FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D, 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
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 23 1936 
 
 WORKS 
 
 
 
 
 ANNA LJETITIA BARBAULD 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR 
 
 BY LUCY AIKIN. 
 
 Bright- eyed Fancy hovering o'er 
 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 
 Thoughts that breathe and words that burn 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. HI. 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY DAVID REED, 
 
 [S26. 
 
CAMBRIDGE : 
 Printed bv Hillwrd & MeteaTft 
 
CONTENTS OF VOLUME IN. 
 
 JUVENILE WORKS. Page 
 
 A Legacy for Young Ladies. 
 
 True Magicians 1 
 
 A Lecture on the Use of Words 10 
 
 The Pine and the Olive: a Fable 13 
 
 On Riddles 15 
 
 The King in his Castle 20 
 
 On Female Studies 24 
 
 The Rich and the Poor. : a Dialogue 33 
 
 Description of an Animal lately found in the Wilds of Derbyshire 40 
 
 On the Classics 42 
 
 Letter of a Young King 54 
 
 Verses written in the Leaves of an Ivory Pocket-book, presented 
 
 to master T**** 59 
 
 On Plants 61 
 
 On a Portrait of a Lady and Two Children 64 
 
 Earth 65 
 
 On the Uses of History : in Four Letters 68 
 
 Fashion : a Vision 94 
 
 To Miss D*** 102 
 
 On the Birth of a Friend's eldest Son 103 
 
 Epitaph on a Goldfinch 105 
 
 The Morning Repast 106 
 
 Description of Two Sisters 107 
 
 A Character 109 
 
 Pic-nic 110 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 Letter from Grimalkin to Selima 11: 
 
 Petition of a Schoolboy to his Father 117 
 
 Tlie River and the Brook : a Fable 120 
 
 The Lament: a Ballad 121 
 
 Allegory on sleep 123 
 
 To ****, occasioned by his Poem on the Sun 127 
 
 A Hymn 128 
 
 On Friendship 130 
 
 Confidence and Modesty: a Fable 135 
 
 The Death-Bed 137 
 
 A Dialogue of the Dead, between Helen, and Mad. Maintenon 1 39 
 
 A Riddle 144 
 
 On Expense 145 
 
 Evenings at Home. 
 
 The Wasp and Bee : a Fable , S 
 
 The Young Mouse : a Fable 4 
 
 Alfred : a Drama 5 
 
 Animals and their Countries 11 
 
 Canute's Reproof to his Courtiers 12 
 
 The Masque of Nature , 14 
 
 Things by their right Names 16 
 
 The Goose and Horse: a Fable 18 
 
 On Manufactures 19 
 
 The Flying Fish 30 
 
 A Lesson in the Art of Distinguishing 31 
 
 The Phenix and Dove 40 
 
 The Manufacture of Paper 42 
 
 The Four Sisters 47 
 
 Hymns in Prose for Children 5S 
 
 LITERARY ESS 
 
 On the Tatler, Spectator, Guardian, and Freeholder . SI 
 
 On the Origin and Progress of Romance- Writing . . . LQ5 
 
LEGACY FOR YOUNG LADIES 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 PROSE AND VERSE, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The late Mrs. Barbauld was one of the best friends of 
 youth. In her " Early Lessons," and " Prose Hymns," 
 she has condescended to apply her admirable genius to the 
 instruction even of infant minds. Several excellent pie- 
 ces, adapted to children of different ages, she contributed 
 to Dr. Aikin's "Evenings at Home." That elegant vol- 
 ume of verse and prose, "The Female Speaker," was 
 compiled by her for the use of young ladies, for whom she 
 also made a selection from the Tatlers, Spectators, and 
 Guardians, prefixing to it. an instructive and beautiful 
 Essay. In others of her productions she has given valua- 
 ble advice to parents on the subject of instruction ; and her 
 " Poems " contain many pieces worthy to be early reposited 
 among the choicest stores of an elegant and ingenuous 
 mind. 
 
 Many young persons of both sexes partook, during the 
 course of her long life, of the benefit of her personal in- 
 structions ; and in the present volume she may be regarded 
 as continuing even from the grave to delight and improve 
 the rising generation. 
 
 These pieces were found among her papers by the mem- 
 bers of her own family. Some of them enforce moral 
 1 ruths; others contain instruction in history and other 
 branches of the graver studies of youth ; but the greater 
 number are of a light and elegant cast, adapted to exercise 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 the ingenuity and amuse the fancy while they refine the 
 taste. Those in the form of letters were all addressed to 
 different ladies whom she favoured with her friendship. 
 
 Had she herself presented these pieces to the public, it 
 is probable that she would in some instances have extended 
 them by additions which, from her own pen, would have 
 enhanced their value, but which it would have been pre- 
 sumption in any other to attempt. None of them, however, 
 can properly be called fragments : and it was so natural to 
 her to express herself with the highest beauty and perfec- 
 tion of style, that in this respect little difference would be 
 found either in verse or prose, between the slightest sketch 
 she ever traced and the most finished of her admired pro- 
 ductions. 
 
 Lucy Aiki.x. 
 
 Hampstead, Dec. 1825. 
 
A LEGACY 
 
 FOR 
 
 YOUNG LADIES. 
 
 TRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 TO MISS C 
 
 MY DEAR SARAH, 
 
 1 have often reflected, since I left you, on the wonder- 
 ful powers of magic exhibited by you and your sister. 
 The dim obscurity of that grotto hollowed out by 
 your hands under the laurel hedge, where you used 
 to mix the ingredients of your incantations, struck us 
 with awe and terror ; and the broom which you so 
 often brandished in your hands made you look very 
 like witches indeed. I must confess, however, that 
 some doubts have now and then arisen in my mind, 
 whether or no you were truly initiated in the secrets 
 of your art ; and these suspicions gathered strength 
 after you had suffered us and yourself to be so 
 drenched as we all were on that rainy Tuesday ; 
 which, to say the least, was a very odd circumstance, 
 considering you had the command of the weather. — As 
 I was pondering these matters alone in the chaise be- 
 tween Epsom and London, I fell asleep and had the 
 following dream. 
 
:Z rRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 I thought I had been travelling through an unknown 
 country, and came at last to a thick wood cut out into 
 several groves and avenues, the gloom of which in- 
 spired thoughtfulness, and a certain mysterious dread 
 of unknown powers came upon me. I entered how- 
 ever one of the avenues, and found it terminated in 
 a magnificent portal, through which I could discern 
 confusedly among thick foliage, cloistered arches and 
 Grecian porticoes, and people walking and conversing 
 amongst the trees. Over the portal was the follow- 
 ing inscription : " Here dwell the true magicians. 
 Nature is our servant. Man is our pupil. We 
 change, we conquer, we create." 
 
 As I was hesitating whether or no I should pre- 
 sume to enter, a pilgrim, who was sitting under the 
 shade, offered to be my guide, assuring me that these 
 magicians would do me no harm, and that so far from 
 having any objection to be observed in their op- 
 erations, they were pleased with any opportunity of 
 exhibiting them to the curious. In therefore I went, 
 and addressed the first of the magicians I met with, 
 who asked me whether I liked panoramas. On re- 
 plying that I thought them very entertaining, she took 
 me to a little eminence and bade me look round. I 
 did so, and beheld the representation of the beautiful 
 vale of Dorking, with Norbury-park and Box-hill to 
 the north, Riegate to the east, and Leitli tower with 
 the Surry hills to the south. After I had admired 
 for some time the beauty and accuracy of the paint- 
 ing, a vast curtain seemed to be drawn gradually up. 
 and my view extended on all sides. On one hand 1 
 traced the windings of the Thames up to Oxford, 
 and stretched my eye westward over Salisbury Plain, 
 and across the Bristol Channel into the romantic 
 country of South Wales ; northward the view ex- 
 tended to Lincoln cathedral, and York minster towo-- 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. o 
 
 ing over the rest of the churches. Across the Sus- 
 sex downs I had a clear view of the British Channel, 
 and the opposite coast of France, with its ports 
 blockaded by our fleets. As the horizon of the pan- 
 orama still extended, I spied the towers of Notre 
 Dame, and the Tuilleries, and my eye wandered at 
 large over " The vine-covered hills and gay regions 
 of France," quite down to the source of the Loire. 
 At the same time the great Atlantic ocean opened to 
 my view ; and on the other hand I saw the lake of 
 Geneva, and the dark ridge of Mount Jura, and dis- 
 covered the summits of the Alps covered with snow ; 
 and beyond, the orange groves of Italy, the majestic 
 dome of St. Peter's, and the smoking crater of Ve- 
 suvius. As the curtain still rose, I stretched my view 
 over the Mediterranean, the scene of ancient glory, 
 the Archipelago studded with islands, the shores of 
 the Bosphorus, and the gilded minarets and Cyprus 
 groves of Constantinople. Throwing back a look to 
 the less attractive north, I saw pictured the rugged, 
 broken coast of Norway, the cheerless moors of Lap- 
 land, and the interminable desolation of the plains of 
 Siberia. Turning my eye again southward, the land- 
 scape extended to the plains of Barbary, covered with 
 date-trees ; and I discerned the points of pyramids 
 appearing above the horizon, and saw the Delta and 
 the seven-mouthed Nile. In short, the curtain still 
 rose, and the view extended further and further till 
 the panorama took in the whole globe. I cannot ex- 
 press to you the pleasure I felt as I saw mountains, 
 seas, and islands, spread out before me. Sometimes 
 my eye wandered over the vast plains of Tartary, 
 sometimes it expatiated in the savannahs of America. 
 I saw men with dark skins, white cotton turbans 
 wreathed about their heads, and long flowing robes 
 of silk; others almost naked under a vertical sun. 
 
4 TRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 I saw whales sporting in the northern seas, and ele- 
 phants trampling amidst fields of maize and forests 
 of palm-trees. I seemed to have put a girdle about 
 the earth, and was gratified with an infinite variety of 
 objects which I thought I never could be weary of 
 contemplating. At length, turning towards the magi- 
 cian who had entertained me with such an agreeable 
 exhibition, and asking her name, she informed me it 
 was Geography. 
 
 My attention was next arrested by a sorceress, who, 
 I was told, possessed the power of calling up from the 
 dead whomsoever she pleased, man or woman, in 
 their proper habits and figures, and obliging them to 
 converse and answer questions. She held a roll of 
 parchment in her hand, and had an air of great dig- 
 nity. I confess that I felt a little afraid ; but having 
 been somewhat encouraged by the former exhibition, 
 
 I ventured to ask her to give me a specimen of her 
 power, in case there was nothing unlawful in it. 
 
 II Whom," said she, " do you wish to behold ? " Af- 
 ter considering some time, I desired to see Cicero, the 
 Roman orator. She made some talismanic figures 
 on the sand, and presently he rose to my view, his 
 neck and head bare, the rest of his body in a flowing 
 toga, which he gathered round him with one hand, 
 and stretching out the other very gracefully, he recited 
 to me one of his orations against Catiline. He also 
 read to me, — which was more than I could in reason 
 have expected, — several of his familiar letters to his 
 most intimate friends. I next desired that Julius Cae- 
 sar might be called up : on which he appeared, his 
 hair nicely arranged, and the fore part of his head, 
 which was bald^ covered with wreaths of laurel ; and 
 he very obligingly gave me a particular account of hi* 
 expedition into Gaul. T wished to see the youth of 
 Wacedon, but was n little disappointed in his figure. 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. O 
 
 lor he was low in stature and held his head awry ; 
 but I saw him manage Bucephalus with admirable 
 courage and address, and was afterwards introduced 
 with him into the tent of Darius, where I was greatly 
 pleased with the generosity and politeness of his be- 
 haviour. 1 afterwards expressed some curiosity to 
 see a battle, if I might do it with safety, and was grat- 
 ified with the sea-fight of Actium. 1 saw, after the 
 first onset, the galleys of Cleopatra turning their prows 
 and flying from the battle, and Antony, to his eternal 
 shame, quitting the engagement and making sail after 
 her. I then wished to call up all the kings of Eng- 
 land, and they appeared in order one after the other, 
 with their crowns and the insignia of their dignity, 
 and walked over the stage for my amusement, much 
 like the descendants of Banquo in Macbeth. Their 
 queens accompanied them, trailing their robes upon 
 the ground, and the bishops with their mitres, and 
 judges, and generals, and eminent persons of every 
 class. I asked many questions as they passed, and 
 received a great deal of information relative to the 
 laws, manners, and transactions of past times. I did 
 not, however, always meet with direct answers to my 
 questions. For instance, when I called up Homer, and 
 after some other conversation asked him where he was 
 born, he only said, " Guess ! " And when I asked Lou- 
 is the Fourteenth who was the man in the iron mask, 
 he frowned and would not tell me. 1 took a great deal 
 of pleasure in calling up the shades of distinguished 
 people in different ages and countries, making them 
 stand close by one another, and comparing their man- 
 ners and costume. Thus I measured Catharine of 
 Russia against Semiramis, and Aristotle against Lord 
 Bacon. I could have spent whole years in conversa- 
 tion with so many celebrated persons, and promised 
 myself that I would often frequent this obliging magi- 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 cian. Her name, I found, was in heaven Clio, on 
 earth History. 
 
 I saw another who was making a charm for two 
 friends, one of whom was going to the East Indies : 
 they were bitterly lamenting that when they were 
 parted at so great a distance from each other, they 
 could no longer communicate their thoughts, but 
 must be cut off from each other's society. Pre- 
 senting them with a talisman inscribed with four^and- 
 twenty black marks, " Take this," she said ; " I have 
 breathed a voice upon it : by means of this talisman 
 you shall still converse, and hear one another as dis- 
 tinctly when half the globe is between you, as if you 
 were talking together in the same room.' 1 The two 
 friends thanked her for such an invaluable present, 
 and retired. Her name was Abracadabra. 
 
 I was next invited to see a whispering-gallery of a 
 most curious and uncommon structure. To make 
 the experiment of its powers, a young poet of a very 
 modest appearance, who was stealing along in a re- 
 tired walk, was desired to repeat a verse in it. He 
 applied his lips to the wall, and whispered in a low 
 voice, " Rnra miki et rigid placeant in vallibus am- 
 nes." The sound ran along the walls for some time 
 in a kind of low whisper ; but every minute it grew 
 louder and louder, till at length it was echoed and re- 
 echoed from every part of the gallery, and seemed 
 to be pronounced by a multitude of voices at once, 
 in different languages, till the whole dome was filled 
 with the sound. There was a strong smell of in- 
 cense. The gallery was constructed by Fame. 
 
 The good pilgrim next conducted me to a cave 
 where several sorceresses, very black and grim, were 
 amusing themselves with making lightning, thunder, 
 and earthquakes. I saw two vials of cold liquor 
 mixed together, and flames burst forth from them 
 
TRUE MAGICIAN^ 7 
 
 1 saw some ihs"igniiicant-Iooking black grains, which 
 would throw palaces and castles into the air. I saw 
 — and it made my hair stand on end — a headless 
 man, who lifted up his arm and grasped a sword. I 
 saw men flying through the air, without wings, over 
 the tops of towns and castles, and come down unhurt. 
 The cavern was very black, and the smoke and fires 
 and mephitic blasts and sulphureous vapours that is- 
 sued from it, gave the whole a very tremendous ap- 
 pearance. I did not stay long, but as I retired I saw 
 Chemistry written on the walls in letters of flame, with 
 several other names which 1 do not now remember. 
 
 My companion whispered me that some of these 
 were suspected of communication with the evil genii, 
 and that the demon of War had been seen to resort 
 to the cave. " But now," said the pilgrim, " 1 will 
 lead you to enchanters who deserve all your venera- 
 tion, and are even more beneficent than those you 
 have already seen." He then led me to a cavern that 
 opened upon the sea shore : it blew a terrible storm, 
 the waves ran mountains high, the wind roared, and 
 vessels were driven against each other with a terrible 
 shock. A female figure advanced and threw a little 
 oil upon the waves ; they immediately subsided, the 
 winds were still, the storm was laid, and the vessels 
 pursued their course in safety. " By what magic is 
 this performed ? " exclaimed I. " The magician is 
 Meekness" replied my conductor : " she can smooth 
 the roughest sea, and allay the wildest storm." 
 
 My view was next directed to a poor wretch, who 
 lay groaning in a most piteous manner, and crushed 
 to the earth with a mountain on his breast ; he uttered 
 piercing shrieks, and seemed totally unable to rise or 
 help himself. One of these good magicians, whose 
 name I found was Patience, advanced and struck the 
 mountain with a wand ; on which, to my great sur- 
 
8 TRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 prise, it diminished to a size not more than the load 
 of an ordinary porter, which the man threw over his 
 shoulders, with something very like a smile, and march- 
 ed off with a firm step and very composed air. 
 
 I must not pass over a charmer of a very pleasing 
 appearance and lively aspect. She possessed the 
 power (a very useful one in a country so subject to 
 fogs and rains as this is) of gilding a landscape with 
 sunshine whenever she breathed upon it. Her name 
 was Cheerfulness. Indeed you may remember that 
 your papa brought her down with him on that very 
 rainy day when we could not go out at all, and he 
 played on his flute to you, and you all danced. 
 
 I was next struck, on ascending an eminence, with 
 a most dreary landscape. All the flat country was 
 one stagnant marsh. Amidst the rushy grass lay the 
 fiend Ague, listless and shivering : on the bare and 
 bleak hills sat Famine, with a few shells of acorns 
 before her, of which she had eaten the fruit. The 
 woods were tangled and pathless ; the howl of wolves 
 was heard. A few smoky huts, or caves, not much 
 better than the dens of wild beasts, were all the hab- 
 itations of men that presented themselves. " Miser- 
 able country ! " I exclaimed ; " step-child of nature ! " 
 " This," said my conductor, " is Britain as our ances- 
 tors possessed it." " And by what magic," I replied, 
 " has it been converted into the pleasant land we now 
 inhabit?" " You shall see," said he. " It has been 
 the work of one of our most powerful magicians. 
 Her name is Industry" At the word she advanced 
 and waved her wand over the scene. Gradually the 
 waters ran oft' into separate channels, and left rich 
 meadows covered with innumerable flocks and herds. 
 The woods disappeared, except what waxed grace- 
 fully on the tops of the hills, or filled up the unsightly 
 hollows. Wherever she moved her wand, roads, 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 9 
 
 bridges, and canals laid open and improved the face 
 of the country. A numerous population, spread a- 
 broad in the fields, were gathering in the harvest. 
 Smoke from warm cottages ascended through the 
 trees, pleasant towns and villages marked the several 
 points of distance. Last, the Thames was filled with 
 forests of masts, and proud London appeared with all 
 its display of wealth and grandeur. 
 
 I do not know whether it was the pleasure I re- 
 ceived from this exhilarating scene, or the carriage 
 having just got upon the pavement, which awakened 
 me ; but I determined to write out my dream, and 
 advise you to cultivate your acquaintance with all the 
 true Arts of Magic. 
 
A LECTURE ON THE USE OF WORDS. 
 
 My dear mamma, who worked you this scarf? it is 
 excessively pretty. 
 
 I am sorry for it, my dear. 
 
 Sorry, mamma ! are you sorry it is pretty ? 
 
 No, but I am sorry if it is excessively pretty. 
 
 Why so ? — a thing cannot be too pretty, can it ? 
 
 If so, it cannot be excessively pretty. Pray what 
 do you mean by excessively pretty ? 
 
 Why, excessively pretty means — it means very 
 pretty. 
 
 What does the word excessively come from ? 
 What part of speech is it ? You know your gram- 
 mar ? 
 
 It is an adverb : the words that end in ly are ad- 
 verbs. 
 
 Adverbs are derived from adjectives by adding ly, 
 you should have said ; — excessive, excessively. And 
 what is the noun from which they are both derived . ? 
 
 Excess. 
 
 And what does excess mean ? 
 
 It means too much of any thing. 
 
 You see then that it implies a fault, and therefore 
 cannot be applied as a commendation. We say a 
 man is excessively greedy, excessively liberal ; a wo- 
 man excessively fine : but not that a man is exces- 
 sively wise, a woman excessively faithful to her hus- 
 band ; because in these there is no excess : nor is 
 there in beauty, that being the true and just proportion 
 which gives pleasure. 
 
 But we say excessively kind. 
 
ON THE USE OF WORDS. 11 
 
 We do, because kindness has its limits. A person 
 may be too kind to us, who exposes himself to a great 
 and serious inconvenience to give us a slight pleasure : 
 we also may mean by it, exceeding that kindness which 
 we have a claim to expect. But when people use it, 
 as they often do, on the slightest occasion, it is cer- 
 tainly as wrong as excessively pretty. 
 
 But, mamma, must we always consider so much 
 the exact meaning of words ? Every body says ex- 
 cessively pretty, and excessively tall, and infinitely 
 obliged to you. — What harm can it do ? 
 
 That every body does it, I deny ; that the general- 
 ity do it, is very true ; but it is likewise true, that the 
 generality are not to be taken as a pattern in any 
 thing. As to the harm it does, — in the first place it 
 hurts our sincerity. 
 
 Why, it is not telling a lie, sure ? 
 
 Certainly I do not mean to say it is ; but it tends 
 to sap and undermine the foundations of our integrity, 
 by making us careless, if not in the facts we assert, 
 yet in the measure and degree in which we assert 
 them. If we do not pretend to love those we have 
 no affection for, or to admire those we despise, at 
 least we lead them to think we admire them more and 
 love them better than we really do ; and this prepares 
 the way for more serious deviations from truth. So 
 much for its concern with morality : — but it has like- 
 wise a very bad effect on our taste. What, think 
 you, is the reason that young people, especially, run 
 into these vague and exaggerated expressions , ? 
 
 What is vague, mamma ? 
 
 It means what has no precise, definite signification. 
 Young people run into these, sometimes indeed from 
 having more feeling than judgment, but more com- 
 monly from not knowing how to separate their ideas 
 and tell what it is they are pleased with. They 
 
12 ON THE USE OF WORDS. 
 
 either do not know, or will not give themselves the 
 trouble to mark, the qualities, or to describe the scenes 
 which disgust or please them, and hope to cover their 
 deficiency by these overwhelming expressions ; as if 
 your dress-maker, not knowing your shape, should 
 make a large loose frock, that would cover you over 
 were you twice as tall as you are. Now you would 
 have shown your taste, if in commending my scarf you 
 had said that the pattern was light, or it was rich, or 
 that the work was neat and true ; but by saying it was 
 excessively pretty, you showed you had not consider- 
 ed what it was you admired in it. Did you never 
 hear of the countryman who said, "There will be mon- 
 strous few apples this year, and those few will be huge 
 little." Poets run into this fault when they give un- 
 meaning epithets instead of appropriate description ; — 
 young ladies, when in their letters they run into exag- 
 gerated expressions of friendship. 
 
 You have often admired, in this painting, the variety 
 of tints shaded into one another. Well ! what would 
 you think of a painter who should spread one deep 
 blue over all the sky, and one deep green over the 
 grass and trees ? would not you say he was a dauber . ? 
 and made near objects and distant objects, and objects 
 in the sun and objects in the shade, all alike ? I think 
 I have some of your early performances in which 
 you have coloured prints pretty much in this style ; 
 but you would not paint so now ? 
 
 No, indeed. 
 
 Then do not talk so : do not paint so with words. 
 
1:3 
 
 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Stoic, swelling with the proud consciousness of 
 his own worth, took a solitary walk ; and straying 
 amongst the groves of Academus, he sat down be- 
 tween an Olive and a Pine tree. His attention was 
 soon excited by a murmur which he heard among the 
 leaves. The whispers increased ; and listening at- 
 tentively, he plainly heard the Pine say to the Olive 
 as follows : " Poor tree ! I pity thee ; thou now 
 spreadest thy green leaves and exultest in all the pride 
 of youth and spring ; but how soon will thy beauty 
 be tarnished ! The fruit which thou exhaustest thy- 
 self to bear, shall hardly be shaken from thy boughs 
 before thou shalt grow dry and withered ; thy green 
 veins, now so full of juice, shall be frozen ; naked 
 and bare, thou wilt stand exposed to all the storms of 
 winter, whilst my firmer leaf shall resist the change 
 of the seasons. Unchangeable is my motto, and 
 through the various vicissitudes of the year I shall 
 continue equally green and vigorous as I am at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 The Olive, with a graceful wave of her boughs, 
 replied : " It is true thou wilt always continue as thou 
 art at present. Thy leaves will keep that sullen and 
 gloomy green in which they are now arrayed, and the 
 stiff regularity of thy branches will not yield to those 
 storms which will bow down many of the feebler ten- 
 ants of the grove. Yet I wish not to be like thee. I 
 rejoice when nature rejoices ; and when I am deso- 
 
14 THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 
 
 late, nature mourns with me. I fully enjoy pleasure- 
 in its season, and I am contented to be subject to the 
 influences of those seasons and that economy of na- 
 ture by which I flourish. When the spring approach- 
 es, I feel the kindly warmth ; my branches swell with 
 young buds, and my leaves unfold ; crowds of singing 
 birds which never visit thy noxious shade, sport on 
 my boughs ; my fruit is offered to the gods and re- 
 joices men ; and when the decay of nature approach- 
 es, I shed my leaves over the funeral of the falling 
 year, and am well contented not to stand a single ex- 
 emption to the mournful desolation I see everywhere 
 around me." 
 
 The Pine was unable to frame a reply ; and the 
 philosopher turned away his steps rebuked and hum- 
 bled. 
 
15 
 
 ON RIDDLES. 
 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS, 
 
 I presume you are now all come home for the holi- 
 days, and that the brothers and sisters and cousins, 
 papas and mammas, uncles and aunts, are all met 
 cheerfully round a Christinas fire, enjoying the com- 
 pany of their friends and relations, and eating plum 
 pudding and mince pie. These are very good things ; 
 but one cannot always be eating plum pudding and 
 mince pie : the days are short, and the weather bad, 
 so that you cannot be much abroad ; and I think you 
 must want something to amuse you. Besides, if you 
 have been employed as you ought to be at school, and 
 if you are quick and clever, as I hope you are, you 
 will want some employment for that part of you which 
 thinks, as well as that part of you which eats ; and 
 you will like better to solve a riddle than to crack a 
 nut or walnut. Finding out riddles is the same kind 
 of exercise of the mind which running and leaping 
 and wrestling in sport are to the body. They are of 
 no use in themselves, — they are not work, but play ; 
 but they prepare the body, and make it alert and ac- 
 tive for any thing it may be called to perform in la- 
 bour or war. So does the finding out of riddles, if 
 they are good especially, give quickness of thought, 
 and a facility of turning about a problem every way, 
 and viewing it in every possible light. When Ar- 
 chimedes coming out of the bath cried in transport, 
 " Eureka /" (I have found it !) he had been exercis- 
 ing his mind precisely in the same manner as you will 
 
16 ON RIDDLES. 
 
 do when you are searching about for the solution of a 
 riddle. 
 
 And pray, when you are got together, do not let any 
 little Miss or Master say, with an affected air, " O I 
 do not ask me ; ] am so stupid I never can guess." 
 They do not mean you should think them stupid and 
 dull ; they mean to imply that these things are too 
 trifling to engage their attention. If they are employ- 
 ed better, it is very well ; but if not, say, " I am very 
 sorry indeed you are so dull, but we that are clever 
 and quick will exercise our wits upon these ; and as 
 our arms grow stronger by exercise, so will our wits." 
 
 Riddles are of high antiquity, and were the em- 
 ployment of grave men formerly. The first riddle 
 that we have on record was proposed by Sampson at 
 a wedding feast to the young men of the Philistines, 
 who were invited upon the occasion. The feast lasted 
 seven days ; and if they found it out within the seven 
 days, Sampson was to give them thirty suits of clothes 
 and thirty sheets ; and if they could not guess it, 
 they were to forfeit the same to him. The riddle 
 was ; " Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of 
 the strong came forth sweetness." He had killed a 
 lion, and left its carcase : on returning soon after, he 
 found a swarm of bees had made use of the skeleton 
 as a hive, and it was full of honeycomb. Struck with 
 the oddness of the circumstance, he made a riddle of 
 it. They puzzled about it the whole seven days, and 
 would not have found it out at last if his wife had not 
 told them. 
 
 The Sphinx was a great riddle-maker. According 
 to the fable, she was half a woman and half a lion. 
 She lived near Thebes, and to every body that came 
 she proposed a riddle ; and if they did not find it out, 
 she devoured them. At length (Edipus came, and 
 she a?ked him, " What is that animal which walk 
 
ON RIDDLES. 17 
 
 four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three at 
 night?" (Edipus answered, Man : — in childhood, 
 which is the morning of life, he crawls on his hands 
 and feet ; in middle age, which is noon, he walks 
 erect on two ; in old age he leans on a crutch, which 
 serves for a supplementary third foot. 
 
 The famous wise men of Greece did not disdain to 
 send puzzles to each other. They are also fond of 
 riddles in the East. There is a pretty one in some 
 of their tales. — " What is that tree which has twelve 
 brandies, and each branch thirty leaves, which are all 
 black on one side and white on the other ? " — The 
 tree is the year ; the branches the months ; the leaves 
 black on one side and white on the other signify day 
 and night. Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors also had rid- 
 dles, some of wfeich are still preserved in a very an- 
 cient manuscript. 
 
 A riddle is a description of a thing without the 
 name ; but as it is meant to puzzle, it appears to 
 belong to something else than what it really does, 
 and often seems contradictory ; but when you 
 have guessed it, it appears quite clear. It is a bad 
 riddle if you are at all in doubt when you have found 
 it out whether you are right or no. A riddle is not 
 verbal, as charades, conundrums, and rebusses are : 
 it may be translated into any language, which the 
 others cannot. Addison would put them all in the 
 class of false wit : but Swift, who was as great a 
 genius, amused himself with making all sorts of puz- 
 zles ; and therefore I think you need not be ashamed 
 of reading them. It would be pretty entertainment for 
 you to make a collection of the better ones, — for ma- 
 ny are so dull that they are not worth spending time 
 about. I will conclude by sending you a few which 
 will be new to you. 
 2* 
 
IS 
 
 ON Il]J)DU>. 
 
 I. 
 
 I often murmur, yet I never weep ; 
 
 I always lie in bed, yet never sleep ; 
 
 My mouth is wide, and larger than my head, 
 
 And much disgorges though it ne'er is fed ; 
 
 I have no legs or feet, yet swiftly run, 
 
 And the more falls I get, move faster on. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye youths and ye virgins, come list to my tale, 
 
 With youth and with beauty my voice will prevail. 
 
 My smile is enchanting, and golden my hair, 
 
 And on earth I am fairest of all that is fair ; 
 
 But my name it perhaps may assist you to tell, 
 
 That I 'm banish'd alike both from heaven and hell. 
 
 There 's a charm in my voice, 't is than music more sweet. 
 
 And my tale oft repeated, untired I repeat. 
 
 I flatter, I soothe, I speak kindly to all, 
 
 And wherever you go, I am still within call. 
 
 Though I thousands have blest, 't is a strange thing to say, 
 
 That not one of the thousands e'er wishes my stay. 
 
 But when most I enchant him, impatient the more, 
 
 The minutes seem hours till my visits is o'er. 
 
 In the chase of my love I am ever employ'd, 
 
 Still, still he 's pursued, and yet never enjoy'd ; 
 
 O'er hills and o'er valleys unwearied I fly, 
 
 But should I o'ertake him, that instant I die ; 
 
 Yet I spring up again, and again I pursue, 
 
 The object still distant, the passion still new. 
 
 Now guess, — and to raise your astonishment most, 
 
 While you seek me you have me, when found I am lost. 
 
 III. 
 
 I never talk but in my sleep ; 
 I never cry, but sometimes weep ; 
 My doors are open day and night ; 
 Old age I help to better sight ; 
 I, like camelion, feed on air, 
 And dust to me is dainty fare. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We are spirits all in white, 
 On a field as black as night ; 
 
ON RIDDLE S. 19 
 
 There we dance and sport and play, 
 
 Changing every changing day : 
 
 Yet with us is wisdom found, 
 
 As we move in mystic round. 
 
 Mortal, wouldst thou know the grains 
 
 That Ceres heaps on Libya's plains, 
 
 Or leaves that yellow Autumn strews, 
 
 Or the stars that Herschel views, 
 
 Or find how many drops would drain 
 
 The wide-scooped bosom of the main, 
 
 Or measure central depths below,-— 
 
 Ask of us, and thou shalt know. 
 
 With fairy feet we compass round 
 
 The pyramid's capacious bound, 
 
 Or step by step ambitious climb 
 
 The cloud-capt mountain's height sublime. 
 
 Riches though we do not use, 
 'Tis ours to gain, and ours to lose. 
 From Araby the Blest we came. 
 In every land our tongue's the same ; 
 And if our number you require, 
 Go count the bright Aonian quire. 
 Wouldst thou cast a spell to find 
 The track of light, the speed of windj 
 Or when the snail with creeping pace 
 Shall the swelling globe embrace j 
 Mortal, ours the powerful spell ;— 
 Ask of us, for we can telL 
 
20 
 
 THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 
 
 MY DEAR LUCY, 
 
 Have you made out who the four Sisters are ? * If 
 you have, I will tell you another story. It is about a 
 monarch who lives in a sumptuous castle, raised high 
 above the ground and built with exquisite art. He 
 takes a great deal of state upon him, and, like East- 
 ern monarchs, transacts every thing by means of his 
 ministers ; for he never appears himself, and indeed 
 lives in so retired a manner, that though it has often 
 excited the curiosity of his subjects, his- residence is 
 hidden from them with as much jealous care as that 
 of Pygmalion was from the Tynans ; and it has never 
 been discovered with any certainty which of the 
 chambers of the castle he actually inhabits, though by 
 means of his numerous spies he is acquainted with 
 what passes in every one of them. 
 
 But I must proceed to give you some account of 
 his chief ministers ; and I will begin with two who 
 are mutes. Their office is to bring him quick and 
 faithful intelligence of all that is going forward ; this 
 they perform in a very ingenious manner. You have 
 heard of the Mexicans, who, not having the art of 
 writing, supplied the deficiency by painting even" thing 
 they have a mind to communicate ; so that when die 
 Spaniards came amongst them, they sent regular ac- 
 counts to the king of their landing and all their pro- 
 ceedings, in very intelligible language, without writing 
 a single word. Now this is just the method of these 
 
 * See this piece in Evenings at Home. 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 21 
 
 two mutes ; they are continually employed in making 
 pictures of every thing that passes, which they do 
 with wonderful quickness and accuracy, all in minia- 
 ture, but in exact proportion, and coloured after life. 
 These pictures they bring every moment to a great 
 gate of the palace, where the king receives them. 
 
 The next I shall mention are two drummers. 
 These have each a great drum, on which they beat 
 soft or loud, quick or slow, according to the occasion. 
 They often entertain the king with music ; besides 
 which they are aiyived at such wonderful perfection 
 upon their instrument, and make the strokes with such 
 precision, that by the different beats, accompanied by 
 proper pauses and intervals, they can express any 
 thing they wish to tell ; — and the king relies upon 
 them as much as upon his mutes. There is a sort of 
 covered way made in the form of a labyrinth from the 
 station of the drummers to the inner rooms of the 
 palace. 
 
 There is a pair of officers, — for you must know, the 
 offices go mightily by pairs, — whose department it is 
 to keep all nuisances from the palace. They are 
 lodged for that purpose under a shed or penthouse, 
 built with that view before the front of the palace : 
 they likewise gather and present to the monarch sweet 
 odours, essences, and perfumes, with which he regales 
 himself : they likewise inspect the dishes that are 
 served up at his table ; and if any of them are not 
 fit to be eaten, they give notice for their removal ; and 
 sometimes, if any thing offensive is about to enter the 
 palace, they order the agents to shut two little doors 
 which are in their keeping, and by that means pre- 
 vent its entrance. 
 
 The agents are two very active officers of long 
 reach and quick execution. The executive part of 
 government is chiefly intrusted to them ; they obey 
 
22 THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 
 
 the king's commands with a readiness and vigour truly 
 admirable ; they defend the castle from all assaults, 
 and are vigilant in keeping at a distance every annoy- 
 ance. Their office is branched out into ten subordi- 
 nate ones, but in cases which require great exertion 
 they act together. 
 
 I must not omit the beef-eaters. These stand in 
 rows at the great front gate of the palace, much as 
 they do at St. James's, only that they are dressed in 
 white. Their office is to prepare the viands for the 
 king, who is so very lazy and so rn^ch accustomed to 
 have every thing done for him, that, like the king of 
 Bantam and some other Eastern monarchs, he re- 
 quires his meat to be chewed before it is presented 
 to him. 
 
 Close by the beaf-eaters lives the king's orator, a 
 fat portly gentleman, of something a Dutch make, but 
 remarkably voluble and nimble in his motions notwith- 
 standing. He delivers the king's orders and explains 
 his will. This gentleman is a good deal of an epi- 
 cure, which I suppose is the reason he has his station 
 so near the beef-eaters. He is a perfect connoisseur 
 in good eating, and assumes a right of tasting all the 
 dishes ; and the king pays the greatest regard to his 
 opinion. Justice obliges me to confess that this orator 
 is one of the most flippant and ungovernable of the 
 king's subjects. 
 
 Among the inferior officers are the porters, two 
 stout lusty fellows who carry the king about from 
 place to place (for I am sure you are by this time too 
 well acquainted with his disposition to suppose he per- 
 forms that office for himself) ; but as most great men's 
 officers have their deputies, so these lazy porters are 
 very apt to get their business done by deputy, and to 
 have people to carry them about. 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 23 
 
 1 should never have have done, if I were to men- 
 tion all the particulars of the domestic establishment 
 and internal oeconomy of the castle, which is all ar- 
 ranged with wonderful art and order ; how the out- 
 goings are proportioned to the income, and what a 
 fellow-feeling there is between all the members of the 
 family from the greatest to the meanest. The king, 
 from his high birth, on which he values himself much, 
 — being of a race and lineage quite different from 
 any of his subjects, — and from his superior capacity, 
 claims the most absolute obedience ; though, as is 
 frequently the case with kings, he is in fact most com- 
 monly governed by his ministers, who lead him where 
 they please without his being sensible of it. — As you, 
 my dear Lucy, have had more conversation with this 
 king than most of your age have been honoured with, 
 t day say you will be at no loss in pointing him out. 
 I therefore add no more but that I am 
 
 Yours, &ic. 
 
24 
 
 ON FEMALE STUDIES. 
 
 LETTER 1. 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 If I had not been afraid you would feel some little 
 reluctance in addressing me fust, I should have asked 
 you to begin the correspondence between us ; for I 
 am at present ignorant of your particular pursuits : I 
 cannot guess whether you are climbing the hill of 
 science, or wandering among the flowers of fancy : 
 whether you are sketching your powers to embrace 
 the planetary system, or examining with a curious eye 
 the delicate veinings of a green leaf, and the minute 
 ramifications of a sea-weed ; or whether you are toil- 
 ing through the intricate and thorny mazes of gram- 
 mar. Whichever of these is at present your employ- 
 ment, your general aim no doubt is the improvement 
 of your mind ; and we will therefore spend some time 
 in considering what kind and degree of literary at- 
 tainments sit gracefully upon the female character. 
 
 Every woman should consider herself as sustaining 
 the general character of a rational being, as we! 1 
 the more confined one belonging to the female sex ; 
 and therefore the motives for acquiring general knowl- 
 edge and cultivating the taste are nearly the same to 
 both sexes. The line of separation between the 
 studies of a young man and a young woman appears 
 to me to be chiefly fixed by tills, — that a woman i< 
 excused from all professional knowledge. Profession- 
 i! knowledge means all that is necessary to fit a man 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIED. 25 
 
 tor a peculiar profession or business. Thus men study 
 in order to qualify themselves for the law, for physic, 
 for various departments in political life, for instructing 
 others from the pulpit or the professor's chair. These 
 all require a great deal of severe study and technical 
 knowledge ; much of which is nowise valuable in it- 
 self, but as a means to that particular profession. 
 Now as a woman can never be called to any of these 
 professions, it is evident you have nothing to do with 
 such studies. A woman is not expected to under- 
 stand the mysteries of politics, because she is not 
 called to govern ; she is not required to know anato- 
 my, because she is not to perform surgical operations ; 
 she need not embarrass herself with theological dis- 
 putes, because she will neither be called upon to make 
 nor to explain creeds. 
 
 Men have various departments in active life ; wo- 
 men have but one, and all women have the same, 
 differently modified indeed by their rank in life and 
 other incidental circumstances. It is, to be a wife, a 
 mother, a mistress of a family. The knowledge be- 
 longing to these duties is your professional knowledge, 
 the want of which nothing will excuse. Literary 
 knowledge therefore, in men, is often an indispensable 
 duty ; in women it can be only a desirable accom- 
 plishment. In women it is more immediately applied 
 to the purposes of adorning and improving the mind, 
 of refining the sentiments, and supplying proper stores 
 for conversation. For general knowledge women 
 have in some respects more advantages than men. 
 Their avocations often allow them more leisure ; their 
 sedentary way of life disposes them to the domestic, 
 quiet amusement of reading ; the share they take in 
 the education of their children throws them in the 
 way of books. The uniform tenor and confined cir- 
 cle of their lives make them eager to diversify th< 
 3 
 
26 ON FEMALE STUDIES. 
 
 scene by descriptions which open to them a new 
 world ; and they are eager to gain an idea of scenes 
 on the busy stage of life from which they are shut out 
 by their sex. It is likewise particularly desirable for 
 women to be able to give spirit and variety to conver- 
 sation by topics drawn from the stores of literature, 
 as the broader mirth and more boisterous gaiety of 
 the other sex are to them prohibited. As their par- 
 ties must be innocent, care should be taken that they 
 do not stagnate into insipidity. I will venture to add, 
 that the purity and simplicity of heart which a woman 
 ought never, in her freest commerce with the world, 
 to wear off; her very seclusion from the jarring inter- 
 ests and coarser amusements of society, fit her in a 
 peculiar manner for the worlds of fancy and senti- 
 ment, and dispose her to the quickest relish of what 
 is pathetic, sublime, or tender. To you, therefore, 
 the beauties of poetry, of moral painting, and all in 
 general that is comprised under the term of polite lit- 
 erature, lie particularly open ; and you cannot neglect 
 them without neglecting a very copious source of en- 
 joyment. 
 
 Languages are on some accounts particularly adapt- 
 ed to female study, as they may be learnt at home 
 without experiments or apparatus, and without inter- 
 fering with the habits of domestic life ; as they form 
 the style, and as they are the immediate inlet to works 
 of taste. But the learned languages, the Greek es- 
 pecially, require a great deal more time than a young 
 woman can conveniently spare. To the Latin there 
 is not an equal objection ; and if a young person ha? 
 leisure, has an opportunity of learning it at home by 
 being connected with literary people, and is placed in 
 a circle of society sufficiently liberal to allow her such 
 an accomplishment, I do not see, if she has a strong 
 inclination, why she should not make herself mi-' 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 27 
 
 of so rich a store of original entertainment : — it will 
 not, in the present state of things, excite either a smile 
 or a stare in fashionable company. To those who do 
 not intend to learn the language, I would strongly re- 
 commend the learning so much of the grammar of it 
 as will explain the name and nature of cases, genders,- 
 inflection of verbs, &c. ; of which, having only the 
 imperfect rudiments in our own language, a mere 
 English scholar can with difficulty form a clear idea. 
 This is the more necessary, as all our grammars, be- 
 ing written by men whose early studies had given 
 them a partiality for the learned languages, are form- 
 ed more upon those than upon the real genius of our 
 own tongue. 
 
 I was going now to mention French, but perceive I 
 have written a letter long enough to frighten a young 
 correspondent, and for the present I bid you adieu. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 French you are not only permited to learn, but 
 you are laid under the same necessity of acquiring it 
 as your brother is of acquiring the Latin. Custom has 
 made the one as much expected from an accomplish- 
 ed woman, as the other from a man who has had a 
 liberal education. The learning French, or indeed 
 any language completely, includes reading, writing, 
 and speaking it. But here I must take the liberty to 
 offer my ideas, which differ something from those gen- 
 erally entertained, and you will give them what weight 
 you think they deserve. It seems to me that the ef- 
 forts of young ladies in learning French are generally 
 directed to what is unattainable ; and if attained, not 
 very useful, — the speaking it. It is utterly impossi- 
 
2$ ON FEMALE STUDIES, 
 
 ble, without such advantages as few enjoy, to speak | 
 foreign language with fluency and a proper accent ;. 
 and if even by being in a French family some degree 
 of both is attained, it is soon lost by mixing with the 
 world at large. As to the French which girls are 
 obliged to speak at boarding-schools, it does very well 
 to speak in England, but at Paris it would probably be 
 less understood than English itself. 
 
 I do not mean by this to say that the speaking of 
 French is not a very elegant accomplishment ; and to 
 those who mean to spend some time in France, or 
 who being in very high life often see foreigners of dis- 
 tinction, it may be necessary ; but in common life it is 
 very little so : and for English people to meet togeth- 
 er to talk a foreign language is truly absurd. There 
 is a sarcasm against this practice as old as Chaucer's 
 rime — 
 
 "... Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisely. 
 After the schole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
 For Frenche of Paris was to her unknowe." 
 
 But with regard to reading French, the many charm- 
 ing publications in that language, particularly in polite 
 literature, of which you can have no adequate idea 
 by translation, render it a very desirable acquisition. 
 YVriting it is not more useful in itself than speaking, 
 except a person has foreign letters to write ; but it is 
 necessary for understanding the language grammati- 
 cally and fixing the rules in the mind. A young per- 
 son who reads French with ease and is so well 
 grounded as to write it grammatically, and has what I 
 should call a good English pronunciation of it, will by 
 a short residence in France gain fluency and die ac- 
 cent ; whereas one not grounded would soon forget 
 all she had learned, though she had acquired some 
 fluency in speaking. For speaking, therefore^ love 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 29 
 
 nut cultivate your own : know all its elegancies, its 
 force, its happy turns of expression, and possess your- 
 self of all its riches. In foreign languages you have 
 only to learn ; but with regard to your own, you have 
 probably to unlearn, and to avoid vulgarisms and pro- 
 vincial barbarisms. 
 
 If after you have learned French you should wish 
 to add Italian, the acquisition will not be difficult. It 
 is valuable on account of its poetry, in which it far 
 excels the French, — and its music. The other mod- 
 ern languages you will hardly attempt, except led to 
 diem by some peculiar bent. 
 
 History affords a wide field of entertaining and use- 
 ful reading. The chief thing to be attended to in 
 studying it, is to gain a clear well-arranged idea of 
 facts in chronological order, and illustrated by a 
 knowledge of the places where such facts happened. 
 Never read without tables and maps : make abstracts 
 of what you read. Before you embarrass yourself in 
 the detail of this, endeavour to fix well in your mind the 
 arrangement of some leading facts, which may serve 
 as landmarks to which to refer the rest. Connect 
 the history of different countries together. In the 
 study of history the different genius of a woman I 
 imagine will show itself. The detail of battles, the 
 art of sieges, will not interest her so much as manners 
 and sentiment ; this is the food she assimilates to 
 herself. 
 
 The great laws of the universe, the nature and 
 properties of those objects which surround us, it is 
 unpardonable not to know : it is more unpardonable 
 to know, and not to feel the mind struck with lively 
 gratitude. Under this head are comprehended nat- 
 ural history, astronomy, botany, experimental philoso- 
 phy, chemistry, physics. In these you will rather 
 take what belongs to sentiment and to utility than ab- 
 
30 ON FEMALE STUDIES. 
 
 stract calculations or difficult problems. You must 
 often be content to know a thing is so, without under- 
 standing the proof. It belongs to a Newton to prove 
 his sublime problems, but we may all be made ac- 
 quainted with the result. You cannot investigate ; 
 you may remember. This will teach you not to 
 despise common things, will give you an interest in 
 every thing you see. If you are feeding your poul- 
 try, or tending your bees, or extracting the juice of 
 herbs, with an intelligent mind you are gaining real 
 knowledge ; it will open to you an inexhaustible fund 
 of wonder and delight, and effectually prevent you 
 from depending for your entertainment on the poor 
 novelties of fashion and expense. 
 
 But of all reading, what most ought to engage your 
 attention are works of sentiment and morals. Morals 
 is that study in which alone both sexes have an equal 
 interest ; and in sentiment yours has even the advan- 
 tage. The works of this kind often appear under the 
 seducing form of novel and romance : here great care, 
 and the advice of your older friends is requisite in the 
 selection. Whatever is true, however uncouth in the 
 manner or dry in the subject, has a value from being 
 true : but fiction in order to recommend itself must 
 give us la belle Nature. You will find fewer plays 
 fit for your perusal than novels, and fewer comedies 
 than tragedies. 
 
 What particular share any one of the studies I have 
 mentioned may engage of your attention will he de- 
 termined by your peculiar turn and bent of mind. 
 But I shall conclude with observing, that a woman 
 ought to have that general tincture of them all, which 
 marks the cultivated mind. She ought to have enough 
 of them to engage gracefully in general conversation. 
 In no subject is she required to be deep, — of none 
 ought she to be ignorant. If she knows not enough 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 31 
 
 to speak well, she should know enough to keep 
 her from speaking at all ; enough to feel her ground 
 and prevent her from exposing her ignorance ; enough 
 to hear with intelligence, to ask questions with pro- 
 priety, and to receive information where she is not 
 qualified to give it. A woman who to a cultivated 
 mind joins that quickness of intelligence and delicacy 
 of taste which such a woman often possesses in a 
 superior degree, with that nice sense of propriety 
 which results from the whole, will have a kind of tact 
 by which she will be able on all occasions to discern 
 between pretenders to science and men of real merit. 
 On subjects upon which she cannot talk herself, she 
 will know whether a man talks with knowledge of his 
 subject. She will not judge of systems, but by their 
 systems she will be able to judge of men. She will 
 distinguish the modest, the dogmatical, the affected, 
 the over-refined, and give her esteem and confidence 
 accordingly. She will know with whom to confide 
 the education of her children, and how to judge of 
 their progress and the methods used to improve them. 
 From books, from conversation, from learned instruc- 
 tors, she will gather the flower of every science ; and 
 her mind, in assimilating every thing to itself, will 
 adorn it with new graces. She will give the tone to 
 the conversation even when she chooses to bear but 
 an inconsiderable part in it. The modesty which 
 prevents her from an unnecessary display of what she 
 knows, will cause it to be supposed that her knowledge 
 is deeper than in reality it is : — as when the landscape 
 is seen through the veil of a mist, the bounds of the 
 horizon are hid. As she will never obtrude her 
 knowledge, none will ever be sensible of any defi- 
 ciency in it, and her silence will seem to proceed from 
 discretion rather than a want of information. She will 
 seem to know every thing by leading every one to 
 
32 ON FEMALE STUDIED. 
 
 speak of what he knows ; and when she is with those 
 to whom she can give no real information, she will yet 
 delight them by the original turns of thought and 
 sprightly elegance which will attend her manner of 
 speaking on any subject. Such is the character to 
 whom profest scholars will delight to give information, 
 from whom others will equally delight to receive it : — 
 the character I wish you to become, and to form 
 which your application must be directed. 
 
 
33 
 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 Mamma! said Harriet Beechwood, I have just 
 heard such a proud speech of a poor man ! you would 
 wonder if you heard it. 
 
 Not much, Harriet; for pride and poverty can 
 very well agree together : — but what was it ? 
 
 Why, mamma, you know the charity-school that 
 Lady Mary has set up, and how neat the girls look in. 
 their brown stuff gowns and little straw bonnets. 
 
 Yes, I think it a very good institution ; the poor 
 girls are taught to read and spell and sew, and what is 
 better still, to be good. 
 
 Well, mamma, Lady Mary's gardener, a poor man 
 who lives in a cottage just by the great house, has a 
 little girl ; and so, because she was a pretty little girl, 
 Lady Mary offered to put her into this school ; — and 
 do you know he would not let her go ! 
 
 Indeed ! 
 
 Yes : he dianked her, and said, " I have only one 
 little girl, and I love her dearly ; and though I am a 
 poor man, I had rather work my fingers to the bone 
 than she should wear a charity dress." 
 
 I do not doubt, my dear Harriet, that a great many 
 people will have the same idea of this poor man's be- 
 haviour which you have ; but for my own part, I am 
 inclined to think it indicates something of a noble and 
 generous spirit. 
 
 Was it not proud to say she should not wear a 
 charity dress ? 
 
 Why should she ? — would you wear a charity 
 dress ? 
 
•*4 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 O, mamma, but this is a poor man ! 
 
 He is able to pay for her learning, I suppose ; other- 
 wise he would certainly do wrong to refuse his child 
 the advantage of instruction because his feelings were 
 hurt by it. 
 
 Yes, he is going to put her to Dame Primmer's 
 across the Green ; she will have half a mile to walk. 
 
 That will do her no hurt. 
 
 But he is throwing his money away ; for he might 
 have his little girl taught for nothing ; and as he is a 
 poor man he ought to be thankful for it. 
 
 Pray what do you mean by a poor man ? 
 
 O, a man — those men that live in poor houses, and 
 work all day, and are hired for it. 
 
 I cannot tell exactly how you define a poor house : 
 but as to working, your papa is in a public office, and 
 works all day long, and more hours certainly than the 
 labourer does ; and he is hired to it, for he would not 
 do the work but for the salary they give him. 
 
 But you do not live like those poor people, and 
 you do not wear a check apron like the gardener's 
 wife. 
 
 Neither am I covered with lace and jewels like a 
 duchess : there is as much difference between our 
 manner of living and that of many people above us in 
 fortune, as between ours and this gardener's whom 
 you call poor. 
 
 What is being poor then ? is there no such thing ? 
 
 Indeed I hardly know how to answer your question : 
 rich and poor are comparative terms ; and provided a 
 man is in no want of the necessaries of life and is not 
 in debt, he can only be said to be poor comparatively 
 with others, of whom the same might be affirmed by 
 those who are still richer. But to whatever degree of 
 indigence you apply the term, you must take care 
 not to confound a poor man with a pauper. 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 35 
 
 What is a pauper ? I thought they had been the 
 same thing ? 
 
 A pauper is one who cannot maintain himself, and 
 who is maintained by the charity of the community. 
 Your gardener was not a pauper ; he worked for what 
 he had, and he paid for what he had ; and therefore he 
 had a right to expect that his child should not be 
 confounded with the children of the idle, the profli- 
 gate, and the dissolute, who are maintained upon 
 charity. I wish the lower classes had more of this 
 honourable pride. 
 
 Is it a crime to be a pauper ? 
 
 To be a pauper is often the consequence of vice ; 
 and where it is not, it justly degrades a man from his 
 rank in society. If the gardener's daughter w T ere to 
 wear a kind of charity badge, the little girls she plays 
 with would consider her as having lost her rank in 
 society. You would not like to lose your rank, and 
 to be thrust down lower than your proper place in so- 
 ciety. There are several things it would not at all hurt 
 you to do, which you w T ould not choose to do on this 
 account. For instance, to carry a bandbox through 
 the street ; — yet it would not hurt you to carry a band- 
 box ; you would carry a greater weight in your gar- 
 den for pleasure. 
 
