Class. tKoi£ Book . E g & 3 ? xy A *' ENGLISH PROSE, BEING EXTRACTS FROM THE WORKS OF ENGLISH PROSE WRITERS, WITH NOTES OF THEIR LIVES. f Books give the same turn to our thoughts and way of reasoning, that good and ill company do to our behaviour and conversation ; without either loading our memories, or making us even sensible of the change.— Swift. LONDON: V JAMES MOORE, 4 CARTHUSIAN STREET, CHARTERHOUSE SQUARE. 1844. H A* &\i PRINTED BY RICHARD AND JOHN E. TAYLOR, RED LION COURT, FLEET STRKKT. PREFACE. t iF Swift's maxim taken for the motto of this volume be true, — if , ' books do give the same turn to our thoughts and way of reasoning, that good and ill company do to our behaviour and conversation," — , perhaps the bulk of modern books for children, — and, most of all, those which are written with a deliberate affectation of childishness, in what is called the language of the nursery, — may give no better turn to their thoughts and way of reasoning, than would be given to their behaviour and conversation, if people were purposely to put on before them the behaviour and conversation of the kitchen or the stable. It is unlikely that minds which have chiefly fed upon, and have learned to relish the silly, false, affected trash with which the new books for the young teem, will preserve a just taste for what is manly, and real, and beautiful. At any rate it seems well that the best models of thought and ex- pression should be among those which are before us at the time when we are most prone to imitate. English children do learn something of the great writers of Greece and Rome, and of the great poets of Eng- land, but they often, and perhaps mostly, finish what is called their education, scarcely knowing even the names of many of the great PREFACE. writers of English prose. The design of this book is to give that knowledge and some slight acquaintance with the works of those writers. It may not be found amusing by young persons whose reading has been limited to what are called books for the young, but by those who have also known better things, some even of the graver parts may perhaps be liked; indeed, the first thought of the work came from seeing that a little girl, nine years old, read with pleasure the passage of Isaak Walton's Complete Angler, which is placed under the title of Morals and Religion. And if the collection should not find favour with the young, for whose sake it was made, yet, since it contains some of the best passages, of the best writers, of not the worst lan- guage of the world, it may be not altogether unworthy the notice of those who were once young. September, 1843. LIST OF AUTHORS. Pages 406. 15. 100. Pages 109, 328. 240. 112. 114. 149, 245, 421. 380. 410. 20, 246, 470. 153. 248. 388. 394. 160. 423. Born before 1480. Born. Died. Mandeville, Sir John About 1300 Nov. 17, 1371 ... Malory, Sir Thomas (flourished about 1469) Lord Berners About 1467 March 16, 1532. Born from 1480 to 1580. The Age of the Reformation. Born. Died. More, Sir Thomas 14S0 July 6, 1535 ... Ascham, Roger About 1515 Dec. 30, 1568... Holinshed, Raphael.. About 1526 About 1580 Knolles, Richard About 1544 1610 Raleigh, Sir Walter . 1552 Oct. 29, 1618 ... Spenser, Edmund About 1553 Jan. 16, 1599 ... Hakluyt, Richard ... About 1553 Nov 23, 1616 ... Sidney, Sir Philip ... Nov. 29, 1554.. Oct'. 16, 1586 ... Hooker, Richard March 1554 ... Nov. 2, 1600 ... Lord Bacon Jan. 22, 1561 ... April 9, 1626 ... Shakespeare/William April 23, 1564... April 23, 1616... Jonson, Ben June 11, 1574... Aug. 6, 1637 ... Purchas, Samuel 1577 1628 LIST OF AUTHORS. Born from 1580 to 1630. The Age of the Commonwealth. Born. Died. Pages Hales, John April 19, 1584... May 19, 1656 ... 164. Pym, John 1584 Dec. 8, 1643 ... 341. Selden, John Dec. 16, 1584 ... Nov. 30, 1654... 471. Lord Strafford April 13, 1593... May 12, 1641 ... 329. Walton, Isaak Aug. 9, 1593 ... Dec. 15, 1683 ... 168, 398, 448. Chillingworth, Wm. . October 1602 ... Jan. 30, 1644 ... 171. Browne, Sir Thomas... Oct. 19, 1605 ... Oct. 19, 1682 ... 284. Fuller, Thomas 1608 Aug. 16, 1661... 4/5. Lord Clarendon Feb. 18, 1608... Dec. 9, 1674 ... 117- Milton, John Dec. 9, 1608 ... Nov. 8, 1674 ... 174, 289. Taylor, Jeremy August 1613 ... Aug. 13, 1667... 177- Cudworth, Ralph 1617 June 26, 1688... 192. Cowley, Abraham 1618 July 28, 1667 ... 290. Patrick, Simon Sept. 8, 1626 ... May 31, 1707... 194. Temple, Sir William . 1628 January 1699 ... 479. Bunyan, John 1628 Aug. 12, 1688... 198. Barrow, Isaac October 1630 ... May 4, 1677 ... ,206. Born from 1630 to 1750. The Restoration, the Revolution, and the Accession of the House of Hanover. Born. Died. p a ge» Dryden, John Aug. 9, 1631 ... May 1, 1700 ... 485. Locke, John Aug. 29, 1632... Oct. 28, 1704 ... 292. South, Robert 1633 July 8, 1716 ... 221. Defoe, Daniel 1661 April 24, 1731... 1,24,297- Swift, Jonathan Nov. 30, 1667... Oct. 19, 1745 ... 298, 491. LIST OF AUTHORS. vii Born. Died. Pages Congreve, William ... February 1670.. Jan. 19 ; 1729 ... 399. Addison, Joseph May 1, 1672 .. June 17, 1719... 25. Sherlock, Thomas 1678 July IS, 1761 ... 224. Lady M. W. Montagu About 1690 Aug. 21, 1762... 63. Butler, Joseph 1692 June 16, 1752... 226. Warburton, William Dec. 24, 1698.. June 7, 1779 ... 229. Lord Chatham Nov. 15, 1708.. May 11, 1778 ... 366. Johnson, Samuel Sept. 7, 1709 •• Dec. 13, 1784... 232. Hume, David April 26, 1711.. Aug. 25, 1776... 125,313. Gray, Thomas Sept. 20, 1716.. July 31, 1771 ... 71. Walpole, Horace 1717 March 2, 1797 .. 74. White, Gilbert July 18, 1720.. June 26, 1793... 450. Robertson, William .. 1721 June 11, 1793... 129- Byron, John Nov. 8, 1723 .. 1798 427- Goldsmith, Oliver ... Nov. 29, 1728... April 4, 1774 ... 31. 436. Bruce, James Dec. 14, 1730.. April 27, 1794... 429- Burke, Edmund Jan. 1, 1731 ... July 9, 1797 ... 314, 373. Cowper, William Nov. 15, 1731.. April 25, 1800... 82. Gibbon, Edward April 27, 1737... Jan. 16, 1794 ... 133. Born since 1 750. Born. Died. Pages Sheridan, R. B Sept. 1751 July 7, 1816 ... 402. Crabbe, George Dec. 24, 1754.. Feb. 3, 1832 ... 88. Cobbett, William March 9, 1762 . . June 18, 1835... 5, 494. Hall, Robert May 2, 1764 .. Feb. 21, 1831 ... 237. Mackintosh, Sir James Oct. 24, 1765 .. 1832 377- Wilson, Alexander ... July 6, 1766 .. Aug. 23, 1813... 453. Scott, Sir Walter Aug. 15, 1771- Sept. 21, 1832... 34. Southey, Robert Aug. 12, 1774.. . March 21, 1843. 10,18,138. Lamb, Charles Feb. 18, 1775 .. December 1834 . 13, 89, 497. Dec. 16, 1775 .. e July 18, 1817 ... . April 3, 1826 ... 49. Heber, Reginald April 21, 1783.. 461. LIST OF AUTHORS. Living Authors. Jameson, Mrs 500. The Duke of Wellington 91, 324. Napier, Colonel William Fox Patrick 96, 141. Audubon, John James 463. Landor, Walter Savage 404. Dana, R. H 441. Head, Sir F, B 440. CONTENTS. PART r. NARRATIVES. NARRATIVES OF FACT. Page The Battle of Edgehill DanielDefoe 1 The GreatPlague Daniel Defoe 4 Moor Park, near Famham, Surrey William Cobbett 7 Avington, Hampshire William Cobbett 8 The Valley of the Avon, Wiltshire William Cobbett 9 Theodora Cowper Robert Southey 11 The Temptation Charles Lamb 13 NARRATIVES OF FICTION. Sir Gareth The Death of Sir Launcelot Amadis of Gaul The Princesses of Arcadia Musidorus and Pamela The Cares of Ill-gotten Wealth 77.. The Indian Kings in London The Vision of Mirza The Death of Sir Roger de Coverley The Family of Wakefield The Family of Wakefield after the Loss of~i their Fortune J A Walk by the Sands The Funeral of the last Lord of Ravenswood The Mermaiden's Fountain The Funeral of LucyAshton. The Death of ^ Edgar Ravenswood / The second Villiers, Duke of Buckingham... Sir Thomas Malory .... 16 Sir Thomas Malory .... 17 Robert Southey 18 Sir Philip Sidney 21 Sir Philip Sidney 22 DanielDefoe 24 Joseph Addison 26 Joseph Addison 28 Joseph Addison 30 Oliver Goldsmith 32 Oliver Goldsmith. 32 Sir Walter Scott 35 Sir Walter Scott 38 Sir Walter Scott 40 Sir Walter Scott 42 Sir Walter Scott 44 CONTENTS. !! arin y Price Jane Austen *5 Fraternal Love Jane AugTEN ' An Oaf t.^tt, a Jane Austen 52 Over-anxious Caution j ANE AusTEN _ ^ The Discovery Jane Austen 56 Anonymous 58 M. W. Montagu M. W. Montagu M. W. Montagu PART II. LETTERS. Turkish Ladies Lady La Trappe. Florence Lady Popular Authors of the Day Lady The English Lakes Thomas Gray The Study of the Law Thomas Gray 73 The Trial of the Rebel Lords of 1745 Horace Walpole 76 The Coronation of George III Horace Walpole 79 Beauties of George II.'s Court. Horace Walpole 80 Houghton revisited Horace Walpole 80 Rural Sounds William Cowper 83 OIney and Weston William Cowper 84 TheThrockmortons William Cowper 85 The Death of a Fox William Cowper 86 Versification William Cowper 87 Appeal to Edmund Burke George Crabbe 88 A Roasting Pig Charles Lamb 89 Loveof London Charles Lamb 90 The Loss of an Old Friend Charles Lamb 90 The Duty of an Invaded People Duke of Wellington... 92 Croaking in the Army DuKE OF Wellington... 93 The Death of Lieutenant-Col. Cameron Duke of Wellington. . . 94 General Trant's Retreat before Marmont .... Duke of Wellington. . . 94 Newspapers DuKE of Wellington... 94 The Battle of Waterloo Duke of Wellington... 95 Vindication Colonel Napier 98 PART III. HISTORY. The Battle of Crecy Lord Berners f 1 102 The Black Prince and his Knights Lord Berners J Tran f tor I 105 The Battle of Calais Lord Berners [ Froissart - J 106 CONTENTS. Page The Murder of the Two Young Princes in j Sjr Thqmas Mqre no the Tower > The Murder of Edward II Raphael Holinshed .... 112 The Murder of Mustapha Richard Knolles 115 The Character of John Hampden Lord Clarendon 118 The Character of Lucius Viscount Falkland Lord Clarendon 119 The Character of Edward I David Hume 126 The Maid of Orleans David Hume 127 The Storming of Rome William Robertson .... 129 The Battle of Pavia William Robertson .... 130 Chivalry William Robertson .... 132 Misery of the Romans under Tiberius and| Edward Qibbon 135 his Successors J Ransom of Rome by Alaric Edward Gibbon 136 Right of Property Edward Gibbon 137 The Siege of Zaragoza R,obert Southey 138 The Battle of Albuera Colonel Napier 141 The Storming of Badajos Colonel Napier 143 PART IV. MORALS AND RELIGION. Nobility Sir Walter Raleigh... 151 Death Sir Walter Raleigh... 152 The Law of Nature Richard Hooker 155 The Law of Reason Richard Hooker 156 Social Law Richard Hooker 157 Church Musick Richard Hooker 158 The Promulgation of the Law Joseph Hall 160 The Passion Joseph Hall 162 Against Duelling John Hales 165 For Peace in the Church John Hales 167 The Blessing of a Meek and Thankful Heart Isaak Walton 170 Against Duelling Wm. Chillingworth ... 172 The Omnipresence of God Wm. Chillingworth ... 173 The Youth of Milton John Milton 175 The Religion of Jesus JeremyTaylor 178 How to Lengthen Life JeremyTaylor 179 The Judgment JeremyTaylor 180 The Danger of Trusting to a Late Repentance JeremyTaylor 181 The Character of Frances Countess of Carbery Jeremy Taylor 185 The Minister's Duty in Life JeremyTaylor 186 The Minister's Duty in Doctrine JeremyTaylor 187 CONTENTS. Page The Danger of Offending in Trifles JeremyTaylor 189 Christian Simplicity JeremyTaylor 190 The Miracles of the Divine Mercy JeremyTaylor 191 The Providence of God Ralph Cudworth 192 Against judging of the Works of God by parts Ralph Cudworth 193 Humility Simon Patrick 194 Temperance Simon Patrick 196 The Combat with Apollyon John Bunyan 199 The Valley of Humiliation John Bunyan 201 The Sin of making Religion a Stalking-horse John Bunyan 202 Against Jesting with Sacred Things Isaac Barrow 207 Religion the only Source of True Joy Isaac Barrow 20/ Industry the peculiar Duty of a Gentleman Isaac Barrow 209 Of a Peaceable Temper Isaac Barrow 210 The Submission of the Will Isaac Barrow 211 The Excellency of the Christian Religion .... Isaac Barrow 212 The Personal Character of the Messias Isaac Barrow 216 Without Religion Society could not subsist... Isaac Barrow 219 The Uncertainty of the Present Robert South 221 Pleasure Robert South 222 The Progress and End of Sensuality Robert South 223 Against Immodest Language Thomas Sherlock 224 The Duties of the Rich and the Rights of| Thqmas Sherlock 225 the Poor J The Government of God by Punishment .... Joseph Butler 226 The Character of Balaam Joseph Butler 229 Luxury William Warburton... 231 The Catacombs Samuel Johnson 236 Against the Mechanick Philosophy Robert Hall 238 The Death of the Princess Charlotte of Wales Robert Hall 239 PART V. PHILOSOPHY AND POLICY. English Archery and Early English Writers Roger Ascham 241 Education Roger Ascham 243 Creation and Providence Sir Walter Raleigh ... 245 Popular Discontent Sir Philip Sidney 246 The Dignity and Excellency of Knowledge | L()RD Ba _ c(W 2 81 and Learning J CONTENTS. Xlll Page Lord Bacon 282 Lord Bacon 282 Lord Bacon 283 Sir Thomas Browne ... 284 Sir Thomas Browne ... 285 Sir Thomas Browne ... 287 John Milton 289 John Milton 289 Abraham Cowley 291 John Locke 295 John Locke 295 John Locke 296 Daniel Defoe 297 Jonathan Swift 311 David Hume 313 Edmund Burke 319 Edmund Burke 320 Duke of Wellington... 324 Duke of Wellington... 324 Duke of Wellington... 325 Duke of Wellington... 326 Poetry Adversity Studies Funeral Rites Vulgar Errors The Cessation of Oracles Books For the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing The Government of Oliver Cromwell The Right of Property Reading Lying and Excuses The Power of the People Private Judgment on Publick Affairs Publick Credit Against the Mechanick Philosophy Admonition to the Duke of Bedford Secrecy in the Conduct of Publick Business The Miseries of War Popular Enthusiasm The Wars of Buonaparte were Financial ... PART VI. SPEECHES. Defence of Sir Thomas More Sir Thomas More Defence of Lord Strafford Lord Strafford .. Mr. Pym's Reply to Lord Strafford's Defence John Pym The American War Lord Chatham Against the Employment of the Indians .... Lord Chatham Against the Acknowledgement of the Inde- "l , c a ■ f -Lord Chatham pendence of America J Despotism Edmund Burke ... The conclusion of the Opening Speech on "1 the Impeachment of Warren Hastings . . I The conclusion of the Reply on the Im- peachment of Warren Hastings The Defence of Peltier on his Trial for al . T .. . . , r, r Sir James Mackintosh Libel against Buonaparte J Edmund Burke ^Edmund Burke 328 339 362 368 372 373 373 374 376 378 CONTENTS. PART VII. DRAMA AND DIALOGUE. The Evil Customs of the English Settlers in Page \ Edmund Spenser 381 Ireland ) Scenes from Much Ado about Nothing William Shakespeare. 390 A Scene from The Silent Woman Ben Jonson 395 A Scene from Every Man in his Humour ... Ben Jonson 396 The Milk-Maid Isaak Walton 398 A Scene from The Way of the World William Congreve 400 A Scene from The Rivals { R,CHD ' BeINSIEY ShE " } 403 I RIDAN J Imaginary Conversation between Lady Jane ) „_ „ T >, j ti a v > Walter Savage Landor 404 Grey and Roger Ascham J PART VIII. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. The Daughter of Hippocrates Sir John Mandeville . 408 The Wonders of Egypt Sir John Mandeville . 409 , _ . ■ f Richard Hakluyt's \ . 19 Frobisher s Streights \ Collection of Voyages J 4 i2 „. „ . _ . , XT _ , ,, „ T ,, f Richard Hakluyt's 1 ^,,- Sir Francis Drake s Voyage Round the World i Collection. |41o f Sir Walter Raleigh, "1 The River Orinoco ■< from Richard Hak- I- 421 L luyt's Collection ... J The Elephant Samuel Purchas 423 The Brazilians Samuel Purchas 425 Western Patagonia John Byron 427 TheDesert James Bruce 431 Otaheite in 1777 Robert Anderson 437 The Andes Sir F. B. Head 440 Doubling Cape Horn R. H. Dana 441 CONTENTS. PART IX. NATURAL HISTORY. Page The Trout Isaak Walton 448 Gold and Silver Fish Gilbert White 450 Snakes' Slough Gilbert White 451 Spiders Gilbert White 451 Sociality of Brutes Gilbert White 452 The White-headed or Bald Eagle Alexander Wilson .... 453 The Mocking-Bird Alexander Wilson .... 456 The Tiger — The Lion Reginald Heber 461 The Wild Turkey John James Audubon... 464 The Key West Pigeon John James Audubon... 467 The ZenaidaDove John James Audubon... 468 PART X. MISCELLANIES. The Defence of Poesie — Dramatick Poetry, "> Lyrick Poetry, and Heroick Poetry J Books Ceremony Gentlemen Charles I. summoning a Parliament to Oxo ford J Moral Honesty Preferment Reason Thanksgivi ng Church Government The Design of Fuller's Worthies of England Queen Elizabeth Kent the Vanguard of England Cherries Tenterden's Steeple is the Cause of the "i Breach in Goodwin Sands J London Cockneys To Dine with Duke Humphrey Sir Philip Sidney 470 John Selden 472 John Selden 472 John Selden 473 John Selden 473 John Selden 473 John Selden 473 John Selden 474 John Selden 474 John Selden 474 Thomas Fuller 475 Thomas Fuller 476 Thomas Fuller 477 Thomas Fuller 477 Thomas Fuller 477 Thomas Fuller 478 Thomas Fuller 478 CONTENTS. Page English Gardens Sir William Temple ... 482 Long Life Sir William Temple ... 483 Dedication to the Duke of Newcastle John Dryden 487 The Dramatick Unities of Place and Time. . . John Dryden 489 Advice to a Young Clergyman. On Style ... Jonathan Swift 491 Satire against Modern Criticks Jonathan Swift 492 Observance due from Husbands to theirs TTT Wives j- William Cobbett 494 Sobriety of Conduct and Warmth of Feeling William Cobbett 495 A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars in the 1 „ J J-CharlesLamb 497 Metropolis Character 1 nice) The Character of Miranda Mrs. Jameson 503 The Character of Portia (Merchant of Ve-T , T T . x ^Mrs. Jameson 501 nice) J ENGLISH PROSE. PART I. NARRATIVES. NARRATIVES OF FACT. DANIEL DEFOE Was the son of a butcher, and born in the parish of St. Giles, Cripplegate, London, in the year 1661. At the age of fourteen he was placed at a school at Newing- ton Green, where he stayed five years. He was a dissenter and a whig, and in 1685 joined the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion. From 1687 to 1715 he wrote po- litical tracts, but he spoke the truth too plainly to please any party ; he was pilloried, fined and twice imprisoned. Unpopular and out of Court favour at the accession of George I., he ceased to write on politics. In 1719 he published 'Robinson Crusoe.' and afterward many other works of fiction. His 'Memoirs of a Cavalier' and ' A Journal of the Plague of 1665,' were written under feigned characters, but the main incidents are true. He died on the 24th of April 1731, and was buried in the dissenters' burial-ground in Bunhill-fields, being named in the register Mr. Dubow. He is the most voluminous of English writers ; he wrote history and fiction, on politics and trade, morals and religion, and both in prose and verse. His political writings are justly praised for their wisdom and truth, and very little read. He had great power in giving reality to his fictions, utterly forgetting himself and assuming entirely the character in which he wrote ; no man's fiction has been so often mistaken for fact. His style is simple, forcible and pure. ' Robinson Crusoe' is in every body's hands, and therefore specimens are given from other of his tales, including under that name ' The Memoirs of a Cavalier,' and the ' History of the Plague.' A passage from one of his political tracts is placed under the head of ' Philosophy and Policy.' THE BATTLE OF EDGEHILL, 1642. We were now in full march to fight the Earl of Essex. It was on Sunday morning, the 24th of October 1642, fair weather over head, but the ground very heavy and dirty. As soon as we came to the top of Edge- hill we discovered their whole army. They were not drawn up, having had two miles to march that morning, but they were very busy forming their lines, and posting their regiments as they came up. Some of their horse were exceedingly fatigued, having B DANIEL DEFOE. marched forty-eight hours together ; and had they been suffered to follow us three orfour days' march further, several of their regiments of horse would have been quite ruined, and their foot would have been rendered unserviceable for the present. But we had no patience. As soon as our whole army was come to the top of the hill, we were drawn up in order of battle. The king's army made a very fine appearance, and indeed they were a body of as gallant men as ever ap- peared in the field, and as well furnished at all points ; the horse exceedingly well accoutred, being most of them gentlemen and volunteers, some whole regiments serving without pay; theirhorsesverygood, and as fit for service as could be desired. The whole army were not above eighteen thousand men, and the enemy not one thousand over or under, though we had been told they were not abovetwelve thou- sand ; but they had been reinforced with four thousand men from Northampton. The king was with the general, the Earl of Lindsey, in the main battle ; Prince Rupert commanded the right wing, and the Marquis of Hertford, the Lord Willoughby, and several other very good officers, the left. The signal of battle being given with two cannon-shot, we marched in order of battalia down the hill, being drawn up in two lines with bodies of reserve. The enemy advanced to meet us much in the same form, with this difference only, that they had placed their cannon on their right, and the king had placed ours in the centre, before, or rather between, two great brigades of foot. Their cannon began with us first, and did some mischief among the dragoons of our left wing ; but our officers perceiving the shot took the men and missed the horses, ordered all to alight, and every man leading his horse, to advance in the same order ; and this saved our men, for most of the enemy's shot flew over their heads. Our cannon made a terrible execution upon their foot for a quarter of an hour, and put them into great confusion, till the general obliged them to halt, and changed the posture of his front, march- ing round a small rising ground, by which he avoided the fury of our artillery. By this time the wings were engaged, the king having given the signal of battle, and ordered the right wing to fall on. Prince Rupert, who commanded that wing, fell on with such fury, and pushed the left wing of the parliament army so effectually, that in a moment he filled all with terror and confusion. Commissary-general Ram- sey, a Scotchman, an experienced officer, commanded their left wing, and though he did all that an expert soldier and brave commander could do, yet it was to no pur- pose ; his lines were immediately broken, and all overwhelmed in a trice. Two regiments of foot, whether as part of the left wing, or on the left of the main body, I know not, were disordered by their own horse, and rather trampled to death by the horses than beaten by our own men ; but they were so entirely broken, that I do not remember that ever they made one volley upon our men, for their own horse running away, and falling foul on these foot, were so vigorously fol- lowed by us, that the foot never had a moment to rally or look behind them. The point of the left wing of horse were not so soon broken as the rest, and three regiments of them stood firm for some time ; the dexterous officers of the other regiments taking the opportunity, rallied a great many of their scattered men be- hind them, and pieced in some troops with those regiments ; but after two or three charges which a brigade of our se- cond line, folio wingthe prince, made upon them, they also were broken with the rest. I remember that, at the great battle of Leipsic, the right wing of the Imperialists having fallen in upon the Saxons with like fury to this, bore down all before them, and beat the Saxons quite out of the field, upon which the soldiers cried, " Victoria ! let us follow." " No, no," said old General Tilly, " let them go, and let us beat the Swedes, too, then all is our own." Had Prince Rupert taken this method, and, instead of following the fugitives, who were dispersed so effectually that two regiments would have secured them from rallying — I say, had he fallen in upon the foot, or wheeled to the left, and fallen in upon the rear of the enemy's right wing of horse, or returned to the assist- ance of the left wing of our horse, we had gained the most absolute and complete victory that could be, nor had a thousand men of the enemy's army got off. But this prince, who was full of fire, and pleased to see the rout of the enemy, pursued them quite to the town of Keyn- ton, where indeed he killed abundance of their men, and some time also was lost in plundering the baggage ; but in the NARRATIVES OF FACT. mean time the glory and advantage of the day was lost to the king, for the right wing of the parliament horse could not he so broken. Sir William Balfour made a desperate charge upon the point of the king's left, and had it not been for two regiments of dragoons, who were planted in the re- serve, had routed the whole wing ; for he broke through the first line, and stag- gered the second, who advanced to their assistance, but was so warmly received by those dragoons, who came seasonably in, and gave their first fire on horseback, that his fury was checked, and having lost a great many men, he was forced to wheel about to his own men ; and had the king had but three regiments of horse at hand to have charged him, Balfour had been routed. The rest of this wing kept their ground, and received the first fury of the enemy with great firmness ; after which, advan- cing in their turn, they were once masters of the Earl of Essex's cannon. And here we lost another advantage ; for if any foot had been at hand to sup- port these horse, they had carried off the cannon, or turned it upon the main body of the enemy's foot ; but the foot were otherwise engaged. The horse on this side fought with great obstinacy and va- riety of success, a great while. Sir Philip Stapylton, who commanded the guards of the Earl of Essex, being en- gaged with a party of our Shrewsbury cavaliers, as we called them, was once in a fair way to have been cut off by a bri- gade of our foot, who being advanced to fall upon the parliament's main body, flanked Sir Philip's horse in their way, and, facing to the left, so furiously charged him with their pikes, that he was obliged to retire in great disorder, and with the loss of a great many men and horses. All this while the foot on both sides were desperately engaged, and, coming close up to the teeth of one another with the clubbed musket and push of pike, fought with great resolution, and a ter- rible slaughter on both sides, giving no quarter for a great while ; and they con- tinued to do thus till, as if they were tired and out of wind, each party seemed willing enough to leave off andtake breath. Those which suffered most were that brigade which had charged Sir Philip Stapylton's horse, who, being bravely en- gaged in the front with the enemy's foot, were, on the sudden* charged again in front and flank by Sir William Balfour's horse and disordered, after a very despe- rate defence. Here the king's standard was taken, the standard-bearer, Sir Edward Varney, being killed ; but it was rescued again by captain Smith, and brought to the king the same evening, for which the king knighted the captain. This brigade of foot had fought all the day, and had not been broken at last if any horse had been at hand to support them. The field began to be now clear : both armies stood, as it were, gazing at one another ; only the king, having rallied his foot, seemed inclined to renew the charge, and began to cannonade them, which they could not return, most of their cannon being nailed while they were in our possession, and all the cannoniers killed or fled, and our gunners did execu- tion upon Sir William Balfour's troops for a good while. My father's regiment being in the right with the prince, I saw little of the fight but the rout of the enemy's left, and we had as full a victory there as we could desire, but spent too much time in it : we killed about two thousand men in that part of the action, and having totally dispersed them, and plundered their bag- gage, began to think of our friends when it was too late to help them. We returned, however, victorious to the king just as the battle was over; and the king asked Prince Rupert, "What news ?" He told him he could give his majesty a good account of the enemy's horse. " Ay," said a gentleman that stood by me, " and of their carts too." Those words were spoken with such a sense of the misfortune, and made such an | impression in the whole army, that it oc- casioned some ill blood afterwards among us, and but that the king took up the bu- siness, it had been of ill consequence ; for some person who had heard the gentle- man speak it, informed the prince who it was, and the prince, resenting it, spoke something about it in the hearing of the party when the king was present. The gentleman, with a manly freedom, told his highness openly he had said the words, and though he owned he had no disrespect for his highness, yet he was i still of opinion the enemy's army might have been better beaten. The prince replied something very disobliging; upon which the gentleman came up to the king, and, kneeling, humbly besought his ma- j B2 DANIEL DEFOE. jesty to accept of his commission, and to give him leave to tell the prince, that whenever his highness pleased, he was ready to give him satisfaction. The king was so concerned at this mis- understanding between them, that he seemingly was very much out of humour with the prince about it. However, his majesty soon ended the dispute, by laying his commands on them both to speak no more of it for that day ; and refusing the commission from the colonel, for he was no less, sent for them both next morning in pnvate, and made them friends again. Daniel Defoe. THE GREAT PLAGUE, 1685. The fury of the distemper increased to such a degree that even the markets were very thinly furnished with provisions, or frequented with buyers, compared to what they were before ; and the Lord Mayor caused the country people who brought provisions to be stopped in the streets leading into the town, and to sit down there with their goods, where they sold what they brought, and went immediately away ; and this encouraged the country people greatly to do so, for they sold their provisions at the very entrances into the town, and even in the fields, as particu- larly in the fields beyond Whitechapel, in Spitaifields, — Note. — Those streets now called Spitaifields were then indeed open fields; — also in St. George's fields inSouth- wark, in Bunhill-fields, and in a great field called Wood's Close, near Islington. Thither the Lord Mayor, aldermen, and magistrates, sent their officers and ser- vants to buy for their families, themselves keeping within doors as much as possible, and the like did many other people : and after this method was taken, the country people came with great cheerfulness, and brought provisions of all sorts, and very seldom got any harm, which, I suppose, added to the report of their being mira- culously preserved. As for my little family, having laid in a store of bread, butter, cheese, and beer, I took my friend and physician's advice, and locked myself up and my family, and resolved to suffer the hardship of living a few months without flesh meat, rather than purchase it at the hazard of our lives. But though I confined my family, I could not prevail upon my unsatisfied cu- riosity to stay within entirely myself; and though I generally came frightened and terrified home, yet I could not restrain, only that indeed I did not do it so fre- quently as at first. I had some little obligations indeed upon me to go to my brother's house, which was in Coleman -street parish, and which he had left to my care, and I went at first every day, but afterwards only once or twice a week. In these walks I had many dismal scenes before my eyes, as particularly of persons falling dead in the streets, terrible shrieks and screechings of women, who in their agonies would throw open their chamber windows, and cry out in a dismal, surpri- sing manner ; it is impossible to describe the variety of postures in which the pas- sions of the poor people would express themselves. Passing through Token-house yard in Lothbury, of a sudden a casement violently opened just over my head, and a woman gave three frightful screeches, and then cried, " Oh ! death, death, death !" in a most inimitable tone, and which struck me with horror and achillness in my very blood. There was nobody to be seen in the whole street, neither did any other window open, for people had no curiosity now in any case, nor could any body help one another; so I went on to pass into Bell-alley. Just in Bell-alley, on the right-hand of the passage, there was a more terrible cry than that, though it was not so directed out at the window, but the whole family was in a terrible fright, and I could hear women and children run screaming about the rooms like distracted, when a garret window opened, and somebody from a window on the other side the alley called ' and asked, " What is the matter ?" upon ! which, from the first window it was an- i swered, " My old master has hanged him- I self!" The other asked again, "Is he quite dead ? " and the first answered, "Ay, ay, quite dead; quite dead and cold!" This person was a merchant, and a deputy alderman, and very rich. I care not to mention the name, though I knew his name too, but that would be a hardship to the family, which is now flourishing again. But this is but one ; it is scarce credible what dreadful cases happened in particular famibes even 7 day ; people in the rage of the distemper, or in the torment of their swellings, which was indeed intolerable, running out of their own government, NARRATIVES OF FACT. raving and distracted, and oftentimes lay- mere fright and surprise, without any in- ing violent hands upon themselves, throw- fection at all ; others frighted into idiotism ing themselves out at their windows, shoot- and foolish distractions, some into despair ing themselves, &c. Mothers murdering and lunacy, others into melancholy mad- their own children in their lunacy, some j ness. Daniel Defoe. dying of mere grief, as a passion, some of | WILLIAM COBBETT The son of a small farmer, was born at Farnham in Surrey on the 9th of March 1762, and worked in the fields as soon as he was able to walk. At the age of eleven, hearing ! of the beauty of Kew Gardens, he went off to seek work there without saying a word j to any one, with thirteen half-pence in his pocket, and from that time never put his parents to a farthing in expense. In 1783, for eight or nine months, he was writing clerk to an attorney in Gray's Inn, a service of which in after life he spoke with horror, likening himself to Gil Bias in the robber's cave. In 1784 he enlisted as a private 1 soldier, and then applied with great diligence to study grammar and to read. In 1785 he sailed with his regiment to America, and until 1791 was in Nova Scotia, and in New i Brunswick where he was raised to the rank of serjeant-major. In December 1791, j his regiment being in England, he got his discharge. In 1792 he married and went to France, and from France, in 1793, to the United States of America, where he first \ began to write, making fierce attacks on the American democratic party who sided ' with France against England. In 1800 he returned to his country, and in 1802 i began ' The Political Register,' a weekly paper, which he continued until his death, | and which was directed generally against all parties and all public men, and particularly \ against the government and government abuses. In 1817, fearing to be prosecuted for his political writings, he again went to the United States and returned home in 1819. In December 1832 he was elected Member for the borough of Oldham, which he represented in parliament until his death ; he died on the 18th of June 1835, and was buried at Farnham. For more than forty years, Cobbett was without ceasing engaged in political writing. He wrote pure vigorous English, often coaise but not vulgar, and his meaning could never be mistaken. He ^\as acute in argument, fierce in sarcasm, full of illustration, and although constantly repeating the same topics, never tedious ; but he had violent passions and prejudices : he despised to the uttermost what he did not know, while whatever he knew became, in his eyes, because he knew it, of supreme importance ; he was always in earnest, but looking only to the object of the moment, and acting upon the passion of the moment, he was for ever inconsistent : he was violent in in- vective, implacable in hatred, and his political friendship not to be relied on. He has traced the dawning of his intellectual powers to the perusal of the greatest work of Dean Swift — the ' Tale of a Tub :' he tells us, that after he had run from home at the age of eleven, having but threepence in his pocket to buy his supper, he saw a little book in a shop window at Richmond in Surrey, on the outside of which was written " Tale of a Tub, price Threepence ;" that he gave up his supper, bought the book, and went into a field, under a hay-stack, to read it, and though he could not at all understand some of it, it delighted him beyond description, and produced what he always considered a sort of birth of intellect ; he carried the book with him wherever he went, until he lost it in a box which fell overboard in the Bay of Fundy in North WILLIAM COBBETT. America, a loss which gave him greater pain than he ever felt at losing thousands of pounds. The genius and wit of Cobbett are not to be compared with those of the author of the ' Tale of a Tub,' and of ' Gulliver's Travels,' nor as a politician can he be weighed against the counsellor of Harley and Bolingbroke and the first successful assertor of the independence of Ireland ; yet making allowance for the better education of Swift, for his having passed his early manhood with Sir William Temple, and for the circum- stances of his later life, there are many points of resemblance between the two. Each wrote to effect his purpose, not for display. A pure and correct style was com- mon to both. If there was more violence in Cobbett's invective there was less ill-nature ; fierce as he was, he wrote more from passion and less from a deliberate intention to wound ; nor has he anything so virulent as Swift's satire on the Duchess of Somerset in the ' Windsor Prophecy.' Cobbett, of all men, carried his hatred and contempt beyond the grave ; and Swift showed the same evil spirit in his elegy on the Duke of Marlborough, and in his satire on Steele, in the ' Rhapsody.' Swift had ex- tensive learning ; Cobbett none ; but in the contempt of the former for logical and mathematical science, of which he was ignorant, and for the profound learning of Bentley, there may be found something of Cobbett's scorn of all book-learning ; and in each case the feeling was real, not assumed, to cover the consciousness of a want. They had the same stubborn independence, the same jealousy of personal slight, especially from those above them in rank. They equally hated the tyranny of others, and required implicit obedience to themselves. They had the same dislike of lawyers, bankers and grinders of the poor, the same religious care for personal cleanliness, and the same love of the country, which, with Cobbett, was a passion, and is to be found in Swift's frequent and fond mention of Laracor and its pippins, and trout stream and willows, in his long walks, and in his delight in overlooking improvements on the property of his friends. Of Cobbett's works not strictly political, the best are his ' Rural Rides,' beautiful views of English scenery, and his ' Advice to Young Men,' full of home, and homely truths. He had an honest and true admiration of woman ; without any pretence to gallantry, no one saw more quickly or felt more deeply, or painted more touchingly the moral beauty and dignity of her character ; and he was very far from being insen- sible to her personal beauty. In one part of his political conduct he was consistent. He was proud of England, and loved the common people from whom he sprung ; he suffered no man to Me with impunity against the character of the labourers, whom he looked upon as the most industrious and virtuous people in the world. The aim of his life was to leave them as well off as he had found them, to seek out and destroy whatever he thought had tended to make their condition worse. If he failed to discover the source of the evil *, or if his violent passions and prejudices prevented him from applying a remedy, still the object was worthy of ambition, and he who sought it perhaps as worthy of honour as the doctor politick most skilful : In finding ways and means and stopping gaps ; Who knows a thousand tricks whene'er he please, Though not to cure, yet palliate each disease." * He thought that the national debt was the great cause of the calamities which the common people suffered ; — that " the Bank never could pay in specie without a reduction of the debt, or without a total ruin of all the active part of the nation engaged in trade or agriculture ;"— and that, " in all human probability, the whole of the interest of the debt, and all the sinecures and pensions and sala- ries, and also the expenses of a thundering standing army, will continue to be made up by taxes, by loans from the Bank, by Exchequer bills, by every species of contrivance, to the latest possible mo- ment, and until the whole of the paper system, amidst the war of opinions, of projects, of interests, and of passions, shall go to pieces like a ship upon the rocks." NARRATIVES OF FACT. the The extracts which follow directly are from the ' Rural Rides.' Two passages from Advice to Young Men' will he found among the ' Miscellanies.' Since the above notes were written, a writer iu the ' Quarterly Review' (No. 141), criticising the wretched modern books for children, and losing for a time, in the dis- gust with which they filled Mm, all power to distinguish, has treated with severe con- tempt the instance of maternal love related by Cobbett in the extract entitled " Ob- servance due from husbands to their wives." It had been quoted by some sorry writer who was under the reviewer's lash, and the latter taking it for a piece of original composition, disposed of it in these words : — " This illustration of maternal affection may speak for itself,— the carpenter saved the child, a stranger offered him nine dol- lars for doing so, — but the mother shrieked." If the critic had ever heard a mother's shriek, probably he would not have made that crv the subject of a sneer. Cobbett was not writing an essay on maternal love, a passion which he noticed only incidentally. He was the last man to seek far for examples of what is common as the fight of heaven, and gave at once a scene which had passed before his own eyes full of terror and danger, and therefore sure to make a deep impression on the memory. The mother's love was shown in her rushing on- ward to certain death that she might shelter her child ; the man who rescued the child was saved but by a moment, and she, who was going right in among the feet of powerful and wild horses, must have perished. The blemish of the scene is the offer of the nine dollars : Cobbett should have known that it was impossible for a man, while his heart was lifted up by such a deed, to look down to a reward in money. MOOR PARK, NEAR FARNHAM, SURREY. 27th Oct. 1825. We came over the heath from Thurs- lev this morning, on our way to Winches- ter ; Mr. Windham's fox-hounds are co- ming to Thursley on Saturday. More than three-fourths of all the interesting talk in that neighbourhood, for some days past, has been about this anxiously-looked for event. I have seen no man or boy who did not talk about it. There had been a false report about it ; the hounds did not come, and the anger of the disappointed people was very great. At last, however, the authentic intelligence came, and I left them all as happy as if all were young and all just going to be married. An abatement of my pleasure, however, on this joyous occasion was, that I brought away with me one who was as eager as the best of them. Richard, though now only eleven years and six months old, had, it seems, one fox-hunt in Herefordshire last winter; and he actually has begun to talk rather contemptuously of hare- hunting. To show me that he is in no danger, he has been leaping his horse over banks and ditches by the road-side, all our wav across the country from Rei- gate ; and be joined with such glee in talk- ing of the expected arrival of the fox- hounds, that I felt some little pain at bringing him away. My engagement at Winchester is for Saturday ; but if it had not been so, the deep and hidden ruts in the heath, in a wood in the midst of which the hounds are sure to find, and the immense concourse of horsemen that is sure to be assembled, would have made me bring him away. Upon the high, hard and open countries, I should not be afraid for him ; but here the danger would have been greater than it would have been right for me to suffer him to run. "We came hither by the way of Waver- ley Abbey and Moor Park. On the com- mons I showed Richard some of my old hunting scenes, when I was of his age, or younger, reminding him that I was obliged to hunt on foot. We got leave to go and see the grounds at Waverley, where all the old monks' garden walls are totally gone, and where the spot is become a sort of lawn. I showed him the spot where the strawberry garden was, and where I, when sent to gather hautboys, used to eat every remarkably fine one, instead of letting it go to be eaten by Sir Robert Rich. I showed him a tree, close by the ruins of the Abbey, WILLIAM COBBETT. from a limb of which I once fell into the river, in an attempt to take the nest of a crow, which had artfully placed it upon a branch so far from the trunk as not to be able to bear the weight of a boy eight years old. I showed him an old elm- tree, which was hollow even then, into which I, when a very little boy, once saw a cat go that was as big as a middle- sized spaniel dog, for relating which I got a great scolding, for standing to which I at last got a beating, but stand to which I still did; I have since many times re- peated it, and I would take my oath of it to this day. When in New Brunswick I saw the great wild grey cat, which is there called a Lucifee ; and it seemed to me to be just such a cat as I had seen at Waverley. I found the ruins not very greatly diminished ; but it is strange how small the mansion and ground, and every- thing butthe trees, appeared to me. They were all great to my mind when I saw them last, and that early impression had remained, whenever I had talked or thought of the spot ; so that when I came to see them again, after seeing the sea and so many other immense things, it seemed as if they had all been made small. This was not the case with regard to the trees, which are nearly as big here as they are anywhere else ; and the old cat-elm, for instance, which Richard mea- sured with his whip, is about sixteen or seventeen feet round. From Waverley we went to Moor Park, once the seat of Sir William Temple, and, when I was a very little boy, the seat of a Lady, or a Mrs. Temple. Here I showed Richard Mother Ludlam's Hole ; but, alas ! it is not the enchanting place that I knew it, nor that which Grose describes in his ' Antiquities ' ! The semicircular paling is gone ; the basins, to catch the never-ceasing little stream, are gone; the iron cups, fastened by chains, for people to chink out of, are gone ; the pavement all broken to pieces ; the seats, for people to sit on, on both sides of the cave, torn up and gone ; the stream that ran down a clean-paved channel, now making a dirty gutter ; and the ground opposite, which was a grove, chiefly of laurels, in- tersected by closely mowed grass-walks, now become a poor, ragged-looking alder- coppice. Near the mansion, I showed Richard the hill upon which Dean Swift tells us he used to run for exercise, while he was pursuing his studies here ; and I would have showed him the garden-seat, under which Sir William Temple's heart was buried, agreeably to his will ; but the seat was gone, also the wall at the back of it ; and the exquisitely beautiful little lawn in which the seat stood, was turned into a parcel of divers-shaped cockney- clumps, planted according to the strictest rules of artificial and refined vulgarity. William Cobbett. AVINGTON, HAMPSHIRE. 11th Nov. 1825. We lost another day at Easton ; the whole of yesterday, it having rained the whole day ; so that we could not have come an inch but in the wet. We started, therefore, this morning, coming through the Duke of Buckingham's park at Aving- ton, which is close by Easton, and on the same side of the Itchen. This is a very beautiful place. The house is close down at the edge of the meadow-land ; there is a lawn before it, and a pond, suppliedbythe Itchen, at the end of the lawn, and bound- ed by the park on the other side. The high road, through the park, goes very near to this water ; and we saw thousands of wild ducks in the pond, or sitting round on the green edges of it, while, on one side of the pond, the hares and pheasants were moving about upon a gravel-walk, on the side of a very fine plantation. We looked down upon all this from a rising ground, and the water, like a looking- glass, showed us the trees, and even the animals. This is certainly one of the very prettiest spots in the world. The wild water-fowl seem to take particular delight in this place. There are a great many at Lord Caernarvon's ; but there the water is much larger, and the ground and wood about it comparatively rude and coarse. Here, at Avington, everything is in such beautiful order ; the lawn, before the house, is of the finest green, and most neatly kept ; and the edge of the pond (which is of several acres) is as smooth as if it formed part of a bowling-green. To see so many wild fowl in a situation where everything is in the parterre-order, has a most pleasant effect on the mind; and Richard and I, like Pope's cock in the farm-yard, could not help thanking the Duke and Duchess for having generously made such ample provision for our plea- sure, and that, too, merely to please us as we were passing along. Now, this is the NARRATIVES OF FACT. advantage of going about on horseback. On foot the fatigue is too great, and you go too slowly. In any sort of carriage you cannot get into the real country-places. To travel in stage-coaches, is to be hurried along by force, in a box with an air-hole in it, aiid constantly exposed to broken limbs, tbe danger being much greater than that of ship-board, and the noise much more disagreeable, while the company is frequently not a great deal more to one's liking. From this beautiful spot we had to mount gradually the downs to the south- ward ; but it is impossible to quit the vale of the Itchen without one more look back at it. To form a just estimate of its real value and that of the lands near it, it is only necessary to know that from its source, at Bishop's Sutton, this river has, on its two banks, in that distance of nine miles (before it reaches Winchester), thir- teen parish churches. When we began to get up towards the downs, we, to our great surprise, saw ; them covered with snow. This made us change, our route again, and instead of going over the downs towards Hamble- don, in our way to see the park and the innumerable hares and pheasants of Sir Harry Featherstone, we pulled away more to the left, to go through Bramdean, and so on to Petersfield, contracting greatly our intended circuit. And, besides, I had never seen Bramdean, the spot on which I it is said Alfred fought his last great and glorious battle with the Danes. A tine country for a battle, sure enough! We stopped at the village to bait our horses ; and, while we were in the public-house, an exciseman came and rummaged it all over, taking an account of the various sorts of liquor in it, having the air of a complete master of the premises, while a very pretty and modest girl waited on him to "produce the divers bottles, jars, and kegs. I wonder whether Alfred had a thought of anything like this, when he was clearing England from her oppressors ? William Cobbett. THE VALLEY OF THE AVON, WILTSHIRE. 28th August, 1826. I came off this morning on the Marl- borough-road about tw r o miles, or three, and then turned off over the downs, in a north-westerly direction, in search of the source of the Avon river, which goes clown to Salisbury. I had once been at Nether- avon, a village in this valley ; but I had often heard this valley described as one of the finest pieces of land in all England ; I knew that there were about thirty pa- rish churches, standing in a length of about thirty miles, and in an average width of hardly a mile; and I was re- solved to see a little into the reasons that could have induced our fathers to build all these churches, especially if, as the Scotch w T ould have us believe, there were but a mere handful of people in England until of late years. In steering across the down, I came to a large farm, wdiich a shepherd told me was Milton Hill Farm. This was upon the high land, and before I came to the edge of this Valley of Avon, which was my land of promise ; or, at least, of great expectation ; for I could not imagine that thirty churches had been built for nothing by the side of a brook (for it is no more during the greater part of the way) thirty miles long. The shepherd showed me the way towards Milton ; and at the end of about a mile from the top of a very high part of the down, with a steep slope to- wards the valley, I first saw this Valley of Avon ; and a most beautiful sight it was ! villages, hamlets, large farms, towers, stee- ples, fields, meadows, orchards, and very fine timber-trees, scattered all over the valley. The shape of the thing is this : on each side downs very lofty and steep in some places, and sloping miles back in other places ; but each outside of the val- ley are dow r ns. From the edge of the downs begin capital arable fields, generally of very great dimensions, and in some places running a mile or two back into lit- tle cross valleys, formed by hills of downs. After the cornfields come meadows on each side down to the brook or river. The farm-houses, mansions, villages, and ham- lets, are generally situated in that part of the arable land which comes nearest the meadows. Great as my expectations had been, they were more than fulfilled. I delight in this sort of country; and I had frequently seen the vale of the Itchen, that of the Bourne, and also that of the Teste, in Hampshire; I had seen the vales amongst the South Downs ; but I never before saw anything to please me like this valley of the Avon. I sat upon my horse and looked over Milton, and Easton, and Pewsy, for half B 5 10 ROBERT SOUTHEY. an hour, though I had not breakfasted. The hill was very steep. A road going slant- ing down it was still so steep, and washed so very deep by the rains of ages, that I did not attempt to ride down it, and I did not like to lead my horse, the path was so narrow. So seeing a boy with a drove of pigs going out to the stubbles, I beckoned him to come up to me, and he came and led my horse down for me. Endless is the variety in the shape of the high lands which form this valley. Sometimes the slope is very gentle, and the arable lands go back very far. At others, the downs come out into the valley, almost like piers into the sea, being very steep in their sides, as well as their ends towards the valley. They have no slope at their other ends : indeed they have no back ends, but run into the main high land. There is also great variety in the width of the valley ; great variety in the width of the meadows ; but the land appears all to be of the very best ; and it must be so, for the farmers confess it. Having gotten to the bottom of the hill, I proceeded on to the village of Mil- ton. After riding up to the church, as being the centre of the village, I went on towards the house of my friend, which lay on my road down the valley. I have many, many times witnessed agreeable surprise ; but I do not know that I ever, in the whole course of my life, saw people so much surprised and pleased as this farmer and his family were at seeing me. People often tell you that they are glad to see you, and in general they speak truth. I take pretty good care not to approach any house with the smallest appearance of a design to eat or drink in it, unless I be quite sure of a cordial reception ; but my friend at Fifield (it is in Milton parish), and all his family, really seemed to be de- lighted beyond all expression. When I set out this morning I intended to go all the way down to the city of Sa- lisbury to-day, but I soon found that to refuse to sleep at Fifield would cost me a great deal more trouble than a day was worth ; so that I made my mind up to stay in this farm-house, which has one of the nicest gardens, and it contains some of the finest flowers that I ever saw, and all is disposed with as much good taste as I have ever witnessed. Here I am then, just going to bed, after having spent as pleasant a day as I ever spent in mv life. William Cobbeti. ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet-Laureat of England, historian, biographer and critic, and eminent in each character. He is among the first living writers of English prose, if not the first. Even those whose political and religious opinions are most in opposition to him, have allowed the blameless purity of his life, — have spoken of him as full of the old feel- ings of loyalty and religion ; but he has been sometimes too bitter in serf-defence, and not quite just to his adversaries. The extract which follows is an episode from his life of William Cowper, and a few pages forward will be found a passage from his translation of ' Amadis of Gaul.' An account of the siege of Zaragoza from the ' History of the Peninsular War' is given afterwards. In explanation of the tale of Theodora Cowper it may be well to men- tion, that the supposed objection to the marriage with her cousin was that her father had perceived symptoms of the insanity which darkened the poet's after-life. Since the above note was written, Southey died on the 21st of March 1843, at Greta House, Keswick, in Cumberland. He was the son of a linen-draper of Bristol, where he was born on the 4th of October 1774, and was educated at Westminster School, and at Balliol College, Oxford. NARRATIVES OF FACT. 11 THEODORA COWPER. Among the circumstances which cheered Cowper at this time, there is one that proves how strong an interest he had. ex- cited in an individual. What was the na- ture of the first communication from this person cannot he collected from any do- cuments that have yet appeared, hut it is thus spoken of in a letter to LadyHesketh. " Hours and hours and hours have I spent in endeavours altogether fruitless, to trace the writer of the letter that I send, by a minute examination of the character ; and never did it strike me, till this moment, that your father wrote it. In the style I discover him ; in the scoring of the em- phatic words (his never-failing practice) ; in the formation of many of the letters ; and in the Adieu! at the bottom, so plain- ly, that I could hardly be more convinced had I seen him write it. Tell me, my dearest cousin, if you are not of my mind ? how much am I bound to love him if it be so ! Always much ; but in that case, if possible, more than ever. " Farewell, thou beloved daughter of my beloved anonymous uncle." That Lady Hesketh did not confirm this suspicion is certain, and he did not repeat it when he informed her of a second and more important letter from the same un- known. " Anonymous is come again. May God bless him, whosoever he be, as I doubt not that he will ! A certain per- son said on a certain occasion (and He never spake word that failed), ' whoso giveth you a cup of cold water in my name, shall by no means lose his reward.' There- fore, Anonymous as he chooses to be upon earth, his name, I trust, shall hereafter be found written in heaven. But when great princes, or characters much superior to great princes, choose to be incog, it is a sin against decency and good manners to seem to know them. I therefore know nothing of Anonymous, but that I love him heartily, and with most abundant cause. Had I opportunity, I would send you his letter, though, yourself excepted, I would indulge none with a sight of it. To con- fide it to your hands will be no violation of the secrecy that he has enjoined him- self, and consequently me. But I can give you a short summary of its purport. After an introduction of a religious cast, which does great honour to himself, and in which he makes an humble comparison between himself and me, bv far too much to mv advantage, he proceeds to tell me, that being lately in company where my last work was mentioned, mention was also made of my intended publication. He informs me of the different sentiments of the company on that subject, and expresses his own in terms the most encouraging ; but adds, that having left the company and shut himself up in his chamber, an apprehension there seized him lest, if per- haps the world should not enter into my views of the matter, and the work should come short of the success that I hope for, the mortification might prove too much for my health; yet thinks that even in that case I may comfort myself by ad- verting to similar instances of a failure, where the writer's genius would have in- sured success, if anything could have in- sured it, and alludes in particular to the fate and fortune of the ' Paradise Lost.' In the last place, he gives his attention to my circumstances, takes the kindest notice of their narrowness, and makes me a present of an annuity of fifty pounds a year, wish- ing that it were five hundred pounds. In a P.S. he tells me that a small parcel will set off by the Wellinborough coach on Tuesday next, which he hopes will arrive safe. I have given you the bones ; but the benignity and affection, which is the marrow of those bones, in so short an abridgment, I could not give you. " I kept my letter unsealed to the last moment, that I might give you an account of the safe arrival of the expected parcel. It is at all points worthy of the letter- writer. Snuff-box, purse, notes, Bess, Puss, Tiney, — all safe. Again, may God bless him ! " In his next letter he says, " It is very pleasant, my dearest cousin, to receive a present so delicately conveyed as that which I received so lately from Anony- mous ; but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank for it. I find myself therefore driven by stress of necessity, to the following resolution, viz. that I will constitute you my Thanks-receiver-gene- ral for whatsoever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as for those that I have already received from a nameless benefac- tor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, for a most elegant present, including the most elegant compliment that ever poet was honoured with ; for a snuff-box of tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, glazed with crystal, ha- ving the figures of three hares in the fore- ground, and inscribed above with these 12 ROBERT SOUTHEY. words, The Peasant's Nest, — and below with these — Tiney, Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these I thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank you that so soon after I had sent you the first letter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. There ! now I am a little easier." I have no means of ascertaining who this benefactor was ; though undoubtedly Lady Hesketh was, as Cowper supposed, in the secret. It was not Lady Hesketh herself, because after her offer of assist- ance had been made and accepted, she would not have affected any mystery" in bestowing it. Nor is it likely to have been her father. Handwritings may, like faces, be distinctly remembered for twenty years, but in the course of twenty years both undergo a great though gradual change ; and it is more probable that Cow- per should be mistaken when he thought he had detected his uncle's hand, than that the latter, choosing to remain un- known, should have given so direct a clue to a discovery. Could it be his daughter Theodora ? Were it not that the compa- rison which the letter-writer drew be- tween Cowper and himself, seems to be one which would have occurred only to a man, I should have no doubt that Theo- dora was the person ; and notwithstand- ing that obvious objection, am still in- clined to think so ; for the presents were what a woman would have chosen, and it is certain that her love was as constant as it was hopeless. Hers was a melan- choly lot ; but she had the consolation of knowing now wherefore, and how wisely her father had acted in forbidding a mar- riage which must have made her miserable indeed. However desirous Cowper may have been to know from whom this benefaction came, he thought himself bound to repress all curiosity. Upon the arrival of another letter, with the announcement of another parcel from the same unknown, he says to his cousin, " who is there in the world that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me to the degree that he does ? But it is no matter. He chooses to be unknown, and his choice is, and ever shall be, so sacred to me, that if his name lay on the table before me reversed, I would not turn the paper about that I might read it. Much as it would gratify me to thank him, I would turn my eyes away from the forbidden discovery. I long to assure him that those same eyes, concerning which he expresses such kind apprehensions lest they should suffer by this laborious under- taking, are as well as I could expect them to be, if I were never to touch either book or pen. Subject to weakness, and occasional slight inflammations, it is pro- bable that they will always be ; but I can- not remember the time when they enjoyed anything so like an exemption from those infirmities as at present. One would al- most suppose that reading Homer were the best ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy to remove his solicitude on the subject, but it is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. Well, then, I will be content without it ; and so content, that, though I believe you, my dear, to be in full possession of all this mystery, you shall never know me while you live, either directly, or by hints of any sort, attempt to extort or to steal the secret from you. I should think myself as justly punishable as the Bethshemites for looking into the ark, which they were not allowedto touch." The more this is considered the more probable it appears that the benefaction came from no other hand than Theodora's. The presents were all womanly, — all indi- cating a woman's kind and thoughtful regard for whatever might contribute to his comfort and convenience. The first had been a desk, which he supposed to be Lady Hesketh's gift ; and the arrival of which, after it had been delayed on the road and impatiently expected, and almost despaired of at last, he announced (under that impression) in a postscript thus cha- racteristically, " Oh, that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that my desk, the most elegant, the completest, the most commodious desk in the world, and of all the desks that are or ever shall be, the desk that I love the most, is safe arrived. Nay, my dear, it was actually at Sherrington when the waggoner's wife (for the man himself was not at home) croaked out her abominable ' No.' Yet she examined the bill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or, as poor Dick Madan used to say, with such an ignorant eye, that my name escaped her. My precious cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothing to render to you in return, but the aflectionate feelings of a heart most truly sensible of your kind- ness. How pleasant it is to write upon such a green bank ! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end of my paper. I have now, however, only room NARRATIVES OF FACT. 13 to say, that Mrs. Unwin is delighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you for it. "What can I do more, at this distance, but say that she loves you heartily, and that so do I ? The pocket- book is also the completest that ever I saw, and the watch-chain the most brilliant. Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer. " My dear, yours, W. C." In his next letter he says, " Dearest cousin, my desk is always pleasant, but never so pleasant as when I am writing to you. If I am not obliged to you for the thing itself, at least I am for your having decided the matter against me, and re- solving that it should come in spite of all objections. If I must not know to whom I am primarily indebted for it, at least let me entreat you to make my acknowledg- ments of gratitude and love." Some womanly present usually accom- panied the half-yearly remittance, and on one of these occasions further cause ap- peared for suspecting from what quarter they came. " By the post of yesterday," he says to Lady Hesketh, " I received a letter from Anonymous, giving me advice of the kind present which I have just particularized, in which letter allusion is made to a certain piece by me composed, entitled, I believe, ' The Drop of Ink.' The only copy I ever gave of that piece I gave to yourself. It is possible, therefore, that between you and Anonymous there may be some communication. If that should be the case, I will beg you just to signify to him, as opportunity may occur, the safe arrival of his most acceptable present, and my most grateful sense of it." Who but Theodora could it have been who was thus intimate with Lady Hesketh, and felt this deep and lively and constant regard for Cowper ? Robert Souther/. CHARLES LAMB Was the son of a clerk to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple, London, was born in Crown-office Row on the 18th of February 1775, and was educated at Christ's Hospital. After having been employed for a little while in the South Sea House, he obtained in 1792 a clerkship in the East India House, from which he retired upon a pension in 1825. From the age of twenty-one he lived with his only sister, Mary, who survived him : he died in December 1834, and was buried in Edmonton Church- yard. He was a thoroughly original thinker and writer ; in the ' Essays of Elia' he flings out his thoughts and feelings and affections, and wild fancies and quaint phrases, with as little reserve as if he were by his own fireside. His good-nature was perfect ; he could find something to love in every person, place and thing, unless it interfered with something which he already loved, for nothing could stand him in stead of " the old familiar faces," whether of things, places, or persons. His style, which is that of the old English writers, — " his midnight darlings his folios, the huge armfulls which he embraced with such intense delight," — is, nevertheless, his own unaffected style, not acquired by purposed imitation, but insensibly, as people grow like those among whom they live and whom they love. The tale of ' Barbara S.' which follows is true, but " Mrs. Crawford" seems to be a feigned name for the little heroine : it is not written in Lamb's peculiar style, which appears in another of the ' Essays of Elia,' under the head of 'Miscellanies.' Three of his letters, from a collection edited by Mr. Serjeant Talfourd, are given under the proper title. THE TEMPTATION. Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old theatrical people say, of all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts, paid away at ran- dom, kept scarce any books, and summing up at the week's end, if he found himself 14 CHARLES LAMB. a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it was no worse. Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half-guinea. By mistake he popped into her hand — a whole one. Barbara tripped away. She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake. Ravenscroft would never have discovered it. But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth landing-places, she be- came sensible of an unusual weight of metal pressing her little hand. Now mark the dilemma. She was by nature a good child. From her parents and those about her she had imbibed no contrary influence. But then they had taught her nothing. Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of moral philosophy. This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then she might be said to have no fixed principle. She had heard honesty commended, but never dreamed of its apphcation to herself. She thought of it as something which con- cerned grown-up people, men and women. She had never known temptation, or thought of preparing resistance against it. Her first impulse was to go back to the old treasurer, and explain to him his blunder. He was already so confused with age, besides a natural want of punctuality, that she would have had some difficulty in making him understand it. She saw that in an instant. And then it was such a bit of money ! and then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's meat on their table next day came across her, till her little eyes glistened and her mouth moistened. But then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been so good-natured, had stood her friend be- hind the scenes, and even recommended her promotion to some of her little parts. But again, the old man was reputed to be v/orth a world of money. He was sup- posed to have 50?. a-year clear of the theatre. And then came staring upon her the figures of her little stockingless and shoeless sisters. And when she looked at her own neatwhite cotton-stockings, which her situation at the theatre had made it indispensable for her mother to provide for her, with hard straining and pinching from the family stock, and thought how glad she should be to cover their poor feet with the same, — and how then they could accompany her to rehearsals, which they had hitherto been precluded from doing, by reason of their unfashionable attire, — in these thoughts she reached the second landing-place — the second, I mean, from the top — for there was still another left to traverse. Now virtue support Barbara ! And that never-failing friend did step in ; for at that moment a strength not her own, I have heard her say, was revealed to her— a reason above reasoning — and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she never felt her feet to move), she found herself transported back to the individual desk she had just quitted, and her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft, who in silence took back the refunded treasure, and who had been sitting (good man) insensible to the lapse of minutes, which to her were anxious ages ; and from that moment a deep peace fell upon her heart, and she knew the quality of honesty. A year or two's unrepining application to her profession brightened up the feet and the prospects of her little sisters, set the whole family upon their legs again, and released her from the difficulty of dis- cussing moral dogmas upon a landing- place. I have heard her say, that it was a sur- prise, not much short of mortification to her, to see the coolness with which the old man pocketed the difference, which had caused her such mortal throes. This anecdote of herself I had in the year 1800, from the mouth of the late Mrs. Crawford, then sixty-seven years of age. Charles Lamb. NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 15 NARRATIVES OF FICTION. SIR THOMAS MALORY Little or nothing more is known of the personal history of this writer than that he lived in the reign of Edward IV., and was a Welchman and a priest. In former times " Sir" was a title given to the clergy as well as to knights, as the readers of Shake- speare may remember, in the instances of Sir Hugh Evans the Welch parson, and Sir Topas the curate. About the year 1469, Sir Thomas Malory compiled the ' Morte d' Arthur,' translating into good old English, from several French romances, ' Lancelot de Lac,' ' Merlin,' ' Tristan,' ' The St. Greaal,' and others. This work, printed by Caxton in 1485, and of which Spenser made use in ' The Fairy Queen,' contains the history of King Arthur, and many of the Knights of the Round Table, collected without much regard to order. The tale of ' Sir Gareth of Orkney,' King Arthur's nephew, part of which follows this notice, has in it a beauty that belongs to few stories of chivalry. To the qualities that adorn all true knights, he adds patience and humility in the highest degree, and is free from the cruelty by which ancient knighthood was too often stained. His gentle forbearance to Lynet, the damosel savage, goes beyond even the courtesy of Colonel Napier to the Duchess of Abrantes. After having lived for a year under the assumed name of Beaumayns, in King Arthur's kitchen, he followed the damsel to undertake the adventure of her sister, the Lady Lyones. Lynet, not knowing that he was of gentle blood, insulted and reproached him, day after day, without mercy. Having overthrown Sir Kay and got the better of Sir Lancelot, when he had overtaken the damsel, anon, she said, " What dost thou here ? Thou stinkest all of the kitchen ; thy clothes be filthy of the grease and tallow that thou gainest in King Arthur's kitchen. Thinkest thou," said she, " that I endure thee for yonder knight that thou killest ? Nay, truly, for thou slewest him unhappily and cowardly, therefore turn again, filthy kitchen page." " Damsel," said Beaumayns. " say to me what ye will, I will not go from you, whatsomever ye say ; for I have un- dertaken to King Arthur for to achieve yoiu' adventure, and so shall I finish it to the end, either I shall die therefore." Again, after he had slain two knights : — " Alas !" she said, " that ever a kitchen page should have that fortune to destroy two such doughty knights ; thou thinkest thou hast done doughtily, — that is not so." " Fair damsel," said Beaumayns, " give me goodly language, and then my care is past." On another occasion, having pulled the green knight to the ground, Sir Gareth pro- ; mises to save his life if the damsel will ask it. She wishes to save the knight, but I scorns to ask a favour of the kitchen boy : then he made a semblance to slay him. " Let be," said the damsel, " thou filthy knave, slay him not, for an thou do, thou shalt | repent it." " Damsel," said Beaumayns, " your charge is to me a pleasure ; and at j your commandment his life shall be saved, and else not." Then he said, " Sir Knight J with the green arms, I release thee quit at this damsel's reqtiest, for I will not make i her wroth, — I will fulfil all that she chargeth me." 16 SIR THOMAS MALORY. At length the damsel relents. "Alas!" she said, "fair Beaumayns, forgive me all that T have mis -said or done against thee." " With all my heart," said he, " I forgive it, for ye did nothing hut as ye should do, for all your evil words pleased me ; and damsel," said Beaumayns, "since it liketh you to say thus fair unto me, know ye well, it gladdeth my heart greatly, and now me seemeth there is no knight living hut I am able enough for him." An edition of the ' Morte d' Arthur,' printed from Caxton and edited by Southey, was published in 1817. SIR GARETH, UNDER THE NAME OF BEAUMAYNS. " Sire," said the damsel Lynet unto Sir Beaumayns, " look ye be glad and light, for yonder is your deadly enemy, and at yonder window is my lady, — my sister, dame Lyones." " Where ?" said Beau- mayns ; " yonder," said the damsel, and pointed with her finger. " That is truth," said Beaumayns, " she beseemeth afar the fairest lady that ever I looked upon ; and truly," he said, " I ask no better quarrel than now for to do battle, for truly she shall be my lady, and for her I will fight." And ever he looked up to the window with glad countenance. And the Lady Lyones made courtesy to him down to the earth with holding up both her hands. With that the red knight of the red lands called to Sir Beaumayns, " Leave, sir knight, thy looking, and behold me, I counsel thee ; for I warn thee well she is my lady, and for her I have done many strong battles." " If thou have so done," said Beaumayns, " me seemeth it was but waste labour, for she loveth none of thy fellowship, and thou to love that loveth not thee is but great folly ; for an I understood that she were not glad of my coming, I would be advised ere I did battle for her. But I understand by the sieging of this castle she may for- bear thy fellowship. And therefore wete thou well, thou red knight of the red lands, I love her, and will rescue her or else die." " Sayest thou that ?" said the red knight ; " me seemeth thou ought of reason to be- ware by yonder knights that thou sawest hang upon yonder trees." " Fye for shame !" said Beaumayns, " that ever thou shouldst say or do so evil, for in that thou shamest thyself and knighthood, and thou mayest be sure there will be no lady love thee that knoweth thy wicked customs. And now thou wenest that the sight of these hanged knights should fear me. Nay truly, not so; that shameful sight causeth me to have courage and hardiness against thee more than I would have had against thee an thou were a well-ruled knight." " Make thee ready," said the red knight of the red lands, " and talk no longer with me." Then Sir Beaumayns bade the dam- sel go from him, and then they put their spears in their rests and came together with all their might that they had both, and either smote the other in the midst of their shields, that the paytrellys, surcin- gles and cruppers burst, and fell to the earth both, and the reins of their bridles in their hands, and so they lay a great while sore stunned that all that were in the castle and in the siege wened their necks had been broken, and then many a stranger and other said the strange knight was a big man and a noble j ouster, for ere now we saw never no knight match the red knight of the red lands ; thus they said both within the castle and without. Then lightly they avoided their horses and put their shields afore them, and drew their swords and ran together like two fierce lions, and either gave the other such buf- fets upon their helms that they reeled backward both two strides, and then they recovered both and hewed great pieces of their harness and their shields that a great part fell into the fields. And then thus they fought till it was past noon, and never would stint till at the last they lacked wind both, and then they stood wagging and staggering, pant- ing, blowing and bleeding, that all that beheld them for the most part wept for pity. So when they had rested them awhile they went to battle again, tracing, racing,thrusting as two boars. And at some time they took their run as it had been two rams, and hurtled together that sometimes j they fell grovelling to the earth, and at sometime they were so amazed that either took the other's sword instead of his own. Thus they endured till evening time, that there was none that beheld them might know which was like to win the battle, and their armour was so far hewn that men might see their naked sides, and j in other places they were naked, but ever | NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 17 the naked places they did defend, and the red knight was a wily knight of war, and his wily fighting taught Sir Beaumayns to he wise, but he bought it full sore ere he did espye his fighting. And thus by as- sent of them both they granted either the other to rest, and so they sat them down upon two mole-hills there beside the fight- ing-place, and either of them unlaced his helm and took the cold wind, for either of their pages was fast by them to come when they called to unlace their harness and to set it on again at their commandment. And then when Sir Beaumayns' helm was off he looked up to the window, and there he saw the fair lady, dame Lyones, and she made him such countenance that his heart waxed light and jolly, and therewith he bade the red knight of the red lands make him ready, and let us do the battle to the utterance. " I will," well said the knight, and then they laced up their helms, and their pages stood aside, and they stepped together and fought freshly ; but the red knight of the red lands awaited him,andat an overthwart smote him within the hand that his sword fell out of his hand, and then he gave him another buffet upon the helm that he fell grovelling to the earth, and the red knight fell over him for to hold him down. Then cried the maiden Lynet on high, " Oh, Sir Beau- mayns, where is thy couragebecome ? alas! my lady, my sister beholdeth thee, and she sobbeth and weepeth that maketh myheart heavy." When Sir Beaumayns heard her say so he started up with a great might and gat him upon his feet, and lightly he leaped to his sword and griped it in his hand and doubled his pace unto the red knight, and there they fought a new battle together. But Sir Beaumayns then dou- bled his strokes and smote so thick that he smote the sword out of his hand, and then he smote him upon the helm that he fell to the earth, and Sir Beaumayns fell upon him and unlaced his helm to have slain him, and then he yielded him and asked mercy, and said with a loud voice, " noble knight, I yield me to thy mercy." Then Sir Beaumayns bethought Mm upon the knights that he had made to be hanged shamefully, and then he said, " I may not with my worship save thy life, for the shameful deaths that thou hast caused many full good knights to die." " Sir," said the red knight of the red lands, " hold your hand, and ye shall know the causes why I put them to so shameful a death." M Say on," said Sir Beaumayns. " Sir, I I loved once a lady, a fair damsel, and she | had her brother slain, and she said it was Sir Launcelot du Lake or else Sir Gawayn, and she prayed me as I loved her heartily that I would make her a promise by the faith of myknighthoodfor to labour dailyin arms until I met with one of them, and all that I might overcome I should put them unto a villainous death; and this is the cause that I have put all these knights to death, and so I ensured her to do all the villainy unto King Arthur's knights, and that I should take vengeance upon all these knights; and, Sir, now I will thee tell that every day my strength increaseth till noon, and all this time have I seven men's strength." Then came there many earls and barons and noble knights and prayed that knight | to save his life and take him to your pri- soner. And all they fell upon their knees and prayed him of mercy, and that he would save his life, "and Sir, (they all said,) it were fairer of him to take homage and fealty, and let him hold his lands of you, 1 than for to slay him ; by his death ye shall have no advantage, and his misdeeds that J be done may not be undone. And there- ! fore he shall make amends to all parties, and we all will become your men and do you homage and fealty." "Fair lords," said ! Beaumayns, " wete you well I am full loth t to slay this knight, nevertheless he hath ; done passing vile and shamefully. But ! insomuch all that he did was at a lady's I request, I blame him the less, and so for 1 your sake I will release him that he shall have his life upon this covenant, that he ' go within the castle and yield him there j to the lady ; and if she will forgive and ; quit him, I will well : with this, — he make ! her amends of all the trespass he hath ' done against her and her lands ; and also when that is done that he go into the { court of King Arthur, and there that he : ask Sir Launcelot mercy and Sir Gawayn : for the evil will ye have had against them." J " Sir," said the red knight of the red lands, j "all this will I do as ye command, and firm assurance and pledges ye shall have." Sir Thomas Malory. THE DEATH OF SIR LAUNCELOT. And when Sir Hector heard such noise and light in the choir of Joyous garde, he alighted and put his horse from him, and came into the choir, and there he saw men 18 ROBERT SOUTHEY. sing the service full lamentably. And all they knew Sir Hector, but he knew not them. Then went Sir Bors to Sir Hector and told him how there lay his brother Sir Launcelot dead, and then Sir Hector threw his shield, his sword and helm from him. And when he beheld Sir Launcelot's visage he fell down in a swoon. And when he awaked it were hard for any tongue to tell the doleful complaints that he made for his brother. " Ah, Sir Launcelot," he said, "thou wert head of all Christian knights, and now I dare say," said Sir Hector, " thou Sir Launcelot there thou lyest that thou wert never matched of none earthly knight's hands. And thou wert the most courteous knight that ever bare shield. And thou wert the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse, and thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman ; and thou w r ert the kindest man that ever struck with sword ; and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights ; and thou wert the meekest roan and the gen- tlest that ever ate in Hall among ladies ; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in rest." Then there was weeping and dolour out of measure. Thus they kept Sir Launce- lot's corpse above ground fifteen days, and then they buried it with great devotion. And then at leisure they went all with the Bishop of Canterbury to his hermitage. And there thev were together more than a month. Then Sir Constantine that was Sir Cador's son of Cornwall Avas chosen King of England. And he was a full noble knight, and worshipfully he ruled this realm. And then this King Constantine sent for the Bishop of Canterbury, for he heard say where he was. And so he was restored unto his bishopric and left that hermitage. And Sir Bedwer was there ever styled hermit to his life's end. Then Sir Bors de Ganys, Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Gahalantyne, Sir Galyhud, Sir Galy- hodyn, Sir Blamore, Sir Bleoberys, Sir Vil- lyars le Valyaunt, Sir Clarrus of Clere- mount, all these knights drew them to their countries. Howbeit King Constan- tine would have had them with him, but they would not abide in this realm. And there they all lived in their countries as Holy-men. And some English books make mention that they went never out of En- gland after the death of Sir Launcelot, but that was but the good pleasure of the writers, for the French book maketh men- tion and is authorized that Sir Bors, Sir Hector, Sir Blamore, and Sir Bleoberys went into the Holy Land, anon as they had established their lands. For the Book saith so Sir Launcelot commanded them to do or ever he passed out of this world. And these four knights did many battles upon the Miscreants and Turks. And there they died upon a Good Friday. Sir Thomas Malory. ROBERT SOUTHEY (For Notes of his Life see p. 10.) AMADIS OF GAUL, UNDER THE NAME OF BELTENEBROS. Ten days that Damsel of Denmark re- mained in Scotland, not so much for plea- sure as because she had suffered much from the sea and for the ill- success of her search, and she feared that to return, when she had sped so ill, would be the death of her mistress. At length she took her leave, and receiving presents from the Queen of Scotland to Queen Brisena and Oriaua and Mabilia, she embarked for Great Britain, not knowing w T hat other course to pursue ; but that Lord of the World, who to those that are utterly without hope or remedy shows something of his power, that we may know it is He that helpeth us and not our own wisdom, He changed her voy- age, to her own great fear, and the fear and sorrow of all in the ship ; for the sea began to rage, and such a tempest arose, that the sailors lost all power over the ship and all knowledge of their course, and the ship w T as driven whither the winds would, they that were in her having no hope of life. At last one morning they came to the foot of the Poor Rock ; some of them knew the place, and said that Andalod the Hermit lived there, which, when the Damsel heard, she ordered them to put to land, that being rescued from NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 19 | such a danger she might hear mass from | that holy man, and return thanks to the j Virgin Mary for the mercy which her glo- : rious Son had shown them. Beltenebros was sitting at this time by j the fountain under the trees, where he had j passed the night, and he was now so re- duced that he did not expect to live fifteen j days. What with weeping and with the I • wasting away of sorrow, his face was more [ deadly pale than sickness could have made ! ! it, and so worn down and wan that no one could have known him. He saw the ship, and the Damsel and two Squires landing ; but his thoughts being wholly bent upon death, the things that once j gave him pleasure, as in seeing strangers J that he might help them if they needed succour, now had become hateful. So he ; rose and went into the chapel, and told ; the Hermit that there were strangers land- ed and coming up ; and then he knelt be- fore the altar, and prayed God to have | mercy upon his soul, for he was soon going to his account. The Hermit vested him- self to say mass, and the Damsel with Du- rin and Enil entered. After she had pray- ed she uncovered her face. Beltenebros \ rose from his knees, and seeiug her and j Durin, the shock was so great that he fell j down senseless. The Hermit thought him I dead, and exclaimed, "Ah, Lord Almighty ! why has it not pleased thee to have pity upon liim who might have done so much in thy service?" and the tears fell fast adown his long white beard. "Good Dam- sel," said he, " let these men help me to \ carry him to his chamber. I believe it is \ the last kindness we can do him." Enil j and Durin assisted to lift him up, and j they carried him into his chamber and j laid him upon a poor bed, and neither of i them knew him. After the Damsel had heard mass, she ; resolved to make her meal ashore, for she was weary of the sea. So by chance she asked " who that poor man was, and what sore sickness afflicted him ? " " He is a knight, who liveth here in penance." " He is greatly to be blamed," quoth she, " to choose so desert a place." " It is as you say," replied the Hermit, " for he has done so for the foolish vanities of the world, more than for the service of God." " I will see him," said the Damsel, " since you tell me he is a knight; perhaps there may be something in the ship which would relieve him." " That you may do, but he is so near his end, that I believe death will ease you of that trouble." Beltenebros was lying upon his bed, thinking what he should do : if he made himself known, that would be breaking his Lady's command ; and if he did not, he should remain without any hope or possible remedy ; but he thought to dis- obey her will would be worse than death, and so determined to be silent. The Damsel came to the bed-side and said, " Goodman, I learn from the Hermit that you are a knight, and because damsels are beholden to all knights for the dan- gers they encounter in our defence, I re- solved to see you, and leave with you any- thing which is in the ship that may con- tribute to your health." He made her no answer, but sobbed with such exceeding passion that she thought his soul was de- parting ; and because the room was dark she opened a shutter for the light, and drew r near to see if he were dead. They looked at each other some time, and the Damsel knew him not. At last she saw a scar in his face : it was the mark of a wound which Arcalaus had given him with his lance when Oriana was rescued ; then, tho' before she had no suspicion, she knew that this was Amadis. "Ah, Holy Mary, help me ! you are he, Sir ! " and she fell with her face upon the bed, and knelt down and kissed his hands. " Now r , Sir," said she, " your compassion and pardon are needed for her w r ho has w T ronged you, fur, if her unjust suspicion have reduced you to this danger, she her- self with more reason passes a life more bitter than death." Beltenebros took her in his amis and held her awhile, having no power to speak. She then gave him the letter: " Your Lady sends you this, and she bids you, if you are the same Amadis, whom she loves so well, to forget the past, and come to her in the castle of Mira- flores, and there receive her atonement for your wrongs, which excessive love oc- casioned." Amadis kissed the letter, and placed it upon his heart, saying, " Heart, take thy remedy, for there was none other that could save thee ! " This was the letter : ' If great faults committed by enmity, when humbly acknowledged, deserve par- don, what shall we say to those which proceeded from excess of love ? Not that by this do I deny, my true friend, that I deserve exceeding punishment, for neither having considered your truth, that had never before failed, nor my own mind in how passionate a state it was. I pray you receive this Damsel as coming from one 20 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. who humbly confesseth her fault, and who will tell you the wretchedness which she endures, who requests your pity, not be- cause she deserves it, but for your com- fort as well as her own.' Such joy had Beltenebros at this letter, that he was lost even as in his past sor- row, and tears that he did not feel ran down his cheeks. It was agreed between them that the Damsel should give out how she, took him aboard for his health sake, because on that rock he could have no help, and that as soon as possible they should take land and leave the ship. Beltenebros then told the Hermit by what happy chance the Damsel had found him, and besought him that he would take charge of the monastery that was to be built by his command at the foot of the rock of the Firm Island. This the old man promised, and Beltenebros then em- barked, being known of none but the Damsel. They soon landed with the two Squires, and left the mariners. Presently they found a pleasant place upon the side of a brook, with many goodly trees, and there they resolved to rest, because Beltenebros was so weak; and there, if it had not been that the absence of his Lady afflicted him, he would have passed the pleasantest life, and best for his recovery that might be, for under those trees, where the brook-springs arose, they had their meals, and there was their tent for the night. There related they to each other all that had past, and a pleasure was it now to him to talk over his misery. Ten days they remained, and in that time he so re- gained strength, that his heart felt its old inclination for arms. He made himself known to Durin there, and took Enil for his Squire, who knew not whom it was that he served, but was well content with him for his gentle speech. Hence de- parting, in four days they reached a nun- nery ; there they determined that he and Enil should abide, while the Damsel and her brother went to Miraflores. She then gave Beltenebros money to buy horses and armour, and for his wants ; and she left behind her part of the Queen of Scotland's presents, that she might send Durin for them as if they had been for- gotten, and so he might bring news. Robert Southey. [From his translation of a Spanish version of Vasco Lobeira's Amadis of Gaul.] SIR PHILIP SIDNEY Was born at Penshurst in Kent on the 29th of November 1554, and after passin some time in a school at Shrewsbury, at the age of twelve or thirteen was entered ! at Christ Church, Oxford. In 1572 he began to travel, and passing through France, Italy and Germany, returned home in 1575, and was highly and deservedly favoured by Queen Elizabeth. In his twenty-sixth year he wrote the ' Arcadia,' at the request of his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, but he left it incomplete, and had even di- rected that it should be destroyed. He was shot in battle at Zutphen in Holland on the 23rd of September 1586, and died on the lGth of October following; his body was brought to England and buried in St. Paul's Cathedral. " The pride of England and the admiration of Europe," he stood between the ages of chivalry and refinement, combining all that was admirable in both, — the true knight and the accomplished gentleman. The story of his giving water to the soldier while parching with thirst from his own death-wound has been told a thousand times and cannot be told too often : " The horse, furiously choleric, forced him to forsake the field. Passing by the rest of the army, where his uncle the general was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently j brought him ; but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth he saw a poor soldier carried along, ghastly casting up his eyes at the vessel, which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head, and delivered it to the poor man with these words, ' Thy ne- cessity is yet greater than mine.' When he had pledged the poor soldier, he was NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 21 carried immediately to Arnheim." Immediately before bis deatb be called bis brotber to bim and spoke thus : " Love my memory, cberisb my friends ; their faith to me may assure you that they are honest ; above all, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator : in me behold the end of the world, with all her vani- ties." No subject was ever so mourned : " It was accounted a sin for any gentleman of quality for many months after to appear at court or city in any light or gaudy ap- parel." The 'Arcadia' is a mixture of what are called the Pastoral and Heroic Romances, most tiresome and unnatural compositions. The Romances of Chivalry spoke of feelings which had existence, and of facts which were at least believed, but in the others there was no shadow of truth. A king and queen, and princesses secluded in farm-houses under the dread of some mysterious oracle, with two princes disguised, one as an Amazon, the other as a cow-boy, are the chief persons of the ' Arcadia,' and talk for ever, and most tediously, of their loves and their battles. The value of the work consists in the dignity and beauty of its language ; the description of Musidorus on horseback in the latter of the following extracts has been often quoted with ap- plause, and the scene which goes before that description perhaps suggested to Sir Walter Scott two between Minna and Brenda in the ' Pirate.' Under the head of ' Philosophy and Policy,' there is another piece from the 1 Arcadia' full of wise saws, which may bring to mind some modern instances ; and in the ' Miscellanies' is a beautiful passage from the ' Defence of Poesie.' THE PRINCESSES OF ARCADIA. This country Arcadia, among all the provinces of Greece, hath ever been had m singular reputation, partly for the sweet- ness of the air and other natural benefits, but principally for the well-tempered minds of the people, who (finding that the shining title of glory, so much affected by other nations, doth indeed help little to the happiness of life,) are the only peo- ple, which, as by then- justice and provi- dence, give neither cause nor hope to their neighbours to annoy them ; so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble others' quiet, thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own lives in ra- vening, that their posterity should long after say, they had done so. Even the Muses seem to approve their good deter- mination, by choosing this country for their chief repairing place, and by bestow- ing their perfections so largely here, that the very shepherds have their fancies lifted to so high conceits, as the learned of other nations are content both to bor- row their names and imitate their cunning. Here dwelleth and reigneth this Prince (whose picture you see) by name Basilius ; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so quiet a country, where the good minds of the former princes had set down good laws, and the well bringing-up of the people doth serve as a most sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with you, he excels in nothing so much as the zealous love of his people, wherein he doth not only pass all his own foregoers, but as I think, all the princes living. Whereof the ; cause is, that though he exceed not in the virtues which get admiration, as depth of wisdom, height of courage, and large- ness of magnificence, yet is he notable in those which stir affection, as truth of word, meekness, courtesy, mercifulness, and liberality. He being already well stricken in years, i married a young princess, named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of notable beauty, as by her picture you see : a wo- I man of great wit, and in truth of more princely virtues than her husband; of ; most unspotted chastity ; but of so work- ! ing a mind and so vehement spirits, as a man may say, it was happy she took a good course, for otherwise it would have been terrible. Of these two are brought to the world two daughters, so beyond measure excel- j lent in all the gifts allotted to reasonable : creatures, that we may think they were born to show, that Nature is no step-mo- ther to that sex, how much soever some men (sharp-witted only in evil-speaking) have sought to disgrace them. The elder | is named Pamela ; by many men not deemed inferior to her sister : for my part, when I marked them both, methought 22 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. there was (if at least such perfections may- receive the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea, but more majesty in Pamela : methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, and threatened in Pamela's: methought Philoclea's beauty only persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must yield; Pa- mela's beauty used violence, and such violence as no heart could resist. And it seems that such proportion is between their minds : Philoclea so bashful, as though her excellencies had stolen into her before she was aware ; so humble, that she will piit all pride out of counte- nance ; in sum, such proceeding as will stir hope, but teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts, who avoids not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making that one of her excellencies to be void of pride ; her mother's wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with a more constant temper. Sir Philip Sidney. MUSIDORUS AND PAMELA. She went alone up to Pamela's chamber, where, meaning to delight her eyes and joy her thoughts with the sweet conversa- tion of her beloved sister, she found her (though it were in the time that the wings of night do blow sleep most willingly into mortal creatures) sitting in a chair, lying backward, with her head almost over the back of it, and looking upon a wax candle which burnt before her ; in one hand hold- ing a letter, in the other her handkerchief, which had lately drunk up the tears of her eyes, leaving instead of them crimson cir- cles, like red flakes in the element, when the weather is hottest; which Philoclea finding (for her eyes had learned to know the badges of sorrow) she earnestly en- treated to know the cause thereof, that either she might comfort, or accompany her doleful humour. But Pamela, rather seeming sorry that she had perceived so much than willing to open any further ; " Oh my Pamela," said Philoclea, " who are to me a sister in nature, a mother in counsel, a princess by the law of the coun- try, andwhich name (methinks of all other) is the dearest, a friend by my choice and your favour, what means this banishing me from your counsels ? Do you love your sorrow so well as to grudge me part of it ? Or do you think I shall not love a sad Pa- mela so well as a joyful ? or be my ears unworthy, or my tongue suspected ? What is it, my sister, that you should conceal from your sister, yea and servant Philo- clea?" These words wan no further of Pamela, but that telling her they might talk better as they lay together ; they im- poverished their clothes to enrich their bed, which for that night might well scorn the shrine of Venus ; and there cherishing one another with dear, though chaste em- bracements; with sweet, though coldkisses; it might seem that Love was come to play him there without dart ; or that weary of his own fires, he was there to refresh him- self between their sweet breathing lips. But Philoclea earnestly again entreated Pamela to open her grief; who (drawing the curtain, that the candle might not com- plain of her blushing) was ready to speak : but the breath, almost formed into words, was again stopped by her, and turned into sighs. But at last, " I pray you," said she, " sweet Philoclea, let us talk of some other thing : and tell me whether did you ever see anything so amended as our pastoral sports be, since that Dorus came hither?" love, how far thou seest with blind eyes ! Philoclea had straight found her, and there- fore to draw out more, " Indeed," said she, " I have often wondered to myself how such excellencies could be in so mean a person ; but belike fortune was afraid to lay her treasures where they should be stained with so many perfections : only I marvel how he can frame himself to hide so rare gifts under such a block as Dame- tas." " Ah," said Pamela, " if you knew the cause, but, no more do I neither ; and to say the truth : but, how are we fallen to talk of this fellow ? and yet indeed if you were sometimes with me to mark him, while Dametas reads his rustick lecture unto him, (how to feed his beasts before noon, where to shade them in the extreme heat, how to make the manger handsome for his oxen, when to use the goad, and when the voice ; giving him rules of a herdman, though he pretend to make him a shepherd ;) to see all the while with what a grace (which seems to set a crown upon his base estate) he can descend to those poor matters, certainly you woidd : but to what serves this ? no doubt we were better sleep, than talk of these idle matters." " Ah my Pamela," said Philoclea, " I have caught you ; the constancy of your wit was not wont to bring forth such disjointed speeches : you love, dissemble no further." " It is true," said Pamela, " now you have it ; and with less ado should, if my heart NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 23 could have thought those words suitable for my mouth. But indeed, my Philoclea, take heed : for I think virtue itself is no armour of proof against affection. There- fore learn by my example." Alas ! thought Philoclea to herself, your shears come too late to clip the bird's wings that already is flown away. But then Pamela being once set in the stream of her love, went away amain, withal telling her how his noble qualities had drawn her liking to- wards him; but yet ever weighing his meanness, and so held continually in due limits. "And in the end, because you shall know my tears come not, neither of repentance nor misery, who, think you, is my Dorus fallen out to be ? even the Prince Musidorus, famous over all Asia for his heroical enterprises, of whom you remem- ber how much good the stranger Plangus told my father ; he not being drowned as Plangus thought, though his cousin Pyro- cles indeed perished. Ah my sister, if you had heard his words, or seen his gestures, when he made me know what, and to whom his love was, you woidd have matched in yourself, those two rarely matched together, pity and delight. Tell me, dear sister, for the gods are my wit- nesses I desire to do virtuously, can I with- out the detestable stain of ungratefulness abstain from loving him, who, far exceed- ing the beautifulness of his shape with the beautifulness of his mind, and the great- ness of his estate with the greatness of Ms acts, is content so to abase himself, as to become Dametas' servant for my sake ? You will say, but how know I him to be Musidorus, since the hand-maid of wisdom is slow of belief ? That consideration did not want in me : for the nature of desire itself is no easier to receive belief, than it is hard to ground belief. For as desire is glad to embrace the first show of comfort, so is desire desirous of perfect assurance : and that have I had of him, not only by necessary arguments to any of common sense, but by sufficient demonstrations. Lastly, he woidd have me send to Thes- salia : but truly I am not as now in mind to do my honourable love so much wrong, as so far to suspect him : yet poor soul, knows he no other, but that I do both sus- pect, neglect, yea, and detest him. For every day he finds one way or other to set forth himself unto me, but all are rewarded with like coldness of acceptation. " A few days since, he and Dametas had furnished themselves very richly to run at the ring before me. how mad a sight it was to see Dametas, like rich tissue furr'd with lamb-skins ! But how well it did with Dorus, to see with what a grace he presented himself before me on horse- back, making majesty wait upon humble- ness ! how at the first, standing still with his eyes bent upon me, as though his mo- tions were chained to my look, he so staid till I caused Mopsa bid him do something upon his horse : which no sooner said, but with a land rather of quick gesture than show of violence, you might see him come towards me, beating the ground in so due time, as no dancer can observe better mea- sure. If you remember the ship we saw once, when the sea went high upon the coast of Argos, so went the beast. But he, as if Centaur-like he had been one piece with the horse, was no more moved than one with the going of his own legs : and in effect so did he command him, as his own limbs : for though he had both spurs and wand, they seemed rather marks of sovereigntythan instruments of punish- ment, his hand and leg, with most pleasing grace, commanding without threatening, and rather remembering than chastising ; at least if sometimes he did, it was so stolen, as neither our eyes could discern it, nor the horse with any change did com- plain of it : he ever going so just with the horse, either forthright or turning, that it seemed, as he borrowed the horse's body, so he lent the horse his mind. In the turning one might perceive the bridle- hand something gently stir: but indeed so gently, as it did rather distil virtue than use violence. Himself, which me- thinks is strange, showing at one instant both steadiness and nimbleness ; some- times making him turn close to the ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she wheels about after a mouse : sometimes with a little more rising before, now like a raven leaping from ridge to ridge, then like one of Dametas's kids bounding over the hil- locks : and all so done, as neither the lusty kind showed any roughness, nor the easier any idleness : but still like a w r ell-obeyed master, whose beck is enough for a disci- pline, ever concluding each thing he did with his face to me-wards, as if thence came not only the beginning but ending of his motions." Sir Philip Sidney. 