Class ~PT? 5?Q_Q 
 Book TVh4- 
 
6 
 
 
 LETTERS, 
 POEMS, 
 
 AND 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS, 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 JAMES TYSON. 
 
FJtyer.SC 
 
 0©T Ji> LY 12, IS 20. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 POEMS, 
 
 AND 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PAPERS. 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 JAMES TYSON 
 
 & brief JtfUmotr of fits life. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY T. MILLER, NOBLE STREET, 
 CHEAPSIDE. 
 
 1822. 
 
A* 
 
 <t? \> K 
 
 
MEMOIR. 
 
 When death deprives us of an endeared friend, 
 the course and tenor of whose life has been such 
 as to give good promise, that the awful change 
 which has taken place has but removed him from 
 a world of sorrow and uncertainty to one of 
 perfect and unchanging felicity, there is a mourn- 
 ful satisfaction, almost amounting to delight, in 
 recollecting all that he said, and thought, and 
 did; — in re-perusing the volume of his life; — in 
 re-treading the path of his pilgrimage. But if 
 that friend possessed all the most endearing quali- 
 ties of the heart, united with genius, imagination, 
 cultivation, and taste, which made him the de- 
 light and ornament of the circle in which he 
 moved, it cannot but afford additional satisfac- 
 tion to those who enjoyed the closest intimacy 
 with him, to give to those who loved him a short 
 history of his brief life — a general outline of his 
 character; and by unveiling some parts of it 
 
 b 
 
which could not be generally known, but which 
 exhibit traits of the most exalted tendency, to 
 preserve the recollection of his virtues — extend 
 the influence of his example — and build up in 
 the hearts of his many friends an altar to his 
 memory, whereon continual sacrifice will be of- 
 fered. Such is now my occupation. 
 
 James Tyson, the author of the following 
 pages, was born in the borough of Southwark, 
 on the twenty-ninth day of August, in the year 
 1797, of parents whose respectable situation in 
 life was favorable for allowing him those advan- 
 tages of study and intellectual improvement, 
 which tended not only to endear him to the 
 circle of his immediate acquaintance, but to 
 render him capable of becoming an ornament to 
 the country that gave him birth. He was the 
 elder of two children, the younger of whom died 
 in infancy, and on the death of his father, which 
 took place within about a year after the birth of 
 James, the care of his education became solely 
 entrusted to one of the most affectionate of mo- 
 thers, whose pride was to watch over the growth 
 of his infant mind, and to engraft in it those 
 seeds of virtue and dignity which became in time 
 the settled principles of his life. 
 
 When James was in his seventh year, his 
 mother married a second husband, a gentleman 
 
engaged in commercial pursuits, but who also 
 possessed a taste for literature and the fine arts, 
 and in whom good sense and good feeling com- 
 bined to induce a cordial co-operation with his 
 mother in affording to James that kind of educa- 
 tion, and those facilities for study and improve- 
 ment, which his peculiar circumstances pointed 
 out as most desirable. He was never sent to any 
 school, but when old enough to derive advantage 
 from the care of such a man, he was placed under 
 the private tuition of the Rev. J. B. Saunders, 
 the venerable and respected curate of St. Augus- 
 tin, in London, by whom he was instructed in 
 classical literature, and who always expressed 
 great admiration of his talents, as well as of the 
 nobler qualites of his heart. 
 
 His first attempts at composition were made 
 at a very early age, and even then, although en- 
 twined with the weakness and inexperience of 
 the child, shewed the dawnings of a mind des- 
 tined not to crawl in the common dust of ordinary 
 mortals, but to mount and soar into the higher 
 regions of intellectual greatness. Fond of read- 
 ing, he felt, at a very early period, anxious to 
 emulate the fame of those authors whose works 
 he admired, and this feeling, continually fed and 
 encouraged by a life of comparative solitude, 
 and an entire averseness to the more busy and 
 
active pursuits of man, became at length almost 
 a passion ; he was ambitious of obtaining a name 
 in the literary annals of his country — of being 
 ranked amongst the great and good of his day, 
 and this object never faded from his view. 
 
 Young as he was, he felt too, even at this 
 time, a great and growing interest in the civil 
 and political affairs of his country, and a patriotic 
 jealousy of the encroachments of power : always 
 alive to the interesting events which were then 
 passing on the great theatre of the world, he read 
 the newspapers of the day with avidity, and com- 
 mented on their contents with freedom and acute- 
 ness. It was at this time he first availed himself 
 of their columns, by addressing a letter to the 
 editor of the Morning Chronicle, upon the in- 
 fringement of a public right, in shutting the gates 
 of the Tower at an unreasonably early hour. 
 Contrary to his expectations the letter made its 
 appearance, and was successful in producing the 
 desired effect : the doors were again opened and 
 the old regulations restored. This little cir- 
 cumstance was a source of double gratification 
 to him, for it was the first time that he had 
 seen himself in print, a very natural source of 
 delight to his ardent and ambitious mind, and it 
 also proved to him that he was capable of think- 
 ing for himself, a privilege of which he deter- 
 
mined thenceforth to avail himself. After this 
 he frequently inserted letters in the newspapers, 
 on subjects of local or temporary interest which 
 excited his attention ; and he also employed him- 
 self, by way of relaxation from severer studies, 
 in writing light essays upon various subjects, and 
 critiques upon the several authors, ancient and 
 modern, whose works he read: and the applause 
 which these productions never failed to obtain 
 from those on whose judgments he was accus- 
 tomed to rely, gave, of course, great zest and 
 stimulus to his rising spirit. He was now about 
 fifteen, and in the following year (1813), when not 
 quite sixteen, he published a clever little pamph- 
 let, entitled, " A brief Historical View of the 
 Causes of the Decline of the Commerce of Na- 
 tions/' which was favorably noticed by some of 
 the reviews of the day : whilst it must be admit- 
 ted that the youth and inexperience of the writer 
 are often visible, it is no less certain that it 
 evinced great industry and research, and well 
 deserved the commendation it received. 
 
 About this period it was that his father-in-law 
 deemed it advisable to give him occasional em- 
 ployment in his counting-house, rather perhaps 
 with the view of exciting his mind to the obser- 
 vation of the real business of active life, than with 
 any decided intention of making a commercial 
 
pursuit a permanent object. For some months he 
 fulfilled the duties of his new situation without 
 murmuring, although at no time congenial with 
 his feelings ; but at length it became so irksome 
 to him that he resolved to give it up : it was im- 
 possible that a mind like his, so bounding and 
 elastic, so full of aspiration and glorious am- 
 bition, should long consent to be shackled down 
 to the dull monotony of the counting-house : he 
 felt that there were nobler occupations for the 
 human mind than could be found in the syste- 
 matic routine of the day-book and ledger. Fully 
 convinced that the employment in which he was 
 engaged was by no means suited to the texture 
 of his mind, he resolved to make an earnest ap- 
 peal to the judgment of his friends : he accord- 
 ingly addressed to his father-in-law the following 
 petition, which obtained for him complete eman- 
 cipation. 
 
 TO 
 
 HENRY VINT, ESQ. 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION AND REPRESENTATION OF 
 JAMES TYSON, OF KING STREET, CHEAPSIDE, 
 
 MOST RESPECTFULLY SHEWETH, 
 
 That your petitioner, from the 15th day 
 of February, 1813, has been employed in your 
 counting-house, and has thereby been prevented 
 
Vll 
 
 from pursuing those studies for which he has a 
 natural inclination ; that your petitioner has not 
 consequently made that progress which might 
 otherwise reasonably have been expected from 
 him: that your petitioner is anxious to repair 
 the loss occasioned by such employment, and to 
 return to his literary occupations ; and your pe- 
 titioner finding it incompatible with the duties of 
 his present situation, most humbly intreats to be 
 relieved therefrom, for the above-named reason, 
 and others which he will presently set forth : that 
 your petitioner having no ultimate views upon 
 trade, his longer continuance in the counting- 
 house, cannot be of any advantage to himself, 
 and he further contends that your service will 
 sustain no loss by his removal. That your peti- 
 tioner has no other object besides that of obtain- 
 ing the uninterrupted leisure which is so requi- 
 site for the completion of his studies. That your 
 petitioner has been for a long time afflicted with 
 a grievous and obstinate disorder commonly 
 known by the name of the cacoethes scribendi, 
 which has hitherto baffled medical aid, and which 
 is only to be removed by leisure and exercise : 
 farther, that your petitioner has unfortunately 
 fallen desperately in love with a young lady of 
 great beauty, (at least in his eyes) being no other 
 than the Lady Thalia-Melpomene-Bombastina- 
 
Vlll 
 
 - 
 
 Dramatica, of Covent-Garden, and that unless 
 you will be graciously pleased to grant the prayer 
 of his petition, he cannot possibly pay her due 
 and proper attention. Under these circumstances, 
 your petitioner confidently hopes you will take 
 his case into your most serious consideration, 
 and if his request be complied with, (which he 
 does not doubt) that you will be pleased to make 
 the necessary arrangements as early as you con- 
 veniently can ; because, as he trusts he may say, 
 without incurring the imputation of vanity, that 
 the Lady Thalia-Melpomene-Bombastina-Drama- 
 tica has given him some reason to expect, she 
 may be inclined to honour him with her hand 
 about the month of September next ensuing, he 
 will require the intervening time to draw up the 
 marriage settlements, and make sundry other 
 necessary preparations for so great an event ; all 
 which your petitioner submits with the greatest 
 respect. And your petitioner, as in duty bound, 
 will ever pray, &c. &c. 
 
 James Tyson. 
 Dated this 26th day of 
 April, 1815. 
 
 Being thus released from an occupation which 
 had materially interfered with his literary pur- 
 suits, he returned with renewed ardor and zeal 
 to his favorite studies. Poetry and the drama 
 
were now his chief delight, and to these he de- 
 voted himself with increased energy : an early 
 and intimate acquaintance with the leading poets 
 of his native country, and an especial veneration 
 of the immortal Shakspeare, tended to give to his 
 mind that fixed and settled habit of feeling and 
 reflection which accompanied him in all things, 
 and which enabled him to look on all things with 
 the eye, and to muse on them with the " breath- 
 ing spirit" of a true and genuine poet. In the 
 year 1815 he wrote his tragedy of Leoni, which 
 was offered to one of the leading theatres but not 
 accepted. It was in the early part of this year 
 that the writer of this memoir was first introduced 
 to him ; and thus was laid the foundation of a 
 friendship which gradually acquired strength as 
 the character of each became unfolded to the 
 other, until at length it issued in an union of 
 hearts, more binding than the ties of blood, — in 
 a communion of thought and feeling, and an un- 
 doubting confidence and reliance, each on each, 
 which death alone had power to destroy. As 
 their intimacy increased it was natural that the 
 serious subjects of religion and a future state 
 should sometimes be discussed by them, and it 
 was in reference to a conversation of this nature 
 that the first letter in the following collection was 
 written, wherein he avows his belief not only in 
 
 b 5 
 
the general doctrines of the gospel, but also in 
 the peculiar and delightful, though disputed one, 
 of the re-union and mutual recognition of friends 
 in a future state. 
 
 In January, 1816, he commenced the very 
 useful practice of keeping a regular diary, in a 
 small volume (published by Taylor and Hessey, 
 of Fleet Street,) for that purpose, under the title 
 of the " Student's Journal," which he afterwards 
 continued in another similar volume, published 
 by the same parties, as the " Private Diary," pre- 
 ferring the latter on account of its bearing a more 
 modest and unassuming designation : this diary 
 he continued regularly until within a few days of 
 his decease, making at the close of each year a 
 review of the time that had elapsed and the man- 
 ner of its occupation, and fearlessly and impar- 
 tially recording a verdict in favor or in condem- 
 nation of his conduct, as such review demanded. 
 By the extracts which will be given from this 
 diary, the reader will be enabled to see more of 
 the real internal character of the man than could 
 be unfolded to him in any other way; and these, 
 with the addition of his letters, especially those 
 to his friend George, almost render any comment 
 upon it unnecessary. In conformity with the 
 object which he had proposed to himself of writ- 
 ing for the stage, his reading during this year 
 
was principally confined to the drama and works 
 likely to afford him subjects for dramatic com- 
 position, of which he was in continual search. 
 
 He was sensible, however, that he was not 
 making the best use of his time, and frequently 
 notices this with regret: the following extract 
 from his diary will afford a specimen both of his 
 concise mode of journalizing, and of his attention 
 to his conduct and the manner of passing his 
 time : — " Friday, 2d Feb. Morning — spent in 
 wondering at and reprobating my own idleness. 
 Evening — read the New Monthly Magazine for 
 this month — once more resolved to be industri- 
 ous." 
 
 In August he went with his parents to Paris, 
 by way of Brighton and Dieppe, returning by St. 
 Omer and Calais to Dover. This journey af- 
 forded him much pleasure, and greatly contri- 
 buted to the enlargement of his mind and his 
 general stock of information; it was the first 
 time he had ever been twenty miles from London, 
 and every thing was new to him — every change 
 of scene was hailed with new wonder and delight. 
 It was on his return from this excursion that he 
 was introduced to his friend George, to whom so 
 many of the following letters are addressed, and 
 with whom he soon became united in bonds of 
 the strictest intimacy and the most endearing 
 
friendship — a friendship which knew no inter- 
 ruption until dissolved by the resistless hand of 
 death. It was within a fortnight after this intro- 
 duction that his first letter* to him was written, 
 which may be referred to as affording a happy 
 illustration of that honesty and candor which 
 were peculiar characteristics of his noble mind ; 
 he bestows upon the verses which had been 
 submitted to his perusal, such commendation 
 as he thought they deserved, but at the same 
 time freely and frankly points out their de- 
 fects ; and in the conclusion of the letter rejects 
 some high-wrought expressions of praise, which 
 the enthusiastic feelings of his new friend had 
 applied to one of his own tragedies, but which 
 he felt to be undeserved, and gives him a deli- 
 cate hint that flattery was alike unworthy of them 
 both. 
 
 I will here extract from his diary, because 
 they occur about the same period of time, some 
 observations which shew the independence of his 
 mind, and how much he was accustomed to think 
 for himself and to form his own judgment of men 
 and things, as well as the honesty with which he 
 records such judgments, even when opposed to 
 received opinions, and what he considered as 
 
 * See page 6. 
 
Xlll 
 
 high authorities : — " September 20 — Read Ben 
 Jonson's Every Man in his Humour, which I 
 must confess (though with trepidation) I do not 
 admire." 
 
 " Sept. 22 — Looked over the Drury Lane 
 Monody on the Death of Sheridan, attributed to 
 Lord Byron — I am inclined to think correctly — 
 at the same time it is certainly inferior to his 
 usual style; it is spun out, and flags m many 
 places." 
 
 " Sept. 24 — Read the Tempest as perverted 
 from Shakspeare, by Dryden, Davenant, and 
 Kemble, for which they all deserve to be indicted 
 for high treason against the bard : it is, indeed, 
 pitiable to read." 
 
 Before giving the retrospect of this year, it 
 will be proper to notice the philosophic equa- 
 nimity of mind which even at this early period 
 he laboured to possess, and the manner in which 
 he endeavoured to fortify himself against the 
 possible reverses and trials he might have to 
 encounter. He was little more than eighteen 
 years of age when he completed his tragedy of 
 Leoni, an event of no small importance to him 
 at that time: this he records in the following 
 terms : — " I have this day entirely finished my 
 tragedy, and have computed that the time em- 
 ployed in writing, revising, and transcribing it, 
 has been three months, which I think is tolerably 
 
rapid. I have now only to hope for its success, 
 and I flatter myself I possess sufficient philosophy 
 to be able to endure a failure with reasonable 
 composure : this remark may be of use when the 
 bolt falls. Horace may also be of some service — 
 
 " iEquam memento rebus in arduis 
 Servare mentem, non seeds in bonis 
 Ab insolenti temperatara 
 Laetitia." 
 
 And it was of use — for when, six months 
 afterwards, the tragedy was returned from Co- 
 vent-Garden Theatre, the circumstance was 
 simply noticed thus : — " The proprietors of 
 C.G. T. returned Leoni — well, well, no matter" 
 And when subsequently his tragedy of Rufinus 
 met a similar fate at Drury-Lane, the event is 
 recorded in similar terms: — " Rufinus returned 
 from D. L. T. Quis timet?" — And so little was 
 his serenity disturbed by the circumstance, that 
 he went there the same evening to witness Kean's 
 performance of Sir Edward Mortimer; and the 
 very next morning found him busily employed in 
 forming the plot of a new drama. 
 
 I now come to the excellent observations with 
 which he closes the year 1816, which fully evince 
 how much his own heart and character were the 
 objects of his care, and the subjects of his medi- 
 tation — but they need no comment from my 
 
XV 
 
 pen — they speak a language not to be misunder- 
 stood. 
 
 THE RETROSPECT, 1816. 
 
 " How useful is retrospection ! how seldom 
 performed! and how seldom faithfully ! But con- 
 vinced as I am of its utility, let me offer at the 
 shrine of truth a faithful account of my thoughts, 
 reading, and actions, and may I be enabled to 
 peruse it in after years with satisfaction and 
 gratitude. 
 
 " To commence with my reading, — I own I 
 can in nowise congratulate myself in this par- 
 ticular. On reference to the preceding enume- 
 ration, I perceive a heterogeneous mass of plays, 
 poetry, and novels — all, what is usually termed 
 light reading : very few of a graver cast ; a few 
 letters, travels, and biographies occasionally. 
 Paley's Evidences is the most serious work of 
 the whole year; I must regret that it stands 
 there alone. The plays are consonant with the 
 profession I have adopted, and so far I am ex- 
 cused. But there are many works among this 
 ' light reading' to which I shall always look back 
 with pleasure ; for example, Discipline as a no- 
 vel, and the third canto of Chiide Harold as a 
 poem. The latter is pre-eminent — nay, it is in- 
 structive, and calculated to elevate the soul be- 
 yond the follies of the world. 
 
" There certainly is little in this catalogue of 
 literature (alluding to a list of upwards of seventy 
 works perused during the year) that is solid or 
 important, and I have only to conclude this por- 
 tion of the retrospect, with a resolution to amend 
 the error in the time before me. 
 
 " I come now to thought and action — and 
 here I shall venture to assert my belief that an 
 improvement has taken place. I feel a higher 
 sense of duty to God, and of the dignity of man. 
 I am less inclined to dissipation than formerly ; 
 I have looked beyond the mists in which the 
 worldly-minded enshroud themselves ; I can de- 
 spise their extenuations and expose their fallacies. 
 Virtue grows more beautiful and vice more hag- 
 gard. But I have to guard against the incur- 
 sions of pride and vanity. Thus far of virtues 
 theoretical ; now for virtues practical • — I am re- 
 moved from temptation ; restrained in action ; 
 and indecisive in spirit. What then have I to 
 boast of? Nothing ! That I am not more vi- 
 cious is no merit of mine ; that I am not more 
 virtuous is my own fault : the leaf is a 
 blank!! 
 
 " This freedom from temptation is a blessing; 
 for hence conscience performs its functions freely, 
 unimpaired by vice become habitual; not dis- 
 tempered by the poison of its breath, or deranged 
 by its infatuations ; consequently it is ever ac- 
 
xvn 
 
 tive : — may it continue thus, for it is sin's worst 
 enemy. 
 
 " To descend to minor points, and survey the 
 whole, I contemplate the past with satisfaction ; 
 my ideas have been enlarged by the journey to 
 France ; I have derived real pleasure and benefit 
 from my intercourse with society; the ties of 
 friendship have been drawn closer ; my prospects 
 are cheered by hope, and my ardor is unabated : 
 my soul has received new impulses — has been 
 revived and illumined; the dark shades that 
 hung round it are gradually dispersing; and I 
 hope in future to be more virtuous, and more — 
 " But man is frail " 
 
 Heaven shower its aid upon me ! 
 
 " J. T." 
 
 About the close of this year he was much an- 
 noyed by continual head-aches, which at length 
 terminated in an attack of the measles ; this ill- 
 ness for some time wore an alarming aspect, and 
 left a weakness and tenderness upon his lungs 
 which it is probable was never completely re- 
 moved. The necessity of secluding himself from 
 society, and at the same time giving up every 
 thing like study, was a source of no little dis- 
 comfort to him; but early in the year 1817 he 
 was enabled to resume his usual occupations, 
 although with some restriction. His mind was 
 now a good deal devoted to the consideration of 
 
serious subjects, upon which the writer of, the 
 present memoir had frequent conversations with 
 him: he was especially anxious to obtain fixed 
 and settled opinions upon the important doctrine 
 of the Trinity, and read several works upon the 
 subject with that view ; amongst others, a small 
 tract by the Rev. J. Hawkins, and a larger work by 
 Dr. Samuel Clarke, both of which are noticed in 
 his diary ; the former, in the following words : — 
 " Read a small tract on the Trinity, by J. Haw- 
 kins, a well written and impartial treatise, which 
 tended considerably to arrange my ideas on the 
 subject." 
 
 In the autumn of this year he was engaged, 
 in connection with his friend Mr. Thomas Serle, 
 in forming the plan of a literary society, a slight 
 sketch of which will be found in one of his letters 
 at page 13; the objects contemplated by the 
 founders were the cultivation of the art of public 
 speaking, and the publication, periodically, of a 
 volume of original essays, critiques, poems, &c. 
 to be furnished by the several members. They 
 completely succeeded in establishing a very re- 
 spectable society, but it was found expedient to 
 give up the intended publication and confine their 
 object to the discussion of literary, moral, and 
 political subjects. In the formation of this so- 
 ciety, James displayed that zeal and energy 
 which were conspicuous traits in his character; 
 
XIX 
 
 he was regular and punctual in his attendance at 
 the Aveekly meetings, and seldom failed to take 
 part in the debate. He was not an eloquent 
 debater, but he uniformly evinced such a know- 
 ledge of the matter under discussion, exhibited 
 such clear and correct views of his subjects, 
 and enforced them with so much earnestness, 
 that he was always a most welcome speaker, 
 and was listened to with marked attention. 
 He was, indeed, a universal favorite with the 
 members of the society, even with those who had 
 least personal intercourse with him. 
 
 Of the works read during this year Madame 
 de StaePs Germany afforded him the highest de- 
 light; with Blackstone's Commentaries he was 
 also much pleased, feeling that he had thence 
 derived a considerable insight into the general 
 system of our jurisprudence, and an increased 
 acquaintance with the laws of his country : it 
 must have been an irksome task to any one not 
 studying the law as a profession, to read through 
 the whole of such a work, but this he accom- 
 plished, and often afterwards congratulated him- 
 self upon having done so. The obligations he 
 was under to both these writers, as well as to 
 Dugald Stewart and Dr. Samuel Clarke, are very 
 properly noticed in the retrospect of the year, 
 which it may be as well here to introduce. 
 
XX 
 
 THE RETROSPECT, 1817. 
 
 " The close of another year brings me to my 
 task again, — a task which must ever impress a 
 feeling of humiliation on the mind, while it pre- 
 sents us with the striking fact, that ' we have 
 done those things which we ought not to have 
 done, and left undone those things which we 
 ought to have done/ . , 
 
 " I have been referring to the retrospect of 
 last year with mingled sensations, though I am 
 disposed to believe that another year has not 
 passed over without some improvement : — that it 
 has not been greater, I reflect with sorrow. 
 
 " In my course of reading an evident improve- 
 ment must be acknowledged, and notwithstand- 
 ing the majority of books read still consist of 
 light works, there are several others of a very 
 different description. I am under great obliga- 
 tions to Blackstone's Commentaries, Madame da 
 Stael's Germany ; to Dugald Stewart especially 
 for opening a new field of speculation, which 
 I find has been of the most essential service to 
 me ; and to Dr. Clarke's work on the Trinity, 
 which has been the means, in a great measure, of 
 settling my ideas upon this important subject: 
 but I speak diffidently and reverently, and I pray 
 
for the assistance of the Eternal, to correct my 
 errors, and lead me in the way of truth. 
 
 " I must own that the promise made last year 
 has been very inadequately performed ; that there 
 is still much to be done in the improvement of 
 my mind and the direction of its studies, and I 
 hope to record on the next occasion, that greater 
 advances have been made towards this object. 
 The establishment of a literary society will, I 
 think, be of essential service to me in various 
 ways, as I trust experience will make manifest. 
 
 " In the moral and internal retrospect, I am 
 afraid much will be found wanting; but I may 
 console myself in the belief that I have not retro- 
 graded — that the improved tone of mental feeling 
 has been supported and promises to continue, — 
 and here let me acknowledge how much I owe 
 to the friends who surround me, and especially 
 to One who has given rise to a better and more 
 composed state of mind — who has turned my 
 thoughts to the most delightful speculations, and 
 who has most materially contributed to render 
 this year the happiest of my life ! May the 
 charm that has worked this long continue ! may 
 it never be broken, till it rises in a new form 
 whose duration shall be eternal. 
 
 " I think I have less to do Avith hope than 
 heretofore. I cannot but remark that since the 
 
 
XX11 
 
 last year nothing has been done towards the ac- 
 complishment of the temporal gratifications that 
 I have sought to obtain. I am precisely in the 
 same situation as then, and with no immediate 
 probability of success in any of the projects that 
 I had conceived. I do not repine, — I hope I 
 never shall while so many actual blessings sur- 
 round me ; but it excites reflection while it incul- 
 cates patience and the necessity of continued 
 exertion. 
 
 " Now let me close my review, with a grate- 
 ful recollection of the past, and a reviving hope 
 of the future, which, with a reliance upon the 
 wisdom and mercy of the Eternal Spirit, I trust 
 will never desert me. 
 
 "James Tyson." 
 
 January 3, 1818. 
 
 In the early part of the following year (1818) 
 he projected, in connection with one of his friends, 
 the joint founder of the Athenseum, a weekly 
 publication under the title of the Alchemist, for 
 which he wrote a few papers, and one or two of 
 them will be found at the end of the present 
 volume; in consequence, however, of some similar 
 work appearing, before their plan was properly 
 digested, the field was considered to be pre- 
 occupied, and they were advised to give it up. 
 
XX111 
 
 Very soon after this he was introduced to the 
 proprietor of a weekly paper, the National Re- 
 gister, of which he undertook the editorship as 
 matter of experiment: this afforded him a regular 
 occupation for eight or nine weeks, during which 
 time he held it with entire satisfaction to the 
 publisher, who much pressed him to continue ; 
 but finding that it completely engrossed his time, 
 without being at all likely to become a profitable 
 employment, he resigned the undertaking, and 
 took his leave in the lines which will be found at 
 page 170. He was now for a short time com- 
 pletely disengaged, but his mind was too ardent 
 and active to allow him long to remain so. He 
 was anxious to acquire and maintain a reputation 
 as a writer which should hand down his name 
 with honor to posterity. The ill-success which 
 had attended his various efforts at dramatic com- 
 position, none of his pieces having been accepted 
 at the theatres, seemed to point out that the 
 course which he had adopted was not the one 
 likely to effect the object he had at heart; and 
 his conviction of this is feelingly acknowledged 
 at the close of the last retrospect. 
 
 He had always a fondness for historical re- 
 search, as the pamphlet published when he was 
 only fifteen, and which has been already noticed, 
 would sufficiently evince. This taste, which had 
 
XXIV 
 
 lain dormant for some time, now returned in all 
 its pristine vigor, and in gratification of it he 
 formed the plan of an historical work which all 
 must regret that he did not live to finish, because 
 in its progress he has displayed powers which 
 would have given him a rank among historians, 
 perhaps not inferior to Hume or Gibbon. This was 
 intended to be a History of Civil Government from 
 its earliest origin to the present day ; dividing it 
 into two parts, ancient and modern. In the 
 former, tracing it from the natural authority of 
 our first parents to heads of families and leaders 
 of tribes, until it displayed itself in the formation 
 of distinct kingdoms. Then shewing the rise, 
 progress, and decay of the various ancient go- 
 vernments, and briefly pointing out the causes 
 which had produced such mighty changes. In 
 the second and most important part, he pro- 
 posed to give a clear but succinct account of 
 the present form of government, and existing 
 institutions, of every state and country now 
 known as possessing political existence ; tracing 
 them through the various changes and revolu- 
 tions they have severally undergone, and closing 
 the whole with a recapitulation of the impor- 
 tant moral and political reflections which such a 
 survey is calculated to awaken. 
 
 Such was the design he had formed to him- 
 
self, and its execution, so far as he had pro- 
 ceeded in it, was worthy of the design. It 
 requires but little consideration to perceive that 
 great zeal, industry, and research were called 
 for ; an extensive knowledge of standard works 
 of reference; skill in the selection of his ma- 
 terials ; an aptitude to seize the leading and 
 prominent features in each case ; and the power 
 of condensing and compressing voluminous mat- 
 ter into few words, in such a manner as to con- 
 vey clear, and, at the same time, correct impres- 
 sions to the mind of his reader. It was intended 
 that the work should form two volumes, of which 
 James had nearly finished the first ; and it will 
 be acknowledged by all who may peruse it, that 
 he possessed, in no ordinary measure, the quali- 
 fications requisite for the task which he had 
 undertaken. 
 
 When he had sufficiently matured the plan 
 of the work, he applied to Messrs. Taylor and 
 Hessey, explained to them his intentions, and 
 inquired whether they thought sufficiently well 
 of the design to embark in the undertaking : 
 their opinion of it was decided and flattering, 
 but they desired to see one or two chapters to 
 enable them to judge of the powers and capa- 
 bilities of James to realize his own conceptions : 
 the opportunity was soon afforded them, and 
 
XXVI 
 
 was immediately followed by a most liberal offer 
 on their parts. This arrangement was no sooner 
 made than he applied himself to the prosecution 
 of the undertaking with all that ardor and energy 
 which were characteristic features of his mind. 
 A certain portion of each day was regularly ap- 
 propriated to the work, and continued to be so, 
 with few intermissions, to the close of his life : 
 but he still reserved sufficient time for the enjoy- 
 ment of the literary novelties of the day, and the 
 society of the friends whom he loved. 
 
 A period now approached to which he had 
 long looked forward with much anxious expec- 
 tation, as putting him in possession of his pro- 
 perty, and giving him the full superintendence 
 and direction of his own affairs. It was on the 
 twenty-ninth day of August that he completed 
 his twenty-first year, and he availed himself of 
 the opportunity thus afforded him of evincing 
 the grateful sentiments he always cherished to- 
 wards the instructors of his youth : on that day 
 he invited his two guardians and his old pre- 
 ceptor to dine with him, and after dinner pre- 
 sented to each of them, as well as to his father- 
 in-law, a piece of plate, with an appropriate 
 Latin inscription, — a mark of grateful attention 
 and respect, as unlooked for, as it was delightful 
 to the feelings of the parties. The writer having 
 
XXV11 
 
 been consulted by him throughout, in the choice 
 and preparation of the little presents in question, 
 can bear testimony to the motives by which he 
 was influenced ; there was nothing that partook 
 in the least degree of ostentation or of vanity, 
 but all was done in the utmost purity and single- 
 ness of heart. The expressions of grateful ac- 
 knowledgment with which he records the attain- 
 ment of his majority, are very pleasing, and well 
 deserve insertion here ; they form part of 
 
 THE RETROSPECT OF 1818. 
 
 Once more sitting down to take a slight 
 review of the occupations and character of the 
 portion of my life just elapsed, I was at first in- 
 clined to consider the absence of any remarks, 
 critical or otherwise, in this appendix, as a stern 
 evidence of unbecoming listlessness and irregu- 
 larity; but on reflection and reference, I am dis- 
 posed to regard it as rather favorable than not, 
 and arguing an occupation of the mind, and a 
 direction of its powers to higher objects, which 
 prevented attention to minute forms and details. 
 I cannot from memory tax myself with idleness, 
 and I feel great satisfaction in the consciousness 
 that the greater part of the year has been occu- 
 pied in acquiring and condensing a mass of 
 valuable information, the mere acquisition of 
 
XXV111 
 
 which is an important gain; but viewed with re- 
 ference to ulterior prospects, becomes of higher 
 interest as affording the long sought opportunity 
 of appearing before the world in a literary cha- 
 racter — an object to which the ambition and 
 habits of my life are more peculiarly directed. 
 I have hitherto been unsuccessful — but I trust 
 that failure has diminished neither my perseve- 
 rance, my hope, nor the feeling of contented 
 thankfulness which I ought ever to cherish. 
 
 Another event has also taken place within 
 the year, calculated to call forth a particular 
 expression of gratitude to the Supreme Provi- 
 dence, — I mean the arrival of that epoch so long 
 and anxiously looked for, when I should assume 
 the management of my own property and affairs. 
 In connection with this point I have nothing to 
 regret, or to call up feelings of unpleasantness 
 or disappointment; but, on the contrary, the 
 situation in which I find myself with respect to 
 worldly concerns is such as demands satisfaction, 
 grateful acknowledgment, and cheerful content. 
 I am, however, not yet in a settled state as 
 regards external arrangements, and I record it 
 to impress more distinctly on my mind the deep 
 necessity that the difficulties should be met and 
 overcome. 
 
 I turn now to subjects of a loftier character 
 
XXIX 
 
 and interest, which ought to occupy the first 
 place in my mind, and that they have not main- 
 tained their due rank and superiority throughout, 
 is matter of humiliation and sorrow — I refer to 
 the duties of religion and morality, of which I 
 feel that I have not entertained so deep a sense 
 as 1 ought. This will more particularly apply to 
 the influence and state of practical religion, from 
 which my mind has too often wandered unac- 
 countably and culpably. The speculative part 
 of my religion remains the same, except that my 
 conviction of the truth of my general opinions is 
 encreased, and assumes a more firm and decided 
 character. Of morality I have nothing to say. 
 I have no cause for self-gratulation — my trials 
 are few — and negative virtues are with me of less 
 value than usual; if any change has ensued, it 
 will be for the worse, as the avowed state of 
 mind with respect to internal religion will un- 
 doubtedly involve. 
 
 The relations of the heart remain nearly un- 
 changed; I am what I was, and I believe my 
 friends are so too; by which I allude only to 
 those who are nearest to me, and linked by ties 
 of the closest description — ties unseen, un thought 
 of by the world, and on the continuance of which 
 much of my positive happiness depends. 
 
 " Spes et fortuna favete ! " 
 
XXX 
 
 My bark has commenced a new voyage — the 
 helm is indeed mine, but the winds are at the 
 will of heaven. 
 
 James Tyson. 
 
 January 2, 1819. 
 
 His time now flowed on in an easy current of 
 undisturbed serenity ; his mind was fully occupied 
 in the literary work he had undertaken, which 
 he felt to be worthy of his powers, and in the 
 prosecution of which he was continually reaping 
 new harvests of information, and thus adding to 
 his daily pleasures. He was himself satisfied 
 with the execution of his task; and the entire 
 approbation of his publishers, which from time 
 to time they expressed in flattering terms, as the 
 work proceeded, left him nothing to desire on 
 this head. In fact, his hours seemed now to 
 glide along, brightened by continual sunshine, 
 and the whole of this year (1819) proved to him 
 a course of almost uninterrupted enjoyment. 
 
 Ever since his trip to France in 1816, which 
 was hurried and limited in extent, he had been 
 desirous of revisiting that country and extending 
 his tour to Switzerland and the Netherlands. 
 The writer of this little memoir, delighted at the 
 opportunity of travelling with such a companion, 
 eagerly embraced the proposal of his friend to 
 
XXXI 
 
 accompany him; and accordingly on the 11th of 
 August they set off for Paris, where they passed 
 about a fortnight; they then proceeded to 
 Geneva, through the Vallais and across the 
 Simplon to Domo d'Ossola ; returning by Lau- 
 sanne, they visited the celebrated establishments 
 of Pestalozzi at Yverdun, and that of Pfellenberg 
 at HofTwyll ; availing themselves of their proxi- 
 mity when at Bern, they also saw the beautiful 
 valley of Lauterbrunn, and the far-famed glaciers 
 of Grindelwald. They then directed their course 
 by Basle and Strasbourg to the Netherlands, 
 which they entered by Givet and Namur, and 
 passing over the field of Waterloo to Brussells, 
 returned by Antwerp, Ghent, and Ostend, to 
 Dover. 
 
 It will easily be seen that this little tour 
 embraced a great deal of interesting ground, 
 and to the mind of James it afforded a continual 
 feast. During the whole time he enjoyed excel- 
 lent health and spirits, and his companion fully 
 anticipated that it would have been the means of 
 firmly establishing his bodily strength which for 
 some time previous had been declining. 
 
 Upon their return, however, James devoted 
 himself more vigorously than ever to his favorite 
 work, with the desire to redeem the time which 
 he had given up to relaxation and pleasure ; and 
 
XXX11 
 
 this close application was productive of very in- 
 jurious consequences. It cannot be doubted 
 that the great change in his mode of living, — the 
 sudden transition from constant exposure and 
 exercise, to close confinement to the house, 
 would of itself be prejudicial, independent of 
 the redoubled action of the mind : the combined 
 operation of these causes was perceptible in a 
 few weeks, in a renewal of the violent head-aches 
 to which he had formerly been subject, and in 
 other unpleasant symptoms, for which powerful 
 remedies were deemed necessary. Blisters and 
 cupping were resorted to with effect, and the 
 more alarming appearances were thus removed ; 
 but his mind was a good deal impressed by the 
 attack, as will be seen by the manner in which 
 it is noticed in his diary in the close of 
 
 THE RETROSPECT OE 1819. 
 
 The past year has been principally a time of 
 labour and occupation on the literary project 
 which engages my attention, though relieved 
 by a most delightful excursion to the Alpine 
 regions under the most favoring circumstances 
 of companionship and comfort. The information 
 and delight which my mind has received from 
 this tour is not to be forgotten, and will always 
 remain as one of my most pleasurable recollec- 
 
XXX111 
 
 tions. My domestic arrangements have been 
 satisfactorily concluded, and the deep and valued 
 relations of the heart remain unchanged. My 
 mind has, I fear, made less progress than it 
 ought in the more serious occupations which 
 regard futurity, though I trust I am not less 
 sensible than heretofore of the manifold bless- 
 ings and privileges which Providence has con- 
 ferred upon me. For the time to come I will 
 not rely upon human nature farther than to say 
 " Spero Meliora." 
 
 The closing year finds me suffering from an 
 indisposition which suspends my exertions, and 
 the nature of which I do not comprehend, though 
 far from regarding its symptoms with indiffer- 
 ence. " God be merciful to me a sinner !" 
 
 James Tyson. 
 