 But I diought gardeners and such sort of people 
 had no rank ? 
 
 That is a very great mistake. Eveiy one has his 
 rank, his place in society ; and so far as rank is a 
 source of honourable pride, there is less difference in 
 rank between you and the gardener, than between the 
 gardener and a pauper. Between the greater part of 
 those we call different classes, there is only the differ- 
 ence of less and more ; the spending a hundred, or 
 five hundred, or five thousand a year ; the eating off 
 earthenware, or china, or plate : but there is a real 
 
•36 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 and essential difference between the man who provides 
 for his family by his own exertions, and him who is sup- 
 ported by charity. The gardener has a right to stretch 
 out his nervous arm and say, " This right hand, un- 
 der Providence, provides for myself and my family ; I 
 earn what I eat, I am a burthen to no one, and therefore 
 if I have any superfluity I have a right to spend it as I 
 please, and to dress my little girl to my own fancy." 
 
 But do you not think, mamma, that a brown stuff 
 gown and a straw bonnet would be a much properer 
 dress for the lower sort of people than any thing 
 gaudy? If they are much dressed, you know, we 
 always laugh at their vulgar finery. 
 
 They care very little for your laughing at them ; 
 they do not dress to please you. 
 
 Whom do they dress to please ? 
 
 Whom do you dress to please ? 
 
 You, my dear mamma, and papa. 
 
 Not entirely, I fancy ; — you tell me the truth, but 
 not the whole truth. Well, they dress to please their 
 papas and mammas, their young companions, and their 
 sweethearts. 
 
 I have often heard Lady Selina say, that if all the 
 lower orders were to have a plain uniform dress, it 
 would be much better ; and that if a poor person is 
 neat and clean, it is quite enough. 
 
 Better for whom ? — enough for whom ? for them- 
 selves, or for us ? They have a natural love of orna- 
 ment as well as we have. It is true they can do our 
 work as well in a plainer dress ; but when the work is 
 done and the time of enjoyment comes, — in the dance 
 on the green, or the tea-party among their friends, — 
 who shall hinder them from indulging their taste and 
 fancy, and laying out the money they have so fairly 
 earned in what best pleases them ? 
 
 But they are not content without following our fash- 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 3? 
 
 ions ; and they are so ridiculous in their imitations of 
 them. I was quite diverted to see Molly, the pastry- 
 cook's girl, tossing her head about in a hat and ribbon 
 which I dare say she thought very fashionable ; but 
 such a caricature of the mode — I was so diverted. 
 
 You may be diverted with a safer conscience when 
 I assure you that the laugh goes round. London 
 laughs at the country, the court laughs at the city, and 
 I dare say your pastrycook's girl laughs at somebody 
 who is distanced by herself in the race of fashion. 
 
 But every body says, and I have heard you say, 
 mamma, that the kind of people I mean, and servants 
 particularly, are very extravagant in dress. 
 
 That unfortunately is true : they very often are so, 
 and when they marry they suffer for it severely ; but 
 do not you think many young ladies are equally so ? 
 Did you not see at your last dancing-school ball many 
 a girl whose father cannot give her a thousand pounds, 
 covered with lace and ornaments ? 
 
 It is very true. 
 
 Are not duchesses driven by extravagance to pawn 
 their plate and jewels ? 
 
 I have heard so. 
 
 The only security against improper expense is dig- 
 nity of mind, and moderation : these are not common 
 in any rank ; and I do not know why we should ex- 
 pect them to be more common among the lower and 
 uneducated classes than among the higher. — To return 
 to your gardener. He has certainly a right to dress 
 his girl as he pleases without asking you or me : but 
 I shall think he does not make a wise use of that right 
 if he lays out his money in finery, instead of providing 
 the more substantial comforts and enjoyments of life. 
 And I should think exactly the same of my neighbour 
 in the great house in the park. 
 
 Have servants a rank ? 
 4 
 
38 THE RICH AND THE POOR. 
 
 Certainly ; and you will find them very tenacious 
 of it. A gentleman's butler will not go behind a 
 coach ; a lady's maid will not go on an errand. 
 
 Are they not very saucy to refuse doing it, if they 
 are ordered ? 
 
 No ; if they refuse civilly. They are hired to do 
 certain things, not to obey you in every thing. There 
 are many ranks above, but there are also many ranks 
 below them ; and they have both the right and the 
 inclination to support their place in society. 
 
 But their masters would respect them the more if 
 they did not stand upon these punctilios. 
 
 But I have told you it is not our approbation they 
 seek. When the lower orders mix with the higher, 
 it is to maintain themselves and get money ; and if 
 they are honest, they will do their work faithfully : 
 but it is amongst their equals that they seek for affec- 
 tion, applause, and admiration ; and there they meet 
 with it. It matters very little in what rank a man is, 
 provided he is esteemed and reckoned a man of con- 
 sequence there. The feelings of vanity are exactly 
 the same in a countess's daughter dancing at court, 
 and a milkwoman figuring at a country hop. 
 
 But surely, mamma, the countess's daughter will 
 be more really elegant ? 
 
 That will depend very much upon individual taste. 
 However, the higher ranks have so many advantages 
 for cultivating taste, so much money to lay out in 
 decoration, and are so early taught the graces of air 
 and manner to set off those decorations, that it would 
 be absurd to deny their superiority in this particular. 
 But Taste has one great enemy to contend with. 
 
 What is that ? 
 
 Fashion, — an arbitrary and capricious tyrant, who 
 reigns with the most despotic sway over that depart- 
 ment which Taste alone ought to regulate. It i< 
 
THE RICH AND THE POOR. 39 
 
 Fashion that imprisons the slender nymph in the vast 
 rotunda of the hoop and loads her with heavy orna- 
 ments, when she is conscious, if she dared rebel, she 
 should dance lighter and look better in a dress of one 
 tenth part of the price. Fashion sometimes orders 
 her to cut off her beautiful tresses, and present the 
 appearance of a cropped school-boy ; and though this 
 is a sacrifice which a nun going to be profest looks 
 upon as one of the severest she is to make, she obeys 
 without a murmur. The winter arrives, and she is 
 cold ; but Fashion orders her to leave off half her 
 clothes, and be abroad half the night. She complies, 
 though at the risk of her life. A great deal more 
 might be said about this tyrant ; but as we have had 
 enough of grave conversation for the present, we will 
 here drop the subject. 
 
40 
 
 DESCRIPTION 
 
 OF 
 
 A CURIOUS ANIMAL 
 
 ATELY FOUND IN THE WILDS OF DERBYSHIRE. 
 
 This little creature, which seems a very beautiful 
 specimen of the species to which it belongs, is about 
 the size of a common monkey, which it likewise much 
 resembles in its agility and various tricks. The eye 
 is very lively, wild, and roving ; teeth white and sharp ; 
 body covered with a woolly integument, except the 
 head and fore feet; hair rude and tangled, hangs 
 about the shoulders and covers the forehead as low as 
 the eyes, rest of the face naked ; skin soft and white ; 
 cheeks full and of a glowing red ; under lip swelled 
 and pouting ; paws white with streaks of brown ; 
 claws long, toes of the hind feet joined together. 
 
 Habits. — This animal walks, indifferently, on two 
 or on four feet, feeds itself with its fore feet, makes a 
 chattering noise, climbs, leaps, and runs, and has a 
 spring in its muscles equal to an antelope ; has a won- 
 derful suppleness in its limbs, which it can twist into 
 various attitudes, all surprisingly graceful ; is always 
 in motion, except when basking by the fire, of which 
 it is very fond in winter. Will often shake its hair 
 over the whole face, which gives it a look of peculiar 
 wildness. Is very good-natured and playful, caressing 
 to its keeper and every one who takes notice of it. 
 Is however easily put in a passion, and when angry 
 makes a threatening noise, but is soon put to flight by 
 the least show of resistance. If seized, kicks with its 
 
 
DESCRIPTION OF A CURIOUS ANIMAL. 41 
 
 -hind legs : is however tolerably docile, considering 
 how lately it has been caught. Feeds on fruits, roots, 
 or flesh ; will eat cakes or nuts out of the hand. To 
 be seen at the Rev. Mr. B.'s menagerie, with many 
 other young animals equally curious. 
 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 The authors known by the name of the Greek and 
 Roman Classics have laid the foundation of all that is 
 excellent in modern literature ; and are so frequently 
 referred to both in books and conversation, that a per- 
 son of a cultivated mind cannot easily be content 
 without obtaining some knowledge of them, even 
 though he should not be able to read them in their 
 original tongues. A clear and short account of these 
 authors in a chronological series, together with a 
 sketch of the character of their several productions, 
 for the use of those who have either none or a very 
 superficial knowledge of the languages they are writ- 
 ten in, is, as far as I know, a desideratum which it is 
 much to be wished that some elegant scholar should 
 supply : in the mean time a few general remarks upon 
 them may be not unacceptable. 
 
 In the larger sense of the word, an author is called 
 a Classic when his work has stood the test of time 
 long enough to become a permanent part of the liter- 
 ature of his country. Of the number of writings 
 which in their day have attained a portion of fame, 
 very few in any age have survived to claim this hon- 
 ourable distinction. Every circumstance which gave 
 temporary celebrity must be forgotten; party must 
 have subsided ; the voice of friends and of enemies 
 must be silent ; and the writer himself must have long 
 mouldered in the dust, before the gates of immortality 
 are opened to him. It is in vain that he attempts to 
 natter or to soothe his contemporaries ; they are not 
 called to the decision ; his merits are to be determin- 
 ed by a race he has never seen ; the judges are not 
 
ON THE CLASSIC*. 
 
 yet born who are to pronounce on the claims of Dar- 
 win and of Cowper. The severe impartiality of Pos- 
 terity stands aloof from every consideration but that 
 of excellence, and from her verdict there is no ap- 
 peal. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that amidst the revolutions of 
 ages, particularly before the invention of printing, 
 accidental circumstances must often have had great 
 influence in the preservation of particular writings : 
 and we know and lament that many are lost which 
 the learned world would give treasures of gold to re- 
 cover. But it cannot easily happen that a work 
 should be preserved without superior merit ; and in- 
 deed we know from the testimony of antiquity, that 
 the works which have come down to us, and which 
 we read and admire, are in general the very works 
 which by the Greeks and Romans themselves were 
 esteemed most excellent. 
 
 It is impossible to contemplate without a sentiment 
 of reverence and enthusiasm, these venerable writ- 
 ings which have survived the wreck of empires ; and, 
 what is more, of languages ; which have received the 
 awful stamp of immortality, and are crowned with the 
 applause of so many successive ages. It is wonder- 
 ful that words should live so much longer than marble 
 temples; — words, which at first are only uttered breath ; 
 and, when aftrwards enshrined and fixed in a visible 
 form by the admirable invention of writing, committed to 
 such frail and perishable materials : yet the light pa- 
 per bark floats down the stream of time, and lives 
 through the storms which have sunk so many stronger 
 built vessels. Homer is read, though The grass now 
 grows where Troy town stood : and nations once de- 
 spised as barbarous appreciate the merit of Cicero's 
 orations on the banks of the Thames, when the long 
 
44 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 honours of the consulate are vanished, and the lan- 
 guage of Rome is no longer spoken on the shores of 
 the Tiber. 
 
 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, 
 
 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands -, 
 
 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
 
 Destructive war and all-involving age. 
 
 See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring, 
 
 Hear in all tongues consenting Paeans ring ! 
 
 It is owing to the preservation of a few books of 
 the kind we are speaking of, that at the revival of let- 
 ters the world had not to go back to the very begin- 
 nings of science. When the storm of barbaric rage 
 had past over and spent itself, they were drawn from 
 the mould of ruins and dust of convents, and were of 
 essential service in forming our taste and giving a di- 
 rection to the recovered energies of the human mind. 
 Oral instruction can benefit but one age and one set 
 of hearers ; but these silent teachers address all ages 
 and all nations. They may sleep for a while and be 
 neglected ; but whenever the desire of information 
 springs up in the human breast, there they are with 
 their mild wisdom ready to instruct and please us. 
 The Philosopher opens again his school ; his maxims 
 have lost nothing of their truth : the harmony of the 
 Poet's numbers, though locked up for a time, be- 
 comes again vocal ; and we find that what was nature 
 and passion two thousand years ago, is nature and 
 passion still. 
 
 Books are a kind of perpetual censors on men and 
 manners ; they judge without partiality, and reprove 
 without fear or affection. There are times when the 
 flame of virtue and liberty seems almost to be extinguish- 
 ed amongst the existing generation ; but their animat- 
 ed pages are always at hand to rekindle it. The D 
 pot trembles on his throne, and the bold bad man turns 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 45 
 
 pale in his closet at the sentence pronounced against 
 him ages before he was born. 
 
 In addition to their intrinsic value, there is much 
 incidental entertainment in consulting authors who 
 flourished at so remote a period. Every little cir- 
 cumstance becomes curious as we discover allusions 
 to customs now obsolete, or draw indications of the 
 temper of the times from the various slight hints and 
 casual pieces of information which may be gathered 
 up by the ingenious critic. Sometimes we have the 
 pleasure of being admitted into the cabinet of a great 
 man, and leaning as it were over his shoulder while 
 he is pouring himself out in the freedom of a confi- 
 dential intercourse which was never meant to meet the 
 eye even of his contemporaries. At another time we 
 are delighted to witness the conscious triumph of a 
 genius who, with a generous confidence in his powers, 
 prophesies his own immortality, and to feel as we read 
 that his proud boast has not been too presumptuous. 
 Another advantage of reading the ancients is, that we 
 trace the stream of ideas to their spring. It is always 
 best to go to the fountain head. We can never have 
 a just idea of the comparative merit of the moderns, 
 without knowing how much they have derived from 
 imitation. It is amusing to follow an idea from cen- 
 tury to century, and observe the gradual accession of 
 thought and sentiment ; to see the jewels of the an- 
 cients new set, and the wit of Horace sparkling with 
 additional lustre in the lines of Pope. 
 
 The real sources of History can only be known 
 by some acquaintance with the original authors. 
 This indeed will often be found to betray the defi- 
 ciency of our documents, and the difficulty of re- 
 conciling jarring accounts. It will sometimes un- 
 clothe and exhibit in its original barrenness what the art 
 of the moderns has drest up and rounded into form. 
 It will show the unsightly chasms and breaks which 
 
46 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 the modern compiler passes over with a light foot • 
 and perhaps make us sceptical with regard to many 
 particulars of which we formerly thought we had au- 
 thentic information. But it is always good to know 
 the real measure of our knowledge. That knowl- 
 edge would be greater, if the treasures of antiquity 
 had come to us undiminished : but this is not the 
 case. Besides the loss of many mentioned with hon- 
 or by their contemporaries, few authors are come 
 down to us entire ; and of some exquisite productions 
 only fragments are extant. The full stream of narra- 
 tion is sometimes suddenly cheeked at the most inter- 
 esting period, and the sense of a brilliant passage is 
 clouded by the obscurity of a single word. The lite- 
 rary productions are come to us in a similar state with 
 the fine statues of antiquity : of which some have lost 
 an arm, others a leg ; some a little finger only : scarce 
 any have escaped some degree of mutilation ; and 
 sometimes a trunk is dug up so shorn of its limbs, 
 that the antiquaries are puzzled to make out to what 
 god or hero it originally belonged. To the frequent 
 loss of part of an author must be added the difficulty 
 of deciphering what remains. 
 
 Ancient manuscripts are by no means easy to read. 
 You are not to imagine, when you see a fair edition 
 of Virgil, or Horace, divided into verses and accurate- 
 ly pointed, that you see it in any thing like its original 
 state. The oldest manuscripts are written wholly in 
 capitals, and without any separation of letters into 
 words. Passing through many hands, they have suf- 
 fered from the mistakes or carelessness of transcrib- 
 ers ; by which so great an obscurity is thrown on 
 many passages, that very often he who makes the 
 happiest guess is the best commentator. But this 
 very obscurity has usefully exercised the powers of 
 the human mind. It became a great object, at the. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 47 
 
 revival of letters, to compare different readings ; to 
 elucidate a text by pantile] passages ; to supply by 
 probable conjecture what was necessary to make an 
 author speak sense ; and by every possible assistance 
 of learning and sound criticism, together with typo- 
 graphical advantages, to restore the beauty and splen- 
 dour of the classic page. Verbal criticism was at 
 that time of great and real use ; and those who are 
 apt to undervalue it, are little aware how much labour 
 was requisite to reduce the confused or mutilated 
 work of a thousand years back to form and order. 
 
 Tins task was well fitted for an age recently emerg- 
 ed out of barbarism. The enthusiastic admiration 
 with which men were struck on viewing the master- 
 pieces of human genius, and even the superstitious 
 veneration with winch they regarded every thing be- 
 longing to them, tended to form their taste by a 
 quicker process than if they had been left to make 
 the most of their own abilities. By degrees the 
 moderns felt their own powers ; they learned to imi- 
 tate, and perhaps to excel what before they idolized. 
 But a considerable period had passed before any of 
 the modern languages were thought worthy of being 
 the vehicle of the discoveries of science or even of 
 the effusions of fancy. Christianity did not, as might 
 have been expected, bring into discredit the pagan 
 philosophy. Aristotle reigned in the schools, where 
 he was regarded with a veneration fully equal to what 
 was expressed for the sainted fathers of the church ; 
 and as to the mythology of the ancients, it is so beau- 
 tiful that all our earlier poetry has been modelled upon 
 it. Even yet, the predilection for the Latin language 
 is apparent in our inscriptions, in the public exercises 
 of our schools and universities, and the general bent 
 of the studies of youth. In short, all our knowledge 
 and all our taste has been built upon the foundation of 
 
48 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 the ancients ; and without knowing what they have 
 done, we cannot estimate rightly the merit of our own 
 authors. 
 
 It may naturally be asked, why the Greek and Ro- 
 man writers alone are called by the name of Classics. 
 It is true the Hebrew might be esteemed so, if we 
 did not receive them upon a higher ground of merit. 
 As to the Persian and Arabic with other languages of 
 countries once highly cultivated, their authors are not 
 taken into the account, partly because they are under- 
 stood by so few, and partly because their idioms and 
 modes of expression, if not of feeling, are so remote 
 from ours that we can scarcely enter into their merits. 
 Their writings are comprehended under the name of 
 Oriental literature. It has been more cultivated of 
 late, particularly by Sir William Jones ; and our East 
 India possessions will continue to draw our attention 
 that way : but curiosity is gratified rather than taste. 
 We are pleased indeed with occasional beauties, 
 sometimes a pure maxim of morality and sometimes 
 a glowing figure of speech ; but they do not enter into 
 the substance of the mind, which ever must be fed 
 and nourished by the classic literature of Greece and 
 Rome. 
 
 I shall subjoin a few specimens of the mythological 
 stories of the ancients. 
 
 ATALANTA. 
 
 Atalanta was a beautiful young woman, exceed- 
 ingly swift of foot. She had many lovers ; but she 
 resolved not to marry till she could meet with one 
 who should conquer her in running. A great many 
 
0N THE CLASSICS. 49 
 
 young men proposed themselves, and lost their lives ; 
 for the conditions were, that if they were overcome in 
 the race they should be put to death. At length she 
 was challenged by Hippomenes, a brave and hand- 
 some youth. " Do you know," said Atalanta, " that 
 nobody has yet been found who excels me in swift- 
 ness, and that you must be put to death if you do not 
 win the race ? I should be sorry to have any more 
 young men put to death." — " I am not afraid," said 
 Hippomenes ; " I think I shall win the race and win 
 you too." 
 
 So the ground was marked out and the day ap- 
 pointed, and a great number of spectators gathered 
 together ; and Atalanta stood with her garments tuck- 
 ed up, and Hippomenes by her, waiting impatiently 
 for the signal. At length it was given ; and immedi- 
 ately they both started at the same instant, and ran 
 with their utmost speed across the plain. But Ata- 
 lanta flew like the wind, and soon outstripped the 
 young man. Then Hippomenes drew from his vest 
 a golden apple, which had been given him by Venus 
 from the gardens of the Hesperides, and threw it from 
 him with all his force. The virgin saw it glittering 
 as it rolled across the plain, and ran out of the course 
 to pick it up. While she was doing so, Hippomenes 
 passed her, and the spectators shouted for joy. How- 
 ever, Atalanta redoubled her speed, soon overtook 
 Hippomenes, and again got before him. Upon this, 
 "Hippomenes produced another golden apple, and 
 threw it as before. It rolled a great way out of the 
 course, and the virgin was thrown very far behind by 
 picking it up. She had great difficulty this time to 
 recover her lost ground, and the spectators shouted 
 " Hippomenes will win ! Hippomenes will win ! " But 
 Atalanta was so light, so nimble, and exerted herself 
 so much, that at length she passed him as before, and 
 5 
 
50 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 flew as if she had wings towards the goal. And now 
 she had but a little way to run ; and the people said, 
 " Poor Hippomenes ! he will lose after all, and be put 
 to death like the rest ; — see, see how she gains 
 ground of him ! how near the goal she is ! Atalanta 
 will win the race." Then Hippomenes took another 
 golden apple, — it was the last he had, and prayed to 
 Venus to give him success, and threw it behind him. 
 Atalanta saw it, and considered a moment whether 
 she should venture to delay herself again by picking 
 it up. She knew she ran the risk of losing the race, 
 but she could not withstand the beautiful glittering of 
 the apple as it rolled along ; and she said to herself, 
 " I shall easily overtake Hippomenes, as I did be- 
 fore." But she was mistaken ; for they had now so 
 little a way to run, that though she skimmed along the 
 plain like a bird, and exerted all her strength, she 
 was too late. Hippomenes reached the goal before 
 her : she was obliged to own herself conquered, and 
 to marry him according to the agreement. 
 
 ARION. 
 
 Arion was a poet of Lesbos, who sung his own 
 verses to his harp. He had been a good while at the 
 court of Periander, tyrant of Corinth, and had acquir- 
 ed great riches, with which he was desirous to return 
 to his native country. He therefore made an agree- 
 ment with a captain of a ship to carry him to Mitylene 
 in Lesbos, and they set sail. But the captain and 
 crew, tempted by the wealth which he had on board, 
 determined to seize his gold and throw him into the sea. 
 When poor Arion heard their cruel intention, he sub- 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 51 
 
 mitted to his fate, for he knew he could not resist, and 
 only begged they would allow him to give them one 
 tune upon his harp before he died. This they com- 
 plied with ; and Arion, standing on the deck, drew 
 from his harp such melodious strains, accompanied 
 with such moving verses, that any body but these 
 cruel sailors would have been touched with them. 
 When he had finished they threw him into«#e sea, 
 where they supposed he was swallowed up ; but that 
 was not the case ; for a dolphin, which had been drawn 
 towards the ship by the sweetness of Arion's voice, 
 swam to him, took him gently upon his back, convey- 
 ed him safely over the waves, and landed him at 
 Trenara, whence he returned to Periander. Periander 
 was very much surprised to see him come again in 
 such a forlorn and destitute condition, and asked him 
 the reason. Arion told his story. Periander bade 
 him conceal himself till the sailors should return from 
 their voyage, and he would do him justice. When 
 the ship returned from its voyage, Periander ordered 
 the sailors to be brought before him, and asked them 
 what they had done with Arion. They said he had 
 died during the voyage, and that they had buried him. 
 Then Periander ordered Arion to appear before them 
 in the clothes he wore when they cast him into the 
 sea. At this plain p-oof of their guilt they were quite 
 confounded, and Periander put them all to death. 
 It is said further, that the dolphin was taken up into 
 the heavens and turned into a constellation. — It is a 
 small constellation, of moderate brightness, and has 
 four stars in the form of a rhombus ; you will find it 
 south of the Swan, and a little west of the bright star 
 AJcair. 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 VENUS AND ADONIS. 
 
 The goddess Venus loved Adonis, a mortal. Beau- 
 tiful Venus loved the beautiful Adonis. She often 
 said to him, " O Adonis ! be content to lie crowned 
 with flowers by the fresh fountains, and to feed upon 
 honey and nectar, and to be lulled to sleep by the 
 warbling of birds ; and do not expose your life by 
 hunting the tawny lion or the tusky boar, or any sav- 
 age beast. Take care of that life, which is so dear 
 to Venus ! " But Adonis would not listen to her. He 
 loved to rise early in the morning while the dew was 
 upon the grass, and to beat the thickets with his well- 
 trained hounds, whose ears swept the ground. With 
 his darts he pierced the nimble fawns and the kids 
 with budding horns, and brought home the spoil upon 
 his shoulders. But one day he wounded a fierce 
 bristly boar ; the arrow stuck in his side, and made 
 the animal mad with pain : he rushed upon Adonis, 
 and gored his thigh with his sharp tusks. Beautiful 
 Adonis fell to the ground like a lilly that is rooted up 
 by a sudden storm : his blood flowed in crimson 
 streams down his fair side ; and his eyelids closed, 
 and the shades of death hovered over his pale brow. 
 
 In the mean time the evening came on, and Venus 
 had prepared a garland of fresh leaves and flowers to 
 bind around the glowing temples of Adonis when he 
 should come hot and tired from the chase, and a 
 couch of rose-leaves to rest his weary limbs : and she 
 said, " Why does not Adonis come ! Return, Adonis ! 
 let me hear the sound of your feet ! let me hear the 
 voice of your dogs ! let them lick my hands, and 
 make me understand that their master is approach- 
 ing ! " — But Adonis did not return ; and the dark 
 night came, and the rosy morning appeared again, 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 5o 
 
 and still he did not appear. Then Venus sought him 
 in the plains and through the thickets, and amidst the 
 rough brakes ; and her veil was torn with the thorns, 
 and her feet bruised and bleeding with the sharp 
 pebbles ; for she ran hither and thither like a distract- 
 ed person. And at length upon the mountain she 
 found him whom she loved so dearly : but she found 
 him cold and dead, with his faithful dogs beside him. 
 
 Then Venus rent her beautiful tresses, and beat her 
 breast, and pierced the air with her loud lamentations : 
 and the little Cupids that accompany her broke their 
 ivory bows for grief, and scattered upon the ground the 
 arrows of their golden quivers : and they said, " We 
 mourn Adonis ; Venus mourns for beautiful Adonis ; 
 the Loves mourn along with her. Beautiful Adonis 
 lies dead upon the ground, his side gored with the 
 tooth of a boar, — his white thigh with a white tooth. 
 Venus kisses the cold lips of Adonis ; but Adonis 
 does not know that he is kissed, and she cannot re- 
 vive him with her warm breath." 
 
 Then Venus said, " You shall not quite die, my 
 Adonis ! I will change you into a flower." And she 
 shed nectar on the ground, which mixed with the 
 blood, and presently a crimson flower sprung up in 
 the room of Adonis ; and also the river was tinged 
 with his blood and became red. And every year, on 
 the day that Adonis died, the nymphs mourned and 
 lamented for him, and ran up and down shrieking, 
 and crying " Beautiful Adonis is dead ! " 
 
54 
 
 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 MADAM, 
 
 Amidst the mutual compliments and kind wishes 
 which are universally circulated at this season, I hope 
 mine will not be the least acceptable ; and I have 
 thought proper to give you this early assurance of my 
 kind intentions towards you, and the benefits I have 
 in store for you : for though I am apj>omted your sove- 
 reign ; though your fates and fortune, your life and 
 death, are at my disposal ; yet I am fully sensible that 
 I was created for my subjects, not my subjects for me ; 
 and that the end of my very existence is to diffuse 
 blessings on my people. 
 
 My predecessor departed this life last night pre- 
 cisely at twelve o'clock. He died of a universal 
 decay ; nature was exhausted in him, and there was 
 not vital heat sufficient to carry on the functions of 
 life ; his hair was fallen, and discovered his smooth, 
 white, bald head ; his voice was hoarse and broken, 
 and his blood froze in his veins : in short, his time 
 was come. And to say truth he will not be much 
 regretted ; for of late he had been gloomy and va- 
 pourish, and the sudden gusts of passion he had long 
 been subject to, were worked up into such storms it 
 was impossible to live under him with comfort. 
 
 With regard to myself, I am sensible the joy ex- 
 pressed at my accession is sincere, and that no young 
 monarch has ever been welcomed with warmer 
 demonstrations of affection. Some have ardently 
 longed for my coming, and all view my approach with 
 pleasure and cheerfulness ; yet such is the uncertainty 
 of popular favour, that I well know that those who 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 55 
 
 are most eager and sanguine in expressing their joy 
 will soonest be tired of my company. You yourself, 
 madam, though I know that at present you regard me 
 with kindness, as one from whom you expect more 
 happiness than you have yet enjoyed, will probably 
 after a short time wish as much to part with me, and 
 transfer the same fond hopes and wishes to my suc- 
 cessor. But though your impatience may make me 
 a very troublesome companion, it will not in the least 
 hasten my departure ; nor can all the powers of earth 
 oblige me to resign a moment before my time. In 
 order, therefore, that you may form proper expecta- 
 tions concerning me, I shall give you a little sketch 
 of my temper and manners, and 1 will acknowledge 
 that my aspect at present is somewhat stern and rough; 
 but there is a latent warmth in my temper which you 
 will perceive as we grow better acquainted, and 1 shall 
 every day put on a milder and more smiling look : 
 indeed I have so much fire, that I may chance some- 
 times to make the house too hot for you ; but in 
 recompense for this inequality of temper, I am kind 
 and bountiful as a giving God : I come full-handed, 
 and my very business is to dispense blessings ; — 
 blessings of the basket and the store ; blessings of the 
 field and of the vineyard ; blessings for time and for 
 eternity. There is not an inhabitant of the globe who 
 will not experience my bounty ; yet such is the in- 
 gratitude of mankind, that there is scarcely one whom 
 I shall not leave in some degree discontented. 
 
 Whimsical and various are the petitions which are 
 daily put up to me from all parts ; and very few T of 
 the petitioners will be satisfied ; because they reject 
 and despise the gifts I offer them with open hand, 
 and set their minds on others which certainly will not 
 fall to their share. Celia has begged me on her 
 knees to find her a lover : I shall do what I can ; 
 
56 
 
 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 I shall bring hey the most magnificent shawl that has 
 appeared in Europe. For Dorinda, who has made 
 the same petition, I have two gifts, — wisdom and 
 grey hairs ; the former I know she will reject, nor 
 can I force her to wear it; but the grey hairs 1 shall 
 leave on her toilette whether she will or no. The 
 curate Sophron expects I shall bring him a living ; I 
 shall present him with twins as round and rosy as an 
 apple. Nor can I listen to the entreaty of Dorimant, 
 whose good father being a little asthmatic, he has 
 desired me to push him into his grave as we walk up 
 May hill together : but I shall marry him to a hand- 
 some lively girl, who will make a very pretty step- 
 mother to the young gentleman. It is in vain for 
 poor Sylvia to weary me as she does with prayers to 
 restore to her her faithless lover : but I shall give her 
 the choice of two to replace him. Codrus has asked 
 me if he may bespeak a suit of black : but I can tell 
 him his little wife will outlive me and him too : I have 
 offered the old man a double portion of patience, 
 which he has thrown away very pettishly, 
 has entreated me to take him to Scotland 
 mistress : I shall do it ; and he will hate 
 name all his life after. 
 
 The wishes of some are very moderate ; 
 begs two inches of height, and Chloe that I would 
 take away her awkward plumpness ; Cams a new 
 equipage, and Philida a new ball-dress. A mother 
 brought me her son the other day, made me many 
 compliments, and desired me to teach him every 
 thing ; at the same time begging the youth to throw 
 away his marbles, which he had often promised to 
 part with as soon as he saw me : — but the hoy held 
 them fast, and I shall teach him nothing but to play 
 at taw. Many ladies have come to me with their 
 daughters in their hands, telling me they hope their 
 
 Strephon 
 with his 
 my very 
 
 -Fanny 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KIN(i. 57 
 
 girls, under me, will learn prudence : but the young 
 ladies have as constantly desired me to teach pru- 
 dence to their grandmothers, whom it would better 
 become, and to bring them new dances and new 
 fashions. In short, I have scarcely seen any one 
 with whom I am likely entirely to agree, but a stout 
 old farmer who rents a small cottage on the green. 
 He was leaning on his spade when I approached him. 
 As his neighbour told him 1 was coming, he welcomed 
 me with a cheerful countenance ; but at the same 
 time bluntly told me he had not expected me so soon, 
 being too busy to pay much attention to my approach. 
 I asked him if I could do any thing for him. He said 
 he did not believe me better or worse than those who 
 had preceded me, and therefore should not expect 
 much from me ; that he was happy before he saw me, 
 and should be very well contented after I left him : 
 he was glad to see me, however, and only begged I 
 would not take his wife from him, a thin withered old 
 woman, who was eating a mess of milk at the door. 
 " And I shall be glad too," said he, " if you will fill 
 my cellar with potatoes." As he applied himself to 
 his spade while he said these words, I shall certainly 
 grant his request. 
 
 I shall now tell you, that great and extensive as my 
 power is, I shall possess it but a short time. However 
 the predictions of astrologers are now laughed at, 
 nothing is more certain than what I am going to tell 
 you. A scheme of my nativity has been cast by the 
 most eminent astronomers, who have found, on con- 
 sulting the stars and the aspect of the heavenly bodies, 
 that Caprieornus will be fatal to me : I know that all 
 the physicians in the world cannot protract my life 
 beyond that fatal period. 1 do not tell you this to 
 excite your sensibility, — for I would have you meet 
 me without fondness and part with me without regret ; 
 
58 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 but to quicken you to lay hold on those advantages 
 I am able to procure you ; for it will be your own 
 fault if you are not both wiser and better for my corn- 
 pan) r . I have likewise another request to make to 
 you, — that you will write my epitaph : I may make 
 you happy, but it depends on you to make me famous. 
 If, after I am departed, you can say my reign was 
 distinguished by good actions and wise conversations, 
 and that I have left you happier than I found you, I 
 shall not have lived in vain. My sincere wishes are, 
 that you may long outlive me, but always remember 
 me with pleasure. I am, if you use me well, 
 Your friend and servant, 
 
 The New Year. 
 
59 
 
 VERSES 
 
 WRITTEN IN 
 
 THE LEAVES OF AN IVORY POCKET-BOOK, PRESENTED 
 TO MASTER T****"*. 
 
 Accept, my dear, this toy ; and let me say 
 
 The leaves an emblem of your mind display ; — 
 
 Your youthful mind uneolour'd, fair and white, 
 
 Like crystal leaves transparent to the sight, 
 
 Fit each impression to receive whate'er 
 
 The pencil of instruction traces there. 
 
 O then transcribe into the shining page 
 
 Each virtue that adorns your tender age, 
 
 And grave upon the tablet of your heart 
 
 Each lofty science and each useful art. 
 
 But with the likeness mark the difference well, 
 
 Nor think complete the hasty parallel : — 
 
 The leaves by Folly scrawl' d, or foul with stains, 
 
 A drop of water clears with little pains ; 
 
 But from a blotted mind the smallest trace 
 
 Not seas of bitter tears can e'er efface ; 
 
 The spreading mark forever shall remain, 
 
 And rolling years but deepen every stain. 
 
 Once more a difference let me still explain ;— 
 
 The vacant leaves forever will remain, 
 
 Till some officious hand the tablet fill 
 
 With sense or nonsense, prose or rhyme at will. 
 
 Not so your mind, without your forming care ; 
 
 Nature forbids an idle vacuum there : 
 
 Folly will plant the tares without your toil, 
 
 And weeds spring up in the neglected soil. 
 
 But why to vou this moralizing strain ? 
 
 Vain is the precept and the caution vain, 
 
 To you, whose opening virtues bloom so fair, 
 
 And will reward the prudent planter's care ; 
 
 As some young tree, by generous juices fed, 
 
 Above its fellows lifts its branching head* 
 
60 VERSES IN AN IVORY POCKET-BOOK. 
 
 Whose proud aspiring shoots incessant rise, 
 
 And every day grows nearer to the skies. 
 
 Yet, should kind heaven your opening mind adorn, 
 
 And bless your noon of knowledge as your morn ; 
 
 Yet, were your mind with every science; blest, 
 
 And every virtue glowing in your breast, 
 
 With learning, meekness, and with candour, zeal, 
 
 Clear to discern, and generous to feel, 
 
 Yet, should the Graces o'er your breast diffuse 
 
 The softer influence of the polbh'd muse, 
 
 'T is no original, the world can tell, 
 
 And all your praise is but to copy well. 
 
61 
 
 ON PLANTS. 
 
 Plants stand next to animals in the scale of exist- 
 ence : they are, like them, organized bodies ; like 
 them, increase by nutrition, which is conveyed through 
 a system of tubes and fine vessels, and assimilated to 
 their substance ; like them, they propagate their race 
 from a parent, and each seed produces its own plant ; 
 like them, they grow by insensible degrees from an 
 infant state to full vigour, and after a certain term of 
 maturity decay and die. In short, except the powers 
 of speech and locomotion, they seem to possess every 
 characteristic of sentient life. 
 
 A plant consists of a root, a stem, leaves, and a 
 flower or blossom. 
 
 The root is bulbous, as the onion ; long, like the 
 parsnip or carrot ; or branched out into threads, as the 
 greater number are, and particularly all the large 
 ones ; — a bulbous root could not support a large tree. 
 
 The stem is single or branched, clinging lor sup- 
 port or upright, clothed with a skin or bark. 
 
 The flower contains the principle of reproduction, 
 as the root does of individuality. This is the most 
 precious part of the plant, to which every thing con- 
 tributes. The root nourishes it, the stem supports, 
 the leaves defend and shelter it : it comes forth but 
 when Nature has prepared for it by showers and sun 
 and gentle soothing warmth ; — colour, beauty, scent 
 adorn it ; and when it is complete, the end of the 
 plant's existence is answered. It fades and dies ; or, 
 if capable by its perennial nature of repeating the 
 process, it hides in its inmost folds the precious germ 
 6 
 
62 ON PLANTS. 
 
 of new being, and itself almost retires from existence 
 till a new year. 
 
 A tree is one of the most stately and beautiful ob- 
 jects in God's visible creation. It does not admit of 
 an exact definition, but is distinguished from the hum- 
 bler plant by its size, the strength of its stem, which 
 becomes a trunk, and the comparative smallness of the 
 blossom. In the fruit-trees, indeed, the number of 
 blossoms compensates for their want of size ; but in 
 the forest-trees the flower is scarcely visible. Pro- 
 duction seems not to be so important a process where 
 the parent tree lives for centuries. 
 
 Every part of vegetables is useful. Of many the 
 roots are edible, and the seeds are generally so ; of 
 many the leaves, as of the cabbage, spinach ; the buds, 
 as of the asparagus, cauliflower ; the bark is often 
 employed medicinally, as the quinquina and cinnamon. 
 
 The trunk of a tree determines the manner of its 
 growth, and gives firmness : the foliage serves to form 
 one mass of a number of trees ; while the distinct 
 lines are partly seen, partly hidden. The leaves throw 
 over the branches a rich mantle, like flowing tresses ; 
 they wave in the wind with an undulatory motion, 
 catch the glow of the evening sun, or glitter with the 
 rain ; they shelter innumerable birds and animals, and 
 afford variety in colours, from the bright green of 
 spring to the varied tints of autumn. In winter, how- 
 ever, the form of each tree and its elegant ramifica- 
 tions are discerned, which were lost under the flowing 
 robe of verdure. 
 
 Trees are beautiful in all combinations : the single 
 tree is so ; the clump, the grove, rising like an amphi- 
 theatre ; the flowing line that marks the skirts of wood, 
 and the dark, deep, boundless shade of the forest ; 
 the green line of the hedge-row, the more artificial 
 avenue, the gotliic arch of verdure, the tangled thicket. 
 
ON PLANTS. 63 
 
 Young trees are distinguished by beauty ; in matu- 
 rity their characteristic is strength. The ruin of a 
 tree is venerable even when fallen : we are then more 
 sensible of its towering height : we also observe the 
 root, the deep fangs which held it against so many 
 storms, and the firmness of the wood ; a sentiment of 
 pity mixes too with our admiration. The trees in 
 groves and woods shed a brown religious horror, which 
 favoured the religion of the ancient world. Trees 
 shelter from cutting winds and sea air ; they preserve 
 moisture : but if too many, in their thick and heavy 
 mass lazy vapours stagnate ; their profuse perspira- 
 tion is unwholesome ; they shut out the golden sun 
 and ventilating breeze. 
 
 It should seem as if the number of trees must have 
 been diminishing for ages, for in no cultivated country 
 does the growth of trees equal the waste of them. A 
 few gentlemen raise plantations, but many more cut 
 down ; and the farmer thinks not of so lofty a thing 
 as the growth of ages. Trees are too lofty to want 
 the hand of man. The florist may mingle his tulips 
 and spread the paper ruff on his carnations ; he may 
 trim his mount of roses and his laurel hedge : but the 
 lofty growth of trees soars far above him. If he 
 presumes to fashion them with his shears, and trim 
 them into fanciful or mathematical shapes, offended 
 taste will mock all his improvements. Even in plant- 
 ing he can do little. He may succeed in fancying a 
 clump or laying out an avenue, and may perhaps 
 gently incline the boughs to form the arch j but a 
 forest was never planted. 
 
G4 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT 
 
 OF 
 
 A LADY AND TWO CHILDREN. 
 
 As, nursed by warmer suns and milder showers. 
 In fair Italia's vales the orange blows ; 
 Heavy at once with fruit and gay with flowers, 
 The richness of the year she all together shows ; 
 
 Thus, ere the blossom of her life is o'er, 
 Two smiling infants grace Maria's side ; 
 More lovely fruit than all Pomona's store, 
 Her ruddy orchards, or her golden pride. 
 
 Less fair, twin apples blushing on a bough, 
 
 On whose smooth cheek the ripening summer glows, 
 
 Or those which broke fleet Atalanta's vow, 
 
 Or that, from whence celestial strife arose. 
 
 Long may the stock, and long the fruit remain, 
 May their young fondness with their years increase, 
 Nor ever words unkind, or bitter pain, 
 Wound the sweet bosom of domestic peace. 
 
 And when, late time, the mother's bloom must fade, 
 And when the sire shall be by fate removed ; 
 May these their name, their form, their virtues spread, 
 Like them be happy, and like them be loved. 
 
0^ 
 
 EARTH. 
 
 All the different substances which we behold have 
 by the earliest philosophers been resolved into four 
 elements, — Earth, Water, Air, and Fire. These, 
 combined with endless diversity, in their various 
 dance, under the direction of the great First Mover, 
 form this scene of things, — so complex, so beautiful, 
 so infinitely varied ! 
 
 Earth is the element which on many accounts 
 claims our chief notice. It forms the bulk of that 
 vast body of matter which composes our globe ; and, 
 like the bones to the human body, it gives firmness, 
 shape, and solidity to the various productions of 
 Nature. It is ponderous, dull, unanimated, ever seek- 
 ing the lowest place ; and, except moved by some 
 external impulse, prone to rest in one sluggish mass. 
 Yet when fermented into life by the quickening power 
 of vegetation, — in how many forms of grace and 
 beauty does it rise to the admiring eye ! How gay, 
 how vivid with colours ! how fragrant with smells ! 
 how rich with tastes, — luscious, poignant, sapid, mild, 
 pungent, or saccharine ! Into what delicate textures 
 is it spread out in the thin leaf of the rose, or the light 
 film of the floating gossamer ! How curious in the 
 elegant ramifications of trees and shrubs, or the light 
 dust which the microscope discovers to contain the 
 seed of future plants ! 
 
 Nor has earth less of magnificence, in the various 
 appearances with which upon a larger scale its broad 
 surface is diversified ; — whether we behold it stretch- 
 ed out into immense plains and vast savannahs, whose 
 6* 
 
66 EARTH. 
 
 level green is only bounded by the horizon ; or mould- 
 ed into those gentle risings and easy declivities whose 
 soft and undulating lines court the pencil of the land- 
 scape-painter; or whether, swelled into bulk enormous, 
 it astonishes the eye with vast masses of solid rock 
 and long-continued bulwarks of stone. Such are the 
 Pyrenees, the Alps, the Andes, which stand the ever- 
 lasting boundaries of nations ; and, while kingdoms 
 rise and fall, and the lesser works of nature change 
 their appearance all around them, immovable on their 
 broad basis, strike the mind with an idea of stability 
 little short of eternal duration. 
 
 If from the mountains which possess the middle of 
 Earth we bend our course to the green verge of her 
 dominions, the utmost limits of her shores, where 
 land and water, like two neighbouring potentates, 
 wage eternal war, — with what steady majesty does 
 <he repel the encroachments of the ever-restless ocean, 
 and dash the turbulence of waves from her strong- 
 ribbed sides ! 
 
 Nor do thy praises end here : — With a kind of 
 filial veneration I hail thee, O universal mother of all 
 the elements, — to man the most mild, the most bene- 
 ficent, the most congenial ! Man himself is formed 
 from thee : on thy maternal breast he reposes when 
 weary ; thy teeming lap supplies him with never- 
 failing plenty : and when for a few years he has moved 
 about upon thy surface, he is gathered again to thy 
 peaceful bosom, at once his nurse, his cradle, and his 
 grave. 
 
 Who can reckon up the benefits supplied to us by 
 this parent Earth, — ever serviceable, ever indulgent ! 
 with how many productions does she reward the la- 
 bour of the cultivator ! how many more does she pour 
 out spontaneously ! How faithfully does she keep, 
 with what large interest does she restore, the seed 
 
EARTH. 67 
 
 committed to her by the husbandman ! What an 
 abundance does she yield, of food for the poor, of 
 delicacies for the rich ! Her wealth is inexhaustible ; 
 and all that is called riches among men consists in 
 possessing a small portion of her surface. 
 
 How patiently does she support the various burdens 
 laid upon her ! We tear her with ploughs and har- 
 rows, we crush her with castles and palaces ; nay we 
 penetrate her very bowels, and bring to light the vein- 
 ed marble, the pointed crystal, the ponderous ores and 
 sparkling gems, deep hid in darkness, the more to 
 excite the industry of man. Yet, torn and harassed 
 as she might seem to be, our mother Earth is still fresh 
 and young, as if she but now came out of the hands 
 of her Creator. Her harvests are as abundant, her 
 horn of plenty as overflowing, her robe as green, her 
 unshorn tresses (the waving foliage of brown forests) 
 as luxuriant ; and all her charms as blooming and full 
 of vigour. Such she remains, and such we trust she 
 will remain, till in some fated hour the more devour- 
 ing element of fire, having broke the bonds of har- 
 monious union, shall seize upon its destined prey, and 
 all nature sink beneath the mighty ruin. 
 
G8 
 
 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 MY DEAR LYDTA, 
 
 I was told the other day that you have not forgotten 
 a promise of mine to correspond with you upon some 
 subject which might be worth discussing, and relative 
 to your pursuits. I have often recollected it also ; and 
 as promises ought not only to be recollected but ful- 
 filled, 1 will without further preface throw together 
 some thoughts on History, — a study that I know you 
 value as it deserves ; and I trust it will not be dis- 
 agreeable to you, if you should find some observa- 
 tions which your own mind may have suggested, or 
 which you may recollect to have heard from me in 
 some of those hours which we spent together with 
 mutual pleasure. 
 
 Much has been said of the uses of history. They 
 are no doubt many, yet do not apply equally to all : 
 but it is quite sufficient to make it a study worth our 
 pains and time, that it satisfies the desire which natu- 
 rally arises in every intelligent mind to know the trans- 
 actions of the country, of the globe in which he lives. 
 Facts, as facts, interest our curiosity and engage our 
 attention. 
 
 Suppose a person placed in a part of the country 
 where he was a total stranger ; he would naturally ask, 
 who are the chief people of the place, what family 
 they are of, whether any of their ancestors have been 
 famous, and for what. If he see a ruined abbey, he 
 will inquire what the building was used for ; and if he 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 69 
 
 be told it is a place where people got up at midnight 
 to sing psalms, and scourged themselves in the day, — 
 he will ask how there came to be such people, or 
 why there are none now. If he observes a dilapidat- 
 ed castle which appears to have been battered by 
 violence, he will ask in what quarrel it suffered, and 
 why they built formerly structures so different from 
 any we see now. If any part of the inhabitants should 
 speak a different language from the rest, or have some 
 singular customs among them, he would suppose they 
 came originally from some remote part of the country, 
 and would inform himself, if he could, of the cause 
 of their peculiarities. 
 
 If he were of a curious temper, he would not rest 
 till he had informed himself whom every estate in the 
 parish belonged to, what hands they had gone through ; 
 how one man got this field by marrying an heiress, 
 and the other lost that meadow by a ruinous law suit. 
 As a man of spirit he would feel delighted on hearing 
 the relation of the opposition made by an honest yeo- 
 man to an overbearing rich man on the subject of an 
 accustomed pathway or right of common. If he 
 should find the town or village divided into parties, 
 he would take some pains to trace the original cause 
 of their dissention, and to find out, if possible, who 
 had the right on his side. Circumstances would often 
 occur to excite his attention. If he saw a bridge, he 
 would ask when and by whom it was built. If in 
 digging in his garden he should find utensils of a singu- 
 lar form and construction, or a pot of money with a 
 stamp and legend quite different from the common 
 coin, he would be led to inquire when they were in 
 use, and to whom they had belonged. His curiosity 
 would extend itself by degrees. If a brook ran 
 throw the meadows, he would be pleased to trace it 
 till it swelled into a river, and the river till it lost itself 
 
70 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 in the sea. He would be asking whose seat he saw 
 upon the edge of a distant forest, and what sort of 
 country lay behind the range of hills that bounded his 
 utmost view. If any strangers came to visit or reside 
 in the place where he lived, he would be questioning 
 them about the country they came from, their con- 
 nexions and alliances, and the remarkable transactions 
 that had taken place within their memory or that of 
 their parents. The answers to these questions would 
 insensibly grow up into History, which, as you see, 
 does not originate in abstruse speculations, but grows 
 naturally out of our situation and relative connexions. 
 It gratifies a curiosity which all feel in some degree, 
 but which spreads and enlarges itself with the cultiva- 
 tion of our powers, till at length it embraces the whole 
 globe which we inhabit. To know is as natural to 
 the mind as to see is to the eye, and knowledge is 
 itself an ultimate end. But though this may be 
 esteemed an ultimate and sufficient end, the study of 
 history is important to various purposes. Few pur- 
 suits tend more to enlarge the mind. It gives us, and 
 it only can give us, an extended knowledge of human 
 nature ; — not human nature as it exists in one age or 
 climate or particular spot of earth, but human nature 
 under all the various circumstances by which it can 
 be affected. It shows us what is radical and what is 
 adventitious ; it shows us that man is still man in Tur- 
 key and in Lapland, as a vassal in Russia or a mem- 
 ber of a wandering tribe in India, in ancient Athens or 
 modern Rome ; yet that his character is susceptible of 
 violent changes, and becomes moulded into infinite 
 diversities by the influence of government, climate, 
 civilization, wealth, and poverty. By showing us 
 how man has acted, it shows us to a certain degree 
 how he will ever act in given circumstances ; and 
 general rules and maxims are drawn from it for the 
 service of the lawgiver and the statesman. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 71 
 
 Here I must observe however, with regard to events, 
 that a knowledge of history does not seem to give us 
 any great advantage in foreseeing and preparing for 
 them. The deepest politician, with all his knowledge 
 of the revolutions of past ages, could probably no 
 more have predicted the course and termination of the 
 late French revolution, than a common man. The state 
 of our own national debt has baffled calculation, the 
 course of ages has presented nothing like it. Who 
 could have pronounced that the struggle of the Ameri- 
 cans would be successful — that of the Poles unsuc- 
 cessful ? Human characters indeed act always alike : 
 but events depend upon circumstances as well as 
 characters ; and circumstances are infinitely various 
 and changed by the slightest causes. A battle won 
 or lost may decide the fate of an empire : but a bat- 
 tle may be won or lost by a shower of snow being 
 blown to the east or the west ; by a horse (the gene- 
 ral's) losing his shoe ; by a bullet or an arrow taking 
 a direction a tenth part of an inch one way or the 
 other. — The whole course of the French affairs might 
 have been changed if the king had not stopped to 
 breakfast, or if the post-master of Varennes had not 
 happened to know him. These are particulars which 
 no man can foresee ; and therefore no man can with 
 precision foresee events. 
 
 The rising up of certain characters at particular 
 periods ranks among those unforeseen circumstances 
 that powerfully influence events. Often does a single 
 man, as Epaminondas, illustrate his country, and leave 
 a long track of light after him to future ages. And 
 who can tell how much even America owed to the 
 accident of being served by such a man as Washing- 
 ton ? There are always many probable events. All 
 that history enables the politician to do, is to predict 
 that one or other of them will take place. If so and 
 
72 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 so, it will be this ; if so and so, it will be that : but 
 which, we cannot tell. There are always combina- 
 tions of circumstances which have never met before 
 from the creation of the world, and which mock all 
 power of calculation* But let the circumstances be 
 known and the characters upon the stage, and history 
 will tell him what to expect from them. It will tell 
 him with certainty, for instance, that a treaty extorted 
 by force from distress, will be broken when oppor- 
 tunity offers : that if the church and the monarch are 
 united they will oppress, if at variance they will divide 
 the people ; that a powerful nation will make its ad- 
 vantage of the divisions of a weaker which applies 
 for its assistance. 
 
 It is another advantage of history, that it stores the 
 mind with facts that apply to most subjects which 
 occur in conversation among enlightened people. 
 Whether morals, commerce, languages, polite litera- 
 ture be the object of discussion, it is history that must 
 supply her large storehouse of proofs and illustrations. 
 A man or a woman may decline without blame many 
 subjects of literature, but to be ignorant of history is 
 not permitted to any of a cultivated mind. It may be 
 reckoned among its advantages, that this study natural- 
 ly increases the love of every man to his country. 
 We can only love what we know ; it is by becoming 
 acquainted with the long line of patriots, heroes, and 
 distinguished men, that we learn to love the country 
 which has produced them. 
 
 But I must conclude this letter, already perhaps too 
 Ions, though I have not got to the end of my subject : 
 it will give me soon another opportunity of subscribing 
 myself 
 
 Your ever affectionate friend. 
 
 
Ox\ THE USES OF HISTORY. 73 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 I left off, my dear Lydia, with mentioning, among 
 the advantages of an acquaintance with history, that it 
 fosters the sentiments of patriotism. 
 