24 DANIEL DEFOE. DANIEL DEFOE (For Notes of his -Life see p. 1.) THE CAKES OF ILL-GOTTEN WEALTH. Nothing could be more perplexing than this money was to me all that night. I carried it in my hand a good while, for it was in gold all hut fourteen shillings, and that is to say, it was four guineas, and that fourteen shillings was more difficult to carry than the four guineas. At last I sat down and pulled off one of my shoes, and put the four guineas into that ; but after I had gone awhile, my shoe hurt me so I could not go, so I was fain to sit down again, and take it out of my shoe and carry it in my hand ; then I found a dirty linen rag in the street, and I took that up ' and wrapt it altogether, and earned it in that a good way. I have often since heard people say, when they have been talking of money that they could not get in, "I wish I had it in a foul clout :" in truth, I had mine in a foul clout ; for it was foul, according to the letter of that saying, but it served me till I came to a convenient place, and then I sat down and washed the cloth in the kennel, and so then put my money in again. Well, I earned it home with me to my lodging in the glass-house', and when I went to go to sleep, I knew not what to do with it ; if I had let any of the black crew I was with know of it, I should have been smothered in the ashes for it, or rob- bed of it, or some trick or other put upon me for it ; so I knew not what to do, but lay with it in my hand, and my hand in my bosom, but then sleep went from my eyes. Oh, the weight of human care ! I, a poor beggar-boy, coidd not sleep, so soon as I had but a little money to keep, who, before that, could have slept upon a heap of brick-bats, stones, or cinders, or any- where, as sound as a rich man does on his down bed, and sounder too. Every now and then dropping asleep, I should dream that my money was lost, and start like one frightened ; then, finding it fast in my hand, try to go to sleep again, but could not for a long while, then drop and start again. At last a fancy came into my head, that if I fell asleep I should dream of the money and talk of it in my sleep, and tell that I had money ; which if I should do, and one of the rogues should hear me, they would pick it out of my bosom, and of my hand too, without waking me ; and after that thought I could not sleep a wink more ; so I passed that night over in care and anxiety enough, and this, I may safely say, was the first night's rest that I lost by the cares of this life and the deceitfulness of riches. As soon as it was day I got out of the hole we lay in and rambled abroad in the fields towards Stepney, and there I mused and considered what I should do with this money, and many a time I wished that I had not had it ; for, after all my rumi- nating upon it, and what course I should take with it, or where I should put it, I could not hit upon any one thing, or any possible method to secure it, and it per- plexed me so, that at last, as I said just now, I sat clown and cried heartily. When my crying was over, the case was the same ; I had the money still, and what to do with it I could not tell : at last it came into my head that I would look out for some hole in a tree, and see to hide it there till I should have occasion for it. Big with this discovery, as I then thought it, I began to look about me for a tree ; but there were no trees in the fields about Stepney or Mile-end that looked fit for my purpose ; and if there were any that I began to look narrowly at, the fields were so full of people, that they would see if I went to hide anything there, and I thought the people eyed me, as it were, and that two men in particular followed me to see what I intended to do. This drove me further off, and I crossed the road at Mile-end, and in the middle of the town went down a lane that goes away to the Blind Beggar's at Bethnal-green. When I came a little way in the lane I found a foot-path over the fields, and in those fields several trees for my turn, as I thought ; at last, one tree had a little hole in it, pretty high out of my reach, and I climbed up the tree to get it, and when I came there I put my hand in, and found, as I thought, a place very fit ; so I placed my treasure there, and was mighty well satisfied with it ; but, behold, putting my NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 25 hand in again to lay it more commodi- ously, as I thought, of a sudden it slipped away from me, and I found the tree was hollow, and my little parcel was fallen in quite out of my reach, and how far it might go in I knew not ; so that, in a word, my money was quite gone, irrecover- ably lost ; there coidd be no room so much as to hope ever to see it again, for 't was a vast great tree. As young as I was, I was now sensible what a fool I was before, that I could not think of ways to keep my money, but I must come thus far to throw it into a hole where I could not reach it : well, I thrust my hand quite up to my elbow, but no bottom was to be found, or any end of the hole or cavity ; I got a stick of the tree, and thrust it in a great way, but all was one ; then I cried, nay, roared out, I was in such a passion ; then I got down the tree again, then up again, and thrust in my hand again till I scratched my arm and made it bleed, and cried all the while most violently; then I began to think I had not so much as a halfpenny of it left for a halfpenny roll, and I was hungry, and then I cried again : then I came away in de- spair, crying and roaring like a little boy that had been whipped ; then I went back again to the tree, and up the tree again, and thus I did several times. The last time I had gotten up the tree I happened to come down not on the same side that I went up and came down be- fore, but on the other side of the tree, and on the other side of the bank also ; and, behold, the tree had a great open place in the side of it close to the ground, as old hollow trees often have ; and looking into the open place, to my inexpressible joy there lay my money and my linen rag, all wrapped up just as I had put it into the hole : for the tree being hollow all the way up, there had been some moss or light stuff, which I had not judgement enough to know was not firm, that had given way when it came to drop out of my hand, and so it had slipped quite down at once. I was but a child, and I rejoiced like a child, for I holla'd quite out aloud when I saw it ; then I ran to it and snatched it up, hugged and kissed the dirty rag a hun- dred times ; then danced and jumped about, ran from one end of the field to the other, and in short I knew not what, much less do I know now what I did, tho' I shall never forget the tiling, either what a sinking grief it was to my heart when I thought I had lost it, or what a flood of joy overwhelmed me when I had got it again. While I was in the first transport of my joy, as I have said, I ran about and knew not what I did ; but when that was over I sat down, opened the fold clout the money was in, looked at it, told it, fouud it was all there, and then I fell a-crying as violently as I did before, when I thought I had lost it. Daniel Defoe. JOSEPH ADDISON Was born at Milstone in Wiltshire, on the 1st of May 1672, and after some schooling at his native place, at Salisbury, and at Lichfield, was sent to the Charter House, and in 1687 to Oxford. In 1699 he began to travel in France and Italy, and returned to England in 1702. The Campaign, a poem in praise of the Duke of Marlborough, recommended him to Lord Godolphin, and he obtained several employments under the Whig ministry which was dismissed in 1710. The Spectator, to which he con- tributed the best papers, — those marked with one of the letters of the word Clio, — was begun in 1/11. In 1714, on the accession of George L, he was again employed in political office, and in 1717 he was made Secretary of State, but soon resigned, and died on the 17th of June 1719, at Holland House, Kensington. He had remained unmarried until 1716, when he wedded the Countess Dowager of Warwick, who seems to have treated him as a sort of upper servant. Until his marriage, he passed much time, according to the uncomfortable custom of the age, in coffee-houses, where he was surrounded by a little knot of admirers to whom 26 JOSEPH ADDISON. his word was law. Among friends his powers of conversation were unequalled, a fact to which Pope, whom literary jealousy, and Swift, whom party separated from him, bear witness, but the presence of a single stranger silenced him ; and he was unfit for public business, for he could neither speak in the House of Commons, nor write a common note with ease. As a describer of life and manners, Dr. Johnson places him " perhaps first in the first rank ;" and this high praise belongs to Addison, that, at a time when such an example was much needed, he used his powers of wit and humour on the side of morality and religion, and to correct the flippant impertinence towards women which had prevailed among the wits since the Restoration. His style is pure and easy ; — " whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addi* son," — these are the words of Dr. Johnson. Three papers of Addison have been taken from the Spectator for this work. The Vision of Mirza is perfect in its kind, and the paper on the Indian Kings is one of the earliest instances of writing in the character of a foreigner. The design and hints for the latter had been given by Dean Swift to Sir Richard Steele for the Tatler. In the journal to Stella, 28th of April 1711, Swift writes : — " The Spectator is written by Steele with Addison's help ; 't is often very pretty. Yesterdayit was made of a noble hint I gave him long ago for his Tatlers about an Indian supposed to write his travels into England. I repent he ever had it. I intended to have written a book on that subject. I believe he has spent it all in one paper, and all the under hints are mine too." THE INDIAN KINGS IN LONDON. When the four Indian kings were in this country about a twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with the rabble, and followed them a whole day together, being wonder- fully struck with the sight of everything that is new or uncommon. I have since their departure employed a friend to make many inquiries of their landlord the up- holsterer relating to their manners and conversation, as also concerning the re- marks which they made in this country : for, next to the forming a right notion of such strangers, I should be desirous of learning what ideas they have conceived of us. The upholsterer finding my friend very inquisitive about his lodgers, brought him some time since a little bundle of papers, which he assured him were written by king Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow, and as he supposes, left behind by some mistake. These papers are now translated, and con- tain abundance of very odd observations, which I find this little fraternity of kings made during their stay in the island of Great Britain. I shall present my reader with a short specimen of them in this paper, and may perhaps communicate more to him hereafter. In the article of London are the following words, which without doubt are meant of the church of St. Paul. " On the most rising part of the town there stands a huge house, big enough to contain the whole nation of which I am king. Our good brother E Tow O Koam, king of the Rivers, is of opinion it was made by the hands of that great God to whom it is consecrated. The kings of Granajah and of the Six Nations believe that it was created with the earth, and produced on the same day with the sun and moon. But for my own part, by the best information that I could get of this matter, I am apt to think that this prodi- gious pile was fashioned into the shape it now bears by several tools and instruments, of which they have a w r onderful variety in this country. It was probably at first a huge misshapen rock that grew upon the top of the hill, which the natives of the country (after having cut into a kind of regular figure) bored and hollow r ed with incredible pains and industry 'till they had wrought in it all those beautiful vaults and caverns into which it is divided at this day. As soon as this rock was thus curi- ously scooped to their liking, a prodigious number of hands must have been employed in chipping the outside of it, which is now as smooth as the surface of a pebble ; and is in several places hewn out into pillars NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 27 that stand like the trunks of so many trees bound about the top with garlands of leaves. It is probable that when this great work was begun, which must have been many hundred years ago, there was some religion among this people ; for they give it the name of a temple, and have a tradition that it was designed for men to pay their devotions in. And indeed there are several reasons which make us think that the natives of this country had for- merly among them some sort of worship ; for they set apart every seventh day as sacred. But upon my going into one of these holy houses on that day, I coidd not observe any circumstance of devotion in their behaviour. There was indeed a man in black, who was mounted above the rest, and seemed to utter something with a great deal of vehemence ; but as for those underneath him, instead of paying their worship to the deity of the place, they were most of them bowing and curtseying to one another, and a considerable num- ber of them fast asleep. "The queen of the country appointed two men to attend us, that had enough of our language to make themselves understood in some few particulars. But we soon perceived these two were great enemies to one another, and did not always agree in the same story. We could make shift to gather out of one of them, that this island was very much infested with a monstrous kind of animals, in the shape of men, called whigs ; and he often told us, that he hoped we should meet with none of them in our way, for that if we did, they would be apt to knock us down for being kings. " Our other interpreter used to talk very much of a kind of animal called a tory, that was as great a monster as the whig, and would treat us as ill for being foreign- ers. These two creatures, it seems, are born with a secret antipathy to one an- other, and engage when they meet as na- turally as the elephant and the rhinoceros. I But as we saw none of either of these species, we are apt to think that our guides deceived us with misrepresentations and fictions, and amused us with an account of such monsters as are not really in their country. " These particulars we made a shift to I pick out from the discourse of our inter- j preters ; which we put together as well as j we could, being able to understand but i here and there a word of what they said, and afterwards making up the meaning of it among ourselves. The men of the coun- try are very cunning and ingenious in handicraft works, but withal so very idle, that we often saw young lusty raw-boned fellows earned up and down the streets in little covered rooms by a couple of porters, who were hired for that service. j Then- dress is likewise very barbarous, for i they almost strangle themselves about the j neck, and bind their bodies with several ligatures, that we are apt to think are the occasion of several distempers among them, which our country is entirely free from. Instead of those beautiful feathers with which we adorn our heads, they often buy up a monstrous bush of hair, which covers their heads, and falls down in a large fleece below the middle of their backs ; and with which they walk up and down the streets, and are as proud of it as if it was of their own growth. " We were invited to one of their public diversions, where we hoped to have seen the great men of their country running down a stag, or pitching a bar, that we might have discovered who were the per- sons of the greatest abilities among them ; but instead of that, they conveyed us into a huge room lighted up with abundance of candles, where this lazy people sat still above three hours to see several feats of ingenuity performed by others, who it seems were paid for it. " As for the women of the country, not being able to talk with them, we coidd only make our remarks upon them at a I distance. They let the hair of their heads ' grow to a great length ; but as the men ! make a great show with heads of hair that are none of their own, the women, who they say have very fine heads of hah, tie it up in a knot and cover it from being I seen. The women look like angels, and 1 would be more beautiful than the sun, I were it not for little black spots that are i apt to break out in their faces, and some- ! times rise in very odd figures. I have ob- i served that those little blemishes wear off very soon; but when they disappear in one part of the face they are very apt to break out in another, insomuch that I have seen a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon which was upon the chin in the morning." The author then proceeds to show the absurdity of breeches and petticoats, with many other curious observations, which I shall reserve for another occasion. I can- not, however, conclude this paper without taking notice, that amidst these wild re- C2 28 JOSEPH ADDISON. marks there now and then appears some- thing very reasonable. I cannot likewise forbear observing, that we are all guilty in some measure of the same narrow way of thinking which we meet with in this abs- I tract of the Indian journal, when we j fancy the customs, dresses and manners of other countries are ridiculous and ex- | travagant, if they do not resemble those of our own. Joseph Addison. THE VISION OF MIRZA. On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devo- tions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the moun- tains, I fell into a profound contempla- tion on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another, " surely," said I, " Man is but a shadow, and life a dream." Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the sum- mit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and al- together different from any thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the de- parted souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the im- pressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius ; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and ap- prehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, " Mirza," said he, " I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me." He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, " cast thy eyes eastward," said he, " and tell me what thou seest." " I see," said I, " a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it." " The valley that thou seest," said he, " is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity." " What is the reason," said I, " that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ?" " What thou seest," said he, " is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now," said he, " this sea that is bounded with dark- ness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it." " I see a bridge," said I, " standing in the midst of the tide." " The bridge thou seest," said he, " is human life, consider it attentively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me further," said he, " what thou discoverest on it." " I see multi- tudes of people passing over it," said I, " and a black cloud hanging on each end of it." As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; and upon farther examination, perceived there were innu- merable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 29 They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together to- wards the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that con- tinued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some time in the contempla- tion of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards heaven in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in then- eyes and danced before them ; but often when they thought themselves with- in the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to he in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. The genius seeing me indidge myself on this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. " Take thine eyes off the bridge," said he, " and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend." Upon looking up, " What mean," said I, " those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other fea- thered creatures, several httle winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches." " These," said the genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life." I here fetched a deep sigh. " Alas," said I, " man was made in vain ! How is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death !" The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no more," said he, " on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternitv ; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it." I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strength- ened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was be- fore too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and di- viding it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it ; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand httle shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of foun- tains, or resting on beds of flowers ; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats ; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. " The islands," said he, " that he so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea shore ; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching far- ther than thine eye, or even thine ima- gination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and de- grees, suitable to the rehshes and per- fections of those wiio are settled in them ; every island is a Paradise accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, Mirza, habitations worth con- tending for ? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him." I gazed with inexpressible plea- sure on these happy islands. At length, 50 JOSEPH ADDISON. said I, " show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant." The genius making me no answer, I turned me about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me ; I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating ; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. Joseph Addison. THE DEATH OF SIE ROGER DE COVE RLE Y. "We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sick- ness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his correspondents in those parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold at the county sessions, as he was very warmly promoting an address of his own penning, in which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this par- ticular comes from a whig justice of peace, who was always Sir Roger's enemy and antagonist. I have letters both from the chaplain and captain Sentiy, which men- tion nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars to the honour of the good old man. I have bkewise a letter from the butler, who took so much care of me last summer when I was at the knight's house. As my friend the butler mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several circumstances the others have passed over in silence, I shall give my reader a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminution. " Honoured Sir, — Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman, and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neighbouring gen- tleman ; for you know, sir, my good master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up according to custom ; and you know he used to take great de- light in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed we were once in great hopes of his recovery, upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had made love to the forty last years of his life ; but this only proved a lightning before death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my good old lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used to ride a hunting upon to his chaplain, because he thought he would be kind to him ; and has left you all his books. He has, more- over, bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning to every man in the parish a great frieze-coat, and to every woman a black riding hood. It was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word, for weeping. As we most of us are grown grey-headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pen- sions and legacies, which w T e may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge, and it is pe- remptorily said in the parish, that lie has left money to build a steeple to the church ; for he w T as heard to say some time ago, that, if he lived two years longer, Cover- ley church should Lave a steeple to it. The chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. He was buried, according to his own directions, among the family of the Coverleys, on the left- hand of his father Sir Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by six of the quorum. The whole parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits ; the men in frieze, and the women in riding hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall- NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 31 house, and the whole estate. When my old master saw him a little before his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies, and the gifts of charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate. The captain truly seems a cour- teous man, though he says but little. He makes much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindnesses to the old house-dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death. He has never enjoyed himself since ; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from, " Honoured Sir, " Your most sorrowful servant, " Edward Biscuit." " P.S. My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book, which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport in his name.'' This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing it, gave us such ! an idea of our good old friend, that upon j the reading of it there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew, opening the book, found it to be a collection of acts of | parliament. There was in particular the I Act of Uniformity, with some passages in { it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir I Andrew found that they related to two or three points which he had disputed with Sir Roger, the last time he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have been merry at such an incident on another occa- sion, at the sight of the old man's hand- writing burst into tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me that the knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the club. Joseph Addison. OLIVER GOLDSMITH Was born on the 29th of November 1728, at Pallas in the county of Longford in Ire- land, and after being at school at Edgeworths-town was sent in June, 1744, as a sizer, to Dublin College, and in 1752 to Edinburgh to study medicine. In 1754, a love of wandering led him to make a walking tour through Flanders, France, Germany, Swit- zerland, and Italy, getting food and lodging sometimes in return for the music of his fiddle, and sometimes from the hospitality of universities and convents. He came back to England in 1756, and after seeking a livelihood as an usher at a school in Peckham, — as a shopman to a chemist, — and as a physician with many patients but no fees, he betook himself to writing in magazines and reviews. In 1761 he be- came acquainted with Dr. Johnson, wiio was always his fast friend. The publication of The Traveller gave him a name, and that poem was followed by The Vicar of Wakefield, which had been previously written, — The Good-Natured Man, and She Stoops to Conquer, comedies, — The Deserted Village, — Histories of Greece, Rome, and England, — A History of the Earth and Animated Nature, — and other works. He died on the 4th of April 1774, was buried in the burial-ground of the Temple, and has a monument in Westminster Abbey. He was a good-natured generous man, simple and credulous, and wore Ms heart upon his sleeve, vain, and with as much of envy as must belong to vanity, but with- out a grain of malignity. He wanted firmness and common prudence, and was there- fore for ever in trouble. His character may be read in Boswell's Life of Johnson, in which BosweU treats him with a very amusing air of superiority. He wrote poetry with great care, and employed much labour in polishing, often leaving not a word as first written. His poems are harmonious and elegant, few are so often read or quoted. His easy, graceful prose Avas written fluently and without 32 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. revision. His best work, The Vicar of Wakefield, from which the following extracts have been made, is perhaps as popular, both in England and abroad, as any book in our language ; it is a picture of common life portraying men with their common virtues and faults in simple words, and with an arch simplicity in which no English writer has approached him. THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD. I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a large family, did more service than he who con- tinued single, and only talked of popula- tion. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year, before I began to think seri- ously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such quahties as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable woman ; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house-keeping ; though I could never find that we grew richer with all her con- trivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world, or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a good neighbour- hood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusement ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cou- sins too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the heralds' office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt, amongst the number. How- ever, my wife always insisted that as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this re- mark will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated ; and as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that we some- times had those little rubs which Provi- dence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards plun- dered by the cats or the children. The squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtsey. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of temper- ance, as they were educated without soft- ness, so they were at once well-formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II.'s progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their trea- sures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. Oliver Goldsmith. THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD AFTER THE LOSS OF THEIR FORTUNE. The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of farmers who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluities. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval simplicity of manners ; and NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 33 frugal by habit, they scarce knew that tem- perance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour ; but ob- served festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true-love-knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, showed their wit on the 1st of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet theh minister, dressed in their fine clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor : a feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sate cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter. Our httle habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beau- tiful underwood behind, and a prattling river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred pounds for my predeces- sor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures : the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpres- sible beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls on the inside were nicely white- washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own de- signing. Though the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the w T armer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments ; one for my wife and me, another for our two daugh- ters, within our own ; and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. The httle republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following manner : by sun-rise we all assembled in our com- mon apartment ; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we had sa- luted each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some me- chanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in pro- viding breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; wdiich time was taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labour after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smihng looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our recep- tion. Nor were we without guests : some- times farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- berry wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the repu- tation. These harmless people had seve- ral ways of being good company; while one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good-night, or, The Cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night w r as concluded in the manner we began the morning, my young- est boys being appointed to read the les- sons of the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest and best, was to have a half- penny on Sunday to put into the poor's box. When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had con- quered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all their former finery ; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife her- self retained a passion for her crimson pa- duasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday in particular their be- haviour served to mortify me ; I had de- sired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day, for I always loved to be at chinch a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- tually obeyed my directions, but when we were to assemble in the morning at break- fast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed out in aU their former splendour, then* hah plaistered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into a heap behind, and rust- ling at eveiy motion. I could not help smihng at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more dis- cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was, to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; but I C5 34 SIR WALTER SCOTT. repeated it with more solemnity than be- fore. " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well ; we want no coach to carry us now." "You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." " Indeed," replied my wife, " I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him." " You maybe as neat as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patch- ings, will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. No, my chil- dren," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut, for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain." This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, em- ployed in cutting up their trains into Sun- day waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and what w T as still more satis- factory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing:. Oliver Goldsmith. SIR WALTER SCOTT Was born at Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771 ; he was weakly in childhood, and though he grew up into health and strength, was lame through life. From 1779 to 1783 he was at the high school of Edinburgh, and remarkable only for courage. In 1783 he entered the University of Edinburgh as a student of law, and was pro- nounced there to be a dunce. The state of his health in early life prevented regular study, and sometimes confined him to his bed : cut off from other amusements, he be- came, as he says, a glutton of books, reading romances, old plays, poetry, history, and voyages without stint. In 1805 he published The Lay of the Last Minstrel, in 1808 Marmion, and between that year and 1815 other poems. In 1814 Waverley, the earliest of his novels, appeared, and then, abandoning poetry, he poured forth the Waverley novels in rapid succession, but did not acknowledge himself to be their au- thor, though he was soon suspected, and after no long time generally believed to be so. In 1820 he was created a baronet by George IV. The aim of his life was to create a landed estate, and making too great haste to be rich, lie became involved, as a partner, with printers and publishers, who failed in 1826, when the authorship of the Waverley novels could no longer be kept secret. Scott refused to set himself free from debt by a bankruptcy. In two years, by literary labour, he earned for his creditors £40,000. He continued to write down to 1831, but the powers of his mind were overtasked, and he sunk. He died on the 21st of September 1832; his debts were afterwards paid in full, and his estate at Abbotsford having been settled on his son's marriage, was preserved. The popularity of his poetry on its first appearance was very great, but he will not stand in the first rank of English poets. His poems are tales of chivalry, full of life, especially in the battle scenes. As a writer of novels he will always stand among the first. The stores which his early and his later reading had accumulated, and the inti- mate acquaintance that he had with every variety of human life, provided materials which his quick and discriminating observation, wonderful memory, strong fellow-feel- ing with all classes and conditions of men, manly common sense, good-humoured NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 35 ridicule, and unrivalled power of description employed with such wonderful effect. If he had not creative genius in the highest degree, no one could work slight and coarse material into forms so substantial and beautiful. Three of the pieces which foUow are from The Bride of Lammermoor, the best of his novels ; another, The Walk by the Sands, is from The Antiquary ; and the re- maining one, from Peveril of the Peak. A WALK BY THE SANDS. The knight and his daughter left the high-road, and following a wandering path among sandy hillocks, partly grown over with furze and the long grass called bent, soon attained the side of the ocean. The tide was by no means so far out as they had computed; but this gave them no alarm ; there were seldom ten days in the year when it approached so near the cliffs as not to leave a dry passage. But ne- vertheless, at periods of spring-tide, or even when the ordinary flood was accele- rated by high winds, this road was alto- gether covered by the sea ; and tradition had recorded several fatal accidents which had happened on such occasions. Still such dangers were considered as remote and improbable ; and rather served, with other legends, to amuse the hamlet fire- side than to prevent any one from going between Knockwinnock and Monkbarns by the sands. As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced along, enjoying the pleasant footing af- forded by the cool moist hard sand, Miss Wardour could not help observing that the last tide had risen considerably above the usual water-mark. Sir Arthur made the same observation, but without its oc- curring to either of them to be alarmed at the circumstance. The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the live- long day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes and disasters around a sinking empire and falling mo- narch. Still, however, his dying splen- dour gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of vapours, forming out of their unsubstantial gloom, the show of p)Tamids and towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gor- geous canopy, lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and* level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid colouring of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach the tide rippled onward in waves of sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet rapidly gained upon the sand. With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or perhaps on some more agitating topic, Miss Wardour ad- vanced in silence by her father's side, whose recently offended dignity did not stoop to open any conversation. Follow- ing the windings of the beach, they passed one projecting point or headland of rock after another, and now found themselves under a huge and continued extent of the precipices by which that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long pro- jecting reefs of rock, extending under water, and only evincing their existence by here and there a peak entirely bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those that were partially covered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and ship-masters. The crags which rose be- tween the beach and the main land, to the height of two or three hundred feet, af- forded in their crevices shelter for unnum- bered sea-fowl, in situations seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now winging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became almost totally obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to arise ; but its wild and moaning sound was heard for some time, and its effects became visible on the bosom of the sea, before the gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon the beach with a sound resem- bling distant thunder. Appalled by this sudden change of wea- ther, Miss Wardour drew close to her father and held his arm fast. " I wish," 36 SIR WALTER SCOTT. at length she said, hut almost in a whis- per, as if ashamed to express her increa- sing apprehensions, " I wish we had kept the road we intended, or waited at Monk- barns for the carriage." Sir Arthur looked round, but did not see, or would not acknowledge, any signs of an immediate storm. They would reach Knockwinnock, he said, long before the tempest began. But the speed with which he walked, and with which Isabella could hardly keep pace, indicated a feeling that some exertion was necessary to accom- plish his consolatory prediction. They were now near the centre of a deep but narrow bay or recess, formed by two projecting capes of high and inacces- sible rock, which shot out into the sea like the horns of a crescent ; and neither durst communicate the apprehension which each began to entertain, that, from the un- usually rapid advance of the tide, they might be deprived of the power of pro- ceeding by doubling the promontory which lay before them, or of retreating by the road which brought them thither. As they thus pressed forward, longing doubtless to exchange the easy curving line which the sinuosities of the bay com- pelled them to adopt for a straighter and more expeditious path, though less con- formable to the line of beauty, Sir Arthur observed a human figure on the beach ad- vancing to meet them. "•Thank God," he exclaimed, " we shall get round Halket-head ! that person must have passed it ;" thus giving vent to the feeling of hope, though he had sup- pressed that of apprehension. "Thank God, indeed 1" echoed his daughter, half audibly, half internally, as expressing the gratitude which she strong- ly felt. The figure which advanced to meet them made many signs, which the haze of the atmosphere, now disturbed by wind and by a drizzling rain, prevented them from seeing or comprehending distinctly. Some time before they met, Sir Arthur could recognise the old blue-gowned beggar, Edie Ochiltree. It is said that even the brute creation lay aside their animosities and antipathies when pressed by an instant and common danger. The beach under Halket-head rapidly diminishing in extent by the encroachments of a spring-tide and a north-west wind, was in like manner a neutral field, where even a justice of peace and a strolling mendicant might meet upon terms of mutual forbearance. " Turn back ! turn back ! " exclaimed the vagrant : " why did ye not turn when I waved to you ?" " We thought," replied Sir Arthur in great agitation, " we thought we could get round Halket-head." " Halket-head ! The tide will be run- ning on Halket-head by this time like the Fall of Fyers ! It was a' I could do to get round it twenty minutes since — it was coming in three feet abreast. We will, may be, get back by Bally-burgh Ness Point yet. The Lord help us ! it 's our only chance. We can but try." "My God, my child!" — "My father, my dear father ! " exclaimed the parent and daughter, as fear lending them strength and speed, they turned to retrace their steps and endeavour to double the point, the projection of which formed the south- ern extremity of the bay. " I heard ye were here, frae the bit cal- lant ye sent to meet your carriage," said the beggar, as he trudged stoutly on a step or two behind Miss Wardour, " and I couldna bide to think o' the dainty young leddy's peril, that has aye been kind to ilka forlorn heart that cam near her. Sae I lookit at the lift and the rin o' the tide till I settled it, that if I could get down time eneugh to gie you warning we wad do weel yet. But I doubt, I doubt, I have been beguiled! for what mortal ee ever saw sic a race as the tide is rinning e'en now ? See, yonder's the Ratton's Skerry — he aye held his neb abune the water in my day — but he's aneath it now." Sir Arthur cast a look in the direction in which the old man pointed. A huge rock, which in general, even in spring- tides, displayed a hulk like the keel of a large vessel, was now quite under water, and its place only indicated by the boiling and breaking of the eddying waves which encountered its submarine resistance. " Mak haste, mak haste, my bonny leddy," continued the old man, " mak haste, and we may do yet ! Take haud o' my arm — an auld and frail arm it 's now, but it 's been in as sair stress as this is yet. Take haud o' my arm, my winsome leddy ! D' ye see yon wee black speck amang the wallowing weaves yonder ? This morning it was as high as the mast o' a brig — it 's sma' eneugh now — but while I see as muckle black about it as the crown o' my hat, I winna believe but we'll get round the Bally-burgh Ness, for a' that's come and gane yet." Isabella, in silence, accepted from the NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 37 old man the assistance which Sir Arthur was. less ahle to afford her. The waves had now encroached so much upon the heach, that the firm and smooth footing which they had hitherto had on the sand must be exchanged for a rougher path close to the foot of the precipice, and in some places even raised upon its lower ledges. It would have been utterly im- possible for Sir Arthur Wardom- or his daughter to have found their way along these shelves without the guidance and encouragement of the beggar, who had been there before in high tides, though never, he acknowledged, " in sae awsome a night as this." It was indeed a dreadful evening. The howling of the storm mingled with the shrieks of the sea-fowl, and sounded like the dirge of the three devoted beings, who, pent between two of the most magnificent, yet most dreadful objects of nature — a raging tide and an insurmountable preci- pice — toiled along their painful and dan- gerous path, often lashed by the spray of some giant billow, which threw itself higher on the beach than those that had preceded it. Each minute did their enemy gain ground perceptibly upon them. Still however, loth to relinquish the last hopes of life, they bent their eyes on the black rock pointed out by Ochiltree. It was yet distinctly visible among the breakers, and continued to be so until they came to a turn in their precarious path, where an in- tervening projection of rock hid it from their sight. Deprived of the view of the beacon on which they had relied, they now experienced the double agony of terror and suspense. They struggled forward however ; but when they arrived at the point from which they ought to have seen the crag, it was no longer visible. The signal of safety was lost among a thousand white breakers, which, dashing upon the point of the promontory, rose in prodi- gious sheets of snowy foam, as high as the mast of a first-rate man-of-war, against the dark brow of the precipice. The countenance of the old man fell. Isabella gave a faint shriek, and " God have mercy upon us!" which her guide solemnly uttered, was piteously echoed by Sir Arthur — " My child ! my child ! to die such a death !" "My father! my dear father!" his daughter exclaimed, clinging to him, — " and you too, who have lost your own life in endeavouring to save ours !" " That 's not worth the counting," said the old man. " I hae lived to be wean- o' life; and here or yonder — at the back o' a dyke, in a wreath o' snaw, or in the wame o' a wave, what signifies how the auld gaberlunzie dies ?" " Good man," said Sir Arthur, " can you think of nothing ? — of no help ? — 1 11 make you rich — I '11 give you a farm — " Our riches wiU be soon equal," said the beggar, looking out upon the strife of the waters; "they are sae already; for I hae nae land, and you would give your fair bounds and barony for a square yard of rock that would be dry for twal hours." While they exchanged these words they paused upon the highest ledge of rock to which they coidd attain ; for it seemed that any further attempt to move forward coidd only serve to anticipate their fate. Here, then, they were to await the sure though slow progress of the raging ele- ment, something in the situation of the martyrs of the early church, who, exposed by heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled for a time to wit- ness the impatience and rage by which the animals were agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their grates and letting them loose upon their victims. Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the powers of a mind na- turally strong and courageous, and which rallied itself at this terrible juncture. " Must we yield life," she said, " without a struggle ? Is there no path, however dreadful, by which we could clinib the crag, or at least attain some height above the tide where we could remain till morn- ing, or till help comes ? they must be aware of our situation, and will raise the country to relieve us." Sir Arthur, who heard, but scarcely com- prehended his daughter's question, turned, nevertheless, instinctively and eagerly to the old man, as if their lives were in his gift. Ochiltree paused : — " I was a bauld craigsman," he said, "ance in my life, and mony a kittywake's and lungie's nest hae I harried up amang thae very black rocks ; but it 's lang, lang syne, and nae mortal could speel them without a rope — and if I had ane, my ee-sight, and my footstep, and my hand-grip, hae a' failed mony a day sinsyne — and then how could I save you ? — But there was a path here ance, though maybe, if we could see it, ye would rather bide where we are. — His name be praised!" he ejaculated sud- denly, " there 's ane coming down the crag e'en now ! " then exalting his voice, 38 SIR WALTER SCOTT. he holla' d out to the daring adventurer such instructions as his former practice and the remembrance of local circum- stances suddenly forced upon his mind : — " Ye 're right — ye 're right ! — that gate, that gate — fasten the rope weel round Crummie's-horn, that 's the muckle black stane — cast twa plies round it — that 's it ! — now, weize yoursell a wee easel-ward — a wee mair yet to that ither stane — we ca'd it the Cat's lug — there used to be the root o' an aik tree there — that will do ! — canny now, lad — canny now — tak tent and taktime. — Lord bless ye, tak time. — Vera weel ! — Now ye maun get to Bessy's Apron, that 's the muckle braid flat blue stane — and then, I think, wi' your help and the tow thegither, I '11 win at ye, and then we Tl be able to get up the young leddy and Sir Arthur." The adventurer, following the direc- tions of old Edie, flung him down the end of the rope, which he secured around Miss Wardour, wrapping her previously in his own blue gown, to preserve her as much as possible from injury. Then, availing himself of the rope, which was made fast at the other end, he began to ascend the face of the crag — a most precarious and dizzy undertaking, which however, after one or two perilous escapes, placed him safe on the broad flat stone beside our friend Lovel. Their joint strength was able to raise Isabella to the place of safety which they had attained. Lovel then de- scended, in order to assist Sir Arthur, around whom he adjusted the rope ; and again mounting to their place of refuge, with the assistance of old Ochiltree and such aid as Sir Arthur himself could afford, he raised himself beyond the reach of the billows. Sir Walter Scott. THE FUNERAL OF THE LAST LORD OF RAVENSWOOD. It was a November morning, and the cliffs which overlooked the ocean were hung with thick and heavy mist, when the portals of the ancient and half -ruinous tower, in which Lord Ravenswood had spent the last and troubled years of his life, opened, that his mortal remains might pass forward to an abode yet more dreary and lonely. The pomp of attend- ance, to which the deceased had, in his latter years, been a stranger, was revived as he was about to be consigned to the realms of forgetfulness. Banner after banner with the various devices and coats of this ancient family and its connections followed each other in mournful procession from under the low-browed archway of the court-yard. The principal gentry of the country at- tended in the deepest mourning, and tem- pered the pace of their long train of horses to the solemn march befitting the occasion. Trumpets, with banners of crape attached to them, sent forth their long and melan- choly notes to regulate the movements of the procession. An immense train of inferior mourners and menials closed the rear, which had not yet issued from the castle-gate, when the van had reached the chapel where the body was to be depo- sited. Contrary to the custom, and even to the law of the time, the body was met by a priest of the Scottish episcopal com- munion, arrayed in his surplice, and pre- pared to read over the coffin of the de- ceased the funeral service of the church. Such had been the desire of Lord Ravens- wood in his last illness, and it was readily complied with by the tory gentlemen, or cavaliers, as they affected to style them- selves, in which faction most of his kins- men were enrolled. The Presbyterian church-judicatory of the bounds, consi- dering the ceremony as a bravading insult upon their authority, had applied to the Lord Keeper, as the nearest privy-coun- cillor, for a warrant to prevent its being carried into effect ; so that, when the clergyman had opened his prayer-book, an officer of the law, supported by some armed men, commanded him to be silent. An insult, which fired the whole assembly with indignation, was particularly and instantly resented by the only son of the deceased, Edgar, popularly called the Master of Ravenswood, a youth of about twenty years of age. He clapped his hand on his sword, and bidding the official person to desist at his peril from farther interruption, commanded the cler- gyman to proceed. The man attempted to enforce his commission, but as a hun- dred swords at once glittered in the air, he contented himself with protesting against the violence which had been of- fered to him in the execution of his duty, and stood aloof, a sullen and moody spec- tator of the ceremonial, muttering as one who should say, " you '11 rue the day that clogs me with this answer." The scene was worthy of an artist's pencil. Under the very arch of the house NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 39 of death, the clergyman, affrighted at the scene, and trembling for his own safety, hastily and unwillingly rehearsed the so- lemn service of the church, and spoke dust to dust, and ashes to ashes, over ruined pride and decayed prosperity. Around stood the relations of the de- ceased, their countenances more in anger than in sorrow, and the- drawn swords which they brandished forming a violent contrast with their deep mourning habits. In the countenance of the young man alone, resentment seemed for the moment overpowered by the deep agony with which he beheld his nearest and almost his only friend consigned to the tomb of his ancestry. A relative observed him turn deadly pale, when, all rites being now duly observed, it became the duty of the chief mourner to lower down into the I charnel vault, where mouldering coffins ! showed theh tattered velvet and decayed plating, the head of the corpse which was to be their partner in corruption. He stepped to the youth and offered his assistance, which, by a mute motion, Edgar Ravenswood rejected. Firmly, and with- out a tear, he performed that last duty. The stone was laid on the sepidchre, the door of the aisle was locked, aud the youth took possession of its massive key. As the crowd left the chapel, he paused on the steps which led to its Gothic chan- cel. " Gentlemen and friends," he said, " you have this day done no common duty to the body of your deceased kins- man. The observance of rites which in other countries are allowed as the due of the meanest christian, would tins day have been denied to the body of your re- lative^ — not certainly sprung of the meanest house in Scotland — had it not been as- sured to him by your courage. Others bury their dead in sorrow and tears, in silence and in reverence ; our funeral rites are marred by the intrusion of bailiffs and ruffians, and our grief — the grief due to our departed friend — is chased from our cheeks by the glow of just indignation. But it is well that I know from what I quiver this arrow has come forth. It was ' only he that dug the grave who could have the mean cruelty to disturb the ob- sequies ; and Heaven do as much to me and more, if I requite not to this man and his house the ruin and disgrace he has brought on me and mine !" A numerous part of the assembly ap- plauded this speech as the spirited ex- pression of just resentment ; but the more cool and judicious regretted that it had been uttered. The fortunes of the heir of Ravenswood were too low to brave the farther hostility which they imagined these open expressions of resentment must ne- cessarily provoke. Their apprehensions, however, proved groundless, at least in the immediate consequences of this affair. The mourners returned to the tower, there, according to a custom but recently abolished in Scotland, to carouse deep healths to the memory of the deceased, to make the house of sorrow ring with sounds of jovialty and debauch, and to diminish, by the expense of a large and profuse entertainment, the limited reve- nues of the heir of him whose funeral they thus strangely honoured. It w _ as the custom, however, and on the present oc- casion it was fully observed. The tables swam in wine, the populace feasted in the court-yard, the yeomen in the kitchen and buttery ; and two years' rent of Ravens- wood's remaining property hardly de- frayed the charge of the funeral revel. The wine did its office on all but the Master of Ravenswood, a title which he still retained, though forfeiture had at- tached to that of his father. He, while passing around the cup which he himself did not taste, soon listened to a thousand exclamations against the Lord Keeper, and passionate protestations of attachment to himself and to the honour of his house. He listened with dark and sullen brow to ebullitions which lie considered justly as equally evanescent with the crimson bub- bles on the brink of the goblet, or at least with the vapours which its contents excited in the brains of the revellers around him. When the last flask was emptied they took their leave, with deep protestations — to be forgotten on the morrow, if in- deed those who made them should not think it necessary for their safety to make a more solemn retractation. Accepting their adieus with an air of contempt which he could scarce conceal, Ravenswood at length beheld his ruinous habitation cleared of this confluence of riotous guests, and returned to the de- serted hall, which now appeared doubly lonely from the cessation of that clamour to which it had so lately echoed. But its space was peopled by phantoms, which the imagination of the young heir con- jured up before him — the tarnished ho- nour and degraded fortunes of his house, the destruction of his own hopes, and the j triumph of that family by whom they had j 40 SIR WALTER SCOTT. been ruined. To a mind naturally of a gloomy cast, here was ample room for me- ditation, and the musings of young Ra- venswood were deep and unwitnessed. The peasant who shows the ruins of the tower, which still crown the beetling cliff and behold the war of the waves, though no more tenanted save by the sea- mew and cormorant, even yet affirms, that on this fatal night the Master of Ravens- wood, by the bitter exclamations of his despair, evoked some evil fiend under whose malignant influence the future tissue of incidents was woven. Alas ! what fiend can suggest more desperate counsels than those adopted under the guidance of our own violent and unresisted passions ? Sir Walter Scott. THE MERMAIDEN'S FOUNTAIN. She sat upon one of the disjointed stones of the ancient fountain, and seemed to watch the progress of its current, as it bubbled forth to daylight in gay and sparkling confusion from under the sha- dow of the ribbed and darksome vault, with which veneration, or perhaps re- morse, had canopied its source. To a superstitious eye, Lucy Ashton, folded in her plaided mantle, with her long hair escaping partly from the snood and falling upon her silver neck, might have sug- gested the idea of the murdered Nymph of the Fountain. But Ravenswood only saw a female exquisitely beautiful, and rendered yet more so in his eyes — how could it be otherwise ? — by the conscious- ness that she had placed her affections on him. As he gazed on her, he felt his fixed resolution melting like wax in the sun, and hastened, therefore, from his concealment in the neighbouring thicket. She saluted him, but did not arise from the stone on which she was seated. " My mad-cap brother," she said, " has left me, but I expect him back in a few minutes ; for fortunately, as anything pleases him for a minute, nothing has charms for him much longer." Ravenswood did not feel the power of informing Lucy that her brother medi- tated a distant excursion, and would not return in haste. He sat himself down on the grass at some little distance from Miss Ashton, and both were silent for a short space. " I like this spot," said Lucy at length, as if she had found the silence embar- rassing; "the bubbling murmur of the clear fountain, the "waving of the trees, the profusion of grass and wild flowers that rise among the ruins, make it like a scene in romance. I think, too, I have heard it is a spot connected with the le- gendary lore which I love so well." " It has been thought," answered Ra- venswood, " a fatal spot to my family ; and I have some reason to term it so, for it was here I first saw Miss Ashton — and it is here I must take my leave of her for ever." The blood, which the first part of this speech called into Lucy's cheeks, was spe- dily expelled by its conclusion. " To take leave of us, Master !" she ex- claimed ; " what can have happened to hurry you away ? — I know Alice hates — I mean dislikes my father — and I hardly understood her humour to-day, it was so mysterious. But I am certain my father is sincerely grateful for the high service you rendered us. Let me hope that ha- ving won your friendship hardly, we shall not lose it lightly." " Lose it, Miss Ashton ?" said theMaster of Ravenswood, " No ! — wherever my fortune calls me, whatever she inflicts upon me, it is your friend, your sincere friend, who acts or suffers. But there is a fate on me, and I must go, or I shall add the ruin of others to my own." " Yet do not go from us, Master," said Lucy ; and she laid her hand, in all sim- plicity and kindness, upon the skirt of his cloak as if to detain him. " You shall not part from us. My father is powerful, he has friends that are more so than him- self : do not go till you see what his gra- titude will do for you. Believe me, he is already labouring in your behalf with the council." " It may be so," said the Master proud- ly ; " yet it is not to your father, Miss Ashton, but to my own exertions, that I ought to owe success in the career on which I am about to enter. My prepara- tions are already made — a sword and a cloak, and a bold heart and a determined hand." Lucy covered her face with her hands, and the tears, in spite of her, forced their way between her fingers. " Forgive me," said Ravenswood, taking her right hand, which, after slight resistance, she yielded to him, still continuing to shade her face with the left ; "lam too rude — too rough — too intractable, to deal with any being NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 41 so soft and gentle us you are. Forget that so stern a vision has crossed your path of life ; and let me pursue mine, sure that I can meet with no worse misfortune after the moment it divides me from your side." Lucy wept on, but her tears were less bitter. Each attempt which the Master made to explain his purpose of departure only proved a new evidence of his desire to stay ; until at length, instead of bid- ding her farewell, he gave his faith to her for ever, and received her troth in return. The whole passed so suddenly, and arose so much out of the immediate impulse of the moment, that ere the Master of Ra- venswood could reflect upon the conse- quences of the step which he had taken, their lips as well as their hands had pledged the sincerity of their affection. " And now," he said, after a moment's consideration, " it is fit I should speak to Sir "William Ashton — he must know of our engagement. Ravenswood must not seem to dwell under his roof to solicit clan- destinely the affections of his daughter." " You would not speak to my father on the subject ?" said Lucy doubtingly ; and then added more warmly, " O do not, do not ! Let your lot in life be deter- mined, your station and purpose ascer- tained, before you address my father ; I am sure he loves you — I think he will consent — but then my mother !" She paused, ashamed to express the doubt she felt how far her father dared to form any positive resolution on this most important subject without the consent of his lady. " Your mother, my Lucy ?" replied Ra- venswood, " she is of the house of Douglas, a house that has intermarried with mine, even when its glory and power were at the highest — what could your mother ob- ject to my alliance ?" " I did not say object," said Lucy ; "but she is jealous of her rights, and may claim a mother's title to be consulted in the first instance." " Be it so," replied Ravenswood; " Lon- don is distant, but a letter will reach it and receive an answer within a fortnight, — I will not press on the Lord Keeper for an instant reply to my proposal." "But," hesitated Lucy, "were it not better to wait — to wait a few weeks ? Were my mother to see you — to know you — I am sure she would approve; but you are unacquainted personally, and the an- cient feud between the families — " Ravenswood fixed upon her his keen dark eyes, as if he was desirous of pene- trating into her veiy soul. " Lucy," he said, " I have sacrificed to you projects of vengeance long nursed, and sworn to with ceremonies little better than heathen ; I sacrificed them to your image ere I knew the worth which itrepre- sented. In the evening which succeeded my poor father's funeral, I cut a lock from my hair, and, as it consumed in the fire, I swore that my rage and revenge should pursue his enemies until they shrivelled before me like that scorched-up symbol of annihilation." " It was a deadly sin," said Lucy, turn- ing pale, " to make a vow so fatal." " I acknowledge it," said Ravenswood, " and it had been a worse crime to keep it. It was for your sake that I abjured these purposes of vengeance, though I scarce knew that such was the argument by which I was conquered until I saw you once more, and became conscious of the influence you possessed over me." " And why do you now," said Lucy, " recal sentiments so terrible — sentiments so inconsistent with those you profess for me — with those your importunity has pre- vailed on me to acknowledge ?" " Because," said her lover, " I would impress on you the price at which I have bought your love — the right I have to expect your constancy. I say not that I have bartered for it the honour of my house, its last remaining possession ; but though I say it not, and think it not, I cannot conceal from myself that the world may do both." " If such are your sentiments," said Lucy, " you have played a cruel game with me. But it is not too late to give it over : take back the faith and troth which you could not plight to me without suffering abatement of honour : let what is passed be as if it had not been : forget me — I will endeavour to forget myself." " You do me injustice." said the Mas- ter of Ravenswood ; "by all I hold true and honourable, you do me the extremity of injustice : if I mentioned the price at winch I have bought your love, it is only to show how much I prize it, to bind our engagement by a still firmer tie, and to show, by what I have done to attain this station in your regard, how much I must suffer should you ever break your faith." "And why, Ravenswood," answered Lucy, " should you think that possible ? Why should you urge me with even the 42 SIR WALTER SCOTT. mention of infidelity ? Is it because I ask you to delay applying to my father for a little space of time? Bind me by what vows you please ; if vows are unnecessary to secure constancy, they may yet prevent suspicion." Ravenswood pleaded, apologized, and even kneeled, to appease her displeasure ; and Lucy, as placable as she was single- hearted, readily forgave the offence which his doubts had implied. The dispute thus agitated however ended by the lovers going through an emblematic ceremony of their troth-plight, of which the vulgar still preserve some traces. They broke betwixt them the thin broad-piece of gold which Alice had refused to receive from Ravenswood. " And never shall this leave my bosom," said Lucy, as she hung the piece of gold round her neck and concealed it with her handkerchief, " until you, Edgar Ravens- wood, ask me to resign it to you ; and, while I wear it, never shall that heart acknowledge another love than yours." With like protestations Ravenswood placed his portion of the coin opposite to his heart. Sir Walter Scott. THE FUNERAL OF LUCY ASHTON. THE DEATH OF EDGAR RAVENS- WOOD. The mourners, when the service of in- terment was ended, discovered that there was among them one more than the in- vited number, and the remark was com- municated in whispers to each other. The suspicion fell upon a figure, which, muf- fled in the same deep mourning with the others, was reclined, almost in a state of insensibility, against one of the pillars of the sepulchral vault. The relatives of the Ashton family were expressing in whispers their surprise and displeasure at the intru- sion, when they were interrupted by Colo- nel Ashton, who, in his father's absence, acted as principal mourner. " I know," he said in a whisper, " who this person is; he has, or shall soon have, as deep cause of mourning as ourselves : leave me to deal with him, and do not disturb the ceremony by unnecessary exposure." So saying, he separated himself from the group of his relations, and taking the un- known mourner by the cloak, he said to him, in a tone of suppressed emotion, " Follow me !" The stranger, as if startling from a trance at the sound of his voice, mechanically obeyed, and they ascended the broken ruinous stair which led from the sepulchre into the churchyard. The other mourn- ers followed, but remained grouped toge- ther at the door of the vault, watching with anxiety the motions of Colonel Ash- ton and the stranger, who now appeared to be in close conference beneath the shade of a yew-tree, in the most remote part of the burial ground. To this sequestered spot Colonel Ash- ton had guided the stranger, and then turning round addressed him in a stern and composed tone. " I cannot doubt that I speak to the Master of Ravenswood?" No answer was returned. " I cannot doubt," resumed the colonel, trembling with rising passion, " that I speak to the murderer of my sister ?" " You have named me but too truly," said Ravenswood, in a hollow and tremu- lous voice. " If you repent what you have done," said the Colonel, " may your penitence avail you before God; with me it shall serve you nothing. Here," he said, gi- ving a paper, " is the measure of my sword, and a memorandum of the time and place of meeting. Sunrise tomorrow morning, on the links to the east of Wolf's- hope." The Master of Ravenswood held the paper in his hand, and seemed irresolute. At length he spoke. " Do not," he said, " urge to farther desperation a wretch who is already desperate. Enjoy your life while you can, and let me seek my death from another." " That you never, never shall !" said Douglas Ashton. " You shall die by my hand, or you shall complete the ruin of my family by taking my life. If you re- fuse my open challenge, there is no advan- tage I will not take of you, no indignity with which I will not load you, until the very name of Ravenswood shall be the sign of everything that is dishonourable, as it is already of all that is villainous." " That it shall never be," said Ravens- wood fiercely ; " if I am the last who must bear it, I owe it to those who once owned it, that the name shall be extinguished without infamy. I accept your challenge, time, and place of meeting. We meet, I presume, alone ?" " Alone we meet," said Colonel Ashton, " and alone wall the survivor of us return from that place of rendezvous." NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 43 " Then God have mercy on the soul of him who falls !" said Ravenswood. " So be it !" said Colonel Ashton ; " so far can my charity reach even for the man I hate most deadly, and with the deepest reason. Now break off, for we shall be interrupted. The links by the sea-shore to the east of "Wolf 's-hope— the horn*, sun- rise — our swords our only weapons." " Enough," said the Master, " I will not fail you." They separated ; Colonel Ashton joining the rest of the mourners, and the Master of Ravenswood taking his horse, which was tied to a tree behind the church. Colonel Ashton returned to the castle with the funeral guests, but found a pretext for detaching himself from them in the even- ing, when, changing his dress to a riding habit, he rode to "Wolf's-hope that night, and took up his abode in the little inn, in order that be might be ready for his ren- dezvous in the morning. It is not known how the Master of Ra- venswood disposed of the rest of that un- happy day. Late at night, however, he arrived at "Wolf's-Crag, and aroused his old domestic, Caleb Balderstone, who had I ceased to expect his return. Confused and flying rumours of the late tragical death of Miss Ashton, and of its mysterious cause, had already reached the old man, who was filled with the utmost anxiety, on account of the probable effect these events might produce upon the mind of his master. The conduct of Ravenswood did not al- leviate his apprehensions. To the butler's trembling entreaties that he would take some refreshment, he at first returned no answer, and then suddenly and fiercely de- manding wine, he drank, contrary to his habits, a very large draught. Seeing that his master would eat nothing, the old man affectionately entreated that he would per- mit him to light him to his chamber. It was not until the request was three or four times repeated, that Ravenswood made a mute sign of compliance. But when Bal- derstone conducted him to an apartment which had been comfortably fitted up, and which, since his return, he had usually oc- cupied, Ravenswood stopped short on the threshold. " Not here," said he, sternly ; " show me the room in which my father died ; the room in which she slept the night they were at the castle." " Who, sir?" said Caleb, too terrified to preserve his presence of mind. " She, Lucy Ashton ! — would you kill me, old man, by forcing me to repeat her name ?" Caleb would have said something of the disrepair of the chamber, but was silenced by the irritable impatience which was ex- pressed in his master's countenance; he lighted the way trembling and in silence, placed the lamp on the table of the de- serted room, and was about to attempt some arrangement of the bed, when his master bid him begone in a tone that ad- mitted of no delay. The old man retired, not to rest but to prayer ; and from time to time crept to the door of the apart- ment, in order to find out whether Ravens- wood had gone to repose. His measured heavy step upon the floor was only inter- rupted by deep groans ; and the repeated stamps of the heel of his heavy boot inti- mated too clearly that the wretched in- mate was abandoning himself at such mo- ments to paroxysms of uncontrolled agony. The old man thought that the morning, for which he longed, would never have dawned ; but time, whose course rolls on with equal current, however it may seem more rapid or more slow to mortal appre- hension, brought the dawn at last, and spread a ruddy light on the broad verge of the glistening ocean. It was early in No- vember, and the weather was serene for the season of the year. But an easterly wind had prevailed during the night, and the advancing tide rolled nearer than usual to the foot of the crags on which the castle was founded. With the first peep of light, Caleb Bal- derstone again resorted to the door of Ra- venswood's sleeping apartment, through a chink of which he observed him engaged in measuring the length of two or three swords which lay in a closet adjoining to the apartment. He muttered to himself, as he selected one of these weapons, " It is shorter — let him have this advantage, as he has every other." Caleb Balderstone knew too well, from ■what he witnessed, upon what enterprise his master was bound, and how vain all interference on his part must necessarily prove. He had but time to retreat from the door, so nearly was he surprised by his master suddenly coming out and descend- ing to the stables. The faithful domestic followed; and from the dishevelled ap- pearance of his master's dress, and his ghastly looks, was confirmed in his con- jecture that he had passed the night with- out sleep or repose. He found Mm busily 44 SIR WALTER SCOTT. engaged in saddling his horse, a service from which Caleb, though with faltering voice and trembling hands, offered to re- lieve him. Ravenswood rejected his as- sistance by a mute sign, and having led the animal into the court was just about to mount him, when the old domestic's fear giving way to the strong attachment which was the principal passion of his mind, he flung himself suddenly at Ravens- wood's feet and clasped his knees, while he exclaimed, " Oh, Sir ! oh, master ! kill me if you wdll, but do not go out on this dreadful errand ! Oh ! my dear master, wait but this day — the Marquis of A comes to morrow, and a' will be remedied." " You have no longer a master, Caleb," said Ravenswood, endeavouring to extri- cate himself ; " why, old man, would you cling to a fallen tower ?" " But I have a master," cried Caleb, still holding him fast, " while the heir of Ra- venswood breathes. I am but a servant ; but I was born your father's — your grand- father's servant — I was born for the fa- mily — I have lived for them — I would die for them ! Stay but at home, and all will be well !" " Well, fool ! well !" said Ravenswood ; " vain old man, nothing hereafter in life will be well with me, and happiest is the hour that shall soonest close it !" So saying, he extricated himself from the old man's hold, threw himself on his horse, and rode out at the gate ; but in- stantly turning back, he threw towards Caleb, who hastened to meet him, a heavy purse of gold. " Caleb !" he said, with a ghastly smile, "I make you my executor;" and again turning his bridle, he resumed his course down the hill. The gold fell unheeded on the pavement, for the old man ran to observe the course which was taken by his master, who turned to the left down a small and broken path, which gained the seashore through a cleft in the rock, and led to a sort of cove, where in former times the boats of the castle were wont to be moored. Observing him take this course, Caleb hastened to the eastern battlement, which commanded the prospect of the whole sands, very near as far as the village of Wolf's-hope. He could easily see his master riding in that direction, as fast as the horse could carry him. The prophecy at once rushed on Balderstone's mind, that the lord of Ra- venswood should perish on the Kelpie's Flow, which lay half way betwixt the tower and the links, or sand knolls, to the northward of Wolf's-hope. He saw him accordingly reach the fatal spot, but he never saw him pass further. Colonel Ashton, frantic for revenge, was already in the field, pacing the turf with eagerness, and looking with impatience to- wards the tower for the arrival of his an- tagonist. The sun had now risen, and showed its broad disk above the eastern sea, so that he could easily discern the horseman who rode towards him with speed, which argued impatience equal to his own. At once the figure became in- visible, as if it had melted into the air. He rubbed his eyes as if he had witnessed an apparition, and then hastened to the spot, near which he was met by Balder- stone, who came from the opposite direc- tion. No trace whatever of horse or rider could be discerned ; it only appeared that the late winds and high tides had greatly extended the usual bounds of the quick- sand, and that the unfortunate horseman, as appeared from the hoof-tracks, in his precipitated haste, had not attended to keep on the firm sands on the foot of the rock, but had taken the shortest and most dangerous course. One only vestige of his fate appeared. A large sable feather had been detached from his hat, and the rippling waves of the rising tide wafted it to Caleb's feet. The old man took it up, dried it, and placed it in his bosom. Sir Walter Scott. THE SECOND VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. He entered the room with that easy grace which characterized the gay cour- tiers among whom he flourished, and ap- proached the fair tenant, whom he found seated near a table covered with books and music, and having on her left hand the large half-open casement, dim with stained glass, admitting only a doubtful light into this lordly retiring-room, wdiich, hung with the richest tapestry of the Gobelins, and ornamented with piles of china and splendid mirrors, seemed like a bower built for a prince to receive his bride. The splendid dress of the inmate cor- responded with the taste of the apartment which she occupied, and partook of the oriental costume which the much admired Roxalana had then brought into fashion. NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 45 A slender foot and ankle, which escaped from the wide trowsers of richly orna- mented and embroidered blue satin, was the only part of her person distinctly seen; the rest was enveloped from head to foot in a long veil of silver gauze, which, like a feathery and light mist on a beautiful landscape, suffered you to perceive that what it concealed was rarely lovely, yet induced the imagination even to enhance the charms it shaded. Such part of the dress as could be discovered, was, like the veil and the trowsers, in the oriental taste; a rich turban and splendid caftan were ra- ther indicated than distinguished through the folds of the former. The Avhole attire argued at least coquetry on the part of a fair one, who must have expected, from her situation, a visitor of some pretension; and induced Buckingham to smile inter- nally at Christian's account of the extreme simplicity and purity of his niece. He approached the lady en cavalier, and addressed her with the air of being con- scious, while he acknowledged his offences, that his condescending to do so formed a sufficient apology for them. " Fair mis- tress Alice," he said, " I am sensible how deeply I ought to sue for pardon for the mistaken zeal of my servants, who, seeing you deserted and exposed without protec- tion during an unlucky affray, took it upon them to bring you under the roof of one who would expose his life rather than suf- fer you to sustain a moment's anxiety. Was it my fault that those around me should have judged it necessary to inter- fere for your preservation ; or that, aware of the interest I must take in you, they have detained you till I could myself, in personal attendance, receive your com- mands ?" " That attendance has not been speedily rendered, my lord," answered the lady. " I have been a prisoner for two days — neglected, and left to the charge of me- nials !" " How say you, lady ? — Neglected !" exclaimed the duke. " By heaven, if the best in my household has failed in his duty, I will discard him on the instant !" " I complain of no lack of courtesy from your servants, my lord," she replied; "but methinks it had been but complaisant in the duke himself to explain to me earlier wherefore he has had the boldness to de- tain me as a state prisoner !" " And can the divine Alice doubt," said Buckingham, " that had time and space, those cruel enemies to the flight of pas- sion, given permission, the instant inwhich you crossed your vassal's threshold had seen its devoted master at your feet, who hath thought, since he saw you, of no- thing but the charms which that fatal morning placed before him at Chiffinch's?" " I understand then, my lord," said the lady, "that you have been absent, and have had no part in the restraint which has been exercised upon me ?" " Absent on the king's command, lady, and employedin the discharge of his duty," answered Buckingham, without hesitation. " What could I do ? The moment you left Chiffinch's, his majesty commanded me to the saddle in such haste that I had no time to change my satin buskins for riding-boots. If my absence has occa- sioned you a moment of inconvenience, blame the inconsiderate zeal of those, who, seeing me depart from London, half dis- tracted at my separation from you, were willing to contribute their unmannered, though well-meant exertions, to preserve their master from despair, by retaining the fair Alice within his reach. To whom, indeed, could they have restored you? He whom you selected as your champion is in prison, or fled — your father absent from town — your uncle in the north. To Chiffinch's house you had expressed your well-founded aversion ; and what fitter asylum remained than that of your de- voted slave, where you must ever reign a queen ?" "An imprisoned one," said the lady; " I desire not such royalty." " Alas ! how wilfully you misconstrue me," said the duke, kneeling on one knee; " and what right can you have to com- plain of a few hours' gentle restraint — you, who destine so many to hopeless cap- tivity ! Be merciful for once, and with- draw that envious veil ; for the divinities are ever most cruel when they deliver their oracles from such clouded recesses. Suffer at least my rash hand" — " I will save your grace that unworthy trouble," said the lady haughtily; and rising up she flung back over her shoulders the veil which shrouded her, saying, at the same time, " Look on me, my lord duke, and see if these be indeed the charms which have made on your grace an im- pression so powerful." Buckingham did look; and the effect produced on him by surprise was so strong, that he rose hastily from his knee, and re- mained for a few seconds as if he had been petrified. The figure that stood be- 46 SIR WALTER SCOTT. fore him had neither the height nor the rich shape of Alice Bridgenorth; and though perfectly well made, was so slightly formed as to seem almost infan- tine. Her dress was three or four short vests of embroidered satin, disposed one over the other, of different colours, or rather different shades of similar colours ; for strong contrast was carefully avoided. These opened in front so as to show part of the throat and neck, partially obscured by an inner covering of the finest lace ; over the uppermost vest was worn a sort of mantle, or coat of rich fur. A small but magnificent turban was carelessly placed on her head, from under which flowed a profusion of coal-black tresses which Cleopatra might have envied. The taste and splendour of the eastern dress corresponded with the complexion of the. lady's face, which was brunette, of a shade so pdark as might almost have served an Indian. Amidst a set of features, in which rapid and keen expression made amends for the want of regular beauty, the essential points of eyes as bright as diamonds, and teeth as white as pearls, did not escape the Duke of Buckingham, a professed con- noisseur in female charms. In a word, the fanciful and singular female who thus unexpectedly produced herself before him, had one of those faces which are never seen without making an impression ; which, when removed, are long after re- membered ; and for which, in our idle- ness, we are tempted to invent a hundred histories, that we may please our fancy by supposing the features under the in- fluence of different kinds of emotion. Every one must have in recollection coun- tenances of this kind, which, from a cap- tivating and stimulating originality of ex- pression, abide longer in the memory, and are more seductive to the imagination, than even regular beauty. " My lord duke," said the lady, " it seems the lifting of my veil has done the work of magic upon your grace. Alas for the captive princess, whose nod was to command a vassal so costly ! She runs, methinks, no slight chance of being turned out of doors, like a second Cinderella, to seek her fortunes among lacqueys and lightermen." " I am astonished ! " said the duke ; " that villain, Jerningham — I will have the scoundrel's blood ! " " Nay, never abuse Jerningham for the matter," said the unknown ; " but lament your own unhappy engagements. While you, my lord duke, were posting north- ward, in white satin buskins, to toil in the king's affairs, the right and lawful princess sat weeping in sables in the un- cheered solitude to which your absence condemned her. Two days she was dis- consolate in vain ; on the third came an African enchantress to change the scene for her, and the person for your grace. Methinks, my lord, this adventure will tell but ill, when some faithful squire shall recount or record the gallant adventures of the second Duke of Buckingham." " Fairly bit, and bantered to boot," said the duke ; " the monkey has a turn for satire, too, by all that is piquant e. Hark ye, fair princess, how dared you adven- ture on such a trick as you have been ac- complice to ?" " Dare, my lord !" answered the stran- ger, " put the question to others, not to one who fears nothing." " By my faith, I believe so ; for thy front is bronzed by nature. Hark ye once more, mistress — what is your name and condition ?" " My condition I have told you ; I am a Mauritanian sorceress by profession, and my name is Zarah," replied the Eastern maiden. " But methinks that face, shape, and eyes," — said the duke, — "when didst thou pass for a dancing fairy ? Some such imp thou wert, not many days since." " My sister you may have seen — my twin sister ; but not me, my lord," an- swered Zarah. " Indeed," said the duke, "that dupli- cate of thine, if it was not thy very self, was possessed with a dumb spirit, as thou with a talking one. I am still in the mind that you are the same ; and that Satan, always so powerful with your sex, had art enough, on our former meeting, to make thee hold thy tongue." " Believe what you will of it, my lord," replied Zarah, " it cannot change the truth. And now, my lord, I bid you fare- well; have you any commands to Mau- ritania ?" " Tarry a little, my princess," said the duke ; " and remember, that you have voluntarily entered yourself as pledge for another, and are justly subjected to any penalty which it is my pleasure to exact. None must brave Buckingham with im- punity." " I am in no hurry to depart, if your grace hath any commands for me." NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 47 " What ! are you neither afraid of my resentment nor of my love, fair Zarah ?" said the duke. " Of neither, hy this glove/' answered the lady. " Your resentment must be a petty passion indeed, if it could stoop to such a helpless object as I am; and for your love — good lack ! good lack!" " And why good lack with such a tone of contempt, lady ? " said the duke, piqued in spite of himself. " Think you Buck- ingham cannot love, or has never been beloved in return ? " " He may have thought himself be- loved," said" the maiden ; " but by what slight creatures! — things whose heads could be rendered giddy by a playhouse rant, whose brains were only filled with red-heeled shoes and satin buskins, and who run altogether mad on the argument of a George and a star." " And are there no such frail fair ones in your climate, most scornful princess ?" said the duke. u There are," said the lady ; "but men rate them as parrots and monkeys — things without either sense or soul, head or heart. The nearness we bear to the sun has purified, while it strengthens, our passions. The icicles of your frozen cli- mate shall as soon hammer hot bars into ploughshares, as shall the foppery and folly of your pretended gallantry make an instant's impression on a breast like mine." 11 You speak like one who knows what passion is," said the duke. " Sit down, fair lady, and grieve not that I detain you. Who can consent to part with a tongue of so much melody, or an eye of such expressive eloquence ! You have known, then, wdmt it is to love ?" " I know — no matter if by experience, or through the report of others ; but I do know, that to love as I would love, would be to yield not an iota to avarice, not one inch to vanity; not to sacrifice the slight- est feeling to interest or to ambition ; but to give up all to fidelity of heart and re- ciprocal affection." <; And how many women, think you, are capable of feeling such disinterested passion ?" " More, by thousands, than there are men who merit it," answered Zarah. " Alas ! how often do you see the female pale and wretched and degraded, still fol- lowing with patient constancy the foot- steps of some predominating tyrant, and submitting to all his injustice with the endurance of a faithful and misused spaniel, wiiich prizes a look from his master, though the surliest groom that ever disgraced humanity, more than all the pleasures which the world besides can furnish him ! Think what such would be to one who merited and repaid her de- votion." " Perhaps the very reverse," said the duke ; " and for your simile, I can see little resemblance. I cannot charge my spaniel with any perfidy ; but for my mis- tresses — to confess truth, I must always be in a cursed hurry 7 if I would have the credit of changing them before they leave me." " And they serve you but rightly, my lord,'' answered the lady ; " for what are you ? — nay, frown not, for you must hear the truth for once. Nature has done its part, and made a fair outside, and courtly education hath added its share. You are noble, it is the accident of birth ; hand- some, it is the caprice of Nature ; gene- rous, because to give is more easy than to refuse ; well-apparelled, it is to the credit of your tailor ; w T ell-natured in the main, because you have youth and health ; brave, because to be otherwise were to be de- graded; and witty, because you cannot help it." The duke darted a glance on one of the large mirrors. " Noble, and handsome, and courtlike, generous, well-attired, good- humoured, brave and witty ! — You allow me more, madam, than I have the slight- est pretension to, and surely enough to make my way, at some point at least, to female favour." " I have neither allowed you a heart nor a head," said Zarah, calmly. " Nay, never redden as if you would fly at me. I say not but nature may have given you both ; but folly has confounded the one, and selfishness perverted the other. The man whom I call deserving the name, is one whose thoughts and exertions are for others rather than himself, — wdiose high purpose is adopted on just principles, and never abandoned while heaven or earth affords means of accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an in- direct advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil path to gain a real good pur- pose. Such a man w r ere one for whom a woman's heart should beat constant while he breathes, and break when he dies." She spoke with so much energy' that the water sparkled in her eyes, and her cheek coloured with the vehemence of her feelings. 48 SIR WALTER SCOTT. " You speak," said the duke, " as if you had yourself a heart which could pay the full tribute to the merit which you de- scribe so warmly." " And have I not ?" she said, laying her hand upon her bosom. " Here beats one that would bear me out in what I have said, whether in life or in death ! " " Were it in my power," said the duke, who began to get farther interested in his visitor than he could at first have thought possible, " Were it in my power to de- serve such faithful attachment, methinks it should be my care to requite it." " Your wealth, your titles, your reputa- tion as a gallant — all you possess were too little to merit such sincere affection." " Come, fair lady," said the duke, a good deal piqued, " do not be quite so dis- dainful. Bethink you, that if your love be as pure as coined gold, still a poor fellow like myself may offer you an equivalent in silver. The quantity of my affection must make up for its quality." " But I am not earning my affection to market, my lord; and therefore I need none of the base coin you offer in change for it." " How do I know that, my fairest ?" said the duke. " This is the realm of Paphos — you have invaded it, with what purpose you best know ; but I think with none consistent with your present assumption of cruelty. Come, come — eyes that are so intelligent can laugh with delight, as well as gleam with scorn and anger. You are here a waif on Cupid's manor, and I must seize on you in name of the deity." " Do not think of touching me, my lord," said the lady. " Approach me not, if you would hope to learn the purpose of my being here. Your grace may suppose yourself a Solomon if you please ; but I am no travelling princess come from distant climes, either to flatter your pride or won- der at your glory." " A defiance, by Jupiter ! " said the duke. " You mistake the signal," said the dark lady; " I came not here without taking sufficient precautions for my re- treat." " You mouth it bravely," said the duke ; " but never fortress so boasted its resources but the garrison had some thoughts of sur- render. Thus I open the first parallel." They had been divided hitherto from each other by a long narrow table, which, placed in the recess of the large casement we have mentioned, had formed a sort of barrier on the lady's side, against the ad- venturous gallant. The duke went hastily to remove it as he spoke ; but, attentive to all his motions, his visitor instantly darted through the half-open window. Buckingham uttered a cry of horror and surprise, having no doubt, at first, that she had precipitated herself from a height of at least fourteen feet ; for so far the window was distant from the ground. But when he sprung to the spot, he perceived, to his astonishment, that she had effected her descent with equal agility and safety. The outside of this stately mansion was decorated with a quantity of carving, in the mixed state, betwixt the Gothic and the Grecian styles, which marks the age of Elizabeth and her successor ; and though the feat seemed a surprising one, the pro- jections of these ornaments were sufficient to afford footing to a creature so light and active, even in her hasty descent. Inflamed alike by mortification and curiosity, Buckingham at first entertained some thoughts of following her by the same dangerous route, and had actually got upon the sill of the window for that purpose ; and was contemplating what might be his next safe movement, when, from a neighbouring thicket of shrubs, amongst which his visitor had disappeared, he heard her chant a verse of a comic song, then much in fashion, concerning a despairing lover who had recourse to a precipice : — " But when he came near, Beholding how steep The sides did appear, And the bottom how deep ; Though his suit was rejected, He sadly reflected, That a lover forsaken A new love may get ; But a neck that 's once broken Can never be set." The duke could not help laughing, though much against his will, at the re- semblance which the verses bore to his own absurd situation, and, stepping back into the apartment, desisted from an at- tempt which might have proved danger- ous as well as ridiculous. He called his attendants, and contented himself with watching the little thicket, unwilling to think that a female, who had thrown her- self in a great measure into his way, meant absolutely to mortify him by a re- treat. That question was determined in an in- NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 49 stant. A form, wrapped in a mantle, with a slouched hat and shadowy plume, issued from the bushes, and was lost in a mo- ment amongst the ruins of ancient and of modern buildings, with which the de- mesne formerly termed York House was now encumbered in all directions. Sir Walter Scott. JANE AUSTEN Was born on the 16th of December, 1775, at Steventon in Hampshire, of which parish her father was rector more than forty years. When past the age of seventy he left Steventon, and went with his family to reside at Bath. Upon his death Miss Austen removed with her mother and sister to Southampton, and thence in a short time to Chawton, a pleasant village in Hampshire. From Chawton she published her novels, without affixing her name to them. She died at Winchester on the 18th of July, 1817, and was buried in the cathedral. She was lovely in person, of a sweet temper, modest, gentle, faultless as nearly as human nature can be. The character of her writings is thus given in the private diary of Sir Walter Scott :— " 1826, March 14. — Read again, and for the third time at least, Miss Austen's very finely written novel of Pride and Prejudice. That young lady had a talent for de- scribing the involvements, and feelings and characters of ordinary fife, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with. The big bow-wow strain I can do myself like any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary common-place things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me. What a pity such a gifted creature died so early ! " — LocJcMrVs Life of Scott, vol. vi. p. 264. She wrote Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Mansfield Park from which the pieces entitled Fanny Price and Fraternal Love are taken, Pride and Pre- judice which has given the third, and Persuasion which has supplied the two other extracts. Northanger Abbey and Persuasion were not published until after Miss Austen's death. FANNY PRICE. Henry Crawford was gone above an horn- ; and when his sister, who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out " My dear Henry, where can you possibly have been all this time ?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady Bertram and Fanny. " Sitting with them an hour and a half ! " exclaimed Mary. But this was only the beginning of her surprise. " Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was ; "I could not get away sooner, Fanny looked so lovely ! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up. Will it astonish vou ? No : vou must be aware that T am quite determined to many Fanny Price." " Fanny Price — wonderful — quite won- derful ! that Mansfield should have done so much for — that you should have found your fate in Mansfield ! but you are quite right, you could not have chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune ; and as to her connections, they are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this countiy. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram ; that will be enough for the world. But go on, go on ; tell me more. What are your plans ? Does she know her own happiness ?" " No." " Va hat are you waiting for ?" " For — for very little more than oppor- tunity. Mary, she is not like her cousins, but I think I shall not ask in vain." D 50 JANE AUSTEN. " Oh no, you cannot. Were you even less pleasing; supposing her not to love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt), you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure her all your own immedi- ately. From my soul I do not think she would marry you without love ; that is, if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to re- fuse." As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen ; and a conversation fol- lowed almost as deeply interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact no- thing to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms. Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness of heart, w r ere the exhaustless theme. The gentle- ness, modesty, and sweetness of her cha- racter were warmly expatiated on ; that sweetness w f hich makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgement of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise : he had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised her patience and forbearance ? Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with her brother ! What could more delight- fully prove that the w T armth of her heart was equal to its gentleness ? What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in view ? Then, her understand- ing's, beyond every suspicion, quick and clear ; and her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor w r as this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to know them by their proper name ; but when he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an ob- servance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well principled and religious. " I could so wholly and absolutely con- fide in her," said he, "and that is what I want." Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects. " Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, " attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her, and for her ; her co- lour beautifully heightened as she leant over the w r ork, then returning to her seat to finish a note wiiich she was previously engaged in writing for that stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretend- ing gentleness, so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a moment at her own command ; her hair arranged as neatly as it always is, and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then shook back ; and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to me, or listening, and as if she liked to listen to what I said. Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing." " My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stop- ping short and smiling in his face, " how glad I am to see you so much in love ! it quite delights me. But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?" " I care neither what they say nor what they feel ; they will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense. I wish the dis- covery may do them any good. And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness." Jane Austen. FRATERNAL LOVE. At the end of a few days, circumstances arose which gave Fanny Price a degree of happiness, that disposed her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Chan- nel, and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left the Antwerp, at anchor in Spithead ; and when Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing, grate- NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 51 ful countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dic- tating in reply. This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt of his ob- taining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a midshipman ; and as his parents, from living on the spot, mast already have seen him and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his best correspon- dent through a period of seven years, and the uncle, who had done most for his sup- port and advancement ; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as pos- sible ; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found her- self in an agitation of a higher nature — watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a brother. It came happily while she was thus waiting ; and there being neither cere- mony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with him as he en- tered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them. William and Fanny soon showed them- selves ; and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and re- spectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend. It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation and the first of fruition ; it was some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment insepa- rable fi-om the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning to do, ; through many a past year. That time, j however, did gradually come, forwarded | by an affection on his side as warm as her ! own, and much less encumbered by re- \ finement or self- distrust. She was the ! first object of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it as natural for him to ex- ! press as to feel. On the morrow they ' were walking about together with true ; enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed a tete-a-tete, which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, i even before Edmund had pointed it out j to him. Excepting the moments of peculiar de- light, which any marked or unlooked for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and friend, who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears, plans and solicitudes respecting that long- thought-of, dearly-earned, and justly-va- lued blessing of promotion — who could give her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and i sisters, of whom she very seldom heard — j who was interested in all the comforts 1 and all the little hardships of her home, j at Mansfield — ready to think of every ; member of that home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their Aunt Nor- ris ; and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone ! over again, and every former united pain | and pleasure retraced with the fondest, re- collection. An advantage this, a strength- I ener of love, in which even the conjugal ; tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of I the same family, the same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have J some means of enjoyment in their pow r er, j which no subsequent connections can sup- | ply ; and it must be by a long and un- natural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent connection can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest at- tachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas ! it is so. Fraternal love, some- times almost everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no se- parate attachment, and feeling the influ- D2 52 JANE AUSTEN. ence of time and absence only in its in- crease. An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with it as any; he honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fond- ness of the young sailor, which led him to say, with his hand stretched towards Fanny's head, " Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done in England I could not believe it ; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the commissioners at Gihraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad ; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything ;" — and saw, with lively admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep in- terest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing any of the immi- nent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply. It was a picture which Henry Craw- ford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's attractions increased — increased twofold ; for the sensibility which beauti- fied her complexion and illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capa- bilities of her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young, unsophisticated mind ! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite. William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his histories ; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles, professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness ; every- thing that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal ; he had been in the Mediterranean, in the West Indies, in the Mediterranean again ; had been often taken on shore by the favour of his cap- tain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be listened to ; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb every- body in quest of two needlefuls of thread or a secondhand shirt-button, in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive ; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, " Dear me ! how dis- agreeable ! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea." To Henry Crawford they gave a dif- ferent feeling ; he longed to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships, and given such proofs of mind. The glory of he- roism, of usefulness, of exertion, of en- durance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was ! Jane Austen. AN OAF. During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all ; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his com- fort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Ben- net could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner; and with a most important aspect, he protested that " he had never in his life witnessed such be- haviour in a person of rank — such affa- bihty and condescension, as he had him- self experienced from Lady Catherine; she had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses which he had al- ready had the honour of preaching before her ; she had also asked him twice to dine at Bosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people ; he knew that he had never seen anything but affability in her ; she had always spoken NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 53 to him as she would to any other gentle- man ; she made not the smallest ohjection to his joining in the society of the neigh- bourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion ; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly ap- proved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to sug- gest some herself — some shelves in the closets up-stairs." " That is all very proper and civil, I am 6ure," said Mrs. Bennet, " and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir ?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." " I think you said she was a widow, sir ; has she any family ?" " She has one only daughter, the heir- ess of Rosings, and of very extensive pro- perty." ' ; Ah," cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, " then she is better off than many girls ; and what sort of young lady is she ? Is she handsome ?" " She is a most charming young lady, indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accom- plishments which she could not other- wise have failed of, as I am informed by the lady who superintended her educa- tion, and who still resides with them ; but she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." " Has she been presented ? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." 11 Her indifferent state of health unhap- pily prevents her being in town ; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine my- self one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea ; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer these little deli- cate compliments, which are always ac- ceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess ; and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I con- ceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." " You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet ; " and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of nattering with deli- cacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?" " They arise chiefly from what is pass- ing at the time ; and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arran- ging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I al- ways wish to give them as unstudied an ab- as possible." Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped; and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute com- posure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was pro- duced; but on beholding it (for every- thing announced it to be from a circu- lating library) he started back, and beg- ging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose For- dyce's sermons. Lydia gaped as he open- ed the volume ; and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, " Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard? and if he does, Colonel Foster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Satur- day. I shall walk to Meriton tomorrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue ; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, — " I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious 54 JANE AUSTEN. stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for certainly there can be nothing so advan- tageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, ob- serving that he acted very wisely in leav- ing the girls to their own trifling amuse- ments. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's inter- ruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book ; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for back- gammon. Jane Austen. OVER-ANXIOUS CAUTION. Captain Frederic Wentworth being made commander, in consequence of the action off St. Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire in the summer of 1806, and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was at that time a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy ; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had no- thing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love ; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when ac- quainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest ; she in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted. A short period of exquisite felicity fol- lowed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his con- sent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a pro- fessed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very degrading alliance ; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, re- ceived it as a most unfortunate one. Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw herself away at nineteen ; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with a young man who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connections to secure even his farther rise in that profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think of. Anne Elliot, so young, known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or for- tune ; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence. It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any repre- sentations from one who had almost a mother's love and mother's rights, it could be prevented. Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession, but spending freely what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich ; full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky ; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its ow 7 n w r armth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne ; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper and fearlessness of mind operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant ; he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit; and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connection in every light. Such opposition as these feelings pro- duced, was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister ; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing, indiscreet, im- proper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely sel- fish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it : had she not ima- gined herself consulting his good, even NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 55 more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being pru- dent and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation under the misery of a parting — a final parting ; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions on his side, totally un- convinced and unbending, and of his feel- ing himself ill-used by so forced a relin- quishment. He had left the country in consequence. A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close, and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone ; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kel- lynch circle who could bear a comparison with Frederic Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and suffi- cient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them. She had been solicited when ahout two-and- twenty, to change her name by the young man who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister, and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal ; for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and gene- ral importance were second, in that coun- try, oniy to Sir Walter's, and of good cha- racter and appearance ; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for some- thing more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at twenty- two so respectably removed from the par- tialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this case Anne had left nothing for advice to do, and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to ; but Anne at seven-and-twenty thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell ; she did not blame herself for having been guided by her, but she felt that were any young person in similar circumstances to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such cer- tain immediate wretchedness, such uncer- tain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapproba- tion at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintain- ing the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it : and this she fully be- lieved, had the usual share, had even more than an usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without refer- ence to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have be- stowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. All his san- guine expectations, all his confidence, had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ, and all that he had told her would follow had taken place. He had distinguished himself and early gained the other step in rank, and must now by successive cap- tures have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich, and in favour of his constancy she had no reason to believe him married. How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been ! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attach- ment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Pro- vidence ! She had been forced into pru- dence in her youth ; she learned romance as she grew older, — the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. Jane Austen. 56 JANE AUSTEN. THE DISCOVERY. " Look here," said he, unfolding a par- cel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, " Do you know who that is ?" " Certainly, Captain Benwick." " Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," in a deep tone, " it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and griev- ing for him ? I little thought then — but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her. And I have now the charge of getting it pro- perly set for another ! It was a commis- sion to me ! but who else was there to employ ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry indeed to make it over to another. He undertakes it :" looking to- wards Captain Wentworth, " he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, " Poor Fanny ! she would not have forgotten him so soon." " No," replied Anne in a low feeling voice, " that I can easily believe." " It was not in her nature. She doted on him." " It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, " Yes. We certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us. It is, per- haps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion ; you have always a profession, pursuits, busi- ness of some sort or other, to take you back into the w r orld immediately, and con- tinual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." " Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." " True," said Anne, " very true ; I did not recollect ; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville ? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within ; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick." " No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our men- tal ; and that as our bodies are the strong- est, so are our feelings ; capable of bear- ing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." " Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived, which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you if it were otherwise. You have difficulties and pri- vations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toil- ing, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all united. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be too hard, indeed," (with a faltering voice) " if wo- man's feelings were to be added to all this." " We shall never agree upon this ques- tion," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their atten- tion to Captain Wentworth's hitherto per- fectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down ; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught. " Have you finished your letter ?" said Captain Harville. " Not quite — a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes." " There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am in very good anchorage here," smiling at Anne, " well supplied, and want for no- thing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot," lowering his voice, " as I was saying, we shall never agree, I sup- pose, upon this point. No man and wo- man would, probably. But let me ob- serve that all histories are against you — all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 57 fifty quotations in a moment on my side of the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life -which had not something to say upon woman's incon- stancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But, perhaps, you will say, these were all written by men." " Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree ; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." " But how shall we prove anything?" " We never shall. We never can ex- pect to prove anything upon such a point. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We each begin, pro- bably, with a little bias towards our own sex, and upon that bias build every cir- cumstance in favour of it which has oc- curred within our own c ircle ; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought for- ward without betraying a confidence, or, in some respect, saying what should not be said." " Ah !" cried Captain Harville, in atone of strong feeling, " if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and chil- dren, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, ' God knows whether we ever meet again !' And j then, if I could convey to you the glow of j his soul when he does see them again, when coming back after a twelvemonth's \ absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into i another port, he calculates how soon it be ' possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, ' They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings by many hours sooner still. If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence ! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts," pressing his own with emotion. " Oh !" cried Anne, eagerly, " I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow- creatures. I should deserve utter con- tempt if I dared to suppose that true at- tachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of even-thing great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every im- portant exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as — if I may be al- lowed the expression — so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and fives for you. All the pri- vilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one, you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone." She could not immediately have uttered another sentence ; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. " You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her arm quite affectionately. M There is no quar- relling with you. And when I think of Benwick my tongue is tied." Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs. Croft was taking leave. " Here, Frederic, you and I part com- pany, I believe," said she. " I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again, at your party," turning to Anne. " We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederic had a card too, though I did not see it — and you are disengaged, Frederic, are you not, as well as ourselves ?" Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully. "Yes," said he, "very tree; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you ; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute." Mrs. Croft left them, and Captain Went- worth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed im- patience to be gone. Anne knew not how to understand it. She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Harville, but from him not a word nor a look ! He had passed out of the room without a look ! She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard re- turning : the door opened ; it was him- self. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly cross- ing the room to the writing table, and D 5 53 ANONYMOUS. standing with his hack towards Mrs. Mus- grove, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it hefore Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a moment, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs. Musgrove was aware of his being in it — the work of an instant ! The revolution which one instant had made in Anne was almost beyond expres- sion. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to " Miss A. E ," was evi- dently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her ! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her ! Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than sus- pense. Mrs. Musgrove had little arrange- ments of her own at her own table ; to their protection she must trust, and sink- ing into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words : — " I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this ? Can you fail to have understood my wishes ? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing some- thing which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature ! You do us justice, indeed. You do be- lieve that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F.W. " I must go, uncertain of my fate ; but I shall return hither, or follow your party as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening, or never." * * * * Soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immor- tality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once be- fore seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their reunion, than when it had been first pro- jected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's cha- racter, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced^the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politi- cians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly pre- ceded the present moment, which Were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through ; and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end. Jane Austen. ANONYMOUS. LOVE. When Leonard had resided three years at Oxford, one of his college-friends in- vited him to pass the long vacation at his father's house, which happened to be within an easy ride of Salisbury. One morning therefore he rode to that city, rung at Miss Trewbody's door, and having sent in his name, was admitted into the NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 59 parlour, where there was no one to re- ceive him, while Miss Trewbody adjusted her head-dress at the toilette before she made her appearance. Her feelings while she was thus employed were not of the pleasantest kind toward this unexpected guest ; and she was prepared to accost him with a reproof for his extravagance in undertaking so long a journey, and with some mortifying questions concern- ing the business which brought him there. But this amiable intention was put to flight when Leonard, as soon as she en- tered the room, informed her that having accepted an invitation into that neigh- bourhood from his friend and fellow-col- legian, the son of Sir Lambert Bowles, he had taken the earliest opportunity of coming to pay his respects to her, and acknowledging his obligations, as bound alike by duty and inclination. The name of Sir Lambert Bowles acted upon Miss Trewbody like a charm ; and its molli- fying effect was not a little aided by the tone of her nephew's address, and the sight of a fine youth in the first bloom of manhood, whose appearance and manners were such that she could not be surprised at the introduction he had obtained into one of the first families in the county. The scowl therefore which she brought into the room upon her brow passed in- stantly away, and was succeeded by so gracious an aspect, that Leonard, if he had not divined the cause, might have mistaken this gleam of sunshine for fair weather. A cause which Miss Trewbody could not possibly suspect had rendered her nephew's address thus conciliatory. Had he expected to see no other person in that house, the visit would have been performed as an irksome obligation, and his manner would have appeared as cold and formal as the reception which he an- ticipated. But Leonard had not forgotten the playmate and companion with whom the happy years of Ms childhood had been passed. Young as he was at their sepa- ration, his character had taken its stamp during those peaceful years, and the im- pression which it then received was in- delible. Hitherto hope had never been to him so delightful as memory. His thoughts wandered back into the past more frequently than they took flight into the future ; and the favourite form which his imagination called up was that of the sweet child, who in winter partook his bench in the chimney corner, and in sum- mer sate with him in the porch, and strung the fallen blossoms of jessamine upon stalks of grass. The snow-drop and the crocus reminded him of their little garden, the primrose of their sunny orchard-bank, and the blue-bells and the cowslips of the fields wherein they were allowed to run wild and gather them in the merry month of May. Such as she then was he saw her frequently in sleep, with her blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, and flaxen curls : and in his day-dreams he some- times pictured her to himself such as he supposed she now might be, and dressed up the image with all the magic of ideal beauty. His heart, therefore, was at his lips when he inquired for his cousin. It was not without something like fear and an apprehension of disappointment that he awaited her appearance ; and he was secretly condemning himself for the ro- mantic folly which he had encouraged, when the door opened and a creature came in, — less radiant, indeed, but more winning than his fancy had created, for the loveliness of earth and reality was about her. " Margaret," said Miss Trewbody, " do you remember your cousin Leonard ?" Before she coidd answer Leonard had taken her hand : " 'T is a long while, Mar- garet, since we parted ! — ten years ! — But I have not forgotten the parting, nor the blessed days of our childhood." She stood trembling like an aspen leaf, and looked wistfully in his face for a moment, then hung down her head without power to utter a word in reply. But he felt her tears fall fast upon his hand, and felt also that she returned its pressure. Leonard had some difficulty to com- mand himself, so as to bear a part in conversation with his aunt, and keep his eyes and his thoughts from wandering. He accepted however her invitation to stay and dine with her with undissembled satisfaction, and the pleasure was not a little heightened when she left the room to give some necessary orders in conse- quence. Margaret still sate trembling and in silence. He took her hand, prest it to his lips, and said in a low earnest voice, " Dear, dear Margaret ! " She raised her eyes, and fixing them upon him with one of those looks, the perfect remem- brance of which can never be effaced from the heart to which they have been addressed, replied in a lower but not less earnest tone, " Dear Leonard," and from 60 ANONYMOUS. that moment their lot was sealed for time and for eternity. I will not describe the subsequent in- terviews between Leonard and his cousin, short and broken but precious as they were; nor that parting one in which hands were plighted, with the sure and certain knowledge that hearts had been interchanged. Kemembrance will enable some of my readers to portray the scene, and then perhaps a sigh may be heaved for the days that are gone : Hope will picture it to others, — and with them the sigh will be for the days that are to come. There was not that indefinite deferment of hope in this case at which the heart sickens. Leonard had been bred up in poverty from his childhood: a parsimo- nious allowance, grudgingly bestowed, had contributed to keep him frugal at College, by calling forth a pardonable if not a commendable sense of pride in aid of a worthier principle. He knew that he could rely upon himself for frugality, industry, and a cheerful as well as a con- tented mind. He had seen the miserable state of bondage in which Margaret ex- isted with her aunt, and his resolution was made to deliver her from that bond- age as soon as he could obtain the smallest benefice on which it was possible for them to subsist. They agreed to live rigorously within their means, however poor, and put their trust in Providence. They could not be deceived in each other, for they had grown up together ; and they knew that they were not deceived in themselves. Their love had the freshness of youth, but prudence and forethought were not wanting ; the resolution which they had taken brought with it peace of mind, and no misgiving was felt in either heart when they prayed for a blessing upon their purpose. In reality it had already brought a blessing with it ; and this they felt ; for love, when it deserves that name, produces in us what may be called a regeneration of its own, — a se- cond birth, — dimly, but yet in some de- gree resembling that which is effected by Divine love when its redeeming work is accomplished in the soul. Leonard returned to Oxford happier than all this world's wealth or this world's honours could have made him. He had now a definite and attainable hope, — an object in life which gave to life itself a value. For Margaret, the world no longer seemed to her like the same earth which she had till theu inhabited. Hitherto she had felt herself a forlorn and solitary creature, without a friend ; and the sweet sounds and pleasant objects of nature had imparted as little cheerfulness to her as to the debtor who sees green fields in sunshine from his prison, and hears the lark singing at liberty. Her heart was open now to all the exhilarating and all the softening influences of birds, fields, flowers, vernal suns and melodious streams. She was subject to the same daily and hourly exercise of meekness, patience, and humility ; but the trial was no longer painful ; with love in her heart, and hope and sunshine in her prospect, she found even a pleasure in contrasting her present condition with that which was in store for her. In these our days every young lady holds the pen of a ready writer, and words flow from it as fast as it can indent its zigzag lines, according to the reformed- system of writing, — which said system improves handwritings by making them all alike and all illegible. At that time women wrote better and spelt worse : but letter-writing was not one of their accom- plishments. It had not yet become one of the general pleasures and luxuries of life, — perhaps the greatest gratification which the progress of civilization has given us. There was then no mail coach to waft a sigh across the country at the rate of eight miles an hour. Letters came slowly and with long intervals be- tween ; but when they came, the happiness which they imparted to Leonard and Mar- garet lasted during the interval, — however long. To Leonard it was an exhilarant and a cordial which rejoiced and strength- ened him. He trod the earth with a lighter and more elated movement on the day when he received a letter from Mar- garet, as if he felt himself invested with an importance which he had never possessed till the happiness of another human being was inseparably associated with his own ; So proud a thing it was for him to wear Love's golden chain, With which it is best freedom to be bound. Happy, indeed, if there be happiness on earth, as that same sweet poet says, is he, Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind, Where fairest virtues fairest beauties grace, Then in himself such store of worth doth find, That he deserves to find so gcod a place. Love, they say, invented the art of tracing likenesses, and thereby led the way to portrait painting. Some painters NARRATIVES OF FICTION. 61 it has certainly made; whether it ever made a poet may be doubted : but there can be no doubt that under its inspiration more bad poetry has been produced than by any, or all other causes. But, on the other hand, if love, simple love, is the worst of poets, that same simple love is, beyond comparison, the best of letter writers. In love-poems conceits are distilled from the head; in love-letters feelings flow from the heart ; and feelings are never so feelingly uttered, affection never so affectionately expressed, truth never so truly spoken, as in such a correspondence. Oh, if the disposition which exists at such times were sustained through life, marriage would then be in- deed the perfect union, the " excellent mystery" which our Father requires from those who enter into it, that it should be made ; and which it might always be, under His blessing, were it not for the misconduct of one or the other party, or of both. If such a disposition were main- tained, — "if the love of husbands and wives were grounded (as it then would be) in virtue and religion, it would make their lives a kind of heaven on earth ; it would prevent all those contentions and brawlings which are the great plagues of families, and the lesser hell in passage to the greater." Let no reader think the worse of that sentence because it is taken from that good homely old book, the better for being homely, entitled The Whole Duty of Man. The dream of life indeed can last with none of us, — As if the thing beloved were all a saint, And every place she enter' d were a shrine: but it must be our own fault, when it has passed away, if the realities disappoint us : they are not " weary, stale, flat and un- profitable," unless we ourselves render them so. The preservation of the species is not the sole end for which love was implanted in the human heart ; that end the Almighty might as easily have effected by other means : not so the developement of our moral nature, which is its higher purpose. Not lovers alone, but husbands and wives, and parents feel that there are others who are dearer to them than them- selves. Little do they know of human nature who speak of marriage as doubling our pleasures and dividing our griefs : it doubles, or more than doubles both. Leonard was not more than eight-and- twenty when he obtained a living, a few miles from Doncaster. He took his bride with him to the vicarage. The house was as humble as the benefice, which was worth less than ^50 a-year ; but it was soon made the neatest cottage in the country round, and upon a happier dwel- ling the sun never shone. A few acres of good glebe were attached to it ; and the garden was large enough to afford health- ful and pleasurable employment to its owners. The course of true love never ran more smoothly : but its course was short : O how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away ! Little more than five years from the time of their marriage had elapsed, before a headstone in the adjacent churchyard told where the remains of Margaret Bacon had been deposited in the thirtieth year of her age. When the stupor and the agony of that bereavement had past away, the very in- tensity of Leonard's affection became a source of consolation. Margaret had been to him a purely ideal object during the years of his youth ; death had again ren- dered her such. Imagination had beau- tified and idolized her then ; faith sanc- tified and glorified her now. She had been to him on earth all that he had fan- cied, all that he had hoped, all that he had desired. She would again be so in heaven. And this second union nothing could impede, nothing could interrupt, nothing could dissolve. He had only to keep himself worthy of it by cherishing her memory, hallowing his heart to it while he performed a parent's duty to their child ; and so doing to await his own summons, which must one day come, which every day was brought nearer, and which any day might bring. 'T is the only discipline we are born for ; All studies else are but as circular lines, And death the centre where they must all meet. The same feeling which from his child- hood had refined Leonard's heart, keeping it pure and undefiled, had also corrobo- rated the natural strength of his character, and made him firm of purpose. It was a saying of Bishop Andrews, that " good husbandry is good divinity;" " the truth whereof," says Fuller, "no wise man will deny." Frugality he had always practised as a needful virtue, and found that in an especial manner it brings with it its own reward- He now resolved upon scrupu- 62 ANONYMOUS. lously setting apart a fourth of his small income to make a provision for his child, in case of her surviving him, as in the natural course of things might he ex- pected. If she should be removed before him, — for this was an event the possi- bility of which he always bore in mind, — he had resolved that whatever should have been accumulated with this intent, should be disposed of to some other pious purpose, — for such, within the limits to which his poor means extended, he pro- perly considered this. And having en- tered on this prudential course with a calm reliance upon Providence in case his hour should come before that purpose could be accomplished, he was without any earthly hope or fear, — those alone excepted from which no parent can be free. The child had been christened Deborah after her maternal grandmother, for whom Leonard ever gratefully retained a most affectionate and reverential remembrance. She was a healthy, happy creature in body and in mind ; at first one of those little prating girls, Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories ; afterwards, as she grew up, a favourite with the village school-mistress, and with the whole parish ; docile, good-natured, lively and yet considerate, always gay as a lark and busy as a bee. One of the pensive pleasures in which Leonard in- dulged was to gaze on her unperceived, and trace the likeness to her mother. How that which was the life's life of our being, Can pass away, and we recall it thus ! That resemblance which was strong in childhood, lessened as the child grew up ; for Margaret's countenance had acquired a cast of meek melancholy during those years in which the bread of bitterness had been her portion, but no unhappy cir- cumstances depressed the constitutional buoyancy of her daughter's spirits. De- borah brought into the world the hap- piest of all nature's endowments, an easy temper and a light heart. Resemblant therefore as the features were, the dissi- militude of expression was more apparent ; and when Leonard contrasted in thought the sunshine of hilarity that lit up his daughter's face, with the sort of moon- light loveliness which had given a serene aud saint-like character to her mother's, he wished to persuade himself that as the early translation of the one seemed to have been thus prefigured, the other might be destined to live for the happi- ness of others till a good old age, while length of years in their course shoidd ripen her for heaven. Anonymous : from a book called l The Doctor, 8fc.,' attributed to Robert Southey. ENGLISH PROSE PART II. LETTERS. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU Lady Mary Pierrepont, a daughter of the Duke of Kingston, was horn, about 1690, at Thoresby in Nottinghamshire. When she was but four years old she lost her mother. It has been said that she received a classical education under the same masters who taught her brother ; this is doubtful, but it is certain that her early studies were directed by Bishop Burnet. In 1712 she married Mr. Edward Wortley Mon- tagu, and in 1716 accompanied him on his embassy to Constantinople. During her travels she wrote the best of her celebrated letters, and returning in 1718, she lived among the witty and the gay. In 1739, with her husband's consent, she left England, and resided, during the remainder of his life, in Italy ; on his death, in 1761, she came home, and died on the 21st of August 1762. Lady Mary's father was a leading whig, and a member of the Kit-cat club, which was formed in 1703, by gentlemen who were zealous for the succession of the house of Hanover, and who, according to Horace Walpole, were the patriots that saved Britain. The club took its name from Christopher Kat, a pastrycook who lived near the tavern where they met in King Street, Westminster, and supplied them with tarts. The portraits of the members were painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller. It was their custom to elect yearly, as their toasts, the reigning beauties of the day ; the name of each beauty was engraven on a drinking-glass, and her portrait adorned the club-room. When Lady Mary was but eight years old, her father proposed her name, saying that she was far prettier than any lady on the list. It was objected that the rules forbad them to elect a beauty whom they had not seen ; she was then sent for, received with acclamations, and unanimously elected. " The company consisting of some of the most eminent men in England, she went from the lap of one poet, or patriot, or statesman, to the arms of another ; was feasted with sweetmeats, overwhelmed with caresses, and what perhaps already pleased her better than either, heard her wit and beauty loudly extolled on every side. Pleasure, she said, was too poor a word to ex- press her sensations ; they amounted to ecstasy : never again throughout her whole future life did she pass so happy a day." This scene had, perhaps, an evil influence on the character of Lady Mary, who always looked for happiness in the admiration of the world, and not at home. Her husband, who was a grave, austere man, seems to have been a person least in importance to her ; of her son, who was irreclaimably vicious and perhaps insane, she coolly writes 64 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. to his father, " I am not insensible of the misfortune, but I look upon it as the loss of a limb which should cease to give solicitude by being irretrievable," and her's is probably the only instance of a mother leaving, by will, a guinea to an only son. She had but one daughter, from whom she parted for twenty-two years, beginning at the time when, without any good cause, she left her husband to pass the remainder of her life in Italy. Certainly she was not a woman of strong affections. To Lady Mary, England was indebted for inoculation in the small-pox which she learned from the Turks : she had her son inoculated at Belgrade in 1718, and her daughter after her return to England. Four physicians were deputed by Government to watch the progress of her daughter's inoculation, and they showed so much ran- cour and such an unwillingness for the success of the experiment, that she feared to leave the child alone with them ; the clergy preached against the wickedness of her taking events out of the hands of Providence ; and the common people hooted at her as an unnatural mother : but she was firm and succeeded. Her letters are admirable, abounding in livery description, and in wit and good sense, flowing with perfect ease and freedom. TURKISH LADIES. To the Countess of Mar. Pera of Constantinople, March 10, o.s. 1717. I have not written to you, dear sister, these many months : — a great piece of self-denial. But I know not where to direct, or what part of the world you are in. I have received no letter from you since that short note of April last, in which you tell me that you are on the point of leaving England, and promise me a direction for the place you stay in ; but I have in vain expected it till now ; and now I only learn from the Gazette that you are returned, which induces me to venture this letter to your house at Lon- don. I had rather ten of my letters should be lost, than you imagine I don't write ; and I think it is hard fortune if one in ten don't reach you. However, I am resolved to keep the copies, as testimonies of my inclination to give you, to the ut- most of my power, all the diverting part of my travels, while you are exempt from all the fatigues and inconveniences. In the first place then I wish you joy of your niece ; for I was brought to bed of a daughter five weeks ago. I don't mention this as one of my diverting ad- ventures ; though I must own that it is not half so mortifying here as in England, there being as much difference as there is between a little cold in the head, which sometimes happens here, and the con- sumption cough, so common in London. Nobody keeps their house a month for lying-in, and I am not so fond of any of our customs as to retain them when they are not necessary. I returned my visits at three weeks' end ; and about four days ago crossed the sea, which divides this place from Constantinople, to make a new one, where I had the good fortune to pick up many curiosities. I went to see the Sultana Hafiten, fa- vourite of the late Emperor Mustapha, who, you know (or perhaps you don't know), was deposed by his brother, the reigning sultan, and died a few weeks after, being poisoned, as it was generally believed. This lady was, immediately after his death, saluted with an absolute order to leave the seraglio, and choose herself a husband among the great men at the Porte. I suppose you may imagine her overjoyed at this proposal. Quite the contrary. These women, who are called and esteem themselves queens, look upon this liberty as the greatest disgrace and affront that can happen to them. She threw herself at the sultan's feet, and begged him to poniard her rather than use his brother's widow with that con- tempt. She represented to him, in ago- nies of sorrow, that she was privileged from this misfortune by having brought five princes into the Ottoman family ; but all the boys being dead, and only one girl surviving, this excuse was not re- ceived, and she was compelled to make her choice. She chose Bekir Effendi, then secretary of state, and above four- score years old, to convince the world that she firmly intended to keep the vow she had made, of never suffering a second husband to approach her bed ; and since LETTERS. 65 she must honour some subject so far as to be called his wife, she would choose him as a mark of her gratitude, since it was he that had presented her at the age of ten years to her last lord. But she never permitted him to pay her one visit, though it is now fifteen years she has been in his house, where she passes her time in uninterrupted mourning, with a constancy very little known in Christen- dom, especially in a widow of one-and- twenty, for she is now but thirty-six. She has no black eunuchs for her guard, her husband being obliged to respect her as a queen, and not to inquire at all into what is done in her apartment. I was led into a large room with a sofa the whole length of it, adorned with white marble pillars, like a raelle, covered with pale blue figured velvet on a silver ground, with cushions of the same, where I was desired to repose till the sultana appeared, who had contrived this manner of reception to avoid rising up at my en- trance, though she made me an inclina- tion of her head when I rose up to her. I was very glad to observe a lady that had been distinguished by the favour of an emperor, to whom beauties were every- day presented from all parts of the world. But she did not seem to me to have ever been half so beautiful as the fair Fatima I saw at Adrianople ; though she had the remains of a fine face, more decayed by sorrow than time. But her dress was something so surprisingly rich, that I cannot forbear describing it to you. She wore a vest called donalmd, which differs from a caftan by longer sleeves, and fold- ing over at the bottom. It was of purple cloth, strait to her shape, and thick set on each side, down to her feet and round the sleeves, with pearls of the best water, of the same size as their buttons com- monly are. You must not suppose that I mean as large as those of my Lord , but about the bigness of a pea ; and to these buttons large loops of diamonds, in the form of those gold loops so common on birth-day coats. This habit was tied at the waist with two large tassels of smaller pearls, and round the arms em- broidered with large diamonds. Her shift was fastened at the bottom with a great diamond, shaped like a lozenge ; her gir- dle as broad as the broadest English ribband, entirely covered with diamonds. Round her neck she wore three chains which reached to her knees ; one of large pearl, at the bottom of which hung a fine coloured emerald as big as a turkey-egg ; another, consisting of two hundred eme- ralds, closely joined together, of the most lively green, perfectly matched, every one as large as a half-crown piece, and as thick as three crown pieces ; and another of small emeralds perfectly round. But her ear-rings eclipsed all the rest. They were two diamonds, shaped exactly like pears, as large as a big hazel nut. Round her kalpdc she had four strings of pearl, the whitest and most perfect in the world, at least enough to make four necklaces, every one as large as the Duchess of Marlborough's, and of the same shape, fastened with two roses, consisting of a large ruby for the middle stone, and round them twenty drops of clean diamonds to each. Beside this, her head-dress was covered with bodkins of emeralds and dia- monds. She wore large diamond brace- lets, and had five rings on her fingers, (except Mr. Pitt's) the largest I ever saw in my life. It is for jewellers to compute the value of these things ; but, according to the common estimation of jewels in our part of the world, her whole dress must be worth a hundred thousand pounds sterling. This I am sure of, that no European queen has half the quantity, and the empress's jewels, though very fine, would look very mean near hers. She gave me a dinner of fifty dishes of meat, which (after their fashion) were placed on the table but one at a time, and was extremely tedious. But the magnifi- cence of her table answered very well to that of her dress. The knives were of gold, and the hafts set with diamonds. But the piece of luxury which grieved my eyes was the table-cloth and napkins, which were all tiffany, embroidered with silk and gold in the finest manner, in natural flowers. It was with the utmost regret that I made use of these costly napkins, which were as finely wrought as the finest handkerchiefs that ever came out of this country. You may be sure that they were entirely spoiled before dinner was over. The sherbet (which is the liquor they drink at meals) was served in china bowls, but the covers and salvers massy gold. After dinner, water was brought in gold basins, and towels of the same kind with the napkins, which I very iinwillingly wiped my hands upon ; and. coffee was served in china, with gold sou- coups. The sultana seemed in a very good humour, and talked to me with the ut- most civility. I did not omit this oppor- 66 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. tunity of learning all that I possibly could of the seraglio, which is so entirely unknown among us. She assured me, that the story of the sultan's throwing a handkerchief is altogether fabulous ; and the manner upon that occasion no other than this ; he sends the Kysldr Agd to signify to the lady the honour he intends her; she is immediately complimented upon it by the others, and led to the bath, where she is perfumed and dressed in the most magnificent and becoming manner. The emperor precedes his visit by a royal present, and then comes into her apartment : neither is there any such thing as her creeping in at the bed's foot. She said, that the first he made choice of was always afterward the first in rank, and not the mother of the eldest son, as other writers would make us believe. Sometimes the sultan diverts himself in the company of all his ladies, who stand in a circle round him. And she con- fessed they were ready to die with envy and jealousy of the happy she that he distinguished by any appearance of pre- ference. But this seemed to me neither better nor worse than the circles in most courts, where the glance of the monarch is watched, and every smile is waited for with impatience, and envied by those who cannot obtain it. She never mentioned the sultan with- out tears in her eyes, yet she seemed very fond of the discourse. " My past happi- ness," said she, " appears a dream to me ; yet I cannot forget that I was beloved by the greatest and most lovely of mankind. I was chosen from all the rest, to make all his campaigns with him ; and I would not survive him, if I was not passionately fond of the princess my daughter. Yet all my tenderness for her was hardly enough to make me preserve my life. When I left him, I passed a whole twelve- month without seeing the light. Time hath softened my despair ; yet I now pass some days every week in tears, devoted to the memory of my sultan." There was no affectation in these words ; it was easy to see she was in a deep me- lancholy, though her good humour made her willing to divert me. She asked me to walk in her garden, and one of her slaves immediately brought her a pellice of rich brocade lined with sables. I waited on her into the garden, which had nothing in it remarkable but the fountains ; and from thence she showed me all her apartments. In her bed-cham- ber her toilet was displayed, consisting of two looking-glasses, the frames covered with pearls, and her night talpoche set with bodkins of jewels, and near it three vests of fine sables, every one of which is, at least, worth a thousand dollars (two hundred pounds English money). I don't doubt but these rich habits were pur- posely placed in sight, though they seemed negligently thrown on the sofa. When I took my leave of her, I was complimented with perfumes, as at the grand vizier's, and presented with a very fine embroidered handkerchief. Her slaves were to the number of thirty, besides ten little ones, the eldest not above seven years old. These were the most beautiful girls I ever saw, all richly dressed ; and I observed that the sultana took a great deal of plea- sure in these lovely children, which is a vast expense ; for there is not a handsome girl of that age to be bought under a hundred pounds sterling. They wore little garlands of flowers, and their own hair braided, which was all their head-dress ; but their habits were all of gold stuffs. These served her coffee, kneeling; brought water when she washed, &c. It is a great part of the work of the elder slaves to take care of these young girls, to learn them to embroider, and to serve them as carefully as if they were children of the family. Now, do you imagine I have entertained you all this while, with a relation that has, at least, received many embellish- ments from my hand ? This, you will say, is but too like the Arabian tales ; these embroidered napkins ! and a jewel as large as a turkey's egg ! You forget, dear sister, these very tales were written by an author of this country, and (excepting the enchantments) are a real representation of the manners here. We travellers are in very hard circumstances ; if we say no- thing but what has been said before us, we are dull, and we have observed no- thing. If we tell anything new, we are laughed at as fabulous and romantic, not allowing either for the difference of ranks, which affords difference of company, or more curiosity, or the change of customs, that happens every twenty years in every country. But the truth is, people judge of travellers exactly with the same can- dour, good-nature and impartiality, they judge of their neighbours upon all occa- sions. For my part, if I live to return amongst you, I am so well acquainted with the morals of all my dear friends and LETTERS. 67 acquaintances, that I am resolved to tell them nothing at all, to avoid the imputa- tion (which their charity would certainly incline them to) of my telling too much. But I depend upon your knowing me enough to helieve whatever I seriously assert for truth, though I give you leave to be surprised at an account so new to you. But what would you say if I told you that I have been in a harem, where the winter apartment was wainscoted with in- laid work of mother-o'-pearl, ivory of dif- ferent colours, and olive wood, exactly like the little boxes you have seen brought out of this country ; and in whose rooms designed for summer, the walls are all crusted with japan china, the roofs gilt, and the floors spread with the finest Per- sian carpets ? Yet there is nothing more true : such is the palace of my lovely friend, the fair Fatima, whom I was ac- quainted with at Adrianople. I went to visit her yesterday ; and, if possible, she appeared to me handsomer than before. She met me at the door of her chamber, and, giving me her hand with the best grace in the world, " You Christian ladies," said she, with a smile that made her as beautiful as an angel, " have the reputation of inconstancy, and I did not expect, whatever goodness you expressed for me at Adrianople, that I should ever see you again. But I am now convinced that I have really the happiness of pleasing you ; and, if you knew how I speak of you amongst our ladies, you would be as- sured that you do me justice in making me your friend." She placed me in the corner of the sofa, and I spent the after- noon in her conversation, with the great- est pleasure in the world. The Sultana Hafiten is, what one would naturally expect to find a Turkish lady, willing to oblige, but not knowing how to go about it ; and it is easy to see in her manner that she has lived secluded from the world. But Fatima has all the polite- ness and good-breeding of a court, with an air that inspires at once respect and tenderness ; and now that I understand her language, I find her wit as agreeable as her beauty. She is very curious after the manners of other countries, and has not the partiality for her own so common in little minds. A Greek that I carried with me, who had never seen her before, (nor could have been admitted now, if she had not been in my train,) showed that surprise at her beauty and manners which is unavoidable at the first sight, and said to me in Italian, " This is no Turkish lady, she is certainly some christian." Fatima guessed she spoke of her, and asked what she said. I would not have told her, thinking she would have been no better pleased with the compliment than one of our court beauties to be told she had the air of a Turk ; but the Greek lady told it to her, and she smiled, saying, " It is not the first time I have heard so ; my mother was a Poloneze, taken at the siege of Caminiec ; and my father used to rally me, saying, he believed his Christian wife had found some gallant, for that I had not the air of a Turkish girl." I assured her that, if all the Turkish ladies were like her, it was absolutely necessary to confine them from public view, for the repose of mankind ; and proceeded to tell her what a noise such a face as hers would make in London or Paris. " I can't be- lieve you," replied she, agreeably ; " if beauty was so much valued in your coun- try as you say, they would never have suffered you to leave it." Perhaps, dear sister, you laugh at my vanity in repeat- ing this compliment ; but I only do it as I think it very well turned, and give it you as an instance of the spirit of her conversation. Her house was magnificently furnished, and very well fancied ; her winter rooms being furnished with figured velvet on gold grounds, and those for summer with fine Indian quilting embroidered with gold. The houses of the great Turkish ladies are kept clean with as much nicety as those in Holland. This was situated in a high part of the town ; and from the window of her summer apartment we had the prospect of the sea, the islands, and the Asian mountains. My letter is insensibly grown so long, I am ashamed of it. This is a very bad symptom. 'T is well if I don't degenerate into a downright story-teller. It may be, our proverb, that knowledge is no burthen, may be true as to one's self, but knowing too much is very apt to make us trouble- some to other people. Mary Worthy Montagu. 68 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. LA TRAPPE. FLORENCE. To the Countess of . I set out from Bologna the moment I had finished the letter I wrote you on Monday last, and shall now continue to inform you of the things that have struck me most in this excursion. Sad roads — hilly and rocky — between Bologna and Fierenzuolo. Between this latter place and Florence, I went out of my road to visit the monastery of La Trappe, which is of French origin, and one of the most austere and self-denying orders I have met with. In this gloomy retreat it gave me pain to observe the infatuation of men, who have devoutly reduced themselves to a much worse condition than that of the beasts. Folly, you see, is the lot of hu- manity, whether it arises in the flowery paths of pleasure or the thorny ones of an ill-judged devotion; but of the two sorts of fools, I shall always think that the merry one has the most eligible fate ; and I cannot well form a notion of that spiritual and ecstatick joy that is mixed with sighs, groans, hunger and thirst, and the other complicated miseries of mo- nastick discipline. It is a strange way of going to work for happiness to excite an enmity between soul and body, which Nature and Providence have designed to live together in union and friendship, and which we cannot separate like man and wife when they happen to disagree. The profound silence that is enjoined upon the monks of La Trappe, is a singular circum- stance of their unsociable and unnatural discipline ; and were this injunction never to be dispensed with, it would be needless to visit them in any other character than as a collection of statues ; but the supe- rior of the convent suspended in our favour that rigorous law, and allowed one of the mutes to converse with me, and answer a few discreet questions. He told me that the monks of this order in France are still more austere than those of Italy, as they never taste wine, flesh, fish, or eggs, but live entirely upon vegetables. The story that is told of the institution of this order is remarkable, and is well at- tested, if my information be good. Its founder was a French nobleman, whose name was Bouthillier de Ranee, a man of pleasure and gallantry, which were con- verted into the deepest gloom of devotion by the following incident : — His affairs obliged him to absent himself for some time from a lady whom he tenderly loved. At his return to Paris he proposed to surprise her agreeably, and, at the same time, to satisfy his own impatient desire of seeing her, by going directly and with- out ceremony to her apartment by a back stair, which he was well acquainted with ; but think of the spectacle that presented itself to him at his entrance into the chamber ! his mistress dead — dead of the small-pox, disfigured beyond expression, a loathsome mass of putrified matter, and the surgeon separating the head from the body, because the coffin had been made too short! He stood for a moment motionless in amazement and filled with horror, and then retired from the world, shut himself up in the con- vent of La Trappe, where he passed the remainder of his days in the most cruel and disconsolate devotion. Let us quit this sad subject. I must not forget to tell you that, be- fore I came to this monastery, I went to see the burning mountain near Fieren- zuolo, of which the naturalists speak as a great curiosity. The flame it sends forth is without smoke, and resembles brandy set on fire. The ground about it is well cultivated, and the fire appears only in one spot, where there is a cavity whose circumference is small, but in it are seve- ral crevices whose depths are unknown. It is remarkable that, when a piece of wood is thrown into this cavity, though it cannot pass through the crevices, yet it is consumed in a moment, and that though the ground about it be perfectly cold, yet if a stick be rubbed with any force against it, it emits a flame, which, however, is neither hot nor durable like that of the volcano. If you desire a more circumstantial account of this phenome- non, and have made a sufficient progress in Italian to read Father Carrazzi's descrip- tion of it, you need not be at a loss, for I have sent this description to Mr. F , and you have only to ask it of him. After observing the volcano, I scrambled up all the neighbouring hills, partly on horse- back, partly on foot, but could find no vestige of fire in any of them, though common report would make one believe that they all contain volcanos. I hope you have not taken it in your head to expect from me a description of the famous gallery here, where I arrived on Thursday at noon ; this would be re- LETTERS. 69 quiring a volume instead of a letter ; be- sides, I have as yet seen but a part of this immense treasure, and I propose employ- ing some weeks more to survey the whole. You cannot imagine any situation more agreeable than Florence ; it lies in a fer- tile and smiling valley watered by the Arno, which runs through the city, and nothing can surpass the beauty and mag- nificence of its public buildings, particu- larly the cathedral, whose grandeur filled me with astonishment. The palaces, squares, fountains, statues, bridges, do not only carry an aspect full of elegance and greatness, but discover a taste quite different in kind from that which reigns in the public edifices in other countries. The more I see of Italy the more I am persuaded that the Italians have a style (if I may use that expression) in every- thing, which distinguishes them almost essentially from all other Europeans. Where they have got it, whether from natural genius or ancient imitation and inheritance, I shall not examine, but the fact is certain. I have been but one day in the gallery, that amazing repository of the most precious remains of antiquity, and which alone is sufficient to immor- talize the illustrious house of Medicis, by whom it was built, and enriched as we now see it. I was so impatient to see the famous Venus of Medicis, that I went hastily through six apartments in order to get a sight of this divine figure, purposing, when I had satisfied this ardent curiosity, to return and view the rest at my leisure. As I, indeed, passed through the great room which contains the ancient statues, I was stopped short at viewing the An- tinous. This statue, bke that of the Venus de Medicis, spurns description ; such figures my eyes never beheld ; I can now understand that Ovid's comparing a fine woman to a statue, which I formerly thought a very disobbging similitude, was the nicest and highest piece of flattery. The fine attitude of the Antinous carries such an expression of ease, elegance and grace, as no words can describe. When I saw the Venus I was wrapped in wonder, and I could not help casting a thought back upon Antinous. They ought to be placed together ; they are worthy of each other. Did I pretend to describe to you the Venus, it would only set your ima* gination at work to form ideas of her figure, and your ideas would no more re- semble that figure than the Portuguese face of Miss N , who has enchanted our knight, resembles the sweet and grace- ful countenance of Lady , his former flame. The description of a face or figure is a needless thing, as it never conveys a true idea ; it only gratifies the imagination with a fantastic one, until the real one is seen. So, my dear, if you have a mind to form a true notion of the divine forms and features of the Venus and Antinous, come to Florenee. I would be glad to obbge you and your friend Vertue, by executing your commis- sion with respect to the sketches of Ra- phael's cartoons at Hampton Court, but I cannot do it to my satisfaction. I have, indeed, seen in the grand duke's collec- tion, four pieces, in which that wonderful artist had thrown freely from bis pencil the first thoughts and rude lines of some of those compositions ; and as the first thoughts of a great genius are precious, these pieces attracted my curiosity in a particular manner ; but when I went to examine them closely, I found them so damaged and effaced, that they did not at all answer my expectation. Whether this be owing to negligence or envy, I cannot say ; I mention the latter because it is notorious that many of the modern painters have discovered ignoble marks of envy at a view of the inimitable produc- tions of the ancients. Instead of employ- ing their art to preserve the master- pieces of antiquity, they have endeavoured to destroy and efface many of them. I have seen with my own eyes an evident proof of this at Bologna, where the great- est part of the paintings in fresco on the walls of the convent of St. Michael in Bosco, done by the Caracci and Guido Rheni, have been ruined by the painters, who, after having copied some of the finest heads, scraped them almost entirely out with nails. Thus you see nothing is exempt from human malignity. Mary Wort ley Montagu. POPULAR AUTHORS OF THE DAY. To the Countess of Bute, Louvers, June 23, 1754. My dear Child— I have promised you some remarks on all the books I have re- ceived. I believe you would easily for- give my not keeping my word ; however, I shall go on. The Rambler is certainly a strong misnomer ; he always plods in 70 LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. the beaten road of his predecessors, fol- lowing the Spectator (with the same pace a pack-horse would do a hunter), in the style that is proper to lengthen a paper. These writers may, perhaps, be of service to the public, which is saying a great deal in their favour. There are numbers of both sexes who never read anything but such productions, and cannot spare time, from doing nothing, to go through a six- penny pamphlet. Such gentle readers may be improved by a moral hint, which, though repeated over and over from gene- ration to generation, they never heard in their lives. 1 should be glad to know the name of this laborious author. H. Field- ing has given a true picture of himself and bis first wife, in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments to his own figure excepted ; and I am persuaded seve- ral of the incidents he mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does not perceive Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels. All this sort of books have the same fault, which I cannot easily pardon, being very mischievous. They place a merit in extravagant passions, and encourage young people to hope for im- possible events, to draw them out of the misery they choose to plunge themselves into, expecting legacies from unknown re- lations, and generous benefactors to dis- tressed virtue, as much out of nature as fairy treasures. Fielding has really a fund of true humour, and was to be pitied at his first entrance into the world, having no choice, as he said himself, but to be a hackney writer or a hackney coachman. His genius deserved a better fate ; but I cannot help blaming that continued indis- cretion, to give it the softest name, that has run through his life, and I am afraid still remains. I guessed R. Random to be his, though without his name. I cannot think Ferdinand Fathom wrote by the same hand, it is every way so much below it. Sally Fielding has mended her style in her last volume of David Simple, which conveys a useful moral, though she does not seem to have intended it : I mean, shows the ill-consequences of not pro- viding against casual losses, which happen to almost every body. Mrs. Orgueil's cha- racter is well drawn, and is frequently to be met with. The Art of Tormenting, the Female Quixote, and Sir C. Goodville are all sale works. I suppose they proceed from her pen, and I heartily pity her, con- strained by her circumstances to seek her bread by a method, I do not doubt, she despises. Tell me who is that accom- plished countess she celebrates. I left no such person in London ; nor can I ima- gine who is meant by the English Sappho mentioned in Betsy Thoughtless, whose adventures, and those of Jemmy Jessamy, gave me some amusement. I was better entertained by the Valet, who very fairly represents how you are bought and sold by your servants. I am now so accus- tomed to another manner of treatment, it would be difficult to me to suffer them : his adventures have the uncommon merit of ending in a surprising manner. The general want of invention which reigns among our writers, inclines me to think it is not the natural growth of our island, which has not sun enough to warm the imagination. The press is loaded by the servile flock of imitators. Lord Bo- lingbroke would have quoted Horace in this place. Since I was born no original has appeared excepting Congreve, and Fielding, who would, I believe, have ap- proached nearer to his excellences, if not forced by necessity to publish without cor- rection, and throw many productions into the world he would have thrown into the fire, if meat could have been got without money, or money without scribbling. The greatest virtue, justice, and the most dis- tinguishing prerogative of mankind, wri- ting, when duly executed, do honour to human nature ; but when degenerated into trades, are the most contemptible ways of getting bread. I am sorry not to see any more of Peregrine Pickle's performances ; I wish you would tell me his name. I can't forbear saying something in re- lation to my grand-daughters, who are very near my heart. If any of them are fond of reading, I would not advise you to hinder them (chiefly because it is impossi- ble) seeing poetry, plays, or romances ; but accustom them to talk over what they read, and point out to them, as you are very capable of doing, the absurdity often concealed under fine expressions, where the sound is apt to engage the admiration of young people. I was so much charmed at fourteen with the dialogue of Henry and Emma, I can say it by heart to this day, without reflecting on the monstrous folly of the story in plain prose, where a young heiress to a fond father is repre- sented falling in love with a fellow she had only seen as a huntsman, a falconer, and a beggar, and who confesses, without any circumstances of excuse, that he is obliged to run his country, having newly LETTERS. 71 committed a murder. She ought reason- ably to have supposed him, at best, a high- wayman ; yet the virtuous virgin resolves to run away with him, to live among the banditti, and wait upon his trollop, if she had no other way of enjoying his company. This senseless tale is, however, so well varnished with melody of words and pomp of sentiments, I am convinced it has hurt more girls than ever were injured by the worst poems extant. I fear this counsel has been repeated to you before ; but I have lost so many let- ters designed for you, I know not which you have received. If you would have me avoid this fault, you must take notice of those that arrive, which you very sel- dom do. Mary Worthy Montagu. THOMAS GRAY the poet, was born in Cornhill, London, on the 20th of December 1716, and was educated at Eton and at Peter-house, Cambridge. In March 1739, he accompanied his friend and school-fellow Horace Walpole, on the usual tour through France and Italy. A quarrel arose between them, and in 1741 Gray returned home alone. In 1742 he wrote several of his poems, and among them the Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College ; it is probable that in the same year he began his Elegy in a Country Churchyard; but he did not publish any work until 1747. From 1742 to the day of his death, he lived chiefly at Cambridge, excepting that from 1759, when the British Museum opened, down to 1762, he lodged in London, for the purpose of making ex- tracts from the Harleian and other MSS. In 1768 he was appointed professor of Modern History at Cambridge. In the next year he made a tour to the English Lakes. An extract from one of Ms letters to Dr. Warton, written during that ex- cursion, is given below. He died on the 31st of July 1771, and was buried at Stoke near Windsor. Gray was a learned and a good man, but it is said that he wanted personal courage, and was effeminate and fastidious. Dr. Johnson, who was insensible to the beauty and sublimity of his poems, which are now famihar in our mouths as household words, yet does justice to his letters. Speaking of the account of the journey through West- moreland and Cumberland, he says, " He that reads his epistolary narration wishes, that to travel, and to tell his travels, had been more of his employment." Nothing can be better tban Gray's description ; of which assertion no other proof need be given than the following passages, which will be admired by all, and most of all by those who have seen the country described. THE ENGLISH LAKES. To Dr. Warton. Oct. 8, 1769. I left Keswick and took the Ambleside- road in a gloomy morning ; and about two miles from the town mounted an eminence called Castle -rigg, and the sun breaking out, discovered the most enchanting view T I have yet seen of the whole valley behind me, the two lakes, the river, the moun- tains all in their glory ; so that I had al- most a mind to have gone back again. The road in some few r parts is not com- pleted, yet good country road, through sound but narrow and stony lanes, very safe in broad day-light. This is the case about Causew r ay-fort, and among Naddle- fells to Lancwaite. The vale you go in has little breadth ; the mountains are vast and rocky, the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants are now r making hay, and see not the sun by two hours in a day so long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of Helvellyn, along which runs an excellent road, looking down from a little height on Lee's-water (called also Thirlmeer or I Wiborn-water), and soon descending on 72 THOMAS GRAY. its margin. The lake looks black from its depth, and from the gloom of the vast crags that scowl over it, though really clear as glass ; it is narrow, and about three miles long, resembling a river in its course ; little shining torrents hurry down the rocks* to join it, but not a bush to overshadow them or cover their march ; all is rock and loose stones up to the very brow, which lies so near your way, that not above half the height of Helvellyn can be seen. Next I passed by the little chapel of Wiborn, out of which the Sunday congre- gation were then issuing ; soon after a beck near Dunmeil-raise, when I entered Westmoreland a second time, and now be- gan to see Holm-crag, distinguished from its rugged neighbours, not so much by its height as by the strange broken outlines of its top, like some gigantick building de- molished, and the stones that composed it flung cross each other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one of the sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imi- tate. The bosom of the mountains spread- ing here into a broad basin discovers in the midst Grasmere-water ; its margin is hollowed into small bays, with bold emi- nences ; some of rock, some of soft turf, that half conceal, and vary the figure of the little lake they command : from the shore, a low promontory pushes itself far into the water, and on it stands a white village with the parish church rising in the midst of it : hanging enclosures, corn- fields, and meadows green as an emerald, with their trees and hedges, and cattle, fill up the whole space from the edge of the water : and just opposite to you is a large farm-house at the bottom of a steep smooth lawn, embosomed in old woods, which climb half-way up the mountain's side, and discover above them a broken line of crags that crown the scene. Not a single red tile, no flaring gentleman's house, or garden-walls, break in upon the repose of this little unsuspected paradise ; but all is peace, rusticity, and happy po- verty in its neatest, most becoming attire. The road winds here over Grasmere- hiU, whose rocks soon conceal the water from your sight ; yet it is continued along behind them, and contracting itself to a river, communicates with Kidale-water, another small lake, but of inferior size and beauty ; it seems shallow too, for large patches of reeds appear pretty far within it. Into this vale the road descends. On the opposite banks large and ancient woods mount up the hills ; and just to the left of our way stands Ridale-hall, the family seat of Sir Michael Fleming, a large old-fa- shioned fabrick, surrounded with wood. Sir Michael is now on his travels, and all this timber, far and wide, belongs to him. Near the house rises a huge crag, called Ridale-head, which is said to command a full view of Wynander-mere, and I doubt it not ; for within a mile that great lake is visible, even from the road ; as to going up the crag, one might as well go up Skiddaw, I now reached Ambleside, eighteen miles from Keswick, meaning to lie there;- but on looking into the best bed-chamber, dark and damp as a cellar, grew delicate, gave up Wynander-mere in despair, and resolved I would go on to Kendal directly, fourteen miles farther. The road in gene- ral fine turnpike, but some parts (about three miles in all) not made, yet without danger. For this determination I was unexpect- edly well rewarded ; for the afternoon was fine, and the road, for the space of full five miles, ran along the side of Wynander- mere, with delicious views across it, and almost from one end to the other. It is ten miles in length, and at most a mile over, resembling the course of some vast and magnificent river : but no flat marshy grounds, no osier beds, or patches of scrubby plantations on its banks : at the head two valleys open among the moun- tains ; one, that by which we came down, the other Langsledale, in which Wry-nose and Hard-knot, two great mountains, rise above the rest ; from thence the fells visi- bly sink, and soften along its sides ; some- times they run into it (but with a gentle declivity) in their own dark and natural complexion : oftener they are green and cultivated, with farms interspersed, and round eminences, on the border covered with trees : towards the south it seemed to break into larger bays, with several islands and a wdder extent of cultivation. The way rises continually, till at a place called Orrest-head it turns south-east, losing sight of the water. Passed by Ing's Chapel and Staveley; but I can say no farther, for the dusk of even-, ing coming on, I entered Kendal almost in the dark, and could distinguish only a sha^ dow of the castle on a hill, and tenter-, grounds spread far and wide round the town, which I mistook for houses. My inn promised sadly, having two wooden galleries, like Scotland, in front of it : it LETTERS. was indeed an old ill-contrived house, but kept by civil sensible people ; so I stayed two nights with them, and fared and slept very comfortably. Thomas Gray. THE STUDY OF THE LAW. To Mr. West. Florence, July 16, 1740. You do yourself and me justice, in ima- gining that you merit, and that I am capa- ble of sincerity. I have not a thought, or even a weakness, I desire to conceal from you ; and consequently on my side deserve to be treated with the same openness of heart. My vanity perhaps might make me more reserved towards you, if you were one of the heroic race, superior to all hu- man failings ; but as mutual wants are the ties of general society, so are mutual weak- nesses of private friendships, supposing them mixed with some proportion of good qualities ; for where one may not some- times blame, one does not much care ever to praise. All this has the air of an in- troduction designed to soften a very harsh reproof that is to follow ; but it is no such matter : I only meant to ask, Why did you change your lodging? Was the air bad, or the situation melancholy ? If so, you are quite in the right. Only, is it not put- ting yourself a little out of the way of a people, with whom it seems necessary to keep up some sort of intercourse and con- versation, though but little for your plea- sure or entertainment (yet there are, I be- lieve, such among them as might give you both), at least for your information in that study, which, when I left you, you thought of applying to ? for that there is a certain study necessary to be followed, if we mean to be of any use in the world, I take for granted ; disagreeable enough (as most necessities are), but I am afraid unavoid- able. Into how many branches these stu- dies are divided in England, everybody knows ; and between that which you and I had pitched upon, and the other two, it was impossible to balance long. Exam- ples show one that it is not absolutely ne- cessary to be a blockhead to succeed in this profession. The labour is long, and the elements dry and unentertaining ; nor was ever anybody (especially those that afterwards made a figure in it) amused, or even not disgusted in the beginning ; yet, upon a further acquaintance, there is surely matter for curiosity and reflection. It is | strange if, among all that huge mass of I words, there be not somewhat intermixed for thought. Laws have been the result of long deliberation, and that not of dull ! men, but the contrary; and have so close a counexion with history, nay, with philo- i sophy itself, that they must partake a little ! of what they are related to so nearly. ' Besides, tell me, have you even made the attempt ? Was not you frighted merely with the distant prospect ? Had the Gothic character and bulkiness of those volumes (a tenth part of which perhaps it will be no further necessary to consult, than as one does a dictionary) no ill effect upon your eye ? Are you sure if Coke had been printed by Elzevir, and bound in twenty neat pocket volumes, instead of one folio, you should never have taken , him up for an hour, as you would a Tully, or drank your tea over him ? I know how great an obstacle ill spirits are to resolu- tion. Do you really think, if you rid ten ; miles every morning, in a week's time you should not entertain much stronger hopes of the chancellorship, and think it a much ' more probable thing than you do at pre- sent ? The advantages you mention are not nothing; our inclinations are more than we imagine in our own power ; rea- son and resolution determine them, and support under many difriculties. To me , there hardly appears to be any medium be- tween a public life and a private one ; he who prefers the first must put himself in a way of being serviceable to the rest of mankind, if he has a mind to be of any consequence among them : nay, he must ' not refuse being in a certain degree even dependent upon some men who are so already. If he has the good fortune to i light on such as will make no ill use of J his humility, there is no shame in this : ! if not, his ambition ought to give place to ' a reasonable pride, and he should apply to the cultivation of his own mind those abilities which he has not been permitted i to use for others' service. Such a private i happiness (supposing a small competence of fortune) is almost always in every one's power, and the proper enjoyment of age, as the other is the employment of youth. You are yet young, have some advantages and opportunities, and an undoubted capacity, which you have never yet put to the trial. Set apart a few hours, see how the first year will agree with you, and at the end of it you are still the master ; if you change your mind, you will only have got the knowledge of a little somewhat that can E 74 HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD. do no hurt, or give you cause of repent- ance. If your inclination be not fixed upon anything else, it is a symptom that you are not absolutely determined against this, and warns you not to mistake mere indolence for inability. I am sensible there is nothing stronger against what I would persuade you to, than my own prac- tice ; which may make you imagine I think not as I speak. Alas ! it is not so ; but I do not act what I think, and I had rather be the object of your pity, than that you should be that of mine ; and, be assured, the advantage I may receive from it does not diminish my concern in hearing you want somebody to converse with freely, whose advice might be of more weight, and always at hand. Thomas Gray. HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD the third and youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, was born in 1717, and educated at Eton and at King's College, Cambridge. He began his travels on the Continent in 1739, with Gray the poet, and returning in 1741, took his seat in the House of Com- mons as member for Callington. He represented different boroughs until 1768, when he retired from public business. In 1747 he purchased a cottage and a piece of ground at Twickenham, which rose and spread into the Gothic castle and grounds of Strawberry Hill. There he designed and built, and collected books, pictures and antiques. He was passionately fond of the place, not less of its lilacs and its nightin- gales, than of his castle, and his hoards of treasure and frippery. He was a writer of drama, romance, historick essays and memoirs, anecdotes of painters and engravers, and of innumerable letters carefully copied and kept for publi- cation. In 1791 he succeeded to the title of Earl of Orford, and died on the 2nd of March 1797. He has handed down his own character in his memoirs ; he says that he had great sense of honour, scorning to stoop to any meanness, and that " one virtue he pos- sessed in a singular degree — disinterestedness and contempt of money — if one may call that a virtue which really was a passion." How much he was deceived in him- self shall be shown by extracts from his letters. The Marquis Riccardi, a Florentine, wrote that he had sent to him seventy-seven antique gems, to be sold altogether for 2000 pistoles. Mr. Walpole was very indig- nant at this extraordinary impertinence, as he called it, and declared in a letter to his friend, Sir Horace Mann, that he would not receive the parcel. However, he did after- wards receive and open it by mistake, and then wrote that the gems were as much worth 22,000 as 2000 pistoles; that he had entirely left off making any collection; that he thought himself not at all well used ; that the marquis had picked up the things from the shops on the old bridge at Florence, but as he had received many civilities from Madame Riccardi, if the marquis would send a catalogue with the price of each piece, and a price in the whole considerably less than had been named, he would sell what he could, and if this were not done he would pack them up and send them to Leg- horn by the first ship. This proposal was not agreed to, and he was asked to send the treasure to Lisbon ; he answered that he had nothing to say to Marquis Riccardi about his trumpery gems, but what he had already said ; that nobody would buy them together ; that if the marquis would think better, and let them be sold by auction, it might be done most advantageously ; but that for sending them to Lisbon he would by no means do it, as the impertinent sending them without leave should in no man- ner draw him into the risk of paying for them ; that, in short, if the marquis would LETTERS. 75 send anybody to him with full authority to receive them, and to give the most ample discharge, he would deliver them, and should be happy so to get rid of them. There they lay in a corner of his closet, and would probably come to light at last with ex- cellent antique mould about them ! After these rebuffs, the marquis gave full power to the Florentine ambassador to receive his property, and one would have thought that a man who wished to retain the faintest shadow or outline of a gentleman would have stifled even a thought of keeping back any part of it ; but Mr. Walpole, who had insulted the marquis in whose house he had received civilities ; who had re- fused to transmit the gems to Lisbon ; who had carefully made it understood that he had flung them by as things of no value ; now, after he had received the order to deliver them, was not ashamed to give the strongest proof that his design all along had been to take to himself, at his own price, some of this "trurnpery;" and he had the incredible meanness to assign the trouble that he had taken for the marquis as a reason why he should have the goods cheap. He writes, " There are four rings that I should be glad he would sell me, but they are such trifles, and he will set such a value on them the moment he knows I like them, that it is scarce worth while to make the proposal, because I would give but a little for them. How- ever, you may hint what plague I have had with his roba, and that it will be a gen- tillezza to sell me these four dabs. One is a man's head, small, on cornelian and in- taglio ; a fly, ditto; an Isis cameo, and an inscription in Christian Latin: the last is literally not worth two sequins." The correspondence closed in another letter : " I shall deliver the gems to Pucci, but am so simple (you will laugh at me) as to keep the four I liked ; that is, I will submit to give him fifty pounds for them, if he will let me choose one ring more ; for I will at least have it to call them at ten guineas a-piece. I can choose no ring for which I would give five guineas." In another of his letters there is wretched chaffering about a miniature which he wished to buy ; the bravo who bought the robes of the young King of Leon could not have done it better : it is droll, too, that while he is warning Sir Horace Mann against giving presents to other people, he is constantly receiving presents from him ; like the good old lady who ended an impressive lecture to a young friend on the necessity of rigid and minute economy ; — " and now, my dear Mr. William, you must promise me that you w r ill not bring over a single present, not even the smallest, for anybody, except a pair of lories for me." In the controversy respecting Chatterton, Horace Walpole showed, in another way, a meanness of spirit. He was accused of having treated Chatterton with neglect and contempt, and it was insinuated that this was the primary cause of Chatterton's sui- cide. For the latter part of the charge there was no pretence, and as to the neglect and contempt, Walpole might have answered justly, that Chatterton had tried to de- ceive him, had deceived him, and deserved no courtesy, — but such a confession his vanity would not allow. Half of his defence before the public was directed to dis- prove that he had treated Chatterton arrogantly, and was scarcely true, though the arrogance might be excusable. The other half was to prove that he had from the first suspected Chatterton's pretended ancient poems to be modern; that he had not been made a fool of; that he had concluded at first that somebody having met with his Anecdotes of Painting had a mind to laugh at him, he thought not very ingeni- ously, as he was not likely to swallow a succession of great painters at Bristol : now the contrary of all this was the truth, and was so proved beyond doubt by the pro- duction of a letter from Walpole to Chatterton. He had swallowed all, even the succession of great painters at Bristol. Gray and Mason, to whom he afterwards showed the poems, at once pronounced them to be forgeries, and he, forgetting Ms E 2 '6 HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD. letter to Chatterton, or supposing it not to be in existence, had taken to himself the merit of their sagacity. In the quarrel between Hume and Rousseau, Walpole, who thought it quite fit to defend himself against Chatterton's friends, took Hume to task, in the most lordly and contemptuous tone, for publishing a defence against a charge of perfidy made by Rousseau, and assured him that Europe laughed at such idle quarrels. In a later letter to Hume he gave an instance of a mean art which was peculiar to him : no man looked with a more eager eye to literary fame than he did; no man more carefully preserved for posterity all that he wrote ; he was well pleased to be dis- tinguished as an author among his equals in worldly rank : but in the republic of letters he sought to degrade the character of its members that he might stand among them unrivalled as a gentleman of rank and fortune ; he pretended to disparage him- self that he might lessen his comrades. It was thus he wrote to Hume : " You know in England we read their works but seldom, or never take any notice of authors. We think them sufficiently paid if their books sell, and of course leave them to their col- leges and obscurity, by which means we are not troubled with their vanity and im- pertinence. I who am an author must own this conduct very sensible ; for in truth we are a most useless tribe." It would be difficult to press more insolence and folly into the compass of so many lines. The fact is, as he tells us, that he had a prompt- ness to dislike his superiors, and having great powers of ridicule he used them, not only to satirize vice and folly, but, as those dangerous powers are too often used, to pull down what was too good and great for him to attain ; he sneered at everything and everybody, a habit in which no man can indulge with impunity to his own moral and intellectual character. Yet there were good traits in him ; he revered the fame of his father, and loved the memory of his mother ; he was the generous friend of his cousin Marshal Conway, and he stood forward almost alone to save Admiral Byng from an unjust and bloody sentence. If not the best, he is the most amusing of English letter writers, lively, witty, and an unequalled describer of the characters and manners of society. It is hard to think ill of him after reading the beautiful letter on his revisiting Houghton, and impossi- ble not to regret that poor little Strawberry, too, as he sadly foreboded, has been stripped to pieces. THE TRIALS OF THE REBEL LORDS OF 1745. To Sir Horace Mann. Arlington-street, August 1, 1746. I am this moment come from the con- clusion of the greatest and most melan- choly scene I ever yet saw ! you will easily guess it was the trials of the rebel lords. As it was the most interesting sight, it was the most solemn and fine : a corona- tion is a puppet-show, and all the splen- dour of it idle; but this sight at once feasted one's eyes and engaged all one's passions. It began last Monday ; three- parts of Westminster-ball were enclosed with galleries, and hung with scarlet ; and the whole ceremony was conducted with the most awful solemnity and decency, except in the one point of leaving the pri- soners at the bar, amidst the idle curiosity of some crowd, and even with the wit- nesses who had sworn against them, while the lords adjourned to their own house to consult. No part of the royal family was there, which was a proper regard to the unhappy men, who were become their victims. One hundred and thirty-nine lords were present, and made a noble sight on their benches, frequent and full. The chancellor was Lord High Steward ; but though a most comely personage with a fine voice, his behaviour was mean, curi- ously searching for occasion to bow to the minister that is no peer, and constantly applying to the other ministers, in a man- ner, for their orders ; and not even ready at the ceremonial. To the prisoners he LETTERS. 77 was peevish ; and instead of keeping up to the humane dignity of the law of England, whose character it is to point out favour to the criminal, he crossed them, and al- most scolded at any offer they made to- wards defence. I had armed myself with all the resolution I could, with the thought of their crimes and of the danger past, and was assisted by the sight of the marquis of Lothian in weepers for his son who fell at Culloden — hut the first appearance of the prisoners shocked me ! their behaviour melted me ! Lord Kilmarnock and Lord Cromartie are both past forty, but look younger. Lord Kilmarnock is tall and slender, with an extreme fine person ; his behaviour a most just mixture between dignity and submission ; if in anything to be reprehended, a little affected, and his hair too exactly dressed for a man in his situation ; but when I say this, it is not to find fault with him, but to show how little fault there was to be found. Lord Cro- martie is an indifferent figure, appeared much dejected, and rather sullen : he dropped a few tears the first day, and swooned as soon as he got back to his cell. For lord Balmerino, he is the most natural brave old fellow I ever saw : the higbest intrepidity, even to indifference. At the bar he behaved like a soldier and a man ; in the intervals of form, with care- lessness and humour. He pressed ex- tremely to have his wife, his pretty Peggy, with him in tbe Tower. Lady Cromartie only sees her husband through the grate, not choosing to be shut up with him, as she thinks she can serve him better by her intercession without : she is big with child and very handsome; so are their daughters. When they were to be brought from the Tower in separate coaches, there was some dispute in which the axe must go ; old Balmerino cried, " Come, come, put it with me." At the bar he plays with bis fingers upon the axe, while be talks to the gentleman-gaoler ; and one day somebody coming up to listen, he took the blade and held it like a fan between their faces. During the trial a little boy was near him, but not tall enough to see ; he made room for the child and placed him near himself. When the trial began, the two earls pleaded guilty ; Balmerino not guilty, saying he could prove his not being at the taking of the castle of Carlisle, as was laid in the indictment. Then the king's counsel opened, and serjeant Skinner pro- nounced the most absurd speech ima- ginable ; and mentioned the duke of Perth, who, said he, / see by the papers is dead. Then some witnesses were exa- mined, whom afterwards the old hero shook cordially by the hand. The lords withdrew to their house, and returning, demanded of the Judges, whether, one ; point not being proved, though all the I rest were, the indictment was false ? to which they unanimously answered in the j negative. Then the Lord High Steward I asked the peers severally whether lord I Balmerino was guilty! All said, guilty \ upon honour, and then adjourned, the j prisoner having begged pardon for giving ', them so much trouble. While the lords j were withdrawn, the solicitor-general | Murray (brother of the Pretender s mi- nister), officiously and insolently went up to lord Balmerino, and asked him how he could give the lords so much trouble, when his solicitor had informed him that his plea could be of no use to him ? Bal- j merino asked the bystanders who this | person was ? and being told, he said, I " Oh, Mr. Murray ! I am extremely glad to see you ; I have been with several of your relations ; the good lady, your mo- ther, was of great use to us at Perth." Are not you charmed with this speech ? how just it was ! As he went away, he j said, " They call me jacobite ; I am no more a jacobite than any that tried me ; but if the Great Mogul had set up his standard, I should have followed it, for I could not starve." The worst of his case is, that after the battle of Dumblain, having a company in the duke of Argyle's regiment, he deserted with it to the rebels, and has since been pardoned. Lord Kilmarnock is a presbyter ian, with four earldoms in him, but so poor since lord Wilmington's stopping a pension that my father had given him, that he often wanted a dinner. Lord Cromartie was receiver of the rents of the king's second son in Scotland, which it was understood he should not account for, and by that means had six hundred a-year from the government: lord Elibank, a very prating impertinent jacobite, was bound for him in nine thousand pounds, for which the duke is determined to sue him. When the peers were going to vote, lord Foley withdrew, as too well a wisher ; lord Moray, as nephew of lord Balme- rino; — and lord Stair, — as, I believe, uncle to his great grandfather. Lord Windsor very affectedly said, " I am sorry I must say, guilty upon my honour." Lord Stam- ford would not answer to the name of HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD. Henry, having been christened Harry — what a great way of thinking on such an occasion ! I was diverted too with old Norsa, an old Jew that kept a tavern ; my brother, as auditor of the exchequer, has a gallery along one whole side of the court ; I said, " I really feel for the pri- soners ! " old Issachar replied, " Feel for them ! pray, if they had succeeded, what would have become of all us?" When my lady Townshend heard her husband vote, she said, " I always knew my lord was guilty, but I never thought he would own it upon his honour." Lord Balmerino said, that one of his reasons for pleading not guilty was, that so many ladies might not be disappointed of their show. On Wednesday they were again brought to Westminster-hall, to receive sentence ; and being asked what they had to say, lord Kilmarnock with a fine voice, read a very fine speech, confessing the extent of his crime, but offering his principles as some alleviation, having his eldest son (his second unluckily was with him) in the duke's army, fighting for the liberties of his country at Culloden, where his un- happy father was in arms to destroy them. He insisted much on his tenderness to the English prisoners, which some deny, and say that he was the man who proposed their being put to death, when General Stapleton urged that he was come to fight and not to butcher ; and that if they acted any such barbarity, he would leave them with all his men. He veiy artfully men- tioned Vanhoey's letter, and said how much he should scorn to owe his life to such intercession. Lord Cromartie spoke much shorter, and so low, that he was not heard but by those who sat very near him ; but they prefer his speech to the other. He mentioned his misfortune in having drawn in his eldest son, who is prisoner with him ; and concluded with saying, " If no part of this bitter cup must pass from me, not mine, O God, but thy will be done!" If he had pleaded not guilty, there was ready to be produced against him a paper, signed with his own hand, for putting the English prisoners to death. Lord Leicester went up to the duke of Newcastle and said, " I never heard so great an orator as lord Kilmarnock ; if I was your Grace, 1 would pardon him and make him paymaster." That morning a paper had been sent to the lieutenant of the Tower for the pri- soners; he gave it to lord Cornwallis, the governor, who carried it to the House of Lords. It was a plea for the prisoners, objecting that the late act for regulating the trials of rebels did not take place till after their crime was committed. The Lords very tenderly and rightly sent this plea to them, of which, as you have seen, the two earls did not make use, but old Balmerino did, and demanded counsel on it. The High Steward, almost in a pas- sion, told him, that when he had been offered counsel, he did not accept it — do but think on the ridicule of sending them the plea and then denying them counsel on it ! The duke of Newcastle, who never lets slip an opportunity of being absurd, took it up as a ministerial point, in defence of his creature the chancellor ; but lord Granville moved, according to order, to adjourn to debate in the cham- ber of parliament, where the duke of Bedford and many others spoke warmly for their having counsel; and it was granted. I said their, because the plea would have saved them all, and affected nine rebels who had been hanged that very morning; particularly one Morgan, a poetical lawyer. Lord Balmerino asked for Forester and Wilbraham ; the latter a very able lawyer in the House of Com- mons, who the chancellor said privately, he was sure would as soon be hanged as plead such a cause. But he came as counsel to-day (the third day), when lord Balmerino gave up his plea as invalid, and submitted, without any speech. The High Steward then made his, very long, and very poor, with only one or two good passages ; and then pronounced sentence. Great intercession is made for the two earls : Duke Hamilton, who has never been at court, designs to kiss the king's hand, and ask lord Kilmarnock's life. The king is much inclined to some mercy, but the duke, who has not so much of Caesar after a victory as in gaining it, is for the utmost severity. It was lately proposed in the city to present him with the freedom of some company ; one of the aldermen said aloud, " Then let it be of the Butchers' ! " Horace Walpole. LETTERS. 79 THE CORONATION OF GEORGE THE THIRD. To George Montagu. Arlington Street, Sept. 24, 1/61. I am glad you arrived safe in Dublin, and hitherto like it so well; but your trial has not begun yet. When your king comes, the ploughshares will be put into the fire. Bless your stars that your king is not to be married or crowned. All the vines of Bourdeaux, and all the fumes of Irish brains cannot make a town so drunk as a regal wedding and coronation. I am going to let London cool, and will not venture into it again this fortnight. Oh ! the buzz, the prattle, the crowds, the noise, the hurry ! Nay, people are so little come to their senses, that though the coro- nation was but the day before yesterday, the duke of Devonshire had forty messages yesterday, desiring tickets for a ball that they fancied was to be at Court last night. People had set up a night and a day, and yet wanted to see a dance. If I was to entitle ages, I would call this the century of crated s. For the coronation, if a puppet show could be worth a million , that is. The multitudes, balconies, guards, and pro- cessions, made Palace-yard the liveliest spectacle in the world : the hall was the most glorious. The blaze of lights, the richness and variety of habits, the ceremo- nial, the benches of peers and peeresses, frequent and full, was as awful as a pa- geant can be ; and yet for the king's sake and my own I never wish to see another ; nor am impatient to have my lord Effing- ham's promise fulfilled. The king com- plained that so few precedents were kept for their proceedings. Lord Effingham owned the earl marshal's office had been strangely neglected; but he had taken such care for the future, that the next coronation would be regulated in the most exact manner imaginable. The number of peers and peeresses present was not very great ; some of the latter, with no excuse in the world, appeared in lord Lincoln's gallery, and even walked about the hall indecently in the intervals of the procession. My lady Harrington, covered with all the diamonds she could borrow, hire, or seize, and with the air of Roxana, was the finest figure at a distance : she complained to George Selwyn that she was to walk with lady Portsmouth, who would have a wig and a stick. " Pho," said he, " you will only look as if you were taken up by the constable." She told this everywhere, thinking the re- flection was on my lady Portsmouth. Lady Pembroke, alone at the head of the countesses, was the picture of majestic modesty ; the duchess of Richmond, as pretty as nature and dress, with no pains of her own, could make her ; lady Spen- cer, lady Sutherland, and lady North- ampton, very pretty figures. Lady Kildare, still beauty itself, if not a little too large. The ancient peeresses were by no means the worst party : lady Westmoreland, still handsome, and with more dignity than all; the duchess of Queensbury looked well, though her locks milk-white ; lady Albemarle very genteel ; nay, the middle age had some good representatives in lady Holderness, lady Rochford, and lady Strafford, the perfectest little figure of all. My lady Suffolk ordered her robes, and I dressed part of her head, as I made some of my lord Hertford's dress ; for you know no profession comes amiss to me, from a tribune of the people to a habit-maker. Don't imagine that there were not figures as excellent on the other side: old Exeter, who told the king he was the handsomest man she ever saw T ; old Effingham, and a lady Say and Sele, with her hair pow- dered and her tresses black, were an ex- cellent contrast to the handsome. Lord B**** put on rouge upon his wife and the duchess of Bedford in the painted chamber ; the duchess of Queensbury told me of the latter, that she looked like an orange-peach, half red and half yellow. The coronets of the peers and their robes disguised them strangely ; it required all the beauty of the dukes of Richmond and Marlborough to make them noticed. One there was, though of another species, the noblest figure I ever saw, the high-con- stable of Scotland, lord Errol; as one saw him in a space capable of containing him, one admired him. At the wedding, dressed in tissue, he looked like one of the giants in Guildhall, new gilt. It added to the energy of his person, that one considered him acting so considerable a part in that very hall, where so few years ago one saw his father, lord Kil- marnock, condemned to the block. The champion acted his part admirably, and dashed down his gauntlet with proud de- fiance. His associates, lord E****, lord Talbot, and the duke of Bedford, were woeful ; lord Talbot piqued himself on backing his horse down the hall, and not turning its rump towards the king, but 80 HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD. he had taken such pains to dress it to that duty, : that it entered backwards : and at his retreat the spectators clapped, a terrible indecorum, but suitable to such Bartholomew-fair doings. He had twenty demeles, and came out of none creditably. He had taken away the table of the knights of the Bath, and was forced to admit two in their old place, and dine the others in the court of requests. Sir William Stanhope said, "We are ill- treated, for some of us are gentlemen." Beckford told the earl, it was hard to refuse a table to the city of London, whom it would cost ten thousand pounds to ban- quet the king, and that his lordship would repent it, if they had not a table in the hall ; they had. To the barons of the Cinque-ports, who made the same com- plaint, he said, " If you come to me as lord-steward, I tell you it is impossible ; if as lord Talbot, I am a match for any of you ;" and then he said to lord Bute, " If I were a minister, thus I would talk to France, to Spain, to the Dutch — none of your half-measures." This has brought me to a melancholy topic. Bussy goes to-morrow, a Spanish war is hanging in the air, destruction is taking a new lease of mankind — of the remnant of mankind. I have no prospect of seeing Mr. Conway. Adieu; I will not disturb you with my forebodings. You I shall see again in spite of war, and I trust in spite of Ire- land. Horace Walpole. BEAUTIES OF GEORGE THE SE- COND'S COURT. To George Montagu. June 2, 1759. Strawberry -hill is grown a perfect Pa- phos ; it is the land of beauties. On Wednesday the duchesses of Hamilton and Richmond, and lady Ailesbury dined there, the two latter stayed all night. There never was so pretty a sight as to see them all three sitting in the shell ; a thousand years hence, when I begin to grow old, if that can ever be, I shall talk of that event, and tell young people how much handsomer the women of my time were than they will be then : I shall say, " Women alter now ; I remember lady Ailesbury looking handsomer than her daughter, the pretty duchess of Richmond, as they were sitting in the shell on my terrace with the duchess of Hamilton, one of the famous Gunnings." Yesterday t' other more famous Gunning dined there. She has made a friendship with my charming niece, to disguise her jealousy of the new countess's beauty : there were they two, their lords, lord Buckingham, and Charlotte. You will think that I did not choose men for my parties so well as women. I don't include lord Walde- grave in this bad election. Loo is mounted to its zenith ; the par- ties last till one and two in the morning. We played at lady Hertford's last week, the last night of her lying-in, till deep into Sunday morning, after she and her lord were retired. It is now adjourned to Mrs. Fitzroy's, whose child the town calls Pam-ela. I proposed, that instead of receiving cards for assemblies, one should send in a morning to Dr. Hunter's, the man-midwife, to know where there is loo that evening. I find poor Charles Montagu is dead : is it true, as the papers say, that his son comes into parliament ? The invasion is not half so much in fasliion as loo, and the king demanding the as- sistance of the militia does not add much dignity to it. The great pam of parlia- ment, who made the motion, entered into a wonderful definition of the several sorts of fear ; from fear that comes from pusil- lanimity, up to fear from magnanimity. It put me in mind of that wise Pythian, my lady Londonderry, who, when her sister, lady Donegal, was dying, pro- nounced, that if it were a fever from a fever, she would live ; but if it were a fever from death, she would die. Mr. Mason has published anotherdrama, called Caractacus ; there are some incan- tations poetical enough, and odes so Greek as to have very little meaning. But the whole is laboured, uninteresting, and no more resembling the manners of Britons than of Japanese. It is introduced by a piping elegy ; for Mason, in imitation of Gray, will cry and roar all night without the least provocation. Adieu! I shall be glad to hear that your strawberry -tide is fixed. Horace Walpole. HOUGHTON REVISITED. To George Montagu. Houghton, March 25, l/6l. Here I am at Houghton ! and alone in this spot, where (except two hours last LETTERS. 8] month) I have not been in sixteen years ! Think, what a crowd of reflections ! No, Gray and forty churchyards could not furnish so many ; nay, I know one must feel them with greater indifference than I possess, to have patience to put them into verse. Here I am, probably for the last time of my life, though not for the last time : every clock that strikes tells me I am an hour nearer to yonder church — that church, into which I have not yet had courage to enter, where lies that mo- ther on whom I doated, and who doated on me ! There are the two rival mis- tresses of Houghton, neither of whom ever wished to enjoy it ! There too lies he, who founded its greatness, to contribute to whose fall Europe was embroiled ; there he sleeps in quiet and dignity, while his friend and his foe, rather his false ally and real enemy, Newcastle and Bath, are exhausting the dregs of their pitiful lives in squabbles and pamphlets. The surprise the pictures gave me is again renewed; accustomed for many years to see nothing but wretched daubs and varnished copies at auctions, I look at these as enchantment. My own descrip- tion of them seems poor; but shall I tell you truly? the majesty of Italian ideas almost sinks before the warm nature of Flemish colouring. Alas ! don't I grow old ? Does great youth feel with poetic limbs, as well as see with poetic eyes ? In one respect I am very young, I cannot satiate myself with looking : an incident contributed to make me feel this more strongly. A party arrived, just as I did, to see the house— a man and three women in riding dresses, and they rode post through the apartments. I could not hurry before them fast enough ; they were not so long in seeing for the first time, as 1 could have been in one room, to exa- mine what I knew r by heart. I remember formerly being often diverted with this kind of seers ; they come, ask what such a room is called, in which Su- Robert lay, write it down, admire a lobster or a cab- bage in a market-piece, dispute whether the last room was green or purple, and then hurry to the inn for fear the fish should be over dressed. How different my sensations ! not a picture here but re- calls a history ; not one, but I remember in Dow ning-street or Chelsea, where queens and crowds admired them, though seeing them as little as these travellers ! When I had drank tea I strolled into the garden; they told me it was now ; called the pleasure-ground. What a dis- i sonant idea of pleasure ! those groves, { those allees, where I have passed so many charming moments, are now stripped up ! or overgrown ; — many fond paths I could not unravel, though with a very exact clew in my memory : I met two game-keepers and a thousand hares ! In the days when all my soul w r as tuned to pleasure and vi- vacity (and you will think, perhaps, it is far from being out of tune yet), I hated Houghton and its solitude ; yet I loved this garden, as now, with many regrets, I love Houghton ; Houghton, I know not what to call it, a monument of grandeur or ruin ! How t I have wished this evening for lord Bute ! How I could preach to him ! For myself, I do not want to be preached to ; I have long considered how every Balbec must wait for the chance of a Mr. Wood. The servants wanted to lay j me in the great apartment — what, to make | me pass my night as I have done my even- i ing! It were like proposing to Margaret Roper to be a duchess in the court that cut off her father's head, and imagining it would please her. I have chosen to sit in my father's little dressing-room, and am now by his scrutoire, where, in the height of his fortune, he used to receive the ac- counts of his farmers, and deceive him- self or us with the thoughts of his economy. How r wise a man at once, and how weak ! For what has he built Houghton ? for his grandson to annihilate, or for his son to mourn over. If lord Burleigh coiild rise and view his representative driving the Hatfield stage, he would feel as I feel now. Poor little Strawberry ! at least it will not be stripped to pieces by a descendant ! You will find all these fine meditations I dictated by pride, not by philosophy. Pray j consider through how" many mediums phi- i losophy must pass before it is purified — " — how often must it weep, how often burn !" i My mind was extremely prepared for all j this gloom by parting with Mr. Conway yesterday morning; moral reflections or common places are the livery one likes to I wear, when one has just had a real mis- | fortune. He is going to Germany : I was glad to dress myself up in transitory lloughton, in lieu of very sensible con- cern. To-morrow I shall be distracted with thoughts, at least images of very dif- ferent complexion. I go to Lynn, and am to be elected on Friday. I shall return i hither on Saturday again alone, to expect | Burleigliides on Sunday, whom I left at E5 82 WILLIAM COWPER. Newmarket. I must once in my life see him on his grandfather's throne. Epping, Monday night, thirty-first. — No, 1 have not seen him ; he loitered on the road, and I was kept at Lynn till yes- terday morning. It is plain I never knew for how many trades I was formed, when at this time of day I can begin electioneer- ing, and succeed in my new vocation. Think of me, the subject of a mob, who was scarce ever before in a mob, addressing them in the town-hall, riding at the head of two thousand people through such a town as Lynn, dining with above < two hundred of them amid bumpers, huzzas, songs and tobacco, and finishing with country dancing at a ball and sixpenny whisk ! I have borne it all cheerfully ; nay, have sat hours in conversation, the thing upon earth that I hate, have been to hear misses play on the harpsichord, and to see an alderman's copies of Rubens and Carlo Marat. Yet to do the folks justice, they are sensible and reasonable and civilized ; their very language is po- lished since I lived among them. I attri- bute this to their more frequent inter- course with the world and the capital, by the help of good roads and post-chaises, which, if they have abridged the king's dominions, have at least tamed his sub- jects. "Well, how comfortable it Mill be to-morrow, to see my parroquet, to play at loo, and not be obliged to talk seriously ! The Heraclitus of the beginning of this letter will be overjoyed on finishing it to sign himself your old friend, Democritus. P.S. I forgot to tell you that my an- cient aunt Hammond came over to Lynn to see me; not from any affection, but curiosity. The first thing she said to me, though we have not met these sixteen years, was, " Child, you have done a thing to-day that your father never did in all his life ; you sat as they carried you, he always stood the whole time." " Madam," said I, " when I am placed in a chair I conclude I am to sit in it ; besides, as I cannot imitate my father in great things, I am not at all ambitious of mimicking him in little ones." I am sure she pro- poses to tell her remarks to my uncle Horace's ghost the instant they meet. Horace Walpole. WILLIAM COWPER the poet, was born at Berkhamstead in Hertfordshire, on the 15th of November 1731. His mother died when he was six years old, and he was then sent to school at Market- street in that county, where he was treated cruelly, and afterwards to Westminster. In 1749 he was articled to an attorney, and had for a fellow-clerk Thurlow, after- wards Lord Chancellor. In 1 754 he was called to the bar, but he did not work at his profession, passing his time in gay and literary society. In 1 763 he was appointed to an office in the House of Lords, and was required to prove his fitness at the bar of the House, under an examination which was not expected to be friendly. He thought that he was incapable of filling the place, and was in a state of horror and misery until the appointed day, when he became insane and attempted to destroy himself. In 1765, having recovered, he went to five at Huntingdon, and there became acquainted with Mr. Unwin, with whom he lived until 1767 ; in that year Mr. Unwin was killed by a fall from his horse, and thenceforward, till 1796, when she died, Cowper lived with his friend's widow Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of his poems, the faithful and affectionate nurse who devoted her life to assuage the misery of his. Upon Mr. Unwin's death they removed from Huntingdon to Olney ; in 1786 from Olney to Weston, a village in the neighbourhood ; and in 1795 into Norfolk. In 1773 Cowper's malady returned, and from that time till his death he suffered more or less anguish of mind ; sometimes in comparative comfort, at others in infinite despair. He was under the belief that he had been guilty of an unpardonable sin in not committing suicide in October 1773; that he was therefore abandoned by God, LETTERS. 