 Having gradually recovered from this illness, 
 he returned to his former habits of industrious 
 occupation, and the " History of Civil Govern- 
 ment" was rapidly and satisfactorily advancing, 
 under an application imprudently severe. He 
 would not, however, estrange himself from his 
 friends, even for an object so important to him ; 
 and it is more than probable that the evening 
 visits he paid to them were detrimental to his 
 lungs, which had never been strong. He was 
 
XXXIV 
 
 very susceptible of cold, and not sufficiently 
 careful in guarding against it ; so that attacks of 
 cough succeeded each other in quick succession, 
 until at length he contracted a hoarseness which 
 all the measures resorted to for that purpose 
 failed to remove, He had thought it right to 
 submit himself to medical treatment, and he now 
 confined himself pretty much to the house : by 
 these means his cough was much relieved, al- 
 though the hoarseness still remained. Thus he 
 continued until the month of June, feeling no 
 alarm himself, and endeavouring to quiet the 
 fears of his friends, by telling them that his phy- 
 sician had assured him his lungs were sound, 
 and that only warm weather was wanting to 
 remove the hoarseness which still troubled him. 
 He was now rapidly approaching the termi- 
 nation of his career, although none of his friends 
 had any idea how rapidly, and very few of them 
 indeed perceived any immediate danger. To- 
 wards the end of the month, summer burst sud- 
 denly upon us with an overwhelming heat ; James 
 felt it to be so, and on Wednesday the 2Sth 
 quitted London for Harlow, giving to his friends 
 the delightful assurance that he should return in 
 a few weeks with renewed health and strength. 
 Alas ! in one short week, on Wednesday the 5th 
 of July, he returned with death written upon his 
 
forehead, in characters not to be misunderstood; 
 and the following Wednesday witnessed the ter- 
 mination of his earthly course. 
 
 For some days previous to his decease he was 
 quite aware of the extremity of his danger ; in- 
 deed, for some weeks he had considered his 
 situation as more critical than it was generally be- 
 lieved to be, though a tenderness for the feelings 
 of his friends prevented him from giving such an 
 intimation to any of them : but his mind remain- 
 ed calm and composed ; no symptom of dissatis- 
 faction — no expression of impatience escaped 
 him. Just entering upon life, as he was, with 
 bright and cheering prospects, surrounded by 
 associates who courted his society, and friends 
 who dearly loved him, it cannot be doubted that 
 life had for him many charms. Yet he resigned 
 himself without a murmur to the will of Him who 
 called him into being, confiding in his goodness 
 and mercy, — willing to live, but willing also to 
 die, as He should appoint. 
 
 The writer of these pages was at a distance 
 when James returned from Harlow, but was im- 
 mediately sent for; upon arriving in town and 
 learning the decided opinion of the physician that 
 recovery was hopeless, he deemed it imperative 
 on him to make the painful communication to his 
 friend, and for this purpose sought an early op- 
 
XXXV 1 
 
 portunity of leading his thoughts to the con- 
 templation of the subject. James instantly per- 
 ceived the intention, and said with emotion, " I 
 know what you wish, but it is already done : I 
 may say that I have been favored with a peculiar 
 interposition of Providence to that effect. An 
 old friend of our family called upon me a short 
 time since, and the impossibility of restraining 
 her feelings, which overcame her on seeing my 
 altered appearance, gave me the first intimation 
 of danger : for a moment it was almost too much 
 for me, but I soon fell into silent prayer, and in 
 a quarter of an hour all dread subsided ; I be- 
 came entirely composed and resigned — I felt, in 
 fact, that my prayer was answered." 
 
 In this placid, submissive frame of mind, he 
 continued to the end, retaining all his wonted 
 firmness and self-possession. On the day be- 
 fore his decease, he observed, " There is evi- 
 dently a terrible conflict carrying on between the 
 doctor and the disease ; we shall soon see which 
 will prevail ; we must do what we can, and wait 
 the issue :" and more than once he told his 
 friends it was " all working for the great end." 
 On the following morning, finding himself weaker, 
 he said> " I feel this disease is mastering me — it 
 is getting the upper hand — I am not so able to 
 struggle with it as I was." Thus aware of his 
 
XXXV11 
 
 approaching dissolution, his anxieties were much 
 more for his friends than for himself; he dreaded 
 the effect of the impending blow upon his poor 
 mother, and expressed himself very much re- 
 lieved, after an interesting conversation with her, 
 at finding her mind more prepared for the event 
 than he had anticipated. At six o'clock in the 
 evening of Wednesday the 12th of July, awaking 
 from a short but tranquil slumber, he breathed 
 a single sigh and instantly expired. 
 
 Thus, at the early age of twenty-three, was 
 society deprived of an active and useful member ; 
 his associates, of a delightful and endeared com- 
 panion; his friends, of an invaluable treasure. 
 The cheerfulness of his disposition, added to the 
 excellence of his understanding, and his acquired 
 knowledge, made him a welcome visitor where- 
 ever he went ; and the undeviating rectitude of 
 his principles caused his friendship to be sought 
 by all with whom he was connected. 
 
 To no one could the beautiful lines of Mont- 
 gomery be mor,e applicable than to James Tyson. 
 
 " Sweet in his undissembling mien 
 Were genius, virtue, candor, seen, 
 
 The lips that loved the truth ; 
 The single eye whose glance sublime 
 Looked to eternity through time, 
 The soul whose hopes were wont to climb 
 
 Above the joys of youth." 
 
XXXV1U 
 
 In his general demeanor to strangers, he was 
 affable and easy of access; always pleased in 
 extending the circle of his acquaintance, and 
 always willing to communicate information to 
 those with whom he had intercourse: his con- 
 versation, easy and unembarrassed, was a con- 
 tinual source of interest, but never bordered on 
 pedantry or conceit. He had an utter aversion 
 to every thing which indicated a mean and selfish 
 spirit, and if ever he expressed himself with 
 harshness, it was when he met with actions 
 betraying that such was the governing disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 Endowed with a quick perception of the 
 merits of whatever excited his attention, his 
 judgments were usually prompt and decisive, 
 perhaps almost what some would call hasty, and 
 yet it seldom happened that he had cause to 
 alter them. Thus highly gifted he became the 
 confidant and counsellor of old and young ; not 
 merely of those who shared with him the fresh- 
 ness and buoyancy of youth, but of many whose 
 years doubled and trebled his own, and who 
 were accustomed to repose with confidence on 
 the soundness of his judgment, and the high 
 principle of right by which his advice was uni- 
 formly regulated. 
 
 But his penetration, his decision, his sound- 
 
XXXIX 
 
 ness of judgment, his energy, his gaiety of spirit, 
 his delightful conversational powers, — all, in fact, 
 all the bright and dazzling properties of his mind 
 were eclipsed by the nobler and more endearing 
 qualities of his heart: — how truly noble, how 
 truly endearing, none can know but the few 
 chosen friends whose happiness it was to share 
 it. The character of a real friend is always a 
 thousand times more capable of being felt than 
 described; and it is impossible to relate in detail 
 all his little nameless acts of kindness and of 
 love, how warmly soever they may continue to 
 vibrate round the heart : they are not performed 
 for exhibition, but to bind and cement more 
 closely together kindred hearts, and to illustrate 
 the truth that 
 
 " Man is dear to man." 
 
 It was in this chosen circle, in which he knew 
 no restraint, that the glories of his character un- 
 veiled themselves ; — here the refined and culti- 
 vated soul spread its rich and vivifying rays — here 
 the warm heart delighted to dispense its cheer- 
 ing and exhilarating beams — here the endearing 
 spirit of unbounded confidence and unsuspect- 
 ing reliance twined those bonds of amity which 
 could be loosened or dissolved only by death 
 and the grave. 
 
xli 
 
 But it is time to bring this imperfect narrative 
 to a conclusion, and the words of a contemporary 
 poet, who has been already quoted, may here be 
 faithfully and appropriately applied: — 
 
 " Many, my friend, have mourned for thee, 
 
 And many yet shall mourn 
 
 Long as thy memory shall be 
 
 In sweet remembrance borae, 
 By those who loved thee here, and love 
 Thy spirit still in realms above." 
 
 His remains were interred in the family vault, 
 at the Chapel of Ease, Lark-Hall Lane, Clap- 
 ham. 
 
LETTERS. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 
 
 Sunday, August 20, 1815. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I have been meditating on the subject 
 you proposed for my consideration, and have 
 read the pamphlet you lent me ; the result of all 
 which is, that I am satisfied " we shall be known 
 to each other in a future state." 
 
 Respecting the pamphlet, I have to observe, 
 that it certainly throws considerable light upon 
 the question, though in many instances it appears 
 to me overstrained, and to quote passages in 
 support of its arguments, which refer only to our 
 
meeting Christ in the next world. My present 
 purpose, however, is not criticism, but explana- 
 tion. The scriptures clearly express that the 
 righteous will have an inheritance among the 
 sanctified (Acts, xx. 32.), which you will find in 
 many places, (see also Acts, xxvi. 18.) : this fact 
 being admitted, for what purpose should we be 
 congregated together, were mutual recognition 
 denied ? We are taught that the future life of the 
 sanctified will be spent in praising God, in joy, 
 and admiration : — how would this joy be height- 
 ened, by the recollection of the events of our 
 past life ! how intense the delight of holding 
 communion with friends that were once dear, 
 and of imparting our sentiments of wonder and 
 adoration, at the disclosure of the infinite good- 
 ness of the Creator. And not only with our own 
 immediate friends should we confer, but we 
 should stand in the presence of Moses and the 
 Patriarchs, — of Elijah and the Prophets, — of 
 Christ and his Apostles : this to my mind would 
 be transport illimitable, worthy of the beneficence 
 of the Almighty. Indeed, mutual recognition in 
 a future state appears so in unison with our 
 ideas of the divine benevolence, that my reliance 
 upon the promises of scripture will not suffer me 
 to doubt it : but our adversaries must be at- 
 
tended to. It is urged against us, that the know- 
 ledge of some of our former connexions not being 
 in happiness, would introduce grief into the 
 regions of bliss, which cannot be. My answer 
 is this — as sorrow is banished from heaven, the 
 situation of our fallen relatives could not give us 
 pain, were we acquainted with it ; but I think it 
 highly probable that the good will be so com- 
 pletely separated from the bad, that they will not 
 witness their punishment: in either case, there 
 cannot be a doubt of the righteous being ex- 
 empted from mental pain. This objection then 
 must vanish, and I am not acquainted with any 
 other that merits consideration. You have now 
 a brief summary of my conceptions on the sub- 
 ject; for what other elucidations they may seem 
 to require, I refer you to the before-mentioned 
 pamphlet, which conveys a very tolerable idea of 
 the question. I am anxious to have your obser- 
 vations, which may be perfectly satisfactory, 
 without being extended to thirty-three pages. 
 There are several other points of controversy 
 which I think you and I might enlarge upon, 
 and ambition tells me that if we agree, we might 
 possibly extend the sphere of our reflections, by 
 communicating them to the world in some shape 
 or other. Particulars must be left for a personal 
 
interview, and until I can enjoy that, believe 
 me to be, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 September 28, 1816. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 I crave pardon for not returning an 
 answer by the bearer, as you requested, but I 
 was willing to say a few words respecting the 
 inclosures at the same time. I regret that I 
 have not the " Emerald Isle," or should have 
 been most happy to have lent it you. I believe 
 I recommended you to read it, and I now repeat 
 my recommendation, as I am confident you will 
 be delighted with it : when you have perused it, 
 pray give me your opinion. 
 
 I have read " Suicide," with attention; that 
 the lines are interesting, is to say the least. The 
 horrible state of mind in which they were penned 
 is perceptible throughout, and imparts a grandeur 
 to the production, which per se it would not have 
 possessed: I look upon it as a curious and 
 
valuable relic. — Insanity is strongly impressed 
 on the face of it ; and it may serve as a model 
 for dramatic pourtrayers of madness : this is 
 nature, and as such it is worthy of deep atten- 
 tion. I know not whether you have a copy, but 
 at all events I shall use the freedom of retaining 
 it a few days. 
 
 I have paid no less attention to your " Scraps," 
 as you call them, and cannot but smile at your 
 desiring me to pity you. I do not know a worse 
 mortification that, an author can receive than to 
 be pitied ; however, it is not my intention either 
 to lash or to pity, but with that candour which is 
 the true torch-bearer to improvement, I shall tell 
 you, that your Lines would have been better, 
 had you bestowed more time upon them; that 
 they bear evident marks of haste ; that they con- 
 tain some excellent ideas, and that they only 
 want a little revision to make them very good. 
 — I have not flattered you, and I know I shall 
 please you in not having done so. I shall retain 
 these verses, sans ceremonie : pray, has this bant- 
 ling any brothers and sisters? I should like to 
 see them Remember that ! 
 
 I have read the Monody, which I must think 
 a very unequal performance, though in all pro- 
 bability Byron's. 
 
Macready, the new Orestes, I have not seen, 
 nor do I at present intend to see him in that cha- 
 racter — I do not like the play. 
 
 For what you say of my Tragedy — thanks ! 
 but there is a spice of flattery which I hope will 
 be omitted in future. Yours, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO MRS. VOWLEJt, 
 
 WITH A PACK OF CARDS. 
 
 A pack of Cards, my dear madam, 
 may seem a very odd present; and an old one, 
 still more so; but you will remember that it 
 comes from an odd creature. I know that, with 
 you, cards have contributed to while away many 
 a weary hour; and, besides, I am disposed to 
 think we may derive much more from them than 
 mere amusement, like the philosopher in Shaks- 
 peare, who 
 
 " Found tongues in trees, books in the running brook , 
 " Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 Indeed, the world appears to me to have a 
 
9 
 
 strong resemblance to a pack of cards ; it has 
 its high and its low — its honours and its court- 
 cards — its kings, queens, and knaves, in abundance ; 
 and often the individual who is insignificant in 
 one game, in another becomes of vast importance. 
 Prudence teaches us to play our cards wellin life ; 
 and to turn up a trump-card in a favourite suit, is 
 the object of all our ambition. 
 
 Youth plays at Speculation — Age, at Patience ; 
 — the Statesman exerts his skill in the intricacies 
 of Whist— the Soldier employs his strength in 
 beating the Knave out-of-doors — and the Man of 
 Business amuses himself with the barterings and 
 calculations of Commerce. Again, the Diamond 
 may represent wealth, rank, and power, — the 
 Heart, love, friendship, virtue, and all that is 
 amiable, — the Club, war, strife, hate, and all that 
 is detestable, — and the Spade, the humble em- 
 ployment of the lowly rustic. — How often do we 
 turn up a Club, where we expected a Heart or a 
 Diamond ! How often do the contentions of the 
 Diamond and the Heart call for the interference 
 of the Club, who generally comes to the assist- 
 ance of the former, and drives the poor Heart out 
 of the field ; while the peasant, with his single 
 Spade, is probably happier than all the rest. I 
 
 B 5 
 
10 
 
 could compare a Bachelor to an Ace, and Mar- 
 riage to a Deuce, sometimes of Hearts, but not 
 unfrequently of Clubs: and to take it in another 
 point of view, how generally do we see the 
 Diamond and the Club pairing off together, leav- 
 ing the Heart and the Spade to get through life 
 as well as they can. 
 
 You, I know, have too independent a mind to 
 covet dealings with court-cards generally ; but I 
 may, and do sincerely, congratulate you on the 
 possession of four honours, which I fervently 
 hope you may long enjoy, with all the compla- 
 cency such a prize is calculated to afford. In 
 this sentiment, you may be assured there is no 
 danger of a Revoke; and although it is not my 
 place to lead off with it, I am most happy to 
 follow suit. 
 
 Believe me to be, 
 
 my dear madam, &c. &c. 
 
 J.T. 
 
 December 12, 1817. 
 
11 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, May 2, 1818. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 When I look at the date of your letter, 
 I am quite ashamed to think of the length of 
 time that has elapsed before I sit down to reply ; 
 and I hasten to remove the impression which 
 must have taken place in your mind, that I was 
 not anxious to continue the correspondence. I 
 can assure you, however, that the contrary is the 
 case; and I feel flattered that you should devote 
 any part of your time to me, occupied as I un- 
 derstand it to be with many important pursuits. 
 If there is any one circumstance that would ren- 
 der it more agreeable than another, it is the free 
 and unreserved mauner in which you have com- 
 menced the correspondence. I hate punctilio; 
 and, in literary pursuits, pride and ceremony are 
 such unwelcome intruders, that a man who 
 permits their sway must be considered as a very 
 doubtful subject of science, in thus unconstitu- 
 tionally paying homage to foreign potentates. 
 
12 
 
 To have done with preliminaries, I may as 
 well inform you of the real cause of my silence : 
 I was expecting to surprise you with a piece of 
 intelligence, that I doubt not would have had 
 that effect. I was in treaty for the management 
 of a Weekly Newspaper, and I delayed writing 
 to you, till I could communicate something defi- 
 nitive on the subject. After six weeks of trial 
 and uncertainty, I found the person I had to 
 deal with was truly an impracticable man ; so I 
 hastily disolved the connexion, and am once 
 more enjoying the otium cum dignitate. This 
 I do not regret, as it must be something highly 
 advantageous which can overbalance the benefits 
 to be derived from leisure, in my situation. I am 
 now in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
 British Museum, to the library of which I have 
 constant access : I need not enlarge upon the 
 value of this privilege, as you will comprehend 
 it in a moment. Its collection of books and 
 MSS. is unrivalled, except by the Bodleian at 
 Oxford, and the Royal Library at Paris ; inde- 
 pendent of its invaluable and increasing treasures 
 of antiquities and natural history. I shall, of 
 course, make the best use of my time with these 
 advantages, including those of two other similar 
 institutions (the London and the Russell), with 
 
13 
 
 which I am connected. All of these I shall 
 have great pleasure in introducing to your ac- 
 quaintance, when you next visit London, as also 
 the society of which I am a member, if it should 
 be sitting at the time. I fear, however, that the 
 period of your usual visit to the south, is during 
 our recess, as we shall adjourn for the summer 
 months till October or November, I do not at 
 present know which. If I rightly understand the 
 purport of your remarks on this subject, I think 
 you have somewhat misconceived our views, 
 imagining them to be more extended than they 
 really are. Our discussions are confined to 
 moral, literary, and political topics; the pro- 
 fessed objects of the institution being the culti- 
 vation and diffusion of useful knowledge, and 
 the art of extemporaneous public speaking. Our 
 number is about thirty : we meet every Tuesday 
 evening, and sit for about two hours and a half. 
 Our president is a young man of extraordinary 
 talent — he is in the profession of the Law, and 
 has occasionally poured forth bursts of eloquence 
 which would do honor to any man or any as- 
 sembly. The rest of us being unpractised and 
 ungifted speakers, it is scarcely necessary to say 
 he throws us all into shade : he is of course ex- 
 tremely popular, and if it be previously known 
 
14 
 
 that he will speak on any given evening, we are 
 sure of a crowded house. We meet in an ex- 
 cellent room in Chancery-Lane, in all possible 
 form and dignity. 
 
 I understand that your pursuits, and the 
 societies to which you belong, are chiefly of a 
 scientific nature — a branch of knowledge which 
 we do not interfere with, and to which I have 
 very small pretension. Poetry and her sister 
 arts have principally occupied my attention ; and 
 although Philosophy and her train have had 
 their share of the inconstant sunshine of my 
 favor, they may truly be said to 
 
 " Come like shadows so depart." 
 
 I cannot of course be so ignorant, or so indif- 
 ferent, as not to feel interest in the march of 
 Science ; and I should be happy to have some 
 account of your Paisley Institutions ; and if any 
 of them should happen to come within my reach, 
 I will not say but I may become a candidate for 
 the honors of the North, provided that foreign 
 communications are admissible ; and if there be 
 any information which it may be in my power 
 to communicate to you individually, I entreat 
 that you will require my services without any 
 scruple whatever. It is thus, and thus only, 
 
15 
 
 that knowledge is rendered generally useful ; 
 and a literary miser is worse than he who hordes 
 up the world's base pelf — that must be left be- 
 hind, the other may be buried with the misan- 
 thrope who imprisoned it. 
 
 Do you know any thing of the present state 
 of the Philosophical Society at Manchester ? 
 
 I sincerely hope my long silence will not be- 
 come a precedent on either side, and that you 
 will soon convince me of the contrary by your 
 example. Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, August 25, 1818, 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 I FEEL myself much indebted for the 
 kind and friendly interest you have taken in my 
 literary affairs, and hasten to assure you that I am 
 quite convinced you would render me all the ser- 
 vice in your power : however, the only favor I 
 
16 
 
 have to ask at present for my bantling, is a strict 
 silence respecting its nature and object, which I 
 will willingly give you an idea of. It is intended 
 to be a compendium of the constitutions and 
 forms of government now existing in the world, 
 embracing a view of all the various forms that 
 have subsisted among the celebrated nations of 
 former times, so as to give a general and suc- 
 cinct idea of all the governments of the principal 
 countries that have figured in the history of the 
 world. This will of course present in a small 
 compass, (which is a principal point) an immense 
 mass of information that must at present be 
 sought in hundreds of volumes, or only glanced 
 at in incorrect books of geography, servilely 
 compiled from very spurious sources. 
 
 If I continue to please my masters (the pub- 
 lishers) to the end, I shall be very comfortably 
 situated with respect to the pecuniary part of the 
 affair, though I am not the less sensible of your 
 kind offer of assistance in that way. In this 
 there is a great deal of steady labour ; and the 
 principal difficulty lies in the compression of the 
 materials, as it is my object not only to view the 
 several institutions when completed, but to trace 
 their progress, and to present a view of all the 
 changes that have occurred in the constitutional 
 
17 
 
 history of the countries treated of. There is, 
 nevertheless, a great deal of pleasure attaching to 
 these researches, and there is a great fund of 
 knowledge incidentally obtained, which I should 
 scarcely ever have acquired, if I had set about 
 making a study of history for the mere purposes 
 of internal improvement. There is much advan- 
 tage in this : we seem to gain information insen- 
 sibly — we are relieved from the tediousness of 
 plodding through ponderous volumes, only that 
 we may get to the end of them; and like the 
 botanist who ranges the hills for a particular 
 flower, and returns with an unexpected garland 
 of novelties, we are continually gathering new 
 sweets as we proceed, until labour becomes 
 recreation, and increasing ardour accompanies 
 the task. 
 
 I shall not regret your protracted absence, if 
 it will enable you, when you do come, to enjoy a 
 few more of the pleasures which I promise my- 
 self to share with you, if the period of your 
 arrival be propitious. The British Museum will 
 be open again to the public on the first of 
 October, though I think I could introduce you 
 to the Gallery of Sculpture before : the reading- 
 room continues open as usual for the benefit of us 
 authors, and I can enjoy a stroll through the 
 
18 
 
 building without the interruption of idle and 
 ignorant wonder-catchers. 
 
 In our course of studies there is certainly 
 some difference — yours are decidedly physical, 
 and mine rather metaphysical — yours is the 
 world of matter, mine the world of mind ; yet 
 between these there is no antipathy, but a con- 
 nexion the most intimate, if the links are closely 
 examined. You are employed in investigating 
 the mysteries of nature; exploring the dark 
 recesses of the mine, and from the hidden stores 
 of the fruitful earth, calling forth the mighty 
 agents that administer to the necessities, com- 
 forts, and luxuries of man ; and in these there is 
 a secret charm distinct from all low considera- 
 tions, an admiration of nature in her smallest 
 atom— a light within, which, like the sacred fire 
 of the Persians, is never extinguished, but glows 
 and brightens, as the enthusiasm that feeds it 
 grows stronger by its own exertions. On the 
 contrary, I am occupied in tracing the operations 
 of the human mind in all ages, situations, and 
 forms — now, in the soul of the legislator, ex- 
 hibited in the revolutions of empires — breathing 
 in the aspirations of poetry — and in the contem- 
 plations of the philosopher, who sits alone within 
 his silent cell, and meditates on things beyond 
 
19 
 
 the reach of time — the soul, that knows all 
 things but itself, and the one great mind that 
 sways the universe. And here is a point where 
 we may unite : by opposite directions we have 
 arrived at the same spot; and, like the sovereigns 
 of two mighty empires, we have discovered a 
 space of neutral ground whereon to meet, and 
 pay a common homage to the Lord Supreme. 
 I was once, like you, an experimental philosopher ; 
 but it was a childish love, and the characters it 
 engraved are nearly obliterated by time : in 
 plainer language, this study gave way to others 
 more attractive, but to the mania, while it lasted, 
 I owe a good deal ; and I am persuaded that 
 there is nothing more beneficial for a young 
 mind than those ardent fits of studying a par- 
 ticular science, which, though they afterwards 
 subside, always leave a sufficient impression for 
 general knowledge. 
 
 I feel much obliged by all your enquiries, 
 and offers respecting your scientific institutions : 
 I shall certainly write for them ; and if I should 
 be so fortunate as to obtain the honor of a con- 
 nexion with any of them, I shall be at all times 
 happy to promote their interests as far as lies in 
 my power, by communicating any information, 
 or transacting any business for them in London,, 
 
20 
 
 Ai present I am quite at a loss for a subject; if 
 an\ thing should occur to you as likely to be in 
 my way and theirs, send it up, and I will see if 
 I can make any thing of it. Do not forget the 
 Edinburgh Royal Society in your next, if you 
 should have met with any information respecting 
 it. I hope it will not be long before I hear from 
 you, as the delay on my side has been quite 
 accidental. Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, September 14, 1818. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 I seize the first leisure moment to 
 return you sincere thanks for your last kind and 
 long letter, though you will perceive, by the size 
 of my paper, that I have not grace enough to 
 follow your example. But you shall have my 
 excuses, for I would not have you suppose me 
 guilty of indifference, or of the affectation of 
 
21 
 
 business, which men of literary habits too often 
 assume. My time this morning is limited by an 
 expected visit from my publisher, whom I am 
 about to take with some friends to the Museum, 
 by special favor, during the recess. I am also 
 anxious you should have this early, as you de- 
 sired; and as I hope to see you very shortly, there 
 is less occasion for prolixity : so much for rea- 
 sons for a short letter, which, with a few such 
 aids as excuse-making, &c. will be metamor- 
 phosed into a long one by mere dint of manual 
 gossiping. 
 
 Of your friendly regard for my pursuits I am 
 fully sensible, and trust that the work now in 
 progress will not prove unworthy of your atten- 
 tion. I could not but smile as you recalled the 
 period of our first acquaintance, and the train of 
 ideas thereto attaching, when, as you observe, 
 business appeared to be our only object : this 
 might be so in a great degree, for I believe, at 
 that time, I had not long entered into office, and 
 in all probability was sufficiently occupied by 
 my own importance. At the same time I assure 
 you, that I look back upon that period with con- 
 siderable satisfaction, as it gave me a great 
 portion of information and experience in the 
 world's affairs, which I could not otherwise have 
 
attained. At length, however, the old impulses 
 returned, and Mr. V. was kind enough to give 
 me my emancipation. — I returned to the Muses, 
 and with them shall most probably remain. 
 
 Upon your observations on your own situa- 
 tion you must allow me to make a few comments. 
 I can fully sympathise with your regrets for the 
 omissions of the past, but I do not see any par- 
 ticular reason to lament the circumstances in 
 which you are now placed : that you are chained 
 to a business is true, but your mind is unfettered ; 
 it allows you to recreate yourself with those pur- 
 suits most congenial to you : we cannot all walk 
 in one and the same path, and it is very probable 
 that your sphere of utility and pleasure is quite 
 as large now, as it would have been if your 
 amusement had been your occupation. You look 
 at the bright side of a literary life — did you ever 
 view the other ? if not, I will lift up a corner of 
 the curtain for you when you come to town. As 
 regards your leisure hours, you live to study: but 
 if you were obliged to study to live, how dif- 
 ferent would be your feelings ! With all due re- 
 spect for the ardour of your attachment to the 
 lady Science, it appears to me to be of very 
 little consequence whether you can keep up with 
 her march or not : you have the same pleasure 
 
23 
 
 m your pursuit, — in the society of learned men 
 when they come in your way — and in the con- 
 templation of the miracles of the times ; besides 
 these, there is a whole class of feelings allied to, 
 but not dependent on, literature ; of social plea- 
 sures, quiet joys remote from noisy fame, but 
 sweetest in their quietude, which will increase 
 the zest of the rational enjoyment of literature, 
 while they temper the passion for climbing its 
 summits — the intensity of ambition which would 
 enthrone itself on Alps, and from its cloudy 
 eminence control a subject world. 
 
 The love of science may become a passion 
 as well as any thing else, and should be bridled. 
 Shakspeare says — the lunatic, the lover, and the 
 poet, are of imagination all compact; and the 
 word poet may be safely construed in its widest 
 signification. I have little respect for the cha- 
 racter that is merely literary, by which I mean a 
 man whose every feeling is absorbed in the 
 whirlpool of learning and learning's ambition — 
 such an one is much less enviable than he appears 
 to be, he toils as much as if he were in a coal- 
 mine; the light of the sun cheers him not; he 
 lives for a posterity who know him not, care not 
 for him, and he dies without a friend. The 
 mathematician (Sharp) who shut himself up for 
 
24 
 
 years to calculate the quadrature of the circle, 
 was only fit for a mad-house, and if he had never 
 lived at all it would have signified very little. 
 Depend upon it, the intellectual qualities of a 
 man will render him very little service, if unac- 
 companied by the moral and social feelings of 
 human nature. But it is time I should return, 
 or I shall not be able to send you this to day. I 
 am obliged by your offer of a trip with you to 
 Paris ; but it will not be in my power to accom- 
 pany you, for a variety of reasons, which I can 
 mention when I see you. — If you can spare the 
 time for the excursion, I am sure it will delight 
 you : and as you say you can procure such ex- 
 cellent introductions, I should recommend you, 
 by all means, to take advantage of your proxi- 
 mity when in the south. 
 
 I am much indebted to you for the list of 
 subjects you have given me; they have afforded 
 me some useful hints : I had thought of one be- 
 fore I received yours, but I shall certainly avail 
 myself of the advantage, and I shall always feel 
 obliged by your communicating any similar 
 ideas that may strike you, as it might possibly 
 be the means of eliciting a good deal of useful 
 information, as well for myself as others. I hope 
 to be able to give you something to take back 
 
25 
 
 with you, as I am now making a pause in my 
 work, for such purposes. We will talk over the 
 affair of the Royal Society when we meet; I 
 think I can apply one of your subjects to that 
 object. I hope it will not now be long before I 
 see you, and you will believe that I shall be 
 most happy in spending as many hours as you 
 please, in any way that shall be agreeable to 
 you. — " My hour is almost come," — so I will, 
 without farther apology or parade, subscribe 
 myself, &c. &c. 
 
 J.T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 Bernard Street, October 31, 1818. 
 DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 I ought to have answered your letter 
 long ere this, but have been in hopes of seeing 
 you in the city : I called on Thursday, but you 
 were wandering. 
 
 I am sincerely obliged by your offer of 
 drawing the case for counsel, and if you can do 
 that with perfect convenience to yourself, Ihave 
 
 c 
 
26 
 
 every confidence in your capabilities ; but I 
 wish you distinctly to understand, that if it will 
 occasion you the slightest inconvenience or pre- 
 judice in any shape, I shall expect you to de- 
 clare it. 
 
 You k now I love solicitors as a rat does a 
 trap, and as I have two crazy old tenements, 
 with a Lawyer in one, and a Surveyor in the 
 other, I think I owe the devil no fees : it is well 
 I have no more, or I should die of repletion, 
 unless previously quieted by phlebotomy. But 
 to business — do you want papers, parchments, 
 or instructions ? let me know. Will you survey 
 
 the premises ? — Call on Mrs. H , but do not 
 
 charge me for the length of her harangues, or if 
 you insist upon that as absolutely requiring re- 
 muneration, just look out a snug lodging within 
 the Rules, as you go home, that I may be pre- 
 pared for the worst. Pr'ythee be laconic, since 
 it appears the greater the bulk, the harder the 
 squeeze. Oh ! I groan already. Pres- 
 ton's the man, — perhaps he would compromise 
 the fee for an Ode on Conveyancing. If you 
 are likely to be visible on Monday about four 
 P. M. I will, if possible, venture my neck into 
 
 Pandemonium ; though if I meet — , or ~, 
 
 or , I shall be strongly tempted to cry, 
 
Exorcuo tel with all and sundry the epithets, 
 phrases, words, expressions, substantives, and 
 adjectives, thereunto belonging, as recited in the 
 original conveyance from Abel Sampson, clerk, 
 to Margaret Merrilies, widow. 
 
 I remain 
 your despairing friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 Bernard Street, Dec. 14, 1818. 
 DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 Mrs. H yesterday undertook a 
 
 pilgrimage to Bernard Street in great tribulation 
 of spirit, to make inquiries respecting your ope- 
 rations; when, with my accustomed compas- 
 sion, I promised to write to you to obtain 
 some information, and, if possible, allay her 
 unceasing doubts and fears. Do you think 
 you can manage to finish the case before 
 Christmas, that I may be enabled to give these 
 
 people some answer ? I think if Mrs. H 
 
 should by any accident quit this world before 
 
28 
 
 the affair is settled, she would haunt me ever 
 afterwards, and her constant company is not 
 particularly desirable. 
 
 I am not less " twitted" by another lady (to 
 use a term of her own) about that song of yours ; 
 have you no tidings of it? I wish, if not, that 
 you would patch up your original MS. which I 
 dare say you can easily do, if you set about it. 
 I hope you mean to say something on Tuesday; 
 — there is fine opportunity for a flourish about 
 Napoleon, whom I am sorry T cannot assist on 
 the occasion, having a retainer on the other side. 
 The return from Elba is one of the finest things 
 in history: I am reading Hobhouse's Letters 
 from Paris during that period ; in which there is 
 a detailed account of the whole affair : this, and 
 tiie battles of Leipsic and Waterloo, Bona- 
 parte's crossing the Alps, and the invasion of 
 Russia, might animate dullness itself. — I should 
 think they would blow you up. You can find 
 by way of aid, fury in Phillips, — philosophy in 
 De Stael, — and magnificent praise and abuse in 
 Byron, — all applied to the same individual : 
 
 Quid vult magis ? 
 
 Come as soon as you can on Tuesday, that 
 I may catch a glimpse of you, and give you an 
 
29 
 opportunity of putting in your answer to the 
 foregoing bills. 
 
 Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 J.T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 Bernard Street, January 9, 1819. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 Notwithstanding my vaunted skill 
 in tracing the origin of dreams, I confess myself 
 wholly at a loss to account for your hanging- 
 vision ; though I should not have expected you 
 to go out of the direct line of your profession for 
 the association of causes and effects, merits and 
 rewards. As for opening a question at the 
 Athenaeum, that is at the worst only the minor 
 punishment of the pillory, of which, I should 
 think, the gentlemen of your fraternity must be 
 in perpetual anticipation. 
 
 In the present instance, it is very likely to 
 turn out one of those cases where the exhibitor 
 is greeted by the cheers of his friends, and 
 
30 
 
 descends with increased honor and reputation. 
 Be this as it may, I will certainly not refuse my 
 aid to a friend in distress, though his sickness be 
 only brain-begotten upon Modesty, aud baptized 
 Megrim. On the other side are a few hints 
 hastily got up in a few moments, the rest is 
 a vous — for I too am in haste. 
 
 Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 History — what? — the pursuit of all ages; dis- 
 tinguished rank ever acknowledged those studies 
 the most important which contain the highest and 
 most useful truths. History, the storehouse of 
 these, the guide of all our judgments, as useful 
 as memoiy. The inculcation of morality by ex- 
 ample; the knowledge of past events our princi- 
 pal beacon in religion, morals, and science; 
 therefore, the study of them the most important, 
 and in all classes of society. To the statesman, 
 indispensible — no government could be carried 
 on without it ; a man ignorant of history cannot 
 be a good minister. Descant on the revolutions 
 of empires : good kings, Cyrus, Alfred, &c. &c. 
 Great kings, Alexander, Charles V. Greece, 
 Home. To the man of science equally neces- 
 sary, the ground-work of his knowledge in a 
 
31 
 
 great degree; the proofs of his reasonings, a 
 variety of speculations, in which a deficiency of 
 historical knowledge would be fatal. Genuine 
 history — evidence of the most important truths, 
 as of Christianity — Paley — utility of concurrent 
 and undoubted testimony on all subjects — to man 
 generally ; pre-eminent as conveying the greatest 
 mass of the most useful knowledge — from its com- 
 prehensiveness — proved from individual works, 
 as Gibbon, Montesquieu, et alia. 
 
 On the other hand, Poetry is merely the 
 record of internal impressions ; these of inferior 
 importance, fleeting, imaginative, liable to per- 
 version ; seducing the mind from graver studies, 
 without compensating by any certain benefit; 
 nursing the passions — unfitting the mind for the 
 necessary occupations of life. What instruction 
 is conveyed? very limited — unsupported — theo- 
 retical — and the slave of the prejudices of any 
 writer. Not so History — facts cannot be alto- 
 gether perverted.— Recapitulation. 
 
 The above hints you will find capable of 
 amplification and illustration, which you can 
 
 easily supply; consult N , who will support 
 
 you : I shall certainly oppose these arguments. 
 
32 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, May 1, 1819. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 You will herewith receive the long 
 promised essay for the Paisley Philosophical 
 Institution, with a letter to yourself as secretary. 
 I have chosen one of the subjects you hinted at, 
 (The Origin and Establishment of the Art of 
 Printing), and though but a crude and sketchy 
 piece of business, I trust it will be admissible. 
 I have also sent, according to promise, one of the 
 pamphlets, published by me some years ago, but 
 I request that it may never go out of your 
 custody, unless accompanied with an intimation 
 that it was written at the age of fifteen ; which 
 may serve as an excuse for its errors and de- 
 ficiencies. 
 
 ****** 
 I expect that my work will be announced 
 among, the new publications attached to the 
 Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews : although 
 
33 
 
 this will not pledge me to publish at any certain 
 period; you may suppose that I am anxious to 
 advance as fast as possible. I intend to diver- 
 sify this dull track by a trip to Switzerland in 
 August; and then plunge again into the abyss 
 of learned research, amidst torrents of printers' 
 ink, and the picturesque scenery of stained paper. 
 I must tell you that I was much pleased with 
 your observations respecting artists, and the 
 dangers they have to encounter: indeed the 
 remarks will apply equally well to any class of 
 persons. You know what a strong aversion I 
 feel for those habits which degrade the dignity 
 of human nature ; and I never see men of talent 
 and sense giving way to them without indigna- 
 tion : the plea of sociability, and I know not what, 
 is a mockery; man ceases to be social when 
 reason loses its power; and a false elevation 
 of spirits is neither good for the mind nor for 
 the body. 
 