 What is a man's country ? To the unlettered 
 peasant who has never left his native village, that vil- 
 lage is his country, and consequently all of it he can 
 love. The man who mixes in the world, and has a 
 large acquaintance with the characters existing along 
 with himself upon the stage of it, has a wider range. 
 His idea of a country extends to its civil polity, its 
 military triumphs, the eloquence of its courts, and the 
 splendour of its capital. All the great and good char- 
 acters he is acquainted with swell his idea of its im- 
 portance, and endear to him the society of which he 
 is a member. But how wonderfully does this idea 
 expand, and how majestic a form does it put on, when 
 History conducts our retrospective view through past 
 ages ! How much more has the man to love, how 
 much to interest him in his country, in whom her 
 image is identified with the virtues of an Alfred, with 
 the exploits of the Henries and Edwards, with the 
 fame and fortunes of the Sidneys and Hampdens, the 
 Lockes and Miltons, who have illustrated her annals ! 
 Like a man of noble birth who walks up and down in 
 a long gallery of portraits, and is able to say, " This 
 my progenitor was admiral in such a fight ; that my 
 great-uncle was general in such an engagement ; he 
 on the right hand held the seals in such a reign ; that 
 lady in so singular a costume was a celebrated beauty 
 two hundred years ago ; this little man in the black 
 cap and peaked beard w T as one of the luminaries of 
 his age, and suffered for his religion ;" — he learns to 
 value himself upon his ancestry, and to feel interested 
 for the honour and prosperity of the whole line of de- 
 7 
 
74 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 scene! ants. Could a Swiss, think you, be so good a 
 patriot who had never heard of the name of William 
 Tell ? or the Hollander, who should be unacquainted 
 with the glorious struggles which freed his nation from 
 the tyranny of the Duke of Alva ? 
 
 The Englishman conversant in history has been 
 long acquainted with his country. He knew her in 
 the infancy of her greatness ; has seen her, perhaps, 
 in the wattled huts and slender canoes in which Caesar 
 discovered her : he has watched her rising fortunes, 
 has trembled at her dangers, rejoiced at her deliver- 
 ances, and shared with honest pride triumphs that 
 were celebrated ages before he was born. He has 
 traced her gradual improvement through many a dark 
 and turbulent period, many a storm of civil warfare, 
 to the fair reign of her liberty and law, to the fulness 
 of her prosperity and the amplitude of her fame. 
 
 Or should our patriot have his lot cast in some age 
 and country which has declined from this high station 
 of pre-eminence ; should he observe the gathering 
 glooms of superstition and ignorance ready to close 
 again over the bright horizon ; should Liberty lie 
 prostrate at the feet of a despot, and the golden stream 
 of commerce, diverted into other channels, leave 
 nothing but beggary and wretchedness around him ; — 
 even then, in these ebbing fortunes of his country, 
 History, like a faithful meter, would tell him how high 
 the tide had once risen ; he would not tread uncon- 
 sciously the ground where the Muses and the Arts 
 bad once resided, like the goat that stupidly browses 
 upon the fane of Minerva. Even the name of his 
 country will be dear and venerable to him. He will 
 muse over her fallen greatness, sit down under the 
 shade of her never-dying laurels, build his little cot- 
 tage amidst the ruins of her towers and temples, and 
 contemplate with tenderness and respect the decaying 
 age of his once illustrious parent. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 75 
 
 But if an acquaintance with history thus increases a 
 rational love of our country, it also tends to check 
 those low, illiberal, vulgar prejudices which adhere to 
 the uninformed of every nation. Travelling will also 
 cure them : but to travel is not within the power of 
 every one. There is no use, but a great deal of harm 
 in fostering a contempt for other nations ; in an arro- 
 gant assumption of superiority, and the clownish sneer 
 of ignorance at every thing in laws, government, or 
 maimers which is not fashioned after our partial ideas 
 and familiar usages. A well-informed person will 
 not be apt to exclaim at every event out of the com- 
 mon way, that nothing like it has ever happened since 
 the creation of the world, that such atrocities are to- 
 tally unheard-of in any age or nation ; — sentiments we 
 have all of us so often heard of late on the subject of 
 the French revolution : when in fact we can scarcely 
 open a page of their history without being struck with 
 similar and equal enormities. Indeed party spirit is 
 very much cooled and checked by an acquaintance 
 with the events of past times. 
 
 When we see the mixed and imperfect virtue of 
 the most distinguished characters ; the variety of mo- 
 tives, some pure and some impure, which influence 
 political conduct ; the partial success of the wisest 
 schemes, and the frequent failure of the fairest hopes : 
 — we shall find it more difficult to choose a side, and 
 to keep up an interest towards it in our minds, than 
 to restrain our feelings and language within the bounds 
 of good sense and moderation. This, by the way, 
 makes it particularly proper that ladies who interest 
 themselves in the events of public life should have 
 their minds cultivated by an acquaintance with histo- 
 ry, without which, they are apt to let the whole warmth 
 of their natures flow out, upon party matters, in an 
 ardour more honest than wise, more zealous than 
 candid. 
 
76 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 With regard to the moral uses of history, what has 
 just been mentioned may stand for one. It serves 
 also by exercise to strengthen the moral feelings. 
 The traits of generosity, heroism, disinterestedness, 
 magnanimity, are scattered over it like sparkling gems, 
 and arrest the attention of the most common reader. 
 It is wonderfully interesting to follow the revolutions 
 of a great state, particularly when they lead to the 
 successful termination of some glorious contest. Is it 
 true ? — a child asks, when you tell him a wonderful 
 story that strikes his imagination. The writer of fic- 
 tion has the unlimited command of events and of 
 characters ; yet that single circumstance of truth, that 
 the events related really came to pass, that the heroes 
 brought upon the stage really existed, — counterbal- 
 ances, with respect to interest, all the privileges of 
 the former, and in a mind a little accustomed to exer- 
 tion will throw the advantage on the side of the histo- 
 rian. 
 
 The more History approaches to Biography the 
 more interest it excites. Where the materials are 
 meagre and scanty, the antiquarian and chronologer 
 may dwell upon the page ; but it will seldom excite 
 the glow of admiration or draw the delicious tear of 
 sensibility. I must acknowledge, however, in order 
 to be candid, that the emotions excited by the actions 
 of our species are not always of so pleasing or so 
 edifying a nature. The miseries and the vices of man 
 form a large part of the picture of human society : 
 the pure mind is disgusted by depravity, the existence 
 of which it could not have imagined to itself; and the 
 feeling heart is cruelly lacerated by the sad repetition 
 of wrongs and oppression, chains and slaughter, sack 
 and massacre, which assail it in every page : — till the 
 mind has gained some strength, so frightful a picture 
 should hardly be presented to it. Chosen periods 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 77 
 
 history may be selected for youth, as the society of 
 chosen characters precedes in well-regulated educa- 
 tion a more indiscriminate acquaintance with the 
 world. In favour of a more extended view, I can 
 only say that truth is truth, — man must be shown as 
 the being he really is, or no real knowledge is gained. 
 If a young person were to read only the Beauties of 
 History, or, according to Madame Genlis's scheme, 
 stories and characters in which all that was vicious 
 should be left out, he might as well, for any real ac- 
 quaintance with life he would gain, have been reading 
 all the while Sir Charles Grandison or the Princess of 
 Cleves. 
 
 One consoling idea will present itself with no small 
 degree of probability on comparing the annals of past 
 and present times, — that of a tendency to ameliora- 
 tion ; at least it is evidently found in those countries 
 with which we are most connected. But the only 
 balm that can be poured with full effect into the feel- 
 ing mind which bleeds for the folly and wickedness of 
 man, is the belief that all events are directed and con- 
 trolled by supreme wisdom and goodness. Without 
 this persuasion, the world becomes a desert, and its 
 devastators the wolves and tigers that prowl over it. 
 
 It is needless to insist on the uses of history to those 
 whose situation in life gives them room to expect 
 that their actions may one day become the objects of 
 it. Besides the immediate necessity to them of the 
 knowledge it supplies, it affords the strongest motives 
 for their conduct of hope and fear. The solemn 
 award, the incorruptible tribunal, and the severe, soul- 
 searching inquisition of Posterity is calculated to strike 
 an awe into their souls. They cannot take refuge 
 in oblivion : it is not permitted them to die : — they 
 may be the objects of gratitude or detestation as long 
 as the world stands. They mav flatter themselves 
 7* 
 
tb ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 that they have silenced the voice of truth ; they im\y 
 forbid newspapers and pamphlets and conversation ; — 
 an unseen hand is all the while tracing out their his- 
 tory, and often their minutest actions, in indelible 
 characters ; and it will soon be held up for the judg- 
 ment of the world at large. 
 
 Lastly, this permanency of human characters tends 
 to cherish in the mind the hope and belief of an ex- 
 istence after death. If we had no notices from the 
 page of history of those races of men that have lived 
 before us, they would seem to be completely swept 
 away ; and we should no more think of inquiring what 
 human beings filled our place upon the earth a thou- 
 sand harvests ago, than we should think about the 
 generations of cattle which at that time grazed the 
 marshes of the Tiber, or the venerable ancestors of 
 the goats that are browsing upon Mount Hymettus ; — 
 no vestige would remain of one any more than of the 
 other, and we might more pardonably fall into the 
 opinion that they both had shared a similar fate. But 
 when we see illustrious characters continuing to live on 
 in the eye of posterity, their memories still fresh, 
 and their noble actions shining with all the vivid col- 
 ouring of truth and reality, ages after the very dust of 
 their tombs is scattered, high conceptions kindle within 
 us ; and feeling one immortality we are led to hope 
 for another. We find it hard to persuade ourselves 
 that the man who, like Antoninus or Socrates, fills the 
 world with the sweet perfume of his virtue, the mar- 
 tyr or the patriot to whom posterity is doing the justice 
 which was denied him by his contemporaries, should 
 all the while himself be blotted out ol* existence ; that 
 he should be benefiting mankind and doing good so 
 long after he is capable of receiving any ; that we 
 should be so well acquainted with him, and that he 
 should never know any thing of us. That one who is 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 79 
 
 an active agent in the world, instructing, informing it, 
 inspiring friendship, making disciples, should be no- 
 thing — this does not seem probable ; the records of 
 time suggest to us eternity. — Farewell. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 MY DEAR LYDIA, 
 
 We have considered the uses of History ; I would 
 now direct your attention to those collateral branches 
 of science which are necessary for the profitable un- 
 derstanding of it. It is impossible to understand one 
 thing well without understanding to a certain degree 
 many other things ; there is a mutual dependence be- 
 tween all parts of knowledge. This is the reason that 
 a child never fully comprehends what he is taught : 
 he receives an idea, but not the full idea, perhaps not 
 the principal of what you want to teach him. But as 
 his mind opens, this idea enlarges and receives ac- 
 cessory ideas, till slowly and by degrees he is master 
 of the whole. This is particularly the case in History. 
 You may recollect probably that the mere adventure 
 was all you entered into, in those portions of it which 
 were presented to you at a very early age. You 
 could understand nothing of the springs of action, 
 nothing of the connexion of events with the intrigues 
 of cabinets, with religion, with commerce ; nothing 
 of the state of the world at different periods of society 
 and improvement : and as little could you grasp the 
 measured distances of time and space which are set 
 between them. This you could not do, not because 
 the history was not related with clearness, but because 
 you were destitute of other knowledge. 
 
30 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 Tiie first studies which present themselves as ac- 
 cessories in this light are Geography and Chronology, 
 which have been called the two eyes of History. 
 When was it done ? Where was it done ? are the two 
 first questions you would ask concerning any fact that 
 was related to you. Without these two particulars 
 there can be no precision or clearness. 
 
 Geography is best learned along with history ; for 
 if the first explains history, the latter gives interest to 
 geography, which without it is but a dry list of names. 
 For this reason, if a young person begin with ancient 
 history, I should think it advisable, after a slight gene- 
 ral acquaintance with the globe, to confine his geo- 
 graphy to the period and country of which he is 
 reading ; and it would be a desirable thing to have 
 maps adapted to each remarkable period in the great 
 empires of the world. These should not contain any 
 towns or be divided into any provinces which were 
 not known at that period. A map of Egypt for in- 
 stance, calculated for its ancient monarchy, should 
 have Memphis marked in it, but not Alexandria, be- 
 cause the two capitals did not exist together. A map 
 of Judea for the time of Solomon, or any period of 
 its monarclry, should not exhibit the name of Samaria, 
 nor the villages of Bethany and Nazareth : but each 
 country should have the towns and divisions, as far 
 as they are known, calculated for the period the map 
 was meant to illustrate. Thus geography, civil geo- 
 graphy, would be seen to grow out of history ; and 
 the mere view of the map would suggest the political 
 state of the world at any period. 
 
 It would be a pleasing speculation to see how the 
 arbitrary divisions of kingdoms and provinces vary 
 and become obsolete, and large towns flourish and 
 fall again into ruins : while the great natural features, 
 the mountains, rivers, and seas remain unchanged, by 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 81 
 
 whatever names we please to call them, whatever em- 
 pire encloses them within its temporary boundaries. 
 We have, it is true, ancient and modern maps ; but 
 the one set includes every period from the Flood to 
 the provinciating the Roman empire under Trajan, 
 and the other takes in all the rest. About half a 
 dozen sets for the ancient states and empires, and as 
 many for the modern, would be sufficient to exhibit 
 the most important changes, and would be as many 
 as we should be able to give with any clearness. The 
 young student should make it an invariable rule never 
 to read history without a map before him ; to which 
 should be added plans of towns, harbours, &tc. These 
 should be conveniently placed under the eye, separate 
 if possible from the book he is reading, that by fre- 
 quent glancing upon them the image of the country 
 may be indelibly impressed on his imagination. 
 
 Besides the necessity of maps for understanding 
 history, the memory is wonderfully assisted by the 
 local association which they supply. The battles of 
 Issus and the Granicus will not be confounded by 
 those who have taken the pains to trace the rivers on 
 whose banks they were fought : the exploits of Han- 
 nibal are connected with a view of the Alps, and the 
 idea of Leonidas is inseparable from the straits of 
 Thermopylae. The greater accuracy of maps, and 
 still more the facility, from the arts of printing and 
 engraving, of procuring them, is an advantage the 
 moderns have over the ancients. They have been 
 perfected by slow degrees. The Egyptians and 
 Chaldeans studied the science of mensuration ; and 
 the first map — rude enough no doubt — is said to have 
 been made by order of Sesostris when he became mas- 
 ter of Egypt. Commerce and war have been the two 
 parents of this science. Pharaoh Necho ordered the 
 Phoenicians whom he sent round Africa, to make a 
 
B2 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 survey of the coast. This they finished in three 
 years. Darius caused the Ethiopic Sea and the 
 mouth of the Indus to be surveyed. That maps were 
 known in Greece you no doubt recollect from the 
 pretty story of Socrates and Alcibiades. Anaximan- 
 der, a disciple of Thales, is said to have made the first 
 sphere, and first delineated what was then known of 
 the countries of the earth. He flourished 547 years 
 before Christ. Herodotus mentions a map of brass 
 or copper which was presented by Aristagoras, tyrant of 
 Miletus, to Cleomenes, king of Sparta, in which he 
 had described the known world with its seas and 
 rivers. Alexander the Great in his expedition into 
 Asia took two geographers with him ; and from their 
 itineraries many things have been copied by succeed- 
 ing writers. 
 
 From Greece the science of geography passed to 
 Rome. The enlightened policy of the Romans cul- 
 tivated it as a powerful means of extending and secur- 
 ing their dominion. One of the first things they did 
 was to make roads, for which it was necessary to 
 have the country measured. They had a custom 
 when they had conquered a country, to have a paint- 
 ed map of it always carried aloft in their triumphs. 
 The great historian Poly bins reconnoitred under a 
 commission from Scipio Emilianus the coasts of Afri- 
 ca, Spain, and France, and measured the distances 
 of Hannibal's march over the Alps and Pyrenees. 
 Julius Ciesar employed men of science to survey and 
 measure the globe; and his own Commentaries show 
 his attention to this parts of knowledge. Strabo, a 
 great geographer whose works are extant, flourished 
 under Augustus ; Pomponius Mela in the first cen- 
 tury. 
 
 Many of the Roman itineraries which are still ex- 
 tant, show the systematic care which they bestowed 
 on a science so necessary for the orderly distribution 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. bS 
 
 ami government of their large dominions. But still 
 it was late before Geograpfejr was settled upon its true 
 ha sis, — astronomical observations. The greater part 
 of the early maps were laid down in a very loose, in- 
 accurate manner ; and where particular parts were 
 done with the greatest care, yet if the longitude and 
 latitude were wanting, their relative situation to the 
 rest of the earth could not be known. Some attempts 
 had indeed been made by Hipparchus and Possido- 
 nius, Greek philosophers, to settle the parallels of 
 latitude by the length of the days ; but the foundation 
 diey had laid was neglected till the time of Ptolemy, 
 who nourished at Alexandria about 150 years after 
 Christ, under Adrian and Antoninus Pius. This is 
 he from whom the Ptolemaic system took its name. 
 He diligently compared and revised the ancient maps 
 and charts, correcting their errors and supplying their 
 defects by the reports of travellers and navigators, the 
 measured or reputed distances of maps and itineraries, 
 and astronomical calculations, all digested together ; 
 he reduced geography to a regular system, and laid 
 down the situation of places according to minutes and 
 degrees of longitude and latitude as we now have 
 them. His maps were in general use till the last 
 three or four centuries, in which time the progress of 
 the moderns in the knowledge of the globe we in- 
 habit has thrown at a great distance all the ancient 
 geographers. 
 
 We are now, some few breaks and chasms except- 
 ed, pretty well acquainted with the outline of the 
 globe, and with those parts of it with which we are 
 connected by our commercial or political relations; 
 but we are still profoundly ignorant of the interior of 
 Africa, and imperfectly acquainted with that of South 
 America, and the western part of North America. 
 We know little of Thibet and the central parts of 
 
84 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 Asia, and have as yet only touched upon the great 
 continent of New Holland. 
 
 The hest ancient maps are those of D'Anville. It 
 has required great learning and proportionate skill to 
 bring together the scattered notices which are found 
 in various authors, and to fix the position of places 
 which have been long ago destroyed ; very often the 
 geographer has no other guide, than the relation of the 
 historian that such a place is within six or eight days' 
 journey from another place. In some instances the 
 maps of Ptolemy are lately come into repute again, — 
 as in his delineation of the course of the Niger, which 
 is thought to be favoured by modern discoveries. 
 Major Rennel has done much to improve the geogra- 
 phy of India. 
 
 There are many valuable maps scattered in voyages 
 and travels, and many of the atlases contain a collec- 
 tion sufficient for all common purposes ; but a com- 
 plete collection of the best maps and charts, with 
 plans of harbours, towns, he. becomes an object of 
 even princely expense. The French took the lead 
 in this, as in some other branches of science. The 
 late empress of Russia caused a geographical survey 
 to be taken of her dominions, which has much im- 
 proved our knowledge of the north-eastern regions of 
 Europe and Asia. We have now, however, both 
 single maps and atlases which yield to none in accu- 
 racy or elegance. 
 
 Yours affectionately. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 85 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 DEAR LYDIA, 
 
 Geography addresses itself to the eye, and is 
 easily comprehended : to give a clear idea of Chro- 
 nology is somewhat more difficult. It is easy to de- 
 fine it by saying it gives an answer to the question, 
 When was it done ? but the meaning of the when is 
 not quite so obvious. A date is a very artificial thing, 
 and the world had existed for a long course of cen- 
 turies before men were aware of its use and necessity. 
 When is a relative term ; the most natural applica- 
 tion of it is, How r long ago, reckoning backwards from 
 the present moment. Thus, if you w T ere to ask an 
 Indian when such an event happened, he would pro- 
 bably say — So many harvests ago, when I could but 
 just reach the boughs of yonder tree ; — in the time of 
 my father, grandfather, great-grandfather ; still mak- 
 ing the time then present to him, the date from which 
 he sets out. Even where a different method is well 
 understood, we use in more familiar life this natural 
 kind of chronology — The year before I w r as married, — 
 when Henry, who is now five years old, was born, — 
 the winter of the hard frost. These are the epochs 
 which mark the annals of domestic life more readily 
 and with greater clearness, so far as the real idea of 
 time is concerned, than the year of our Lord, as long 
 as these are all within the circle of our personal recol- 
 lection. But when events are recorded, the relator 
 may be forgotten, and when again occurs : " When 
 did the historian live ? I understand the relative 
 chronology of his narration ; I know how the events 
 of it follow one another ; but what is their relation to 
 general chronology, to time as it relates to me and to 
 other events ? " 
 
 8 
 
SG ON THE USES OF HISTORV. 
 
 To know the transactions of a particular reign, that 
 of Cyrus for instance, in the regular order in which 
 they happened in that reign, but not to know where 
 to place them with respect to the history of other 
 times and nations, is as if we had a very accurate 
 map of a small island existing somewhere in the 
 boundless ocean, and could lay down all the bearings 
 and distances of its several towns and villages, but 
 for want of its longitude and latitude were ignorant of 
 the relative position of the island itself. Chronology 
 supplies this longitude and latitude, and fixes every 
 event to its precise point in the chart of universal 
 time. It supplies a common measure by which I may 
 compare the relator of an event with myself, and his 
 now or ten years ago with the present now or ten 
 years, reckoning from the time in which I live. 
 
 In order to find such a common measure, men 
 have been led by degrees to fix upon some one known 
 event, and to make that the centre from which, by 
 regular distances, the different periods of time are 
 reckoned, instead of making the present time, which 
 is always varying, and every man's own existence, 
 the centre. 
 
 The first approach to such a mode of computing 
 time is to date by the reigns of kings ; which, being 
 public objects of great notoriety, seem to offer them- 
 selves with great advantage for such a purpose. The 
 scripture history, which is the earliest of histories, has 
 no other than this kind of successive dates : " Now 
 it came to pass in the fifth year of the king Heze- 
 kiah." " And the time that Solomon reigned in Jeru- 
 salem over all Israel was forty years : and Solomon 
 slept with his fathers ; and Rehoboam his son reigned 
 in his stead." From this method a regular chronolo- 
 gy might certainly be deduced, if we had the whole 
 unbroken series ; but unfortunately there are many 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 87 
 
 gaps and chasms in history ; and yon easily see 
 that if any links of the chain are wanting, the whole 
 computation is rendered imperfect. Besides, it re- 
 quires a tedious calculation to bring it into comparison 
 with other histories and events. To say that an event 
 happened in the tenth year of the reign of king Solo- 
 mon, gives you only an idea of the time relative to 
 the histories of that king, but leaves you quite in the 
 dark as to its relation with the time you live in, or 
 with the events of the Roman history. 
 
 We want therefore an universal date, like a lofty 
 obelisk, seen by all the country round, from and to 
 which every distance should be measured. The most 
 obvious that offers itself for this purpose is the crea- 
 tion of the world, an event equally interesting to all ; 
 to us the beginning of time, and from which therefore 
 time would flow regularly down in an unbroken stream 
 from the earliest to the latest generations of the human 
 race. This would probably therefore have been made 
 use of, if the date of the creation itself could be as- 
 certained with any exactness ; but as chronologers 
 differ by more than a thousand years as to the time 
 of that event, it is necessary previously to mention 
 what system is made use of, which renders this a^ra 
 obscure and inconvenient. It has therefore been 
 found more convenient, in fact, to take some known 
 event within the limit of well authenticated kistory, 
 and to reckon from that fixed point backwards and 
 forwards. As we cannot find the head of the river, 
 and know not its termination, we must raise a pillar 
 upon its banks, and measure our distances from that, 
 both up and down the stream. This event ought to 
 be important, conspicuous, and as interesting as possi- 
 ble, that it may be generally received ; for it would 
 spare a great deal of trouble in computation if all the 
 world would make use of the same date. This how- 
 
^8 ON THE USES OF HISTORY^ 
 
 ever has never been the case, chance and national 
 vanity having had their full share in settling them. 
 
 The Greeks reckoned by olympiads, but not till 
 more than sixty years after the death of Alexander 
 the Great. The Olympic games were the most bril- 
 liant assembly in Greece, the Greeks were very fond 
 of them, they began 776 years before Christ, and each 
 olympiad includes four years. Some of the earlier 
 Greek historians digested their histories by ages, or 
 by the succession of the priestesses of Juno at Argos ; 
 others by the archons of Athens or the kings of Lace- 
 dremon. Thucydides uses simply the beginning of 
 the Peloponnesian war, the subject of his history ; for, 
 writing to his contemporaries, it seems not to have 
 occurred to him that another date would ever be 
 necessary. The Arundelian marbles, composed sixty 
 years after the death of Alexander the Great, reckon 
 backwards from the then present time. 
 
 The Roman sera was the building of their city, the 
 eternal city as they loved to call it. 
 
 The Mahometans date from the Hegira, or flight 
 of Mahomet from Mecca, his birth-place, to Medina, 
 A. D. 622 ; and they have this advantage, that they 
 began almost immediately to use it. 
 
 The sera used all over the Christian world is the 
 birth of Christ. This was adopted as a date about 
 A. D. 360 ; and though there is an uncertainty of a 
 few years, which are in dispute, the accuracy is suffi- 
 cient for any present purpose. 
 
 The reign of Nabonassar, the first king of Babylon, 
 of Yesdigerd, the last king of Persia, — who was con- 
 quered by the Saracens, — and of the Seleucida? of 
 Syria, have likewise furnished a?ras. 
 
 * Julius Scaliger formed an aera which he called the 
 Julian period, being a cycle of 7980 years, produced 
 by multiplying several cycles into one another, so as 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 89 
 
 to carry us back to a period 7G4 years before the 
 creation of the world. This aera, standing out of all 
 history, like the fulcrum which Archimedes wished for, 
 and independent of variation or possibility of mistake, 
 was a very grand idea ; and in measuring every thing 
 by itself, measured it by the eternal truth of the laws 
 of the heavenly bodies. But it is not greatly employ- 
 ed, the common aera serving all ordinary purposes. 
 In modern histories the olympiads, Roman aeras, and 
 others, are reduced, in the margin, to the year of our 
 Lord, or of the creation. 
 
 Such is the nature of aeras, now in such common 
 use that we can with difficulty conceive the confusion 
 in which, for the want of them, all the early part of 
 history is involved, and the strenuous labours of the 
 most learned men which have been employed in ar- 
 ranging them and reducing history to the order in 
 which we now have it. 
 
 The earliest history which we possess, as we have 
 before observed, is that of the Jewish scriptures ; 
 these carry us from the creation to about the time of 
 Herodotus : having no date, we are obliged to com- 
 pute from generations, and to take the reigns of kings 
 where they are given. But a great schism occurs at 
 the very outset. The Septuagint translation of the 
 Mosaic history into Greek, which was made by order 
 of Ptolemy Philadelphia, differs from the Hebrew 
 text by 1400 years from the creation to the birth of 
 Abraham. 
 
 The chronology of the Assyrian and Babylonish 
 monarchies is involved in inextricable difficulties ; nor 
 are we successful in harmonizing the Greek with the 
 oriental writers of history. The Persian historians 
 make no mention of the defeat of Xerxes by the 
 Greeks, or that of Darius by Alexander. All nations 
 have had the vanity to make their origin mount *!? 
 8* 
 
90 ON THE USES OF HISTORF, 
 
 high as possible ; and they have often invented series 
 of kings, or have reckoned the contemporary indivi- 
 duals of different dynasties as following each other in 
 regular succession, as if one should take the kings of 
 the Heptarchy singly instead of together. 
 
 You will perhaps ask, if we have no aeras, what 
 have we to reckon by ? We have generations and 
 successions of kings. Sir Isaac Newton, who joined 
 wonderful sagacity to profound learning and astrono- 
 mical skill, made very great reforms in the ancient 
 chronology. He pointed out the difference between 
 generations and successions of kings. A generation 
 is not the life of man ; it is the time that elapses be- 
 fore a man sees his successor ; and this, reckoning to 
 the birth of the eldest son, is estimated at about thirty 
 years. The succession of kings would seem at first 
 sight to be the same, and so it had been reckoned ; 
 but Newton corrected it, on the principle that kings 
 are often cut off prematurely in turbulent times, or are 
 succeeded either by their brothers, or by their uncles, 
 or others older than themselves. The lines of kings 
 of France, England, and other countries within the 
 range of exact chronology, confirmed this principle. 
 He therefore rectified all the ancient chronology ac- 
 cording to it ; and with the assistance of astronomical 
 observations he found reason to allow, as the average 
 length of a reign, about eighteen or twenty years. 
 
 But after all, great part of the chronology of ancient 
 history is founded upon conjecture and clouded with 
 uncertainty. 
 
 Although I recommend to you a constant attention 
 to chronology, I do not think it desirable to load your 
 memory with a great number of specific dates, both 
 because it would be too great a burthen on the reten- 
 tive powers, and because it is, after all, not the best 
 way of attaining clear ideas on the subjects of history. 
 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 91 
 
 In order to do this, it is necessary to have in your 
 mind the relative situation of other countries at the 
 time of any event recorded in one of them. For 
 instance, if you have got by heart the dates of the 
 accession of the kings of Europe, and want to know 
 whether John lived at the time of the crusades, and 
 in what state the Greek empire was, you cannot tell 
 without an arithmetical process, which perhaps you 
 may not be quick enough to make. You cannot tell 
 whether Constantinople had been taken by the Turks 
 when the Sicilian Vespers happened ; for each fact is 
 insulated in your mind ; and indeed your dates give 
 you only the dry catalogue of accessions. Nay, you 
 may read separate histories, and yet not bring them 
 together if the countries be remote. Each exists in 
 your mind separately, and you have at no time the 
 state of the world. But you ought to have an idea at 
 once of the whole world, as far as history will give it. 
 You do not see truly what the Greeks were, except 
 you know that the British Isles were then barbarous. 
 A few dates therefore, perfectly learned, may suf- 
 fice, and will serve as landmarks to prevent your going 
 far astray in the rest : but it will be highly useful to 
 connect the histories you read in such a manner in 
 your own mind, that you may be able to refer from 
 one to the other, and to form them all into a whole. 
 For this purpose, it is very desirable to observe and 
 retain in your memory certain coincidences, which 
 may link, as it were, two nations together. Thus you 
 may remember that Haroun al Raschid sent to Char- 
 lemagne the first clock that was seen in Europe. If 
 you are reading the history of Greece when it flourish- 
 ed most, and want to know what the Romans were 
 doing at the same time, you may recollect that they 
 sent to Greece for instruction when they wanted to 
 draw up the laws of the Twelve Tables. Solon and 
 
92 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 
 
 Croesus connect the history of Lesser Asia with that 
 of Greece. Egbert was brought up in the court of 
 Charlemagne ; Philip Augustus of France and Richard 
 I. of England fought in the same crusade against Sal- 
 adin. Queen Elizabeth received the French ambas- 
 sador in deep mourning after the massacre of St. 
 Bartholomew. 
 
 It may be desirable to keep one kingdom as a meter 
 for the rest. Take for this purpose first the Jews, 
 then the Greeks, the Romans, and, because it is so, 
 our own country : then harmonize and connect all 
 the other dates with these. 
 
 That the literary history of a nation may be con- 
 nected with the political, study also biography, and 
 endeavour to link men of science and literature and 
 artists with political characters. Thus Hippocrates 
 was sent for to the plague of Athens ; Leonardo da 
 Vinci died in the arms of Francis I. Often an anec- 
 dote, a smart saying, will indissoluble fix a date. 
 
 Sometimes you may take a long reign, as that of 
 Elizabeth or Lewis XIV., and making that the centre, 
 mark all the contemporary sovereigns, and also the 
 men of letters. Another way is, to make a line of life, 
 composed of distinguished characters who touch each 
 other. It will be of great, service to you in this view 
 to study Dr. Priestley's biographical chart ; and of 
 still greater, to make one for yourself, and fill it by 
 degrees as your acquaintance with history extends. 
 Marriages connect the history of different kingdoms ; 
 as those of Mary queen of Scots and Francis II., 
 Philip II. and Mary of England. 
 
 These are the kind of dates which make every 
 thing lie in the mind in its proper order ; they also 
 take fast hold of it. If you forget the exact date by 
 years, you have nothing left ; but of circumstances 
 vou never lose all idea. As we come nearer to our 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 93 
 
 own times, dates must be more exact : a few years 
 more or less signify little in the destruction of Troy, 
 if we knew it exactly ; but the conclusion of the 
 American war should be accurately known, or it will 
 throw other events near it into confusion. 
 
 In so extensive a study no auxiliary is to be ne- 
 glected : Poetry impresses both geography and his- 
 tory in a most agreeable manner upon those who are 
 fond of it. Thus, 
 
 " fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, 
 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms." 
 
 A short, lively character in verse is never forgotten : 
 
 " From Macedonia's madman to the Swede." 
 
 Historic plays deeply impress, but should be read with 
 caution. We take our ideas from Shakspeare more 
 than history : he, indeed, copied pretty exactly from 
 the chroniclers, but other dramatic writers have taken 
 great liberties both with characters and events. 
 
 Painting is a good auxiliary ; and though in this 
 country history is generally read before we see pic- 
 tures, they mutually illustrate one another : painting 
 also shows the costume. In France, where pictures 
 are more accessible, there is more knowledge gene- 
 rally diffused of common history. Many have learned 
 scripture history from the rude figures on Dutch tiles. 
 
 I will conclude with the remark, that though the 
 beginner in history may and ought to study dates and 
 epochas for his guidance, chronology can never be 
 fully pessessed till after history has been long studied 
 and carefully digested. 
 
 Farewell ; and believe me 
 
 Yours affectionately. 
 
94 
 FASHION 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 Young as you are, my dear Flora, you cannot but 
 have noticed the eagerness with which questions, rela- 
 tive to civil liberty, have been discussed in every 
 society. To break the shackles of oppression, and 
 assert the native rights of man, is esteemed by many 
 among the noblest efforts of heroic virtue ; but vain is 
 the possession of political liberty if there exists a ty- 
 rant of our own creation, who, without law or reason, 
 or even external force, exercises over us the most 
 despotic authority; whose jurisdiction is extended 
 over every part of private and domestic life ; controls 
 our pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, 
 fills our lives with vain cares and restless anxiety. 
 The worst slavery is that which we voluntarily impose 
 upon ourselves ; and no chains are so cumbrous and 
 galling as diose which we are pleased to wear by way 
 of grace and ornament. Musing upon this idea, gave 
 rise to the following dream or vision : 
 
 Methought I was in a country of the strangest and 
 most singular appearance I had ever beheld : the riv- 
 ers were forced into jet-d'eaus, and wasted in artificial 
 water-works ; the lakes were fashioned by the hand 
 of art ; the roads were sanded with spar and gold- 
 dust ; the trees all bore the marks of the shears, they 
 were bent and twisted into the most whimsical forms, 
 and connected together by festoons of ribon and silk 
 fringe : the wild flowers were transplanted into vases 
 of fine china, and painted with artificial white and red. 
 
FASHION'. 95 
 
 The disposition of the ground was full of fancy, 
 but grotesque and unnatural in the highest degree ; it 
 was all highly cultivated, and bore the marks of won- 
 derful industry ; but among its various productions I 
 could hardly discern one that was of any use. 
 
 My attention, however, was soon called off from 
 the scenes of inanimate life, by the view of the inhab- 
 itants, whose form and appearance were so very pre- 
 posterous, and, indeed, so unlike any thing human, 
 that I fancied myself transported to the country of 
 
 " The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders :" 
 
 for the heads of many of these people were swelled 
 to an astonishing size, and seemed to be placed in the 
 middle of their bodies. Of some, the ears were dis- 
 tended till they hung upon the shoulders ; and of 
 others, the shoulders were raised till they met the ears : 
 there was not one free from some deformity, or mon- 
 strous swelling, in one part or other ; either it was 
 before, or behind, or about the hips, or the arms were 
 puffed up to an unusual thickness, or the throat was 
 increased to the same size with the poor objects once 
 exhibited under the name of the monstrous Craws : 
 some had no necks ; others had necks that reached 
 almost to their waists ; the bodies of some were bloat- 
 ed up to such a size, that they could scarcely enter a 
 pair of folding doors ; and others had suddenly sprout- 
 ed up to such a disproportionate height, that they could 
 not sit upright in their loftiest carriages. 
 
 Many shocked me with the appearance of being 
 nearly cut in two, like a wasp ; and I was alarmed at 
 the sight of a few, in whose faces, otherwise very fair 
 and healthy, I discovered an eruption of black spots, 
 which I feared was the fatal sign of some pestilential 
 disorder. 
 
9G FASHION. 
 
 The sight of these various and uncouth deformities 
 inspired me with much pity ; which however was soon 
 changed into disgust, when I perceived, with great sur- 
 prise, that every one of these unfortunate men and wo- 
 men was exceeding proud of his own peculiar defor- 
 mity, and endeavoured to attract my notice to it as much 
 as possible. A lady, in particular, who had a swelling 
 under her throat, larger than any goitre in the Valais, 
 and which, I am sure, by its enormous projection, pre- 
 vented her from seeing the path she walked in, brushed 
 by me with an air of the greatest self-complacency, 
 and asked me if she was not a charming creature ? 
 
 But by this time I found myself surrounded by an 
 immense crowd, who were all pressing along in one 
 direction ; and I perceived that 1 was drawn along 
 with them by an irresistible impulse, which grew 
 stronger every moment. I asked whither w T e were 
 hurrying with such eager steps ? and was told that we 
 were going to the court of Queen Fashion, the great 
 Diana whom all the world worshippeth. I would have 
 retired, but felt myself impelled to go on, though with- 
 out being sensible of any outward force. 
 
 When I came to the royal presence, I was astonish- 
 ed at the magnificence I saw around me. The queen 
 was sitting on a throne, elegantly fashioned in the 
 form of a shell, and inlaid with gems and mother-of- 
 pearl. It was supported by a camelion, formed of a 
 single emerald. She was dressed in a light robe of 
 changeable silk, which fluttered about her in a profu- 
 sion of fantastic folds, that imitated the form of clouds, 
 and like them were continually changing their appear- 
 ance. In one hand she held a rouge-box, and in the 
 other one of those optical glasses which distort figures 
 in length or in breadth according to the position in 
 which they are held. At the foot of the throne was 
 displayed a profusion of the richest productions of 
 
FASHION. 07 
 
 every quarter of the globe, tributes from land and sea, 
 from every animal and plant; perfumes, sparkling 
 stones, drops of pearl, chains of gold, webs of the 
 finest linen ; wreaths of flowers, the produce of art, 
 which vied with the most delicate productions of na- 
 ture ; forests of feathers waving their brilliant colours 
 in the air and canopying the throne ; glossy silks, net- 
 work of lace, silvery ermine, soft folds of vegetable 
 wool, rustling paper, and shining spangles ; — the whole 
 intermixed with pendants and streamers of the gayest 
 tinctured ribbon. 
 
 All these together made so brilliant an appearance 
 that my eyes were at first dazzled, and it was some 
 time before I recovered myself enough to observe the 
 ceremonial of the court. Near the throne, and its 
 chief supports, stood the queen's two prime ministers, 
 Caprice on one side, and Vanity on the other. Two 
 officers seemed chiefly busy among the attendants. 
 One of them was a man with a pair of shears in his 
 hand and a goose by his side, — a mysterious emblem, 
 of which I could not fathom the meaning : he sat 
 cross-legged, like the great lama of the Tartars. He 
 was busily employed in cutting out coats and gar- 
 ments ; not, however, like Dorcas, for the poor — nor, 
 indeed, did they seem intended for any mortal what- 
 ever, so ill were they adapted to the shape of the hu- 
 man body. Some of the garments were extravagant- 
 ly large, others as preposterously small : of others, it 
 was difficult to guess to what part of the person they 
 were meant to be applied. Here were coverings, 
 which did not cover ; ornaments, which disfigured ; 
 and defences against the weather, more slight and 
 delicate than what they were meant to defend ; but 
 all were eagerly caught up, without distinction, by the 
 crowd of votaries who were waiting to receive them. 
 
 The other officer was dressed in a white succinct 
 9 
 
98 FASHION. 
 
 linen garment, like a priest of the lower order. He 
 moved in a eloud of incense more highly scented than 
 the breezes of Arabia ; he carried a tuft of the whitest 
 down of the swan in one hand, and in the other a small 
 iron instrument, heated redhot, which he brandished in 
 the air. It was with infinite concern I beheld the 
 Graces hound at the foot of the throne, and obliged to 
 officiate, as handmaids, under the direction of these 
 two officers. 
 
 I now began to inquire by what laws this queen 
 governed her subjects, but soon found her administra- 
 tion was that of the most arbitrary tyrant ever known. 
 Her laws are exactly the reverse of those of the Medes 
 and Persians ; for they are changed every day, and 
 every hour : and what makes the matter still more 
 perplexing, they are in no written code, nor even made 
 public by proclamation : they are only promulgated by 
 whispers, an obscure sign, or turn of the eye, which 
 those only who have the happiness to stand near the 
 queen can catch with any degree of precision : yet 
 the smallest transgression of the laws is severely pun- 
 ished 5 not indeed by fines or imprisonment, but by a 
 sort of interdict similar to that wliich in superstitious 
 times was laid by the Pope on disobedient princes, 
 and which operated in such a manner that no one 
 would eat, drink, or associate with the forlorn culprit, 
 and he was almost deprived of the use of fire and 
 water. 
 
 This difficulty of discovering the will of the goddess 
 occasioned so much crowding to be near the throne, 
 such jostling and elbowing of one another, that I was 
 glad to retire and observe what I could among the 
 scattered crowd : and the first thing I took notice of 
 was various instruments of torture which every where 
 met my eyes. Torture has, in most other govern- 
 ment of Europe been abolished by the mild spirit of 
 
FASHION. 99 
 
 the times ; but it reigns here in full force and terror. 
 I saw officers of this cruel court employed in boring 
 holes with redhot wires, in the ears, nose, and various 
 parts of the body, and then distending them with the 
 weight of metal chains, or stones, cut into a variety of 
 shapes : some had invented a contrivance for cramp- 
 ing the feet in such a manner that many are lamed by 
 it for their whole lives. Others I saw, slender and 
 delicate in their form and naturally nimble as the 
 young antelope, who were obliged to carry constantly 
 about with them a cumbrous unwieldy machine, of a, 
 pyramidal form, several ells in circumference. 
 
 But the most common and one of the worst instru- 
 ments of torture, was a small machine armed with fish- 
 bone and ribs of steel, wide at top but extremely small 
 at bottom. In this detestable invention the queen or- 
 ders the bodies of her female subjects to be inclosed : 
 it is then, by means of silk cords, drawn closer and 
 closer at intervals, till the unhappy victim can scarce- 
 ly breathe ; and they have found the exact point that 
 can be borne without fainting', which, however, not 
 unfrequently happens. The flesh is often excoriated, 
 and the very ribs bent, by this cruel process. Yet 
 what astonished me more than all the rest, these suf- 
 ferings are borne with a degree of fortitude which, in a 
 better cause, would immortalize a hero or canonize a 
 saint. The Spartan who suffered the fox to eat into 
 his vitals, did not bear pain with greater resolution : 
 and as the Spartan mothers brought their children to 
 be scourged at the altar of Diana, so do the mothers 
 here bring their children, — and chiefly those whose 
 tender sex one would suppose excused them from 
 such exertions, — and early inure them to this cruel 
 discipline. But neither Spartan, nor Dervise, nor 
 Bonze, nor Carthusian monk, ever exercised more 
 unrelenting severities over their bodieSj than these 
 
100 FASHION. 
 
 young zealots : indeed the first lesson they are taught, 
 is a surrender of their own inclinations and an im- 
 plicit obedience to the commands of the Goddess. 
 
 But they have, besides, a more solemn kind of dedi- 
 cation, something similar to the rite of confirmation. 
 When a young woman approaches the marriageable 
 age, she is led to the altar : her hair, which before 
 fell loosely about her shoulders, is tied up in a tress, 
 sweet oils drawn from roses and spices are poured 
 upon it ; she is involved in a cloud of scented dust, 
 and invested with ornaments under which she can 
 scarcely move. After this solemn ceremony, which 
 is generally concluded by a dance round the altar, the 
 damsel is obliged to a still stricter conformity than be- 
 fore to the laws and customs of the court, and any 
 deviation from them is severely punished. 
 
 The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered him 
 by carrying their heads on one side, because he had 
 the misfortune to have a wry neck ; but all adulation 
 is poor, compared to what is practised in this court. 
 Sometimes the queen will lisp and stammer, — and 
 then none of her attendants can speak plain ; some- 
 times she chooses to totter as she walks, — and then 
 they are seized with sudden lameness : according 
 as she appears half undressed, or veiled from head to 
 foot, her subjects become a procession of nuns, or a 
 troop of Bacchanalian nymphs. I could not help ob- 
 serving, however, that those who stood at the greatest 
 distance from the throne were the most extravagant in 
 their imitation. 
 
 I was by this time thoroughly disgusted with the 
 character of a sovereign at once so light and so cruel, 
 so fickle and so arbitrary, when one who stood next 
 me bade me attend to still greater contradictions in her 
 character, and such as might serve to soften the indig- 
 nation I had conceived. He took me to the back of 
 
FASHION. 101 
 
 the throne, and made me take notice of a number of 
 industrious poor, to whom the queen was secretly dis- 
 tributing bread. I saw the Genius of Commerce 
 doing her homage, and discovered the British cross 
 woven into the insignia of her dignity. 
 
 While I was musing on these things, a murmur 
 arose among the crowd, and I was told that a young 
 votary was approaching. I turned my head, and saw 
 a light figure, the folds of whose garment showed the 
 elegant turn of the limbs they covered, tripping along 
 with the step of a nymph. I soon knew it to be your- 
 self: — I saw you led up to the altar, — I saw your 
 beautiful hair tied in artificial tresses, and its bright 
 gloss stained with coloured dust, — I even fancied I 
 beheld produced the dreadful instruments of torture ; 
 — my emotions increased : — I cried out, " O spare 
 her ! spare my Flora ! " with so much vehemence 
 that I awaked. 
 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 TO MISS D** 
 
 May never less of Mirth than now 
 Sit on thy smooth unclouded brow ! 
 May never care those furrows trace 
 Which might her softer lines efface ! 
 His richest robe may Hymen wear, 
 His brightest torch and gayest air ! 
 And O ! where'er he builds thy bower, 
 May joy attend the chosen hour ! 
 May Mirth and Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To scatter roses at thy feet ! 
 Like this, may every opening year 
 Willi some new blessing fraught appear ; 
 With sprightly hopes and wishes glow, 
 And promise much, and more bestow ! — 
 But what shall we forsaken do, 
 When Mirth and Pleasure rly with you ? 
 
103 
 
 ON THE BIRTH 
 
 OF 
 
 A FRIEND'S ELDEST SON. 
 
 Incipe, parve puer, risu cognoscere matrem. 
 
 Welcome, little helpless stranger ; 
 
 Welcome to the light of day ; 
 Smile upon thy happy mother, 
 
 Smile, and chase her pains away. 
 
 Lift thine eyes and look around thee ; 
 
 Various Nature courts thy sight, 
 Spreads for thee her flowery carpet ; 
 
 Earth was made for thy delight. 
 
 Welcome to a mother's bosom ; 
 
 Welcome to a father's arms ; 
 Heir to all thy father's virtues, 
 
 Heir to all thy mother's charms. 
 
 Joy thou bring' st, but mix'd with trouble, 
 Anxious joys and tender fears, 
 
 Pleasing hopes, and mingled sorrows, 
 Smiles of transport, dash'd with tears. 
 
 Who can say what lies before thee, 
 Calm or tempest, peace or strife ; 
 
 With what turns of various fortune 
 Fate shall mark thy chequer'd life. 
 
 Who can tell what eager passions 
 In this little heart shall beat, 
 
 When ambition, love, or glory, 
 Shall invade this peaceful seat 
 
104 ON THE BIRTH OF A FRIEND'S SON. 
 
 Who can tell how wide the branches 
 Of this tender plant may spread, 
 
 While beneath its ample shadow 
 Swains may rest, and flocks be fed. 
 
 Angels guard thee, lovely blossom, 
 
 And avert each hovering ill ! 
 Crown thy parents' largest wishes, 
 
 And their fondest hopes fulfil. 
 
105 
 EPITAPH ON A GOLDFINCH. 
 
 Here lieth, 
 
 aged three moons and four days, 
 
 the body of Richard Acanthis, 
 
 a young creature 
 of unblemished life and character- 
 He was taken in his callow infancy, 
 from under the wing 
 of a tender parent, 
 by the rough and pitiless hands 
 of a two-legged animal 
 without feathers. 
 Though born with the most aspiring dispositions, 
 and unbounded love of freedom, 
 he was closely confined in a grated prison, 
 and scarcely permitted to view those fields, 
 to the possession of which 
 he had a natural and undoubted 
 charter. 
 Deeply sensible of this infringement 
 of his native and inalienable rights, 
 he was often heard to petition for redress ; 
 not with rude and violent clamours, 
 but 
 in the most plaintive notes 
 of melodious sorrow. 
 At length, 
 wearied with fruitless efforts to escape, 
 his indignant spirit 
 burst the prison which his body could not, 
 and left behind 
 a lifeless heap of beauteous feathers. 
 Reader, 
 if suffering innocence can hope for retribution, 
 deny not to the gentle shade 
 of this unfortunate captive 
 the natural though uncertain hope 
 of animating some happier form, 
 or Uying his new-fledged pinions 
 in some humble Elysium ; 
 beyond the reach of Man. 
 the tyrant 
 of this lower universe. 
 
106 
 
 THE MORNING REPAST. 
 
 When Apollo had left the bed of Thetis, and with 
 his fiery horses was prancing up the eastern hills, we 
 shook off the chains of Somnus, and having attired 
 ourselves and performed the usual ablutions, descend- 
 ed into the hall of banquets. The table was covered 
 with the finest looms of Ireland, and spread with a 
 variety of cates well calculated to incite the lazy ap- 
 petite. 
 
 Our nostrils were regaled by the grateful steams 
 of the sun-burnt berry of jlocha, sent forth from vases 
 formed of the precious metal of Potosi. The rep-tst 
 w T as rendered more substantial by the gifts of Ceres 
 and of Pales, and painted vessels of porcelain were 
 filled with the infusion of the Indian leaf, rendered 
 more grateful by the saccharine juices of the Ameri- 
 can cane, and crowned with rich streams pressed 
 from the milky mother of the herd. 
 
 Our company then separated to pursue their various 
 occupations. 
 
10? 
 
 DESCRIPTION 
 
 OF 
 
 TWO SISTERS. 
 
 DEAR COUSIN, 
 
 Our conversation last night upon beauties, put me 
 in mind of two charming sisters, with whom I think 
 you must be acquainted as well as I, though they were 
 not in your list of belles. Their charms are very 
 different however ; the youngest is generally thought 
 the handsomest, and yet other beauties shine more in 
 her company than in her sister's ; whether it be that 
 her gay looks diffuse a lustre on all around, while her 
 sister's beauty has an air of majesty which strikes with 
 awe, or that the younger sets every one she is with 
 in the fairest light, and discovers perfections which 
 were before concealed, whilst the elder seems only 
 solicitous to set off her own person and throw a shade 
 upon every one else : yet, what you will think strange, 
 it is she who is generally preferred for a confidant ; 
 for her sister, with all her amiable qualities, cannot 
 keep a secret. 
 
 O ! what an eye the younger has, as if she could 
 look a person through ; yet modest is her counte- 
 nance, even and composed her pace, and she treads so 
 softly — " Smooth sliding without step," as Milton says. 
 She seldom meets you without blushing, — her sister 
 cannot blush, — she dresses very gaily, sometimes in 
 clouded silks, which indeed she first brought into 
 fashion, but blue is her most becoming colour, and she 
 
108 DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 
 
 generally appears in it. Now and then, she wears a 
 very rich scarf, or sash, braided with all manner of 
 colours. 
 
 The elder, like the Spanish ladies, dresses in black 
 in order to set off her jewels, of which she has a 
 
 greater quantity than Lady , and, if \ might ju 
 
 much finer. I cannot pretend to give you a caialogue 
 of them ; they are of all sizes, and set in all figures : 
 her enemies say she does well to adorn her dusky 
 brow with brilliants, and that without them she would 
 he but little taken notice of; but certain it is, she has 
 inspired more serious and enthusiastic passions than 
 her sister, whose admirers are often fops more in love 
 with themselves than with her. A leorned clergyman 
 some time ago fell deeply in love with her, and wrote 
 a fine copy of verses on her ; and what was worst, 
 her sister could not go into company without hearing 
 them. 
 
 One thing they quite agree in, — not to go out of 
 their way or alter their pace for any body. Once or 
 
 twice indeed I have heard that the younger , but 
 
 it was a great while ago, and she was not so old then, 
 and was more complaisant. She is generally waked 
 with a fine concert of music, the other prefers a good 
 solo. 
 
 But see, the younger beauty looks pale and sick, — 
 she faints, — she is certainly dying, — a slight blush still 
 upon her cheek, — it fades, fast, fast. — She is gone, 
 yet a sweet smile overspreads her countenance. Will 
 she revive ? Shall / ever see her again ? Who can 
 tell me ? 
 
109 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Be this Philander's praise,-— a well-tuned mind, 
 Lofty as man, and more than woman kind ; 
 A virgin soul, which, spotless yet and bright, 
 Keeps all the lustre of its native white. 
 Virtue in him from no cold precept flow'd, 
 But with a vigorous, genuine ardour glow'd ; 
 So pure his feelings and his sense so strong, 
 Seldom his head, his heart was never wrong ; 
 Gentle to others, to himself severe, 
 And mild from pity only, not from fear. 
 Tender, yet firm, and prudent without art, 
 The sweetest manners and the gentlest heart. 
 If in so fair a mind there reign'd a fault, 
 'Twas sensibility too finely wrought, 
 Too quickly roused, too exquisite for peace, 
 Too deeply thoughtful for unmingled ease. 
 His griefs were like his joys, too far refined 
 To reach the dull or touch the selfish mind ; 
 Yet the pure sorrows that on virtue grow, 
 Taste of the sacred spring from which they flow, 
 
 10 
 
110 
 P I C-N I C. 
 
 pRAy, mamma, what is the meaning of pic-nic? I 
 have heard lately once or twice of a pic-nic supper, 
 and I cannot think what it means ; I looked for the 
 word in Johnson's Dictionary and could not find it. 
 
 I should wonder if you had ; the word was not coin- 
 ed in Johnson's time ; and if it had been, I believe he 
 would have disdained to insert it among the legitimate 
 words of the language. I cannot tell you the deriva- 
 tion of the phrase ; I believe pic-nic is originally a cant 
 word, and was first applied to a supper or other meal 
 in which the entertainment is not provided by any one 
 person, but each of the guests furnishes his dish. In 
 a pic-nic supper one supplies the fowls, another the 
 fish, another the wine and fruit, Sec. ; and they all sit 
 down together and enjoy it. 
 
 A very sociable way of making an entertainment. 
 
 Yes, and I would have you observe, that the prin- 
 ciple of it may be extended to many other things. No 
 one has a right to be entertained gratis in society ; he 
 must expend, if he wishes to enjoy. Conversation, 
 particularly, is a pic-nic feast, where every one is to 
 contribute something, according to his genius and 
 ability. Different talents and acquirements compose 
 the different dishes of the entertainment, and the 
 greater variety, the better ; but every one must bring 
 something, for society will not tolerate any one long 
 who lives wholly at the expense of his neighbours. 
 Did not you observe how agreeably we were enter- 
 tained at Lady Isabella's party last night ? 
 
