origin from 
 the Counts of Hapsburgh. The successors of 
 Charles V. may disdain their brethren of Eng- 
 land, but the romance of 4 Tom Jones,’ that 
 exquisite picture of humor and manners, will 
 outlive the palace of the Escurial and the Im- 
 perial Eagle of Austria.” 
 
 There can be no gainsaying the sentence of 
 this great judge. To have your name men- 
 tioned by Gibbon, is like having it written on 
 the dome of St. Peter’s. Pilgrims from all 
 the world admire and behold it. 
 
 As a picture of manners, the novel of “ Tom 
 Jones” is indeed exquisite: as a work of 
 construction, quite a wonder : the by-play of 
 wisdom ; the power of observation ; the mul- 
 tiplied felicitous turns and thoughts ; the 
 
 * It must always be borne in mind, that besides that the Doctor 
 could n’t be expected to like Fielding’s wild life (to say nothing 
 of the fact that they were of opposite sides in politics), Richard- 
 son was one of his earliest and kindest friends. Y et Johnson too 
 (as Boswell tells us) read “ Amelia” through without stopping. 
 
HOG AMT Tl, /SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING. 241 
 
 varied character of the great Comic Epic, — 
 keep the reader in a perpetual admiration and 
 curiosity.* But against Mr. Thomas Jones 
 himself we have a right to put in a protest, 
 and quarrel with the esteem the author evi- 
 dently has for that character. Charles Lamb 
 says finely of Jones, that a single hearty laugh 
 from him 44 clears the air ” : but then it is in 
 a certain state of the atmosphere. It might 
 clear the air when such personages as Blifil or 
 Lady Bellaston poison it. But I fear very 
 much that (except until the very last scene of 
 the story), when Mr. Jones enters Sophia’s 
 drawing-room, the pure air there is rather 
 tainted with the young gentleman’s tobacco- 
 pipe and punch. I can’t say that I think Mr. 
 Jones a virtuous character ; I can’t say but 
 that I think Fielding’s evident liking and ad- 
 miration for Mr. Jones shows that the great 
 humorist’s moral sense was blunted by his 
 life, and that here, in Art and Ethics, there 
 
 * “Manners change from generation to generation, and with 
 manners morals appear to change — actually change with some, 
 but appear to change with all but the abandoned. A young man 
 of the present day who should act as Tom Jones is supposed to 
 act at Upton, with Lady Bellaston, etc., would not be a Tom 
 Jones; and a Tom Jones of the present day, without perhaps 
 being in the ground a better man, would have perished rather 
 than submit to be kept by a harridan of fortune. Therefore, 
 this novel is, and indeed pretends to be, no example of conduct. 
 But, notwithstanding all this, I do loathe the cant "which can 
 recommend ‘ Pamela ’ and ‘ Clarissa Harlowe ’ as strictly moral, 
 although they poison the imagination of the young with contin. 
 ued Joses of tinct. lyttoe , while ‘ Tom Jones ’ is prohibited as loose. 
 I do not speak of young women; but a young man whose heart 
 or feelings can be injured, or even his passions excited by this 
 novel, is already thoroughly corrffyt. There is a cheerful, sun- 
 shiny, breezy spirit, that prevails everywhere, strongly con- 
 trasted with the close, hot, day-dreamy continuity of Richard- 
 son.” — Coleridge : Literary Remains , vol. ii, p. 374. 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 is a great error. If it is right to have a hero 
 whom we may admire, let us at least take care 
 that he is admirable : if, as is the plan of 
 some authors (a plan decidedly against their 
 interests, be it said), it is propounded that 
 there exists in life no such being, and there- 
 fore that in novels, the picture of life, there 
 should appear no such character ; then Mr. 
 Thomas Jones becomes an admissible person, 
 and we examine his defects and good qualities, 
 as we do those of Parson Thwackum, or Miss 
 Seagrim. But a hero with a flawed reputa- 
 tion ; a hero spunging for a guinea ; a hero 
 who can’t pay his landlady, and is obliged to 
 let his honor out to hire, is absurd, and his 
 claim to heroic rank untenable. I protest 
 against Mr. Thomas Jones holding such rank 
 at all. I protest even against his being con- 
 sidered a more than ordinary young fellow, 
 ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered, and fond 
 of wine and pleasure. He would not rob a 
 church, but that is all ; and a pretty long 
 argument may be debated, as to which of 
 these old types, the spendthrift, the hypo- 
 crite, Jones and Blifil, Charles and Joseph 
 Surface, is the worst member of society 
 and the most deserving of censure. The 
 prodigal Captain Booth is a better man than 
 his predecessor Mr. Jones, in so far as he 
 thinks much more humbly of himself than 
 Jones did : goes down on his knees, and owns 
 his weaknesses, and^ries out, “Not for my 
 sake, but for the sake of my pure and sweet 
 and beautiful wife Amelia, I pray you, O crit- 
 
HOGABTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING-, 244 
 
 ical reader, to forgive me.” That stern mor- 
 alist regards him from the bench (the judge’s 
 practice out of court is not here the question), 
 and says, 44 Captain Booth, it is perfectly true 
 that your iife has been disreputable, and that 
 on many occasions you have shown yourself 
 to be no better than a scamp : you have been 
 tippling at the tavern, when the kindest and 
 sweetest lady in the world has cooked your 
 little supper of boiled mutton and awaited } t ou 
 all the night ; you have spoilt the little disk 
 of boiled mutton thereby, and caused pangs 
 and pains to Amelia’s tender heart.* You 
 
 * *‘Norwas she (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu) a stranger 
 to that beloved first wife, whose picture he drew in his ‘Amelia/ 
 when, as she said, even the glowing language he knew how to 
 employ, did not do more than justice to the amiable qualities of 
 the original, or to her beauty, although this had suffered a little 
 from the accident related in the novel — a frightful overturn, 
 which destroyed the gristle of her nose. He loved her passion- 
 ately and she returned his affection. . . . 
 
 “ His biographers seem to have been shy of disclosing that, 
 after the death of this charming woman, he married her maid. 
 And yet the act was not so discreditable to his character as it 
 may sound. The maid had few personal charms, but was an 
 excellent creature, devotedly attached to her mistress, and 
 almost broken-hearted for her loss. In the first agonies of his 
 own grief, which approached to frenzy, he found no relief but 
 from weeping along with her ; nor solace when a degree calmer, 
 but in talking to her of the angel they mutually regretted. This 
 made her his habitual confidential associate, and in process of 
 time he began to think he could not give his children a tenderer 
 mother, or secure for himself a more faithful housekeeper and 
 nurse. At least, this was what he told his friends; and it is 
 certain that her conduct as his wife confirmed it, and fully justi- 
 fied his good opinion.” — Letters and Works of Lady Mary 
 Wortley Montagu, Edited by Lord Wharncliffe. Introduc- 
 tory Anecdotes , vol. i. pp. 80, 81. 
 
 Fielding's first wife was Miss Craddock, a young lady from 
 Salisbury, with a fortune of £1,500, whom he married in 1736. 
 About the same time he succeeded, himself, to an estate of £200 
 per annum, and on the joint amount he lived for some time as a 
 splendid country gentleman in Dorsetshire. Three years 
 brought him to the end of his fortune; when he returned to 
 London, and became a student of law. 
 
244 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS, 
 
 have got into debt without the means of pay-* 
 ing it. You have gambled the money with 
 which you ought to have paid your rent. You 
 have spent in drink or in worse amusements 
 the sums which your poor wife has raised upon 
 her little home treasures, her own ornaments, 
 and the toys of her children. But, you ras- 
 cal ! you own humbly that } T ou are no better 
 than you should be ; you never for one mo- 
 ment pretend that you are anything but a 
 miserable weak-minded rogue. You do in 
 your heart adore that angelic woman, your 
 wfife, and for her sake, sirrah, you shall have 
 your discharge. Lucky for you and for others 
 like you, that in spite of your failings and 
 imperfections, pure hearts pity and love you. 
 For your wife’s sake you are permitted to go 
 hence without a remand ; and I beg you, by 
 the w r ay, to carry to that angelical lady the ex- 
 pression of the cordial respect and admiration 
 of this court. ” Amelia pleads for her hus- 
 band, Will Booth : Amelia pleads for her 
 reckless kindly old father, Harry Fielding. 
 To have invented that character, is not only 
 a triumph of art, but it is a good action. 
 They say it w r as in his own home that Field- 
 ing knew her and loved her : and from his 
 own w T ife that he drew tbe most charming 
 character in English fiction. Fiction ! why 
 fiction? why not history? I know Amelia 
 just as well as Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. 
 I believe in Colonel Bath almost as much as 
 in Colonel Gardiner or the Duke of Cumber- 
 land. I admire the author of “ Amelia,” and 
 
HOGARTH , SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING . 245 
 
 tliank the kind master who introduced me to 
 that sweet and delightful companion and 
 friend. “Amelia” perhaps is not a better 
 story than “ Tom Jones,” but it has the better 
 ethics ; the prodigal repents at least, before 
 forgiveness, — -whereas that odious broad- 
 backed Mr. Jones carries off his beauty with 
 scarce an interval of remorse for his manifold 
 errors and shortcomings ; and is not half 
 punished enough before the great prize of 
 fortune and love falls to his share. I am 
 angry with Jones. Too much of the plum- 
 cake and rewards of life fall to that boister- 
 ous, swaggering young scapegrace. Sophia 
 actually surrenders without a proper sense of 
 decorum ; the fond, foolish, palpitating little 
 creature ! — “ Indeed, Mi*. Jones,” she says, 
 “it rests with you to appoint the day.” I 
 suppose Sophia is drawn from life as well as 
 Amelia ; and many a young fellow, no better 
 than Mr. Thomas Jones, has carried by a coup 
 de main the heart of many a kind girl who was 
 a great deal too good for him. 
 
 What a wonderful art ! What an admira- 
 ble gift of nature was it by which the author 
 of these tales was endowed, and which enabled 
 him to fix our interest, to waken our sympa- 
 thy, to seize upon our credulity, so that we 
 believe in his people — speculate gravely upon 
 their faults or their excellences, prefer this 
 one or that, deplore Jones’s fondness for drink 
 and play, Booth’s fondness for play and drink, 
 and the unfortunate position of the wives of 
 both gentlemen — love and admire those ladies 
 
246 
 
 ENGLISH H TIM OBIS TS. 
 
 with all our hearts, and talk about them as 
 faithfully as if we had breakfasted with them 
 this morning in their actual drawing-rooms, or 
 should meet them this afternoon in the Park ! 
 AYhat a genius ! what a vigor ! what a bright- 
 eyed intelligence and observation ! what a 
 wholesome hatred for meanness and knavery ! 
 what a vast sympathy ! what a cheerfulness ! 
 what a manly relish of life ! what a love of 
 human kind ! what a poet is here! — watch- 
 ing, meditating, brooding, creating ! What 
 multitudes of truths has that man left behind 
 him ! What generations he has taught to 
 laugh wisely and fairly ! What scholars he 
 has formed and accustomed to the exercise of 
 thoughtful humor and the manly play of wit ! 
 What a courage he had ! What a dauntless 
 and constant cheerfulness of intellect, that 
 burned bright and steady through all the 
 storms of his life, and never deserted its last 
 wreck ! It is wonderful to think of the pains 
 and misery which the man suffered ; the press- 
 ure of want, illness, remorse, which he en- 
 dured ! and that the writer was neither 
 malignant nor melancholy, his view of truth 
 never warped, and his generous human kind- 
 ness never surrendered.* 
 
 * In the Gentleman' $ Magazine for 1786, an anecdote is 
 related of Harry Fielding, “ in whom,” says the correspondent, 
 “good-nature and philanthropy in their extreme degree were 
 known to be the prominent features.” It seems that “ some paro- 
 chial taxes ” for his house in Beaufort Buildings had long been 
 demanded by the collector. “At last, Harry went off to John- 
 son, and obtained by a process of literary mortgage the needful 
 sum. He was returning with it, when he met an old college 
 chum whom he had not seen for many years. He asked the 
 chum to dinner with him at a neighboring tavern; and learning 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING. 247 
 
 In the quarrel mentioned before, which hap- 
 pened on Fielding’s last voyage to Lisbon, and 
 when the stout captain of the ship fell down 
 on his knees and asked the sick man’s pardon 
 * — U I did not suffer,” Fielding says, in his 
 hearty, manly way, his eyes lighting up as it 
 were with their old fire, — 44 1 did not suffer a 
 brave man and an old man to remain a mo- 
 ment in that posture, but immediately for- 
 gave him.” Indeed, I think, with his noble 
 spirit and unconquerable generosity, Fielding 
 
 that he was in difficulties, emptied the contents of his pocket 
 into his. On returning home he was informed that the collector 
 had been twice for the money. ‘Friendship has called for the 
 money and had it,’ said Fielding ; ‘ let the collector call again.’ ” 
 
 It is elsewhere told of him, that being in company with the 
 Earl of Denbigh, his kinsman, and the conversation turning 
 upon their relationship, the Earl asked him how it was that he 
 spelled his name “ Fielding,” and not “ Feilding,” like the head 
 of the house. ‘I cannot tell, my lord,” said he, “except it be 
 that my branch of the family were the first that knew how to 
 spell.” 
 