 ***** * 
 
 I should like to have some account of your 
 friend Murray's trip ; I suppose he passed through 
 Geneva, concerning which I am desirous to 
 procure all the intelligence I am able. I am 
 quite aware of what he mentions respecting the 
 Lancasterian schools in France, as it is a cause 
 
 c 5 
 
34 
 
 in which I feel great interest, and I am now 
 taking an active part in the formation of an 
 auxiliary soeiety for the district in which I 
 reside. I believe there are nine hundred es- 
 tablished in Prance, notwithstanding the oppo- 
 sition of alarmed bigotry and prejudice. Have 
 you any idea of the infant population of Paisley ? 
 how is education generally afforded ? and what 
 proportion do you believe to be uneducated and 
 unemployed ? — Scotland has less need of these 
 institutions than any other country in the world, 
 but facilities should never be neglected. 
 
 I am sorry to find we are not likely to see 
 you in London soon, but your intention may 
 possibly change. Do not let it be long before I 
 hear from you again, for if you take such mon- 
 strous intervals as you have lately done, I shall 
 be on the banks of the Rhone before I can 
 receive a couple of letters from you ; and one in 
 three months is intolerable. 
 
 For the present, I must say fare- thee- well, 
 and conclude with subscribing myself, &c. 
 
 J.T. 
 
35 
 
 TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 St. Pere, near Caen, August 16, 1819. 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 You will have heard, I trust, ere this, 
 of our safe arrival in France ; and you will now 
 be pleased to learn, that we are at present most 
 comfortably situated in a beautiful country-house, 
 with every convenience and luxury that the land 
 affords . But we must proceed by degrees ; we 
 had a charming ride down to Brighton, without 
 any inconvenience, except on my part one of my 
 head-aches, which, however, I preferred having 
 at that time, rather than subsequently. In two 
 hours I had as much of Brighton as I wished, 
 and we embarked soon after seven o'clock for 
 Dieppe ; and then began the horrors, though not 
 of the kind anticipated ; the sea was in a perfect 
 calm, and it soon became evident that we should 
 make no way that night; our qualms were very 
 slight, but our impatience increased : I went to 
 bed about two in the morning, but rose again at 
 four to see the ascent of the sun, which having 
 witnessed, some unpleasant hints sent me back 
 
36 
 
 to my bed-chamber, viz. the steward's apartment 
 and magazine, which was the more comfortable, 
 as it was out of the heat of the cabin. I went 
 on deck about nine, and miserable to relate, was 
 compelled to remain there the whole of Thurs- 
 day ; I can assure you I thought it a Polar day. 
 I behaved very well, a little unpolite or so two 
 or three times, but the effects were not lasting ; 
 William stuck to the planks, as though they had 
 been a feather-bed ; and Toward crawled about 
 in a moping mood, relieved only by occasional 
 chats with the numerous acquaintance he con- 
 trived to form : — sometimes a dead silence pre- 
 vailed throughout the ship, as if the calm spirit 
 of the waters hung over all life, as well as over 
 the ocean; at other times our companions af- 
 forded us some amusement: a Scotch hotel- 
 keeper was the only lively animal on board ; he 
 was quite a subject for Walter Scott, but more 
 of him presently : we had also a citizen shop- 
 keeper and his wife, who had never been beyond 
 Margate, and who did not understand a word of 
 French; and plenty of sick ladies, and sleepy 
 gentlemen. I went to bed on Thursday night 
 about ten, and slept marvellously well till five, 
 when I had the satisfaction of learning that a 
 few hours would convey us into Dieppe ; I got 
 
37 
 
 up, and hailed the cliffs of Normandy with in- 
 finite delight. We were obliged to quit the 
 ship on account of low water, and were carried 
 into the harbour by a pilot boat, and landed 
 about eleven o'clock : as the ship with our bag- 
 gage could not enter till the afternoon, we had 
 plenty of time to see the town ; which I shall 
 not describe, as there is scarcely any alteration 
 since you were here. In the afternoon we 
 marched to the custom-house, and passed an 
 excellent examination, as they say at Oxford; 
 the mode of proceeding at the Douane, however, 
 is very fair : an officer makes a declaration, that 
 if any person has brought over prohibited goods, 
 he need only avow it, and they will be re- 
 turned to England at his own expence. Now 
 be it known to you, that our Scotch friend had 
 with him a wife and daughter ; the former of a 
 comfortable size, and wishing, I suppose, to 
 escape taking cold, had furnished herself with 
 sundry articles of Scotch cambric, &c. When the 
 interrogatory was put, Mistress Oman denied 
 the fact; but the lady-inspector not being quite 
 clear upon the subject, detained her for a few 
 minutes, till she had examined the other ladies ; 
 and then proceeded to a scrutiny, which was 
 most unfortunate in its results, — seizure, and a 
 
38 
 
 fine of twenty pounds, commenced Mr. Oman's 
 expences in France : you will not be surprised 
 to learn that they kept this affair to themselves, 
 though I saw that the old gentleman's loquacity 
 had somewhat abated. At ten at night we set 
 out for Rouen by the diligence, and arrived there 
 at six in the morning ; by which means William 
 was enabled to see the beautiful environs of 
 Rouen : as it was not then our object to stay 
 there, we were glad to find a vehicle departing 
 for Caen in about an hour; accordingly we 
 were again packed up, but in a lighter carriage, 
 which bears the name of Celerifere, it has five or 
 six horses, and travels with incredible speed; 
 we three, and a French valet, occupied one of 
 two bodies that it possesses. The route to Caen 
 is highly romantic and beautiful, and very hilly ; 
 the heights are crowned with wood, and from a 
 very lofty elevation we had a charming view of 
 the Seine ; throughout the country the fruit-trees 
 are abundant, particularly the apple, as cider is 
 the chief beverage of the Normans. We dined 
 at a little Auberge on the road, where every 
 thing was French, however we were all pleased, 
 and were in much better spirits afterwards : we 
 did not reach Caen till ten o'clock, consequently 
 were obliged to remain there that night. A 
 
39 
 
 comfortable sleep set all to rights; and early 
 yesterday morning we set off for this place, 
 about three leagues from Caen : we got here to 
 breakfast, and — here we are. I cannot now go 
 into all the details respecting the place and its 
 inhabitants, which 1 hope to do more satisfac- 
 torily when we are once more assembled round 
 our coal-fire in England. 
 
 Mrs. I and her family are English ; 
 
 Mr. B , the proprietor, French, but long ac- 
 customed to our language &c. from having re- 
 sided in Guernsey; the servants are all French. 
 Our reception has been most hospitable, accom- 
 panied with every comfort, and without the least 
 restraint on either side. The unceasing vivacity 
 
 and friendly manners of Mr. B are extremely 
 
 agreeable: and, I believe, Toward thinks the 
 whole family, servants and all, the most amiable 
 people in the world ! We have already had much 
 amusement with him, but it would be impossible 
 to convey an adequate impression by letter : he 
 and the Norman domestics agree famously, by 
 dint of their mutual politeness ; the latter seem 
 to be infinitely amused by him, and as the 
 kitchen is close to the parlour we often come in 
 for a share of the sport : it is not a little curious 
 to hear them bawling to each other, in hopes of 
 
40 
 
 thus making themselves understood; and as 
 
 Mrs. I observed, " the louder in proportion 
 
 as their comprehensive faculties failed." Our 
 living is a melange of French and English, viz. 
 tea and apricots : Toward has hitherto managed 
 to get tea everywhere, — we prefer coffee. The 
 seat of all this is a most delightful spot, abound- 
 ing with all the luxuries of fruit and flower. The 
 property consists of about two hundred acres, 
 not including a farm, which is let : the garden 
 contains a most beautiful and extensive assem- 
 blage of shrubs and flowers, laid out in labyrinths 
 and avenues, winding about most agreeably — it 
 is quite a Jardin des Plantes ; before the door 
 grows the largest orange I ever saw : and in the 
 orchards which surround the house are all kinds 
 of fruit, to which I need not say we pay our re- 
 spects con amove. It is now the forenoon of Mon- 
 day ; Mr. B is gone to town and is to send a 
 
 carriage for us, according to the time when the dili- 
 gence sets out for Rouen ; this may be either to- 
 night or early to-morrow morning, — in either case 
 we intend to get into Caen time enough to see a 
 lion or two ; it appears a tolerably fine, ancient 
 town, approached by some excellent roads. Wil- 
 liam the Conqueror built the abbey, and was 
 buried in it; this we have yet to see. We have 
 
41 
 
 seen several varieties of the Norman cap, apper- 
 taining to the several departments we have 
 passed through, as well as to the stations in life 
 of the parties ; some, we understand, to be very- 
 expensive. William is altogether much delighted, 
 and we have had a most favourable opportunity 
 of seeing the country and the people. But I must 
 for the present bid you adieu. 
 
 J.T. 
 
 TO MRS. VOWLER. 
 
 Paris, August 22, 1819. 
 MY DEAR MADAM, 
 
 ****** 
 
 On Wednesday morning at five o'clock 
 we left Rouen in the diligence; which, not- 
 withstanding the idea commonly entertained in 
 England, is a surprising vehicle: and though 
 vastly resembling a west-country waggon, per- 
 forms its course with astonishing celerity. The 
 road we travelled is celebrated as comprising 
 some of the most beautiful scenery of France ; it 
 follows the course of the Seine for nearly the 
 whole distance, insomuch that we crossed it 
 
42 
 
 seven or eight times during the day : amphi- 
 theatres of hills rise on both sides, and are 
 covered with vines, thickly planted, and trained 
 on short sticks : to me the appearance of a vine- 
 yard is extremely delightful, and conveys an 
 impression of abundance peculiarly pleasing. 
 
 ' * * * * * * 
 
 Towards evening we were evidently approach- 
 ing the capital, and had the first specimen of 
 royal magnificence in the noble hunting forest 
 of St. Germain's, and the palace, long the resi- 
 dence of the exiled James II. A glimpse of 
 Malmaison, reminded us of days gone by; in 
 itself, it is simple and confined, but it is beauti- 
 fully situated, and extremely well adapted as a 
 retreat. A few more miles brought us to Paris; 
 but it was unfortunately too dark to enjoy the 
 fine spectacle afforded by an immense straight 
 road, the perspective of which is terminated by 
 the centre dome of the Thuilleries; this was, 
 however, compensated by the brilliant illumina- 
 tions of the coffee houses, &c. which are scattered 
 over the Elysian Fields, giving them all the 
 appearance of an enchanted garden; the im- 
 pression was continued, when after passing the 
 Place Louis-Quinze, we turned on to one of the 
 fashionable Boulevards, where the same scene 
 
43 
 
 appeared, and was rendered more interesting by 
 our proximity. All Paris seemed to be con- 
 centered in these walks ; splendid coffee-houses, 
 and an infinite number of lights glittered on all 
 sides; the humming crowd, and the evident 
 devotion to pleasure, seemed to indicate an 
 extraordinary festival : and yet this takes place 
 every evening while the summer months afford a 
 temptation. Being released from our loco-motive 
 prison, we took a hackney coach, and drove in 
 search of an hotel; we agreed with the first, 
 which had been recommended by some friends 
 of mine ; it is called the Hotel-de-Suede, and is 
 in the Rue de Hichelieu, in the centre of Paris 
 and its principal spectacles. William has a 
 sitting-room, bed-room, and dressing-room, and 
 I have a bed-room on the next flight of stairs ; 
 they are all small, but they answer our purpose, 
 as we are but little at home. Thursday morning 
 was occupied in setting ourselves to rights, and 
 in seeing the exterior of the palaces, &c. in the 
 neighbourhood; these made a striking impres- 
 sion on William's mind, as indeed they are 
 calculated to do, from our having nothing at all 
 like them in our own country. I could have 
 wished it had fallen to his lot to describe this 
 part of the journey himself, as it is not possible 
 
44 
 
 for me to enlarge upon the subject with any 
 effect, it being in a great degree familiar to me, 
 and not imparting that sense of novelty which 
 can alone render any account interesting. Little 
 alteration has taken place in the public buildings 
 since my former visit; many improvements remain 
 unfinished, and not a few in the identical state in 
 which I left them three years ago. The manners 
 and habits of the Parisians bear the same cha- 
 racter as usual, though there is an appearance 
 of settlement in the government, which is evident 
 in the laxity with which the police regulations 
 are enforced, compared with the strictness for- 
 merly observed : we have seen many political 
 caricatures, as well as other approaches to liberty 
 and confidence. 
 
 ****** 
 The flocks of English resorting to the coffee- 
 houses afford us infinite amusement ; the gaping 
 wonder of some, and the dilemmas of others : it 
 is astonishing how many come over without any 
 knowledge of the French language, and some to 
 make a stay of considerable duration ; the con- 
 sequences may be easily guessed, — they pay 
 prices which are out of all reason, and coin 
 which they do not understand the value of: — you 
 are bowed to on all sides ; a linen draper from 
 
45 
 
 Fleet Street accosts you in the Pantheon, and 
 even the depths of the Catacombs cannot secure 
 you from recognition. Planta's Picture of Paris 
 is a very Alcoran to them : they eat, drink, walk, 
 talk, and I believe sleep according to its direc- 
 tions. We dined the other day at a Restau- 
 rateurs recommended by Planta, and lo ! the 
 English swarmed like bees : an enchanter's wand 
 seemed to have been waved over us ; and but for 
 the furniture, and the orders given in French, we 
 might have deemed ourselves in England. 
 * * * * * * 
 
 I should have illustrated our economy of 
 time and money, by telling you that we have 
 hitherto dined only once in two days : the wants 
 of the intermediate ones being supplied by fruit, 
 &c. I have pensioned Toward at a neighbour- 
 ing Restaurateurs, where he breakfasts and 
 dines at his own pleasure, and contrives to make 
 himself remarkably comfortable ; and if there is 
 a person who speaks English within a quarter 
 of a mile, Toward is sure to find him out, and 
 turn his acquaintance to advantage. 
 
 Believe me, 
 
 my dear madam, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
46 
 TO MR. VOWLER. 
 
 Paris, August 26, 1819. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 It is certainly a very ill-contrived busi- 
 ness that it should fall to my lot to describe Paris 
 in two successive letters, since nay narrative must 
 necessarily be less interesting than that of one 
 who sees all the wonders of this great city for the 
 first time, and who, moreover, sees many things 
 which he confesses he had no idea of previously. 
 I fully agree with William, that it is quite im- 
 possible to give an adequate idea of the striking 
 spectacles which Paris presents ; and as he has 
 managed to throw the weight on my shoulders, 
 I shall return the compliment, by leaving him to 
 give his sketch of last Sunday's excursion to 
 Versailles, and continue my story from Monday 
 morning. Our first point was Notre Dame, the ex- 
 terior of which is inferior to many of our religious 
 edifices in England, and to those we have already 
 seen in France : its two towers resemble those of 
 Westminster Abbey, but the whole structure is 
 
much smaller; the interior is fine, with broad 
 and lofty aisles, ornamented with much splen- 
 dour. It is not a little curious to see the cyphers 
 of Santa Maria and Louis XVIII. alternated 
 round the railing of the altar, as if— what ? the 
 authority was equal : — I greatly suspect that the 
 latter would be found supreme at present. Hence 
 we proceeded to the Jardin des Plantes, passing 
 the immense magazines of wood collected on the 
 borders of the river, for the supply of fuel during 
 the winter. At the garden gate I must pause — 
 for it incloses such a wonderful variety of the 
 innumerable productions of nature, presenting 
 such a succession of remarkable objects, that it 
 is difficult even for the memory to pass them in 
 the rapid silent review which our minds often 
 take, without being able to connect the links 
 sufficiently for communication. Imagine an ex- 
 tensive space of ground covered with every va- 
 riety of tree, plant, and flower, that could be 
 procured to live in this climate — the cedar, the 
 date, the palm, the bread-tree, the maize — of all 
 sizes, and in all states : half of this ground is laid 
 out in regular beds, as a practical school of agri- 
 culture — the medicinal, the culinary, the fruit- 
 bearing, and other plants being all properly class- 
 ed, while the different modes of training, fencing, 
 
48 
 
 preserving, grafting, &c. are also illustrated by 
 numerous specimens arranged for fhe purpose. 
 The other half of the garden represents a Swiss 
 village, with all its varieties of hill and dale, in- 
 terspersed with picturesque cottages, altogether 
 a la Suisse : these are inhabited by a great num- 
 ber of exotic animals, and birds of all kinds, who 
 range round their little paddocks in uninterrupted 
 enjoyment : in one corner are confined the mon- 
 keys and birds of prey, in another the ferocious 
 animals of the desert, forming a fine collection 
 of lions, tigers, bears, &c; in another part a 
 labyrinthine ascent conducts to an eminence 
 and monumental temple, whence there is a very 
 fine view of the city. From the garden we 
 proceeded to the Museum of Natural History, 
 which is truly a stupendous assemblage of the 
 productions of the animal and mineral kingdoms : 
 here are preserved all that man knows of the 
 animal creation, from the mighty elephant to the 
 smallest fly. Lectures are read in all the sciences 
 connected with natural history, so that the esta- 
 blishment contains within itself all that is neces- 
 sary for these studies. I need not say that there 
 is nothing in England which can in any way be 
 put in competition with it. Toward was with us 
 in this excursion, and was uncommonly struck 
 
49 
 
 with it. I do not know whether you are infornfed 
 that he is the only regular journalist of the party; 
 but I assure you he takes care to procure accu- 
 rate information as to the spelling of the names 
 of the places we pass through and visit, &c. 
 * * * * * * 
 Yesterday evening we went to the Thuilleries 
 to hear the concert given from the gallery, it being 
 the eve of the Fete of St. Louis. This exhibition 
 is extraordinary in every way ; the effect of the 
 music performed by all the best musicians in 
 Paris, vocal and instrumental, is most enchant- 
 ing; while the silence prevailing among the thou- 
 sands of auditors who crowd the terrace is 
 scarcely less surprising: I think I may safely 
 say there were thirty thousand persons assembled 
 in the gardens, whose attention manifested their 
 sense of the power of music, and of the excellence 
 of that particular performance. The next morn- 
 ing, which was the Jour-de-Fete, we made the 
 ascent of Montmartre, remarkable for its com- 
 manding view over Paris, and for being the scene 
 of action when the Allies took the city in 1S14. 
 Here we breakfasted, and then mounted the 
 telegraph which is placed on a tower erected on 
 the ruins of an ancient abbey; from this place the 
 prospect is delightful, embracing a near and dis- 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 tiaet view of the city, and an extensive one of 
 the country around. The keeper of the telegraph 
 had been one of Buonaparte's soldiers, and af- 
 forded us no little amusement by his attempted 
 palliations of the Russian campaign ; he gave us 
 also all the particulars of the Battle of Paris, and 
 took some pains to convince us that it might have 
 been defended. 
 
 ****** 
 We now turned to the JElysian Fields whither 
 all Paris was pouring to enjoy the amusements 
 prepared for them : — a most singular scene here 
 presented itself; the ground was covered with 
 stalls vending all kinds of cakes, and gingerbread, 
 and fruit in abundance, of which you will judge 
 when I tell you that we bought eight fine large 
 peaches for tenpence. Down the principal avenue 
 were placed stages for the distribution of provi- 
 sions ; from some were thrown bread, and meat 
 wrapped in paper, sausages, &c. while wine was 
 poured from others, which the scrambling crowd 
 collected in vessels of all sorts. In other parts 
 were placed two temporary theatres, in which 
 small pieces were occasionally played; or- 
 chestras for dancing; rope-dancers; tumblers; 
 and high poles greased, to the summit of which 
 numbers endeavoured to climb for the sake of 
 
51 
 
 prizes; these constituted the principal amuse- 
 ments of the day : in the evening all the public 
 offices were illuminated ; the palace-gardens 
 blazed with light, and in the Elysian Fields 
 every tree bore its tributary candle. The fire- 
 works were the grand attraction, and so immense 
 was the concourse of people surrounding the 
 spot, that it appeared as if the whole of Paris 
 was there concentered; yet with all this, so spa- 
 cious is the area, and so excellently is every 
 thing arranged, that there was not the slightest 
 danger, nor any of that terrific crushing which 
 characterizes our popular exhibitions. 
 ****** 
 
 Believe me, dear Sir, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO 
 
 Vitot, Department de Cote d"Or, Sept. 4, 1819. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 ****** 
 
 Tuesday morning, at six o'clock, we bad 
 adieu to the Hotel de Suede, and repaired to 
 the starting-place on our formidable expedition 
 
52 
 
 of eight days and a half, which we could not but 
 look forward to as rather a " triste affaire;" at 
 all events the commencement was ominous, for 
 we found that some of the passengers had ob- 
 tained grace for an additional hour, which by a 
 series of accidents and manoeuvres was converted 
 into three, during which time we were obliged 
 to saunter about, thinking of the miseries that 
 flapped their raven-wings around us. At length 
 the party was complete, and a curious one it 
 was. In the interior of the machine (a very 
 decent-looking old-fashioned coach, adorned 
 with lots of luggage) were Toward ; a Swiss 
 " Demoiselle" (I quote the word because I do 
 not wish to be responsible for its correctness) 
 returning from London, and proclaimed as speak- 
 ing English; a French woman with a child of 
 three years old ; a French watchmaker going to 
 Geneva ; and a young Englishman, named Wylie, 
 also going there to finish his education. In the 
 cabriolet, a sort of large coachbox covered, we 
 were seated; and in front of that, viz. on our 
 knees, protected only by the leathern apron, the 
 conductor of the machine; this personage pre- 
 sented a most unpromising appearance, — his 
 countenance and figure resembling those of a 
 wild Indian, with the addition of a tobacco-pipe 
 
53 
 
 which seemed to be in constant requisition : our 
 prospect was still farther heightened by the ex- 
 position of a dog's head in the aforesaid cabriolet, 
 also announced as our companion ; we were told, 
 indeed, that his presence was necessary to take 
 care of the carriage at night, so that we were 
 obliged to submit. Under these auspices we 
 began our journey, and, in addition to our other 
 comforts, found that the regular pace of the 
 vehicle was about four miles an hour, so that if 
 any of us felt disposed to walk to Geneva, we 
 should run no risk of being left behind : never- 
 theless we departed in excellent spirits, which im- 
 proved as some of our anticipations brightened; the 
 conductor and his dog chose to walk generally, 
 and we gradually became habituated to the slow 
 march of the machine. The country for the first 
 day was uninteresting, and we hailed the halting- 
 place for the night with great satisfaction ; it was 
 a considerable place, named Melun, and after a 
 supper of bread, wine, and fruit, we turned into 
 some comfortable beds. On Wednesday morn- 
 ing we were called at four, and proceeded on our 
 journey at five; the country gradually became 
 more interesting; the vineyards began to re- 
 appear, and the presence of a good river, the 
 Yonne, added not a little to the beauty of the 
 
54 
 
 route : we lodged for the night at Sens, where 
 there was a large fair, which gave us an excellent 
 opportunity of viewing the country amusements. 
 A beautiful cathedral attracted our immediate 
 notice, and on entering it we were much struck 
 by its grandeur; it was rich in stained glass 
 beautifully ornamenting the windows, end shed- 
 ding a glorious tint throughout the building ; a 
 superb monument to the Dauphin, father of the 
 present king, adorned the centre; the sculpture 
 was of the finest order, and the design excellent. 
 The next morning, Thursday, we rose at three, 
 to perform what is called a grande journee ; we 
 travelled through an increasingly interesting 
 country, abounding in vines, until seven in the 
 evening, when we reached Auxerre, a very nice 
 town, pleasantly situated on the Yonne. On 
 Friday our journey began altogether to assume a 
 more agreeable character; the weather, which 
 had been hitherto rainy and dull, cleared up, and 
 the continual occurrence of lofty hills gave a 
 pleasing variety to the scene : we lost the vines, 
 but the changes of country compensated for the 
 deficiency. The evening brought us to Rouvray, 
 which we found a very mediocre place, though 
 abounding in amusement : the bustle our arrival 
 occasioned in the kitchen was highly ludicrous, 
 
55 
 
 and the din was tremendous. I began this letter 
 yesterday at Vitot, continued it last night at a 
 place called Pont Panni, and am now finishing 
 it at Dijon, in a public room : we have yet to see 
 the town, and our time is almost expired, so 
 adieu. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO 
 
 Mont-sou -ut of the Jura, 
 
 o, 1819. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 My last letter was concluded in such 
 haste that I hardly know if it was intelligible, 
 and I can have no hope of its being interesting : 
 I think I mentioned sleeping at Rouvray, which 
 was only distinguished by its noise and confusion. 
 I have just seen William's memorandum on the 
 subject; it is most expressive, being simply — " a 
 confounded noise in the kitchen." On Saturday 
 morning we advanced through the same kind of 
 country, viz. a series of hills continually undu- 
 lating : — one ascent which we made in the after- 
 
56 
 
 noon continued for at least three leagues, during 
 great part of which we were gratified by the sight 
 of some fine ruins of an old castle in the vicinity : 
 immediately after we began a descent nearly as 
 steep and long as the hill we had climbed. All 
 the progression of twilight took place before we 
 reached the place of our destination ; the clouds 
 assumed their brightest evening hues ; the sun 
 descended in glorious splendor; and the moon, 
 just at the full, rose with a brightness and size to 
 which we were unaccustomed in England. Our 
 place of rest was an inconsiderable village called 
 Pont Panni, where we fared as usual ; the night 
 was as lovely as could be imagined ; a second 
 but a softer day seemed to have risen upon the 
 world, and the mighty heaven was one expanse 
 of blue light, save where her silver lamp hung 
 glittering in the arch ; altogether, it was one of 
 the finest effects we have witnessed. 
 
 * * * * * * , 
 You would be surprised to observe how much 
 we have improved upon this apparently formid- 
 able journey, or rather how it has improved upon 
 us : our anticipations and mountain-hunting keep 
 our minds on the qui vive, and habit has recon- 
 ciled us to the various annoyances which threat- 
 ened us so fiercely at setting out. Our companion, 
 
57 
 
 Wylie, affords us considerable amusement ; he is 
 a good-tempered young man, has received a good 
 education, and possesses about the usual quantum 
 of thought at seventeen ; his manners are very 
 easy, and his French of the veritable English 
 manufacture ; his sympathies and antipathies are 
 very diverting, being always in the superlative, 
 and never before equalled : among the former are 
 the two daily meals which we obtain ; and among 
 the latter are the interminable straight roads in 
 the heart of France ; and the inside of the coach 
 in which he is destined to remain, except when 
 he takes the alternative of marching through the 
 mud, which he frequently does in a sort of despe- 
 ration, though on account of the heat and the 
 heavy rains that have fallen, this is infinitely 
 worse than the voiture. 
 
 (St. Laurent, on the Jura, 7th.) It is high 
 time for me to proceed with my narrative, or I 
 shall be compelled to resign the task in despair ; 
 you will guess the reason from the date of this 
 portion of my letter. After leaving Mont-sous- 
 Vaudrey yesterday, we were soon in sight of the 
 chain of the Jura, which we were rapidly ap- 
 proaching : its appearance at this time scarcely 
 merited the appellation of mountains, though 
 some ambitious peaks, as we drew nearer, laid 
 
 D 5 
 
58 
 
 strong claim to the title. The little town of Po- 
 ligny was in sight two hours before we reached 
 it, situated in a hollow, on the other side of 
 which rose a chain of bold and lofty crags, whose 
 extent and abruptness produced an imposing ef- 
 fect. On our arrival the heavens seemed to 
 promise a magnificent sunset ; William, Wylie, 
 and myself therefore rushed up the nearest crag : 
 with respect to the sun we were disappointed, 
 but another scene compensated amply for it; 
 reaching a peak at least four hundred feet above 
 the level of the town, we found a large amphi- 
 theatre of crags rising behind, in various gro- 
 tesque and cliff-like forms, of a grey colour, and 
 many perpendicular; between these the road as- 
 cending from the town wound through a lofty 
 valley richly cultivated with grapes and vege- 
 tables ; the vines were seen climbing the cliffs in 
 all directions, and the air of perfect peace and 
 elevation above the world, made a powerful im- 
 pression upon us ; we termed it the Happy Valley, 
 in imitation of that in Rasselas : the view of the 
 town was altogether panoramic, and of the coun- 
 try we had passed through, very extensive. We 
 descended to an early supper, and rose this 
 morning before four o'clock to make the ascent, 
 which we began by the brilliant light of the 
 
59 
 
 moon and a crowd of stars . Passing through the 
 Happy Valley, we perceived at once that all the 
 beauties of mountain scenery were opening upon 
 us ; our road was of course steep and extremely 
 serpentine, and by daylight, the whole world 
 below, with its morning mists, seemed like a vast 
 sea, upon which the distant cottages glittered 
 like ships upon the ocean : the track though fre- 
 quently having only one immense wall of rocks 
 on one side, and a tremendous chasm on the 
 other, is broad and good. As we advanced the 
 scene became more and more extraordinary; the 
 lower world was lost to us ; ours was all hills, and 
 firs, and sky ; all the peaks around were crowned 
 with pine-firs, but the vallies were fertile in vegeta- 
 tion, and spotted with cottages and grazing cattle. 
 A considerable town, Champignole, furnished us 
 with an excellent breakfast, and after leaving it, 
 our situation became every moment more ro- 
 mantic : while we were walking in advance, a 
 snowy peak at -an immense distance attracted 
 
 our notice — it was the Great St. Bernard 1 at 
 
 what distance 1 am at present ignorant : I can- 
 not stop to describe feelings or recall events — 
 these must be left to less interrupted hours. 
 After some time, we perceived our road in ad- 
 vance winding round an abrupt rock which formed 
 
60 
 
 its wall on one side, while on the other was a 
 deep ravine covered with firs, and in the centre 
 of which a small stream rushed over the rocks 
 beneath, with an effect truly delightful : we as- 
 cended on foot, taking a shorter path among the 
 woods, and on reaching the summit were amply 
 repaid for the labour of climbing ; the whole of 
 our preceding route on the mountain opened 
 upon us, but interrupted at intervals by the hol- 
 lows that concealed its course ; in some places 
 there seemed an actual barrier, so that had we 
 not passed it, we could not have conceived a 
 communication possible. The aspect of popula- 
 tion and fertility in these elevated regions is 
 beautiful; the cattle are grazing upon peaks 
 which still seem lofty to us, though we are al- 
 ready so high ; trees, shrubs, and flowers spring 
 from the fissures of a rocky surface that would 
 seem to defy all vegetation ; and the falls of 
 the mountain-streams that spring into the un- 
 fathomable depths of the ravines, with such ro- 
 mantic effects, turn the mills which employ the 
 attention of the inhabitants of this extraordinary 
 region : no less extraordinary is it to find con- 
 siderable towns, such as the one we are now in ; 
 to-night we shall sleep at another, still upon the 
 Jura, and to-morrow, I understand, we are to be 
 
61 
 
 elevated yet higher, before our descent upon 
 Geneva. 
 
 ****** 
 Lake Leman — the Alps — Mont Blanc — the 
 City — Switzerland — all are before us, and I 
 hope at this time to-morrow evening to be safely 
 lodged in Geneva. 
 
 And now farewel, 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 Geneva, September 11, 1819. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 The public news from England we re- 
 ceive by a number of channels, and of course 
 assuming different shapes ; but I assure you there 
 is a general interest felt here in the affairs of 
 England, and it was only yesterday we had a 
 long conversation with a Swiss coachman upon 
 the merits of Mr. Hunt and the riot at Manchester. 
 But to leave all these things, and come at once 
 to the really formidable task of giving you an 
 
62 
 
 idea of what we have seen : I must tell you, 
 however, that I feel it to be a futile endeavour to 
 convey in this manner any impressions which 
 may have arisen. 
 
 Within the last few days all kingly palaces, 
 and gilded domes, and pomp and gorgeousness 
 of men have sunk from before our eyes, " like 
 the baseless fabric of a vision;" the empire of 
 the mountains is our only sovereignty, and he 
 who does not feel its potency is fit only for the 
 monarchies of France and Spain. I shall com- 
 mence at the foot of the Jura, where the sense 
 of mountain-scenery begins, where the romance 
 of our journey had its birth, and every moment 
 produced new enchantments to astonish and 
 confound. 
 
 The ascent takes place from a small town 
 called Poligny, situated commodiously under 
 some lofty cliffs, which, when we had gained 
 them, were receiving the last tints of the setting 
 sun : we climbed the most accessible — the sun 
 went down, but not so magnificently as we had 
 anticipated, though the prospect we commanded 
 was sufficient to excite the most lively emotions. 
 France lay before us, avast and cultivated plain; 
 the distant Soane now borrowed the light of 
 heaven to mark its course; the road we had 
 
63 
 
 passed stretched almost to the horizon; the 
 vesper-bells of the scattered villages rung through 
 the air; while immediately below us, Poligny, 
 with its hum of men, and rattling carriages, 
 seemed like the last memento of a world of 
 which we appeared to have attained the verge : 
 on the other side, crag rose above crag, some- 
 times in bold, abrupt, white masses, and some- 
 times covered with verdure to their summits ; a 
 road wound through a valley enclosed by these 
 heights, where cottages and grazing cattle pre- 
 sented the very image of pastoral tranquillity : the 
 whole effect was beautiful — but I must pass on. 
 The next morning we began the ascent by 
 moonlight, in perpetual windings through the 
 valley I have just mentioned, and on the plain 
 which formed its summit, enjoyed all the wonders 
 of rising day : the mounting sun, the escaping 
 dews, and "life on earth and splendor in the 
 sky:" — soon every feature of mountain scenery 
 broke upon us ; dark forests of firs climbed the 
 crags that seemed to enclose us on every side, 
 now rising in tremendous majesty above us, and 
 now rooted in some deep ravine below, bringing 
 their summits to the level of our path : shrubs, 
 flowers, and wild fruit-trees sprung from the 
 interstices of the grey rock that seemed the only 
 
64 
 
 soil of the place. The mountain rills murmured 
 along the defiles, leaping into occasional daylight, 
 and not unfrequently turned by the hand of man 
 to the purposes of industry. Over the whole 
 of the Jura, cottages are seen in every direction, 
 some in absolute solitude, and on dismal peaks 
 that appeared almost inaccessible ; others cluster 
 into villages, and even towns, where a favorable 
 situation offers. In the course of the morning 
 we saw the Great St. Bernard with its hoary top, 
 rising in snowy majesty afar : and mark — its 
 base is in Italy ! Our road was a continual al- 
 ternation of hill and vale, though our course 
 gradually attained a higher elevation:- towards 
 the afternoon we had another remarkably pre- 
 cipitous ascent, bordering a ravine of great depth ; 
 and in the evening we had an equally romantic 
 descent into the valley and town of Morez, per- 
 haps the most extraordinary place we had yet 
 seen: viewed from the hill by which we de- 
 scended, it had the appearance of a place cut 
 off entirely from the surrounding world, seated 
 in a narrow defile, between two lines of lofty 
 mountains, down which ran the streams which 
 supplied the vale, and were converted to a thou- 
 sand uses : it was a perfect model — a spot of 
 imagination and not of reality. We entered and 
 
65 
 
 found all bustle and activity ; travellers arriving 
 in both directions, and every semblance of life 
 and prosperity. In the morning we left it, by 
 the longest ascent we had yet encountered, and 
 which cost us nearly two hours to gain the sum- 
 mit of, but which was equally romantic and 
 interesting when gained. About the middle of 
 the day we breakfasted at La Vattay, a lone 
 house upon the mountain, and from thence still 
 ascended through the same kind of scenery. We 
 had repeatedly observed that there appeared to 
 be no world beyond the Jura ; we were always 
 climbing hills, and yet more rose continually 
 above us; we were just in this situation, looking 
 at the road which completely vanished at a near 
 corner, when the driver pointed out a long descent 
 as our road, and which we saw distinctly to an 
 immense depth. Our eyes were fixed on this 
 path, while the carriage was slowly turning the 
 corner; suddenly the driver exclaimed, " I am 
 wrong!" and on turning round, a prospect too 
 magnificent to be described — a sight that, like 
 an avalanche, swept away all " trivial fond 
 records," confounded our every faculty; the 
 Alps were before us ! — Mont Blanc, the monarch 
 of mountains, towered into the unclouded sky, 
 like the relic of some icy world : the effect it is im« 
 
66 
 
 possible to give ! it was near us — it was above 
 us : our mountains, the Jura, seemed to bow be- 
 fore it, while the opening through which we 
 viewed it, appeared like a mighty convulsion 
 that had rent the cliffs asunder at the beck of a 
 superior being. The carriage rolled on, and as 
 soon as we were sufficiently collected we attempt- 
 ed to discover other objects of interest in the 
 vale below. Here the scene was scarcely less 
 confounding; between the Jura and the Alps 
 lay the plain of Geneva, Lake Leman, and the 
 Rhone; but all at such an astonishing depth, 
 that we were wholly at a loss to comprehend the 
 scene. I can give you no better idea of it, than 
 by telling you it resembled exactly the map of 
 a gentleman's estate, in which the divisions of 
 the fields are simply black lines. Lake Leman, 
 which is narrow here, seemed like a small blue 
 stream, — all, all was wonderful ! the sense of ele- 
 vation, and yet of debasement — the stillness — the 
 sublimity — the beauty — and the novelty of the 
 scene, can only be conceived by being witnessed. 
 Our descent was beautiful in the extreme, and its 
 contrast to the opposite scene, added to its effect; 
 the same spirit of peace and fertility prevailed ; 
 bright spots of verdure, the scattered cottages, 
 the browsing cattle with their tinkling bells, the 
 
67 
 
 fir-clad crags, all that we had hitherto admired, 
 were still admirable, and held their place in the 
 mind : we walked down the mountain, and saw 
 the landscape magnify upon us, and unrol its 
 beauties as we approached. 
 
 The city of Geneva at length began to sparkle 
 in the sun ; the blue waters of the lake widened 
 under the ridge of Alps, till our descent concealed 
 it from view. We now rolled through a fertile 
 and picturesque country, passing Ferney, the 
 abode of Voltaire (about whom I did not care 
 one straw), till we entered Geneva. It is of 
 little consequence, to describe the town to you ; 
 it is ugly, old, and dirty. The Rhone runs 
 through it in two branches, and is truly of a most 
 beautiful clear blue color, or properly a sulphuric 
 green, and rushes from the lake with surprising 
 rapidity. The environs of the town are altogether 
 beautiful, commanding views of the surrounding 
 mountains, the lake, and the vineyards, that 
 flourish on its banks : the darkened Jura, or the 
 snowy Alps — one or other is always in sight, as 
 the intervening step to the unclouded sky that 
 extends its blue canopy over the whole scene. 
 