83 and had no hope in this world or the next ; but this single delusion affected his under- standing only at intervals. He lived in society, and while he suffered, and as a relief from suffering, he wrote his poems. He died on the 25th of AprU 1800, at Dereham in Norfolk, and was buried in Dereham Church. Robert Southey speaks of Cowper as the most popular poet of his generation, and the best of English letter-writers. His letters are not so sparkling or entertaining as Horace Walpole's, but they are written in a better style. Walpole's style was affected, though it became natural to him from habit ; his earliest letters are stiff and forced ; Cowper's letters are always easy, and marked by playful wit and a delicacy scarcely masculine, the residt, perhaps, of living for very many years almost wholly in female societv. RURAL SOUNDS. To the Rev. John Newton. Sept. 18th, 1J84. My dear Friend, — Following your good example, I lay before me a sheet of my largest paper. It was this moment fair and unblemished, but I have begun to blot it ; and having begun, am not likely to cease till I have spoiled it. I have sent you many a sheet that, in my judgement of it, has been very unworthy of your ac- ceptance ; but my conscience was in some measure satisfied, by reflecting that, if it were good for nothing, at the same time it cost you nothing, except the trouble of reading it. But the case is altered now. You must pay a solid price for frothy matter, and though I do not absolutely pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, as the saying is, are never the wiser ; a saying literally fulfilled to the reader of my epistles. My greenhouse is never so pleasant as when we are just upon the point of being turned out of it. The gentleness of the autumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter season, make it a much more agree- able retreat than we ever find it in sum- mer ; when the winds being generally brisk, we cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quantity of air, without being at the same time incommoded by it. But now I sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every flower in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive I should hardly hear more of then- music. All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignionette, opposite to the window, and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear as the whistling of my linnets. All the sounds that nature utters are delight- I ful, at least in this country. I should not, ] perhaps, find the roaring of lions in J Africa, or of bears in Russia, very plea- sing; but I know no beast in England whose voice I do not account musical, save and except always the braying of an ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me without one exception. I should not, indeed, think of keeping a goose in a cage, that I nrght hang her up in the parlour for the sake of her me- lody ; but a goose upon a common, or in a farm-yard, is no bad performer ; and as to insects, if the black beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will keep out of my way, I have no objection to any of the rest ; on the contrary, in Avhatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to the bass of the humble bee, I admire them all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a very observable instance of provi- dential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. All the world is sensible of the uncomfortable effect that certain sounds have upon the nerves, and consequently upon the spirits ; and if a sinful world" had been filled with such as would have curdled the blood and have made the sense of hearing a perpetual in- convenience, I do not know that we should have had a right to complain. But now the fields, the woods, the gar- dens, have each their concert, and the ear of man is for ever regaled by creatures who seem only to please themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to the gospel are continually entertained, though with- out knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely indebted to its author. There is somewhere in infinite space a world that does not roll within the precincts of mercy, and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, to suppose that there is music 84 WILLIAM COWPER. in heaven, in those dismal regions, per- haps, the reverse of it is found ; tones so dismal, as to make woe itself more insup- portable, and to acuminate even despair. But my paper admonishes me in good time to draw the reins, and to check the descent of my fancy into deeps with which she is but too familiar. William Cowper. OLNEY AND WESTON. To Lady Hesketh. May 1 , 1786 yourself, my You need not trouble dearest cousin, about paper, my kind and good friend the General having undertaken, of his own mere motion, to send me all that I ever want, whether for transcript or correspondence. My dear, there is no possible project within the compass of invention, by which you can be released from the necessity of keeping your own nags at Olney if you keep your carriage here. At the Swan they have no horses, or, which is equally negative in such a case, they have but one. At the Bull, indeed, they keep a chaise ; but, not to mention the disagree- able of using one inn and hiring from another, or the extortionate demands that the woman of the Bull ever makes when anything either gentle or noble is so un- happy as to fall into her hands, her steeds are so seldom disengaged, that you would find the disappointments endless. The chaise, of course, is engaged equally, and the town of Olney affords nothing else into which you could put your person. All these matters taken together, and another reason with them, which I shall presently subjoin, it appeared to us so in- dispensable a requisite to your comfort here that you should have your own, both carriage and horses, that we have this day actually engaged accommodation for them at the Swan aforesaid. Our walks are, as I told you, beautiful ; but it is a walk to get at them ; and though when you come I shall take you into training, as the jockeys say, I doubt not that I shall make a nimble and good walker of you in a short time, you would find, as even I do in warm weather, that the preparatory steps are rather too many in number. Weston, which is our plea- eantest retreat of all, is a mile off, and there is not in that whole mile to be found so much shade as would cover you. Mrs. Unwin and I have for many years walked thither every day in the year, when the weather would permit ; and to speak like a poet, the limes and the elms of Weston can witness for us both how often we have sighed and said, " Oh, that our garden opened into this grove, or into this wil- derness ! for we are fatigued before we reach them, and when we have reached them have not time enough to enjoy them." Thus stands the case, my dear, and the unavoidable ergo stares you in the face. Would / could do so too just at this moment ! We have three or four other walks, which are all pleasant in their way ; but, except one, they all lie at such a distance as you would find hei- nously incommodious. But Weston, as I said before, is our favourite ; of that we are never weary ; its superior beauties gained it our preference at the first, and for many years it has prevailed to win us awayfrom alltheothers. Therewas,indeed, some time since, in a neighbouring parish called Lavendon, a field, one side of which formed a terrace, and the other was planted with poplars, at whose foot ran the Ouse, that I used to account a little paradise ; but the poplars have been felled, and the scene has suffered so much by the loss, that though still in point of prospect beautiful, it has not charms sufficient to attract me now. A certain poet wrote a copy of verses on this melancholy occa- sion, which, though they have been printed, I dare say you never saw. When you come, therefore, you shall see them ; but, as I told you in my last, not before. No, my dear, not a moment sooner ; and for the reason in my last given, I shall dis- obey your mandate with respect to those of F. Hill ; and for another reason also : if I copy them, they will occupy all the rest of my paper, which I cannot spare ; and if I enclose the original, I must send my packet to Palace-yard, and you find- ing that the postman passed your door without dropping a letter from me, woidd conclude that I had neglected to write ; and I A\ill not incur such a suspicion in your mind for a moment. On Saturday, — for sooner than Saturday we could not, on account of the weather, — we paid our visit at Weston, and a very agreeable visit we found it. We en- countered there, besides the family, four ladies, all strange to us. One of them was a Miss Bagot, a sister of my friend Walter's ; and another of them was a Mrs. Chester, his sister-in-law. Mr. Ches- LETTERS. ter, his brother, lives at Chicheley, about four miles from Olney. Poor Mrs. Bagot was remembered with tears by Mrs. Ches- ter; she is, by everybody's account of her, a most amiable woman. Such also, I dare say, is Miss Bagot ; but the room in which we were received was large, and she sitting at the side of it, exactly oppo- site to me, I had neither lungs nor courage to halloo at her, therefore nothing passed between us. I chatted a good deal with my neighbours ; but you know, my dear, I am not famous for vociferation, where there are ears not much accustomed to my voice. Nothing can be more obliging than the behaviour of the Throckmortons has ever been to us ; they long since gave us the keys of all their retreats, even of their kitchen garden. And that you may not suspect your cousin of being any other than a very obliging creature too, I will give you a stroke of his politesse. When they were here they desired to see the garden and greenhouse ; I am proud of neither, except in poetry, because there I can fib without lying, and represent them better than they are. However, I con- ducted them to the sight, and having set each of the laches with her head in a bush of myrtle, I took out my scissors and cut a bouquet for each of them. When we were with them, Mrs. Throckmorton told me that she had put all the slips into water, for she should be so glad to make them grow, and asked me if they would strike root. I replied, that I had known such things happen, but believed that they were very rare, and recommended a hot- bed rather, and she immediately resolved that they should have one. Now comes the period at which your cousin shines. In the evening I ordered my labourer to trundle up a wheel-barrow of myrtles and canary lavender (a most fragrant plant) to Weston, with which I sent a note to Mrs. Throckmorton, recommending them to her protection. Diies rnoi, ma chere, ne suis-je homme tout a fait poli? Weston, as I told you, is about a mile off, but in truth it is rather more. Gay- hurst is five miles off: I have walked there, but I never walked thither. I have not these many years been such an ex- travagant trainper as I once was. I did myself no good, I believe, by pilgrimages of such immoderate length. The Ches- ters, the Throckmortons, the Wrights, are all of them good-natured agreeable people, and I rejoice, for your sake, that they lie all within your beat. Of the rest of our neighbours I know nothing ; they are not, indeed, many. A Mr. Praed lives at a seat called Tyringham, which is also about five miles hence ; but him I never saw, save once, when I saw him jump over a rail at Weston. There is a Mr. Towers at a place called Astwoodberry, about seven miles off ; but he is a fox-hunter merely : and Lord Egmont dwelt in a hired house at a place called Woolaston, at the same di- stance ; but he hired it merely by way of kennel to hold him during the hunting season, and by this time, 1 suppose, has left it. The copper is going to work for you again. Fifty gallons of good beer, added to seventy, will serve to moisten your maidens' lips, and the throats of your lackeys and your coachee's, till the season for brewing returns, for it does not suc- ceed in warm weather. Mrs. Unwin sends you her affections ; and the words that follow I take from her mouth as she delivers them : " Tell Lady Hesketh that I have the sincerest com- placency in the expectation of her; and in observing how all things concur and coincide that can bid fair to make her stay at Olney agreeable, insomuch that she seems only to wave her pen and the thing she wants springs up in an instant." May heaven bless you, my ever dear, dear cousin. William Cowper. THE THROCKMORTONS. To Lady Hesketh. Olney, June 4 and 5, 1786. Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to fear and quake. What a hero am I, com- pared with you ! I have no fears of yon ; on the contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that your carriage were even now at the door ; you should soon see with how much courage I would face you. But what cause have you for fear ? Am I not your cousin, with whom you have wan- dered in the fields of Freemantle, and at Bevis's Mount ? who used to read to you, laugh with you, till our sides have ached, at anything or nothing ? And am I in these respects at all altered? You will not find me so ; but just as ready to laugh and to wander as you ever knew me. A cloud, perhaps, may come over me now and then for a few hours, but from clouds I was never exempted. And are not you 86 WILLIAM COWPER. the identical cousin with whom I have performed all these feats ? The very Har- riet whom I saw, for the first time, at De Grey's, in Norfolk-street ? (It was on a Sunday when you came with my uncle and aunt to drink tea there, and I had dined there, and was just going hack to Westminster.) If these things are so, and I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syl- lable of them all, then this consequence follows, that I do not promise myself more pleasure from your company than I shall he sure to find. Then you are my cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in whom, I doubt not, that I shall delight even to my latest hour. But this wicked coach-maker has sunk my spirits. What a miserable thing it is to depend, in any degree, for the accomplishment of a wish, and that wish so fervent, on the punc- tuality of a creature who I suppose was never punctual in his life ! Do tell him, my dear, in order to quicken him, that if he performs his promise, he shall make my coach when I want one, and that if he performs it not, I will most assuredly em- ploy some other man. The Throckmortons sent a note to in- vite us to dinner ; we went, and a very agreeable day we had. They made no fuss with us, which I was heartily glad to see ; for where I give trouble I am sure that I cannot be welcome. Themselves, and their chaplain, and we were all the party. After dinner we had much cheer- ful and pleasant talk, the particulars of which might not perhaps be so entertain- ing upon paper, therefore all but one I will omit, and that I will mention only because it will of itself be sufficient to give you an insight into their opinion on a very important subject— their own re- ligion. I happened to say that, in all professions and trades, mankind affected an air of mystery. Physicians, I ob- served, in particular, were objects of that remark, who persist in prescribing in Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of a patient's life, through the ignorance of an apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton as- sented to what I said, and turning to his chaplain, to my infinite surprise observed to him, " That is just as absurd as our praying in Latin." I could have hugged him for his liberality and freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather more decent to let the matter pass without any visible notice. I therefore heard it with plea- sure, and kept my pleasure to myself. The two ladies in the mean time were tete-a- tete in the drawing-room. Their conver- sation turned principally (as I afterwards learned from Mrs. Unwin) on a most de- lightful topic, viz. myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throckmorton admired my book, from which she quoted by heart more than I could repeat, though I so lately wrote it. In short, my dear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said of the bock and the book's author, for that abominable mo- desty that I cannot even yet get rid of. Let it suffice to say that you, who are disposed to love everybody who speaks kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. Throckmorton, when you shall be told what she said of him ; and that you will be told is equally certain, because it depends on Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good long story for me, that I am not able to tell for myself. I am, however, not at all in arrear to our neigh- bours in the matter of admiration and esteem ; but the more I know them the more I like them, and have nearly an af- fection for them both. I am delighted that the Task has so large a share of the approbation of your sensible Suffolk friend. I received yesterday from the General another letter of T. S. An unknown auxiliary having started up in my behalf, I believe I shall leave the business of answering to him, having no leisure my- self for controversy. He lies very open to a very effectual reply. My dearest cousin, adieu! I hope to write to you but once more before we meet. But oh ! this coach-maker, and oh ! this holiday week ! William Cowper. THE DEATH OF A FOX. To Lady Hesketh. The Lodge, March 3, 1788. One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, having taken our morning walk and re- turning homeward through the wilderness, met the Throckmortons. A minute afterwe had met them, we heard the cry of hounds at no great distance, and mounting the broad stump of an elm which had been felled, and by the aid of which we were enabled to look over the wall, we saw them. They were all at that time in our orchard ; presently we heard a terrier, be- longing to Mrs. Throckmorton, which you LETTERS. 87 may remember by tbe name of Fury, yelping with much vehemence, and saw her running through the thickets within a few yards of us at her utmost speed, as if in pursuit of something which we doubted not was the fox. Before we could reach the other end of the wilder- ness, the hounds entered also ; and when we arrived at the gate which opens into the grove, there we found the whole weary cavalcade assembled. The huntsman dis- mounting, begged leave to follow his hounds on foot, for he was sure, he said, that they had killed him ; a conclusion which, I suppose, he drew from their pro- found silence. He was accordingly admit- ted, and, with a sagacity that wovdd not have dishonoured the best hound in the world, pursuing precisely the same track which the fox and the dogs had taken, though he had never had a glimpse of either after their first entrance through the rails, ar- rived where he found the slaughtered prey. He soon produced dead reynard, and re- joined us in the grove with all his dogs about him. Having an opportunity to see a ceremony which I was pretty sine would never fall in my way again, I determined to stay and to notice all that passed with the most minute attention. The hunts- man having, by the aid of a pitchfork, lodged reynard on the arm of an elm at the height of about nine feet from the ground, there left him for a considerable time. The gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; and the hounds assembled at the foot of the tree, with faces not less expressive of the most rational delight, contemplated the same object. The hunts- man remounted, cut off a foot and threw it to the hounds ; one of them swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then once more alighted, and drawing down the fox by the hinder legs, desired the people, w r ho w r ere by this time rather numerous, to open a iane for him to the right and left. He was instantly obeyed, when throwing the fox to the distance of some yards, and screaming like a fiend, " tear him to pieces," at least six times repeatedly, he consigned him over absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes devoured him com- pletely. Thus, my dear, as Virgil says, what none of the gods could have ven- tured to promise me, time itself, pursuing its accustomed course, has of its own ac- cord presented me with. I have been in at the death of a fox, and you now know as much of the matter as I, who am as well informed as any sportsman in En- gland. William Cowper. VERSIFICATION. To Mr. Johnson. I did not write the fine, that has been tampered with, hastily, or without due at- tention to the construction of it ; and what appeared to me its only merit is, in its present state, entirely annihilated. I know that the ears of modern verse- writers are delicate to an excess, and their readers are troubled with the same squeam- ishness as themselves ; so that if a line do not run as smooth as quicksilver they are offended. A critic of the present day serves a poem as a cook serves a dead turkey, when she fastens the legs of it to a post and draws out all the sinews. For this we may thank Pope ; but unless we could imitate him in the closeness and compactness of his expression, as well as in the smoothness of his numbers, we had better drop the imitation, which serves no other purpose than to emasculate and weaken all we write. Give me a manly, rough line, with a deal of meaning in it, rather than a whole poem full of musical periods, that have nothing but their oily smoothness to recommend them ! I have said thus much, as I hinted in the beginning, because I have just finished a much longer poem than the last, which our common friend will receive by the same messenger that has the charge of this letter. In that poem there are many lines, which an ear so nice as the gentle- man's who made the above mentioned alteration, would undoubtedly condemn ; and yet (if I may be permitted to say it) they cannot be made smoother without being the w r orse for it. There is a rough- ness on a plum, which nobody that un- derstands fruit would rub off, though the plum would be much more polished with- out it. But lest I tire you, I will only add, that I wish you to guard me from all such meddling; assuring you, that I al- ways write as smoothly as I can ; but that I never did, never will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage to the sound of it. William Cowper. GEORGE CRABBE. GEORGE CRABBE known as a poet and not as a prose writer, was born on the 24th of December 1754, at Aldborough in Suffolk, where his father was a collector of the salt duties : he was apprenticed to an apothecary, but determining to seek a livelihood by literature, came to London in 1780. Happily, when brought to actual want, he wrote to Mr. Burke, who relieved him, introduced him to his friends, advised him to take holy orders, and recommended him to the patronage of the Duke of Rutland. He obtained from Lord Thurlow in 1783 two small livings in Dorsetshire. The Duke of Rutland died in 1787, and in 1814 his son and successor presented Mr. Crabbe with the living of Trowbridge, where he died, on the 3rd of February 1832, and there he was buried. He wrote, among other poems, The Parish Register, The Borough, and Tales of the Hall ; and is especially the poet of stern truth in common life. The following letter is inserted because it tells a very interesting story in a simple and manly style, and the result is honourable to the memory of Edmund Burke. APPEAL FOR ASSISTANCE. To Edmund Burke. Sir, — I am sensible that I need even your talents to apologise for the freedom I now take ; but I have a plea which, however simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, Sir, procure me pardon : I am one of those outcasts on the world who are without a friend, without employ- ment, and without bread. Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father, who gave me a better edu- cation than his broken fortune would have allowed ; and a better than was ne- cessary, as he could give me that only. I was designed for the profession of physic ; but not having wherewithal to complete the requisite studies, the design but served to convince me of a parent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April last I came to London with three pounds, and flattered myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the common necessaries of hfe till my abilities should procure me more ; of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical vanity contributed to my delusion. I knew little of the world, and had read books only ; I wrote, and fancied perfection in my compositions ; when I wanted bread they promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of reputa- tion, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. Time, reflection and want, have shown me my mistake. I see my trifles in that which I think the true light ; and, whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds them superior to the common run of poetical publications. I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the brother cf lord Rochford ; in consequence of which I asked his lord- ship's permission to inscribe my little work to him. Knowing it to be free from all political allusions and personal abuse, it was no very material point to me to whom it w r as dedicated. His lordship thought it none to him, and obligingly consented to my request. I was told that a subscription would be the more profitable method for me, and therefore endeavoured to circulate copies of the enclosed proposals. I am afraid, sir, I disgust you with this very dull narration, but believe me pu- nished in the misery that occasions it. You wall conclude, that during this time I must have been at more expense than I could afford ; indeed, the most parsimo- nious could not have avoided it. The ! printer deceived me, and my little busi- ! ness has had every delay. The people | with whom I live perceive my situation, | and find me to be indigent and without friends. About ten days since I was com- pelled to give a note for seven pounds to avoid an arrest for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to every friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise ; the time of payment approached, and I ventured to represent my case to lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this sum till I received it of my sub- scribers, which I believe will be within one month : but to this letter I had no LETTERS. 89 reply, and I have probably offended by my importunity. Having used every ho- nest means in vain, I yesterday confessed my inability, and obtained, with much entreaty, and as the greatest favour, a week's forbearance, when I am positively told that I must pay the money or pre- pare for a prison. You will guess the purpose pf so long an introduction. I appeal to you, sir, as a good, and let me add, a great man. I have no other pretensions to your favour than that I am an unhappy one. It is not easy to support the thoughts of con- finement ; and I am coward enough to dread such an end to my suspense. Can you, sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety? Will you ask any de- monstrations of my veracity? I have imposed upon myself, but I have been guilty of no other imposition. Let me, if possible, interest your compassion. I know those of rank and fortune are teased with frequent petitions, and are compelled to refuse the requests even of those whom they know to be in distress : it is, there- fore, with a distant hope I ventured to solicit such favour ; but you will forgive me, sir, if you do not think proper to relieve. It is impossible that sentiments like yours can proceed from any but a humane and generous heart. I will call upon you, sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my fate. My existence is a pain to myself, and ever} 7 one near and dear to me are distressed in my distresses. My connec- tions, once the source of happiness, now embitter the reverse of my fortune, and I have only to hope a speedy end to a life so unpromisingly begun: in which (though it ought not to be boasted of) I can reap some consolation from looking to the end of it. I am, sir, with the greatest respect, your obedient and most humble servant, George Crabbe. CHARLES LAMB (For Notes of his Life see p. 13.) A ROASTING PIG. To Mr. Coleridge. Dear C. — It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well — they are interesting creatures at a certain age — what a pity such buds should blow into the maturity of rank bacon ! You had all some of the crackling and brain sauce — did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis ? Did the eyes come away kindly, with no (Edipean avulsion ? Was the crackling the colour of ripe pomegranate ? Had you no wretched compliment of boiled neck of mutton be- fore it, to blunt the edge of delicate de- sire ? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it ? Not that I sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part O could play in the business. I never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me ; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to High- gate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things I could never think of sending away. Teals, widgeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese, your tame villalio things — Welsh mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon fresh or pickled, your potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self-extended ; but pardon me if I stop somewhere — where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me ; but pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to nature, w T ho bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the bitterest pangs I ever felt of remorse w 7 as when a child — my kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough I met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but there- abouts, a look-beggar, not a verbal peti- tionist ; and in the coxcombry of taught charity, I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an 90 CHARLES LAMB. evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me ; the sum it was to her ; the pleasure she had a right to expect that I — not the old im- postor — should take in eating her cake ; the cursed ingratitude by which, under the colour of a christian virtue, I had frus- trated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like — and I was right. It was a piece of un- feeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after. Yours (short of pig) to command in everything, Charles Lamb. LOVE OF LONDON. To Mr. Wordsworth. I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into Cumber- land. With you and your sister T could gang anywhere : but I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't now care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches, waggons, play- houses ; all the bustle round about Co- vent-garden : the watchmen, rattles : life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night ; the impossibility of being dull in Fleet Street ; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print shops, the old- book-stalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kit- chens, the pantomimes — London itself a pantomime and a masquerade — all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the mot- ley Strand, from fulness of joy at so much life. All these emotions must be strange to you ; so are your rural emotions to me. But consider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes ? My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or have had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a bookcase which has followed me about like a faithful dog (only exceeding him in knowledge) wherever I have moved, — old chairs, old tables, streets, squares where I have sunned myself, my old school, — these are my mistresses, — have I not enough without your mountains ? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that the mind will make friends of anything. Your sun, and moon, and skies, and hills and lakes affect me no more, or scarcely come to me in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I consider the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted but unable to sa- tisfy the mind ; and, at last, like the pic- tures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a plea- sure. So fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of nature, as they have been confmedly called ; so ever fresh, and green and warm are all the inven- tions of men, and assemblies of men in this great city. Give my kindest love, and my sister's, to D. and yourself. And a kiss from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. Thank you for liking my play. Charles Lamb. THE LOSS OF AN OLD FRIEND. To Mr. H. C. Robinson. Saturday. 20th January, 1826. Dear Robinson, — 1 called upon you this morning, and found you were gone to visit a dying friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor Norris has been lying dying for now almost a week, such is the penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong constitution ! Whether he knew me or not I know not ; or whether he saw me through his poor glazed eyes; but the group I saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the bed, or about it, were assembled his wife and two daughters, and poor deaf Richard his son, looking doubly stu- pified. There they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. Norris. Speaking was impossible in that mute LETTERS. 91 chamber. By this time I hope it is all over with him. In him I have a loss the world cannot make up. He was my friend and my father's Mend all the life I can remember. I seem to have made foolish friendships ever since. Those are friendships which outlive a second gene- ration. Old as I am waxing, in his eyes I was still the child he first knew me. To the last he called me Charley. I have none to call me Charley now. He was the last link that bound me to the Tem- ple. You are but of yesterday. In him seem to have died the old plainness of manners and singleness of heart. Letters he knew nothing of, nor did his reading extend beyond the pages of the Gentle- man's Magazine. Yet there was a pride of literature about him from being amongst books (he was librarian), and from some scraps of doubtful Latin which he had picked up in his office of entering stu- dents, that gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. Can I forget the erudite look with which, when he had been in vain trying to make out a black-letter text of Chaucer in the Temple library, he laid it down, and told me that " in those old books, Charley, there is sometimes a deal of very indifferent spelling;" and seemed to console himself in the reflec- tion ! His jokes, for he had his jokes, are now ended ; but they were old trusty perennials, staples that pleased after decies repetita, and were always as good as new. One song he had, which was reserved for the night of Christmas-day, which we always spent in the Temple. It was an old thing, and spoke of the flat-bottoms of our foes, and the possibility of their coming over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion many years blown over ; and when he came to the part " We'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, In spite of the lies in the Brussels Gazette," his eyes would sparkle as with the fresh- ness of an impending event. And what is the Brussels Gazette now ? I cry, while I enumerate these trifles, ' How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?' Charles Lamb. THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON In the twelve volumes of Public and Private Letters edited by Colonel Gurwood, the character of the Duke of Wellington is completely laid open to his cotemporaries ; marking, step by step, the whole of his military career, they show forth intellectual power for whose grasp nothing was too great or too small; sagacity which nothing could escape; a judgement never clouded by passion, and above all, a mind equal in every change of fortune : there is not a trace of elation on the day of success, and few have had so many, or of depression in difficulty and discouragement, and few have had to overcome so much. But instead of attempting to draw the character of the Duke of Wellington, it will be an easier task to present him in three sketches taken on three great days of his life ; the last showing him not directly, but by the impression which he made on a man great in another walk. On the Evening of the Battle of Salamanca, 22nd July, 1812. " The English general had fore-calculated all the superior resources of the enemy, and it was only Marmont's flagrant fault on the 22nd, that could have wrung the battle from him ; yet he fought it as if his genius disdained such trial of its strength. I saw him late in the evening of that great day, when the advancing flashes of cannon and musquetry stretching as far as the eye could command, showed in the darkness how well the field was won : he was alone, the flush of victory was on his brow, and his eyes were eager and watchful, but his voice was calm and even gentle. More than the rival of Marlborough, since he had defeated greater warriors than Marlbo- 92 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. rough ever encountered, with a prescient pride he seemed only to accept this glory as an earnest of greater things." Colonel Napier. At Sauroren, near Pampeluna, \Zth June, 1813. " Lord Fitzroy Somerset, the only staff-officer who had kept up with Lord Welling- ton, galloped with his orders out of Sauroren hy one road, the French light cavalry dashed in hy another, and the English general rode alone up the mountain to reach his troops. One of Campbell's Portuguese battalions first descried him and raised a cry of joy, and the shrill clamour caught up by the next regiments, swelled as it ran along the line into that stern and appalling shout which the British soldier is wont to give upon the edge of battle, and which no enemy ever heard unmoved. Lord Wellington suddenly stopped in a conspicuous place, he desired that both armies should know he was there, and a double spy who was present pointed out Soult, then so near that his features cou'd be plainly distinguished. The English general, it is said, fixed his eyes attentively upon this formidable man, and speaking, as if to himself, said ' Yonder is a great commander, but he is a cautious one and will delay his attack to ascertain the cause of these cheers ; that will give time for the sixth division to arrive, and I shall beat him.' And certain it is that the French general made no serious attack that day." Colonel Napier. At Paris in 1815. James Ballantyne's Note of a Conversation with Sir Walter Scott. " He had just been reviewing a pageant of emperors and kings, which seemed like another Field of the Cloth of Gold, to have been got up to realize before his eyes some of his own splendid descriptions. I begged him to tell me what was the general impression left on his mind. He answered, that he might now say he had seen and conversed with all classes of society, from the palace to the cottage, and including every conceivable shade of science and ignorance — but that he had never felt awed or abashed except in the presence of one man — the Duke of Wellington. I expressed some surprize. He said I ought not, for that the Duke of Wellington possessed every one mighty quality of the mind in a higher degree than any other man did or had ever done. He said he beheld in him a great soldier and a great statesman, the greatest of each." Besides those letters of the Duke of Wellington which immediately follow, others will be found under the head of Philosophy and Policy. THE DUTY OF AN INVADED PEOPLE. Alverca, 23rd August, 1810. Sir, — I have received your letter, con- taining a complaint against , of the quarter-master general's department, that he had ill-treated one of your servants, into which I shall make inquiry, and let you know the result. It is impossible however for me to in- terfere in any manner with a billet given by the magistrate of Coimbra, for an officer and his family to be quartered in your house. I must at the same time inform you that I am not a little surprised that a person of your rank and station, and quality in the country, should object to give accommodation in your house, and should make a complaint of this officer, that he had asked you for additional accommodation, when it appears by the letter which you enclosed, and which I now return, that w r hen you objected to give him this additional accommodation for which he had asked, he acquiesced in your objection, and did not any longer require this accommodation. The unfortunate situation in which Portugal is placed, and the desire of the insatiable enemy of mankind to force this once happy and loyal people to submit to his iron yoke, to plunder them of their properties, to destroy their religion, and to deprive them of their monarch, has ren- dered it necessary to collect in this coun- try a large army, in order, if possible, to defeat and frustrate the designs of the enemy. LETTERS. 93 It is the duty of those whose age, whose sex, or whose profession do not permit them to take an active part in the defence of their country, to assist those employed in its defence with provisions, lodgings for officers and troops, means of transport, &c, and at all events not to oppose themselves to the granting of this description of assistance. These duties are more peculiarly incumbent upon the rich andhigh in station, who would be the first victims of, and greatest sufferers from the enemy's success ; unless indeed they should be of the number of those traitors who are aiding to introduce the common enemy into the country, to destroy its hap- piness and independence. Under these circumstances, I am not a little astonished to receive these frivolous and manifestly unfounded complaints from you, and that you should be the person to set the example of objecting to give quar- ters to an officer, because he is married and has children. It is not very agreeable to anybody to have strangers quartered in his house ; nor is it very agreeable to us strangers, who have good houses in our own coun- try, to be obliged to seek for quarters here. We are not here for our pleasure : the situation of your country renders it necessary; and you, a man of family and fortune, who have much to lose, should not be the first to complain of the incon- venience of our presence in the country. I do everything in my power to alle- viate the inconvenience which all must suffer. We pay extravagant prices for everything we receive, with unparalleled punctuality ; and I make it a rule to in- quire into and redress even* injury that is really done by the troops under my com- mand, as I shall into that to which I have above referred, of which you complain in the conduct of towards your servant. The Duke of Wellington. CROAKING IN THE ARMY. To Charles Stuart, Esq. Gouvea, 11th Sept. 1810. My dear Sir, — It appears that you have had a good smart contest with the go- vernment respecting our plan of opera- tions. They will end in forcing me to quit them, and then they will see how they will get on. They will then find that I alone keep things in their present state. Indeed, the temper of some of the officers of the British army gives me more concern than the folly of the Portuguese government. I have always been accus- tomed to have the confidence and support of the officers of the armies which I have commanded ; but, for the first time, whe- ther owing to the opposition in England, or whether the magnitude of the concern is too much for their minds and their nerves, or whether I am mistaken and they are right, I cannot tell ; but there is a system of croaking in the army which is highly injurious to the public service, and which I must devise some means of put- ting an end to, or it will put an end to us. Officers have a right to form their own opinions upon events and transactions; but officers of high rank or situation ought to keep their opinions to themselves : if they do not approve of the system of ope- rations of their commander, they ought to withdraw from the army. And this is the point to which I must bring some, if I should not find that their own good sense prevents them from going on as they have done lately. Believe me that, if anybody else, knowing what I do, had commanded the army, they would now have been at Lisbon, if not in their ships. As for advancing into Spain, the idea is ridiculous. I can only tell you, that of which I am the most apprehensive is, that the enemy will raise the blockade of Cadiz. Unless Heaven shall perform a miracle, and give the Spaniards an army, arms, and equipments, we should be ruined by this measure, and then the cause is gone. Now, supposing that I am wrong in my plan of operations, and the principal officers of the British army still more wrong, and Principal Souza and the bishop right, and that I have it in my power to act offen- sively in Spain, how would it be when the French army in Andalusia would be brought against us? Would the Spanish force, which a part of that army keeps shut up in Cadiz, be equal to the whole of it in the field ? Not unless by a miracle Hea- ven would add to their numbers ! The intelligence from Madrid is very in- teresting. I observe, however, that they have omitted a great part of the French force in their statement. Regnier's force is not mentioned at all. I enclose a most interesting despatch, which my brother has desired me to send you. Let me have it again. The Duke of Wellington. 94 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT-COL. CAMERON. ToMajor-GeneralCameron, 79th regiment. Villa Fermosa, 15th May, 1811. My dear General, — When I wrote to you last week I felt that I conveyed to you in- formation which would give you great pain ; hut I hoped that I had made you acquainted with the full extent of the misfortune which had hefallen you. Un- fortunately, however, those upon whose judgment I relied were deceived; your son's wound was worse than it was then supposed to he ; it was mortal, and he died on the day hefore yesterday, at two in the morning. I am convinced that you will credit the assurance which I give you, that I condole with you most sincerely upon this misfor- tune, of the extent of which no man is more capable than myself of forming an estimate, from the knowledge which I had, and the just estimate which I had formed in my own opinion of the merits of your son. You will always regret and lament his loss, I am convinced ; but I hope that you will derive some consolation from the re- flection that he fell in the performance of his duty, at the head of your brave regi- ment, loved and respected by all that knew him, in an action in which, if possible, the British troops surpassed everything they had ever done before, and of which the result was most honourable to his ma- jesty's arms. At all events, Providence having de- prived you of your son, I cannot conceive a string of circumstances more honourable and glorious than those under which he lost his life, in the cause of his country. Believe me, however, that, although I am fully alive to all these honourable circum- stances attending his death, I most sin- cerely condole with you upon your loss. The DuJce of Wellington. GENERAL TRANT'S RETREAT BE- FORE MARMONT. To Brigadier-General Sir N. Trant. Pedrogao, 21st April, 1812. My dear Sir, — I have received your let- ter of the 15th, and you will see by mine of the 17th, written as soon as I knew that your division and that of General Wil- son were on Guarda, that I expected what happened ; and that I wished you to with- draw from that position. In fact, troops ought not to be put in a strong position in which they can be turned, if they have not an easy retreat from it ; and if you advert to that prin- ciple in war, and look at the position of Guarda, you will agree with me, that it is the most treacherous position in Portugal. I can only say that, as Marmont at- tacked you, I am delighted that you have got off so well ; which circumstance I at- tribute to your early decision not to hold the position, and to the good dispositions which you made for the retreat from it. As to your plan to surprise Marmont at Sabugal, you did not attempt to put it in execution, and it is useless to say any- thing about it. I would observe, however, upon one of your principles, viz. that the magnitude of the object would justify the attempt, that in war, particularly in our situation, and with such troops as we, and you in particular, command, nothing is so bad as failure and defeat. You could not have succeeded in that attempt, and you would have lost your division and that of General Wilson. I give you my opinion very freely upon your plans and operations, as you have written to me upon them ; begging you at the same time to believe that I feel for the difficulty of your situation, and that I am perfectly satisfied that both you and General Wilson did everything that officers could do under such circumstances ; and that I attribute to you the safety of the two divisions. I shall be at Sabugal tomorrow or the next day ; and I hope to see you before we shall again be more distant from each other. The Duke of Wellington. NEWSPAPERS. To Sir Charles Stuart. Vera, 11th October, 1813. My dear Sir, — I have just received your letter of the 2nd, and as Marshal Sir Wil- liam Beresford had before apprised me of the dissatisfaction of the Portuguese go- vernment with the British government, I am glad to see on what ground this dis- satisfaction rests. Our newspapers do us plenty of harm by that which they insert ; but I never suspected that they could do us the injury LETTERS. 95 of alienating from us a government and nation, with which, on every account, we ought to he on the best of terms, by that which they omit. I, who have been in public life in England, know well that there is nothing more different from a de- bate in parliament than the representation of that debate in the newspapers. The fault which I find with our newspapers is, that they so seldom state an event or trans- action as it really occurred (unless when they absolutely copy what is written for them), and their observations wander so far from the text, even when they have a despatch or other writing before them, that they appear to be absolutely incapa- ble of understanding, much less of stating the truth on any subject. The Portuguese government and nation, therefore, should be very cautious how they aUow themselves to judge of the esti- mation in which they are held by the Prince Regent and his ministers, and by the British nation, by the newspaper state- ments. They may depend upon it that here the Portuguese army and nation are rising in estimation every day, and I re- commend to them to despise every in- sinuation to the contrary. Dom Miguel Forjaz is the ablest states- man and man of business that I have seen in the Peninsula ; but I hope that he will not be induced, by such folly as the con- tents and omissions of our newspapers, to venture upon the alteration of a system which, up to the present day, has answer- ed admirably ; has contributed in a prin- cipal degree to our great and astonishing success, and has enabled the Portuguese government and nation to render such ser- vices to the cause, and has raised their reputation to the point at which it now stands. I have not leisure nor inclination now to enter upon all that I have to say upon this subject. I believe however that I may claim the credit of understanding something about the organization of an army, at least of that part of it which goes to the subsistence of the troops. If Dom Miguel Forjaz will give me that credit, you may tell him from me, that if the Portuguese troops were separated from the British divisions, nay, more, if the British departments did not assist the Portuguese troops, and they were not considered, as they are considered to all intents and pur- poses, part of ourselves, they could not keep the field in a respectable state, even though the Portuguese government were to incur ten times the expense they now incur. Let Dom Miguel Forjaz bear this in mind ; let him understand that if he has not his troops in the best oi*der, in the best state of equipment, fully found in everything they w T ant, and managed with intelligence, not only they can acquire no honour in, but cannot come out of the contest without dishonour; and he will see the necessity of keeping matters as they are. At all events let us keep clear of the disputes in which I see that, notwithstand- ing the temper with wilich things have been managed in Spain, we are getting more deep daily with the democratic party. All that I can say is, that if we are to begin to disagree about such nonsense as the contents or the omissions of the news- papers, I quit the Peninsula for ever. The Duke of Wellington. THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. To Lord Beresford. Gonesse, 2nd July, 1815. My dear Beresford, — I have received your letter of the 9th of June. You should recommend for the Spanish medal for Al- buera, according to the rules laid down by the king of Spain for the grant of it. I should think it should be given only to those who were there and actually engaged. I am, as soon as I shall have a little time, going to recommend officers for the Order of San Fernando, and will apply to you for a Portuguese list. You will have heard of our battle of the 18th. Never did I see such a pounding match. Both were w : hat the boxers call gluttons. Napoleon did not manoeuvre at all. He just moved forward in the old style, in columns, and was driven off in the old style. The only difference was, that he mixed cavalry with his infantry, and supported both with an enormous quan- tity of artillery. I had the infantry for some time in squares, and we had the French cavalry walking about us as if they had been our own. I never saw the British infantry be- have so well. Boney is now off, I believe, to Roche- fort, to go to America. The armv, about 40,000 or 50,000, are in Paris. Blucher on the left of the Seine, and I with my right in front of St. Denis, and the left 96 COLONEL WILLIAM FOX PATRICK NAPIER. upon the Bois de Bondy. They have for- tified St. Denis and Montmartre very strongly. The Canal de TOurcq is filled with water, and they have a parapet and batteries on the hank ; so that I do not believe we can attack this line. However, I will see. The DuJce of Wellington. COLONEL WILLIAM FOX PATRICK NAPIER the author of The History of the War in the Peninsula, from 1807 to 1814, a book of high reputation as regards the art of war, full of minute details of military evolu- tions and observations on tacticks, and yet of stirring interest to the unwarlike reader, who is carried away into the battles of Napier as into those of Homer. If the character of the writer may be judged by his works, — by the incidents which he loves to weave into pictures of great events, and the spirit with which he portrays them, — to Colonel Napier, — as the following passages from his history bear witness — belong devotion to woman, undaunted courage utterly free from cruelty or personal hatred, courtesy to enemies, and sympathy with every gallant action, whatever the country or condition of the hero. September 25, 1811. — The combat of Elbodon. " Montbrun's horsemen passed the front ravine in half squadrons, and with amazing vigour riding up the rough height, on three sides, fell vehemently upon the allies, but they were checked by the fine fighting of the British cavalry, who charged the heads of the ascending masses, not once but twenty times, and always with a good will, thus maintaining the upper ground for above an hour." " In one of the cavalry encounters, a French officer, in the act of striking at the gallant Felton Harvey, of the fourteenth Dragoons, perceived that he had only one arm, and with a rapid movement brought down his sword into a salute and passed on." July 21, 1810. — The combat of the Coa. The French had twice attempted with the utmost gallantry to force the long narrow bridge of Castello Bom, and twice their columns had been " torn, shattered, dispersed, and slain." " The skirmishing was renewed, and a French surgeon coming down to the very foot of the bridge, waved his handkerchief and commenced dressing the wounded under the hottest fire ; nor was his appeal unheeded : every musket turned from him, although his still undaunted countrymen were preparing for a third attempt." October 24, 1812. — The French were attempting to pass a bridge at Muriel. The English having mined the bridge, one of the arches had been just blown up. " The play of the mine, which was effectual, checked the advance of the French for an instant, but suddenly a horseman darting out at full speed from the column, rode down under a flight of bullets to the bridge, calling out that he was a deserter ; he reached the edge of the chasm made by the explosion, and then violently check- ing his foaming horse, held up his hands, exclaiming that he was a lost man, and with hurried accents asked if there was no ford near. The good-natured soldiers pointed to one a little way off, and the gallant fellow having looked earnestly for a few mo- ments, as if to fix the exact point, wheeled his horse round, kissed his hand in deri- sion, and bending over his saddle bow, dashed back to his own comrades amidst showers of shot and shouts of laughter from both sides. The next moment Mau- cune's column passed the river at the ford thus discovered." September 27, 1810. — The battle of Busaco. " Meanwhile an affecting incident, LETTERS. 97 contrasting strongly with the savage character of the preceding events, added to the interest of the day. A poor orphan Portuguese girl, ahout seventeen years of age, and very handsome, was seen coming down the mountain and driving an ass, loaded with all her property, through the midst of the French army. She had abandoned her dwelling in obedience to the proclamation, and now passed over the field of battle with a childish simplicity, totally unconscious of her perilous situation, and scarcely understanding which were the hostile and which the friendly troops, for no man on either side was so brutal as to molest her." July 22, 1812. — The battle of Salamanca. " Captain Brotherton of the fourteenth dragoons, fighting on the 18th at the Guarena, amongst the foremost, as he was al- ways wont to do, had a sword thrust quite through his side, yet on the 22nd he was again on horseback, and being denied leave to remain in that condition with his own regiment, secretly joined Pack's Portuguese in an undress, and was again hurt in the unfortunate charge at the Arapiles. Such were the officers. A man of the forty-third, one by no means distinguished above his comrades, was shot through the middle of the thigh, and lost his shoes in passing the marshy stream ; but refusing to quit the fight, he limped under fire in rear of his regiment, and with naked feet, and strerm- ing of blood from his wound, he marched for several miles over a country covered with sharp stones. Such were the soldiers, and the devotion of a woman was not wanting to the illustration of this great day. " The wife of colonel Dalbiac, an English lady of a gentle disposition, and pos- sessing a very delicate frame, had braved the dangers and endured the privations of two campaigns with the patient fortitude which belongs only to her sex ; and in this battle, forgetful of everything but that strong affection which had so long supported her, she rode deep amidst the enemy's fire, trembling, yet irresistibly impelled for- wards by feelings more imperious than horror, more piercing than the fear of death." It may be well to close with showing how horrible a thing war is at the best. March 1811. — Marshal Massena's retreat from Santarem. " Every horror that could make war hideous attended this dreadful march ! Distress, conflagrations, death in all modes, from fatigue, from water, from the flames, from starvation ! On every side unlimited violence, unlimited vengeance ! I myself saw a peasant hound- ing on his dog to devour the dead and dying, and the spirit of cruelty once unchained smote even the brute creation. On the 15th the French general, to diminish the en- cumbrances of his march, ordered a number of beasts of burthen to be destroyed ; the inhuman fellow charged with the execution, hamstringed five hundred asses and left them to starve, and thus they were found by the British army on that day. The deep expression of pain and grief visible in these poor creatures' looks wonderfully aroused the fury of the soldiers ; and so little weight has reason with the multitude, when opposed to a momentary sensation, that no quarter would have been given to any prisoner at that moment. Excess of feeling would have led to direct cruelty. This shows how dangerous it is in war to listen to the passions at all, since the most praiseworthy could be thus perverted by an accidental combination of circumstances." March 6, 1811. — The same retreat. " This day's march disclosed a horrible cala- mity. A large house, situated in an obscure part of the mountains, was discovered filled with starving persons. Above thirty women and children had sunk, and sitting by the bodies were fifteen or sixteen survivors, of whom one only was a man, but all so enfeebled as to be unable to eat the little food we had to offer them. The youngest had fallen first ; all the children were dead ; none were emaciated in the bodies, but the muscles of the face were invariably drawn transversely, giving the appearance of 08 COLONEL NAPIER. laughing, and presenting the most ghastly sight imaginable. The man seemed most eager for life ; the women appeared patient and resigned, and even in this distress, had arranged the bodies of those who first died with decency and care." The following letter to the duchess of Abrantes is taken from the preface to the fourth volume of colonel Napier's book. Under the head of History will be found two extracts from the work itself. VINDICATION. To the Duchess of Abrantes. September llth, 1833. Madam, — In the eighth volume of your Memoires, which I have only just seen, I find the following passages : — " Toutefois, pourquoi done m'etonner de la conduite des Portugais ? N'ai je pas vu ici, en France, un des freres d'armes de Junot souffrir qu'on imprimat, dans un ouvrage traduit de T Anglais, des choses revoltantes de faussete sur lui et sur le marechal Ney? Get ouvrage fait par un colonel Napier, et qui a trouve grace devant le ministere de la guerre parce qu'il dit du bien du ministre, m'a ete donne a moi, a moi la veuve de Junot, comme ren- fermant des documens authentiques. J'ai du y lire une indecente attaque contre la vie privee d'un homme dont on ne pouvait dire aucun mal comme militaire dans cette admirable affaire de la convention de Cin- tra, puisque les Anglais ont fait passer a, une commission militaire ceux qui l'avaient signee pour l'Angleterre ; et les beaux vers de Childe Harold suffisent seuls a la gloire de Junot, quand l'original de cette conven- tion ne serait pas la pour la prouver. Heu- reusement que je le possede, moi, cet ori- ginal, et meme dans les deux langues. II n'est pas dans M. Napier."* It is not permitted to a man to discover ill humour at the expressions of a lady ; yet, when those expressions are dishonour- ing to him, and that reputation and talents are joined to beauty to give them a wide circulation, it would indicate insensibility to leave them unnoticed. _ To judge of the talents of a general by his conduct in the field has always been the undisputed right of every military writer. I will not therefore enter upon * But why should I be surprised at the conduct of the Portuguese ? Have I not seen here, in France, one of Junot's brothers in arms allow the printing, in a work translated from the English, of the most revolting falsehoods against him and against marshal Ney ? This work, written by a colonel Napier, and which has found favour with the War-office, because it speaks well of the minister of war, has been given to me, to me the widow of Junot, as containing authentic documents. There had I to read an indecent attack on the private life of a man, against whom, as a soldier, nothing could be said in that admirable affair of the convention of Cintra, since the English brought those who signed it on the part of England before a court of military inquiry ; and the beautiful verses of Childe Harold alone suffice for Junot's glory, even though the original convention were not at hand to prove it. Fortunately I myself have that original, and in both languages. It is not in colonel Napier. that subject, because I am persuaded that your grace could not mean to apply the words " revolting falsehoods" to a simple judgment of the military genius of the duke of Abrantes. Indeed you intimate that the offensive passages are those di- rected against his private life, and touch- ing the convention of Cintra. I think, however, your grace has not perused my work with much attention, or you would scarcely have failed to perceive that I have given the convention of Cintra at length in the appendix. But, in truth, I have only alluded to general Junot's private qualities when they bore directly upon his government of Por- tugal, and by afresh reference to my work you will find that I have affirmed nothing of my own knowledge. The character of the late duke of Abrantes, as drawn by me, is that ascribed to him by the emperor Napoleon (see Las Cases), and the author- ity of that great man is expressly quoted. It is against Napoleon therefore, and not against me, who am but a repeater of his uncontradicted observations, that your re- sentment should be directed. If your grace should deign to dispose of any further thought upon me or my work, I would venture to suggest a perusal of the Portuguese, and English, and Spanish, and German histories of the invasion of Portugal, or even a slight examination of only a small part of the innumerable, and some of them very celebrated periodicals which treat of that event. You will be then convinced, that so far from having wantonly assailed the character of general Junot, I have made no slight effort to stem the torrent of abuse with which he has been unjustly overwhelmed ; and believe me, madam, that the estimation in which an eminent man will be held by the world LETTERS. 99 is more surely to be found in the literature of different countries than in the fond re- collection of his own family. I admired general Junot's daring character, and ha- ving enough of the soldier in me to like a brave enemy, I have, wherever the truth of history would permit, expressed that feeling towards him and towards other French generals whose characters and whose acts have been alike maligned by party 7 writers in this country: such in- deed has been my regard for justice on this point, that I have thereby incurred the charge of writing with a French, rather than a national bias, as your grace will discover by referring to my lord Mahon's history of the war of the Succession, in which his lordship has done me the ho- nour to observe that I have written by far the best French account yet published of the Peninsular war. For my own part I still think that to refrain from vulgar abuse of a gallant enemy will not be deemed un-English, although lord Mahon considers it wholly French ; but his lordship's observation in- contestably proves that I have discovered no undue eagerness to malign any of the French generals ; and with respect to the duke of Abrantes, I could show that all the offensive passages in my work rest upon the published authority of his own countrymen, and especially of his great master the emperor Napoleon, and that they are of a milder expression than those authorities would have warranted. It is however so natural and so amiable in a lady to defend the reputation of her de- ceased husband, that rather than appear to detract in any manner from the grace of such a proceeding, I choose to be silent under the unmitigated severity of your grace's observations. Not so however with respect to that part of your remarks which relate to mar- shal Ney. After carefully re-examining every sentence I have written, I am quite unable to discover the slightest grounds for your grace's accusations. In all parts of my work the name of Ney is mentioned with praise. I have not indeed made my- self a partizan of marshal Ney in relating his disputes with marshals Soult and Mas- sena, because I honestly believed that he was mistaken ; neither have I attributed to him unbounded talents for the higher parts of w r ar, but this is only matter of opinion which the world is quite capable of appreciating at its true value ; and upon all other points I have expressed admira- tion of marshal Ney's extraordinary qua- lities, his matchless valour, his heroic energy ! In the hope that your grace will now think it reasonable to soften the asperity of your feelings towards my work, I take my leave with more of admiration for your generous warmth, in defence of a person so dear to you, than of any sentiment of resentment for the harsh terms which you have employed towards myself. Colonel Napier. F2 ENGLISH PROSE. PART III. HISTORY. JOHN BOURCHIER, LORD BERNERS Translator of the History of JOHN FROISSART Lord Berners was born about the year 1467, and distinguished himself in the reign of Henry VII. by quelling an insurrection in the west of England. He was a favourite of Henry VIIL, whom he served as Chancellor of the Exchequer, and as governor of Calais, and by whose command he translated Froissart's Chronicle into English. He died at Calais on the 16th of March 1532, and was buried in the chancel of the parish church of the Virgin Mary. John Froissart, a priest, canon of Chimay, in the Netherlands, was the son of a herald painter, and born at Valenciennes about the year 1337. At the age of twenty he began to write the history of the wars of his time. In the year 1364 he came oyer to England, where he was made secretary to Philippa of Hainault, the wife of Edward III., and during a four years' absence from the continent visited the court of David II., king of Scotland, and^ Dalkeith the castle of William earl of Dou- glas. Returning to Flanders, he afterwards travelled from court to court, attend- ing feasts, bridals and tournaments, and collecting materials for his history. In 1395 he again visited England, and was graciously received by Richard II. at the palace of Eltham. He died soon after the year 1400, at Chimay. The Chronicle of Froissart is a history of the affairs of Europe from 1326 to 1400, during the reigns of our Edward III. and Richard II., told with spirit and simplicity and honesty, but thrown together with little regard to order. The early part of the work is chiefly taken from the chronicles of John la Bele, a canon of Liege ; but the later events, and especially those after the battle of Poitiers in 1356, Froissart wrote down as he had seen them or heard them told by noble and great lords and knights and squires, as well in France, England and Scotland, as in many other countries. According to sir Walter Scott, Froissart breathes in every page the high spirit of chi- valry imbibed in the courts and castles where he loved to dwell : yet this praise cannot be altogether allowed him. It is true that he delights in acts of valour, munificence, and of courtesy to the illustrious and the brave ; but, provided his hero be valiant in battle, and treat him sumptuously, he deals gently with crimes against those nobler parts of chivalry, — gallantly, good faith, humanity, and the protection of the weak. HISTORY. 101 For proof it will be enough to show in one instance to what manner of man he ascribes the character of a perfect knight. He dedicates a chapter of his history — the twenty-sixth of the third volume — to celebrate the great virtue and generosity of the earl of Foix, of whom he says, " This earl Gaston of Foix, with whom I was, was then fifty-nine years of age ; and though I have seen many knights, kings, princes and others, I never saw any of so fine a figure ; his visage was fair, sanguine and smiling ; his eyes grey and amorous, where he chose to set his regard : in everything he was so perfect, that he cannot be praised too much ; he loved what ought to be loved, and hated what ought to be hated." Now this perfect hero bad a cousin, sir Peter Ernalton of Beam, who held the castle of Lourde for the king of England against the duke of Anjou ; and when the duke offered him much money to give up the garrison, he excused himself, saying that the castle was delivered to him on condition, — which he had sworn solemnly by his faith in the presence of Edw r ard the Black Prince, — that he should keep it, during his life, against all men except the king of England. Then the duke of Anjou treated privately with the earl of Foix, and so soon as they had agreed together, the earl sent for his cousin Peter to come and speak with him, received him with joy, made him sit at his board, and paid him great attention. On the third day of the visit the earl commanded sir Peter to deliver the garrison of Lourde into his hands ; the knight answered, " Sir, it is true I owe faith and homage to you, for I am a poor knight of your blood and of your country, but as for the castle of Lourde I will not deliver it to you : you have sent for me to do with me as you please : I hold it of the king of England, who set me there, and to none other living will I deliver it." The earl, much enraged at that answer, drew his dagger, and exclaiming — " Ah trai- tor, sayest thou so ! By my head you have not said that for nought," — struck and wounded him in five places. The knight crying, M Ah, sir, this is unkind, to send for me and slay me," was cast into a deep dyke, where he died, because his wounds were not taken care of. Froissart tells this tale in the chapter next but one before that in which he has drawn the character of Gaston of Foix, and adds, that the earl had held another of Ms cousins eight months in prison, and had then ransomed him at forty thousand francs. But the very twenty-sixth chapter itself records a crime still more fearful. The earl was separated from his wife, the sister of the king of Navarre. She had per- suaded him to lend money to the king her brother, who would not repay it, and she durst not return to her husband without the money, for she knew well that he was cruel where he took displeasure. Their son Gaston, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, went into Navarre to see his mother, and when he was about to return home, entreated her to come home with him, which she durst not. Then the king of Navarre, who hated his brother-in-law, gave to his nephew a little purse, full of a powder, deadly poison, telling him to put the powder on some meat that his father might eat it, and that it would make him very desirous to have his wife again, and love her ever after ; and the king charged him to let no man know of the powder, or it would lose its virtue. All this the boy believed, and carried home the purse, which was found upon him. Thereupon the earl his father, without asking a question, stepped for- ward with a knife, and w 7 ould have slain his son, but his knights and squires inter- fered, weeping and saying, " Ah, sir, have mercy, cause him to be secured and make inquiry ; it is probable he knew r not what it was," — and so the boy w r as cast into pri- son. The earl caused fifteen of the gentlemen that served his son to be put to death, declaring that they must have known of the purse, and ought to have told him that his son bore such a thing in his bosom ; and because they did not thus, they were 102 LORD BERNERS' FROISSART. cruelly put to death; which, says Froissart, " was a great pity, as some of them were as hearty squires as any in the country, for the earl was always served hy good men." The young Gaston lay in a dark prison for ten days, and ate or drank little, some said nothing ; all that time he lay in his clothes, as he came in, without any company either to counsel or comfort him ; he argued within himself, and was full of melan- choly, and cursed the time that ever he was born. His father, hearing that he would not eat, was greatly displeased, and came to the prison ; he opened the prison door and came to his son, having a little knife in his hand, not an inch out of his hand, and in great displeasure he thrust his hand to his son's throat, and the point of the knife a little entered into his throat, into a certain vein, and the earl crying out, " Ah, traitor, why dost thou not eat thy meat !" therewith departed, without saying or doing any more, and returned to his own chamber ; while his son instantly fell dead. In short, this earl Gaston of Foix, who was so perfect that he cannot be praised too much, to whom knights and squires of honour of every country resorted for his valiantness, put fifteen men to death because they had not told him of a purse which they did not see, and cut his only son's throat with his own hands, because the child, sorrowing in his dark prison, did not eat his meat ; and Froissart tells this story with pity for the boy, and some for the men, for they were hearty squires, but without a word of reproach to the earl. He concludes, " Thus did the earl of Foix slay Gaston his son, but the king of Navarre was the occasion of his death ;" and repeats in a later chapter, " The earl of Foix was perfect in all things." The truth is, that Froissart holds up this monster as the model of a perfect knight, because earl Gaston of Foix delighted to hear the canon of Chimay read a book of songs that he had collected, and treated him and his horse well, in the castle of Or- taise, for more than twelve weeks. It is too much to say of such a chronicler, that he breathes in every page the high spirit of chivalry, which required of its votaries something nobler than mere brutal courage and the pomp of hospitality. Gray, the poet, writing at a time when Froissart's history was less read than it is now, says, " Froissart is a favourite book of mine, and it is strange to me that people who would give thousands for a dozen portraits (originals of that time) to furnish a gallery, should never cast an eye on so many moving pictures of the life, actions, manners, and thoughts of their ancestors, done on the spot, and in strong though simple colours." There is a translation of Froissart's Chronicle by Mr. Johnes of Hafod, which is more correct in names and dates, and in other respects executed with greater care than that of lord Berners. Sir Walter Scott, however, prefers lord Berners' trans- lation as written in the pure and nervous English of that early period, and because, living in an age when the spirit of chivalry lived, and the language of chivalry was spoken, the author has translated the conversation of Froissart's knights and nobles by the corresponding expressions in English, which he, himself a knight and a noble, daily used and heard at the court of Henry. Sir Walter adds, in another place, that he who would acquire an idea of the language of chivalry cannot too often study the work of Bourchier, Lord Berners. THE BATTLE OF CRECY IN 1346. The Englishmen, who were in three di- visions, lying on the ground to rest them- selves, as soon as they saw the Frenchmen approach, rose up, without any haste, and arranged their divisions. In the first, which was the prince's division, the ar- chers stood in the form of a herse, aud the men of arms in the rear of the divi- sion. The earl of Northampton, and the earl of Arundel, with the second division HISTORY. 103 were on a wing in good order, ready to assist the prince's division, if there were any necessity. The lords and knights of France came not to the muster together in good order, for some came before, and some after, in such haste that they embarrassed one another. When the French king saw the Englishmen his blood changed, and he said to his marshals, " Make the Genoese go on before and begin the battle, in the name of God and St. Denys :" there were of the Genoese cross-bows, about fifteen thousand, but they were so fatigued with marching on foot that day six leagues, armed with their cross-bows, that they said to their constables, " We are not well ordered to fight this day, for we are not in a fit condition to do any great deed of arms, we have more need of rest :" these words came to the earl of Alencon, who said, " A man is in sad case to be charged with such sort of rascals, to be faint and fail now at most need ! " Also at the same time there fell a great rain, with terrible thunder, and before the rain there came flying over both armies a great number of crows, for fear of the ap- proaching tempest. Then presently the air began to clear up, and the sun to shine bright, which was directly in the Frenchmen's eyes, and on the backs of the English. When the Genoese had assembled and began to advance, they made a great leap and cry to affright the English, but they stood firm for all that : then the Genoese made another leap and a fierce cry, and stepped forward a little, and the Englishmen retreated not a foot : thirdly, again they leaped and cried, and marched forward till they came within shot : then they shot fiercely with their cross-bows ; when the English archers stepped forward one pace and let fly their arrows so regularly and so thick, that it appeared like snow. When the Genoese felt the arrows piercing through their heads, arms and breasts, many of them cast down their cross-bows and cut their strings, and returned discomfited. When the French king saw them fly, he said, " Slay these rascals, for they will hinder and trouble us without reason :" then the men of arms rushed in among them and killed a great number of them ; and the English still shot their arrows wherever they saw the greatest number : the sharp I arrows pierced the men of arms and their i horses, and many, both horse and men, | fell among the Genoese ; and when they i were down they could not recover them- ' selves, the crowd was so thick that they overthrew one another. And also among the Englishmen there were certain varlets who went on foot, with great knives, and they rushed in among the men of arms, and slew and murdered many as they lay on the ground, both earls, barons, knights and squires, whereat the king of England was afterwards displeased, for he would have preferred to have had them taken prisoners. The valiant king of Bohemia, called Charles of Luxemburg, son to the noble emperor Henry of Luxemburg, al- though he was nearly blind, when he under- stood the order of the battle, said to them about him, " Where is the lord Charles, my son?" his men said, " Sir, we cannot tell, we think he is fighting:" then he said, " Sirs, you are my men, my companions, and my friends in this expedition, I re- quire you to bring me so far forward, that I may strike one stroke with my sword:" they said they would obey his command, and to the end that they should not lose him in the crowd, they tied the reins of their bridles to each other, and set the king before to accomplish his desire, and so they went on their enemies. The lord Charles of Bohemia, his son, who styled himself king of Bohemia, and likewise bore the arms, came in good order to the action ; but when he saw that the battle was going against them, he departed, I know not where. The king his father was so far forward, that he struck a stroke with his sword, yea and more than four, and fought valiantly, and so did his company, and they ha- zarded themselves so forward, that they were there all slain, and the next day they were found in the place about the king, with their horses tied to each other. The earl of Alencon came to the battle in good order and fought with the Englishmen, and the earl of Flanders also on his part : these two lords with their companies passed the English archers, and came to the prince's division, and there fought valiantly a long time. The French king would fain have come thither when he saw their banners, but there was a great body of archers before him. The same day the French king had given a great black courser to sir John of Hainault, and he made the lord John of Fusselles to ride on him, and bear his banner ; the same horse was taken restive, and brought him through all the scouts of the English ; and as he would have returned again, he fell into a great dyke, and was much hurt, 104 LORD BERNERS' FROISSART. and he would have died there if his page had not heen present, who followed him through all the divisions, and saw where his master lay in the dyke, with no other obstruction except his horse, for the En- glishmen would not issue out of their ra iks for the sake of taking any prisoner ; then the page alighted and relieved his master, who returned not the same way that they came, because there were too many in his way. This battle between La Broyes and Crecy, this Saturday, was very bloody and severe, and many a feat of arms was achieved that is not related here. In the night many knights and squires lost their masters, and sometimes came on the Englishmen, who gave them such a reception that they were always nearly slain ; for the Englishmen had de- termined to give no quarter, nor accept any ransom. On the morning of the day of action, certain French and Germans by force broke through the archers of the prince's division, and fought hand to hand with the men of arms : then the second division of the English c?me to succour the prince's, which was done opportunely, for they were then in great danger ; and those with the prince sent a messenger to the king, who was on a little windmill- hill: then the knight said to the king, " Sir, the earl of Waiwick, and the earl of Oxford, sir Reginald Cobham, and others, who are about the prince your son, are fiercely engaged and in some danger, wherefore they desire you to come and aid them with your division, for if the Frenchmen increase, as they fear they will, your son and they will have much ado." Then the king said, " Is my son dead, or hurt, or felled to the earth?" " No, sir," quoth the knight, " but he is hard matched, wherefore he hath need of your aid." " Well," said the king, " re- turn to him, and to them that sent you, and desire them to send no more to me on any account, while my son is alive : and also say to them, that they suffer him this day to win his spurs ; for if God be pleased, I wish the honour of this en- gagement to be his, and theirs who are about him." Then the knight returned and told them what the king had said, which greatly encouraged them, and they repined because they had sent to the king. Sir Godfrey of Harcourt would have been glad if the earl of Harcourt, his brother, could have been saved, for he heard by them that saw his banner, that he was in the field on the French side, but sir God- frey could not reach him ere he was slain, as was also the earl of Aumarle, his ne- phew. In another place, the earl of Alencon and the earl of Flanders fought valiantly, every lord under his banner ; but finally they could not resist the power of the English, and so there they were all slain, and many other knights and squires. Also the earl Lois of Blois, nephew to the French king, and the duke of Lorraine fought under their banners, but at last they were enclosed by a body of English and Welsh, and there slain, notwithstand- ing their prowess. Also there were slain the earl of Auxerre, the earl of St. Pol, and many others. In the evening, the French king, who had left about him no more than threescore persons altogether, whereof sir John of Hainault was one, who had once remounted the king, for his horse had been slain by an arrow. Then he said to the king, " Sir, it is time you depart hence, endanger not yourself voluntarily, if you have received a loss at this time, you will recover it again an- other season :" then he took the king's horse by the bridle and led him away as it were by force. Then the king rode till he came to the castle of La Broyes ; the gate was closed, because it was by that time dark. Then the king called the captain who came to the walls and said, " Who is it that calleth there at this time of night ?" Then the king said, " Open your gate quickly, for this is the fortune of France." The captain knew then it j was the king, and opened the gate and let down the bridge. Then the king en- tered, having with him but five barons, sir John of Hainault, sir Charles of Mont- morency, the lord of Beaujeu, the lord d'Aubigny, and the lord of Mountfort. The king would not tarry there, but drank and departed thence about midnight, and so rode by such guides as knew the country, till he came in the morning to Amiens, and there he rested. This Sa- turday the Englishmen never departed from their ranks for the purpose of pur- suing any man, but still kept their ground, and always defended themselves against all such as came to assail them. This battle ended about evening. On this Saturday, when the night was come and the English heard no more noise of the French, then tl>ey reputed themselves to have gained the victory, and their enemies to be discomfited, slain, and fled away : then they made great fires and lighted up torches and candles, HISTORY. 105 because it was very dark. Then the king came down from the little hill where he stood : and all that day till then he never took off his helmet : then he went with all his division to his son, the prince, and embraced and kissed him, and said, " No- ble son, God give you good perseverance, you are my son, and you have acquitted yourself nobly; you are worthy of pos- sessing a realm :" the prince inclined to the earth, and honoured the king his father. This night they thanked God for their good fortune, and made no boast thereof, for the king desired that no man should be proud, but that all should hum- bly thank God. Lord Bernws, translator of Froissart. THE BLACK PRINCE AND HIS KNIGHTS AFTER THE BATTLE OF POITIERS IN 135G. When sir James Audley was brought to his lodging, he sent for sir Peter Audley, his brother, the lord Bartholomew of Burghersh, the lord Stephen of Coffing- ton, the lord Willoughby d'Eresby, and the lord William Ferrers of Groby, who were all his relatives : then he called before them his four squires, who had served him faithfully that day ; and he said to the said lords, " Sirs, it hath pleased my lord the prince to give me five hundred marks of revenues per an- num in heritage, for which gift I have done hiin but small service myself; but, sirs, the honour I now receive was ac- quired by the valour of these four knights, who have always served me truly, but especially this day ; wherefore, as a re- ward, I resign to them the present my lord the prince made me of five hundred marks of yearly revenues, to them and to their heirs for ever, in like manner as it was given me : I clearly disinherit myself thereof, and inherit them without any condition." The lords and others that were there looked at each other, and said among themselves, " It arises from a great nobleness of mind to make this gift." They answered with one voice, " Sir, be it as God will, we will bear witness of this wherever we go." Then they de- parted from him, and some went to the prince, who the same night determined to make a supper to the French king, and the other prisoners ; for they had then enough provision, with what the French brought, for the English wanted provision before, for some had had no bread for three days. The day of the battle, at night, the prince gave a supper in his lodging to the French king, and to most of the great lords that were prisoners. The prince caused the king and his son, the lord James of Bourbon, the lord John d'Artois, the earl of Tancarville, the earl d'Es- tampes, the earl Damartin, the earl of Graville, and the lord of Partenay, to sit at one table, and other lords, knights and squires, at other tables ; and the prince always served the king very humbly, and would not sit at the king's table, although he requested him : he said he w r as not qualified to sit at the table with so great a prince as the king was. Then he said to the king, " Sir, for God's sake, make no bad cheer, though your will was not accomplished this day ; for, sir, the king my father will certainly bestow on you as much honour and friendship as he can, and will agree w r ith you so reasonably, that you shall ever after be friends : and, sir, I think you ought to rejoice, though the battle be not as you wish, for you have this day gained the high renown of prowess, and have surpassed all others on your side in valour. Sir, I say not this in raillery, for all our party, who saw every man's deeds, agree in this and give you the palm and chaplet." Therewith the Frenchmen whispered among themselves that the prince had spoken nobly, and that most probably he would prove a great hero, if God preserved his life to persevere in such good fortune. When supper was done, every man went to his lodging with his prisoners ; and that night they ransomed many, and trusted them on their parole of honour, and ran- somed them at a low price ; for they said they would set no knight's ransom so high but that he might pay it without difficulty, and still maintain his dignity. The next day, when they had heard mass and taken some repast, and everything was packed up and ready, they took their horses and rode towards Poitiers : the same night the lord of Roy had come to Poitiers with a hundred spearmen : he was not at the battle, but had met the duke of Normandy near Chavigny, and had been sent by him to Poitiers to defend the town till they had further intelligence. When the lord of Roy knew that the English army were so near coming to the city, he ordered every man to be armed, F5 106 LORD BERNERS' FROISSART. and all to maintain the defence of the walls, towers and gates : hut the English army passed by without approaching, for they were so laden with gold, silver and prisoners, that they attacked no fortress as they returned. They thought it would he a great action if they brought the French king and the rest of their pri- soners and riches that they had taken, in safety to Bourdeaux. They made but short marches, on account of their pri- soners and the great baggage they pos- sessed ; they rode no more than four or five leagues in a day, and always encamped early; and they kept close together in good order, except the divisions of the marshals, who rode continually in ad- vance, with five hundred men of arms, to open the passages through which the prince had to pass ; but they found no opposition, for all the country was so ter- rified that every man retired to the for- tresses. As the prince proceeded, he was informed that the lord Audley had given his four squires the present of five hun- dred marks which he had bestowed upon him. Then the prince sent for him, and he was brought in his litter to the prince, who received him courteously, and said, " Sir James, we are informed that the re- venues which we gave you, as soon as you went to your lodging, you gave to four squires ; we wish to know why you did so, and whether the gift was agreeable to you or not." " Sir," said the knight, " it is true that I have given it to them, and I will inform you why I did so : these four squires, who are here present, have for a long time served me well and truly in many great actions : and, sir, at this last battle they served me so valiantly, that had they never done anything else, I was bound to reward them ; and before this same day they never received any reward of me. Sir, I am but one man ; but by their aid and assistance I under- took to accomplish the vow I had made long before. I should have been killed in the battle had it not been for them : therefore, sir, when I considered the love they bore to me, I should not have acted kindly if I had not rewarded them. I thank God I have had, and shall have enough as long as I live ; I shall never be destitute of subsistence. Sir, if this action does not meet your approbation, I beg of you to pardon me ; for, sir, both myself and my squires will serve you as well as ever we did." Then the prince said, " Sir James, I cannot blame you for any- thing that you have done, but rather thank you ; and for the valour of these squires whom you praise so much, I ratify to them your gift, and will again render to you six hundred marks, in like manner as you had the other." Thus the prince and his company went forward and passed through Poitou and Saintonge without injury, and came to Blaye, and there passed the river Garonne, and arrived at the good city of Bourdeaux. The great feast and welcome that the inhabitants of the city, together with the clergy made to the prince, and how honourably they were there received, cannot be described. The prince brought the French king into the abbey of St. Andrew, and there they both lodged, the king in one part and the prince in another. The prince, with those of Gascony and England, remained still at Bourdeaux till it was Lent, in great mirth and revelry, and they foolishly spent the gold and silver they had taken. In En- gland also there was great joy when they heard of the battle of Poitiers, of the dis- comfiture of the French army, and the taking of their king. Great solemnities were made in all churches, and many fires and wakes throughout all England. The knights and squires who had come home from that expedition were much made of, and praised more than any other. Lord Berners, translator of Froissart. THE BATTLE OF CALAIS IN 1348. All this season the lord Geoffrey of Chargny was in the town of St. Omers, and kept the frontiers there, directing everything touching the war, as though he were king. Then he bethought him that the Lombards were naturally covet- ous ; wherefore he determined to attempt to get the town of Calais, whereof Aymery of Pavie, a Lombard, was captain : and by reason of the truce they of St. Omers might go to Calais, and they of Calais to St. Omers, so that they daily resorted together to sell their merchandize. Then sir Geoffrey secretly commenced a treaty with sir Aymery of Pavie, so that he pro- mised to deliver into the hands of the Frenchmen, the town and castle of Ca- lais for twenty thousand crowns. This was not done so secretly but that the king of England had intelligence thereof. Upon this the king sent for Aymery of HISTORY. 107 Pavie to conie into England to West- minster to speak with him, and so he came over, for he thought that the king had not heard of that matter, he supposed he had done it so secretly. "When the king saw him he took him apart and said, " Thou knowest well that I have given thee in keeping the thing in this world that I love best next to my wife and children ; that is to say, the town and castle of Calais, and thou hast sold it to the Frenchmen, wherefore you have well deserved to die." Then the Lombard knelt down and said, "Ah, noble king ! I beseech you to have mercy ; what you say is true, but, sir, the bargain may easily be broken, for I have not as yet received a penny." The king had much loved the Lombard, and said, " Aymery, I wish that you should proceed in your bargain, and let me have previous intelligence of the day you appoint to deliver up the town ; and on this condition I forgive you this trespass." So thereupon the Lombard returned to Calais, and kept this matter secret. Then sir Geoffrey de Chargny expected certainly to have Calais, and as- sembled five hundred spearmen secretly ; his intentions were not known to many. I think he never made the French king acquainted with his design ; for if he had, surely the king would not have consented thereto, because of the truce. This Lom- bard had appointed to deliver the castle the first night of the new year, of which he sent intelligence by a brother of Ins, to the king of England. "When the king of England knew the day appointed, he departed out of England with three hundred men of arms, and six hundred archers, and took shipping at Dover, and in the evening arrived at Calais so secretly that no man knew thereof, and went and laid his men in ambuscade in the chambers and towers within the castle. Then the king said to Sir Walter of Manny, " I wish you to be chief of this enterprize, for I and my son the prince will fight under your banner." The lord Geoffrey of Chargny the last day of December, at night, departed from Arras with all his company, and came near Calais about midnight, and there tarried for his company, and sent two squires to the postern-gate of the castle of Calais, and there they found sir Aymery ready. Then they asked him if it were time the lord Geoffrey should come, and the Lombard said yes. Then they re- turned to their master and informed him of what the Lombard said • then he made his men pass Nieullet bridge in good order of battle, and sent twelve knights with a hundred men of arms, to go and take possession of the castle of Calais, for he thought if he could possess the castle, he should soon obtain the town, seeing he had so good a number of men with him, and might have more daily if he chose. And he delivered to the lord Odoart de Renty twenty thousand crowns, to pay the Lombard, while sir Geoffrey remained privately in the fields with his banner before him. He intended to enter the town by the gate, or not at all. The Lombard had let down the bridge of the postern, and suffered the hundred men of j arms to enter peaceably, and sir Odoart ! there delivered twenty thousand crowns J in a bag to the Lombard, who said, " I trust the whole is here, for I have not now leisure to tell them, as it will soon I be day :" then he cast the bag with the crowns into a coffer, and said to the Frenchmen, " Come on sirs, you shall enter into the donjon, then you may be certain of being lords of the castle." They went thither, and he drew aside the bar and the gate opened. Within this tower was the king of England with tw r o hundred spearmen, who issued out with their swords and axes in their hands, crying " Manny ! Manny ! to the rescue ! what ! mean the Frenchmen with so few to gain the castle of Calais ! ! " Then the French saw resistance availed nothing and so surrendered, wherefore there were but few wounded. Then they were im- prisoned in the same tower. The En- glishmen issued out of the castle into the town and mounted their horses, for they had all the prisoners' horses : then the archers rode to Boulogne gate, where sir Geoffrey was with his banner before him, of gules three scutcheons of silver : he had a great desire to be the first to enter the town : he said to the knights about him, " Unless this Lombard open the gate shortly we are like to die here for cold." " In the name of God, sir," said Pepin de Werre, " Lombards are malicious and sub- tle people ; he is now counting your crowns and looking if they are good." By this time the king of England and the prince his son were at the gate, under the banner of sir Walter of Manny, with many other ban- ners, viz. the earl of Stafford, the earl of Suffolk, the lord John Montacute, brother to the earl of Salisbury, the lord Beau- champ, the lord Berkeley, and the lord 108 LORD BERNERS' FROISSART. Delawar, who were all the lords that had banners in this engagement. Then the great gate was set open and they all issued out. When the Frenchmen saw this, and heard them cry " Manny, to the rescue !" they discovered they were betrayed. Then sir Godfrey said to his company, " Sirs, if we fly we shall surely be lost, so it were better to fight with a good heart, hoping for victory." The English heard this, and said, " By St. George you speak truth, shame be to him that flyeth." The Frenchmen alighted, and putting their horses aside, arranged themselves in order of battle. When the king saw that, he stood still and said, " Let us prepare for battle, for our enemies will await us." The king sent part of his company to Nieullet bridge, for he heard there were a great number of Frenchmen at that place. Then thither went six banners and three hundred archers, who found the lord Moreau de Fiennes and the lord of Crequi keeping the bridge ; and between the bridge and Calais there were many archers of St. Omers and Aire, so there was a se- vere conflict, and more than six hundred Frenchmen slain and drowned, for they were soon discomfited and driven into the water. This was early in the morning, but it was soon light. The Frenchmen kept their ground for a time, and many noble deeds were done by both parties ; but the Englishmen continued to increase by supplies from Calais as their enemies abated. The Frenchmen saw they could not long keep the bridge, so those who -.had their horses by them mounted and fled, and the English pursued and over- threw many : those that had good horses escaped, as the lord Fiennes, the lord Crequi, the lord of Sempy, the lord of Lonchinleich, and the lord of Namur: and many were taken by their own folly that might have escaped. When it was day, so that they could see each other, some of the French knights and squires reassembled and valiantly turned and engaged the English, so that some of the Frenchmen took many prisoners, and thereby gained both honour and profit. The king, who was there unknown by his enemies, under the banner of Sir Wal- ter of Manny, was on foot among his men, to seek his enemies, who stood close to- gether with their spears five feet long. At the first meeting there was a desperate rencontre, and the king met the lord Eustace of Ribeaumont, a strong and hardy knight ; there was a long fight be- tween them, glorious to behold ; at last they were separated by the approach of a great company of both parties, who fought there nobly. The French acted there very valiantly, but especially the lord Eustace of Ribeaumont, who on that day struck the king twice on his knees, but was at length taken by him, and so he yielded his sword to the king, and said, " Sir knight, I yield as your prisoner:" he knew not then that it was the king, and so the action was favourable to the king of England; and all those with sir Geoffrey were slain or taken. There was slain sir Henry of Bois, and sir Pepin de Werre, and sir Geoffrey was taken. This engage- ment took place near Calais, in the year of our Lord 1348, the last day of Decem- ber, approaching the next morning. When this battle was finished the king returned again to the castle of Calais, and caused all the prisoners to be brought thither. Then the Frenchmen discovered that the king had been in the engagement personally, under the banner of sir Walter of Manny. The king said he would give them all a supper that night in the castle of Calais. The hour of supper came, and the tables were covered, and the king and his knights were there in readiness, every man in new apparel ; and the Frenchmen also were there, and made good cheer, al- though they were prisoners. The king sat down, and the lords and knights about him very honourably. The prince, lords and knights of England served the king at the first mess, and at the second they sat down at another table. They were all well served, and at great ease. Then when supper was done and the tables taken away, the king remained still in the hall with his knights and with the French- men, and he was bare-headed, saving a chaplet of fine pearls that he wore on his head. Then the king went from one to another of the Frenchmen ; and when he came to sir Geoffrey of Chargny he changed his countenance a little, and looked on him and said, " Sir Geoffrey, be assured that I can have but little love for you, when you would attempt to steal by night from me that thing which I have so dearly bought, and which hath cost me so great an expense ; I am very glad that I have taken you in the act. You would have had a better market than I have had, when you thought to have obtained Calais for twenty thousand crowns ; but God hath assisted me, and you have failed in HISTORY. 109 your purpose:" and therewith the king went from him, and he spoke not a word in answer. Then the king came to sir Eustace of Riheaumont, and joyously he said to him, " Sir Eustace, you are the knight in the world that I have seen most valiantly assail his enemies and defend himself, for I never found a knight that gave me so much lahour, hody to hody, as you have done this day ; wherefore I give you the palm, above all the knights of my court, by just sentence." Then the king took the chaplet that was upon his head, being both fair, goodly and rich, and said, " Sir Eustace, I give you this chaplet for having achieved the noblest deeds of arms, of either party, in this last encounter; and I desire you to wear it this year, for the love of me. I know well that you are vigorous and amorous, and are frequently in company with ladies and damsels ; say, wheresoever you may be, that I gave it to you ; and I liberate you from your imprisonment, and acquit your ransom, and you are at liberty to de- part to-morrow if it please you." Lord Berners, translator of Froissart. SIR THOMAS MORE was born in the year 1480, in Milk-street, London, and was educated at St. Anthony's school in Threadneedle-street, and in Canterbury College, Oxford. He studied the law at New Inn, and, removing to Lincoln's Inn, practised at the bar with great suc- cess, and having had several employments under Henry VIII. , whom he assisted in his controversy with Luther, was made Lord Chancellor in 1529, after Wolsey's down- fall. In 1533, upon the King's marriage with Anne Boleyn, in defiance of the Pope's sentence, More resigned the seals. Being thrown into prison for refusing to take the oath of allegiance to the king's heirs by Queen Anne, and for denying the king's supremacy, he was tried for high treason and executed at Tower Hill on the 6th July 1535 : his body was buried in Chelsea Church, and his head, after it had been exposed for fourteen days on London Bridge, at St. Dunstan's Church, Canterbury. In the Utopia, the picture of an imaginary commonwealth, which he wrote in Latin in 1516, sir Thomas More had taught the right to freedom in religion, but his prac- tice, when he became Chancellor, was sadly at variance with his doctrine. He was active in torturing and burning heretics : it has been said in excuse for him, that he was bound to administer the laws as he found them ; but as he did well to resign the seals rather than sin against his own conscience, so he would have done well to resign them rather than become a party in burning others because they would not sin against their consciences. Except this blot on his character, there is but one fault charged against sir Thomas More, that he was witty out of season as well as in season ; he jested with a poor man accused before him of heresy, and gave him his life in ex- change for a jest, and, on the point of death, he jested with all around him at the scaffold. On the other hand, he was wise, learned, just, a hater of bribes, brave in with- standing the king's anger, and a most kind husband, father and friend. A strange instance of his good-nature has been handed down. When he was a bachelor he visited an acquaintance who had three daughters, with the hope of finding a wife in one of them ; his inclination led him to the second, but he chose her elder sister, for he considered it would be a grief and some blemish to the eldest should he act otherwise. He married a widow for his second wife, and Erasmus, who visited him at Chelsea after the second marriage, says, " There is not any man living so affectionate to his 110 SIR THOMAS MORE. children as he ; and he loveth his old wife as well as if she were a young maid." His children well repaid his affection. When he was brought from Westminster to the Tower, Margaret Roper, his eldest daughter, waited on the Tower Wharf, and " hasten- ing towards him, without consideration or care of herself, pressing in amongst the throng and the arms of the guard, that with halberds and bills went around him, ran to him, and openly, in presence of them all, embraced him, took him about the neck and kissed him. He, well liking her most natural and dear daughterly affection, gave her again his fatherly blessing. After she was departed, she, like one that had for- gotten herself, being aR ravished with the entire love of her dear father, having respect neither to herself nor to the multitude, turned back, ran to him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times kissed him most lovingly ; the beholding of which made many who were present, for the very sorrow thereof, to weep and mourn." The extract which follows is taken from sir Thomas More's History of Richard III. Horace Walpole, and others after him, have doubted the murder of the young princes in the Tower, but perhaps without good reason. Richard III. has been accused of many crimes which he did not commit ; but as to this, his nephews were in his cus- tody in the Tower, he usurped the throne, and they disappeared ; he was believed all over Europe to be guilty of their murder, and made no denial or inquiry; and in the reign of Charles II. the skeletons of two children were accidentally found in such a place as that in which the bodies of the princes were said to have been buried. It has been supposed that the baUad of the Babes in the Wood may have been written in the reign of Richard III., to express covertly the common detestation of this murder. The defence of sir Thomas More, on his trial for high treason, is given under the title of Speeches. THE MURDER OF THE TWO YOUNG PRINCES IN THE TOWER, 1483. King Richard, after his coronation, taking his way to Gloucester to visit (in his new honour) the town of which he bare the name of his old, devised (as he rode) to fulfil the thing which he before had intended. And for so much as his mind gave him, that his nephews living, men would not reckon that he could have right to the realm : he thought therefore without delay to rid them, as though the killing of his kinsmen could amend his cause and make him a kindly king ; where- upon he sent one John Greene (whom he speciaUy trusted) unto sir Robert Braken- berie, constable of the Tower, with a letter and credence also, that the same sir Robert should in anywise put the two children to death. This John Greene did his errand unto Brakenberie, kneeling before our lady in the Tower, who plainly answered, that he would never put them to death to die therefore; with which answer John Greene returning, recounted the same to king Richard at Warwick, yet in his way. Wherewith he took such displeasure and thought, that the same night he said unto a secret page of his, " Ah ! whom shaU a man trust ? those that I have brought up myself, those that I had thought would most surely serve me, even these fail me, and at my commandment wiU do nothing for me." " Sir (quoth his page) there lyeth one on your pallet without, that I dare weU say, to do your grace pleasure, the thing were right hard that he would refuse." Meaning this by sir James Tir- rell, which was a man of right goodly personage, and for nature's gifts worthy to have served a much better prince, if he had well served God, and by grace ob- tained as much truth and good-wall as he had strength and wit. The man had a high heart, and sore longed upward, not rising yet so fast as he had hoped, being hindered and kept under by the means of sir Richard Rat- cliffe and sir William Catesbie, which longing for no more partners of the prince's favour ; and namely, not for him, whose pride they wist would bear no peer, kept him by secret drifts out of all HISTORY. Ill secret trust, which thing this page well had marked and known. Wherefore this occasion offered, of very special friendship he took his time to put him forward, and by such wise do him good, that all the enemies he had (except the devil) could never have done him so much hurt. For upon this page's words king Richard arose and came out into the pallet cham- ber, on which he found in bed sir James and sir Thomas Tirrells, of person like and brethren of blood, but nothing of kin in conditions. Then said the king merrily to them, " What, sirs, be ye in bed so soon ?" and calling up sir James, brake to him secretly his mind in this mischievous matter ; in which he found him nothing strange. Wherefore on the morrow he sent him to Brakenberie with a letter, by which he was commanded to deliver sir James all the keys of the Tower for one night, to the end he might there accomplish the king's pleasure in such things as he had given him commandment. After which letter delivered, and the keys received, sir James appointed the night next ensuing to destroy them, devising before and pre- paring the means. The prince (as soon as the protector left that name, and took himself as king) had it shown unto him that he should not reign, but his uncle should have the crown. At which word the prince, sore abashed, began to sigh, and said, " Alas ! I would my uncle would let me have my life yet, though I lose my kingdom." Then he that told him the tale used him with good words, and put him in the best comfort he could. But forthwith was the prince and his brother both shut up, and all other removed from them, only one (called Black Will, or William Slaugh- ter) excepted, set to serve them and see them sure. After which time the prince never tied his points, nor ought rought (cared) of himself; but with that young babe his brother, lingered with thought and heaviness until this traitorous death delivered them of that wretchedness. For sir James Tirrell devised, that they should be murdered in their beds. To the exe- cution whereof he appointed Miles For- rest, one of the four that kept them, a fellow fleshed in murder beforetime. To him he joined one John Dighton, his own horsekeeper, a big, broad, square and strong knave. Then all the other being removed from them, this Miles Forrest and John Digh- ton, about midnight (the silly children lying in their beds) came into the cham- ber, and suddenly lapping them up among the clothes, so to bewrapped them and betangled them, keeping down by force the feather bed and pillows hard unto their mouths, that within a while, smo- thered and stifled, their breath failing, they gave up to God their innocent souls, into the joys of heaven, leaving to the tormentors their bodies dead in the bed. Which after that the wretches perceived, first by the struggling with the pains of death, and after long lying still, to be thoroughly dead, they laid their bodies- naked out upon the bed, and fetched sir James to see them ; which, upon the sight of them, caused those murderers to bury them at the stair foot, meetly deep in the ground, under a great heap of stones. Then rode sir James in great haste to king Richard, and showed him all the manner of the murder; who gave him great thanks, and (as some say) there made him knight. But he allowed not (as I have heard) the burying in so vile a corner, saying, that he would have them buried in a better place, because they were a king's sons. Lo, the honourable courage of a king. Whereupon they say, J that a priest of sir Robert Brakenberie's | took up the bodies again, and secretly in- terred them in such place, as by the occa- sion of his death, which only knew it, could never since come to light. Very truth is it, and well known, that at such time as sir James Tirrell was in the Tower, for treason committed against the most famous prince king Henry VII., both Dighton and he were examined, and confessed the murder in manner above written ; but whither the bodies were re- moved they coidd nothing tell. And thus (as I have learned of them that much knew, and little cause had to lie) were these two noble princes, these innocent tender children, born of most royal blood, brought up in great wealth, likely long to live, reign and rule in the realm, by traitorous tyranny, taken, de- prived of their estate, shortly shut up in prison, and privily slain and murdered, their bodies cast God wot where, by the cruel ambition of their unnatural uncle and his despiteous tormentors. Which things on every part well pondered, God never gave this world a more notable ex- ample, neither in what unsurety standeth this worldly weal, or what mischief work- eth the proud enterprize of an high heart ; 112 RAPHAEL HOLINSHED. or finally, what wretched end ensueth such despiteous cruelty. For first, to begin with the ministers, Miles Forrest, at S. Martin's, piecemeal rotted away. Dighton indeed yet walk- eth on alive, in good possibility to be hanged ere he die. But sir James Tirrell died at the Tower Hill, beheaded for treason. King Richard himself, slain in the field, hacked and hewed of his ene- mies' hands, harried on horseback dead, his hair in despite torn and tugged like a cur dog ; and the mischief that he took, within less than three years of the mis- chief that he did ; and yet all (in the mean time) spent in much pain and trou- ble outward, much fear, anguish and sor- row within. For I have heard by credible report, of such as were secret with his chamberlain, that after this abominable deed done, he never had a quiet mind ; than the which there can be no greater torment. For a guilty conscience in- wardly accusing and bearing witness against an offender, is such a plague and punishment, as hell itself (with all the fiends therein) cannot afford one of greater horror and affliction; the poet implying no less in this tristichon — Poena autem vehemens, ac multo ssevior illis, Quas et Cceditius gravis invenit et Rhadamanthus, Nocte dieque suum gestarc in pectore testem. He never thought himself sure. Where he went abroad, his eyes whirled about, his body privily fenced, his hand ever upon his dagger, his countenance and manner like one always ready to strike again ; he took ill rest at nights, lay long waking and musing, sore wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered than slept, troubled with fearful dreams, sud- denly sometimes start up, leapt out of his bed and ran about the chamber ; so was his restless heart continually tossed and tumbled with the tedious impression and stormy remembrance of his abominable deed. Sir Thomas More. RAPHAEL HOLINSHED of whose life little or nothing is known with certainty, is said to have been born at Bosely in Cheshire about the year 1526, to have been steward to a gentleman in War- wickshire, and to have died about the year 1580. By the advice of Reginald Wolfe, printer to Queen Elizabeth, and assisted by other writers, he wrote Chronicles of England, from the days of Noah to the year 1577; of Ireland, from a little while before the flood, when it is said to have been discovered by a niece of Noah, down to the year 1509 ; and of Scotland, from the age of Moses to the year 1571 : all these chronicles were continued by others to the year 1586. They are compiled chiefly from earlier chronicles, are written in an artless manner, and are very amusing. The latter part of the chronicles of England, which treats of the times near to and in which Holinshed lived, contains much curious information as to the manners and customs of our forefathers. THE MURDER OF EDWARD II. 1327. But now to make an end of the. life, as well as of the reign, of king Edward II., I find that, after he was deposed of his kingly honour and title, he remained for a time at Killingworth, in custody of the earl of Leicester. But within a while the queen was informed by the bishop of Hereford (whose hatred towards him had no end), that the earl of Leicester favoured her husband too much, and more than stood with the surety of her son's state, whereupon he was appointed to the keep- ing of two other lords, Thomas Berkley and John Matrevers, who, receiving him of the earl of Leicester the 3rd of April, conveyed him from Killingworth unto the castle of Berkley, situate not far off from the river of Severne, almost the midway between Gloucester and Bristow. But for so much as the lord Berkley HISTORY. 