 In 1748, he was made Justice of the Peace for Westminster 
 and Middlesex, an office then paid by fees and very laborious, 
 without being particularly reputable. It may be seen from his 
 own words, in the Introduction to the “ Voyage,” what kind of 
 work devolved upon him, and in what a state he was, during 
 these last years; and still more clearly, how he comported him- 
 self through all : — 
 
 “ Whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was 
 almost fatigued to death with several long examinations, relat- 
 ing to five different murders, all committed within the space of 
 a week, by different gangs of street-robbers, I received a mes- 
 sage from his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, 
 the King’s messenger, to attend his Grace the next morning in 
 Lincoln’s Inn Fields upon some business of importance : but I 
 excused myself from complying with the message, as, besides 
 being lame, I was very ill with the great fatigues I had lately 
 undergone, added to my distemper. 
 
 “ His Grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington the very next 
 morning with another summons; with which, though in the 
 utmost distress, I immediately complied; but the Duke happen- 
 ing, unfortunately for me, to be then particularly engaged, after 
 I had waited some time, sent a gentleman to discourse with me 
 on the best plan which could be invented for these murders and 
 robberies, which, were every day committed in the streets; 
 
248 
 
 ENGLISH HITMOBISTS . 
 
 reminds one of those brave men of whom one 
 reads in stories of English shipwrecks and 
 disasters, — of the officer on the African shore, 
 when disease had destroyed the crew, and he 
 himself is seized by fever, who throws the 
 lead with a death-stricken hand, takes the 
 soundings, carries the ship out of the river 
 or off the dangerous coast, and dies in the 
 
 upon which I promised to transmit my opiuion in writing to his 
 Grace, who, as the gentleman informed me, intended to lay it 
 before the Privy Council. 
 
 “ Though this visit cost me a severe cold, T, notwithstanding, 
 set myself down to work, and in about four days sent the 
 Duke as regular a plan as I could form, with all thj reasons and 
 arguments I could bring to support it, drawn out on several 
 sheets of paper; and soon received a message from the Duke, 
 by Mr. Carrington, acquainting me that my plan was highly 
 approved of, and that all the terms of it would be complied 
 with. 
 
 “ The principal and most material of these terms was the 
 immediately depositing £600 in my hands; at which small 
 charge I undertook to demolish the then reigning gangs, and to 
 put the civil policy into such order, tnat no such gang should 
 ever be able for the future to form themselves into bodies, or 
 at least to remain any time formidable to the public. 
 
 “ I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to 
 the repeated advice of my physical acquaintances and the ardent 
 desire of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now 
 turned to a deep jaundice; in which case the Bath waters are 
 generally reputed to be almost infallible. But I had the most 
 eager desire to demolish this gaug of villains and cut- 
 throats. . . . 
 
 “After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, 
 and within a few days after £200 of it had come into ray hands, 
 the whole gang of cut-throats was entirely dispersed. . . .” 
 
 Further on, he says : — 
 
 “I will confess that my private affairs at the beginning of 
 the winter had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered the 
 public or the poor of those sums which men, who are always 
 ready to plunder both as much as they can, have been pleased to 
 suspect me of taking; on the contrary, by composing, instead of 
 inflaming, the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush 
 when I say hath not been universally practised), and by re- 
 fusing to take a shilling from a man who most undoubtedly 
 would not have had another left, I had reduced an income of 
 about £500 a year of the dirtiest money upon earth, to little 
 more than £300, a considerable portion of which remained with 
 my clerk,” 
 
HOGARTH, SMOLLETT , AND FIELDING. 249 
 
 manly endeavor ; of the wounded captain, 
 when the vessel founders, who never loses his 
 heart, who eyes the danger steadily, and has 
 a cheery word for all, until the inevitable fate 
 overwhelms him, and the gallant ship goes 
 down. Such a brave and gentle heart, such 
 an intrepid and courageous spirit, I love to 
 recognize in the manly, the English Harry 
 Fielding. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Roger Sterne, Sterne’s father, was the 
 second son of a numerous race, descendants 
 of Richard Sterne, Archbishop of York, in 
 the reign of James II. ; and children of Simon 
 Sterne and Mary Jaques, his wife, heiress of 
 Elvington, near York.* Roger was a lieuten- 
 ant in Handyside’s regiment, and engaged in 
 Flanders in Queen Anne’s wars. He married 
 the daughter of a noted sutler — 44 N. B.,he 
 was in debt to him,” his son writes, pursuing 
 the paternal biography — and marched through 
 the world "with this companion ; she following 
 the regiment and bringing many children to 
 poor Roger Sterne. The captain was an iras- 
 cible but kind and simple little man, Sterne 
 says, and informs us that his sire was run 
 through the body at Gibraltar, by a brother 
 officer, in a duel which ar se out of a dispute 
 about a goose. Roger never entirely recov- 
 ered from the effects of this rencontre, but 
 died presently at Jamaica, whither he had fol- 
 lowed the drum. 
 
 Laurence, his second child, was born at 
 Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1713, and travelled, 
 for the first ten years of his life, on his father’s 
 march, from barrack to transport, from Ireland 
 to England. t 
 
 One relative of his mother’s took her and 
 
 * He came of a Suffolk family, one of whom settled in 
 Nottinghamshire. The famous “starling” was actually the 
 family crest. 
 
 + “ It -was in this parish (of Animo, in Wicklow), during our 
 
STEBNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 251 
 
 her family under shelter for ten months at 
 Mullingar : another collateral descendant of 
 the Archbishop’s housed them for a year at his 
 castle near Carrickfergus. Larry Sterne was 
 put to school at Halifax in England, finally 
 was adopted by his kinsman of Elvington, and 
 parted company with his father, the Captain 
 who marched on his path of life till he met the 
 fatal goose, which closed his career. The 
 most picturesque and delightful parts of Lau- 
 rence Sterne’s writings, we owe to his recollec- 
 tions of the military life. Trim’s montero 
 cap, and Le Fevre’s sword, and dear Uncle 
 Toby’s roquelaure are doubtless reminiscences 
 of the boy, who had lived with the followers of 
 William and Marlborough, and had beat time 
 with his little feet to the fifes of Ramillies in 
 Dublin barrack-yard, or played with the torn 
 flags and halberds of Malplaquet on the parade- 
 ground at Clonmel. 
 
 Laurence remained at Halifax school till he 
 was eighteen years old. His wit and clever- 
 ness appear to have acquired the respect of 
 his master here ; for when the usher whipped 
 Laurence for writing his name on the newly 
 whitewashed school-room ceiling, the peda- 
 gogue in chief rebuked the understrapper, and 
 said that the name should never be effaced, 
 for Sterne was a boy of genius, and would 
 come to preferment. 
 
 stay, that I had that wonderful escape in falling through a mill 
 race, whilst the mill was going, and of being taken up unhurt; 
 the story is incredible, but known for truth in all that part of 
 Ireland, where hundreds of the common people flocked to see 
 me.” — Sterne. 
 
252 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent 
 Sterne to Jesus College, Cambridge, where he 
 remained five years, and taking orders, got, 
 through his uncle’s interest, the living of Sut- 
 ton and the prebendary of York. Through 
 his wife’s connections, he got the living of 
 Stillington. He married her in 1741, having 
 ardently courted the young lady for some years 
 previously. It was not until the young lady 
 fancied herself dying, tli <t she made Sterne 
 acquainted with the extent of her liking for 
 him. One evening when he was sitting with 
 her, with an almost broken heart to see her so 
 ill (the Rev. Mr. Sterne’s heart was a good 
 deal broken in the course of his life) , she said, 
 u My dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for 
 I verily believe I have not long to live ; but I 
 have left you every shilling of my fortune”; 
 a generosity which overpowered Sterne. She 
 recovered : and so they were married, and 
 grew heartily tired of each other before many 
 years were over. u Nescio quid est materia 
 cum me,” Sterne writes to one of his friends 
 (in dog-Latin, and very sad dog-Latin too) ; 
 “ sed sum fatigatus et aegrotus de mea uxore 
 plus quam unquam ” : which means, I am sorry 
 to say, 64 I don’t know what is the matter 
 with me ; but I am more tired and sick of my 
 wife than ever.” * 
 
 * “My wife returns to Toulouse, and proposes to pass the 
 summer at Bagnercs. I, on the contrary, go and visit my wife, 
 the church, in Yorkshire. We all live the longer, at least the 
 happier, for having things our own way; this is my conjugal 
 maxim. I own ’t is not the best of maxims, but I maintain ’tis 
 pot the worst.” — Sterne’s Letters ; 20th January, 1764. 
 
stebNe and goldsmith ; 
 
 253 
 
 This to be sure was five-and-twenty years 
 after Laurey had been overcome by her gener- 
 osity and she by Laurey ’s love. Then he 
 wrote to her of the delights of marriage, say- 
 ing, “ We will be as merry and as innocent as 
 our first parents in Paradise, before the arch 
 fiend entered that indescribable scene. The 
 kindest affections will have room to expand in 
 our retirement : let the human tempest and 
 hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is 
 beyond the horizon of peace. My L. has 
 seen a polyanthus blow in December ? — Some 
 friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting- 
 wind. No planetary influence shall reach us, 
 but that which presides and cherishes the 
 sweetest flowers. The gloomy family of care 
 and distrust shall be banished from our dwell- 
 ing, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity. 
 We will sing our choral songs of gratitude and 
 rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage. Adieu, 
 my L. Return to one who languishes for thy 
 society! — As I take up my pen, my poor 
 pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears 
 are trickling down on my paper as I trace the 
 word L.” 
 
 And it is about this woman, with whom he 
 finds no fault but that she bores him, that our 
 philanthropist writes, u Sum fatigatus et segro- 
 tus ” — Sum mortcditer in amove with some- 
 body else ! That fine flower of love, that 
 polyanthus over which Sterne snivelled so 
 many tears, could not last for a quarter of a 
 century ! 
 
 Or rather it could not be expected that 
 
ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 2U 
 
 gentlemen with such a fountain at command 
 should keep it to arroser one homely old lady, 
 when a score of younger and prettier people 
 might be refreshed from the same gushing 
 source.* It was in December, 1767, that the 
 Rev. Laurence Sterne, the famous Shandean, 
 the charming Yorick, the delight of the fash- 
 ionable world, the delicious divine, for whose 
 sermons the whole polite world was subscrib- 
 
 * In a collection of “Seven Letters by Sterne and his 
 Friends ” (printed for private circulation in 1844), is a letter of 
 M. Tollot, who was in France with Sterne and his family in 
 1764. Here is a paragraph : — 
 
 “ Nous arrivames le lendemain & Montpellier, oil nous trou- 
 vames notre ami Mr. Sterne, sa femme, sa fille, Mr. Huet, et 
 quelques autres Anglaises. J’eus, je vous l’avoue, beaucoup de 
 plaisir en revoyant le bon et agr6able Tristram. ... II avait 
 et4 assez longtemps & Toulouse, oil il se serait amuse sans sa 
 femme, qui le poursuivit partout, et qui voulait etre de tout. 
 Ces dispositions dans cette bonne dame lui ont fait passer 
 d’assez mauvais momens; il supporte tous ces desagremens avec 
 une patience d’ange.” 
 
 About four months after this very characteristic letter, 
 Sterne wrote to the same gentleman to whom Tollot had written ; 
 and from his letter we may extract a companion paragraph : — 
 
 “ . . . All which being premised, I have been for eight 
 weeks smitten with the tenderest passion that ever tender 
 wight underwent. I wish, dear cousin, thou couldst conceive 
 (perhaps thou canst without my wishing it) how judiciously 
 I cantered away with it the first month, two up, two down, 
 always upon my hanches , along the streets from my hotel to 
 hers, at first once, then twice, then three times a day, till at 
 length I was within an ace of setting up my hobby-horse in her 
 stable for good and all. I might as well, considering how the 
 enemies of the Lord have blasphemed thereupon. The last 
 three weeks we were every hour upon the doleful ditty of part- 
 ing; and thou mayst conceive, dear cousin, how it altered my 
 gait and air : for I went and came like any louden’d carl, and 
 did nothing but jouer (les sentimens with her from sun-rising 
 even to the setting of the same ; and now she is gone to the 
 South of France; and to finish the comedie, I fell ill and broke 
 a vessel in my lungs, and half bled to death. Voila mon 
 histoire! ” 
 
 Whether husband or wife had most of the ** patience 
 d'ange ” may be uncertain; but there can be no doubt which 
 needed it most ! 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH 
 
 255 
 
 ing,* the occupier of Rabelais’s easy-chair, 
 only fresh stuffed and more elegant than when 
 in possession of the cynical old curate of 
 Meudon,f — the more than rival of the Dean 
 of St. Patrick’s, wrote the above-quoted re- 
 spectable letter to his friend in London : and 
 it was in April of the same year that he saw 
 pouring out his fond heart to Mrs. Elizabeth 
 
 * “ ‘ Tristram Shandy ’ is still a greater object of admiration, 
 the man as well as the book : one is invited to dinner, where he 
 dines, a fortnight before. As to the volumes yet published, 
 there is much good fun in them and humor sometimes hit and 
 sometimes missed. Have you read his ‘ Sermons,’ with his 
 own comick figure, from a painting by Reynolds, at the head of 
 them ? They are in the style I think most proper for the pulpit, 
 and show a strong imagination and a sensible heart; but you 
 see him often tottering on the verge of laughter, and ready to 
 throw his periwig in the face of the audience.” — Gray’s 
 Letters: June 22nd, 1760. 
 