 Yesterday morning we rode to Coppet, the 
 seat of Madame de Stael, beautifully situated on 
 the northern bank of the lake, about eight miles 
 
68 
 
 from the town; we had a charming ride to it, 
 and reposed ourselves in the grounds, which are 
 simple and secluded: the house is large and 
 good, but we did not obtain entrance. On our 
 return, we had a good view of Diodati, the re- 
 sidence of Lord Byron : this is on the southern 
 side of the lake, upon an eminence, about half a 
 mile from its shores, and the prospect which it 
 commands is very extensive. All this I shall be 
 much better able to enlarge upon when I see 
 you ; in fact my time is getting very short, for 
 we have just made an engagement to quit Geneva 
 
 in an hour or two for Italy ! Do not start 
 
 at the word, which is almost a Bobadil, since we 
 scarcely set foot in it. In plain terms we are 
 going to pass the Simplon, by the far-famed road 
 which Napoleon made : this will give us a view 
 of the Italian plains, independent of its own 
 wonders which are numerous. 
 
 Yesterday evening we walked to see the 
 junction of the Rhone and the Arve, which is a 
 singular sight : the waters of the latter are dark 
 and muddy, and so great seems the repugnance 
 of the two rivers to mingle their streams, that for 
 some distance they divide the channel between 
 them ; the Rhone pursuing its rapid course with 
 all its native dignity and lustre. On our return 
 
69 
 
 we were delighted at beholding the rose-tints with 
 which the setting sun tinges the snowy Alps, 
 and which you will remember to have been 
 noticed by Byron. 
 
 And now, my dear friend, it only remains for 
 me to assure you that your name has been often 
 on our lips, especially in these regions of enchant- 
 ment ; you were with us soon after our first view 
 of Mont Blanc, and made one of a select groupe, 
 whom we cordially wished could have witnessed 
 it with us ; we have drank your health in a bottle 
 of Champaigne, the result of a geographical 
 wager, by way of special acknowledgment for 
 your letter ; mine is a shorter one, but you will 
 not believe the feeling less vivid than that which 
 dictated yours. At once therefore I subscribe 
 myself fand from Switzerland), 
 
 your very sincere friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
TO 
 
 Charleville, October 6, 1819. 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 I DARE say you will think it very odd 
 when I tell you that I sincerely regret having 
 the opportunity of addressing you some days 
 earlier than I expected, but I am sure you will 
 sympathise with us when I relate the cause ; the 
 fact is, we are shut up here for the whole day, for 
 want of a conveyance to carry us to Brussels, 
 from which place I hoped and intended to write 
 to you, with all the pleasurable feelings arising 
 from the prospect of a speedy flight over the 
 channel, and then by sundry roads, lanes, and 
 other highways to St. Paul's Church Yard. As 
 it is, we are still lingering on the French frontier, 
 and after working very hard to reach Brussels 
 as a point where we might almost feel the air of 
 Britain, behold I am reviving the old story of 
 
 " Having nothing else to do, 
 I am writing unto you ; " 
 
and where ? why in the suburb or dependence of 
 a dirty frontier town, at leat twenty-four hours 
 sharp travelling from Brussels. To come to the 
 point, we arrived here last night two hours after 
 the coach had departed; and after fretting, con- 
 sulting, bargaining, and marching into Mezieres 
 before seven o'clock this morning, we find that 
 here we must stop till seven this evening, when 
 we are to set off for Givet, our last town in 
 France, and then get to Brussels as we can. It 
 is true we had the alternative of travelling post 
 in an open cart, with the probability of arriving 
 to-night at Givet after the gates were shut ; and 
 be it known to you that a fortified frontier is a 
 very awkward thing when a man is in a hurry, 
 and may perchance give him the open air for a 
 bed-room, if he should happen to be star-gazing 
 or what not. But it is time to assume the histo- 
 rian, and detail our exertions to arrive at this 
 place, where we expected our difficulties would 
 end, instead of stopping our march altogether. 
 William's last dispatch left us I believe at Stras- 
 bourg, where we had taken places in the mail 
 for Metz, being then uncertain at what point we 
 should enter the Netherlands : this was on Sun- 
 day morning, and after putting the aforesaid letter 
 in the post, we had just time to repair to the 
 
cathedral,- where we witnessed a most curious 
 spectacle, illustrative of the state of religion in 
 these parts. The different troops forming the 
 garrison were assembling to hear mass, and 
 actually marched into the church with bayonets 
 fixed, and covered heads ; they ranged them- 
 selves in lines along the nave, and whilst the 
 little silver bell of the priest announced the per- 
 formance of service at one of the side altars, the 
 word of military command resounded through the 
 edifice, and the clash of arms upon the pavement, 
 seemed to convert the place into a barrack : the 
 drums were thundering without, and, when we 
 left, more and more soldiers were filing into the 
 cathedral. 
 
 At half past twelve we were seated in the 
 mail, which is the most comfortable machine for 
 travelling in France; it is a large and heavy 
 chariot, holding three persons with ease, with a 
 cabriolet in front, which contains one other be- 
 sides the " courier " or *« conducteur." It travels 
 post, and goes at the rate of seven miles an 
 hour : fortunately we had this vehicle to our- 
 selves, except for about two hours, and as 
 Toward rode outside, we found the concern 
 altogether " comme ilfaut."' The country between 
 Strasbourg and Metz is extremely flat and unin- 
 
•73 
 
 teresting, that after borrowing William's memory 
 to assist my own, I cannot find any thing worthy 
 of notice : the only variety was that nuisance of 
 a custom-house, where our baggage was searched 
 for the third time since leaving Basle ; between 
 Basle and Strasbourg we had been visited twice 
 in one day, and now, although we had not quitted 
 the kingdom, although travelling under the guid- 
 ance of a sworn servant of the government, and 
 notoriously coming from a place which we could 
 not have entered without examination, the whole 
 farce was acted over again, and I may add to a 
 most crowded audience; for it being Sunday 
 afternoon, the whole village was turned out, and 
 crowding round our portmanteaus during the in- 
 spection ; — we counted more than seventy persons 
 actually surrounding the officers, and pressing 
 forward to see what the trunks contained. After 
 this an officer got into the coach, and peeped 
 into every hole and corner, to the infinite amuse- 
 ment of your humble servant, who was glad to 
 resume his seat, that he might laugh with greater 
 security. We reached Metz about eight o'clock 
 the next morning, where we halted for four hours, 
 which gave us an opportunity of skimming the 
 town, which is of considerable extent, and bears 
 evident marks of having once been a place of 
 
 E 
 
74 
 
 importance ; its consequence is now much di- 
 minished, and the Revolution has left a very 
 legible stamp of its influence : the cathedral, 
 which is a fine Gothic structure, is greatly in- 
 jured; and close to it is a large building, for- 
 merly a palace, entirely in ruins. The principal 
 ornaments of the interior of the cathedral are two 
 immense painted windows, in high preservation, 
 and altogether the most magnificent we have yet 
 seen. 
 
 The devotees, as usual, afforded us abund- 
 ance of matter : one of the Lancasterian schools 
 attended to hear mass, and the boys, in number 
 about three hundred, were ranged in files-below 
 the altar ; on the steps, immediately opposite the 
 altar, stood the beadle of the church, with a hal- 
 bert in one hand and a cane in the other ; on his 
 head a military hat and feather ; a scarlet uni- 
 form and sword ; in figure, dress, and attitude, 
 looking like a centinel, or a scarecrow, or any 
 thing but what he was. In one corner was an 
 image of some saint with no less than seventy 
 candles actually burning before it, by which we 
 concluded that the reputation of the aforesaid 
 saint must be very great : close to it was an old 
 woman on her knees, muttering lots of prayers, 
 but spying us, she frisked up with great alacrity, 
 
-75 
 
 and began to implore our charity most devoutly : 
 being, however, unsuccessful, the old dame fell 
 to work again, first violently kicking out of her 
 way (in illustration of her own charitable feel- 
 ings) a little dog who threatened to interrupt her 
 devotions : the whole scene Was a fine illustra- 
 tion of the spirit and influence of catholic cere- 
 monials, and I should add, that whilst all this 
 was going on, the bricklayers and plasterers were 
 repairing the opposite aisle. 
 
 ****** 
 On arriving here, at ten o'clock last night, we 
 made a host of agreeable discoveries, viz. that 
 there was no coach going forward in the morning; 
 that there was none at any time direct to Brus- 
 sels ; that it would take at least two days to get 
 there if we hired a carriage ; and that we must go 
 back to Mezieres to make the necessary inquiries : 
 accordingly we marched thither early this morn- 
 ing, and made an attack upon the postmaster, 
 which terminated as I have before related* The 
 loss of a day at this period is a crying grievance, 
 but we must work hard and make the Napoleons 
 fly in order to overtake Time : by the by we 
 shall want an easterly wind early in next week, 
 and I beg you will all wish, during the whole of 
 Monday and Tuesday, for a comfortable sharp 
 breeze, bound like ourselves for England. 
 
76 
 
 We stepped into the principal church of 
 Mezieres this morning; it is very ancient, but 
 contains nothing remarkable except a large black 
 image of the Virgin, having a white Infant in her 
 arms ! " Oh ! the simplicity of these people/' as 
 Toward says, when they fill his tea-pot with cold 
 water. We had two companions of singularly 
 opposite characters yesterday afternoon in the 
 coach; the one was a sister of charity or re- 
 ligieuse, whose occupation is to attend the sick 
 poor, and the other was a retired officer who had 
 served under IMapoleon. With the latter we had 
 a good deal of curious conversation, which I 
 have not left myself room to relate ; it was mainly 
 on the old topic, the downfal of Napoleon, which 
 he explained in the usual way that the French 
 account for the affair — treachery within, and an 
 overwhelming force without. But — enter plates 
 and dishes — so here must end my letter. 
 
 J. T. 
 
77 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 London, Friday Evening, Nov. 26, 1819. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 Although it is nearly a week since I 
 received your letter, you will, I am sure, give 
 me due credit when I tell you that this is the 
 first moment of leisure I could devote to the 
 pleasing occupation of replying to your missive. 
 My mornings, you know, are occupied with my 
 grand operations, which I beg you will consider 
 as the thirteenth labour of Hercules, and my 
 evenings you shall have in order; — Monday, St. 
 Paul's; Tuesday, Athenaeum; Wednesday, St. 
 Paul's (special); Thursday, Alsop; Friday, sit- 
 ting by a cheerful fire writing to George Fisk — 
 and truly a man must have no other companion 
 than his fire when he sits down to answer such a 
 letter as yours— unless the letter be misdirected, 
 which is not the case in the present instance, as 
 I hope to prove; and if I can show myself able 
 to sympathize and return the ardent and peculiar 
 feelings which you have there given way to, I 
 
7S 
 
 shall be satisfied that I am not quite unworthy 
 to stand by the side of him who gave them birth. 
 I can understand the sensations you would ex- 
 perience on finding yourself once more among 
 the scenes of your childhood, after passing 
 through that period of life which is in all re- 
 spects its most interesting stage — when all the 
 stores of the soul are opened and applied — when 
 the great treasury of the good and ill that attend 
 our lives is generally unlocked, and our minds 
 take a hue which lasts even unto age, and not 
 unfrequently tinges all the objects that engage 
 our attention. I rejoice to see that you look 
 back upon the past with that warm feeling of 
 pleasure which you evince, for in truth it con- 
 tains so little to excite an opposite sensation, 
 that it is but a handsome acknowledgment of 
 your obligations : your cares, your vexations, 
 your disappointments, have been neither numer- 
 ous nor very oppressive, and — they are gone — 
 leaving you to enter the world hand in hand with 
 Hope, and with a consciousness of right within 
 that would defy a host of obstacles.— Remember, 
 I am speaking of your heart, and not of your 
 nerves. You know I am a disciple of Memory, 
 who binds me by the best of all ties— gratitude ; 
 and though the moralist may find her reign is but 
 
79 
 
 the monarchy of dreams, yet they are certainly 
 more valuable than the uncertain will-of-the-wisp 
 visions of the future ; we can say these things 
 have been — and we know that our recollections of 
 good and of evil are not mere barren relics ; their 
 influence steals silently into the heart, and grows 
 like the ivy on the ruined wall, breathing a moral 
 and a joy that will not fade. Our life is made up 
 of dreams — the past and the future— the imagi- 
 nation and the heart — all have their dreams, and 
 we become the sport of shadows. The practicals 
 who laugh at their influence, are like ignorant 
 country apothecaries, who know not what the 
 disease is they pretend to cure. They have " the 
 tyranny of pleasure and of pain ;" they are either 
 friends whom we cannot sufficiently repay, or 
 foes whom we cannot conquer. But I am bound 
 to the past, I owe the future nothing. 
 
 In turning to that part of your letter which 
 refers to your connexion with myself, I scarcely 
 know how to answer you, — to express the feel- 
 ings to which that effusion of the heart has given 
 rise — to convey in fitting language what my own 
 bosom prompts me to say. I never do or will 
 employ terms that go beyond the feelings ex- 
 cited; but if a habitude that seeks only truth 
 and sincerity should make me seem scrupulous, 
 
80 
 
 when no caution, no limitation is required, and 
 no charge of insincerity can be incurred, I must 
 plead to those friends who know my heart, to 
 trust that it truly and affectionately responds to 
 those warm feelings that form its happiness and 
 pride. What you have said of me is indeed 
 gratifying to a degree of oppression, but I know 
 that it proceeds from a soul incapable of flattery, 
 and I take it as the delightful testimony of a 
 friendship, pure and unbounded, whose overflow- 
 ings place us side by side, upon an eminence, 
 with equal honour and gratification. I cannot 
 certainly say with you, George, that you were 
 my first friend ; but in my dominion, seniority 
 does not monopolize all the inheritance, and most 
 cordially can I declare, that you are one of those 
 few who have constituted the happiness of my 
 life. If ever there was a mortal who stood in 
 need of those ties of the heart " which make us 
 love to live," (I will not add, " fear to die,") it is 
 myself; and if ever mortal was fortunate in the 
 formation of them, as far as they go, it is myself; 
 they are all in all to me ; without them, life would 
 have more than the accustomed loneliness of so- 
 litude. I live only in the sunshine of friendship, 
 in the affections of my friends, — the highest plea- 
 sures I expect to enjoy on this side the grave : 
 
81 
 
 and when I think of myself— of what I was, and 
 what I am ; of my own feelings, and of the friends 
 who surround me — I cannot but feel that my first 
 duty is gratitude to Him whose creatures we 
 all are ; and my second, an endeavour to answer 
 the ardent feelings and expectations of my friends, 
 as the only return I can make for the blessings I 
 receive from them. I may sometimes require 
 their forbearance — my nature and situation are 
 not of the ordinary stamp — but if they can ever 
 truly charge me with coldness, I will sink into 
 the darkness of my soul, and never more seek 
 the light of affection, or the mental charities that 
 are needed by the proudest of men. I shall not 
 go on to apply what I have now said to your- 
 self; your own heart will inform you of what I 
 owe to your friendship : you know also my com- 
 position, and many of the secret springs that 
 actuate my opinions and sensations — and I can- 
 not add more to your conviction of the sincerity 
 of my heart, if I were to protest in quarto, both 
 of which, as you know, are my aversion. I have 
 dwelt so long upon this subject, that I have left 
 but little room for the bundle of scraps which 
 remains, so I must make short work of it. 
 
 Now, if you please, we will adjourn to St. 
 Paul's, where you may be sure you are not for- 
 
 E5 
 
82 
 
 gotten, either on Monday or any other day. 
 They all desire their kindest remembrances to 
 you, with two or three messages which I shall 
 recollect presently. Oh ! one is from my young 
 ladies (and in which I heartily join, be it known 
 to you) who protest against the exercise of 
 sporting; notwithstanding that, the hares were 
 remarkably fine, and as far as I know, were 
 eaten with a good appetite : Mr. V. dined with 
 me on the occasion, and joined me in cordial 
 after-dinner acknowledgments to the donor. 
 Nevertheless, you must leave off shooting, or 
 incur an Anathema Maranatha from my chan- 
 cery. I am also desired by the aforesaid ladies 
 to express their regret, that you were absent on 
 the arrival of Mont-Blanc and Lake Leman in 
 this country : surprising event, was it not ? 
 
 Will is gone to Bristol ; he left on Monday, 
 and will return, I fancy, next week : speaking of 
 journeys, how dare you parody my letters from 
 Switzerland, you impertinent piece of parch- 
 ment ! if you do so again, you shall be banished 
 to Salisbury Plain, and have no object to gaze 
 upon, " but an Ass on a Common, or a Goose 
 on a Green." How does the country y?£, after a 
 fortnight's trial ? I should think it must be power- 
 fully attractive at this season of the year ; but to 
 
83 
 
 be sure, the society of the Sokens — Humph! 
 Query. How many things have I omitted which 
 I ought to have said ? Ah, well — it is not worth 
 the reckoning: I may think of some of them ere 
 my next reply, which you may occasion as soon 
 as you please. Adieu ; believe me to be, most 
 sincerely, your faithful friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 London, Dec. 21, 1819. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 I have not replied to your letter so 
 soon as I ought and intended, relying on being 
 able to devote an evening for the purpose ; but 
 my head has within these few days given me 
 sundry hints to suspend my evening perform- 
 ances for a season. Not being pleased with this 
 
 kind of dictation, I applied to M , but the 
 
 recreant decided against me : so you must e'en 
 take a letter written under the influence, real and 
 imaginary, of a black draught, as he appropriately 
 
84 
 
 styles it, which he has seduced me to take this 
 morning. Argles — if thou shouldst perceive any- 
 thing lack-a-daisical and qualmish in this my 
 letter missive, thou must attribute it to the 
 tyranny by which I am controlled, and as written 
 under compulsion and restraint, revocable in a 
 brighter mood. 
 
 Referring to yours, the first topic of import- 
 ance that I find in it, is a wide misconstruction 
 of some expressions in my former letter, which I 
 am most anxious to put to rights. How could 
 you imagine that the sentence — " I never em- 
 ploy terms that go beyond the feeling excited " 
 — was a concealed reproof to you for the undis- 
 guised manifestation of warm feeling contained 
 in your former letter? Indeed, my dear George, 
 it is far, very far from my wish, that you should 
 control your feelings to any set form of words, or 
 exclude phrases from your communications,which 
 the suggestions of your heart prompt you to use, 
 as the index of its sentiments. I, and all who 
 have been able to form a just estimate of your 
 character, know full well how sincere are the ex- 
 pressions which flow from your heart, and you 
 may rest assured that none will see your corres- 
 pondence who would be likely to form different 
 conclusions : I trust I may extend this latter ob- 
 
85 
 
 serration to my own letters. Do not then suffer 
 any scruples or worldly-qualifying motives, to 
 check the effusions which your free soul would 
 pour forth; and however warm your language 
 may be, the only caution that I would breathe 
 upon the subject is, that you do not use it to per- 
 sons who are incapable of appreciating its mo- 
 tives and object ; the single-hearted are few, and 
 in dealing with those to whom the world has 
 given obliquity of thought, or insensibility, we 
 owe it to our own feelings not to provoke their 
 ridicule, or tempt them to misinterpretation. Few, 
 very few persons know the scope and tone of mij 
 feelings, and I am sorry to say my experience and 
 habits, for which I am not responsible, have 
 given me a reserve and apparent coldness which 
 I fear disguises me even to those before whom I 
 would wear neither disguise nor reserve, nor any 
 thing that should interpose between their regard 
 and myself, who am so much dependant upon 
 that, for the happiness I enjoy. The remark 
 which has excited your apprehension (although I 
 do not now remember the context) was only 
 meant to convey the impression of the sincerity I 
 ever wish to be conspicuous in my words and 
 actions : perhaps the remark was altogether un- 
 necessary; for as my expressions are but too 
 
S6 
 
 often under my feelings, there was the less pro- 
 bability of the caution being required. You, I 
 am sure, will not doubt my sincerity when I say, 
 that whatever I may have said or written of 
 friendship towards yourself, has been but an im- 
 perfect transcript of the feeling my heart has 
 cherished; but I shall be satisfied by knowing 
 that your faith supplies the deficiencies of my 
 tongue and pen, and that albeit the well is deep, 
 your eye is strong enough to see the stars re- 
 flected at the bottom. You say it is your mis- 
 fortune to feel too quickly — true, it is a misfor- 
 tune; or rather it is one of those wayward spirits, 
 dispensing smiles and tears with the same liberal 
 hand, balancing pleasure against pain in very 
 wantonness, and wrapping its own character in 
 such a shroud, that one knows not whether it be 
 a happiness or a misery. It is a light or a shadow 
 upon the chequer of our lives, as circumstances 
 call it into action, and I should be sorry to lose 
 all chance of its future good, to avoid the cer- 
 tainty of its present evil. 
 
 Pr'ythee, George, let me have no more of thy 
 " Philosophy," for it sitteth not well upon thee — 
 thou hast no pretensions to it — and thou hast 
 written the word as if thou wert afraid of it, 
 glaring upon us like a magnificent twilight spectre, 
 
S7 
 
 I am not anxious to be thought a philosopher, 
 and am therefore not in a mood to be benefited 
 by thy instructions; especially as thine are all 
 precept, and nothing but a mask to thy graceless 
 example. 
 
 You desire me to write you a long letter, but 
 if I do I fear you will not have it this week, for 
 I have been two days struggling thus far, and I 
 am apprehensive the quarrel between me and my 
 head will not terminate without bloodshed ; but 
 really to be compelled to do nothing, is a nuisance, 
 and I verily believe I cannot be in worse com- 
 pany than when left alone with my imagination. 
 
 ****** 
 And now be it known unto you, that while I am 
 taking physic, Will (our Will) is taking a ques- 
 tion!! both, to prevent corpulence: he, growing 
 lean upon Pitt's Administration, and I upon 
 Maples's ; that the knife and fork may be a well- 
 matched pair. Oh, fortunate spoon ! who art at 
 liberty to get as fat as Falstaff, without being 
 interrupted by politics or phlebotomy. Did I 
 say Falstaff? " honest Jack" reminds me of 
 honest Tom, of whom thou inquirest. Well then, 
 
 T has been parleying with manager Bunn 
 
 about an engagement for him at Birmingham; 
 but, as the manager wants the " ocular proof," 
 
S3 
 
 farther proceedings depend on Tom's capability 
 of making a pilgrimage to Birmingham, for the 
 purpose of being gazed at. 
 
 ****** 
 I am now laying close siege to T — and H — , to 
 induce them to commence the printing operations, 
 
 and I hope to succeed by bribing T with a 
 
 cup of tea to-morrow. And now farewel ; give 
 my respects to your father and mother, and my 
 congratulations on the return of a season which 
 those who are bound to each other by the ties of 
 friendship or neighborhood never suffer to pass 
 unnoticed. To yourself, I have nothing new to 
 say, so you must take the old assurance, that I 
 am, most faithfully, your very sincere friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, November 29, 1819. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 For once I have given you occasion 
 to complain of silence and delay, as I have been 
 returned some time without having answered 
 
89 
 
 your letter, and I freely consent that this may be 
 placed to my account, though the balance is 
 greatly against you. Have you not broken as 
 many promises as a minister of state, including 
 not a few of reformation for the future ? You see 
 I am prompt to commence the attack upon you, that 
 I may silence your charges against myself; but 
 the truth is, that my anxiety to repair the breach 
 occasioned by my long absence, has, together 
 with the requisitions of friends here, left me but 
 little leisure, and this must be my apology. My 
 first impulse and duty is to acknowledge most 
 thankfully the great trouble you have had on my 
 account in various ways ; and I am ashamed to 
 think that you should have been annoyed in such 
 a manner for the gratification of my wishes. 
 With respect to the list of the Royal Society of 
 Edinburgh, if you have not received it, I beg 
 
 you will not give yourself or Mr. R ■ any 
 
 further trouble about it. I am much obliged to 
 you for the Education Returns, which I intend 
 to lay before the British and Foreign School. 
 Society for their consideration. 
 
 You will be anxious to hear something of my 
 excursion, which I assure you was most delight- 
 ful throughout; amid scenery and human varieties 
 of the most interesting kind — enjoyed in beautiful 
 
90 
 
 weather, and unclouded by any disagreeable cir- 
 cumstances worth remembering as such : we 
 were out about nine weeks, during which we 
 scoured over Normandy, Paris, Burgundy, 
 Switzerland, the Vallais, the Rhenish frontier of 
 France, and the Netherlands. We gazed upon 
 Italy, we were in its vallies, we heard its lan- 
 guage \ but our stay was too transient to consider 
 it as a visited country. To give you any in- 
 teresting particulars of the tour, in the compass 
 of a letter, is out of the question ; but if it will 
 afford you any pleasure to know the course we 
 took, I will tell you that we went from Paris to 
 Geneva; from Geneva through the Vallais to 
 the Simplon, and back to Lausanne ; thence to 
 Yverdun and Berne ; and then, after a short ex- 
 cursion to the glaciers of Grindelwald, to Basle 
 on the Rhine, to Strasbourg, and so into the 
 Netherlands by Metz, Verdun, Mezieres, and 
 Namur : we then proceeded to Brussels by 
 Waterloo, and then to Antwerp ; and descended 
 by Ghent and Bruges to Ostend, where we em- 
 barked for England. 
 
 In all this, we have seen and done as much 
 as could possibly be expected in the time : Paris, 
 Switzerland, and the cities of the Netherlands, 
 are each worthy of a distinct tour, — we embraced 
 
91 
 
 them all, their various attractions relieved each 
 other in our minds, and their several and opposite 
 impressions will remain with us as long as me- 
 mory holds her seat unshaken. The mountain 
 scenery of Switzerland is as sublime as untravelled 
 anticipation could suggest; and one scene far 
 exceeded all that our imaginations had dreamed 
 of. This was the first view of Mont- Blanc from 
 the mountains of the Jura, where the whole 
 chain of the Savoy Alps burst upon the view at 
 once, with a grandeur and a strangeness past 
 description. The day was bright and unclouded ; 
 every summit was distinctly visible, glittering 
 with eternal snows, in the light of the sun ; the 
 lake of Geneva lay below, and its enchanting 
 environs; the contrasted wonders and beauties 
 of the scene made up a whole that has never 
 been equalled in our eyes, and in all probability 
 never will. Of individual wonders we have had 
 plenty ; the great road made by Buonaparte over 
 the Simplon is a magnificent work, and the scenery 
 in which it is placed very sublime ; the glaciers 
 are astonishing; the avalanches, and indeed all 
 the phenomena of the Alpine regions, are most 
 extraordinary, and make a powerful impression 
 upon those who are unaccustomed to them. The 
 Netherland cities are uncommonly fine, and may 
 
92 
 
 be visited with so little expense of time and 
 money, that I should recommend you a trip to 
 Antwerp next summer. 
 
 I do not know how I am to request that I 
 may hear from you shortly; I believe I must 
 invoke you by your past offences, which are 
 weighty enough to crush mine into oblivion. 
 
 Believe me, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 
 
 Bernard Street, November 10, Anno 3. 
 MY DEAR LORD, 
 
 According to agreement, I write to 
 apprize your lordship that I cannot be respon- 
 sible for more than four tickets, as I have had 
 no further applications since the breaking up of 
 the council. I am sorry to inform your lordship 
 that alarming symptoms of disaffection have been 
 discovered in one of the departments of adminis- 
 tration, which may possibly lead to the impeach- 
 ment of an individual of high rank in the state. 
 Indeed, my lord, these are perilous times, when 
 
93 
 
 revolution stalks abroad under the specious pre- 
 tence of reform, and aims at nothing less than the 
 destruction of the privileged orders of society. I 
 am sure I need not remind you, as a privy coun- 
 sellor, that this is at present one of the king's 
 secrets. Should your lordship not be prevented 
 by the duties of your high station, I should be 
 glad to have a private conference with you on 
 the subject, as I must submit the case to his 
 majesty in a day or two. I am, 
 my dear lord, 
 
 very sincerely yours, 
 
 Tyson. Chancellor. 
 
 P. S. His Majesty has received a letter from 
 Prince Hamlet, Lord Lieutenant of the County of 
 Nottingham, full of loyal regrets that his duties 
 will not permit him to congratulate his majesty, 
 in person, on the anniversary of his happy acces- 
 sion to the throne. 
 
 P.P. S. Will your lordship pardon me for re- 
 minding you to prepare a spacious anti-room for 
 the reception of the court to-morrow, previous to 
 the opening of the grand saloon ? 
 
 To William, Count of the Acropolis, Grand 
 
94 
 
 Cross of the Order of the Athenian Owl, Lord 
 High Steward of Attica, one of His Majesty's 
 Most Honorable Privy Council, &c &c. &c. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM . 
 
 Bernard Street, December 27, 1819. 
 MY DEAR WILLIAM, 
 
 I AM very sorry to tell you I cannot 
 possibly be in St. Paul's to-day : I found my 
 head much worse yesterday afternoon at Ken- 
 nington, the back part being oppressed with a 
 heaviness that I could not get rid of. I there- 
 fore determined to march off to M at once, 
 
 and descending from the stage at Ludgate Hill, 
 proceeded thither, fully anticipating farther blood- 
 shed. M was however unwilling, and did 
 
 not consider it necessary; but immediately put 
 me into a coach, and drove me off to Bernard 
 Street, where he administered physic to my throat, 
 and warm water to my feet, all which produced 
 a beneficial effect, and I remain freed from the 
 most disagreeable of the sensations. But, alas ! 
 
, 95 
 
 no egress for this day ; and his injunctions and 
 his physic, will effectually prevent me the pleasure 
 of meeting my friends, according to hebdomadal 
 custom, and doom me to a double solitude, for 
 so a Monday confinement will seem. To-morrow 
 too — oh dear ! what shall I do : I had half re- 
 solved (but hush!) to cheat him to night,— but 
 he has me too fast. The creature says he has 
 been too indulgent to me, but that he took com- 
 passion on my desolate situation, &c. A fig's 
 end, say I; but where's the use of saying any 
 thing: I can't get out. Cannot you apply a 
 steam-engine to your house and drive West? 
 Toward is coming for medicine, and brings my 
 Lament: — I can't get out, I tell you. I must not 
 detain him, but I will say, that the man who 
 
 asserts my case is not a hard one, is a 
 
 what ? why, an apothecary at least. 
 
 Remember me most kindly, but dolefully, to 
 
 all my friends, and tell them all 1 can't get 
 
 out; and these are the last words of your 
 unhappy cageling, 
 
 James. 
 
TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM, 
 
 (then at Antwerp). 
 
 London, Febuary 11, 1820, 
 MY DEAR WILLIAM, 
 
 It is not only according to the accus- 
 tomed forms of epistolary style, but with cordial 
 sincerity of heart, that I commence with trusting 
 that this will rind you in your course, without 
 " scathe or sair," and making the advantages of 
 your expedition out-balance the unpleasantness 
 of travelling dans une saison comme ceci, and of 
 lonely sojourning in a foreign land. For my own 
 part, I have, without actually quitting this good 
 city of London, journeyed with you in all the 
 well-remembered varieties of vehicular con- 
 veyance, from the Ghent barge, with its silent 
 gliding, to the Antwerp diligence, rumbling and 
 racketting with ten inside, just crammed at a 
 table d'hote in Brussels. Then rise all the mon- 
 strosities of Flemish architecture before me ; the 
 outlandish turrets of Bruges ; the forested steeples 
 of Ghent ; the elephantine tower of old Mecklin ; 
 and the imperial spire of Antwerp. I see once 
 
97 
 
 more the ostade casements in the villages, and the 
 pi *— | roofs in the cities : " Tabak te koop" 
 shines over the doors, and the eternal jingle of 
 the Antwerp bells rings in my ears. Well, to 
 be sure, these Dutchmen are not veiy remark- 
 able for taste, but I hope they admire thy prints, 
 and covet their possession ; — solutd pecunid — as 
 we say. Truly it was a rash promise I made of 
 writing to you, seeing that I have nothing to 
 communicate worthy of being sent into " parts 
 beyond sea," as the old phrase hath it. My life 
 hath passed in its usual course, and you may 
 nearly anticipate its journal. On Monday after- 
 noon I was of course in St. Paul's, where F - 
 
 and I enlivened the party by a couple of head- 
 aches (one each), which you may suppose were 
 vastly agreeable to all the parties. I was there 
 again yesterday (Wednesday) for a short time, 
 and found all as well as usual. I then proceeded 
 to besiege T — and H — , and carried the fortress 
 without difficulty, owing to the good disposition 
 of the garrison, who immediately took the oath 
 of allegiance, and agreed to my requisition of 
 
 750 sheets of paper, to be furnished in a 
 
 fortnight, together with the services of sundry 
 devils and other useful agents of war : thus much 
 for the commencement of my campaign, which 
 
 F 
 
98 
 
 should, I think, be recorded in a bulletin of the 
 grand army, a la mode Napoleon. 
 
 Of public news there is little that is impor- 
 tant ; his most excellent Majesty is declared free 
 from complaint, and has actually condescended 
 to be reconciled to the Duke of Sussex : — oh ! the 
 virtues of phlebotomy! yet a little more, Sir 
 Henry — and all loyal subjects may shout, Long- 
 live the Queen. 
 
 Sir William Curtis is put forth as a candidate 
 for London, by a host of friends, and mischievous 
 rumour is already busy with the anticipated fate 
 of poor * * * * alias Orator Mum, whose honest 
 and very judicious silence it is thought will give 
 way to the enlightened eloquence of the poor 
 baronet. Mr. Hunt is somewhat impatient— the 
 chief justice quite the reverse — and I think de- 
 serves canonization more than half the saints in 
 the calendar. The affairs of Spain are still 
 wrapped in a veil of mystery, while we are 
 teazed every day with contradictions enough to 
 worry Judge Abbot himself. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Adieu — believe me ever most faithfully, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
99 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEOItGE. 
 
 London, Febuary 15, 1820. 
 How dare you expect, you scurrilous 
 Turk, a letter from me at all ? If I thought you 
 were anxiously waiting for news from me, it 
 would only be a just punishment upon your im- 
 pertinence, to throw down the pen and put the 
 paper into the fire. You, a pettifogging parish 
 attorney — but there is the secret ; you have be- 
 come so familiar with stocks and whipping-posts 
 that you want to lavish their favors on all your 
 friends : I have a great mind to prosecute you 
 for practising without a license, and then we 
 should see what would become of your law. 
 You say, how do I know that your letter was 
 not written from the foot of Mont-Blanc ? be- 
 cause that would have brought you to your 
 senses, if any thing could effect that desirable 
 object : so, if you follow my advice, you will set 
 off without delay for Switzerland — and yet, you 
 comical rascal, I have laughed as much at what 
 you have not said, as at what you have, which is 
 
100 
 
 infinitely to your advantage, as I might other- 
 wise have out-tickled you Master Stephen. 
 
 Now I dare say, you prince of parish whip- 
 pers, that you are wondering what has become 
 of your anticipated exaltation at * 
 but be it known to your sublimity, that you must 
 wait some few days longer before either yea or 
 nay is vouchsafed to you ; so that if you do not 
 obtain the situation of parish beadle in the mean 
 time, (for which you seem anxious to qualify 
 yourself) you may write sonnets to Suspense, 
 and send them to the London Magazine. 
 
 ****** 
 And now presenting (but not as a matter of 
 course) the kind remembrances of all thy friends 
 within my reach, I subscribe myself once 
 more, &c. &c. 
 
 J. 1\ 
 
101 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, February 16, 1820, 
 MY DEAR MILLER, 
 
 T had resolved to devote this morning 
 to you, and to usher myself once more into your 
 presence, after a tremendous absence, when 
 Mr. V informed me that he had received a 
 
 letter from you, containing some very natural 
 inquiries, as to whether I were yet an inhabitant 
 of this sublunary world ; and truly your letter to 
 me bearing date the 12th of December, has lain 
 unanswered for such an incredible period, that 
 you might reasonably entertain doubts upon the 
 subject, if your faith in my friendship were suffi- 
 ciently strong to prevent your entertaining fears 
 of another description. The cause however is 
 soon explained — indisposition, and that of a very 
 annoying character in my situation. Within a 
 few days from the receipt of yours, I found a 
 strong determination of blood to the head, with 
 all the unpleasant symptoms attendant upon 
 plethora, which soon rendered medical advice 
 
102 
 
 necessary. The result was, that I was speedily 
 deprived of twenty-eight ounces of blood, and 
 otherwise reduced. From these measures I cer- 
 tainly found relief, but another evil has arisen, 
 which though not of an alarming nature, has 
 been scarcely less fatal to my habits and pur- 
 suits. This was a nervous affection of the head, 
 which refusing to yield to blisters, lotions, and 
 such-like remedies, has most severely taxed my , 
 patience, in compelling me to refrain from writ- 
 ing, and all kinds of mental exertion. The 
 month of January passed almost entirely in idle- 
 ness, but under existing circumstances, as I will 
 presently explain, it was impossible such a state 
 of being should continue. The sensations are 
 now much better, though by no means removed, 
 and from the necessity of occupation, I fear they 
 will continue to be my companions until the 
 summer or sweet rest shall emancipate me from 
 them. The fact is, my book is gone to press, 
 while at the same time a considerable portion is 
 yet unwritten, and I expect at least six months 
 hard work before it can be completed ; so that 
 my brain is likely to have quite as much occupa- 
 tion as it can bear. It must necessarily be a 
 point with me, to write as little as possible be- 
 yond what is absolutely necessary ; and as this 
 
103 
 
 has been already the plea for long silence, so, 
 alas ! must it be for continuing to be a bad cor- 
 respondent, until more favorable times. When 
 I tell you that you will not hear from me often, 
 I do it with the confidence that I am addressing 
 one who will believe that my inclination has no 
 share in my silence, and that my regard for him 
 cannot suffer by its operation. I hope you will 
 remember that I shall always be most happy to 
 hear from you, and you may be assured that I 
 shall not let a favorable opportunity of replying 
 escape me. 
 
 I could not help being amused and astonished 
 by your account of your industry and exertions 
 at the Institution, which I really think owes you 
 a great deal: how you possibly find time to 
 attend to so many, and such laborious pursuits, I 
 cannot comprehend; and with the experienced 
 caution of an invalid, I must warn you not to 
 over-inform your brain, lest you forfeit that 
 health which is of more importance to you than 
 all the lights, or reputation of science. 
 
 Of public news I have little worth communi- 
 cating; the infancy of the new reign puts all 
 things into suspense ; I do not think it will be an 
 auspicious one : we are already menaced with a 
 revival of the old family quarrel bursting forth, 
 
104 
 
 even before our discreet, decent, and pious 
 sovereign is buried. The ministers had nearly 
 gone out yesterday, in consequence of violent 
 discussions about the Queen. 
 