 Yes : one of the young ladies sung, and another 
 exhibited her drawings ; and a gentleman told some 
 very good stories. 
 
PIC-NIC. Ill 
 
 True : another lady who is very much in the fash- 
 ionable world gave us a great deal of anecdote ; Dr. 
 R., who is just returned from the continent, gave us an 
 interesting account of the state of Germany ; and in 
 another part of the room a cluster was gathered round 
 an Edinburgh student and a young Oxonian, who were 
 holding a lively debate on the power of galvanism. 
 But Lady Isabella herself was the charm of the parly. 
 
 I think she talked very little ; and 1 do not recol- 
 lect any thing she said which was particularly striking. 
 
 That is true. But it was owing to her address and 
 attention to her company that others talked and were 
 heard by turns ; that the modest were encouraged and 
 drawn out, and those inclined to be noisy restrained 
 and kept in order. She blended and harmonized the 
 talents of each ; brought those together who were like- 
 ly to be agreeable to each other, and gave us no more 
 of herself than was necessary to set oft others. I no- 
 ticed particularly her good offices to an accomplished 
 but very bashful lady and a reserved man of science, 
 who wished much to be known to one another, but 
 who would never have beeu so without her introduc- 
 tion. As soon as she had fairly engaged them in an 
 interesting conversation, she left them, regardless of 
 her own entertainment, and seated herself by poor 
 
 Mr. , purely because he was sitting in a corner 
 
 and no one attended to him. You know that in 
 chemical preparations two substances often require a 
 third, to enable them to mix and unite together. Lady 
 Isabella possesses this amalgamating power : — this is 
 what she brings to the pic-nic. I should add, that 
 two or three times I observed she dexterously changed 
 topics, and suppressed stories which were likely to 
 bear hard on the profession or connexions of some of 
 the company. In short, the party which was so agree- 
 able under her harmonizing influence, would have had 
 
112 PIC-NIC. 
 
 quite a different aspect without her. These merit?, 
 however, might easily escape a young observer. But 
 [ dare say you did not fail to notice Sir Henry B — 's 
 lady, who was declaiming with so much enthusiasm, 
 in the midst of a circle of gentlemen which she had 
 drawn around her, upon the beau ideal. 
 
 No indeed, mamma ; I never heard so much fire 
 and feeling : — and what a flow of elegant language ! 
 I do not wonder her eloquence was so much admired. 
 
 She has a great deal of eloquence and taste : she 
 has travelled, and is acquainted with the best works of 
 art. I am not sure, however, whether the gentlemen 
 were admiring most her declamation or the fine turn 
 of her hands and arms. She has a different attitude 
 for every sentiment. Some observations which she 
 made upon the beauty of statues seemed to me to go 
 to the verge of what a modest female will allow her- 
 self to say upon such subjects, — but she has travelled. 
 She was sensible that she could not fail to gain by the 
 conversation while beauty of form was the subject of it. 
 
 Pray what did , the great poet, bring to the 
 
 pic-nic, for I think he hardly opened his mouth r 
 
 lie brought his fame. Many would be gratified 
 with merely seeing him who had entertained them in 
 their closets ; and he who had so entertained them 
 "had a right to be himself entertained in that way which 
 he had no talent for joining in. Let every one, I re- 
 peat, bring to the entertainment something of the best 
 he possesses, and the pic-nic table will seldom fail to 
 afford a plentiful banquet. 
 
113 
 
 LETTER 
 
 FROM 
 
 GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 MY DEAR SELIMA, 
 
 As you are now going to quit the fostering cares of 
 a mother, to enter, young as you are, into the wide 
 world, and conduct yourself by your own prudence, I 
 cannot forbear giving you some parting advice in this 
 important aera of your life. 
 
 Your extreme youth, and permit me to add, the 
 giddiness incident to that period, make me particular- 
 ly anxious for your welfare. In the first place, then 
 let me beg you to remember that life is not to be 
 spent in running after your own tail. Remember 
 you were sent into the world to catch rats and mice. 
 It is for this you are furnished with sharp claws, whis- 
 kers to improve your scent, and with such an elastici- 
 ty and spring in your limbs. Never lose sight of this 
 great end of your existence. When you and your sis- 
 ter are jumping over my back, and kicking and scratch- 
 ing one another's noses, you are indulging the propen- 
 sities of your nature, and perfecting yourselves in agility 
 and dexterity. But remember that these frolics are 
 only preparatory to the grand scene of action. Life 
 is long, hut youth is short. The gaiety of the kitten 
 will most assuredly go off. In a (e\v months, nay 
 even weeks, those spirits and that playfulness, which 
 now exhilarate all who behold you, will subside ; and 
 L beg you to reflect how contemptible you will be, if 
 vou should have the gravity of an old cat without that 
 10* 
 
114 GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 usefulness which alone can ensure respect and pro- 
 tection for your maturer years. 
 
 In the first place, my dear child, obtain a command 
 over your appetites, and take care that no tempting 
 opportunity ever induces you to make free with the 
 pantry or larder of your mistress. You may possibly 
 slip in and out without observation ; you may lap a 
 little cream, or run away with a chop without its being 
 missed : but depend upon it, such practices sooner or 
 later will be found out ; and if in a single instance 
 you are discovered, every thing which is missing will 
 be charged upon you. If Mrs. Betty or Mrs. Susan 
 chooses to regale herself with a cold breast of chicken 
 which was set by for supper, — you will have clawed 
 it ; or a raspberry cream, — you will have lapped it. 
 Nor is this all. If you have once thrown down a sin- 
 gle cup in your eagerness to get out of the storeroom, 
 every china plate and dish that is ever broken in the 
 house, you will have broken it ; and though your back 
 promises to be pretty broad, it will not be broad 
 enough for all the mischief that will be laid upon it. 
 Honesty you will find is the best policy. 
 
 Remember that the true pleasures of life consist in 
 the exertion of our own powers. If you were to feast 
 every day upon roasted partridges from off Dresden 
 china, and dip your whiskers in syllabubs and creams, 
 it could never give you such true enjoyment as the 
 commonest food procured by the labour of your own 
 paws. When you have once tasted the exquisite 
 pleasure of catching and playing with a mouse, you 
 will despise the gratification of artificial dainties. 
 
 I do not with some moralists call cleanliness a half 
 virtue only. Remember it is one of the most essen- 
 tial to your sex and station ; and if ever you should 
 fail in it, I sincerely hope Mrs. Susan will bestow upon 
 vou a good whipping. 
 
GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 115 
 
 Pray do not spit at strangers who do you the honour 
 to take notice of you. It is very uncivil behaviour, 
 and 1 have often wondered that kittens of any breed- 
 ing should be guilty ol it. 
 
 Avoid thrusting your nose into every closet and 
 cupboard, — unless indeed you smell mice ; in which 
 case it is very becoming. 
 
 Should you live, as I hope you will, to see the 
 children of your patroness, you must prepare your- 
 self to exercise that branch of fortitude which consists 
 in patient endurance : for you must expect to be 
 lugged about, pinched and pulled by the tail, and 
 played a thousand tricks with ; all which you must 
 bear without putting out a claw : for you may depend 
 upon it, if you attempt the least retaliation you will 
 for ever lose the favour of your mistress. 
 
 Should there be favourites in the house, such as 
 tame birds, dormice, or a squirrel, great will be your 
 temptations. In such a circumstance, if the cage 
 hangs low and the door happens to be left open, — to 
 govern your appetite I know will be a difficult task. 
 But remember that nothing is impossible to the gov- 
 erning mind ; and that there are instances upon record 
 of cats who, in the exercise of self-government, have 
 overcome the strongest propensities of their nature. 
 
 If you would make yourself agreeable to your mis- 
 tress, you must observe times and seasons. You 
 must not startle her by jumping upon her in a rude 
 manner : and above all, be sure to sheathe your claws 
 when you lay your paw upon her lap. 
 
 You have like myself been brought up in the coun- 
 try, and I fear you may regret the amusements it af- 
 fords ; such as cathing butterflies, climbing trees, and 
 watching birds from the windows, which 1 have done 
 with great delight for a whole morning together. But 
 these pleasures are not essential. A town life has 
 
110 GRIMALKIN TO SEL1MA. 
 
 also its gratifications. You may make many pleasant 
 acquaintances in the neighbouring courts and alleys. 
 A concert upon the tiles in a fine moonlight summer's 
 evening may at once gratify your ear and your social 
 feelings. Rats and mice are to be met with every- 
 where : and at any rate you have reason to he thank- 
 ful that so creditable a situation has been found for 
 you ; without which you must have followed the fate 
 of your poor brothers, and with a stone about your 
 neck have been drowned in the next pond. 
 
 It is only when you have kittens yourself, that you 
 will be able to appreciate the cares of a mother. How 
 unruly have you been when I wanted to wash your 
 face ! how undutiful in galloping about the room in- 
 stead of coming immediately when I called you I But 
 nothing can subdue the affections of a parent. Being 
 grave and thoughtful in my nature, and having the 
 advantage of residing in a literary family, I have 
 mused deeply on the subject of education ; 1 have 
 pored by moonlight over Locke, and Edgeworth, and 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and the laws of association : but after 
 much cogitation I am only convinced of this, that kit- 
 tens will be kittens, and old cats old cats. May you, 
 my dear child, be an honour to all your relations and 
 to the whole feline race. May you see your descend- 
 ants of the fiftieth generation. And when you depart 
 this life, may the lamentations of your kindred exceed 
 in pathos the melody of an Irish howl. 
 
 Signed by the paw of your affectionate mother, 
 
 Grimalkin. 
 
117 
 
 PETITION OF A SCHOOLBOY 
 
 TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 Most honour'd Sir, I must confess, 
 I never liked a letter less 
 Than yours, which brought this new receipt 
 To prove that poets must not eat. 
 Alas ! poetic sparks require 
 The aid of culinary fire : 
 Your ancient bards I always find, 
 Recited best when they had dined : 
 Old Homer, and your brave Greek boys, 
 With whom old stories make such noise, 
 The savoury chine loved full as well 
 As striking on an empty shell ; 
 And mighty idle it was reckon'd 
 (See Pope's translation, book the second) 
 To enter upon any matter 
 Of verse, or business, praise, or satire, 
 Till the dire rage of hunger ceased, 
 And empty stomachs were appeased. 
 Indeed, Sir, with your lean philosophy, 
 For want of moisture I should ossify ; 
 And therefore beg, with all submission, 
 To recommend a composition, 
 Which Phoebus' self to me reveal'd 
 Last night, while sleep my eyelids seal'd. 
 First, from the Naiad's sacred spring 
 The cleansing wave with reverence bring ; 
 Be rites of due lustration paid, — 
 Ill-omened else, you '11 ne'er succeed. 
 Now with pure hands receive the flour 
 Which Ceres from her horn will pour. 
 The fairest herds on Mosswold hill 
 Your pail with smoking streams shall fill, 
 Which, tortured in the whirling churn, 
 Shall soon to waxen butter turn, — 
 Butter, more sweet than morning dew, 
 Butter, which Homer never knew ! 
 
118 PETITION OF A SCHOOLBOY. 
 
 My friends, you have not done your task yet 
 Next of fresh eggs provide a basket ; 
 Let Betty break them in a bowl 
 Large as her own free-hearted soul ; 
 Then, with a triple-tined fork 
 The viscous flood incessant work, 
 Till white with sparkling foam it rise 
 Like a vext sea beneath her eyes. 
 The monarch of the watery reign 
 Thus with his trident smites the main, 
 When roused from Ocean's deepest bed 
 The billows lift their frothy head, 
 And the wet sailor far from shore 
 With dashing spray is cover'd o'er. 
 
 With flying sails and falling oars 
 Now speed, my friends, to distant shores, 
 For many a distant realm must join, 
 Ere we fulfil the vast design. 
 From islands of the Western main 
 Bring the sweet juices of the cane ; 
 In bright Hesperia's groves you '11 find 
 The lovely fruit with burnish'd rind ; 
 Not fairer was that golden bough 
 Given to the pious Trojan's vow, 
 When the prophetic Sibyl led 
 To the sad nations of the dead, 
 Which guided through the direful scene, 
 And soothed the stern relentless Queen. 
 Strip of their bark the spicy trees 
 Embosom'd deep in Indian seas. 
 To Venus next address your prayer. 
 That she with rosy hand would bear 
 The luscious fruit to crown your toils 
 From Paphos and Cythera's isles. 
 
 From every clime the tribute pour'd, 
 Now heap'd upon the spacious board, 
 Sure sister Sally will not linger 
 To mix them with her snowy finger. 
 
 Fair priestess of the mystic rite, 
 Kept close from man's unhallowed sight, 
 Fear not my verse should here disclose 
 What words the sacred charm compose, 
 When with uncover' d arms you bend, 
 The heterogeneous mass to blend : — 
 Your cakes are good, with joy I take them, 
 Nor ask the secret how vou make them. 
 
PETITION OF A SCHOOLBOY. 119 
 
 Now, the rich labour to complete, 
 Spread o'er the whole an icy sheet, 
 Thinner than e'er the pointed thorn, 
 The glazing of a winter's morn ; 
 Too weak to bear the beams of day, 
 The trickling crystal melts away. 
 
 'T is done, — consign it o'er to Bray, ' 
 And your petitioner shall pray. 
 
 * The Diss and Palgrave carrier. 
 
120 
 
 THE RIVER AND THE BROOK. 
 A FABLE. 
 
 There was once a River which was very large, 
 and flowed through a great extent of country, which 
 it rendered fruitful and pleasant. It was some miles 
 broad at its mouth ; it was navigable for a long way 
 up the stream, and ships of large burthen floated on 
 its bosom. The River, elated with its own conse- 
 quence, despised all the little brooks and streams 
 which fell into it ; and swelling above its banks with 
 pride, said to them — " Ye petty and inconsiderable 
 streams, that hasten to lose your names and your being 
 in my flood, how little does your feeble tribute increase 
 my greatness ! whether you withhold or bring it, I feel 
 no increase and shall perceive no diminution." 
 
 " Proud stream ! " replied a little Brook, which 
 lifted up its head and murmurred these words, — 
 " dost thou not know that all thy greatness is owing 
 to us whom thou despisest . ? " 
 
 The River, mindless of this reproof, in wanton 
 pride overflowed its banks. But the next summer 
 proving a very hot one, all the little streams we^e dried 
 up, and the River was so far dried that men and cattle 
 could wade over it ; and a strong wind bringing a heap 
 of dust across its stream, it was lost in the sands and 
 never heard of afterwards. 
 
121 
 
 THE LAMENT 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Come here, all ye virgins, and pity my case, 
 
 By a lover neglected and left in disgrace •, 
 
 By a lover whose charms and whose falsehoods are such 
 
 That I neither can praise nor lament him too much. 
 
 When first seen o'er the hills of the East he drew nigh, 
 How beauteous his footsteps, how cheering his eye ! 
 The lark sprung to meet him, all nature was gay, 
 And his bright golden hair, how it stream'd on the day. 
 
 As nearer and nearer each day then he press'd, 
 
 How quickly he thaw'd all the ice of my breast ; 
 
 And the hours of his absence were never then long, 
 
 And those hours too were soothed with the nightingale's song. 
 
 O then if I sicken'd, I sicken'd of love, 
 
 For relief from his ardours I sought the cool grove ; 
 
 But where did the grove, rock, or desert appear, 
 
 Which his eye did not pierce, which his smile did not cheer ! 
 
 O the joys that are past ! by my lover caress'd, 
 
 When my lap teem'd with wealth, the rose bloom'd on my breast 
 
 When the poet delighted my charms to rehearse, 
 
 And a wreath from my hair was the meed of his verse. 
 
 But those moments so precious are fled with swift pace,— 
 
 For a month at a time I now scarce see his face ; 
 
 So languid his smile is, so distant his air, 
 
 My poor heart is quite sunk in the depths of despair. 
 
 My tresses are scattered, dishevell'd, and torn, 
 Through the chill night I sigh, and I weep every morn ; 
 My charms were call'd forth by a beam from his eye, 
 In his absence they wither, they languish, and die. 
 
 Now my strength and my youth and my beauty are gone, 
 
 My times are accomplish' d, my fate hastens on ; 
 
 His eye is averted, he sees not my death, — 
 
 Now my last hour approaches, I scarce draw my breath. 
 
 11 
 
122 THE LAMENT. 
 
 To a new fav'rite then he '11 his passion transfer, 
 And his gifts and his courtship will all be for her ; 
 Like me with his smiles she will kindle and glow, 
 And his kiss from her bosom will melt off the snow. 
 
 But like me deserted, she too will soon prove 
 How transient his fervours, how fickle his love ; 
 And like mine, her short pageant must quickly be o'er, 
 For the circle she treads I have trodden before. 
 
 The Old Yeak, 
 
 Half -past Eleven at Night, Dec. 31. 
 
123 
 
 ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 
 
 MY DEAR MISS D *"***, 
 
 The affection I bear you, and the sincere regard 
 I have for your welfare, will, I hope, excuse the lib- 
 erty I am going to take in remonstrating against the 
 indulgence of a too partial affection which I see with 
 sorrow is growing upon you every day. 
 
 You start at the imputation : but hear me with pa- 
 tience ; and if your own heart, your own reason, does 
 not bear witness to what I say, then blame my sus- 
 picions and my freedom. 
 
 But need I say much to convince you of the power 
 this favoured lover, whose name I will not mention, 
 has over you, when at this very moment he absorbs 
 all your faculties, and engrosses every power of your 
 mind to such a degree as leaves it doubtful whether 
 this friendly admonition will reach your ear, lost as 
 you are in the soft enchantment ? Is it not evident 
 that in his presence you are dead to every thing 
 around you ? The voice of your nearest friends, your 
 most sprightly and once-loved amusements, cannot 
 draw your attention ; you breathe, you exist, only for 
 him. And when at length he has left you, do not I 
 behold you languid, pale, bearing in your eyes and 
 your whole carriage the marks of his power over you ? 
 When we parted last night, did not I see you impa- 
 tient to sink into his arms ? Have you never been 
 caught reclined on his bosom, on a soft carpet of 
 flowers, on the banks of a purling stream, where the 
 murmuring of the waters, the whispering of the trees, 
 the silence and solitude of the place, and the luxuri- 
 
124 ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 
 
 ous softness of every tiling around you, favoured his 
 approach and disposed you to listen to his addresses ? 
 Nay, in that sacred temple which ought he dedicated 
 to higher affections, has he never stolen insensibly on 
 your mind, and sealed your ears against the voice of 
 the preacher, though never so persuasive ? Has not 
 his influence over you greatly increased within these 
 few weeks ? Does he not every day demand, do you 
 not every day sacrifice to him, a larger portion of your 
 time ? 
 
 Not content with devoting to him those hours 
 " When business, noise, and day are fled," 
 does he not encroach upon the morning watches, 
 break in upon your studies, and detain your mind 
 from the pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of 
 pleasure, — of all pleasure but the enervating indul- 
 gence of your passion ? 
 
 Diana, who still wishes to number you in her train, 
 invites you to join in her lively sports 5 for you Aurora 
 bathes the new-born rose in dew, and streaks the 
 clouds with gold and crimson ; and Youth and Health 
 offer a thousand innocent pleasures to your accept- 
 ance. 
 
 And, let me ask you, what can you find in the com- 
 pany of him with whom you are thus enamoured, to 
 make you amends for all that you give up for his sake ? 
 Does he entertain you with any thing but the most 
 incoherent rhapsodies, the most romantic and visionary 
 tales ? To believe the strange, improbable, and con- 
 tradictory things he tells you, requires a credulity be- 
 yond that of an infant. If he has ever spoken truth, 
 it is mixed with so much falsehood and obscurity, that 
 it is esteemed the certain sign of a weak mind to be 
 much affected with what he says. 
 
 As I wish to draw a true portrait, I will by no 
 means disguise his good qualities ; and shall therefore 
 
ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 125 
 
 allow that he is a friend to the unhappy and the friend- 
 less, that his breast is the only pillow for misfortune 
 to repose on, and that his approaches are so gentle 
 and insinuating as in some moments to be almost ir- 
 resistible. If he is at all disposed to partiality, it is 
 in favour of the poor and mean, with whom he is 
 generally thought to associate more readily than with 
 the rich. Yet he dispenses favours to all : and those 
 who are most disposed to rebel against his power and 
 treat him with contempt, could never render them- 
 selves quite independent of him. 
 
 He is of a very ancient family, and came in long 
 before the Conquest. He has a half-brother, some- 
 what younger than himself, who has made his name 
 very famous in the world : he is a tall meagre figure, 
 with a ghastly air and a most forbidding countenance ; 
 he delights in slaughter, and has destroyed more men 
 than Caesar or Alexander. 
 
 He who is the subject of my letter is fond of peace, 
 sleek and corpulent, with a mild heavy eye and a 
 physiognomy perfectly placid ; yet with all this oppo- 
 sition of feature and character, there is such a resem- 
 blance between them (as often happens in family 
 likenesses) , that in some lights and attitudes you can 
 scarce distinguish the one from the other. 
 
 To finish the description of your lover, — he is 
 generally crowned with flowers, but of the most lan- 
 guid kind, such as poppies and cowslips ; and he is 
 attended by a number of servants, thin and light-footed, 
 to whom he does not give the same livery ; for some 
 are dressed in the gayest, others in the most gloomy 
 habits imaginable, but all fantastic. 
 
 He is subject to many strange antipathies, and as 
 
 strange likings. The warbling of the lark, to others 
 
 so agreeable, is to him the harshest discord, and Peter 
 
 could not start more at the crowing of a cock. The 
 
 11* 
 
126 ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 
 
 slightest accident, the cry of an infant, a mouse behind 
 the wainscot, will oftentimes totally disconcert and 
 put him to flight, and at other times he will not regard 
 the loudest thunder. His favourite animal is the dor- 
 mouse, and his music the dropping of water, the low 
 tinkling of a distant bell, the humming of bees, and 
 the hollow sound of the wind rustling through the 
 trees. 
 
 But I have now said enough to let you into the 
 true character of this powerful enchanter. You will 
 answer, I know, to all this, that he begins by enslav- 
 ing every faculty that might resist him, and that his 
 power must be already broken before Reason can 
 exert herself. You will perhaps likewise tell me (and 
 I must acknowledge the justice of the retort), that 
 I myself, though my situation affords a thousand rea- 
 sons to resist him which do not take place with you, 
 have been but too sensible of his attractions. 
 
 With blushes I confess the charge. At this mo- 
 ment, however, the charm is broken, and Reason has 
 her full empire over me. Let me exhort you there- 
 fore.... But why exhort you to what is already done ? 
 for if this letter has made its way to your ear, if your 
 eye is now perusing its contents, the spell is dissolved, 
 and you are no longer sunk in the embraces of Sleep. 
 
127 
 
 OCCASIONED BY HIS POEM ON THE SUN. 
 
 While, Florio, thy young venturous Muse 
 
 Pursues her shining way, 
 And like the generous eagle soars 
 
 To meet the blaze of day ; 
 
 With the fair dawn of genius charmed, 
 
 A nobler theme I find ; 
 I hail the intellectual morn, 
 
 I sing the bloom of mind. 
 
 The sun which bids the ruby glow, 
 
 And wakes the purple rose, 
 A richer g*m did ne'er refine, 
 
 A sweeter bud disclose. 
 
 That bud to golden fruit shall swell, 
 
 That gem be polished bright, 
 The kindling dawn of science spread 
 
 To clear meridian light. 
 
 When gems grow pale, and roses droop, 
 
 And sickening suns expire, — 
 The mind, a ray from heaven, shall live 
 
 And mix with heavenly fire. 
 
128 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 Lift up thyself, O mourning soul ! lift up thyself, 
 raise thine eyes that are wet with tears ! 
 
 Why are thine eyes wet with tears ? why are they 
 bent continually upon the earth ? and why dost thou 
 go mourning as one forsaken of thy God ? 
 
 O thou that toilest ever and restest not ; thou that 
 wishest ever and art not satisfied ; thou that carest 
 ever and art not 'stablished ; 
 
 Why dost thou toil and wish ? why is thine heart 
 withered with care, and thine eyes sunk with watching ? 
 
 Rest quietly on thy couch, steep thine eyelids in 
 sleep, wrap thyself in sleep as in a garment, — for he 
 careth for thee : 
 
 He is with thee, he is about thee, he compasseth 
 thee, he compasseth thee on every side. 
 
 The voice of thy Shepherd among the rocks ! he 
 calleth thee, he beareth thee tenderly in his arms ; he 
 suffereth thee not to stray. 
 
 Thy soul is precious in his sight, O child of many 
 hopes ! 
 
 For he careth for thee in the tilings which perish, 
 and he hath provided yet better things tiran those. 
 
 Raise thyself, O beloved soul ! turn thine eyes from 
 care, and sin, and pain ; turn them to the brightness 
 of the heavens, and contemplate thine inheritance ; for 
 thy birthright is in the skies, and thine inheritance 
 amongst the stars of light. 
 
 The herds of the pasture sicken and die, they lie 
 down among the clods of the valley, the foot passedi 
 over them ; they are no more. But it is not so with 
 thee. 
 
A HYMN. 129 
 
 For the Almighty is the father of thy spirit, and he 
 hath given thee a portion of his own immortality. 
 
 Look around thee and behold the earth, for it is 
 the gift of thy Father to thee and to thy sons, that they 
 should possess it. 
 
 Out of the ground cometh forth food ; the hills are 
 covered with fresh shade ; and the animals, thy sub- 
 jects, sport among the trees. 
 
 Delight thyself in them, for they are good ; and all 
 that thou seest is thine. 
 
 But nothing that thou seest is like unto thyself; 
 thou art not of them, nor shalt thou return to them. 
 
 Thou hast a mighty void which they cannot fill ; 
 thou hast an immortal hunger which they cannot satis- 
 fy : tiiey cannot nourish, they cannot support, they are 
 not worthy that they should occupy thee. 
 
 As the fire which while it resteth on the earth yet 
 sendeth forth sparks continually towards heaven ; so 
 do thou from amidst the world send up fervent thoughts 
 to God. 
 
 As die lark, though her nest is on the low ground, 
 as soon as she becometh fledged, poiseth her wings, 
 and finding them strong to bear her through the light 
 air, springeth up aloft, singing as she soars ; 
 
 So let thy desires mount swiftly upwards, and thou 
 shalt see the world beneath thy feet. 
 
 And be not overwhelmed with many thoughts. 
 Heaven is thine, and God is thine : thou shalt be 
 blessed with everlasting salvation and peace upon thy 
 head for evermore. 
 
130 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Friendship is that warm, tender, lively attach- 
 ment, which takes place between persons in whom a 
 similarity of tastes and manners, joined to frequent in- 
 tercourse, has produced an habitual fondness for each 
 other. It is not among our duties, for it does not flow 
 from any of the necessary relations of society ; but it 
 has its duties when voluntarily entered into. In its 
 highest perfection it can only, I believe, subsist between 
 two ; for that unlimited confidence and perfect con- 
 formity of inclinations which it requires, cannot well 
 be found in a larger number : besides, one such friend- 
 ship fills the heart, and leaves no want or desire after 
 another. 
 
 Friendship, where it is quite sincere and affection- 
 ate, free from affectation or interested views, is one 
 of the greatest blessings of life. It doubles our joys, 
 and it lessens our sorrows, when we are able to pour 
 both into the bosom of one who takes the tenderest 
 part in all our interests, who is to us as another self. 
 We love to communicate all our feelings ; and it is in 
 the highest degree grateful where we can do it to one 
 who will enter into them all ; who takes an interest in 
 every thing that befalls us ; before whom we can free- 
 ly indulge even our little weaknesses and foibles, and 
 show our minds as it were undrest ; who will take part 
 in all our schemes, advise us in any emergency ; who 
 rejoices in our company, and who, we are sure, thinks 
 01 us in our absence. 
 
 With regard to the choice of friends, there is little 
 to say ; for a friend was never chosen. A secret sym- 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 131 
 
 pathy, the attraction of a thousand nameless qualities ; 
 a charm in the expression of the countenance, even in 
 the voice, or the manner, a similarity of circumstan- 
 ces, — these are the things that begin attachment, 
 which is fostered by being in a situation which gives 
 occasion for frequent intercourse ; and this depends 
 upon chance. Reason and prudence have, however, 
 much to do in restraining our choice of improper or 
 dangerous friends. They are improper if our line of 
 life and pursuits are so totally different as to make it 
 improbable we shall long keep up an intimacy, at least 
 without sacrificing to it connexions of duty ; they are 
 dangerous if they are in any respect vicious. 
 
 It has been made a question whether friendship can 
 subsist amongst the vicious. If by vicious be meant 
 those who are void of the social, generous, and affec- 
 tionate feelings, it is most certain it cannot ; because 
 diese make the very essence of it. But it is very pos- 
 sible for persons to possess fine feelings, without that 
 steady principle which alone constitutes virtue ; and it 
 does not appear why such may not feel a real friend- 
 ship. It will not indeed be so likely to be lasting, and 
 is often succeeded by bitter enmities. 
 
 The duties of friendship are, first, sincere and dis- 
 interested affection. This seems self-evident : and 
 yet there are many who pretend to love their friends, 
 when at the same time they only take delight in them, 
 as we delight in a fine voice or a good picture. If 
 you love your friend, you will love him when his pow- 
 ers of pleasing and entertaining you have given way to 
 malady or depression of spirits ; you will study his in- 
 terest and satisfaction, you will be ready to resign his 
 company, to promote his advantageous setdement at a 
 distant residence, to favour his connexion with other 
 friends ; — these are the tests of true affection : with- 
 out such a disposition, you may enjoy your friend, but 
 you do not love him. 
 
132 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Next, friendship requires pure sincerity and die 
 most unreserved confidence. Sincerity every man 
 has a right to expect from us, but every man has not 
 a right to our confidence : this is die sacred and pe- 
 culiar privilege of friendship ; and so essential is it to 
 the very idea of this connexion, that even to serve a 
 friend without giving him our confidence, is but going 
 half way ; — it may command gratitude, but will not 
 produce love. Above all things, the general tenour of 
 our thoughts and feelings must be shown to our friends 
 exactly as they are ; without any of those glosses, 
 colourings, and disguises which we do, and partly must, 
 put on in our commerce with the world. 
 
 Another duty resulting from this confidence is in- 
 violable secrecy in what has been entrusted to us. 
 To every one indeed we owe secrecy in what we are 
 formally entrusted with ; but with regard to a friend, 
 this extends to the concealing every thing which in 
 the fulness of his heart and in the freedom of un- 
 guarded conversation he has let drop, if you have the 
 least idea it may in any manner injure or offend him. 
 In short, you are to consider yourself as always, to 
 him, under an implied promise of secrecy ; and should 
 even the friendship dissolve, it would be in the highest 
 degree ungenerous to consider this obligation as dis- 
 solved with it. 
 
 In the next place, a friend has a right to our best 
 advice on every emergency ; and this, even though we 
 run the risk of offending him by our frankness. 
 Friends should consider themselves as the sacred 
 guardians of each other's virtue ; and the noblest tes- 
 timony they can give of their affection is the correction 
 of the faults of those they love. But this generous 
 solicitude must be distinguished from a teazing, cap- 
 tious, or too officious notice of all the little defects and 
 frailties which their close intercourse with each other 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 133 
 
 brings continually into view : these must be overlook- 
 ed or borne with ; for as we are not perfect ourselves, 
 we have no right to expect our friends should be so. 
 
 Friends are most easily acquired in youth, but they 
 are likewise most easily lost : the petulance and im- 
 petuosity of that age, the eager competitions and rival- 
 ships of an active life, and more especially the various 
 changes in rank and fortune, connexions, party, opin- 
 ions, or local situation, burst asunder or silently untwist 
 the far greater part of those friendships which, in the 
 warmth of youthful attachment, we had fondly promis- 
 ed ourselves should be indissoluble. 
 
 Happy is he to whom, in the maturer season of 
 life, there remains one tried and constant friend : their 
 affection, mellowed by the hand of time, endeared by 
 the recollection of enjoyments, toils, and even suffer- 
 ings shared together, becomes the balm, the consola- 
 tion, and the treasure of life. Such a friendship is 
 inestimable, and should be preserved with the utmost 
 care ; for it is utterly impossible for any art ever to 
 transfer, to another the effect of all those accumulated 
 associations which endear to us the friend of our early 
 years. 
 
 These considerations should likewise induce us to 
 show a tender indulgence to our friends, even for those 
 faults which most sensibly wound the feeling heart, — 
 a growing coldness and indifference. These may be 
 brought on by many circumstances, which do not im- 
 ply a bad heart ; and provided we do not by bitter 
 complaints and an open rupture preclude the possibili- 
 ty of a return, in a more favourable conjuncture the 
 friendships of our youth may knit again, and be culti- 
 vated with more genuine tenderness than ever. 
 
 I must here take occasion to observe, that there is 
 nodiing young people ought to guard against with more 
 care than a parade of feeling, and a profusion of ex- 
 12 
 
134 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 aggerated protestations. These may sometimes pro- 
 ceed from the amiable warmth of a youthful heart ; 
 but they much oftener flow from the affectation of 
 sentiment, which is both contemptible and morally 
 wrong. 
 
 All that has been said of the duties or of the pleas- 
 ures of friendship in its most exalted sense, is appli- 
 cable in a proportionate degree to every connexion in 
 which there exists any portion of this generous affec- 
 tion : so far as it does exist in the various relations of 
 life, so far it renders them interesting and valuable ; 
 and were the capacity for it taken away from the hu- 
 man heart, it would find a dreary void, and starve 
 amidst all the means of enjoyment the world could 
 pour out before it. 
 
135 
 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 When the Gods, knowing it to be for the benefit of 
 mortals that the few should lead and that the many 
 should follow, sent down into this lower world Igno- 
 rance and Wisdom, they decreed to each of them an 
 attendant and guide, to conduct their steps and facilitate 
 their introduction. To Wisdom they gave Confi- 
 dence, and Ignorance they placed under the guidance 
 of Modesty. Thus paired, the parties travelled about 
 the world for some time with mutual satisfaction. 
 
 Wisdom, whose eye was clear and piercing, and 
 commanded a long reach of country, followed her 
 conductor with pleasure and alacrity. She saw the 
 windings of the road at a great distance ; her foot was 
 firm, her ardour was unbroken, and she ascended the 
 hill or traversed the plain with speed and safety. 
 
 Ignorance, on the other hand, was short-sighted and 
 timid. When she came to a spot where the road 
 branched out in different directions, or was obliged to 
 pick her way through the obscurity of the tangled 
 thicket, she was frequently at a loss, and w T as accus- 
 tomed to stop till some one appeared, to give her the 
 necessary information, which the interesting counte- 
 nance of her companion seldom failed to procure her. 
 
 Wisdom in the mean time, led by a natural instinct, 
 advanced toward the temple of Science and Eternal 
 Truth. For some time the way lay plain before her, 
 and she followed her guide with unhesitating steps : 
 but she had not proceeded far before the paths grew 
 intricate and entangled : the meeting branches of the 
 
136 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 
 
 trees spread darkness over her head, and steep moun- 
 tains barred her way, whose summits, lost in clouds, 
 ascended beyond the reach of mortal vision. At 
 every new turn of the road her guide urged her to 
 proceed ; but after advancing a little way, she was 
 often obliged to measure back her steps, and often 
 found herself involved in the mazes of a labyrinth 
 which, after exercising her patience and her strength, 
 ended but where it began. 
 
 In the mean time Ignorance, who was naturally 
 impatient, could but ill bear the continual doubts and 
 hesitation of her companion. She hated deliberation, 
 and could not submit to delay. At length it so hap- 
 pened that she found herself on a spot where three 
 ways met, and no indication was to be found which 
 might direct her to the right road. Modesty advised 
 her to wait ; and she had waited till her patience was 
 exhausted. — At that moment Confidence, who was in 
 disgrace with Wisdom for some false steps he had led 
 her into, and who had just been discarded from her 
 presence, came up, and offered himself to be her 
 guide. He was accepted. Under his auspices Igno- 
 rance, naturally swift of foot, and who could at any 
 time have outrun Wisdom, boldly pressed forward, 
 pleased and satified with her new companion. He 
 knocked at every door, visited castle and convent, and 
 introduced his charge to many a society whence Wis- 
 dom found herself excluded. 
 
 Modesty, in the mean time, finding she could be of 
 no further use to her charge, offered her services to 
 Wisdom. 'Fliey were mutually pleased with each 
 other, and soon agreed never to separate. And ever 
 since that time Ignorance has been led by Confidence, 
 and Modesty has been found in the society of Wis- 
 dom. 
 
137 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 [A little Parlour with deal Floor ; a Bed with a clean Quilt 
 in which lies the Grandmother.] 
 
 I had more pain when I brought you into the 
 world than now. 
 
 Shall I lay on more clothes ? 
 
 Yes, on my feet. 
 
 Are they warmer ? 
 
 No. When your father died was the greatest grief 
 I ever knew. Well ! we began life together, and 
 lived hardly enough. I have often thought since, I 
 could not do it again. But we loved one another. 
 I am sure I could never have recovered his loss but 
 for the care necessary to take for you : and one friend 
 helped, and another friend, so I struggled through. 
 Yet, my child, I would not live it again ; the tired 
 traveller would not measure back his steps. 
 
 If I were to live, I should grow worse and worse, 
 deafer and blind. I have read of a country where 
 they keep their ancestors' mummies, — living mum- 
 mies would be worse. 
 
 Your father's Bible, — your ages are all down in it, — 
 never sell it. 
 
 I have loved you all equally.... And yet I am not 
 sure. ...Poor Tommy was so long sick and would come 
 to nobody but me.... 
 
 ^ Jenny, you may marry the shoemaker. — And now, 
 if I could but see my poor naughty Emmy ! . . 
 
 12* 
 
133 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 You will save nothing by me but water gruel and 
 an egg or two, — care indeed, but that produces love. 
 
 You will not quarrel for my inheritance. The 
 Squire, — it has gone to my heart when he has said, 
 My old mother keeps me out of my estate. — Let my 
 vine be buried with me. 
 
139 
 A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD, 
 
 BETWEEN 
 
 HELEN, AND MADAME MAINTENON. 
 
 Helen. — Whence comes it, my dear Madame 
 Maintenon, that beauty, which in the age I lived in 
 produced such extraordinary effects, has now lost al- 
 most all its power ? 
 
 Maint. — I should first wish to be convinced of the 
 fact, before I offer to give you a reason for it. 
 
 Helen. — That will be very easy ; for there is no 
 occasion to go any further than our own histories and 
 experience to prove what I advance. You were 
 beautiful, accomplished, and fortunate ; endowed with 
 every talent and every grace to bend the heart of man 
 and mould it to your wish : and your schemes were 
 successful ; for you raised yourself from obscurity and 
 dependance to be the wife of a great monarch. — But 
 what is this to the influence my beauty had over sove- 
 reigns and nations ! I occasioned a long ten years' 
 war between the most celebrated heroes of antiquity ; 
 contending kingdoms disputed the honor of placing 
 me on their respective thrones ; my story is recorded 
 by the father of verse ; and my charms make a figure 
 even in the annals of mankind. You were, it is true, 
 the wife of Louis XIV. and respected in his court ; 
 but you occasioned no wars ; you are not spoken of 
 in the history of France, though you furnish materials 
 for the memoirs of a court. Are the love and ad- 
 miration that were paid you merely as an amiable 
 woman to be compared with die enthusiasm I inspired, 
 
140 A DIALOGUE OP THE DEAD. 
 
 and the boundless empire I obtained over all that was 
 celebrated, great, or powerful in the age I lived in ? 
 
 Maint. — All this, my dear Helen, has a splendid 
 appearance, and sounds well in a heroic poem ; but 
 you greatly deceive yourself if you impute it all to 
 your personal merit. Do you imagine that half the 
 chiefs concerned in the war of Troy were at all in- 
 fluenced by your beauty, or troubled their heads what 
 became of you provided they came off with honour ? 
 Believe me, love had very little to do in the affair : 
 Menelaus sought to revenge the affront he had receiv- 
 ed ; Agamemnon was flattered with the supreme com- 
 mand ; some came to share the glory, others the 
 plunder ; some because they had bad wives at home, 
 some in hopes of getting Trojan mistresses abroad ; 
 and Homer thought the stoiy extremely proper for 
 the subject of the best poem in the world. Thus you 
 became famous : your elopement was made a national 
 quarrel ; the animosities of both nations were kindled 
 by frequent battles : and the object was not the re- 
 storing of Helen to Menelaus, but the destruction of 
 Troy by the Greeks. — My triumphs, on the other 
 hand, were all owing to myself, and to the influence 
 of personal merit and charms over the heart of man. 
 My birth was obscure, my fortunes low ; I had past 
 the bloom of youth, and was advancing to that period 
 at which the generality of our sex lose all importance 
 with the other ; I had to do with a man of gallantry 
 and intrigue, a monarch who had been long familiar- 
 ized with beauty, and accustomed to every refinement 
 of pleasure which the most splendid court in Europe 
 could afford ; Love and Beauty seemed to have ex- 
 hausted all their powers of pleasing i'or him in vain : 
 yet this man I captivated, I fixed ; and far from being 
 content, as other beauties had been, with the honour 
 of possessing his heart, 1 brought him to make me hi* 
 
A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD. 141 
 
 wife, and gained an honourable title to his tenderesl 
 affection. — The infatuation of Paris reflected little 
 honour upon you. A thoughtless youth, gay, tender, 
 and impressible, struck with your beauty, in violation 
 of all the most sacred laws of hospitality carries you 
 off, and obstinately refuses to restore you to your hus- 
 band. You seduced Paris from his duty, — I recov- 
 ered Louis from vice ; you were the mistress of the 
 Trojan prince, I was the companion of the French 
 monarch. 
 
 Helen. — I grant you were the wife of Louis, but 
 not the queen of France. Your great object was am- 
 bition, and in that you met with but a partial success : 
 — my ruling star was love, and I gave up every thing 
 for it. But tell me, did not I show my influence over 
 Menelaus in his taking me again after the destruction 
 of Troy ? 
 
 Maint. — That circumstance alone is sufficient to 
 show that he did not love you with any delicacy. He 
 took you as a possession that was restored to him, as 
 a booty that he had recovered ; and he had not senti- 
 ment enough to care whether he had your heart or 
 not. The heroes of your age were capable of admir- 
 ing beauty, and often fought for the possession of it ; 
 but they had not refinement enough to be capable of 
 any pure, sentimental attachment or delicate passion. 
 Was that period the triumph of love and gallantry, 
 when a fine woman and a tripod were placed together 
 for prizes at a wrestling-bout, and the tripod esteemed 
 the more valuable reward of the two ? No ; it is our 
 Clelia, our Cassandra, and Princess of Cleves that 
 have polished mankind and taught them how to love. 
 Helen. — Rather say you have lost sight of na- 
 ture and the passion, between bombast on one hand 
 and conceit on the other. Shall one of the cold tem- 
 perament of France teach a Grecian how to love ? 
 
142 A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Greece, the parent of fair forms and soft desires, the 
 nurse of poetry, whose soft climate and tempered skies 
 disposed to every gentler feeling, and tuned the heart 
 to harmony and love ! — was Greece a land of barba- 
 rians ? But recollect, if you can, an incident which 
 showed the power of beauty in stronger colours than 
 when the grave old counsellors of Priam on my ap- 
 pearance were struck with fond admiration, and could 
 not bring themselves to blame the cause of a war that 
 had almost ruined their country : — you see I charmed 
 the old as well as seduced the young. 
 
 Maint. — But I, after I was grown old, charmed 
 the young ; I was idolized in a capital where taste, 
 luxury, and magnificence were at the height ; I was 
 celebrated by the greatest wits of my time, and my 
 letters have been carefully handed down to posterity. 
 
 Helen. — Tell me now sincerely, were you happy 
 in your elevated fortune ? 
 
 Maint. — Alas ! Heaven knows I was far otherwise : 
 a thousand times did I wish for my dear Scarron again. 
 He was a very ugly fellow it is true, and had but little 
 money ; but the most easy, entertaining companion in 
 the world : we danced, laughed, and sung ; I spoke 
 without fear or anxiety, and was sure to please. 
 With Louis all was gloom, constraint, and a painful 
 solicitude to please — which seldom produces its effect : 
 the king's temper had been soured in the latter part 
 of life by frequent disappointments ; and I was forced 
 continually to endeavour to procure him that cheerful- 
 ness which I had not myseif. Louis was accustomed 
 to the most delicate flatteries ; and though I had a 
 good share of wit, my faculties were continually on 
 the stretch to entertain him, — a state of mind little 
 consistent with happiness or ease : I was afraid to ad- 
 vance my friends or punish my enemies. My pupils 
 at St. Cvr were not more secluded from the world in 
 
A DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD. 143 
 
 a cloister than I was in the bosom of the court ; a se- 
 cret disgust and weariness consumed me. I had no 
 relief but in my work and books of devotion ; with 
 these alone I had a gleam of happiness. 
 
 Helen. — Alas ! one need not have married a great 
 monarch for that. 
 
 Maint. — But deign to inform me, Helen, if you 
 were really as beautiful as fame reports ? for to say 
 truth, I cannot in your shade see the beauty which for 
 nine long years had set the world in arms. 
 
 Helen. — Honestly, no ; I was rather low, and 
 something sunburnt : but I had the good fortune to 
 please ; that was all. I was greatly obliged to Homer. 
 
 Maint. — And did you live tolerably with Mene- 
 laus after all your adventures ? 
 
 Helen. — As well as possible. Menelaus was a 
 good-natured domestic man, and was glad to sit down 
 and end his days in quiet. I persuaded him that 
 Venus and the Fates were the cause of all my irregu- 
 larities, which he complaisantly believed. Besides, 
 I was not sorry to return home : for to tell you a secret, 
 Paris had been unfaithful to me long before his death, 
 and was fond of a little Trojan brunette whose office 
 it was to hold up my train ; but it was thought dis- 
 honourable to give me up. I began to think love a 
 very foolish thing : I became a great housekeeper, 
 worked the buttles of Troy in tapestry, and spun with 
 my maids by the side of Menelaus, who was so satis- 
 fied with my conduct, and behaved, good man, with 
 so much fondness, that I verily think this was the hap- 
 piest period of my life. 
 
 Maint. — Nothing more likely : but the most ob- 
 scure wife in Greece could rival you there. — Adieu ! 
 you have convinced me how little fame and greatness 
 conduce to happiness. 
 
144 
 
 A RIDDLE. 
 
 An unfortunate maid, 
 
 I by love was betrav'd, 
 And wasted and pined by my grief -, 
 
 To deep solitudes tlien, 
 
 Of rock, mountain, and glen, 
 From the world I retired for relief. 
 
 Yet there by the sound 
 
 Of my voice I am found, 
 Though no footstep betrays where I tread ■ 
 
 The poet and lover, 
 
 My haunts to discover, 
 Still leave at the dawn their soft bed. 
 
 If the poet sublime 
 
 Address me in rhyme, 
 In rhyme I support conversation ; 
 
 To the lover's fond moan 
 
 I return groan for groan, 
 And by sympathy give consolation. 
 
 Though I 'm apt, 't is averr'd, 
 
 To love the last word, 
 Nor can I pretend 't is a fiction ; 
 
 I shall ne'er be so rude 
 
 On your talk to intrude 
 With anything like contradiction. 
 
 The fair damsels of old 
 By their mothers were told, 
 
 That maids should be seen and not heard ; 
 The reverse is my case, 
 For you '11 ne'er see my face, 
 
 To my voice all my charms are transferr'd. 
 
145 
 ON EXPENSE 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 You seem to be in a reverie, Harriet ; or are you 
 tired with your long bustling walk through the streets 
 of London ? 
 
 Not at all papa ; but I was wondering at something. 
 
 A grown person even cannot even walk through 
 such a metropolis without meeting with many things 
 to wonder at. But let us hear the particular subject 
 of your admiration ; was it the height and circum- 
 ference of St. Paul's, or the automatons, or the 
 magical effect of the Panorama that has most struck 
 you ? 
 
 No, papa ; but I was wondering how you who have 
 always so much money in your pockets can go through 
 the streets of London, all full of fine shops, and not 
 buy things : I am sure if I had money I could not 
 help spending it all. 
 
 As you never have a great deal of money, and it is 
 given you only to please your fancy with, there is no 
 harm in your spending it in any thing you have a 
 mind to ; but it is very well for you and me too that 
 the money does not burn in my pocket as it does in 
 yours. 
 
 No, to be sure you would not spend all your money 
 in those shops, because you must buy bread and meat, 
 but you might spend a good deal. But you walk past 
 just as if you did not see them : you never stop to 
 give one look. Now tell me really, papa, can you 
 help wishing for all those pretty things that stand in 
 die shop windows ? 
 
 13 
 
14G ON EXPENSE. 
 
 For all ! Would you have me wish for all of them r 
 But I will answer you seriously. 1 do walk hy these 
 tempting shops without wishing for any thing, and in- 
 deed in general without seeing them. 
 
 Well, that is hecause you are a man, and you do 
 not care for what I admire so very much. 
 
 No, there you are mistaken ; for though I may not 
 admire them so very much as you say you do, there 
 are a vast number of things sold in London which it 
 would give me great pleasure to have in my possession. 
 1 should greatly like one of Dollond's best reflecting 
 telescopes. I could lay out a great deal of money, if I 
 had it to spare, in books of botany and natural his- 
 tory. Nay, I assure you I should by no means be 
 indifferent to the fine fruit exposed at the fruit-shops ; 
 the plums with the blue upon them as if they were 
 just taken from the tree, the luscious hot-house grapes, 
 and the melons and pine-apples. Believe me, I could 
 eat these things with as good a relish as you could. 
 
 Then how can you help buying them, when you 
 have money ; and especially, papa, how can you help 
 thinking about them and wishing for them ? 
 
 London is the best place in the world to cure a 
 person of extravagance, and even of extravagant 
 wishes. I see so many costly things here which I 
 know I could not buy, even if I were to lay out all 
 the money I have in the world, that I never think of 
 buying any thing which 1 do not really want. Our 
 furniture, you know, is old and plain. Perhaps if 
 there were only a little better furniture to be had, I 
 might be tempted to change it ; but when I see houses 
 where a whole fortune is laid out in decorating a set 
 of apartments, I am content with chairs whose only 
 use is to sit down upon, and tables that were in fashion 
 half a century ago. In short, I have formed the habit 
 of self-government, one of the most useful powers a 
 
ON EXPENSE. 147 
 
 man can be possessed of. Self-government belongs 
 only to civilized man, — a savage has no idea of it. A 
 North-American Indian is temperate when he has no 
 liquor ; but as soon as liquor is within his reach, he 
 invariably drinks till he is first furious and then insen- 
 sible. He possesses no power over himself, and he 
 literally can no more help it, than iron can help being 
 drawn by the loadstone. 
 
 But he seldom gets liquor, so he has not a habit of 
 drinking. 
 
 You are right ; he has not the habit of drinking, but 
 he wants the habit of self-control : this can only be 
 gained by being often in the midst of temptations, and 
 resisting them. This is the wholesome discipline of 
 the mind. The first time a man denies himself any 
 thing he likes and which it is in his power to procure, 
 there is a great struggle within him, and uneasy wishes 
 will disturb for some time the tranquillity of his mind. 
 He has gained the victory, but the enemy dies hard. 
 The next time he does not wish so much, but he still 
 thinks about it. After a while he does not think of 
 it ; he does not even see it. A person of moderate 
 fortune, like myself, who lives in a gay and splendid 
 metropolis, is accustomed to see every day a hundred 
 things which it would be madness to think of buying. 
 
 Yes ; but if you were very rich, papa — if you were 
 a lord ? 
 
 No man is so rich as to buy every thing his unre- 
 strained fancy might prompt him to desire. Hounds 
 and horses, pictures and statues and buildings, will 
 exhaust any fortune. There is hardly any one taste 
 so simple or innocent, but what a man might spend 
 his whole estate in it, if he were resolved to gratify it 
 to the utmost. A nobleman may just as easily ruin 
 himself by extravagance as a private man, and indeed 
 many do so. 
 
148 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 But if you were a king ? 
 
 If I were a king, the mischief would be much 
 greater ; for I should ruin not only myself, but my 
 subjects. 
 
 A king could not hurt his subjects, however, with 
 buying toys or things to eat. 
 
 Indeed but he might. What is a diamond but a 
 mere toy ? but a large diamond is an object of prince- 
 ly expense. That called the Pitt diamond was valued 
 at £1 ,000,000. It was offered to George the Second, 
 but he wisely thought it too dear. The dress of the 
 late queen of France was thought by the prudent 
 Necker a serious object of expense in the revenues of 
 that large kingdom ; and her extravagance and that of 
 the king's brothers had a great share in bringing on 
 the calamities of the kingdom. As to eating, you 
 could gratify yourself with laying out a shilling or two 
 at the pastry-cook's : but Prince Potemkin, who had 
 the revenues of the mighty empire of Russia at com- 
 mand, could not please his appetite without his dish of 
 sterlet soup, which cost every time it was made above 
 thirty pounds ; and he would send one of his aids-de- 
 camp an errand from Yassy to Petersburg, a distance 
 of nearly 700 miles, to fetch him a tureen of it. He 
 once bought all the cherries of a tree in a green-house 
 at about half-a-crown a piece. The Roman empire 
 was far richer than the Russian, and in the time of 
 the Emperors was all under the power of one man. 
 Yet when they had such gluttons at Vitellius and 
 Heliogabalus, the revenue of whole provinces was 
 hardly sufficient to give them a dinner : they had 
 tongues of nightingales, and such kind of dishes, the 
 value of which was merely in the expense. 
 
 I think the throat of the poor little nightingales might 
 have given them much more pleasure than the tongue. 
 
 True : but the proverb says, The belly has no 
 
ON EXPENSE. 149 
 
 cars. In modern Rome, Pope Adrian, a frugal Dutch- 
 man, complained of the expense his predecessor Leo 
 \. was at in peacock sausages. The expenses of 
 Louis XIV. were of a more elegant kind ; — he was 
 fond of fine tapestry, mirrors, gardens, statues, mag- 
 nificent palaces. These tastes were becoming in a 
 great king, and would have been serviceable to his 
 kingdom if kept within proper limits : but he could 
 not deny himself any thing, however extravagant, that 
 it came into his mind to wish for ; and indeed would 
 have imagined it beneath him to think at all about the 
 expense : and therefore while he was throwing up 
 water fifty feet high at his palaces of Versailles and 
 Marli, and spouting it out of the mouths of dolphins 
 and tritons, thousands of his people in the distant 
 provinces were wanting bread. 
 
 I am sure I would not have done so to please my 
 fancy. 
 
 Nor he neither perhaps, if he had seen them ; but 
 these poor men and their families were a great way 
 ofT, and all the people about him looked pleased and 
 happy, and said he was the most generous prince the 
 world had ever seen. 
 
 Well, but if I had Aladdin's lamp I might have 
 every tiling I wished for. 
 