113 used him more courteously than his ad- versaries wished him to do, he was dis- charged of that office, and sir Thomas Gourney appointed in his stead, who, to- gether with the lord Matrevers, conveyed him secretly (for fear lest he should be taken from them by force) from one strong place to another, as to the castle of Corfe, and such like, still removing with him in the night season, till at length they thought it should not be known whither they had conveyed him. And so at length they brought him back again in secret manner unto the castle of Berkley, where, whilst he remained (as some write), the queen would send unto him courteous and loving letters, with apparel and other such things, but she would not once come near to visit him, bearing him in hand that she durst not, for fear of the people's dis- pleasure, who hated him so extremely. Howbeit, she with the rest of her con- federates had (no doubt) laid the plot of their devise for his dispatch, though by painted words she pretended a kind of remorse to him in this his distress, and would seem to be faultless in the sight of the world ; for Proditor illudit verbis dum verbera cu Jit. But as he thus continued in prison, elosely kept, so that none of his friends might have access unto him, as in such cases it often happeneth, when men be in misery, some will ever pity their state, there w r ere divers of the nobility (of whorn the earl of Kent was chief) began to de- vise means, by secret conference had to- gether, how they might restore him to liberty, discommending greatly both queen Isabell and such others as were appointed governors to the young king, for his father's strict imprisonment. The queen and other the governors understanding this conspiracy of the earl of Kent, and of his brother, durst not yet, in that new 7 and green world, go about to punish it, but rather thought good to take away from them the occasion of accomplishing their purpose. And hereupon the queen and the bishop of Hei-eford w r rote sharp letters unto his keepers, blaming them greatly, for that they dealt so gently with him, and kept him no stricter, but suf- fered him to have such liberty, that he advertized some of his friends abroad how and in what manner he was used ; and withal the bishop of Hereford, under a sophistical form of words, signified to them by his letters, that they should dispatch him out of the way, the tenor whereof wrapt in obscurity ran thus : — Edwardum occidere nolite timere bonum est ; To kill Edward will not to fear it is good. Which riddle or doubtful kind of speech, as it might be taken in two contrary senses, only by placing the point in orthography called comma, they construed in the worse sense, putting the comma after timere ; and so presuming of this commandment as they took it from the bishop, they lodged the miserable prisoner in a cham- ber over a foul filthy dungeon, full of dead carrion, trusting so to make an end of him with the abominable stench thereof; but he bearing it out strongly, as a man of a tough nature, continued still in life, so as it seemed he was very like to escape that danger, as he had by purging either up or down avoided the force of such poison as had been ministered to him sundry times before, of purpose so to rid him. Whereupon, when they saw that such practices would not serve their turn, they came suddenly one night into the chamber where he lay in bed fast asleep, and with heavy feather beds or a table (as some w r rite) being cast upon him, they kept him down and thrust into his body an hot spit, or (as others have) a plumber's instrument of iron made very hot, the which passing into his entrails, and being rolled to and fro, burnt the same, but so as no appearance of any w T ound or hurt outwardly might be once perceived. His cry did move many within the castle and town of Berkley to compassion, plainly hearing him utter a wailful noise, as the tormentors were about to murder him, so that divers being awakened therewith (as they themselves confessed), prayed heartily to God to receive his soul, when they un- derstood by his cry what the matter meant. The queen, the bishop, and others, that their tyranny might be hid, outlawed and banished the lord Matrevers and Thomas Gourney, who flying unto Marcels, three years after being known, taken and brought toward England, was beheaded on the sea, lest he should accuse the chief doers, as the bishop and other. John Matrevers, repenting himself, lay long hidden in Germany, and in the end died penitently. Thus w T as king Edward mur- dered, in the year 1327, on the 22nd of September. The fame went that, by this Edward II., after his death manv miracles 114 RICHARD KNOLLES. were wrought. So that the like opinion of him was conceived as before had been of earl Thomas of Lancaster, namely, amongst the common people. He was known to be of a good and courteous nature, though not of most pregnant wit. And albeit in his youth he fell into certain light crimes ; and after, by the company and counsel of evil men, was induced unto more heinous vices, yet was it thought that he purged the same by repentance, and patiently suffered many reproofs, and finally death itself (as before ye have heard) after a most cruel manner. He had surely good cause to repent his former trade of living, for by his indis- creet and wanton misgovernance, there were headed and put to death during his reign (by judgment of law) to the number of 28 barons and knights, over and beside such as were slain in Scotland by his unfortunate conduct. All these mischiefs and many more happened not only to him but also to the whole state of the realm, in that he wanted judgment and prudent discretion to make choice of sage and discreet coun- sellors, receiving those into his favour that abused the same to their private gain and advantage, not respecting the ad- vancement of the commonwealth, so they themselves might attain to riches and honour, for which they only sought, in- somuch that by their covetous rapine, spoil and immoderate ambition, the hearts of the common people and nobility were quite estranged from the dutiful love and obedience which they ought to have shown to their sovereign, going about by force to wrest him to follow their wills, and to seek the destruction of them whom he commonly favoured, wherein surely they were worthy of blame, and to taste (as many of them did) the deserved punish- ment for their disobedient and disloyal demeanors. For it was not the way which they took to help the disfigured state of the commonwealth, but rather the ready means to overthrow all, as if God's goodness had not been the greater it must needs have come to pass, as to those that shall well consider the pitiful tragedy of this king's time it may well appear. Raphael Holinshed. RICHARD KNOLLES the author of the History of the Turks, was born in Northamptonshire about 1544, and educated at Oxford, where he was admitted about 1560. He was master of the Free Grammar School at Sandwich in Kent, and died and was buried there in 1610. The History of the Turks occupied him for twelve years, and was first printed in 1610, the year of his death. Dr. Johnson, comparing Knolles with other English historians, after expressly naming Sir Walter Raleigh and Clarendon, says, " None of our writers can in my opinion justly contest the superiority of Knolles, who in his History of the Turks has displayed all the excellencies that narration can admit. His style, though somewhat obscured by time, and sometimes vitiated by false wit, is pure, nervous, elevated and clear. A wonderful multiplicity of events is so artfully arranged and so distinctly explained, that each facilitates the knowledge of the next. Whenever a new personage is introduced, the reader is prepared by his character for his actions ; when a nation is first attacked or city besieged, he is made acquainted with its history or situation ; so that a great part of the world is brought into view. The descriptions of the author are without minuteness, and the digressions without ostentation. Collateral events are so artfully woven into the contexture of his prin- cipal story, that they cannot be disjoined without leaving it lacerated and broken. There is nothing turgid in his dignity nor superfluous in his copiousness. His ora- tions only, which he feigns, like the ancient historians, to have been pronounced on remarkable occasions, are tedious and languid." The best continuation of Knolles' history is by Sir Paul Rycaut. HISTORY. 115 THE MURDER OF MUSTAPHA BY HIS FATHER, SOLYMAN THE MAGNIFICENT, 1553. The year following, which was the year 1553, Solyman raised a great army, giving it out, that the Persians had with greater power than before invaded Syria, and therefore he, for the love of his country and defence of his empire, was deter- mined to go thither with his army and in person himself to repress the attempts of his enemies. Wherefore the army being assembled, and all things necessary or- derly provided, he commanded to set for- ward, and in few days after followed himself, who coming at length into Syria, presently by trusty messengers com- manded Mustapha to come unto him at Aleppo, for there he lay encamped. And yet for all these shadows, the matter was not so closely by Solyman conveyed (al- though he was exceeding careful thereof), but that his mortal and deadly hatred against his son was perceived by the Bassas and other great men about him ; insomuch that Achmat Bassa, by a secret and trusty messenger, gave him warning thereof, that so he might in time the better provide for the safeguard of his life. Neither could Mustapha himself but marvel that his aged father, without any apparent reason, should come so far with so great an army ; yet trusting to his own innocency, though wonderfully troubled and perplexed in mind, he resolved (al- though it were with the extreme danger of his life) to obey and yield to his father's command ; for he thought it more commendable atid honourable to incur the danger of death, than, living, to fall into the foul suspicion of disloyalty. In so great a perplexity of mind, after he had with himself much discoursed to and fro what course he were best to take, at length he boldly and resolutely asked the doctor, whom he had always with him in his court, whether the em- pire of the world or a blessed life were of man to be more desired ? To whom the doctor frankly answered, that the empire of the world, to him that would enter into the due consideration thereof, brought with it no felicity more than a vain show and outer appearance of good, nothing being more frail or uncertain than worldly honour, bringing with it fear, vexation of mind, tribulation, suspicion, murder, wrong, wickedness, spoil, ruin, and cap- tivity, with infinite mischiefs of like na- ture, not to be desired of him that would attain to true felicity, by which means the blessed life was to be lost and not gained. But they unto whom God had given the grace rightly to consider and weigh the fragility and shortness of this our estate (which the common sort deem- eth to be the only life), and to strive against the vanities of this world, and to embrace and follow an upright kind of life, had undoubtedly a place assigned for them in heaven, and prepared by the great God, where they should at length enjoy life and bliss eternal. This answer of the great doctor wonderfully satisfied the troubled mind of the young prince, fore- seeing as it were the approach of his own end, and so staying not any longer dis- course, forthwith set forwards towards his father, and making great haste, came at length to his father's camp, and not far off pitched his tents in the open field. But this his so hasty coming the more in- creased the suspicion in the mind of his wicked father ; neither spared Rustan in the meantime with his crafty and subtle devices to augment the same ; for by a sign given, he caused the Janizaries and chief men in the army to go, as if it had been for honour's sake, to meet Mus- tapha ; which they all without delay pre- sently did at his command, and so all to- gether set forward. In the meantime he, the most crafty varlet, with troubled coun- tenance (for he could notably dissemble), as a man half dismayed, came in haste into Solyman's pavilion, and falsely told him, that the Janizaries and almost all the best soldiers of the army were of themselves without leave gone to meet Mustapha, and that he feared what would ensue thereof; which news so troubled the old tyrant, that he became pale for fear, and going out of his tent and find- ing them gone, easily believed all to be true that the false Bassa had told him. Neither wanted Mustapha strange warn- ing of his end so near at hand, for the third day before his setting forwards to- ward his father, falling asleep in the even- ing, he thought he saw his prophet Ma- homet in bright apparel to take him by the hand and lead him into a most plea- sant place, beautified with most glorious and stately palaces, and most delicate and pleasant gardens ; and pointing to every- thing with his finger, to say thus unto him, Here rest they for ever, who in this world have led an upright and goodly life, 116 RICHARD KNOLLES. folloiving virtue and detesting vice ; and after that turning his face to the other side, to have showed him two great and swift rivers, whereof the one hoiled with water blacker than pitch, and iu them appeared (as he thought) numbers of men wallowing and tumbling, some up, some down, crying horribly for mercy; and there (said he) are punished all such as in this frail life have been malicious workers of iniquity ; the chief of whom (as he said) were emperors, kings, princes, and other great men of the world. Mus- tapha awaking, and troubled with this melancholy dream, called unto him his doctor, and having told him all the mat- ter, asked him what the same might sig- nify ? who, standing a great while in a muse (for the Mahometans are exceed- ing superstitious, attributing much to dreams), full of sorrow and grief, at length answered, that this vision (for so it pleased him to term it) was undoubtedly to be feared, as presaging unto him the extreme peril of his life, and therefore requested him to have great care both of his life and honour. But Mustapha, as he was of a notable spirit and courage, regarding no- thing that answer, stoutly replied, " What, shall I suffer myself to be terrified and overcome with childish and vain fear ? Why rather haste I not courageously and resolutely to my father ? And so much the more boldly, because I know assuredly I have always (as reason was) reverenced his majesty, that against his will I never turned mine eyes or foot against his most royal seat, much less affected his empire, except the most high God had called him to a better life ; neither then without the general good liking and choice of the whole army, that so I might at length without murder, without blood, without tyranny, well and justly reign, and in love and peace inviolate live with my brethren ; for I have set down with myself, and chosen, if it be my father's pleasure so, rather to die in his obedience, than, reign- ing many years, to be reputed of all men, especially my competitors, a rebel or traitor." Having thus said, he came into his father's camp, and pitching his tents (as we have before said), suited himself all in white in token of his innocency, and writing certain letters (which the Turks, when they are about to go to any place of danger, use to write and always to carry with them, for they are wonderful foolish in their superstition), and putting them in his bosom, attended upon with a few of his most trusty followers, came with great reverence towards the tent of his father, fully resolving to have kissed his hand, as their usual manner is. But when he was come to the entoance of the tent, remembering that he had yet his dagger girt to him, he entered not in until he had put it off, because he would not come into his father's sight with any weapon, if happily so he might clear him- self of his father's needless suspicion. So when he was come into the more inward rooms of the tent, he was, with such honour as belonged to his state, cheer- fully received by his father's eunuchs. But seeing nothing else provided but one seat whereon to sit himself alone, he, per- plexed in mind, stood still a while musing ; at length asked where the emperor his father was ? Whereunto they answered, that he should by and by see him ; and with that, casting his eye aside, he saw seven mutes (these are strong men bereft of their speech, whom the Turkish tyrants have always in readiness, the more secretly to execute their bloody butchery) coming from the other side of the tent towards him; at whose sight, strucken with a sudden terror, said no more but " Lo, my death ;" and with that, arising, was about to have fled, but in vain, for he was caught hold on by the eunuchs and mutes, and by force drawn to the place appointed for his death ; where, without further stay, the mutes cast a bow-string about his neck, he, poor wretch, still striving, and requesting that he might speak but two words to his father before he died. All which the murtherer (for no addition is sufficient significally to express his un- natural villany) both heard and saw by a traverse from the other side of the tent, but was so far from being moved with com- passion, that, thinking it long till he were dispatched, with a most terrible and cruel voice he rated the villains inured to blood, saying, " Will you never dispatch that I bid you? Will you never make an end of this traitor, for whom I have not rested one night these ten years in quiet?" Which horrible commanding speeches, yet thundering in their ears, those butcherly mutes threw the poor innocent prince upon the ground, and with the help of the eunuchs forcibly drawing the knotted bow-string both ways, by the command- ment of a most wicked father, strangled him. This unnatural and strange murder com- mitted, he presently commanded the bassa HISTORY. in of Amasia, Mustapha's lieutenant, to be apprehended, and his head, in his own presence, to be struck off. Which done, he sent for Tzihanger the Crooked, yet ignorant of all that was happened ; and in sporting wise, as if he had dor> a a thing worth commendation, bid him go meet his brother Mustapha ; which thing Tzi- hanger with a merry and cheerful coun- tenance hasted to do, as one glad of his brother's coming. But as soon as he came unto the place where he saw his brother lying dead upon the ground strangled, it is not to be spoken how he was in mind tormented. He was scarcely come to the place where this detestable murther was committed, when his father sent unto him certain of his servants to offer unto him all Mustapha's treasure, horses, sen-ants, jewels, tents, and withal, the government of the province of Ama- sia ; but Tzihanger, filled with extreme heaviness for the unmerciful death of his well-beloved brother, spake unto them in this sort : " A wicked and an ungodly Cain, traitor (I may not say father), take thou now the treasures, the horses, the servants, the jewels, and the province of Mustapha. How came it into thy wicked, cruel, and savage breast, so ungraciously and contrary to all humanity, I will not say the reverence of thine own blood, to kill thy worthy, warlike, and noble son, the Mirror of Courtesie, and prince of greatest hope, the like of whom the Otho- man family never yet had, nor never shall? I will therefore myself provide that thou, nor none for thee shall ever hereafter in such sort shamefully triumph over a poor crooked wretch." And having thus much said, stabbed himself with his own dag- ger into the body, whereof he in short time died; which, so soon as it came to the old Tiger's ears, it is hard to say how much he grieved. His dead body was by his father's commandment carried from Aleppo in Syria to Constantinople, and afterwards honourably buried on the other side of the Haven at Pera. For all this bloody tragedy, his covetous mind was not so troubled, but that he could forthwith command all Mustapha's treasures and riches to be brought to Ms tent ; which his soldiers, in hope to have the same given among them for a prey, willingly hasted to perform. Richard Knolles. EDWARD HYDE, EARL OF CLARENDON was born on the 18th of February 1608, at Dinton in Wiltshire, and was sent, at the age of thirteen, to Magdalen Hall, Oxford. In 1625 he became a law-student at the Middle Temple, and afterwards practised as a barrister, and w r as patronised by archbishop Laud. In April 1640 he was elected member of parliament for Wootton Basset, and during that short parliament which lasted from the 13th of April to the 5th of May, he opposed the Court, and was a zealous advocate for the redress of grievances. In the Long Parliament, which met in November 1640, he was member for Saltash, and for some time continued to act with the popular party. It is cer- tain that he did not vote against the attainder of lord Strafford, and probable that he voted for it, because, on the 27th of April 1641, a week after the bill of attainder had passed through the House of Commons, he carried up a message to the Lords, that the Commons had received information which made them fear that lord Straf- ford had a design to escape, and desired that he might be kept a close prisoner. He first differed with his party on the bill for taking away the right of the bishops to sit in the House of Lords, which he opposed ; and the king, before his journey to Scot- land, in August 1641, having desired to thank him for his affection to the church, they had a secret interview and discoursed on the means of defeating the threatened measure. Immediately before the king's return from Scotland, Hyde came to an open quarrel with Hampden and his party, in the violent debate on the 22nd of No- vember, when the Commons voted a remonstrance to the king ; and in the early part 118 LORD CLARENDON. of the following year he saw Charles often in secret, informed him, from time to time, of what was done in the House of Commons, and prepared the royal answers to the various addresses that were voted. This secret intercourse was at length sus- pected, and Hyde's arrest was at hand, when he fled to the king at York, in May 1642. In 1644, after the battle of Naseby, he was appointed one of a council to take charge of the prince of Wales, whom he conducted to Jersey. In 1648 the prince quitted Jersey, and Hyde remaining there, began to write his History of the Rebel- lion. In the same year, shortly before the king's execution, Hyde also left Jersey, and from that time until the Restoration in 1660, followed the fortunes of Charles II. abroad. At the Restoration he was made lord chancellor, raised to the peerage by the title of baron Hyde, and elected chancellor of the University of Oxford ; and in 1661 he was created earl of Clarendon. On the 3rd of September 1660, his daughter Anne was secretly married to the duke of York, afterwards James II., and by this marriage two of lord Clarendon's grand-children, Mary and Anne, became successively queens of England. In 1662 he advised the sale of Dunkirk to Louis XIV. ; and in 1667, when he had lost the king's favour, was impeached of treason for that act among others, and retired to France, where he finished his History of the Rebellion, and died at Rouen on the 9th of December 1674. Lord Clarendon's History begins with a review of the state of England from 1625, when Charles I. ascended the throne, until 1633, and proceeds to detail the great events which followed down to the 29th of May 1660, when Charles II. entered London. This history is of the kind called memoirs, the authors of which do not relate events according to their relative importance, but dwell wholly, or mostly, upon those things in which they themselves were actors. Lord Clarendon is not an impartial historian — it was hardly possible that he should be — and he avows that he began to write lest the memory of the Royalists might lose the recompense due to their virtue, and not find a vindication in a better age. He is often inaccurate as to facts ; and although he has the honesty to admit faults on the king's side, and to allow some excuse for his enemies, yet he does this doubtfully, halting between two opinions, as if he feared to disparage the royal party. His style is involved, and he is sometimes tedious, but generally he writes with the earnest eloquence of a man feeling strongly what he tells, and in portraying characters he has no equal. THE CHARACTER OF JOHN HAMPDEN. He was a gentleman of a good family in Buckinghamshire, and born to a fair for- tune, and of a most civil and affable de- portment. In his entrance into the world he indulged to himself all the license in sports and exercises, and company, which were used by men of the most jolly con- versation. Afterwards he retired to a more reserved and melancholy society, yet preserving his own natural cheerful- ness and vivacity, and above all, a flowing courtesy to all men ; though they who conversed nearly with him, found him growing into a dislike of the ecclesiastical government of the church, yet most be- lieved it rather a dislike of some church- men, and of some introducements of theirs, which he apprehended might disquiet the public peace. He was rather of reputa- tion in his own country than of public discourse, or fame in the kingdom, before the business of ship-money ; but then he grew the argument of all tongues, even- man inquiring who and what he was, that durst, at his own charge, support the li- berty and property of the kingdom, and rescue his country, as he thought, from being made a prey to the court. His car- riage throughout this agitation was with that rare temper and modesty, that they who watched him narrowly to find some advantage against his person, to make him less resolute in his cause, were compelled to give him a just testimony. And the judgment that was given against him in- HISTORY. 119 finitely more advanced him, than the ser- vice for which it was given. When this parliament begun (being returned knight of the shire for the county where he lived), the eyes of all men were fixed upon him as their Patrice Pater, and the pilot that must steer the vessel through the tempests and rocks which threatened it. And I am persuaded his power and interest, at that time, was greater to do good or hurt than any man's in the kingdom, or than any man of his rank bath had in any time; for his reputation of honesty was univer- sal, and his affections seemed so publicly guided, that no corrupt or private ends could bias them. He was of that rare affability and tem- per in debate, and of that seeming humi- lity and submission of judgment, as if he brought no opinion of his own with him, but a desire of information and instruc- tion ; yet he had so subtle a way of in- terrogating, and, under the notion of doubts, insinuating his objections, that be infused his own opinions into tbose from whom he pretended to learn and receive them. And even with them wbo were able to preserve themselves from his in- fusions, and discerned those opinions to be fixed in him, with which they could not comply, he always left the character of an ingenious and conscientious person. He was indeed a very wise man and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute spirit of popularity, and the most absolute faculties to govern the people, of any man I ever knew. For the first year of the parliament he seemed rather to mo- derate and soften the violent and distem- pered humours than to inflame them. But wise and dispassioned men plainly dis- cerned that that moderation proceeded from prudence, and observation that the season was not ripe, rather than that he approved of the moderation ; and that he begot many opinions and motions, the education whereof he committed to other men ; so far disguising his own designs, that he seemed seldom to wish more than was concluded ; and in many gross con- clusions which would hereafter contribute to designs not yet set on foot, when he found them sufficiently backed by majo- rity of voices, he would withdraw himself before the question, that he might seem not to consent to so much visible unrea- sonableness, which produced as great a doubt in some as it did approbation in others, of his integrity. What combi- nation soever had been originally with the Scots for the invasion of England, and what farther was entered into afterwards in favour of them, and to advance any alteration of the government in parlia- ment, no man doubts was at least with the privity of this gentleman. After he was, among those members, accused by the king of high treason, he was much altered ; his nature and car- riage seeming much fiercer than it did be- fore. And without question, when he first drew his sword, he threw away the scabbard ; for he passionately opposed the overture made by the king for a treaty from Nottingham, and as eminently all expedients that might have produced any accommodations in this that was at Ox- ford; and was principally relied on, to prevent any infusions which might be made into the earl of Essex towards peace, or to render them ineffectual if they were made ; and was indeed much more relied on by that party than the General himself. In the first entrance into the troubles, he undertook the command of a regiment of foot, and performed the duty of a colonel, upon all occasions, most punctually. He was very temperate in diet, and a supreme governor over all his passions and affec- tions, and had thereby a great power over other men's. He was of an industiy and vigilance not to be tired out, or wearied by the most laborious ; and of parts not to be imposed upon by the most subtle or sharp ; and of a personal courage equal to his best parts ; so that he was an enemy not to be wished wherever he might have been made a friend ; and as much to be apprehended where he was so, as any man could deserve to be; and therefore his death was no less pleasing to the one party than it was condoled in the other. Lord Clarendon. THE CHARACTER OF LUCIUS, VISCOUNT FALKLAND. If the celebrating the memory of emi- nent and extraordinary persons, and trans- mitting their great virtues, for the imita- tion of posterity, be one of the principal ends and duties of history, it will not be thought impertinent in this place to re- member a loss which no time will suffer to be forgotten, and no success or good fortune could repair. In this unhappy battle (of Newbury) was slain the lord viscount Falkland ; a person of such pro- .20 LORD CLARENDON. digious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war than that single loss, it must be most in- famous and execrable to all posterity. Turpe mori, post te, solo non posse dolore. Before this parliament his condition of life was so happy that it was hardly capa- ble of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without pass- ing through his father or mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord deputy ; so that when he return- ed into England to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any ac- quaintance or friends which usually grow up by the custom of conversation ; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company, which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures and their undoubted affec- tion to him, that his familiarity and friend- ship, for the most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of inte- grity; and such men had a title to his bosom. He was a great cherisher of wit and fancy, and good parts in any man ; and if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune ; of which, in those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that end. And therefore having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians. In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite and accurate men of that university, who found such an immense- ness of wit and such a solidity of judg- ment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in anything, yet such an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they fre- quently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in a less volume ; whither they came not so much for repose as study ; and to examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and consent made current in vul- gar conversation. Many attempts were made upon him by the instigation of his mother (who w T as a lady of another persuasion in religion and of a most masculine understanding, al- layed with the passion and infirmities of her own sex) to pervert him in his piety to the church of England, and to reconcile him to that of Rome, which they prose- cuted with the more confidence, because he declined no opportunity or occasion of conference with those of that religion, whether priests or laics ; having diligently studied the controversies, and exactly read all, or the choicest of the Greek and Latin fathers, and having a memory so stupen- dous, that he remembered on all occa- sions whatsoever he read. And he was so great an enemy to that passion and un- charitableness, which he saw produced by difference of opinion in matters of reli- gion, that in all those disputations with priests and others of the Roman church, he affected to manifest all possible civility to their persons, and estimation of their parts, which made them retain still some hope of his reduction, even when they had given over offering farther reasons to him to that purpose. But this charity towards them was much lessened, and any corre- spondence with them quite declined, when, by sinister arts, they had corrupted his two younger brothers, being both children, and stolen them from his house, and trans- ported them beyond seas, and perverted his sisters : upon which occasion he writ two large discourses against the principal positions of that religion, with that sharp- ness of style and full weight of reason that the church is deprived of great jewels in HISTORY. 121 the concealment of them, and that they are not published to the world. He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men ; and that made him too much a contemner of those arts which must be indulged in the transactions of human affairs. In the last short parlia- ment he was a burgess in the House of Commons, and from the debates which were there managed with all imaginable gravity and sobriety, he contracted such a reverence to parliaments that he thought it really impossible they could ever pro- duce mischief or inconvenience to the kingdom, or that the kingdom could be tolerably happy in the intermission of them. And from the unhappy and un- seasonable dissolution of that convention, he harboured, it may be, some jealousy and prejudice to the court, towards which he was not before immoderately inclined ; his father having wasted a full fortune there, in those offices and employments by which other men use to obtain a greater. He was chosen again this parliament to serve in the same place, and in the begin- ning of it declared himself very sharply and severely against those exorbitances which had been most grievous to the state; for he was so rigid an observer of esta- blished laws and rules, that he could not endure the least breach or deviation from them ; and thought no mischief so into- lerable as the presumption of ministers of state to break positive rules for reasons of state ; or judges to transgress known laws upon the title of conveniency or ne- cessity, which made him so severe against the earl of Strafford and the lord Finch, contrary to his natural gentleness and temper ; insomuch as they who did not know his composition to be as free from revenge as it was from pride, thought that the sharpness to the former might pro- ceed from the memory of some unkind- nesses, not without a mixture of injustice from him towards his father. But with- out doubt he was free from those temp- tations, and in both cases was only mis- led by the authority of those who, he be- lieved, understood the laws perfectly, of which himself was utterly ignorant ; and if the assumption, which was then scarce controverted, had been true, " that an en- deavour to overthrow the fundamental laws of the kingdom was treason," a strict understanding might make reasonable conclusions to satisfy his own judgment from the exorbitant parts of their several charges. The great opinion he had of the up- rightness and integrity of those persons who appeared most active, especially of Mr. Hampden, kept him longer from sus- pecting any design against the peace of the kingdom, and though he differed from them commonly in conclusions, he be- lieved long their purposes were honest. When he grew better informed what was law, and discerned in them a desire to control that law by a vote of one or both houses, no man more opposed those at- tempts, and gave the adverse party more trouble by reason and argumentation ; in- somuch as he was, by degrees, looked upon as an advocate for the court, to which he contributed so little, that he de- clined those addresses, and even those ini vitations which he was obliged almost by civility to entertain. And he was so jealous of the least imagination that he should incline to preferment, that he af- fected even a moroseness to the court and to the courtiers, and left nothing undone which might prevent and divert the king's or queen's favour towards him, but the deserving it. For when the king sent for him once or twice to speak with him, and to give him thanks for his excellent com- portment in those councils, which his majesty graciously termed " doing him service," his answers were more negli- gent and less satisfactory than might be expected ; as if he cared only that his ac- tions should be just, not that they should be acceptable, and that his majesty should think they proceeded only from the im- pulsion of conscience, without any sym- pathy in his affections ; which, from a stoical and sullen nature, might not have been misinterpreted ; yet, from a person of so perfect a habit of generous and ob- sequious compliance with all good men, might very well have been interpreted by the king as more than an ordinary averse- ness to his service : so that he took more pains, and more forced his nature to ac- tions unagreeable and unpleasant to it, that he might not be thought to incline to the court, than most men have done to procure an office there. And if any- thing but not doing his duty could have kept him from receiving a testimony of the king's grace and trust at that time, he had not been called to his council ; not that he was in truth averse from receiving I public employment, for he had a great j 122 LORD CLARENDON. devotion to the king's person, and had before used some small endeavour to be recommended to him for a foreign nego- tiation, and had once a desire to be sent ambassador into France ; but be abborred an imagination or doubt should sink into the thoughts of any man, that, in the dis- charge of his trust and duty in parlia- ment, he had any bias to the court, or that the king himself should apprehend that he looked for a reward for being honest. For this reason, when he heard it first whispered "that the king had a pur- pose to make him a privy counsellor," for which there was, in the beginning, no other ground but because he was known sufficient (hand semper erratfama, aliquando et eligit), he resolved to decline it ; and at last suffered himself only to be overruled by the advice and persuasions of his friends, to submit to it. After- wards, when he found that the king in- tended to make him secretary of state, he was positive to refuse it ; declaring to his friends " that he was most unfit for it, and that he must either do that which would be great disquiet to his own nature, or leave that undone which was most neces- sary to be done by one that was honoured with that place ; for the most just and honest men did every day that which he could not give himself leave to do." And indeed he was so exact and strict an ob- server of justice and truth, that he be- lieved those necessary condescensions and applications to the weakness of other men, and those arts and insinuations which are necessary for discoveries and prevention of ill, would be in him a de- clension from his own rules of life : though he acknowledged them fit and absolutely necessary to be practised in those employments. He was, in truth, so precise in the practic principles he prescribed himself (to all others he was as indulgent), as if he had lived in Republica Platonis, non in face Romuli. Two reasons prevailed with him to re- ceive the seals, and but for those he had resolutely avoided them. The first, the consideration that his refusal might bring some blemish upon the king's affairs, and that men would have believed that he had refused so great an honour and trust, because he must have been with it obliged to do somewhat else not justifiable. And this he made matter of conscience, since he knew the king made choice of him before other men, especially because he thought him more honest than other men. The other was, lest he might be thought to avoid it out of fear to do an ungracious thing to the House of Com- mons, who were sorely troubled at the displacing sir Harry Vane, whom they looked upon as removed for having done them those offices they stood in need of ; and the disdain of so popular an incum- brance wrought upon him next to the other. For as he had a full appetite of fame by just and generous actions, so he had an equal contempt of it by any ser- vile expedients : and he so much the more consented to and approved the justice upon sir Harry Vane, in his own private judg- ment, by how much he surpassed most men in the religious observation of a trust, the violation whereof he would not admit of any excuse for. For these reasons he submitted to the king's command, and became his secre- tary, with as humble and devoted an ac- knowledgment of the greatness of the obligation as could be expressed, and as true a sense of it in bis heart. Yet two things he could never bring himself to whilst he continued in that office, that was to his death ; for which he was con- tented to be reproached as for omissions in a most necessary part of his place. The one, employing of spies or giving any countenance or entertainment to them. I do not mean such emissaries as with danger would venture to view the enemy's camp and bring intelligence of then* num- ber, or quartering, or any particulars that such an observation can comprehend ; but those who, by communication of guilt, or dissimulation of manners, wind them- selves into such trusts and secrets as enable them to make discoveries. The other, the liberty of opening letters, upon a suspicion that they might contain matter of dangerous consequence. For the first, he would say, " Such instruments must be void of all ingenuity and common ho- nesty, before they could be of use ; and afterwards they could never be fit to be credited : and that no single preservation could be worth so general a wound and corruption of human society, as the che- rishing such persons would carry with it." The last he thought " such a violation of the law of nature, that no qualification by office could justify him in the trespass ;" and though he was convinced by the ne- cessity and iniquity of the time that those advantages of information were not to be declined, and were necessarily to be prac- HISTORY. 123 tised, he found means to put it off from himself; whilst he confessed he needed excuse and pardon for the omission ; so unwilling he was to resign any part of good nature to an obligation in his office. In all other particulars he filled his place with great sufficiency, being well versed in languages, to understand any that are used in business, and to make himself again understood. To speak of his integrity, and his high disdain of any bait that might seem to look towards Corruption, in tanto viro, injuria virtutum /merit. Some sharp expressions he used \ against the archbishop of Canterbury, and his concurring in the first bill to take away the votes of bishops in the House of Peers, gave occasion to some to believe, and opportunity to others to conclude and pub- , lish " that he was no friend to the church, and the established government of it ;" j and troubled his very friends much, who ' were more confident of the contrary than J prepared to answer the allegations. The truth is, he had unhappily con- j tracted some prejudice to the archbishop, and having observed his passion, when, it may be, multiplicity of business, or rather indisposition, had possessed him, did wish him less entangled and engaged in the business of the court or state : though I speak it knowingly, he had a singular esti- : mation and reverence of his great learn- ing and confessed integrity ; and really thought his own letting himself loose to those expressions which implied a dis- I esteem of the archbishop, or at least an acknowledgment of his infirmities, would enable him to shelter him from part of j the storm he saw raised for his destruc- j tion ; which he abominated with his soul, i The giving his consent to the first bill ; for the displacing the bishops did proceed from two grounds : the first, his not un- derstanding then the original of their j right and suffrage there ; the other, an j opinion that the combination against the j whole government of the church by bi- ; shops, was so violent and furious, that a ! less composition than the dispensing with their intermeddling in secular affairs, would not preserve the order. And he j was persuaded to this by the profession of many persons of honour, who declared j they did desire the one, and would not then press the other;" which, in that | particular, misled many men. But when j his observation and experience made him discern more of their intentions than he before suspected, with great frankness he | opposed the second bill that was preferred for that purpose ; and had, without scru- ple, the order itself in perfect reverence, and thought too great encouragement could not possibly be given to learning, nor too great rewards to learned men. ; He was never in the least degree swayed or moved by the objections which were made against that government in the church (holding them most ridiculous), J or affected to the other, which those men [ fancied to themselves. He had a courage of the most clear j and keen temper, and so far from fear, that he seemed not without some appe- tite of danger; and therefore upon any occasion of action he always engaged his person in those troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most like to be furthest engaged ; and in all such encounters he had about him an extraordinary cheerfulness, with- out at all affecting the execution that usually attended them, in which he took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made ne- cessary ; insomuch that at Edgehill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away : so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of cu- riosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet in his natural inclination he acknow- ledged he was addicted to the profession of a soldier ; and shortly after he came to his fortune, before he was of age, he went into the Low Countries with a resolution of procuring command, and to give him- self up to it, from which he was diverted by the complete inactivity of that sum- mer: so he returned into England and shortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned before, till the first alarm from the north ; then again he made ready for the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a voluuteer with the earl of Essex. From the entrance into this unnatural war his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and I dejection of spirit stole upon him which j he had never been used to ; yet being one | of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there i G 2 124 LORD CLARENDON. would be so great a victory on one side that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor, (which supposition and conclusion gene- rally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of,) he resisted those indispo- sitions, et in luctu, helium inter remedia erat. But after the king's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness ; and he, who had been so exactly easy and affable to all men, that his face and countenance was always present and vacant to his com- pany, and held any cloudiness and less pleasantness of the visage a kind of rude- ness or incivility, became on a sudden less communicable ; and thence very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but too negligent ; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men (strangers to his nature and disposition) who believed him proud and imperious, from which no mortal man was ever more free. It is true, that as he was of a most incomparable gentleness, application, and even submission to good, and worthy, and entire men, so he was naturally (which could not but be more evident in his place, which objected him to another con- versation and intermixture, than his own election would have done) adversus malos injucundus ; and was so ill a dissembler of his dislike and disinclination to ill men, that it was not possible for such not to discern it. There was once, in the House of Commons, such a declared acceptation of the good service an eminent member had done to them, and, as they said, to the whole kingdom, that it was moved, he being present, "that the speaker might, in the name of the whole house, give him thanks ; and then, that every member might, as a testimony of his particular acknowledgment, stir or move his hat towards him;" the which (though not ordered) when very many did, the lord Falkland (who believed the service itself not to be of that moment, and that an honourable and generous person could not have stooped to it foranyrecompence), instead of moving his hat, stretched both his arms out, and clasped his hands to- gether upon the crown of his hat, and held it close down to his head, that all men might see how odious that flattery was to him, and the very approbation of the person, though at that time most popular. When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it ; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad ac- cent, ingeminate the word peace, peace, and would passionately profess, " that the very agony of the war and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, " that he was so much enamoured on peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon con- science or honour, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either. And yet this senseless scandal made some impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse of the daringness of his spirit ; for at the leaguer before Gloucester, when his friend pas- sionately reprehended him for exposing his person unnecessarily to danger (for he delighted to visit the trenches and nearest approaches, and to discover what the enemy did), as being so much beside the duty of his place, that it might be under- stood rather to be against it, he would say merrily, "that his office could not take away the privilege of his age ; and that a secretary in war might be present at the greatest secret of danger ;" but withal alleged seriously, "that it con- cerned him to be more active in enter- prises of hazard than other men, that all might see that his impatiency for peace proceeded not from pusillanimity or fear to adventure his own person." In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the HISTORY. 125 hedges on both sides with musketeers ; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next morning ; till when there was some hope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four and thirtieth year of his age, having so much dispatched the true bu- siness of life, that the eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with more innocency : whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. Lord Clarendon. DAVID HUME was born at Edinburgh, on the 26th of April 1711, and was educated at the Uni- versity there. His family wished him to study the law, but he devoted himself to literature. In 1734 he was sent to Bristol to learn the arts of commerce which pleased him no better than those of law, so he went over to France with a view of prosecuting his studies in quiet, and, having but a very small fortune, lived abroad, with rigid frugality, for three years. In 1737 he came to London, and from that year until 1751 when he removed to Edinburgh, he was sometimes in England, but for the most part at his brother's country-house in Scotland, with the exception of the years 1746 and 1747, during which he was employed as military secretary to general St. Clair in an incursion on the coast of France, and upon an embassy to Vienna and Turin. These appointments, and great frugality made him reach a fortune which he called independence ; he was master of near a thousand pounds. In 1752 the Faculty of Advocates at Edinburgh chose him as their librarian, an office which gave him the command of a large library. He then formed the plan of writing the History of England, and began with the accession of the house of Stuart. When the book was published, it was, as he says, assailed by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation, and then seemed to sink into oblivion. He completed his history, as we now have it, in the year 1761. In 1763 he accompanied lord Hertford on an embassy to Paris, was appointed secretary to the embassy, and loaded with civilities by the French people, being especially the darling of the ladies, who loved him, — not wisely — for his philosophy, in spite of his plain manners and broad unmeaning face. In 1767 he was under-secretary of state to marshal Conway, and finally retired to Edinburgh, in 1769, with a fortune of £1000 a-year. He died on the 25th of August 1776, and was buried on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh. Few men have caused so much evil by metaphysical speculation ; he adopted a false system of philosophy, from which, with great acuteness, he drew the most per- nicious conclusions, careless of the infinite mischief which might ensue, if his opinions happened to be false, as in fact they were. Yet he was an excellent man in his pri- vate character; frugal, but charitable and generous, gentle, but firm, and gay and good- humoured. He is considered to be one of the best models of style in our language. Gibbon confesses that when he read the English historians, having a hope that he might one day be enrolled among them, the careless inimitable beauties of Hume often forced him to close the volume with a mixed sensation of delight and despair. Hume's History is not to be implicitly relied on for accuracy or impartiality : he is often incorrect in fact, and prejudiced in opinion, especially where the house of Stuart is concerned. 126 DAVID HUME. CHARACTER OF EDWARD I. The enterprises finished hy this prince, and the projects which he formed and brought near to a conclusion, were more prudent, more regularly conducted, and more advantageous to the solid interests of his kingdom, than those which were undertaken in any reign, either of his ancestors or his successors. He restored authority to the government, disordered hy the weakness of his father ; he main- tained the laws against all the efforts of his turbulent barons ; he fully annexed to his crown the principality of Wales ; he took many wise and vigorous measures for reducing Scotland to a like condition; and though the equity of this latter en- terprise may reasonably be questioned, the circumstances of the two kingdoms promised such certain success, and the advantage was so visible in uniting the whole island under one head, that those who give great indulgence to reasons of state in the measures of princes, will not be apt to regard this part of his conduct with much severity. But Edward, how- ever exceptionable his character may ap- pear on the head of justice, is the model of a politic and warlike king: he pos- sessed industry, penetration, courage, vi- gilance aud enterprise ; he was frugal in all his expences that were not necessary ; he knew how to open the public treasures on a proper occasion ; he punished cri- minals with severity; he was gracious and affable to his servants and courtiers ; and being of a majestic figure, expert in all military exercises, and in the main well-proportioned in his limbs, notwith- standing the great length and the small- ness of his legs, he was as well qualified to captivate the populace by his exterior appearance, as to gain the approbation of men of sense by his more solid virtues. But the chief advantage which the people of England reaped, and still con- tinue to reap, from the reign of this great prince, was the correction, extension, amendment, and establishment of the laws, which Edward maintained in great vigour, and left much improved to pos- terity : for the acts of a wise legislator commonly remain, while the acquisitions of a conqueror often perish with him. This merit had justly gained to Edward the appellation of the English Justinian. Not only the numerous statutes passed in his reign touch the chief points of ju- risprudence, and according to sir Edward Coke, truly deserve the name of establish- ments, because they were more constant, standing and durable laws than any made since ; but the regular order maintained in his administration gave an opportunity to the common law to refine itself, and brought the judges to a certainty in their determinations, and the lawyers to a precision in their pleadings. Sir Matthew Hale has remarked the sudden improve- ment of English law during this reign; and ventures to assert, that till his own time it had never received any consider- able increase. Edward settled the juris- diction of the several courts ; first esta- blished the office of justice of peace; abstained from the practice too common before him, of interrupting justice by mandates from the privy council ; re- pressed robberies and disorders; encou- raged trade by giving merchants an easy method of recovering their debts ; and, in short, introduced a new face of things by the vigour and wisdom of his admi- nistration. As law began now to be well established, the abuse of that bless- ing began also to be remarked. Instead of their former associations for robbery and violence, men entered into formal combinations to support each other in lawsuits ; and it was found requisite to check this iniquity by act of parliament. There happened in this reign a consi- derable alteration in the execution of the laws: the king abolished the office of chief justiciary, which he thought pos- sessed too much power, and was dan- gerous to the crown : he completed the division of the court of exchequer into four distinct courts, which managed each its several branch, without dependence on any one magistrate ; and as the lawyers afterwards invented a method by means of their fictions, of carrying business from one court to another, the several courts became rivals and checks to each other ; a circumstance which tended much to improve the practice of the law in En- gland. But though Edward appeared thus, throughout his whole reign, a friend to law and justice, it cannot be said that he was an enemy to arbitrary power ; and in a government more regular and legal than was that of England in his age, such practices as those which may be remarked in his administration, would have given sufficient ground of complaint, and some- times were, even in his age, the object of HISTORY. 127 general displeasure. The violent plunder and banishment of the Jews ; the putting of the whole clergy at once, and by an arbitrary edict, out of the protection of the law ; the seizing of all the wool and leather of the kingdom ; the heightening of the impositions on the former valuable commodity; the new and illegal com- mission of Trailbaston ; the taking of all the money and plate of monasteries and churches, even before he had any quarrel with the clergy ; the subjecting of every man possessed of twenty pounds a-year to military sendee, though not bound to it by his tenure ; his visible reluctance to confirm the great charter, as if that con- cession had no validity from the deeds of his predecessors ; the captious clause which he at last annexed to bis confirma- tion ; his procuring of the pope's dispen- sation from the oaths which he had taken to observe the charter ; and his levying of talliages at discretion, even after the statute, or rather charter by which he had renounced that prerogative ; these are so many demonstrations of his arbi- trary disposition, and prove with what exception and reserve we ought to cele- brate his love of justice. He took care that his sttbjects should do justice to each other ; but he desired always to have his own hands free in all his transactions, both with tliem and with his neighbours. David Hume. THE MAID OF ORLEANS, 1429. In the village of Domremi, near Vau- couleurs, on the borders of Lorraine, there lived a country girl of twenty-seven ' years of age, called Joan d'Arc, who was servant in a small inn, and who in that j station had been accustomed to tend the horses of the guests, to ride them without a saddle to the watering-place, and to perform other offices which, in well- j frequented inns, commonly fall to the share of the men-servants. This girl was ] of an irreproachable life, and had not hitherto been remarked for any singula- rity, whether that she had met with no occasion to excite her genius, or that the unskilful eyes of those who conversed j with her had not been able to discern her | uncommon merit. It is easy to imagine I that the present situation of France was I an interesting object even to persons of ' the lowest rank, and would become the i frequent subject of conversation. A young prince expelled his throne by the sedition of native subjects, and by the arms of strangers, could not fail to move the com- passion of all his people whose hearts were uncorrupted by faction; and the peculiar character of Charles, so strongly inclined to friendship and the tender pas- sions, naturally rendered him the hero of that sex whose generous minds know no bounds in their affections. The siege of Orleans, the progress of the English be- fore that place, the great distress of the garrison and inhabitants, the importance of saving this city and its brave defenders, had turned thither the public eye ; and Joan, inflamed by the general sentiment, was seized with a wild desire of bringing relief to her sovereign in his present dis- tresses. Her inexperienced mind, work- ing day and night on this favourite object, mistook the impulses of passion for hea- venly inspirations ; and she fancied that she saw visions, and heard voices exhort- ing her to re-establish the throne of France and to expel the foreign invaders. An uncommon intrepidity of temper made her overlook all the dangers which might attend her in such a path, and thinking herself destined by Heaven to this office, she threw aside all that bashfulness and timidity so natural to her sex, her years, and her low station. She went to Vau- couleurs ; procured admission to Baudri- court the governor ; informed him of her inspirations and intentions, and conjured him not to neglect the voice of God, who spoke through her, but to second those heavenly revelations which impelled her to this glorious enterprise. Baudricourt treated her at first with some neglect ; but on her frequent returns to him and importunate solicitations, he began to remark something extraordinary in the maid, and was inclined, at all hazards, to make so easy an experiment. It is uncertain whether this gentleman had discernment enough to perceive that great use might be made with the vulgar of so uncommon an engine ; or what is more likely in that credulous age, was himself a convert to this visionary ; but he adopted at last the schemes of Joan, and he gave her some attendants, who conducted her to the French court, which at that time resided at Chinon. It is the business of history to distin- guish between the miraculous and the marvellous ; to reject the first in all nar- rations merely profane and human ; to . — 128 DAVID HUME. doubt the second ; and when obliged by unquestionable testimony, as in the pre- sent case, to admit of something extraor- dinary, to receive as little of it as is con- sistent with the known facts and circum- stances. It is pretended that Joan, immediately on her admission, knew the king though she had never seen his face before, and though he purposely kept himself in the crowd of courtiers, and had laid aside everything in his dress and apparel which might distinguish him ; that she offered him, in the name of the supreme Creator, to raise the siege of Orleans, and conduct him to Rheims to be there crowned and anointed; and on his expressing doubts of her mission, revealed to him, before some sworn confidants, a secret which was unknown to all the world beside him- self, and which nothing but a heavenly inspiration could have discovered to her ; and that she demanded, as the instrument of her future victories, a particular sword which was kept in the church of St. Ca- therine of Fierbois, and which, though she had never seen it, she described by all its marks, and by the place in which it had long lain neglected. This is cer- tain, that all these miraculous stories were spread abroad in order to captivate the vulgar. The more the king and his ministers were determined to give into the illusion, the more scruples they pre- tended. An assembly of grave doctors and theo- logians cautiously examined Joan's mis- sion, and pronounced it undoubted and supernatural. She was sent to the par- liament, then residing at Poictiers, and was interrogated before that assembly : the presidents, the counsellors, who came persuaded of her imposture, went away convinced of her inspiration. A ray of hope began to break through that despair in which the minds of all men were be- fore enveloped. Heaven had now declared itself in favour of France, and had laid bare its outstretched arm to take vengeance on her invaders. Few could distinguish be- tween the impulse of inclination and the force of conviction ; and none would sub- mit to the trouble of so disagreeable a scrutiny. After these artificial precautions and preparations had been for some time em- ployed, Joan's requests were at last com- plied with : she was armed cap-a-pee, mounted on horseback, and shown in that martial habiliment before the whole peo- ple. Her dexterity in managing her steed, though acquired in her former occupation, was regarded as a fresh proof of her mis- sion ; and she was received with the loudest acclamations by the spectators. Her former occupation was even denied : she was no longer the servant of an inn : she was converted into a shepherdess, an employment much more agreeable to the imagination. To render her still more interesting, near ten years were subtracted from her age ; and all the sentiments of love and of chivalry were thus united to those of enthusiasm, in order to inflame the fond fancy of the people with pre- possessions in her favour. When the engine was thus dressed up in full splendour, it was determined to essay its force against the enemy. Joan was sent to Blois, where a large convoy was prepared for the supply of Orleans, and an army of ten thousand men, under the command of St. Severe, assembled to escort it. She ordered all the soldiers to confess themselves before they set out on the enterprise ; she banished from the camp all women of bad fame ; she dis- played in her hands a consecrated ban- ner, where the Supreme Being was repre- sented grasping the globe of earth, and surrounded with flower-deluces ; and she insisted, in right of her prophetic mission, that the convoy should enter Orleans by the direct road from the side of Beausse : but the count of Dunois, unwilling to submit the rules of the military art to her inspirations, ordered it to approach by the other side of the river, where he knew the weakest part of the English army was stationed. Previous to this attempt, the maid had written to the regent and to the English generalsbeforeOrleans,commandingthem, in the name of the omnipotent Creator, by whom she was commissioned, imme- diately to raise the siege and to evacuate France ; and menacing them with divine vengeance in case of their disobedience. All the English affected to speak with derision of the maid and of her heavenly commission; and said that the French king was now indeed reduced to a sorry pass when he had recourse to such ridi- culous expedients ; but they felt their imagination secretly struck with the ve- hement persuasion which prevailed in all around them ; and they waited with an anxious expectation, not unmixed with horror, for the issue of these extraordi- nary preparations. HISTORY. 129 As the convoy approached the river, a sally was made by the garrison on the side of Beausse, to prevent the English general from sending any detachment to the other side : the provisions were peace- ably embarked in boats which the inha- bitants of Orleans had sent to receive them ; the maid covered with her troops the embarkation ; Suffolk did not venture to attack her ; and the French general carried back the army in safety to Blois ; an alteration of affairs which was already visible to all the world, and which had a proportional effect on the minds of both parties. The maid entered the city of Orleans arrayed in her military garb, and dis- playing her consecrated standard; and was received as a celestial deliverer by all the inhabitants. They now believed themselves invincible under her influence ; and Dunois himself, perceiving such a mighty alteration both in friends and foes, consented that the next convoy, which was expected in a few days, should enter by the side of Beausse. The con- voy approached : no sign of resistance appeared in the besiegers : the waggons and troops passed without interruption between the redoubts of the English. A dead silence and astonishment reigned among those troops formerly so elated with victory 7 , and so fierce for the combat. David Hume. WILLIAM ROBERTSON was born in 1721, at Borthwick in the county of Edinburgh, and educated at Dal- keith School and at the University of Edinburgh. In 1741 he obtained his license to preach as a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, and in 1762 was elected principal of the University of Edinburgh. He was an eloquent and ready orator. He pub- lished the History of Scotland, his earliest historical work, in 1759, and an historical disquisition concerning India, his last, in 1791. He died at Grange House, near Edinburgh, on the 11th of June 1793. The History of Charles the Fifth emperor of Germany and the first king of Spain of that name, — which is prefaced by a view of the state of society in Europe during the Middle Ages, and was published in 1769, — is considered to be the best of Dr. Robert- son's works. His language is graceful and majestick, and he excels in drawing characters. THE STORMING OF ROME IN 1527 BY THE DUKE OF BOURBON. Bourbon, who saw the necessity of dispatch, now that his intentions were known, advanced with such speed that he gained several marches on the duke d'Ur- bino's army, and encamped in the plains of Rome on the evening of the 5 th of May. From thence he showed his soldiers the palaces and churches of that city, into which, as the capital of the Christian commonwealth, the riches of all Europe had flowed during many centuries, with- out having been once violated by any hostile hand, and commanding them to refresh themselves that night, as a pre- paration for the assault next day, pro- mised them, in reward of their toils and valour, the possession of all the treasures accumulated there. Early in the morning, Bourbon, who had determined to distinguish that day either by his death or the success of his enterprise, appeared at the head of his troops, clad in complete armour, above which he wore a vest of white tissue, that he might be more conspicuous both to his friends and to his enemies ; and as all de- pended on one bold impression, he led them instantly to scale the walls. Three distinct bodies, one of Germans, another of Spaniards, and the last of Italians, the three different nations of whom the army was composed, were appointed to this service ; a separate attack was assigned to each, and the whole army advanced to G5 -=, 130 WILLIAM ROBERTSON. support them as occasion should require. A thick mist concealed their approach until they reached almost the hrink of the ditch which surrounded the suburbs : having planted their ladders in a moment, each brigade rushed on to the assault with an impetuosity heightened by national emulation. They were received at first with fortitude equal to their own ; the Swiss in the pope's guards, and the vete- ran soldiers who had been assembled, fought with a courage becoming men to whom the defence of the noblest city in the world was entrusted. Bourbon's troops, notwithstanding all their valour, gained no ground, and even began to give way, when their leader, perceiving that on this critical moment the fate of the day depended, threw himself from his horse, pressed to the front, snatched a scaling ladder from a soldier, planted it against the wall, and began to mount it, encouraging his men with his voice and hand to follow him. But at that very in- stant a musket bullet from the ramparts pierced his groin with a wound, which he immediately felt to be mortal ; but he re- tained so much presence of mind as to desire those who were near him to cover his body with a cloak, that his death might not dishearten his troops ; and soon after he expired with a courage worthy of a better cause, and which would have en- titled him to the highest praise, if he had thus fallen in defence of his country, not at the head of its enemies. This fatal event could not be concealed from the army, the soldiers soon missed their general, whom they were accus- tomed to see in every time of danger ; but instead of being disheartened by their loss, it animated them with new valour ; the name of Bourbon resounded along the line, accompanied with the cry of blood and revenge. The veterans who defended the walls were soon overpowered by num- bers ; the untrained body of city recruits fled at the sight of danger, and the enemy with irresistible violence rushed into the town. During the combat, Clement was em- ployed at the altar of St. Peter's, in offer- ing up to heaven unavailing prayers for victory. No sooner was he informed that his troops began to give way than he fled with precipitation ; and with an infatua- tion still more amazing than anything already mentioned, instead of making his escape by the opposite gate, where there was no enemy to oppose it, he shut him- self up, together with thirteen cardinals, the foreign ambassadors, and many per- sons of distinction, in the castle of St. Angelo, which he might have known to be an insecure retreat. In his way from the Vatican to that fortress, he saw his troops flying before an enemy who pur- sued without giving quarter ; he heard the cries and lamentations of the Roman citi- zens, and beheld the beginning of those calamities which his own credulity and ill-conduct had brought upon his sub- jects. It is impossible to describe, or even to imagine, the misery and horror of that scene which followed. Whatever a city taken by storm can dread from military rage unrestrained by discipline; whatever excesses the ferocity of the Germans, the avarice of the Spaniards, or the licentiousness of the Italians could commit, these, the wretched inhabitants were obliged to suffer. Churches, palaces and the houses of private persons were plundered without distinction. No age, or character, or sex was exempt from injury. Cardinals, nobles, priests, ma- trons, virgins, were all the prey of soldiers, and at the mercy of men deaf to the voice of humanity. Nor did these outrages cease, as is usual in towns which are carried by assault, when the first fury of the storm was over ; the Imperialists kept possession of Rome several months ; and during all that time the insolence and brutality of the soldiers hardly abated. Their bootyin ready money alone amounted to a million of ducats ; what they raised by ransoms and exactions far exceeded that sum. Rome, though taken several different times by the northern nations, who overran the empire in the fifth and sixth centuries, was never treated with so much cruelty by the barbarous and heathen Huns, Vandals, or Goths, as now by the bigoted subjects of a catholic monarch. William Robertson. BATTLE OF PAVIA IN 1525. The garrison of Pavia was reduced to extremity ; their ammunition and pro- visions began to fail ; the Germans, of whom it was chiefly composed, having received no pay for seven months, threat- ened to deliver the town into the enemy's hands, and could hardly be restrained from mutiny by all Leyva's address and authority. The Imperial generals, who HISTORY. 131 were no strangers to his situation, saw the necessity of marching without loss of time to his relief. This they had now in their power: twelve thousand Germans, whom the zeal and activity of Bourhon taught to move with unusual rapidity, had entered Lombardy under his command, and rendered the Imperial army nearly equal to that of the French, greatly di- minished by the absence of the body under Albany, as well as by the fa- tigues of the siege and the rigour of the season. But the more their troops in- creased in number, the more sensibly did they feel the distress arising from want of money. Far from having funds for pay- ing a powerful army, they had scarcely what was sufficient for defraying the charges of conducting their artillery and of carrying their ammunition and pro- visions. The abilities of the generals, however, supplied every defect. By their own example, as well as by magnificent promises in the name of the emperor, they prevailed on the troops of all the different nations which composed their army to take the field without pay ; they engaged to lead them directly towards the enemy, and flattered them with the cer- tain prospect of victory, which would at once enrich them with such royal spoils as would be an ample reward for all their services. The soldiers, sensible that, by quitting the army, they would forfeit the vast arrears due to them, and eager to get possession of the promised treasures, demanded a battle with all the impatience of adventurers who fight only for plunder. The Imperial generals, without suffering the ardcur of their troops to cool, ad- vanced immediately towards the French camp. On the first intelligence of their approach, Francis called a council of war, to deliberate what course he ought to take. All his officers of greatest experi- ence were unanimous in advising him to retire, and to decline a battle with an enemy who courted it from despair. The leaders of the Imperialists, they observed, would either be obliged in a few weeks to disband an army which they were unable to pay, and which they kept together only by the hope of pillage, or the soldiers, en- raged at the non-performance of the pro- mises to which they had trusted, would rise in some furious mutiny which would allow them to think of nothing but their own safety ; that, meanwhile, he might encamp in some strong post, and waiting in safety the arrival of fresh troops from France and Switzerland, might, before the end of spring, take possession of all the Milanese without danger or blood- shed. But in opposition to them, Bon- nivet, whose destiny it was to give coun- sels fatal to France during the whole campaign, represented the ignominy that it would reflect on their sovereign, if he should abandon a siege which he had pro- secuted so long, or turn his back before an enemy to whom he was still superior in number, and insisted on the necessity of fighting the Imperialists rather than relinquish an undertaking, on the success ! of which the king's future fame depended. ' Unfortunately, Francis's notions of honour I were delicate to an excess that bordered I on what was romantic. Having often said that he would take Pavia, or perish in the attempt, he thought himself bound i not to depart from that resolution ; and I rather than expose himself to the slightest imputation, he chose to forego all the ad- vantages which were the certain conse- quences of a retreat, and determined to j wait for the Imperialists before the walls of Pavia. The Imperial generals found the French ' so strongly entrenched, that notwith- | standing the powerful motives which ! urged them on, they hesitated long before they ventured to attack them ; but at last the necessities of the besieged, and the murmurs of their own soldiers, obliged them to put everything to hazard. Never ! did armies engage with greater ardour, or with a higher opinion of the importance of the battle which they were going to fight ; never were troops more strongly animated with emulation, national anti- pathy, mutual resentment, and all the passions which inspire obstinate bravery. On the one hand, a gallant young mo- narch, seconded by a generous nobility, and followed by subjects to whose natural impetuosity, indignation at the opposition which they had encountered, added new force, contended for victory and honour. On the other side, troops more completely disciplined, and conducted by generals of greater abilities, fought from necessity, with courage heightened by despair. The Imperialists, however, were unable to re- sist the first efforts of the French valour, and their firmest battalions began to give way. But the fortune of the day was quickly changed ; the Swiss in the service of France, unmindful of the reputation of their country for fidelity and martial glory, abandoned their post in a cowardly man- 132 WILLIAM ROBERTSON. ner. Leyva, with his garrison, sallied out and attacked the rear of the French during the heat of the action with such fury as threw it into confusion ; and Pescara falling on their cavalry with the Imperial horse, among whom he had prudently intermin- gled a considerable number of Spanish foot, armed with the heavy muskets then in use, broke this formidable body by an unusual method of attack, against which they were wholly unprovided. The rout became universal, and resistance ceased in almost every part, but where the king was in person, who fought now, not for fame or victory, but for safety. Though wounded in several places, and thrown from his horse, which was killed under him, Francis defended himself on foot with an heroick courage. Many of his bravest officers gathering round him, and endeavouring to save his life at the ex- pense of their own, fell at his feet. Among these was Bonnivet, the author of this great calamity, who alone died unlamented. The king, exhausted with fatigue, and scarcely capable of further resistance, was left almost alone, exposed to the fury of some Spanish soldiers, strangers to his rank and enraged at his obstinacy. At that moment came up Pomperant, a French gentleman, who had entered together with Bourbon into the emperor's service, and placing himself by the side of the monarch against whom he had rebelled, assisted in protecting him from the violence of the soldiers ; at the same time beseeching him to surrender to Bourbon, who was not far distant. Imminent as the danger was which now surrounded Francis, he re- jected with indignation the thoughts of an action which would have afforded such matter of triumph to his traitorous subject, and calling for Lannoy, who happened likewise to be near at hand, gave up his sword to him, which he, kneeling to kiss the king's hand, received with profound respect, and taking his own sword from his side, presented it to him, saying, " that it did not become so great a monarch to remain disarmed in the presence of one of the emperor's subjects." Ten thousand men fell on this day, one of the most fatal France had ever seen. Among these were many noblemen of the highest distinction, who chose rather to perish than to turn their backs with dis- honour. Not a few were taken prisoners, of whom the most illustrious was Henry d'Albret, the unfortunate king of Navarre. A small body of the rear-guard made its escape under the command of the duke Alencon ; the feeble garrison of Milan, on the first news of the defeat, retired with- out being pursued, by another road ; and in two weeks after the battle not a Frenchman remained in Italy. William Robertson. CHIVALRY. While improvements so important with respect to the state of society and the administration of justice gradually made progress in Europe, sentiments more li- beral and generous had begun to animate the nobles. These were inspired by the spirit of chivalry, which, though con- sidered commonly as a wild institution, the effect of caprice and the source of ex- travagance, arose naturally from the state of society at that period, and had a very serious influence in refining the manners of the European nations. The feudal state was a state of perpetual war, rapine and anarchy, during which the weak and unarmed were exposd every moment to insults or injuries. The power of the sovereign was too limited to prevent these wrongs, and the administration of justice too feeble to redress them. There was scarcely any protection against violence and oppression but what the valour and generosity of private persons afforded. The same spirit of enterprise which had prompted so many gentlemen to take arms in defence of the oppressed pilgrims in Palestine, incited others to declare themselves the patrons and avengers of injured innocence at home. When the final reduction of the Holy Land under the dominion of infidels put an end to these foreign expeditions, the latter was the only employment left for the activity and courage of adventurers. To check the insolence of overgrown oppressors ; to succour the distressed ; to rescue the helpless from captivity ; to protect or to avenge women, orphans and ecclesiastics, who could not bear arms in their own de- fence ; to redress wrongs and to remove grievances ; were deemed acts of the high- est prowess and merit. Valour, humanity, courtesy, justice, honour, were the cha- racteristic qualities of chivalry. To these were added religion, which mingled itself with every passion and institution during the Middle Ages, and, by infusing a large proportion of enthusiastic zeal, gave them HISTORY. 133 such force as carried them to a romantic excess. Men were trained to knighthood by a long previous discipline ; they were admitted into the order by solemnities no less devout than pompous ; every person of noble birth courted that honour ; it was deemed a distinction superior to royalty ; and monarchs were proud to re- ceive it from the hands of private gentle- men. This singular institution, in which va- lour, gallantry and religion were so strange- ly blended, was wonderfully adapted to the taste and genius of martial nobles ; and its effects were soon visible in their manners. War was carried on with less ferocity, when humanity came to bedeemed the ornament of knighthood no less than courage. More gentle and polished man- ners were introduced, when courtesy was recommended as the most amiable of knightly virtues. Violence and oppression decreased, when it was reckoned meri- torious to check and to punish them. A scrupulous adherence to truth, with the most religious attention to fulfil every en- gagement, became the distinguishing cha- racteristic of a gentleman, because chi- valry was regarded as the school of ho- nour, and inculcated the most delicate sensibility with respect to that point. The admiration of these qualities, together with the high distinctions and preroga- tives conferred on knighthood in every part of Europe, inspired persons of noble birth, on some occasions, with a species of military fanaticism, and led them to ex- travagant enterprises. But they imprinted deeply in their minds the principles of generosity and honour. These were strengthened by everything that can af- fect the senses or touch the heart. The wild exploits of those romantic knights who sallied forth in quest qf adventures are well known, and have been treated with proper ridicule. The political and perma- nent effects of the spirit of chivalry have been less observed. Perhaps the humanity which accompanies all the operations of war, tbe refinements of gallantry, and the point of honour, the three chief circum- stances which distinguish modern from ancient manners, may be ascribed in a great measure to this whimsical institu- tion, seemingly of little benefit to man- kind. The sentiments which chivalry inspired had a wonderful influence on man- ners and conduct during the twelfth, thir- teenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. They were so deeply rooted that they con- tinued to operate after the rigour and re- putation of the institution itself began to decline. William Robertson. EDWARD GIBBON was born on the 27th of April 1737, at Putney in Surrey. He was sickly in child- hood, and owed his life to the affectionate care of his aunt Catherine Porten. In January 1746 he was sent to a school at Kingston-upon-Thames, and in 1749 to Westminster School, from which he was removed in 1750, and for two years, going from place to place in search of health, he read under the care of occasional tutors. It was, as he says, to be feared that he would continue for life an illiterate cripple, but as he grew up to youth he grew in strength. In 1752 he was placed at Esher in Surrey, with Philip Francis, the translator of Horace : it was found that Mr. Francis preferred the pleasures of London to the care of his pupils, and Gibbon's father, in perplexity, at once carried his son to Magdalen College, Oxford, before he was fifteen years of age. Like Sir Walter Scott, unable to mingle in the common sports of boys, Gibbon had sought for amusement in desultory reading, until an indiscriminate appe- tite for books subsided in a love of history. He arrived at Oxford, as he tells us, with a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a school-boy would have been ashamed. There he passed fourteen months, the most idle and unprofitable of his life, until, having been led, by a course of contro- versial reading, to join the Roman Catholic Church, he was obliged to quit his college for ever. His father sent him to a Protestant clergyman at Lausanne in Switzerland, Mi i 134 EDWARD GIBBON. where he remained from July 1753 to April 1758. During this visit he renounced the Roman Catholic faith, studied diligently and with method, corresponding with learned men throughout Europe, and fell in love with Susan Curchod, afterward the wife of M. Necker, minister of France and the mother of Madame de Stael. Gibbon's father did not approve of the proposed marriage, and the lover gave up the lady with more than praiseworthy resignation. From his return to England, in 1758, until 1763, he passed his time partly in Lon- don, partly at his father's seat in the country, and in marching with the Hampshire militia, in which he was a captain. During this period he published, in 1761, an Essay on the history of literature, which was written in the French language, and was his earliest work. From 1763 to 1765 he travelled in France, Switzerland and Italy ; and at Rome, among the ruins of the Capitol, first conceived the idea of his great work, the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. In 1765 he re- turned to England ; his father died in 1770, and in 1772, settling himself in London, he began the first volume of his History, which was published in 1776, and met with great success. From the beginning of the contest with America down to the coalition between lord North and Mr. Fox, Gibbon, — who was a personal friend of lord North, to whom he paid a noble tribute of praise in the preface to his fourth volume — was, with one short interval, in parliament ; but he found that he had not talents for publick speaking, and the fear that to fail as a speaker might tarnish the fame which he had gained as a writer, kept him silent. During part of this time he was one of the Lords of Trade, an office abolished by the Rockingham administration. In 1779 he published the second and third volumes of his History, and had nearly concluded the fourth, in September 1783, when he left England and took up his residence, until 1787, in a house which he purchased at Lausanne. On the night of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, he ended the labour of twenty years by writing the last lines of the last page of his History, in a summer-house in his garden at Lausanne. He then visited England, but returned to Switzerland in July 1788, and was driven home again, in 1793, by the progress of the French Revolution. On the 16th of January 1794 he died at his lodgings in St. James's-street, London, and was buried at Fletching in Sussex. No one has attempted to impeach the character of Gibbon in private life ; he seems to have been a man of even temper, undisturbed by any violent affection, and consti- tutionally disposed to be quiet ; his manners were pleasant ; he could not abide dispu- tation, but in company where the lead was given to him, he spoke much and agree- ably, though he was a little precise. His History, — which, after a review of the Roman empire under Augustus and his immediate successors, begins at the year 180 and ends about the year 1500, — never has been, and probably never will be equalled in extent of learning, in accuracy, and in the consummate skill with which the vast stores which the patient industry of many years had gathered, are arranged in order : his style, which all allow to be rich and forcible, has been blamed as laboured and pompous ; perhaps it is not ill-suited to the dignity of his subject : but he has grievous faidts — a want of decency, as offensive to good taste as to morality, and an insane hatred to Christianity, which, as Professor Porson said, he seemed to detest as though he were revenging some personal injury. It was indeed part of his task to treat of the corruptions of the church, but those he should have held up to infamy by contrasting them with the law of Christianity writ- ten in the sacred scripture. Gibbon wrote also very interesting memoirs of his own life and several critical essays. His History was attacked by a host of adversaries, some of whom, thinking HISTORY. 135 that Truth was not strong enough to defend her own cause, accused him of gross ignorance and wilful falsehood. The historian vindicated himself, with a lofty scorn of these assailants, in one of the few books of literary controversy which will he always and widely read. MISERY OF THE ROMANS UNDER TIBERIUS AND HIS SUCCESSORS. Under the reign of these monsters, the slavery of the Romans was accompanied with two peculiar circumstances, the one | occasioned by their former liberty, the other by their extensive conquests, which rendered their condition more wretched than that of the victims of tyranny in any other age or country 7 . From these causes were derived, — 1, the exquisite sensibility of the sufferers ; and 2, the impossibility of escaping from the hand of the oppressor. 1. When Persia was governed by the descendants of Sesi, a race of princes whose wanton cruelty often stained their divan, their table and their bed, with the blood of their favourites, there is a saying recorded of a young nobleman, that he never departed from the sultan's presence without satisfying himself whether his head was still on his shoulders. The ex- perience of every day might almost justify the scepticism of Rustan. Yet the fatal sword suspended above him by a single thread, seems not to have disturbed the slumbers or interrupted the tranquillity of the Persian. The monarch's frown, he well knew, could level him with the dust ; but the stroke of lightning or apo- plexy might be equally fatal ; and it was the part of a wise man to forget the inevitable calamities of human life in the enjoyment of the fleeting hour. He was dignified with the appellation of the king's slave ; had, perhaps, been purchased from obscure parents, in a country which he had never known, and was trained up from his infancy in the severe discipline of the seraglio. His name, his wealth, his honours, were the gift of a master, who might, without injustice, resume what he had bestowed. Rustan's knowledge, if he possessed any, could only serve to con- firm his habits by prejudices. His lan- guage afforded not words for any form of government, except absolute monarchy. The history of the east informed him that such had ever been the condition of man- kind. The Koran, and the interpreters of that book, inculcated to him that the sultan was the descendant of the prophet and the vicegerent of heaven ; that pa- tience was the first virtue of a Mussul- man, and unlimited obedience the great duty of a subject. The minds of the Romans were very differently prepared for slavery. Op- pressed beneath the weight of their own corruption and of military violence, they for a long while preserved the sentiments, or at least the ideas, of their freeborn an- cestors. The education of Helvidius and Thrasea, of Tacitus and Pliny, was the same as that of Cato and Cicero. From Grecian philosophy they had imbibed the justest and most liberal notions of the dignity of human nature, and the origin of civil society. The history of their own country had taught them to revere a free, a virtuous, and a victorious common- wealth ; to abhor the successful crimes of Caesar and Augustus, and inwardly to de- spise those tyrants whom they adored with the most abject flatter}'. As magistrates and senators they were admitted into the great council, which had once dictated laws to the earth, whose name still gave a sanction to the acts of the monarch, and whose authority was so often prostituted to the vilest purposes of tyranny. Tibe- rius and those emperors who adopted his maxims attempted to disguise their mur- ders by the formalities of justice, and per- haps enjoyed a secret pleasure in render- ing the senate their accomplice, as well as their victim. By this assembly the last of the Romans were condemned for imaginary crimes and real virtues. Their infamous accusers assumed the language of independent patriots, who arraigned a dangerous citizen before the tribunal of his country ; and the public service was rewarded by riches and honours. The servile judges professed to assert the ma- jesty of the commonwealth, violated in the person of its first magistrate, whose clemency they most applauded when they trembled the most at his inexorable and impending cruelty. The tyrant beheld their baseness with just contempt, and en- countered their secret sentiments of de- testation with sincere and avowed hatred for the whole body of the senate. 2. The division of Europe into a num- 136 EDWARD GIBBON. ber of independent states, connected how- ever with each other by the general re- semblance of religion, language and man- ners, is productive of the most beneficial consequences to the liberty of mankind. A modern tyrant who should find no re- sistance either in his own breast or in his people, would soon experience a gentle restraint from the example of his equals, the dread of present censure, the advice of his allies, and the apprehension of his enemies. The object of his displeasure escaping from the narrow limits of his dominions, would easily obtain, in a hap- pier climate, a secure refuge, a new for- tune, adequate to his merit, the freedom of complaint, and perhaps the means of revenge. But the empire of the Romans filled the world, and when that empire fell into the hands of a single person, the world became a secure and dreary prison for his enemies. The slave of imperial despotism, whether he was condemned to drag his gilded chain in Rome and the senate, or to wear out a life of exile on the barren rock of Seriphus, or the frozen banks of the Danube, expected his fate in silent despair. To resist was fatal, and it was impossible to fly. On every side he was encompassed with a vast extent of sea and land, which he could never hope to traverse without being discovered, seized, and restored to his irritated master. Beyond the frontiers his anxious view could discover nothing, except the ocean, inhospitable deserts, hostile tribes of bar- barians, of fierce manners and unknown language ; or dependent kings, who would gladly purchase the emperor's protection by the sacrifice of an obnoxious fugitive. " Wherever you are," said Cicero to the exiled Marcellus, " remember that you are equally within the power of our con- queror." Edward Gibbon. RANSOM OF ROME BY ALARIC, 409. The last resource of the Romans was in the clemency, or, at least, in the mode- ration of the king of the Goths. The se- nate, who in this emergency assumed the supreme powers of government, appointed two ambassadors to negotiate with the enemy. This important trust was dele- gated to Basilius, a senator of Spanish extraction, and already conspicuous in the administration of provinces ; and to John, the first tribune of the notaries, who was peculiarly qualified by his dexterity in business as well as by his former intimacy with the Gothic prince. When they were introduced into his presence, they de- clared, perhaps in a more lofty style than became their abject condition, that the Romans were resolved to maintain their dignity, either in peace or war ; and that, if Alaric refused them a fair and honour- able capitulation, he might sound his trumpets and prepare to give battle to an innumerable people, exercised in arms, and animated by despair. " The thicker the hay the easier it is mowed," was the concise reply of the barbarian ; and this rustic metaphor was accompanied by a loud and insulting laugh, expressive of his contempt for the menaces of an unwar- like populace, enervated by luxury before they were emaciated by famine. He then condescended to fix the ransom which he would accept as the price of his retreat from the walls of Rome : all the gold and silver in the city, whether it were the pro- perty of the state or individuals ; all the rich and precious moveables ; and all the slaves who could prove their title to the name of barbarians. The ministers of the senate presumed to ask, in a modest and suppliant tone, " If such, king, are your demands, what do you intend to leave us?" " Your lives," replied the haughty con- queror : they trembled and retired. Yet, before they retired, a short suspension of arms was granted, which allowed some time for a more temperate negotiation. The stern features of Alaric were insen- sibly relaxed ; he abated much of the ri- gour of his terms ; and at length consent- ed to raise the siege, on the immediate payment of five thousand pounds of gold, of thirty thousand pounds of silver, of four thousand robes of silk, of three thousand pieces of fine scarlet cloth, and of three thousand pounds weight of pepper. But the public treasury was exhausted ; the annual rents of the great estates in Italy and the provinces were intercepted by the calamities of war ; the gold and gems had been exchanged, during the famine, for the vilest sustenance ; the hoards of se- cret wealth were still concealed by the obstinacy of avarice; and some remains of consecrated spoils afforded the only re- source that could avert the impending ruin of the city. As soon as the Romans had satisfied the rapacious demands of Alaric, they were restored, in some mea- sure, to the enjoyment of peace and plenty. Several of the gates were cautiously open- HISTORY. 137 ed; the importation of provisions from the river and the adjacent country was no longer obstructed by the Goths ; the citi- zens resorted in crowds to the free mar- ket, which was held during three days in the suburbs ; and while the merchants who undertook this gainful trade made a considerable profit, the future subsistence of the city was secured by the ample ma- gazines which were deposited in the pub- lic and private granaries. Edward Gibbon. RIGHT OF PROPERTY. The original right of property can only be justified by the accident or merit of prior occupancy ; and on this foundation it is wisely established by the philosophy of the civilians. The savage who hollows a tree, inserts a sharp stone into a wooden handle, or applies a string to an elastic branch, becomes in a state of nature the just proprietor of the canoe, the bow, or the hatchet. The materials were common to all, the new form, the produce of his time and simple industry, belongs solely to himself. His hungry brethren cannot, without a sense of their own injustice, ex- tort from the hunter the game of the forest, overtaken or slain by his personal strength and dexterity. If his provident care preserves and multiplies the tame animals, whose nature is tractable to the arts of education, he acquires a perpetual title to the use and service of their nume- rous progeny, which derives its existence from him alone. If he encloses and cul- tivates a field for their sustenance and his own, a barren waste is converted into a fertile soil ; the seed, the manure, the la- bour, create a new value, and the rewards of harvest are painfully earned by the fatigues of the revolving year. In the successive states of society, the hunter, the shepherd, the husbandman, may defend their possessions by two reasons, which forcibly appeal to the feelings of the hu- man mind : that whatever they enjoy is the fruit of their own industry ; and that every man who envies their felicity, may purchase similar acquisitions by the exer- cise of similar diligence. Such, in truth, may be the freedom and plenty of a small colony cast on a fruitful island. But the colony multiplies while the space still continues the same : the common rights, the equal inheritance of mankind, are en- grossed by the bold and crafty ; each field and forest is circumscribed by the land- marks of a jealous master; and it is the peculiar praise of the Roman jurispru- dence, that it asserts the claim of the first occupant to the wild animals of the earth, the air, and the waters. In the progress from primitive equity to final injustice, the steps are silent, the shades are almost imperceptible, and the absolute monopoly is guarded by positive laws and artificial reason. The active insatiate principle of self-love can alone supply the arts of life and the wages of industry ; and as soon as civil government and exclusive property have been introduced, they become neces- sary to the existence of the human race. Except in the singular institutions of Sparta, the wisest legislators have disap- proved an agrarian law as a false and dan- gerous innovation. Among the Romans, the enormous disproportion of wealth sur- mounted the ideal restraints of a doubtful tradition and an obsolete statute ; a tra- dition that the poorest follower of Romu- lus had been endowed with the perpetual inheritance of two jugera, a statute which confined the richest citizen to the measure of five hundred jugera, or three hundred and twelve acres of land. The original territory of Rome consisted only of some miles of wood and meadow along the banks of the Tiber; and domestic ex- change could add nothing to the national stock. But the goods of an alien or enemy were lawfully exposed to the first hostile occupier; the city was enriched by the profitable trade of war; and the blood of her sons was the only price that was paid for the Volscian sheep, the slaves of Bri- tain, or the gems and gold of Asiatic king- doms. In the language of ancient juris- prudence, which was corrupted and for- gotten before the age of Justinian, these spoils were distinguished by the name of manceps or mancipium, taken with the hand ; and whenever they were sold or emancipated, the purchaser required some assurance that they had been the property of an enemy, and not of a fellow-citizen. A citizen could only forfeit his rights by apparent dereliction, and such dereliction of a valuable interest could not easily be presumed. Yet, according to the twelve tables, a prescription of one year for move- ables, and of two years for immoveables, abolished the claim of the ancient master, if the actual possessor had acquired them by a fair transaction from the person whom he believed to be the lawful pro- 138 ROBERT SOUTHEY. prietor. Such conscientious injustice, without any mixture of fraud or force, could seldom injure the members of a small republic ; but the various periods of three, of ten, or of twenty years, deter- mined by Justinian, are more suitable to the latitude of a great empire. It is only in the term of prescription that the di- stinction of real and personal fortune has been remarked by the civilians, and their general idea of property is that of simple, uniform and absolute dominion. The sub- ordinate exceptions of use, of usufruct, of servitudes, imposed for the benefit of a neighbour on lands and houses, are abun- dantly explained by the professors of ju- risprudence. The claims of property, as far as they are altered by the mixture, the division, or the transformation of sub- stances, are investigated with metaphysi- cal subtlety by the same civilians. Edward Gibbon. ROBERT SOUTHEY (For Notes of his Life see p. 10.) THE SIEGE OF ZARAGOZA, 1808. The French having received a train of mortars, howitzers, and twelve -pounders, which were of sufficient calibre against mud walls, kept up a constant fire, and showered down shells and grenades from the Torrero. About twelve hundred were thrown into the town, and there was not one building that was bomb-proof within the walls. After a time the inhabitants placed beams of timber together, endways, against the houses, in a sloping direction, behind which those who were near when a shell fell might shelter themselves. The enemy continued also to invest the city more closely, while the Aragonese made every effort to strengthen their means of defence. They tore down the awnings from their windows, and formed them into sacks, which they filled with sand, and piled up before the gates in the form of a battery, digging round it a deep trench. They broke holes for musketry in the walls and intermediate buildings, and sta- tioned cannon where the position was fa- vourable for it. The houses in the envi- rons were destroyed. " Gardens and olive grounds," says an eye-witness, " that in better times had been the recreation and support of their owners, were cheerfully rooted up by the proprietors themselves wherever they impeded the defence of the city, or covered the approach of the enemy." Women of all ranks assisted; they formed themselves into companies, some to relieve the wounded, some to carry water, wine and provisions to those who defended the gates. The countess Burita instituted a corps for this service ; she was young, delicate, and beautiful. In the midst of the most tremendous fire of shot and shells, she was seen coolly at- tending to those occupations which were now become her duty; nor throughout the whole of a two months' siege did the imminent danger to which she incessantly exposed herself produce the slightest ap- parent effect upon her, or in the slightest degree bend her from her heroic purpose. Some of the monks bore arms ; others ex- ercised their spiritual offices to the dying; others, with the nuns, were busied in making cartridges, which the children dis- tributed. During the night of the 28th of June, the powder magazine, in the area where the bull-fights were performed, which was in the very heart of the city, was blown up, by which fourteen houses were destroyed, and about two hundred per- sons killed. This was the signal for the enemy to appear before three gates which had been sold to them. And while the inhabitants were digging out their fellow-citizens from the ruins, a fire was opened upon them with mortars, howit- zers and cannons, which had now been received for battering the town. Their attack seemed chiefly to be directed against the gate called Portillo, and a large square building near it, without the walls, and surrounded by a deep ditch ; though call- ed a castle, it served only for a prison. The sand-bag battery before this gate was frequently destroyed, and as often recon- structed under the fire of the enemy. The carnage here throughout the day was dreadful. Augustina Zaragoza, a hand- some woman of the lower class, about HISTORY. 139 twenty-two years of age, arrived at this battery with refreshments, at the time when not a man who defended it was left alive, so tremendous was the fire which the French kept up against it. For a mo- ment the citizens hesitated to re-man the guns. Augustina sprung forward over the dead and dying, snatched a match from the hand of a dead artillery man, and fired off a six-and-twenty pounder ; then jump- ing upon the gun, made a solemn vow never to quit it alive during the siege. Such a sight could not but animate with fresh courage all who beheld it. The Za- ragozans rushed into the battery, and re- newed their fire with greater vigour than ever, and the French were repulsed here and at all other points with great slaughter. On the morning of this day a fellow was detected going out of the city with letters to Murat. It was not till after these re- peated proofs of treasonable practices that the French residents in Zaragoza, with other suspected persons, were taken into custody. Lefebvre, now supposing that his de- structive bombardment must have dismay- ed the people, and convinced them how impossible it was for so defenceless a city to persist in withstanding him, again at- tempted to force his way into the town, thinking that, as soon as his troops could effect a lodgment within the gates, the Zaragozans would submit. On the 2nd of July, a column of his army marched out of their battery, which was almost within musket-shot of the Portillo, and advanced towards it with fixed bayonets and with- out firing a shot. But when they reached the castle, such a discharge of grape and musketry was opened upon their flank, that, notwithstanding the most spirited exertions of their officers, the column im- mediately dispersed. The remainder of their force had been drawn up to support their attack, and follow them into the city ; but it was impossible to bring them a second time to the charge. The gene- ral however ordered another column in- stantly to advance against the gate of the Carmen, on the left of the Portillo. This entrance was defended by a sand-bag bat- tery and by musketeers, who lined the walls on each side, and commanded two out of three approaches to it ; and here also the French suffered great loss and were repulsed. On the 4th of August, the French opened batteries within pistol-shot of the church and convent of St. Engracia. The mud walls were levelled at the first dis- charge ; and the besiegers rushing through the opening, took the batteries before the adjacent gates in reverse. Here general Mori, who had distinguished himself on many former occasions, was made prisoner. The street of St. Engracia, which they had thus entered, leads into the Cozo, and the corner buildings where it thus termi- nated, were on the one hand the convent of St. Francisco, and on the other the general hospital. Both were stormed and set on fire ; the sick and the wounded threw themselves from the windows to escape the flames, and the horror of the scene was aggravated by the maniacs, whose voices raving or singing in parox- ysms of wilder madness, or crying in vain to be set free, were heard amid the con- fusion of dreadful sounds. Many fell vic- tims to the fire, and some to the indis- criminating fury of the assailants. Those who escaped were conducted as prisoners to the Torrero ; but when their condition had been discovered, they were sent back on the morrow, to take their chance in the siege. After a severe contest and dreadful carnage, the French forced their way into the Cozo, in the very centre of the city, and before the day closed were in possession of one half of Zaragoza. Lefebvre now believed that he had effected his purpose, and required Palafox to sur- render, in a note containing only these words : " Head-quarters, St. Engracia. Capitulation !" The heroic Spaniard im- mediately returned this reply : " Head- quarters, Zaragoza. War at the knife's point ! " The contest which was now carried on is unexampled in history. One side of the Cozo, a street about as wide as Pall- mall, was possessed by the French ; and in the centre of it then* general, Verdier, gave his orders from the Franciscan con- vent. The opposite side was maintained by the Aragonese, who threw up batteries at the openings of the cross streets, within a few paces of those which the French erected against them. The intervening space was presently heaped with dead, either slain upon the spot, or thrown out from the windows. Next day the ammu- nition of the citizens began to fail ; the French were expected every moment to renew their efforts for completing the con- quest, and even this circumstance occa- sioned no dismay, nor did any one think of capitulation. One cry was heard from the people, wherever Palafox rode among 140 ROBERT SOUTHEY. them, that if powder failed they were ready to attack the enemy with their knives ; formidable weapons in the hands of desperate men. Just before the day closed, Don Francisco Palafox, the gene- ral's brother, entered the city with a con- voy of arms and ammunition, and a rein- forcement of three thousand men, com- posed of Spanish guards, Swiss, and volun- teers of Aragon ; a succour as little ex- pected by the Zaragozans, as it had been provided against by the enemy. The war was now continued from street to street, from house to house, and from room to room ; pride and indignation ha- ving wrought up the French to a pitch of obstinate fury, little inferior to the de- voted courage of the patriots. During the whole siege no man distinguished himself more remarkably than the curate of one of the parishes, within the walls, by name P. Santiago Sass. He was al- ways to be seen in the streets, sometimes fighting with the most determined bravery against the enemies, not of his country alone, but of freedom, and of all virtuous principles, wherever they were to be found ; at other times administering the sacra- ment to the dying, and confirming, with the authority of faith, that hope which gives to death, under such circumstances, the joy, the exultation, the triumph, and the spirit of martyrdom. Palafox reposed the utmost confidence in this brave priest, and selected him whenever anything pecu- liarly difficult or hazardous was to be done. At the head of forty chosen men he suc- ceeded in introducing a supply of powder into the town, so essentially necessary for its defence. This most obstinate and murderous con- test was continued for eleven successive days and nights, more indeed by night than by day; for it was almost certain death to appear by daylight within reach of those houses which were occupied by the other party. But under cover of the darkness the combatants frequently dashed across the street to attack each other's bat- teries ; and the battles which began there were often carried on into the houses be- yond, where they fought from room to room, and floor to floor. The hostile bat- teries were so near each other that a Spa- niard in one place made way under cover of the dead bodies, which completely filled the space between them, and fast- ened a rope to one of the French cannons; in the struggle which ensued the rope broke, and the Zaragozans lost their prize at the very moment when they thought themselves sure of it. A new horror was added to the dread- ful circumstances of war in this ever-me- morable siege. In general engagements the dead are left upon the field of battle, and the survivors remove to clear ground and an untainted atmosphere ; but here, in Spain, and in the month of August, there, where the dead lay, the struggle was still carried on, and pestilence was dreaded from the enormous accumulation of putrifying bodies. Nothing in the whole course of the siege so much embarrassed Palafox as this evil. The only remedy was to tie ropes to the French prisoners, and push them forward amid the dead and dying, to remove the bodies and bring them away for interment. Even for this necessary office there was no truce, and it would have been certain death to the Ara- gonese who should have attempted to per- form it ; but the prisoners were in gene- ral secured by the pity of their own sol- diers, and in this manner the evil was in some degree diminished. A council of war was held by the Spa- niards on the 8th, not for the purpose which is too usual in such councils, but that their heroic resolution might be com- municated with authority to the people. It was, that in those quarters of the city where the Aragonese still maintained their ground, they should continue to defend themselves with the same firmness; should the enemy at last prevail, they were then to retire over the Ebro into the suburbs, break down the bridge and defend the suburbs till they perished. "When this re- solution was made public, it was received with the loudest acclamations. But in every conflict the citizens now gained ground upon the soldiers, winning it inch by inch, till the space occupied by the enemy, which, on the day of their entrance was nearly half the city, was gradually re- duced to about an eighth part. Mean- time, intelligence of the events in other parts of Spain was received by the French, all tending to dishearten them ; the sur- render of Dupont, the failure of Moncey before Valencia, and the news that the Junta of that province had dispatched six thousand men to join the levies in Ara- gon, which were destined to relieve Zara- goza. During the night of the 13th, their fire was particularly fierce and destruc- tive ; after their batteries had ceased, flames burst out in many parts of the buildings which they had won ; their last HISTORY. 