 “ Tt having been observed that there was little hospitality in 
 London — Johnson : * Nay, sir, any man who has a name, or who 
 has the power of pleasing, will be very generally invited in Lon- 
 don. The man, Sterne, I have been told, has had engagements 
 for three months.’ Goldsmith : ‘And a very dull fellow.’ John- 
 son : ‘ Why, no, sir.’ ” — Boswell’s Life of Johnson, 
 
 “Her [Miss Monckton’s] vivacity enchanted the sage, and 
 they used to talk together with all imaginable ease. A singular 
 instance happened one evening, when she insisted that some of 
 Sterne’s writings were very pathetic. Johnson bluntly denied it. 
 ‘ I am sure,’ said she, ‘ they have affected me.* ‘ Why,’ said John- 
 son, smiling, and rolling himself about, ‘that is, because, dear- 
 est, you ’re a dunce.* When she some time afterwards mentioned 
 this to him, he said with equal truth and politeness, ‘ Madam, if 
 I had thought so, I certainly should not have said it.* ” —Ibid. 
 
 t A passage or two from Sterne’s “ Sermons ” may not be 
 without interest here. Is not the following, levelled against the 
 cruelties of the Church of Rome, stamped with the autograph, 
 of the author of the “ Sentimental Journey ”? — 
 
 “ To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the 
 prisons of the Inquisition — behold religion with mercy and 
 justice chained down under her feet, — there, sitting ghastly 
 upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks, and instruments 
 of torment. — Hark ! — what a piteous groan ! — See the melan. 
 choly wretch who uttered it, just brought forth to undergo the 
 anguish of a mock-trial, and endure the utmost pain that a 
 studied system of religious cruelty has been able to invent. 
 Behold this helpless victim delivered up to his tormentors. His 
 body so wasted with sorrow and long confinement , you ’ll see 
 
256 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . 
 
 Draper, wife of 44 Daniel Draper, Esq., Coun- 
 cillor of Bombay, and, in 1775, chief of the 
 factory of Surat — a gentleman very much 
 respected in that quarter of the globe.” 
 
 44 1 got thy letter last night, Eliza,” Sterne 
 writes, 44 on my return from Lord Bathurst’s, 
 where I dined ” — (the letter has this merit in 
 it, that it contains a pleasant reminiscence of 
 
 every nerve and muscle as it suffers. — Observe the last move- 
 ment of that horrid engine. — What convulsions it has thrown 
 him into! Consider the nature of the posture in which he now 
 lies stretched. — What exquisite torture he endures by it! — 
 *T is all nature can bear. — Good God! see how it keeps his 
 weary soul hanging upon his trembling lips, willing to take its 
 leave, but not suffered to depart. Behold the unhappy wretch 
 led back to his cell, dragg’d out of it again to meet the flames — 
 and the insults in his last agonies, which this principle — this 
 principle, that there can be religion without morality — has pre- 
 pared for him.” — Sermon 21th. 
 
 The next extract is preached on a text to be found in Judges 
 xix. vv. 1, 2, 3, concerning a “ certain Levite ” : — 
 
 “ Such a one the Levite wanted to share his solitude and fill 
 up that uncomfortable blank in the heart in such a situation : for, 
 notwithstanding all we meet with in books, in many of -which, 
 no doubt, there are a good many handsome things said upon the 
 
 man to be alone': nor can all w 
 
 stuns our ears with upon the subject, ever give one answer of 
 satisfaction to the mind ; in the midst of the loudest vauntings 
 of philosophy, nature will have her yearnings for society and 
 friendship; — a good heart wants some object to be kind to; 
 and the best parts of our blood, and the purest of our spirits, 
 suffer most under the destitution. 
 
 “ Let the torpid monk seek Heaven comfortless and alone. 
 God speed him! For my own part, I fear 1 should never so 
 find the way : let me be wise and religous , but let me be Man; 
 wherever thy Providence places me, or whatever be the road I 
 take to Thee, give me some companion in my journey, be it only 
 to remark to, ‘How our shadows lengthen as our sun goes 
 down ’ ; — to whom I may say, ‘ How fresh is the face of Nature ; 
 how sweet the flowers of the field! how delicious are these 
 fruits ! ’ ” — Sermon 18 th. 
 
 The first of these passages gives ns another drawing of the 
 famous “ Captive.” The second shows that the same reflection 
 was suggested to the Rev. Laurence by a text in Judges as by 
 the fille-de-chambre. 
 
 Iterne’s Sermons were published as those of ** Mr. Yoriek." 
 
 sweets of retirement, etc. 
 
STEBNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 257 
 
 better men than Sterne, and introduces us to a 
 portrait of a kind old gentleman) — u I got thy 
 letter last night, Eliza, on my return from 
 Lord Bathurst’s ; and where I was heard — as 
 I talked of thee an hour without intermission 
 — with so much pleasure and attention, that 
 the good old Lord toasted your health three 
 different times ; and now he is in his eighty- 
 fifth year, says he hopes to live long enough to 
 be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian 
 disciple, and to see her eclipse all other 
 Nabobesses as much in wealth as she does 
 already in exterior and, what is far better ” 
 (for Sterne is nothing without his morality), 
 “ in interior merit. This nobleman is an old 
 friend of mine. You know he was always the 
 protector of men of wit and genius, and hr.s 
 had those of the last century, Addison, Steele, 
 Pope, Swift, Prior, etc., always at his table. 
 The manner in which his notice began of me 
 was as singular as it was polite. He came up 
 to me one day as I was at the Princess of 
 Wales’s court, and said, 4 1 want to know you, 
 Mr. Sterne, but it is fit you also should know 
 who it is that wishes this pleasure. You have 
 heard of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom your 
 Popes and Swifts have sung and spoken so 
 much? I have lived my life with geniuses of 
 that cast ; but have survived them ; and, 
 despairing ever to find their equals, it is some 
 years since I have shut up my books and 
 closed my accounts ; but you have kindled a 
 desire in me of opening them once more before 
 I die : which I now do : so go home and dine 
 17 
 
258 
 
 English iiumobists. 
 
 with me.’ This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy, 
 for he has all the wit and promptness of a 
 man of thirty ; a disposition to be pleased and 
 a power to please others, beyond whatever I 
 knew : added to which a man of learning, 
 courtesy, and feeling. 
 
 u He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with un- 
 common satisfaction — for there was only a 
 third person, and of sensibility , with us : and 
 a most sentimental afternoon till nine o’clock 
 have we passed ! * But thou, Eliza, wert the 
 star that conducted and enlivened the dis- 
 course ! And when I talked not of thee, still 
 didst thou fill my mind, and warm every thought 
 I uttered, for I am not ashamed to acknowledge 
 I greatly miss thee. Best of all good girls ! 
 — the sufferings I have sustained all night in 
 consequence of thine, Eliza, are beyond the 
 power of words. . . . And so thou hast fixed 
 thy Brainin’ s portrait over thy writing-desk, 
 and wilt consult it in all doubts and difficulties. 
 
 * “ I am glad that you are in love : ’t will cure you at least 
 of the spleen, which has a bad effect on both man and woman. 
 1 myself must ever have some Dulcinea in my head ; it harmo- 
 nizes the soul; and in these cases I first endeavor to make thj 
 lady believe so, or rather, I begin first to make myself believe 
 that I am in love ; but I carry on my affairs quite in the French 
 way, sentimentally : ‘ V amour? say they, ‘ n'est rien sans senti- 
 ment Now, notwithstanding they make such a pother about 
 the word , they have no precise idea annexed to it. And so 
 much for that same subject called love.” — Sterne’s Letters : 
 May 23, 1765. 
 
 “P. S. — My * Sentimental Journey’ will please Mrs. J 
 
 and my Lydia ” [his daughter, afterwards Mrs. Medalle] : “ I 
 can answer for those two. It is a subject which works well, 
 and suits the frame of mind I have been in for some time past. 
 I told you my design in it was to teach us to love the world and 
 our fellow-creatures better than we do — so it runs most upon 
 those gentler passions and affections which aid so much to it,” 
 — Letters [1767]. 
 
STEBNE AND GOLD SMITE . 259 
 
 Grateful and good girl ! Yorick smiles con- 
 tentedly over all thou dost ; his picture does 
 not do justice to his own complacency. I am 
 glad your shipmates are friendly beings ” 
 (Eliza was at Deal, going back to the Coun- 
 cillor at Bombay, and indeed it was high time 
 she should be off) . 4 4 You could least dispense 
 
 with what is contrary to your own nature, 
 which is soft and gentle, Eliza ; it would 
 civilize savages — though pity were it thou 
 shouldst be tainted with the office. Write to 
 me, my child, thy delicious letters. Let them 
 speak the easy carelessness of a heart that 
 opens itself anyhow, everyhow. Such,Eiza,I 
 write to thee ! ” (The artless rogue, of course 
 he did !) 44 And so I should ever love thee, 
 
 most artlessly, most affectionately, if Provi- 
 dence permitted thy residence in the same 
 section of the globe : for I am all that honor 
 and affection can make me 4 Thy Bramin.’ ” 
 The Bramin continues addressing Mrs. 
 Draper until the departure of the 44 Earl of 
 Chatham ” Indiaman from Deal, on the 2d of 
 April, 1767. He is amiably anxious about the 
 fresh paint for Eliza’s cabin ; he is uncom- 
 monly solicitous about her companions on 
 board: 44 1 fear the best of your shipmates 
 are only genteel by comparison with the con- 
 trasted crew with which thou belioldest them. 
 So was — you know who — from the same fal- 
 lacy which was put upon your judgment when 
 — but I will not mortify you ! ” 
 
 44 You know who” was, of course, Daniel 
 Draper, Esq., of Bombay — a gentleman very 
 
260 
 
 ENGLISH II UM OBIS TS. 
 
 much respected in that quarter of the globe, 
 and about whose probable health our worthy 
 Bramin writes with delightful candor : — 
 u I honor you, Eliza, for keeping secret 
 some things which, if explained, had been a 
 panegyric on yourself. There is a dignity in 
 venerable affliction which will not allow it to 
 appeal to the world for pity or redress. Well 
 have you supported that character, my ami- 
 able, my philosophic friend ! And, indeed, I 
 begin to think you have as many virtues as 
 my Uncle Toby’s widow. Talking of widows 
 — pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not 
 think of giving yourself to some wealthy Na- 
 bob, because I design to marry you myself. 
 My wife cannot live long, and I know not the 
 woman I should like so well for her substi- 
 tute as yourself. ’T is true I am ninety-five 
 in constitution, and you but tweffly-five ; but 
 what I want in youth, I will make up in wit 
 and good-humor. Not Swift so loved his 
 Stella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his 
 Saccharissa. Tell me, in answer to this, that 
 you approve and honor the proposal.” 
 
 Approve and honor the proposal ! The 
 coward was writing gay letters to his friends 
 this while, with sneering allusions to this poor 
 foolish Brcimine. Her shipw r as not out of the 
 Downs and the charming Sterne was at the 
 u Mount Coffee-house,” with a sheet of gilt- 
 edged paper before him, offering that precious 
 
 treasure his heart to Lady P , asking 
 
 whether it gave her pleasure to see him un- 
 happy ; whether it added to her triumph that 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 261 
 
 her eyes and lips had turned a man into a 
 fool ; — quoting the Lord’s Prayer, with a 
 horrible baseness of blasphemy, as a proof 
 that he had desired not to be led into tempta- 
 tion, and swearing himself the most tender 
 and sincere fool in the world. It was from 
 his home at Coxwould that he wrote the Latin 
 Letter, which, I suppose, he was ashamed to 
 put into English. I find in my copy of the 
 Letters, that there is a note of I can’t call it 
 admiration, at Letter 112, which seems to 
 announce that there was a No. 3 to whom the 
 wretched worn-out old scamp was paying his 
 addresses ; * and the year after, having come 
 back to his lodgings in Bond Street, with his 
 6 4 Sentimental Journey” to launch upon the 
 town, eager as ever for praise and pleasure — 
 
 *“To Mrs. H . 
 
 “ Coxwould, Nov. 15, 176T. 
 