 I am glad at least I have driven you to fairyland. 
 You might no doubt with the lamp of Aladdin, or 
 Fortunatus's purse, have every thing you wished for ; 
 but do you know what the consequences would be ? 
 
 Very pleasant, I should think. 
 
 On the contrary ; you would become whimsical 
 and capricious, and would soon grow tired of every 
 thing. We do not receive pleasure long from any 
 thing that is not bought with our own labour : this is 
 one of those permanent laws of nature which man can- 
 not change ; and therefore pleasure and exertion will 
 
150 ON EXPENSE. 
 
 never be separated even in imagination in a well-regu- 
 lated mind. I could tell yon of a couple who receiv- 
 ed more true enjoyment of their fortune than Aladdin 
 himself. 
 
 Pray do. 
 
 The couple I am thinking of lived about a century 
 ago in one of our rich trading towns, which was then 
 just beginning to rise by manufacturing tapes and inkle. 
 They had married because they loved one another ; 
 they had very little to begin with, but they were not 
 afraid, because they were industrious. When the 
 husband had come to be the richest merchant in the 
 place, he took great pleasure in talking over his small 
 beginnings ; but he used always to add, that poor as 
 he was when he married, he would not have taken a 
 thousand pounds for the table his dame and he ate 
 their dinner from. 
 
 What ! had he so costly a table before he was 
 grown rich ? 
 
 On the contrary, he had no table at all ; and his 
 wife and he used to sit close together, and place their 
 dish of pottage upon their knees ; — their knees were 
 the table. They soon got forward in the world, as 
 industrious people generally do, and were enabled to 
 purchase one thing after another : first perhaps a deal 
 table ; after a while a mahogany one ; then a sump- 
 tuous sideboard. At first they sat on wooden benches ; 
 then they had two or three rush-bottomed chairs ; and 
 when they were rich enough to have an arm-chair for 
 the husband, and another for a friend, to smoke their 
 pipes in, how magnificent they would think them- 
 selves ! At first they would treat a neighbour with a 
 slice of bread and cheese and a draught of beer ; by 
 degrees with a good joint and a pudding ; and at 
 length with all the delicacies of a fashionable enter- 
 tainment : and all along they would be able to say, 
 
ON EXPENSE. 151 
 
 ; ' The blessing of God upon our own industry has pro- 
 cured us these things." By this means they would 
 relish every gradation and increase of their enjoy- 
 ments : whereas the man born to a fortune swallows 
 his pleasures whole, he does not taste them. Another 
 inconvenience that attends the man who is born rich, 
 is, that he has not early learned to deny himself. If 
 I were a nobleman, though I could not buy every 
 thing I might fancy for myself, yet playthings for you 
 would not easily ruin me, and you would probably 
 have a great deal of pocket-money ; and you would 
 grow up with a confirmed habit of expense and no in- 
 genuity, for you would never try to make any thing, 
 or to find out some substitute if you could not get just 
 the tiling you wanted. That is a very fine cabinet of 
 shells which the young heiress showed you the other 
 day : it is perfectly arranged and mounted with the 
 utmost elegance, and yet I am sure she has not half 
 the pleasure in it, which you have had with those lit- 
 tle drawers of shells of your own collecting, aided by 
 the occasional contributions of friends, which you have 
 arranged for yourself and display with such triumph. 
 And now, to show you that I do sometimes tjiink of 
 the pleasures of my dear girl, here is a plaything for 
 you which I bought while you were chatting at the 
 door of a shop with one of your young friends. 
 
 A magic-lantern ! — how delightful ! O, thank you, 
 papa ! Edward, come and look at my charming 
 magic-lantern. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Note. On page 83, the invention of the Julian period is wrongly 
 ascribed to Julius Scaliger. It was invented by his son, Joseph Justus 
 Scaliger, and was called Julian, because it consists of a certain num- 
 ber of Julian years. American Editor. 
 
EVENINGS AT HOME; 
 
 CONSISTING OF 
 
 A VARIETY OF MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 | FOR 
 
 THE INSTRUCTION AND AMUSEMENT 
 OF 
 
 YOUNG PERSONS. 
 
The fourteen following pieces embrace the whole portion contribut- 
 ed by Mrs. Barbauld to the work, whose title at length runs, 
 " Evenings at Home ; or the Juvenile Budget opened, consisting of 
 a variety of Miscellaneous Pieces, for the Instruction and Amusement 
 of Young Persons, by Dr. Aikin and Mrs. Barbauld. In 2 vols." 
 
EVENINGS AT HOME, 
 
 THE WASP AND BEE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Wasp met a Bee, and said to him, Pray, can 
 you tell me what is the reason that men are so ill- 
 natured to me, while they are so fond of you ? We 
 are both very much alike, only that the broad golden 
 rings about my body make me much handsomer than 
 you are : we are both winged insects, we both love 
 honev, and we both sting people when we are angry ; 
 yet men always hate me and try to kill me, though 
 I am much more familiar with them than you are, and 
 pay them visits in their houses, and at their tea-table, 
 and at all their meals ; while you are very shy, and 
 hardly ever come near them : yet they build you 
 curious houses, thatched with straw, and take care of 
 and feed you, in the winter very often : — I wonder 
 what is the reason. 
 
 The Bee said, because you never do them any 
 good, but, on the contrary, are very troublesome and 
 mischievous ; therefore they do not like to see you ; 
 but they know that I am busy all day long in making 
 them honey. You had better pay them fewer visits, 
 and try to be useful. 
 
THE YOUNG MOUSE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A young Mouse lived in a cupboard where sweet- 
 meats were kept : she dined every day upon biscuit, 
 marmalade, or fine sugar. Never had any little 
 Mouse lived so well. She had often ventured to peep 
 at the family while they sat at supper ; nay, she had 
 sometimes stole down on the carpet, and picked up 
 the crums, and nobody had ever hurt her. Sho- 
 would have been quite happy, but that she was some- 
 times frightened by the cat, and then she ran trem- 
 bling to her hole behind the wainseot. One day she 
 came running to her mother in great joy ! Mother ! 
 said she, the good people of this family have built me 
 a house to live in ; it is in the cupboard : I am sure 
 it is for me, for it is just big enough : the bottom is of 
 wood, and it is covered all over with wires ; and I 
 dare say they have made it on purpose to screen me 
 from that terrible cat, which ran after me so often : 
 there is an entrance just big enough for me, but puss 
 cannot follow : and they have been so good as to put 
 in some toasted cheese, which smells so deliciously, 
 that I should have run in directly and taken posses- 
 sion of my new house, but I thought I would tell you 
 first, that we might go in together, and both lodge 
 there to night, for it will hold us both. 
 
 My dear child, said the old Mouse, it is most happy 
 you did not go in, for this house is called a trap, and 
 you would never have come out again, except to 
 have been devoured, or put to death in some way or 
 other. Though man has not so fierce a look as a 
 cat, he is as much our enemy, and has still more cun- 
 
ALFRED. 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 Persons of the Drama. 
 
 Alfred, King of England. 
 
 Gubba, a Farmer. 
 
 Gandelin, his Wife. 
 
 Ella, an Officer of Alfred. 
 
 Scene — The Isle of Athelney. 
 
 Alf How retired and quiet is every thing in this 
 little spot ! The river winds its silent waters round 
 this retreat ; and the tangled bushes of the thicket 
 fence it in from the attack of an enemy. The bloody 
 Danes have not yet pierced into this wild solitude. 
 I believe I am safe from their pursuit. But I hope 
 I shall find some inhabitants here, otherwise 1 shall die 
 of hunger. — Ha ! here is a narrow path through the 
 wood ; and I think I see the smoke of a cottage rising 
 between the trees. I will bend my steps thither. 
 
 Scene — Before the Cottage. 
 
 Gubba coming forward. Gandelin ivithin. 
 
 Alf. Good even to you, good man. Are you dis- 
 posed to show hospitality to a poor traveller ? 
 
 Gub. Why truly there are so many poor travellers 
 now a days, diat if we entertain them all, we shall 
 have nothing left for ourselves. However, come 
 along to my wife, and we will see what can be done 
 for you. 
 
 Wife, I am very weary ; I have been chopping 
 wood all day. 
 
 Gan. You are always ready for your supper, but 
 it is not ready for you, I assure you : the cakes will 
 1* 
 
ALFRED. 
 
 take an hour to bake, and the sun is yet high ; it has 
 not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have 
 you with you, I trow ? 
 
 Alf. Good mother, I am a stranger ; and entreat 
 you to afford me food and shelter. 
 
 Gan. Good mother, quotha ! Good wife, if you 
 please, and welcome. But I do not love strangers ; 
 and the land has no reason to love them. It has never 
 been a merry day for Old England since strangers 
 came into it. 
 
 Alf. I am not a stranger in England, though I am 
 a stranger here. I am a true born Englishman. 
 
 Gub. And do you hate those wicked Danes, that 
 eat us up, and burn our houses, and drive away our 
 cattle ? 
 
 Alf. I do hate them. 
 
 Gan. Heartily ! He does not speak heartily, hus- 
 band. 
 
 Alf. Heartily I hate them ; most heartily. 
 
 Gub. Give me thy hand then ; thou art an honest 
 fellow. 
 
 Alf I was with King Alfred in the last battle he 
 fought. 
 
 Gan. With King Alfred ? heaven bless him. 
 
 Gub. What is become of our good King . ? 
 
 Alf. Did you love him, then ? 
 
 Gub. Yes, as much as a poor man may love a 
 king ; and kneeled down and prayed for him every 
 night, that he might conquer those Danish wolves ; 
 but it was not to be so. 
 
 Alf You could not love Alfred better than I did. 
 
 Gub. But what is become of him? 
 
 Alf. He is thought to be dead. 
 
 Gub. Well, these are sad times ; heaven help us ! 
 Come, you shall be welcome to share the brown loat 
 with us ; I suppose you are too sharp set to be nice. 
 
ALFRED. 7 
 
 Gan. Ay, come with us ; you shall be as welcome 
 as a prince ! But hark ye, husband ; though 1 am 
 very willing to be charitable to this stranger (it would 
 be a sin to be otherwise), yet there is no reason he 
 should not do something to maintain himself : he looks 
 strong and capable. 
 
 Gub. Why, that 's true. What can you do, friend ? 
 
 Alf. I am very willing to help you in any thing you 
 choose to set me about. It will please me best to 
 earn my bread before I eat it. 
 
 Gub. Let me see. Can you tie up faggots neatly ? 
 
 Alf. I have not been used to it. I am afraid I 
 should be awkward. 
 
 Gub. Can you thatch ? There is a piece blown 
 off the cow-house. 
 
 Alf Alas, I cannot thatch. 
 
 Gan. Ask him if he can weave rushes : we want 
 some new baskets. 
 
 Alf I have never learned. 
 
 Grub. Can you stack hay ? 
 
 Alf. No. 
 
 Gub. Why, here 's a fellow ! and yet he hath as 
 many pair of hands as his neighbours. Dame, can 
 you employ him in the house ? He might lay wood 
 on the fire, and rub the tables. 
 
 Gan. Let him watch these cakes, then : I must 
 go and milk the kine. 
 
 Gub. And I '11 go and stack the wood, since sup- 
 per is not ready. 
 
 Gan. But pray observe, friend ! do not let the 
 cakes burn ; turn them often on the hearth. 
 
 Alf. I shall observe your directions. 
 
 Alfred alone. 
 
 Alf. For myself, I could bear it ; but England, my 
 bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with 
 
8 ALFRED. 
 
 bitter anguish ! — From the Humber to the Thames 
 the rivers are stained with blood ! — My brave soldiers 
 cut to pieces ! — My poor people — some massacred, 
 others driven from their warm homes, stripped, abused, 
 insulted : — and 1, whom heaven appointed their shep- 
 herd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the 
 ravenous jaws of these devourers ! — Gracious heaven ! 
 if I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish 
 sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more 
 success than I have done, and let me spend my life in 
 this obscure cottage, in these servile offices : I shall 
 be content, if England is happy. 
 
 O ! here come my blunt host and hostess. 
 
 Enter Gubba and Gandelin. 
 
 Gan. Help me down with the pail, husband. This 
 new milk, with the cakes, will make an excellent sup- 
 per : but, mercy on us, how they are burnt ! black as 
 my shoe ; they have not once been turned : you oaf, 
 you lubbard, you lazy loon — 
 
 Alf. Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it ; but my mind 
 was full of sad thoughts. 
 
 Gub. Come, wife, you must forgive him ; perhaps 
 he is in love. I remember when I was in love with 
 thee— 
 
 Gan. You remember ! 
 
 Gub. Yes, dame, I do remember it, though it was 
 many a long year since ; my mother was making a 
 kettle of furmenty — 
 
 Gan. Pr'ythee, hold thy tongue, and let us eat our 
 suppers. 
 
 Alf. How refreshing is this sweet new milk, and 
 this wholesome bread ! 
 
 Gub. Eat heartily, friend. Where shall we lodge 
 him, Gandelin ? 
 
 Gan, We have but one bed, you know ; but mere 
 is fresh straw in the barn. 
 
 
ALFRED. 9 
 
 Alf. (aside.) If I shall not lodge like a king, at 
 least I shall lodge like a soldier. Alas ! how many of 
 my poor soldiers are stretched on the bare ground ! 
 
 Gan. What noise do I hear ? It is the trampling 
 of horses. Good husband, go and see what is the 
 matter. 
 
 Alf Heaven forbid my misfortunes should bring 
 destruction on this si. iple family ! I had rather have 
 perished in the wood. 
 
 Gubba returns followed by Ella with his sword 
 drawn. 
 
 Gan. Mercy defend us, a sword ! 
 
 Gub. The Danes ! the Danes ! O do not kill us ! 
 
 Ella, (kneeling.) My Liege, my Lord, my Sove- 
 reign ; have I found you ! 
 
 Alf. (embracing him.) My brave Ella. 
 
 Ella. I bring you good news, my sovereign ! Your 
 troops that were shut up in Kinwith Castle made a 
 desperate sally — the Danes were slaughtered. The 
 fierce Hubba lies gasping on the plain. 
 
 Alf. Is it possible ! Am I yet a king ? 
 
 Ella. Their famous standard, the Danish raven, is 
 taken ; their troops are panic struck ; the English 
 soldiers call aloud for Alfred. Here is a letter which 
 will inform you of more particulars. (Gives a letter.) 
 
 Gub. (aside.) What will become of us ! Ah, 
 dame, that tongue of thine he.s undone us ! 
 
 Gan. O, my poor, dear husband ! we shall all be 
 hanged, that 's certain. But who could have thought 
 it was the king ? 
 
 Gub. Why, Gandelin, do you see, we might have 
 guessed he was born to be a king, or some such great 
 man, because, you know, he was fit for nothing else. 
 
 Alf. (coming forward.) God be praised for these 
 tidings ! Hope is sprung up out of the depths of de- 
 
10 ALFRED. 
 
 spair. O, my friend ! shall I again shine in arms — 
 again fight at the head of my brave Englishmen — 
 lead them on to victory ! Our friends shall now lift 
 their heads again. 
 
 Ella. Yes, you have many friends, who have long 
 been obliged, like their master, to skulk in deserts and 
 caves, and wander from cottage to cottage. When 
 they hear you are alive, and in arms again, they will 
 leave their fastnesses, and flock to your standard. 
 
 Alf. I am impatient to meet them : my people 
 shall be revenged. 
 
 Gub. and Gan. (throwing themselves at the feet 
 of Alfred.) O, my lord 
 
 Gan. We hope your majesty will put us to a mer- 
 ciful death. Indeed, we did not know your majesty's 
 grace. 
 
 Gub. If your majesty could but pardon my wife's 
 tongue ; she means no harm, poor woman ! 
 
 Alf. Pardon you, good people ! I not only pardon 
 you, but thank you. You have afforded me protec- 
 tion in my distress ; and if ever I am seated again on 
 the throne of England, my first care shall be to reward 
 your hospitality. I am now going to protect you. 
 Come, my faithful Ella, to arms ! to arms ! My 
 bosom burns to face once more the haughty Dane ; 
 and here I vow to heaven, that I will never sheath the 
 sword against these robbers, till either I lose my life 
 in this just cause, or 
 
 Till dove-like Peace return to England's shore, 
 And war and slaughter vex the land no more. 
 
11 
 
 ANIMALS, 
 
 AND THEIR COUNTRIES. 
 
 O'er Afric's sand the tawny Lion stalks : 
 
 On Pilosis' banks the graceful Pheasant walks : 
 
 The lonely Eagle builds on Kudo's shore : 
 
 Germania's forests feed the tusky Boar : 
 
 From Alp to Alp the sprightly Ibex bounds ; 
 
 With peaceful lowings Britain's isle resounds : 
 
 The Lapland peasant o'er the frozen meer 
 
 Is drawn in sledges by his swift Rein-Deer : 
 
 The River-Horse and scaly Crocodile 
 
 Infest the reedy banks of fruitful Nile -. 
 
 Dire Dispas hiss o'er Mauritania's plain ; 
 
 And Seals and spouting Whales sport in the Northern Main . 
 
12 
 
 CANUTE'S REPROOF 
 
 TO HIS COURTIERS. 
 
 Canute, King of England. 
 
 Oswald, Offa, Courtiers. 
 
 Scene— The Sea-Side, near Southampton — The tide coming in. 
 
 Can. Is it true, my friends, what you have so often 
 told me, that I am the greatest of monarchs ? 
 
 Offa. It is true, my liege ; you are the most power- 
 ful of all kings. 
 
 Osiv. We are all your slaves ; we kiss the dust of 
 your feet. 
 
 Offa. Not only we, hut even the elements, are your 
 slaves. The land obeys }'Ou from shore to shore ; 
 and the sea obeys you. 
 
 Can. Does the sea, with its loud boisterous waves, 
 obey me ? Will that terrible element be still at my 
 bidding ? 
 
 Offa. Yes, the sea is yours ; it was made to bear 
 your ships upon its bosom, and to pour the treasures 
 of the world at your royal feet. It is boisterous to 
 your enemies, but it knows you to be its sovereign. 
 
 Can. Is not the tide coming up r 
 
 Osw. Yes, my liege ; you may perceive the swell 
 already. 
 
 Can. Bring me a chair then ; set it here upon the 
 sands. 
 
 Offa. Where the tide is coming up, my gracious 
 lord ? 
 
 Can. Yes, ,-ct it just here. 
 
 Osw. (aside.) I wonder what he is going to do. 
 
Canute's reproof. 13 
 
 Offct. (aside.) Surely he is not such a fool as to 
 believe us. 
 
 Can. O mighty Ocean ! thou art my subject ; my 
 courtiers tell me so ; and it is thy bounden duty to 
 obey me. Thus, then, I stretch my sceptre over 
 thee, and command thee to retire. Roll back thy 
 swelling waves, nor let them presume to wet the feet 
 of me, thy royal master. 
 
 Osw. (aside.) I believe the sea will pay very little 
 regard to his royal commands. 
 
 Offa. See how fast the tide rises ! 
 
 Osw. The next wave will come up to the chair. 
 It is a folly to stay ; we shall be covered with salt 
 water. 
 
 Can. Well, does the sea obey my commands ? If 
 it be my subject, it is a very rebellious subject. See 
 how it swells, and dashes the angry foam and salt 
 spray over my sacred person. Vile sycophants ! did 
 you think I was the dupe of your base lies ? that I 
 believed your abject flatteries ? Know, there is only 
 one Being whom the sea will obey. He is Sovereign 
 of heaven and earth, King of kings, and Lord of lords. 
 It is only he who can say to the ocean, " Thus far 
 shalt thou go, but no farther, and here shall thy proud 
 waves be stayed." A king is but a man ; and a man 
 is but a worm. Shall a worm assume the power of 
 the great God, and think the elements will obey him ? 
 Take away this crown, I will never wear it more. 
 May kings learn to be humble from my example, and 
 courtiers learn truth from your disgrace ! 
 
14 
 
 THE MASQUE OF NATURE. 
 
 Who is this beautiful Virgin that approaches, 
 clothed in a robe of light green ? She has a garland 
 of flowers on her head, and flowers spring up where- 
 ever she sets her foot. The snow which covered the 
 fields, and the ice which was in the rivers, melt away 
 when she breathes upon them. The young lambs 
 frisk about her, and the birds warble in their little 
 throats to welcome her coming ; and when they see 
 her, they begin to choose their mates, and to build 
 their nests. Youths and maidens, have ye seen this 
 beautiful Virgin ? If ye have, tell me who is she, 
 and what is her name. 
 
 Who is this that cometh from the south, thinly clad 
 in a light transparent garment ? her breath is hot and 
 sultry ; she seeks the refreshment of the cool shade ; 
 she seeks the clear streams, the crystal brooks, to 
 bathe her languid limbs. The brooks and rivulets fly 
 from her, and arc dried up at her approach. She 
 cools her parched lips with berries, and the grateful 
 acid of all fruits ; the seedy melon, the sharp apple, 
 and the red pulp of the juicy cherry, which are pour- 
 ed out plentifully around her. The tanned hay- 
 makers welcome her coming ; and the sheep-shearer, 
 who clips the fleeces off his flock with his sounding 
 shears. When she cometh let me lie under the thick 
 shade of a spreading beach tree — let me walk with 
 her in the early morning, when the dew is yet upon 
 the arass — let me wander with her in the soft twilight,. 
 
THE MASQUE OF NATURE. 15 
 
 when the shepherd shuts his fold, and the star of even- 
 ing appears. Who is she that cometh from the south ? 
 \ ouths and maidens, tell me, if you know, who is she, 
 and what is her name. 
 
 Who is he that cometh with sober pace, stealing 
 upon us unawares ? His garments are red with the 
 blood of the grape, and his temples are bound with 
 a sheaf of ripe wheat. His hair is thin and begins to 
 fall, and the auburn is mixed with mournful grey. He 
 shakes the brown nuts from the tree. He winds the 
 horn, and calls the hunters to their sport. The gun 
 sounds. The trembling partridge and the beautiful 
 pheasant nutter, bleeding in the air, and fall dead at 
 the sportsman's feet. Who is he that is crowned with 
 the wheat-sheaf? Youths and maidens, tell me, if 
 ye know, who is he and what is his name. 
 
 Who is he that cometh from the north, clothed in 
 furs and warm wool ? He wraps his cloak close 
 about him. His head is bald : his beard is made of 
 sharp icicles. He loves the blazing fire high piled 
 upon the hearth, and the wine sparkling in the glass. 
 He binds skates to his feet, and skims over the frozen 
 lakes. His breath is piercing and cold, and no little 
 flower dares to peep above the surface of the ground 
 when he is by. Whatever he touches turns to ice. 
 
 If he were to stroke you with his cold hand, you 
 would be quite stiff and dead like a piece of marble. 
 Youths and maidens, do you see him f He is coming 
 fast upon us, and soon he will be here. Tell me, if 
 you know, who he is, and what is his name. 
 
1G 
 
 THINGS BY TPIEIR RIGHT NAMES. 
 
 Charles. Papa, you grow very lazy. Last wintej 
 you used to tell us stories, and now you never tell us 
 any; and we are all got round the fire quite ready to 
 hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have a very pret- 
 ty one. 
 
 Father. With all my heart — what shall it be ? 
 
 C. A bloody murder, papa ! 
 
 F. A bloody murder ! Well then — Once upon a 
 time, some men, dressed all alike . . . 
 
 C. With black crapes over their faces ? 
 
 F. No ; they had steel caps on : — having crossed 
 a dark heath, wound cautiously along the skirts of a 
 deep forest .... 
 
 C. They were ill-looking fellows, I dare say. 
 
 F. I cannot say so ; on the contrary, they were 
 tall, personable men as most one shall see : — leaving 
 on their right hand an old ruined tower on the hill . . 
 
 C. At midnight, just as the clock struck twelve ; 
 was it not, papa ? 
 
 F. No, really ; it was on a fine balmy summer's 
 morning : — and moved forwards, one behind another . . 
 
 C. As still as death, creeping along under the 
 hedges. 
 
 F. On the contrary — they walked remarkably up- 
 right ; and so far from endeavouring to be hushed and 
 Still, they made a loud noise as they came along, with 
 several sorts of instruments. 
 
 C. But, papa, they would be found out immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 F. They did not seem to wish to conceal them- 
 selves : on the contrary, they gloried in what they 
 
THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES. 17 
 
 were about. — They moved forwards, 1 say, to a large 
 plain, where stood a neat pretty village, which they 
 set on fire .... 
 
 C. Set a village on fire ? wicked wretches ! 
 
 F. And while it was burning, they murdered — 
 twenty thousand men. 
 
 C. O fie ! papa ! You don't intend I should believe 
 this ; I thought all along you were making up a tale, 
 as you often do ; but you shall not catch me this time. 
 What ! they lay still, I suppose, and let these fellows 
 cut their throats ! 
 
 F. No, truly — they resisted as long as they could. 
 
 C. How should these men kill twenty thousand 
 people, pray ? 
 
 F. Why not? the murderers were thirty thousand. 
 
 C. O, now I have found you out ! You mean a 
 Battle. 
 
 F. Indeed I do. I do not know of any murders 
 half so bloody. 
 
 >* 
 
16 
 THE GOOSE AND HORSE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Goose, who was plucking grass upon a common, 
 thought herself affronted by a Horse who fed near 
 her, and in hissing accents thus addressed him : " I 
 am certainly a more noble and perfect animal than 
 you, for the whole range and extent of your faculties 
 are confined to one element. I can walk upon the 
 ground as well as you ; I have besides wings, with 
 which I can raise myself in the air ; and when I 
 please, I can sport in ponds and lakes, and refresh 
 myself in the cool waters ; I enjoy the different powers 
 of a bird, a fish, and a quadruped." 
 
 The Horse, snorting somewhat disdainfully, replied, 
 " It is true you inhabit three elements, but you make 
 no very distinguished figure in any one of them. You 
 fly, indeed ; but your flight is so heavy and clumsy, 
 that you have no right to put yourself on a level with 
 the lark or the swallow. You can swim on die sur- 
 face of the waters, but you cannot live in them as 
 fishes do ; you cannot find your food in that element, 
 nor glide smoothly along the bottom of the waves. 
 And when you walk, or rather waddle, upon the 
 ground, with your broad feet and your long neck 
 stretched out, hissing at every one who passes by, you 
 bring upon yourself the derision of all beholders. I 
 confess that I am only formed to move upon the 
 ground ; but how graceful is my make ! how well 
 turned my limbs ! how highly finished my whole body ! 
 how great my strength ! how astonishing my speed I 
 I had rather be confined to one element, and be ad- 
 mired in that, than be a Goose in all." 
 
19 
 
 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 Father — Henry. 
 
 Hen. My dear father, you observed the other day 
 that we had a great many manufactures in England. 
 Pray what is a Manufacture ? 
 
 Fa. A Manufacture is something made by the hand 
 of man. It is derived from two Latin words, mantis, 
 the hand, and facere, to make. Manufactures are 
 therefore opposed to productions, which latter are 
 what the bounty of nature spontaneously affords us ; 
 as fruits, corn, marble. 
 
 Hen. But there is a great deal of trouble with corn ; 
 you have often made me take notice how much pains 
 it costs the farmer to plough his ground, and put the 
 seed in the earth, and keep it clear from weeds. 
 
 Fa. Very true ; but the farmer does not make the 
 corn ; he only prepares for it a proper soil and situa- 
 tion, and removes every hindrance arising from the 
 hardness of the ground, or the neighbourhood of other 
 plants, which might obstruct the secret and wonderful 
 process of vegetation ; but with the vegetation itself 
 lie has nothing to do. It is not his hand that draws 
 out the slender fibres of the root, pushes up the green 
 stalk, and by degrees the spiky ear ; swells the grain, 
 and embrowns it with that rich tinge of tawny russet, 
 which informs the husbandman it is time to put in his 
 sickle : all this operation is performed without his care 
 or even knowledge. 
 
 Hen. Now then I understand ; corn is a Produc- 
 tion, and bread a Manufacture. 
 
 Fa. Bread is certainly, in strictness of speech, a 
 Manufacture ; but we do not in general apply the 
 term to any thing in which the original material is so 
 
20 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 little changed. If we wanted to speak of bread phi- 
 losophically, we should say, it is a preparation of corn. 
 
 Hen. Is sugar a Manufacture ? 
 
 Fa. No, for the same reason. Besides which, I 
 do not recollect the term being applied to any article 
 of food ; I suppose from an idea that food is of too 
 perishable a nature, and generally obtained by a pro- 
 cess too simple to deserve the name. We say, there- 
 fore, sugar-works, oil-mills, chocolate-works ; we do 
 not say a beer-manufactory, but a brewery ; but this 
 is only a nicety of language, for properly all those are 
 manufactories, if there is much of art and curiosity in 
 the process. 
 
 Hen. Do we say a manufactory of pictures ? 
 
 Fa. No ; but for a different reason. A picture, 
 especially if it belong to any of the higher kinds of 
 painting, is an effort of genius. A picture cannot be 
 produced by any given combinations of canvass and 
 colour. It is the hand, indeed, that executes, but 
 the head that works. Sir Joshua Reynolds could not 
 have gone, when he was engaged to paint a picture, 
 and hired workmen, the one to draw the eyes, another 
 the nose, a third the mouth ; the whole must be the 
 painter's own, that particular painter's, and no other; 
 and no one who has not his ideas can do his work. 
 His work is therefore nobler, of a higher species. 
 
 Hen. Pray sjve me an instance of a manufacture. 
 
 Fa. The making of watches is a manufacture : the 
 silver, iron, gold, or whatever else is used in it, are 
 productions, the material of the work ; but it is by the 
 wonderful art of man that they are wrought into the 
 numberless wheels and springs of which this compli- 
 cated machine is composed. 
 
 Hen. Then is there not so much art in making a 
 watch as a picture ? Does not the head work ? 
 
 Fa. Certainly, in the original invention of watches. 
 
©N MANUFACTURES. 21 
 
 as much or more, than in painting ; but when once 
 invented, the art of watchmaking is capable of being 
 reduced to a mere mechanical labour, which may be 
 exercised by any man of common capacity, according 
 to certain precise rules, when made familiar to him 
 by practice. This, painting is not. 
 
 Hen. But, my clear father, making of books surely 
 requires a great deal of thinking and study ; and yet 
 I remember the other day at dinner a gentleman said 
 that Mr. Pica had manufactured a large volume in 
 less that a fortnight. 
 
 Fa. It was meant to convey a satirical remark on 
 his book, because it was compiled from other authors, 
 from whom he had taken a page in one place, and a 
 page in another ; so that it was not produced by the 
 labour of his brain, but of his hands. Thus you heard 
 your mother complain that the London cream was 
 manufactured ; which was a pointed and concise way 
 of saying, that the cream w T as not what it ought to be, 
 nor what it pretended to be ; for cream, when genuine, 
 is a pure production ; but when mixed up and adul- 
 terated with flour and isinglass, and I know not what, 
 it becomes a Manufacture. It was as much as to say, 
 art has been here, where it has no business ; where 
 it is not beneficial, but hurtful. A great deal of the 
 delicacy of language depends upon an accurate know- 
 ledge of the specific meaning of single terms, and a 
 nice attention to their relative propriety. 
 
 Hen. Have all nations manufactures ? * 
 
 Fa. All that are in any degree cultivated ; but it 
 very often happens that countries naturally the poor- 
 est have manufactures of the greatest extent and 
 variety. 
 
 Hen. Why so . ? 
 
 Fa. For the same reason, I apprehend, that indi- 
 viduals, who are rich without any labour of their own, 
 
22 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 are seldom so industrious and active as those who de- 
 pend upon their own exertions : thus the Spaniards, 
 who possess the richest gold and silver mines in the 
 world, are in want of many conveniences of life, 
 which are enjoyed in London and Amsterdam. 
 
 Hen. I can comprehend that ; I believe if my uncle 
 Ledger were to find a gold mine under his warehouse, 
 he would soon shut up shop. 
 
 Fa. I believe so. It is not however easy to estab- 
 lish Manufactures in a very poor nation ; they require 
 science and genius for their invention ; art and con- 
 nivance for their execution ; order, peace, and union, 
 for their flourishing ; they require a number of men 
 to combine together in an undertaking, and to prose- 
 cute it with the most patient industry ; they require, 
 therefore, law T s and government for their protection. 
 If you see extensive Manufactures in any nation, you 
 may be sure it is a civilized nation ; you may be sure 
 property is accurately ascertained and protected. 
 They require great expenses for their first establish- 
 ment, costly machines for shortening manual labour, 
 and money and credit for purchasing materials from 
 distant countries. There is not a single manufacture 
 of Great Britain which does not require, in some part 
 or other of its process, productions from the different 
 parts of the globe ; oils, drugs, varnish, quicksilver, 
 and the like ; it requires, thereiore, ships and a friend- 
 ly intercourse with foreign nations to transport com- 
 modities, and exchange productions. We could not 
 be a manufacturing, unless we were also a commercial 
 nation. They require time to take root in any place, 
 and their excellence often depends upon some nice 
 and delicate circumstance ; a peculiar quality, for in- 
 stance, in the air or water, or some other local cir- 
 cumstance not easily ascertained. Thus, I have 
 heard, that the Irish women spin better than the En- 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 25 
 
 glish, because the moister temperature of their climate 
 makes their skin more soft and their fingers more 
 flexible : thus again we cannot die so beautiful a 
 scarlet as the French can, though with the same drugs, 
 perhaps on account of the superior purity of their air. 
 But though so much is necessary for the perfection of 
 the more curious and complicated manufactures, all 
 nations possess those which are subservient to the 
 common conveniences of life — the loom and the forge, 
 particularly, are of the highest antiquity. 
 
 Hen. Yes, I remember Hector bids Andromache 
 return to her apartment, and employ herself in weav- 
 ing with her maids ; and I remember the shield of 
 Achilles. 
 
 Fa. True ; and you likewise remember, in an 
 earlier period, the fine linen of Egypt ; and, to go 
 still higher, the working in brass and iron is recorded 
 of Tubal Cain before the flood. 
 
 Hen. Which is the most important, manufactures 
 or agriculture ? 
 
 Fa. Agriculture is the most necessary, because it is 
 first of all necessary that man should live ; but almost 
 all the enjoyments and comforts of life are produced 
 by manufactures. 
 
 Hen. Why are we obliged to take so much pains 
 to make ourselves comfortable ? 
 
 Fa. To exercise our industry. Nature provides 
 the materials for man. She pours out at his feet a 
 profusion of gems, metals, dies, plants, ores, barks, 
 stones, gums, wax, marbles, woods, roots, skins, earths. 
 and minerals of all kinds ! She has likewise given 
 him tools. 
 
 Hen. 1 did not know that Nature gave us tools. 
 
 Fa. No ! what are those two instruments you 
 carry always about with you, so strong and yet so 
 flexible, so nicely joiuted, and branched out into five 
 

 24 ON MANUFACTURE. 
 
 long, taper, unequal divisions, any of which may be 
 contracted or stretched out at pleasure ; the extremi- 
 ties of which have a feeling so wonderfully delicate, 
 and which are strengthened and defended by horn ? 
 
 Hen. The hands. 
 
 Fa. Yes. Man is as much superior to the brutes 
 in his outward form, by means of the hand, as he is 
 in his mind by the gifts of reason. The trunk of the 
 elephant comes perhaps the nearest to it in its exqui- 
 site feeling and flexibility, (it is, indeed, called his 
 hand in Latin,) and accordingly that animal has always 
 been reckoned the wisest of brutes. When nature 
 gave man the hand, she said to him, " Exercise your 
 ingenuity and work." As soon as ever man rises 
 above the state of a savage, he begins to contrive and 
 to make things, in order to improve his forlorn con- 
 dition ; thus you may remember Thomson repre- 
 sents Industry coming to the poor shivering wretch, 
 and teaching him the arts of life. 
 
 Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone, 
 Till by degrees the finish'd fabric rose: 
 Tore from his limbs the blood polluted fur, 
 And wrapt them in the woolly vestment warm, 
 Or bright in glossy silk and flowing lawn. 
 
 Hen. It must require a great deal of knowledge, 
 I suppose, for so many curious works ; what kind of 
 knowledge is most necessary r 
 
 Fa. There is not any which may not be occasion- 
 ally employed ; but the two sciences which most assist 
 the manufacturer are mechanics and chemistry. The 
 one for building mills, working of mines, and in general 
 for constructing wheels, wedges, pullies, &cc. either to 
 shorten the labour of man, by performing it in less time, 
 or to perform what the strength of man alone could not 
 accomplish : — the other in fusing and working ores, 
 in dying and bleaching, and extracting the virtues of 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 25 
 
 various substances for particular uses : making of soap, 
 for instance, is a chemical operation ; and by chemis- 
 try an ingenious gentleman has lately found out a way 
 of bleaching a piece of cloth in eight and forty hours, 
 which by the common process would have taken up a 
 great many weeks. — You have heard of Sir Richard 
 Arkwright who died lately — 
 
 Hen. Yes ; I have heard he was at first only a 
 barber, and shaved people for a penny a piece. 
 
 Fa. He did so ; but having a strong turn for me- 
 chanics, he invented, or at least perfected, a machine, 
 by which one pair of hands may do the work of 
 twenty or thirty ; and, as in this country every one is 
 free to rise by merit, he acquired the largest fortune 
 in the county, had a great many hundreds of work- 
 men under his orders, and had leave given him by the 
 king to put Sir before his name. 
 
 Hen. Did that do him any good ? 
 
 Fa. It pleased him, I suppose, or he would not 
 have accepted of it ; and you will allow, 1 imagine, 
 that if titles are used, it does honour to those who be- 
 stow them, that they are given to such as have made 
 themselves noticed for something useful. — Arkwright 
 used to say, that if he had time to perfect his inven- 
 tions, he would put a fleece of wool into a box, and 
 it should come out broad-cloth. 
 
 Hen. What did he mean by that ; was there any 
 fairy in the box to turn it into broad-cloth with her 
 wand ? 
 
 Fa. He was assisted by the only fairies that ever 
 had the power of transformation, Art and Industry : 
 he meant that he would contrive so many machines, 
 wheel within wheel, that the combing, carding, and 
 other various operations, should be performed by 
 mechanism, almost without the hand of man. 
 
 Hen. I think, if I had not been told, I should never 
 3 
 
26 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 have been able to guess that my coat came off the 
 back of a sheep. 
 
 Fa. You hardly would ; but there are manufactures 
 in which the material is much more changed than in 
 woollen cloth. What can be meaner in appearance 
 than sand and ashes ? Would you imagine that any 
 thing beautiful could be made out of such a mixture r 
 Yet the furnace transforms this into that transparent 
 crystal we call glass, than which nothing is more 
 sparkling, more brilliant, more full of lustre. It dirows 
 about the rays of light as if it had life and motion. 
 
 Hen. There is a glass-shop in London, which al- 
 ways puts me in mind of Aladdin's palace. 
 
 Fa. It is certain that if a person ignorant of the 
 manufacture were to see one of our capital shops, he 
 would think all the treasures of Golconda were cen- 
 tred there, and that every drop of cut glass was 
 worth a prince's ransom. — Again, who would suppose 
 on seeing the green stalks of a plant, that it could be 
 formed into a texture so smooth, so snowy-white, so 
 firm, and yet so flexible, as to wrap round the limbs 
 and adapt itself to every movement of the body ? Who 
 would guess this fibrous stalk could be made to float 
 in such light undulating folds as in our lawns and 
 cambrics ? not less fine, we presume, than that tran- 
 sparent drapery which the Romans called ventus tex- 
 tilis, woven wind. 
 
 Hen. I wonder how any body can spin such fine 
 thread. 
 
 Fa. Their fingers must have the touch of a spider, 
 that, as Pope says, 
 
 Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. 
 
 And indeed you recollect that Arachne was a spin- 
 ster. Lace is a still finer production from flax, and 
 is one of those in which the original material is most 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 27 
 
 improved. How many times the price of a pound of 
 flax do you think that flax will be worth when made 
 into lace ? 
 
 Hen. A great many times, I suppose. 
 
 Fa. Flax at the best hand is bought at fourteen 
 pence a pound. They make lace at Valenciennes, 
 in French Flanders, of ten guineas a yard, I believe 
 indeed higher, but we will say ten guineas ; this yard 
 of lace will weigh probably not more than half an 
 ounce : what is the value of half an ounce of flax ? 
 reckon it. 
 
 Hen. It comes to one farthing and three quarters 
 of a farthing. 
 
 Fa. Right; now tell me how many times the ori- 
 ginal value the lace is worth. 
 
 Hen. Prodigious ! it is worth 57G0 times as much 
 as the flax it is made of. 
 
 Fa. Yet there is another material that is still more 
 improveable than flax. 
 
 Hen. What can that be ? 
 
 Fa. Iron. The price of pig-iron is ten shillings a 
 hundred weight ; this is not quite one farthing for two 
 ounces; now you have seen some of the beautiful cut 
 steel that looks like diamonds. 
 
 Hen. Yes, I have seen buckles, and pins, and 
 watch-chains. 
 
 Fa. Then you can form an idea of it ; but you have 
 seen only the most common sorts. There was a chain 
 made at Woodstock, in Oxfordshire, and sent to 
 France, which weighed only two ounces, and cost 
 170/. Calculate how many times that had increased 
 its value. 
 
 Hen. Amazing ! It was worth 163,600 times the 
 value of the iron it was made of. 
 
 Fa. That is what manufactures can do ; here man 
 is a kind of creator, and like the great Creator, he 
 
28 ON MANUFACTURES. 
 
 may please himself with his work, and say it is good. 
 In the last mentioned manufacture, too, that of steel, 
 the English have the honour of excelling all the world. 
 
 Hen. What are the chief manufactures of England ? 
 
 Fa. We have at present a greater variety than I can 
 pretend to enumerate, hut our staple manufacture is 
 woollen cloth. England abounds in fine pastures and 
 extensive downs, which feed great numbers of sheep ; 
 hence our wool has always been a valuable article of 
 trade ; but we did not always know how to work it. 
 We used to sell it to the Flemish or Lombards, who 
 wrought it into cloth ; till in the year 1 326, Edward 
 the Third invited some Flemish weavers over to teach 
 us the art ; but there was not much made in England 
 till the reign of Henry the Seventh. Manchester and 
 Birmingham are towns which have arisen to great 
 consequence from small beginnings, almost within the 
 memory of old men now living ; the first for cotton 
 and muslin goods, the second for cutlery and hard 
 ware, in which we at this moment excel all Europe. 
 Of late years, too, carpets, beautiful as fine tapestry, 
 have been fabricated in this country. Our clocks and 
 watches are greatly esteemed. The earthen-ware 
 plates and dishes, which we all use in common, and 
 the elegant set for the tea-table, ornamented with 
 musical instruments, which we admired in our visit 
 yesterday, belong to a very extensive manufactory, 
 the seat of which is at Burslem in Staffordshire. The 
 principal potteries there belong to one person, an ex- 
 cellent chymist, and a man of great taste ; he, in con- 
 junction with another man of taste who is since dead, 
 has made our clay more valuable than the finest por- 
 celain of China. He has moulded it into all the forms 
 of grace and beauty that are to be met with in the 
 precious remains of the Greek and Etruscan artists. 
 In the more common articles he has penciled it with 
 
ON MANUFACTURES. 29 
 
 the most elegant designs, shaped it into shelves and 
 leaves, twisted it into wicker-work, and trailed the 
 ductile foliage round tne light basket. He has filled 
 our cabinets and chimney-pieces with urns, lamps, 
 and vases, on which are lightly traced, with the purest 
 simplicity, the fine forms and floating draperies ot 
 Herculaneum. In short, he has given to our houses 
 a classic air, and has made every saloon and every 
 dining-room schools of taste. I should add that there 
 is a great demand abroad for this elegant manufac- 
 ture. The Empress of Russia has had some mag- 
 nificent services of it ; and the other day one was sent 
 to the King of Spain, intended as a present from him 
 to the Archbishop of Toledo, which cost a thousand 
 pounds. Some morning you shall go through the 
 rooms in the London warehouse. 
 
 Hen. I should like very much to see manufactures, 
 now you have told me such curious things about them. 
 
 Fa. You will do well ! there is much more en- 
 tertainment to a cultivated mind in seeing a pin made, 
 than in many a fashionable diversion which young 
 people half ruin themselves to attend. In the mean 
 time I will give you some account of one of the most 
 elegant of them, which is paper. 
 
 Hen. Pray do, my dear father. 
 
 Fa. It shall be left for another evening, however, 
 for it is now late. Good night. 
 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 THE FLYING FISH. 
 
 The Flying Fish, says the fable, had originally no 
 wings, but being of an ambitious and discontented 
 temper, she repined at being always confined to the 
 waters, and wished to soar in the air. " If I could 
 fly like the birds," said she, " I should not only see 
 more of the beauties of nature, but I should be able 
 to escape from those fish which are continually pursu- 
 ing me, and which render my life miserable." She 
 therefore petitioned Jupiter for a pair of wings: and 
 immediately she perceived her fins to expand. They 
 suddenly grew to the length of her whole body, and be- 
 came at the same time so strong as to do the office of a 
 pinion. She was at first much pleased with her new 
 powers, and looked with an air of disdain on all her 
 former companions ; but she soon perceived herself 
 exposed to new dangers. When flying in the air, 
 she was incessantly pursued by the Tropic bird and 
 the Albatross ; and when for safety she dropped into 
 the water, she was so fatigued with her flight, that she 
 was less able than ever to escape from her old ene- 
 mies, the fish. Finding herself more unhappy than 
 before, she now begged of Jupiter to reeal his present ; 
 but Jupiter said to her, " when I gave you your wings, 
 [ well knew they would prove a curse ; but your 
 proud and restless disposition deserved this disappoint- 
 ment. Now, therefore, what you begged as a favour, 
 keep as a punishment." 
 
31 
 
 A LESSON IN 
 
 THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 F. Come hither, Charles ; what is that you see 
 grazing in the meadow before you ? 
 
 C. It is a horse. 
 
 F. Whose horse is it ? 
 
 C. I do not know ; I never saw it before. 
 
 F. How do you know it is a horse, if you never 
 saw it before ? 
 
 C. Because it is like other horses. 
 
 F. Are all horses alike then . ? 
 
 C. Yes. 
 
 F. If they are all alike, how do you know one horse 
 from another ? 
 
 C. They are not quite alike. 
 
 F. But they are so much alike, that you can easily 
 distinguish a horse from a cow ? 
 
 C. Yes, indeed. 
 
 jP. Or from a cabbage ? 
 
 C. A horse from a cabbage ! yes, surely I can. 
 
 .F. Very well ; then let us see if you can tell how 
 a horse differs from a cabbage ? 
 
 C. Very easily ; a horse is alive. 
 
 F. True ; and how is every thing called, which is 
 alive ? 
 
 C. I believe all things that are alive are called 
 animals. 
 
 F. Right ; but can you tell me what a horse and a 
 cabbage are alike in ? 
 
 C. Nothing, I believe. 
 
S2 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 F. Yes, there is one thing in which the slenderest 
 moss that grows upon the wall is like the greatest man 
 or the highest angel. 
 
 C. Because God made them. 
 
 F. Yes ; and how do you call every thing that is 
 made ? 
 
 C. A creature. 
 
 F. A horse then is a creature, but a living crea- 
 ture ; that is to say, an animal. 
 
 C. And a cabbage is a dead creature ; that is the 
 difference. 
 
 F. Not so, neither ; nothing is dead that has never 
 been alive. 
 
 C. What must I call it then, if it is neither dead 
 nor alive ? 
 
 F. An inanimate creature ; there is the animate 
 and inanimate creation. Plants, stones, metals, are of 
 the latter class ; horses belong to the former. 
 
 C. But the gardener told me some of my cabbages 
 were dead, and some were alive. 
 
 F. Very true. Plants have a vegetative life, a prin- 
 ciple of growth and decay ; this is common to them 
 with all organized bodies ; but they have not sensa- 
 tion, at least we do not know they have — they have 
 not life, therefore, in the sense in which animals en- 
 joyit. 
 
 C. A horse is called an animal, then. 
 
 F. Yes ; but a salmon is an animal, and so is a 
 sparrow ; how will you distinguish a horse from these ? 
 
 C. A salmon lives in the water, and swims ; a 
 sparrow flies, and lives in the air. 
 
 F. I think a salmon could not walk upon the ground, 
 even if it could live out of the water. 
 
 C. No, indeed ; it has no legs. 
 
 F. And a bird would not gallop like a horse. 
 
 C. No ; it would hop away upon its two slender 
 legs. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 33 
 
 F. How many legs has a horse ? 
 
 C. Four. 
 
 F. And an ox ? 
 
 C. Four likewise. 
 
 F. And a camel ? 
 
 C. Four still. 
 
 F. Do you know any animals which live upon the 
 earth that have not four legs ? 
 
 C. I think not ; they have all four legs ; except 
 worms and insects, and such things. 
 
 F. You remember, I suppose, what an animal is 
 called that has four legs ; you have it in your little 
 books. 
 
 C. A quadruped. 
 
 F. A horse then is a quadruped : by this we dis- 
 tinguish him from the birds, fishes, and insects. 
 
 C. And from men. 
 
 F. True ; but if you had been talking about birds, 
 you would not have found it so easy to distinguish 
 them. 
 
 C. How so ! a man is not at all like a bird. 
 
 F. Yet an ancient philosopher could find no way 
 to distinguish them, but by calling man a two-legged 
 animal without feathers. 
 
 C. I think he was very silly ; they are not at all 
 alike, though they have both two legs. 
 
 F. Another ancient philosopher, called Diogenes, 
 was of your opinion. He stript a cock of his feathers, 
 and turned him into the school where Plato, — that was 
 his name, — was teaching, and said, Here is Plato's 
 man for you. 
 
 C. I wish I had been there, I should have laughed 
 very much. 
 
 F. Probably. Before we laugh at others, how- 
 ever, let us see what we can do ourselves. We have 
 not yet found any thing which will distinguish a horse 
 from an elephant, or from a Norway rat. 
 
34 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 C. O, that is easy enough. An elephant is very 
 large, and a rat is very small ; a horse is neither large 
 nor small. 
 
 F. Before we go any further, look what is settled 
 on the skirt of your coat. 
 
 C. It is a butterfly ; what a prodigious large one ; 
 I never saw such a one before. 
 
 F. Is it larger than a rat, think you ? 
 
 C. No, that it is not. 
 
 F. Yet you called the butterfly large, and you 
 called the rat small. 
 
 C. It is very large for a butterfly. 
 
 F. It is so. You see, therefore, that large and 
 small are relative terms. 
 
 C. I do not well understand that phrase. 
 
 F. It means that they have no precise and deter- 
 minate signification in themselves, but are applied dif- 
 ferently, according to the other ideas which you join 
 with them, and the different positions in which you 
 view them. This butterfly, therefore, is large, com- 
 pared with those of its own species, and small, com- 
 pared with many other species of animals. Besides, 
 there is no circumstance which varies more than the 
 size of individuals. If you were to give an idea of a 
 horse from its size, you would certainly say it was 
 much bigger than a dog ; yet if you take the smallest 
 Shetland horse, and the largest Irish grey-hound, you 
 will find them very much upon a par : size, therefore, 
 is not a circumstance by which you can accurately 
 distinguish one animal from another ; nor yet his 
 colour. 
 
 C. No ; there are black horses, and bay, and white, 
 and pied. 
 
 F. But you have not seen that variety of colours in 
 a hare, for instance. 
 
 C. No, a hare is always brown. 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 35 
 
 F. Yet if you were to depend upon that circum- 
 stance, you would not convey the idea of a hare to a 
 mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia ; for he sees 
 them white as snow. We must, therefore, find out 
 some circumstances that do not change like size and 
 colour, and I may add shape, though they are not so 
 obvious, nor perhaps so striking. Look at the feet of 
 quadrupeds ; are they all alike ? 
 
 C. No ; some have long taper claws, and some 
 have thick clumsy feet without claws. 
 
 F. The thick feet are horny ; are they not ? 
 
 C. Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs. 
 
 F. And the feet that are not covered with horn, 
 and are divided into claws, are called digitated, from 
 digitus, a finger ; because they are parted like fingers. 
 Here, then, we have one grand division of quadrupeds 
 into hoofed and digitated. Of which division is the 
 horse ? 
 
 C. He is hoofed. 
 
 F. There are a great many different kinds of 
 horses ; did you ever know one that w T as not hoofed ? 
 
 C. No, never. 
 
 F. Do you think we run any hazard of a stranger 
 telling us, Sir, horses are hoofed indeed in your coun- 
 try, bui in mine, which is in a different climate, and 
 where we feed them differently, they have claws ? 
 
 C. No, I dare say not. 
 
 F. Then we have got something to our purpose ; 
 a circumstance easily marked, which always belongs 
 to the animal, under every variation of situation or 
 treatment. But an ox is hoofed, and so is a sheep ; 
 we must distinguish still farther. You have often 
 stood by, I suppose, while the smith was shoeing a 
 horse. What kind of a hoof has he ? 
 
 C. It is round, and all in one piece. 
 
 F. And is that of an ox so ? 
 
36 ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 C. No, it is divided. 
 
 F. A horse, then, is not only hoofed, but whole 
 hoofed. Now how many quadrupeds do you think 
 there are in the world that are whole hoofed ? 
 
 C. Indeed I do not know. 
 
 F. There are, among all animals that we are ac- 
 quainted with, either in this country or in any other, 
 only the horse, the ass, and the zebra, which is a spe- 
 cie^ of will ass. Now, therefore, you see we have 
 nearly accomplished our purpose ; we have only to 
 distinguish him from the ass. 
 
 C. That is easily done, I believe ; I should be 
 sorry if any body could mistake my little horse for an 
 ass. 
 
 F. It is not so easy, however, as you imagine ; the 
 eye readily distinguishes them by the air and general 
 appearance, but naturalists have been rather puzzled 
 to fix upon any specific difference, which may serve 
 the purpose of a definition. Some have, therefore, 
 fixed upon the ears, others on the mane and tail. 
 What kind of ears has an ass ? 
 
 C. O, very long clumsy ears. Asses' ears are 
 always laughed at. 
 
 F. And the horse ? 
 
 C. The horse has small ears, nicely turned, and 
 upright. 
 
 F. And the mane, is there no difference there ? 
 
 C. The horse has a fine long flowing mane ; the 
 ass has hardly any. 
 
 F. And the tail ; is it not fuller of hair in the horse 
 than in the ass ? 
 
 C. Yes ; the ass has only a few long hairs at the 
 end of his tail ; but the horse has a long bushy tail, 
 when it is not cut. 
 
 F. Which, by the way, it is pity it ever should. 
 Now, then, observe what particulars we have got. A 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 37 
 
 horse is an animal of the quadruped kind, whole-hoofed, 
 with short erect ears, a flowing mane, and a tail cov- 
 ered in every part with long hairs. Now is there 
 any other animal, think you, in the world, that answers 
 these particulars ? 
 