 My reading at present is confined to the 
 works necessary to my researches, and light 
 publications — by the way, look out in the maga- 
 zines for my announcement ; it is in the London 
 Magazine for this month, the British Critic, &c. 
 I see I have forgotten to answer your question 
 about craniology : I am not a convert to its 
 fancies, which I consider as connected with that 
 philosophy which has been thrust forth in the 
 present day, reviving the old errors of materialism 
 under new and specious shapes. 
 
 Believe me ever, &c. &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO GEORGE MILLER, ESQ. 
 
 OF PAISLEY. 
 
 London, May 7, 1820. 
 MY DEAR MILLER, 
 
 ****** 
 
 At present I am involved in the old 
 affair : I am under the surveillance of the high 
 
105 
 
 police of the publisher and printer, and for some 
 cause or other am actually kept to hard labor. 
 I think of procuring a medical certificate to 
 enable me to visit the sea-shore for about a week 
 in August, otherwise I shall remain in durance 
 until the commencement of winter : so much for 
 the honors of authorship. I wish I could answer 
 your kind inquiries as to my health with satis- 
 faction to you and myself; but at present I am 
 far from well ; I have an affection of the lungs, 
 produced by the fluctuations of this treacherous 
 climate, and a blister, which I put on the other 
 night, does not seem to have assisted me much. 
 The weather is still cold and changeable, and I 
 fear that little is to be done till kindly Summer 
 lends her aid : would she were here ! for con- 
 finement does me harm, and the air is prohibited, 
 so that I have no resource but to submit with 
 patience. 
 
 ****** 
 I am aware of the advantage which the dis- 
 turbances in your radical town have given, in our 
 argument about the Six Acts, as they are em- 
 phatically styled ; but I am still so suspicious of 
 the men to whom these extra powers have been 
 given, that I shall much rejoice if they are allowed 
 quietly to expire. There is a spirit of military 
 
 F5 
 
106 
 
 encroachment at head quarters, which requires 
 almost as much watching as the radicals, and if 
 the state of the country be strictly inquired into, 
 it will be found that so much of the blame rests 
 ultimately with the government, that it is high 
 time to reform the system — and that will be the 
 end of it — mark me. I am not a radical, except 
 in the opinion that all abuses should be rooted 
 out if possible, but I am an enemy to all theo- 
 retical constitutions. Time makes the best 
 governments, if the weeds be not suffered to 
 injure the structure. 
 
 Believe me, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 London, May 14, 1820. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 I can assure you that I fully expected 
 to hear from you within the space of a few days, 
 and I am glad that your better disposition over- 
 came the previous ungracious resolution of not 
 writing soon because you had written a letter to 
 Will long enough for us both, notwithstanding 
 
lor 
 
 that you knew yourself to be over head and ears 
 in debt to me. I beg therefore you will duly 
 appreciate my condescension in returning you an 
 answer so soon. I do not know, by the bye, 
 (for it is fair to let you have both sides of the 
 story) that you would have heard from me just 
 yet, but that my regular and oppressive occupa- 
 tion has been interrupted by a pitched battle with 
 a violent hoarseness, which gives me an excuse 
 for a little languor, and an opportunity of ex- 
 changing the history of Spain for a tilt at your 
 worship. Here goes — charge. What do you 
 mean, you owlish fellow, by giving me such a 
 dose of transcendental philosophy ? Have you 
 heard from AIlsop with an inclosure from Cole- 
 ridge? I cannot otherwise account for such a 
 volume of smoke, unless, indeed, the devil has 
 been with you, having great wrath, — though that 
 is no reason why his wrath should extend to me 
 also. Seriously, my mind being somewhat in a 
 relaxed state, I cannot follow your reasoning, 
 and can only say that I perfectly agree with your 
 object and your conclusion. You resolve to be 
 the happiest fellow in the world, a most mag- 
 nanimous and proper resolution, and if I under- 
 stand your arguments rightly, you are in a fair 
 way of succeeding, provided you can get rid of 
 
108 
 
 some favorite companions of yours ycleped 
 blue devils, whose opposition you do not appear 
 to have taken into account. You conclude that 
 most of our evils are imaginary — true, in the 
 abstract, but they are not the less evils, they 
 have not less power; they are a very consider- 
 able part of our existence, and they are not to 
 be overcome by the mere knowledge that they 
 are imaginary. Admitting that they are so, the 
 opposing good must be so too, and if we can 
 teach ourselves to conquer the one by indifference, 
 we shall suffer apathy to steal the enjoyments of 
 the other. Our nature, mixed as you describe 
 it, was formed to receive the impressions of 
 good and evil, and these are pretty equally dis- 
 tributed. The poor are generally subject to 
 what we call real evils, and their lot is described 
 as one of suffering and shadow : but the rich 
 have their proportion, and though they be mental 
 or imaginary, they can inflict as keen an agony 
 as the more external class : they have the power 
 of torture and of death, and they are so inter- 
 woven with our hearts, that it requires no incon- 
 siderable struggle to subdue them, when duty 
 requires us so to do. 
 
 Time lightens the weight of evil, and de- 
 minishes the shades of sorrow, but it is not good 
 
109 
 
 for man that he should forget them altogether : 
 this indeed is not within his reach ; he can neither 
 determine to remember, nor to forget. In our 
 world, the remembrances of sorrow mingle with 
 the recollections of joy, and he who strives to 
 shut them from his mind, does not make the best 
 use of his experience. Fortitude is a valuable 
 quality both in pleasure and pain, and he who so 
 tempers its use, that it neither leans to stoical 
 indifference on the one hand, nor to passionate 
 weakness on the other, stands the fairest chance 
 of being high on the ladder of happiness — its 
 summit is not attainable on this side of the 
 grave. 
 
 To turn from this preaching, I cannot say 
 with you, in similar circumstances, that what I 
 am about to write will be in the sunshine, as un- 
 fortunately the day is clouded; though be it 
 known to you, that my present prospect includes 
 a cottage, sundry fine trees and shrubs, and 
 blue hills in the distance. — Read and wonder. 
 
 I dare say your adventure at Mr. Peter 
 Wright's was glorious, and particularly so as it 
 came to the aid of your philosophy, in rendering 
 you the happiest being alive : a very good be- 
 ginning indeed, mine honorable friend. 
 
 You believe that nothing would induce you 
 
110 
 
 to spend another spring in London — very well ; 
 —but you also take upon you to believe, that 
 were I with you now, I should make a similar 
 resolution. I grieve to contradict you, but upon 
 my veracity I believe no such thing. I think 
 you mistake altogether the principles on which 
 my attachment to London is founded. You know 
 me not insensible to the beauties of nature — I 
 should despise myself if I were so — and no one 
 can penetrate the deep and varied feelings which 
 I experience in contemplating the beauty or the 
 sublimity of nature's works : but the motives 
 which lead me to prefer a residence in London, 
 arise from a different, and in my judgment a still 
 higher source. My friends are here; my attach- 
 ments and my pursuits have been formed here ; 
 my mind has a bent which cannot be so well 
 gratified as in London; my disposition is not 
 suited to solitude, and my enjoyments are social; 
 and if these were taken from me, would moun- 
 tains or trees recompense me for the loss of the 
 society to whom my heart is attached, or supply 
 the enjoyments I have been accustomed to ? I 
 have neither profession, nor wealth, nor hope of 
 settlement, to fill the great space of my mind, 
 and render it indifferent to social feelings : my 
 employments and tastes are only to be followed 
 
Ill 
 
 and gratified here ; they derive their charm from 
 the countenance and participation of my friends ; 
 and miserable indeed should I be, if my leisure 
 was accompanied by solitude, and no voice 
 answered to mine, in the still hour when probably 
 my only thoughts would be of sorrow for the 
 days gone by. In age, perhaps, I may have to 
 experience all this, and more than this ; but do 
 not let me be sepulchred in youth, or deprived of 
 the highest gratifications I am likely to receive, 
 by a lone and secluded residence in the country. 
 
 It is different with you; your youth was 
 passed in the fields; your associations originated 
 there; your heart links itself with the past; the 
 memories of early days cling to your affections, 
 and exercise only a just influence upon your 
 hopes and feelings. 
 
 ****** 
 
 expects me to go to him to-morrow 
 
 evening, but this will not be possible, though I 
 should not be surprised if it were to occasion a 
 mighty explosion. There is a tendency in my 
 mind to be afraid of this animal ; I am not at my 
 ease with respect to his invitations ; he is mis- 
 trustful and irritable, and if all these combustibles 
 do not blow up soon, it is very odd. But he is 
 worth putting together again, so you need not 
 
112 
 
 be alarmed. I have not seen any of the Paulines 
 since Monday, but I have no hesitation in adding 
 their kind regards and remembrances, to the 
 warm greetings of your very faithful friend. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 London, May 16, 1820. 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 I have to thank you, and with all the 
 cordiality which your anxious friendship de- 
 mands, for your kind inquiries after my health. 
 It is true that I cannot answer them in quite so 
 satisfactory a manner as we should both wish, 
 for the complaint on my lungs has continued to 
 torment me by its fluctuations during the whole 
 of the week; until having exhausted the medical 
 skill of the family, and the patience of myself and 
 friends, I have appealed to a higher court, and 
 could have replied to you yesterday, but waited 
 
 for the judgment of Dr. P , who has just 
 
 been here, and promises, that if I comply with 
 
113 
 
 the legal forms, he will be enabled to pronounce 
 sentence of banishment against my adversary in 
 a few days. My lungs are sound, but loaded, 
 and must be unloaded, as the man of physic 
 saith. I hope, therefore, that you will not suffer 
 any anxiety to prey upon your mind on my ac- 
 count, as there is no ground for alarm, and the 
 summer is fast approaching, with its more genial 
 and more certain atmosphere. At present the 
 weather is chilly and damp, and I am sorry to 
 say of my country, that I am becoming more and 
 more convinced of the danger of the English 
 climate, especially in the spring, which generally 
 does for me, what the severities and rains of 
 winter frequently cannot effect. My application 
 
 to Dr. P has something of the effect of a 
 
 writ of certiorari, in the King's Bench, by put- 
 ting an end to all disputes about jurisdiction, in- 
 terlocutary differences, &c. for my very kind 
 friends, in different parts of the metropolis, have 
 varied so widely in their judgment of my case, 
 that it has become highly necessary to take 
 refuge under the wing of a superior tribunal. 
 " You go out too little," says one : " you must 
 really stay at home," says another : a third cries, 
 " you eat, too much, why don't you live upon 
 slops?" — while a fourth, insists that I want 
 
114 
 
 nourishment, and that I live too low. You will 
 easily see, that to please all these combatants is 
 impossible ; but now I can set them at defiance, 
 though I fear I shall be saddled with all the costs 
 of suit. But to leave myself, and turn to an 
 every-way brighter subject. I congratulate you 
 upon the continued sunshine of your prospect in 
 Gloucestershire, and you must pardon me, if the 
 use of these metaphorical phrases has carried 
 my ideas to the real sunshine and prospect of the 
 country. I can fancy you, looking upon the 
 fertile plains that extend to the horizon, with the 
 Welch hills for their boundary, and regarding it 
 all as your own estate — the property of your eye — 
 your imagination — your memory — a possession 
 in fee, held in free and common soccage. Can 
 any thing be more barbarous than this jargon, so 
 applied — away with it. 
 
 I am charged with a fine twigging for your 
 lordship's ears ; I dare say you do not want to 
 be told from whom : Will came up to me the 
 other night, " having great wrath," on account 
 of a letter he had received from you, and which 
 I must confess did seem to merit a little castiga- 
 tion. But I believe you had better take it from 
 himself, and " use it as ye may." 
 
 I have a little story which I must tell you 
 
115 
 
 because you may have more to do with it. You 
 are to be informed, that on Saturday evening I 
 
 was engaged to to meet T and a 
 
 party. In the hope of being able to be there, it 
 was not until Saturday that I wrote to acquaint 
 him my health would not permit it, accompanied 
 by very proper, and at the same time, sincere 
 regrets at the circumstance. Well — last night 
 
 comes T to St. Paul's, and tells me that he 
 
 went to — about nine o'clock, and found 
 
 nobody at home, nor any expectation of — — ? s 
 return. Yesterday morning he received a long 
 written apology, stating inter alia, that so many 
 of his friends had sent excuses, that he concluded 
 
 T also did not intend to come ; upon which 
 
 most extraordinary assumption, he betakes him- 
 self out, leaving word to detain T if he came, 
 
 which message, unhappily, was not delivered. 
 
 Now be it known unto you, that not one 
 syllable have I heard from this lusus naturce, 
 and I infer that he is in high dudgeon with 
 me, for my non-appearance, while he takes no 
 pains to inform himself of the real state of the 
 case. I am determined, however, upon the first 
 symptom of ill-blood, to show him that I am not 
 to be distrusted with impunity. If he thinks my 
 friendship of any value to him, he must endea- 
 
116 
 
 vour to return it by confidence, and not by play- 
 ng off airs which are only tolerable in childhood. 
 I shall be cool but firm ; I shall carefully avoid 
 every expression of unkindness ; but I have been 
 too long accustomed to the warm and confiding 
 hearts of my own chosen friends, to submit to 
 the caprice of a man, who suffers himself to lose 
 the advantages of friendship, by tormenting those 
 whose society he wishes to cultivate. If he re- 
 main silent, I shall take no notice of him, until 
 you come, — like the angel of peace upon a 
 warring world. 
 And now — 
 
 " Farewell, awhile to him and thee, 
 My valued friend good night" 
 
 I like to be as literal as possible. 
 
 All your friends remember you, as you do 
 us, and you know, my dear George, that I re- 
 main, &c„ &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
117 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 May 31,1820, 
 MY DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 I repent me that I suffered you to 
 take it for granted that I should see you to-day. 
 The powers of heaven and earth (that is, the ele- 
 ments, Dr. P — and my mother) conspire against 
 me; the first threaten me if I sally forth; the 
 second keeps me waiting ; and the third is gone 
 out, so that I cannot have a proxy to appear for 
 me. I have waited till the last moment for some 
 favoring circumstance, but there is now no chance 
 of my being with you. 
 
 In these circumstances, the farewell greetings 
 of your imprisoned friend must be confined to 
 paper; and although my pen may not convey all 
 the feelings of my heart upon the new prospects 
 that open before you, I am well assured that you 
 know how sincerely and earnestly I wish you all 
 the blessings of health, prosperity, and contented 
 enjoyment. I will not anticipate how long it 
 may be ere we meet again; it may be sooner 
 than we expect, not than we wish ; but that must 
 
118 
 
 be left to fate. I trust I shall hear from you 
 very soon, especially now, as Will is likely to 
 be absent, and my reply shall be as prompt as 
 my own circumstances will permit; but for some 
 time you must be moderate in your expectations 
 on this head, as you know my situation, and the 
 necessity of relaxation. 
 
 And now let me conjure you to dismiss your 
 painful anxieties on my account : I have the 
 satisfaction of feeling that I am better, though 
 the process is slow; and if you will place a 
 fitting confidence in me, you may rely on re- 
 ceiving the truth in return. Fare-thee-well ! and 
 take with thee the assurance of the unaltered re- 
 gard and attachment of your faithful friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
 TO MR. V. 
 
 Monday morning, June 12, 1820. 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 A letter from me on Monday is al- 
 ways a bad sign ; not that in this case it implies 
 that I am worse, as on the contrary, I feel my- 
 
119 
 
 self much better : but the truth is, that Dr. P 
 
 has put in an absolute caveat against my going 
 out while this lamentable state of weather con- 
 tinues. He came on Saturday, and railed at me 
 for being out on Thursday. I told him I went 
 in a coach; but he said, "coaches were bad 
 things ; " to which I replied, that when one did 
 not keep a carriage, what was to be done ? and 
 thus ended that part of the argument. Hence 
 we went on to existing circumstances : he de- 
 sired me to breathe deeply, which having done 
 once or twice to his entire satisfaction as well as 
 my own, I said, J was certainly better in that 
 respect: "Well, that is the respect; I do not 
 care for your cough, or any thing else, that will 
 continue some time longer; but your lungs are 
 less loaded than they were, and you will do very 
 well soon." He expressed an earnest wish for 
 a change of weather, that I might get out, which 
 he evidently thought would be of more service 
 than any thing else : he seems bent on my going 
 to Harlow, when all the circumstances permit, 
 as he prefers a visit to some one, to any solitary 
 excursion to the sea or elsewhere. With my 
 kindest remembrances, believe me, &c. 
 
 J.T. 
 
120 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE. 
 
 London, June 27, 1820. 
 1 have felt for some time, my dear 
 fellow, the anxiety you would feel for a reply to 
 your last letter, and I confess that I have every 
 day expected your reproaches for the presumed 
 unkindness ; but a number of causes, voluntary 
 and involuntary, have hitherto prevented me. In 
 the first place, I was anxious to give you the 
 best account of myself; and as the return of hot 
 weather was pronounced to be the only remedy 
 for me, I chose to wait a little. Then, I hap- 
 pened to be honored by a communication from 
 the Bavarian minister, who sent me documents 
 which I was obliged to attend to immediately. 
 As to myself, I died last Saturday, from the 
 heat, and am going about unburied, because the 
 ground is too hot to hold me. The fact is, that 
 the long-expected change was such a violent one, 
 that although very beneficial to my lungs, it is 
 so overpowering that it deprives me of all power 
 of exertion. The folks here literally groan and 
 sweat under a weary life ; and if it lasts much 
 
121 
 
 longer, they will be all dead corpses ! ! As for 
 me, I am off — that is, I am going to rusticate, 
 and that to-morrow ; ergo, I shall not be able to 
 write you a very long letter. I am going to 
 Harlow, to abide with Miss H. and other rela- 
 tives, to be nodded at by the trees, smiled upon 
 by the waters, and kissed by the zephyrs ; (can't 
 do without the zephyrs). Here I shall remain, I 
 suppose, till quiet tires me, and like Dr. John- 
 son, I long to be in Fleet Street again. But I 
 dare say it will do much to recruit my strength, 
 for this fierce embrace of Apollo is little better 
 than a rape upon my virgin weakness : but it is 
 time to have done ringing changes on this un- 
 happy subject. 
 
 I do not know when I have derived so much 
 satisfaction as your letter imparted, as it related 
 to yourself; your delightful situation, your high 
 hopes, and present comforts. I do indeed, my 
 dear George, most sincerely congratulate you 
 upon all these, and I fervently hope nothing will 
 intervene to cloud the sunshine of your pros- 
 pect. 
 
 By the bye, we were somewhat amused that 
 your letter to Will was pitched in a much lower 
 key. Will said you had not been to see Mrs. B. 
 for a week; was that the case? Pray who is it 
 
 G 
 
122 
 
 that plays the harp? Will left town for the 
 north the day after your letter arrived, so I must 
 return for him, what you know you will receive, 
 his heartfelt acknowledgments for your remem- 
 brance of his birth-day, though you did persist in 
 fixing it a day before it happened. 
 
 You who know how long I have been ill, 
 and what a confinement I have had, would be 
 much amused if I could send you a correspon- 
 dence that took place the other day between 
 -— and myself: returning home on Saturday, 
 I found a tremendous note, scarcely legible, hint- 
 ing at sickness, but in the loosest and most ex- 
 travagant terms, that he could neither live nor 
 die, &c. &c. summoning my attendance, and 
 wanting me to take the gallery of the House of 
 Commons in my way ! this to an invalid ! ! I 
 returned rather a prickly answer; which pro- 
 duced a doleful epistle, setting forth that he had 
 had an inflammation on his chest, accompanied 
 by violent sickness, and that he should not be 
 able to leave his room for two or three days. So 
 after this I sat down on Sunday morning and 
 wrote a very sympathetic reply, at the same time 
 pointing out the impropriety of his language, and 
 asking him why he could not write a plain tale 
 at once ; I also promised to call upon him if pos- 
 
123 
 
 sible. I sent this in the afternoon, when, would 
 you believe it ? the fellow was gone out ! ! 
 ****** 
 I believe if you write to me in about three 
 weeks you will hit me, and I hope the second 
 letter will be as joyous as the first. None of 
 your blue devils for me. My mother desires her 
 kind regards to you, and you well know that I 
 am, most sincerely, 
 
 your attached friend, 
 
 J. T. 
 
POEMS. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ADDRESS TO WEALTH. 
 
 Vain Wealth away ! I woo thee not,— 
 For riches I'll ne'er change my lot : 
 Of what avail's the joy you bring, 
 Will 't keep the mind from sorrowing ? 
 Will't heal the parent's riven heart, 
 When from his offspring he must part ? 
 Will it recall the fleeting breath, 
 Arrest th' impending arm of death — 
 Or will it check the widow's tears, 
 Or dying sinner's guilty fears ? — 
 If none of these — thou idle elf, 
 (Who seem'st to feed upon thyself) 
 I will not seek thy golden halls 
 Where bliss decays, and pleasure palls, 
 
128 
 
 Where gold can lose the power to please, 
 And sleep, content, and tranquil ease 
 With gentleness, and feelings kind, 
 Are exiled from the loaded mind. 
 Mischievous wight ! there's scarce a sin 
 But from thy counsel doth begin : 
 Thou causest man to ape the brute — 
 When Avarice in his heart takes root, 
 He kills, he spoils, he thirsts for prey, 
 And mocking brutes, is worse than they : — 
 For they do live by war and blood, 
 But he, in careless idlest mood, 
 Will take another's life, for gain 
 Of that which gives him added pain. 
 For thee, he murders fellow-man, 
 For thee he binds the African, 
 And, deaf to each heart-rending cry, 
 For love of thee, puts Pity by — 
 Straight bars the door, excludes the light, 
 And shrouds himself in Pride's chill night- 
 Affects to think his black-skin'd brother 
 Could not be sprung from Eve our mother; 
 For Europeans solely made 
 And blessed with life — that they may trade ! 
 See Wealth! the miseries that you cause ; — 
 Justice and Nature's broken laws 
 
129 
 
 On you for vengeance cry aloud ; — 
 You spurn the hungry, feed the proud, 
 And bring such evils in your train 
 As make one wish you off again. 
 Hence therefore, to the selfish crew 
 Who toil, and starve, and live for you. 
 But oh ! how sweet the golden mean, 
 Affluence and Poverty between, — 
 Enough to make a cheerful hearth, 
 Where social comfort has its birth, 
 And smiling happiness at home 
 Forbids th' alluring wish to roam 
 For pelf, or other fancied pleasure ; — 
 Content's the only real treasure ! 
 
 EXPLANATION 
 
 OF THE PRECEDING ADDRESS. 
 
 " How's this!" methinks I hear you say,- 
 " Why against Wealth do you inveigh?" 
 Reflect a little and you'll see 
 That Wealth's not fond of poetry ; 
 
 G5 
 
130 
 
 And poets, since they cannot use it, 
 Turn up their noses, and abuse it. — 
 The grapes are sour — you understand— 
 We spurn, because we can't command. 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 WRITTEN ON OCCASION OF LORD BYRON'S MARRIAGE. 
 
 FIRST FAIRY. 
 
 Fairy ! whither bends your speed ? 
 Why spur you thus your elfin steed ? 
 
 SECOND FAIRY. 
 
 Oh, foolish sprite ! dost thou not know 
 Why swiftly thus through air I go ? 
 Hast thou not heard the joyful sound, 
 So sweet to all on fairy ground, 
 Which roused us from our rosy beds ?— 
 It is that Albion's minstrel weds ! 
 Soon as our captain, Oberon, knew, 
 His bugle horn he quickly blew, 
 
131 
 
 And summon'd round his fairies all 
 
 To grace the merry festival. 
 
 I heard in India where I tarried, 
 
 The cry, " Lo! Britain's Bard is married ! 
 
 As I was marking in a wood 
 
 The track of wounded panther's blood, 
 
 And, just as I the pard had found, 
 
 The monarch's bugle 'gan to sound : 
 
 Away I sped, and swifter went 
 
 Than lightning's flash — my course I bent 
 
 To where I met the royal court 
 
 Discoursing of th' intended sport. 
 
 Again I travel through the sky, 
 
 To England's happy clime I fly, 
 
 Whither our sovereigns now repair, 
 
 To greet the bridegroom and the fair, 
 
 And wish them happiness, — this done 
 
 We elves shall feast with Oberon. 
 
 Oh there will be such revelling 
 
 When spirits dance and fairies sing, 
 
 And all the troop their voices raise 
 
 Shouting our much-loved poet's praise ; — 
 
 For bards like him are seldom seen, 
 
 Perchance some centuries between, 
 
 And fairies are the poets' friends ; — 
 
 A faithful band our monarch sends 
 
132 
 
 To guard his steps from perilous harms, 
 And aid him by their magic charms. 
 Titania too attends the bride 
 To watch her downy couch beside, 
 To deck her hair, bring sweet perfume, 
 And paint her cheek with freshen'd bloom. 
 Such toils as these and such delights 
 Employ and please our merry sprights. 
 Away ! come, fairy, haste with me 
 And share in this our revelry ! 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 Having fortunately met with a great 
 literary curiosity, and knowing your penchant for 
 such morceaux, I have sent you a copy on the 
 other side. This treasure consists of disjointed 
 fragments of a MS. poem by a certain noble au- 
 thor, with whose published works you are well 
 acquainted. It is an ever-to-be-lamented cir- 
 cumstance, that only so small a portion of the 
 work should be brought to light. It appears to 
 have been founded on some " historical fact " of 
 
133 
 
 great interest, and I have no doubt that the 
 question whether the poem was ever complete, 
 or only in this half-finished state, will agitate the 
 literary world as much as the controversy re- 
 specting Ossian, or the Shakspearian forgeries. 
 For my own part, I have no doubt of its being 
 genuine, and it is my intention to give the frag- 
 ments to the world as such, upon the best fools- 
 cap, illustrated with engravings, &c. But more 
 of this when I see you, ad interim, I am, &c. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 February 24, 1816. 
 
 THE FIRE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TRUMP STREET TALE. 
 
 Know ye the land where the day-book and mea- 
 sure, 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their 
 
 clime — 
 Where the thirst is unsated for profit and treasure, 
 And honor is almost accounted a crime ? 
 Know ye the street where shawl-makers reside, 
 And oilmen and silkmen are swelling with pride, — 
 
134 
 
 Where the smoke-bearing south wind oppressed 
 
 with its fume, 
 Waxes faint over Honey-Lane Market in bloom, — 
 Where beef, veal, and mutton are fairest of meat, 
 And the voice of the butcher is temptingly sweet, — 
 Where the tints of the cheese shop and green-shop 
 
 just by, 
 In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 And the mud of the kennel is deepest in dye,— 
 Where cotton, and silk, and bandannas are fine, 
 And all save the spirit of man is divine ? 
 Tis the clime of Cheap Ward ! 'tis the land of 
 
 Trump Street, 
 Where nothing but Manchester fellows you meet — 
 Oh ! hard as the counter, and loud as Bow-bell, 
 Are the hearts which they bear and the lies which 
 
 they tell ! 
 
 It is the hour when shopmen come 
 To shut the shops, with busy hum — 
 It is the hour when every clerk 
 Goes prowling forth, like owls at dark, 
 And organs, flutes, and fiddles near, 
 Make music to the merry ear. 
 The streets a shower has lightly wet, 
 And in the shops gas-lights are set,— 
 
135 
 
 And every wholesale warehouse shut ; 
 
 Safe for the night the goods are put ; — 
 
 And in the air a fog so sweet 
 
 (Its taste to Cockneys quite a treat) 
 
 Which follows the decline of day, 
 
 As twilight melts beneath the lamps away. 
 
 ****** 
 Who thund'ring knocks at Waddell's door 
 With heavy hand and noisy roar, 
 Which make all Lawrence Lane resound 
 And bring a mob of people round ? 
 
 Men — women — children — son and sire — 
 Fishmongers — poulterers — butchers' boys — 
 They come — 'tis but to add to noise — 
 Poor Waddell's house is all on fire ! 
 ****** 
 The engine pumps are working 
 But heavily and slow, 
 From parish engines jerking 
 Streams of water to and fro. 
 As the steam of a kettle 
 Which cannot get out, 
 But at length full of mettle 
 Bolts straight from the spout, 
 So did the fire — it stayed no longer, 
 But by confinement waxing stronger, 
 
136 
 
 It strove, it struggled, brook'd no more, 
 
 And burst at once from out the door. 
 
 It burnt the shutters, shawls, and shop, 
 
 As though it never meant to stop. 
 
 From every quarter engines run — 
 
 The Hope — the Phoenix — Eagle — Sun — 
 
 And troops of firemen coming fast, 
 
 Like carrion crows to their repast : 
 
 Firemen in red, and green, and blue, 
 
 And coats of every other hue. 
 
 Some guide the branch, and some hold the 
 torches, 
 
 While others rush in where the raging fire 
 scorches ; 
 
 They toil — they swear — but hark ! a shout ! — 
 
 And a cry is raised, — and the firemen are praised, 
 
 And darkness prevails where the bright beam had 
 blazed, 
 
 For why ? — 'tis past — the fire's put out !— 
 ****** 
 
 And where was Waddell all this while ? 
 
 Was he distant a rood or a mile ? 
 
 Did he in pot-house, or play-house, or dwelling- 
 house lurk, 
 
 Unsuspecting, poor mortal, this horrible work ?— 
 In truth I know not — but he came 
 Just as the firemen quench'd the flame — 
 
137 
 
 He stood — he saw — he stared — nor one step 
 
 moved, 
 From the half-roasted whittles and shawls that he 
 
 loved, 
 As he gazed on the remnants all blacken'd with 
 
 smoke, 
 Nor scarcely a stray single syllable spoke. 
 
 ****** 
 Now night is knocked down by the day — 
 The firemen are all gone away, 
 
 And the door is partly mended : — 
 None heed save idlers one or two, 
 Who passing by just take a view — 
 Thus the fire began and ended ! ! 
 
 ENTHUSIA. 
 
 On a lone rock which proudly reared its form, 
 As heedless of the winter's fiercest storm, — 
 Romantic — stranger to the senseless crowd, 
 The din of cities, and the clamour loud, — 
 There in her paradise sate fancy's child, 
 Enthusia named— as fair, and free, and wild, 
 
138 
 
 As that bright region which she call'd her own, 
 Where mild and genial sunbeams ever shone, 
 And transport dwelt — nor bird, nor tree, nor 
 
 flower, 
 But own'd her magic, joy-inspiring power. 
 On couch of eglantine the nymph reclined, 
 Her golden hair was floating in the wind, 
 A smile upon her ruby lips was playing, 
 Yet faint as that o'er infant slumbers straying, — 
 Her azure eye — but oh ! who can express 
 Its power, its eloquence, its loveliness ! — 
 None, none can tell, save they alone who've felt, 
 Such rays as coldest, hardest hearts would melt. 
 I gazed in silence at the enchanting sight, 
 My senses wrapt in unrestrain'd delight — 
 The goddess saw, beheld the springing fire 
 Which glowed within my breast ; — she took her 
 
 lyre, 
 And from the chords pour'd forth a maddening 
 
 measure, 
 A thrill too sweet to pain, too fierce to pleasure. 
 My heart expands, — I start, I burn, I chill, — 
 I rave, and turn to fly, yet listen still : — 
 'Tis vain, I yield — my limbs refuse to move, 
 In one short, all-expressive word, I love ! 
 
139 
 
 Descend, fair maid, descend, 
 
 Thy blest assistance lend, 
 And all thy sweetest odours breathe 
 
 Upon the knot I twine — 
 Though I the rosy chaplet wreathe, 
 
 The flowers are only thine. 
 Inspire the song my soul would raise 
 In votive strain to chaunt thy praise. 
 
 'Tis thy celestial lyre 
 
 Awakes the poet's fire, 
 And makes his heart responsive bound ;— 
 
 He strikes the silver shell, 
 Enraptured nations catch the sound, 
 
 And all his glories tell. 
 While deathless honours crown his name 
 To thee alone he owes his fame. 
 
 The bard, inspired by thee, 
 
 With sweetest minstrelsy 
 Doth charm the ear, inflame the heart ; 
 
 And pleasure's splendid beams 
 The purest of delights impart, — 
 
 A poet's golden dreams. 
 He fancies joys Elysian given 
 And in idea tastes a heaven ! 
 
140 
 
 The youth who courts repose, 
 
 Nor toil nor hardship knows, 
 To thy resistless power must yield: — 
 
 He hears his country's call, 
 And starts a hero to the field, 
 
 To vanquish or to fall. 
 He rushes on, nor danger heeds, 
 Or conquers, or with honour bleeds : 
 
 And should the tyrant Death 
 
 Demand his fleeting breath, 
 Thou still art there, to cheer his soul 
 
 With thoughts that o'er his grave 
 The tears of much-loved friends should roll, 
 
 And Victory's banner wave. 
 His memory lives in sculptur'd story- 
 He sinks amidst a blaze of glory ! 
 
 But hark ! a gentler strain, 
 
 Though yielding fiercest pain — 
 Around the heart it softly steals 
 
 With step as light as air — 
 A glow the bosom faintly feels 
 
 And scarcely deems it there : 
 Till, scorning thus to be repressed, 
 The clouds dispel — Love stands confessed ! 
 
141 
 
 Be thine the praise dear Maid ! 
 
 For to thy powerful aid 
 Ungrateful Love owes half his charm ; — 
 
 What were his burning kisses, 
 The looks, the sighs that keep him warm, 
 
 And all his boasted blisses — 
 Wert thou not near to fan desire, 
 And cheer him with thy genial fire ? 
 
 The poet feels no thrill, 
 
 The soldier's ardour's chill, 
 Compared with those keen pangs that move 
 
 The heart that owns thy sway ; 
 When thou dost join thy kinsman Love 
 
 And shed a double ray. 
 Sweet visions dance before the sight, 
 The senses madden with delight. 
 
 Hence ! frozen Wisdom, hence ! 
 
 I hate thy sage pretence 
 That seeks to check th' aspiring mind 
 
 With Prudence' heavy chain — 
 Away ! give counsel to the wind 
 
 Teach calmness to the main. 
 No — uncontroll'd let Fancy stray 
 Nor idly spurn youth's sunny day. 
 
142 
 
 Haste then Enthusia dear ! 
 
 With thee I banish fear : 
 Though Wisdom with her crew assail 
 
 And angry grey-beards frown — 
 Though Ignorance laugh, and Prudence rail, 
 
 Or Pride with scorn look down ; 
 If these united threaten dire alarms, 
 I'll cling to thee, and perish in thine arms ! 
 
 TO MY FRIEND WILLIAM, 
 
 ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 Too oft the Muse, in heartless strain, pretends 
 To extol the matchless virtues of her friends, 
 Lab'ring their qualities and fame to raise, 
 And load the verse with canting prayer and 
 
 praise. 
 I will not mock thee — though thy natal day 
 Demands the tribute of warm Friendship's lay ; — 
 Yet not to thee, the lines attuned by art, 
 Which please cold judgment but ne'er touch thee 
 
 heart : 
 
143 
 
 Oh no ! free as the tear in Pity's eye — 
 Spontaneous as the drooping lover's sigh 
 
 Be mine no more — my pen shall not essay 
 
 In powerless words my feelings to convey — 
 Expect no lengthen'd song with flattery fraught, 
 But in my silence read the raptured thought \ 
 
 June 18, 1816. 
 Pardon! pardon! — I could not help it. If 
 the bare idea of a Birth-day Ode to you, sink me 
 in your estimation — throw it on the fire, and for- 
 get it was written by, 
 
 your friend, 
 
 - James Tyson. 
 
 ON LEAVING ENGLAND FOR 
 FRANCE. 
 
 Farewell ! oh my country, dear land of my birth! 
 
 Though pleasure now tempts me to leave thee 
 
 awhile, 
 
 Yet hear me pronounce, oh thou jewel of earth ! 
 
 I shall quit thee with grief, and return with a 
 
 smile. 
 
144 
 
 Where shall I find such a land as mine own — 
 Where seek for the blessings that Britain 
 contains — 
 
 Where else may the heart of a brother be known,— 
 In what other clime is it, Liberty reigns ? 
 
 Farewell to the ever-loved home of my youth ! 
 
 The roof of protection that shelter'dme long — 
 Where I learn'd to admire the bright pages of 
 truth, 
 And amuse the dull hour with the pleasures 
 of song. 
 Farewell to my friends ! — yet mistake not the 
 name — 
 Not to those who can smile while their bo- 
 soms are chill ; 
 But to those who are glowing with friendship's 
 pure flame, 
 And though absent and far, will remember 
 me still. 
 
 And when I return — may the days that were past 
 
 In my wanderings, warn me no longer to roam, 
 
 And the scenes I have view'd only bind me more 
 
 fast 
 
 To rry own native country, my friends, and 
 
 my home ! 
 
145 
 
 Kind heaven ! in mercy propitiously smile 
 
 On my soul's earnest prayer, as I quit the 
 dear shore, — 
 May the sun of prosperity shine on this isle, 
 And the friends of my heart be more blest 
 than before ! 
 
 August, 1816. 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Hark to the bell of the midnight hour, 
 As slowly it tolls from yonder tower ; — 
 'Tis the knell of a day that's eternally past, 
 In sorrow too slow, and in pleasure too fast ; — 
 By the many unheeded — important to few 
 Save the guilty, the trifling, the trafficking crew, 
 Who breathe out their moments in dark discon- 
 tent, 
 As they're wasted in care, or in folly mispent. 
 Oh ! how few greet with joy the return of the sun, 
 Or the pillow of night when his journey is done ; — 
 And how few lend a charm to the graces of day 
 By the light of their minds — the warm soul-giving 
 ray 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 Which illumines each minute, enlivens the hour, 
 "With the magic of wisdom, and virtue's bland 
 
 power ; — 
 To these, and these only, the blessing is given 
 To enjoy the delights that conduct them to heaven. 
 
 This is an hour of deepest thought, 
 With every graver feeling fraught, 
 With every hue that leads the mind 
 To meditate on human-kind; 
 The door is closed on busy man, — 
 My soul prepares his deeds to scan, 
 And picture with creative power 
 The varied scenes of this dull hour. 
 
 Oh ! midnight is a fearful, horrid time, 
 
 Whose gloom becomes the friend of every crime ; 
 
 Murder starts forth, and reckless aims the blow 
 
 That strikes the victim of his fury low : — 
 
 Rapine is vigilant to mark his prey, 
 
 Hurries to action, and accurses day : — 
 
 Man 'gainst his fellow-man works deeds of hell, 
 
 That shudd'ring history almost dreads to tell. 
 