 “ Now be a good dear woman, my H , and execute those 
 
 commissions well, and when I see you I will give you a kiss — 
 there *s for you ! But I have something else for you which I am 
 fabricating at a great rate, and that is my ‘ Sentimental Journey,* 
 which shall make you cry as much as it has affected me, or I will 
 give up the business of sentimental writing. . . . 
 
 “ I am yours, etc., etc., 
 
 “T. Shandy.” 
 
 “To the Earl of 
 
 “ Coxwould, Nov. 28, 1767. 
 
 “ My Lord , — *T is with the greatest pleasure I take my pen 
 to thank your lordship for your letter of inquiry about Yorick : 
 he was worn out, both his spirits and body, with the ‘ Sentimental 
 Journey.’ ’Tis true, then, an author must feel himself, or his 
 reader will not; but I have torn my whole frame into pieces by 
 my feelings : I believe the brain stands as much in need of recruit- 
 ing as the body. Therefore I shall set out for town the twentieth 
 of next month, after having recruited myself a week at York. I 
 might indeed solace myself with my wife (who is come from 
 France) ; but, in fact, I have long been a sentimental being, what- 
 ever your lordship may think to the contrary.” 
 
262 
 
 ENGLISH HTJMOBISTS. 
 
 as vain, as wicked, as witty, as false as he 
 had ever been — death at length seized the 
 feeble wretch, and on the 18th of March, 
 1768, that u bale of cadaverous goods/’ as he 
 calls his body, was consigned to Pluto.* In 
 his last letter there is one sign of grace — the 
 real affection with which he entreats a friend 
 to be a guardian to his daughter Lydia. All 
 his letters to her are artless, kind, affection- 
 ate, and not sentimental ; as a hundred pages 
 in his writings are beautiful, and full, not of 
 surprising humor merely, but of genuine love 
 and kindness. A perilous trade, indeed, is 
 that of a man who has to bring his tears and 
 laughter, his recollections, his personal griefs 
 and joys, his private thoughts and feelings to 
 market to write them on paper, and sell them 
 for money. Does he exaggerate his grief, so 
 
 *“ In February, 1768, Laurence Sterne, his frame exhausted 
 by long debilitating illness, expired at his lodgings in Bond Street, 
 London. There was something in the manner of his death sin- 
 gularly resembling the particulars detailed by Mrs. Quickly as 
 attending that of Falstajf the compeer of Yorick for infinite jest, 
 however unlike in other particulars. As he lay on his bed totally 
 exhausted, he complained that his feet were cold, and requested 
 the female attendant to chafe them. She did so, and it seemed 
 to relieve him. He complained that the cold came up higher; 
 and whilst the assistant was in the act of chafing his ankles and 
 legs, he expired without a groan. It was also remarkable that 
 his death took place much in the manner which he himself had 
 wished; and that the last offices were rendeied him, not in his 
 own house, or by the hand of kindred affection, but in an inn, 
 and by strangers. 
 
 “ We are well acquainted with Sterne’s features and personal 
 appearance, to which he himself frequently alludes. He was tall 
 and thin, with a hectic and consumptive appearance.” — Sir 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 “It is known that Sterne died in hired lodgings, and I have 
 been told that his attendants robbed him even of his gold sleeve- 
 buttons while he was expiring.” — Dr. Ferriar. 
 
 “He died a! No. 41, now a cheesemonger’s on the west side 
 of Old Bond Street,” — Handbook of London. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 263 
 
 as to get his reader’s pity for a false sensi- 
 bility ? feign indignation, so as to establish a 
 character for virtue? elaborate repartees, so 
 that he may pass for a wit ? steal from other 
 authors, and put down the theft to the credit 
 side of his own reputation for ingenuity and 
 learning? feign originality? affect benevo- 
 lence or misanthropy? appeal to the gallery 
 gods with claptraps and vulgar baits to catch 
 applause ? 
 
 How much of the paint and emphasis is 
 necessary for the fair business of the stage, 
 and how much of the rant and rouge is put on 
 for the vanity of the actor? His audience 
 trusts him : can he trust himself ? How much 
 was deliberate calculation and imposture — 
 how much was false sensibility — and how 
 much true feeling ? Where did the lie begin, 
 and did he know where? and where did the 
 truth end in the art and scheme of this man of 
 genius, this actor, this quack ? Some time 
 since, I was in the company of a French actor 
 who began after dinner, and at his own re- 
 quest, to sing French songs of the sort called 
 des chansons gricoises , and which he performed 
 admirably, and to the dissatisfaction of most 
 persons present. Having finished these, he 
 commenced a sentimental ballad ; it was so 
 charmingly sung, that it touched all persons 
 present, and especially the singer himself, 
 whose voice trembled, whose eyes filled with 
 emotion, and who was snivelling and weeping 
 quite genuine tears by the time his own ditty 
 was over, I suppose Sterne had this artisti- 
 
264 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 cal sensibility ; lie used to blubber perpetually 
 in his study, and finding his tears infectious, 
 and that they brought him a great popularity, 
 he exercised the lucrative gift of weeping : 
 he utilized it, and cried on every occasion. 
 I own that I don’t value or respect much 
 the cheap dribble of those fountains. He 
 fatigues me with his perpetual disquiet and 
 his uneasy appeals to my risible or sentimental 
 faculties. He is always looking in my face, 
 watching his effect, uncertain whether I think 
 him an impostor or not ; posture-making, 
 coaxing, and imploring me. u See what sen- 
 sibility I have — own now that I’m very 
 clever — do cry now, you can’t resist this.” 
 The humor of Swift and Rabelais, whom he 
 pretended to succeed, poured from them as 
 naturally as song does from a bird ; they lose 
 no manly dignity with it, but laugh their 
 hearty great laugh out of their broad chests 
 as nature bade them. But this man — who 
 can make you laugh, who can make you cry 
 too — -never lets his reader alone, or will per- 
 mit his audience repose : when you are quiet, 
 he fancies he must rouse you, and turns 
 over head and heels, or sidles up and whis- 
 pers a nasty story. The man is a great jester, 
 not a great humorist. He goes to work sys- 
 tematically and of cold blood ; paints his face, 
 puts on his ruff and motley clothes, and lays 
 down his carpet and tumbles on it. 
 
 For instance, take the u Sentimental Jour- 
 ney,” and see in the writer the deliberate pro- 
 pensity to make points and seek applause. He 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 265 
 
 gets to 44 Dessein’s Hotel, 1 ” lie wants a carriage 
 to travel to Paris, he goes to the inn-yard, 
 and begins wlnt the actors call 44 business” 
 at once. There is that little carriage (the 
 desobligeanie ) . 44 Four months had elapsed 
 
 since it had finished it careers of Europe in 
 the corner of Monsieur Dessein’s coach-yard, 
 and having sallied out thence but a vamped- 
 up business at first, though it had been twice 
 taken to pieces on Mont Cenis, it had not 
 profited much by its adventures, but by none 
 so little as the standing so many months un- 
 pitied in the corner of Monsieur Dessein’s 
 coach-yard. Much, indeed, w r as not to be 
 said for it — but something might — and when 
 a few words will rescue misery out of her 
 distress, I hate the man who can be a churl 
 of them.” 
 
 Le t ,ur est fait ! Paillasse has tumbled ! 
 Paillasse has jumped over the desobligeante, 
 cleared it, hood and all, and bows to the noble 
 company. Does anybody believe that this is a 
 real Sentiment? that this luxury of generosity, 
 this gallant rescue of Misery — out of an old 
 cab, is genuine feeling? It is as genuine as 
 the virtuous oratory of Joseph Surface when 
 he begins, 44 The man who,” etc., etc., and 
 wishes to pass off for a saint with his credu- 
 lous, good-humored dupes. 
 
 Our friend purchases the carriage : after 
 turning that notorious old monk to good 
 account, and effecting (like a soft and good- 
 natured Paillasse as he was, and very free 
 with his money when he had it) an exchange 
 
266 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS . . 
 
 of snuff-boxes with the old Franciscan, jogs 
 out of Calais ; sets down in immense figures 
 on the credit side of his account the sous he 
 gives away to the Montreuil beggars ; and, at 
 Nampont, gets out of the chaise and whim- 
 pers over that famous dead donkey, for which 
 any sentimentalist may cry who will. It is 
 agreeably and skilfully done — that dead jack- 
 ass : like M. de Soubise’s cook on the cam- 
 paign, Sterne dresses it, and serves it up 
 quite tender and with a very piquante sauce. 
 But tears and fine feelings, and a white 
 pocket handkerchief, and a funeral sermon, 
 and horses and feathers, and a procession of 
 mutes, and a hearse with a dead donkey in- 
 side ! Psha, mountebank ! I ’ll not give thee 
 one penny more for that trick, donkey and all ! 
 
 This donkey had appeared once before with 
 signal effect. In 1765, three years before the 
 publication of the “ Sentimental Journey,” the 
 seventh and eighth volumes of u Tristram 
 Shandy” were given to the world, and the 
 famous Lyons donkey makes his entry in 
 those volumes (pp. 315, 316) : — 
 
 u ’T was by a poor ass, with a couple of 
 large panniers at his back, who had just 
 turned in to collect eleemosynary turnip-tops 
 and cabbage-leaves, and stood dubious, with 
 his two forefeet at the inside of the threshold, 
 and with his two hinder feet towards the 
 street, as not knowing very well whether he 
 was to go in or no. 
 
 44 Now ’t is an animal (be in what hurry I 
 may) I cannot bear to strike : there is a 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 267 
 
 patient endurance of suffering wrote so un- 
 affectedly in his looks and carriage which 
 pleads so mightily for him, that it always dis- 
 arms me, and to that degree that I do not like 
 to speak unkindly to him : on the contrary, 
 meet him where I will, whether in town or 
 country, in cart or under panniers, whether in 
 liberty or bondage, I have ever something civil 
 to say to him on my part ; and, as one word 
 begets another (if he has as little to do as I), 
 I generally fall into conversation with him ; 
 and surely never is my imagination so busy as 
 in framing responses from the etchings of his 
 countenance ; and where those carry me not 
 deep enough, in flying from my own heart into 
 his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to 
 think — as well as a man, upon the occasion. 
 In truth, it is the only creature of all the 
 classes of beings below me with whom I can 
 do this. . . . With an ass I can commune 
 forever. 
 
 44 4 Come, Honesty,’ said I, seeing it was 
 impracticable to pass betwixt him and the 
 gate, ‘art thou for coming in or going out?’ 
 
 44 The ass twisted his head round to look up 
 the street. 
 
 44 6 Well ! ’ replied I, 4 we ’ll wait a minute 
 for thy driver.’ 
 
 44 He turned his head thoughtful about, and 
 looked wistfully the opposite way. 
 
 4 4 4 1 understand thee perfectly,’ answered I : 
 4 if thou takest a wrong step in this affair, he 
 will cudgel thee to death. Well ! a minute is 
 but a minute ; and if it gayes a fellow-creature 
 
268 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 a drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill- 
 spent/ 
 
 44 He was eating the stem of an artichoke 
 as this discourse went on, and, in the little 
 peevish contentions between hunger and unsa- 
 voriness, had dropped it out of his mouth half 
 a dozen times, and had picked it up again. 
 4 God help thee, Jack ! ’ said I, 4 thou hast a 
 bitter breakfast on ’t, and many a bitter day’s 
 labor, and many a bitter blow, I fear, for its 
 wages ! ’T is all, all bitterness to thee — 
 whatever life is to others ! And now thy 
 mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, 
 I dare say, as soot’ (for he had cast aside the 
 stem), 4 and thou hast not a friend perhaps in 
 all this world that will give thee a macaroon.’ 
 In saying this, I pulled out a paper of ’em, 
 which I had just bought, and gave him one ; 
 and, at this moment that I am telling it, 
 my heart smites me that there was more of 
 pleasantry in the conceit of seeing liow an ass 
 would eat a macaroon, than of benevolence in 
 giving him one, which presided in the act. 
 
 44 When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I 
 pressed him to come in. The poor beast was 
 heavy loaded — his legs seemed to tremble 
 under him — he hung rather backwards, and, 
 as I pulled at his halter, it broke in my hand. 
 He looked up pensive in my face : 4 Don’t 
 thrash me with it ; but if vou will you may.’ 
 4 If I do,’ said I, 4 1 ’ll be d .’ ” 
 
 A critic who refuses to see in this charming 
 description wit, humor, pathos, a kind nature 
 speaking, and a real sentiment, must be hard 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 269 
 
 indeed to move and to please. A page or two 
 farther we come to a description not less beau- 
 tiful — a landscape and figures, deliciously 
 painted by one who had the keenest enjoyment 
 and the most tremulous sensibility : — 
 
 U T was in the road between Nismes and 
 Lunel, where is the best Muscatto wine in all 
 France : the sun was set, they had done their 
 work : the nymphs had tied up their hair 
 afresh, and the swains were preparing for a 
 carousal. My mule made a dead point. 
 4 ’T is the pipe and tambourine/ said 1 : 4 1 
 never will argue a point with one of your 
 family as long as I live ’ ; so leaping off his 
 back, and kicking off one boot into this ditch 
 and t’ other into that, 4 1 ’ll take a dance/ said 
 I, 4 so stay you here.’ 
 