 C. I do not know ; this does not tell us a great 
 deal about him. 
 
 F. And yet it tells us enough to distinguish him 
 from all the different tribes of the creation which we 
 are acquainted with in any part of the earth. Do you 
 know now what we have been making ? 
 
 C. What? 
 
 F. A Definition. It is the business of a defini- 
 tion to distinguish precisely the thing defined from 
 every other thing, and to do it in as few terms as pos- 
 sible. Its object is to separate the subject of defini- 
 tion, first, from those with which it has only a general 
 resemblance ; then, from those which agree with it 
 in a greater variety of particulars ; and so on, till by 
 constantly throwing out all which have not the qualities 
 we have taken notice of, we come at length to the 
 individual or the species we wish to ascertain. It is 
 a kind of chase, and resembles the manner of hunting 
 in some countries, where they first enclose a very 
 large circle with their dogs, nets, and horses ; and 
 then, by degrees, draw their toils closer and closer, 
 driving their game before them till it is at length 
 brought into so narrow a compass, that the sportsmen 
 have nothing to do but to knock down their prey. 
 
 C. Just as we have been hunting this horse, till at 
 last we held him fast by his ears and his tail. 
 
 F. I should observe to you, that in the definition 
 naturalists give of a horse, it is generally mentioned 
 that he has six cutting teeth in each jaw ; because 
 this circumstance of the teeth has been found a very 
 convenient one for characterizing large classes: but 
 4 
 
oS ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 
 
 as it is not absolutely necessary here, I have omitted 
 it ; a definition being the more perfect the fewer par- 
 ticulars you make use of, provided you can say with 
 certainty from those particulars, The object so char- 
 acterized must be this, and no other whatever. 
 
 C. But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I should 
 not know what kind of animal it was by this definition, 
 
 F. Let us hear, then, how you would give me an 
 idea of a horse. 
 
 C. I would say it was a fine large prancing crea- 
 ture, with slender legs and an arched neck, and a 
 sleek smooth skin, and a tail that sweeps the ground, 
 and that he snorts and neighs very loud, and tosses his 
 head, and runs as swift as the wind. 
 
 F. I think you learned some verses upon the horse 
 in your last lesson : repeat them. 
 
 C. The wanton courser thus with reins unbound 
 Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground ; 
 Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, 
 And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides j 
 His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies ; 
 His mane dishevelTd o'er his shoulders flies ; 
 He snuffs the females in the distant plain, 
 And springs, exulting, to his fields again. 
 
 pope's homer. 
 
 F. You have said very well ; but this is not a Defi- 
 nition, it is a Description. 
 
 C. What is the difference ? 
 
 .F. A description is intended to give you a lively 
 picture of an object, as if you saw it ; it ought to be 
 very full. A definition gives no picture to those who 
 have not seen it ; it rather tells you what its subject is 
 not, than what it is, by giving you such clear specific 
 marks, that it shall not be possible to confound it with 
 any thing else 1 ; and hence it is of the greatest use in 
 throwing things into classes. We have a great m; rry 
 beautiful descriptions from ancient authors so loosed 
 
ART OF DISTINGUISHING. 39 
 
 worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are 
 meant by them ; whereas if they had given us defini- 
 tions, three lines would have ascertained their meaning. 
 
 C. I like a description best, papa. 
 
 F. Perhaps so ; I believe 1 should have done the 
 same at your age. Remember, however, that nothing 
 is more useful than to learn to form ideas with pre- 
 cision, and to express them with accuracy : I have 
 not given you a definition to teach you what a horse 
 is, but to teach you to think. 
 
40 
 
 THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 
 
 A Phenix, who had long inhabited the solitary 
 deserts of Arabia, once flew so near the habitations of 
 men as to meet with a tame Dove, who was sitting on 
 her nest, with wings expanded, fondly brooding over 
 her young ones, while she expected her mate, who 
 was foraging abroad to procure them food. The 
 Phenix, with a kind of insulting compassion, said to 
 her, " Poor bird, how much I pity thee ! confined to 
 a single spot, and sunk in domestic cares ; thou art con- 
 tinually employed either in laying eggs or in providing 
 for thy brood ; and thou exhaustest thy life and strength 
 in perpetuating a feeble and defenceless race. As 
 to myself, I live exempt from toil, care, and misfor- 
 tune. I feed upon nothing less precious than rich 
 gums and spices ; I fly through the trackless regions 
 of the air, and when I am seen by men, am gazed at 
 with curiosity and astonishment ; I have no one to 
 control my range, no one to provide for ; and when 
 t have fulfilled my five centuries of life, and seen the 
 revolutions of ages, I rather vanish than die, and a 
 successor, without my care, springs up from my ashes. 
 I am an image of the great sun whom I adore ; and 
 glory in being, like him, single and alone, and having 
 no likeness." 
 
 Tiie Dove replied, " O Phenix, I pity thee much 
 more than thou affectest to pity me ! What pleasure 
 canst thou enjoy, who livest forlorn and solitary in a 
 trackless and unpeopled desert ; who hast no mate 
 to caress thee, no young ones to excite thy tenderness 
 and reward thy cares, no kindred, no society amongst 
 
THE PHENIX AND DOVE. 41 
 
 thy fellows. Not long life only, but immortality itself 
 would be a curse, if it were to be bestowed on such 
 uncomfortable terms. For my part, I know that my 
 life will be short, and therefore I employ it in raising 
 a numerous posterity, and in opening my heart to all 
 the sweets of domestic happiness. I am beloved by 
 my partner ; I am dear to man ; and shall leave marks 
 behind me that I have lived. As to the sun, to whom 
 thou hast presumed to compare thyself, that glorious 
 being is so totally different from, and so infinitely su- 
 perior to, all the creatures upon earth, that it does not 
 become us to liken ourselves to him, or to determine 
 upon the manner of his existence. One obvious dif- 
 ference, however, thou mayest remark ; that the sun, 
 though alone, by his prolific heat, produces all things* 
 and though he shines so high above our heads, gives 
 us reason every moment to bless his beams ; whereas 
 diou, swelling with thy imaginary greatness, dreamest 
 away a long period of existence, equally void of com- 
 fort and usefulness. 
 
 4* 
 
42 
 
 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER, 
 
 -F. I will now, as I promised, give you an account 
 of the elegant and useful manufacture of Paper, the 
 basis of which is itself a manufacture. This delicate 
 and beautiful substance is made from the meanest and 
 most disgusting materials, from old rags, which have 
 passed from one poor person to another, and at length 
 have perhaps dropped in tatters from the child of the 
 beggar. These are carefully picked up from dung- 
 hills, or bought from servants by Jews, who make it 
 their business to go about and collect them. They 
 sell them to the rag-merchant, who gives from two- 
 pence to four-pence a pound, according to their qual- 
 ity ; and he, when he has got a sufficient quantity, 
 disposes of them to the owner of the paper-mill. He 
 gives them first to women to sort and pick, agreeably 
 to their different degrees of fineness : they also with 
 a knife cut out carefully all the seams, which they 
 throw into a basket for other purposes ; they then put 
 them into the dusting engine, a large circular wire 
 sieve, from whence they receive some degree of 
 cleansing. The rags are then conveyed to the mill. 
 Here they were formerly beat to pieces with vast 
 hammers, which rose and fell continually with a most 
 tremendous noise, thai was heard from a great distance. 
 But now they put the rags into a large trough or cis- 
 tern, into which a pipe of clear spring water is con- 
 stantly flowing. In this cistern is placed a cylinder, 
 about two feet long, set thick round with rows of iron 
 spikes, standing as near as they can to one another 
 without touching. At the bottom of the trough there 
 
THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 43 
 
 are corresponding rows of spikes. The cylinder is 
 made to whirl round with inconceivable rapidity, and 
 with these iron teeth rends and tears the cloth in 
 every possible direction ; till, by the assistance of the 
 water, which continually flows through the cistern, it 
 is thoroughly masticated, and reduced to a fine pulp ; 
 and by the same process all its impurities are cleansed 
 away, and it is restored to its original whiteness. This 
 process takes about six hours. To improve the col- 
 on;- they then put in a little smalt, which gives it a 
 blueish cast, which all paper has more or less : the 
 French paper has less of it than ours. This fine 
 pulp is next put into a copper of warm water. It is 
 the substance of paper, but the form must now be 
 given it : for this purpose they use a mould. It is 
 made of wire, strong one way, and crossed with finer. 
 This mould they just dip horizontally into the copper, 
 and take it out again. It has a little w T ooden frame on 
 the edge, by means of which it retains as much of 
 the pulp as is wanted for the thickness of the sheet, 
 and the superfluity runs off through the interstices of 
 the wires. Another man instantly receives it, opens 
 the frame, and turns out the thin sheet, which has now 
 shape, but not consistence, upon soft felt, which is 
 placed on the ground to receive it. On that is placed 
 another piece of felt, and then another sheet of paper, 
 and so on till they have made a pile of forty or fifty. 
 They are then pressed with a large screw-press, 
 moved by a long lever, which forcibly squeezes the 
 water out of them, and gives them immediate con- 
 sistence. There is still, however, a great deal to be 
 done. The felts are taken ofT and thrown on one 
 side, and the paper on the other, from whence it is 
 dexterously taken up with an instrument in the form 
 of a T, three sheets at a time, and hung on lines to 
 dry. There it hangs for a week or ten days, which 
 
44 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 
 
 likewise further whitens it ; and any knots and rough- 
 nesses it may have are picked off carefully by the 
 women. It is then sized. Size is a kind of glue ; 
 and without this preparation the paper would not bear 
 ink ; it would run and blot, as you see it does on grey 
 paper. The sheets are just dipped into the size and 
 taken out again. The exact degree of sizing is a 
 matter of nicety, which can only be known by ex- 
 perience. They are then hung up again to dry, and 
 when dry taken to the finishing-room, where they are 
 examined anew, pressed in the dry presses, which 
 gives them their last gloss and smoothness ; counted 
 up into quires, made up in reams, and sent to the sta- 
 tioner's, from whom we have it, after he has folded it 
 again and cut the edges ; some too he makes to shine 
 like satin, by glossing it with hot plates. The whole 
 process of paper-making takes about three weeks. 
 
 H. It is a very curious process indeed. I shall 
 almost scruple for the future to blacken a sheet of 
 paper with a careless scrawl, now 1 know how much 
 pains it costs to make it so white and beautiful. 
 
 F. It is true that there is hardly any thing we use 
 with so much waste and profusion as this manufacture ; 
 w T e should think ourselves confined in the use of it, 
 if we might not tear, disperse, and destroy it in a thou- 
 sand ways ; so that it is really astonishing from whence 
 linen enough can be procured to answer so vast a 
 demand. As to the coarse brown papers, of which 
 an astonishing quantity is used by every shopkeeper 
 in packages, &c, these are made chiefly of oakum, 
 that is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made in 
 China of silk. 
 
 H. I have heard lately of woven paper ; pray w hat 
 is that ? diey cannot Weave paper, surely ! 
 
 F. Your question is very natural. In order to 
 answer it, I must desire you to take a sheet of com- 
 
THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 45 
 
 mon paper, and hold it up against the light. Do not 
 you see marks in it ? 
 
 H. I see a great many white lines running along 
 lengthways, like ribs, and smaller that cross them. 
 I see, too, letters and the figure of a crown. 
 
 F. These are all the marks of the wires ; the thick- 
 ness of the wire prevents so much of the pulp lying 
 upon the sheet in those places, consequently wherever 
 the wires are, the paper is thinner, and you see the 
 light through more readily, which gives that appear- 
 ance of white lines. The letters too are worked in 
 the wire, and are the maker's name. Now to prevent 
 these lines, which take off from the beauty of the pa- 
 per, particularly of drawing paper, there have been 
 lately used moulds of brass wire exceedingly fine, of 
 equal thickness, and woven or latticed one within 
 another; the marks, therefore, of these are easily 
 pressed out, so as to be hardly visible ; if you look at 
 this sheet you will see it is quite smooth. 
 
 H. It is so. 
 
 F. I should mention to you, that there is a discov- 
 ery very lately made, by which they can make paper 
 equal to any in whiteness, of the coarsest brown rags, 
 and even of dyed cottons ; which they have till now 
 been obliged to throw by for inferior purposes. This 
 is by means of manganese, a sort of mineral, and oil 
 of vitriol ; a mixture of which they just pass through 
 the pulp, while it is in water, for otherwise it would 
 burn it, and in an instant it discharges the colours of 
 the dyed cloths, and bleaches the brown to a beauti- 
 ful whiteness. 
 
 H. That is like what you told me before of bleach- 
 ing cloth in a few hours. 
 
 F. It is indeed founded upon the same discovery. 
 The paper made of these brown rags is likewise more 
 valuable, from being very tough and strong, almost 
 like parchment. 
 
46 THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER. 
 
 H. When was the making of paper found out ? 
 
 F. It is a disputed point, but probably in the four- 
 teenth century. The invention has been of almost 
 equal consequence to literature, as that of printing 
 itself; and shows how the arts and sciences, like 
 children of the same family, mutually assist and bring 
 forward each other. 
 
47 
 
 THE FOUR SISTERS. 
 
 I am one of four sisters ; and having some reason 
 to think myself not well used either by them or by 
 die world, I beg leave to lay before you a sketch of 
 our history and characters. You will not wonder 
 there should be frequent bickerings amongst us, when 
 I tell you that in our infancy we were continually 
 fighting ; and so great was the noise, and din, and 
 confusion, in our continual struggles to get uppermost, 
 that it was impossible for any body to live amongst us 
 in such a scene of tumult and disorder. These 
 brawls, however, by a powerful interposition, were put 
 an end to ; our proper place was assigned to each of 
 us, and we had strict orders not to encroach on the 
 limits of each other's property, but to join our com- 
 mon offices for the good of the whole family. 
 
 My first sister, (1 call her the first, because we 
 have generally allowed her the precedence in rank,) 
 is, I must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly 
 disposition ; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy 
 than any of us ; but she is hot ; every thing serves for 
 fuel to her fury when it is once raised to a certain 
 degree, and she is so mischievous whenever she gets 
 the upper hand, that, notwithstanding her aspiring dis- 
 position, if I may freely speak my mind, she is calcu- 
 lated to make a good servant, but a very bad mistress. 
 
 I am almost ashamed to mention, that notwithstand- 
 ing her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious 
 appetite, and devours every thing that comes in her 
 way ; though, like other eager thin people, she does 
 no credit to her keeping. Many a time has she con- 
 
48 THE FOUR SISTERS. 
 
 sumed the product of my barns and store-houses, but 
 it is all lost upon her. She has even been known to 
 get into an oil-shop or tallow chandler's, when every- 
 body was asleep, and lick up, with the utmost greedi- 
 ness, whatever she found there. Indeed, all prudent 
 people are aware of her tricks, and though she is ad- 
 mitted into the best families, they take care to watch 
 her very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, 
 that my sister was once in a country where she was 
 treated with uncommon respect ; she was lodged in a 
 sumptuous building, and had a number of young 
 women, of the best families, to attend on her, and 
 feed her, and watch over her health ; in short, she 
 was looked upon as something more than a common 
 mortal. But she always behaved with great severity 
 to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of 
 their duty, or made a slip in their own conduct, no- 
 thing would serve her but burying the poor girls alive. 
 I have myself had some dark hints and intimations 
 from the most respectable authority, that she will 
 some time or other make an end of me. You need 
 not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions. 
 The next sister I shall mention to you, has so far 
 the appearance of Modesty and Humility, that she 
 generally seeks the lowest place. She is indeed of 
 a very yielding, easy temper, generally cool, and 
 often wears a sweet placid smile upon her counten- 
 ance ; but she is easily ruffled, and when worked up, 
 as she often is, by another sister, whom I shall men- 
 tion to you by and by, she becomes a perfect fury. 
 Indeed she is so apt to swell with sudden gusts of 
 passion, that she is suspected at times to be a little 
 lunatic. Between her and my first mentioned sister, 
 there is more settled antipathy than between the The- 
 ban pair ; and they never meet without making efforts 
 to destroy one another. With me she is always ready 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 49 
 
 to form the most intimate union, but it is not always 
 to my advantage. There goes a story in our family, 
 that when we were all young, she once attempted to 
 drown me. She actually kept me under a considera- 
 ble time, and though at length I got my head above 
 water, my constitution is generally thought to have 
 been essentially injured by it ever since. From that 
 time she has made no such atrocious attempt, but she 
 is continually making encroachments upon my prop- 
 erty ; and even when she appears most gentle, she is 
 very insidious, and has such an undermining way with 
 her, that her insinuating arts are as much to be dread- 
 ed as open violence. I might indeed remonstrate, 
 but it is a known part of her character, that nothing 
 makes any lasting impression upon her. 
 
 As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the 
 ill offices she does me with my last mentioned one, 
 who is entirely under her influence. She is, besides, of 
 a very uncertain, variable temper, sometimes hot, and 
 sometimes cold ; nobody knows where to have her. 
 Her lightness is even 'proverbial, and she has nothing 
 to give those who live with her more substantial than 
 the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she keeps 
 in her service three or four rough, blustering bullies, 
 with puffed cheeks, who, when they are let loose, 
 think they have nothing to do but to drive the world 
 before them. She sometimes joins with my first sis- 
 ter, and their violence occasionally throws me into 
 such a trembling, that, though naturally of a firm con- 
 stitution, I shake as if I was in an ague fit. 
 
 As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper ; not 
 shining indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady 
 Bountiful. Every one tastes of my beneficence, and 
 I am of so graceful a disposition, that I have been 
 known to return an hundred-fold for any present that 
 has been made me. I feed and clothe all my chil- 
 5 
 
50 THE FOUR SISTER-. 
 
 dren, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who 
 has no other home. I hear with unrepining patience 
 all manner of ill usage ; I am trampled upon, I am 
 torn and wounded with the most cutting strokes ; I am 
 pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most secret 
 chambers 5 notwithstanding which, I am always readv 
 to return good for evil, and am continually subservient 
 to the pleasure or advantage of others ; yet, so un- 
 grateful is the world, that because I do not possess all 
 the airiness and activity of my sisters, I am stigma- 
 tized as dull and heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow 
 is called by way of derision one of my children ; and 
 if a person on entering a room does but turn his eyes 
 upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit 
 for good company. I have the satisfaction, however, 
 of finding that people always incline towards me as 
 they grow older ; and that those who seemed proudly 
 to disdain any affinity with me, are content to sink at 
 last into my bosom. You will probably wish to have 
 some account of my person. I am not a regular 
 beauty ; some of my features are rather harsh and 
 prominent, when viewed separately ; but my counte- 
 nance has so much variety of expression, and so many 
 different attitudes of elegance, that those who study 
 my face with attention, find out continually new 
 charms ; and it may be truly said of me, what Titus 
 says of his mistress, and for a much longer space, 
 
 Pendant cinq ans entiers tous les jours je la vois, 
 Et crois toujours la voir pour la premiere fois. 
 
 For five whole years each day she meets my view, 
 Yet every day I seem to see her new. 
 
 Though I have been so long a mother, I have still 
 a surprising air of youth and freshness, which is assist- 
 ed by all the advantages of well chosen ornament, for I 
 dress well, and according to the season. 
 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 51 
 
 This is what I have chiefly to say of myself and 
 my sisters. To a person of your sagacity it will be 
 unnecessary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one 
 who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, 
 cannot be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstand- 
 ing the difference in our features and characters. 
 

HYMNS IN PROSE 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 5* 
 
HYMNS. 
 
 Come, let us praise God, for he is exceeding great 5 
 let us bless God, for he is very good. 
 
 He made all things ; the sun to rule the day, the 
 moon to shine by night. 
 
 He made the great whale, and the elephant ; and 
 the little worm that crawleth on the ground. 
 
 The little birds sing praises to God, when they 
 warble sweetly in the green shade. 
 
 The brooks and rivers praise God, when they mur- 
 mur melodiously amongst the smooth pebbles. 
 
 1 will praise God with my voice ; for I may praise 
 him though I am but a little child. 
 
 A few years ago, and 1 was a little infant, and my 
 tongue was dumb within my mouth : 
 
 And I did not know the great name of God, for 
 my reason was not come unto me. 
 
 But now I can speak, and my tongue shall praise 
 him ; I can think of all his kindness, and my heart 
 shall love him. 
 
 Let him call me, and I will come unto him ; let 
 him command, and I will obey him. 
 
 When I am older, 1 will praise him better ; and I 
 will never forget God, so long as my life remaineth 
 in me. 
 
56 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 HYMN II. 
 
 Come, let us go forth into the fields, let us see 
 how the flowers spring, let us listen to the warbling of 
 the birds, and sport ourselves upon the new grass. 
 
 The winter is over and gone, the buds come out 
 upon the trees, the crimson blossoms of the peach 
 and the nectarine are seen, and the green leaves 
 sprout. 
 
 The hedges are bordered with tufts of primroses, 
 and yellow cowslips that hang down their heads ; and 
 the blue violet lies hid beneath the shade. 
 
 The young goslings are running upon the green, 
 they are just hatched, their bodies are covered with 
 yellow down ; the old ones hiss with anger if any one 
 comes near. 
 
 The hen sits upon her nest of straw, she watches 
 patiently the full time, then she carefully breaks the 
 shell, and the young chickens come out. 
 
 The lambs just dropt are in the field, they totter by 
 the side of their dams, their young limbs can hardly 
 support their weight. 
 
 If you fall, little lambs, you will not be hurt ; there 
 is spread under you a carpet of soft grass ; it is spread 
 on purpose to receive you. 
 
 The butterflies flutter from bush to bush, and open 
 their wings to the warm sun. 
 
 The young animals of every kind are sporting 
 about, they feel themselves happy, they are glad to 
 be alive, — they thank him that has made them alive. 
 
 They may thank him in their hearts, but we can 
 thank him with our tongues ; we are better than they, 
 and can praise him better. 
 
 The birds can warble, and the young lambs can 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 57 
 
 bleat ; but we can open our lips in his praise, we can 
 speak of all his goodness. 
 
 Therefore we will thank him for ourselves, and we 
 will thank him for those that cannot speak. 
 
 Trees that blossom, and little lambs that skip about, 
 if you could, you would say how good he is; but you 
 are dumb, we will say it for you. 
 
 We will not offer you in sacrifice, but we will offer 
 sacrifice for you, on every hill, and in every green 
 field, we will offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and 
 the incense of praise. 
 
 HYMN III. 
 
 Behold the shepherd of the flock ; he taketh care 
 for his sheep, he leadeth them among clear brooks, 
 he guideth them to fresh pasture : if the young lambs 
 are weary, he carrieth them in his arms ; if they wan- 
 der, he bringeth them back. 
 
 But who is the shepherd's Shepherd ; who taketh 
 care for him ? who guideth him in the path he should 
 go ? and, if he wander, who shall bring him back ? 
 
 God is the shepherd's Shepherd. He is the Shep- 
 herd over all ; he taketh care for all ; the whole earth 
 is his fold ; we are all his flock ; and every herb, and 
 every green field is the pasture which he hath pre- 
 pared for us. 
 
 The mother loveth her little child ; she bringeth it 
 up on her knees ; she nourisheth its body with food ; 
 she feedeth its mind with knowledge : if it is sick, 
 she nurseth it with tender love ; she watcheth over it 
 when asleep ; she forgetteth it not for a moment ; she 
 teacheth it how to be good ; she rejoiceth daily in its 
 growth. 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 But who is the Parent of the mother ? who nour- 
 ished] her with good things, and watcheth over her 
 with tender love, and rememhereth her every moment : 
 Whose arms are about her to guard her from harm ? 
 and if she is sick, who shall heal her ? 
 
 God is the Parent of the modier ; he is the parent 
 of all, for he created all. All the men, and all the 
 women, who are alive in the wide world, are his chil- 
 dren ; he loveth all, he is good to all. 
 
 The king governeth his people ; he hath a golden 
 crown upon his head, and the royal sceptre is in his 
 hand ; he sitteth upon a throne, and sendeth forth his 
 commands ; his subjects fear before him ; if they do 
 well, he protecteth them from danger ; and if they do 
 evil, he punisheth them. 
 
 But who is the Sovereign of the king ? who com- 
 mandeth him what he must do ? whose hand is reach- 
 ed out to protect him from danger ? and if he doeth 
 evil, who shall punish him ? 
 
 God is the Sovereign of the king ; his crown is of 
 rays of light, and his throne is amongst the stars. He 
 is King of kings, and Lord of lords : if he biddeth us 
 live, we live ; and if he biddeth us die, we die : his 
 dominion is over all worlds, and the light of his coun- 
 tenance is upon all his works. 
 
 God is our Shepherd, therefore we will follow him ; 
 God is our Father, therefore we will love him ; God 
 is our King, therefore we will obey him. 
 
 HYMN IV. 
 
 Come, and I will show you what is beautiful. It 
 is a rose fully blown. See how she sits upon her 
 mossy stem, like the queen of all the flowers ! her 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 50 
 
 leaves glow like fire ; the air is filled with her sweet 
 odour ! she is the delight of every eye. 
 
 She is beautiful, but there is a fairer than she. He 
 that made the rose is more beautiful than the rose ; 
 he is all lovely ; he is the delight of every heart. 
 
 I will show you what is strong. The lion is strong .: 
 when he raiseth up himself from his lair, when he 
 shaketh his mane, when the voice of his roaring is 
 heard, the cattle of the field fly, and the wild beasts 
 of the desert hide themselves, for he is very terrible. 
 
 The lion is strong, but he that made the lion is 
 stronger than he : his anger is terrible ; he could 
 make us die in a moment, and no one could save us 
 out of his hand. 
 
 I will show you what is glorious. The sun is glo- 
 rious. When he shineth in the clear sky, when he 
 sitteth on the bright throne in the heavens, and look- 
 eth abroad over all the earth, he is the most excellent 
 and glorious creature the eye can behold. 
 
 The sun is glorious, but he that made the sun is 
 more glorious than he. The eye beholdeth him not, 
 for his brightness is more dazzling than we could 
 bear. He seeth in all dark places ; by night as well 
 as by day ; and the light of his countenanance is over 
 all his works. 
 
 Who is this great name, and what is he called, that 
 my lips may praise him ? 
 
 This great name is GOD. He made all things, 
 but he is himself more excellent than all which he 
 hath made : they are beautiful, but he is beauty ; they 
 are strong, but he is strength ; they are perfect, but 
 he is perfection. 
 
60 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 HYMN V. 
 
 The glorious sun is set in the west; the night 
 dews fall ; and the air, which was sultry, becomes 
 cool. 
 
 The flowers fold up their coloured leaves ; they 
 fold themselves up, and hang their heads on the slen- 
 der stalk. 
 
 The chickens are gathered under the wing of the 
 hen, and are at rest ; the hen herself is at rest also. 
 
 The little birds have ceased their warbling, they 
 are asleep on the boughs, each one with his head be- 
 hind his wing. 
 
 There is no murmur of bees around the hive, or 
 among the honeyed woodbines ; they have done their 
 work, and lie close in their waxen cells. 
 
 The sheep rest upon their soft fleeces, and their 
 loud bleating is no more heard amongst, the hills. 
 
 There is no sound of a number of voices, or of 
 children at play, or the trampling of busy feet, and of 
 people hurrying to and fro. 
 
 The smith's hammer is not heard upon the anvil ; 
 nor the harsh saw of the carpenter. 
 
 All men are stretched on their quiet beds ; and the 
 child sleeps upon the breast of its mother. 
 
 Darkness is spread over the skies, and darkness is 
 upon the ground ; every eye is shut, and every hand 
 is still. 
 
 Who taketh care of all people when they are sunk 
 in sleep ; when they cannot defend themselves, nor 
 see if danger approacheth ? 
 
 There is an eye that never sleepeth ; there is an 
 eye that seeth in dark night as well as in the bright 
 sunshine. 
 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 61 
 
 When there is no light of the sun, nor of the moon ; 
 when there is no lamp in the house, nor any little star 
 twinkling through the thick clouds ; that eye seeth 
 every where, in all places, and watcheth continually 
 over all the families of the earth. 
 
 The eye that sleepeth not is God's ; his hand is 
 always stretched out over us. 
 
 He made sleep to refresh us when we are weary : 
 he made night, that we might sleep in quiet. 
 
 As the mother moveth about the house with her 
 finger on her lips, and stilleth every little noise, that 
 her infant be not disturbed ; as she draweth the cur- 
 tains around its bed, and shutteth out the light from 
 its tender eyes ; so God draweth the curtains of dark- 
 ness around us ; so he maketh all things to be hushed 
 and still, that his large family may sleep in peace. 
 
 Labourers spent with toil, and young children, and 
 every little humming insect, sleep quietly, for God 
 watcheth over you. 
 
 You may sleep, for he never sleeps : you may 
 close your eyes in safety, for his eye is always open 
 to protect you. 
 
 When the darkness is passed aw T ay, and the beams 
 of the morning sun strike through your eyelids, begin 
 the day with praising God, who hath taken care of 
 you through the night. 
 
 Flowers, when you open again, spread your leaves, 
 and smell sweet to his praise. 
 
 Birds, when you awake, warble your thanks amongst 
 the green boughs ; sing to him before you sing to your 
 mates. 
 
 Let his praise be in our hearts, when we lie down ; 
 let his praise be in our lips, when we awake. 
 
62 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 HYMN VI. 
 
 . Child of reason, whence comest thou ? What 
 has thine eye observed, and whither has thy foot been 
 wandering ? 
 
 I have been wandering along the meadows, in the 
 thick grass ; the cattle were feeding around me, or 
 reposing in the cool shade ; the corn sprung up in the 
 furrows ; the poppy and the harebell grew among the 
 wheat ; the fields were bright with summer, and glow- 
 ing with beauty. 
 
 Didst thou see nothing more ? Didst thou observe 
 nothing besides ? Return again, child of reason, for 
 there are greater things than these. 
 
 — God was among the fields ; and didst thou not 
 perceive him ? his beauty was upon the meadows ; 
 his smile enlivened the sunshine. 
 
 I have walked through the thick forest ; the wind 
 whispered among the trees ; the brook fell from the 
 rocks with a pleasant murmur ; the squirrel leapt from 
 bough to bough : and the birds sung to each other 
 amongst the branches. 
 
 Didst thou hear nothing, but the murmur of the 
 brook ? no whispers but the whispers of the wind ? 
 Return again, child of reason, for there are greater 
 things than these. — God was amongst the trees ; his 
 voice sounded in the murmur of the water ; his music 
 warbled in the shade ; and didst thou not attend ? 
 
 I saw the moon rising behind trees ; it was like a 
 lamp of gold. The stars one after another appeared 
 in the clear firmament. Presently I saw black clouds 
 arise, and roll towards the south ; the lightning stream- 
 ed in thick flashes over the sky ; the thunder growled 
 at a distance ; it came nearer, and I felt afraid, for it 
 was loud and terrible. 
 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE, 63 
 
 Did thy heart feel no terror, but of the thunder- 
 bolt ? Was there nothing bright and terrible but the 
 lightning ? Return. O child of reason, for there are 
 greater things than these. — God was in the storm, and 
 didst thou not perceive him ? His terrors were abroad, 
 and did not thine heart acknowledge him ? 
 
 God is in every place ; he speaks in every sound 
 we hear ; he is seen in all that our eyes behold ; no- 
 thing, O child of reason, is without God ; — let God 
 therefore be in all thy thoughts. 
 
 HYMN VII. 
 
 • 
 
 Come, let us go into the thick shade, for it is the 
 noon of day, and the summer sun beats hot upon our 
 heads. 
 
 The shade is pleasant and cool ; the branches meet 
 above our heads, and shut out the sun as with a green 
 curtain ; the grass is soft to our feet, and a clear brook 
 washes the roots of the trees. 
 
 The sloping bank is covered with flowers ; let us 
 lie down upon it ; let us throw our limbs on the fresh 
 grass and sleep ; for all things are still, and we are 
 quite alone. 
 
 The cattle can lie down to sleep in the cool shade, 
 but we can do what is better ; we can raise our voices 
 to heaven ; we can praise the great God who made us. 
 He made the warm sun, and the cool shade ; the 
 trees that grow upwards, and the brooks that run mur- 
 muring along. All the things that we see are his 
 work. 
 
 Can we raise our voices up to the high heaven ? 
 Can we make him hear who is above the stars ? We 
 need not raise our voices to the stars, for he heareth 
 
64 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 us when we only whisper ; when we breathe out 
 words softly with a low voice. He that filleth the 
 heavens is here also. 
 
 May we that are so young, speak to him that always 
 was ? May we, that can hardly speak plain, speak 
 to God ? 
 
 We that are so young, are but lately made alive ; 
 therefore we should not forget his forming hand who 
 hath made us alive. We that cannot speak plain, 
 should lisp out praises to him who teacheth us how 
 to speak, and hath opened our dumb lips. 
 
 When we could not think of him, he thought of us ; 
 before we could ask him to bless us> he had already 
 given us many blessings. 
 
 He fashioiieth our tender limbs, and causeth them 
 to grow ; he maketh us strong, and tall, and nimble. 
 
 Every day we are more active than the former day, 
 therefore every day we ought to praise him better 
 than the former day. 
 
 The buds spread into leaves, and the blossoms swell 
 to fruit ; but they know not how they grow, nor who 
 caused them to spring up from the bosom of the 
 earth. 
 
 Ask them if they will tell thee ; bid them break 
 forth into singing, and fill the air with pleasant sounds. 
 
 They smell sweet ; they look beautiful ; but they 
 are quite silent ; no sound is in the still air ; no' mur- 
 mur of voices amongst the green leaves. 
 
 The plants and the trees are made to give fruit to 
 man ; but man is made to praise God who made him. 
 
 We love to praise him, because he lovcth to bless 
 us ; w T e thank him for life, because it is a pleasant 
 thing to be alive. 
 
 We love God, who hath created all beings ; we 
 love all beings, because they are the creatures of God, 
 
 We cannot be good, as God is good to all persons 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. §3 
 
 every where ; but we can rejoice that every where 
 there is a God to do them good. 
 
 We will tliink of God when we play, and when we 
 work ; when we walk out, and when we come in ; 
 when we sleep, and when we wake ; his praise shall 
 dwell continually upon our lips. 
 
 HYMN VIII. 
 
 See where stands the cottage of the labourer cov- 
 ered with warm thatch ! the mother is spinning at the 
 door ; the young children sport before her on the 
 grass ; the elder ones learn to labour, and are obedi- 
 ent ; the father worketh to provide them food : either 
 he tilleth the ground, or he gathereth in the corn, or 
 shaketh his ripe apples from the tree ; his children 
 run to meet him when he cometh home, and his wife 
 prepareth the wholesome meal. 
 
 The father, the mother, and the children, make 
 a family; the father is the master thereof. If the 
 family be numerous, and the grounds large, there are 
 servants to help to do the work : all these dwell in 
 one house ; they sleep beneath one roof; they eat of 
 the same bread ; they kneel down together and praise 
 God every night and every morning with one voice ; 
 they are very closely united, and are dearer to each 
 other than any strangers. If one is sick, they mourn 
 together ; and if one is happy, they rejoice together. 
 
 Many houses are built together ; many families live 
 near one another ; they meet together on the green, 
 and in pleasant walks, and to buy and sell, and in the 
 house of justice : and the sound of the bell calleth 
 them to the house of God, in company. If one is 
 poor, his neighbour helpeth him ; if he is sad, he corn- 
 6* 
 
66 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 forteth him. This is a village ; see where it stands 
 enclosed in a green shade, and the tall spire peeps 
 above the trees. If there be very many houses, it is 
 a town — it is governed by a magistrate. 
 
 Many towns, and a large extent of country, make 
 a kingdom ; it is enclosed by mountains ; it is divided 
 by rivers ; it is washed by seas ; the inhabitants there- 
 of are countrymen ; they speak the same language ; 
 they make war and peace together ; a king is the 
 ruler thereof. 
 
 Many kingdoms and countries full of people, and 
 islands, and large continents, and different climates, 
 make up this whole world — God governeth it. The 
 people swarm upon the face of it like ants upon a 
 hillock ; some are black with the hot sun ; some cover 
 themselves with furs against the sharp cold ; some 
 drink of the fruit of the vine ; some the pleasant milk 
 of the cocoa-nut ; and others quench their thirst with 
 the running stream. 
 
 All are God's family ; he knoweth every one of 
 them, as a shepherd knoweth his flock ; they pray to 
 him in different languages, but he understandeth them 
 all ; he heareth them all ; he taketh care of all ; none 
 are so great that he cannot punish them ; none are so 
 mean, that he will not protect them. 
 
 Negro woman, who sittest pining in captivity, and 
 weepest over thy sick child : though no one seeth 
 thee, God seeth thee ; though no one pitieth thee, 
 God pitieth thee : raise thy voice, forlorn and aban- 
 doned one ; call upon him from amidst thy bonds, for 
 assuredly he will hear thee. 
 
 Monarch, that rulest over an hundred states ; whose 
 frown is terrible as death, and whose armies cover 
 the land, boast not thyself as though there were none 
 above thee : — God is above thee ; his powerful arm 
 is always over thee ; and if thou doest ill, assuredly 
 he will punish thee. 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 67 
 
 Nations of the earth, fear the Lord ; families of 
 men, call upon the name of your God. 
 
 Is there any one whom God hath not made ? let 
 him not worship him : is there any one whom he 
 hath not blessed ? let him not praise him. 
 
 HYMN IX. 
 
 Come, let us walk abroad ; let us talk of the works 
 of God. 
 
 Take up a handful of the sand ; number the grains 
 of it ; tell them one by one into your lap. 
 
 Try if you can count the blades of grass in the 
 field, or the leaves on the trees. 
 
 You cannot count them, they are innumerable ; 
 much more the things which God has made. 
 
 The fir groweth on the high mountain, and the 
 grey willow bends above the stream. 
 
 The thistle is armed with sharp prickles ; the mal- 
 low is soft and woolly. 
 
 The hop layeth hold with her tendrils, and clasp- 
 eth the tall pole ; the oak hath firm root in the ground, 
 and resisteth the winter storm. 
 
 The daisy enamelleth the meadows, and groweth 
 beneath the foot of the passenger : the tulip asketh a 
 rich soil, and the careful hand of the gardener. 
 
 The iris and the reed spring up in the marsh ; the 
 rich grass covereth the meadows ; and the purple 
 heath flower enliveneth the waste ground. 
 
 The water lilies grow beneath the stream ; their 
 broad leaves float on the surface of the water : the 
 wall-flower takes root in the hard stone, and spreads 
 its fragrance amongst the broken ruins. 
 
 Every leaf is of a different form ; every plant hath 
 a separate inhabitant. 
 
68 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 Look at the thorns that are white with blossoms, 
 and the flowers that cover the fields, and the plants 
 that are trodden in the green path. The hand of 
 man hath not planted them ; the sower hath not scat- 
 tered the seeds from his hand, nor the gardener digged 
 a place for them with his spade. 
 
 Some grow on steep rocks, where no man can 
 climb : in shaking bogs, and deep forests, and desert 
 islands : they spring up every where, and cover the 
 bosom of the whole earth. 
 
 Who causeth them to grow every where, and blow- 
 eth the seeds about in winds, and mixeth them with 
 the mould, and watereth them with soft rains, and 
 cherisheth them with dews ? Who fanneth them with 
 the pure breath of Heaven : and giveth them colours, 
 and smells, and spreadeth out their thin transparent 
 leaves ? 
 
 How doth the rose draw its crimson from the dark 
 brown earth, or the lily its shining white ? How can 
 a small seed contain a plant ? How doth every plant 
 know its season to put forth ? They are marshalled 
 in order : each one knoweth his place, and stand eth 
 up in his own rank. 
 
 The snow-drop, and the primrose, make haste to 
 lift their heads above the ground. When the spring 
 cometh, they say, Here we are ! The carnation 
 waiteth for the full strength of the year ; and the hardy 
 laurustinus cheereth the winter months. 
 
 Every plant produceth its like. An ear of corn 
 will not grow from an acorn ; nor will a grape-stone 
 produce cherries ; but every one springeth from its 
 proper seed. 
 
 Who preserveth them alive through the cold of 
 winter, when the snow is on the ground ; and the 
 sharp frost bites on the plain ? Who soweth a small 
 seed, and a little warmth in the bosom of the earth, 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 69 
 
 and causeth them to spring up afresh, and sap to rise 
 through the hard fibres ? 
 
 The trees are withered, naked, and bare ; they are 
 like dry bones. Who breatheth on them with the 
 breath of spring, and they are covered with verdure, 
 and green leaves sprout from the dead wood ? 
 
 Lo, these are a part of his works ; and a little por- 
 tion of his wonders. 
 
 There is little need that I should tell you of God, 
 for every thing speaks of him. 
 
 Every field is like an open book ; every painted 
 flower hath a lesson written on its leaves. 
 
 Every murmuring brook hath a tongue ; a voice is 
 in every whispering wind. 
 
 They all speak of him who made them ; they all 
 tell us, he is very good. 
 
 We cannot see God, for he is invisible ; but we 
 can see his works, and worship his footsteps in the 
 green sod. 
 
 They that know the most, will praise God the best ; 
 but which of us can number half his works ? 
 
 HYMN X. 
 
 Look at that spreading oak, the pride of the village 
 green ! its trunk is massy, its branches are strong. 
 Its roots, like crooked fangs, strike deep into the soil, 
 and support its huge bulk. The birds build among 
 the boughs ; the cattle repose beneath its shade ; the 
 neighbours form groups beneath the shelter of its 
 green canopy. The old men point it out to their 
 children, but they themselves remember not its growth : 
 generations of men one after another have been born 
 and died, and this son of the forest has remained 
 the same, defying the storms of two hundred winters, 
 
70 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 Yet this large tree was once a little acorn ; small in 
 size, insignificant in appearance ; such as you are now 
 picking up upon the grass beneath it. Such an acorn, 
 whose cup can only contain a drop or two of dew, 
 contained the whole oak. All its massy trunk, all its 
 knotty branches, all its multitude of leaves were in that 
 acorn ; it grew, it spread, it unfolded itself by degrees, 
 it received nourishment from the rain, and the dews, 
 and the well adapted soil, but it was all there. Rain, 
 and dews, and soil, could not raise an oak without the 
 acorn ; nor could they make the acorn any thing but 
 an oak. 
 
 The mind of a child is like the acorn ; its powers 
 are folded up, they do not yet appear, but they are 
 all there. The memory, the judgment, the invention, 
 the feeling of right and wrong, are all in the mind of 
 a child ; of a little infant just born ; but they are not 
 expanded, you cannot perceive them. 
 
 Think of the wisest man you ever knew or heard 
 of ; think of the greatest man ; think of the most 
 learned man, who speaks a number of languages and 
 can find out hidden things ; think of a man who stands 
 like that tree, sheltering and protecting a number of 
 his fellow men, and then say to yourself, the mind of 
 that man was once like mine, his thoughts were child- 
 ish like my thoughts, nay, he was like the babe just 
 born, which knows nothing, remembers nothing, which 
 cannot distinguish good from evil, nor truth from false- 
 hood. 
 
 If you had only seen an acorn, you could never 
 guess at the form and size of an oak : if you had 
 never conversed with a wise man, you could form no 
 idea of him from the mute and helpless infant. 
 
 Instruction is the food of the mind ; it is like the 
 dew and the rain and the rich soil. As the soil and 
 the rain and the dew cause the tree to swell and put 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 71 
 
 forth its tender shoots, so do books and study and dis- 
 course feed the mind, and make it unfold its hidden 
 powers. 
 
 Reverence therefore your own mind ; receive the 
 nurture of instruction, that the man within you may 
 grow and flourish. You cannot guess how excellent 
 he may become. 
 
 It was long before this oak showed its greatness ; 
 years passed away, and it had only shot a little way 
 above the ground, a child might have plucked it up 
 with his little hands ; it was long before any one call- 
 ed it a tree ; and it is long before the child becomes a 
 man. 
 
 The acorn might have perished in the ground, the 
 young tree might have been shorn of its graceful 
 boughs, the twig might have bent, and the tree would 
 have been crooked ; but if it grew at all, it could have 
 been nothing but an oak, it would not have been grass 
 or flowers, which live their season and then perish 
 from the face of the earth. 
 
 The child may be a foolish man, he may be a 
 wicked man, but he must be a man ; his nature is not 
 that of any inferior creature, his soul is not akin to 
 the beasts which perish. 
 
 O cherish then this precious mind, feed it with 
 truth, nourish it with knowledge ; it comes from God, 
 it is made in his image ; the oak will last for centuries 
 of years, but the mind of man is made for immortality. 
 
 Respect in the infant the future man. Destroy not 
 in the man the rudiments of an angel. 
 
IJ HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 HYMN XL 
 
 The golden orb of the sun is sunk behind the hills, 
 the colours fade away from the western sky, and the 
 shades of evening fall fast around me. 
 
 Deeper and deeper they stretch over the plain ; I 
 look at the grass, it is no longer green ; the flowers 
 are no more tinted with various hues ; the houses, the 
 trees, the cattle, are all lost in the distance. The 
 dark curtain of night is let down over the works of 
 God ; they are blotted out from the view, as if they 
 were no longer there. 
 
 Child of little observation ! canst thou see nothing 
 because thou canst not see grass and flowers, trees and 
 cattle ? Lift up thine eyes from the ground shaded 
 with darkness, to the heavens that are stretched over 
 thy head ; see how the stars one by one appear and 
 light up the vast concave. 
 
 There is the moon bending her bright horns like a 
 silver bow, and shedding her mild light, like liquid 
 silver over the blue firmament. 
 
 There is Venus, the evening and the morning star ; 
 and the Pleiades, and the Bear that never sets, and 
 the Pole star that guides the mariner over the deep. 
 
 Now the mantle of darkness is over the earth ; the 
 last little gleam of twilight is faded away ; the lights 
 are extinguished in the cottage windows, but the firma- 
 ment burns with innumerable fires ; every little star 
 twinkles in its place. If you begin to count them, 
 they are more than you can number ; they are like 
 the sands of the sea shore. 
 
 The telescope shows you far more, and there are 
 thousands and ten thousands of stars which no tele- 
 scope has ever reached. 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 73 
 
 Now Orion heaves his bright shoulder above the 
 horizon, and Sirius, the dog star, follows him, the 
 brightest of the train. 
 
 Look at the milky way, it is a field of brightness : 
 its pale light is composed of myriads of burning suns. 
 
 All these are God's families : he gives the sun to 
 shine with a ray of his own glory : he marks the path 
 of the planets, he guides their wanderings through the 
 sky, and traces out their orbit with the finger of his 
 power. 
 
 If you were to travel as swift as an arrow from a 
 bow, and to travel on further and further still, for mil- 
 lions of years, you would not be out of the creation of 
 God. 
 
 New suns in the depth of space would still be burn- 
 ing round you, and other planets fulfilling their ap- 
 pointed course. 
 
 Lift up thine eyes, child of earth, for God has given 
 thee a glimpse of heaven. 
 
 The light of one sun is withdrawn, that thou mayest 
 see ten thousand. Darkness is spread over the earth, 
 that thou mayest behold, at a distance, the regions of 
 eternal day. 
 
 This earth has a variety of inhabitants ; the sea, 
 the air, the surface of the ground, swarm with crea- 
 tures of different natures, sizes, and powers ; to know 
 a very little of them, is to be wise among the sons of 
 men. 
 
 What then, thinkest thou, are the various forms and 
 natures and senses and occupations of the peopled 
 universe ? 
 
 Who can tell the birth and generation of so many 
 worlds ? who can relate their histories ? who can de- 
 scribe their inhabitants ? 
 
 Canst thou measure infinity with a line ? canst thou 
 grasp the circle of infinite space . ? 
 7 
 
<4 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 Yet these all depend upon God, they hang upon 
 him as a child upon the breast of its mother ; he tem- 
 pereth the heat to the inhabitant of Mercury ; he pro- 
 videth resources against the cold in the frozen orb of 
 Saturn. Doubt not that he provideth for all beings 
 that he has made. 
 
 Look at the moon when it walketh in brightness ; 
 2;aze at the stars when they are marshalled in the 
 firmament, and adore the Maker of so many worlds. 
 
 HYMN XII. 
 
 It is now Winter, dead Winter. Desolation and 
 silence reign in the fields, no singing of birds is heard, 
 no humming of insects. The streams murmur ho 
 longer ; they are locked up in frost. 
 
 The trees lift their naked boughs, like withered 
 arms, into the bleak sky ; the green sap no longer 
 rises in their veins ; the flowers and the sweet smell- 
 ing shrubs are decayed to their roots. 
 
 The sun himself looks cold and cheerless ; he 
 gives light only enough to show the universal desola- 
 tion. 
 
 Nature, child of God, mourns for her children. A 
 little while ago, and she rejoiced in her offspring ; the 
 rose shed its perfume upon the gale ; the vine gave 
 its fruit ; her children were springing and blooming 
 around her, on every lawn and every green bank. 
 
 O Nature, beautiful Nature, beloved child of God, 
 why dost thou sit mourning and desolate ? Has thy 
 father forsaken thee, has he left thee to perish ? Art 
 thou no longer the object of his care ? 
 
 He has not forsaken thee, O Nature ; thou art his 
 beloved child, the eternal image of his perfections; 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. (O 
 
 his own beauty is spread over thee, the light of his 
 countenance is shed upon thee. 
 
 Thy children shall live again, they shall spring up 
 and bloom around thee ; the rose shall again breathe 
 its sweetness on the soft air, and from the bosom of 
 the ground, verdure shall spring forth. 
 
 And dost thou not mourn, () Nature, for thy hu- 
 man births ; for thy sons and thy daughters that sleep 
 under the sod ; and shall they not also revive ? Shall 
 the rose and the myrtle bloom anew, and shall man 
 perish ? Shall goodness sleep in the ground, and the 
 light of wisdom be quenched in the dust, and shall 
 tears be shed over them in vain ? 
 
 They also shall live ; their winter shall pass away ; 
 they shall bloom again. The tears of thy children 
 shall be dried up when the eternal year proceeds. 
 Oh come that eternal year ! 
 
 HYMN XIII. 
 
 Child of mortality, whence comest thou ? why is 
 thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red 
 with weeping ? 
 
 I have seen the rose in its beauty ; it spread its 
 leaves to the morning sun — I returned, it was dying 
 upon its stalk : the grace of the form of it was gone ; 
 its loveliness was vanished away ; the leaves thereof 
 were scattered on the ground, and no one gathered 
 them again. 
 
 A stately tree grew on the plain ; its branches were 
 covered with verdure ; its boughs spread wide and 
 made a goodly shadow ; the trunk was like a strong 
 pillar ; the roots were like crooked fangs. — I returned, 
 the verdure was nipt by the east wind ; the branches 
 
76 HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 were lopt away by the ax ; the worm had made itb 
 way into the trunk, and the heart thereof was decay- 
 ed ; it mouldered away, and fell to the ground. 
 
 I have seen the insects sporting in the sun-shine, 
 and darting along the streams ; their wings glittered 
 with gold and purple ; their bodies shone like the 
 green emerald : they were more numerous than I 
 could count; their motions were quicker than my 
 eye could glance — I returned, they were brushed into 
 the pool ; they were perishing with the evening breeze ; 
 the swallow had devoured them ; the pike had seized 
 them ; there were none found of so great a multitude. 
 
 I have seen man in the pride of his strength ; his 
 cheeks glowed with beauty ; his limbs were full of 
 activity ; he leaped ; he walked ; he ran ; he rejoiced 
 in that he was more excellent than those — I returned, 
 he lay stiff and cold on the bare ground ; his feet 
 could no longer move, nor his hands stretch themselves 
 out ; his life was departed from him ; and the breath 
 out of his nostrils : — therefore do I weep because 
 DEATH is in the world ; the spoiler is among the 
 works of God : all that is made, must be destroyed ; 
 all that is born, must die : let me alone, for I will weep 
 yet longer. 
 
 HYMN XIV. 
 
 I have seen the flower withering on the stalk, and 
 its bright leaves spread on the ground. — I looked 
 again and it sprung forth afresh ; the stem was crown- 
 ed with new buds, and the sweetness thereof filled the 
 air. 
 
 I have seen the sun set in the west, and the shades 
 of night shut in the wide horizon ; there was no 
 
HYMNS IIS PKOSE. 77 
 
 colour, nor shape, nor beauty, nor music ; gloom and 
 darkness brooded around — I looked, the sun broke 
 forth again from the east, he gilded the mountain tops ; 
 the lark rose to meet him from her low nest, and the 
 shades of darkness fell away. 
 
 I have seen the insect being come to its full size, 
 languish and refuse to eat : it spun itself a tomb, and 
 was shrouded in the silken cone ; it lay without feet, 
 or shape or power to move. 
 
 I looked again, it had burst its tomb : it was full oi 
 life, and sailed on coloured wings through the soft air ; 
 it rejoiced in its new being. 
 
 Thus shall it be with thee, O man ! and so shall 
 thy life be renewed. 
 
 Beauty shall spring up out of ashes ; and life out 
 of the dust. 
 
 A little while shalt thou lie in the ground, as the 
 seed lieth in the bosom of the earth : but thou shalt 
 be raised again; and, if thou art good, thou shalt 
 never die any more. 
 
 Who is he that cometh to burst open the prison 
 doors of the tomb : to bid the dead awake, and to 
 gather his redeemed from the four winds of heaven ? 
 
 He descendeth on a fiery cloud \ the sound of a 
 trumpet goeth before him ; thousands of angels are 
 on his right hand. 
 
 It is Jesus, the Son of God ; the Saviour of men ; 
 the friend of the good. 
 
 He cometh in the glory of his Father ; he hath re- 
 ceived power from on high. 
 
 Mourn not, therefore, child of immortality ; — for 
 the spoiler, the cruel spoiler, that laid waste the works 
 of God, is subdued : Jesus hath conquered death : 
 child of immortality ! mourn no longer. 
 
 7* 
 
HYMNS IN PROSE. 
 
 HYMN XV. 
 
 The rose is sweet, but it is surrounded with thorns : 
 the lily of the valley is fragrant, but it springeth up 
 amongst the brambles. 
 
 The spring is pleasant, but it is soon past : the 
 summer is bright, but the winter destroyeth the beauty 
 thereof. 
 
 The rainbow is very glorious, but it soon vanish eth 
 away : life is good, but it is quickly swallowed up in 
 death. 
 
 There is a land where the roses are without thorns, 
 where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. 
 
 In that land, there is eternal spring, and light with- 
 out any cloud. 
 
 The tree of life groweth in the midst thereof; 
 rivers of pleasures are there, and flowers that never 
 fade. 
 
 Myriads of happy spirits are there, and surround 
 the throne of God with a perpetual hymn. 
 
 The angels with their golden harps sing praises 
 continually, and the cherubim fly on wings of fire. 
 
 This country is Heaven : it is the country of those 
 that are good ; and nothing that is wicked must in- 
 habit there. 
 
 The toad must not spit its venom amongst turtle 
 doves : nor the poisonous hen-bane grow amongst 
 sweet flowers. 
 
 Neither must any one that doeth ill enter into that 
 good land. 
 