 Again — see, crawling through the lonely street, 
 
 The houseless, friendless wanderer we meet ; — 
 
 But wretchedness is silent, — what avails 
 
 The piteous moan which no kind ear assails; — 
 
147 
 
 When heartless Pride and Wealth are wrapped 
 
 in sleep, 
 And day-worn Pity fain would cease to weep, — 
 All Nature's still, as to recruit her breath, 
 Save Guilt, and Folly, and the arm of Death ! 
 
 Ha ! yonder is the sick man's bed : — 
 E'en at this hour he hurries to the grave, — 
 While weeping friends support his head, 
 And vainly urge the ardent prayer to save. 
 Then strikes the bell with its sad cheerless sound, 
 And deeper gloom imparts to all around. 
 He may not hear that bell again, 
 Ere then he may be freed from pain, — 
 His life become a faded dream, 
 A thing of memory, a vanished gleam ! 
 While Midnight's tongue ekes out the tedious tale, 
 Death wakes the widow's cry, the orphan's wail, 
 Sends thousand victims to the insatiate tomb, 
 Age in its hoariness, and youth in bloom ! 
 
 There sits the convict in his cell, 
 Starting as sounds that fatal bell, 
 For it heralds the day of his fate ; — 
 He must flee from the joys and the evils of life, 
 He must hasten away from these regions of strife, 
 With the curse of Repentance too late ! 
 
148 
 
 That sound has disturbed the calm current of 
 
 sorrow ; — 
 Delusion has fled with her dreams of to-morrow — 
 For him there is none — this day is his last ; — 
 Oh ! pray that his sufferings may quickly be past, — 
 That the mercy of heaven may illume his sad end, 
 And his soul rise to God as a pardoning friend ! 
 
 And there are other scenes of woe, 
 The soul appall'd would shun to know : — 
 Ah ! look upon Poverty's heart-broken child, 
 With a brain of hot madness, and countenance 
 
 wild; 
 How wan is his aspect, how wither'd his form, 
 As a tree in its age that is rent by the storm. 
 He had been wealthy in the days gone by, 
 
 And gaiety sat on his brow : 
 But the smiles are all faded, the tear dims 
 his eye, 
 For misery possesses him now. 
 His home is the haunt of sharp famine and care, 
 His soul is the seat of a gnawing despair, 
 And where shall he look for relief? 
 He had friends — but they fled with his fortunes 
 
 and pride ; — 
 He had hopes — but in anguish they wither'd and 
 died; — 
 No solace is left for his grief. 
 
149 
 
 In wand'rings too fruitless he wears out the day, 
 And the night brings no comfort to wish for its 
 
 stay;— 
 Even sleep, that kind friend, has abandoned his 
 
 bed, 
 And in want and in torture he lays down his head ; 
 While the cries of his children still sound in his 
 
 ears, 
 And Remembrance afflicts with her record of 
 
 years . 
 
 Oh! think of the mariner wreck'd on the 
 
 ocean ! 
 Oh ! think of the penitent sinner's emotion ! 
 Or the traveller lost on the dreary wild — 
 Or war's devastation where happiness smiled. 
 All these, in the gloomy meridian of night, 
 Become terrors redoubled from absence of 
 
 light; 
 For the day is a soother of terror and grief, 
 And evils seem less, tho' they gain not relief. 
 
 In the circle of fashion the bell is unheard, 
 Where mirth is triumphant, and reason deferr'd ; 
 Where Vice with her mask, and broad Folly 
 
 unveil'd, 
 Keep the swift march of Time from their vot'ries 
 
 conceal'd.— 
 
150 
 
 Are there none then at rest in this harassing 
 
 world ? 
 And are all into folly or wretchedness hurFd? — 
 
 Oh, there are many in the arms of sleep, 
 Yet few, alas! who health and freshness 
 
 reap : — 
 It is not the sleeper who's haunted by care, 
 
 For he dreams of the troubles of life ; — 
 Dark visions of sorrow and tumult are there, 
 
 And the passionate ragings of strife. 
 
 'Tis enjoyment to none but the good and the wise, 
 Who in peace spend their days, and in peace 
 
 close their eyes : — 
 They encounter no miseries to anguish the breast, 
 And calmness bends over the couch of their rest. 
 They have no midnight— -light is on their souls, 
 And time in one unvarying current rolls. 
 Wisdom is there, — Reflection with her glass, 
 Who fears not to review the hours that pass, — 
 Hope with her torch, — and Virtue with her rays, — 
 That darkness shrinks before th' effulgent blaze. 
 
 December, 1816. 
 
151 
 
 STARLIGHT. 
 
 Know ye an hour of pleasure and of rest, 
 When calmness reigns within the yielding breast?- 
 Know ye a scene in fairest beauty smiling, 
 The bosom of its rankling cares beguiling ?— 
 'Tis when the stars are bright in heaven, 
 Gathering at the call of even ; 
 And when the crowd's harsh din is o'er, 
 And worldlings can annoy no more ; — 
 When sprites and fairies breathe the spell. 
 By storied oak or haunted well ; — 
 All sound is hushed — save when the breeze 
 Is softly sighing through the trees, — 
 Or some lone votary of the hour 
 Brushes by the dew-clad flower. 
 And gently glides the placid stream, 
 Gemm'd with many a starry beam, 
 Which bending down with looks of love, 
 Appear like heralds from above, 
 To win the unresisting soul 
 From passion's or from care's control. 
 
152 
 
 See how they shine with the mildness of peace, 
 As warning the mind's busy tumult to cease : — 
 Where is the being that looks on the sky, 
 When its jewels of beauty are sparkling on high, 
 Who feels not his heart is entranced by the sight. 
 His emotions more calm, and his troubles more 
 
 light? 
 Where is the breast not all tainted by crime, 
 That is not refreshed in this heart-soothing time ? — 
 The soul of devotion its full tide will pour, 
 In silence survey, and in silence adore. 
 If religion hath cheered us and warmed with its 
 
 rays, 
 And our bosoms have glowed with the ardour of 
 
 praise, 
 Be these tranquil moments to holiness given, 
 When our thoughts rise on wings of devotion to 
 
 heaven. 
 Now, when the world and the passions are still, 
 With the sky for our dome, and our temple the hill, 
 Let us kneel in the sight of those orbs as they roll, 
 And acknowledge the God who created the whole ! 
 
 'Tis contemplation's hour of joy, 
 
 No cares of busy men annoy, 
 
 Peace is on earth and beauty in the sky : 
 
 The darling idols of the sage's eye, 
 
153 
 
 In all their purest lustre shining, 
 In all their antic forms entwining, 
 Invite the mind, in wonder lost, 
 To gaze upon their myriad host; — 
 Enchanted by their loveliness, 
 Confessing mortal's nothingness. 
 Say can there be a time more sweet, 
 Or more for meditation meet ? 
 Silence is mistress of the scene, 
 And binds it with her spell serene. 
 
 Or if a sound disturb the heavenly calm, 
 
 And break the magic of this silent charm, 
 Let it be sound of melody ; — 
 Music such as soothes the heart, 
 Impressive and devoid of art, 
 Sweet in its simplicity. 
 
 But soft and mild as the zephyr's light sigh, 
 Lest passion should start at the sound, 
 
 Dispel all its charms with the fire of his eye, 
 Destroy all its peace with his bound. 
 Oh ! let it be a lover's strain, 
 Not doom'd to feel a lover's pain — 
 Of one whose passion is not crost, 
 Whose hopes and trials are not lost — 
 Of one who steals an hour from rest 
 To feed the rapture of his breast — 
 
 H 5 
 
154 
 
 Who roves to gaze upon the sky, 
 Wishing that his love were nigh, 
 Dreaming of her constancy. 
 
 Hark ! the note, the winds are winging ! 
 
 Hark ! the lover's hymn is singing ! 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Sylphs, who dwell in stars above, 
 
 Lend your aid to guard my love — 
 
 Spirits of the starry sphere, 
 
 To protect be ever near. 
 
 If she wander by your light, 
 
 Shine in fairest splendor bright ; 
 
 If she sleep beneath your ray, 
 
 Keep intruding elves away ; 
 
 As your nightly course ye roll, 
 
 Shed your peace upon her soul : 
 
 Hear me ye that wait on even, 
 
 Lights of earth, and eyes of heaven ; — 
 
 Hear me heralds of the dawn, 
 
 Xe who wake the drowsy morn ; — 
 
 Hear me all ye stars above, 
 
 And frown not on the prayer of love ! 
 
 How dear to memory is the starlight hour ! 
 For then, alone, within her magic bower 
 
155 
 
 She dreams of the pleasures and ills that are fled, 
 Recalls the past year, and awakens the dead ; 
 Now smiling o'er joys that had vanished before, — 
 Now checking the tear for the friend who's no 
 more. 
 
 Oh ! it is sweet to wander far 
 
 Beneath the ray of evening star ; 
 
 To seek the darkly-tinted shades, 
 
 And stray through quiet, verdant glades, 
 
 And silent, undisturbed, review 
 
 The moments that too quickly flew ; 
 
 To grieve o'er evils that are past, 
 
 And mourn the joys that could not last ; 
 
 Then from the scene to woo relief, 
 
 And shed a halo o'er our grief, 
 
 Till warned by yon bright orbs of peace, 
 
 We bid regret and sorrow cease ; 
 
 Think of the past as of a dream — 
 
 The image of the lightning's beam 
 
 Which shines but hurts not with its gleam. 
 
 Now poesy with ardor fired, 
 With every purer thought inspired, — 
 Her wild harp strikes and breathes a lay 
 Responsive to the starlight ray; 
 Enchanting as the strain which angels sing — 
 Sweet as the odours from a seraph's wing ! 
 
156 
 
 When the fire of the muse in its blaze is uneheck'd, 
 When the hues of the hour on the fancy reflect, 
 When the thoughts and the heavens are glowing 
 
 and bright, 
 These are the moments of minstrels' delight ! 
 
 If ye, spirits of the blest, 
 
 In those orbs enjoy your rest — 
 
 If in transport there ye dwell 
 
 As the ardent poets tell — 
 
 From your happier climes on high 
 
 Deign to cast a pitying eye 
 
 Upon a world with error filFd, 
 
 Which by sin and pride is chill'd. 
 
 I will roam abroad at night 
 
 To catch the lustre of your light, 
 
 And as one more fair I see 
 
 Deem a spirit looks on me : 
 
 In my breast this thought I'll cherish, 
 
 There to live when others perish ; — 
 
 This shall raise my sinking soul, 
 
 Free it from despair's control ; — 
 
 This shall chase the gloom of sorrow, 
 
 And cheer the path of life to-morrow ! 
 
 January, 1817. 
 
157 
 
 THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE, 
 
 THE BIRTH-DAY OF HIS FRIEND WILLIAM. 
 
 " Hollo, James Tyson ! tis the eighteenth of 
 
 June"— 
 Dear ! so it is, and my harp's out of tune ; 
 " Then get it mended :" — Can't be done in time — 
 " No ! — what, not to string a single rhyme V 
 Not one — consider, common stuff won't do 
 Eor him who's born on the day of Waterloo : 
 I'll put it off like other royal folks — 
 " Come, sir, don't waste your time in idle jokes, 
 To work :" — I say my muse has caught a cold, 
 And, wife-like, won't always do as she is told : — 
 Well, well, it can't be help'd — I could but say 
 I wish thee health this many a day — 
 That happiness may ever greet thee, 
 And joy run forward with the year to meet thee, 
 With sundry comforts that I will not mention, 
 Though claiming equally thy best attention : — 
 Since this is all I have to tell, 
 Why— any other day will do as well. 
 
 June 18, 1817. 
 
158 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 All hail, Repentance ! melancholy maid ! 
 Gifted alike to soothe or to upbraid, — 
 Thou child of good and ill, that hast thy birth 
 In light celestial, and in shades of earth, — 
 Now soft as sounds by zephyrs given, 
 
 Or striking deeply as a knell, — 
 Now cheering with a ray from heaven, 
 
 Or frighting with a glare from hell. 
 ; Tis thou who bid'st the erring soul 
 To burst from guilt's abhorr'd control, 
 In tears retrace the path she trod, 
 And kneel again before her God ! 
 When the trembling sinner dies, 
 And pours his anguish in his cries, 
 Thou art there to soothe his woe 
 And prompt the conscious tear to flow — 
 Like a seraph in pity sent down from above, 
 To whisper the promise of pardon and love. 
 Oh ! consoling and sweet is the pledge of thy 
 
 power, 
 Shining on as the sun in a fast-falling shower. 
 
159 
 
 Yet thou hast a darker form, 
 Raging like a midnight storm, 
 When the only light appearing, 
 Is the dreadful flash that's searing, — 
 The only voice that meets the ear, 
 Speaks in the thunder's voice of fear. 
 Such thy horrors, fiend Remorse, 
 To him who lives beneath thy curse — 
 A demon to scourge, and a hell to consume, 
 As a mirror to shew the lost victim his doom ; 
 Now haunting his sleep, and now stalking by day, 
 From his thought and his memory never away ; 
 Urging on to self-slaughter, yet holding him fast 
 By dread of the future for sin of the past. 
 Would that with earlier influence o'er the mind 
 In gentler semblance thou couldst school man- 
 kind, 
 Checking the soul with a warning emotion, 
 Ere it venture too far upon guilt's stormy ocean, 
 Melting the heart with the warm gush of sorrow, 
 And recording the promise of virtue to-morrow ! 
 
 August, 1817. 
 
160 
 
 SUNSET. 
 
 There's not an hour that onward rolls. 
 
 But speaks a warning to our souls, — 
 
 There's not a change in earth or heaven, 
 
 But on it truths of God are graven. 
 
 In every hour Religion finds a voice, 
 
 In every moment bids the heart rejoice, 
 
 Stealing upon us with the morning light, 
 
 Confessed amid the wonders of the night, 
 
 To each at the time when the harmoniz'd feelings 
 
 Are glowing with ardor to embrace her reveal- 
 
 ings ;— 
 To one when the gentle and earliest ray 
 Springs up from its clouds, blushes on into day ; — 
 To others at noon, or the sun's bright declining, 
 Or the hour when the stars are resplendently 
 
 shining ; — 
 All in their seasons combining to raise 
 The soul to its Maker, in rapture of praise. 
 
161 
 
 There was a scene which late mine eyes be- 
 held, 
 When all the splendour of the sky unveil'd, 
 Shone like a vision of ethereal birth, 
 A dream of heaven enjoyed by sons of earth. 
 The gorgeous Sun was sinking to his rest, 
 And shed effulgence o'er the tinted west, — 
 A monarch dying in his glory's blaze, 
 Blessing the world with his departing rays, 
 He sank — and o'er the heavens a mantle threw, 
 Illumed with every varied, lovely hue- - 
 Who shall describe them? fleeting, changing, 
 
 bright, 
 As though in sport they mocked the eager sight, — 
 Now all the richness of a golden dome, 
 Now crimson'd with the modest rose's bloom, 
 Like young Devotion wafted from above, 
 Or the mute language of her kindred Love. 
 Here in the azure antic clouds were wreathing, 
 Responsive to the zephyrs o'er them breathing, 
 As sylphs of air, each in his magic bower, 
 Had joined the sacred worship of the hour. 
 In placid lustre rose the evening star, 
 Like timid virgin gazing from afar, 
 As mild and modest as the heart should be, 
 Whose fairest jewel is humility. 
 
162 
 
 Farther, the gentle mistress of the sky, 
 The full-orb'd Moon had now ascended high 
 With pensive majesty, and in her train 
 Night's dusky ministers t' assert her reign. 
 On earth was silence — tree, and mead, and hill 
 Paid their mute homage, and in awe were still, — 
 Art hath no seeming, Nature no delight 
 So sweetly pure and so divinely bright, 
 For heaven and earth their every hue combined 
 To stamp their loveliness upon the mind : 
 It was a temple and a worship — there 
 Th'Alniighty's works did seem to meet in prayer;— 
 A holy feeling reigned throughout the whole ; 
 The world was bow'd — Religion gave the soul, 
 Breath'd in the star, the cloud, the tree, the sod, 
 As Nature's aspiration to her God ! 
 It was her evening hymn — a silent service given 
 From fleeting time to the eternal Lord of heaven ! 
 
 Ye who have grovelled in Sin's mazy road, 
 Nor ever on Him one pure thought have bestowed; 
 Who have seen but have felt not the heavenly 
 
 rays 
 That in beauty are teaching the bosom to praise ;— 
 Oh ! look upon this, and in penitence bend 
 To the Spirit that made it, your Father and 
 Friend ; 
 
163 
 
 See the pledge of His goodness, — be guilty no 
 
 more, 
 But instructed and chasten'd, bow down and 
 
 adore. 
 Ye who're confin'd by dark Bigotry's chain, 
 And long in her cold narrow prison have lain, 
 Who have dreamed that Salvation was granted 
 
 to few, 
 That Eternity's blessings were only for you, 
 Who would strive to usurp the wide region of 
 
 bliss, 
 Arise, oh ye hypocrites ! look upon this ! 
 Wake Charity's thrill in your breasts as you scan, 
 And in Nature's bright page read His mercy to 
 
 man! 
 The soul that acknowledges Virtue's sweet power, 
 Resembles the hues of this fair lovely hour — 
 Gliding onward in peace, as the sun to the west, 
 As calmly and brightly awaiting its rest. 
 When life's fleeting joys are gone down with its 
 
 day, 
 The moonlight of virtue diffuses its ray, — ; 
 Religion sheds o'er it the glow of the even, 
 And wafts it on Hope's balmy zephyrs to heaven ! 
 
 September, 1817. 
 
164 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF HIS FRIEND 
 CATHARINE. 
 
 A FRAGRANT wreath is here entwined, 
 
 Of many a beauteous flower combined ; 
 
 The blushing rose for joyous youth — 
 
 The lily for the soul of truth — 
 
 The cypress for the pensive heart — 
 
 The pansy pierced with Cupid's dart — 
 
 With bays and laurel woven among 
 
 For sons of battle and of song. 
 
 And thou whose hand hath culled each flower, 
 
 May joy attend thee every hour, 
 
 Around thee breathe as rich perfume, 
 
 And flourish with unfading bloom, 
 
 As lovely as the " garden queen," 
 
 And lasting as the evergreen : 
 
 May these be emblems of thy happy lot, 
 
 Yet add one flow'ret more — Forget me not ! 
 
 October, 1817. 
 
161 
 
 TO MEMORY. 
 
 Many the bards, and sweet the lays 
 
 Aspiring to rehearse thy praise, 
 
 And grateful bless the power divine 
 
 That can each wandering thought confine, 
 
 And long-past years recall to view 
 
 With image bright and record true, 
 
 Rekindle Pleasure's ray again 
 
 To sooth the ills of present pain, — 
 
 A friend in every changing mood, 
 
 A minister of truth and good ! 
 
 Whate'er of joy we feel and know 
 
 To Memory's friendly aid we owe, — 
 
 The triumphs of each child of song 
 
 By thee are given, to thee belong. 
 
 I sing not of thy wide domain, 
 
 The varied wonders of thy reign, 
 
 The mighty flood that ever rolls 
 
 With force resistless on our souls ; 
 
 The wealth thou pour'st from History's store, 
 
 From Wisdom's volume, Learning's lore ; 
 
166 
 
 To others be that task resigned, — 
 
 While I, to humbler strain confined. 
 
 In votive numbers will confess 
 
 'Tis thine to teach, to sooth, to bless — 
 
 To add a charm where Pleasure lives, 
 
 And heal the wound that Anguish gives. 
 
 There are visions that Hope and warm Fancy 
 
 create, 
 " Bright fictions" as those which the poets relate ; 
 More gorgeous, more varied than thine they may 
 
 be, 
 But they shed not the rapture that's yielded by 
 
 thee: 
 Hope's gay illusions may gladden awhile, 
 But their promise is false as the flatterer's smile— 
 They may crowd on our youth, but like traitors 
 
 recede 
 When our age of their presence and comfort hath 
 
 need; 
 They fly from our grasp, and too often when gone, 
 Only leave us more cheerless, more wretched, and 
 
 lone ; — 
 They may dazzle a moment, but when they depart, 
 They bequeath us no token, no print on the 
 
 heart ; — 
 While thou in our bosoms art ever enshrined, 
 And thy joys with the joys of all ages entwined; 
 
167 
 
 The heart thy pavilion, thy favorite cell, 
 Where in peaceful seclusion thou lovest to dwell. 
 
 Oh yes ! Imagination's plastic power 
 May cheer the vacant or the gloomy hour, 
 With art creative worlds of wonder raise, 
 And fill the mind with Fancy's dazzling blaze ; — 
 But her dreams are no more than the gleams on 
 
 the lake, 
 Brilliant, but cold — which- a ripple may break : — 
 While thine in all seasons, all hours, are a charm, 
 Constant as sunlight, as genial and warm. 
 In our age when the world's best enjoyments are 
 
 gone, 
 And we stand like a time-decayed ruin alone, — 
 When the scenes of gay youth, and of former 
 
 delight, 
 Come over the soul like soft music at night, — 
 How sweet to recall the bright days that are fled, 
 And to fill the dull blank with the forms of the 
 
 dead! 
 As in Winter when Nature seems weeping for 
 
 grief 
 That her blossoms are faded, her glories so brief,— 
 With no flow'ret to charm us, no fragrance that 
 
 breathes, 
 Save the roseleaf that pityingSummer bequeaths, — 
 
168 
 
 So joyless would be the dark winter of age, 
 Were it not for the tints that still glow on thy 
 
 page ! 
 
 There are pleasures, the bosom can never for- 
 get, 
 Though recorded as " by-gones" will play round 
 
 us yet, — 
 'Tis a voice we have heard, or a face we have 
 
 seen, 
 The likeness, the shadow of things that have 
 
 been,— 
 They are spirits that glide from the tomb of the 
 
 past, 
 With a torch to illume, and a beacon-ray cast 
 On the mariner ploughing the dark sea of life, 
 To cheer and preserve 'mid the elements' strife — 
 To calm his rack'd mind, and present him a form 
 That shall smile from the cloud, and speak peace 
 
 to the storm ; 
 Thy visions are with us when Pleasure's lamp 
 
 burns, 
 Like a friend of the heart who from travel re- 
 turns, — 
 They sit at our board, they partake of our cheer, 
 Give a zest to each joy, make each moment more 
 dear — 
 
169 
 
 While in sorrow, the thoughts of our happier years 
 Haste to banish our sighs and beguile us from 
 
 tears — 
 As the sun when he sinks to his western sea- 
 shroud, 
 Tips with crimson and gold the dark edge of the 
 
 cloud, 
 And dispenses a milder, a kindlier ray, 
 Than when robed in the glorious brightness of day. 
 
 But not to this world dost thou fetter the mind, 
 Nor is to Time's follies thy magic conhVd ; — 
 More sublime is thy course, more extended thy 
 
 scope 
 As thou minglest thy strains with the music of 
 
 Hope — 
 And the promise of joy in the life that's to be, 
 Comes blended with notes that are chaunted by 
 
 thee. 
 Mortals we are — and as mortals we feel — 
 And Eternity sure will forgive, if we steal 
 From the lights of the past a few radiant beams, 
 To adorn the dark future — and colour our dreams 
 With the hues that on earth were enchantingly 
 
 bright, 
 And awoke in our bosoms the thrill of delight ; 
 
 I 
 
170 
 
 The roses of youth and the sweet flower of Love 
 May enwreath with the amaranth garland above, 
 Since we know that the soul's purest blisses are 
 
 given 
 But as shadows prophetic of raptures in heaven ! 
 
 December 31, 1817. 
 
 TO THE NEWSPAPERS, 
 
 ON QUITTING A SHORT-LIVED MANAGEMENT OF A 
 WEEKLY JOURNAL. 
 
 Farewell ! disturbers of the world's repose, 
 Records of human crimes and human woes, 
 Dull traffickers in falsehoods — basely sold 
 Prom basest motive, the rank lust of gold ; — 
 Infectious Lazarets, whence guilt and pain 
 Are breathed in poisons to the world again ; 
 Where Vice stalks boldly under Virtue's seal, 
 Giving more wounds than Virtue ere can heal ; 
 Where brainless witlings pour the maiden rhyme ; 
 Where saintly cant precedes defence of crime ; 
 
171 
 
 Where party rage in puerile malice vents 
 Its deadliest hate on Britain's ornaments ; 
 Where every tyrant finds a ready friend 
 The secret dagger and the mask to lend : — 
 Folly's chief ministers, — false guides of youth — 
 Open to all but honesty and truth — 
 Foul weeds of darkness, hating light and good, 
 That bloom in war, and thrive on human blood. 
 Yet spare the lash, and own, — that e'en to you 
 Some hard-wrung tribute of compassion's due : 
 Who but laments, when on your bosom prest, 
 Glares the deep brand of Canning's demon jest ; — 
 Doom'd to the dulness of Saint Stephen's school, 
 To screen a villain, or extol a fool ; 
 Echo each whisper of your country's shame, 
 Or spread contagion with a Stewart's name : — 
 Begone — ye phantoms of a Stygian shore — 
 Begone — invade my study's peace no more ! 
 
 Henceforth, I shall pursue my noiseless rhymes 
 Unfretted by the discord of the Times ; 
 No Herald now, but the bright one that brings 
 The sparkling goblet from Pierian springs ; 
 No Sun that libels the great orb of light, 
 Stealing his name to hide the scars of night, 
 That smiles complacent on each hellish deed, 
 And shines more brightly if a patriot bleed; 
 
172 
 
 No Sun but he of glorious skies — no Star 
 But those which view man's sorrows from afar, 
 And from their mansions in the expanse above 
 Look down on all with pity and with love. 
 The Globe may roll ; — the follies of the World 
 And babbling Chronicles shall hence be 
 
 hurl'd ;— 
 All — but Leigh Hunt — and he alone shall stay, 
 Who loves the freshness of the summer day, 
 Who twines the daisy with the thorns of life, 
 And in the greenwood-shade forgets its strife, 
 With soul uprising on the breeze's wings 
 Beyond the crust and bane of earthly things. 
 
 Farewell ! but not for ever — no — the hour 
 May come when I shall yet invoke the power 
 That wakes in patriot breasts the ardent glow, 
 When Freedom mourns, and Tyrants strike the 
 
 blow. 
 I am not one who can look tamely on 
 When deeds of selfish tyranny are done, 
 That shed disgrace upon my country's name,, 
 And blot the brightest records of her fame : — > 
 Then, shall my spirit like the eaglet soar, 
 And Liberty shall find one champion more ! 
 
 ApriJ, 1818. 
 
173 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Oh Music! sweetest, best of human joys , 
 The soul's pure luxury that never cloys, 
 The feast of intellect, without a stain 
 The eye of Memory can review with pain ; — - 
 The world has pleasures which with eager haste 
 Its senseless vot'ries rush in crowds to taste ; — 
 Thine are the secret revels of the soul, 
 A soft indulgence fearing no controul, 
 A native bliss which there alone has birth, 
 ITnmingled with the baser joys of earth ! 
 Hail to thee, spirit of the mystic thrall ! 
 Who oft as summon'd leav'st thy airy hall, 
 From low and worldly things to raise mankind, 
 And share thy riches with a mortal mind. 
 Queen of the varied spells, within whose scope 
 Lie past remembrances and future hope, — 
 Friend of the melancholy hour art thou, 
 A radiance shed upon the clouded brow, 
 A passing sunbeam on a winter's day 
 That smiles upon us with too transient ray. 
 
174 
 
 Thy foe is mine — I cannot willingly 
 
 With that dark spirit hold community, 
 
 For o'er him Discord sure hath passed her hand, 
 
 Or dull Indifference waved her leaden wand. 
 
 There is no child of love or verse but owns 
 
 The potent magic of thy thrilling tones ; 
 
 It is an eloquence of every clime, 
 
 Young in all ages, and defying time, 
 
 Born with Creation in her earliest hour, 
 
 The seal and symbol of her Maker's power. 
 
 Enchantress ! I have heard thee on the hill, 
 Waking within emotion's deepest thrill, 
 As wafted by the fav'ring zephyrs near, 
 Thy sounds have stolen upon the raptured ear, 
 So calmly sweet, as angel-forms unseen 
 Were hymning in the distant sky serene, 
 And wand'ring winds which soared aloft to heaven 
 The strains celestial to the world had given ! 
 And I have heard thee when the swelling cry 
 Hath loud proclaimed a nation's victory, — 
 When thy glad notes a nation's joy have breath'd 
 For glories won, and newer laurels wreath'd, 
 When every heart by maddening impulse fired 
 Hath own'd the feeling that the sounds inspired, 
 And thousand voices their response have sent 
 In shouts of rapture to the firmament. 
 
175 
 
 Yet, gentle spirit, wherefore lend the strain 
 When hapless mortals bleed for tyrants' gain ? — 
 Why art thou heard upon the field of blood 
 Where Discord rages in her angriest mood, 
 Where all thy loudest peals prevail alone 
 To drown the warrior's faint and dying groan — 
 Paying the homage of thy flatt'ring breath 
 To war and spoil, to tyrants and to death ? 
 Yet stay — thou art pardon'd — I will not upbraid, 
 Since Freedom hath oft-time rejoiced in thine 
 
 aid — 
 Thou hast marched by her side, thou hast 
 
 strengthen'd her arm, 
 And tyrants have fled from the power of thy 
 
 charm ; 
 Even empires with silence and trembling have 
 
 hung 
 On the accents the children of Freedom have 
 
 sung — 
 And never while Liberty's flag is unfurl'd 
 Andherlife-givingblessings are dear to the world, 
 May the sons of her hope be uncheer'd by the song 
 That to vengeance and glory will lead them 
 
 along : — - 
 The gentlest, the fairest have gone to the field, 
 And for Liberty caught up the spear and the 
 
 shield, 
 
176 
 
 With the helmet of war they have shaded their 
 
 brow, 
 They have shared in the battle— and why should'st 
 
 not thou ? 
 And shall we chide the spirit-stirring power 
 That cheers the warrior in the battle-hour; 
 That wins his soul from thoughts with anguish 
 
 rife, 
 And of its terrors half despoils the strife ? 
 If men will war — if nations will not cease 
 To violate the laws of heaven and peace ; 
 If they will doom their children's blood to flow, 
 Nor cast one thought upon the bitter woe, — 
 The thousand deaths — the agonies that live 
 In wounded hearts far worse than death can 
 
 give i— 
 Still be thou there to charm the list'ning brave, 
 And hide the horrors of the yawning grave. 
 
 From earliest days thou wert the friend of Love, 
 With ready aid the yielding breast to move — 
 Whatever the mood, of joy or restless sorrow, 
 Thou canst accord and all the feeling borrow — 
 Sigh with the lorn, and with the glad rejoice, 
 To each responding with the soothing voice ; 
 Companion of the lover's loneliness, 
 Sharing his grief until he feels it less 5 
 
177 
 
 Or if his suit be won, his bosom light, 
 Making the lamp of pleasure burn more bright S 
 Thine is the innate language of the heart, 
 Unfraught with guile and undisguised by art, 
 The unmark'd messenger from each to each, 
 Of thoughts that spurn the bound and guise of 
 
 speech, 
 Accents that steal upon th' impassioned breast, 
 Like wanton breezes on the stream at rest, 
 Which trembles first as lightly roused from sleep, 
 Then rises stronger, till the troubled deep 
 No more displays its calm and wonted form, 
 Rolls in dark waves and echoes back the storm. 
 
 Is it not sweet when evening shadows fall, 
 And silence holds all nature in her thrall, 
 To roam secluded by the placid stream 
 Which shines resplendent in* the moon's pale 
 
 beam, 
 Without a breeze to stir the slumb'ring lake, 
 Without a thought the bosom's peace to shake, 
 Anon to catch some note of melody, 
 That breaks alone the sweet tranquillity ?— 
 Oh ! what a tide of feelings rushes then ! 
 Oh ! what a crowd of thoughts pours back again ! 
 Visions that else had been remembered not, 
 Sufferings and blighted hopes almost forgot ; — 
 
 15 
 
17S 
 
 Sorrows awaken'd from their sleep of years, 
 Vain wishes — and remorse— and mingling fears — 
 Dreams of the by-gone time that linger yet, 
 Words, looks, and feelings we can ne'er forget — 
 Joys that have left us — blessings that remain — 
 Mercies that brighten on our course of pain — 
 All summoned by the magic of that spell 
 Rise at the sound from out their silent cell. 
 There are Stoics who cry that thy pleasures are 
 
 vain, 
 That the pinions of virtue are spread at thy strain ; 
 But away with the thought that in raptures so 
 
 sweet 
 There is aught for the wisest of mortals unmeet. 
 Let the bigots be told that our life's tender flower, 
 Must be warm'd by the sun, as refresh'd by the 
 
 shower, 
 Let them learn that the soul in devotion hath risen 
 By the aid of thy power, from its cold earthly 
 
 prison ; 
 That the pityless breast in the rudest of climes, 
 By thee hath been soften'd, and won from its 
 
 crimes ; 
 That man hath been led to religion and love, 
 And e'en angels are harping in regions above. 
 Aye ! I have heard thee upon holy ground 
 Whereon men worship'd — when the solemn sound 
 
179 
 
 Of sacred harmony hath mingled there 
 With the low whisper of the fervent prayer ; 
 When thou, Devotion's minister, didst raise 
 The cheerful anthem and the chaunt of praise :— 
 And what of incense could the soul accord 
 More sweet and grateful to th' Almighty Lord ? 
 
 There have been symbols in the ages fled, 
 When on the altar votive blood was shed : — 
 But thou art ours — a stainless sacrifice 
 Of holy concords wafted to the skies, — 
 And not an offering sent of man alone, 
 But of all loveliness the breath and tone ; — 
 The homage yielded by the silent earth 
 To Him who gave each charm and beauty birth. 
 The cry of Nature in her inmost soul elate, 
 The voice and worship of all things inanimate ! 
 
 August, 1818. 
 
ISO 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND WILLIAM, 
 
 ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 The day returns — and deem it not 
 
 By me unheeded or forgot — 
 
 The day when Friendship hastes to bear 
 
 The cordial greeting, and the prayer 
 
 That coming time thy lot may bless 
 
 With lasting peace and happiness. 
 
 Though wand'ring, lonely, far removed 
 
 From kindred, home, and friends beloved, 
 
 Our hearts are with thee on thy way, 
 
 And pour, on this thy natal day, 
 
 Their tributes and their thoughts of joy 
 
 As warmly as thyself wert by : 
 
 And though I am but one of those 
 
 In whom the fervent feeling glows, 
 
 My rapture hath another source 
 
 That lends the stream an added force ; — 
 
 It is — that in the friendly circle, I 
 
 Should be the breath and voice of sympathy— 
 
 That they, that all who hold thy welfare dear, 
 
 May find their warmest feelings echoed here ! 
 
 June 18, 1819. 
 
181 
 
 MONT-BLANC. 
 
 The Jura was around us — and the walls 
 Of mighty mountains, in their spacious halls, 
 Inclosed and barr'd us from the world below 
 So sure — that by our sense we could not know 
 That earth was other than it present seem'd : — 
 But, that it must be our free souls had dreamed 
 Of plains far stretching, like a boundless sea, 
 To the horizon's wide immensity. 
 Our giant guardians frowned on every side, 
 Our spirits bowed before the mountain's pride, 
 And owned the sway of forms like these, which 
 
 tower 
 As 't were to scoff at man's so boasted power. 
 Yet there was beauty in that aspect wild, 
 And Nature in her majesty still smiled — 
 Smiled in her craggy temple lone and rude, 
 Like Love that breathes uncheck'd in solitude. 
 The heath-flower grew midst rugged stone and 
 
 rock, 
 The field was studded by the grazing flock, 
 
182 
 
 The birds sang joyously — the pastoral bell 
 Of browsing cattle rung from out the dell ; — 
 The voice of waters as they wander'd by 
 Sounded from depths that mocked the searching 
 
 eye, 
 Yielding a calm and gentle loveliness 
 That made the mountain's awful port seem less, 
 And gave a harmony, a peaceful air, 
 As though celestial beings sojourn'd there. 
 
 We journey'd on — unknowing of our way, 
 And ling'ring with a half-formed wish to stay, 
 As if the world contained no fairer sight 
 Than that which then had rapt us with delight. 
 A moment brought us to the mountain's brow, 
 When, what had been our paradise, was now 
 Lost in that new scene's wild sublimity — 
 So strange that the astonished eye could see 
 Nought that it knew, but deemed it was the birth 
 Of dreams that had no kindred with our earth. 
 The Alps were ranged before us, and appeared 
 In hoary grandeur to the heavens upreared — 
 Mountains on mountains crowd upon the eye 
 Filling all space with their immensity. 
 High o'er their heads in mightier grandeur still 
 Mont Blanc the peerless, the imperial hill, 
 
183 
 
 Rose like the monarch of some savage horde 
 Whose form and front proclaim him for its lord. 
 Their summits brightened in the cloudless heaven, 
 Pure — as its azure canopy were given 
 To win away the frowns of that stern host, 
 Like Mercy hastening when all hope is lost. 
 It was another world — and seemed to lie 
 Beyond the bounds of our mortality — 
 An earth that was not ours — a sphere unknown — 
 A place for stainless, heavenly things alone. 
 One glance that sought the mountain's feet re- 
 called 
 Our sense, by that resistless spell enthrall'd : 
 There was Lake Leman — and its lovely fields 
 Robed in the fairest forms that Nature yields, 
 When in her gentlest most propitious hours 
 She wreathes her garland with the gayest flowers. 
 It is the valley of the clustering vine, 
 The garden where all fairy hues combine, — 
 The bright lake smiles with its blue chrystal 
 
 stream, 
 The green-sward rests beneath the sunlight's 
 
 beam, 
 And the high Alps a silent vigil keep, 
 As guards that watch o'er Beauty wlfen asleep. 
 Oh ! who could guess, that stood on Jura's height 
 And bent in wonder o'er that vale of light, 
 
184 
 
 Vain man breathed there ? — his dwellings were 
 
 scarce seen 
 To speck and mingle with the gay earth's green ; 
 We saw not, heard not of his life or cares, 
 The good and evil that his being shares — 
 The hush'd calm world that stretch'd below, 
 
 around, 
 Was silent all — save that in us it found 
 A voice of rapture, and a speaking soul 
 Whose admiration burst from all controul. 
 This was our climax — this the master spell 
 Which bound our spirits, made our bosoms swell 
 With feelings that but then had kindled there, 
 And own'd no language but the whispered prayer. 
 It was a blending of all beauties — fraught 
 With every precept that to man is taught. 
 Who from the valley learns his own estate, 
 Gazes on Alps, and mocks the self-called great, — 
 Then lifts his glance to the blue vault above, 
 And rests rejoicing on its face of love. 
 