 44 A sunburnt daughter of labor rose up 
 from the group to meet me as I advanced 
 towards them ; her hair, which was a dark 
 chestnut approaching to a black, was tied up 
 in a knot, all but a single tress. 
 
 4 4 4 We want a cavalier/ said she, holding 
 out both her hands, as if to offer them. 4 And 
 a cavalier you shall have/ said I, taking hold 
 of both of them. 4 We could not have done 
 without you/ said she, letting go one hand, 
 with self-taught politeness, and leading me up 
 with the other. 
 
 44 A lame youth, whom Apollo had recom- 
 pensed with a pipe, and to which he had 
 added a tambourine of his own accord, ran 
 sweetly over the prelude, as he sat upon the 
 bank. 4 Tie me up this tress instantly/ said 
 
270 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 Nannette, pitting a piece of string into my 
 hand. It taught me to forget I was a stranger. 
 The whole knot fell down — we had been 
 seven ^years acquainted. The youth struck the 
 note upon the tambourine, his pipe followed, 
 and off we bounded. 
 
 44 The sister of the youth — who had stolen 
 her voice from heaven — sang alternately with 
 her brother. ’T was a Gacnoigne roundelay : 
 4 Viva la joia, jidon latristessa.’ The nymphs 
 joined in unison, and their swains an octave 
 below them. 
 
 “Viva la joia was in Nannette’s lips, viva 
 la joia in her eyes. A transient spark of 
 amity shot across the space betwixt us. She 
 looked amiable. Why could I not live and 
 end my days thus ? 4 Just Disposer of our joys 
 and sorrows ! ’ cried I, 4 why could not a man 
 sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, 
 and sing, and say his prayers, and go to 
 heaven with this nut-brown maid?’ Capri- 
 ciously did she bend her head on one side, and 
 dance up insidious. 4 Then ’t is time to dance 
 off/ quoth I.” 
 
 And with this pretty dance and chorus, the 
 volume artfully concludes. Even here one 
 can’t give the whole description. There is not 
 a page in Sterne’s writing but has something 
 that were better away, a latent corruption — a 
 hint, as of an impure presence.* 
 
 *“ With regard to Sterne, and the charge of licentiousness 
 which presses so seriously upon his character as a writer, I 
 would remark that there is a sort of knowingness, the wit of 
 which depends, 1st, on the modesty it gives pain to; or, 2dly, 
 on the innocence and innocent ignorance over which it triumphs ; 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH . 
 
 271 
 
 Some of that dreary double entendre may be 
 attributed to freer times and manners than 
 ours, but not all. The foul Satyr’s eyes leer 
 out of the leaves constantly : the last words 
 the famous author wrote were bad and wicked 
 — the last lines the poor stricken wretch 
 penned were for pity and pardon. I think of 
 these past writers and of one who lives 
 amongst us now, and am grateful for the in- 
 nocent laughter and the sweet and unsullied 
 page which the author of u David Copper- 
 field ” gives to my children. 
 
 “ Jete sur cette bottle, 
 
 Laid, chetif et souffrant ; 
 
 Etouffe dans la foule, 
 
 Faute d’etre assez grand : 
 
 or, 3dly, on a certain oscillation in the individual’s own mind 
 between the remaining good and the encroaching evil of his 
 nature — a sort of dallying with the devil — a fluxionary art of 
 combining courage and cowardice, as when a man snuffs a can- 
 dle with his fingers for the first time, or better still, perhaps, like 
 that trembling daring with which a child touches a hot tea-urn, 
 because it has been forbidden; so that the mind has its own 
 white and black angel; the same or similar amusement as may 
 be supposed to take place between an old debauchee and a prude 
 — the feeling resentment, on the one hand, from a prudential 
 anxiety to preserve appearances and have a character; and, on 
 the other, an inward sympathy with the enemy. We have only 
 to suppose society innocent, and then nine tenths of this sort of 
 wit would be like a stone that falls in snow, making no sound, 
 because exciting no resistance; the remainder rests on its being 
 an offence against the good manners of human nature itself. 
 
 “ This source, unworthy as it is, may doubtless be combined 
 with wit, drollery, fancy, and even humor; and we have only 
 to regret the misalliance ; but that the latter are quite distinct 
 from the former, may be made evident by abstracting in our 
 imagination the morality of the characters of Mr. Shandy, my 
 Uncle Toby, and Trim, which are all antagonists to this spurious 
 sort of wit, from the rest of ‘ Tristram Shandy,’ and by suppos- 
 ing, instead of them, the presence of two or three callous de- 
 bauchees. The result will be pure disgust. Sterne cannot be 
 too severely censured for thus using the best dispositions of our 
 nature as the panders and condiments for the basest,” — COLE* 
 ridge : Literary Remains , vol. i. pp. 141, 142. 
 
2 72 
 
 ENGLISH IIUMOIUSTS. 
 
 “ Une plainte touchante 
 De ma bouche sortit. 
 
 Le bon Dieu me dit : Chante, 
 
 Chante, pauvre petit! 
 
 “ Chanter, ou je m’abuse, 
 
 Est ma tache ici-bas. 
 
 Tous ceux qu’ainsi j ’amuse, 
 
 ]STe m’aimeront-ils pas ? ” 
 
 In those charming lines of Beranger, one 
 may fancy described the career, the sufferings, 
 the genius, the gentle nature of Goldsmith, 
 and the esteem in which we hold him. Who, 
 of the millions whom he has amused, does n’t 
 love him? To be the most beloved of Eng- 
 lish writers, what a title that is for a man ! * 
 A wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness 
 and affection, quits the country village, where 
 his boyhood has been passed in happy musing, 
 in idle shelter, in fond longing to see the. great 
 world out of doors, and achieve name and for- 
 tune ; and after years of dire struggle, and 
 neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as 
 fondly to his native place as it had longed 
 eagerly for change when sheltered there, he 
 writes a book and a poem, full of the recol- 
 
 *“ He was a friend to virtue, and in his most playful pages 
 never forgets what is due to it. A gentleness, delicacy, and 
 purity of feeling distinguishes whatever he wrote, and hears a 
 correspondence to the generosity of a disposition which knew no 
 bounds but his last guinea. . . . 
 
 “ The admirable ease and grace of the narrative, as well as the 
 pleasing truth with which the principal characters are designed, 
 make the ‘ Vicar of Wakefield ’ one of the most delicious morsels 
 of fictitious composition on which the human mind was ever 
 employed. 
 
 “ . . . We read the * Vicar of Wakefield ’ in youth and in age 
 
 — we return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an 
 author who contrives so well to reconcile us to human nature.” 
 
 — Sir Walter Scott. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 273 
 
 lections and feelings of home : he paints the 
 friends and scenes of his youth, and peoples 
 Auburn and Wakefield with remembrances of 
 Lissoy. Wander he must, but he carries away 
 a home-relic with him, and dies with it on his 
 breast. His nature is truant ; in repose it 
 longs for change : as on the journey it looks 
 back for friends and quiet. He passes to-day 
 in building an air-castle for to-morrow, or in 
 writing yesterday’s elegy ; and he would fly 
 away this hour, but that a cage and necessity 
 keep him. What is the charm of his verse, 
 of his style, and humor? His sweet regrets, 
 his delicate compassion, his soft smile, his 
 tremulous sympathy, the weakness which he 
 owns? Your love for him is half pity. You 
 come hot and tired from the day’s battle, and 
 this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could 
 harm the kind vagrant harper? Whom did 
 he ever hurt? He carries no weapon, save 
 the harp on which he plays to you ; and with 
 which he delights great and humble, young 
 and old, the captains in the tents, or the sol- 
 diers round the fire, or the women and children 
 in the villages, at whose porches he stops and 
 sings his simple songs of love and beaut} 7 . 
 With that sweet story of the u Vicar of Wake- 
 field”* he has found entry into every castle 
 
 *“Now Herder came,” says Goethe in his Autobiography, 
 relating his first acquaintance with Goldsmith’s masterpiece, 
 “ and together with his great knowledge brought many other 
 aids, and the later publications besides. Among these he an- 
 nounced to us the ‘ Vicar of Wakefield ’ as an excellent work, 
 with the German translation of which he would make us ac.. 
 quainted by reading it aloud to us himself. . . . 
 
 “A Protestant country clergyman is perhaps the most beau- 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 and every hamlet in Europe. Not one of us, 
 however busy or hard, but once or twice in 
 our lives has passed an evening with him, and 
 undergone the charm of his delightful music. 
 
 Goldsmith’s father was no doubt the good 
 
 tiful subject for a modern idyl; he appears like Melchizedeck, 
 as priest and king in one person. To the most innocent situation 
 which can be imagined on earth, to that of a husbandman, he is, 
 for the most part, united by similarity of occupation as well as 
 by equality in family relationships; he is a father, a master of a 
 family, an agriculturist, and thus perfectly a member of the 
 community. On this pure, beautiful earthly foundation rests 
 his higher calling; to him is it given to guide men through life, 
 to take care of their spiritual education, to bless them at all the 
 leading epochs of their existence, to instruct, to strengthen, to 
 console them, Mid if consolation is not sufficient for the present, 
 to call up and guarantee the hope of a happier future. Imagine 
 such a man with pure human sentiments, strong enough not to 
 deviate from them under any circumstances, and by this already 
 elevated above the multitude of whom one cannot expect purity 
 and firmness ; give him the learning necessary for his office, as 
 well as a cheerful, equable activity, which is even passionate, as 
 it neglects no moment to do good — and you will have him well 
 endowed. But at the same time add the necessary limitation, so 
 that he must not only pause in a small circle, but may also, per- 
 chance, pass over to a smaller ; grant him good-nature, placability, 
 resolution, and everything else praiseworthy that springs from 
 a decided character, and over all this a cheerful spirit of compli- 
 ance, and a smiling toleration of his own failings and those of 
 others, — then you will have put together pretty well the image 
 of our excellent Wakefield. 
 
 “ The delineation of this character on his course of life through 
 joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the story, by 
 the combination of the entirely natural with the strange and the 
 singular, make this novel one of the best which has ever been 
 written; besides this, it has the great advantage that it is quite 
 moral, nay, in a pure sense, Christian — represents the reward 
 of a good-will and perseverance in the right, strengthens an un- 
 conditional confidence in God, and attests the final triumph of 
 good over evil; and all this without a trace of cant or pedantry. 
 The author was preserved from both of these by an elevation of 
 mind that shows itself throughout in the form of irony, by which 
 this little work must appear to us as wise as it is amirable. The 
 author, Dr. Goldsmith, has, without question, a great insight 
 into the moral world, into its strength and its infirmities; but at 
 the same time he can thankfully acknowledge that he is an 
 Englishman, and reckon highly the advantages which his country 
 and his nation afford him. The family, with the delineation of 
 which he occupies himself, stands upon one of the last steps of 
 citizen comfort, and yet comes in contact with the highest; its 
 
STEliNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 275 
 
 Doctor Primrose, whom we all of us know.* 
 Swift was yet alive, when the little Oliver was 
 bom at Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the county 
 of Longford, in Ireland. In 1730, two years 
 after the child’s birth, Charles Goldsmith re- 
 moved his family to Lissoy, in the county 
 Westmeath, that sweet 0 4 Auburn” which 
 every person who hears me has seen in fancy. 
 
 narrow circle, which becomes still more contracted, touches upon 
 the great world through the natural and civil course of things; 
 this little skiff floats on the agitated waves of English life, and in 
 weal or woe it has to expect injury or help from the vast fleet 
 which sails around it. 
 
 “ I may suppose that my readers know this work, and have it 
 in memory; whoever hears it named for the first time here, as 
 well as he who is induced to read it again, will thank me.” — 
 Goethe : Truth and Poetry; from my own Life . (English 
 Translation, vol. i. pp. 378, 379.) 
 
 “ He seems from infancy to have been compounded of two 
 natures, one bright, the other blundering; or to have had fairy 
 gifts laid in his cradle by the * good people ’ who haunted his 
 birthplace, the old goblin mansion on the banks of the Inny. 
 
 “He carries with him the wayward elfin spirit, if we may so 
 term it, throughout his career. His fairy gifts are of no avail at 
 school, academy, or college : they unlit him for close study and 
 practical science, and render him heedless of everything that does 
 not address itself to his poetical imagination and genial and festive 
 feelings ; they dispose him to break away from restraint, to stroll 
 about hedges, green lanes, and haunted streams, to revel with 
 jovial companions, or to rove the country like a gypsy in quest of 
 odd adventures. . . . 
 
 “ Though his circumstances often compelled him to associate 
 with the poor, they : lever could betray him into companionship 
 with the depraved., His relish for humor, and for the study of 
 character, as we have before observed, brought him often into 
 convivial company of a vulgar kind ; but he discriminated between 
 their vulgarity and Oioir amusing qualities, or rather wrought 
 from the whole store familiar features of life which form the 
 staple of his most popular writings.” — Washington Irving. 
 