 This earth is pleasant, for it is God's earth, and it 
 is filled with many delightful things. 
 
 But that country is far better : there we shall not 
 grieve any more, nor be sick any more, nor do wrong 
 
HY'MNS IN PROSE. 79 
 
 any more ; there the cold of winter shall not wither 
 ns, nor the heats of summer scorch us. 
 
 In that country there are no wars nor quarrels, but 
 all love one another with dear love. 
 
 When our parents and friends die, and are laid in 
 the cold ground, we see them here no more ; but 
 there we shall embrace them again, and live with 
 them, and be separated no more. 
 
 There we shall meet all good men, whom we read 
 of in holy books. 
 
 There we shall see Abraham, the called of God, 
 the father of the faithful ; and Moses after his long 
 wanderings in the Arabian desert ; and Elijah, the 
 prophet of God ; and Daniel, who escaped the lion's 
 den ; and there the son of Jesse, the shepherd king, 
 the sweet singer of Israel. 
 
 They loved God on earth ; they praised him on 
 earth : but in that country they will praise him better, 
 and love him more. 
 
 There we shall see Jesus, who is gone before us to 
 that happy place ; and there we shall behold the glory 
 of the high God. 
 
 We cannot see him here, but we will love him 
 here ; we must be now on earth, but we will often 
 think on heaven. 
 
 That happy land is our home, we are to be here 
 but for a little while, and there for ever, even for ages 
 of eternal vears. 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY 
 
 ON THE 
 
 TATLER, SPECTATOR, &c 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY.* 
 
 It is equally true of books as of their authors, that 
 one generation passeth away and another cometh. 
 Whoever has lived long enough to compare one race 
 of men with that which has preceded it, will have ob- 
 served a change, not only in the tastes and habitudes 
 of common life, but in the fashion of their studies, and 
 their course of general reading. Books influence 
 manners ; and manners, in return, influence the taste 
 for books. 
 
 Books make a silent and gradual, but a sure change 
 in our ideas and opinions ; and as new authors are 
 continually taking possession of the public mind, and 
 old ones falling into disuse, new associations insensibly 
 take place, and shed their influence unperceived over 
 our taste, our manners, and our morals. If, for in- 
 stance, the parent of the last age would put Fenelon 
 into the hands of his child, and the parent of the pre- 
 sent day would give him Berquin ; each with a view 
 of impressing the same general sentiments of piety 
 and benevolence : yet their offspring will be pupils 
 of a different school, and their moral ideas will have 
 some shades of difference. This new infusion of 
 taste and moral sentiment acts in its turn upon the 
 relish for books ; and thus the fame of writers is ex- 
 posed to continual fluctuation. Nor does this remark 
 
 * Originally prefixed to " Selections from the Tatler, Spectator," 
 4*c. chiefly designed for the benefit of Young Persons. 
 
84 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 apply only to those ephemeral publications, which, 
 either from the nature of the subject or the mediocrity 
 of its execution, live their day, and are then buried in 
 oblivion ; but to books that have been the favourites 
 of the public, and 'the very glass by which its noble 
 youth did dress themselves.' Books that were in 
 every one's hands, and that have contributed to form 
 our relish for literature itself; these are laid aside, as 
 philosophy opens new viens of thought, or fashion and 
 caprice direct the taste of the public into a different 
 channel. It is true, indeed, that a work of the first 
 excellence cannot perish. It will continue to be 
 respected as a classic : but it will no longer be the 
 book which every one who reads, is expected to be 
 acquainted with, to which allusions are often made, 
 and readily understood in conversation ; it loses the 
 precious privilege of occupying the minds of youth : 
 in short, it is withdrawn from the parlour-window, and 
 laid upon the shelf in honourable repose. It ceases 
 to be current coin, but is preserved like a medal in 
 the cabinets of the curious. 
 
 This revolution, the Spectators, with the other sets 
 of papers by the same hands, appear to the Editor to 
 have undergone. When those were young who now 
 are old, no books were so popular, particularly with 
 the female sex. They were the favourite volumes 
 in a young lady's library ; and probably the very first 
 that, after the Bible, she would have thought of pur- 
 chasing. Sir Roger de Coverley and the other char- 
 acters of the club were ' familiar in our mouths as 
 household names ; ' and every little circumstance re- 
 lated of them, remained indelibly engraven on our 
 memories. From the papers of Addison we imbibed 
 our first relish for wit ; from his criticisms we formed 
 our first standard of taste ; and from his delineations 
 we drew our first ideas of manners. It requires little 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 85 
 
 attention to be convinced, that this is now far from 
 being the case. It is not difficult to meet with those 
 among the rising generation who have only seen here 
 and there an occasional paper of a publication once so 
 generally diffused ; and it now and then happens, that 
 a story from the Tatler is produced as new, in polite 
 company, without detection. Various causes have 
 contributed to this change. When these periodical 
 papers were first published, the plan itself was new. 
 It has since been adopted by various writers with more 
 or less success, till the frame-work is worn out, or, 
 if the reader please, till the canvass of the panorama 
 is become threadbare. Style has also been purified and 
 refined. Criticism has become more profound. Es- 
 say-writing has been largely cultivated. Moral senti- 
 ments of weight and importance have become trite 
 from frequent repetition. The talent also of composi- 
 tion is more common than it was a century ago ; and 
 many things which were then first said, have since 
 been better said. Add to this, that much of the wit 
 and lively satire of these papers has been employed 
 on subjects of a temporary nature, and has conse- 
 quently lost much of its salt and pungency. We are 
 no longer interested in the contest between the opera 
 and the puppet show. We can only guess, how much 
 of truth and how much of invention is contained in the 
 account of the Mohawks ; and we are less struck with 
 the whimsical effect of party-patching, when the mode 
 itself is forgotten, amidst newer inventions of capricious 
 ornament, and more modern exhibitions of fashionable 
 folly. 
 
 It is also to be considered, that the more effica- 
 cious these pieces have been, — and no doubt they have 
 had considerable effect, in refining the taste and cor- 
 recting the manners of society, — the sooner will they 
 he thrown by as antiquated or useless. Thus, the 
 8 
 
86 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 very success of a book may hasten the period oJ n 
 being forgotten ; and the completion of an author's 
 purpose may turn out to be the ruin of his fame. 
 Addison was himself aware of this cause of a diminu- 
 tion of popularity, and says, in one of his essays, that 
 those papers which attack the follies of the day, will, 
 in process of time, become like old plate ; the weight 
 will remain, but the fashion will be lost. 
 
 It must however be acknowledged, that a great 
 part of these compositions do by no means stand upon 
 so high a ground of merit, as to have any strong claim 
 upon the notice of the present age. In the Tatlers 
 there is a great deal of absolute trifling ; and the 
 Spectators themselves, though the best of the several 
 sets, are very unequally written, — as indeed might 
 be expected from the various hands engaged in the 
 work. Steele was an entertaining rather than a fine 
 writer ; and none of his coadjutors (the immortal Ad- 
 dison alone excepted) would now be thought much 
 above the common run of essay-writers in a newspa- 
 per or a magazine. Many inaccuracies, and even 
 vulgarisms, blemish the pages of Steele, which an au- 
 thor of less celebrity would now avoid. We are 
 grown more accurate in our definitions, more discrim- 
 inating in our investigations, more pure in our diction, 
 more fastidious in the ornaments of style ; we possess 
 standards of excellence of every kind to refer to, 
 books multiply on our hands, and we willingly consign 
 to oblivion a portion of the old, to make room for the 
 increasing demands of the new. 
 
 This being the case, it has been thought that a 
 Selection from the Tatlers, Spectators, and Guardians, 
 comprising all those papers in which the peculiar spirit 
 and excellence of these works chiefly resides, might 
 be no unacceptable present to the world in general, 
 and particularly to yoini'j: people of both sexes, wh,j 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 87 
 
 ) not happen to possess the originals, and who, if 
 they did, would want a guide, in so miscellaneous a 
 work, to direct them to what is best worth their notice. 
 Let it not be imagined that such a Selection is pre- 
 sumptuously intended to supersede the original vol- 
 umes ; they must always find their place in a well 
 furnished library ; but the generality of readers, of 
 whose various occupations the cultivation of literature 
 makes only a part, (and of this class are nearly all 
 women, and most men who are not devoted to pro- 
 fessional studies,) may perhaps be well content to have 
 some of the most beautiful compositions in our lan- 
 guage presented to them, without being obliged to lose 
 their own time in separating them from a mass of 
 uninteresting matter. The French are very fond of 
 extracting what they call V esprit oV un auteur, which 
 may be translated the essence of a writer. In this, 
 which may be compared to the essential oils of plants, 
 resides the genuine and distinguishing flavour of an 
 author's wit ; but it commonly bears a very small pro- 
 portion to his bulk. Whole libraries might by this 
 process be distilled down to a few pocket volumes ; 
 as a single vial of attar of roses contains the precious 
 product of many acres. Time is an admirable chy- 
 mist in this way. We are apt to lament the waste he 
 has made among the productions of ancient genius : 
 but it is probable, if we had an opportunity of inspect- 
 ing them, we should find that, in reality, nearly all 
 are preserved to us that are most worth preservation ; 
 and that what has perished, is chiefly made up of the 
 residuum of science, and the caput mortuum of litera- 
 ture. It is true, indeed, that there is a light in which 
 papers that describe the manners and little incidents 
 of the day, rise in value as their contents become 
 more obsolete. With what curiosity should we pe- 
 ruse a Roman newspaper, or a critique upon Roscius, 
 
*8 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 or a conversation at the toilette of Aspasia ! To an 
 antiquary, the Spectators are already a great source of 
 information, and five hundred years hence will be 
 invaluable ; though it must be observed, some discern- 
 ment is necessary to separate the playful exaggera- 
 tions of humour, from the real facts on which they are 
 grounded. 
 
 It may be proper to preface this Selection with 
 some account of the original publications. The Tat- 
 ler was undertaken by Sir Richard Steele, under the 
 fictitious name of Isaac BickerstafF; which he assumed, 
 as he tells us himself in the dedication to the first 
 volume, in order to take advantage of the popularity the 
 name had acquired, from its having been made use of 
 by Swift in his humurous predictions relative to poor 
 Partridge, the almanac-maker. The first number 
 was published April 12, 1709. Addison was at this 
 time in Ireland, secretary to Wharton the lord-lieu- 
 tenant. He is said to have discovered his friend when 
 he got to the sixth number, by a remark on Virgil, 
 which he recollected having communicated to him. 
 From that time Addison enriched it with occasional 
 pieces, though he seems to have confined his assistance 
 to loose hints and sketches during the earlier period of 
 the work. It is not till the second volume that we 
 meet with any entire paper in his best style. But the 
 hand of Swift, who then acted with the whigs, and 
 was intimate with Steele, is frequently discernible. 
 The Verses on a Morning in Town, and on A City 
 Shower, which are printed in his works, made their 
 first appearance here. The remarks on various 
 preachers then in vogue, No. 66, contain much of the 
 substance of his .Letter to a Clergyman ; and the first 
 hint and germ of his Polite Conversation is evidently 
 to be seen in the repartees of Miss Biddy and Miss 
 Sly, which, for that reason only, is inserted here. It 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 89 
 
 shows what pains Swift took with his pieces, when we 
 find him working up this single thought into a volume. 
 The next year Swift left the whigs, and joined with 
 Mrs. Manley and others in a party paper called, The 
 Examiner, conducted with great virulence on the 
 other side. The Tatler was a kind of newspaper, as 
 well as an essay : it was published three times a week, 
 and sold, there being then no stamp-duty, at the low 
 price of a penny. 
 
 Addison kept himself concealed, and was only sus- 
 pected of being one of the authors, till its appearance 
 in volumes. This publication gave, as it were, the 
 dawn and promise of its successor, the Spectator ; 
 and indeed there are papers in it, equal in humour to 
 any of the latter : as the account of the freezing of 
 words in Nova Zembla, the Court of Honour, and 
 some others : but, in general, the wit is local and tem- 
 porary, the style negligent ; and even the strain of the 
 graver papers rather gives the idea of a wit who 
 lashes the town, than an elegant moralist who instructs 
 the world. The Tatler abounds in personalities. To 
 some of these, the clue cannot now be recovered, and 
 of others the interest has long since been lost. Party 
 spirit also, at the time these papers were published, 
 ran very high ; the whigs and tories were so nearly 
 balanced, that they maintained for some time an equal 
 struggle, which at length ended in the complete defeat 
 of the whigs, the disgrace of the duke of Marlborough, 
 and the forming that ministry which directed the four 
 last years of queen Anne. Steele took a decided 
 part in favour of the whigs, and introduced a paper 
 against Harley, which lost him his place of Gazetteer. 
 Weary, perhaps, of the responsibility of a paper, of 
 which he w r as now well known to be the editor, and of 
 being personally threatened, as he often was, for the 
 liberties he took with living characters, he suddenly 
 8* 
 
90 CRITICAL ESSAV. 
 
 dropped the work on January 2, 1710. It revived in 
 two months' time, under better auspices and with new 
 associates, and bore the title of the Spectator. Swift 
 was by this time completely alienated from his old 
 friends ; but his defection was more than compensated 
 by the regular assistance of Addison. The new plan 
 was better concerted, the authors felt their strength, 
 they had experienced how popular this way of writing 
 was capable of becoming, and they determined to 
 keep it free from personal satire and party politics. 
 This in general they did, and it was laid on the 
 queen's table at breakfast. It is not difficult, however, 
 for a skilful reader to discern in the general turn of 
 sentiment, the political complexion of the writers. 
 The town soon found out to whom they were obliged 
 for their entertainment; and an elegant compliment 
 was paid to the Spectator in the following epigram : 
 
 When first the Tatler to a mute was turn'd, 
 Great Britain for her Censor's silence mourn'd ; 
 Robb'd of his sprightly beams, she wept the night, 
 Till the Spectator rose and blazed as bright. 
 So the first man the sun's first setting view'd, 
 And sigh'd — till circling day his joys renew'd ; 
 Yet doubtful how that second sun to name, 
 Whether a bright successor or the same : 
 So we ; but now from this suspense are freed, 
 Since all agree, who both with judgment read, 
 'T is the same sun, and does himself succeed. 
 
 To estimate the good which was done by this pub- 
 lication, we should consider the state of society at the 
 time it w<:s Written. Party spirit was high and bitter, 
 the manners of the wits and fashionable young men 
 were still tinctured with the licentiousness of the court 
 of Charles II., mixed with the propensity to disorderly 
 outrages and savage frolics incident to a people, who 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 91 
 
 were still amused by the Bear Garden,* and who had 
 not yet been taught to bend under the yoke of a strict 
 police. The stage was in its meridian of genius and 
 fashion, but disgraced by rant and grossness, which 
 offended the sober and excluded the strict. Men 
 lived much in clubs, and of course drinking was com- 
 mon. There was more separation than at present 
 between the different classes of society ; and each was 
 more strongly marked with the peculiarities of his pro- 
 fession. There were learned and there were elegant 
 women ; but manners had not received a general 
 polish, nor had women the advantage of a general 
 cultivation. Genius had already attained its perfec- 
 tion, but the reign of taste may be said to have com- 
 menced with Addison. The coadjutors of Addison 
 and Steele in this work were Eustace Budgell, Tick- 
 ell, Hughes, author of the Siege of Damascus, Henry 
 Martin, Pierce, bishop of Rochester, and Mr. Henry 
 Grove, of Taunton ; occasionally Mr. Byrom, Par- 
 nell, and Pope, w T hose Messiah was first published 
 here, together with various correspondents, some 
 known and others unknown. Of all these, Addison 
 was the head of gold. His merit is indeed so supe- 
 rior to that of his associates, that their labours proba- 
 bly live to this day, only by being grafted on his fame. 
 Many of their papers are pleasing and instructive : 
 yet, if by any accident they were destroyed, their loss 
 would scarcely be felt amongst the various treasures 
 . of English literature ; whereas the loss of Addison 
 could not elsewhere be supplied, and would make a 
 
 * The Bear Garden was a sort of amphitheatre dedicated to bull- 
 baiting, bear-baiting, prize-fighting, and similar sports. It was at- 
 tended by butchers, drovers, Sec. &c. ; also by people of the highest 
 fashion, for whom there were seats set apart, ornamented with old 
 tapestry hangings, the price of which was half-a-croivn. Its neigh- 
 bourhood was notorious for pickpockets and infamous women. May 
 Fair, another place of disorderly resort, was abolished in 1709. 
 
92 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 chasm, not in the number only, but in the species of' 
 our fine writers. 
 
 Addison was one of a cluster of men of genius, 
 who, flourishing at a time when the taste of the nation 
 was forming itself, became, in their different walks, 
 the standards of literary excellence. His peculiar 
 portion was delicate humour, taste, and richness of 
 imagination : these were all enlisted on the side of 
 virtue and good manners. In these periodical papers 
 he assumed the title of Censor ; and no one was better 
 qualified for so delicate and useful an office. Decency 
 and sobriety of behaviour are every where inculcated : 
 every offensive singularity, every outrage of the licen- 
 tious upon the sober and defenceless part of society, 
 is held up to reprobation : marriage, the constant butt 
 of the wits and jest of the stage, is treated with just re- 
 spect, and its duties enforced. Addison says of him- 
 self, that as Socrates made it his boast, that he had 
 drawn down philosophy from the gods to dwell among 
 men, so he shall be satisfied to have it said of him, 
 that he had brought her from schools and colleges to 
 the tea-table and the dressing-room. His talents were 
 well adapted for an undertaking of this sort. His 
 excellence lay not so much in the depth or extent of 
 his ideas, as in his pleasing manner of communicating 
 them ; in the splendour he diffused over a serious — 
 in the grace with which he touched a lighter subject. 
 Addison had a large portion of the honey of Fenelon : 
 nourished like him with the purest flower of classical 
 literature, he possessed a like vivid fancy ; a similar 
 fulness and richness of style. But he also possessed 
 the attic salt of Lucian : the manner of this author is 
 so admirably imitated in his Menippus, that any per- 
 son, with a slight knowledge of the Greek author, 
 might easily be induced to believe the dialogue was 
 really translated from that elegant satirist. 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. \)o 
 
 Addison had a wonderful talent in working up a 
 hint, and producing a most beautiful fancy-piece from 
 a neglected fragment, a slight outline, or an obscure 
 tradition. Of this, his account of the nation of the 
 Amazons, the loves of Shalum and Hilpah, and the 
 History of the Lover's Leap, may be given as in- 
 stances. Even where the substance is borrowed, as 
 in some of the Eastern tales which he has conde- 
 scended to illustrate ; who is not struck with their 
 different effect as clothed in his style, and as we read 
 them in the bald translation of the Arabian Tales? 
 Whatever he touches, he turns to gold. If we compare 
 him with the most distinguished of his contemporaries, 
 (for to the most distinguished alone can he be com- 
 pared), we shall find he has more ease and simplicity 
 than Pope, whose wit is not always free from affecta- 
 tion, and whose satire is frequently splenetic, some- 
 times malignant. Arbuthnot and Swift had as much 
 wit, perhaps a freer vein of humour ; but Swift could 
 not, like Addison, ally it to grace and soften it with 
 amenity. The satire of Swift is caustic and contemp- 
 tuous ; that of Addison is so sheathed in urbanity, that 
 it scarcely offends those whom it chastises. 
 
 To be convinced of this, we need only turn our 
 thoughts to the different effect produced by the stric- 
 tures of each upon the female sex. Both are perhaps 
 in reality equally severe, and by their pleasantries be- 
 tray a contempt for a sex, they probably considered 
 in a very inferior light : yet such is the charm of man- 
 ner, that the Spectator has ever been the favourite 
 of the toilette and the dressing-room ; while it requires 
 no common strength of mind in a lady to overcome 
 the disgust excited by the supercilious harshness of the 
 Irish Dean, and to profit by lessons delivered with so 
 much roughness. When Addison rallies, you see a 
 satyr peeping over the shoulder of the Graces. His 
 
94 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 wit is refined ; it is of a kind, that requires and exer- 
 cises penetration in the reader, who is to catch his 
 meaning from the side views that are dexterously 
 presented to him : for the author never laughs himself. 
 The style of Addison is pure and clear ; rather diffuse 
 than concentrated, and ornamented to the highest de- 
 gree consistent with good taste. But this ornament 
 consists in the splendour of imagery, not in the ordon- 
 nance of words ; his readers will seek in vain for those 
 sonorous cadences with which the public ear has been 
 familiarised since the writings of Dr. Johnson. They 
 will find no stately magnificence of phrase, no triads 
 of sentences artfully balanced, so as to form a sweep 
 of harmony at the close of a period. His words are 
 genuine English : he deals little in inversions, and 
 often allows himself to conclude negligently with a 
 trivia] word. The fastidious ear may occasionally be 
 offended with some colloquial phrase?, and some ex- 
 pressions which would not now, perhaps, be deemed 
 perfectly accurate ; the remains of barbarisms which 
 he more than any one had laboured to banish from 
 good writing ; but the best judges have doubted, 
 whether our language has not lost, more than it has 
 gained since his time. An idiomatic style gives a 
 truth and spirit to a composition, that is but ill com- 
 pensated by an elaborate pomp, which sets written 
 composition at too great a distance from speech, for 
 which it is only the substitute. There is perhaps a 
 little too much of what the French call persiflage, in 
 the manner in which he conveys his advice to the 
 female part of his readers : but it was the fashion of 
 that age to address women in a style of gallantry, un- 
 der which was often concealed a sly ridicule. Swift, 
 in his surly way, used to say, ' Let him fair sex it to 
 the world's end, I will not meddle with the Spectator.' 
 The Essays of Addison are given sometimes in sets. 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 95 
 
 and sometimes in single papers, and may be thrown 
 into different classes : those on criticism, on moral and 
 religious subjects, fancy pieces, and those that exhibit 
 character, life, and manners. From each of these, 
 several have been chosen for the present Selection. 
 The sets, which for the sake of variety were originally 
 mingled with the other papers, are here given without 
 interruption, for the greater convenienae of the reader. 
 Of these, the first is the Essay on true and false Wit, 
 in six papers. These strictures will appear particu- 
 larly seasonable, if we recollect how much the taste 
 for point and verbal wit had prevailed in the punning 
 reign of James the first, and among the minor wits of 
 the court of Charles the second. Authors then 
 abounded in thought, but had not yet lenrned what to 
 reject. Addison has seasoned these papers with a 
 plentiful share of the quality in its best form, which is 
 the subject of them. They conclude with a well 
 imagined allegory, which has been made the ground- 
 work of a very pretty mock-heroic poem by the late 
 J\Jr. Cambridge, entitled The Scribbleriad. The 
 Critique on Milton's Paradise Lost is more elaborate, 
 and is extended through 18 papers. For this task 
 the author w r as qualified, as well by his exquisite natu- 
 ral taste, as by his familiar acquaintance with the 
 Greek and Roman classics, and the laws of composi- 
 tion ; we may add also, by his serious and religious 
 turn of mind, a circumstance of no small moment in 
 relishing a poem the basis of which is laid in scriptural 
 mythology. This admirable poem, which is now 7 the 
 boast of every Englishman, was at that time but little 
 noticed. Not that Addison, as some seem to think, 
 discovered the Paradise Lost : it had been long 
 enough before the public to attract the notice of 
 judges : but there had been no large edition before 
 his time, and many circumstances had contributed to 
 
96 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 prevent its soon becoming a popular work. Milton's 
 political character was for some time obnoxious ; 
 his style had many little roughnesses, and many scho- 
 lastic terms not easily understood. His poem was in 
 blank verse, which was then a novelty to the English 
 reader, as was also the nature of the poem itself; for 
 we had no regular epic, and the common reader was 
 not, as now, familiarized, through the medium of good 
 translations, with Homer and Virgil. It was there- 
 fore a necessary preliminary, to explain the laws and 
 construction of epic poetry in general ; after which. 
 in a pleasing strain of liberal and elegant criticism, the 
 essayist goes on to illustrate the beauties of his author. 
 The many brilliant passages that are quoted, and 
 brought into parallel with corresponding ones in the 
 ancient poets, chequer the page with a pleasing vari- 
 ety, and, by familiarizing the reader with the style of 
 Milton, made way for the more general reception of 
 the entire poem. Such a critique has certainly less 
 in it that suits the present day, and therefore the 
 editor was long in doubt whether to admit these pa- 
 pers in the present Selection. They will however be 
 found useful to young persons in laying a basis of just 
 taste, and older ones might have regretted the omis- 
 sion of what they have been accustomed to admire. 
 A reader of the present day will be apt to smile to 
 see Blaekmore mentioned, as he is by Addison, in the 
 same page with Milton ; but the truth is, there was a 
 great mixture of party spirit in the cry raised by the 
 tory wits against the dulncss of Blackmore. He was 
 too prolific a poet ; but his Creation is superior to 
 many poems which those wits thought proper to com- 
 mend. Worse authors have been promised immor- 
 tality, and much better have failed to obtain it. 
 
 The next set is on the Pleasures of the Imagina- 
 tion. This piece of criticism is equally calculated to 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 97 
 
 enlighten the mind by the soundness of its rules ; and 
 toJbrra the taste by the beauty of its illustrations : 
 the language of Addison is no where more brilliant 
 and highly finished than in some passages of these 
 papers. Akenside, as is well known, made them the 
 groundwork of his didactic poem, and had little more 
 to do in many parts, than to reduce to measure what 
 had already all the other charms of poetry. 
 
 Several papers are devoted to theatrical entertain- 
 ments. Such was then the licentiousness of the 
 playhouse, that the austere moralists condemned it 
 altogether. Addison did better ; for he undertook to 
 reform it ; and no doubt it is owing to the castiga- 
 tion which he and other writers of taste and virtue 
 have bestowed upon it, that it is at present tolerably 
 free from gross indecency, rant, and profaneness. It 
 was then common for ladies of character to go in a 
 mask the first night of a new play, as they expected to 
 be put out of countenance. Steele had a great share in 
 this reformation, as well by his own comedies as by 
 his strictures on those of others. 
 
 Not content with the incidental and indirect service 
 done to virtue and religion in the general strain of his 
 writings, the Saturday papers, through many of the 
 volumes, are devoted by Addison expressly to that 
 purpose. The sentiments of rational and liberal de- 
 votion which breathe through them, are blended with 
 the speculations of philosophy and the paintings of a 
 fine imagination. His religious affections break forth 
 at a fine sun-set, the view of the starry heavens, and 
 other circumstances proper to impress a mind of feel- 
 ing. Of these a portion are presented to the reader ; 
 perhaps not so many as, upon a vague recollection, 
 he will imagine might have been collected : but the 
 truth is, we abound so much in excellent discourses of 
 this nature, that many of them would not now appear 
 9 
 
98 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 t ) be marked with that originality which is meant to 
 form the basis of this Selection. In one particular, 
 we must reluctantly confess, Addison was not liberal. 
 He had no enlarged ideas of religious toleration. He 
 treats Freethinkers, whom he often attacks, with a 
 contempt and insult by no means consistent with either 
 the philosophy or the urbanity of his character : nay, 
 he gives broad hints that the civil magistrate would be 
 well employed in hunting these vermin, as he calls 
 them, out of society; and talks, half in jest, half in 
 earnest, of " blowing an atheist out of the mouth of a 
 cannon." But Addison was, and was accustomed 
 to call himself, a tory in religion, though a whig in 
 politics. 
 
 The next class may be called his Fancy Pieces, 
 as the J^ision of Mirzah, the Mountain of Miseries, 
 Marraton and Yaratilda. These are almost all such 
 as none but himself could write. The flower of the 
 most elegant imagination, the visions of a poetical fan- 
 cy, are blended sometimes with sentiment, sometimes 
 with wit and gaiety, and often are illustrative of some 
 sublime moral truth. In this kind of writing, particu- 
 larly pleasing to young minds, Addison has been often 
 imitated, but perhaps never equalled. 
 
 In the pictures of life and delineation of manners, 
 which make up a large part of the work, the hand of 
 a master is not less apparent. The character of the 
 Spectator himself is well conceived and faithfully kept 
 up ; and that of Sir Roger de Coverley is exquisitely 
 drawn. It is however remarkable, that his character, 
 as delineated in the course of the work, is very dif- 
 ferent from the sketch of it given in the account of 
 the club with which the first volume of the Spectator 
 opens : but that paper is not Addison's, and it should 
 seem as if the authors had intended to make more use 
 of those characters, than they afterwards found it con- 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 99 
 
 venient to do ; for the greater part of them come but 
 little into play, and are no way essential to the con- 
 duct of the work. Sir Roger de Coverley, in the 
 account given of him in the first paper, is said to have 
 been in his youth a man of the town, a fine gentleman, 
 to have supped with wits, blustered in coffee-houses, 
 and fought duels. Addison's Sir Roger is nothing of 
 all this. He is an honest country gentleman, ignorant 
 of the town and the ways of it, with a moderate share 
 of sense, very little information, and a large portion of 
 what many w T ould call salutary prejudices. By the 
 first paper we are prepared to expect a man whose 
 singularities proceed from good sense and an original 
 cast of thought ; a kind of humorist, not unlike the 
 elder Shandy ; but the singularities of Addison's Sir 
 Roger proceed from rusticity, and the prejudices of a 
 confined education, operating indeed upon a most 
 benevolent and friendly heart. His character is set 
 in a new light, in a paper written by Dr. Aikin, in the 
 Monthly Magazine for February, 1800. It is there 
 observed, that this character, though meant to be a 
 favourite, is also meant as a vehicle of satire upon the 
 character of the country gentleman, which Addison 
 has more openly held up to ridicule in the country 
 squire of his Freeholder : they are extremely different 
 with regard to the amiableness of their characters, but 
 they have the same national and party prejudices, and 
 are both intended to exhibit inferiority to the more 
 cultured inhabitant of the town, and to fasten a ridicule 
 upon the tory, which at that time was the country 
 party. In Sir Roger de Coverley, however, this de- 
 sign is subservient to that of drawing an amiable and 
 worthy character. Sir Roger's benevolence, hospi- 
 tality, piety, and honest open cheerfulness, win our 
 warmest affections ; and if we often smile at, we al- 
 ways love him. The reserved, sagacious, and thought- 
 
100 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 ful character of the Spectator, contrasts very well with 
 the simplicity and turn for active sports, of the knight. 
 With regard to his passion for the widow, and the 
 efleet it is said to have had upon him, it may be 
 doubted whether it forms a natural feature in a char- 
 acter like his. Minds that expand themselves in 
 feelings of cheerful good will, and acts of general 
 benevolence, and are at the same time destitute of 
 those nicer discriminations of taste that influence par- 
 ticular predilections, are perhaps not very likely to 
 have the colour of their whole lives affected by a 
 hopeless passion. But Addison has had little to do 
 with that part of his character. Opposed to Sir Roger 
 is Sir Andrew Freeport, a London merchant. Trade, 
 though rising fast, or rather already risen into conse- 
 quence, was despised by the country gentry. Addison 
 has frequently taken occasion to set the trading part 
 of the community, who were nearly all whigs, in a 
 respectable light, and to show the connexion of com- 
 merce with science and liberal principles. Many 
 other characters, in the course of the work, are delin- 
 eated with great spirit, and humour ; and the Specta- 
 tors are by this alone,- advantageously distinguished 
 from all the periodical papers which have succeeded 
 them. 
 
 Thus various are the merits of an author, whose 
 fame can only perish with the language in which he 
 wrote. As a critic, it is not profound learning or 
 metaphysical subtlety, but exquisite taste ; as a philo- 
 sopher, it is not deep research, but the happy art of 
 unfolding an idea, and placing it in the most attractive 
 light ; as a moralist, it is not that energy which rouses 
 and carries away the soul in the vortex of its own 
 enthusiasm ; nor the novelty of system, resulting from 
 bold original ideas, but an eloquence urbane, persua- 
 sive, and temperate, the alliance of the heart with tb 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 101 
 
 imagination, which distinguishes the page of Addison. 
 In strokes of delicate humour and refined wit he is 
 inexhaustible ; but he has given us no instance of the 
 pathetic, except in his story of Theodosius and Con- 
 stantia. 
 
 To the other authors of these periodical papers we 
 are indebted for many pleasing essays. Pierce, 
 bishop of Rochester, has some ingenious papers of 
 the serious kind. The unfortunate Budgell, the rela- 
 tion of Addison, wrote many papers : his style often 
 comes so near that of his friend and master, as to do 
 him great honour, were it not said that Addison added 
 so many touches of his own as to make Budgell's 
 property in them very doubtful. He uses the signa- 
 ture of X. Tickell, who in many of his works pre- 
 sented a fainter reflexion of Addison, was one of the 
 set ; but his papers have no mark. Parnell wrote 
 the vision of the Grotto of Grief, and the Palace of 
 Vanity. Mr. Byrom wrote the popular piece, My 
 time, O ye Muses, and some papers on dreaming. 
 Most of the interesting stories are Steele's ; and the 
 greater part of those papers that paint the manners of 
 the town. Steele had a flowing pen, but his style is 
 negligent ; and though he has endeavoured to serve 
 the cause of virtue, particularly in his strictures on 
 duelling, then very common, and gaming, yet his 
 morals have neither the dignity nor the purity of those 
 of his coadjutor. ' The snuffers (says bishop Latimer) 
 should be of pure gold.' Such was not Steele, whose 
 weaknesses and faults drew upon him the reperehen- 
 sion of his own better judgment. He was a character 
 vibrating between virtue and vice, but he wanted not 
 moral feeling. He is said to have opposed duelling, 
 in consequence of the deep remorse he felt from the 
 fatal termination of a duel which he himself {ought in 
 early life with a brother officer. Steele tells a story 
 
102 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 with humour, but without its more delicate touches ; 
 and his style is marked by little flippancies, and a 
 certain air of the town. His signature is T. and 
 sometimes R. Those of Addison were the letters 
 which compose the name of the Muse Clio ; which 
 gave occasion to the elegant compliment paid him in 
 the following couplet : 
 
 When fainting Virtue her last effort made, 
 You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid. 
 
 The Spectator continued from 1710 to 1714 ; .that 
 is, during the last years of Queen Anne to the begin- 
 ning of the reign of George the First : and during a 
 time when all the other periodical publications were 
 party papers, and so bitter a spirit of animosity divided 
 almost every company, it was no small advantage that 
 one paper appeared every morning, the tendency of 
 which was of an opposite nature, and that presented 
 subjects for conversation which men might canvass 
 without passion, and on which they might differ with- 
 out resentment. Three thousand of them were sold 
 daily soon after the commencement of the publication ; 
 afterwards, it is said, twenty thousand ; and it may 
 rebuke our rage for typographical luxury to be told, 
 that the immortal productions of Addison were first 
 given to the public on a half sheet of very coarse pa- 
 per, and. before the imposition of a stamp, for the 
 price of one penny. 
 
 The Guardians may be considered as a kind of 
 sequel to the Spectators. They were in two volumes. 
 The strain of them is somewhat less sprightly ; but 
 they contain many excellent papers, and among them 
 several by Pope. The Guardian was published in 
 the year 1713, between the seventh and eighth vol- 
 umes of the Spectator. For what reason the authors 
 dropped, changed, and resumed their title in so short 
 
CRITICAL ESSAY. 103 
 
 a space, cannot now be known. The Guardian has, 
 like the Spectator, a set of characters as a frame to 
 the work, my Lady Lizard and her sons and daugh- 
 ters, to whom Nestor Ironside is the Guardian ; but 
 they are drawn with less spirit than those of the club 
 in the Spectator, and both have the fault of not being 
 necessary to the conduct of the work. It is justly 
 observed by Dr. Johnson, that the grave character of 
 a Guardian, and a guardian to young ladies, is unfa- 
 vourable to the propriety of the lighter papers. What, 
 says he, have clubs of tall and siiort men to do with 
 the education of Lady Lizard's daughters? The 
 only set of papers in these volumes is that on pastoral 
 poetry, written, it should seem, by Tickell, perhaps 
 with the assistance of Phillips, and some touches of 
 Addison. They contain many just criticisms on a 
 species of poetry now almost obsolete, but at one 
 period so much in fashion, that there was hardly a 
 poet who did not try his hand at it ; tfll at length it 
 became insipid by the triteness of the sentiment, and the 
 servile use of the heathen mythology. The lovers of 
 Italian poetry will by no means be satisfied to see the 
 beautiful poems of Aminta and Pastor Fido only 
 mentioned to be found fault with ; but English readers 
 had, at that time, little relish for the belles lettres of 
 other nations. The Italian language was perhaps 
 less cultivated than in the preceding century. Ad- 
 dison himself had a sufficient portion of national pre- 
 judice, as appears whenever the French writers are 
 incidentally mentioned. The concluding allegory 
 on pastoral poetry exhibits much elegant fancy, along 
 with a strange confusion in the application of it to 
 different writers, and the periods in which they flour- 
 ished. The critique on Pope's Pastorals by that 
 author himself, is remarkable for the delicacy and 
 artful irony which imposed on the editor of the paper, 
 
104 CRITICAL ESSAY. 
 
 and secured its insertion, though it was, in fact, a 
 concealed ridicule on Phillips, whose pastorals it had 
 been tiie aim of the former papers to extol. 
 
 The Freeholder was a direct party paper, written 
 by Addison alone, on the side of Government, im- 
 mediately after the rebellion of 1715, when perhaps 
 one half of the nation were Jacobites in their hearts. 
 It can of course supply little matter for a selection of 
 this kind ; yet a few papers are given, both as they 
 possess genuine humour, and because, as Addison 
 himself remarks, future readers may see in them the 
 complexion of die times in which they were written. 
 His country squire is t drawn with, great humour and 
 much effect, as the n tative of a set of men 
 
 who were then almost all parhzai.s 3gainst the court, 
 if not favourers of die Stuart family. 
 
 There seems to be no kind of writing which admits 
 of selection more readily than these periodical papers. 
 There is no* plan to interrupt, no thread of reasoning 
 to break. Each paper or set of papers is complete 
 in itself; and though many are left out which may be 
 thought to have some claim to insertion, none, it is 
 hoped, are inserted which the reader of taste will 
 wish to have been left out. 
 
ESSAY 
 
 ON 
 
 THE ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROMANCE-WRITING. 
 
ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROMANCE-WRITING. 
 
 A collection of novels has a better chance of giv- 
 ing pleasure than of commanding respect. Books of 
 this description are condemned by the grave and de- 
 spised by the fastidious ; but their leaves are seldom 
 found unopened, and they occupy the parlour and the 
 drawing room, while productions of higher name are 
 only gathering dust upon the shelf. It might not per- 
 haps be difficult to show that this species of composi- 
 tion is entitled to a higher rank than has been gener- 
 ally assigned it. Fictitious adventures in one form or 
 other have made a part of the polite literature of every 
 age and nation. These have been grafted on the ac- 
 tions of their heroes ; they have been interwoven with 
 their mythology ; they have been moulded upon the 
 manners of the age, — and in return have influenced 
 the manners of the succeeding generation by the sen- 
 timents they have infused, and the sensibilities they 
 have excited. 
 
 Adorned with the embellishments of poetry, they 
 produce the epic ; more concentrated in the story and 
 exchanging narrative for action, they become dramatic. 
 
 * Originally prefixed to an edition of the British Novelists published 
 in 1810. 
 
108 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 When allied with some great moral end as in the 
 Telemaque of Fenelon, and Marmontel's Belisaire, 
 they may be termed didactic. They are often made 
 the vehicles of satire as in Swift's Gulliver's Travels 
 and the Candide and Babouc of Voltaire. They take 
 a tincture from the learning and politics of the times, 
 and are made use of successfully to attack or recom- 
 mend the prevailing systems of the day. When the 
 range of this kind of writing is so extensive and its 
 effects so great, it seems evident that it ought to hold 
 a respectable place among the productions of genius. 
 Nor is it easy to say, why the poet, who deals in one 
 kind of fiction, should have so high a place allotted 
 him in the temple of fame, and the romance-writer so 
 low a one as in the general estimation he is confined 
 to. To measure the dignity of a writer by the pleas- 
 ure he affords his readers, is not perhaps using an ac- 
 curate criterion ; but the invention of a story, the 
 choice of proper incidents, the ordon nance of the 
 plan, occasional beauties of description ; and above 
 all, the power exercised over the reader's heart by 
 filling it with the successive emotions of love, pity, joy, 
 anguish, transport or indignation, together with the 
 grave impressive moral resulting from the whole, im- 
 ply talents of the highest order, and ought to be ap- 
 preciated accordingly. A good novel is an epic in 
 prose, with more of character and less (indeed in 
 modern novels nothing) of the supernatural machinery. 
 If we look for the origin of fictitious tales and adven- 
 tures, we shall be obliged to go to the earliest accounts 
 of the literature of every age and country. The 
 Eastern nations have always been fond of this species 
 of mental gratification. The East is emphatically the 
 country of invention The Persians, Arabians, and 
 other .rations in that vicinity, have been and still are 
 in the habit of employing people whose business it is 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 109 
 
 to compose and to relate entertaining stories ; and it 
 is surprising how many stories (as Parnell's Hermit 
 for instance) which have passed current in verse and 
 prose through a variety of forms, may be traced up 
 to this source. From Persia the taste passed into the 
 soft and luxurious Ionia. The Milesian Tales writ- 
 ten by Aristides of Miletus, at what time is not exact- 
 ly known, seem to have been a kind of novels. They 
 were translated into Latin during the civil wars of 
 Marius and Sylla. They consisted of loose love 
 stories, but were very popular among the Romans ; 
 and the Parthian General who beat Crassus, took oc- 
 casion from his finding a copy of them amongst the 
 camp equipage, to reproach that nation with effemina- 
 cy, in not being able, even in time of danger to dis- 
 pense with such an amusement. From Ionia the 
 taste for romances passed over to the Greeks about the 
 time of Alexander the Great. The Golden Ass of 
 Lucian, which is exactly in the manner of the Arabian 
 Tales, is one of the few extant. 
 
 In the time of the Greek Emperors, these compo- 
 sitions were numerous and had attained a form and 
 polish which assimilates them to the most regular and 
 sentimental of modern productions. The most per- 
 fect of those which are come down to our time is 
 Theagenes and Chariclea, a romance or novel written 
 by Heliodorus bishop of Tricca in Thessaly, who 
 flourished under Arcadius and Honorius Though 
 his production was perfectly chaste and virtuous, he 
 was called to account for it by a provincial synod, and 
 ordered to burn his book or resign his bishopric ; upon 
 which, with the heroism of an author, he chose the 
 latter. Of this work a new translation w r as given in 
 1789 ; and had this Selection admitted translations, it 
 would have found a place here. It is not so much 
 read as it ought to be ; and it mav not be amiss to 
 10* 
 
110 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 inform the customers to circulating libraries that they 
 may have the pleasure of reading a genuine novel, and 
 at the same time enjoy the satisfaction of knowing how 
 people wrote in Greek about love above a thousand 
 years ago. The scene of this work is chiefly laid in 
 Egypt. It opens in a striking and picturesque man- 
 ner. A band of pirates from a hill that overlooks the 
 Heracleotic mouth of the Nile, see a ship lying at 
 anchor, deserted by its crew 7 ; a feast spread on the 
 shore ; a number of dead bodies scattered round, in- 
 dicating a recent skirmish or quarrel at an entertain- 
 ment ; the only living creatures, a most beautiful virgin 
 seated on a rock, w r eeping over and supporting a 
 young man of equally distinguished figure who is 
 wounded and apparently lifeless. These are the hero 
 and the heroine of the piece, and being thus let into 
 the middle of the story, the preceding events are given 
 in narration. The description of the manner of life of 
 the pirates at the mouth of the Nile, is curious and no 
 doubt historical. It shows that as well then as in 
 Homer's time, piracy was looked upon as a mode of 
 honourable war, and that a captain who treated the 
 women with respect and took a regular ransom for his 
 captives and behaved well to his men, did not scruple 
 to rank himself with other military heroes. Indeed it 
 might be difficult to say why he should not. It is a 
 circumstance worth observing, that Tasso has in all 
 probability borrowed a striking circumstance from the 
 Greek romance. Chariclea is the daughter of a 
 Queen of Ethiopia, exposed by her mother to save 
 her reputation, as in consequence of the Queen, while 
 pregnant, having gazed at a picture of Perseus and 
 Andromeda, her infant was born with a fair complex- 
 ion. This is the counterpart of the story of Clorinda 
 in the Gierusalemme Liberata, whose mother is sur- 
 prised with the same phenomenon, occasioned by 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. til 
 
 having had in her chamber a picture of St. George. 
 The discovery is kept back to the end of the piece 
 and is managed in a very striking manner. There is 
 much beautiful description, of which the pomp of 
 heathen sacrifices and processions makes a great part; 
 and the love is at once passionate and chaste. 
 
 The pastoral romance of Longus is also extant in the 
 Greek language. It is esteemed elegant, but it would 
 be impossible to chastise it into decency. The Latins 
 who had less invention, had no writings of this kind, 
 except the Golden Ass of Apuleius may be reckoned 
 such. In it is found the beautiful episode of Cupid 
 and Psyche, which has been elegantly modernized by 
 La Fontaine. But romance writing was destined to 
 revive with greater splendour under the Gothic pow- 
 ers, and it sprung out of the histories of the times, 
 enlarged and exaggerated into fable. Indeed all fic- 
 tions have probably grown out of real adventures. 
 The actions of heroes would be the most natural sub- 
 ject for recital in a warlike age ; a little flattery and a 
 little love of the marvellous would overstep the modes- 
 ty of truth in the narration. A champion of extraor- 
 dinary size would be easily magnified into a giant. 
 Tales of magic and enchantment probably took their 
 rise from the awe and wonder with which the vulgar 
 looked upon any instance of superior skill in mechan- 
 ics or medicine, or acquaintance with any of the hid- 
 den properties of nature. The Arabian Tales, so 
 well known and so delightful, bear testimony to this. 
 At a fair in Tartary, a magician appears who brings 
 various curiosities, the idea of which was probably 
 suggested by inventions they had heard of, which, to 
 people totally ignorant of the mechanical powers, 
 would appear the effect of enchantment. How easily 
 might the exhibition at Merlin's or the tricks of Jonas 
 be made to pass for magic in New Holland or Ota- 
 
112 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 heite ! Letters and figures were ensily turned into 
 talismans by illiterate men, who saw that a great deal 
 was effected by them, and intelligence conveyed from 
 place to place in a manner they could n >t account 
 for. Medicine has always in rude ages and countries 
 been accompanied with charms and superstitious prac- 
 tices, and the charming of serpents in the East is still 
 performed in a way which the Europeans cannot dis- 
 cover. The total separation of scholastic characters 
 from men of the world favoured the belief of magic, 
 and when to these causes are added the religious su- 
 perstitions of the times, we shall be able to account 
 for much of the marvellous in the first instance. 
 These stories as well as the historical ones would be 
 continually embellished as they passed from hand to 
 hand, till the small mixture of truth in them was 
 scarcely discoverable. 
 
 The first Gothic romances appeared under the 
 venerable guise of history. Arthur and the knights 
 of the round table, Charlemagne and his peers were 
 their favourite heroes. The extended empire of 
 Charlemagne and his conquests naturally offered 
 themselves as subjects for recital, but it seems extra- 
 ordinary that Arthur, a British prince the scene of 
 whose exploits was in Wales, a country little known 
 to the rest of Europe and who was continually strug- 
 gling against ill fortune, should have been so great a 
 favourite upon the continent. Perhaps however the 
 comparative obscurity of his situation might form the 
 genius of the composition, and the intercourse between 
 Wales and Brittany would contribute to diffuse and 
 exaggerate the stories of his exploits. In fact, every 
 song and record relating to this hero was kept with 
 the greatest care in Brittany, and together with a 
 Chronicle deducing Prince Arthur from Priam king 
 of Troy, was brought to England about the year 1 110 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 113 
 
 by Walter Mapes archdeacon of Oxford, when he 
 returned from the continent through that province. 
 This medley of historical songs, traditions, and inven- 
 tion, was put into Latin by Geoffry of Monmouth, with 
 many additions of his own, and from Latin translated 
 into French in the year 1115, under the title of Brut 
 d* Angleterre. It is full of the grossest anachronisms. 
 Merlin the enchanter is a principal character in it. 
 He opposes his Christian magic to the Arabian sor- 
 cerers. About the same time appeared a similar 
 history of Charlemagne. Two expeditions of his 
 were particularly celebrated ; his conversion of the 
 Saxons by force of arms, and his expedition into Spain 
 against the Saracens ; in returning from which he met 
 with the defeat of Roncevaux in which was slain the 
 celebrated Roland. This was written in Latin by a 
 monk, who published it under the name of Archbishop 
 Turpin, a contemporary of Charlemagne, in order to 
 give it credit. These two works were translated into 
 most of the languages of Europe, and became the 
 groundwork of numberless others, each more wonder- 
 ful than the former, and each containing a sufficient 
 number of giants, castles, and dragons, beautiful dam- 
 sels and valiant princes, with a good deal of religious 
 zeal and very little morality. Amadis de Gaul was 
 one of the most famous of this class. Its origin is 
 disputed between France and Spain. There is a 
 great deal of fighting in it, much of the marvellous, 
 and very little of sentiment. It has been lately given 
 to the public in an elegant English dress by Mr. 
 Southey ; but notwithstanding he has considerably 
 abridged its tediousness a sufficiency of that ingredi- 
 ent remains to make it rather a task to to go through 
 a work which was once so great a favourite. Palme- 
 rin of England, Don Belianis of Greece, and the 
 others which make up the catalogue of Don Quixote's 
 library, are of this stamp. 
 
114 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 Richard Coeur de Lion and his exploits were great- 
 ly to the taste of the early romance writers. The 
 Crusades kindled a taste for romantic adventure ; 
 the establishment of the Saracens in Spain had occa- 
 sioned a large importation of genii and enchantments, 
 and Moorish magnificence was grafted upon the tales 
 of the Gothic chivalry. Of these heroic romances the 
 Troubadours were in France the chief composers: 
 they began to flourish about the middle of the tenth 
 century. They by degrees mingled a taste for gallan- 
 tly and romantic love with the adventures of heroes, 
 and they gave to that passion an importance and re- 
 finement which it had never possessed among the an- 
 cients. It was a compound of devotion, metaphysics, 
 Platonism, and chivalry, making altogether such a 
 mixture as the world had never seen before. There 
 is something extremely mysterious in the manner in 
 which ladies of rank allowed themselves to be address- 
 ed by these poetical lovers ; sometimes no doubt a 
 real passion was produced, and some instances there 
 are of its having had tragical consequences : but in 
 general it may be suspected that the addresses of the 
 Troubadours and other poets were rather a tribute 
 paid to rank than to beauty ; and that it was customary 
 For young men of parts, who had a fortune to make, 
 to attach themselves to a patroness, of whom they 
 made a kind of idol, sometimes in the hope of rising 
 by her means, sometimes merely as a subject for their 
 wit. The manner in which Queen Elizabeth allowed 
 herself to be addressed by her courtiers, the dedica- 
 tions which were in fashion in Dryden's time, the let- 
 ters of Venture, and the general strain of poetry of 
 Waller and Cowley, may serve to prove that there may 
 be a great deal of gallantry without any passion. It 
 is evident that while these romance-writers worshipped 
 their mistress as a distant star, they did not disdain to 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 115 
 
 warm themselves by meaner and nearer fires ; for the 
 species of love or rather adoration they professed, did 
 not at all prevent them from forming connexions with 
 more accessible fair ones. Of all the countries on the 
 continent, France and Spain had the greatest number 
 of these chivalrous romances. In Italy the genius of 
 the nation and the facility of versification led them to 
 make poetry the vehicle of this kind of entertainment. 
 The Cantos of Boiardo and Ariosto are romances in 
 verse. 
 
 In the meantime Europe settled into a state of com- 
 parative tranquillity ; castles and knights and adven- 
 tures of distressed damsels ceased to be the topics of 
 the day, and romances founded upon them had begun 
 to be insipid, when the immortal satire of Cervantes 
 drove them from the field, and they have never since 
 been able to rally their forces. The first work of en- 
 tertainment of a different kind which was published in 
 France (for the Pantagruel of Rabelais is rather a 
 piece of licentious satire than a romance) was the 
 Astrca of M. d'Urfe. It is a pastoral romance, and 
 became so exceedingly popular that the belles and 
 beaux of that country assumed the airs and language 
 of shepherds and shepherdesses. A Celadon (the hero 
 of the piece) became a familiar appellation lor a lan- 
 guishing lover, and men of gallantry were seen with a 
 crook in their hands, leading a tame lamb about the 
 streets of Paris. The celebrity of this work was in 
 great measure owing to its being strongly seasoned 
 with allusions to the intrigues of the court of Henry 
 the Fourth, in whose reign it was written. The vol- 
 umes of Astrea are never opened in the present day 
 but as a curiosity ; to read them through, would be a 
 heavy task indeed. There is in the machinery a 
 great mixture of wood nymphs and druids. The 
 work is full of anachronisms, but the time is -supposed 
 
116 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 to be in the reign of Pharamond or his successors. 
 The tale begins with the lover, who is under the dis- 
 pleasure of his mistress, throwing himself into the wa- 
 ter where he narrowly escapes drowning at the very 
 outset of the piece. We find here the fountain of love, 
 in which if a man looks, he sees, if he is beloved, the 
 face of his mistress ; but if not, he is presented with 
 the countenance of his rival ; long languishing speeches 
 and little adventures of intrigue till up the story. It is 
 interspersed with little pieces of poetry, very tolerable 
 for the time, but highly complimentary. One of them 
 turns upon the incident of the poet's mistress having 
 burnt her cheeks with her curling-iron, upon which he 
 takes occasion to say, " that the fire of her eyes caused 
 the mischief'' This work was however found so in- 
 teresting by M. Huet, the grave bishop of Avranches, 
 that when he read it along with his sisters, he was 
 often obliged, (as he tells us) to lay the book down, 
 that he and they might give vent to their tears. 
 
 Though Cervantes had laid to rest the giants and 
 enchanters, a new style of fictitious writing was intro- 
 duced, not less remote from nature, in the romances 
 de longue haleine, which originated in France, and of 
 which Calprenede and Mad. Scudery were the most 
 distinguished authors. The principle of these was 
 high honour, impregnable chastity, a constancy un- 
 shaken by time or accident, and a species of love so 
 exalted and refined, that it bore little resemblance to a 
 natural passion. These, in the construction of the 
 story came nearer to real life than the former had 
 done. The adventures were marvellous, but not im- 
 possible. The heroes and heroines were taken from 
 ancient history, but without any resemblance to the 
 personages whose names they bore. The manners 
 therefore and passions referred to an ideal world, the 
 creation of the writer ; but the situations were often 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 117 
 
 iking and the sentiments always noble. It is a cu- 
 rious circumstance that Rousseau, who tells us that his 
 childhood wras conversant in these romances, (a course 
 of reading which no doubt fed and inflamed his tine 
 imagination) has borrowed from them an affecting in- 
 cident in his NouveUe Hdoise. St. Preux, when his 
 mistress lies ill of the small-pox, glides into the room, 
 approaches the bed in order to imbibe the danger, and 
 retires without speaking. Jahi, when recovered, is 
 impressed with a confused idea of having seen him, 
 but whether in a dream, a vision, or a reality, she can- 
 not determine. This striking circumstance is taken 
 from the now almost forgotten Cassandra of Scudeiy. 
 The complimentary language of these productions 
 seems to have influenced the intercourse of common 
 life, at least in the provinces, for Boileau introduces in 
 his satires — 
 
 " Deux nobles campagnards, grands lecteurs de romans, 
 Qui m' ont dit tout Cyrus dans leurs longs complimens." 
 