141 act was to blow up the church of St. En- gracia ; the powder was placed in the sub- terranean church, and this remarkable place, this monument of fraud and of cre- dulity, the splendid theatre wherein so many feelings of deep devotion had been excited, which so many thousands had visited in faith, and from which, unques- Pamplona tionably, many had departed with their imaginations elevated, their principles en- nobled, and their hearts strengthened, was laid in ruins. In the morning the French columns, to the great surprise of the Spaniards, were seen at a distance re- treating over the plain, on the road to Robert Southey. COLONEL WILLIAM FOX PATRICK NAPIER (For Notes of his Life see p. 96.) THE BATTLE OF ALBUERA, 1811. The allies' guns on the rising ground above the village answered the fire of the French, and ploughed through their co- lumns, which were crowding without judg- ment towards the bridge, although the stream was passable above and below. But Beresford observing that Werle's divi- sion did not follow closely, was soon con- vinced that the principal effort would be on the right, and therefore sent Blake orders to form a part of the first and all the second line of the Spanish army, on the broad part of the hills, at right angles to their actual front. Then drawing the Portuguese infantry of the left wing to the centre, he sent one brigade down to support Alten, and directed general Hamil- ton to hold the remainder in columns of battalions, ready to move to any part of the field. The thirteenth dragoons were posted near the edge of the river above the bridge, and meanwhile the second division marched to support Blake. The horse artillery, the heavy dragoons, and the fourth division also took ground to the right, and were posted ; the cavalry and guns on a small plain behind the Aroya, and the fourth division in an ob- lique line, about half musket-shot behind them. This done, Beresford galloped to Blake, for that general had refused to change his front, and with great heat told colonel Hardinge, the bearer of the order, that the real attack was at the village and bridge. Beresford had sent again to en- treat that he would obey, but this message was as fruitless as the former, and when the marshal arrived nothing had been done. The enemy's columns were, how- ever, now beginning to appear on the right, and Blake yielding to this evidence, proceeded to make the evolution, yet with such pedantic slowness, that Beresford, impatient of his folly, took the direction in person. Great was the confusion and the delay thus occasioned, and ere the troops could be put in order the French were amongst them. For scarcely had Godinot engaged Alten's brigade, when Werle, leaving only a battalion of grenadiers and some squa- drons to watch the thirteenth dragoons and to connect the attacks, counter- marched with the remainder of his divi- sion, and rapidly gained the rear of the fifth corps as it was mounting the hills on the right of the allies. At the same time the mass of light cavalry suddenly quitted Godinot's column, and crossing the river Albuera above the bridge, ascended the left bank at a gallop, and sweeping round the rear of the fifth corps, joined Latour Maubourg, who was already in face of Lumley's squadrons. Thus half an hour had sufficed to render Beresford's posi- tion nearly desperate. Two-thirds of the French were in a compact order of battle, on a line perpendicular to his right, and his army, disordered and composed of dif- ferent nations, was still in the difficult act of changing its front. It was in vain that he endeavoured to form the Spanish line sufficiently in advance to give room for the second division to support it ; the French guns opened, then* infantry threw out a heavy musketry, and their cavalry outflanking the front and charging here and there, put the Spaniards in disorder at all points ; in a short time the latter gave way, and Soult, thinking the whole army was yielding, pushed forward his columns, while his reserves also mounted the hill, and general Ruty placed all the batteries in position. 142 COLONEL NAPIER. At this critical moment general William Stewart arrived at the foot of the height with colonel Colborne's brigade, which formed the head of the second division. The colonel seeing the confusion above, desired to form in order of battle previous to mounting the ascent, but Stewart, whose boiling courage overlaid his judg- ment, led up without any delay in column of companies, and attempted to open out his line in succession as the battalions ar- rived at the summit. Being under a de- structive fire the foremost charged to gain room, but a heavy rain prevented any ob- ject from being distinctly seen, and four regiments of hussars and lancers, which had passed the right flank in the obscu- rity, came galloping in upon the rear of the line at the instant of its developement, and slew or took two-thirds of the bri- gade. One battalion only (the thirty -first) being still in column, escaped the storm and maintained its ground, while the French horsemen, riding violently over everything else, penetrated to all parts. In the tumult a lancer fell upon Beresford, but the marshal, a man of great strength, putting his spear aside cast him from his saddle, and a shift of wind blowing aside the mist and smoke, the mischief was perceived from the plains by general Lumley, w T ho sent four squadrons out upon the lancers and cut many of them off. During this first unhappy effort of the second division, so great was the confusion, that the Spanish line continued to fire without cessation, although the British were before them ; whereupon Beresford, finding his exhortations to advance fruit- less, seized an ensign and bore him and his colours, by main force, to the front, yet the troops would not follow, and the man went back again on being released. In this crisis the weather, which had ruined Colborne's brigade, also prevented Soult from seeing the whole extent of the field of battle, and he still kept his heavy columns together. His cavalry, indeed, began to hem in that of the allies, but the fire of the horse artillery enabled Lumley, covered as he was by the bed of the Aroya, and supported by the fourth division, to check them on the plain, while Colborne still maintained the heightswith the thirty- first regiment ; the British artillery, under major Dickson, was likewise coming fast into action, and William Stewart, who had escaped the charge of the lancers, was again mounting the hill with general Houghton's brigade, which he brought on with the same vehemence, but instructed by his previous misfortune, in a juster order of battle. The weather now cleared, and a dreadful fire poured into the thick- est of the French columns convinced Soult that the day was yet to be won. Houghton's regiments soon got footing on the summit ; Dickson placed the artil- lery in line, the remaining brigade of the second division came up on the left, and two Spanish corps at last moved forward. The enemy's infantry then recoiled, yet soon recovering, renewed the fight with greater violence than before ; the cannon on both sides discharged showers of grape at half range, and the peals of musketry were incessant and often within pistol- shot ; but the close formation of the French embarrassed their battle, and the British line would not yield them one inch of ground nor a moment of time to open their ranks. Their fighting was, however, fierce and dangerous. Stewart was twice hurt, colonel Duckworth, of the forty-eighth, was slain, and the gallant Houghton, who had received many wounds without shrinking, fell and died in the act of cheering his men. Still the struggle continued with unabated fury. Colonel Inglis, twenty-two other officers, and more than four hundred men out of five hun- dred and seventy that had mounted the hill, fell in the fifty-seventh alone ; and the other regiments were scarcely better off, not one-third were standing in any. Ammunition failed ; and, as the English fire slackened, the enemy established a column in advance upon the right flank ; the play of Dickson's artillery checked them a moment, but again the Polish lancers charging, captured six guns. And in this desperate crisis, Beresford, who had already withdrawn the thirteenth dragoons from the banks of the river and brought Hamilton's Portuguese into a situation to cover a retrograde movement, wavered ! destruction stared him in the face, his personal resources were exhaust- ed, and the unhappy thought of a retreat rose in his agitated mind. Yet no order to that effect was given, and it was urged by some about him that the day might still be redeemed with the fourth division. While he hesitated, colonel Hardinge boldly ordered general Cole to advance, and then riding to colonel Abercrombie, who commanded the remaining brigade of the second division, directed him also to push forward into the fight. The die HISTORY. 143 being thus cast, Beresford acquiesced, and this terrible battle was continued. The fourth division had only two bri- gades in the field; the one Portuguese, under general Harvey, the other com- manded by sir W. Myers, and composed of the seventh and twenty -third British regiments, was called the fuzileer bri- gade. General Cole directed the Portu- guese to move between Lumley's dragoons and the hill, where they were immediately charged by some of the French horse- men, but beat them off with great loss ; meanwhile he led the fuzileers in person up the height. At this time six guns were in the ene- my's possession, the whole of 'Werle's re- serves were coming forward to reinforce the front column of the French, and the remnant of Houghton's brigade could no longer maintain its ground ; the field was heaped with carcases, the lancers were riding furiously about the captured artil- lery on the upper part of the hill and on the lower slopes, a Spanish and an En- glish regiment in mutual error were ex- changing volleys ; behind all, general Hamilton's Portuguese, in withdrawing from the heights above the bridge, ap- peared to be in retreat. The conduct of a few brave men soon changed this state of affairs. Colonel Robert Arbuthnot, pushing between the double fire of the mistaken troops, arrested that mischief, while Cole, with the fuzileers, flanked by a battalion of the Lusitanian legion under colonel Hawkshawe, mounted the hill, dispersed the lancers, recovered the cap- tured guns, and appeared on the right of Houghton's brigade exactly as Abercrom- bie passed it on the left. Such a gallant line, issuing from the midst of the smoke and rapidly separating itself from the confused and broken mul- titude, startled the enemy's heavy masses, which were increasing and pressing on- wards as to an assured victory : they wavered, hesitated, and then vomiting forth a storm of fire, hastily endeavoured to enlarge their front, while a fearful dis- charge of grape from all their artillery whistled through the British ranks. Myers was killed ; Cole and the three colonels, Ellis, Blakeney and Hawkshawe, fell wounded, and the fuzileer battalions, struck by the iron tempest, reeled and staggered like sinking ships. Suddenly and sternly recovering, they closed on their terrible enemies, and then was seen with what a strength and majesty the British soldier fights. In vain did Soult, by voice and gesture, animate his French- men ; in vain did the hardiest veterans, extricating themselves from the crowded columns, sacrifice their lives to gain time for the mass to open out on such a fair field ; in vain did the mass itself bear up, and fiercely striving, fire indiscriminately upon friends and foes, while the horsemen hovering on the flank threatened to charge the advancing line. Nothing coidd stop that astonishing infantry ; no sudden burst of undisciplined valour, no nervous en- thusiasm, weakened the stabihty of their order; their flashing eyes were bent on the dark columns in their front ; their measured tread shook the ground ; their dreadful volleys swept away the head of every formation ; their deafening shouts overpowered the dissonant cries that broke from all parts of the tumultuous crowd, as foot by foot and with a horrid carnage it was driven by the incessant rigour of the attack to the furthest edge of the hill. In vain did the French re- serves, joining with the struggling multi- tude, endeavour to sustain the fight ; their efforts only increased the irremediable confusion, and the mighty mass giving way like a loosened cliff, went headlong down the ascent. The rain flowed after in streams discoloured with blood, and fifteen hundred unwounded men, the rem- nant of six thousand unconquerable Bri- tish soldiers, stood triumphant on the fatal hill ! Colonel Napier. THE STORMING OF BADAJOS, 1812. The night was dry but clouded, the air thick with watery exhalations from the rivers, the ramparts and the trenches un- usually still ; yet a low murmur pervaded the latter, and in the former, lights were seen to flit here and there, while the deep voices of the sentinels at times proclaimed that all was well in Badajos. The French, confiding in Phillipon's direful skill, watched, from their lofty station, the ap- proach of enemies, whom they had twice before baffled, and now hoped to drive a third time blasted and ruined from the walls; the British, standing in deep co- lumns, were as eager to meet that fiery destruction as the others were to pour it down ; and both were alike terrible for their strength, their discipline, and the passions awakened in their resolute hearts. rm 144 COLONEL NAPIER. Former failures there were to avenge, and on either side such leaders as left no excuse for weakness in the hour of trial, and the possession of Badajos was become a point of honour personal with the sol- diers of each nation. But the strong de- sire for glory was, in the British, dashed with a hatred of the citizens on an old grudge ; and recent toil and hardship, with much spilling of blood, had made many incredibly savage ; for these things render the noble-minded indeed averse to cruelty, but harden the vulgar spirit. Numbers also, like Caesar's centurion, who could not forget the plunder of Ava- ricum, were heated with the recollection of Ciudad Rodrigo, and thirsted for spoil. Thus every spirit found a cause of excite- ment, the wondrous power of discipline bound the whole together as with a band of iron, and, in the pride of arms, none doubted their might to bear down every ob- stacle that man could oppose to their fury. At ten o'clock the castle, the San Roque, the breaches, the Pardaleras, the distant bastion of San Vincente, and the bridge-head on the other side of the Gua- diana, were to have been simultaneously assailed, and it was hoped that the strength of the enemy would shrivel within that fiery girdle. But many are the disappoint- ments of war. An unforeseen accident delayed the attack of the fifth division ; and a lighted carcass, thrown from the castle, falling close to where the men of the third division were drawn up, dis- covered their array, and obliged them to anticipate the signal by half an hour. Then, everything being suddenly dis- turbed, the double columns of the fourth and light divisions also moved silently and swiftly against the breaches, and the guard of the trenches, rushing forward with a shout, encompassed the San Roque with fire, and broke in so violently that scarcely any resistance was made. But a sudden blaze of light and the rattling of musketry indicated the com- mencement of a most vehement combat at the castle. There general Kempt, — for Picton, hurt by a fall in the camp, and expecting no change in the hour, was not present, — there general Kempt, I say, led the third division ; he had passed the Rivillas in single files by a narrow bridge, under a terrible musketry, and then re- forming and running up the rugged hill, had reached the foot of the castle when he fell severely wounded, and being car- ried back to the trenches, met Picton, who hastened forward to take the com- mand. Meanwhile his troops spreading along the front reared their heavy ladders, some against the lofty castle, some against the adjoining front on the left, and with incredible courage ascended amidst show- ers of heavy stones, logs of wood, and bursting shells rolled off the parapet, while from the flanks the enemy plied his musketry with a fearful rapidity, and in front, with pikes and bayonets, stabbed the leading assailants or pushed the lad- ders from the walls ; and all this attended with deafening shouts, and the crash of breaking ladders, and the shrieks of crushed soldiers answering to the sullen stroke of the falling weights. Still, swarming round the remaining ladders, these undaunted veterans strove who should first climb, until all being overturned, the French shouted victory, and the British baffled, but untamed, fell back a few paces, and took shelter under the rugged edge of the hill. Here, when the broken ranks were somewhat re- formed, the heroic colonel Ridge, spring- ing forward, called, with a stentorian voice, on his men to follow, and, seizing a ladder, once more raised it against the castle, yet to the right of the former at- tack, where the wall was lower, and an embrasure offered some facility. A second ladder was soon placed alongside of the first, by the grenadier officer Canch, and the next instant he and Ridge were on the rampart ; the shouting troops pressed after them, the garrison amazed, and in a manner surprised, were driven fighting through the double gate into the town, and the castle was won. A reinforce- ment, sent from the French reserve, then came up, a sharp action followed, both sides fired through the gate, and the enemy retired, but Ridge fell, and no man died that night with more glory ; yet many died, and there was much glory. During these events the tumult at the breaches was such as if the very earth had been rent asunder, and its central fires were bursting upwards uncontrolled. The two divisions had reached the glacis, just as the firing at the castle had com- menced, and the flash of a single musket discharged from the covered way as a signal, showed them that the French were ready ; yet no stir was heard, and dark- ness covered the breaches. Some hay- packs were then thrown, some ladders were placed, and the forlorn hopes and storming parties of the light division, HISTORY. 145 about five hundred in all, had descended into the ditch without opposition, when a bright flame shooting upwards, displayed all the terrors of the scene. The ram- parts, crowded with dark figures and glit- tering arms, were seen on the one side, and on the other, the red columns of the British, deep and broad, were coming on like streams of burning lava ; it was the touch of the magician's wand, for a crash of thunder followed, and with incredible violence the storming parties were dashed to pieces by the explosion of hundreds of shells and powder -barrels. For an instant the light division stood on the brink of the ditch, amazed at the terrific sight ; then, with a shout that matched even the sound of the explosion, flew down the ladders, or disdaining their aid, leaped, reckless of the depth, into the gidph below ; and nearly at the same moment, amidst a blaze of musketry that dazzled the eyes, the fourth division came running in and descended with a like fury. There were, however, only five ladders for both columns, which were close together, and a deep cut made in the bottom of the ditch, as far as the counter-guard of the Trinidad, was filled with water from the inundation: into this watery snare the head of the fourth division fell, and it is said that above a hundred of the fuzileers, the men of Albuera, were there smothered. Those who followed, checked not, but as if such a disaster had been expected, turned to the left, and thus came upon the face of the unfinished ravelin, which, being rough and broken, was mistaken for the breach, and instantly covered with men ; yet a wide and deep chasm was still between them and the ramparts, from whence came a deadly fire wasting their ranks. Thus baffled, they also commenced a rapid dis- charge of musketry, and disorder ensued ; for the men of the light division, whose conducting engineer had been disabled early, and whose flank was confined by an unfinished ditch intended to cut off the bastion of Santa Maria, rushed to- wards the breaches of the curtain and the Trinidad, which were indeed before them, but which the fourth division were destined to storm. Great was the confusion, for now the ravelin was quite crowded with men of both divisions ; and while some continued to fire, others jumped down and ran to- wards the breach ; many also passed be- tween the ravelin and the counter-guard of the Trinidad, the two divisions got mixed, and the reserves, which shoidd have remained at the quarries, also came pouring in, until the ditch was quite filled, the rear still crowding forward, and all cheering vehemently. The enemy's shouts also were loud and terrible, and the burst- ing of shells and of grenades, the roaring of the guns from the flanks, answered by the iron howitzers from the battery of the parallel, the heavy roll and horrid ex- plosion of the powder-barrels, the whiz- zing flight of the blazing splinters, the loud exhortations of the officers, and the continual clatter of the muskets, made a maddening din. Now a multitude bounded up the great breach as if driven by a whirlwind, but across the top glittered a range of sword- blades, sharp-pointed, keen-edged on both sides, and firmly fixed in ponderous beams, which were chained together and set deep in the ruins ; and for ten feet in front the ascent was covered with loose planks, studded with sharp iron points, on which the feet of the foremost being set, the planks moved, and the unhappy soldiers, falling forwards on the spikes, rolled down upon the ranks behind. Then the French- men, shouting at the success of their stratagem, and leaping forward, plied their shot with terrible rapidity, for every man had several muskets ; and each musket, in addition to its ordinary charge, contained a small cylinder of wood stuck full of leaden slugs, which scattered like hail when they were discharged. Again the assailants rushed up the breaches, and again the sword-blades, im- moveable and impassable, stopped their charge, and the hissing shells and thun- dering powder-barrels exploded uncea- singly. Hundreds of men had fallen, and hundreds more were dropping, but still the heroic officers called aloud for new trials, and sometimes followed by many, sometimes by a few, ascended the ruins ; and so furious were the men themselves, that in one of these charges the rear strove to push the foremost on to the sword-blades, willing even to make a bridge of their writhing bodies, but the others frustrated the attempt by dropping down ; and men fell so fast from the shot, that it was hard to know who went down j voluntarily, who were stricken ; and many stooped unhurt that never rose again. \ Vain also would it have been to break j through the sword-blades, for the trench I and parapet behind the breach were ' finished, and the assailants, crowded into II 146 COLONEL NAPIER. even a narrower space than the ditch was, would still have been separated from their enemies, and the slaughter would have continued. At the beginning of this dreadful con- flict, colonel Andrew Barnard had with prodigious efforts separated his division from the other, and preserved some de- gree of military array, but now the tumult was such that no command could be heard distinctly, except by those close at hand, and the mutilated carcasses heaped on each other, and the wounded, struggling to avoid being trampled upon, broke the formations ; order was impossible ! Yet officers of all stations, followed more or less numerously by the men, were seen to start out as if struck by a sudden madness, and rush into the breach, which yawning and glittering with steel, seemed like the mouth of some huge dragon belching forth smoke and flame. In one of these attempts colonel Macleod of the forty- third, a young man whose feeble body would have been quite unfit for war, if it had not been sustained by an unconquer- able spirit, was killed. Wherever his voice was heard there his soldiers ga- thered, and with such a strong resolution did he lead them up the fatal ruins, that when one behind him in falling plunged a bayonet into his back, he complained not, and continuing his course, was shot dead within a yard of the sword-blades. But there was no want of gallant leaders or desperate followers. Two hours spent in these vain efforts convinced the soldiers that the breach of the Trinidad was impregnable ; and as the opening in the curtain, although less strong, was retired, and the approach to it impeded by deep holes and cuts made in the ditch, the troops did not much notice it after the partial failure of one attack which had been made early. Ga- thering in dark groups and leaning on their muskets, they looked up with sullen desperation at the Trinidad, while the enemy stepping out on the ramparts, and aiming their shots by the light of the fire- balls which they threw over, asked, as their victims fell, " Why they did not come into Badajos ?" In this dreadful situation, while the dead were lying in heaps and others con- tinually falling, the wounded crawling about to get some shelter from the mer- ciless fire above, and withal a sickening stench from the burnt flesh of the slain, captain Nicholas of the engineers was ob- served by Mr. Shaw of the forty-third, making incredible efforts to force his way with a few men into the Santa Maria bastion. Shaw having collected about fifty soldiers of all regiments, joined him, and although there was a deep cut along the foot of this breach also, it was in- stantly passed, and these two young offi- cers, at the head of their gallant band, rushed up the slope of the ruins ; but when they had gained two-thirds of the ascent, a concentrated fire of musketry and grape dashed nearly the whole dead to the earth ! Nicholas was mortally wounded, and the intrepid Shaw stood alone ! after this no further effort was made at any point, and the troops re- mained passive, but unflinching, beneath the enemy's shot, which streamed with- out intermission ; for, of the riflemen on the glacis, many leaping early into the ditch had joined in the assault, and the rest raked by a cross fire of grape from the distant bastions, baffled in their aim by the smoke and flames from the explo- sions, and too few in number, had en- tirely failed to quell the French musketry. About midnight, when two thousand brave men had fallen, Wellington, who was on a height close to the quarries, sent orders for the remainder to retire and re-form for a second assault ; for he had just then heard that the castle was taken, and thinking the enemy would still hold out in the town, was resolved to assail the breaches again. This retreat from the ditch was, however, not effected without further carnage and confusion, for the French fire never slackened, and a cry arose that the enemy were making a sally from the distant flanks, which caused a rush towards the ladders ; then the groans and lamentations of the wounded, who could not move and expected to be slain, increased; many officers who had not heard of the order, endeavoured to stop the soldiers from going back, and some would even have removed the lad- ders but were unable to break the crowd. All this time the third division was lying close in the castle, and either from a fear of risking the loss of a point which ensured the capture of the place, or that the egress was too difficult, made no at- tempt to drive away the enemy from the breaches. On the other side, however, the fifth division had commenced the false attack on the Pardaleras, and on the right of the Guadiana, the Portuguese were sharply engaged at the bridge ; thus the HISTORY. 147 town was girdled with fire, for general Walker's brigade having passed on du- ring the feint on the Pardaleras, was esca- lading the distant bastion of San Yin- eente. His troops had advanced along the banks of the river, and reached the French guard-house, at the barrier-gate, undiscovered, for the ripple of the waters smothered the sound of their footsteps ; but just then the explosion at the breaches took place, the moon shone out, and the French sentinels, discovering the columns, fired. The British troops immediately springing forward under a sharp musketry, began to hew down the wooden barrier at the covered way, while the Portuguese, being panic-stricken, threw down the scaling-ladders. Nevertheless the others snatched them up again, and forciug the barrier, jumped into the ditch ; but the guiding engineer officer was killed, and there was a cunette, which embarrassed the column, and when the foremost men succeeded in rearing the ladders, the latter were found too short, for the walls were generally above thirty feet high. Meanwhile the fire of the French was deadly, a small mine was sprung beneath the soldiers' feet, beams of wood and live shells were rolled over on their heads, showers of grape from the flank swept the ditch, and man after man dropped dead from the ladders. Fortunately some of the defenders ha- ving been called away to aid in recovering the castle, the ramparts were not entirely manned, and the assailants having disco- vered a corner of the bastion where the scarp was only twenty feet high, placed three ladders there under an embrasure which had no gun and w r as only stopped with a gabion. Some men got up, but with difficulty, for the ladders were still too short, and the first man who gained the top was pushed up by his comrades and then drew others after him, until many had gained the summit ; and though the French shot heavily against them, from both flanks and from a house in front, they thickened and could not be driven back ; half the fourth regiment entered the town itself to dislodge the enemy from the houses, while the others pushed along the rampart towards the breach, and by dint of hard fighting suc- cessively won three bastions. In the last of these combats, general Walker leaping forward, sword in hand, at the moment when one of the enemies' cannoneers w r as discharging a gun, fell covered with so many wounds that it was wonderful how he could survive, and some of the soldiers immediately after, perceiving a lighted match on the ground, cried out a mine ! At that word, such is the power of imagination, those troops whom neither the strong barrier, nor the deep ditch, nor the high walls, nor the deadly fire of the enemy could stop, stag- gered back appalled by a chimera of their own raising, and in this disorder a French reserve, under general Yiellande, drove on them with a firm and rapid charge, and pitching some men over the walls, and killing others outright, again cleansed the ramparts even to the San Vincente. There however Leith had placed colonel Nugent with a battalion of the thirty- eighth as a reserve, and when the French came up, shouting and slaying all before them, this battalion, about two hundred strong, arose, and with one close volley destroyed them. Then the panic ceased, the soldiers rallied, and in compact order once more charged along the walls towards the breaches, but the French, although turned on both flanks and abandoned by fortune, did not yet yield ; and meanwhile the de- tachment of the fourth regiment which had entered the town when the San Yin- cente was first carried, w r as strangely situ- ated, for the streets were empty and brilliantly illuminated, and no person was seen ! yet a low buz and whisper were heard around, lattices were now and then gently opened, and from time to time shots were fired from underneath the doors of the houses by the Spaniards. However, the troops with bugles sound- ing, advanced towards the great square of the town, and in their progress cap- tured several mules going with ammu- nition to the breaches ; but the square itself was as empty and silent as the streets, and the houses as bright with lamps ; a terrible enchantment seemed to be in operation, for they saw nothing but light, and heard only the low whispers close around them, while the tumult at the breaches was like the crashing thun- der. There indeed the fight was still plainly raging, and hence, quitting the square, they attempted to take the garrison in j reverse, by attacking the ramparts from the town side, but they were received with a rolling musketry, driven back with loss, and resumed then- movement through the streets. At last the breaches H2 ■■■■ rrr*< 148 COLONEL NAPIER. were abandoned by the French, other parties entered the place, desultory com- bats took place in various parts, and finally general Viellande, and Phillipon who was wounded, seeing all ruined, passed the bridge with a few hundred sol- diers, and entered San Christoval, where they all surrendered early the next morn- ing upon summons to lord Fitzroy So- merset, who had with great readiness pushed through the town to the draw- bridge ere they had time to organize fur- ther resistance. But even in the moment of ruin the night before, the noble govern- or had sent some horsemen out from the fort to carry the news to Soult's army, and they reached him in time to prevent a greater misfortune. Now commenced that wild and despe- rate wickedness which tarnished the lustre of the soldier's heroism. All indeed were not alike, for hundreds risked and many lost their lives in striving to stop the violence, but the madness generally pre- vailed, and as the worst men were leaders here, all the dreadful passions of human nature were displayed. Shameless rapa- city, brutal intemperance, savage lust, cruelty and murder, shrieks and piteous lamentations, groans, shouts, impreca- tions, the hissing of fires bursting from the houses, the crashing of doors and win- dows, and the reports of muskets used in violence, resounded for two days and nights in the streets of Badajos ! on the third, when the city was sacked, when the soldiers were exhausted by their own excesses, the tumult rather subsided than was quelled. The wounded men were then looked to, the dead disposed of ! Five thousand men and officers fell during this siege, and of these, including seven hundred Portuguese, three thousand five hundred had been stricken in the assault, sixty officers and more than seven hundred men being slain on the spot. The five generals, Kempt, Harvey, Bowes, Colville, and Picton were wounded, the first three severely; about six hundred men and officers fell in the escalade of San Vincente, as many at the castle, and more than two thousand at the breaches, each division there losing twelve hundred ! And how deadly the strife was at that point, maybe gathered from this, the for- ty-third and fifty-second regiment of the light division alone lost more men than the seven regiments of the third division engaged at the castle ! Let any man picture to himself this frightful carnage taking place in a space of less than a hundred square yards. Let him consider that the slain died not all suddenly, nor by one manner of death ; that some perished by steel, some by shot, some by water ; that some were crushed and mangled by heavy weights, some trampled upon, some dashed to atoms by the fiery explosions ; that for hours this destruction was endured without shrink- ing, and that the town was won at last ; let any man consider this, and he must admit that a British army bears with it an awful power. And false would it be to say that the French were feeble men, for the garrison stood and fought man- fully and with good discipline, behaving worthily. Shame there was none on any side. Yet who shall do justice to the bravery of the soldiers ? the noble emu- lation of the officers ? Who shall measure out the glory of Ridge, of Macleod, of Nicholas, or of O'Hare of the ninety-fifth, who perished on the breach at the head of the stormers, and with him nearly all the volunteers for that desperate service ? Who shall describe the springing valour of that Portuguese grenadier who was killed the foremost man at the Santa Maria ? or the martial fury of that despe- rate soldier of the ninety-fifth, who in his resolution to win, thrust himself beneath the chained sword-blades, and there suf- fered the enemy to dash his head to pieces with the ends of their muskets? Who can sufficiently honour the intre- pidity of Walker, of Shaw, of Canch, or the resolution of Ferguson of the forty- third, who having in former assaults re- ceived two deep wounds, was here, with his hurts still open, leading the stormers of his regiment, the third time a volun- teer, and the third time wounded ! Nor would I be understood to select these as pre-eminent ; many and signal were the other examples of unbounded devotion, some known, some that will never be known ; for in such a tumult much passed unobserved, and often the observers fell themselves ere they could bear testimony to what they saw ; but no age, no nation ever sent forth braver troops to battle than those who stormed Badajos. When the extent of the night's havoc was made known to lord Wellington, the firmness of his nature gave way for a moment, and the pride of conquest yielded to a passionate burst of grief for the loss of his gallant soldiers. Colonel Napier. ENGLISH PROSE. PART IV. MORALS AND RELIGION SIR WALTER RALEIGH an accomplished courtier, a gallant soldier, an enterprising navigator, a scholar, poet, historian and philosopher, whose life Gibbon for some time fixed upon as the subject of the great historical work which he meditated, was born in the year 1552, at a farm called Hayes, in the parish of Budleigh in Devonshire, and, about the year 1568, was gent to Oriel College, Oxford. He left Oxford in the following year, and fought in France, in the Netherlands and in Ireland. About 1581 he gained the favour of Queen Elizabeth at the expense of his cloak which he threw at her feet over a muddy piece of road, and followed up the gentle homage by writing on a glass win- dow obvious to her eye, " Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall ;" the queen under- wrote, " If thy heart fail thee, climb not at all ;" and with such encouragement he became a courtier. In 1584, Elizabeth having granted him a patent giving power to discover and subdue foreign and heathen lands not in the possession of any Christian prince, nor inhabited by any Christian people, he sailed to North America and seized the territory, now one of the United States, which was named Virginia in compliment to the maiden sovereign. In 1588 he was one of the destroyers of the Spanish Ar- mada. In 1590 he brought Edmund Spenser the poet from Ireland, and introduced him into the queen's favour. In 1594 Elizabeth gave him the castle and manor of Sherborne in Dorsetshire, and there he laid the plan of the voyage which he made in 1 595 to Guiana, in which he hoped to find the fabulous golden country, El Dorado. In 1596, being one of the commanders of the expedition against Cadiz, he bore a chief part in the destruction of that city; and in 1600 he was made governor of Jersey. He had now reached the summit of his fortune ; and it would have been happy for him if he had cast off the factions of the court, and contented his ambition with the government of as beautiful an island, and as good, and kind, and brave and loyal a people as heaven ever favoured ; but it was to be otherwise. In 1603 his royal mistress died, and with her his prosperity. Robert Cecil, after- wards earl of Salisbury, a son of Lord Burleigh, had been, during the queen's life, in secret correspondence with her successor, James I. : all power was now placed in his hands, and Raleigh was in disgrace at court. The duke of Sully, from France, and the count d'Aremberg, from the archduke Albert of the Netherlands brother-in-law of Philip III. of Spain, were in London, ambassadors from then* courts, seeking peace 150 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. and alliance with England. Cecil preferred France, and Raleigh plotted with d'Arem- berg, who promised him 8000 crowns for his help toward a peace between England and Spain. Whether the money was to be spent in some scheme to remove Cecil and his friends from power, or in an attempt to set aside the king in favour of his first cousin, Arabella Stuart, is uncertain. Some such plot was on foot, and there is little doubt that Raleigh was privy to it. This was called " the main," and there was joined with it " the bye," plot of some inferior conspirators to seize the king's person. Cecil had notice of what was passing, and Raleigh and lord Cobham were committed to the Tower on a charge of high treason. Raleigh was tried at Winchester in 1603. None but hearsay evidence was given against him, except his own admission of the promise of 8000 crowns made by d'Aremberg, and some proof that he had proposed to pro- cure a yearly pension of ^£1500 for giving intelligence to Spain. He demanded that lord Cobham, whose deposition w r as read as evidence, should be produced ; but the judges declared that he had no law for his claim to meet his accuser face to face, adding, " God forbid any man should accuse himself upon his oath," and adjudged that lord Cobham's examination and confession might be read as proof against Raleigh. History does not perhaps give an instance of cowardly railing and insolence at the bar to equal that of sir Edward Coke, who was Attorney-general on this trial. Raleigh. To whom speak you this ? you tell me news I never heard of. Coke. Oh, Sir, do I ? I will prove you the notoriousest traitor that ever came to the bar. Raleigh. Your words cannot condemn me ; my innocency is my defence. Coke. Nay, I will prove all ; thou art a monster ; thou hast an English face but a Spanish heart. Raleigh. Let me answer for myself. Coke. Thou shalt not. Raleigh. It concerneth my life. Coke. Oh ! do I touch you. ****** Coke. I think you meant to make Arabella a titular queen, of whose title I will speak nothing ; but sure you meant to make her a stale. Ah ! good lady, you could mean her no good. Raleigh. You tell me news, Mr. Attorney. Coke, Oh, Sir ! I am the more large, because I know with whom I deal ; for we have to deal to-day with a man of wit. Raleigh. Did I ever speak with this lady ? Coke. T will track you out before I have done. Englishmen will not be led by per- suasion of words, but they must have books to persuade. Raleigh. The book was written by a man of your profession, Mr. Attorney. Coke. I would not have you impatient. Raleigh. Methinks you fall out with yourself ; I say nothing. ****** Raleigh. I will wash my hands of the indictment, and die a true man to the king. Coke. You are the absolutest traitor that ever was. Raleigh. Your phrases will not prove it, Mr. Attorney. If my lord Cobham be a traitor, what is that to me ? Coke. All that he did was by thy instigation, thou viper ; for I thou thee, thou traitor. Raleigh. It becometh not a man of quality and virtue to call me so ; but I take comfort in it, it is all you can do. MORALS AND RELIGION. 151 Coke. Have I angered you ? Raleigh. I am in no case to be angry. ****** Coke. Thou hast a Spanish heart, and thyself art a spider of hell. Coke. Thou art the most vile and execrable traitor that ever lived. Raleigh. You speak indiscreetly, barbarously and uncivilly. Coke. I want words sufficient to express thy viperous treason. Raleigh. I think you want words, indeed, for you have spoken one thing half-a- dozen times. Coke. Thou art an odious fellow ; thy name is hateful to all the realm of England for thy pride. Raleigh. It will go near to prove a measuring cast between you and me, Mr. At- torney. Raleigh was found guilty, and it was fit retribution. Only three years before, he had given hearsay evidence against the earl of Essex, and, after the earl was con- demned, had written to the same Cecil, who now sate one of his judges, urging him not to show mercy. He was sent to the Tower, where he remained for thirteen years. During his imprisonment he wrote a History of the World, in which he is said to have been assisted by Ben Jonson and others. In March 1616 he was re- leased, and received a commission to take possession of an imaginary gold mine in Guiana ; he sailed, attacked and burnt a Spanish town, returned unsuccessful, and was betrayed into the hands of the king by Stukely his cousin. Gondomar, the am- bassador of the king of Spain, with whom England was then at peace, complained loudly of the outrage upon his master's dominions, and Raleigh was doomed to die upon the sentence passed upon him in 1603. He showed undaunted courage on the scaffold ; touching the edge of the axe, he said to the sheriff, " This is a sharp medi- cine, but it is a physician that will cure all diseases." He was executed in Old Palace-yard, Westminster, on the 29th of October 1618, and was buried in St. Mar- garet's Church. He wrote much and on various subjects. His History of the World, from which the extracts which follow are taken, begins with the creation and ends with the triumph of iEmilius Paulus, after the second Macedonian war; illustrations from modern history, and moral and political reflections are woven into the narrative. Raleigh had hewn out, he says, a second and a third volume, but was discouraged by the death of that glorious prince (Henry, the eldest son of James I.), to whom they were directed. The part which he did publish is a work of deep research, written in a pure and noble style. - Another extract from the History of the World will be found under the title of Philosophy and Policy, and some passages from Raleigh's Account of the first Voyage to Guiana are placed under the head of Voyages and Travels. NOBILITY. With the supreme rule and kingly au- thority began also other degrees and dif- ferences among subjects ; for princes made election of others by the same rule by which themselves were chosen, unto whom they gave place, trust and power. From which employments and offices sprung those titles and those degrees of honour which have continued from age to age to these days. But this nobility, or dif- ference from the vulgar, was not in the beginning given to the succession of blood but to succession of virtue. Though at length it was sufficient for those whose parents were advanced to be known for the sons of such fathers, and so there needed then no endeavour of well-doing j at all, or any contention for them to excel, 152 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. upon whom glory or worldly nobility ne- cessarily descended : yet hereof had nobi- lity denomination in the beginning, that such as excelled others in virtue were so called. But after such time as the de- served honour of the father was given in reward to his posterity, St. Jerome judged of the succession in this manner : " I see no other thing to be affected in nobility, than that noblemen are by a kind of ne- cessity bound not to degenerate from the virtue of their ancestors." For if nobility be " virtue and ancient riches," then to exceed in all those things which are extra hominem, as riches, power, glory and the like, do no otherwise define nobility than the word animal alone doth define a reasonable man. Or if honour, according to L. Vives, be a witness of virtue and well-doing; and nobility, after Plutarch, the continuance of virtue in a race or lineage, then are those in whom virtue is extinguished but like unto painted and printed papers, which ignorant men wor- ship instead of Christ, our lady, and other saints ; men, in whom there re- main but the dregs and vices of ancient virtue ; flowers and herbs, which, by change of soil and want of manuring, are turned to weeds. For what is found praiseworthy in those waters which had their beginning out of pure fountains, if in all the rest of their course they run foul, filthy and defiled ? "Out of fruitful ground ariseth sometimes poisoning hen- bane, and out of barren soil precious gold." For as all things consist of matter and form, so doth Charron (in his Chap- ter of Nobility) call the race and lineage but the matter of nobility ; the form (which gives life and perfect being) he maketh to be virtue and quality, profit- able to the commonwealth. For he is truly and entirely noble who maketh a singular profession of public virtue, ser- ving his prince and country, and being de- scended of parents and ancestors that have done the like. And although that nobility, which the same author calleth personal (the same which ourselves ac- quire by our virtue and well-deservings), cannot be balanced with that which is both natural by descent and also per- sonal ; yet if virtue be wanting to the natural, then is the personal and ac- quired nobility by many degrees to be preferred : for, saith Charron, this ho- nour, to wit, by descent, may light upon such an one as in his own nature is a true villain. There is also a third no- bility, which he calleth nobility in parch- ment, bought with silver or favour ; and these be indeed but honours of affection, which kings, with the change of their fancies, wish they knew well how to wipe off again. But surely, if we had as much sense of our degenerating in worthiness, as we have of vanity in deriving ourselves of such and such parents, we should rather know such nobility (without virtue) to be shame and dishonour, than noble- ness and glory to vaunt thereof. Sir Walter Raleigh. DEATH. If we seek a reason of the succession and continuance of boundless ambition in mortal men, we may add, that the kings | and princes of the world have always laid before them the actions, but not the ends, of those great ones which preceded them. They are always transported with the glory of the one, but they never mind the misery of the other, till they find the ex- perience in themselves. They neglect the advice of God while they enjoy life, or hope it, but they follow the counsel of death upon his first approach. It is he that puts into man all the wisdom of the world without speaking a word, which God, with all the words of his law, pro- mises, or threats, doth not infuse. Death, which hateth and destroyeth man, is be- lieved; God, which hath made him and loves him, is always deferred : " I have considered," saith Solomon, " all the works that are under the sun, and, be- hold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit ;" but who believes it, till death tells it us ? It was death, which, opening the con- science of Charles V., made him enjoin his son Philip to restore Navarre, and king Francis I. of France to command that justice should be done upon the murderers of the protest ants in Merindol and Cabrieres, which till then he neglected. It is therefore death alone that can sud- denly make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent that they are but abjects, and humbles them at the in- stant, makes them cry, complain and re- pent, yea, even to hate their forepassed happiness. He takes the account of the rich and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar, which hath interest in nothing but in the gravel that fills his mouth. He holds a glass before the eyes of the most MORALS AND RELIGION. 153 beautiful, and makes them see therein their deformity and rottenness, and they acknowledge it tered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised ; thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the eloquent, just and mighty death ! pride, cruelty and ambition of man, and whom none could advise, thou hast per- covered it all over with these two narrow suaded; what none hath dared, thou hast i words, hie j ace t ! Sir Walter Raleigh. done ; and whom all the world hath flat- | RICHARD HOOKER was born in March 1554, at Heavitree, near Exeter. In his boyhood he was remark- able for a quiet, modest, inquiring temper, and was a dutiful and affectionate child to his mother, often saying he loved her so dearly that he would endeavour to be good even as much for hers as for his own sake. In the year 1567, by the charitable help of bishop Jewel, he was sent to Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and in 1577 was admitted a fellow of his college. About 1581 he entered into holy orders, and not long after was appointed to preach in London at Paul's Cross. It was a pulpit cross which, from very early times, had stood at the north-east corner of St. Paul's Church- yard where it remained until 1643, when it was demolished by the ordinance of the long parliament, of the 28th of August in that year, for removing all crosses from churchyards, as being among what were called monuments of superstition and idolatry. Royal proclamations were published from St. Paul's Cross, and on certain days, particularly on Good Friday and Low Sunday, some learned man was appointed by the bishop of London to preach there before the lord-mayor and aldermen. Besides money paid to the preacher, provision was made for his lodging and diet, for two days before and one day after the sermon, at a house called the Shunamite's house, a pro- vision which, in the year 1607, was extended to a week, from one Thursday to the next. When Hooker came to London to preach, the Shunamite's house was kept by John Churchman, a decayed draper ; he arrived wet, weary and weather-beaten, com- plaining of the friend who had persuaded him to ride to London instead of footing it, his usual way of travelling. Fatigue made him faint at heart, and he would not be- lieve that two days' nursing could enable him to preach his Sunday's sermon ; but a warm bed and rest, and drink proper for a cold given to him by Mrs. Churchman, and her diligent attendance, made him fit for the duty. Hooker, the most simple-hearted of all creatures, who had long dwelt alone among his books, and had not, perbaps, since he left his mother until now been blessed with woman-kindness, was so grateful to Mrs. Churchman that he thought himself bound in conscience to believe all that she said ; she persuaded him that he was a man of a tender constitution, and that it was best for him to have a wife that might prove a nurse to him ; such an one as might both prolong his life and make it more comfort- able, and such an one she could and would provide for him ; so he promised to marry a wife of her choosing ; she chose her daughter Joan, and Hooker married Joan and lost his fellowship. In 1584 he was presented to a small living at Drayton Beau champ near Aylesbury, and in the year following the mastership of the Temple was offered to him. He wished rather for a better country living, but suffered himself to be persuaded, and was chosen to the office. Here he expected peace, but was disappointed. Walter Travers, a puritan, a man of competent learning, of winning behaviour and blame- less life, was afternoon lecturer, and was favoured by the younger gentlemen of the H5 154 RICHARD HOOKER. society ; so Hooker and Travers, without bitterness, withstood each other in their sermons ; the forenoon sermon spake Canterbury and the afternoon Geneva. At the Temple Hooker meditated his great work of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity, but he could not finish it there ; he was weary of noise and opposition, and found that God and nature did not intend him for contention, but for study and quietness ; therefore he besought archbishop Whitgift to remove him to some place where he might keep himself in peace and privacy, and behold God's blessing spring out of his mother earth, and eat his own bread without opposition. In 1591 the archbishop presented him to the rectory of Boscomb, about six miles from Salisbury, and he finished four books of the Ecclesiastical Polity, which were published in 1592. In 1595 he resigned Boscomb for the living of Bishop's Bourne, in Kent, about three miles from Canterbury, on the high road thence to Dover; there, having in 1597 published the fifth book of his great work, he died on the 2nd of November 1G00, and was buried in Bishop's Bourne church. Hooker's marriage was an unhappy one. Joan had neither beauty nor portion, nor good conditions ; she was a torment to her meek and patient husband. Isaak Walton, from whose life of Hooker these notes have been almost wholly taken, re- lates that Edwin Sandys the son of the archbishop of York, and George Cranmer the great nephew of the archbishop of that name, who had been Hooker's pupils at col- lege, visited him at Drayton. They found him with the Odes of Horace in his hand, keeping his small flock of sheep on the common field, and learnt that he was forced to do this because his wife had some employment for his servant at home. When the servant returned they went together to the house to enjoy their tutor's quiet company, which was presently denied them, for Richard was called by Joan to rock the cradle, and the rest of their welcome was so like this that they sought another lodging for the next night. Mr. Cranmer, at parting, expressed his sorrow that the wife proved not a more comfortable companion, and the good man replied, " My dear George, if saints have usually a double share in the miseries of this life, I, that am none, ought not to repine at what my wise Creator hath appointed for me ; but la- bour, as indeed I do daily, to submit mine to his will, and possess my soul in patience and peace." His wife ruled him to the last act of his life ; he had four daughters, but he left the bulk of his property to her. She married again, almost immediately after his death, and survived him only four months. This meek and patient man was earliest among the greatest writers of England ; in learning, wisdom and eloquence no equal had gone before him. Mr. Hallam, who is not lavish of praise, says of Richard Hooker, " He not only opened the mine, but explored the depths of our native eloquence. So stately and graceful is the march of his periods, so various the fall of his musical cadences upon the ear, so rich in images, so condensed in sentences, so grave and noble his diction, so little is there of vul- garity in his racy idiom, of pedantry in his learned phrase, that I know not whether any later writer has more admirably displayed the capacities of our language, or pro- duced passages more worthy of comparison with the splendid monuments of anti- quity." The Ecclesiastical Polity is in eight books, of which five only were published in Hooker's lifetime ; it is said that the book which is printed as the sixth, though pro- bably his, belonged to a different work, and that the true sixth book, and the con- clusion of the eighth book, are lost. Some have supposed, but it seems without rea- son, that alterations were made in the seventh and eighth books by the Puritans* MORALS AND RELIGION. 155 THE LAW OF NATURE. This world's first creation, and the pre- servation since of things created, what is it but only so far forth a manifestation by execution what the eternal law of God is concerning things natural? And as it cometh to pass in a kingdom rightly or- dered, that after a law is once published, it presently takes effect far and wide, all states framing themselves thereunto ; even so let us think it fareth in the natural course of the world : since the time that God did first proclaim the edicts of his law upon it, heaven and earth have heark- ened unto his voice, and their labour hath been to do his will : He " made a law for the rain ;" He gave his " decree unto the sea, that the waters should not pass his commandment." Now, if nature should intermit her course and leave altogether, though it were but for a while, the obser- vation of her own laws ; if those principal and mother elements of the world, whereof all things in this lower world are made, should lose the qualities which now they have ; if the frame of that heavenly arch erected over our heads shoidd loosen and dissolve itself; if celestial spheres should forget their wonted motions, and by irre- gular volubility turn themselves any way as it might happen ; if the prince of the lights of heaven, which now, as a giant, doth run his unwearied course, should, as it were, through a languishing faintness begin to stand and to rest himself ; if the moon should wander from her beaten way, the times and seasons of the year blend themselves by disordered and con- fused mixture, the winds breathe out their last gasp, the clouds yield no rain, the earth be defeated of heavenly influence, the fruits of the earth pine away as chil- dren at the withered breasts of their mo- ther, no longer able to yield them relief ; what would become of man himself, whom these things do now all serve ? See we not plainly that obedience of creatures unto the law of nature is the stay of the whole world ? Notwithstanding, with nature it cometh sometimes to pass as with art. Let Phi- dias have rude and obstinate stuff to carve, though his art do that it should, his work will lack that beauty which otherwise in fitter matter it might have had. He that striketh an instrument with skill may cause, notwithstanding, a very unpleasant 60und, if the string whereon he striketh chance to be incapable of harmony. In the matter whereof things natural con- sist, that of Theophrastus takes place, " Much of it is oftentimes such as will by no means yield to receive that impression which were best and most perfect." Which defect in the matter of things na- tural, they who gave themselves unto the , contemplation of nature amongst the hea- then observed often : but the true ori- ginal cause thereof, divine malediction, laid for the sin of man upon these crea- tures, which God had made for the use of man, this being an article of that saving truth which God hath revealed unto his church, was above the reach of their merely natural capacity and understand- ing. But howsoever these swervings are now and then incident into the course of nature, nevertheless, so constantly the, laws of nature are by natural agents ob- served, that no man denieth, but those things which nature worketh are wrought, either always or for the most part, after one and the same manner. If here it be demanded what that is which keepeth nature in obedience to her own law, we must have recourse to that higher law whereof we have already spoken ; and because all other laws do thereon depend, from thence we must borrow so much as shall need for brief resolution in this point. Although we are not of opinion therefore, as some are, that nature in working hath before her certain exemplary draughts or patterns, which subsisting in the bosom of the highest, and being thence discovered, she fixeth her eye upon them as travellers by sea upon the pole-star of the world, and that according thereunto she guideth her hand to work by imitation : although we rather embrace the oracle of Hippocrates, that " each thing, both in small and in great, fulfilleth the task which destiny hath set down ;" and concerning the manner of executing and fulfilling the same, " What they do they know not, yet is it in show and appearance as though they did know what they do ; and the truth is, they do not discern the tilings which they look on :" nevertheless, for as much as the works of nature are no less exact, than if she did both behold and study how to ex- press some absolute shape or mirror al- ways present before her; yea, such her dexterity and skill appeareth, that no in- tellectual creature in the world were able by capacity to do that which nature doth without capacity and knowledge ; it can- 156 RICHARD HOOKER. not be but nature hath some director of infinite knowledge to guide her in all her ways. Who the guide of nature, but only the God of nature ? " In him we live, and move, and are." Those things which nature is said to do, are by divine art per- formed, using nature as an instrument ; nor is there any such art or knowledge divine in nature herself working, but in the guide of nature's work. Whereas therefore things natural, which are not in the number of voluntary agents (for of such only we now speak, and of no other), do so necessarily observe their cer- tain laws, that as long as they keep those forms which give them their being, they cannot possibly be apt or inclinable to do otherwise than they do ; seeing the kinds of their operations are both constantly and exactly framed according to the seve- ral ends for which they serve, they them- selves in the meanwhile, though doing that which is fit, yet knowing neither what they do nor why : it followeth that all which they do in this sort proceedeth ori- ginally from some such agent, as knoweth, appointeth, holdeth up, and even actually frameth the same. The manner of this divine efficiency being far above us, we are no more able to conceive by our reason, than creatures unreasonable by their sense are able to apprehend after what manner we dispose and order the course of our affairs. Only thus much is discerned, that the natural generation and process of all things re- ceiveth order of proceeding from the set- tled stability of divine understanding. This appointeth unto them their kinds of working ; the disposition whereof in the purity of God's own knowledge and will, is rightly termed by the name of Provi- dence. The same being referred unto the things themselves here disposed by it, was wont by the ancients to be called Natural Destiny. That law, the performance whereof we behold in things natural, is as it were an authentical or an original draught, written in the bosom of God him- self; whose spirit being to execute the same, useth every particular nature, every mere natural agent, only as an instrument created at the beginning, and ever since the beginning used, to work his own will and pleasure withal. Nature therefore is nothing else but God's instrument ; in the course whereof Dionysius, perceiving some sudden disturbance, is said to have cried out, " Either God doth suffer impedi- ment, and is by a greater than himself hindered ; or if that be impossible, then hath he determined to make a present dissolution of the world; the execution of that law beginning now to stand still, without which the world cannot stand." This workman, whose servitor nature is, being in truth but only one, the hea- thens imagining to be more, gave him in the sky the name of Jupiter, in the air the name of Juno, in the water the name of Neptune, in the earth the name of Vesta and sometimes of Ceres, the name of Apollo in the sun, in the moon the name of Diana, the name of jEoIus, and divers other in the winds ; and to conclude, even so many guides of nature they dreamed of, as they saw there were kinds of things natural in the world. These they ho- noured, as having power to work or cease, accordingly as men deserved of them. But unto us there is one only guide of all agents natural, and he both the creator and the worker of all in all, alone to be blessed, adored, and honoured by all for ever. Richard Hooker. THE LAW OF REASON. The due observation of the law which reason teacheth us, cannot but be effec- tual unto their great good that observe the same. For we see the whole world and each part thereof so compacted, that as long as each thing performeth only that work which is natural unto it, it thereby preserveth both other things, and also it- self. Contrariwise, let any principal thing, as the sun, the moon, any one of the hea- vens or elements, but once cease, or fail, or swerve, and who doth not easily con- ceive that the sequel thereof would be ruin both to itself and whatsoever depend- eth on it? And is it possible that man being not only the noblest creature in the world, but even a very world in himself, his transgressing the law of his nature should draw no manner of harm after it ? Yes, " Tribulation and anguish unto every soul that doeth evil ! " Good doth follow unto all things by observing the course of their nature, and on the contrary side evil by not observing it ; but not unto natural agents that good which we call reward, not that evil which we properly term punishment. The reason whereof is, because amongst creatures in this world only man's observation of the law of his nature is righteousness, only man's trans- gression sin. And the reason of this is, MORALS AND RELIGION. 157 the difference in his manner of observing or transgressing the law of his nature. He doth not otherwise than voluntarily the one or the other. What we do against our wills, or constrainedly, we are not pro- perly said to do it, because the motive cause of doing it is not in ourselves, but carrieth us (as if the wind should drive a feather in the air), we no whit furthering that whereby we are driven. In such cases therefore the evil which is done moveth compassion. Men are pitied for it, as being rather miserable in such respect than culpable. Some things are likewise done by man, though not through out- ward force and impulsion, though not against, yet without their wills ; as in alienation of mind, or any the like inevi- table utter absence of wit and judgment. For which cause no man did ever think the hurtful actions of furious men and in- nocents to be punishable. Again, some things we do neither against nor without, and yet not simply and merely with our wills, but with our wills in such sort moved, that albeit there be no impossi- bility but that we might, nevertheless we are not so easily able to do otherwise. In this consideration one evil deed is made more pardonable than another. Finally, that which we do being evil, is notwith- standing by so much more pardonable, by how much the exigence of so doing, or the difficulty of doing otherwise, is greater; unless this necessity or difficulty have originally risen from ourselves. It is no excuse therefore unto him, who being drunk committeth incest, and allegeth that Ms wits w T ere not his own ; inasmuch as himself might have chosen, whether his wits should by that mean have been taken from him. Now rewards and pu- nishments do always presuppose some- thing willingly done well or ill ; without which respect, though we may sometimes receive good or harm, yet then the one is only a benefit and not a reward, the other simply a hurt not a punishment. From the sundry dispositions of man's will, which is the root of all his actions, there groweth variety in the sequel of rewards and punishments, which are by these and the like rules measured : " Take away the will and all acts are equal : that which we do not and would do, is commonly ac- cepted as done." By these and the like rules men's actions are determined of and judged, whether they be in their own na- ture rewardable or punishable. Rewards and punishments are not re- ceived but at the hands of such as being above us have power to examine and judge our deeds. All do acknowledge that sith every man's heart and conscience doth in good or evil, even secretly committed and known to none but itself, either like or disallow itself, and accordingly either re- joice, very nature exulting, as it w r ere, in certain hope of reward ; or else grieve, as it were, in a sense of future punishment ; neither of which can in this case be look- ed for from any other, saving only from him who discerneth and judgeth the very secrets of all hearts ; therefore he is the only rewarder and revenger of all such actions ; although not of such actions only, but of all whereby the law of nature is broken, wiiereof himself is author. For which cause the Roman laws, called the Laws of the Twelve Tables, requiring offices of inward affection which the eye of man cannot reach unto, threaten the neglecters of them with none but divine punishment. Richard Hooker. SOCIAL LAW. The public power of all societies is above every soul contained in the same societies. And the principal use of that power is to give laws unto all that are under it, which laws in such case w r e must obey, unless there be reason show r ed winch may neces- sarily enforce, that the law of reason or of God doth enjoin the contrary ; because, except our own private and but probable resolutions, be by the law of public deter- minations over-ruled, we take away all possibility of sociable life in the world. A plainer example whereof than ourselves we cannot have. How cometh it to pass that we are at this present day so rent with mutual contentions, and that the church is so much troubled about the polity of the church ? No doubt, if men had been willing to learn how many laws their actions in this life are subject unto, and what the true force of each law is, all these controversies might have died the very day they were first brought forth. It is both commonly said and truly, that the best men otherwise are not al- ways the best in regard of society. The reason whereof is, for that the law of men's actions is one, if they be respected only as men ; and another, when they are considered as parts of a politic body. Many men there are, than wiiom nothing is more commendable when they are sin- 158 RICHARD HOOKER. gled ; and yet in society with others, none less fit to answer the duties which are looked for at their hands. Yea, I am per- suaded, that of them With whom in this cause we strive, there are whose betters among men would be hardly found, if they did not live amongst men, but in some wilderness by themselves. The cause of which, their disposition so unframeable unto societies wherein they live, is, for that they discern not aright what place and force these several kinds of laws ought to have in all their actions. Is there ques- tion either concerning the regiment of the church in general, or about conformity be- tween one church and another, or of cere- monies, offices, powers, jurisdictions, in our own church ? Of all these things they judge by that rule which they frame to themselves with some show of probability; and what seemeth in that sort convenient, the same they think themselves bound to practise ; the same by all means they la- bour mightily to uphold ; whatsoever any law of man to the contrary hath deter- mined, they weigh it not. Thus, by fol- lowing the law of private reason, where the law of public should take place, they breed disturbance. For the better in- uring therefore of men's minds with the true distinction of laws, and of their seve- ral force, according to the different kind and quality of our actions, it shall not peradventure be amiss to show in some one example, how they all take place. To seek no farther, let but that be consi- dered, than which there is not anything more familiar unto us, our food. What things are food and what are not, we judge naturally by sense ; neither need we any other law to be our director in that be- half than the self-same which is common unto us with beasts. But when we come to consider of food as of a benefit which God of his bounteous goodness hath pro- vided for all things living, the law of rea- son doth here require the duty of thank- fulness at our hands, towards him at whose hands we have it. And lest appetite in the use of food should lead us beyond that which is meet, we owe in this case obedi- ence to that law of reason which teacheth mediocrity in meats and drinks. The same things divine law teacheth also, as it doth all parts of moral duty, whereunto we all of necessity stand bound in regard of the life to come. But of certain kinds of food the Jews sometimes had, and we ourselves likewise have a mystical, reli- gious and supernatural use ; they of their paschal lamb and oblations ; we of our bread and wine in the eucharist ; which use none but divine law could institute. Now as we live in civil society, the state of the commonwealth wherein we live, both may and doth require certain laws concerning food ; which laws, saving only that we are members of the common- wealth where they are of force, we should not need to respect as rules of action; whereas, now in their place and kind they must be respected and obeyed. Thus we see how even one and the self-same thing is under divers considerations conveyed through many laws : and that to measure by any one kind of law all the actions of men, were to confound the admirable order wherein God hath disposed all laws, each as in nature so in degree distinct from other. Wherefore, that here we may briefly end ; of law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world ; all things in heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power; both angels and men, and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy. Richard Hooker. CHURCH MUSIC. Touching musical harmony, whether by instrument or by voice, it being but of high and low in sounds a due proportion- able disposition, such, notwithstanding, is the force thereof, and so pleasing effects it hath, in that very part of man which is most divine, that some have been thereby induced to think that the soul itself by nature is, or hath in it, harmony ; a thing which delighteth all ages, and beseemeth all states ; a thing as seasonable in grief as in joy ; as decent being added unto actions of greatest weight and solemnity, as being used when men most sequester themselves from action. The reason hereof is an admirable facility which mu- sic hath to express and represent to the mind, more inwardly than any other sen- sible mean, the very standing, rising, and falling, the very steps and inflections every way, the turns and varieties of all passions whereunto the mind is subject ; yea, so to imitate them, that whether it resemble unto us the same state wherein MORALS AND RELIGION. 159 our minds already are, or a clean con- trary, we are not more contentedly by the one confirmed, than changed and led away by the other. In harmony the very image and character even of virtue and vice is perceived, the mind delighted with then - resemblances, and brought, by ha- ving them often iterated, into a love of the things themselves. For which cause there is nothing more contagious and pestilent than some kinds of harmony ; than some, nothing more strong and potent unto good. And that there is such a differ- ence of one kind from another, we need no proof but our own experience, inas- much as we are at the hearing of some more inclined unto sorrow and heaviness, of some more mollified and softened in mind ; one kind apter to stay and settle us, another to move and stir our affec- tions ; there is that draweth to a marvel- lous grave and sober mediocrity, there is also that carrieth as it were into ecstasies, filling the mind with a heavenly joy, and for the time, in a manner severing it from the body : so that, although we lay alto- gether aside the consideration of ditty or matter, the very harmony of sounds being framed in due sort, and earned from the ear to the spiritual faculties of our souls, is by a native puissance and efficacy, greatly available to bring to a perfect temper whatsoever is there troubled, apt as well to quicken the spirits as to allay that which is too eager, sovereign against melancholy and despair, forcible to draw forth tears of devotion, if the mind be such as can yield them, able both to move and to moderate all affections. The prophet David having therefore sin- gular knowledge, not in poetry alone, but in music also, judged them both to be things most necessary for the house of God, left behind him to that purpose a number of divinely indited poems, and was further the author of adding unto poetry melody in public prayer, melody both vocal and instrumental, for the rai- sing up of men's hearts, and the sweetening of their affections towards God. In which considerations the church of Christ doth likewise at this present day retain it as an ornament to God's service, and a help to our own devotion. They which, under pretence of the law ceremonial abrogated, require the abrogation of instrumental music, approving nevertheless the use of vocal melody to remain, must show some reason wherefore the one should be thought a legal ceremony and not the other. In church music, curiosity and osten- tation of art, wanton, or light, or unsuit- able harmony, such as only pleaseth the ear, and doth not naturally serve to the very kind and degree of those impressions, which the matter that goeth with it leaveth, or is apt to leave in men's minds, doth rather blemish and disgrace that we do, than add either beauty or fur- therance unto it. On the other side, these faults prevented, the force and effi- cacy of the thing itself, when it drowneth j not' utterly, but fitly suiteth with matter i altogether sounding to the praise of God, I is in truth most admirable, and doth much ! edify, if not the understanding, because it teacheth not, yet surely the affection, be- i cause therein it worketh much. They must have hearts very dry and tough, j from whom the melody of Psalms doth I not some time draw that wherein a mind I religiously affected delighteth. Be it as Rabanus Maurus observeth, that at the 1 first the church in this exercise was more ! simple and plain than we are ; that their j singing was little more than only a melo- ! dious kind of pronunciation ; that the ! custom which we now use was not insti- ■ tuted so much for their cause which are spiritual, as to the end that into grosser j and heavier minds, whom bare words do not easily move, the sweetness of melody ' might make some entrance for good : things. St. Basil himself, acknowledging j as much, did not think that from such I inventions the least jot of estimation and ! credit thereby should be derogated : " For ! (saith he) whereas the Holy Spirit saw j that mankind is unto virtue hardly drawn, I and that righteousness is the less ac- ; counted of by reason of the proneness of l our affections to that which delighteth ; it pleased the wisdom of the same spirit ! to borrow from melody that pleasure, | which, mingled with heavenly mysteries, I causeth the smoothness and softness of that which toucheth the ear, to convey, as it were by stealth, the treasure of good I things into man's mind. To this purpose j were those harmonious tunes of Psalms ] devised for us, that they which are either in years but young, or touching perfection j of virtue as yet not grown to ripeness, might, when they think they sing, learn. the wise conceit of that Heavenly Teacher, which hath by his skill found out a way, that doing those things where- in we delight, we may also learn that whereby we profit !" Richard Hooker. 160 JOSEPH HALL. JOSEPH HALL bishop of Exeter, and afterwards of Norwich, was born, as he tells us, at Ashby de la Zouch, in Leicestershire, at five o'clock in the morning of the 1st of July 1574. He was educated at the grammar-school of his native town, and at Emmanuel College, Cambridge. In 1595 he was elected a fellow of his college, and in 1597 and 1598 he published his Satires, of which Warton speaks as marked with a classical precision to which English poetry had yet rarely attained, and Thomas Campbell, as in point of volubility and vigour of numbers, frequently reminding the reader of Dryden. In 1605 he travelled in France and the Netherlands. In 1627 he was made bishop of Exeter, in which office he was suspected by archbishop Laud to be a favourer of the Puritans ; but in 1640 he came boldly forward to defend episcopacy and the liturgy against a host of adversaries, whom Milton afterwards joined. In 1641 he was trans- lated to the bishoprick of Norwich, and in the same year, for protesting, with other bishops, against the validity of all votes and resolutions of the House of Lords, during their absence from fear of the mob, he was ordered to the Tower and impeached of treason, but finally dismissed after some months' imprisonment. In 1643 the Long Parliament deprived him of the revenue of his see, and he retired upon a scanty allowance to Heigham near Norwich, where he died on the 8th of September 1656, and was buried in the parish church of Heigham. The chief prose works of bishop Hall are his Contemplations, Meditations, and Sermons. He has been characterised as sententious, full of learning and of fancy, often descending to conceits : the passages which follow, the first from his Contem- plations, the other from one of his Sermons, prove that he could rise to overwhelming eloquence. THE PROMULGATION OF THE LAW. Even when they were washed and sanc- tified, the Israelites may not touch the mount, not only with their feet, but not with their eyes : the smoke keeps it from their eyes, the marks from their feet. Not only men, that had some impurity at their best, are restrained, but even beasts, which are not capable of any unholiness. Those beasts which must touch his altars, yet might not touch his hill; and if a beast touch it, he must die ; yet so as no hands may touch that which hath touched the hill. Unreasonableness might seem to be an excuse in these creatures ; that therefore which is death to a beast, must needs be capital to them whose reason should guide them to avoid presumption. Those Israelites which saw God every day in the pillar of fire and the cloud, must not come near him in the mount. God loves at once familiarity and fear ; famili- arity in our conversation, and fear in his commands. He loves to be acquainted with men in the walks of their obedience ; yet he takes state on him in his ordi- nances, and will be trembled at in his word and judgments. I see the difference of God's carriage to men in the law and in the gospel : there, the very hill where he appeared may not be touched of the purest Israelite ; here, the hem of his garment is touched by the woman that had the flux of blood ; yea, his very face was touched with the lips of Judas : there, the very earth was prohi- bited them, on which he descended ; here, his very body and blood is proffered to our touch and taste. the marvellous kindness of our God ! How unthankful are we, if we do not acknowledge this mercy above his ancient people ! They were his own, yet strangers in comparison of our liberty. It is our shame and sin, if, in these means of intireness, we be no better acquainted with God than they, which in their greatest familiarity were commanded aloof. God was ever wonderful in his works and fearful in his judgments ; but he was never so terrible in the execution of his will, as now in the promulgation of it. MORALS AND RELIGION. 161 Here was nothing but a majestical terror in the eyes, in the ears of the Israelites, as if God meant to show them by this how fearful he could be. Here was the lightning darted in their eyes, the thun- ders roaring in their ears, the trumpet of God drowning the thunder-claps, the voice of God outspeaking the trumpet of the angel; the cloud enwrapping, the smoke ascending, the fire flaming, the mount trembling, Moses climbing and quaking, paleness and death in the face of Israel, uproar in the elements, and all the glory of heaven turned into terror ! In the destruction of the first world there were clouds without fire ; in the destruc- tion of Sodom there was fire raining without clouds ; but here was fire, smoke, clouds, thunder, earthquakes, and what- soever might work more astonishment than ever was in any vengeance in- flicted. And if the law were thus given, how shall it be required ? If such were the proclamation of God's statutes, what shall the sessions be ? I see and tremble at the resemblance. The trumpet of the angel called unto the one ; the voice of an archangel, the trumpet of God shall summon us to the other. To the one, Moses, that climbed up that hill, and alone saw it, says, " God came with ten thousands of his saints ;" in the other, " thousand thousands shall minister to him, and ten thousand thousands shall stand before him :" in the one, Mount Sinai only was on a flame ; all the world shall be so in the other : in the one, there was fire, smoke, thunder and lightning ; in the other, a fiery stream shall issue from him, wherewith the heavens shall be dissolved, and the elements shall melt away with a noise. God, how powerful art thou to inflict vengeance on sinners, who didst thus forbid sin ! and if thou wert so terrible a lawgiver, what a judge shalt thou appear ! What shall become of the breakers of so fiery a law ? where shall those appear that are guilty of the transgressing that law, whose very delivery was little less than death ? If our God should exact his law but in the same rigor wherein he gave it, sin could not quit the cost : but now the fire, wherein it was delivered, was but terri- fying ; the fire wherein it shall be required is consuming. Happy are those that are from under the terrors of that law, which was given in fire, and in fire shall be required. This fire, wherein the law was given, is still in it, and will never out : hence are those terrors which it flashes in every conscience that hath felt remorse of sin. Every man's heart is a Sinai, and resem- bles to him both heaven and hell. " The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law!" That they might see he could find out their closest sins, he delivers his law in the light of fire from out of the smoke : that they might see what is due to their sins, they see fire above, to represent the fire that should be below them : that they might know he could waken their secu- rity, the thunder and louder voice of God speaks to their hearts : that they might see what their hearts should do, the earth quakes under them : that they might see they could not shift their appearance, the angels call them together. royal law, and mighty lawgiver ! How could they think of having any other God, that had such proofs of this ? How could they think of making any resemblance of him, whom they saw could not be seen, and whom they saw, in not being seen, infinite ? How could they think of daring to pro- fane his name, whom they heard to name himself, with that voice, Jehovah ? How could they think of standing with him for a day, whom they saw to command that heaven which makes and measures day ? How could they think of disobeying his deputies, whom they saw so able to re- venge ? How could they think of killing, when they w r ere half dead with the fear of him that could kill both body and soul ? How could they think of the flames of lust, that saw such fires of vengeance ? How could they think of stealing from others, that saw whose the heaven and earth was to dispose of at his pleasure ? How could they think of speaking falsely, that heard God speak in so fearful a tone? How could they think of coveting others' goods, that saw how weak and uncertain right they had to their own ? Yea, to us was this law so delivered, to us in them : neither had there been such state in the promulgation of it, if God had not in- tended it for eternity. We men, that so fear the breach of human laws, for some small mulcts of forfeiture; how should we fear thee, Lord, that can cast body and soul into hell ! Joseph Hall. 162 JOSEPH HALL. THE PASSION. Behold, this field was not without sweat and blood ; yea, a sweat of blood. Oh, what man or angel can conceive the taking of that heart, that, without all out- ward violence, merely out of the extremity of his own passion, bled, through the flesh and skin, not some faint dew, but solid drops of blood ? No thorns, no nails fetched blood from him with so much pain as his own thoughts. He saw the fierce wrath of his Father, and there- fore feared : he saw the heavy burden of our sins to be undertaken; and thereupon, besides fear, justly grieved : he saw the necessity of our eternal damnation if he suffered not ; if he did suffer, of our redemption ; and therefore his love en- countered both grief and fear. In itself, he would not drink of that cup : in re- spect of our good and his decree, he would and did ; and while he thus striveth, he sweats and bleeds. There was never such a combat ; never such a bloodshed : and yet it is not finished. I dare not say with some schoolmen, that the sorrow of his passion was not so great as the sorrow of his compassion ; yet that was surely ex- ceeding great. To see the ungracious carelessness of mankind, the slender fruit of his sufferings, the sorrows of his mother, disciples, friends ; to foresee, from the watchtower of his cross, the future temp- tations of his children, desolations of his church ; all these must needs strike deep into a tender heart. These he still sees and pities, but without passion : then he suffered in seeing them. Can we yet say any more ? Lo, all these sufferings are aggravated by his fulness of knowledge and want of comfort : for he did not shut his eyes, as one saith, when he drunk this cup : he saw how dreggish, and knew how bitter it was. Sudden evils afflict, if not less, shorter. He foresaw and foresaid every particular he should suffer : so long as he foresaw he suffered : the expectation of evil is not less than the sense : to look long for good is a punishment ; but for evil, is a tor- ment. No passion works upon an un- known object : as no love, so no fear, is of what we know not. Hence men fear not hell, because they foresee it not : if we could see that pit open before we come at it, it would make us tremble at our sins, and our knees to knock together as Belshazzar's ; and perbaps, without faith, to run mad at the horror of judgment. He saw the burden of all particular sins to be laid upon him : every dram of his Father's wrath was measured out to him, ere he touched this potion : this cup was full, and he knew that it must be wringed, not a drop left : it must be finished. Oh yet, if as he foresaw all his sorrows, so he could have seen some mixture of re- freshing ! " But I found none to comfort me, no, none to pity me." And yet it is a poor comfort that arises from pity. Even so, Lord, thou treadest this winepress alone ; none to accompany, none to assist thee. The greatest torments are easy, when they have answerable comforts ; but a wounded and comfortless spirit who can bear ? If yet but the same messengers of God might have attended his cross, that ap- peared in his agony, and might have given ease to their Lord, as he did to his ser- vant ! And yet, what can the angels help where God will smite ? Against the vio- lence of men, against the fury of Satan, they have prevailed in the cause of God, for men : they dare not, they cannot com- fort where God will afflict. For men, much less could they, if they would ; but what did they ? " Miserable comforters are ye all." The soldiers ; they stripped him, scorned him with his purple crown, reed, spat on him, smote him : the passengers ; they reviled him, and insulting, wagging their heads and hands at him, "Hey, thou that destroyedst the temple, come down," &c. : the elders and scribes; alas, they have bought his blood, suborned witnesses, incensed Pi- late, preferred Barabbas, undertook the guilt of his death, cried out, "Crucify, cru- cify !" " Ho ! thou that savedst others :" his disciples ; alas, they forsook him, one of them forswears him, another runs away naked rather than he will stay and con- fess him : his mother and other friends ; they look on indeed, and sorrow with him, but to his discomfort. Where the grief is extreme and respects near, part- nership doth but increase sorrow. Paul chides this love : " What do you weeping, and breaking my heart?" The tears of those we love do either slacken our hearts or wound them. Who then shall comfort him ? himself ? sometimes our own thoughts find a way to succour us, unknown to others : no, not himself. Doubtless, as Aquinas saith, the influence of the higher part of the soul was restrained from the aid of the MORALS AND RELIGION. 163 inferior : " My soul is filled with evils." Who then? his Father? here, here was his hope : " If the Lord had not holpen me, my soul had almost dwelt in silence:" " I and my Father are one." But now, alas, he, even he, delivers him into the hands of his enemies ; when he hath done, turns his back upon him as a stranger ; yea, he woundeth him as an enemy. " The Lord would break him." Yet anything is light to the soul, while the comforts of God sustain it : who can dismay where God will relieve ? But here, " My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?'" What a word was here to come from the mouth of the Son of God ! " My disci- ples are men, weak and fearful : no marvel if they forsake me. The Jews are them- selves cruel and obstinate. Men are men, graceless and unthankful. Devils are, according to their nature, spiteful and malicious. All these do but their kind ; and let them do it : but thou, Father, thou that hast said, ' This is my well- beloved son, in whom I am well pleased;' thou, of whom I have said, ' It is my Father that glorifies me ;' what, forsaken me ! Not only brought me to this shame, smitten me, unregarded me ; but as it were, forgotten, yea, forsaken me ! what, even me, my Father ! How many of thy constant servants have suffered heavy tilings ! yet, in the multitudes of the sor- rows of their hearts, thy presence and comforts have refreshed their souls. Hast thou relieved them, and dost thou forsake me ? me, thine only, dear, natural, eter- nal son ?" O ye heavens and earth, how could you stand, while the Maker of you thus complained ? Ye stood ; but par- taking after a sort of his passion : the earth trembled and shook ; her rocks tore, her graves opened ; the heavens withdrew their light, as not daring to behold this sad and fearful spectacle. dear christians, how should these earthen and rocky hearts of ours shake and rend in pieces at this meditation ! How should our faces be covered with darkness, and our joy be turned into heaviness ! All these voices, and tears, and sweats, and pangs, are for us ; yea, from us. Shall the Son of God thus smart for our sins, yea, with our sins, and shall we not grieve for our own ? Shall he weep to us in this market-place, and shall we not mourn ? Nay, shall he sweat and bleed for us, and shall not we weep for ourselves ? Shall he thus lamentably shriek out under his Father's wrath, and shall not we tremble ? Shall the heavens and earth suffer with him, and we suffer nothing ? I call you not to a weak and idle pity of our glorious Saviour : to what pur- pose? His injury was our glory. No, no ; " Ye daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves :" for our sins, that have done this ; not for his sorrow that suffered it : not for his pangs that were ; but for our own, that should have been, and if we repent not, shall be. Oh, how grievous, how deadly are our sins, that cost the Son of God, besides blood, so much torment ! How far are our souls gone, that coidd not be ran- somed with an easier price ! That, that took so much of this infinite Redeemer of men, God and man, how can it choose but swallow up and confound thy soul, which is but finite and sinful ! If thy soul had been in his soul's stead, what had become of it ? it shall be if his were not instead of thine. This weight, that lies thus heavy on the Son of God, and wrung from him these tears, sweat, blood, and these inconceivable groans of his afflicted spirit, how should it choose but press dow r n thy soul to the bottom of hell ! and so it will do : if he have not suffered it for thee, thou must and shalt suffer it for thyself. Go now, thou lewd man, and make thy- self merry with thy sins. Laugh at the uncleanness or bloodiness of thy youth. Thou little know r est the price of a sin ; thy soul shall do ; thy Sari our did when he cried out, to the amazement of angels and horror of men, " My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me ?" But now T no more of this ; " It is finished :" the greater conflict, the more happy victor}*. Well doth he find and feel of his Father w*hat his type said be- fore, " He will not chide always, nor keep his anger for ever." It is fearful ; but in him, short : eternal to sinners ; short to his Son, in whom the Godhead dw r elt bodily. Behold this storm, wherewith all the powers of the world were shaken, is now over. The elders, pharisees, Judas, the soldiers, priests, witnesses, judges, thieves, executioners, devils, have all tired themselves in vain vrith their own malice : and he triumphs over them all upon the throne of his cross : his enemies are vanquished, his Father satisfied, his soul with this word at rest and glory ; " It is finished." Now there is no more betraying, agonies, arraign- 164 JOHN HALES. ments, scourging, scoffing, crucifying, conflicts, terrors ; all is finished. Alas, beloved, and will we not let the Son of God be at rest ? Do we now again go about to fetch him out of his glory, to scorn and crucify him ? I fear to say it : God's spirit dare and doth ; " They crucify again to themselves the Son of God, and make a mock of him :" to them- selves, not in himself: that, they cannot : it is no thank to them ; they would do it. See and consider : the notoriously sinful conversations of those, that should be christians, offer violence unto our glorified Saviour : they stretch their hand to hea- ven and pull him down from his throne to his cross : they tear him with thorns, pierce him with nails, load him with re- proaches. Thou hatest the Jews, spittest at the name of Judas, railest on Pilate, j condemnest the cruel butchers of Christ ; yet thou canst blaspheme and swear him quite over, curse, swagger, lie, oppress, boil with lust, scoff, riot, and livest like a debauched man ; yea, like a human beast ; yea, like an unclean devil. Cry Hosanna as long as thou wilt, thou art a Pilate, a Jew, a Judas, an executioner of the Lord of Life; and so much greater shall thy judgment be, by how much thy light and Ms glory is more. O beloved, is it not enough that he died once for us ? Were those pains so light that we should every day redouble them ? Is this the entertainment that so gracious a Saviour hath deserved of us by dying ? Is this the recompence of that infinite love of his, that thou shouldest thus cruelly vex and wound him with thy sins? Every of our sins is a thorn, and nail, and spear to him. While thou pourest down thy drunken carouses, thou givest thy Saviour a potion of gall : while thou de- spisest his poor servants, thou spittest on his face : while thou puttest on thy proud dresses and liftest up thy vain heart with high conceits, thou settest a crown of thorns on his head : while thou wringest and oppressest his poor children, thou whippest him and drawest blood of his hands and feet. Thou hypocrite, how darest thou offer to receive the sacrament of God with that hand which is thus im- brued with the blood of him whom thou receivest ? In every ordinary, thy profane tongue walks in the disgrace of the reli- gious and conscionable. Thou makest no scruple of thine own sins, and scornest those that do : not to be wicked is crime enough. Hear him that saith, " Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me ?" Saul strikes at Damascus ; Christ suffers in heaven. Thou strikest ; Christ Jesus smarteth and will revenge. These are the afterings of Christ's sufferings. In himself it is finished ; in his members it is not till the world be finished. We must toil, and groan, and bleed, that we may reign : if he had not done so, it had not been finished. This is our warfare : this is the region of our sorrow and death. Now are we set upon the sandy pavement of our theatre, and are matched with all sorts of evils ; evil men, evil spirits, evil accidents ; and, which is worst, our own evil hearts ; temptations, crosses, perse- cutions, sicknesses, wants, infamies, death : all these must, in our courses, be en- countered by the law of our profession. What should we do but strive and suffer, as our General hath done, that we may reign as he doth ; and once triumph in our consammatum est ? God and his an- gels sit upon the scaffolds of heaven, and behold us : our crown is ready : our day of deliverance shall come ; yea, our re- demption is near, when all tears shall be wiped from our eyes ; and we that have sown in tears shall reap in joy. In the mean time let us possess our souls, not in patience only, but in comfort : let us adore and magnify our Saviour in his sufferings, and imitate him in our own : our sorrows shall have an end ; our joys shall not: our pains shall soon be finished; our glory shall be finished, but never ended. Joseph Hall. JOHN HALES "the ever-memorable John Hales of Eton" was born at Bath, on the 19th of April 1584 ; he was at school at Mells and at Killmaston in Somersetshire, entered at Cor- pus Christi College, Oxford, in the year 1597, and for some time was Greek professor of the University. In 1613 he was admitted a fellow of Eton College. In 1618 he MORALS AND RELIGION. 165 attended, as the chaplain of the English ambassador, at the synod of Dort,in Holland, which had been convened, by the request of James the First, to decide on the points in dispute between the Calvinists and the Arminians. He has given in his letters an account of the proceedings of the synod. In 1644, while the civil war was raging, Hales, who was then bursar of Eton, in order to preserve the writings and keys of the college, hid himself for nine weeks and spent in that time only sixpence a week, living upon bread and beer, and lying so near the college that he used to say those who searched for him might have smelt him if he had eaten garlick. Being turned out of his fellowship for refusing to take the engagement to be faithful to the common- wealth, he became a private tutor, and afterwards supported himself by the sale of part of his library, the greatest and best private collection of his time. He died on the 19th of May 1656, and was buried in Eton churchyard. Hales was renowned for his learning and virtues, for his contempt of money and his liberality to the poor, and was highly esteemed by men of all classes and opinions. He was an advocate for the right of private judgment, denied the power of councils and synods to bind men's consciences, desired to bring all christians into one com- munion, and thought that pride and passion, more than conscience, separated them. He would often say that he would renounce the religion of the church of England to-morrow, if it obliged him to believe that any other christian should be finally condemned ; and that nobody would so conclude of another man who did not wish him so. Lord Clarendon concludes his character thus : " he was one of the least men in the kingdom, and one of the greatest scholars in Europe." AGAINST DUELLING. Let us a little examine the causes and pretences which are brought by them who call for trial by single combat. The causes are usually two : first, disdain to seem to do or suffer anything for fear of death : secondly, point of honour, and not to suffer any contumely and indignity, especially if it bring with it disreputation and note of cowardice. For the first, disdain to fear death : I must confess I have often wondered with myself how men durst die so ventrously, except they were sure they died well : in other things which are learnt by practising, if we mis- take, we may amend it ; for the error of a former action may be corrected in the next : we learn then by erring, and men come at length not to err, by having often erred : but no man learns to die by prac- tising it ; we die but once, and a fault committed then can never afterwards be amended, because the punishment imme- diately follows upon the error. To die is an action of that moment, that we ought to be very well advised when we come to it : ab hoc momento pendet aternitas, you may not look back upon the opinion of honour and reputation which remains behind you : but rather look forward upon that infinite space of eternity, either of bliss or bale, which befals us immedi- ately after our last breath. To be loth to die upon every slight occasion , is not a necessary sign of fear and cowardice : he that knew what life is and the time use of it, had he many lives to spare, yet would he be loth to part with one of* them upon better terms than those. Our books tell us, that Aristippus, a philosopher, being at sea in a dangerous tempest, and betraying some fear, when the weather was cleared up, a desperate ruffian came and up- braided him with it, and tells him that it was a shame, that he professing wisdom should be afraid of his life, whereas himself, having had no such education, expressed no agony or dread at all. To whom the philosopher replied, there was some dif- ference between them two : " I know," saith he, " my life may be profitable many ways, and therefore am I loth to lose it ; but because of your life you know little profit, little good can be made, you care not how easily you part with it." Be- loved, it may be justly suspected, that they who esteem thus lightly of their lives, are but worthless and unprofitable men : and our own experience tells us, that men who are prodigal of their money in taverns and ordinaries, are close-handed enough when either pious uses or ne- cessary and public expense requires their 166 JOHN HALES. liberality ; I have not heard that prodigals ever built churches. So these men that are so prodigal of their lives in base quar- rels, peradventure would be cowardly enough if either public service or religion did call for their help ; I scarcely believe any of them would die martyrs, if the times so required it. Beloved, I do not go about to persuade any man to fear death, but not to contemn life ; life is the greatest blessing God gives in this world, and did men know the worth of it, they would never so rashly venture the loss of it : but now lightly prizing both their own and others' blood, they are easily moved to shed it ; as fools are easily won to part with jewels, because they know not how to value them. We must deal with our lives as we do with our money, we must not be covetous of it, desire life for no other use but to live, as covetous persons desire money only to have it : neither must we be prodigal of life and trifle it away upon every occasion ; but we must be liberal of our lives, know upon what occasion to spare, upon what occasion to spend them. To know where, and when, and in what cases to offer our- selves to die, is a thing of greater skill than a great part of them suppose, who pretend themselves most forward to do it. For brutishly to run upon and hasten unto death is a thing that many men can do, and we see that brute beasts many times will run upon the spears of such as pursue them ; but wisely to look into and weigh every occasion, and as judgment and true discretion shall direct ; so to entertain a resolution either of life or death, this were true fortitude and mag- nanimity. And indeed this prodigality and contempt of life is the greatest ground of this quarrellous and fighting humour ; there is a kind of men, who, because they contemn their own lives, make themselves lords and commanders of other men's, easily provoking others to venture their blood, because they care not how they lose their own. Few places of great resort are without these men, and they are the greatest occasioners of bloodshed, you may quickly know them ; there are few quarrels wherein they are not either prin- cipals or seconds, or some way or another will have a part in them. Might there be public order taken for the restraint of such men that make a practice of quarrelling, and because they contemn their own lives, carry themselves so in- solently and imperiously towards others : it will prevent much mischief, and free the land of much danger of blood-guilti- ness. The second cause which is much alleged in defence of duels, I told you was point of honour, a conceit that it is dishonour- able for men of place and fashion quietly to digest and put up contumely and disgrace ; and this they take to be a rea- son of that authority and strength as that it must admit of no dispensation. For answer ; first the true fountain and ori- ginal of quarrel are of another kind, and honour is abused as a pretence : the first occasioners of a great part of them are indeed very dishonourable : let there an inventory be taken of all the challenges that have been made for some time past, and you shall find that the greatest part by far were raised in taverns or dicing- houses ; drinking and gaming, these are those rotten bones that lie hid under this painted sepulchre and title of honour. Lastly, to conclude, it is a part of our profession, as we are christians, to suffer wrong and disgrace. Therefore to set up another doctrine, and teach that honour may plead prescription against Christ's prescripts, and exempt you from patient enduring of contumely and disgrace, you withstand Christ and deny your vocation, and therefore are unavoidably apostates. But w T e lose our labour who give young men and unsettled persons good advice and counsel; the civil magistrate must lay to his hand and pity them who want discretion to pity themselves ; for as bees, though they fight very fiercely, yet if you cast a little dust amongst them are pre- sently parted ; so the enacting and exe- cuting some few good laws would quickly allay this greatness of stomach and fight- ing humour. How many have been cen- sured for schismaticks and hereticks, only because by probable consequence, and afar off they seem to overthrow some christian principle ! But here are men who walk in our streets and come to our churches who openly oppose that great point of Christianity which concerns our patience, and yet for their restraint no synod is called, no magistrate stirs, no church cen- sure is pronounced. The church of Rome hath long ago, to the disgrace of the re- formed churches, shut them out of the number of christians, and pronounced them all excommunicated persons, who upon what pretence soever durst enter the field for duel and single combat. John Hales. MORALS AND RELIGION. 167 FOR PEACE IN THE CHURCH. He that shall look into the acts of christians as they are recorded by more indifferent writers, shall easily perceive that all that were christians were not saints. But this is the testimony of an enemy. Yea, but have not our friends taken up the same complaint ? Doubtless, if it had been the voice and approbation of the bridegroom, that secular state and authority had belonged to the church, either of due or of necessity, the Mends of the bridegroom hearing it would have rejoiced at it ; but it is found they have much sorrowed at it. St. Hilary, much offended with the opinion that even ortho- dox bishops of his time had taken up that it was a thing very necessary for the church to lay hold on the temporal sword, in a tract of his against Auxentius the Arian bishop of Milan, thus plainly bespeaks them : — " And first of all I must needs pity the labour of our age, and bewail the fond opinions of the present times, by which men suppose the arm of flesh can much advantage God, and strive to defend by secular ambition the church of Christ. I beseech you, bishops, you that take your- selves so to be, whose authority in preach- ing of the Gospel did the apostles use ? By the help of what powers preached they Christ, and turned almost all nations from idols to God ? Took they unto themselves any honour out of princes' palaces, who, after their stripes, amid their chains in prison, sung praises unto God? Did St. Paul, when he was made a spectacle in the theatre, summon together the churches of Christ by the edicts and writs of kings ? 'Tis likely he had the safe conduct of Nero, or Vespasian, or Decius, through whose hate unto us the confession of the faith grew more famous. Those men who maintained themselves with their own hands and industry, whose solemn meet- ings were in parlours and secret closets, who travelled through villages and towns, and whole countries by sea and land, in spite of the prohibition of kings and coun- cils. 