 *“ The family of Goldsmith, Goldsmyth, or, as it was occa- 
 sionally written, Gouldsmith, is of considerable standing in 
 Ireland, and seems always to have held a respectable station in 
 society. Its origin is English, supposed to be derived from that 
 which was long settled at Crayford in Kent.” — Prior’s Life of 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Oliver’s father, great-grandfather, and great-great-grand- 
 father were clergymen ; and two of them married clergymen’s 
 daughters. 
 
276 ENGLISH HUMOBISTS . 
 
 Here the kind parson* brought up his eight 
 children ; and loving all the world, as his son 
 says, fancied all the world loved him. He 
 had a crowd of poor dependants besides those 
 hungry children. He kept an open table ; 
 round which sat flatterers and poor friends, 
 who laughed at the honest rector’s many jokes, 
 and ate the produce of his seventy acres of 
 farm. Those who have seen an Irish house 
 in the present day can fancy that one of Lis- 
 soy. The old beggar still has his allotted 
 corner by the kitchen turf ; the maimed old 
 soldier still gets his potatoes and buttermilk ; 
 the poor cottier still asks his honor’s charity, 
 and prays God bless his reverence for the six- 
 pence ; the ragged pensioner still takes his 
 place by right and sufferance. There ’s still a 
 crowd in the kitchen, and a crowd round the 
 parlor table, profusion, confusion, kindness, 
 poverty. If an Irishman comes to London to 
 make his fortune, he has a half dozen of Irish 
 dependants who take a percentage of his earn- 
 
 *“ At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 
 His looks adorn’d the venerable place ; 
 
 Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway, 
 
 And fools who came to scoff remain’d to pray. 
 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 
 With steady zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
 
 E’en children follow’d with endearing wile, 
 
 And pluck’d his gown to share the good man’s smile. 
 
 His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest, 
 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; 
 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
 
 As some tall cliff that lifts his awful form, 
 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head.” 
 
 The Deserted Village . 
 
STEBNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 277 
 
 ings. The good Charles Goldsmith* left but 
 little provision for his hungry race when death 
 summoned him : and one of his daughters 
 being engaged to a Squire of rather superior 
 dignity, Charles Goldsmith impoverished the 
 rest of his family to provide the girl with a 
 dowry. 
 
 The small-pox, which scourged all Europe 
 at that time, and ravaged the roses off the 
 cheeks of half the world, fell foul of poor 
 little Oliver’s face, when the child was eight 
 years old, and left him scarred and disfigured 
 for his life. An old woman in his father’s 
 village taught him his letters, and pronounced 
 him a dunce : Paddy Byrne, the hedge-school- 
 master, took him in hand ; and from Paddy 
 Byrne, he was transmitted to a clergyman at 
 Elphin. When a child was sent to school in 
 those days, the classic phrase was that he was 
 
 * “ In May this year (1768) , he lost his brother, the Rev. Henry 
 Goldsmith, for whom he had been unable to obtain preferment in 
 the church. . . . 
 
 “ . . . To the curacy of Kilkenny West, the moderate stipend 
 of which, forty pounds a year, is sufficiently celebrated by his 
 brother’s lines, it has been stated that Mr. Goldsmith added a 
 school, which, after having been held at more than one place in 
 the vicinity, was finally fixed at Lissoy. Here his talents and 
 industry gave it celebrity, and under his care the sons of many 
 of the neighboring gentry received their education . A fever break- 
 ing out among the boys about 1765, they dispersed for a time, 
 but reassembling at Athlone, he continued his scholastic labors 
 there until the time of his death, which happened, like that of 
 his brother, about the forty-fifth year of his age. He was a man 
 of an excellent heart and an amiable disposition.” — Prior’s 
 Goldsmith . 
 
 “ Where’er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
 
 My heart, untravell’d, fondly turns to thee : 
 
 Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, 
 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.” 
 
 The Traveller . 
 
278 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 placed under Mr. So-and-so’s ferule . Poor 
 little ancestors ! It is hard to think how ruth- 
 lessly you were birched ; and how much of 
 heedless whipping and tears our small fore- 
 fathers had to undergo! A relative — kind 
 uncle Contarine — took the main charge of 
 little Noll ; who went through his school-days 
 righteously doing as little work as he could : 
 robbing orchards, playing at ball, and making 
 his pocket-money fly about whenever fortune 
 sent it to him. Everybody knows the story of 
 that famous u Mistake of a Night,” when the 
 young school -boy, provided with a guinea and 
 a nag, rode up to the best house ” in Ardagh, 
 called for the landlord’s company over a bot- 
 tle of wine at supper, and for a hot cake for 
 breakfast in the morning ; and fonnd, when 
 he asked for the bill, that the best house was 
 Squire Featherstone’s, and not the inn for 
 which he mistook it. Who does not know 
 every story about Goldsmith? That is a de- 
 lightful and fantastic picture of the child dan- 
 cing and capering about in the kitchen at home-, 
 when the old fiddler gibed at him for his ugli- 
 ness, and called him AEsop ; and little Noll 
 made his repartee of u Heralds proclaim aloud 
 this saying — See JEsop dancing and his mon- 
 key playing.” One can fancy a queer pitiful 
 look of humor and appeal upon that little 
 scarred face — the funny little dancing figure, 
 the funny little brogue. In his life, and his 
 writings, which are the honest expression of 
 it, he is constantly bewailing that homely face 
 and person ; anon he surveys them in the glass 
 
STEBNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 279 
 
 ruefully ; and presently assumes the most com- 
 ical dignity. He likes to deck out his little 
 person in splendor and fine colors. He pre- 
 sented himself to be examined for ordination 
 in a pair of scarlet breeches, and said honestly 
 that he did not like to go into the church, 
 because he was fond of colored clothes. When 
 he tried to practise as a doctor, he got by hook 
 or by crook a black velvet suit, and looked as 
 big and grand as he could, and kept his hat 
 over a patch on the old coat : in better days 
 he bloomed out in plum-color, in blue silk, 
 and in new velvet. For some of those splen- 
 dors the heirs and assignees of Mr. Filby, the 
 tailor, have never been paid to this day : per- 
 haps the kind tailor and his creditor have met 
 and settled their little account in Hades.* 
 They showed until lately a window at Trin- 
 ity College, Dublin, on which the name of O. 
 Goldsmith was engraved with a diamond. 
 Whose diamond was it? Not the young 
 sizar’s, who made but a poor figure in that 
 place of learning. He was idle, penniless, 
 and fond of pleasure : f he learned his way 
 early to the pawnbroker’s shop. He wrote 
 ballads, they say, for the street-singers, who 
 paid him a crown for a poem : and his pleasure 
 
 *“ When Goldsmith died, half the unpaid hill he owed to Mr. 
 William Filby (amounting in all to £79) was for clothes supplied 
 to this nephew Hodson.” — Forster’s Goldsmith , p. 520. 
 
 As this nephew Ilodson ended his days (see the same page) 
 “ a prosperous Irish gentleman,” it is not unreasonable to wish 
 that he had cleared off Mr. Filby’ s bill. 
 
 f “ Poor fellow ! He hardly knew an ass from a mule, nor a 
 turkey from a goose, but when he saw it on the table.” — Cum- 
 berland’s Memoirs . 
 
280 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 was to steal out at night and hear his verses 
 sung. He was chastised by his tutor for giv- 
 ing a dance in his rooms, and took the box on 
 the ear so much to heart, that he packed up 
 his all, pawned his books and little property, 
 and disappeared from college and family. He 
 said he intended to go to America, but when 
 his money was spent, the young prodigal came 
 home ruefully, and the good folks there killed 
 their calf — it was but a lean one — and wel- 
 comed himback. 
 
 After college he hung about his mother’s 
 house, and lived for some years the life of a 
 buckeen — passed a month with this relation 
 and that, a year with one patron, a great deal 
 of time at the public-house.* Tired of this 
 life, it was resolved that he should go to Lon- 
 don, and study at the Temple ; but he got no 
 farther on the road to London and the wool- 
 sack than Dublin, where he gambled away the 
 fifty pounds given to him for his outfit, and 
 whence he returned to the indefatigable for- 
 giveness of home. Then he determined to be- 
 a doctor, and uncle Contarine helped him to a 
 couple of years at Edinburgh. Then from 
 Edinburgh he felt that he ought to hear 
 the famous professors of Leyden and Paris, 
 and wrote most amusing pompous letters to 
 
 *“ These youthful follies, like the fermentation of liquors, 
 often disturb the mind only in order to its future refinement : a 
 life spent in phlegmatic apathy resembles those liquors which 
 never ferment, and are consequently always muddy.” — Gold* 
 smith : Memoir of Voltaire . 
 
 “ He [Johnson] said ‘ Goldsmith was a plant that flowered 
 late. There appeared nothing remarkable about him when he 
 was young.’ ” — Boswell. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 281 
 
 his uncle about the great Farheim, Du Petit, 
 and Duhamel du Monceau, whose lectures 
 he proposed to follow. If uncle Contarine 
 believed those letters, — if Oliver’s mother 
 believed that story which the youth related 
 of his going to Cork, with the purpose of 
 embarking for America, of his having paid 
 his passage-money, and having sent his kit on 
 board ; of the anonymous captain sailing away 
 with Oliver’s valuable luggage, in a nameless 
 ship, never to return, — if uncle Contarine and 
 the mother at Ballymahon believed his stories, 
 they must have been a very simple pair ; as it 
 was a very simple rogue indeed who cheated 
 them. When the lad, after failing in his 
 clerical examination, after failing in his plan 
 for studying the law, took leave of these pro- 
 jects and of his parents, and set out for Edin- 
 burgh, he saw mother, and uncle, and lazy 
 Baltymalion, and green native turf, and spark- 
 ling river for the last time. He was never to 
 look on old Ireland more, and only in fancy 
 revisit her. 
 
 “ But me not destined such delights to share, 
 
 My prime of life in wandering spent and care, 
 Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
 Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view ; 
 That like the circle bounding earth and skies 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
 
 My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
 
 And find no spot of all the world my own.” 
 
 I spoke in a former lecture of that high 
 courage which enabled Fielding, in spite of 
 disease, remorse, and poverty, always to re- 
 tain a cheerful spirit and to keep his manly 
 
282 
 
 ENGLISH HUMOHISTS . 
 
 benevolence and love of truth intact, as if 
 these treasures had been confided to him for 
 the public benefit, and he was accountable to 
 posterity for their honorable employ ; and a 
 constancy equally happy and admirable I think 
 was shown by Goldsmith, whose sweet and 
 friendly nature bloomed kindly always in the 
 midst of a life’s storm, and rain, and bitter 
 weather. * The poor fellow was never so 
 
 friendless but he could befriend some one ; 
 never so pinched and wretched but he could 
 give of his crust, and speak his word of com- 
 passion. If he had but his flute left, he could 
 give that, and make the children happy in the 
 dreary London court. He could give the 
 coals in that queer coal-scuttle we read of to 
 his poor neighbor : he could give away his 
 blankets in college to the poor widow, and 
 warm himself as he best might in the feathers : 
 he could pawn his coat to save his landlord 
 from gaol : when he was a school-usher he 
 spent his warnings in treats for the boys, and 
 the good-natured schoolmaster’s wife said 
 justly that she ought to keep Mr. Goldsmith’s 
 money as well as the young gentlemen’s. 
 When he met his pupils in later life, nothing 
 would satisfy the Doctor but he must treat 
 
 *“ An ‘ inspired idiot,’ Goldsmith, hangs strangely about him 
 [Johnson]. . . . Yet, on the whole, there is no evil in the ‘ goose- 
 berry-fool,’ but rather much good; of a liner, if of a weaker sort 
 than Johnson’s; and all the more genuine that he himself could 
 never become conscious of it, — though unhappily never cease 
 attempting to become so : the author of the genuine ‘ Vicar of 
 Wakefield,’ nill he will he, must needs fly towards such a mass 
 of genuine manhood.” — Carlyle’s Essays (2d ed.), vol. iv. 
 p. 91. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH '. 
 
 283 
 
 them still. u Have you seen the print of me 
 after Sir Joshua Reynolds?” he asked of one 
 of his old pupils. u Not seen it? not bought 
 it? Sure, Jack, if your picture had been pub- 
 lished, I’d not have been without it half ’an 
 hour.” His purse and his heart were every- 
 body’s, and his friends’ as much as his own. 
 When he was at the height of his reputation, 
 and the Earl of Northumberland, going as 
 Lord Lieutenant to Ireland, asked if he could 
 be of any service to Doctor Goldsmith, Gold- 
 smith recommended his brother, and not him- 
 self, to the great man. “ My patrons,” he 
 gallantly said, “ are the booksellers, and I 
 want no others.” * Hard patrons they were, 
 and hard work he did ; but he did not com- 
 plain much : if in his early writings some 
 bitter words escaped him, some allusions to 
 neglect and poverty, he withdrew these ex- 
 pressions when his works were republished, 
 
 *“ At present, the few poets of England no longer depend on 
 the great for subsistence; they have now no other patrons but 
 the public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a 
 generous master. It is indeed too frequently mistaken as to the 
 merits of every candidate for favor ; but to make amends it is 
 never mistaken loug. A performance indeed may be forced for 
 a time into reputation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks ; 
 time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover 
 the fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself any 
 share of success till his works have been read at least ten years 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 “ A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is 
 perfectly sensible of their value. Every polite member of the 
 community, by buying what he writes, contributes to reward 
 him. The ridicule, therefore, of living in a garret might have 
 been wit in the last age, but continues such no longer, because 
 no longer true. A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, 
 if his heart be set only on fortune ; and for those who have no 
 merit, it is but fit that such should remain in merited obscurity.’* 
 -(—Goldsmith: Citizen of the World t Let. 84. 
 