 The same author makes a more direct attack upon 
 these productions in a dialogue entitled Les Heros de 
 Roman, a humourous little piece, in which he ridiculed 
 these as Cervantes had done the others, and drove 
 them from the stage. 
 
 Heroic sentiment and refined feeling, as expressed 
 in romances and plays, were at this time at their 
 height in France ; and while the story and adventures 
 were taken from die really chivalrous ages, it is amus- 
 ing to observe how the rough maimers of those times 
 are softened and polished to meet the ideas of a more 
 refined age. A curious instance of this occurs in 
 Corneille's well known play of die Cid. Chimene, 
 having lost her father by the hand of her lover, not 
 only breaks off the connexion, but throws herself at 
 the feet of the king to entreat him to avenge her by 
 11 
 
118 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 putting Rodrigues to death : " Sire, vengeance /" But 
 in the genuine chronicle of the Cid, with which curious 
 and entertaining work Mr. Southey has lately obliged 
 the public, the previous incidents of the combat are 
 nearly the same, and Ximma in like manner throws 
 herself at the feet of the king ; but to be^ what ? not 
 vengeance upon the murderer of her father, but that 
 the king would be pleased to give her Rodrigues for a 
 husband, to whom moreover she is not supposed to 
 have had any previous attachment ; her request seems 
 to proceed from the simple idea that Rodrigues, by 
 killing her father having deprived her of one protec- 
 tor, it was but reasonable that he should give her 
 another. 
 
 Rude times are fruitful of striking adventures ; 
 polished times must render them pleasing. The pon- 
 derous volumes of the romance writers being laid up- 
 on the shelf, a closer imitation of nature began to be 
 called for ; not but that from the earliest times, there 
 had been stories taken from, or imitating, real life. 
 The Decameron of Boccacio, (a storehouse of tales, 
 and a standard of the language in which it is written,) 
 the Cent Nouvelles of the Queen of Navarre, Contes 
 et Fabliaux without number, may be considered as 
 novels of a lighter texture ; they abounded with ad- 
 venture, generally of the humorous, often of the licen- 
 tious kind, and indeed were mostly founded on in- 
 trigue, but the nobler passions were seldom touched. 
 The Roman Comique of Scarron is a regular piece of 
 its kind. Its subject is the adventures of a set of 
 strolling players. Comic humour it certainly possesses, 
 but the humour is very coarse, and the incidents mostly 
 low. Smollet seems to have formed himself very 
 much on this model. — But the Zaide and the Prin- 
 cesse de Cheves of Mad. de la Fayette are esteemed 
 to be the first which approach the modern novel of the 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 119 
 
 serious kind, the latter especially. Voltaire says of 
 them, that " they were the first novels which gave the 
 manners of cultivated life and natural incidents related 
 with elegance. Before the time of this lady the style 
 of these productions was affectedly turgid, and the 
 adventures out of nature." The modesty of Mad. de 
 la Fayette led her to shelter her productions, on their 
 first publication, under the name of Segrais, her friend, 
 under whose revision they had passed. Le Sage, in 
 his Gil Bias, a work of infinite entertainment, though 
 of dubious morality, has given us pictures of more fa- 
 miliar life, abounding in character and incident. The 
 scene is laid in Spain, in which country he had travel- 
 led, and great part of it is imitated from the adven- 
 tures of Don Gusman aVAlvarache ; for Spain, though 
 her energies have so long lain torpid, was earlier visited 
 by polite literature than any country of Europe, Italy 
 excepted. Her authors abounded in invention, so 
 that the plots of plays and groundwork of novels were 
 very frequently drawn from their productions. Cer- 
 vantes himself, besides his Don Quixote, which has 
 been translated and imitated in every country, WTote 
 several little tales and novels, some of which he intro- 
 duced into that work, for he only banished one spe- 
 cies of fiction to introduce another. The French im- 
 proved upon their masters. There is not perhaps a 
 more amusing book than Gil Bias ; it abounds in traits 
 of exquisite humour and lessons of life, which, though 
 not always pure, are many of them useful. In this 
 work of Le Sage, like some of Smollet's, the hero of 
 the piece excites little interest, and it rather exhibits a 
 series of separate adventures, slightly linked togeth- 
 er, than a chain of events concurring in one plan to 
 the production of the catastrophe, like the Tom Jones 
 of Fielding. The scenes of his Diablc. Boiteux are 
 still more slightly linked together. That and his 
 
120 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 BachaJier de Salamanque are of the same stamp with 
 Gil Bias, though inferior to it. Marivaux excelled 
 in a different style. His Marianne and Paisan Par- 
 venu give a picture of French manners with all their 
 refinement and delicacy of sentiment. He lays open 
 the heart, particularly the female heart, in 
 folds and recesses; its little vanities and afl 
 as well as its finer feelings, lie abounds in wit, 
 it is of a refined kind, and requires thought in the 
 reader to enter into it. He has also much humour, 
 and describes comic scenes and characters amongst 
 the lower and middle ranks with a great deal of the 
 comic effect but without the coarseness of Fielding. 
 He eluded the difficulty of winding up a story by 
 leaving both his pieces unfinished. Marivaux was 
 cotemporary with our Richardson ; his style is found 
 fault with by some French critics. From his time 
 novels of all kinds have made a large and attractive 
 portion of French literature. 
 
 At the head of writers of this class stands the se- 
 ductive, the passionate Rousseau, — the most eloquent 
 writer in the most eloquent modern language : whether 
 his glowing pencil paints the strong emotions of pas- 
 sion, or the enchanting scenery of nature in his own 
 romantic country, or his peculiar cast of moral senti- 
 ment, — a charm is spread over every part of the 
 work, which scarcely leaves the judgment free to 
 condemn what in it is dangerous or reprehensible. 
 His are truly the " thoughts that breathe and words 
 that bum." He has hardly any thing of story ; he 
 has but few figures upon his canvass ; he wants them 
 not ; his characters are drawn more from a creative 
 imagination than from real life, and we wonder that 
 what has so little to do with nature, should have so 
 much to do with the heart Our censure of the ten- 
 dency of this work will be softened, if we reflect that 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. J 21 
 
 Rousseau's aim as far as he had a moral aim, seems to 
 have been to give a striking example of fidelity in the 
 married state, which it is well known is little thought 
 of by the French ; though they would judge with the 
 greatest severity the more pardonable failure of an 
 unmarried woman. But Rousseau has not reflected 
 that Julie ought to have considered herself as indisso- 
 lubly united to St Preux ; her marriage with another 
 was the infidelity. Rousseau's great rival in fame, 
 Voltaire has written many light pieces of fiction which 
 can scarcely be called noyels. They abound in wit 
 and shrewdness but they are all composed to subserve 
 his particular views, and to attack systems which he 
 assailed in every kind of way. His Candide has 
 much strong painting of the miseries and vices which 
 abound in this world, and is levelled against the only 
 system which can console the mind under the view of 
 them. In Ulngenu, besides the wit, he has shown 
 that he could also be pathetic. Les Lettres Peruvi- 
 ennes, by Madame Grafigny is a most ingenious and 
 charming little piece. Paul and Virginia, by that 
 friend of humanity St Pierre, with the purest sentiment 
 and most beautiful description, is pathetic to a degree 
 that even distresses the feelings. La Chaumiere In- 
 dienne, also his, breathes the spirit of universal phi- 
 lanthropy. Caroline de Licktfeld is justly a favour- 
 ite ; but it were impossible to enumerate all the elegant 
 compositions of this class which later times have pour- 
 ed forth. For the expression of sentiment in all its 
 various shades, for the most delicate tact, and a refine- 
 ment and polish, the fruit of high cultivation, the French 
 writers are superior to those of every other nation. 
 
 There is one species of this composition which may 
 
 be called the Didactic Romance, which they have 
 
 peculiarly made use of as a vehicle for moral sentiment 
 
 and philosophical or political systems and opinions. 
 
 11* 
 
122 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 Of this nature is the beautiful fiction of Teltmuqm . 
 if it be not rather an Epic in prose; the high merit of 
 which cannot be sufficiently appreciated, unless the 
 reader bears in mind when and to whom it was writ- 
 ten ; that it dared to attack the fondness for war and 
 the disposition to ostentatious profusion, under a mon- 
 arch the most vain and ambitious of his age, and to 
 draw expressly as a pattern for his successor, the pic- 
 ture of a prince the reverse of him in almost every 
 thing. Les Voyages de Cyrus, by Ramsay, and 
 S ethos, by the Abbe Terrasson, are of the same kind ; 
 the former production is rather dry and some what 
 mystical ; it enters pretty deeply into the mythology 
 of the ancients, and aims at showing that the leading 
 truths of religion, — an original state of happiness, a 
 fall from that state, and the final recovery and happi- 
 ness of all sentient beings are to be found in the my- 
 thological systems of all nations. Ramsay was a 
 Scotchman by birth, but had lived long enough in 
 France to write the language like a native, a rare ac- 
 quisition ! The latter, Sethos, contains interwoven in 
 its story all that we know concerning the customs and 
 manners of the ancient Egyptians ; the trial of the 
 dead before they are received to the honours of sepul- 
 ture, and the various ordeals of the initiation, are very 
 Striking. A high and severe tone of morals reigns 
 through the whole, and indeed both this and the last- 
 mentioned composition are much too grave for the 
 readers of romance in general. That is not the case 
 with the Bdisaire, and Les Incas, of Marmonu-l, in 
 which the incidents meant to strike the feelings and 
 the fancy are executed with equal happiness with the 
 preceptive part. Writings like these co-operated 
 powerfully with the graver labours of the encyclope- 
 dists in diffusing sentiments of toleration, a spirit of 
 free enquiry, and a desire for equal laws and good 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 123 
 
 government over Europe. Happy, if the mighty im- 
 pulse had permitted them to slop within the bounds of 
 justice and moderation ! 'J 'he French language is 
 well calculated for eloquence. The harmony and 
 elegance of French prose, the taste of their writers, 
 and the grace and amenity which they know how to 
 diffuse over every subject, give great effect to compo- 
 sitions of this kind. When ivc aim at eloquence in 
 prose, we are apt to become turgid. Florian, though 
 a feeble writer, is not void of merit. His Galatee is 
 from Cervantes ; his Gonsalve de Cordoue is built 
 upon the history of that hero. 
 
 There is one objection to be made to these ro- 
 mances founded on history, which is, that if the per- 
 sonages are not judiciously selected, they are apt to 
 impress false ideas on the mind. Sethos is well chosen 
 for a hero in this respect. His name scarcely emerges 
 from the obscurity of half fabulous times and of a 
 country whose records are wrapped in mystery ; for 
 all that is recorded of Sethos is, merely that there was 
 such a prince, and that for some reason or other, he 
 entered into the priesthood. Cyrus, though so con- 
 spicuous a character, was probably thought a fair one 
 for the purpose, as Xenophon has evidently made use 
 of him in the same manner ; but it may admit a doubt 
 whether Belisarius is equally so ; still less, many in 
 more modern times that have been selected for writ- 
 ings of this kind. Teicmnchus is a character already 
 within the precincts of poetry and fable,- and may il- 
 lustrate without any objection the graceful fictions of 
 Fenelon. Our own Prince Arthur offers himself 
 with equal advantage for poetry or romance. Where 
 history says little, fiction may say much : events and 
 men that are dimly seen through the obscurity of re- 
 mote periods and countries, may be illuminated with 
 these false lights : but where historv throws her light 
 
124 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 steady and strong, no artificial colouring should be 
 permitted. Impressions of historical characters very 
 remote from the truth, often remain on the mind from 
 dramatic compositions. If we examine into our ideas 
 of the Henries and Richards of English history, we 
 shall perhaps find that they are as much drawn from 
 Shakspeare as from Hume or Rapin. Some of our 
 English romances are very faulty in this respect. A 
 lady confessed that she could not get over a prejudice 
 against the character of our Elizabeth, arising from 
 her cruelty to two imaginary daughters of Mary Queen 
 of Scots, who never existed but in the pages of a 
 novel. The more art is shown, (and much is often 
 shown,) in weaving the fictitious circumstances into the 
 texture of the history, the worse is the tendency. A 
 romance of which Edward the Black Prince is the 
 hero, by Clara Reeve, has many curious particulars 
 of the customs of that age ; hut the manners of his 
 court are drawn with such a splendid colouring of 
 heroic virtue as certainly neither that court nor any 
 other ever deserved. 
 
 Among the authors of preceptive novels, Madame 
 Genlis stands very high. Her Adele fy Theodore is 
 a system of education, the whole of which is given in 
 action; there is infinite ingenuity in the various illus- 
 trative incidents : the whole has an air of the world 
 and of good company ; to an English reader it is also 
 interesting as exhibiting traits of Parisian manners and 
 modern manners from one who was admitted into the 
 first societies. A number of characters are delinea- 
 ted and sustained with truth and spirit, and the stories 
 of Cecile and the Duchesse de C. are uncommonly 
 interesting and well told, while the' sublime benevo- 
 lence of M. and Mad. Lagaraye presents a cure 
 for sorrow worthy of a Howard. From the system 
 of Madame Genlis many useful hints may be gather- 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 125 
 
 ec!, though the English reader will probably find much 
 that differs from his own ideas. A good bishop, as 
 Mucl relates, conceiving of love as a most formidable 
 my to virtue, entertained the singular project of 
 writing or procuring to be written, a number of novels 
 framed in such a manner as to inspire an antipathy to 
 this profane passion. Madame Genlis seems to have 
 had the same idea ; and in this manual of education, 
 love is represented as a passion totally unfit to enter 
 the breast of a young female ; and in this, and all her 
 other works, she represents as ending in misery, every 
 connexion which is begun by a mutual inclination. 
 The parent, the mother rather, must dispose of her 
 daughter ; the daugbter must be passive ; and the 
 great happiness of her life, is to be the having in her 
 turn a daughter, in whose affections she is to be the 
 prime object. Filial affection is no doubt much ex- 
 aggerated by this writer. It is not natural that a 
 young woman should make it an indispensable condi- 
 tion of marrying an amiable young man, that he will 
 not separate her from her mother. We know in 
 England what filial affection is, and we know 7 it does 
 not rise so high, and we know r too that it ought not. 
 There is another objection to Madame Genlis's sys- 
 tem of education which applies also to Rousseau's Ent- 
 ile; which is, that it is too much founded on decep- 
 tion. The pupil never sees the real appearances of 
 life and manners ; the whole of his education is a se- 
 ries of contrived artificial scenery, produced, as occa- 
 sion demands, to serve a particular purpose. Few of 
 these scenes would succeed at all ; a number of them 
 certainly never would. Indeed Madame Genlis is not 
 very strict in the point of veracity. A little fibbing 
 is even enjoined to Adele occasionally on particular 
 emergencies. Les Veillees du Chateau, by the same 
 author, has great merit. A number of other produc- 
 
126 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 tions which have flowed from her pen, witness her 
 fertility of invention and astonishing rapidity of crea- 
 tion ; their merit is various ; all have great elegance 
 of style ; but it is observable that in some of her later 
 novels she has endeavoured to favour the old order of 
 things, to make almost an object of worship of Louis 
 the Fourteenth, and to revive the reverence for mon- 
 astic seclusion, which with so much pathos she had at- 
 tacked in her charming story of Cecile. The Atala 
 of M. Chateau Briand is in like manner directed to 
 prop the falling fabric of the Romish faith. 
 
 The celebrated daughter of Necker is one whose 
 name cannot be passed over in this connection. Her 
 Delphine exhibits great powers ; some of the situa- 
 tions are very striking ; and the passion of love is ex- 
 pressed in such a variety of turns and changes, and 
 with so many refined delicacies of sentiment that it is 
 surprising how any language could, and surely no lan- 
 guage could but the French, find a sufficient variety of 
 phrases in which to dress her ideas. Yet this novel 
 cannot be called a pleasing one. One monotonous 
 colour of sadness prevails through the whole, varied 
 indeed with deeper or lighter shades, but no where 
 presenting the cheerful hues of contentment and plea- 
 sure. A heavier accusation lies against this work 
 from its tendency, on which account it was said that 
 the author was desired by the present sovereign of 
 France to leave Paris ; but we may well suspect that 
 a scrupulous regard to morality had less share than 
 political motives in such a prohibition. Corinne, by 
 the same author is less exceptionable and has less 
 force. It has some charming descriptions, and a pic- 
 ture of our English country manners Which may in- 
 terest our curiosity, though it will not greatly flatter 
 our vanity. Elegant literature has sustained a loss in 
 the recent death of Madame Cotin. Her Elizabeth 
 
UF ROMANCE-WRITING. 127 
 
 and Matilde have given her a deserved celebrity. 
 The latter, is however very enthusiastic and gloomy. 
 
 A number of other French writers of this class 
 ought have been mentioned as Madame Riccoboni, 
 Madame Elic de Beaumont, the Abbe Prevost, whose 
 Chevalier de Grieux though otherwise not com- 
 iii uiablc, has some very pathetic parts. To these 
 may be added Cerebillon, and a number of writers of 
 his class ; for it must not be disguised, that besides the 
 more respectable French novels there are a number 
 of others which having passed no license of press, 
 were said to be sold sous le manteaux, and were not 
 therefore the less read. These are not merely ex- 
 ceptionable ; they are totally unfit to enter a house 
 where the morals of young people are esteemed an 
 object. They are generally not course in language, 
 perhaps less so than many English ones which aim at 
 humour ; but gross sensual pleasure is the very soul 
 of them. The awful frown with which the better 
 part of the English public seem disposed to receive 
 any approaches, either in verse or prose, to the French 
 voluptuousness, does honor to the national character. 
 
 The Germans formerly remarkable for the labori- 
 ous heaviness and patient research of their literary 
 labours, have within this last century, cultivated with 
 great success the field of polite literature. Plays, 
 tales and novels of all kinds ; many of them by their 
 most celebrated authors, were at first received with 
 avidity in this country and even made the study of 
 their language popular. The tide has turned, and 
 they are now as much depreciated. The Sorrows of 
 Werter by Gcethe was the first of these with which 
 we- were familiarized in this country ; we received it 
 through the medium of a French translation. Tt is 
 highly pathetic, but its tendency has been severely, 
 perhaps justly, censured ; yet the author might plead 
 
12B ORIGIN AN J) PROGRESS 
 
 thai he lias given warning of the probable con-* - 
 que; illicit and uncontrolled passions by the aw- 
 
 ful catastrophe; It is certain, however, that the im- 
 pression made is of more importance than the moral 
 deduced; and if Schiller's fine play of T.'i Robbers 
 has had, as we are assured was the case, the effect of 
 leading some well-educated young gentlemen to com- 
 mit depredations on the public, allured by the splen- 
 dour of the principal character, we may well suppose 
 that Werter's delirium of passion will not be less se- 
 ducing. Goethe has written another novel, much es- 
 teemed, it is said, by the Germans, which contains, 
 amongst other things, criticisms on the drama. The 
 celebrated VVieland has composed a great number of 
 works of fiction ; the scene of most of them is laid 
 in ancient Greece. His powers are great, his inven- 
 tion fertile, but his designs insidious. He and some 
 others of the German writers of philosophical ro- 
 mance, have used them as a frame to attack received 
 opinions, both in religion and in morals. Two at least 
 of his performances have been translated, Agatken 
 and Peregrine Proteus. The former is beautifully 
 written, but its tendency is seductive. The latter has 
 taken for its basis a historical character ; its tendency 
 is also obvious. Klinger is an author who deals in the 
 horrid. He subsists on murders and atrocities of all 
 sorts, and introduees devils and evil spirits among his 
 personages ; he is said to have powers, but to labour 
 under a totai want of taste. In contrast to this writer 
 and those of his class, may be mentioned the Ghost 
 Seer by Schiller, and The Sorcerer by another hand. 
 These were written to expose the artifices of the Ital- 
 ian adepts of the school ol Cas;liostro. It is well 
 known that these were spreading -;perstition and en- 
 thusiasm on the German pan of the continent to an 
 alarming degree, and had so worked upon the mind 
 
OP ROMANCE-WRITING. J 29 
 
 of the late King of Prussia, that he was made to be- 
 lieve he possessed the power of rendering himself 
 invisible, and was wonderfully pleased when one of 
 his courtiers, (who by the way, understood his trade) 
 ran against and jostled him, pretending not to see his 
 Majesty. These have been translated ; as also a 
 pleasant and lively satire on Lavater's system of phy- 
 siognomy, written by Musaeus, author of Popular Tales 
 of the Germans. The Germans abound in materials 
 for works of the imagination ; for they are rich in 
 tales and legends of an impressive kind, which have 
 perhaps amused generation after generation as nurse- 
 ry stories, and lain like ore in the mine, ready for 
 the hand of taste to separate the dross and polish the 
 material : for it is far easier, when a nation has gain- 
 ed cultivation, to polish and methodise than to in- 
 vent. A very pleasing writer of novels in the more 
 common acceptation of the term, is Augustus La Fon- 
 taine ; at least he has written some for which he merits 
 that character, though perhaps more that are but indif- 
 ferent. His Tableaux de Famille contains many sweet 
 domestic pictures and touches of nature. Tt is imitat- 
 ed from the Vicar of Wakefield. The Germans are 
 a very book-making people. It is calculated that 
 twenty thousand authors of that nation live by the ex- 
 ercise of the pen ; and in the article of novels it is 
 computed that seven thousand, either original or trans- 
 lated, have been printed by them within the last twenty- 
 five years. 
 
 One Chinese novel has been translated. It is call- 
 ed the Pleasing History or the Adventures of Han 
 Kion Clioan. It is said to be much esteemed, but 
 can only be interesting to an European, as exhibiting 
 something of the manners of that remote and singular 
 country. It chiefly turns upon the stratagems used by 
 the heroine to elude the ardour of her lover, and re- 
 12 
 
130 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 tard his approaches, till every circumstance of form 
 and ceremony had been complied with. In their most 
 tender assignations the lady is hid behind a curtain, as 
 he is not permitted to see her face ; and a female at- 
 tendant conveys the tender speeches from one to the 
 other ; by which, according to our ideas they would 
 lose much of their pathos. The chief quality the 
 heroine exhibits is cunning, and the adventures are a 
 kind of hide-and-seek between the lovers. In short, 
 Shuy Ping Sin to a Chinese may possibly be as 
 great an object of admiration as Clarissa, but her ac- 
 complishments are not calculated for the meridian of 
 this country. 
 
 In England, most of the earlier romances from the 
 days of Chaucer to James the First, were translations 
 from the Spanish or French. One of the most cele- 
 brated of our own growth is Sir Philip Sidney's 
 Arcadia, dedicated to his sister the Countess of Pem- 
 broke. It is a kind of pastoral romance, mingled with 
 adventures of the heroic and chivalrous kind. It has 
 great beauties, particularly in poetic imagery. It is a 
 book which all have heard of, which some few pos- 
 sess, but which nobody reads. The taste of the times 
 seems to have been for ponderous performances. The 
 Duchess of Newcastle was an indefatigable writer in 
 this way. Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, published in 
 1G64, a romance called Parthenissa. It was in three 
 volumes folio and unfinished, to which circumstance 
 alone, his biographer, Mr. Walpole, attributes its being 
 but little read. He must have had a capacious idea 
 of the appetite of the readers of those days. There 
 is a romance of later date in one small volume by the 
 Hon. Robert Boyle — The Martyrdom of Didymus 
 and Theodora, a Christian heroic tale. We had 
 pretty early some celebrated political romances. Sir 
 Thomas Mare's Utopia, Barclay's Argenis, and Har- 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 131 
 
 rington's Oceana, are of this kind : the two former are 
 written in Latin. The Utopia, which is meant as a 
 model of a perfect form of civil polity, is chiefly pre- 
 served in remembrance at present by the same singu- 
 lar fortune with the Quixote of Cervantes, of furnishing 
 a new word, which has been adopted into the language 
 as a permanent part of it ; for we speak familiarly of an 
 Utopian scheme and a Quixotish expedition. Barclay 
 was a Scotchman by birth ; he was introduced into 
 the court of James the First, and was afterwards Pro- 
 fessor of civil law at Angers ; he died at Rome. His 
 Argenis is a political allegory which displays the revo- 
 lutions and vices of courts ; it is not destitute of im- 
 agery and elevated sentiment, and displays much 
 learning ; and w r hile the allusions it is full of were un- 
 derstood, it was much read and was translated into 
 various languages, but is at present sunk into oblivion, 
 though a new translation was made not many years 
 since by Mrs. Clara Reeve. Harrington's Oceana 
 is meant as a model of a perfect republic, the constant 
 idol of his imagination. All these, though works of 
 fiction, would greatly disappoint those who should look 
 into them for amusement. Of the lighter species of 
 this kind of wTiting, the Novel, till within half a cen- 
 tury we had scarcely any. The Atalantis of Mrs. 
 Manley lives only in that line of Pope which seems to 
 promise it immortality : 
 
 " As long as Atalantis shall be read." 
 
 It was like Astrea, filled with fashionable scandal. 
 Mrs. Behn's novels were licentious ; they are also 
 fallen ; but it ought not to be forgotten that Southern 
 borrowed from her his affecting story of Oroonoko. 
 Mrs. Haywood was a very prolific genius ; her earlier 
 novels are in the style of Mrs. Behn's, and Pope has 
 chastised her in his Dimciad without mercy or delfea- 
 
132 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 cy, but her later works are by no means void of merit. 
 She wrote the Invisible Spy, and Betsy Thoughtless, 
 and was the author of The Female Spectator. 
 
 But till the middle of the last century, theatrical 
 productions and poetry made a far greater part of po- 
 lite reading than novels, which had attained neither to 
 elegance nor discrimination of character. Some ad- 
 ventures and a long story were all they aimed at. 
 The ladies' library described in the Spectator contains 
 The grand Cyrus, with a pin stuck in one of the 
 leaves" and " Clelia, which opened of itself in the 
 place that describes two lovers in a bower :" but there 
 does not occur either there, or, I believe, in any other 
 part of the work, the name of an English novel, the 
 Atalantis only excepted ; though plays are often men- 
 tioned as a favorite and dangerous part of ladies' 
 reading ; and certainly the plays of those times were 
 worse than any novels of the present. The first author 
 amongst us who distinguished himself by natural paint- 
 ing, was that truly origina' genius De Foe. His Rob- 
 inson Crusoe is to this day an unique in its kind, and 
 lie has made it very interesting without applying to the 
 common resource of love. At length in the reign of 
 George the Second, Richardson, Fielding and Smol- 
 lett appeared in quick succession ; and their success 
 raised such a demand for this kind of entertainment, 
 that it has ever since been furnished from the press, 
 rather as a regular and necessary supply, than as an 
 occasional gratification. Novels have been numerous 
 as "leaves in Vallombrosa." The indiscriminate pas- 
 sion for them, and their bad effects on the female mind, 
 became the object of the satire of Garrick, in a spright- 
 ly piece entitled Polly Honeycomb. A few deserve 
 to be mentioned, either for their excellence or the 
 singularity of their plan. 
 
 The history of Gaudentio di Lucca, published jh 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 133 
 
 1725, is the effusion of a fine fancy and a refined un- 
 derstanding ; it is attributed to Bishop Berkeley. It 
 gives an account of an imaginary people in the heart 
 of Africa, their manners and customs. They are 
 supposed to be descended from the ancient Egyptians, 
 to be concealed from all the world by impenetrable 
 deserts. The description of crossing the sands is 
 very striking, and shows much information as well as 
 fancy. It is not written to favour any particular sys- 
 tem ; the whole is a play of fine imagination delight- 
 ing itself with images of perfection and happiness, 
 which it cannot find in any existing form of things. 
 The frame is very well managed ; the whole is sup- 
 posed to be read in manuscript to the fathers of the 
 Inquisition, and the remarks of the holy office are very 
 much in character. A highly romantic air runs through 
 the whole, but the language is far from elegant. 
 
 Another singular publication which appeared in 
 175G, was The Memoirs of several Ladies, by John 
 Buncle, followed the next year by the Life of Bunch. 
 These volumes are very whimsical, but contain enter- 
 tainment. The ladies whose memoirs he professes to 
 give, are all highly beautiful and deeply learned ; good 
 Hebrew scholars ; and above all, zealous Unitarians. 
 The author generally finds them in some sequestered 
 dell, among the fells and mountains of Westmoreland, 
 where after a narrow escape from breaking his neck 
 among rocks and precipices, he meets like a true 
 knight-errant with one of these adventures. He mar- 
 ries in succession four or five of these prodigies, and 
 the intervals between description and adventure are 
 filled up with learned conversations on abstruse points 
 of divinity. .Many of the descriptions are taken from 
 nature, and as the book was much read, have possibly 
 contributed to spread that taste for lake and mountain 
 scenery which has since been so prevalent. The au- 
 thor was a clergvman. 
 12* 
 
134 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 A novel universally read at the time was Chrysal 
 or The Adventures of a Guinea. It described real 
 characters and transactions, mostly in high life, under 
 fictitious names ; and certainly, if a knowledge of the 
 vicious part of the world be a desirable acquisition, 
 Chrysal will amply supply it ; but many of the scenes 
 are too coarse not to offend a delicate mind, and the 
 generation it describes, is past away. Pompey the Lit- 
 tle, with a similar frame, has less of personality, and 
 is a lively and pleasant satire. Its author is unknown. 
 
 About fifty years ago a very singular work appear- 
 ed somewhat in the guise of a novel, which gave a new 
 impulse to writings of this stamp ; namely, The Life 
 and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, followed by The 
 Sentimental Journey, by the Rev. Mr. Sterne, a cler- 
 gyman of York. They exhibit much originality, wit 
 and beautiful strokes of pathos, but a total want of 
 plan or adventure, being made up of conversations 
 and detailed incidents. It is the peculiar characteris- 
 tic of the author that he affects the heart, not by long 
 drawn tales of distress, but by light electric touches 
 which thrill the nerves of the reader who possesses a 
 correspondent sensibility of frame. His characters, 
 in like manner, are struck out by a few masterly 
 touches. He resembles those painters who can give 
 expression to a figure by two or three strokes of bold 
 outline, leaving the imagination to fill up the sketch ; 
 the feelings are really as awakened by the story of 
 Le Fevre as by the narrative of Clarissa. The in- 
 delicacies of these volumes are very reprehensible, 
 and indeed in a clergyman scandalous, particularly in 
 the first publication, which however has the richest 
 vein of humour. The two Shandys, Trim, Dr Slop, 
 are all drawn with a masterly hand. It is one of the 
 merits of Sterne, that he has awakened the attention 
 of his readers to the wrongs of the poor negroes, and 
 
•F ROMANCE-WRITING. 135 
 
 certainly a great spirit of humanity and tenderness 
 breathes throughout the work. It is rather mortifying 
 to reflect how little the power of expressing these feel- 
 ings is connected with moral worth ; for Sterne was 
 a man by no means attentive to the happiness of those 
 connected with him : and we are forced to confess, 
 that an author may conceive the idea of " brushing 
 away flies without killing them," and yet behave ill in 
 every relation of life. 
 
 It has lately been said that Sterne has been indebt- 
 ed for much of his wit to Burton's Anatomy of Me- 
 lancholy. He certainly exhibits a good deal of read- 
 ing in that and many other books out of the common 
 way, but the wit is in the application, and that is his 
 own. This work gave rise to the rapid effusions of a 
 crowd of sentimentalists, many of whom thought they 
 had seized the spirit of Sterne, because they could 
 copy him in his breaks and asterisks. The taste 
 spread, and for a while, from the pulpit to the play- 
 house, the reign of sentiment was established. Among 
 the more respectable imitators of Sterne may be reck- 
 oned Mr. Mackenzie in his Man of Feeling, and Julia 
 de Roubigne, and Mr. Pratt in his Emma Corbett. 
 
 An interesting and singular novel, the Fool of Qual- 
 ity, was written by Henry Brooke, a man of genius, 
 the author of Gustavus Vasa and many other produc- 
 tions. Many beautiful and pathetical episodical stories 
 might be selected from it, but the story runs out into a 
 strain romantic and improbable beyond the common 
 allowed measure of this kind of writing ; so that as a 
 whole it cannot be greatly recommended ; but it ought 
 not to be forgotten, that the very popular work of 
 Sanford and Merton is taken from it. It has not 
 merely given the hint for that publication ; but the 
 plan, the contrasted character of the two boys, and 
 many particular incidents are so closely copied, that it 
 
136 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 will hardly be thought by one who peruses them both 
 together, that Mr. Day has made quite sufficient ac- 
 knowledgement in his preface. Rousseau had about 
 this time awakened the public attention to the prefer- 
 ence of natural manners in children, in opposition to 
 the artificial usages of fashionable life ; and much of 
 the spirit of Emile is seen in this part of the work. 
 The present generation has been much obliged to Mr. 
 Day for separating this portion of the novel from the 
 mass of improbable adventure in which it is involved, 
 clothing it in more elegant language and giving those 
 additions which have made it so deservedly a favour- 
 ite in the juvenile library. The religious feelings are 
 often awakened in the 1 Fool of Quality, not however 
 without a strong tincture of enthusiasm, to which the 
 author was inclined. Indeed, his imagination had at 
 times prevailed over his reason, before he wrote it. 
 
 A number of novels might be mentioned, which are 
 or have been, popular, though not of high celebrity. 
 Sarah Fielding, sister to the author of Tom Jones, 
 composed several ; among which David Simple is the 
 most esteemed : she was a woman of good sense and 
 cultivation, and if she did not equal her brother in 
 talent, she did not, like him, lay herself open to moral 
 censure. She translated Xenophon's Socrates, and 
 wrote a very pretty book for children, The Governess 
 or Female Academy. 
 
 Many tears have been shed by the young and ten- 
 der hearted over. Sidney Biddtdpk, the production of 
 Mrs. Sheridan, the wife of Mr* Thomas Sheridan, the 
 lecturer, an ingenious and amiable woman : the senti- 
 ments of this work are pure and virtuous, but the au- 
 thor seems to have taken pleasure in heaping distress 
 on virtue and innocence, merely to prove, what no one 
 will deny, that the best dispositions are not always 
 sufficient to ward off the evils of life. Whv is it thai 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 187 
 
 women when they write, are apt to give a melancholy 
 tinge to their compositions ? Is it that they suffer 
 more, and have fewer resources against melancholy ? 
 Is it that men, mixing at large in society, have a brisker 
 flow of ideas, and seeing a greater variety of charac- 
 ters, introduce more of the business and pleasures of 
 life into their productions ? Is it that humour is a 
 scarcer product of the mind than sentiment, and more 
 congenial to the stronger powers of man ? Is it that 
 women nurse those feelings in secrecy and silence, and 
 diversify the expression of them with endless shades 
 of sentiment which are more transiently felt, and with 
 fewer modifications of sentiment by the other sex ? 
 The remark, if true, has no doubt, many exceptions ; 
 but the productions of several ladies, both French and 
 English, seems to countenance it. 
 
 Callistus or The Man of Fashion, by Mr. Mulso, 
 is a pathetic story ; but it is written entirely for moral 
 effect, and affords little of entertainment. Mr. Graves, 
 an author of a very different cast, is known in this 
 walk by Columella, and his Spiritual Quixote. The 
 latter is a popular work, and possesses some humour ; 
 but the humour is coarse, and much too indiscrimin- 
 ately levelled against a society, whose doctrines opera- 
 ting with strong effect upon a large body of the most 
 vicious and ignorant class, must necessarily include in 
 their sweeping net much vice and folly, as well as 
 much of sincere piety and corresponding morals. The 
 design of his Columella is less exceptionable. It 
 presents a man educated in polite learning and man- 
 ners, who from a fastidious rejection of the common 
 active pursuits of life, rusticates in a country solitude, 
 grows morose and peevish, and concludes with mar- 
 rying his maid ; no unusual consequence of a whim- 
 sical and morose singularity; the secret springs of 
 which are, more commonly a tincture of indolence 
 
13S URIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 and pride than superiority of genius. Mr. Graves 
 was brought up originally for physic, but took orders 
 and became rector of Claverton near Bath. He was 
 the author of several publications, both translations 
 and original ; he was fond of writing, and published 
 what he called his Senilities when at the age of near 
 ninety. He died in 1804. — But it is time to retire 
 from the enumeration of these works of fancy, or the 
 reader might be as much startled with the number of 
 heroes and heroines called up around him, as Ulysses 
 was with the troops of shades that came flocking about 
 him in the infernal regions. 
 
 If the end and object of this species of writing be- 
 asked, many, no doubt, will be ready to tell us that its 
 object is, — to call in fancy to the aid of reason to de- 
 ceive the mind into embracing truth under the guise 
 of fiction : 
 
 " Cosi all' egro fanclul porgiamo aspersi 
 Di soave licor gli orli del vaso : 
 Succhi amari ingannato intanto ei beve, 
 E dall' ing-anno auo vita riceve : " 
 
 with such like reasons equally grave and dignified. 
 For my own part I scruple not to confess that when 1 
 take up a novel, my end and object is entertainment ; 
 and as I supect that to be the case with most readers, 
 I hesitate not to say that entertainment is their legiti- 
 mate end and object. To read the productions of 
 wit and genius is a very high pleasure to all persons 
 of taste, and the avidity with which they are read In- 
 all such, shows sufficiently that they are calculated to 
 answer this end. Reading is the cheapest of plea- 
 sures : it is a domestic pleasure. Dramatic exhibitions 
 give a more poignant delight, but they are seldom en- 
 joyed in their perfection, and never without expense 
 and trouble. Poetry requires in the reader a certain 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 139 
 
 elevation of mind and a practised ear. It is seldom 
 relished unless a taste be formed for it pretty early. 
 But the humble novel is always ready to enliven the 
 gloom of solitude, to soothe the languor of debility 
 and disease, to win the attention from pain or vexatious 
 occurrences, to take man from himself, (at many times 
 the worst company he can be in,) and while the mov- 
 ing picture of life passes before him, to make him for- 
 get the subject of his own complaints. It is pleasant to 
 the mind to sport in the boundless regions of possibil- 
 ity ; to find relief from the sameness of every-day 
 occurrences by expatiating amidst brighter skies and 
 fairer fields ; to exhibit love that is always happy, 
 valour that is always successful ; to feed the appetite 
 for wonder by a quick succession of marvellous events; 
 and to distribute, like a ruling providence, rewards 
 and punishments which fall just where they ought to fall. 
 
 It is sufficient therefore as an end, that these writ- 
 ings add to the innocent pleasures of life ; and if they 
 do no barm, the entertainment they give is a sufficient 
 good. We cut down the tree that bears no fruit, but 
 we ask nothing of a flower beyond its scent and its 
 colour. The unpardonable sin in a novel is dullness : 
 however grave or wise it may be, if the author pos- 
 sesses no powers of amusing, he has no business to 
 write novels; he should employ his pen in some more 
 serious part of literature. 
 
 But it is not necessary to rest the credit of these 
 works on amusement alone, since it is certain they 
 have had a very strong effect in infusing principles and 
 moral feelings. It is impossible to deny that the most 
 glowing and impressive sentiments of virtue are to be 
 found in many of these compositions, and have been 
 deeply imbibed by their youthful readers. They 
 awaken a sense of finer feelings than the ordinary 
 commerce of life inspires. Many a young woman 
 
140 ORIGIN AND PROGH) !SS 
 
 has caught from such works as Clarissa or Cecilia 
 ideas of refinement and delicacy which were not, per- 
 haps, to be gained in any society she could have ac- 
 cess to. Many a maxim of prudence is laid up in the 
 memory from these stores, ready to operate when oc- 
 casion offers. 
 
 The passion of love, the most seductive of all the 
 passions, they certainly paint too high, and represent 
 its influence beyond what it will be found to be in real 
 life ; but if they soften the heart, they also refine it. 
 They mix with the common passions of our nature all 
 that is tender in virtuous affection ; all that is estima- 
 ble in high principle and unshaken constancy ; all that 
 grace, delicacy, and sentiment can bestow of touching 
 and attractive. Benevolence and sensibility to distress 
 are almost always insisted upon in works of this kind ; 
 and perhaps it is not exaggeration to say, that much 
 of the softness of our present manners, much of that 
 tincture of humanity so conspicuous amidst all our 
 vices, is owing to the bias given by our dramatic writ- 
 ings and fictitious stories. A high regard to female 
 honour, generosity, and a spirit of self-sacrifice are 
 strongly inculcated. It costs nothing, it is true, to an 
 author to make his hero generous, and very often he 
 is extravagantly so ; still sentiments of this kind serve 
 in some degree to counteract the spirit of the world, 
 where selfish considerations have always more than 
 their due weight. In what discourse from the pulpit 
 are religious feelings more strongly raised than in the 
 prison sermon of The Vicar of Wakefield, or some 
 parts of The Fool of Quality 1 
 
 But not only those splendid sentiments with which, 
 when properly presented our feelings take part, and 
 kindle as we read ; — the more severe and homely vir- 
 tues, have been enforced in the works of a Barney a id 
 an Edgeworth. Writers of their good sense have oh- 
 
• F ROMANCE-WRITING. 141 
 
 served that while these compositions cherished even a 
 romantic degree of sensibility, the duties that have less 
 brilliancy to recommend them, were neglected. Where 
 can be found a more striking lesson against unfeeling 
 dissipation than the story of the Harrels 9 Where have 
 order, neatness, industry, sobriety, been recommended 
 with more strength than in the agreeable tales of Miss 
 Edgeworth? If a parent wishes his child to avoid ca- 
 price, irregularities of temper, procrastination, coquet- 
 ry, affectation, — all those faults which undermine fami- 
 ly happiness and destroy the every-day comforts of 
 common-life, — whence can he derive more impressive 
 morality than from the same source I When works 
 of fancy are thus made subservient to the improvement 
 of the rising generation, they certainly stand on a 
 higher ground than mere entertainment, and we revere 
 while we admire. 
 
 Some knowledge of the world is also gained by 
 these writings, imperfect indeed, but attained with 
 more ease and attended with less danger, than by 
 mixing in real life. If the stage is a mirror of life, 
 so is the novel, and perhaps a more accurate one, as 
 less is sacrificed to effect and representation. There 
 are many descriptions of characters in the busy world 
 which a young woman in the retired scenes of life 
 hardly meets with at all, and many whom it is safer tr 
 read of than to meet ; and to either sex it must be 
 desirable, that the first impressions of fraud, selfishness, 
 profligacy and perfidy, should be connecter 1 , as in 
 good novels they always will be, with infamv and ruin. 
 At any rate it is safer to meet with a bad character in 
 the pages of a fictitious Story than in the polluted 
 walks of life ; but an author solicitous for the morals 
 of his readers will be sparing in the introduction of 
 such characters. — It is an aphorism of Pope, 
 
 " Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, 
 As to be hated, needs but to be seen." 
 13 
 
142 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 But he adds, 
 
 " But seen too oft, familiar with her face, 
 We first endure, then pity, then embrace." 
 
 Indeed the former assertion is not true without con- 
 siderable modifications. If presented in its naked 
 deformity, vice will indeed give disgust ; but it may 
 be so surrounded with splendid and engaging qualities, 
 that the disgust is lost in admiration. Besides though 
 the selfish and mean passions are radically unlovely, 
 it is not the same with those passions which all have 
 felt, and few are even desirous to resist. To present 
 these to the young mind in the glowing colours of a 
 Rousseau or a Madame de Stael, is to awaken and 
 increase sensibilities which it is the office of wise re- 
 straint to calm and to moderate. Humour covers the 
 disgust which the grosser vices would occasion ; pas- 
 sion veils the danger of the more seducing ones. 
 
 After all, the effect of novel-reading must depend, 
 as in every other kind of reading, on the choice which 
 is made. If the looser compositions of this sort are 
 excluded, and the sentimental ones chiefly perused, 
 perhaps the danger lies more in fixing the standard of 
 virtue and delicacy too high for real use, than in de- 
 basing it. Generosity is carried to such an excess as 
 would soon dissipate even a princely fortune; a weak 
 compassion often allows vice to escape with impunity ; 
 an over-strained delicacy, or regard to a rash vow is al- 
 lowed to mar all the prospects of a long life ; dangers 
 are d< spised -<:\u\ self is annihilated, to a degree that 
 j,i id< nee does not warrant, and virtue is far from re- 
 quiring. The mosl generous man living, the most af- 
 fectionate friend, the most dutiful child would find his 
 character fall far short of the perfections exhibited in 
 a highly-wroughl novel. 
 
 Love is a passion particularly exaggerated in novels. 
 It forms the chief interest of by far the greater part of 
 
OF ROMANCE-WRITING. 143 
 
 them. In order to increase this interest, a false idea 
 is given of the importance of the passion. It occupies 
 the serious hours of life ; events all hinge upon it ; 
 every thing gives way to its influence, and no length 
 of time wears it out. When a young lady having 
 imbibed these notions, comes into the world, she finds 
 that this formidable passion acts a very subordinate 
 part on the great theatre of life ; that its vivid sensa- 
 tions are mostly limited to a very early period ; and 
 that it is by no means, as the poet sings, 
 
 " All the colour of remaining life." 
 
 She will find but few minds susceptible of its more 
 delicate influence. Where it is really felt, she will see 
 it continually overcome by duty, by prudence, or 
 merely by a regard for the show and splendour of life ; 
 and that in fact it has a very small share in the trans- 
 actions of the busy world, and is often little consulted 
 even in choosing a partner for life. In civilized life, 
 both men and women acquire so early a command 
 over their passions that the strongest of them are 
 taught to give way to circumstances, and a moderate 
 liking will appear apathy itself to one accustomed to 
 see the passion painted in its most glowing colours. 
 Least of all, will a course of novels prepare a young 
 lady for the neglect and tedium of life which she is 
 perhaps doomed to encounter. If the novels she 
 reads are virtuous, she has learned how to arm herself 
 with proper reserve against the ardour of her lover ; 
 she has been instructed how to behave with the ut- 
 most propriety when run away with like Miss Byron, 
 or locked up by a cruel parent, like Clarissa ; but she 
 is not prepared for indifference and neglect. Though 
 young and beautiful, she may see her youth and beau- 
 ty pass away without conquests, and the monotony of 
 her life will be apt to appear more insipid when con- 
 trasted with scenes of perpetual courtship and passion. 
 
 
144 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 It may be added with regard to the knowledge ol 
 die world, which, it is allowed, these writings are cal- 
 culated in some degree to give, that let them be as 
 well written and with as much attention to real life 
 and manners as they can possibly be, they will in 
 some respects give false ideas from the very nature of 
 fictitious writing. Every such work is a whole, in 
 which the fates and fortunes of the personages are 
 brought to a conclusion agreeably to the author's 
 preconceived idea. Every incident in a well written 
 composition is introduced for a certain purpose, and 
 made to forward a certain plan. A sagacious reader 
 is never disappointed in his forebodings. If a promi- 
 nent circumstance is presented to him, he lyys hold 
 on it, and may be very sure it will introduce some 
 Striking event ; and if a character has strongly en- 
 gaged his affections, he need not fear being obliged to 
 withdraw them ; the personages never turn out differ- 
 ently from what their appearance gave him a right to 
 expect; they gradually open, indeed ; they may sur- 
 prise, but they never disappoint him. Even from the 
 elegance of a name he may give a guess at the ame- 
 nity of the character. But real life is a kind of 
 chance-medley consisting of many unconnected scenes. 
 The great author of the drama of life has not finished 
 his piece ; but the author must finish his ; and vice 
 must be punished and virtue rewarded in the compass 
 of a iew volumes ; and it is a fault in his composition 
 if every circumstance does not answer the reasonable 
 expectations of the reader. But in real life our rea- 
 sonable expectations are often disappointed ; many 
 incidents occur which are like passages that lead to 
 nothing, and characters occasionally turn out quite dif- 
 ferent from what our fond expectations promised. 
 
 In short, the reader of a novel forms his expecta- 
 tions from what he supposes to pass in the mind of 
 the author, and guesses rightly at his intentions, but 
 
Or ROMANCE-WRITING. 145 
 
 would often guess wrong if he were considering the 
 real course of nature. It was very probable at some 
 period of his history that Gil Bias, if a real charac- 
 ter, would come to be hanged ; but the practised novel- 
 reader knows very well that no such event can await 
 the hero of the tale. Let us suppose a person spec- 
 ulating on the character of Tom Jones as the produc- 
 tion of an author, whose business it is pleasingly to 
 interest his readers. He has no doubt but that in 
 spite of his irregularities and distresses, his history will 
 come to an agreeable termination. He has no doubt 
 but that his parents will be discovered in due lime ; 
 he has no doubt but that his love for Sophia will be 
 rewarded sooner or later with her hand ; he has no 
 doubt of the constancy of that young lady or of their 
 entire happiness after marriage. And why does he 
 foresee all this ? Not from the real tendencies of 
 things, but from what he has discovered of the author's 
 intentions. But what would have been the probabili- 
 ty in real life ? Why, that the parents would either 
 never have been found, or have proved to be persons 
 of no consequence — that Jones would pass from one 
 vicious indulgence to another, till his natural good dis- 
 position was quite smothered under his irregulari- 
 ties — that Sophia would either have married her lover 
 clandestinely, and have been poor and unhappy ; or 
 she would have conquered her passion, and married 
 some country gentleman with whom she would have 
 lived in moderate happiness, according to the usual 
 routine of married life. But the author would have 
 done very ill so to have constructed his story. If 
 Booth had been a real character, it is probable his 
 Amelia and her family would not only have been 
 brought to poverty but left in it ; but to the reader it 
 is much more probable that by some means or other 
 they will be rescued from it, and left in possession of 
 all the comforts of life. It is probable in Zelnco that 
 
146 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 the detestable husband will some way or other be got 
 rid of ; but wo to the young lady, who, when marri- 
 ed, should be led, by contemplating the possibility of 
 
 .such an event, to cherish a passion which ought to be 
 entirely relinquished ! 
 
 Though a great deal of trash is every season pour- 
 ed out upon the public from the English presses, yet 
 in general our novels are not vicious ; the food has 
 neither flavour nor nourishment, but at least it is not 
 poisoned. Our national taste and habits are still turn- 
 ed toward domestic life and matrimonial happiness, and 
 the chief harm done by a circulating library is occasion- 
 ed by the frivolity of its furniture, and the loss of time 
 incurred. Now and then a girl perhaps may be led 
 by them to elope with a coxcomb ; or, if she is hand- 
 some, to expect the homage of a Sir Harry or My 
 lord, instead of the plain tradesman suitable to her sit- 
 uation in life ; but she will not have her mind contam- 
 inated with such scenes and ideas as Crebillon, Louvet, 
 and others of that class have published in France. 
 
 And indeed notwithstanding the many paltry books 
 of this kind published in the course of every year, it 
 may safely be affirmed that we have more good writ- 
 ers in this walk living at the present time, than at any 
 period, since the days of Richardson and Fielding. 
 A very great proportion of these are ladies : and 
 surely it will not be said that either taste or morals 
 have been losers by their taking up the pen. The 
 names of D'Arblay, Edgeworth, Inch bald, RadclifFe, 
 and a number more will vindicate this assertion. 
 
 No small proportion of modern novels have been 
 devoted to recommend, or to mark with reprobation, 
 those systems of philosophy or politics, which have 
 raised so much ferment of late years. Mr. Holcroft's 
 Anna St. Ives is of this number : its beauties, and 
 beauties it certainly has, do not make amends for its 
 absurdities. What can he more absurd than to re- 
 
OP ROMANCE-WRITING. 147 
 
 prt-sent a young lady, gravely considering, in the dis- 
 posal of her hand, how she shall promote the greatest 
 possible good of the system ? Mr. Holcroft was a 
 man of strong powers, and his novels are by no means 
 without merit, but his satire is often partial ; and his 
 representations of life unfair. On the other side may 
 be reckoned The modern Philosophers, and the novels 
 of Mrs. West. In the war of systems these light 
 skirmishing troops have often been employed with 
 great effect ; and so long as they are content with fair, 
 general warfare, are perfectly allowable. We have 
 lately seen the gravest theological discussions present- 
 ed to the world under the attractive form of a novel, 
 and with a success which seems to show, that the in- 
 terest even of the generality of readers is more strongly 
 excited when some serious end is kept in view. 
 
 It is not the intention in these slight remarks to 
 enumerate those of the present day who have suc- 
 cessfully entertained the public ; otherwise Mr. Cum- 
 berland might be mentioned, that veteran in every 
 field of literature ; otherwise a tribute ought to be 
 paid to the peculiarly pathetic powers of Mrs. Opie ; 
 nor would it be possible to forget the very striking and 
 original novel of Caleb Williams, in which the author 
 without the assistance of am of the common events 
 or feelings on which these stories generally turn, has 
 kept up the curiosity and interest of the reader in the 
 most lively manner; nor his St. Leon, the ingenious 
 speculation of a philosophical mind, which is also 
 much out of the common track. It will bear an ad- 
 vantageous comparison with Swift's picture of the 
 Strulbrugs in his Voyage to Lriputa, the tendency of 
 which seems to be to repress the wish of never-ending 
 life in this world ; but in fact it does not bear at all 
 upon the question, for no one ever did wish for im- 
 mortal life without immortal youth to accompany it, 
 the one wish being as easily formed as the other ; but 
 
148 ORIGIN AND PROGRESS 
 
 St. Leon shows, from a variety of striking circum- 
 Stances that hoth together would pall, and that an im- 
 mortal human creature would grow an insulated, un- 
 happy being. 
 
 With regard to this particular Selection, it presents 
 a series of the most approved novels, from the first 
 regular productions of the kind to the present time ; 
 they are of very different degrees of merit ; but none, 
 it is hoped, so destitute of it as not to afford entertain- 
 ment. Variety in manner has been attended to. As to 
 the rest, no two people probably would make the same 
 choice, nor indeed the same person at any distance of 
 time. A few of superior merit were chosen without 
 difficulty, but the list was not completed without fre- 
 quent hesitation. Some regard it has been thought pro- 
 per to pay to the taste and preference of the public, as 
 was but reasonable in an undertaking in which their 
 preference was to indemnify those who are at the 
 expense and risk of the publication. Copy-right also 
 was not to be intruded on, and the number of volumes 
 was determined by the booksellers. Some perhaps 
 may think that too much importance has been already 
 given to a subject so frivolous ; but a discriminating 
 taste is no where more called for than with regard to 
 a species of books which every body reads. It was 
 said by Fletcher of Saltoun, " Let me make the bal- 
 lads of a nation, and I care not who makes the laws." 
 Might it not be said with as much propriety, Let me 
 make the novels of a country, and let who will, make 
 the systems ?