 Father Supreme ! the mountains and the sea 
 Are types and emblems of thy majesty — 
 They come upon us in their awful forms 
 As gifted with the ministry of storms — 
 As things that have destruction in their power, 
 The mighty sovereigns of the wrathful hour. 
 
185 
 
 Yet still they seem of Time — to melt away 
 And sink to darkness with our Nature's day : — 
 It is the blue, the calm, the cloudless sky 
 That bears the reflex of eternity ! 
 Than this there is no sweeter, lovelier sight, 
 One vast expanse, one flood of gentle light, 
 Upon whose surface reigns the peace of heaven, 
 The blest tranquillity to angels given. 
 In that pure world behold the Sun alone, 
 The glorious image of the Eternal throne, 
 Shining on earth, with life, and power, and love, 
 The sign and witness of the God above. 
 And it was such a heaven as this which beamed 
 Upon the mountain's grandeur — and these seemed, 
 In truth, each with the other to contend 
 Which should possess our souls, and make them 
 
 bend 
 In worship of their wonders — but our gaze 
 Was not on one but all — our fixed amaze 
 Paid homage to the spirit of the scene, 
 That breathed i'th' air, the vale, the hills be- 
 tween, — 
 Which seemed to link their beauties, and to rise 
 With earth's oblations to the smiling skies. 
 
 There was one miracle we knew not then, 
 One mightier marvel that escaped our ken, 
 
186 
 
 Yet was within us — in the soul of man 
 Gifted with life, and faculties to scan 
 The broad fair page of Nature, and to find 
 The deep-writ traces of th' Almighty mind — 
 The Power who gave us being, joy, and hope, 
 And placed the universe within our scope — 
 Bade us seek pleasure in the morning's birth, 
 In starlight splendours and in hues of earth, 
 In the bright glories of the changing sky, 
 The mountain's and the ocean's deep sublimity — 
 And taught of these, to spurn each selfish thrall, 
 And own a good supreme, — a God in all ! 
 
 November, 1819. 
 
 LAKE LEMAN. 
 
 Lake Leman farewell ! should I never again 
 Be a wand'rer beside thy blue wave, 
 
 Yet thy mem'ry enshrined in my heart shall re- 
 main, 
 'Till the wild flower bends over my grave. 
 
187 
 
 Thy waters of beauty that brightly are flowing. 
 How they bound like a deer in its fleet- 
 ness — 
 As the warm pulse of youth when in rapture 'tis 
 glowing 
 With a love just disclosing its sweetness. 
 
 E'en the bosom of grief must partake of thy glad- 
 ness, 
 And acknowledge thy power to beguile ; 
 For the heart cannot greet that pure mirror in 
 sadness, 
 Nor gaze without sharing thy smile. 
 
 Our youth is a shadow — the span of our days 
 
 Is as brief as the joy of the bird, 
 Which in summer pours o'er thee the voice of his 
 lays, 
 
 But in winter no longer is heard. 
 
 And even as he hath forsaken thy shore, 
 And hath left thee all silent and lone, — 
 
 Our voice and our steps shall be with thee no 
 more, 
 But be mourn'd with the days that are gone. 
 
188 
 
 Yet thy youth and thy strength, ever ardent and 
 brave, 
 
 Shall remain undiminished by time — 
 And the hue of thy waters, the bound of thy wave, 
 
 Be the charm of thy still blooming prime. 
 
 And should I in age be left sad and alone, 
 I shall call up the memory of thee — 
 
 I shall think that thy child, the impatient young 
 Rhone, 
 Is still rushing to meet the dark sea. 
 
 If the tomb have then closed o'er the friends of 
 my heart, 
 
 I shall fly to that image, the last — 
 As the friend of long years, that will never depart 
 
 Ere my life and its troubles be past. 
 
 That remembrance shall banish my sorrow away 
 As thy voice shall still sound in mine ear — 
 
 And my bosom grow light, as it dwells on the day 
 When in youth I first gazed on thee here. 
 
 November, 1819. 
 
189 
 
 ON HEARING 
 
 THE MUSIC OF MY COUNTRY 
 
 AT INTERLAKEN IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Oh listen ! the tones of the land of my birth 
 With their magic now steal on the ear ;— - 
 
 There is not a spot in this wide-spreading earth, 
 Where to me they can cease to be dear. 
 
 The mountains close round us — these vallies are 
 far 
 From the isle whence those melodies come ; 
 But the sweeter their sound, the more distant we 
 are 
 From the land of our love and our home. 
 
 And can we forget the delights that were wreath'd 
 With the strains vowed to Memory's shrine ? 
 
 Oh ! we cannot forget the kind hearts that have 
 breath'd 
 Those notes in the days of " lang-syne." 
 
190 
 
 What are the sounds can impart such a thrill 
 As those which now float on the gale ? 
 
 They have traversed the ocean, the plain, and the 
 hill, 
 And have sought our retreat in this vale. 
 
 They are wafted from Britain, our own native land, 
 In our breasts to awaken the glow 
 
 Which the thought of our country must ever com- 
 mand, 
 While the life-blood continues to flow. 
 
 And shall we not hail them as spirits of bliss, 
 In our wand'rings hastening to cheer us, 
 
 With the fancy that, list'ning to music like this, 
 The friends of our bosom are near us ? 
 
 On the wings of those sounds come the smiles of 
 our friends, 
 And the memories of home and of heart;— 
 Every dream of our lives its enchantment now 
 sends 
 Its tribute of joy to impart. 
 
 For many an hour in the years yet unwasted 
 Those notes shall breathe round us delight, 
 
 But never a rapture like that we have tasted 
 From the sounds that have bless'd us to-night. 
 
191 
 
 Interlaken adieu ! for Time hastens away ;— 
 But these melodies still shall remain, 
 
 And shall visit us oft in the happy long- day 
 When our Country smiles on us again, 
 
THE 
 
 ALCHEMIST, 
 
 #C. <5fC. 
 
THE 
 
 ALCHEMIST. 
 
 No. I. 
 
 tc Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons 
 in-stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 As you like it. Act II. Scene 1. 
 
 Gentle reader! be not astonished or alarmed 
 at the character in which I present myself to your 
 notice : restrain the flight of your imagination, 
 which I know is already on the wing, and look at 
 me again before you endeavour to form any con- 
 clusions respecting me. I entreat the curious 
 man to be patient; the credulous not to expect 
 more marvels than he will find in the History of 
 the Caliph Vathek ; the incredulous to wait till 
 he be convinced that I am not mad ; and the lady 
 to moderate her anticipations of gaining, by my 
 means, a husband and a coach-and-four. Ladies 
 and gentlemen, let me beg of you to be silent ; 
 
196 
 
 grant me a few moments' attention while I under- 
 take to dissipate your alarms, repress your sig- 
 nificant smiles, and gratify the curiosity of all, by 
 assuring you that I am a most harmless, inoffen- 
 sive creature ; that I neither carry sulphur in my 
 pockets, nor propose to pay off the national debt ; 
 that I am not a conjuror, nor a coiner; a quack 
 doctor, nor a Member of the College of Physi- 
 cians. I am neither a Fellow of the Royal So- 
 ciety, nor of the Rosicrucian Fraternity ; and am 
 very apprehensive I shall disappoint all the fre- 
 quenters of shilling lectures, and the whole body 
 of apothecaries' apprentices. In few words, I 
 am a plain man, having a plain object. I have 
 no ambition to be thought either an adept or an 
 illumine : — I am an Alchemist, it is true ; but I 
 am not the disciple of Avicenna, of Friar Bacon, 
 of Ramond Lully, nor of any of the worthies who 
 sought to discover the secret of transmuting in- 
 ferior metal into gold, or of prolonging human 
 existence by their infallible elixir. Mine is a 
 nobler alchemy ; I would dive into the arcana of 
 the heart and the understanding ; separate the 
 gold from the dross, and exhibit it in all its native 
 purity and lustre. My metal is, the human mind; 
 my crucible is truth, and my laboratory the 
 world ! 
 
19? 
 
 Good is my gold, — and, with as much con- 
 fidence as ever Alchemist possessed, do I assert, 
 that gold may be found in every thing. I would 
 show that the true way of promoting the happi- 
 ness of mankind is, by a moral alchemy to divest 
 the intellectual faculty of its alloys of error and 
 ignorance ; to teach it to seek for good every 
 where, until it arrive, by certain process, at the 
 conviction, that virtue is the only agent which is 
 capable of converting the heterogeneous ma- 
 terials of human character and human knowledge 
 into a genuine and lasting good. This mighty 
 science I should rejoice to see taught in all lands, 
 till the earth became one vast university, and all 
 mankind its graduates. I challenge all the pro- 
 fessors of all the sciences, to oppose to mine any 
 that afford a more extended field of speculation ; 
 proposing, as I do, to find good in the most 
 bidden recesses, and to detect its presence in all 
 things. No subject is too high or too low for 
 this purpose — in man, from the prince to the pea- 
 sant ; in books, from the folio to the ballad ; in 
 mirth and in sadness ; in philosophy and in pas- 
 sion ; in the pride of reason and in the humiliation 
 of superstition. From all, I hope to elicit some- 
 thing that shall instruct and please ; but to do 
 this, it will be necessary to show Vice her own 
 
198 
 
 deformity, as well as " Virtue her own feature;" 
 and, in detaching the evil from the good, to ex- 
 pose its worthlessness and its pernicious qualities, 
 that future students in the art may learn to ap- 
 preciate its true character, and detect the fallacy 
 of its appearance. The results of these my 
 chemic researches I intend communicating to the 
 world weekly, with all the accuracy of deduction 
 that I am master of, and all the variety of experi- 
 ment that the science allows; happy, if I can 
 produce gold where the unreflecting least expect 
 it, and giving a scientific shake of the head at the 
 alloy of base metal, that so often passes for pure 
 aurum with the thoughtless multitude. If I can 
 make it manifest that religion is not bigotry; 
 dissimulation not honesty ; affectation not refine- 
 ment ; that rhyme is not always poetry ; and that 
 the letters L, O, V, E, often stand for any thing 
 else than love, I shall be satisfied. Let not the 
 " mad wag" laugh, and say — " this Alchemist, 
 like all venders of nostrums for the benefit of 
 mankind, will be found to have a powerful incli- 
 nation for transporting certain pieces of metal 
 from our pockets into his own ;" because I af- 
 firm, and without fear of contradiction, that I am 
 the cheapest Alchemist that ever existed. There 
 is not an instance on record of any of them who 
 
199 
 
 undertook to diffuse his knowledge for so small 
 a sum as I require. 
 
 And farther, as it is fit that my readers should 
 imbibe becoming notions of my character and 
 dignity, I will add, that I am not only the cheap- 
 est, but the most useful, most potent, most chari- 
 table, and most agreeable Alchemist that the art 
 has produced. I am the most useful, because 
 my discoveries are not confined to any particular 
 class of students, nor loaded with the technicali- 
 ties of an abstruse science, that render them in- 
 teresting to the learned alone ; on the contrary, 
 it is my most special desire that the whole world 
 should read my papers. I intend they should be 
 serviceable to all;- — and I hereby give notice, 
 that every man who has been endeavouring to 
 extract happiness from the materials presented 
 to him, and, by forming wrong combinations, has 
 missed his object, may come to me, and I will 
 put him right. I will teach the man of pleasure 
 to seek it where he never thought of looking for 
 it — in his own company; — the misanthrope to 
 glean it in the society of his fellow-men ; — the 
 despairing lover to find it on this side the grave, 
 and the infidel on the other. I will show the 
 lady why she has lost her seven suitors* and the 
 author why his last poem is unread. I will tell 
 
200 
 
 them why they are all wrong— that they are mere 
 tyros in the chemistry of life ; that they have had 
 the best and most powerful drugs in the great 
 laboratory of nature; that they have erred in 
 mingling them, and the fault is their own. I 
 elaim to be the most potent, because I am con- 
 vinced no one will dispute my authority : there is 
 not a man living who will be so rebellious as to 
 tell me I cannot draw some gold from him ; while 
 on the other hand, how many will eagerly sub- 
 mit themselves to the operation of my art, in the 
 full confidence that gold may be found within ; 
 but, alas ! we know by fatal experience that " all 
 is not gold that glitters :" the proverb is some- 
 what musty, as Shakspeare has it. On this very 
 account I am the most charitable of Alchemists, 
 for I reject nothing as useless, and profess to 
 discover some good in every thing ; like the well- 
 digger who advertises to find water in any part 
 of the kingdom, I undertake to find my gold in 
 the worst heart and most obtuse skull that can be 
 produced. Is not this charity? — but let not the 
 fool imagine I shall suffer his folly to pass cur- 
 rent for wit, or the bad man to disseminate his 
 evil unmarked. Truth cannot be honoured unless 
 error be exposed; I shall, therefore, denounce 
 empirics of all descriptions — impudent venders 
 
201 
 
 of false opinions, bad morals, and bad taste, and 
 gratis distributors of mischief and deceit. Having 
 said thus much, I think it will readily be admitted 
 that 1 am also the most agreeable of my fraternity : 
 but under this head I think it right to address a 
 few words to the fair sex, whose favour I am 
 particularly anxious to conciliate, assuring them 
 that they and their affairs shall always receive 
 the greatest attention from the Alchemist, who 
 will be ever ready to give them his advice and 
 assistance, teaching them to pick out the gold in 
 a lover's character, and to discriminate the ap- 
 pearances of baser metal. Besides, ladies, you 
 are not to suppose that I am a cross-grained, old 
 fellow, who shuts himself up in a workshop all 
 day, and comes out in the evening with a dirty 
 cravat, and a wig put on awry — no such thing 
 believe me. I am not yet past the age when a 
 lady's smile may work miracles, and the language 
 of the eye be translated by the heart. I neither 
 take snuff nor talk Greek, and I may, for ought 
 I know, sometime in the course of my life, have 
 written love verses. I beseech you also to re- 
 member, that the more you admit me into your 
 company, the more gold will my papers exhibit, 
 and the more its value will be appreciated. The 
 ladies will also be pleased to learn that I do not 
 
 k5 
 
intend meddling with politics, for indeed, in all 
 my experiments upon statesmen, I have always 
 found the mixture of brass and lead so far to 
 exceed the gold, that the latter was scarcely 
 worth the trouble of extracting. I fancy I have 
 now sufficiently introduced myself to my readers 
 for my present purpose. I shall, therefore, ter- 
 minate this number with inviting my friends to 
 furnish me with the materials for gold, that I may 
 return as much as possible to the world, through 
 the medium of my lucubrations. I am ready to 
 give advice to the sick, instruction to the igno- 
 rant, and wealth to the needy, without an^ other 
 fee than the purchase of my Essays. 
 
 All communications for the Alchemist ad- 
 dressed to will be duly attended to, 
 if free of expense, as I have not yet obtained an 
 Act of Parliament for transmuting his Majesty's 
 silver and copper currency into gold. 
 
 F. 
 
THE 
 
 ALCHEMIST. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 " Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons 
 in stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 As you like it. Act II. Scene I. 
 
 It is really surprising what a number of com- 
 munications I have received from all classes of 
 people — some giving and some asking advice; 
 some pleased and some displeased with my pro- 
 ject; some encouraging me to proceed, and 
 others assuring me, " with the sincerity of a 
 friend," that it is quite idle to expect any con- 
 siderable degree of good in these degenerate days, 
 then favouring me with their convictions of the 
 causes of said degeneracy — many of them as 
 opposite as the Poles: on this subject I shall 
 reserve my own opinion for the present, only ex- 
 pressing my confidence of being able to elicit as 
 
204 
 
 much gold as will be requisite for my purpose, 
 and more than the short-sighted and prejudiced 
 anticipate. I am so sensible, however, of the 
 friendly intentions of all, that I shall devote this 
 day's paper to a selection of their various opi- 
 nions, recommendations, and petitions. Were I, 
 indeed, to attend to every suggestion, or agree 
 with every anathema, " Othello's occupation" 
 would soon be gone ; for it has often happened 
 in the perusal of my correspondence, that I have 
 scarcely made up my mind to comply with the 
 wishes of one, by praising something that pleases 
 him, when I stumble upon another letter advising 
 me to reject it altogether; so that, being some- 
 what confused by this war of advocates and op- 
 ponents, I began to think I should be in a similar 
 situation to him who interposes between two ad- 
 versaries, which is generally tantamount to being 
 ground in a mill or pounded in a mortar. I am 
 desired by one to arraign the whole host of con- 
 tinental travellers ; while another is positive that 
 I shall never find any good on this side the 
 channel, but that on the other the virtues of the 
 inhabitants are so numerous and striking, that 
 he was irresistibly impelled to bestow all his 
 money upon them : one lady hopes that I will 
 write against the methodists, for that ever since 
 
205^ 
 
 her husband was bitten by one of them, he (poor 
 misguided man !) has done nothing but go to 
 meeting, and give away his money to the poor. 
 On the other hand, a charitable old lady ear- 
 nestly exhorts me to have nothing to do with the 
 theatres, " for that playhouses, play-goers, play- 
 writers, and play-actors, were all sold to the 
 devil long ago." To neither of these can I make 
 any satisfactory reply. One man defies me to 
 find any good in his wife, even with a micros- 
 cope ; another thinks I might devote a corner of 
 my paper to the extraordinary qualities of his son 
 Charles — " a most surprising boy of his age," 
 with a variety of particulars and hints, that were 
 I to insert, would, I fear, lead to an awkward 
 correspondence with the Stamp Office. A witty 
 gentleman in the East, one of the Magi, I sup- 
 pose, has favoured me with an epistle, the intent 
 of which will be best answered by being given 
 entire to my readers. 
 
 Threadneedle Street. 
 MR. ALCHEMIST, 
 
 I have read yours of the instant, 
 
 and must say I have no fault to find with it as 
 far as it goes; that is, as a promissory note, 
 which as you seem to be a man of experience 
 
206 
 
 in your business, I dare say will not be dis- 
 honoured. But I must tell you, I am afraid 
 your metal will not be of any service to me, 
 for I am much in want of the real, substan- 
 tial bullion — whereas your circulating medium 
 seems to be paper> of which there is already 
 a surplus in the market, and unless it shall be- 
 come as current as a bank note, I fear it will 
 soon be at a discount in the city. My disorder— 
 an alarming one — is want of money, and if you 
 can give me a " sovereign remedy" for that, I 
 shall thank you. Yours, 
 
 Gregory Grasp. 
 
 To this chuckling, and I doubt not, satisfied 
 personage, I shall say nothing ; I have given his 
 wit to the world, and that I fancy was all he 
 wanted : when a man feels a strong propensity 
 to show his talents, who can be so barbarous as 
 to deny him the opportunity? But here is one 
 from a lady, let all the rest give place: — 
 
 MR. ALCHEMIST, 
 
 You promised in your first number to 
 tell us something about love, and as I have had 
 some very odd symptoms lately, I thought I 
 could not do better than ask your advice ; but I 
 
207 
 
 hope you will let me have an answer the very 
 first opportunity, for I am anxious to know whe- 
 ther my conjectures are right or not. There is a 
 very handsome young man — indeed, quite an 
 Adonis, who comes to our house, and is so kind 
 and attentive to me that I cannot help thinking — 
 but never mind that, I am only to speak of my- 
 self now — whenever he comes into the room, I 
 feel so odd, you have no idea, somehow all in a 
 flutter. Then, he sighs very often, and I am sure 
 to catch myself sighing too; and half a dozen 
 times in a day I wish I was walking on the 
 sea-shore, listening to the waves, or that he 
 was there too, reading poetry, — he reads poetry 
 sweetly — aye, and writes it besides. The other 
 day he showed me some verses about Hebe and 
 the Graces, and T know not who else, signed 
 Lysander ; and so I wrote an Ode to Venus, be- 
 ginning— 
 
 " Bright, celestial Paphian Queen," 
 
 and, would you believe it, I wrote Hermia un- 
 derneath, without thinking, as naturally as if it 
 had been my own christened name: TVas not 
 that droll ? You remember Lysander and Her- 
 mia are the names of two lovers in the Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream. A few evenings since 
 
208 
 
 we both were to have gone to a ball, but papa 
 would not let me go, which distressed me so 
 much that I cried bitterly — which I never used 
 to do — and could not get a wink of sleep all 
 night for thinking of Lysander, so that in the 
 morning I looked as pale as ashes, which made 
 my sister say — " La! Peggy, (that is my proper 
 name) how white you look ! " and then I blushed 
 quite red — which I never used to do. Very often 
 when I am at work, I prick my finger by acci- 
 dent, and it always makes me think of Cupid's 
 darts. I am grown so fond of Romeo and Juliet, 
 and the Sorrows of Werter, that I could read 
 them from morning till night. Oh ! I could tell 
 you a great deal more, but I believe I have said 
 enough. Now for it — " Lie still, my heart." 
 Pray, sir, am I in love ? 
 
 Hermia. 
 
 To this I can only answer — No ! ! you are 
 not in love, and what is more, you never will be, 
 till all these things are out of your head. 
 
 I am sorry to find some misapprehensions 
 have existed respecting the design of my papers ; 
 some expect me to work miracles for them, 
 though I expressly declared I was no conjuror ; 
 
209 
 
 while others are afraid of me, notwithstanding 
 what I said of the extent of my power, and the 
 harmlessness of my disposition. 
 
 Take the following as a specimen of the 
 former :— - 
 
 MR. ALCHEMIST, 
 
 I am a bookseller and publisher with a 
 large family, and I humbly crave your assistance 
 in circumstances of great distress. You must 
 know, sir, I published Mr. * * * * 's last quarto, 
 and (grieved I am to say it) the public, after 
 diligent search, are not able to find any gold in 
 it at all, and consequently I cannot get any out 
 of it, though, heaven knows, it has extracted a 
 large quantity out of my pocket for paper, print- 
 ing, &c. Now, worthy sir, as you have under- 
 taken to find gold in the most hidden recesses, 
 perhaps, you may be successful here, and be able 
 to show the world that it is quite mistaken, and 
 that the work does really contain some of that 
 precious material. If you will do this, you would 
 not only confer a lasting obligation on me and my 
 family, but acquire the reputation of having made 
 one of the most original discoveries of the present 
 age. Your obedient Servant, 
 
 Matthew Margin. 
 
210 
 
 I dare say I should. Now, though I am 
 sorry for the poor man's misfortunes, I cannot 
 assist him, for it would occupy more time than I 
 could possibly afford, on account of the immense 
 bulk of the subject of operation. When the 
 reviewers have carted away the rubbish, I might 
 be induced to try, as I have no doubt the re- 
 mainder would lie in a very small compass. 
 
 A curious adventure of this kind happened to 
 me on the morning after the publication of my 
 first Essay. I was taking my breakfast, as usual, 
 wrapt in meditation, when I was aroused by a 
 tap at my chamber door, and the entrance of my 
 landlady, a respectable elderly woman with 
 whom I have always been on the best terms. I 
 I observed that her countenance betrayed symp- 
 toms of uneasiness, and that she looked round 
 the room with evident signs of apprehension. 
 When seated, she began by saying, " I beg your 
 pardon, sir, but I have something particular to 
 mention to you, which has made me very uncom- 
 fortable, — indeed I have had no sleep all night." 
 " Dear me, madam," said I, " I am extremely 
 sorry — but what was the cause?" " Oh, sir, it 
 was for fear any thing should happen." Totally 
 in the dark, I replied, " Happen, ma'am, why 
 what should happen ? " " Dear sir, excuse me, 
 
211 
 
 but the printer's boy told me last night that 
 you was an Alchemist." " Well," I said, " it 
 is true I am the Alchemist, but what of that ? " 
 " Why, sir, only to think, you know, if with 
 your mixings and pounding, and sulphur and 
 gunpowder, you should chance to set the house 
 on fire, what would become of me, a poor widow 
 as I am, without a friend," &c. &c. 
 
 I now began to see a little, and after a few 
 more questions I discovered that she had been 
 referring to the article " Alchemist* in a cheap 
 Cyclopedia, and had there found that certain of 
 the fraternity in the " olden time" were occasion- 
 ally in the habit of blowing up houses, and them- 
 selves out of the window, to the great injury and 
 affright of his Majesty's loving subjects. Having 
 thus ascertained the cause, I proceeded to dissi- 
 pate her fears as speedily as possible, by assuring 
 her that I had no combustibles in my apartment ; 
 that my whole stock consisted merely of pens, 
 ink, and paper ; and that I neither belonged to 
 a gas-light company nor a steam packet, of both 
 which the good lady has an inconceivable horror. 
 She then begged my pardon repeatedly for the 
 intrusion, and said she felt her heart quite light- 
 ened, but added, as she was going out — " Per- 
 haps, sir, you would be so kind as to keep it as 
 quiet as you can, for if the fire office was to find 
 
212 
 
 that a person with such a frightful name lived 
 here, they would insist on the house being insured 
 as doubly hazardous." Good! exclaimed I, 
 when she was gone, this would do for an essay 
 on prejudice. How readily do men imbibe no- 
 tions that they suffer to remain impressed upon 
 the mind, which a little serious examination 
 would inevitably have destroyed. How often 
 do they confound words and ideas, without con- 
 sideration, and form prejudices against mere 
 names, the meaning of which they do not under- 
 stand, or perhaps have scarcely thought of. 
 Strange, indeed, are the freaks of prejudice, and 
 dangerous as a blind man shooting poisoned ar- 
 rows. Few things are more easily introduced — 
 few things more difficult to be eradicated, and to 
 contend with its pertinacity is a work of no mean 
 labour and patience. I shall subjoin a very sen- 
 sible letter I have received on this very subject. 
 
 " I highly approve, Mr. Alchemist, of 
 your undertaking, and the principles on which it 
 is founded. But let me ask, if you have suf- 
 ficiently considered the difficulties you are likely 
 to encounter from prejudice. You, as a phi- 
 losopher, may be perfectly convinced of the prac- 
 ticability of finding good every where ; but if you 
 paid that deference to the prejudices of mankind 
 
213 
 
 which they invariably require, you would stand a 
 great chance of finding it no where. What is 
 there that is not under the ban of some party, or 
 the victim of some prejudice? and you will soon 
 perceive, that it is not the bad quality of your 
 materials that will be an obstacle in your way, 
 but the estimation in which those materials are 
 held — the predetermination that what you have 
 declared may be rendered of use, is radically 
 worthless and incorrigible. One man rejects 
 this — another man despises that — and he who 
 avows the idea of finding good in all things, will 
 be surprised to discover that he stands alone 
 against " a world in arms." 
 
 Yours, &c. 
 
 Amicus. 
 
 I thank my correspondent for his friendly 
 lines, though I do not partake of his fears. I 
 admit the power and influence of prejudices, and 
 it is my object to diminish them as much as pos- 
 sible by demonstrating to mankind, that what 
 their rash judgments have condemned altogether, 
 may, by a skilful process, be shown to contain 
 that which is useful and good. Nor do I ap- 
 prehend that I shall have the *' world in arms " 
 against me, for as I must have the coincidence 
 
214 
 
 of some on particular points, I hope so far to 
 gain their favour, as to obtain concessions on 
 others where we differ. I should far exceed my 
 limits were I to prosecute this idea now, but I 
 shall most probably resume it with the subject 
 of prejudices generally at another opportunity. 
 
 A. 
 
SCINTILLUL^E. 
 
 1817. 
 
 I was walking up Fleet Street one evening, 
 just after Napoleon's unexpected return to 
 France from Elba, ruminating on the extraor- 
 dinary events that had recently occurred in the 
 political world. " Confusion to the wretch!" 
 exclaimed I; " may the irresistible hand of the 
 Avenger be raised against the man, who thus 
 sets himself in opposition to the peace of the 
 world, and rends the hearts of thousands, to 
 elevate himself upon a pinnacle of straw ! " At 
 this moment, a crowd assembled before the door 
 of a public house attracted my attention ; I stop- 
 ped: — It was a dragoon taking leave of hi* 
 friends previous to his setting out for the con- 
 tinent : he was sitting on his horse, and drinking 
 his parting glass with a serene cheerfulness that 
 interested me, and determined me to witness the 
 end of the adventure. His steed was impatient 
 and restless, but he checked him with the mildness 
 
216 
 
 of good temper, as- one who felt that this moment 
 was not of an ordinary character — that it was a 
 time to be composed and considerate. He said 
 something to each of his companions, who pressed 
 round to greet him with a hearty shake of the 
 hand, and wishes for his welfare. A little boy 
 pushed forward to utter his simple salutation — 
 " Good bye, Tom."-—" Good bye— God bless 
 you ! " replied the soldier, with earnestness. The 
 expression and the manner pierced my very soul. 
 A chill came o'er me — I feel it now. He turned 
 his horse — galloped off, and in an instant he was 
 gone ! " Yes ! he was gone, and it might be 
 that he would never return ; — he was about to 
 plunge into a strife which concerned him not ; he 
 was going to risk his life — for what? — that a few 
 unfeeling mortals might enjoy a few more vani- 
 ties ; that one might tyrannise over his fellow- 
 men, and claim their confidence even from their 
 destruction ! In that same hour — for that same 
 purpose — how many partings rent the hearts of 
 those who could reap nothing from its results 
 but misery! how many eyes are filled with 
 tears — the wife for the husband — the father for 
 the child — the friend for the friend ! what waste 
 of affliction! — hearts broken for the heartless — . 
 tears for the tearless — sorrow for the senseless ! 
 
217 
 
 O ye reasoners ! O ye wise ! ye arguers of right 
 and wrong ! ye advocates of policy and glory ! 
 close up your tomes of sophistry and art ; turn to 
 the page of Nature ! Listen to the widow's and 
 to the orphan's cry ; behold the despair of age, 
 and the phrenzy of youth ; scan the black cata- 
 logue of ill that war hath framed — and then" — 
 
 My foot struck against a stone — 
 " Pshaw ! I wish that soldier had been in Bel- 
 gium." 
 
 Saint Omer is a large, irregular, antique town, 
 containing many remains of former grandeur and 
 importance. Entering by the Lille road, a fine 
 ruin presents itself to view — I believe it had 
 been the cathedral : and in winding through the 
 gloomy intricacies of the city, you behold several 
 towers and large buildings, either dilapidated or 
 grossly perverted from their original design — the 
 wretched effects of revolutionary fury ! It was 
 just twilight when we strolled through the de- 
 serted streets, where, but for the British troops 
 quartered in the town, we should scarcely have 
 met a passenger. In a retired part we found a 
 large church, uninjured, and here we were ar- 
 
 L 
 
218 
 
 rested by the sound of a bell — so sweet and so 
 melodious, so solemn and so impressive, that I 
 never can forget it. It tolled the hour of eight ; 
 it seemed like the knell of departed days — a lone 
 relic of the past in its solitary tower— a remem- 
 brancer of the former generation — a monitor of 
 the present ! It was an awful moment of reflec- 
 tion — a history— an oracle! No tale of well- 
 remembering old age — no moralist with all his 
 eloquence— no spirit from the grave could create 
 feelings more serious and more powerful than 
 those produced by the magic of that bell ; we 
 were alone — not a human being — not a sound 
 disturbed the silence. The barking of a dog at 
 length indicated the appearance of some one ; 
 an old woman emerged from a cottage, with 
 whom we entered into conversation ; she told us 
 of the ravages and atrocities of the revolution ; 
 of the numerous magnificent religious buildings 
 that had previously existed; deplored their ruin, 
 and the decay which appeared to extend its 
 withering influence every where. This I say— 
 ihis was a volume ; and when I would meditate 
 on mortal nothingness — on Time and on Eter- 
 nity — I think of the warning bell of Saint Omer. 
 
219 
 
 On our return from France, we occupied a spare 
 hour in taking a cursory survey of Dover. The 
 castle first claimed our attention. It is beauti- 
 fully situated on a steep eminence looking to- 
 wards the sea, and commands a most extensive 
 and charming prospect. The ascent to it is by 
 several flights of steps cut from the rock. At a 
 resting place, about half way up, we stopped to 
 gaze upon the delightful view that presented it- 
 self. We were suddenly surprised by the tinkling 
 of a small bell close to us ; looking round, we at 
 length perceived a bell placed on a post, where 
 also was a board with the inscription — " Pray 
 remember the poor Debtors." To this bell was 
 attached a rope, the other end of which commu- 
 nicated with a grated window of the castle above, 
 and through the bars was distinctly seen a hu- 
 man countenance — some unhappy being whom 
 misfortune had thus placed in a confinement 
 doubly horrible. We searched for some money, 
 but alas ! we had none; we had just landed, and 
 had not hitherto occasion for any,— here was a 
 disappointment. With what feelings of humiliation 
 did I descend the steps — conscious that the poor 
 prisoner was watching us — that he saw us return 
 without bestowing one farthing to alleviate the dis- 
 
220 
 
 tresses of imprisonment. He knew not we had no 
 money, — what could he think of us ? He — whose 
 cell adjoins the noisy street, where the bustle, 
 the occupation, and the converse of mankind 
 amuse his eye and ear: — he — who sees nought 
 but the dungeon walls and his jailor's unpitying 
 visage — both are happy compared with the pri- 
 soner of Dover Castle. He is wretched in the 
 midst of happiness ; pleasures invite him on every 
 side, but he cannot grasp them; the heavens 
 smiling above — the sea with all its gliding barks 
 — the busy town — the vale rich in its fertility, and 
 sprinkled with the humble cots of rustic happi- 
 ness — all these are daggers to his soul — they are 
 within his view, but enjoyment is not within his 
 reach. He is a captive in the very paradise of 
 liberty :— 
 
 " Lone as a solitary cloud — 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day — 
 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 
 Which hath no business to appear, 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is gay." 
 
 He sees the world, but the world sees not him ; 
 he hath no intercourse with men — his eyes see 
 them, but his ears hear them not — they " come 
 like shadows, so depart." Is not this torture — 
 
221 
 
 misery — barbarity ? What seek ye, creditors ? — 
 security alone, or biting demon-like revenge,— if 
 the last, here you may be gratified. 
 
 If there be a character which in my estimation 
 is peculiarly despicable, it is that of a clergyman 
 inattentive to moral propriety. I do not mean 
 vices which incur the censure of the law, and 
 cause expulsion from the sacred office, but those 
 deviations from a Christian deportment, which 
 however they may find palliatives in other cases, 
 in that of a teacher of religion and virtue admit 
 of no excuse. Whatever is lax in morals, in 
 sentiment, or decorum, becomes doubly pernici- 
 ous from such examples. Error is magnified — 
 folly is more contemptible, and vice more hi- 
 deous when springing from a source that ought 
 to be so pure. I have been told with compla- 
 cency, though I never heard without indignation, 
 of the puppyism of one clergyman — of the oaths 
 of another, and the revelry of a third — men whose 
 duty it is to denounce folly, blasphemy, and 
 drunkenness ! ! ! 
 
 I have no wish to deprive the ministers of 
 
222 
 
 religion of innocent amusements and cheerful- 
 ness, or to see them with their eyes and hands 
 continually uplifted to heaven, like the monu- 
 mental figures in Westminster Abbey, but I do 
 wish to see them preserve the dignity of their 
 character, by a discreet, sober deportment. To 
 linger on the margin of the gulph of sin, always 
 appears to me like an inclination to plunge in, 
 from which the party is only deterred by that 
 second-hand spectre, the opinion of the world, 
 and even that is sometimes deficient in effect. I 
 am shocked as I run over in my mind the cata- 
 logue of living clerical vagabonds — of revellers 
 — gamblers — and duellists ! ! ! such men must be 
 ignorant of the book it is their duty to expound, 
 or they are practical liars to themselves and to 
 God. 
 
A 
 
 COMPARATIVE VIEW 
 
 OP 
 
 BRITISH LITERATURE, 
 
 DURING 
 THE LAST HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS. 
 
A 
 COMPARATIVE VIEW 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH LITERATURE, 
 
 DURING 
 THE LAST HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS. 
 
 The epochs of literature, with their distinctive 
 features, have been commonly marked in so de- 
 cided a manner, and the operation of the causes 
 producing the change has been so obvious and 
 clear, that the revolutions of the literary world 
 have become as much matters of history as those 
 of empires ; and the inquirer has been enabled, 
 not only to assign the periods when particular 
 styles, tastes, and classes of study have arisen 
 and declined, but also to trace them to their 
 origin in those impressions on the human mind, 
 which give tone to the manners and character of an 
 age, whether arising from the ordinary progress 
 
 L5 
 
of intellectual improvement, or from causes more 
 artificial and temporary in their nature. At the 
 present time, literary history is cultivated to a 
 very considerable extent, though not more than 
 its importance deserves, deeply connected as it 
 is with the best interests of mankind — with the 
 foundations of morality and knowledge, and with 
 those hidden springs which are continually act- 
 ing upon the destinies, character, and condition 
 of nations, as well as upon the happiness and rela- 
 tions of individual men. To enlarge on the 
 reciprocal influence which literature and society 
 exercise upon each other, would exceed the de- 
 sign and limits of this Essay, which is intended 
 merely as an auxiliary contribution, to the in- 
 quiries that may be justly termed the philosophy 
 of literature; which regarding this last as one 
 of the mightiest engines of human happiness and 
 virtue, would contemplate its action and effects 
 in a comprehensive view of its powers and im- 
 portance. 
 
 In Great Britain, the eighteenth century was 
 distinguished beyond all its predecessors for the 
 number of men of learning it produced— for the 
 extent and variety of their labours, and for the 
 general diffusion of knowledge which was the 
 necessary consequence. Although few years have 
 
22r 
 
 elapsed since these men were living among us, 
 and enjoying the meridian of their reputation, it 
 is a remarkable fact, that the style and opinions 
 of the present age are as opposite to those of the 
 last, as if numerous generations had intervened. 
 So marked is the distinction, and so generally 
 understood, that we refer to the writings of the 
 " old school" and the "last age" without the 
 least chance of being misunderstood. The prin- 
 ciples that have wrought this change will afford 
 materials for much curious reflection, involving 
 the consideration of important revolutions in 
 manners, knowledge, and the constitution of 
 society. In taking a cursory view of this in- 
 teresting period, it is not intended to enter into 
 minute comparisons of particular schools or 
 authors, or to decide upon the individual pre- 
 tensions of living writers; but to survey the 
 prominent features of the several branches of 
 literature, and the alterations produced in them 
 by their governing causes. 
 