ENGLISH II UM OBIS T S. 
 
 284 
 
 and better da}^s seemed to open for him ; and 
 he did not care to complain that printer or 
 publisher had overlooked his merit, or left him 
 poor. The Court face was turned from hon- 
 est Oliver, the Court patronized Beattie ; the 
 fashion did not shine on him — fashion adored 
 Sterne.* Fashion pronounced Kelly to be the 
 great writer of comedy of his day. A little, 
 not ill-humor, but plaintiveness, a little be- 
 trayal of wounded pride which he showed, 
 render him not the less amiable. The author 
 of the “ Vicar of Wakefield ” had a right to 
 protest when Newbery kept back the MS. for 
 two years ; had a right to be a little peevish 
 with Sterne ; a little angry when Colman’s 
 actors declined their parts in his delightful 
 comedy, when the manager refused to have a 
 scene painted for it, and pronounced its dam- 
 nation before hearing. lie had not the great 
 
 * Goldsmith attacked Sterne obviously enough, censuring his 
 indecency, and slighting his wit, and ridiculing his manner, in 
 the 53d letter in the “ Citizen of the World.” 
 
 “As in common conversation,” says he, “ the best way to_ x 
 make the audience laugh is by first laughing yourself ; so in writ- 
 ing, the properest manner is to show an attempt at humor, which 
 will pass upon most for humor in reality. To effect this, readers 
 must be treated with the most perfect familiarity; in one page 
 the author is to make them a low bow, and in the next to pull 
 them by the nose; he must talk in riddles, and then send them 
 to bed in order to dream for the solution,” etc. 
 
 Sterne’s humorous mot on the subject of the gravest part of the 
 charges, then, as now, made against him, may perhaps be quoted 
 here, from the excellent, the respectable Sir Walter Scott : — 
 
 “ Soon after ‘ Tristram * had appeared, Sterne asked a York- 
 shire lady of fortune and condition, whether she had read his 
 book. ‘ I have not, Mr. Sterne,’ was the answer; ‘ and to be plain 
 with you, I am informed it is not proper for female perusal.* 
 
 * My dear good lady,’ replied the author, * do not be gulled by 
 such stories; the book is like your young heir there’ (pointing 
 to a child of three years old, who was rolling on the carpet in his 
 white tunic) : ‘ he shows at times a good deal that is usually con. 
 cealed, but it is all in perfect innocence,’ ” 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH . 
 
 285 
 
 public with him ; but he had the noble John- 
 son, and the admirable Reynolds, and the 
 great Gibbon, and the great Burke, and the 
 great Fox — friends and admirers illustrious 
 indeed, as famous as those who, fifty years 
 before, sat round Pope’s table. 
 
 Nobody knows, and I dare say Goldsmith’s 
 buoyant temper kept no account of all the 
 pains which he endured during the early period 
 of his literary career. Should any man of 
 letters in our day have to bear up against 
 such, heaven grant he may come out of the 
 period of misfortune with such a pure kind 
 heart as that which Goldsmith obstinately 
 bore in his breast. The insults to which he 
 had to submit are shocking to read of — slan- 
 der, contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity 
 perverting his commonest motives and actions ; 
 he had his share of these, and one’s anger is 
 roused at reading of them, as it is at seeing a 
 woman insulted or a child assaulted, at the 
 notion that a creature so very gentle and weak, 
 and full of love, should have had to suffer so. 
 And he had worse than insult to undergo — to 
 own to fault and deprecate the anger of ruf- 
 fians. There is a letter of his extant to one 
 Griffiths, a bookseller, in which poor Gold- 
 smith is forced to confess that certain books 
 sent by Griffiths are in the hands of a friend 
 from whom Goldsmith had been forced to bor- 
 row money. u He was wild, sir,” Johnson 
 said, speaking of Goldsmith to Boswell, with 
 his great, wise benevolence and noble merci- 
 fulness of heart, — u Dr. Goldsmith was wild, 
 
286 
 
 ENGLISH HUM OBIS TS. 
 
 sir ; but be is so no more.” All ! if we pity the 
 good and weak man who suffers undeservedly, 
 let us deal very gently with him from whom 
 misery extorts not only tears, but shame ; let 
 us think humbly and charitably of the human 
 nature that suffers so sadly and falls so low. 
 Whose turn may it be to-morrow ? What weak 
 heart, confident before trial, may not succumb 
 under temptation invincible ? Cover the good 
 man who has been vanquished — cover his 
 face and pass on. 
 
 <For the last half dozen years of his life, 
 Goldsmith was far lemoved from the pressure 
 of any ignoble necessity : and in the receipt, 
 indeed, of a pretty large income from the book- 
 sellers his patrons. Had he lived but a few 
 years more, his public fame would have been 
 as great as his private reputation, and he 
 might have enjoyed alive a part of that esteem 
 which his country has ever since paid to the 
 vivid and versatile genius who has touched on 
 almost every subject of literature, and touched 
 nothing that he did not adorn. Except in 
 rare instances, a man is known in our profes- 
 sion, and esteemed as a skilful workman, 
 years before the lucky hit which trebles his 
 usual gains, and stamps him a popular author. 
 In the strength of his age, and the dawn of 
 his reputation, having for backers and friends 
 the most illustrious literary men of his time,* 
 
 * “ Goldsmith told us that he was now busy in writing a Nat- 
 ural History ; and that he might have full leisure for it, he had 
 taken lodgings at a farmer’s house, near to the six-mile stone in 
 the Edgware Road, and had carried down his books in two re- 
 turned postchaises. He said he believed the farmer’s family 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH . 287 
 
 fame and prosperity might have been in store 
 for Goldsmith, had fate so willed it ; and, at 
 forty-six, had not sudden disease carried him 
 off. I say prosperity rather than competence, 
 for it is probable that no sum could have put 
 order into his affairs or sufficed for his irre- 
 claimable habits of dissipation. It must be 
 remembered that he owed £2,000 when he 
 died. “ Was ever poet,” Johnson asked, u so 
 trusted before ? ” As has been the case with 
 many another good fellow of his nation, his 
 life was tracked and his substance wasted by 
 crowds of hungry beggars and lazy depend- 
 ants. If they came at a lucky time (and be 
 sure they knew his affairs better than he did 
 himself, and watched his pay-day), he gave 
 them of his money : if they begged on empty- 
 purse days he gave them his promissory bills ; 
 or he treated them to a tavern where he had 
 credit ; or he obliged them with an order upon 
 honest Mr. Filby for coats, for which he paid 
 as long as he could earn, and until the shears 
 of Filby were to cut for him no more. Stag- 
 gering under a load of debt and labor, tracked 
 by bailiffs and reproachful creditors, running 
 from a hundred poor dependants, whose ap- 
 pealing looks were perhaps the hardest of all 
 pains for him to bear, devising fevered plans 
 
 thought him an odd character, similar to that in which the Spec- 
 tator appeared to his landlady and her children; he was The 
 Gentleman . Mr. Mickle, the translator of the ‘ Lusted,’ and I, 
 went to visit him at this place a few days afterwards. He was 
 not at home ; hut having a curiosity to see his apartment, we 
 went in, and found curious scraps of descriptions of animals 
 scrawled upon the wall with a blacklead pencil.” — Boswell. 
 
288 
 
 ENGLISH II UM OBIS TS. 
 
 for the morrow, new histories, new comedies, 
 all sorts of new literary sehemes, flying from all 
 these into seclusion, and out of seclusion into 
 pleasure — at last, at five-and-forty, death 
 seized him and closed his career.* I have 
 been many a time in the chambers in the Tem- 
 ple which were his, and passed up the stair- 
 case, which Johnson, and Burke, and Reynolds 
 trod to see their friend, their poet, their kind 
 Goldsmith — the stair on which the poor 
 women sat weeping bitterly when they heard 
 that the greatest and most generous of all 
 men was dead within the blac c oak door.f 
 Ah, it was a different lot from that for which 
 the poor fellow sighed, when he wrote with 
 heart yearning for home those most charming 
 of all fond verses, in which he fancies he re- 
 visits Auburn : — 
 
 ♦“When Goldsmith was dying, Dr. Turton said to him, 
 ‘Your pulse is in greater disorder than it should he, from the 
 degree of fever which you have; is your mind at ease? ’ Gold- 
 smith answered it was not.” — Dr. Johnson (in Boswell ) . 
 
 “ Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone 
 much further. He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe, by 
 the fear of distress. He had raised money and squandered it, 
 by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let not 
 his failings be remembered; he was a very great man.” — Dr. 
 Johnson to Boswell , July 5th, 1774. 
 
 f “ When Burke was told [of Goldsmith’s death] he burst into 
 tears. Reynolds was in his painting-room when the messenger 
 went to him ; but at once he laid his pencil aside, which in times 
 of great family distress he had not been known to do, left his 
 painting-room, and did not re-enter it that day. . . . 
 
 “ The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with 
 mourners, the reverse of domestic; women without a home, 
 without domesticity of an y kind, with no friend but him they 
 had come to weep for ; outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked 
 city, to whom he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable. 
 And he had domestic mourners, too. His coffin was reopened 
 at the request of Miss Horneck and her sister (such was the re- 
 gard he was known to have for them !) that a lock might be cut 
 from his hair. It was in Mrs. Gwyn’s possession when she died, 
 after nearly seventy years.” — Foster’s Goldsmith. 
 
STEBNE AND GOLDSMITIL 289 
 
 “ Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
 
 And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, 
 
 Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
 
 “ In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 
 In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, 
 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 
 To husband out life’s taper at the close, 
 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
 
 I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew — 
 
 I still had hopes — my long vexations past, 
 
 Here to return, and die at home at last. 
 
 “ O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline ! 
 
 Retreats from care that never must be mine — 
 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since ’t is hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 
 For him no wretches born to work and weep 
 Explore the mine or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
 
 Angels around befriending virtue’s friend ; 
 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 
 Whilst resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 
 And all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 
 His heaven commences ere the world be past.” 
 
 In these verses, I need not say with what 
 melody, with what touching truth, with what 
 exquisite beauty of comparison — as indeed 
 in hundreds more pages of the writings of this 
 honest soul — the whole character of the man 
 is told — his humble confession of faults and 
 19 
 
290 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 weakness ; his pleasant little vanity, and de* 
 sire that his village should admire him ; his 
 simple scheme of good in which everybody 
 was to be happy, — no beggar was to be 
 refused his dinner, nobody in fact was to 
 work much, — and he to be the harmless chief 
 of the Utopia, and the monarch of the Irish 
 Yvetot. He would have told again, and with- 
 out fear of their failing, those famous jokes* 
 which had hung fire in London ; he would have 
 talked of his great friends of the Club — of 
 my Lord Clare and my Lord Bishop, my Lord 
 Nugent — sure he knew them intimately, and 
 was hand and glove with some of the best men 
 in town — -and he would have spoken of John- 
 
 * “ Goldsmith’s incessant desire of being conspicuous in com- 
 pany was the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such dis- 
 advantage, as one should hardly have supposed possible in a 
 man of his genius. When his’ literary reputation had risen de-^ 
 servedly high, and his society was much courted, he became very 
 jealous of the extraordinary attention which was every where paia 
 to Johnson. One evening, in a circle of wits, he found fault With 
 me for talking of Johnson as entitled to the honor of unquestion- 
 able superiority. ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘ you are for making a monarchy 
 of what should be a republic.’ 
 
 “ He was still more mortified, when , talking in a company with 
 fluent vivacity, and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of 
 all present, a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson 
 rolling himself as if about to speak, suddenly stopped him, say- 
 ing, ‘Stay, stay — Toctor Shonson is going to zay zomething.’’ 
 This was no doubt very provoking, especially to one so irritable' 
 as Goldsmith, who frequently mentioned it with strong express 
 sions of indignation. 
 