'Tis to be thought that these had the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Did not the power of God sufficiently manifest itself above man's hate, when by so much the more Christ was preached, by how much he was forbidden to be taught. But now, which is a grief to think, dust and earth's approbation gives countenance to the sacred faith : whilst means are made to join ambitious titles to the name of Christ, Christ hath lost the reputation of self-sufficiency. The church now ter- rifies with exile and prisons, and constrains men to believe her who was wont to find no place but in prisons and banishment. She depends upon the good acceptation of her favourites, who was wont to be hallowed in the fear of her persecutors ; she now puts priests to flight who was formerly propagated by fugitive priests. She glories that she is beloved of the world, who could never have been Christ's except the world had hated her." What shall we answer to this complaint ? Our enemies are apt to traduce the good things in us ; our friends to flatter our vice and imbecility : but when our friends and ene- mies do both jointly consent to lay open our shame, to whose judgment shall we appeal, or whither shall we flee ? Whi- ther ? Even to thee, Lord Christ, but not as to a judge ; too well we know thy sentence. Thou hast sent us messengers of peace, but we, like Hierusalem, thy an- cient love, have not understood the things belonging to our peace. Lord, let us know them in this our day, and let them no longer be hidden from our eyes. Look down, Lord, upon thy poor dismembered church, rent and torn with discords, and even ready to sink. Why should the neu- tral or atheist any longer confirm, himself in his irreligion by reasons drawn from our dissensions ? Or why should any greedy-minded worldling prophesy unto himself the ruins of thy sanctuary, or hope one day to dip his foot in the blood of thy church ? We will hope, O Lord (for what hinders?), that notwithstanding all sup- posed impossibilities, thou wilt one day in mercy look down upon thy Sion, and grant a gracious interview of friends so long divided. Thou that wroughtest that great reconciliation between God and man, is thine arm waxen shorter ? Was it pos- sible to reconcile God to man ? To re- concile man to man, is it impossible ? Be with those, we beseech thee, to whom the persecution of church controversies is com- mitted, and like a good Lazarus, drop one cooling drop into their tongues, and pens, too, too much exasperated each against other. And if it be thy determinate will and counsel that this abomination of deso- lation, standing where it ought not, con- tinue unto the end, accomplish thou with speed the number of thine elect, and hasten the coming of thy son our Saviour, that he may himself in person sit and judge, 168 ISAAK WALTON. and give an end to our controversies, since it stands not with any human possibility. Direct thy church, Lord, in all her peti- tions for peace; teach her wherein her peace consists, and warn her from the world, and bring her home to thee ; that all those that love thy peace may at last have the reward of the sons of peace, and reign with thee in thy kingdom of peace for ever. Grant tbis, God, for tby son's sake, Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom with thee and the Holy Ghost be ascribed all praise, might, majesty and dominion, now and for ever. John Hales. ISAAK WALTON was born at Stafford on the 9th of August 1593. For some time, ending about the year 1624, he was a shop-keeper, whether a linen-draper or man-milliner seems un- certain, in the Royal Exchange, London, and afterward in Fleet Street. While he lived in Fleet Street he became the friend of Dr. John Donne the poet, who was vicar of St. Dunstan's. He married for his second wife a lady of good family, and retired in 1643, just when the civil war began, to a small estate near Stafford. In 1653 he published the Complete Angler, to which a second part was afterwards added by his friend and adopted son Charles Cotton, the author of Virgil Travestie and of a trans- lation of Montaigne's Essays. Isaak Walton died on the 15th of December 1683, at Winchester, in the house of his son-in-law Dr. Hawkins, and was buried in the cathedral. He wrote, among other works, the lives of five eminent and good men, three of whom were his personal friends, but The Complete Angler is the book by which he is most known. Treatises may have been since written more useful to the fisherman, but in those beauties which endear the Complete Angler to the common reader it is not likely to be equalled. Its unaffected simplicity, melody of words, cheerfulness, piety, poetic description of gentle quiet country scenes and people, even its quaint- ness, are all delightful. It is the very image of Walton's mind, as he tells us in the preface to the fifth edition published in 1676, when he was eighty-three years old. " The whole discourse is, or rather was, a picture of my own disposition, especially in such days and times as I have laid aside business, and gone a-fishing with honest Nat and R. Roe ; but they are gone, and with them most of my pleasant hours, even as a shadow that passeth away and returns not." Sir Walter Scott, in reviewing Sir Humphry Davy's Salmonia, — a book written in imitation of the Complete Angler, — while he gives high praise to Walton's originality and exquisite simplicity, his benevolence and graceful ease of expression, is pleased to speak of him as a London shop-keeper, who does not aspire above his sphere in any particular, and of his book as a picture of a most cockney -like character ; and, after scattering such phrases as — " his brother linen-draper John Gilpin" — " the low cha- racter, we had almost said vulgarity, of a picture so little elevated and so homely" — tells us that " our modern Piscator (Sir Humphry) is of a different mould, one fami- liar equally with the world of books, and those high circles in society, which, in our age, aristocratically closed against the pretensions of mere wealth, open so readily to distinguished talents and acquirements. His range therefore, both of enjoyment and of instruction, is far wider than that of Walton." " The latter carries us no farther than the brooks within a short walk of London." " Halieus (Davy), on the contrary, transports us to the ornate scenes of Denham-upon-the-Colne, where the river is strictly preserved within the park of a wealthy and hospitable proprietor." 1 MORALS AND RELIGION. 169 In all this, sir Walter Scott, be it said with reverence, does not show the good sense and manly taste which especially belonged to him. Although it is most true that Walton did not aspire beyond his proper sphere, yet the familiar Mend of John Hales of Eton, of William Chillingworth, of Dr. Donne, of sir Henry Wotton, of King bishop of Chichester, of Saunderson bishop of Lincoln, of Morley bishop of Winchester, of Morton bishop of Durham, and of Usher archbishop of Armagh, was not altogether shut out from the high circles of society. Indeed it has been made matter of surprise that, living in a time when the distinctions of rank were severely observed, a London shopkeeper should have been on terms of affectionate friendship with men so far removed from him in the order of society. The cause is not hard to find. Riches and rank were not tilings to which Walton aspired. He loved in his com- panions the moral and intellectual qualities which he possessed in common with them, and paying cheerfully the honour due to rank, stood on those terms of equality with the great on which every man may stand who covets nothing that they can give, and neither envies them nor apes them. As to being cockney -like and vulgar, if ever man and book were pure from the tinge of such a complaint, Walton and his book are. He was born and probably bred in the country to which he retired in middle life, and which none could more tho- roughly love. It might not be easy to define cockneyism, hut if there is in it any- thing of vulgar conceit, of the spirit of exclusiveness which possessed the little girl who prized her lace because nobody else in the world could get the least bit of it if they were to cry their eyes out, — then cockneyism may, perhaps, be found rather among the ornate scenes where the river is strictly preserved within the park of a wealthy proprietor, than along the brooks and meadows which Walton paints so well, and something at least like it may be found in Salmonia. The party of sir Hum- phry being at a lake in Scotland, where " a bold craggy outline and the birch-wood below it, and the pines above form a scene somewhat alpine in character," see an eagle soaring, and Poietes, " who is to be considered as an enthusiastic lover of nature, and partially acquainted with the mysteries of fly-fishing," cries out, " she gives an interest to this scene which I hardly expected to have found. Pray are there many of these animals in this country?" Again, in another place, "The scenery be- gins to improve ; and that cloud-breasted mountain on the left is of the best cha- racter of Scotch mountains : these woods likewise are respectable for this northern country. I think I see islands also in the distance ; and the quantity of cloud al- ways gives effect to this kind of view." Certainly there is nothing in Isaak Walton to be compared with such description as this. Mr. Hallam, following sir Walter Scott, informs us that sir Humphry Davy " has condescended to imitate" Isaak Walton. He neither condescended, nor with the least success did he imitate. Isaak Walton carries us with him through the meadows and along the pleasant streams, and to the little country inn, and makes us to know himself and his homely friends, and to become partakers in their simple pleasures, while the condescending imitator gives a cold common-place tourist's description of scenery, and the speakers of his dialogue are lifeless puppets, by whose mouths their author puts forth a monopolylogue which a lover of Walton may be forgiven for thinking a little dull and pedantick. An extract from the Complete Angler follows : a second will be found under the title of Drama and Dialogue, and a third under that of Natural History. 170 ISAAK WALTON. THE BLESSING OF A MEEK AND THANKFUL HEART. Well, scholar, we having still a mile to Tottenham High Cross, T will, as we walk towards it, in the cool shade of this sweet honeysuckle hedge, mention to you some of the thoughts and joys that have possess- ed my soul since we two met together. And these thoughts shall he told you, that you also may join with me in thankfulness to the giver of every good and perfect gift for our happiness. And that our present happiness may appear to he the greater, and we the more thankful for it, I will heg you to consider with me how many do, even at this very time, lie under the torment of the stone, the gout, and tooth- ache; and this we are free from. And every misery that I miss is a new mercy, and therefore let us he thankful. There have heen since we met, others that have met disasters of broken limbs ; some have been blasted, others thunder-strucken ; and we have been freed from these, and all those many other miseries that threaten human nature ; let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay, which is a far greater mercy, we are free from the un- supportable burden of an accusing, tor- menting conscience ; a misery that none can bear, and therefore let us praise Him for his preventing grace, and say, every misery that I miss is a new mercy : nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us ; who, with the expense of a little money have eat and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely ; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed, and angled again; which are blessings rich men cannot purchase with all their money. Let me tell you, scholar, I have a rich neighbour, that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh ; the whole busi- ness of his life is to get money, and more money, that he may still get more and more money ; he is still drudging on, and says, that Solomon says, " The diligent hand maketh rich ;" and it is true, indeed, but he considers not that 'tis not in the power of riches to make a man happy ; for it was wisely said by a man of great observation, " That there be as many mise- ries beyond riches as on this side them ;" and yet God deliver us from pinching po- verty; and grant, that having a compe- tency, we may be content and thankful. Let not us repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see another abound with riches ; when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches, hang often so hea- vily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with wxary days and restless nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness ; few consider him to be like the silkworm, that when she seems to play, is at the very same time spinning her own bowels and consuming herself. And this many rich men do ; loading them- selves with corroding cares to keep what they have, probably, unconscionably got. Let us therefore be thankful for health and competence, and above all, for a quiet conscience. Let me tell you, scholar, that Diogenes walked on a day with his friend to see a country fair, w T here he saw ribbons and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fid- dles, and hobby-horses, and many other gimcracks ; and having observed them and all the other fmnimbruns that make a complete country fair, he said to his friend, " How many things are there in this world of which Diogenes hath no need?" And truly it is so, or might be so, with very many who vex and toil them- selves to get what they have no need of. Can any man charge God that he hath not given him enough to make his life happy ? No, doubtless ; for nature is content with a little; and yet you shall hardly meet with a man that complains not of some want ; though he indeed wants nothing but his will, it may be nothing . but his will of his poor neighbour, for not wor- shipping, or not flattering him ; and thus when we might be happy and quiet, we create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man that was angry with himself be- cause he was no taller, and of a woman that broke her looking-glass because it would not show her face to be as young and handsome as her next neighbour's was. And I knew another to whom God had given health and plenty ; but a wife that nature had made peevish, and her husband's riches had made purse-proud, and must, because she was rich, and for no other virtue, sit in the highest pew in the church, wdiich being denied her, she engaged her husband into a contention for it ; and at last into a law-suit with a dogged neighbour, who was as rich as he, I and had a wife as peevish and purse- MORALS AND RELIGION. 171 proud as the other ; and this law-suit he- got higher oppositions and actionable words, and more vexations and law-suits ; for you must remember that both were rich, and must therefore have their wills. Well, this wilful purse-proud law-suit lasted during the life of the first husband; after which, his wife vexed and chid, and chid and vexed, till she also chid and vexed herself into her grave ; and so the wealth of these poor rich people was curst into a punishment ; because they wanted meek and thankful hearts ; for those only can make us happy. I knew a man that had health and riches, and several houses, all beautiful and ready furnished, and would often trouble himself and family to be removing from one house to another ; and being asked by a friend why he re- moved so often from one house to an- other, replied, " It was to find content in some one of them." But his friend knowing his temper, told him if he would find content in any of his houses he must leave himself behind him ; for content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul. And this may appear if we read and consider what our Saviour says in St. Matthew's Gospel; for he there says, " Blessed be the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the king- dom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, for they shall possess the earth." Not that the meek shall not also obtain mercy and see God, and be comforted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven ; but in the meantime he, and he only, pos- sesses the earth as he goes towards that kingdom of heaven, by being humble and cheerful, and content with what his good God has allotted him ; he has no turbu- lent, repining, vexatious thoughts, that he deserves better; nor is vexed when he sees others possessed of more honour, or more riches than his wise God has allotted for his share ; but he possesses what he has with a meek and contented quietness ; such a quietness as makes his very dreams pleasing, both to God and himself. My honest scholar, all this is told to incline you to thankfulness ; and to in- cline you the more, let me tell you that the prophet David was said to be a man after God's own heart,because he abounded more with thankfulness than any other that is mentioned in holy scripture, as may appear in his book of Psalms, where there is such a commixture of his confessing of his sins andunworthiness, and such thank- fulness for God's pardon and mercies, as did make him to be accounted, even by God himself, to be a man after Ms own heart ; and let us in that labour to be as like him as we can ; let not the blessings we receive daily from God make us not to value, or not to praise him, because they be common ; let not us forget to praise Mm for the innocent mirth and pleasure we have met with since we met together : what would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows, and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with since we met together ? I have been told that if a man that was born blind could obtain to have his sight for but only one hour during his whole Hfe, and should, at the first opening of Ms eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory, either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it, that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object, to behold all the other various beauties this world could present to him. And this, and many other like blessings, we enjoy daily ; and for most of them, because they be so common, most men forget to pay their praises ; but let not us, because it is a sacrifice so pleasing to him that made that sun, and us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers, and showers, and stomachs, and meat, and content, and leisure to go a fishing. Isaak Walton. WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH was born at Oxford in the month of October 1602, educated at a private school in the town, and, in the year 1618, admitted a scholar of Trinity College. The temper of his mind was subtle and acute, and he gave himself up to disputation, until, from the habit of always reasoning, he came to doubt everything, and sought refuge from doubt by assenting to the infalhbility of the Church of Rome. He found no rest I 2 172 WILLIAM CHILLINGWORTH. there, turned again, became one of her most powerful antagonists, and overcoming some scruples to the subscription of the thirty-nine Articles, took holy orders from the Church of England. He was a zealous royalist, and accompanied lord Clarendon to Charles I. at York. As he deemed all war to be unlawful, it did not seem easy to hold fast his integrity and serve his king in the field ; yet the peculiar turn of Chil- lingworth's mind enabled him to do so. He invented an engine which he thought would give so great an advantage to the side which used it, as must put a speedy end to the war. This engine was a portable breastwork for the shelter of troops in all encounters and assaults in the field. He carried it to the king's army commanded by lord Hopton in Hampshire, on the border of Sussex : but the invention did not prove the sure defence which he had hoped, and Chillingworth was forced to run away with his breastwork and take shelter in Arundel Castle. After a siege, in which he suffered severe hardship, the castle yielded ; he was thrown into prison, died on the 30th of January 1644, and was buried in Chichester Cathedral. Chillingworth, like Hales, was a good hater of persecution. " Take away tyranny," said he, " and restore Christians to their just and full liberty of captivating their un- derstanding to scripture only ; and as rivers, when they have a free passage, run all to the ocean, so it may well be hoped, by God's blessing, that universal liberty, thus moderated, may quickly restore Christendom to truth and unity." Lord Clarendon tells us that Chillingworth was of a stature little superior to Hales, and it was an age in which there were many great and wonderful men of that size. He adds, that poor Mr. Chillingworth was most barbarously treated by the rebels, — meaning the soldiers of sir William Waller, general of the parliament, and especially by that clergy which followed them : — but this is contrary to the truth. " Not being able to go to London with the garrison, he was conveyed to Chichester, which favour he obtained at the request of his great adversary, Mr. Francis Cheynell, a bigoted presbyterian divine, who accidentally met him in Arundel Castle, and frequently visited him in Chichester, till he died." These are the words of Dr. Birch, in his Life of Chillingworth, and that they are true is the conclusion at which Dr. Johnson arrives in his Life of Cheynell. AGAINST DUELLING. The patient bearing and willing for- giveness of offences is a duty so seriously, so incessantly, sometimes in plain words, sometimes in parables, all manner of ways, upon all occasions, urged by our Saviour, that we cannot so much as pray but we must be forced to acknowledge obedience to this law : " Forgive us, as we forgive ;" yea, so boundlessly, and without all re- strictions or reservations is it enjoined, that when, as Peter thought it fair to have it limited to a certain number, and proposed seven, as in his opinion reason- able and convenient, " No," saith our Sa- viour, " forgive not until seven times, but until four hundred four score and ten times." And if he could have imagined that it were possible for a man to have exceeded this number also in injuries, without question he would not have left there neither. But how is this doctrine received in the world? What counsel would men, and those none of the worst sort, give thee in' such a case ? How ( would the soberest discreetest, well-bred Christian advise thee ? Why thus : If thy brother or thy neighbour have offered thee an injury, or an affront, forgive him ? By no means ; thou art utterly undone, and lost in thy reputation with the world, if thou dost forgive him. What is to be done then ? Why, let not thy heart take rest, let all other business and employment be laid aside, till thou hast his blood. How ! a man's blood for an injurious, passionate speech, for a disdainful look ? Nay, that is not all; that thou mayst gain among men the reputation of a discreet, well- tempered murderer, be sure thou killest him not in passion, when thy blood is hot and boiling with the provocation ; but proceed with as great temper and settled- ness of reason, with as much discretion MORALS AND RELIGION. 173 and preparedness, as thou wouldst to the communion : after some several days' respite, that it may appear it is thy reason guides thee, and not thy passion, invite him mildly and courteously into some re- tired place, and there let it be determined whether his blood or thine shall satisfy the injury. Oh thou holy Christian religion ! whence is it that thy children have sucked this inhuman, poisonous blood, these raging, fiery serpents ? For if we shall inquire of the heathen, they will say they have not learned this from us ; or of the Mahomet- ans, they will answer, we are not guilty of it. Blessed God ! that it should be- come a most sure, settled course for a man to run into danger and disgrace with the world, if he shall dare to perform a commandment of Christ, which is as ne- cessary for him to do, if he have any hopes of attaining heaven, as meat and drink is for the maintaining of life ! that ever it should enter into Christian hearts to walk so curiously and exactly contrary unto the ways of God ! that whereas he sees himself every day and hour almost, contemned and despised by thee, who art his servant, his creature ; upon whom he might, without all possible imputation of unrighteousness, pour down all the vials of his wrath and indignation ; yet he not- withstanding is patient and long-suffering towards thee, hoping that his long-suffer- ing may lead thee to repentance, and be- seeching thee daily by his ministers to be reconciled unto him ; and yet thou, on the other side, for a distempered, passion- ate speech, or less, should take upon thee to send thy neighbour's soul, or thine own, or likely both, clogged and oppressed j with all your sins unrepented of (for how \ can repentance possibly consist with such j a resolution ?) before the tribunal seat of ; God, to expect your final sentence, utterly depriving thyself of all the blessed means which God has contrived for thy salva- tion, and putting thyself in such an estate, that it shall not be in God's power almost to do thee any good. Pardon, I beseech you, my earnestness, almost intemperate- ness, seeing it hath proceeded from so just, so warrantable a ground; and, since it is in your power to give rules of honour and reputation to the whole kingdom*, do not you teach others to be ashamed of this inseparable badge of your religion, charity, and forgiving of offences ; give men leave to be Christians without danger or dishonour ; or, if religion will not work with you, yet let the laws of that state wherein you live, the earnest desires and care of your righteous prince, prevail with you. William Chillingworth. THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. "Whosoever thou art that professest thy- self a Christian, thou believest that God, whom thou servest, is present even-where, both in heaven and earth, insomuch that it is altogether impossible for thee to ex- clude him from thy company; whereso- ever thou goest he will pursue thee ; though thou should clothe thyself with darkness, as it were with a garment, the darkness would be to him as the noon- day ; and though it were possible for thee to deceive the eyes and observation of men and angels, yea, even of thine own conscience, yet to him thou wouldst be open and transparent, yv/xvos /cat rerpa- X^XiT ( uevos, as it were, dissected, and having the very entrails exposed to his sight. Thou canst hide, therefore, nothing which thou doest from Iris eyes ; he taketh notice of every word which thou speakest, he hears even the very whispering of thy thoughts ; and all this thou sayest thou acknowledgest. Out of thy own mouth shalt thou be condemned, thou wicked servant : darest thou then make thy master a witness of thy rebellion and disobedi- ence ? "When thou art about the fulfilling of any of thine ungodly lusts, thou re- tirest thyself from company, and art afraid of the faces of men ; thou abhor- rest the light, and yet darest outface him whose eyes are ten thousand times brighter than the sun. Thou wouldst not have the confidence to commit fiithiness if thy friend were in company, and yet what in- jury is done to him by it? What com- mandment of his dost thou transgress in * This sermon seems to have been preached before the Lords. Chillingworth spake boldly, for as yet, no English peer and judge had pronounced that it was a gross insult to a magistrate to tell him that he was not in earnest when he challenged his neighbour to join in committing a capital felony. We know that there is one law for rich and poor, and that a judge, above all men, does not fondle pet felonies : yet it would startle us to hear a hind gravely rebuked from the judgment-seat for having told his fellow that he could not have been in earnest when he asked him to help steal a side of bacon to fill their bellies, or two shirts from a hedge to cover their nakedness. 174 JOHN MILTON. it ? Or, if thou didst, what power or au- thority has he over thee to punish thee ? Thou wouldst be ashamed to commit such a sin if thy servant were by, one whom thou art so far from being afraid of, that himself, his words, almost his very thoughts are in thy power; nay, if a child were in company, thou wouldst not have the face to do it. Thou canst not deny but respect to a friend, to a servant, even to a child, will withhold thee from such practices; and yet withal confessest, that Almighty God, whom thou professest to serve, to fear and to love, that he all the while looks upon thee and observes thee ; his eyes are never removed from thee, and, which is worse, though thou mayst endeavour to forget and blot such actions out of thy remembrance, yet it is impossible he should ever forget them ; he keeps a re- gister of all thy sins, which no time shall ever be able to deface ; and what will it then profit thee to live a close concealed sinner from the world, or to gain amongst men the reputation of a devout religious Christian, when in the mean time thine own heart and conscience shall condemn thee ? nay, when Almighty God, " who is greater than thy heart, and knoweth all things," when he shall be able to object unto thee all thy close ungodly projects, all thy bosom private lusts ? Yea, when that conceit (wherein thou didst so much please thyself), of being able to delude and blind the observation of the world, shall nothing avail thee ; but whatsoever mischiefs thou hast contrived in thy closet, whatsoever abominations thou hast practised in thy bed, all these, with each aggravating circumstance, shall be dis- covered in the presence of all men, and angels, and devils ; when Satan, whom before thou madest an instrument and bawd unto thy lusts, to whose counsels and suggestions thou before wouldst only hearken, shall be the most forward and eager to appeach thee. When thou art brought to such an exi- gent as this (which, without a timely un- feigned repentance, as sure as there is a God in heaven thou shalt at last be brought to), what will then thy orthodox opinions do thee good ? What will it then profit thee to say, thou never didst main- tain any impious dishonourable tenets concerning God, or any of his glorious attributes ? Yea, how happy hadst thou been, if, worse than the most ignorant heathenish atheist, no thought or con- sideration of God had entered into thy heart ! For this professing thyself a Christian, rightly instructed in the know- ledge of God, will prove heavier to thee than a thousand mill-stones hanged about thy neck, to sink thee into the bottom of that comfortless lake of fire and brim- stone. For, for example, what a strange plea would it be for a murderer to say, I confess I have committed such or such a murder, but all the excuse which I can allege for myself is, that I was well studied in the laws which forbade murder, and I knew that my judge, who tied me to the observance of this law, upon pain of death, was present, and observed me when I committed the fact ? Surely it would be more tolerable for him to say, I never heard of any such law or judge ; or, if I had been told of such things, I gave but little heed to the report, I did not at all believe it. For though this plea will be very insufficient to acquit the malefactor, yet it will be much more advantageous than the former ; for what w r ere that, but to flout the judge to his face, and to pre- tend a respectful worthy opinion, for this end, that his contempt and negligence in performing his commandments may be more extreme and inexcusable, and, by consequence, without all hope or expecta- tion of pardon ? I need make no applica- tion of the example, the similitude doth sufficiently apply itself. William Chillingworth. JOHN MILTON the author of Paradise Lost, was born in Bread-street, London, on the 9th of De- cember 1608. He was educated at St. Paul's School, London, and at Christ's Col- lege, Cambridge. On leaving the University he passed five years at his father's house at Horton, near Colnbrook, in Buckinghamshire, and there wrote Comus, Lycidas, and probably L'Allegro and II Penseroso. In 1638 he visited France and Italy, re- maining absent from England about fifteen months. On his return he opened a school in MORALS AND RELIGION. 175 St. Bride's Churchyard, Fleet-street, and removed successively to Aldersgate-street, to the Barbican and to High Holborn. In 1641 he published his earliest prose, the first of a succession of treatises against the Church of England. Between that year and the restoration of Charles II., he wrote other prose books both in English and Latin. Among the former, on the Doctrine of Divorce, on Education, for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, and a History of England down to the battle of Hastings ; and among the latter, A Defence of the People of England as regarded the Civil War, and the Execution of Charles I. In writing this last work his eye-sight, already weak, failed, and he be- came blind. In 1649 he was made Latin secretary to the council of state of the Com- monwealth, and removed to Charing-cross, thence to Scotland-yard, and in 1652 to Petty France, where he lived until the Restoration, in a house looking into St. James's Park. On the Restoration, in May 1660, he concealed himself at the house of a friend in Bartholomew-close, and in the following August was imprisoned by a warrant from the House of Commons, but was set at liberty by the end of the year. After this time he wrote, in total darkness, the Paradise Lost, which was finished in 1665. His dwelling-places during Charles the Second's reign, were in Holborn, near Red Lion-square ; in Jewin-street ; and last of all in the Artillery -walk, Bunhill-fields, where he died on the 8th of November 1674. He was buried in the chancel of the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate. Milton was thrice married, and three daughters survived him, of whom only one left children. It is generally believed that his last descendant died on the 9th of May 1754; this, however, is not certain ; one of his grand-children, Caleb Clarke, marry- ing in the East Indies, had two sons whose history has not been, but perhaps might be, traced. The English prose of Milton is framed, as nearly as our language will allow, ac- cording to the Latin, and, speaking generally, is laboured and harsh. His invectives are coarse and not always powerful, and when he descends to be familiar, or attempts to be facetious, he fails ; but he has very many passages of unrivalled majesty and beauty, in which lofty thoughts are poured forth in words which alone seem fit to utter them. It is scarcely possible to read the extract which follows, or the latter of the two which are placed under the title of Philosophy and Policy, without par- taking for a while the noble spirit which they breathe, nor without wonder that prose could be lifted up to such a pitch of sublimity. This first extract is from one of Milton's controversial works, An Apology for Smec- tymnuus, a word formed from the initial letters of the names of five presbyterian ministers — Stephen Marshall, Edward Calamy, Thomas Young, Mathew Newcomen, and William Spurstow, who had written a pamphlet against the government of the Church of England. Bishop Hall answered them, and to him Milton replied. Then an unnamed writer, who is supposed to have been a son of bishop Hall, attacked Milton and slandered him as licentious. The Apology for Smectymnuus followed that attack. The other pieces are taken from a treatise entitled A Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing, addressed to the parliament of England in 1644, when the presbyterians, who had shaken off the yoke of prelacy, were striving to lay on the heavier burden of the covenant, and, for that end, endeavoured to continue a restraint upon the liberty of printing. THE YOUTH OF MILTON. | centious, I shall entreat to be borne with, i though I digress ; and, in a way not often But because he would seem privily to : trod, acquaint ye with the sum of my point me out to his readers as one whose i thoughts in this matter, through the customs of life were not honest, but li- { course of my years and studies. Al- 176 JOHN MILTON. though I am not ignorant how hazardous it will be to do this under the nose of the envious, as it were in skirmish to change the compact order, and instead of out- ward actions, to bring inmost thoughts into front. And I must tell ye, readers, that by this sort of men I have been al- ready bitten at ; yet shall they not for me know how slightly they are esteemed, un- less they have so much learning as to read what cnreipoKctkia in Greek is, which, to- gether with envy, is the common disease of those who censure books that are not for their reading. "With me it fares now, as with him whose outward garment hath been injured and ill bedighted ; for having no other shift, what help but to turn the inside outwards, especially if the lining be of the same, or, as it is sometimes, much better ? So if my name and outward de- meanour be not evident enough to defend me, I must make trial if the discovery of my inmost thoughts can ; wherein of two purposes, both honest and both sincere, the one perhaps I shall not miss ; al- though I fail to gain belief with others, of being such as my perpetual thoughts shall here disclose me, I may yet not fail of success in persuading some to be such really themselves, as they cannot believe me to be more than what I fain. I had my time, readers, as others have, who have good learning bestowed upon them, to be sent to those places where the opinion was it might be soonest attained ; and, as the manner is, was not unstudied in those authors which are most commended, whereof some were grave orators and historians, whose matter methought I loved indeed, but as my age then was, so I understood them ; others were the smooth elegiac poets, whereof the schools are not scarce, whom both for the plea- sing sound of their numerous writing, which in imitation I found most easy and most agreeable to nature's part in me, and for their matter, which what it is, there be few who know not, I was so allured to read, that no recreation came to me better welcome ; for that it was then those years with me which are excused, though they be least severe, I may be saved the labour to remember ye. Whence having ob- served them, to account it the chief glory of their wit, in that they were ablest to judge, to praise, and by that could esteem themselves worthiest to love those high perfections, which under one or other name they took to celebrate ; I thought with myself, by every instinct and pre- sage of nature, which is not wont to be false, that what emboldened them to this task, might with such diligence as they used embolden me ; and that what judg- ment, wit, or elegance was my share, would herein best appear, and best value itself, by how much more wisely, and with more love of virtue I should choose (let rude ears be absent) the object of not un- like praises : for albeit these thoughts to some will seem virtuous and commend- able, to others only pardonable, to a third sort perhaps idle ; yet the mentioning of them now will end in serious. Nor blame it, readers, in those years to propose to themselves such a reward, as the noblest dispositions above other things in this life have sometimes preferred ; whereof not to be sensible when good and fair in one person meet, argues both a gross and shal- low judgment, and withal an ungentle and swainish breast ; for by the firm settling of these persuasions I became, to my best memory, so much a proficient, that if I found those authors anywhere speaking unworthy things of themselves, or un- chaste of those names which before they had extolled, this effect it wrought with me, from that time forward their art I still applauded, but the men I deplored ; and above them all, preferred the two famous renowners of Beatrice and Laura, who never write, but honour of them to whom they devote their verse, displaying subhme and pure thoughts, without trans- gression. And long it was not after, when I was confirmed in this opinion, that he who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem ; that is, a composition and pattern of the best and honourablest things, not presuming to sing high praises of heroic men or famous cities, unless he have in himself the experi- ence and the practice of all that which is praiseworthy. These reasonings, together with a certain niceness of nature, an honest haughtiness and self-esteem, either of what I was or what I might be (which let envy call pride), and lastly that mo- desty, whereof though not in the title- page, yet here I may be excused to make some beseeming profession; all these uniting the supply of their natural aid together, kept me still above those low descents of mind, beneath which he must deject and plunge himself, that can agree to salable and unlawful prostitutions. Next (for hear me out now, readers), that I may tell ye whither my younger feet MORALS AND RELIGION. 177 wandered ; I betook me among those lofty fables and romances which recount, in solemn cantos, the deeds of knighthood founded by our victorious kings, and from hence had in renown over all Christen- dom. There I read it in the oath of every knight, that he should defend, to the ex- pense of his best blood or of his life, if it so befel him, the honour and chastity of virgin or matron ; from whence even then I learned what a noble virtue chastity sure must be, to the defence of which so many worthies, by such a dear adventure of themselves, had sworn ; and if I found in the story afterward, any of them, by word or deed, breaking that oath, I judged it the same fault of the poet as that which is attributed to Homer, to have written indecent things of the gods : only this my mind gave me, that every free and gentle spirit, without that oath, ought to be born •a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur, or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder to stir him up, both by his coun- sel and his arm, to secure and protect the weakness of any attempted chastity. So that even these books, which to many others have been the fuel of wantonness and loose living, I cannot think how, un- less by divine indulgence, proved to me so many incitements, as you have heard, to the love and steadfast observation of that virtue which abhors the society of bordel- loes. Thus, from the laureat fraternity of poets, riper years and the ceaseless round of study and reading, led me to the shady spaces of philosophy, but chiefly to the divine volumes of Plato, and his equal Xenophon ; where, if I should tell ye what I learnt of chastity and love, I mean that which is truly so, whose charming cup is only virtue, which she bears in her hand to those who are worthy (the rest are cheated with a thick intoxicating potion, which a certain sorceress, the abuser of love's name, carries about) ; and how the first and chiefest office of love begins and ends in the soul, pro- ducing those happy twins of her divine generation, knowledge and virtue : with such abstracted sublimities as these, it might be worth your listening, readers, as I may one day hope to have ye in a still time, when there shall be no chiding. Last of all, not in time, but as perfection is last, that care was ever had of me, with my earliest capacity, not to be neghgently trained in the precepts of Christian re- ligion, this that I have hitherto related hath been to show that, though Christi- anity had been but slightly taught me, yet a certain reservedness of natural dis- position and moral discipline, learnt out of the noblest philosophy, was enough to keep me in disdain of far less inconti- nences than this of the bordello. But having had the doctrine of holy scripture, unfolding those chaste and high mysteries, with timeliest care infused, that " the body is for the Lord, and the Lord for the body ;" thus also I argued to myself, that if unchastity in a woman, whom St. Paid terms the glory of man, be such a scandal and dishonour, then certainly in a man, who is both the image and glory of God, it must, though commonly not so thought, be much more deflowering and dishonourable ; in that he sins both against his own body, which is the perfecter sex, and his own glory, which is in the woman ; and that which is worst, against the image and glory of God, which is in himself. Nor did I slumber over that place, ex- pressing such high rewards of ever accom- panying the Lamb, with those celestial songs to others inapprehensible, but not to those who were not defiled with women, which doubtless means fornication ; for marriage must not be called a defilement. Thus large I have purposely been, that if I have been justly taxed with this crime, it may come upon me, after all this my confession, with a tenfold shame ; but if I have hitherto deserved no such oppro- brious word or suspicion, I may hereby engage myself now openly to the faithful observation of what I have professed. John Milton. JEREMY TAYLOR bishop of Down and Connor in Ireland, was the son of a barber, and born at Cam- bridge in the month of August 1613. He was sent, and as it is said at the age of three years, to Perse's Free Grammar School, just then founded in his native town, and when thirteen years old was admitted into Caius College as a sizar or poor scholar. 15 178 JEREMY TAYLOR. He received holy orders before he had attained the age of twenty-one, and preaching at St. Paul's, London, drew on himself the notice of archbishop Laud, by whose advice he entered University College, Oxford, and by whose contrivance, and contrary to the college statutes, he was elected a fellow of All Souls. In March 1638, being then one of the king's chaplains, Juxon, bishop of London, presented him to the rectory of Uppingham in Rutlandshire. After the civil war broke out he joined the king at Oxford, and in 1644, being with a division of the royal army at Cardigan, was taken prisoner and humanely treated. In 1647 he took a last leave of the king, who gave him his watch. During the Commonwealth he was in poverty, until the earl of Carbery received him as chaplain into his house at Golden Grove, in the vale of the Towey in Caermarthenshire. Frances, countess of Carbery, died while he resided there, and in her funeral sermon he praises her as having been clothed with all the virtues and graces that adorn her sex. Lord Carbery married again, for the third time, and his third wife was Alice Egerton, the lady of Milton's Comus. In the year 1655 Taylor was twice imprisoned for short periods, on account of some expressions in the preface to his Golden Grove, or Guide of Infant Devotion, which were offensive to the protector. Chepstow Castle was the place of the second imprisonment. Again, in 1658, he was imprisoned in the Tower for a few weeks, by the fault of his book- seller, who had prefixed to one of his works a portrait of our Saviour, an act which was then forbidden by the law as idolatrous. In the June of the same year he ac- cepted a lectureship at Lisburne in Ireland, to which he went with a protection signed by Cromwell. After the Restoration he was made bishop of Down and Connor. He was not happy in his family ; of two sons, the only two that were left to him, the eldest, an officer, was killed in a duel ; the other, whom he had dedicated to the church, became the favourite companion of the profligate Villiers, second duke of Buckingham of that name, and died a few days before the death of his father, which happened at Lisburne, on the 13th of August 1667. Bishop Taylor was buried in the cathedral of Dromore. He was a man of deep learning and rich in imagination, pure, devout and earnest ; his eloquence flows on with less majesty, perhaps, but more sweetness than that of Bar- row, and is the most poetic of prose. He was one of the earliest advocates for tole- ration, the principles of which he maintained in his Discourse of the Liberty of Prophesying ; showing the unreasonableness of prescribing to other men's faith, and the iniquity of persecuting differing opinions. He is lavish of quotation to a fault, his pages are often a patchwork of Greek, Latin and English ; and if his language were less beautiful, it might sometimes be thought too copious. In the following extracts from his sermons quotations in the learned languages have been generally omitted. THE RELIGION OF JESUS. It is a doctrine perfective of human nature, that teaches us to love God and to love one another, to hurt no man, and to do good to every man ; it propines to us the noblest, the highest and the bravest pleasures of the world — the joys of charity, the rest of innocence, the peace of quiet spirits, the wealth of beneficence, and for- bids us only to be beasts and to be devils ; it allows all that God and nature intended, and only restrains the excrescences of nature, and forbids us to take pleasure in that which is the only entertainment of devils, in murders and revenges, malice and spiteful words and actions ; it per- mits corporal pleasures where they can best minister to health and societies, to conservation of families and honour of communities ; it teaches men to keep then- words, that themselves may be secured in all their just interests, and to do good to others that good may be done to them ; it forbids biting one another, that we may not be devoured by one another; and MORALS AND RELIGION. 179 commands obedience to superiors, that we may not be ruined in confusions ; it com- bines governments, and confirms all good laws, and makes peace, and opposes and prevents wars where they are not just and where they are not necessary. It is a religion that is life and spirit, not consist- ing in ceremonies and external amuse- ments, but in the sendees of the heart, and the real fruit of lips and hands, that is, of good words and good deeds ; it bids us to do that to God which is agreeable to his excellences, that is, worship him with the best thing we have, and make all things else minister to it ; it bids us to do that to our neighbour by which he may be better; it is the perfection of the natural law, and agreeable to our natural necessities, and promotes our natural ends and designs ; it does not destroy reason, but instructs it in very many things, and complies with it in all ; it hath in it both heat and light, and is not more effectual than it is beauteous ; it promises every- thing that we can desire, and yet promises nothing but what it does effect ; it pro- claims war against all vices, and generally does command every virtue ; it teaches us with ease to mortify those affections which reason durst scarce reprove, because she hath not strength enough to conquer ; and it does create in us those virtues which reason of herself never knew, and after they are known, could never ap- prove sufficiently ; it is a doctrine in which nothing is superfluous or burdensome, nor yet is there anything wanting which can procure happiness to mankind, or by which God can be glorified ; and if wisdom, and mercy, and justice, and simplicity, and holiness, and purity, and meekness, and contentedness, and charity, be images of God and rays of divinity, then that doctrine in which all these shine so glo- riously, and in which nothing else is in- gredient, must needs be from God ; and that all this is true in the doctrine of Jesus needs no other probation but the reading the words. For that the words of Jesus are con- tained in the gospels, that is, in the wri- tings of them who were eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses of the actions and sermons of Jesus, is not at all to be doubted. All those excellent things, which singly did make famous so many sects of philoso- phers, and remarked so many princes of their sects, all of them united, and many more, which their eyes dark and dim could not see, are heaped together in this system of wisdom and holiness. Here are plain precepts full of deepest mystery ; here are the measures of holiness and ap- proaches to God described ; obedience and conformity, mortification of the body, and elevations of the spirit, abstractions from earth, and arts of society and union with heaven, degrees of excellences, and ten- dencies to perfection, imitations of God, and conversations with him ; these are the heights and descents, upon the plain grounds of natural reason and natural re- ligion, for there is nothing commanded but what our reason by nature ought to choose, and yet nothing of natural reason taught but what is heightened and made more perfect by the Spirit of God; and when there is anything in the religion that is against flesh and blood, it is only when flesh and blood is against us and against reason, when flesh and blood either would hinder us from great felicity, or bring us into great misery. To conclude, it is such a law, that nothing can hinder men to receive and entertain, but a perti- nacious baseness and love to vice, and none can receive it but those who resolve to be good and excellent ; and if the holy Jesus had come into the world with less splendour of power and mighty demon- strations, yet even the excellency of what he taught, makes him alone fit to be the master of the world. Jeremy Taylor. HOW TO LENGTHEN LIFE. If we would have our life lengthened, let us begin betimes to live in the ac- counts of reason and sober counsels of religion and the spirit, and then we shall have no reason to complain that our abode on earth is so short : many men find it long enough, and indeed it is so to all senses. But when we spend in waste what God hath given us in plenty ; when we sacrifice our youth to folly, our man- hood to lust and rage, our old age to covetousness and irreligion, not beginning to live till we are to die, designing that time to virtue which indeed is infirm to everything and profitable to nothing ; then we make our lives short, and lust runs away with all the vigorous and healthful part of it, and pride and animosity steal the manly portion, and craftiness and in- terest possess old age, we spend as if we had too much time, and knew not what to do with it ; we fear everything, like 180 JEREMY TAYLOR. weak and silly mortals, and desire strangely and greedily, as if we were immortal ; we complain our life is short, and yet we throw away much of it, and are weary of many of its parts ; we complain the day is long, and the night is long, and we want company, and seek out arts to drive the time away, and then weep because it is gone too soon. But so the treasure of the Capitol is but a small estate when Csesar comes to finger it, and to pay with it all his legions ; and the revenue of all Egypt and the eastern provinces was but a little sum, when they were to support the luxury of Mark Antony and feed the riot of Cleopatra ; but a thousand crowns is a vast proportion to be spent in the cottage of a frugal person, or to feed a hermit. Just so is our life : it is too short to serve the ambition of a haughty prince or a usurping rebel ; too little time to purchase great wealth, to satisfy the pride of a vain-glorious fool, to trample on all the enemies of our just or unjust interest ; but for the obtaining virtue, for the purchase of sobriety and modesty, for the actions of religion, God gave us time sufficient, if we make the " outgoings of the morning and evening," that is, our infancy and old age, to be taken into the computations of a man; which we may see in the following particulars. If our childhood, being first conse- crated by forward baptism, be seconded by a holy education and a complying obe- dience ; if our youth be chaste and tem- perate, modest and industrious, proceed- ing through a prudent and sober manhood to a religious old age, then we have lived our whole duration and shall never die, but be changed, in a just time, to the pre- parations of a better and an immortal life. If, besides the ordinary returns of our prayers and periodical and festival solem- nities, and our seldom communions, we would allow to religion and the studies of wisdom those great shares that are trifled away on vain sorrow, foolish mirth, trou- blesome ambition, busy covetousness, watchful lust, and impertinent amours, and balls, and revellings, and banquets, all that which was spent viciously, and all that time that lay fallow and without employment, our life would quickly amount to a great sum. He that hath done all his business, and is begotten to a glorious hope by the seed of an im- mortal spirit, can never die too soon nor live too long. Jeremy Taylor. THE JUDGMENT. The majesty of the Judge and the ter- rors of the judgment, shall be spoken aloud by the immediate forerunning acci- dents, which shall be so great violences to the old constitutions of nature, that it shall break her very bones, and disorder her till she be destroyed. Saint Jerome relates, out of the Jews' books, that their doctors used to account fifteen days of prodigy immediately before Christ's co- ming, and to every day assign a wonder, any one of which, if we should chance to see in the days of our flesh, it would affright us into the like thoughts which the old world had, when they saw the countries round about them covered with water and the divine vengeance ; or as those poor people near Adria and the Mediterranean Sea, when their houses and cities are entering into graves, and the bowels of the earth rent with convul- sions and horrid tremblings. The sea (they say) shall rise fifteen cubits above the highest mountains, and thence de- scend into hollowness and a prodigious drought ; and when they are reduced again to their usual proportions, then all the beasts and creeping things, the mon- sters and the usual inhabitants of the sea, shall be gathered together, and make fearful noises to distract mankind ; the birds shall mourn and change their songs into threnes and sad accents; rivers of fire shall rise from the east to west, and the stars shall be rent into threads of light, and scatter like the beards of comets ; then s"hall be fearful earthquakes, and the rocks shall rend in pieces, the trees shall distil blood, and the mountains and fairest structures shall return into their primitive dust ; the wild beasts shall leave their dens, and come into the com- panies of men, so that you shall hardly tell how to call them, herds of men or congregations of beasts ; then shall the graves open and give up their dead, and those which are alive in nature and dead in fear, shall be forced from the rocks whither they went to hide them, and from caverns of the earth, where they would fain have been concealed ; because their retirements are dismantled, and their rocks are broken into wider rup- tures, and admit a strange light into their secret bowels ; and the men being forced abroad into the theatre of mighty horrors, shall run up and down distracted and at MORALS AND RELIGION. 181 their wits' end ; and then some shall die, and some shall be changed, and by this time the elect shall be gathered together from the four quarters of the world, and Christ shall come along with them to judgment. These signs, although the Jewish doctors reckon them by order and a method, concerning which they had no other revelation (that appears), nor suffi- ciently credible tradition, yet for the main parts of the things themselves, the holy scripture records Christ's own words, and concerning the most terrible of them ; the sum of which, as Christ related them, and his apostles recorded and explicated, is this, " The earth shall tremble, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken, the sun shall be turned into darkness and the moon into blood ;" that is, there shall be strange eclipses of the sun, and fearful aspects in the moon, who, when she is troubled, looks red like blood ; " the rocks shall rend, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat. The heavens shall be rolled up like a parchment, the earth shall be burned with fire, the hiUs shall be like wax, for there shall go a fire before him, and a mighty tempest shall be stirred round about him." Dies irae, dies ilia Solvet sec'lum in fa-villa: Teste David, cum Sibylla. The trumpet of God shall sound, and the voice of the archangel, which things, when they are come to pass, it will be no wonder if men's hearts should fail them for fear, and their wits be lost with guilt, and their fond hopes destroyed by prodigy and amazement ; but it will be an extreme wonder if the consideration and certain expectation of these things shall not awake our sleeping spirits, and raise us from the death of sin and the baseness of vice and dishonourable actions, to live soberly and temperately, chastely and justly, humbly and obediently, that is, like persons that believe all this ; and such who are not madmen or fools will order their actions according to these notices. For if they do not believe these things, where is their faith ? If they do believe them and sin on, and do as if there were no such thing to come to pass, where is their prudence, and what is their hopes, and where their charity ? how do they differ from beasts, save that they are more foolish ? for beasts go on and con- sider not, because they cannot ; but w r e can consider and will not : we know that strange terrors shall affright us all, and strange deaths and torments shall seize on the wicked, and that we cannot escape, and the rocks themselves will not be able to hide us from the fears of those pro- digies which shall come before the day of judgment : and that themountains, though, when they are broken in pieces, we call on them to fall on us, shall not be able to secure us one minute from the present vengeance ; and yet we proceed with con- fidence or carelessness, and consider not that there is no greater folly in the world than for a man to neglect his greatest interest, and to die for trifles and little regards, and to become miserable for such interests, which are not excusable in a child. He that is youngest hath not long to live : he that is thirty, forty, or fifty years old, hath spent most of his life and his dream is almost done, and in a very few months he must be cast into his eternal portion ; that is, he must be in an unalterable condition : his final sentence shall pass, according as he shall then be found ; and that will be an intolerable condition when he shall have reason to cry out in the bitterness of his soul, " Eternal woe is to me who refused to consider, when I might have been saved and secured from this intolerable cala- mity." Jeremy Taylor. THE DANGER OF TRUSTING TO A LATE REPENTANCE. He that resolves not to live well till the time comes that he must die, is ridiculous in his great design, as he is impertinent in his intermedial purposes, and vain in his hope. Since all the purposes of a holy lite which a dying man can make cannot be reduced to act, by what law, or reason, or covenant, or revelation, are we taught to distinguish the resolution of a dying man from the purposes of a living and vigorous person ? Suppose a man in his youth and health, moved by consider- ation of the irregularity and deformity of sin, the danger of its productions, the wrath and displeasure of Almighty God, should resolve to leave the puddles of impurity, and walk in the paths of right- eousness ; can this resolution alone put him into the state of grace ? Is he ad- mitted to pardon and the favour of God before he hath in some measure per- formed actually what he so reasonably hath resolved? by no means. For reso- 182 JEREMY TAYLOR. lution and purpose is, in its own nature and constitution, an imperfect act, and therefore can signify nothing without its performance and consummation. It is as a faculty is to the act, as spring is to the harvest, as seed-time is to the autumn, as eggs are to birds, or as a relative to its correspondent ; nothing without it. And can it be imagined that a resolution in our health and life shall be effectual with- out performance ? And shall a resolution, barely such, do any good on our death- bed ? Can such purposes prevail against a long impiety, rather than against a young and a newly -begun state of sin ? Will God at an easier rate pardon the sins of fifty or sixty years, than the sins of our youth only, or the iniquity of five years, or ten ? If a holy life be not ne- cessary to be lived, why shall it be ne- cessary to resolve to live it ? But if a holy life be necessary, then it cannot be sufficient merely to resolve it, unless this resolution go forth in an actual and real service. Vain therefore is the hope of those persons, who either go on in their sins before their last sickness, never think- ing to return into the ways of God, from whence they have wandered all their life, never renewing their resolutions and vows of holy living ; or if they have, yet their purposes are for ever blasted with the next violent temptation. More prudent was the prayer of David : " Oh spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence and be no more seen." "Whenever our holy purposes are renewed, unless God gives us time to act them, to mortify and subdue our lusts, to conquer and subdue the whole kingdom of sin, to rise from our grave and be clothed with nerves and flesh and a new skin, to over- come our deadly sicknesses, and by little and little to return to health and strength ; unless we have grace and time to do all this, our sins will lie down with us in our graves. For when a man hath contracted a long habit of sin, and it hath been growing on him ten or twenty, forty or fifty years, whose acts he hath daily or hourly repeated, and they are grown to a second nature to him, and have so pre- vailed on the ruins of his spirit, that the man is taken captive by the devil at his will, he is fast bound, as a slave tugging at the oar ; that he is grown in love with his fetters and longs to be doing the work of sin ; is it likely that after all this pro- gress and growth in sin, in the ways of which he runs fast without any impedi- ment ; is it, I say, likely that a few days or weeks of sickness can recover him ? can a man be supposed so prompt to piety and holy living, a man I mean that hath lived wickedly a long time together ; can he be of so ready and active a virtue on the sudden, as to recover, in a month or a week, what he hath been undoing in twenty or thirty years ? Is it so easy to build, that a weak and infirm person, bound hand and foot, shall be able to build more in three days than was a-build- ing above forty years ? Christ did it in a figurative sense : but in this, it is not in the power of any man so suddenly to be recovered from so long a sickness. Ne- cessary therefore it is that all these in- struments of our conversion, confession of sins, praying for their pardon, and reso- lution to lead a new life, should begin " before our feet stumble on the dark mountains," lest we leave the work only resolved on to be begun, which it is ne- cessary we should in many degrees finish, if ever we mean to escape the eternal darkness. For that we should actually abolish the whole body of sin and death — that we should crucify the old man with his lusts — that we should lay aside every weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset us — that we should cast away the works of darkness— that we should awake from sleep, and arisefrom death — that we should redeem the time — that we should cleanse our hands and purify our hearts — that we should have escaped the corruption (all the corruption) that is in the whole world through lust — that nothing of the whole leaven should remain in us, but that we be wholly a new lump, thoroughly trans- formed and changed in the image of our mind ; these are the perpetual precepts of the Spirit and the certain duty of man ; and that to have all these in purpose only, is merely to no purpose, without the actual eradication of every vicious habit, and the certain abolition of every criminal adherence, is clearly and dogmatically decreed everywhere in the Scripture. " For (they are the words of Saint Paul) they that are Christ's have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts ; " the work is actually done, and sin is dead or wounded mortally, before they can in any sense belong to Christ, to be a portion of his inheritance : and " He that is in Christ is a new creature." For " in Christ Jesus nothing can avail but a new creature;" nothing but a "keeping the command- ments of God." Not all tears, though we MORALS AND RELIGION. 183 should weep like David and his men at Ziklag, " till they could weep no more," or the women of Ramah, or like "the weeping in the valley of Hinnom," could suffice, if we retain the affection to any one sin, or have any unrepented of or un- mortified. It is true that " a contrite and a broken heart God will not despise:" no, he will not. For if it be a hearty and permanent sorrow, it is an excellent beginning of repentance ; and God will to a timely sorrow give the grace of repent- ance : he will not give pardon to sorrow alone ; but that which ought to be the proper effect of sorrow, that God shall give. He shall then open the gates of mercy, and admit you to a possibility of restitution : so that you may be within the covenant of repentance, which if you actually perform, you may expect God's promise. And in this sense confession will obtain our pardon, and humiliation will be accepted, and our holy purposes and pious resolutions shall be accounted for; that is, these being the first steps and addresses to that part of repentance which consists in the abolition of sins, shall be accepted so far as to procure so much of the pardon, to do so much of the work of restitution, that God will admit the returning man to a farther degree of emendation, to a nearer possibility of working out his salvation. But then, if this sorrow and confession, and these strong purposes begin then when our life is declined towards the west, and is now ready to set in darkness and a dismal night ; because of themselves they could but procure an admission to repentance, not at all to pardon and plenary absolu- tion, by showing that on our death-bed these are too late and ineffectual, they call on us to begin betimes, when these imperfect acts may be consummate and perfect in the actual performing those parts of holy life to which they were or- dained in the nature of the thing and the purposes of God. Since repentance is a duty of so great and giant-like bulk, let no man crowd it up into so narrow room, as that it be strangled in its birth for want of time and air to breathe in ; let it not be put off to that time when a man hath scarce time enough to reckon all those particular duties which make up the integrity of its constitution. Will any man hunt the wild boar in his garden, or bait a bull in his closet ? Will a woman wrap her child in a handkerchief, or a father send his son to school when he is fifty years old? These are indecencies of Providence, and the instrument contradicts the end : and this is our case. There is no room for the repentance, no time to act all its es- sential parts ; and a child who hath a great way to go before he be wise, may defer his studies and hope to become learned in his old age and on his death- bed, as well as a vicious person may think to recover from all his ignorances and prejudicate opinions, from all his false principles and evil customs, from his wicked inclinations and ungodly habits, from his fondnesses of vice and detes- tations of virtue, from his promptness to sin and unwillingness to grace, from his spiritual deadness and strong sensuality, on his death-bed (I say), when he hath no natural strength, and as little spiritual ; when he is criminal and impotent, har- dened in his vice and soft in his fears, full of passion and empty of wisdom ; when he is sick and amazed, and timorous and confounded, and impatient, and ex- tremely miserable. And now, when any of you is tempted to commit a sin, remember that sin will ruin you, unless you repent of it. But this, you say, is no news, and so far from affrighting you from sin, that God knows it makes men sin the rather. For there- fore they venture to act the present temptation, because they know if they re- pent God will forgive them ; and there- fore they resolve on both, to sin now and repent hereafter. Against this folly I shall not oppose the consideration of their danger, and that they neither know how long they shall live, nor whether they shall die or no in this very act of sin ; though this consi- deration is very material, and if they should die in it, or before it is washed off, they perish ; but I consider these things : 1. That he that resolves to sin on a re- solution to repent, by every act of sin makes himself more incapable of repent- ing, by growing more in love with sin, by remembering its pleasures, by serving it once more, and losing one degree more of the liberty of our spirit. And if you resolve to sin now because it is pleasant, how do you know that your appetite will alter ? Will it not appear pleasant to you next week, and the next week after that, and so for ever? And still you sin, and still you will repent; that is, you will re- pent when the sin can please you no longer ; for so long as it can please you, 184 JEREMY TAYLOR. so long you are tempted not to repent, as well as now to act the sin ! and the longer you he in it, the more you will love it : so that it is in effect to say, I love my sin now, but I will hereafter hate it ; only I will act it awhile longer, and grow more in love with it, and then I will repent ; that is, then I will be sure to hate it, when I shall most love it. 2. To repent signifies to be sorrowful, to be ashamed, and to wish it had never been done. And then see the folly of this temptation ; I would not sin, but that I hope to repent of it : that is, I would not do this thing, but that I hope to be sorrowful for doing it, and I hope to come to sbame for it, heartily to be ashamed of my doings, and I hope to be in that condition that I would give all the world I had never done it; that is, I hope to feel and apprehend an evil infi- nitely greater than the pleasures of my sin. And are these arguments fit to move a man to sin ? What can affright a man from it, if these invite him to it ? It is as if a man should invite one to be a partner of his treason, by telling him, if you will join with me, you shall have all these effects by it: you shall be hanged, drawn and quartered, and your blood shall be cor- rupted, and your estate forfeited, and you shall have many other reasons to wish you had never done it. He that should use this rhetoric in earnest, might well be accounted a madman : this is to scare a man, not to allure him: and so is the other when we understand it truly. 3. For I consider, he that repents wishes he had never done that sin. Now I ask, does he wish so on reason or without reason ? Surely, if he may, when he hath satisfied his lust, ask God pardon, and be admitted on as easy terms for the time to come as if he had not done the sin, he hath no reason to be sorrowful, or wish he had not done it. For though he hath done it, and pleased himself by " enjoying the pleasure of sin for a season," yet all is well again ; and let him only be careful now and there is no hurt done, his pardon is certain. How can any man that un- derstands the reason of his actions and passions, wish that he had never done that sin in which then he had pleasure, and now he feels no worse inconvenience ? But he that truly repents, wishes and would give all the world he had never done it : surely then his present condition in respect of his past sin hath some very great evil in it; why else should he be so much troubled ? True, and this it is. He is fallen out of the favour of God, is tied to hard duty for the time to come, to cry vehemently unto God, to call night and day for pardon, to be in great fear and tremblings of heart lest God should never forgive him, lest God will never take off his sentence of eternal pains ; and in this fear, and in some degrees of it, he will remain all the days of his life : and if he hopes to be quit of that, yet he knows not how many degrees of God's anger still hang over his head ; how many sad miseries shall afflict, and burn, and purify him in this world, with a sharpness so poignant as to divide the marrow from the bones ; and for these reasons, as a consi- dering man that knows what it is to repent, wishes with his soul he had never sinned, and therefore grieves in propor- tion to his former crimes, and present misery, and future danger. And now suppose that you can repent when you will, that is, that you can grieve when you will ; though no man can do it, no man can grieve when he please, though he could shed tears when he list, he can- not grieve without a real or apprehended infelicity ; but, suppose it ; and that he can fear when he please, and that he can love when he please, or what he please ; that is, suppose a man be able to say to his palate, though I love sweetmeats, yet to-morrow will I hate and loathe them, and believe them bitter and distasteful things ; suppose, I say, all these impos- sibilities ; yet since repentance does sup- pose a man to be in a state of such real misery, that he hath reason to curse the day in which he sinned, is this a fit argu- ment to invite a man that is in his wits to sin ? to sin in hope of repentance ? as if danger of falling into hell, and fear of the divine anger, and many degrees of the divine judgments, and a lasting sorrow, and a perpetual labour, and a never-cea- sing trembling, and a troubled conscience, and a sorrowful spirit, were fit things to be desired or hoped for. The sum is this : he that commits sins shall perish eternally, if he never does repent. And if he does repent, and yet untimely, he is not the better ; and if he does not repent with an entire, a perfect, and complete repentance, he is not the better. But if he does, yet repentance is a duty full of fears, and sorrow, and labour; a vexation to the spirit; an afflictive, penal, or punitive duty ; a duty which suffers for sin and labours for grace, which abides and suffers little images of MORALS AND RELIGION. 185 hell in the way to heaven : and though it be the only way to felicity, yet it is beset with thorns and daggers of sufferance, and with rocks and mountains of duty. Let no man therefore dare to sin on the hopes of repentance ; for he is a fool and a hy- pocrite that now chooses and approves what he knows hereafter he must con- demn. Jeremy Taylor. THE CHARACTER OF FRANCES COUNTESS OF CARBERY. She always lived a life of much inno- cence, free from the violences of great sins : her person, her breeding, her mo- desty, her honour, her religion, her early marriage, the guide of her soul, and the guide of her youth, were as so many fountains of restraining grace to her, to keep her from the dishonours of a crime. " It is good to bear the yoke of the Lord from our youth :" and though she did so, being guarded by a mighty Providence and a great favour and grace of God, from staining her fair soul with the spots of hell, yet she had strange fears and early cares on her ; but these were not only for herself, but in order to others, to her nearest relatives : for she was so great a lover of this honourable family, of which now she was a mother, that she desired to become a channel of great blessings to it unto future ages, and was extremely jealous lest anything should be done, or lest anything had been done, though an age or two since, which should entail a curse on the innocent posterity ; and be- cause she knew the sins of parents de- scend on children, she endeavoured, by justice and religion, by charity and ho- nour, to secure that her channel should convey nothing but health, and a fair ex- ample, and a blessing. And though her accounts of God were made up of nothing but small parcels, little passions, and gigry words, and tri- fling discontents, whicn are the allays of the piety of the most holy persons, yet she was early at her repentance; and toward the latter end of her days, grew so fast in religion, as if she had had a revelation of her approaching end, and therefore that she must go a great way in a little time : her discourses more full of religion, her prayers more frequent, her charity increasing, her forgiveness more forward, her friendships more communi- cative, her passion more under discipline ; and so she trimmed her lamp, not think- ing her night was so near, but that it might shine also in the day-time, in the temple, and before the altar of incense. But in this course of hers there were some circumstances and some appendages of substance, which were highly remark- able. In all her religion, and in all her ac- tions of relation towards God, she had a strange evenness and untroubled passage, sliding toward her ocean of God and of infinity with a certain and silent motion. So have I seen a river, deep and smooth, passing with a still foot and a sober face, and paying to the fiscus, the great " ex- chequer" of the sea, the prince of all the watery bodies, a tribute large and full ; and hard by it, a little brook skipping and making a noise on its unequal and neighbour bottom ; and after all its talking and bragged motion, it paid to its common audit no more than the reve- nues of a little cloud or a contemptible vessel : so have I sometimes compared the issues of her religion to the solem- nities and famed outsides of another's piety. It dwelt on her spirit and was incorporated with the periodical work of every day : she did not believe that reli- gion was intended to minister to fame and reputation, but to pardon of sins, to the pleasure of God, and the salvation of souls. For religion is like the breath of heaven : if it goes abroad into the open air, it scatters and dissolves like camphire ; but if it enters into a secret hollowness, into a close conveyance, it is strong and mighty, and comes forth with vigour and great effect at the other end, at the other side of this life, in the days of death and judgment. The other appendage of her religion, which also was a great ornament to all the parts of her life, was a rare modesty and humility of spirit, a confident de- spising and undervaluing of herself. For though she had the greatest judgment and the greatest experience of things and persons that I ever yet knew in a person of her youth, and sex, and circumstances, yet, as if sbe knew nothing of it, she had the meanest opinion of herself; and like a fair taper, when she shined to all the room, yet round about her own station she had cast a shadow and a cloud, and she shined to everybody but herself. But the perfectness of her prudence and excellent parts could not be hid ; and all 186 JEREMY TAYLOR. her humility and arts of concealment made the virtues more amiable and illus- trious. For as pride sullies the beauty of the fairest virtues, and makes our un- derstanding but like the craft and learning of a devil, so humility is the greatest eminency and art of publication in the whole world : and she in all her arts of secrecy and hiding her worthy things, was but " like one that hideth the wind, and covers the ointment of her right hand." She lived as we all should live, and she died as I fain would die : Cum mihi supremos Lachesis perneverit annos, Non aliter cineres mando jacere meos. I pray God I may feel these mercies on my deathbed that she felt, and that I may feel the same effect of my repentance, which she feels of the many degrees of her innocence. Such was her death that she did not die too soon; and her life was so useful and excellent, that she could not have lived too long : Nemo pa- rum diu vixit, qui virtutis perfects per- fect o functus est munere. And as now in the grave it shall not be inquired con- cerning her how long she lived, but how well, so to us who live after her, to suffer a longer calamity, it may be some ease to our sorrows, and some guide to our lives, and some security to our conditions, to consider that God hath brought the piety of a young lady to the early rewards of a never-ceasing and never-dying eter- nity of glory. And we also, if we live as she did, shall partake of the same glories ; not only having the honour of a good name and a dear and honoured memory, but the glories of these glories, the end of all excellent labours, and all prudent counsels, and all holy religion, even the salvation of our souls, in that day when all the saints, and among them this ex- cellent woman, shall be shown to all the world to have done more, and more ex- cellent things than we know of or can describe. Mors illos consecrat, quorum exitum, et qui timent, laudant : " death consecrates and makes sacred that person whose excellency was such, that they that are not displeased at the death, cannot dispraise the life ; but they that mourn sadly, think they can never commend sufficiently." Jeremy Taylor. THE MINISTER'S DUTY IN LIFE. You must be a man of God, not after the common manner of men, but " after God's own heart ;" and men will strive to be like you if you be like to God ; but when you only stand at the door of vir- tue, for nothing but to keep sin out, you will draw into the folds of Christ none but such as fear drives in. Ad majorem Dei gloriam, " to do what will most glo- rify God," that is the line you must walk by ; for to do no more than all men needs must, is servility, not so much as the af- fection of sons ; much less can you be fathers to the people, when you go not so far as the sons of God ; for a dark lantern, though there be a weak brightness on one side, will scarce enlighten one, much less will it conduct a multitude, or allure many followers, by the brightness of its flame. And indeed the duty appears in this, that many things are lawful for the people which are scandalous in the clergy ; you are tied to more abstinences, to more seve- rities, to more renunciations and self-de- nials ; you may not with that freedom re- ceive secular contentments that others may; you must spend more time in prayers, your alms must be more bounti- ful ; your hands more open ; your hearts enlarged: others must relieve the poor, you must take care of them ; others must show themselves their brethren, but you must be their fathers ; they must pray fre- quently and fervently, but you must give your " selves up wholly to the word of God and prayer;" they must "watch and pray that they fall not into temptation," but you must watch for yourselves and others too ; the people must mourn when they sin, but you must mourn for your own infirmities and for the sins of others ; and, indeed, if the life of a clergyman does not exceed even the piety of the people, that life is, in some measure, scandalous ; and what shame was ever greater than is described in the parable of the traveller going from Jerusalem to Jericho, when, to the eternal dishonour of the Levite and the priest, it is told that they went aside and saw him with a wry neck and a bend- ed head, but let him alone, and left him to be cured by the good Samaritan ? The primitive church in her discipline used to thrust their delinquent clergy in laicam communionem, even then when their faults were but small, and of less reproach than I to deserve greater censures ; yet they less- MORALS AND RELIGION. 187 ened them by thrusting them " into the lay communion," as most fit for such mi- nisters who refused to live at the height of sacerdotal piety. Remember your dig- nity, to which Christ hath called you : " Shall such a man as I flee?" said the brave Eleazar ; shall the stars be darkness, shall the ambassadors of Christ neglect to do their king honour ; shall the glory of Christ do dishonourable and inglorious ac- tions ? " Ye are the glory of Christ," saith St. Paul ; remember that, — I can say no greater thing ; unless possibly this may add some moments for your care and cau- tion, that potentes patenter cruciabuntur, "great men shall be greatly tormented," if they sin ; and to fall from a great height is an intolerable ruin. Severe were the words of our blessed Saviour, " Ye are the salt of the earth ; if the salt have lost his savour, it is thenceforth good for nothing, neither for land, nor yet for the dung- hill ;" a greater dishonour could not be expressed ; he that takes such a one up will shake his fingers. I end this with the saying of St. Austin, " Let your reli- gious prudence think, that in the world, especially at this time, nothing is more laborious, more difficult, or more danger- ous than the office of a bishop, or a priest, or a deacon ;" sed apud Beum nihil bea- tius, si eo modo militetur quo noster im- perator jubet ; " but nothing is more bless- ed, if we do our duty according to the commandment of our Lord." I have always discoursed of the inte- grity of fife, and what great necessity there is, and how deep obligations lie on you, not only to be innocent and void of offence, but also to be holy ; not only pure but shining ; not only to be blameless, but to be didactic in your lives; that as, by your sermons, you preach in season, so by j your lives you may preach out of season ; j that is, at all seasons, and to all men, that they, " seeing your good works, may glo- rify God" on your behalf and on their own. Jeremy Taylor. THE MINISTER'S DUTY IN DOC- TRINE. Do not trouble your people with con- troversies ; whatsoever does gender strife, the Apostle commands us to avoid ; and therefore much more the strife itself : a controversy is a stone in the mouth of the hearer, who should be fed with bread, and it is a temptation to the preacher, it is a state of temptation ; it engages one side in lying, and both in uncertainty and un- charitableness ; and after all it is not food for souls ; it is the food of contention, it is a spiritual law-suit, and it can never be ended ; every man is right, and every man is wrong in these things, and no man can tell who is right or who is wrong. For as long as a word can be spoken against a word, and a thing be opposite to a thing ; as long as places are hard, and men are ignorant, or " knowing but in part ;" as long as there is money and pride in the world, and for ever till men willingly con- fess themselves to be fools and deceived, so long will the saw of contention be drawn from side to side. " That which is not, cannot be numbered," saith the wise man ; no man can reckon on any truth that is got by contentious learning ; and whoever troubles his people with ques- tions, and teaches them to be trouble- some, note that man, he loves not peace, or he would fain be called Rabbi, Rabbi. Christian religion loves not tricks nor arti- fices of wonder ; but, like the natural and amiable simplicity of Jesus, by plain and easy propositions leads us in wise paths to a place where sin and strife shall never enter. What good can come from that which fools begin, and wise men can never end but by silence ? and that had been the best way at first, and would have sti- fled them in the cradle. What have your people to do, whether Christ's body be in the sacrament by consubstantiation or transubstantiation ; whether purgatory be in the centre of the earth or in the air, or anywhere or nowhere ; and who but a madman would trouble their heads with the entangled links of the fantastic chain of predestination ? Teach them to fear God and honour the king, to keep the commandments of God, and the king's commands, because of the oath of God ; learn them to be sober and temperate, to be just and to pay their debts, to speak well of their neighbours, and to think meanly of themselves ; teach them cha- rity, and learn them to be zealous of good works. " The kingdom of God consists in wisdom and righteousness, in peace and holiness, in meekness and gentleness, in chastity and purity, in abstinence from evil, and doing good to others ;" in these things place your labours, preach these things, and nothing else but such as these; things which promote the public peace and public good ; things that can give no 188 JEREMY TAYLOR. offence to the wise and to the virtuous ; for these things are profitable to men and pleasing to God. Let not your sermons and discourses to your people be busy arguings about hard places of scripture ; if you strike a hard against a hard, you may chance to strike fire, or break a man's head, but it never makes a good building ; Philosophiam ad 8yllabas vocare, that is to no purpose ; your sermons must be for edification, something to make the people better and wiser, " wiser unto salvation," not wiser to discourse ; for if a hard thing get into their heads, I knows not what work you will make of it, but they will make no- thing of it, or something that is very strange; dress your people unto the imagery of Christ, dress them for their funerals, help them to make their ac- counts up against the day of judgment. I have known some persons and some fa- milies that would religiously educate their children, and bring them up in the scrip- tures from their cradle ; and they would teach them to tell who was the first man, and who was the oldest, and who was the wisest, and who was the strongest ; but I never observed them to ask who was the best, and what things were required to make a man good ; the Apostles' creed was not the entertainment of their pretty talkings, nor the life of Christ, the story of his bitter passion, and his incomparable sermon on the mount, went not into their catechisms. What good can your flocks receive if you discourse well and wisely, whether Jephthah sacrificed his daughter, or put her into the retirements of a soli- tary life ; or how David's numbering the people did differ from Joshua's ; or whe- ther God took away the life of Moses by an apoplexy, or by the kisses of his mouth? If scholars be idly busy in these things in the schools, custom and some other little accidents may help to excuse them ; but the time that is spent in your churches, and conversation with your people, must not be so thrown away ; \6yos etrru) aejx- vbs, that is your rule ; " let your speech be grave," and wise, and useful, and holy, and intelligible ; something to reform their manners, to correct their evil na- tures, to amend their foolish customs, " to build them up in a most holy faith." That is the second rule and measure of your preachings that the apostle gives you. Thirdly, your speech must be vyij]s, "salutary" and wholesome; and indeed this is of greatest concern, next to the first, next to the truth and purity of that doctrine ; for unless the doctrine be made fit for the necessities of your people, and not only be good in itself, but good for them, you lose the end of your labours, and they the end of your preachings; " Your preaching is vain, and their faith is also vain." The particulars of this are not many, but very useful. It is never out of season to preach good works, but when you do, be careful that you never indirectly disgrace them by tell- ing how your adversaries spoil them. I do not speak this in vain, for too many of us account good works to be popery, and so not only dishonour our religion, and open wide the mouths of adversaries, but disparage Christianity itself, while we hear it preached in every pulpit, that they who preach good works think they merit hea- ven by it ; and so for fear of merit, men let the work alone ; to secure a true opi- nion, they neglect a good practice ; and out of hatred of popery, we lay aside Christianity itself. Teach them how to do good works, and yet to walk humbly with God ; for better it is to do well even on a weak account, than to do nothing on the stock of a better proposition ; and let it never be used any more as a word of reproach unto us all, that the faith of a protestant, and the works of a papist, and the words of a fanatic, make up a good christian. Believe well and speak well, and do well ; but in doing good works a man cannot deceive any one but himself, by the appendage of a foolish opinion ; but in our believing only, and in talking, a man may deceive himself, and all the world; and God only can be safe from the cozenage. Like to this is the case of external forms of worship, which too many refuse, because they pretend that many who use them rest in them, and pass no farther ; for, besides, that no sect of men teaches their people so to do, you cannot without uncharitableness suppose it true of very many. But if others do ill, do not you do so too ; and leave not out the external forms for fear of formality, but join the inward power of godliness ; and then they are reproved best, and instruct- ed wisely, and you are secured. But re- member, that profaneness is commonly something that is external, and he is a profane person who neglects the exterior part of religion ; and this is so rile a crime, that hypocrisy, while it is undis- covered, is not so much mischievous as open profaneness, or a neglect and con- MORALS AND RELIGION. 189 tempt of external religion. Do not de- spise external religion, because it may be sincere ; and do not rely on it wbolly, be- cause it may be counterfeit ; but do you preach both, and practise both ; both what may glorify God in public, and what may please him in private. In deciding the questions and causes of conscience of your flocks, never strive to speak what is pleasing, but what is profit- able, ov \6yovs, dXXd 7rpayf.ia.Twv (pQey- yeadai ovaias, as was said of Isidore the I philosopher, " You must not give your | people words, but things and substantial j food." Let not the people be prejudiced I in the matter of their souls, on any terms | whatsoever, and be not ashamed to speak I boldly in the cause of God ; for he that is | angry when he is reproved, is not to be I considered, excepting only to be reproved again ; if he will never mend, not you, but ; he will have the worst of it ; but if he ever mends, he will thank you for your love, and for your wisdom, and for your care ; and no man is finally disgraced for speaking of a truth ; only here, pray for the grace of prudence, that you may speak opportunely and wisely, lest you profit not, but destroy an incapable subject. Lastly, the apostle requires of even- mi- nister of the gospel that his speech and doctrine should be d/carayvworos, " un- reprovable ;" not such against which no man can cavil; for the Pharisees found fault with the wise discourses of the eter- nal son of God ; and heretics and schis- matics prated against the holy apostles and their excellent sermons ; but a-tcara- yvwGTOs is " such as deserves no blame," and needs no pardon, and flatters not for praise, and begs no excuses, and makes no apologies ; a discourse that will be justi- fied by all the sons of wisdom ; now, that yours may be so, the preceding rides are the best means that are imaginable. For so long as you speak the pure truths of God, the plain meaning of the spirit, the necessary things of faith, the useful tilings of charity, and the excellences of holi- ness, who can reprove your doctrine ? But there is something more in this word which the apostle means, else it had been a useless repetition ; and a man may speak the truths of God, and yet may be blame- worthy by an importune, unseasonable, and imprudent way of delivering them, or for want of such conduct which will place him and his doctrine in reputation and ad- vantages. To this purpose these advices may be usefuL Be more careful to establish a truth than to reprove an error. For besides that a truth will, when it is established, of itself reprove the error sufficiently, men will be less apt to reprove the truth, when they are not engaged to defend their own propositions against you. Men stand on their guard when you proclaim war against their doctrine. Teach your doc- trine purely and wisely, and without any angry reflections ; for you shall very hardly persuade him, whom you go about pnb- licly to confute. If any man have a revelation or a dis- covery, of which thou knowest nothing but by his preaching, be not too quick to condemn it ; not only lest thou discourage his labour and stricter inquiries in the search of truth, but lest thou also be a fool on record ; for so is every man that hastily judges what he slowly understands. Is it not a monument of lasting reproach, that one of the popes of Rome condemned the bishop of Sulzbach for saying that there were antipodes ? And is not pope Nicholas deserted by his own party for correcting the sermons of Berengarius, and making him recant into a worse error? and posterity will certainly make them- selves very merry with the wise sentences made lately at Rome against Galileo and the Jansenists. To condemn one truth is more shameful than to broach two errors; for he that in an honest and diligent in- quiry misses something of the mark, will have the apologies of human infirmity, and the praise of doing his best ; but he that condemns a truth when it is told him, is an envious fool, and is a murderer of his brother's fame and his brother's reason. Jeremy Taylor. THE DANGER OF OFFENDING IN TRIFLES. Man and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of each other in the be- ginning of their conversation ; every lit- tle thing can blast an infant blossom ; and the breath of the south can shake the lit- tle rings of the vine when first they begin to curl like the locks of a new weaned boy ; but when by age and consolidation they stiffen into the hardness of a stem, and have by the warm embraces of the sun and the kisses of heaven, brought forth then; clusters, they can endure the storms of the north and the loud noises of a tern- 190 JEREMY TAYLOR. pest, and yet never be broken ; so are the early unions of an unfixed marriage; watch- ful and observant, jealous and busy, in- quisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every unkind word. For infirmities do not manifest themselves in the first scenes, but in the succession of a long society ; and it is not chance or weakness when it appears at first, but it is want of love or prudence, or it will be so expounded, and that which appears ill at first, usually af- frights the inexperienced man or woman, who makes unequal conjectures, and fan- cies mighty sorrows by the proportions of the new and early unkindness. It is a very great passion, or a huge folly, or a certain want of love, that cannot preserve the colours and beauties of kindness, so long as public honesty requires a man to wear their sorrows for the death of a friend. Plutarch compares a new marriage to a vessel before the hoops are on ; " every thing dissolves their tender compagina- tions ;" " but when the joints are stiffened and are tied by a firm compliance and pro- portioned bending, scarcely can it be dis- solved without fire or the violence of iron." After the hearts of the man and the wife are endeared and hardened by a mutual confidence, and experience longer than artifice and pretence can last, there are a great many remembrances, and some things present, that dash all little unkind- nesses in pieces. The little boy in the Greek epigram, that was creeping down a precipice, was invited to his safety by the sight of his mother's pap, when nothing else could entice him to return ; and the bond of common children, and the sight of her that nurses what is most dear to him, and the endearments of each other in the course of a long society, and the same relation, is an excellent security to redintegrate and to call that love back, which folly and trifling accidents would disturb. When it is come thus far it is hard un- twisting the knot ; but be careful in its first coalition, that there be no rudeness done, for if there be, it will for ever after be apt to start and to be diseased. Let man and wife be careful to stifle little things, that, as fast as they spring, they be cut down and trod on ; for if they be suffered to grow by numbers, they make the spirit peevish, and the society troublesome, and the affections loose and easy by an habitual aversation. Some men are more vexed with a fly than with a wound ; and when the gnats disturb our sleep, and the reason is disquieted, but not perfectly awakened, it is often seen that he is fuller of trouble, than if, in the daylight of his reason, he were to contest with a potent enemy. In the frequent little accidents of a family a man's reason cannot always be awake ; and when his discourses are imperfect, and a trifling trouble makes him yet more restless, he is soon betrayed to the violence of passion. It is certain that the man or woman are in a state of weakness and folly then, when they can be troubled with a trifling acci- dent ; and therefore it is not good to tempt their affections when they are in that state of danger. In this case the caution is, to subtract fuel from the sud- den flame ; for stubble, though it be quickly kindled, yet it is as soon extin- guished, if it be not blown by a pertina- cious breath, or fed with new materials. Add no new provocations to the accident, and do not inflame this, and peace will soon return, and the discontent will pass aw T ay soon, as the sparks from the colli- sion of a flint ; ever remembering that discontents, proceeding from daily little things, do breed a secret undiscernible disease, which is more dangerous than a fever proceeding from a discerned noto- rious surfeit. Jeremy Taylor. CHRISTIAN SIMPLICITY. Nothing is easier than simplicity and in- genuity ; it is open and ready without trouble and artificial cares, fit for commu- nities, and the proper virtue of men, the necessary appendage of useful speech, without which, language were given to men as nails and teeth to lions, for no- thing but to do mischief. It is a rare in- strument of institution, and a certain token of courage ; the companion of goodness and a noble mind, the preserver of friend- ship, the band of society, the security of merchants, and the blessing of trade; it prevents infinite of quarrels, and appeals to judges, and suffers none of the evils of jealousy. Men, by simplicity, converse as do the angels; they do their own work, and secure their proper interest, and serve the public, and do glory to God. But hypocrites and liars, and dissemblers, spread darkness over the face of affairs, and make men, like the blind, to walk softly and timorously; and crafty men, like the close air, suck that which is open, MORALS AND RELIGION. 191 and devour its portion, and destroy its liberty ; and it is the guise of devils, and the dishonour of the soul, and the canker of society, and the enemy of justice, and truth, and peace, of wealth and honour, of courage and merchandize. He is a good man with whom a blind man may safely converse, to whom, in respect of his fair treatings, the darkness and light are both alike ; but he that bears light on the face, with a dark heart, is like him that transforms himself into an angel of light, when he means to do most mischief. Remember this only, that false colours laid on the face besmear the skin and dirty it, but they neither make a beauty nor mend it. " For without shall be dogs and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a he." Jeremy Taylor. THE MIRACLES OF THE DIVINE MERCY. God hath given his laws to rule us, his word to instruct us, his spirit to guide us, his angels to protect us, his ministers to exhort us ; he revealed all our duty, and he hath concealed whatsoever can hinder us ; he hath affrighted our follies with fear of death, and engaged our watchful- ness by its secret coming ; he hath exer- cised our faith by keeping private the state of souls departed, and yet hath confirmed our faith by a promise of a resurrection, and entertained our hope by some gene- ral significations of the state of interval. His mercies make contemptible means in- strumental to great purposes, and a small herb the remedy of the greatest diseases. He impedes the devil's rage, and infa- tuates his counsels ; he diverts his malice, and defeats his purposes ; he binds him in the chain of darkness, and gives him no power over the children of light ; he suf- fers him to walk in solitary places, and yet fetters him that he cannot disturb the sleep of a child ; he hath given him mighty power, and yet a young maiden that re- sists him shall make him flee away ; he hath given him a vast knowledge, and yet an ignorant man can confute him with the twelve articles of his creed ; he gave him power over the winds, and made him prince of the air, and yet the breath of a holy prayer can drive him as far as the utmost sea ; he hath made great variety of con- ditions, and yet hath made all necessary, and all mutual helpers ; and by some in- struments, and in some respects, they are all equal in order to felicity, to content, and final and intermedial satisfactions. He gave us part of our reward in hand, that he might enable us to work for more; he taught the world arts for use, arts for entertainment of all our faculties and all our dispositions ; he gives eternal gifts for temporal services, and gives us whatsoever we w T ant for asking, and commands us to ask, and threatens us if we will not ask, and punishes us for refusing to be happy. This is that glorious attribute that hath made order and health, harmony and hope, restitutions and variety, the joys of direct possession, and the joys, the artificial joys, of contrariety and comparison. He com- forts the poor, and he brings down the rich, that they maybe safe in their humi- lity and sorrow, from the transportations of an unhappy and uninstructed prospe- rity. He gives necessaries to all, and scatters the extraordinary provisions so, that every nation may traffic in charity, and commute for pleasures. He was the Lord of Hosts, and he is still what he was; but he loves to be called the God of Peace, because he was terrible in that, but he is delighted in this. His mercy is his glory, and his glory is the light of heaven. His mercy is the light of the creation, and it fills all the earth; and his mercy is a sea too, and it fills all the abysses of the deep; it hath given us promises for supply of whatsoever we need, and relieves us in all our fears, and in all the evils that we suf- fer. His mercies are more than we can tell, and they are more than we can feel ; for all the world in the abyss of the di- vine mercies is like a man diving into the bottom of the sea, over whose head the waters run insensibly and unperceived, and yet the weight is vast, and the sum of them is unmeasurable ; and the man is not pressed with the burden nor con- | founded with numbers ; and no observa- tion is able to recount, no sense sufficient to perceive, no memory large enough to retain, no understanding great enough to apprehend this infinity ; but we must ad- mire, and love, and worship, and magnify this mercy for ever and ever; that we may dwell in what we feel, and be com- prehended by that which is equal to God, and the parent of all felicity. Jeremy Taylor. 192 RALPH CUDWORTIL RALPH CUDWORTH author of the True Intellectual System of the Universe, was horn at Aller in Somer- setshire, in the year 1617. In 1630 he was admitted pensioner of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, of which he afterwards became a fellow. In 1644 he was appointed master of Clare Hall by the parliamentary visitors, and in 1654 was chosen master of Christ's College. In 1678 he published the Intellectual System. He died on the 26th of June 1688, and was buried in the chapel of Christ's College. Cudworth, when he began his Intellectual System, intended one discourse only on liberty and necessity, but he afterward considered, that as the doctrine of necessity was maintained upon various grounds, he must, dividing his work into three parts, meet it in three ways, — first, by demonstrating the absolute impossibility of Atheism, and the actual existence of God, — secondly, by proving that this God was of essential goodness and justice, and that the differences of moral good and evil, honest and dis- honest, were not by mere will and law only, but by nature, — and, thirdly, by show- ing that men have such a liberty or power over their own actions as renders them accountable, and that consequently there is a justice distributive of rewards and pu- nishments. He published only the first part of his intended work, for he found that he had written as much in quantity on that subject as he had thought would suffice for the three. It is possible that his manuscripts, which are in the British Museum, contain some portions of the second and third books. Among other works in manu- script he left a discourse concerning eternal and immutable morality, the proposed subject of the second book of the Intellectual System ; it was published by bishop Chandler in 1731. He had prodigious learning, eminently shown in his views of the different systems of ancient philosophy, and was profuse in quotation which seems to make up at least one-third of his book. He stated fairly the reasoning that he purposed to confute, and was therefore blamed by some of that class of wrong-headed persons who think that Truth may be served by speaking lies of those who are against her. THE PROVIDENCE OF GOD VINDI- CATED IN A FUTURE JUDGMENT. "We cannot say but that wicked persons may possibly sometimes have an uninter- rupted prosperity here in this life, and no visible marks of divine displeasure upon them; but, as the generously virtuous will not envy them upon this account, nor repine at their own condition, they know- ing that " there is neither anything truly evil to the good, nor good to the evil ;" so are they so far from being staggered herewith in their belief of a God and Pro- vidence, that they are rather the more confirmed in their persuasions of a future immortality and judgment after death, when all things shall be set straight and right, and reward and punishment impar- tially dispensed. That of Plutarch there- fore is most true here, " That there is a necessary connexion betwixt those two things, divine providence and the perma- nence or immortality of human souls, one and the same reason confirming them both ;" neither can one of these be taken alone without the other. But they who, because judgment is not presently exe- cuted upon the ungodly, blames the ma- nagement of things as faulty, and provi- dence as defective, are like such specta- tors of a dramatic poem, as when wicked and injurious persons are brought upon the stage, for a while swaggering and tri- umphing, impatiently cry out against the dramatist, and presently condemn the plot; whereas, if they would but expect the winding up of things, and stay till the last close, they should then see them come off with shame and sufficient punishment. MORALS AND RELIGION. 193 It is in itself fit that there should be somewhere a doubtful and cloud y state of things, for the better exercise of virtue and faith. For, as there could have been no Hercules, had there not been monsters to subdue, so were there no such difficul- ties to encounter with, no puzzles and en- tanglements of things, no temptations and trials to assault us, virtue would grow lan- guid, and that excellent grace of faith want due occasions and objects to exer- cise itself upon. Here have we therefore such a state of things, and this world is, as it were, a stage erected for the more difficult part of virtue to act upon, and where we are to live by faith, and not by sight ; that faith, which is " the substance of things to be hoped for, and the evi- dence of things not seen ;" a belief in the goodness, power, and wisdom of God, when all things are dark and cloudy round about us. " The just shall live by his faith." Ralph Cudworth. AGAINST JUDGING OF THE WORKS OF GOD BY PARTS. In judging of the works of God, we ought not to consider the parts of the world alone by themselves ; and then, be- cause we could fancy much finer things, thereupon blame the maker of the whole. As if one should attend only to this earth, which is but the lowest and most dreggy part of the universe ; or blame plants, be- cause they have not sense ; brutes, be- cause they have not reason; men, be- cause they are not demons or angels ; and angels, because they are not gods, or want divine perfection. Upon which account God should either have made nothing at all, since there can be nothing besides himself absolutely perfect, or else nothing but the higher rank of angelical beings, free from mortality and all those other evils that attend mankind, or such fine things as Epicurus's gods were feigned to be, living in certain delicious regions, where there was neither blustering winds, nor any lowering clouds, nor nipping frosts, nor scorching heat, nor night, nor shadow, but the calm and unclouded ether, always smiling with gentle serenity; whereas, were there but one kind of thing (the best) thus made, there could have been no music nor harmony at all in the world, for want of variety. But we ought, in the first place, to consider the whole, whether that be not the best that could be made, having all that belongeth to it ; and then the parts in reference to the whole, whether they be not, in their seve- ral degrees and ranks, congruous and agreeable thereunto. But this is a thing which hath been so well insisted upon by Plotinus, that we cannot speak better to it than in his words : " God made the whole most beautiful, entire, complete, and sufficient ; all agreeing friendly with itself and its parts ; both the nobler and the meaner of them being alike congruous thereunto. Whosoever, therefore, from the parts thereof, will blame the whole, is an absurd and unjust censurer. For we ought to consider the parts, not aloue by themselves, but in reference to the whole, whether they be harmonious and agree- able to the same. Otherwise we shall not blame the universe, but some of its parts only, taken by themselves ; as if one should blame the hair or toes of a man, taking no notice at all of his divine visage and countenance ; or omitting all other animals, one should attend only to the most contemptible of them ; or, lastly, overlooking all other men, consider oniy the most deformed Thersites. But that which God made, was the whole as one thing ; which he that attends to may hear it speaking to him after this manner: ' God Almighty hath made me, and from thence came I, perfect and complete, and standing in need of nothing, because in me are contained all things, plants and animals, and good souls, and men happy with virtue. Nor is the earth alone in me adorned with all manner of plants and variety of animals ; or does the power of soul extend at most no further than to the seas ; as if the whole air, and ether, and heaven, in the mean time, were quite de- void of sold, and altogether unadorned with living inhabitants. Moreover, all things in me desire good, and everything reaches to it, according to its power and nature. For some things in me partake only of being, some of life also, some of sense, some of reason, and some of intel- lect above reason. But no man ought to require equal things from unequal; nor that the finger should see, but the eye ; it being enough for the finger to be a finger, and to perform its own office.' " And again, afterwards, " We are like unskil- ful spectators of a picture, who condemn the lininer, because he hath not put bright colours everywhere ; whereas he had suited his colours to every part re- K 194 SIMON PATRICK. spectively, giving to each such as belong- ed to it. Or else are we like those who would blame a comedy or tragedy, be- cause they were not all kings or heroes that acted in it, but some servants and rustic clowns, introduced also, talking after their rude fashion. "Whereas the dramatic poem would neither be complete, nor elegant and delightful, were all those worser parts taken out of it." Ralph Cudworth. SIMON PATRICK dean of Peterborough, bishop of Chichester, and afterwards of Ely, was born at Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, on the 8th of September 1626. He went to a school kept by Merryweather who translated into Latin sir Thomas Brown's Religio Me- dici, was admitted into Queen's College, Cambridge in 1644, and, about 1651, re- ceived holy orders from bishop Hall who then, ejected from his bishoprick, lived at Heigham. In 1662 the earl of Bedford gave him the living of St. Paul's, Covent Garden. He was one of the few clergymen who refused to leave their parishioners ; during the great plague of 1665: his friends in the country, who had faster hold of him than anything in this world, desired to see him once more, but his love for them did not move him : he answered that he could not tell what good he might do to the souls of those whom he had in charge, but he was sure while he stayed he should do good to their bodies, and perhaps save some from perishing. In 1679 he was made dean of Peterborough, in 1689 bishop of Chichester, and in 1691 bishop of Ely. He died at Ely on the 31st of May 1707, and was buried in the cathedral. Bishop Patrick published very many sermons and treatises. The passages which follow are taken from the Parable of a Pilgrim, which was written in 1663, and first printed, according to Watt's Bibliotheca Britannica, in 1665 or 1666. It has been supposed, and is probable, that Bunyan, whose Pilgrim's Progress was written during an imprisonment which lasted from 1660 to 1672, took from Patrick the general notion of his allegory, which Patrick himself had borrowed from a short discourse under the same title of the Parable of a Pilgrim. There is, however, no resemblance between the works of John Bunyan and of the bishop, excepting that in each the pilgrim, finding no rest in the country where he dwelt, seeks for and travels towards a better. Bunyan's story is carried on in action, and Patrick's in discourse ; the one is a dramatick, and the other a didactick allegory. Patrick had not the genius of Bun- yan, and as a tale his book is wearisome; but it is full of beautiful passages, and of the spirit of love to his neighbour as well as to his God, by which the author was distin- guished, and because of which he was reproached by the zealous of his own party for favouring the Dissenters. HUMILITY. You cannot have a better guard, nor be put into a place of greater assurance, if you seek over all the world for it, than that to which humility will lead you. For making you distrustful of your own power and strength, it will urge you to a con- tinual dependence upon your Lord, with- out whom you feel that nothing, much less such an excellent thing as you design, can be achieved. We accuse very much the weakness of our nature, we complain heavily of the body of flesh and blood, which continually betrays us ; we conceit that we should do rare things, were we but once quit of this load of earth, and suffered to move in the free and yielding air. But let me tell you, and believe it for a truth, though we had no society with a terrestrial nature ; nay, though our minds were free and clear from all mortal MORALS AND RELIGION. 