 The first school of British literature was that 
 founded in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, by 
 the genius of Bacon, Shakspeare, Spenser, Jon- 
 son, Buchanan, Sidney, and a series of illustrious 
 names, who enriched the land with some of the 
 earliest flowers of native growth, after the soil 
 
228 
 
 began to be cleared of the weeds of superstition 
 and ignorance, which had hitherto defied all at- 
 tempts at cultivation. The impulse given to the 
 minds of men by the reformation, was most ani- 
 mating and powerful: freed from the chains of 
 bigotry, the imagination bounded over the fields 
 of knowledge in the unrestrained pursuit of in- 
 tellectual pleasure. The confined and perverted 
 studies of the cloister decayed with the cloisters 
 themselves; a spirit of inquiry was diffused 
 among the people ; a love of poetiy and the arts 
 was conspicuous in the court; speculation and 
 adventure characterized the age ; ships sailed to 
 explore lands unknown, and while a new and 
 material world was laid open to the navigator's 
 view, another and an equally unexplored world 
 of mental wonders engaged the attention of the 
 philosopher and the poet. 
 
 The leading character of the compositions of 
 this period, is originality of idea and expression; 
 for in the absence of models, the writers were 
 compelled to draw on their own resources of ob- 
 servation and fancy. Hence we find in their 
 productions an abundance of imagery — a richness 
 of fancy, and what may be styled a lavish ex- 
 penditure of words, all denoting unexhausted 
 stores of mental wealth, and a free dispensing 
 
229 
 
 of it, by a genius uncramped in its operations by 
 poverty of materials, or dread of criticism. In 
 Shakspeare we have all these employed in the 
 noblest situations — in tracing the intricate mazes 
 of the human character — in sublime contempla- 
 tions — in fanciful descriptions of overflowing 
 richness — forming altogether a combination that 
 seemed to anticipate the refined philosophy of 
 succeeding ages, while presenting an epitome of 
 the genius, the originality, and the spirit of his 
 own. 
 
 Spenser, in the path which he has selected, 
 is still more luxuriant. His description, his al- 
 legory, and his verse, are cloying from over- 
 sweetness ; he seems to have lost himself in a 
 labyrinth of odoriferous plants, and to be intoxi- 
 cated with their perfume, scattering his treasures 
 with unsparing profusion, as if compelled to drain 
 the too abundant mine. The same spirit is dis- 
 cernible in the writings of the profound Bacon, 
 which display a similar fulness of thought and 
 extended reach of speculation, indicating a ma- 
 sterly survey of unexamined subjects and sublime 
 inquiries, to which many of the modern philoso- 
 phers are indebted for original ideas that they 
 have refined and improved. Another great cha- 
 racteristic of this school, is the strict attention to 
 
230 
 
 nature and genuine feeling manifested throughout 
 its writings. The refinements of art had then 
 little influence on manners or literature ; rules of 
 criticism and precedents of authority were, in a 
 great measure, unknown, so that a writer was 
 not diverted from his primary objects — the study 
 of truth, nature, and man. His ideas were just, 
 striking, and comprehensive, because he deline- 
 ated from Nature herself, and consequently his 
 expressions were strong, nervous, and appropri- 
 ate. The principal defect was the want of re- 
 finement; his phrases were homely but accurate — 
 the very ruggedness of which was an evidence of 
 their truth, and the image created in the mind 
 was never less vivid, because the phraseology 
 was plain. Of this a variety of instances could 
 be adduced from these writings, but it would be 
 a digression foreign to our purpose. The sim- 
 plicity of manners, and the romantic spirit that 
 prevailed, were naturally transferred to the lite- 
 rary compositions, which reflect the bland and 
 chivalrous disposition of the age, with a licence 
 of style and feeling incidental to a people just 
 emerged from barbarism and ignorance into in- 
 tellectual freedom and novelty of enjoyment. 
 
 In the violent and fanatical times of Charles 
 the First and Cromwell, this fine spirit neces- 
 
231 
 
 sarily sustained much injury, for not only was 
 the attention diverted from literary subjects by 
 the wars in which the whole nation shared, but 
 those who continued to write were employed in 
 promoting the views of party prejudice, and in 
 perverting reason and philosophy to answer tem- 
 porary and unworthy purposes. The nervous 
 and expressive style of composition, although 
 thus misapplied and impaired by the sophistry 
 of which it became the medium, was not, how- 
 ever, extinguished at once, but gradually frit- 
 tered away by these and succeeding causes, into 
 forced illustration and refined verbiage. Never- 
 theless, it is to this period that we owe the 
 sublime productions of Milton, whose extraordi- 
 nary genius, soaring above the trivialities and the 
 pinioned flutterings of his day, has bequeathed 
 us a work, of which any age or nation might be 
 proud, uniting in one composition sublimity of 
 thought and vigour of expression — magnificence 
 of design, loftiness of imagery, and refinement of 
 language, all blended together with the utmost 
 harmony and justness of poetical feeling. There 
 is, perhaps, no single work in our language com- 
 bining so many qualities, and in such perfection. 
 It is supported throughout by the same internal 
 fire which seems to animate and to breathe in 
 
232 
 
 every word, and without which, the poem, not- 
 withstanding its advantages of subject and no- 
 velty, would have been as languid and heavy as 
 the great mass of blank verse that succeeded it. 
 
 At the Restoration, the principal features of 
 taste in literature and the arts underwent a far- 
 ther change, from the introduction of French 
 models, manners, and opinions, — not effected 
 speedily, but silently sapping its way through the 
 foundations of taste and elegance, and cherished 
 by the subsequent prevalence of foreign style 
 and customs, until the system finally attained its 
 climax in the eighteenth century. The great 
 principle of this new style was an artificial re- 
 finement, anxiously employed in the selection of 
 words as the media of ideas, to which the ideas 
 themselves were strained to subserviency, and 
 were regarded as a secondary consideration. 
 The exquisite polish of a fine surface renders 
 the intrinsic value of the materials beneath a 
 matter of inferior importance, and thus was the 
 attention transferred from the substantial quali- 
 ties of composition, to those which were merely 
 decorative and auxiliary. Art was preferred to 
 nature ; the restraints of arbitrary rule to the free 
 aspirations of genius ; verbal conceits to profound 
 thought; the wit of rhyme to the abstraction of 
 
233 
 
 poetry. Nor were any of the arts exempt from 
 the influence of this corrupt taste. Architecture 
 was degraded by the introduction of a barbarous 
 style, whose only characteristics were massive 
 ugliness, and the total want of all symmetry. 
 The beautiful forms of Greece, and the simple 
 grandeur of the Gothic structures were discarded 
 for the cumbrous and misshapen edifices of 
 France and Holland; the natural and elegant 
 gave way to the formal and artificial; the strik- 
 ing and magnificent to the ponderous and mean. 
 Nature herself was too " wild in her attire" for 
 the reformers of beauty ; they clothed her in the 
 absurd costume of art ; parcelling out the face 
 of the soil and its productions with mathematical 
 precision, and labouring to regulate the vegetable 
 world by the laws of angular construction. This 
 system was too ridiculous even for the notions of 
 those times, and drew down the satire and re- 
 probation of the wits whose ideas were not quite 
 reduced to the level of these despoilers of nature. 
 Pope, however, when ridiculing the prevailing 
 folly in his celebrated epistle to the Earl of Bur- 
 lington, does not seem to have been conscious 
 that his own verses were liable to the same im- 
 putation of bad taste. The costume of the day 
 was of a similar character— unwieldy and incon- 
 
234 
 
 venient in itself, and destroying all symmetry of 
 form; while its influence was so general and 
 arbitrary, that it was continually introduced into 
 the arts, producing the greatest incongruities in 
 dramatic exhibitions, sculpture, and painting, 
 where it was suffered to exclude all harmony of 
 effect, and to deface the impressions which the 
 design was intended to create. Such a general 
 perversion of taste in the arts, could not occur 
 without a corresponding degeneracy in the style 
 and subjects of literary composition, and in this 
 instance, the evil influence was but too evident 
 throughout. We find it in the laboured writing — 
 the mechanical reasoning — the languid enthu- 
 siasm, and absence of genuine and elevated feel- 
 ing which mark the productions of this period, 
 arising sometimes from the meretricious style in 
 which they were composed, and sometimes from 
 the incapacity of the subjects to call forth the 
 nobler powers of genius and reason. This will 
 be more clearly illustrated when we advert to 
 the different branches of literature in detail. It 
 may appear singular that such a censure should 
 be bestowed on an age adorned by the fame of 
 Locke, Addison, Pope, Thomson, Bentley, Bo- 
 lingbroke, Swift, and many more whose names 
 are regarded with admiration and respect, as the 
 
235 
 
 classics of our country; but be it remembered 
 that in condemning the spirit that pervades the 
 mass, we do not include what is really excellent, 
 or from its nature exempt from the influence we 
 deprecate. Locke was great, because his sub- 
 jects were beyond the reach of ordinary and 
 conventional impressions. Addison was elegant, 
 because, in labouring to improve the morals, and 
 to refine the taste and manners of his age, he had 
 to inculcate by example, and to persuade by gen- 
 tleness and grace. The follies he chastised were 
 those of fashionable society — the business of life 
 was his theme, and as far as the limits of his 
 path would allow, did his excellence extend. The 
 same observations will apply to Pope, though in 
 a less degree, being qualified by the circumstance 
 that he was much more under the influence of 
 artificial habits than Addison. These are also 
 more visible in verse than elsewhere; besides 
 that the personal character of Pope was of a 
 similar cast, and contained little of true feeling 
 and unsophisticated nature. None of these 
 writers were free from the faults of their era, 
 which are more or less conspicuous in all their 
 contemporaries, although the learning, the ge- 
 nius, and the general ability which they exhibited 
 within the bound of those principles and habits, 
 
Z36 
 
 which were laws to them, and were sanctioned 
 by the world, were amply sufficient to procure 
 a lasting reputation for themselves, and an ho- 
 nourable pre-eminence for their country. 
 
 The establishment of this school of writers 
 was the effect of society upon literature; the 
 succeeding age furnishes us with a mighty re- 
 action of literature upon society. The progress 
 of metaphysical researches, and the corrupt state 
 of taste, manners, and opinions, had given rise 
 to a new class of philosophers in Prance, who 
 took advantage of the general apathy and de- 
 generacy, to strike at the foundations of religion, 
 morals, and old associations, and to propagate 
 the most dangerous doctrines of a nature diame- 
 trically opposite to these. The French were then 
 in the lowest condition of intellectual and poli- 
 tical slavery, and these men, by giving them im- 
 pulses to which they were unaccustomed, and 
 speculations which gratified their craving for 
 novelty, by opening paths of inquiry of which 
 the intricacy alone was a temptation to enter, 
 and by administering to their national weak- 
 nesses, filled their minds with a poison that 
 changed the constitution of society, and led to 
 the tremendous revolution that subsequently agi- 
 tated the whole of Europe. In subverting the 
 
237 
 
 established principles of religion, philosophy, and 
 government, all minor shrines shared in the de- 
 struction : but although much harm may have 
 been done to society, from the free circulation of 
 irreligion and sophistry, which could only be 
 supported by the perversion of reason, and the 
 substitution of false conclusions of argument, and 
 glossed deception for truth ; yet we cannot deny 
 that from all this evil considerable good has been 
 extracted. The mere necessity of defending the 
 altar and the throne, aroused a zealous and ani- 
 mating spirit (most conspicuous in Britain) that 
 rendered essential service to literature, as well as 
 to religion and sound principle. To this we owe 
 the chief writings of a Watson, a Horsley, and 
 a Burke — all distinguished for strength of rea- 
 soning and elegance of style. But in a more 
 comprehensive view of the subject, we shall dis- 
 cover incalculable benefits resulting from the new 
 opinions themselves, after the ore had been puri- 
 fied from the dross, which had converted what 
 was really valuable into a deadly poison. We 
 shall perceive the influence of enlarged ideas in 
 its operation on the choice of study and of mo- 
 dels—in the abolition of the confined philosophy 
 of the schools — in emancipation from arbitrary 
 rules of taste and criticism— in the restoration of 
 
238 
 
 poetry to its merited rank — and in the triumph 
 of genius, imagination, and feeliDg, over affecta- 
 tion, empty trifling, and unmeaning verbiage. 
 Wearied by a system that possessed no substan- 
 tial qualities or intrinsic value to recommend it, 
 and which had been farther deteriorated by the 
 crowd of literary empirics that had practised it, 
 the aspirants of a more auspicious age gladly 
 seized on any subject for the exercise of their 
 talents, more congenial to their enthusiasm and 
 understandings than those which had employed 
 their predecessors. The chains which had bound 
 their minds being once broken, they pressed for- 
 ward with all the ardour of enterprize to the 
 untried shores which were opened to their view ; 
 and however the particular courses of individuals 
 may have excited a conflict of critical opinions, 
 it is certain that to the spirit of the times we are 
 indebted for an extent of speculation, a libe- 
 rality of thinking, that had not before been wit- 
 nessed. 
 
 Of all the branches of literature affected by 
 the change, poetry and those compositions more 
 peculiarly dependant on the imaginative faculties 
 of the mind have received the most sensible im- 
 pression, and have exhibited an alteration of cha- 
 racter, the more surprising when it is considered 
 
239 - 
 
 how few years have passed away since the im- 
 pulses that produced it were first set in motion. 
 
 The subjects of poetry in the early ages were 
 of that exalted kind most fitting for the exercise 
 of the noble powers it called forth. The actions 
 of immortals and heroes — situations of grandeur 
 and deep impressiveness — the varieties of the 
 active and moral sublime — the operations of Na- 
 ture, and the beauty of her aspect, kindled the 
 imagination of the poet, and gave to his themes 
 and language a character of elevation that seem- 
 ed to command the world, and not to mingle in 
 its petty cares and frivolities of speech and ac- 
 tion. This was the proper end and employment 
 of poetry ; and if the age of our own Elizabeth, 
 from difference of customs and speculative opi- 
 nions, was inferior in sublimity, it was at least 
 equally conspicuous for the unchecked range of 
 originality and genius. Under Charles the Se- 
 cond, by the aid of licentious manners and French 
 refinement, verse sunk into the mere vehicle of 
 the frivolities of life — of common-place, and af- 
 fected sentiments — of courtly wit — of odious 
 profligacy, and contemptible trifling. The sub- 
 ject and the versification — the topics and the 
 language were suited to each other. Degraded 
 as were the former, the last was not less so by 
 
240 
 
 rules of art, and the custom of moulding brief 
 periods and straining them into rhyme. It is 
 singular also, that what was commenced by the 
 frivolity of one age, should be continued by the 
 dulness of another. It is true, that in the suc- 
 ceeding reigns morals were improved, and so far 
 poetry assumed a purer character, but the faults 
 of style remained the same. Pope has been 
 called the poet of society, and the term might be 
 applied with equal truth to the great mass of his 
 contemporaries. Their talents were employed in 
 illustrating or ridiculing the manners of the day — 
 in commemorating circumstances of temporary 
 interest — in satires, epigrams, dialogues, and fa- 
 miliar epistles — in exchanging flatteries or abuse, 
 and in, clothing the natural feelings of the human 
 heart with as much affectation and artificial orna- 
 ment, as their persons were encumbered with 
 ungraceful vestments and awkward finery. From 
 this range, sublimity, imagination, and nature 
 were excluded, and wit, precision of construc- 
 tion, and polished verse usurped their place, as 
 the grand disiderata of composition. One of the 
 finest exceptions to the system is Thomson's 
 " Seasons," where the genius of the poet, unfet- 
 tered by rhyme, and by unworthy topics, expands 
 boldly into contemplations on the grandeur of 
 
241 
 
 nature — on beautiful scenery — on amiable sym- 
 pathies — and on the mind, feelings, and condition 
 of man. Although, unquestionably tinctured with 
 the prevailing errors, it is, altogether, an effort 
 beyond the standard of his time. The philoso- 
 phic poem of Young deserves a share of this 
 commendation, but in a less degree, as its vigour 
 is unequally supported, and its length occasions 
 a tediousness that the subject will not bear. 
 Pope's " Essay on Man" suffers much from the 
 rhyme; the theme is too great to be versified; 
 and to intersperse epigrammatic wit, as in an 
 epilogue, is the very climax of bad taste. 
 
 Happily for the display of genius, and the 
 value of literature, the poets of the present day 
 are differently occupied. Forming a more just 
 estimate of the power and dignity of their science, 
 they are engaged in shadowing out sublime con- 
 ceptions, and brilliant imaginations of things 
 beyond the scope of ordinary observation — in 
 descriptions of awful grandeur and luxuriant 
 beauty — in deep inquiries concerning human ac- 
 tions, character, and passions — in exhibiting the 
 emotions of the heart — in calling forth the ge- 
 nerous sympathies of our nature, and removing 
 us from the influence of every-day impressions, 
 by tales of tragic woe, and pathos, and romance. 
 
 M 
 
242 
 
 In this last is contained one of the greatest pur-' 
 poses of poetry. We require to be relieved from 
 the business and the perplexities of life — from the 
 dulness of ordinary occupation, or the fatigue of 
 laborious study — and from the tendency which 
 all these have to blunt the finer feelings of the 
 soul, and to render it insensible to the most de- 
 lightful intellectual pleasures. This relief we 
 find in compositions that carry the mind out of 
 the sphere of these depressing agents, and which 
 teach us purer and more elevated feelings, while 
 they delight us by situations of novel interest, 
 of romantic character, of moral, or of natural 
 beauty. It is in vain that we shall seek for these 
 qualifications in works where the subject is allied 
 to the very impressions we would escape from — > 
 where the sentiments and the fiction lose their 
 interest from their entire artificialness, and where 
 the language in which they are conveyed is mere 
 measured prose, destitute of the fire and anima- 
 tion which can alone engage and satisfy the mind. 
 To the excellent qualities already mentioned, the 
 modern poets have added a strength and dignity 
 of verse, and a commanding force of expression, 
 corresponding with the character of the design, 
 and imparting a glowing vivacity to their concep- 
 tions. Instead of verses " dragging their slow 
 
243 
 
 length along" beneath the dead weight of com- 
 mon-place sentiments and spiritless phrases, we 
 have lines that breathe the fire of the thought 
 within, heightening the effect of the ideas by their 
 splendour, and, dazzling as burnished gold, re- 
 flecting the light of the sun. To illustrate this, 
 compare the narratives of Dry den and Lord 
 Byron — the lagging carelessness and prosing 
 dulness of the former, with the bounding spirit, 
 the continuing force, and the expressive terseness 
 of the latter. The one appears to be performing 
 a disgusting task, the other to be enjoying a high 
 and congenial pleasure. There are hundreds of 
 lines in Dryden that would disgrace a school- 
 boy ; and a great portion of the verse of his age 
 is characterised by the same inattention and 
 weakness, as if the primary object had been the 
 acquisition of a rhyme at the end, for the sake 
 of which, the strength and beauty of diction were 
 neglected. We are now also no longer fatigued 
 by the monotonous recurrence of hexameters on 
 all occasions, whether grave or gay, important 
 or otherwise ; the modern poets having generally 
 adapted their metre to the subject, and intro- 
 duced a most agreeable and effective variety of 
 verse. The greatest metrical change formerly 
 was in the composition of the ode, which often, 
 
244 
 
 however, dragging through its forms of epode^ 
 strophe, and antistrophe, was still artificial and 
 restrained. It was not, what it assumed to be, 
 an aspiration of powerful feeling that spurned the 
 rules and modes of art; it was a formal mockery, 
 and only another variety of compliance with a 
 degraded taste. The productions of that time 
 most conspicuous for freedom and nature are the 
 odes of Gray and Collins, who, rejecting the 
 slavish customs that deprived the ode of its pro- 
 per rank and elegance, gave it a simplicity — a 
 natural character and effect, which exhibited its 
 inherent powers and value. 
 
 There is an important difference in the habits 
 of the poets of the two periods, which unquestion- 
 ably produces a great effect on their writings. 
 Those of the former were chiefly resident in the 
 capital — familiar with each other, and moving in 
 the circle of the court. Dryden, Addison, Pope, 
 Swift, Gay, Prior, and many others, were inti- 
 mately connected with the nobility and persons 
 in high official situations, which circumstance 
 had a necessary tendency to confine their sub- 
 jects to such as were most interesting to the 
 fashionable world, and best harmonized with its 
 pursuits, — as the topics of the day — wit — satire, 
 and illustrations of society. Among other con- 
 
245 
 
 sequences resulting from this we may trace the 
 prevalence of satire, the more exalted kind of 
 which has now nearly disappeared, but for which 
 the habits and style of the past age were pecu- 
 liarly adapted, — and of this ample proofs may be 
 found in the writings of Pope, Swift, Dryden, 
 and Young. Another evidence of the character 
 of the period is the superiority of its comedy over 
 its tragedy. Almost all the tragedies were fai- 
 lures. Tedious declamation and empty bombast 
 supplied the place of natural force and dramatic 
 effect. Genuine pathos and the fire of passion 
 seemed to be unknown, and were wretchedly 
 represented by affectation and rant. On the 
 other hand, comedy was generally cultivated, 
 understood, and admired. Its subject was within 
 the range of the prevailing taste — its business 
 was to transfer the manners of society to the 
 stage, to sanction by imitation, or condemn by 
 ridicule. To achieve this presented no difficulty, 
 and the success was proportionate to the facility. 
 The models of characters were continually before 
 the writers — they lived among them — partook of 
 their gaieties, and too often mingled in while they 
 satirized their vices. Nothing was wanting but 
 refinement : the licentiousness of Charles's reign 
 still adhered to the stage, and disfigured its pro- 
 
246 
 
 ductions; but when Sheridan afterwards com- 
 bined the gaiety, vivacity, and polished ease, but 
 excluded the profligacy of the style, he arrived 
 at the perfection of English comedy. In the 
 present day, from the operation of causes already 
 mentioned, the balance is reversed — the taste for 
 comedy is on the decline; and although the 
 triumph of tragedy is rather a subject of antici- 
 pation than actual attainment, yet the spirit and 
 disposition of the times are strongly in favour of 
 its improvement and success. These social 
 habits have also been instrumental in handing 
 down to us the names of many who are suffered 
 to degrade our collections of poetry, but who 
 never would have maintained their places by the 
 side of Milton, Thomson, and Pope, if they had 
 not been familiar with men whose friendship 
 gave a currency to their writings, and conferred 
 upon them a distinction which otherwise they 
 would never have acquired. The poets of our 
 own time, generally speaking, are engaged in 
 pursuits of a directly opposite nature. Some are 
 dwelling in beautiful retreats, far from the bustle 
 and influence of courts and cities, companioned 
 only by their own imaginations and the scenery 
 which inspires them — others are travelling in 
 foreign lands, enriching their minds with the re- 
 
247 
 
 collections of classic days, or with the luxuriance 
 of Oriental imagery, while very few are either 
 courtiers, or inclosed in the vortex of fashionable 
 society. Thus their compositions chiefly indicate 
 habits of retirement and contemplation, relating 
 to the varieties of nature, or to situations of dra- 
 matic interest, accompanied by the charms of 
 description, and by imagination combining the 
 attractions of romantic sentiments and romantic 
 scenery. 
 
 In narrative poetry an entire change has taken 
 place ; and the epic, which has been pronounced 
 by critics to be the noblest species of verse, has 
 fallen into disuse, and been succeeded by what 
 is usually termed romantic poetry, from its cha- 
 racter of unrestrained fiction. The main differ- 
 ence between the two is, that the former is a 
 narrative of some great action, detailed with art 
 and regularity to illustrate some important moral 
 truth, constructed and governed by generally 
 accepted rules — involving a variety of circum- 
 stances, characters, and passions— and from its 
 nature and dignity, of considerable length and 
 complexity, — while the romantic poem, less 
 aspiring in its object, is more unrestrained in its 
 execution, and possesses the advantage of call- 
 ing in to its aid all the powers that poetry enjoys. 
 
248 
 
 The imagination of the poet is free to digress 
 and diversify at pleasure — to enliven by changes 
 of metre, and to interest by various traits of pa- 
 thos, sentiment, and fancy, which charm the 
 reader, and arouse his feelings in a manner that 
 the severe grandeur of the epic entirely forbids. 
 The translations of the sublime poems of Homer 
 and Virgil, by Pope and Dryden, materially con- 
 tributed to inspire a taste for epic poetry; but 
 the critical laws by which it is controlled, not 
 only render it difficult of execution, whereby 
 mechanical contrivance comes to be substituted 
 for genius, but also artificial in its character, 
 giving it a cold elevation of action and senti- 
 ment, too far removed from the feelings of man, 
 and exciting no continuing interest in the mind. 
 It was not to be expected that a style of com- 
 position so opposed to the regenerated temper of 
 the times should maintain its reputation, and in 
 the success of romantic poetry that temper is 
 most clearly indicated. Stories of ancient times, 
 and deeds of chivalry — all the shades of passion, 
 from the gentlest to the most intense — tales of 
 love, of sorrow, and of awe — powerful delinea- 
 tions of individual character, and minute details 
 of auxiliary circumstances, form the subjects and 
 the characteristics of modern narrative poetry. 
 
249 
 
 By these have Byron, Scott, Moore, and Camp- 
 bell acquired a celebrity to which they were 
 justly entitled; not only for what is excellent in 
 their several performances, but as masters of a 
 style that has given birth to a new and bright 
 era in British literature — communicated a fresh 
 impulse and enlarged sphere to genius, and re- 
 fined the taste and the sentiments of the people. 
 Every pursuit will have its extreme : in the pre- 
 ceding age, verse sunk into mere art and affecta- 
 tion; in the present, it has often plunged into 
 extravagance ; but in an enlightened period, this 
 error cannot be of long duration, and the good 
 taste of the public has already done much to- 
 wards its correction. Among other consquences 
 resulting from the popularity of romantic poetry, 
 the introduction of the fanciful style in architec- 
 ture and landscape — gardening is not the least 
 obvious. Castles and abbies — Gothic towers 
 and Eastern minarets rise around us — an unpro- 
 mising landscape is forced into the picturesque — 
 and rocks, glens, and cataracts appear as so 
 many records of the spirit that seeks to identify 
 itself with the associations of wild sublimity, 
 mountain liberty, and the primitive simplicity of 
 nature. Immediately connected with this class 
 of poetry, are those works of fiction usually 
 
 M 5 
 
250 
 
 designated as novels and romances. In the 
 former branch, the change has kept pace with 
 the improving character of the age, and although 
 it may have been degraded by the multiplicity of 
 pretenders who have deluged the world with 
 baneful trash, and contemptible absurdities that 
 deserve no rank in literature, yet those which 
 have emanated from writers of acknowledged 
 talent have exhibited as many marks of genius 
 and refined taste, as any other species of com- 
 position. Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett, 
 were all men of undoubted ability, and faithful 
 copyists of human nature, but their copies were 
 made after bad originals ; vice was often depicted 
 with too much vivacity, and virtue with fatiguing 
 dulness. Their wit and humour were admirable 
 in their way, but they were in the corrupt taste 
 of the time ; and that has now given place to 
 higher and less equivocal qualities. Our con- 
 temporary novelists, taking a wider scope, have 
 called in to their assistance, history, poetry, and 
 imagination ; they have illustrated detached and 
 obscure portions of history ; they have combined 
 the charms of animated description with the de- 
 velopment of plot and character ; they have deli- 
 neated national manners and local scenery, and by 
 all these they have better adapted the illusions of 
 
251 
 
 fiction for the purpose of conveying useful truths 
 and moral instruction. The peculiar features of 
 the historic novel and the romance, are the cre- 
 ation of our own age ; and the most skilfully con- 
 ducted of these have not only given a variety 
 and interest to the stores of fiction, but have 
 elicited much valuable information, and by their 
 fascinating form, have left a more distinct im- 
 pression of facts and sentiments on the mind than 
 would have been obtained from works of a less 
 attractive character. The avidity for mere horror 
 was a temporary extravagance, that has now 
 greatly subsided, and of which there is little 
 danger of revival. This species of writing also 
 deserves our favourable notice, as having elicited 
 and encouraged female talent to a very consider- 
 able extent, by which, not only has the world 
 been benefited and delighted with the Works of 
 an Edgeworth, a Burney, a Radcliffe, a Hamil- 
 ton, and a Porter, but these writers, and many 
 more of various degrees of excellence, have 
 gained a reputation and support, which in other 
 branches of literature they could not have ex- 
 pected to find. 
 
 While comparing the lighter works of the two 
 eras, a striking circumstance appears respecting 
 the poetry and fiction generally of the former, 
 
252 
 
 viz. that in all effusions relating to the passions — 
 to love, sympathy, and pathos — wherever real 
 and unsophisticated feeling is to be expressed — 
 there is a palpable deficiency supplied only by 
 affectation, strained metaphors, and phrases in- 
 animate and artificial. The poetry of love was 
 represented by the affected sighings of Delias 
 and Strephons, calculated only to degrade a sub- 
 ject, favoured by the genius of all ages, and 
 which possesses within itself the greatest meta- 
 physical power over the imagination, but which 
 French apathy and heartless frivolity had suc- 
 ceeded in bringing into contempt and ridicule. 
 It is almost impossible that the authors of the 
 amatory nonsense so abundant in the last century 
 could have cherished any idea of genuine emo- 
 tions and natural pathos, or at all understood the 
 philosophy of the human heart — and there are 
 but few compositions that claim exemption from 
 the censure. Shaw's Monody on the Death of 
 his Wife is one of the most celebrated of these ; 
 and knowing that his actual feelings at the time 
 were most acute, we are enabled to appreciate 
 and to distinguish his language from that of the 
 polished mockeries of the age. The silly trifling 
 of the Delia Cruscan school may be considered 
 as the expiring struggle of the race, since which 
 
253 
 
 the unfettered genius and unaffected fervour of a 
 Moore, a Byron, and a Scott, have restored the 
 gentler passions to their proper rank, and united 
 intensity of thought and warmth of feeling, with 
 strength, beauty, and dignity of expression. 
 
 Leaving now the consideration of works of 
 genius and imagination, let us advert to the pro- 
 gress of the other classes of literature, which, as 
 connected with learning, reason, and method, are 
 governed by different principles, and are less de- 
 pendant on common causes than compositions of 
 the order we have as yet discussed. That they 
 also have shared in the revolutions of the time, 
 and received the stamp of liberal opinions, with 
 an emancipation from prejudices of style and 
 reasoning, is unquestionable ; but generally the 
 effects have been more variable, and the im- 
 provement more equivocal. 
 
 The most obvious distinction between the 
 writings of the old and new school is, the altered 
 mode of reasoning adopted in the latter, and 
 visible alike in works of history, philosophy, 
 morals, and criticism. 
 
 In the former period, the principles and spirit 
 of the Aristotelian logic were mostly adhered to 
 by writers on these subjects — the characteristic 
 effects of which are, closeness of reasoning, an 
 
254 
 
 unwearied research into the truth of every part 
 of a proposition, and a methodical arrangement 
 of ideas and terms, usually divested of extrane- 
 ous ornament, but clear, convincing, and precise. 
 This will be best illustrated by reference to 
 Locke and Tillotson, where the reader will find 
 every subject of inquiry arranged with logical 
 precision, examined with the most searching 
 minuteness, and its deductions proved with such 
 earnestness and care, that the mind becomes, at 
 length, saturated with proofs, and fatigued by the 
 labour of the argument. The change that sub- 
 sequently took place in men's minds, and the 
 constitution of society, weakened this attachment 
 to the method of the schools; and the meta- 
 physical writers having found that it actually cir- 
 cumscribed their inquiries — that the phenomena 
 of the human mind could not be organized by 
 arbitrary rule and system, it fell into disrepute, 
 and gave place to a freer and more attractive 
 mode of argument — more adapted for illustration 
 and persuasion, and presenting greater facilities 
 both to the writer and the reader. Nevertheless, 
 in discarding the fetters and jargon of the Aristo- 
 telian logic, we have sacrificed much of its pre- 
 cision ; for at the same time was introduced a 
 love of ornament — a disposition to embellish — to 
 
255 
 
 please — to surprise, and to summon imagination to 
 the support of reasoning, from the abuse of which 
 it is very difficult to guard. This has been im- 
 properly indulged in by our modern philosophers 
 and critics, who prefer brilliancy, antithesis, and 
 point, to patient deduction, and satisfactory con- 
 clusions derived from convincing argument. They 
 are anxious to astonish rather than to convince — 
 to confound where they cannot prove, and to 
 dazzle where they cannot satisfy the understand- 
 ing. Thus we may designate their writings as 
 bold and free, but not accurate — ingenious, but 
 not solid — brilliant, but not profound. This style 
 is convenient for the purposes of sophistry, espe- 
 cially that which is intended to operate generally ; 
 and when we reflect what a mass of moral and 
 political error was poured out during the French 
 revolution, and how much was required to advo- 
 cate its cause, it will not appear surprising that 
 this kind of composition should have become 
 popular, and that from its pleasing character, it 
 should have superseded what was dry and se- 
 vere, though substantial and just. 
 
 For historical composition, the last age was 
 eminently distinguished, whether we refer to the 
 style, the research, or the magnitude of the sub- 
 ject involved; of which the names of Hume, 
 
256 
 
 Gibbon, Robertson, and Henry, are sufficient 
 testimonials, besides whom, many more might be 
 adduced as examples of patient investigation and 
 perspicuous detail. That there are fewer works of 
 this kind now published, is rather the consequence 
 of preceding efforts, than of neglect of study or 
 deterioration of talent ; but in these, it may be 
 observed that there is less attention paid to style 
 than formerly, the historian being more interested 
 in arranging facts and authorities than in polish- 
 ing his language. Much of this arises also from 
 a pernicious eagerness to publish, from which 
 cause, materials are put together in a loose and 
 hasty manner, and works are published in a few 
 months, that in former times required the labour 
 of years. There is yet a vast mine of Oriental 
 history unexplored by the learned of our country. 
 In this pursuit the French have hitherto kept the 
 advantage; but there are noble exceptions and 
 examples presented by Sir William Jones, and 
 by Sir John Malcolm in his admirable History of 
 Persia, which for learning, comprehensiveness, 
 and elegance, merits the warmest praise. 
 
 One species of writing extremely successful 
 in the last century, from the talents of those who 
 practised it — the periodical moral essay — is now 
 lost to us. There are, perhaps, no compositions 
 
257 
 
 of that period more generally useful, or more un« 
 exceptionable in point of taste and style, than 
 these Essays; distinguishing particularly, the 
 Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, Rambler, and Citi- 
 zen of the World. To have enjoyed regularly 
 the free thoughts and interesting speculations of 
 an Addison, a Johnson, a Steele, and a Gold- 
 smith, was a valuable privilege, and it is much 
 to be regretted that their places are not now sup- 
 plied. This is, in a great degree, owing to the 
 circumstances of the times, which present no en- 
 couragement for a man of literary eminence to 
 apply his talents in this direction. Another rea- 
 son is, that as an object of public interest, the 
 science of morals has yielded to metaphysics. 
 The popularity of the former was destroyed by 
 the crowd of pretenders who, affecting to imitate 
 the excellent writings just mentioned, fatigued 
 their readers, and exhausted their partiality for 
 the subject. At the same time, the philosophy 
 of the human mind was liberating itself from the 
 mystic obscurities and jargon of the schools, and 
 came recommended to our notice by the elegant 
 perspicuity of Reid, Stewart, and Home. The 
 prevalence of this study has undoubtedly given 
 a tone and character to the literature of the age, 
 the metaphysical tendency of which is rather too 
 
25S 
 
 great and obvious. Metaphysics should be in 
 the substance, not upon the surface; and they 
 are frequently too visible in our poetry, our criti- 
 cism, and our abstract disquisitions. 
 
 From these remarks we are led to consider the 
 general effects of periodical literature, which so 
 powerfully operates upon the character and know- 
 ledge of the present time. It is more than pro- 
 bable, that to this may be traced many of the 
 peculiarities of our literary tastes and pursuits. 
 That the multiplicity of periodical journals occa- 
 sions certain great advantages and evils, is un- 
 questionable. To the community at large they 
 are the means of diffusing information on all 
 subjects, and on this point their utility is un- 
 equivocal. The liberty of the press, and the 
 increasing desire of knowledge, gave them a 
 circulation that carries literature into every cor- 
 ner of the empire, and is constantly tending to 
 equalise the intellectual distinctions of the peo- 
 ple. They are also nursaries for unpatronised 
 genius, and a medium for exchanging the indi- 
 vidual acquirements of the learned. .But on the 
 other hand, they often paralyze the efforts of an 
 author, by anticipating and injuring his subject. 
 Thus a man is deterred from prosecuting a work 
 of considerable length and labour, because, as 
 
259 
 
 in some instances, the information is condensed 
 in a Cyclopaedia; or, as in others, because it 
 has already been discussed in a variety of jour- 
 nals, with a rapidity that renders his single exer- 
 tions useless and vain. A writer must be very 
 certain, either that his own reputation or the 
 nature of the subject he chooses will place him 
 beyond the danger of anticipation, before he will 
 venture upon a work of magnitude ; and from this 
 arises that avidity of publication, with its atten- 
 dant evils, which is so injurious to real excellence. 
 Political writing is now chiefly confined to the 
 journals, whence the essays are necessarily crude 
 and hasty from want of time and reflection. Few 
 men possess the extraordinary powers and as- 
 siduity of Junius, and still fewer would devote 
 their talents where they are sure of being ill- 
 requited. The same observation will apply to 
 literary journals, where men of eminence are 
 reluctant to appear, because they may be de- 
 graded by the contiguity of some senseless trash, 
 and because they are conscious that their labours 
 are depreciated by their situation. Still it will be 
 obvious, that the ill-effects of periodical literature 
 are of little importance compared with the gene- 
 rally diffused good that it produces, as also that 
 the evil influence operates only upon works of 
 
260 
 
 reflection and research. Those of imagination 
 are out of its sphere ; and in briefly recapitulating 
 the positions advanced on the character of the 
 age, we may pronounce, without fear of contra- 
 diction, that it is one in which genius and imagi- 
 nation are most predominant, most popular, and 
 most triumphant, whether as regards their ex- 
 ternal success, or their internal purity. The 
 corrupt taste that preferred words to ideas, re- 
 finement to sublimity, and art to nature, is no 
 more. Of compositions of reasoning and study, 
 our ancestors may have grasped the subjects, 
 and hewn out the foundations of our knowledge — 
 their works may have been more laborious, their 
 reasoning more precise, — but it was reserved for 
 our time to make that knowledge of general uti- 
 lity, and to dispense it freed from error, preju- 
 dice, and obscurity. They may have collected 
 the ingots, but it is we who have broken them into 
 pieces, and with them enriched the world. 
 
 London, December 14, 18 J 8. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 T. Miller, Printer, Noble Street, g **4 £•" 
 
 Cheapside, London. 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: May 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
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