 “ It may also be observed that Goldsmith was sometimes con- 
 tent to be treated with an easy familiarity, but upon occasions 
 would be consequential and important. An instance of this oc- 
 curred in a small particular. Johnson had a way of contracting 
 the names of his friends, as Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy, 
 . . . I remember one day, when Tom Davies was telling that Dr. 
 Johnson said, ‘ We are all in labor for a name to Goldy's play,* 
 Goldsmith seemed displeased that such a liberty should be taken 
 with his name, and said, ‘ I have often desired him not to call me 
 Goldy .’ ” 
 
 This is one of several of Boswell’s depreciatory mentions of 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 291 
 
 son and of Burke, and of Sir Joshua who had 
 painted him — and he would have told won- 
 derful sly stories of Ranelagh and the Pan- 
 theon, and the masquerades at Madame Cor- 
 nelis’ ; and he would have toasted, with a sigh, 
 the Jessamy Bride — - the lovely Mary Horneck. 
 
 The figure of that charming young lady 
 forms one of the prettiest recollections of 
 Goldsmith’s life. She and her beautiful sis- 
 ter, who married Bunbury, the graceful and 
 humorous amateur artist of those days, when 
 Gilray had but just begun to try his powers, 
 were among the kindest and dearest of Gold- 
 smith’s many friends, cheered and pitied him, 
 travelled abroad with him, made him welcome 
 at their home, and gave him many a pleasant 
 
 Goldsmith — which may well irritate biographers and admirers 
 
 — and also those who take that more kindly and more profound 
 view of Boswell’s own character, which was opened up by Mr. 
 Carlyle’s famous article on his book. No wonder that Mr. Irving 
 calls Boswell an “ incarnation of toadyism.” And the worst of 
 it is, that Johnson himself has suffered from this habit of the 
 Laird of Auchinleck’s. People are apt to forget under what 
 Boswellian stimulus the great Doctor uttered many hasty things, 
 
 — things no more indicative of the nature of the depths of his 
 character than the phosphoric gleaming of the sea, when struck 
 at night, is indicative of radical corruption of nature ! In truth, 
 it is clear enough on the whole that both Johnson and Goldsmith 
 appreciated each other, and that they mutually knew it. They 
 were, as it were, tripped up and flung against each other, occa- 
 sionally, by the blundering and silly gambolling of people in 
 company. 
 
 Something must be allowed for Boswell’s “ rivalry for John- 
 son’s good graces ” with Oliver (as Sir Walter Scott has remarked), 
 for Oliver was intimate with the Doctor before his biographer 
 was, and, as we all remember, marched off with him to “ take 
 tea with Mrs. Williams ” before Boswell had advanced to that 
 honorable degree of intimacy. But, in truth, Boswell — though 
 he perhaps showed more talent in his delineation of the Doctor 
 than is generally ascribed to him — had not faculty to take a fair 
 view of two great men at a time. Besides, as Mr. Forster justly 
 remarks, “ he was impatient of Goldsmith from the first hour of 
 their acquaintance.”— Life and Adventures t p. 292. 
 
292 ENGLISH I1UM0BISTS. 
 
 holiday. He bought his finest clothes to figure 
 at their country-house at Barton — he wrote 
 them droll verses. They loved him, laughed 
 at him, played him tricks and made him happy. 
 He asked for a loan from Garrick, and Garrick 
 kindly supplied him, to enable him to go to 
 Barton : but there were to be no more holi- 
 days and only one brief struggle more for poor 
 Goldsmith. A lock of his hair was taken from 
 the coffin and given to the Jessamy Bride. 
 She lived quite into our time. Hazlitt saw 
 her an old lady, but beautiful still, in North- 
 cote’s painting-room, who told the eager critic 
 how proud she always was that Goldsmith had 
 admired her. The younger Colman has left 
 a touching reminiscence of him (vol. i. 63, 
 64) : — 
 
 “ I was only five years old,” he says, u when 
 Goldsmith took me on his knee one evening 
 whilst he was drinking coffee with my father, 
 and began to play with me, which amiable act 
 I returned, with the ingratitude of a peevish 
 brat, by giving him a very smart slap on the 
 face : it must have been a tingler, for it left 
 the marks of my spiteful paw on his cheek. 
 This infantile outrage was followed by sum- 
 mary justice, and I was locked up by my in- 
 dignant father in an adjoining room to undergo 
 solitary imprisonment in the dark. Here I 
 began to howl and scream most abominably, 
 which was no bad step towards my liberation, 
 since those who were not inclined to pity me 
 might be likely to set me free for the purpose 
 of abating a nuisance. 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 293 
 
 46 At length a generous friend appeared to 
 extricate me from jeopardy, and that generous 
 friend was no other than the man I had so 
 wantonly molested by assault and battery — 
 it was the tender-hearted Doctor himself, with 
 a lighted candle in his hand and a smile upon 
 his countenance, which was still partially red 
 from the effects of my petulance. I sulked 
 and sobbed as he fondled and soothed, till I 
 began to brighten. Goldsmith seized the pro- 
 pitious moment of returning good-humor, when 
 he put down the candle and began to conjure. 
 He placed three hats, which happened to be 
 in the room, and a shilling under each. The 
 shillings he told me were England, France, 
 and Spain. 6 Hey presto cockalorum ! 9 cried 
 the Doctor, and lo, on uncovering the shillings, 
 which had been dispersed each beneath a sep- 
 arate hat, they were all found congregated 
 under one. I was no politician at five years 
 old, and therefore might not have wondered 
 at the sudden revolution which brought Eng- 
 land, France, and Spain all under one crown ; 
 but as also I was no conjurer, it amazed me 
 beyond measure. . . . From that time, when- 
 ever the Doctor came to visit my father, 4 I 
 plucked his gown to share the good man’s 
 smile’ ; a game at romps constantly ensued, 
 and we were always cordial friends and 
 merry playfellows. Our unequal companion- 
 ship varied somewhat as to sports as I grew 
 older ; but it did not last long : my senior 
 playmate died in his forty-fifth year, when 
 I had attained my eleventh. ... In all the 
 
294 
 
 ENGLISH IIUMOBISTS. 
 
 numerous accounts of his virtues and foibles, 
 his genius and absurdities, his knowledge 
 of nature and ignorance of the world, his 
 ‘ compassion for another’s woe 5 was always 
 predominant ; and my trivial story of his 
 humoring a froward child weighs but as a 
 feather in the recorded scale of his benevo- 
 lence.” 
 
 Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain if 
 you like, but merciful, gentle, generous, full 
 of love and pity. He passes out of our life, 
 and goes to render his account beyond it. 
 Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his 
 grave ; think of the noble spirits that admired 
 and deplored him ; think of the righteous pen 
 that wrote his epitaph — and of the wonderful 
 and unanimous response of affection with which 
 the world has paid back the love he gave it. 
 His humor delighting us still : his song fresh 
 and beautiful as when first he charmed with 
 it : his words in all our mouths : his very 
 weaknesses beloved and familiar — his benev- 
 olent spirit seems still to smile upon us ; to do 
 gentle kindnesses : to succor with sweet char- 
 ity : to soothe, caress, and forgive : to plead 
 with the fortunate for the unhappy and the 
 poor. 
 
 His name is the last in the list of those men 
 of humor who have formed the themes of the 
 discourses which you have heard so kindly. 
 
 Long before I had ever hoped for such an 
 audience, or dreamed of the possibility of the 
 good fortune which has brought me so many 
 
S TEBNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 295 
 
 friends, I was at issue with some of my liter- 
 ary brethren upon a point — which they held 
 from tradition I think rather than experience 
 — that onr profession was neglected in this 
 country ; and that men of letters were ill- 
 received and held in slight esteem. It would 
 hardly be grateful of me now to alter my old 
 opinion that we do meet with good-will and 
 kindness, with generous helping hands in the 
 time of our necessity, with cordial and friendly 
 recognition. What claim had any one of these 
 of whom I have been speaking, but genius? 
 What return of gratitude, fame, affection, did 
 it not bring to all ? 
 
 What punishment befell those who were 
 unfortunate among them, but that which fol- 
 lows reckless habits and careless lives ? For 
 these faults a wit must suffer like the dullest 
 prodigal that ever ran in debt. He must pay 
 the tailor if he wears the coat ; his children 
 must go in rags if he spends his money at the 
 tavern ; he can’t come to London and be made 
 Lord Chancellor if he stops on the road and 
 gambles away his last shilling at Dublin. And 
 he must pay the social penalty of these follies 
 too, and expect that the world will shun the 
 man of bad habits, that women will avoid the 
 man of loose life, that prudent folks will close 
 their doors as a precaution, and before a 
 demand should be made on their pockets by 
 the needy prodigal. With what difficulty had 
 any one of these men to contend, save that 
 eternal and mechanical one of want of means 
 and lack of capital, and of which thousands of 
 
296 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS, 
 
 young law} T ers, young doctors, young soldiers 
 and sailors, of inventors, manufacturers, shop- 
 keepers, have to complain? Hearts as brave 
 and resolute as ever beat in the breast of any 
 wit or poet, sicken and break daily in the vain 
 endeavor and unavailing struggle against life’s 
 difficulty. Don’t we see daily ruined invent- 
 ors, gray-haired midshipmen, balked heroes, 
 blighted curates, barristers pining a hungry 
 life out in chambers, the attorneys never 
 mounting to their garrets, whilst scores of 
 them are rapping at the door of the success- 
 ful quack below? If these suffer, who is 
 the author, that he should be exempt? Let 
 us bear our ills with the same constancy with 
 which others endure them, accept our manly 
 part in life, hold our own, and ask no more. 
 I can conceive of no kings or laws causing or 
 curing Goldsmith’s improvidence, or Fielding’s 
 fatal love of pleasure, or Dick Steele’s mania 
 for running races with the constable. You 
 never can outrun that sure-footed officer — - 
 not by any swiftness or by dodges devised by 
 any genius, however great ; and he carries off 
 the Tatler to the spunging-house, or taps the 
 Citizen of the World on the shoulder as he 
 would any other mortal. 
 
 Does society look down on a man because 
 he is an author? I suppose if people want a 
 buffoon they tolerate him only in so far as he 
 is amusing ; it can hardly be expected that 
 they should respect him as an equal. Is there 
 to be a guard of honor provided for the author 
 of the last new novel or poem ? how long is he 
 
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 297 
 
 to reign, and keep other potentates out of 
 possession? He retires, grumbles, and prints 
 a lamentation that literature is despised. If 
 Captain A. is left out of Lady B.’s parties, he 
 does not state that the army is despised : if 
 Lord C. no longer asks Counsellor D. to din- 
 ner, Counsellor D. does not announce that the 
 bar is insulted. He is not fair to society if 
 he enters it with this suspicion hankering 
 about him ; if he is doubtful about his recep- 
 tion, how hold up his head honestly, and look 
 frankly in the face that world about which he 
 is full of suspicion? Is he place-hunting, and 
 thinking in his mind that he ought to be made 
 an Ambassador, like Prior, or a Secretary of 
 State, like Addison? his pretence of equality 
 falls to the ground at once : he is scheming 
 for a patron, not shaking the hand of a friend, 
 when he meets the world. Treat such a man 
 as he deserves ; laugh at his buffoonery, and 
 give him a dinner and a bon jour ; laugh at 
 his self-sufficiency and absurd assumptions of 
 superiority, and his equally ludicrous airs of 
 martyrdom ; laugh at his flattery and his schem- 
 ing, and buy it, if it’s worth the having. Let 
 the wag have his dinner and the hireling his 
 pay, if you want him, and make a profound 
 bow to the grand homme incompris , and the 
 boisterous martyr, and show him the door. 
 The great world, the great aggregate experi- 
 ence, has its good sense, as it has its good- 
 humor. It detects a pretender, as it trusts a 
 loyal heart. It is kind in the main : how 
 should it be otherwise than kind, when it is sq 
 
298 
 
 ENGLISH HUMORISTS. 
 
 wise and clear-headed ? To any literary man 
 who says, “ It despises my profession,” I say, 
 with all my might, no, no, no. It may pass 
 over your individual case — how many a brave 
 fellow has failed in the race and perished un- 
 known in the struggle ! — but it treats you as 
 you merit in the main. If you serve it, it is 
 not unthankful ; if you please it, it is pleased ; 
 if you cringe to it, it detects you, and scorns 
 you if you are mean ; it returns your cheerful- 
 ness with its good-humor ; it deals not ungen- 
 erously with your weaknesses ; it recognizes 
 most kindly your merits ; it gives you a fair 
 place and fair play. To any one of those men 
 of whom we have spoken was it in the main 
 ungrateful? A king might refuse Goldsmith 
 a pension, as a publisher might keep his mas- 
 terpiece and the delight of all the world in his 
 desk for two years; but it was mistake, and 
 not ill-will. Noble and illustrious names of 
 Swift, and Pope, and Addison ! dear and 
 honored memories of Goldsmith and Fielding ! 
 kind friends, teachers, benefactors ! who shall 
 say that our country, which continues to bring 
 you such an unceasing tribute of applause, 
 admiration, love, sympathy, does not do honor 
 to the literary calling in the honor which it 
 bestows upon you ? 
 
 THE END. 
 
 v 
 

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 BOSTON COLLEGE 
 
 3 9031 01287747 8 
 
 FR THACKERAY. 
 
 935 
 
 .T42 
 
 Bapst Library 
 
 Boston College 
 
 Chestnut Hill 67, Mass.