195 concretion ; though we had no clothes at all to hinder our motion ; yet our ruin might arise out of our spirits, and hy pride and self-confidence we might throw ourselves down into utter destruction. For what commerce, I pray you, had the apostate angels with our corporeal nature? what familiarity with a body ? do we not conceive them to have been pure spirits separated from all earthly contagion ? and yet by placing all in themselves, by being puffed up in their own thoughts, and not acknowledging their need of the divine presence and assistance, we conclude that they tumbled themselves into an abyss of misery and woe irrecoverable. Now, they are in a worse condition than if they were spirits of a smaller size : now, the torment they suffer is proportionable to the noble- ness of their nature. For the sharper and quicker the mind is, and the greater its endowments are which it hath received, the greater mischief doth it bring upon itself, and the sadder are its perplexities when it is destitute of the special help and presence of God. As a great giant being blinded must needs tumble more grie- vously, and give himself sorer knocks than he would have done, if he had not been of so huge a bulk ; so a mind and reason elevated to a higher pitch than others, is carried headlong into a heavier ruin, when it is deprived of that divine light which is necessary for its guidance and preservation. Excellency of nature there- fore little profits, if God be not present with it ; and he absents himself from all that place not their strength, sufficiency and safeguard in him, but in themselves. And on the other side, fragility of nature is not that which will undo us, if the di- vine presence do not withdraw itself, which it never doth from humble and lowly minds that confide in him and not in their own power ; which, were it a thousand times greater than it is, would not be sufficient to conserve itself. Our pride and vanity, and forgetfulness of God then is that which we must accuse ; not the infirmity and craziness of our flesh ; for, as the excellency of the angelical na- ture could not save them when they dis- joined themselves from their creator, so the weakness of ours shall not harm us if we keep close to him, and never sever ourselves from that heavenly power which worketh mightily in us. It is humility that must fasten you to God, that will keep you in a constant adherence to him, and not let you stir a foot from him ; that will make you tremble to think of looking into yourself, and not behold him there. This is in effect your strength and salvation ; this supplies the defects of your nature ; this is the remedy of your infirmity ; and after a strange way this raises you above all the power of the world, by keeping you down, and pressing you very low in your own thoughts. I must not defraud it therefore of those just praises that are due to its virtue, which may recommend it more to your affections, and make its company more grateful in your travels. But it is fit you should know that this humility, which makes us seem so little or nothing in our own eyes, is one of the most glorious things in the world, and places a man among the ancient heroes. It is indeed the height and sublimity of our mind, the true gallantry of our spirits. It letting us see what poor despicable things we are, causes us to surmount ourselves, and to have no regard to such low and petty in- terests as those of our own. It is not a sneaking quality that dis -spirits the soul, and deprives it of all its force and vigour, but a generous disposition of mind, that will not suffer it to employ its forces upon such a mean and contemptible service as that of pleasing ourselves. Let it not seem a paradox to you, for there is no- thing truer, that pride and conceitedness are the qualities of base-bred souls, of feeble and ignoble minds ; and that low- liness is the endowment of a soul well born, nobly descended, and bravely edu- cated in the knowledge of the most ex- cellent things ; for whether is greater, I pray you, he that sets a value upon little trifles, or he that despises them? is it not he that despises them ? whose thoughts are taken up with sublimer objects, that make himself and all things here besides appear as nothing in his eyes. If one man thinks clay to be clay, and therefore treads upon it ; another thinks it to be gold, and therefore admires it ; which of these hath the braver mind ? Hath not he who doth not admire the clay, and embrace the dirt ? So he truly that calls himself but dust and ashes hath certainly a very great soid ; while he that under- standeth not, but hath himself in admi- ration, is a weak and basely-minded man. He hath a great spirit who makes no ac- count of those things which others are proud of. He is generous who despises things far greater than those, which others esteem the marks of their glory ; who doth K2 196 SIMON PATRICK. not swell with high achievements whilst his envious neighbours are puffed up with evety trifle. Humility then you see is not sheepiness, but loftiness of mind and the most elevated pitch of tbe soul. It is not dejectedness of spirit, but a raised under- standing of God and of ourselves. And therefore let us be low (as one of the an- cient guides of the church advises) that we may be high. If we admire anything here, let it be the sublimity of humble minds. I cannot conclude before I add for your further incitement, that humility is of an excellent good nature, and hath a singular obligingness in its constitution. It makes us no less acceptable unto men than unto God, and renders us amiable though we have nothing else to give us any advan- tage. Do you not see how intolerable the proud are ? and what is the reason of it, but because they scorn those who are not of their rank ? They cannot be obliged, because they think whatsoever you do is due to their merit. They would be loved by all, without loving again. They will command in all companies, and have every one yield to their humours. They will teach all, and learn of none. They are incapable of gratitude, and think you are honoured enough for your services, if they do but receive them. They would draw all to themselves, and are unacquainted with that which charms all the world, I mean bounty and liberality. The humble man, no doubt, then, is the most agreeable person upon earth ; whom you oblige by a good word, which he thinks he doth not deserve ; who thanks you for the smallest courtesy ; who had rather obey than rule ; who is desirous to learn of the meanest scholar ; who contemns nobody but him- self ; who loves though he be not loved ; who thinks nothing too much to do for those that esteem him ; and who is afraid he hath never recompensed enough the civilities which are done unto him; in short, this humility is of such great value, and so good-natured, that there is nothing comparable to it but its twin sister divine charity. Simon Patrick. TEMPERANCE. They passed with much pleasure a long stage of their journey, at the end of which, being thirsty, they called at a place where one would think that heaven designed to give the pilgrim an example of innocent pleasure ; for here they found a knot of loving neighbours at a frugal dinner, who seemed to feast one another more with their mutual good conversa- tion than with any other cheer that was provided. Their eyes told that they were very merry; and that there was a true love in their hearts, their countenance and free converse did plainly declare. There was nothing superfluous, but all very handsome ; no looseness, but great freedom ; no noise, but much innocent pleasure. They were disposed to mirth rather than joy, to cheerfulness rather than jollity ; and to entertain themselves with a grateful variety rather than abun- dance of meat and drink. This sight did very much affect the young man's heart, and when they were gone he be- gan to speak in the praise of temperance, and to commend their happiness who could contain themselves within the limits of sobriety, " For this," said he, " is the mistress of health, and also of wise and pure thoughts. It refreshes the body, and doth not burden the mind. It casts down neither of them to the ground, but raiseth both to their just pitch of plea- sure. It continues us free and fit for any employment, but especially that of thank- ing God for all his blessings, which is the noblest of all. It leaves us capable to enjoy the things of the other world, when we have enjoyed as much as we please of this. It suffers reason to retain its throne, or rather exalts and advances its supre- macy every day to a greater height. Nay, it preserves our taste, and renders our palate more exact than other men's are ; for all the senses, I persuade myself, when ruled by reason, must needs be more upright judges than when that is absent and set aside. And therefore, me- thinks, there is nothing more preserves the honour and reverence that is due to our natures than this virtue. It main- tains the majesty of our countenance, the lustre of our eyes, the graceful deport- ment of our whole man. Whereas all the world confesses, and it is their common speech, that a man in drink is nothing else but a man disguised. He looks basely ; he is the scorn of children and fools ; he is pointed and laughed at, as if he were some monster; he is the sport and merriment even of those who have thus disrobed him of himself. And as for them whose brains are so strong that they have overcome him, and think it an MORALS AND RELIGION. 197 honour to be able to hold more than the rest of their fellows, this glory is their shame. They are the vermin of the earth, who live to consume the goods of others, and to waste the patrimony of the poor. And when they brag of their victories, they are so silly as not to re- member what one of the philosophers saith, that they are overcome by the hogshead, which is far more capacious than themselves. Nay, I cannot but think those people who know no pleasure but high fare, the joy of whose life de- pends upon full tables, and as full bellies, who love nothing like feasts, and would have them as sumptuous as sacrifices, be a sort of creatures much inferior to some beasts ; who, though they are not capable to govern themselves, yet are ruled by us, and rendered serviceable and profitable to the world. But these are good for no- thing but only to devour ; and commonly they follow this trade so long that they devour themselves and all that belongs unto them." " No doubt," said the good father (who here thought fit to interrupt him), " the praises which you bestow upon tem- perance are very just, and you can never commend it to excess ; which procures me therefore the greater grief, when I see so few in the world who live according to the rules of this virtue ; then- number is very small who are not corrupted with the love of these sensual pleasures. Though they do not fall into such high debauches as you speak of, not drinking as if they were in a perpetual fever, nor eating as if they were laying in provision for a long siege (which methinks is a good descrip- tion which I have heard some give of their excess), yet they are not many who measure their meals by their needs ; and they are not to be told who are bibbers of wine, and love to sit long at compota- tions, and design to make provision for the flesh, that they may fulfil the lusts thereof. Nay, which is saddest of all, there are too many of those who profess to be religious, whose god is their belly ; they love feasts and hunt after good cheer ; and' if it be but sanctified with a sermon, gormandize is innocent in their account. Like some naughty christians in the elder times, who thought they might carouse and drink as long as they would, so they did but sit with a mortified face upon the martyrs' tombs. And it were some com- fort if their sin ended here, but their in- temperance is the mother and faithful parent of many other rices. A long train of sins as well as of diseases waits upon this, and follows it just at the heels. It both brings in and it uncovers every other evil inclination. It removes that modesty which stands more in the way than any- thing else of most men's bad endeavours. It banishes all shame, so that there is nothing left to oppose any wickedness. ' Who hath woe, who hath sorrow, who hath contention, who hath babbling, who hath wounds without cause ? They that tarry long at wine, they that go to seek mixt wine ?' as the wise man tells us. Whatsoever evil dispositions are in the mind, then they take opportunity to show themselves. Malice is brought into open show, and spits its venom. The proud spirit is laid bare, and seeks no pretence for its insolence. The furious man is left naked of all his guards, and cares not whom he mischiefs. The lustful man un- covers himself, and scarce waits for secresA to fulfil his desires. And truly I wish I could not say that this folly, which is the most filthy of all, was not the common issue of that of which we speak. Nor will I say any more of the rest of those sins which attend upon an intemperate life, which makes a man's soul like a piece of low ground, which, by reason of abundance of wet, brings forth nothing but frogs, and worms, and adders, all manner of wickedness, which either dis- honours God or hurts ourselves and our neighbours. I will rather turn my eyes to a more pleasant sight, and comfort them with the remembrance of those good men whom we saw just now so happily met together. And methinks it is a very great felicity in this false world, to find but one face among so many vizors, and to be able to lay hold on something that hath truth and substance in it among so many shadows. Having found, therefore, a little number of seriously sober persons, it cannot but make me rejoice the more that temperance hath some clients, and that she is not forsaken of all her fol- lowers. " But though this be very true, that we do deservedly praise this virtue and all her servants, yet methinks you should have observed something else at that meeting which is worthy of your com- mendation. Did not the very meeting itself seem a very comely sight ? and were you not glad to behold so many kind neighbours assembled at that decent entertainment ? To me there is not a 198 JOHN BUNYAN. more agreeable spectacle than a company of select friends, vacant of business, and full of cheerfulness, met together at one table. And I cannot imagine that a man who understands pleasure can wish any equal to this, that he might make one in such a happy society. You may think, indeed, that it is sufficient to our delight if we can meet our friends anywhere ; but I am of the mind that the pleasure is redoubled, when they refresh their bodies and their minds both together. I hate indeed your great feasts, where persons who never saw one the other before, nor ever shall perhaps again, are mixed together ; where there is much talk, and little or no discourse : but these love-feasts, methinks, do call to my mind the days of innocence, and make me wish for nothing, when I enjoy them, but only such another pleasure. Here we know that we pledge a hearty love, when a man presents his kindness to us. Our mind is entertained with a greater variety than the body enjoys. The very taste of our meat is exalted by the inward delight which we feel in our hearts. And what- soever satisfaction we then receive, we impart as much to those that gave it. The weak and languishing appetite is ex- cited by the sight of friends and the pleasure of their discourse, and the dis- course flows more freely by the moderate satisfaction of our appetite. Our dull spirits are raised by communication with our friends ; and that communication grows more lively by the exaltation of our spirits ; or if you please so to con- sider it, friends never talk with greater wit and more freedom than when they take an innocent repast together, and their meat never doth their bodies more good than when this sweet conversation is the sauce for it." Simon Patrick. JOHN BUNYAN author of The Pilgrim's Progress, was born in the year 1628, at Elstow near Bedford, and being the son of a tinker, followed his father's trade. In his youth he was a curser and swearer and a sabbath-breaker, but he did not plunge into the vices which thoroughly pollute and harden men's hearts, and the voice of conscience often terri- fied him. He married about the age of nineteen, and soon afterward fell in company with a poor man who talked to him concerning religion and the scriptures in a manner that took his attention and sent him to his Bible. Then his conscience smote him more fiercely, and he went through two years of remorse, in which the visions and voices of his fancy under strong excitement seemed realities, and were full of horror. This dark tempest passed away, and in a happier state of feeling he joined a meeting of Baptists at Bedford, and went preaching in the surrounding villages. In the year 1660, and but a few months after the restoration of Charles II., he was tried for up- holding conventicles or meeting-houses, and for that offence suffered imprisonment in Bedford jail for twelve years, though in the last four he was allowed, by the kindness of his jailer, to go into the town, and in the eleventh year was chosen minister of the Baptist meeting. In 1672 he was set free, and preached in Bedford and the neighbourhood, and in London where multitudes followed him. He died on the 12th of August 1688, at the house of his friend Mr. Stradwick, a grocer, at the sign of the Star, on Snow-hill in London, and was buried in Bunhill-fields. In conversation Bunyan was mild and affable, not given to much discourse in com- pany, and seeming low in his own eyes. He was no revenger of injuries, but loved to reconcile differences and make friendship with all. In countenance he seemed of a rough and stern temper, and that there was something of austerity in his manners may be gathered from his rebuke of the pleasant mode of salutation used in that day, although, even here, good-nature beams through his severity, in the just reproof that the salute was not general, that offensive preferences and slights were shown. MORALS AND RELIGION. 199 " These know," said he, " and can also bear me witness with whom I have been most intimately concerned, that it is a rare thing to see me carry it pleasant towards a woman. The common salutation of women I abhor ; 't is odious to me in whom- soever I see it. Their company alone I cannot away with ! I seldom so much as touch a woman's hand, for I think these things are not so becoming me. When I have seen good men salute those women that they have visited, or that have visited them, I have at times made my objection against it ; and when they have answered that it was but a piece of civility, I have told them it is not a comely sight. Some indeed have urged the holy kiss ; but then I have asked why they made baulks ? why they did salute the most handsome and let the ill-favoured go ?" He has been well called the prince of all allegorists in prose. Of many books which he wrote, The Pilgrim's Progress, written in prison and first published about 1672, has made his name famous. No other prose writer has succeeded in keeping attention awake through an allegory of equal length. He had good homely wit, powerful imagination, strong sense, and said out his say in his own native lan- guage. He was long popular among the common people, chiefly among the Dis- senters, before his claim to rank among English classieks was allowed. Swift and Dr. Johnson had acknowledged the worth of the Pilgrim's Progress, but 't was caviare to the general, and Cowper, when he wrote the Tirocinium, was afraid to name the author, lest he should provoke a sneer. It is now otherwise : in the lan- guage of his biographer, Southey, " his fame may literally be said to have risen ; be- ginning among the people, it has made its way up to those who are called the publick." THE COMBAT WITH APOLLYON. But now, in this valley of humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it, for he had gone but a little way before he espied a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him ; his name is Apollyon. Then did Christian begin to be afraid, and to cast in his mind whether to go back or to stand his ground ; but he considered again that he had no armour for his back, and therefore thought that to turn the back to him might give him greater ad- vantage with ease to pierce him with his darts, therefore he resolved to venture and stand his ground ; for, thought he, had I no more in my eye than the saving of my life, 'twould be the best way to stand. So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the monster was hideous to behold ; he was clothed with scales like a fish (and they are his pride), he had wings like a dragon, feet like a bear, and out of his belly came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of a lion. When he came up to Christian he beheld him with a disdainful countenance, and thus began to question with him : — Apol. Whence come you, and whither are you bound ? Chr. I am come from the city of De- struction, which is the place of all evil, and I am going to the city of Zion. Apol. By this I perceive that thou art one of my subjects ; for all that country is mine, and I am the prince and god cf it. How is it, then, that thou hast run away from thy long ? Were it not that I hope thou mayest do me more service, I would strike thee now, at one blow, to the ground. Chr. I was indeed born in your do- minions, but your service was hard, and your wages such as a man could not live on, " for the wages of sin is death ;" therefore, when I was come to years, I did as other considerate persons do, look out, if perhaps I might mend myself. Apol. There is no prince that will thus lightly lose his subjects, neither will I as yet lose thee ; but since thou complainest of thy service and wages, be content to go back ; what our country will afford I do here promise to give thee. Chr. But I have let myself to another, even to the king of princes ; and how can I with fairness go back with thee ? Apol. Thou hast done in this accord- ing to the proverb, " change a bad for a worse." But it is ordinary for those that have professed themselves his servants, 200 JOHN BUNYAN. after a while, to give him the slip, and return again to me. Do thou so too, and all shall be well. Chr. I have given him my faith, and sworn my allegiance to him ; how then can I go back from this and not be hanged as a traitor ? Apol. Thou didst the same to me ; and yet I am willing to pass by all, if now thou wilt yet turn and go back. Chr. What I promised thee was in my nonage ; and, besides, I count that the Prince under whose banner now I stand is able to absolve me ; yea, and to pardon also what I did as to my compliance with thee; and, besides (0 thou destroying Apollyon !), to speak truth, I like his ser- vice, his wages, his servants, his govern- ment, his company and country, better than thine ; and therefore leave off to persuade me farther, I am his servant, and I will follow him. Apol. Consider again, when thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou goest ; thou knowest that, for the most part, his ser- vants come to an ill end, because they are transgressors against me and my ways. How many of them have been put to shameful deaths ! And, besides, thou countest his service better than mine, whereas he never yet came from the place where he is to deliver any that served him out of my hands; but as for me, how many times, as all the world very well knows, have I delivered, either by power or fraud, those that have faithfully served me, from him and his, though taken by them ! and so will I deliver thee. Chr. His forbearing at present to de- liver them is on purpose to try their love, whether they will cleave to him to the end ; and as for the ill end thou sayest they come to, that is most glorious in their account ; for, for present deliverance, they do not much expect it ; for they stay for their glory, and then they shall have it, when their Prince comes in his, and the glory of the angels. Apol. Thou hast already been unfaith- ful in thy sendee to him, and how dost thou think to receive wages of him ? Chr. Wherein, O Apollyon, have I been unfaithful to him ? Apol. Thou didst faint at first setting out, when thou wast almost choked in the gulph of Despond ; thou didst at- tempt wrong ways to be rid of thy bur- den ; whereas thou shouldst have staid till thv Prince had taken it off. Thou didst sinfully sleep and lose thy choice things ; thou wast also almost persuaded to go back at the sight of the lions, and when thou talkest of thy journey, and of what thou hast heard and seen, thou art inwardly desirous of vain-glory in all that thou sayest or dost. Chr. All this is true, and much more which thou hast left out ; but the Prince whom I serve and honour is merciful, and ready to forgive ; but, besides, these in- firmities possessed me in thy country, for there I sucked them in, and I have groaned under them, been sorry for them, and have obtained pardon of my Prince. Then Apollyon broke out into a grie- vous rage, saying, I am an enemy to this Prince ! I hate his person, laws and people, and am come out on purpose to withstand thee. Chr. Apollyon, beware what you do ; for I am in the king's highway, the way of holiness ; therefore take heed to your- self. Then Apollyon straddled quite over the w 7 hole breadth of the way, and said, I am void of fear in this matter, prepare thy- self to die ; for I swear by my infernal den that thou shalt go no farther ; here will I spill thy soul ! And with that he threw a flaming dart at his breast ; but Christian had a shield in his hand, with v. T hich he caught it, and so prevented the danger of that. Then did Christian draw, for he saw it was time to bestir him ; and Apollyon as fast made at him, throwing darts as thick as hail; by the which, notwithstanding all that Christian could do to avoid it, Apollyon wounded him in his head, his hand and foot. This made Christian give a little back ; Apollyon, therefore, fol- lowed his work amain, and Christian again took courage and resisted as man- fully as he could. This sore combat lasted for above half a day, even till Christian was almost quite spent ; for you must know that Christian, by reason of his w r ounds, must needs grow w r eaker and weaker. Then Apollyon, espying his opportu- nity, began to gather up close to Christian, and, wrestling with him, gave him a dread- ful fall, and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apol- lyon, I am sure of thee now ; and with that he had almost pressed him to death, so that Christian began to despair of life. But, as God would have it, while Apol- lyon was fetching his last blow, thereby MORALS AND RELIGION. 201 to make a full end of this good man, Christian nimbly reached out his hand for his sword, and caught it, saying, " Re- joice not against me, mine enemy ! when I fall I shall arise ;" and with that gave him a deadly thrust, which made him give back as one tbat had received his mortal wound. Christian perceiving that, made at him again, saying, " Nay, in all these things we are more than con- querors, through Him that loved us ;" and with that Apollyon spread forth his dragon's wings and sped him away, that Christian saw him no more. In this combat no man can imagine, unless he had seen and heard, as I did, what yelling and hideous roaring Apollyon made all the time of the fight. He spake like a dragon; and, on the other side, what sighs and groans burst from Chris- tian's heart. . I never saw him all the while give so much as one pleasant look, till he perceived he had wounded Apol- lyon with his two-edged sword; then, in- deed, he did smile, and look upward ; but 'twas the dreadfullest sight that ever I saw. John Bunyan. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. Now they began to go down the hill into the valley of humiliation. It was a steep hill, and the way was slippery ; but they were very careful ; so they got down pretty well. When they were down in the valley, Piety said to Christiana, this is the place where Christian, your hus- band, met with that foul fiend Apollyon, and where they had that dreadful fight that they had. I know you cannot but have heard thereof. But be of good courage ; as long as you have here Mr. Greatheart to be your guide and con- ductor, we hope you will fare the better. So when these two had committed the pilgrims unto the conduct of their guide, he went forward and they went after. Then said Mr. Greatheart, we need not be so afraid of this valley, for here is nothing to hurt us, unless we procure it to ourselves. 'T is true Christian did here meet with Apollyon, with whom he also had a sore combat ; but that fray was the fruit of those slips that he got in his going down the hill; for they that get slips there must look for combats here. And hence it is that this valley has got so hard a name ; for the common people, when they hear that some frightful thing has befallen such a one in such a place, are of opinion that that place is haunted with some foul fiend or evil spirit ; when, alas ! it is for the fruit of their own doing that such things do befal them there. This valley of humiliation is of itself as fruitful a place as any the crow flies over ; and I am persuaded, if we could hit upon it, we might find somewhere here- abouts, something that might give us an account why Christian was so hardly beset in this place. Then said James to his mother, lo ! yonder stands a pillar, and it looks as if something was written thereon : let us go and see what it is. So they went, and found there written, " Let Christian's slips, before he came hither, and the bat- tles that he met with in this place, be a warning to those that come after." Lo ! said their guide, did not I tell you that there was something hereabouts that would give intimation of the reason why Christian was so hard beset in this place ? Then turning himself to Christiana, he said, no disparagement to Christian more than to many others whose hap and lot it was ; for it is easier going up than down this hill, and that can be said but of few hills in all these parts of the world. But we will leave the good man ; he is at rest ; he also had a brave victory over his enemy ; let Him grant, that dwelleth above, that we fare no worse, when we come to be tried, than he ! But we will come again to this valley of humiliation. It is the best and most fruit- ful piece of ground in all these parts. It is fat ground, and as you see, consisteth much in meadows ; and if a man was to come here in the summer-time, as we do now, if he knew not anything be- fore thereof, and if he also delighted himself in the sight of his eyes, he might see that which woidd be delightful to him. Behold how green this valley is ! also how beautified with lilies ! I have known many labouring men that have got good estates in this valley of humi- liation. " For God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble ;" for in- deed it is a very fruitful soil, and doth bring forth by handfuls. Some also have wished that the next way to their Father's house were here, that they might be trou- bled no more with either hills or moun- tains to go over ; but the way is the way, and there 's an end. Now, as they were going along and talking, they espied a boy feeding his fa- K5 202 JOHN BUNYAN. ther's sheep. The boy was in very mean clothes, but of a fresh and well-favoured countenance, and as he sat by himself, he sung. Hark, said Mr. Greatheart, to what the shepherd's boy saith! so they hearkened, and he said, He that is down needs fear no fall ; He that is low no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, Little be it or much ; And, Lord ! contentment still I crave, Because thou savest such. Fulness to such a burden is, That go on pilgrimage : Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age. Then said their guide, do you hear him ? I will dare to say this boy lives a merrier life and wears more of that herb called heart's-ease in his bosom than he that is clad in silk and velvet ! but we will proceed in our discourse. In this valley our Lord formerly had his country-house. He loved much to be here; he loved also to walk these mea- dows, for he found the air was pleasant. Besides, here a man shall be free from the noise and from the hurryings of this life. All states are full of noise and con- fusion ; only the valley of humiliation is that empty and solitary place. Here a man shall not be so let and hindered in his contemplation as in other places he is apt to be. This is a valley that nobody walks in but those that love a pilgrim's life. And though Christian had the hard hap to meet here with Apollyon, and to enter with him in a brisk encounter, yet I must tell you, that in former times men have met with angels here; have found pearls here ; and have in this place found the words of life. Did I say our Lord had here, in former days, his country-house, and that he loved here to walk ? I will add, in this place, and to the people that love and trace these grounds, he has left a yearly re- venue, to be faithfully paid them at cer- tain seasons, for their maintenance by the way, and for their further encouragement to go on in their pilgrimage. Now as they went on, Samuel said to Mr. Greatheart, sir, I perceive that in this valley my father and Apollyon had their battle ; but whereabout was the fight ? for I perceive this valley is large. Greatheart. Your father had the battle with Apollyon at a place yonder before us, in a narrow passage, just beyond For- getful-green. And indeed that place is the most dangerous place in all these parts. For if at any time pilgrims meet with any brunt, it is when they forget what favours they have received, and .how unworthy they are of them. Then said Mercy, I think I am as well in this valley as I have been anywhere else in all our journey. The place, me- thinks, suits with my spirit. I love to be in such places, where there is no rattling with coaches nor rumbling with wheels. Methinks here one may,without much mo- lestation, be thinking what he is, whence he came, what he has done, and to what the King has called him. Here one may think, and break at heart, and melt in one's spirit, until one's eyes become as the " fish-pools of Heshbon." They that go rightly through this valley of Baca make it a well ; the rain that God sends down from heaven upon them that are here, " also filleth the pools." This valley is that from whence also the king will give to his their vineyards ; and they that go through it shall sing, as Christian did, for all he met with Apollyon. 'T is true, saidjtheir guide, I have gone through this valley many a time, and never was better than when here. I have also been a conductor to several pilgrims, and they have confessed the same. " To this man will I look (saith the King), even to him that is poor, and of a con- trite spirit, and that trembleth at my word." John Bunyan. THE SIN OF MAKING RELIGION A STALKING-HORSE. Now I saw in my dream that Christian went not forth alone, for there was one whose name was Hopeful, who joined himself unto him, and entering into a brotherly covenant, told him that he would be his companion. So I saw that quickly they overtook one that was going before them, whose name was By-ends ; so they said to him, what countryman, sir? and how far go you this way ? He told them that he came from the town of Fair-speech, and that he was going to the celestial city; but told them not his name. From Fair-speech, said Christian : is there any good that lives there ? Yes, said By-ends, I hope. Pray, sir, what may I call you? said Christian. MORALS AND RELIGION. 203 By-ends. I am a stranger to you, and you to me : if you be going this way, I shall be glad of your company ; if not, I must be content. This town of Fair-speech, said Chris- tian, I have heard of; and as I remember, they say it's a wealthy place. By-ends. Yes, I will assure you that it is ; and I have very many rich kindred there. Chr. Pray, who are your kindred there, if a man may be so bold ? By-ends. Almost the whole town ; but, in particular, my lord Turn-about, my lord Time-server, my lord Fair-speech (from whose ancestors that town first took its name) ; also Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Facing-bothways, Mr. Any-thing; and the parson of our parish, Mr. Two- tongues, was my mother's own brother by father's side ; and, to tell you the truth, I am become a gentleman of good qua- lity ; yet my great grandfather was but a waterman, looking one way and rowing another ; and I got most of my estate by the same occupation. Chr. Are you a married man ? By-ends. Yes; and my wife -is a very virtuous woman, the daughter of a vir- tuous woman ; she was my lady Feign- ing' s daughter; therefore she came of a very honourable family, and is arrived to such a pitch of breeding, that she knows how to carry it to all, even to prince and peasant, 'f is true we somewhat differ in religion from those of the stricter sort ; yet but in two small points : first, we never strive against wind and tide ; se- condly, we are always most zealous when religion goes in his silver slippers : we love much to walkwith him in the street, if the sun shines and the people applaud him. Then Christian stepped a little aside to his fellow Hopeful, saying, it runs in my mind that this is one By-ends of Fair- speech ; and if it be he, we have as very a knave in our company as dwelleth in all these parts. Then said Hopeful, ask him ; methinks he should not be ashamed of his name. So Christian came up with him again, and said, sir, you talk as if you knew something more than all the world doth ; and if I take not my mark amiss, I deem I have half a guess of you ; is not your name Mr. By-ends of Fair- speech ? By -ends. This is uot my name ; but indeed it is a nickname that is given me by some that cannot abide me ; and I must be content to bear it as a reproach, as other good men have borne theirs be- fore me. Chr. But did you never give an occa- sion to men to call you by this name ? By- ends. Never, never ! the worst that ever I did to give them an occasion to give me this name was, that I had always the luck to jump in my judgment with the present way of the times, whatever it was, and my chance was to get thereby ; but if things are thus cast upon me, let me count them a blessing ; but let not the malicious load me therefore with reproach. Chr. I thought, indeed, that you were the man that I heard of ; and to tell you what I think, I fear this name belongs to you more properly than you are willing we should think it doth. By-ends. Well, if you will thus ima- gine, I cannot help it. You shall find me a fair company-keeper if you will still admit me your associate. Chr. If you will go with us you must go against wind and tide, the which, Iperceive is against your opinion : you must also own rehgion in his rags as well as when in his silver slippers ; and staud by him too when bound in irons, as well as when he w'alketh the streets with applause. By-ends. You must not impose nor lord it over my faith ; leave me to my liberty and let me go with you. Chr. Not a step farther, unless you will do, in what I propound, as we. Then, said By-ends, I shall never desert my old principles, since they are harmless and profitable. If I may not go with you, I must do as I did before you overtook me, even go by myself, until some over- take me that will be glad of my company. Now 7 1 saw in my dream that Christian and Hopeful forsook him, and kept their distance before him ; but one of them looking back saw three men following Mr. By-ends ; and behold, as they came up with him, he made them a very low congee, and they also gave Mm a com- pliment. The men's names were, Mr. Hold-the-world, Mr. Money -love, and Mr. Save-all ; men that Mr. By-ends had for- merly been acquainted with ; for in their minority they were schoolfellows, and were taught by one Mr. Gripeman, a schoolmaster in Love-gain, winch is a market-tow^n in the county of Coveting, in the north. This schoolmaster taught them the art of getting, either by violence, cozenage, flattery, lying, or by putting on a guise of rehgion ; and these four gen- tlemen had attained much of the art of 204 JOHN BUNYAN. their master, so that they could each of them have kept such a school themselves. Well, when they had, as I said, thus saluted each other, Mr. Money-love said to Mr. By-ends, who are they upon the road before us ? for Christian and Hope- ful were yet within view. By-ends. They are a couple of far countrymen that, after their mode, are going on pilgrimage. Money-love. Alas ! why did they not stay, that we might have had their good company? for they, and we, and you, sir, I hope, are all going on a pilgrimage. By-ends. We are so, indeed ; hut the men before us are so rigid, and love so much their own notions, and do also so lightly esteem the opinions of others, that let a man be never so godly, yet, if he jumps not with them in all things, they thrust him quite out of their company. Mr. Save-all. That 's bad ; but we read of some that are righteous over much; and such men's rigidness prevails with them to judge and condemn all but them- selves. But, I pray, what and how many were the things wherein you differed ? By-ends. Why they, after their head- strong manner, conclude that it is duty to rush on their journey all weathers, and I am for waiting for wind and tide. They are for hazarding all for God at a clap, and I am for taking all advantages to secure my life and estate. They are for holding their notions, though all other men be against them ; but I am for reli- gion in what and so far as the times and my safety will bear it. They are for re- ligion when in rags and contempt ; but I am for him when he walks in his silver slippers, in the sunshine, and with ap- plause. Mr. Hold-the-world. Ay, and hold you there still, good Mr. By-ends ! for, for my part, I can count him but a fool that, having the liberty to keep what he has, shall be so unwise to lose it. Let us be wise as serpents ; it 's best to make hay while the sun shines ; you see how the bee lieth still all winter, and bestirs her only when she can have profit with plea- sure. God sends sometimes rain and sometimes sunshine ; if they be such fools to go through the first, yet let us be con- tent to take fair weather along with us. For my part, I like that religion best that will stand with the security of God's good blessings unto us ; for who can ima- gine, that is ruled by his reason, since God has bestowed upon us the good things of this life, but that he would have us keep them for his sake ? Abraham and Solomon grew rich in religion ; and Job says, that a good man " shall lay up gold as dust." But he must not be such as the men before us, if they be as you have described them. Mr. Save-all. I think that we are all agreed in this matter, and therefore there needs no more words about it. Mr. Money -love. No, there needs no more words about this matter indeed; for he that believes neither scripture nor reason (and you see we have both on our side), neither knows his own liberty, nor seeks his own safety. Mr. By-ends. My brethren, we are, as you see, going all on pilgrimage, and, for our better diversion from things that are bad, give me leave to propound unto you this question : — Suppose a man, a minister, or a trades- man, &c, should have an advantage he before him to get the good blessings of this life, yet so as that he can by no means come by them, except, in appearance at least, he becomes extraordinary zealous in some points of religion that he meddled not with before : may he not use this means to attain his end, and yet be a right honest man ? Mr. Money-love. I see the bottom of your question ; and, with these gentle- men's good leave, I will endeavour to shape you an answer. And first, to speak to your question, as it concerneth a mini- ster himself : suppose a minister, a worthy man, possessed but of a very small bene- fice, and has in his eye a greater, more fat and plump by far ; he has also now an opportunity of getting it, yet so as by being more studious, by preaching more frequently and zealously, and because the temper of the people requires it, by alter- ing of some of his principles. For my part, I see no reason why a man may not do this (provided he has a call), ay, and more a great deal besides, and yet be an honest man. For why ? 1. His desire of a greater benefice is lawful (this cannot be contradicted), since 't is set before him by Providence ; so then he may get it if he can, making no question for conscience sake. 2. Besides, his desire after that benefice makes him more studious, a more zealous preacher, &c, and so makes him a better man ; yea, makes him better improve his parts, which is according to the mind of God. MORALS AND RELIGION. 205 3. Now, as for his complying with the temper of his people, by deserting, to serve them, some of his principles, this argueth, — (1.) that he is of a self-denying temper ; (2.) of a sweet and winning de- portment; and (3.) so more fit for the ministerial function. 4. I conclude, then, that a minister that changes a small for a great, should not, for so doing, be judged as covetous ; but rather, since he is improved in his parts and industry thereby, be counted as one that pursues his call, and the oppor- tunity put into his hand to do good. And now to the second part of the question, which concerns the tradesman you mentioned : suppose such an one to have but a poor employ in the world, but, by becoming religious, he may mend his market, perhaps get a rich wife, or more and far better customers to his shop ; for my part, I see no reason but this may be lawfully done. For why ? 1. To become religious is a virtue, by what means soever a man becomes so. 2. Nor is it unlawful to get a rich wife, or more custom to my shop. 3. Besides, the man that gets these by becoming religious, gets that which is good of them that are good, by becoming good himself; so then, here is a good wife, and good customers, and good gain, and all these by becoming religious, which is good, therefore to become religious to get all these is a good and profitable design. This answer, thus made by Mr. Money- love to Mr. By-ends' question, was highly applauded by them all; wherefore they concluded, upon the whole, that it was most wholesome and advantageous ; and because, as they thought, no man was able to contradict it, and because Chris- tian and Hopeful were yet within call, they jointly agreed to assault them with the question as soon as they overtook them ; and the rather, because they had opposed Mr. By-ends before. So they called after them, and they stopped and stood still till they came up to them ; but they concluded, as they went, that not Mr. By-ends, but old Mr. Hold-the-world should propound the question to them ; because, as they supposed, their answer to him would be without the remainder of that heat that was kindled betwixt Mr. By-ends and them, at their parting a little before. So they came up to each other ; and after a short salutation, Mr. Hold-the- world propounded the question to Chris- tian and his fellow, and bid them to answer it if they could. Then, said Christian, even a babe in religion may answer ten thousand such questions ; for if it be unlawful to follow Christ for loaves (as it is), how much more abominable is it to make of him and religion a stalking-horse, to get and enjoy the world ! Nor do we find any other than heathens, hypocrites, devils and witches, that are of this opinion. 1. Heathens; for when Ham or and She- chem had a mind to the daughter and cat- tle of Jacob, and saw that there was no way for them to come at them but by being cir- cumcised, they said to their companions, " If every male of us be circumcised as they are circumcised, shall not their cattle and their substance, and every beast of theirs be ours?" Their daughters and their cattle were that which they sought to obtain, and their religion the stalking- horse they made use of to come at them. Read the whole story. 2. The hypocritical pharisees were also of this religion. Long prayers were their pretence, but to get widows' houses was their intent ; and greater damnation was from God their judgment. 3. Judas, the devil, was also of this religion : he was religious for the bag, that he might be possessed of what was put therein ; but he was lost, cast away, and the very son of perdition. 4. Simon, the wizard, was of this reli- gion too ; for he would have had the Holy Ghost, that he might have got money therewith ; and his sentence from Peter's mouth was according. 5. Neither will it out of my mind but that that man that takes up religion for the world, will throw away religion for the world; for so surely as Judas de- signed the world in becoming religious, so surely did he also sell religion and his Master for the same. To answer the question, therefore, affirmatively, as I per- ceive you have done, and to accept of, as authentic, such answer, is both heathenish, hypocritical, and devilish; and your re- ward will be according to yonr works. Then they stood staring one upon an- other, but had not wherewith to answer Christian. Hopeful also approved of the soundness of Christian's answer ; so there was a great silence amongst them. Mr. By-ends and his company also staggered and kept behind, that Christian and Hopeful might outgo them. Then said 206 ISAAC BARROW Christian to his fellow, if these men can- not stand before the sentence of men, what will they do with the sentence of God? and if they are mute when dealt with by vessels of clay, what will they do when they shall be rebuked by the flames of a devouring fire ? John Bunyan. ISAAC BARROW was born at London in 1630, and having been taught for two or three years at the Charterhouse, and afterwards at Felsted in Essex, entered at Trinity College, Cam- bridge, in 1 645. In 1 655 he travelled through France and Italy to Constantinople, and returning by way of Germany and Holland, reached home in 1659, when he took holy orders. He was successively professor of Greek at Cambridge, of geometry at Gresham College, London, and Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge. In 1669 he resigned his mathematical professorship to sir Isaac Newton of whom he was the friend and patron, and devoted himself to preaching. In 1672 he was appointed master of Trinity College. He died in 1677, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. It is said that at the Charterhouse he made little progress in learning, and was noted for a love of quarrelling and fighting* ; but these follies passed away before his youth : he was but fifteen when he went to Cambridge, and even then was distin- guished for great abilities and good conduct. From that time, an example of every virtue, he was beloved by his friends and by all who came near him. Living in an age when religious and political strife was most virulent, and always firm to his principles as a loyalist, slander never touched him. He was without fear as without reproach : several instances of his courage have been handed down ; among others, that in his travels, sailing along the Ionian sea, his ship being grappled by an Algerine corsair, he fought bravely and stood to his gun until the pirate was beaten off. He was the first scholar of his day, and in mathematical learning second only to sir Isaac Newton; but he is now more generally known as a most eloquent divine. The man whom Warburton could not read without being obliged to think, whom lord Chatham recommended to his son for a full and majestick style, and in whom the wise and good who were his companions could find no fault, may be safely taken as a model of profound thought, lofty eloquence and christian virtue. Walter Savage Landor, a scholar and true critick, has given from the mouth of an imaginary character this estimate of Barrow : " My father, who knew the ancients intimately, said ' Taylor and Barrow are worth all their philosophers put together, and would be though they all were Christians. Plato and Xenophon as men of thought and genius, might walk without brushing their skirts between these two covers,' striking his hand on a volume of Barrow." * The exercises of a London scholar of the time preceding Dr. Barrow were not altogether peaceful. Stow, writing about 1598, tells that it had been the custom for the boys of the grammar schools of London to meet in the open air at the priory of St. Bartholomew in Smithfield, and upon the dissolu- tion of that priory, in the cloister of Christ's Hospital, to argue about the principles of grammar, and adds, that afterwards the scholars of St. Paul's and St. Anthony's schools, " mindful of the former usage, did, for a long season, disorderly in the open street, provoke one another with ' Salve :' ' Salve tu quoque.' 'Placet tibi mecum disputare P 'Placet :' and so, proceeding from this to questions in gram- mar, they usually fell from words to blows with their satchels full of books, many times in so great heaps that they troubled the streets and passengers." MORALS AND RELIGION. 207 AGAINST JESTING WITH SACRED THINGS. The proper objects of common mirth and sportful advertisement are mean and petty matters; anything at least is by playing therewith made such: great things arethereby diminished and debased ; espe- j cially sacred things do grievously suffer thence, being with extreme indecency and indignity depressed beneath themselves, when they become the subjects of flashy wit, or the entertainments of frothy mer- i riment : to sacrifice their honour to our j vain pleasure, being like the ridiculous fondness of that people, which, as Julian reporteth, worshipping a fly, did offer up an ox thereto. These things were by God j instituted and proposed to us for purposes j quite different; to compose our hearts and settle our fancies in a most serious j frame ; to breed inward satisfaction and joy purely spiritual ; to exercise our most j solemn thoughts and employ our gravest discourses : all our speech therefore about j them should be wholesome, apt to afford good instruction, or to excite good affec- tions ; " good," as St. Paul speaketh, " for the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers." If we must be facetious and merry, the field is wide and spacious ; there are mat- ters enough in the world besides these most august and dreadful things to try our faculties and please our humour with; eveiywhere light and ludicrous things occur : it therefore doth argue a marvel- lous poverty of wit and barrenness of invention, no less than a strange defect of goodness and want of discretion, in those who can devise no other subjects to frolic on beside these, of all most improper and perilous ; who cannot seem ingenious under the charge of so highly trespassing on decency, disclaiming wisdom, wound- ing the ears of others, and their own con- sciences. Seem ingenious, I say ; for seldom those persons really are such, or are capable to discover any wit in a wise and manly way. It is not the excellency of their fancies, which in themselves usu- ally are sorry and insipid enough, but the uncouthness of their presumption; not their extraordinary wit, but their prodi- gious rashness, which is to be admired. They are gazed on as the doers of bold tricks, who dare perform that which no sober man will attempt : they do indeed rather desene themselves to be laughed at, than their conceits. For what can be more ridiculous than we do make our- selves, when we thus fiddle and fool with our own soids : when, to make vain peo- ple merry, we incense God's earnest dis- pleasure ; when, to raise a fit of present laughter, we expose ourselves to endless wailing and woe ; when, to be reckoned wits, we prove ourselves stark wild ? Surely to this case we may accommodate that of a truly great wit, king Solomon : " I said of laughter, it is mad ; and of mirth, what doeth it ?" Isaac Barrow. RELIGION THE ONLY SOURCE OF TRUE JOY. It is a scandalous misprision, vulgarly admitted, concerning religion, that it is altogether sullen and sour, requiring a dull, lumpish, morose kind of life, barring all delight, all mirth, all good humour ; whereas, on the contrary, it alone is the never-failing source of true, pure, steady joy ; such as is deeply rooted in the heart, immovably founded in the reason of things, permanent like the immortal spirit wherein it dwelleth, and like the eternal objects whereon it is fixed ; which is not apt to fade or cloy ; and is not subject to any impressions apt to corrupt or impair it : whereas our religion doth not only allow us, but even doth oblige us to be joyful, as much and often as can be, not permitting us to be sad for one minute, banishing the least fit of melancholy, charging us in all times, on all occasions to be cheerful ; supposing, consequently, that it is in some manner possible to be so, and affording power to effect what it doth require. Such indeed is the transcendent good- ness of our God, that he maketh our delight to be our duty, and our sorrow to | be our sin, adapting his holy will to our I principal instinct ; that he would have us j to resemble himself, as in all other per- ! fections, so in a constant state of happi- , ness ; that as he hath provided a glorious i heaven of bliss for us hereafter, so he | would have us enjoy a comfortable para- dise of delight here. He accordingly hath ordered the whole frame of our re- ligion in a tendency to produce joy in those who embrace it; for what is the gospel, but, as the holy angel, the first promulger of it, did report, " good tidings of great joy to all people?" How doth 208 ISAAC BARROW. God represent himself therein, but as the God of love, of hope, of peace, of all con- solation, cheerfully smiling in favour on us, graciously inviting us to the most pleasant enjoyments, bountifully dispen- sing most comfortable blessings of mercy, of grace, of salvation to us ? for what doth our Lord call us to him, but " that he may give us rest and refreshment to our souls ;" that he may " wipe away all tears from our eyes;" that he may save us from most woful despair, and settle us " in a blessed hope ;" that we may " enter into our Master's joy;" that "our joy may be full," and such " as no man can take from us ?" What is the great overture of the gos- pel, but the gift of a most blessed '* Com- forter, to abide with us for ever," cheering our hearts with his lightsome presence and ravishing consolations ? Wherein doth the kingdom of heaven consist ? " not in meat and drink, but in righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost." What are the prime fruits sprouting from that root of christian life, the Divine Spirit ? they are, as St. Paul telleth us, " love, joy, and peace." Are there not numberless declarations importing a joy- ful satisfaction granted to the observers of God's commandments ; that " light is sown for the righteous and gladness for the upright in heart ?" Doth not our Lord pronounce a special beatitude to the practiser of every virtue ? And if we scan all the doctrines, all the institutions, all the precepts, all the promises of Christi- anity, will not each appear pregnant with matter of joy, will not each yield great reason and strong obligation to this duty of "rejoicing evermore ?" Wherefore a christian, as such (accord- ing to the design of his religion, and in proportion to his compliance with its dictates), is the most jocund, blithe, and gay person in the world ; always in hu- mour and full of cheer ; continually bear- ing a mind well satisfied, a light heart and calm spirit, a smooth brow and serene countenance, a grateful accent of speech, and a sweetly composed tenor of car- riage ; no black thought, no irksome de- sire, no troublesome passion should lodge in his breast ; any furrow, any frown, any cloud, doth sit ill on his face ; the least fretful word or froward behaviour doth utterly misbecome him ; if at any time it appear otherwise, it is a deflection from his character; it is a blemish and wrong to his profession ; it argueth a prevari- cation in his judgment, or in his practice ; he forgetteth that he is a christian, or hath not preserved the innocence belong- ing to that name. For if a christian re- membereth what he is, or is sensible of his condition ; if he reflecteth on the dig- nity of his person, the nobleness of his relations, the sublimity of his privileges, the greatness and certainty of his hopes, how can he be out of humour ? Is it not absurd for him that is at peace with heaven, with his own conscience, with all the world ; for the possessor of the best goods, and the heir of a blessed immor- tality ; for the friend, the favourite, the son of God, to fret or wail ? He that is settled in a most prosperous state, that is (if he pleaseth) secure of its continuance, that is well assured of its improvement ; that hath whatever good he can wish in his reach, and more than he can conceive in sure reversion ; what account can be given that he should be sad, or seem afflicted ? He that hath the inexhaustible spring of good for his portion ; that' hath his welfare entrusted in God's most faithful hand ; that hath God's infallible word for his support ; that hath free access to him " in whose presence is fulness of joy ;" that hath frequent tastes of God's good- ness, in gracious dispensations of Provi- dence, in intercourses of devotion, in the influences of grace ; that hath the infinite beauty and excellency for the perpetual object of his contemplation and affection; that enjoyeth the serenity of a sound mind, of a pure heart, of a quiet con- science, of a sure hope, what can he want to refresh or comfort him ? If a true and perfect christian hath no care to distract him, having discharged all his concerns on God's providence ; if he hath no fear to dismay him, being guarded by the Almighty protection from all danger and mischief; if he hath no despair to sink him, having a sure refuge in the divine mercy and help ; if he hath no superstitious terrors or scruples to per- plex him, being conscious of his own upright intentions to please God, and confident of God's merciful willingness to accept his sincere endeavours ; if he hath no incurable remorse to torment him, the stings of guilt being pulled out by the merits of his Saviour, applied by his faith and repentance ; if he hath no longing desires to disquiet him, being fully satisfied with that he doth possess, or may expect from God's bounty, all MORALS AND RELIGION. 209 other things being far beneath his ambi- tion or coveting ; if he hath no conten- tions to inflame him, knowing nought here worth passionately striving for, and being resolved to hold a friendly good- will toward all men ; if he hath no repining envy, seeing that none can be more happy than he may be, and that every man's good by charity is made his own ; if he hath no fretful discontent, since he gladly doth acquiesce in the condition and success allotted to him, resigning his will to God's pleasure, ta- king all for best which thence doth occur, being assured that " all things shall work together for his good" and advantage; if he hath no spiteful rancours to corrode his heart, no boisterous passions to ruffle his mind, no inordinate appetites, per- verse humours, or corrupt designs to distemper his soul and disturb his life, whence then may sorrow come, or how can sadness creep into him ? What is there belonging to a christian, whence grief naturally can spring ? From God, " our exceeding joy," the fountain of happiness ; from heaven, the region of light and bliss ; from divine truth, which illustrateth and cheereth the soul ; from God's law, which " rejoiceth the heart," and " is sweeter than honey and the ho- ney-comb ;|" from wisdom, whose " ways are ways of pleasantness, and all whose paths are peace ;" from virtue, which cureth our afflictive distempers, and com- poseth our vexatious passions ; from these things, I say, about which a christian as such is only conversant, no sorrow can be derived ; from those sweet sources no bitter streams can flow : but hell, the flesh, the world, darkness, error, folly, sin, and irreligion (things with which a christian should have nothing to do, from which he should keep aloof, which he doth pretend utterly to renounce and abandon), these, these alone, are the pa- rents of discomfort and anguish. Wherefore there is the same reason, the same obligation, the same possibility, that we should rejoice evermore, as that we should always be christians, exactly performing duty, and totally forbearing sin ; for innocency and indolency do ever go together, both together making para- dise ; perfect virtue and constant alacrity are inseparable companions, both consti- tuting beatitude: and as although from our infirmity we cannot attain the highest pitch of virtue, yet we must aspire thereto, endeavouring " to perfect holiness in the fear of God:" so, though it may not be possible to get, yet it is reasonable to seek perpetual joy; which doing in the right way, we shall not fail of procuring a good measure of it. Isaac Barrow. INDUSTRY THE PECULIAR DUTY OF A GENTLEMAN. What, I pray, is a gentleman, what properties hath he, what qualities are cha- racteristical or peculiar to him, whereby he is distinguished from others, and raised above the vulgar? Are they not espe- cially two, courage and courtesy ? which he that wanteth is not otherwise than equivocally a gentleman, as an image or a carcass is a man; without which, gen- tility in a conspicuous degree is no more than a vain show, or an empty name : and these plainly do involve industry, do exclude slothfulness ; for courage doth prompt boldly to undertake, and reso- lutely to dispatch great enterprises and employments of difficulty : it is not seen in a flaunting garb, or strutting deport- ment ; not in hectorly, ruffian-like swag- gering or huffing ; not in high looks or big words ; but in stout and gallant deeds, employing vigour of mind and heart to achieve them : how can a man otherwise approve himself for courageous, than by signalising himself in such a w T ay ? And for courtesy, how otherwise can it be well displayed than in sedulous acti- vity for the good of men ? It surely doth not consist in modish forms of address, or complimental expressions, or hollow professions, commonly void of meaning or of sincerity ; but in real performances of beneficence when occasion doth invite, and in w T aiting for opportunities to do good ; the which practice is accompanied with some care and pain, adding a price to it ; for an easy courtesy is therefore small, because easy, and may be deemed to proceed rather from ordinary humanity than from gentle disposition ; so that, in fine, he alone doth appear truly a gentle- man, who hath the heart to undergo hard tasks for public good, and willingly taketh pains to oblige his neighbours and friends. The work indeed of gentlemen is not so gross, but it may be as smart and painful as any other. For all hard work is not manual; there are other instruments of action beside the plough, the spade, the 210 ISAAC BARROW. hammer, the shuttle ; nor doth every work produce sweat, and visible tiring of body ; the head may work hard in con- trivance of good designs ; the tongue may be very active in dispensing advice, per- suasion, comfort, and edification in virtue ; a man may bestir himself in " going about to do good ;" these are works employing the cleanly industry of a gentleman. In such works it was that the truest and greatest pattern of gentility that ever was, did employ himself. Who was that ? Even our Lord him- self; for he had no particular trade or profession ; no man can be more loose from any engagement to the world than he was ; no man had less need of busi- ness or painstaking than he ; for he had a vast estate, being " heir of all things," all the world being at his disposal ; yea, infinitely more, it being in his power with a word to create whatever he would to serve his need, or satisfy his pleasure ; omnipotency being his treasure and sup- ply ; he had a retinue of angels to wait on him and minister to him; whatever sufficiency any man can fancy to himself to dispense with his taking pains, that had he in a far higher degree ; yet did he find work for himself, and continually was employed in performing service to God, and imparting benefits to men ; nor was ever industry exercised on earth compa- rable to his. Gentlemen therefore would do well to make him the pattern of their life, to whose industry they must be beholden for their salvation. Isaac Barroiv. OF A PEACEABLE TEMPER. " How good and pleasant a thing it is," as David saith, " for brethren (and so we are all at least by nature) to live together in unity !" How that, as Solomon saith, " Better is a dry morsel and quietness therewith, than a house full of sacrifices with strife !" How delicious that conver- sation is which is accompanied with a mutual confidence, freedom, courtesy, and complacence ; how calm the mind, how composed the affections, how serene the countenance, how melodious the voice, how sweet the sleep, how contentful the whole life is of him, that neither deviseth mischief against others, nor suspects any to be contrived against himself ; and con- trariwise, how ingrateful and loathsome a thing it is to abide in a state of enmity, wrath, dissension; having the thoughts distracted with solicitous care, anxious suspicion, envious regret ; the heart boil- ing with choler, the face overclouded with discontent, the tongue jarring and out of tune, the ears filled with discordant noises of contradiction, clamour, and reproach ; the whole frame of body and soul distem- pered and disturbed with the worst of passions ! How much more comfortable it is to walk in smooth and even paths, than to wander in rugged ways over- grown with briars, obstructed with rubs, and beset with snares ; to sail steadily in a quiet, than to be tossed in a tempestu- ous sea ; to behold the lovely face of hea- ven smiling with a cheerful serenity, than to see it frowning with clouds, or raging with storms ; to hear harmonious con- sents, than dissonant wranglings; to see objects correspondent in graceful sym- metry, than tying disorderly in confused heaps ; to be in health and have the na- tural humours consent in moderate tem- per, than (as it happens in diseases) agi- tated with tumultuous commotions ; how all senses and faculties of man unani- mously rejoice in those emblems of peace, order, harmony, and proportion ; yea, how nature universally delights in a quiet sta- bility, or undisturbed progress of motion ; the beauty, strength, and vigour of every- thing requires a concurrence of force, co- j operation, and contribution of help ; all things thrive and flourish by communi- cating reciprocal aid, and the world sub- sists by a friendly conspiracy of its parts ; and especially that political society of men chiefly aims at peace as its end, depends on it as its cause, relies on it as its sup- port ! How much a peaceful state resem- bles heaven, into which neither complaint, pain, nor clamour do ever enter ; but blessed souls converse together in perfect love, and in perpetual concord ; and how a condition of enmity represents the state of hell, that black and dismal region of dark hatred, fiery wrath, and horrible tu- mult ! How like a paradise the world would be, flourishing in joy and rest, if men would cheerfully conspire in affec- tion, and helpfully contribute to each other's content ; and how like a savage wilderness now it is, when, like wild beasts, they vex and persecute, worry and devour each other ! How not only phi- losophy hath placed the supreme pitch of happiness in a calmness of mind and tran- quillity of life, void of care and trouble, MORALS AND RELIGION. 211 of irregular passions and perturbations ; but that holy scripture itself in that one term of peace most usually comprehends all joy and content, all felicity and pros- perity ; so that the heavenly consort of angels, when they agree most highly to bless, and to wish the greatest happiness to mankind, could not better express their sense, than by saying, " Be on earth peace, and goodwill among men !" Isaac Barrow. THE SUBMISSION OF THE WILL. The great controversy, managed with such earnestness and obstinacy between God and man, is this, whose will shall take place, his or ours. Almighty God, by whose constant protection and great mercy we subsist, doth claim to himself the authority of regulating our practice and disposing our fortunes ; but we affect to be our own masters and carvers ; not willingly admitting any law, not patiently brooking any condition which doth not sort with our fancy and pleasure. To make good his right, God bendeth all his forces, and applieth all proper means both of sweetness and severity (persuading us by arguments, soliciting us by entreaties, alluring us by fair promises, scaring us by fierce menaces, indulging ample benefits to us, inflicting sore corrections on us, working in us and on us by secret influ- ences of grace, by visible dispensations of providence) ; yet so it is, that commonly nothing doth avail, our will opposing it- self with invincible resolution and stiffness. Here indeed the business pincheth ; here- in as the chief worth, so the main diffi- culty of religious practice consisteth, in bending that iron sinew ; in bringing our proud hearts to stoop, and our sturdy hu- mours to buckle, so as to surrender and resign our wills to the just, the wise, the gracious will of our God, prescribing our duty, and assigning our lot unto us. We may accuse our nature, but it is our plea- sure ; we may pretend weakness, but it is wilfulness which is the guilty cause of our misdemeanours ; for by God's help (which doth always prevent our needs, and is never wanting to those who seriously de- sire it) we may be as good as we please, if we can please to be good ; there is no- thing within us that can resist, if our wills do yield themselves up to duty ; to con- quer our reason is not hard; for what reason of man can withstand the infinite cogency of those motives, which induce to obedience ? "What can be more easy, than by a thousand arguments, clear as day, to convince any man that to cross God's will is the greatest absurdity in the world, and that there is no madness comparable thereto ? Nor is it difficult, if we resolve on it, to govern any other part or power of our nature ; for what cannot we do, if we are willing ? "What inclination cannot we check, what appetite cannot we re- strain, what passion cannot we quell or moderate ? What faculty of our soul, or member of our body, is not obsequious to our will ? Even half the resolution, with i which we pursue vanity and sin, woidd [ serve to engage us in the ways of wisdom and virtue. Wherefore in overcoming our will the stress lieth ; this is that impregnable for- tress which everlastingly doth hold out against all the batteries of reason and of I grace ; which no force of persuasion, no ! allurement of favour, no discouragement of terror can reduce ; this puny, this im- potent tiling it is, which grappleth with I omnipotency, and often in a manner baf- I fleth it ; and no wonder, for that God cloth not intend to overpower our will, or to make any violent impression on it, but I only to " draw it (as it is in the pi'ophet) ' with the cords of a man," or by rational j inducements to win its consent and com- pliance ; our service is not so consider- able to him, that he should extort it from us ; nor doth he value our happiness at so low a rate as to obtrude it on us. His victory indeed were no true victory over us, if he shoidd gain it by main force, or without the concurrence of our will ; our works uot being our works, if they do not issue from our will ; and our will not being our will, if it be not free ; to compel it were to destroy it, together with all the worth of our virtue and obedience ; where- fore the Almighty doth suffer himself to be withstood, and beareth repulses from us ; nor commonly doth he master our will otherwise, than by its own sponta- neous conversion and submission to him ; if ever we be conquered, as we shall share in the benefit, and wear a crown ; so we must join in the combat, and partake of the victory, by subduing ourselves ; " we must take the yoke on us," for God is 1 only served by volunteers ; he summoneth us by his word, he attracteth us by his i grace, but we must " freely come unto i him." 212 ISAAC BARROW. Our will, indeed, of all things, is most our own ; the only gift, the most proper sacrifice we have to offer ; which, there- fore, God doth chiefly desire, doth most highly prize, doth most kindly accept from us. Seeing then our duty chiefly moveth on this hinge, the free submission and resignation of our will to the will of God ; it is this practice which our Lord (who came to guide us in the way to hap- piness, not only as a teacher by his word and excellent doctrine, but as a leader by his actions and perfect example) did espe- cially set before us, as in the constant tenor of his life, so particularly in that great exigency wherein, renouncing and deprecating his own will, he did express an entire submission to God's will. Isaac Barrow. THE EXCELLENCY OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. It is a peculiar excellency of our reli- gion that it prescribeth an accurate rule of life, most congruous to reason and suit- able to our nature ; most conducible to our welfare and our content ; most apt to procure each man's private good, and to promote the public benefit of all ; by the strict observance whereof we shall do what is worthy of ourselves and most becoming us ; yea, shall advance our nature above itself into a resemblance of the divine na- ture ; we shall do God right and obtain his favour; we shall oblige and benefit men, acquiring withal good-will and good respect from them ; we shall purchase to ourselves all the conveniences of a sober life, and all the comforts of a good con- science. For if we first examine the pre- cepts directive of our practice in relation to God, what can be more just, or comely, or pleasant, or beneficial to us, than are those duties of piety which our religion doth enjoin ? What can be more fit than that we should most highly esteem and honour him who is most excellent ? that we should bear most hearty affection to him who is in himself most good and most beneficial to us ? that we should have a most awful dread of him who is so infi- nitely powerful, holy, and just ? that we should be very grateful unto him from whom we have received our being, with all the comforts and conveniences thereof? that we should entirely trust and hope in him who can do wdiat he will, and will do whatever in reason we can expect from his goodness, and can never fail to per- form what he hath promised ? that we should render all obedience and obser- vance to him whose children, wdiose ser- vants, whose subjects we are born; by whose protection and provision we enjoy our life and livelihood ? can there be a higher privilege than liberty of access, wdth assurance of being favourably re- ceived in our needs, to him who is tho- roughly able to supply them ? Can we desire on easier terms to receive benefits than by acknowledging our wants, and asking for them ? Can there be required a more gentle satisfaction from us for our offences than confession of them, accom- panied with repentance and effectual reso- lution to amend ? Is it not, in fine, most equal and fair that we should be obliged to promote his glory, who hath obliged himself to further our good ? The prac- tice of such a piety as it is apparently Xoyacf) Xarpeia, " a reasonable service," so it cannot but produce excellent fruits of advantage to ourselves, a joyful peace of conscience, and a comfortable hope, a freedom from all superstitious terrors and scruples ; from all tormenting cares and anxieties ; it cannot but draw down from God's bountiful hands showers of bless- ings on our heads, and of joys into our hearts ; whence our obligation to these duties is not only reasonable but very de- sirable. Consider we next the precepts by which our religion doth regulate our deportment toward our neighbours and brethren (so it styleth all men, intimating thence the duties it requireth us to perform toward them) ; and what directions in that kind can be imagined comparably so good, so useful, as those which the gospel afford- eth ? An honest Pagan historian saith of the christian profession, that nil nisi justum suadet et lene ; the which is a true, though not full character thereof. It en- joineth us that we should sincerely and tenderly love one another, should ear- nestly desire and delight in each other's good, should heartily sympathize with all the evils and sorrows of our brethren, should be ready to yield them all the help and comfort we are able, being willing to part with our substance, our ease, our pleasure, for their benefit or succour ; not confining this our charity to any sorts of men, particularly related or affected to- ward us, but in conformity to our hea- venly Father's boundless goodness, ex- MORALS AND RELIGION. 213 tending it to all ; that we should mutually bear one another's burdens, and bear with one another's infirmities, mildly resent and freely remit all injuries, all discour- tesies done unto us ; retaining no grudge in our hearts, executing no revenge, but requiting them with good wishes and good deeds. It chargeth us to be quiet and orderly in our stations, diligent in our callings, veracious in our words, upright in our dealings, observant of our relations, obedient and respectful toward our supe- riors, meek and gentle to our inferiors ; modest and lowly, ingenuous and com- pliant in our conversation, candid and be- nign in our censures, innocent and in- offensive, yea, courteous and obliging in all our behaviour toward all persons. It commandeth us to root out of our hearts all spite and rancour, all envy and ma- lignity, all pride and haughtiness, all evil suspicion and jealousy ; to restrain our tongue from all slander, all detraction, all reviling, all bitter and harsh language ; to banish from our practice whatever may injure, may hurt, may needlessly vex or trouble our neighbour ; it engageth us to prefer the public good before any private convenience, before our own opinion or humour, our credit or fame, our profit or advantage, our ease or pleasure ; rather discarding a less good from ourselves than depriving others of a greater. Now, who can number or estimate the benefits that spring from the practice of these duties, either to the man that observeth them, or to all men in common ? divinest christian charity, what tongue can wor- thily describe thy most heavenly beauty, thy incomparable sweetness, thy more than royal clemency and bounty ? how nobly dost thou enlarge our minds be- yond the narrow sphere of self and pri- vate regard into an universal care and complacence, making every man ourself, and all concernments to be ours ! how dost thou entitle us unto, how dost thou invest us in, all the goods imaginable ; dost enrich us with the wealth, dost pre- fer us with the honour, dost adorn us with the wisdom and the virtue, dost bless us with all prosperity of the world, whilst all our neighbour's good, by our rejoicing therein, becometh our own! how dost thou raise a man above the reach of all mischiefs and disasters, of all troubles and griefs, since nothing can disturb or dis- compose that soul wherein thou dost con- stantly reside, and absolutely reign ! how easily dost thou, without pain or hazard, without drawing blood or striking stroke, render him that enjoy eth thee an abso- lute conqueror over all his foes, trium- phant over all injuries without, and all passions within ; for that he can have no enemy, who will be a friend to all, and nothing is able to cross him, who is dis- posed to take everything well ! how socia- ble, how secure, how pleasant a life might we lead under thy kindly governance ! what numberless sorrows and troubles, fears and suspicions, cares and distrac- tions of mind at home, what tumults and tragedies abroad, might be prevented, if men would but hearken to thy mild sug- gestions ! what a paradise would this world then become, in comparison to what it now is, where thy good precepts and advices being neglected, uncharitable pas- sions and unjust desires are predominant! how excellent then is that doctrine which brought thee down from heaven, and would but men embrace thee, the peace and joy of heaven with thee ! If we farther survey the laws and di- rections which our religion prescribeth concerning the particular management of our souls and bodies in their respective actions and enjoyments, we shall also find that nothing could be devised more wor- thy of us, more agreeable to reason, more productive of our welfare and our content. It obligeth us to preserve unto our reason its natural prerogative, or due empire in our souls, and over our bodies, not to suf- fer the brutish part to usurp and domi- neer over us ; that we be not swayed down by this earthly lump, not enslaved to bodily temper, not transported with tumultuary humours, not deluded by vain fancy ; that neither inward propensions nor impressions from without be able to seduce us to that which is unworthy of us, or mischievous to us. It enjoineth us to have sober and moderate thoughts con- cerning ourselves, suitable to our total de- pendence on God, to our natural mean- ness and weakness, to our sinful inclina- tions, to the guilt we have contracted in our lives ; that, therefore, we be not puffed up with self-conceit, or vain confidence in ourselves, or in anything about us (any wealth, honour, or prosperity). It direct- eth us also to compose our minds into a calm, serene, and cheerful state ; that we be not easily distempered with anger, or distracted with care, or overborne with grief, or disturbed with any accident be- falling us ; but that we be content in every condition, and entertain patiently all 214 ISAAC BARROW. events, yea, accept joyfully from God's hand whatever he reacheth to us. It commandeth us to restrain our appetites, to be temperate in all our enjoyments, to abstain from all irregular pleasures, which are base in kind, or excessive in degree ; which may corrupt our minds, or impair our health, or endamage our estate, or stain our good name, or prejudice our peace or repose ; it doth not prohibit us the use of any creature, whence we may receive innocent convenience or delight, but indulgeth us a prudent and sober use of them all, with the sense of God's good- ness, and thankfulness to him who be- stoweth them on us. Our religion also farther ordereth us (so far as our neces- sary occasions or duties permit) to seques- ter and elevate our minds from these low and transitory things, from the fading glories, the unstable possessions, the va- nishing delights of this world; things in- deed unworthy the attention, unworthy the affection of a heaven-born and im- mortal spirit ; that we should fix our thoughts, our desires, our endeavours on objects most worthy of them, objects high and heavenly, pure and spiritual, infinitely stable and durable ; not to love the world and the things therein ; to be careful for nothing, but to cast all our care on God's providence ; not to labour for the meat that perisheth, not to trust in uncertain riches ; to have our treasure, our heart, our hope, our conversation above in hea, ven. Such directions our religion pre- scribeth, by compliance with which, if man be at all capable of being happy, as- suredly his happiness must be attained ; for that no present enjoyment can render a man happy, all experience proclaimeth ; the restless motions we continually see, the woful complaints we daily hear, do manifestly demonstrate. And who seeth not the great benefits and the goodly fruits accruing from ob- servance of these laws and rules ? who discerneth not the admirable consent of all these particular injunctions in our reli- gion with that general one, " Whatever things are true, whatever things are just, whatever things are honest, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there be any virtue, or any praise, that we should mind such things," and prac- tise them ? Such, and far more excellent than I am able to describe, is the rule of christian practice ; a rule in perfection, in beauty, in efficacy far surpassing all other rules ; productive of a goodness more com- plete, more lovely, more sprightful than any other doctrine or institution hath been or can be able to bring forth ; much ex- ceeding, not only " the righteousness of blind Pharisees," but all the virtue of the most sage philosophers ; somewhat in part concurrent therewith philosophy hath descried and delivered (it is no wonder it should, since all of it is so plainly conso- nant to reason) ; yet what philosophy hath in this kind afforded, is in truth, if compared with what our religion teacheth, exceedingly meagre, languid, and flat : two words here, " Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbour as thyself," do signify more, do contain in them more sense and savour, to the judgment and relish of a well-dis- posed mind, than the ethics of Aristotle, the offices of Cicero, the precepts and dis- sertations of Epictetus, the many other volumes of philosophical morality all put together; in matter our rule is far more rich and full, more sweet and sapid than theirs ; in force and efficacy it doth also far excel them. We may hereto annex this considera- tion, which may pass for another peculiar advantage of our religion, that as it de- livereth so excellent and perfect a rule of life, so it delivereth it unto us pure from any alloy debasing, free of any clog in- cumbering it ; for that it chiefly, and in a manner only requireth of us a rational and spiritual service, consisting in perform- ance of substantial duties, plainly neces- sary or profitable ; not withdrawing us from the practice of solid piety and virtue by obligations to a tedious observance of many external rites ; not spending the vigour of our minds on superficial formali- ties (or busy scrupulosities, as Tertullian termeth them), such as serve only to amuse childish fancies, or to depress slavish spi- rits. It supposeth us men, men of good understanding and ingenuous disposition, and dealeth with us as such ; and much more such it rendereth us, if we comply therewith. The ritual observances it en- joineth are as few in number, in nature, simple and easy to perform, so evidently reasonable, very decent, and very useful ; apt to instruct us in, able to excite us unto, the practice of most wholesome du- ties; which consideration showeth this doctrine to be complete, suitable to the most adult age and best constitution, to the most ripe and improved capacities of man. MORALS AND RELIGION. 215 Our religion doth not only thus truly and fully acquaint us with our duty, but, which is another peculiar virtue thereof, it buildeth our duty on most solid grounds, presseth it with most valid inducements, draweth it from the best principles, and driveth it to the best ends ; no philosophy can in any measure represent virtue so truly estimable and eligible, can assign so evident and cogent reason why we should embrace it and strictly adhere thereto, can so well discover or describe the ex- the losses commonly incident to virtue ? No, surely, when it cometh to earnest trial, it will hardly seem reason or wisdom so to do. But the christian doctrine, as it compriseth, and in an inferior order urgeth also such grounds and arguments, so it doth exhibit others far more solid and forcible ; it commendeth goodness to us, not only as agreeable to man's imper- fect and fallible reason, but as conform- able to the perfect goodness of God, as the dictate of his infallible wisdom, as the cellent fruits that grow-ou it, as doth this j resolution of his most holy will, as en- philosophy of ours, as the ancient fathers are wont to call it. Other philosophies have indeed highly commended virtue, and vehemently exhorted thereto ; but the grounds on which they laid its praise are very sandy, the arguments by which they enforced its practice are very feehle, the principles from which they deduced it, and the ends which they propounded thereto, are very poor and mean, if we discuss them ; at least, if they be corn- joined by his unquestionable authority, as our indispensable duty, and only way to happiness ; the principles from which it willeth us to act, are love, reverence, and gratitude to God, hearty good-will toward men, and a sober regard to our own true welfare ; the ends which it prescribeth are God's honour, public edification, and the salvation of our own souls ; it stirreth us to good practice, by minding us that we shall thereby resemble the supreme good- pared with ours ; virtue, said they, is a | ness, shall express our gratitude towards thing of itself, on account of its own na tive beauty and worth, abstracting all reward or profit springing from it, very admirable and desirable; it is beside a very pleasant and very useful thing, be- getting tranquillity and satisfaction of mind; yielding health, safety, reputation, pleasure, quiet, and other manifold con- veniences of life ; but can so magnificent and so massy a fabric of commendation stand firm on such foundations as these? are these principles of love and admiration toward we know not what, these ends of temporal advantage and convenience, so noble or worthy ? are the accommodations of this short and uncertain life a proper encouragement, or a just recompence for the laborious achievements of true vir- tue ? are these weapons sufficient to for- tify men, or these discourses able to ani- mate them in resisting the temptations which avert from virtue, or avoiding the enchantments which allure to vice ? will men, I say, readily, for the sake of an imaginary or insensible thing (a goodly name only for all they see), which repre- sented no more of benefit attending it, cross the bent of their natural inclinations, forfeit their present ease, reject certain fruitions of pleasure, waive occasions of getting to themselves profit, honour, and power, goods so manifestly substantial and grateful to nature ? will they undergo contentedly the difficulties, encounter the dangers, sustain the pains, the disgraces, that great benefactor, unto whom we owe all that we have ; shall discharge our duty, pay due honour, perform faithful service to our Almighty Lord and King ; that we shall thereby surely decline the wrath and displeasure of God, shall surely obtain his favour and mercy, with all sorts of bless- ings needful or profitable for us ; that we shall not only avoid regrets and terrors of conscience here, but escape endless mise- ries and torments ; we shall not only pro- cure present comfort and peace of mind, but shall acquire crowns of everlasting glory and bliss. These surely are the truest and firmest grounds on wdrich a right estimation of virtue can subsist ; these are motives incomparably most ef- fectual to the embracing thereof; these are the purest fountains whence it can spring, the noblest marks whither it can aim ; a virtue so grounded, so reared, is certainly most sound and genuine, most firm and stable, most infinitely beneficial. It is a peculiar advantage of Christianity (which no other law r or doctrine so much as pretendeth to), that it not only clearly teacheth us and strongly persuadeth us to so excellent a way of life, but provideth also sufficient help and ability to practise it ; without which (such is the frailty of our nature, as experience proveth), that all instruction, all exhortation, all encou- ragement, would avail little. Other laws, for want of this, are in effect " ministries of condemnation," racks of conscience, 216 ISAAC BARROW. parents of guilt and of regret; reading hard lessons, but not assisting to do after them ; imposing heavy burdens, but not enabling to bear them : our law is not such ; it is not a dead letter, but hath a quickening spirit accompanying it ; it not only soundeth through the ear, but stamp- eth itself on the heart of him that sin- cerely doth embrace it ; it always carrieth with it a sure guide to all good, and a safeguard from all evil ; if our mind be doubtful or dark, it directeth us to a faith- ful oracle, where we may receive counsel and information ; if our passions are un- ruly, if our appetites are outrageous, if temptations be violent, and threaten to overbear us, it leadeth us to a full maga- zine, whence we may furnish ourselves with all manner of arms to withstand and subdue them ; if our condition, in respect to all other means, be disconsolate or de- sperate, it sendeth us to a place where we shall not fail of refreshment and relief; it offereth, on our earnest seeking and ask- ing, the wisdom and strength of God him- self for our direction, our aid, our sup- port and comfort, in all exigencies. To them who, with due fervency and con- stancy ask it, God hath in the gospel pro- mised to " grant his holy spirit," to guide them in tbeir ways, to admonish them of their duty, to strengthen them in obedi- ence, to guard them from surprises and assaults of temptation, to sustain them and cheer them in afflictions. This ad- vantage, as it is proper to our religion, so it is exceedingly considerable; for what would the most perfect rule or way signify, without as well a power to observe it, as a light to discern it ? and how can man (so ignorant, so impotent, so inconstant a creature ; so easily deluded by false ap- pearances, and transported with disorderly passions ; so easily shaken and unsettled by any small assault,) either alone, with- out some guidance perceive, or by himself without some assistance prosecute, what is good for him, especially in cases of in- tricacy and difficulty ? how should he who hath frequent experience of his own weak- ness, not be utterly disheartened and cast into despair, either of standing fast in a good state, or of recovering himself from a bad one ; of rescuing himself from any vicious inclination, or attaining any vir- tuous habit, if he did not apprehend such a friendly power vigilantly guarding him, ready on all occasions to succour and abet him ? this consideration it is, which only can nourish our hope, can excite our cou- rage, can quicken and support our endea- vour in religious practice, by assuring us that there is no duty so hard, which by the grace vouchsafed us we may not achieve ; that there is no enemy so mighty, which, by the help afforded us, we cannot master ; so that, although we find ourselves " able to do nothing of our- selves, yet we can do all things by Christ that strengthened us." Isaac Barrow. THE PERSONAL CHARACTER OF THE MESSIAS. Concerning the qualities and endow- ments of the Messias, which constitute his personal character, they are, as was ex- pedient, such as should dispose and fit him for the discharge of his great em- ployment and duty with utmost advan- tage and especial decency ; in general, he was to be endued with super-eminent piety and sanctity, with perfect innocence and integrity ; so it is implied in all the descriptions of his person and perform- ances. " The sceptre of thy kingdom is a right sceptre : thoulovest righteousness and hatest iniquity ; wherefore God, even thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows," said the psalmist of him ; and, " righteousness shall be the girdle of his loins, and faith- fulness the girdle of his reins," said Isaiah of him (denoting the ready disposition of his mind to do whatever was good) ; and, " He had done no violence, neither was there any deceit in his lips," saith the same prophet of him again. Some parti- cular virtues and abilities are also ascribed to him in an eminent degree ; excellent wisdom and knowledge in spiritual mat- ters, thus represented by Isaiah : " The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and fear of the Lord, and shall make him of quick understanding in the fear of the Lord :" eloquence also, skill and aptitude to instruct men, which that most evangelical prophet thus sets forth : " The Lord hath given me the tongue of the learned, that I should know how to speak a word in season to him that is weary." That he should be meek, and gentle, and compassionate toward men, in regard to their infirmities and afflic- tions ; mild and lowly in his conversation, MORALS AND RELIGION. 217 the prophets also signify : " He shall," saith Isaiah, " feed his flock like a shep- herd ; he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead those that are with young :" " A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench:" and, " Behold," saith Zechariah, " thy king cometh unto thee ; he is just, and having salvation ; lowly, and riding on an ass." That he should be of a quiet and peaceable disposition, nowise fierce or contentious, turbulent or clamorous, Isaiah declares, thus saying of him (as St. Mat- thew cites him), " He shall not strive, nor cry, neither shall any man hear his voice in the streets." To his admirable patience in bearing afflictions and con- tumelies, Isaiah thus renders express tes- timony : " He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; he was brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he opened not his mouth ;" and, " I gave my back to the smiter ; and my cheeks to them that plucked off the hair ; I hid not my face from shame and spit- ting." His invincible courage and reso- lution in God's service, together with his strong confidence in God and intire sub- mission to God's will, is thus described by the same prophet : " The Lord God," saith he, " will help me, therefore I shall not be confounded ; therefore have I set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be ashamed." " The Lord God hath opened mine ear, and I was not re- bellious, neither turned away back." His general goodness and boundless charity to- ward men, the nature of his office and" de- sign, together with the whole course and tenor of his practice, such as they are re- presented, do suppose and imply. Now that Jesus (our Lord) did in his person fully correspond, and did by his practice thoroughly make good this moral high character ; the story of his life with admirable simplicity and sincerity, without any semblance of disguise or artifice, re- presented by persons who most intimately were acquainted and long conversed with him, or by persons immediately informed by them, and with greatest constancy at- tested to and maintained by them, "doth plainly show ; wherein his incomparable piety toward God, his readiness to fulfill all righteousness, his intire submission and resignation of himself to God's will, the continual fervency, devotion of all kinds, prayer, thanksgiving, fasting, practised in the most intense degree and in the most reverend manner, his pure and ardent zeal for God's glory, his steadfast resolution, and indefatigable industry in God's ser- vice, making it his meat to do the will of him that sent him, and to perform his work. Wherein an unspotted innocence, not only exempted from the vices and defile- ments, but raised above the vanities and impertinences of the world ; secured by a magnanimous contempt, or neglect and abstinence from all worldly grandeur and splendour ; all secular wealth and profit, all bodily delight and ease, wherein an admirable wisdom and prudence, express- ed in all his demeanour and his discourse ; in his discerning the secret thoughts and dissembled intentions of men ; in his de- claring and defending truth, detecting and confuting errors ; in baffling learned and wily opposers ; in eluding captious ques- tions, and evading treacherous designs ; in not meddling with the secular affairs and interests of men ; in not incumber- ing himself with the needless cares and occupations of this life, nor entangling himself in the snares of this world ; in dexterously accommodating his behaviour and his speech to the dispositions, the ca- pacities, the needs of men ; to the cir- cumstances of things and exigencies of occasion, so as did best conduce to the promoting his great design and under- taking ; so that the people observing his proceedings could not but be astonished, and ask, " Whence hath this man this wisdom ?" so that they could not but ac- knowledge, " He hath done all things well." Wherein particularly an excellent fa- culty of speaking and teaching, of inter- preting and applying the holy scriptures, of proving and persuading God's truth, whereby he drew the people after him, converted many of them to amendment of life, convinced the most averse and in- credulous ; so that " all that heard him were amazed at his understanding and an- swers ;" so that " all bare witness, and wondered at the gracious words which proceeded out of his mouth ;" so that the officers sent to apprehend him did con- fess, " Never man spake like this man." Wherein an invincible fortitude and gallantry, expressed in his most constant profession and undaunted maintenance of truth and goodness ; in his encountering the prejudices, detecting the frauds, re- proving the vices of the age, though up- 218 ISAAC BARROW. held by the greatest persons and by pre- valent factions ; in his plain dealing and free speaking with all sincerity and all authority ; in his zealous checking and chastising profane abuses ; in his disre- garding the rash and fond opinions of men, their spiteful obloquies, harsh cen- sures, slanderous imputations, and unjust reproaches ; in his foreseeing the greatest of dangers and worst of mischiefs that could arrive to man, yet cheerfully en- countering and firmly sustaining them ; sustaining all the violent oppositions and assaults which the most virulent malice and envy, inflamed with superstition and blind zeal, could set against him. Wherein a most quiet and peaceable disposition, apparent from his never at- tempting any resistance, or any revenge on provocation of frequent great affronts and injuries ; from his never raising any tumults, nor fomenting any quarrels, nor meddling with any litigious matters, nor encroaching on any man's right or office ; by his ready compliance with received customs ; by his paying tribute, although not due from him, to prevent offence ; by his frequent instructions and exhortations to peace, to innocence, to patience, to due obedience, to performing due respect to superiors, and paying customs to govern- ors ; to the yielding a docile ear, and an observance to those who " sat in Moses's chair." Wherein an exceeding meekness and gentleness, demonstrated in all his conver- sation ; in resenting very moderately, or rather not resenting at all, most unjust hatreds, outrageous calumnies, bitter re- proaches and contumelies from his adver- saries ; very perverse neglects and ingra- titudes from multitudes of people ; many infirmities, stupidities, distrusts, basenesses and treacheries from his own nearest friends and followers. In his passing over and easily pardoning the greatest offences committed against him, yea, sometime ex- tenuating and excusing them. In the mildness of his censures, expostulations, and reproofs ; in his tempering the fierce zeal, hard censure, and rigorous proceed- ing against persons unhappy or faulty ; in his tender pity of all persons in any want, distress, or trouble ; in his earnest com- miseration and bewailing the vengeance he foresaw impendent on his persecutors, and in his praying for their pardon. Wherein a marvellous humility and low- liness of mind expressed by his not seek- ing honour or applause from men, but shunning and rejecting it; his not as- suming to himself, but ascribing all to God, and referring all to his glory, by his making no ostentation of his miraculous power and high endowments, but so far as would comport with the prosecution of his main purpose, the glory and service of God, the good and welfare of men, care- fully suppressing and concealing them ; in his without dissatisfaction or discou- ragement bearing scorn, and contempt, and obloquy ; in his willing condescension to the meanest offices and employments ; in his free and familiar conversation with all sorts of people, with the lowest and most despicable, with the worst and most odious, for their good ; he not despising the poorest or vilest wretch who seemed capable of receiving any benefit from him; in his easiness to be entreated, and readi- ness to comply with the desires of any man imploring succour or relief from him; in his being ready, not only to oblige, but to be obliged and receive courtesies from any man ; to answer the invitation of a pharisee or of a publican ; to accept fa- vourably the well-intended respect of a poor woman ; in the softness and sweet- ness of his language to all men, particu- larly to his disciples ; " Be of good cou- rage, daughter ;" " son, be of good cheer;" " I say unto you, my friends ;" " Little children, I am a little while with you." Such was his style and conversation to- wards his inferiors. Wherein an unparalleled patience in contentedly and cheerfully, through all the course of his life, undertaking and un- dergoing whatever by God's will and pro- vidence was imposed on him, how grievous and distasteful soever to human appre- hension or sense ; the extremest penury, the hardest toil, the vilest disgraces, the most bitter pains and anguishes incident to body or mind, the most horrid and most sorrowful of deaths, all these aggra- vated by the conscience of his own clear- est innocence, by the extreme ingratitude of those who misused him, by the sense of God's displeasure for the sin of man, by all the embittering considerations which a most lively piety and tender cha- rity suggested ; in submitting to all this most freely and most calmly without any regret, any disturbance. Wherein an unexpressible and uncon- ceivable charity (" a charity indeed which surpasseth knowledge," as St. Paul speak- eth), evidenced in the constant strain and tenor of his whole life, passing through MORALS AND RELIGION. 219 all his designs, all his words, and all his actions ; for Sir)\Qev evepyerwv, as St. Peter says in the Acts, he did nothing else but " go about doing good," and benefit- ing men ; curing their diseases, relieving their wants, instructing their minds, re- forming their manners, drawing them to God and goodness, disposing them to the attainment of everlasting bliss and salva- tion. It is love, we may observe, which was the soul that animated and actuated him in all things ; which carried him with unwearied resolution and alacrity through all the cruel hardships and toils, through all the dismal crosses and ignominies he endured; his life was in effect but one continual expression of charity, differently exerting itself according to various oppor- tunities and circumstances, and needs of men, the which was consummated and sealed by his death, the highest instance of charity that could be ; for, " Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend." Wherein, finally (in which life, I say, of Jesus), all holiness, all virtue, all good- ness suitable to him, who was to be not only the teacher and the persuader of the best life, but a living standard and pattern thereof; who was to merit of God in man's behalf, to conciliate God's favour towards us, and appease his anger against us, do shine and sparkle with a beauty and a lustre transcending all expression. Isaac Barrow. WITHOUT RELIGION SOCIETY COULD NOT SUBSIST. He that w r ill consider the nature of men, or observe their common practice (mark- ing what apprehensions usually steer them, what inclinations sway them, in their elections and pursuits of things), shall, I suppose, find that from an invin- cible principle of self-love, or sensuality, deriving itself through all their motions of soul, and into all their actions of life, men generally do so strongly propend to the enjoyment of present sensible goods, that nothing but a presumption of some considerable benefit to be obtained by abs- tinence from them, or of some grievous mischief consequent on the embracing them, can withhold them from pursuing such enjoyment. From hence (seeing fancy, reason, and experience do all prompt men to a foresight of events, and force them to some regard of the consequences of things) it followeth that hope and fear are the main springs which set on work all the wheels of human action ; so that any matter being propounded, if men can hope that it will yield pleasant or profit- able (that is, tending to pleasant) fruits, they wall undertake it ; if they do fear its consequences will be distasteful or hurt- ful, they will decline it ; very rare it is to find that the love or liking of a thing, as in itself amiable to the mind, or suitable to reason, doth incline men thereto ; that honest things, bare of present advantages, and barren of hopeful fruit, are heartily pursued ; that anything otherwise avert- eth us from itself, than as immediately presenting some mischief, or dangerously threatening it. When goodness therefore doth clash with interest or pleasure, hu- man wisdom (the And smother'd in the dusty whirlwind dies. J Addisen. These lines are capital, and are a fine copy, which can only appear tame by the original having been before our eyes, painted by the Great Master, the Creator and Rider of the world. The simoom, with the wind at south- east, immediately followed the wind at north, and the usual despondency that always accompanied it. The blue meteor, with which it began, passed over us about twelve, and the ruffling wind that followed it continued till near two. Silence, and a desperate kind of indifference about life, U2 436 JAMES BRUCE. were the immediate effects upon us ; and I began now, seeing the condition of my camels, to fear we were all doomed to a sandy grave, and to contemplate it with some degree of resignation. At half-past eight in the evening we alighted in a sandy flat, where there was great store of bent grass and trees which had a consi- derable degree of verdure, a circumstance much in favour of our camels. We de- termined to stop here to give them an opportunity of eating their fill where they could find it. On the 22nd, at six o'clock, we set out from the sandy flat, and one of the Tuco- rory was seized with a phrensy or mad- ness. At first I took it for a fit of the epilepsy by the distortions of his face, but it was soon seen to be of a more serious nature. Whether he had been before afflicted with it T know not. I offered to bleed him, which he refused ; neither, though we gave him water, would he drink but very moderately. He rolled upon the ground and moaned, often re- peating two or three words which I did not understand. He refused to continue his journey or rise from where he lay, so that we were obliged to leave him to his fortune. We went this day very dili- gently, not remarkably slow nor fast ; but though our camels, as we thought, had fared well for these two nights, another of them died about four o'clock this after- noon, when we came to Umarack. I here began to provide for the worst. I saw the fate of our camels approaching, and that our men grew weak in propor- tion ; our bread, too, began to fail us, al- though we had plenty of camels' flesh in its stead ; our water, though in all ap- pearance we were to find it more fre- quently than in the beginning of our journey, was nevertheless brackish, and scarce served the purpose to quench our thirst ; and, above all, the dreadful simoom had perfectly exhausted our strength, and brought upon us a degree of cowardice and languor that we struggled with in vain ; I therefore, as the last effort, began to throw away everything weighty I could spare, or that was not absolutely neces- sary, such as all shells, fossils, minerals and petrefactions that I could get at, the counter-cases of my quadrant, telescopes and clock, and several such like things. Our camels were now reduced to five, and it did not seem that these were capa- ble of continuing their journey much longer. In that case no remedy remained but that each man should cany his own water and provisions. Now, as no one man could carry the water he should use between well and well, and it was more than probable that distance would be doubled by some of the wells being found dry ; and if that was not the case, yet, as it was impossible for a man to carry his provisions who could not walk without any burden at all, our situation seemed to be most desperate. The Bishareen alore seemed to keep up his strength, and was in excellent spirits. He had attached himself in a particular manner to me, and with a part of that very scanty rag which he had round his waist he had made a wrapper, very artificially, according to the manner his countrymen the Bishareen practise on such occasions. This had greatly defended my feet in the day, but the pain occa- sioned by the cold in the night was really scarce sufferable. I offered to free him from the confinement of his left-hand, which was chained to some one of the company night and day, but he veiy sen- sibly refused it, saying, " Unchain my hands when you load and unload your camels, I cannot then run away from you ; for though you did not shoot me, I should starve with hunger and thirst ; but keep me to the end of the journey as you began with me, then I cannot misbehave and lose the reward which you say you are to give me." James Bruce. ROBERT ANDERSON was surgeon on board the Resolution as well during captain Cook's second voyage, which began in 1772, as during the third and last, which began in 1776, and in the course of which Cook was killed at Owhyhee, on the 14th of February 1779. Mr. Anderson wrote a vocabulary of the language of the Society Islands, which is added VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 431 to the narrative of the second voyage, and a considerable part of that portion of the third which passes under the name of his captain. The following extract from the Third Voyage is taken from the ninth chapter of the third book, in which Otaheite is described : — OTAHEITE IN 1777. Perhaps there is scarcely a spot in the universe that affords a more luxuriant prospect than the south-east part of Ota- heite. The hills are high and steep, and in many places craggy; but they are , covered to the very summits with trees and shrubs, in such a manner that the spectator can scarcely help thinking that the very rocks possess the property of producing and supporting their verdant clothing. The flat land which bounds those hills toward the sea, and the inter- jacent valleys, also teem with various pro- ] ductions, that grow with the most ex- , uberant vigour, and at once fill the mind of the beholder with the idea that no j place upon earth can outdo this in the strength and beauty of vegetation. Nature has been no less liberal in distributing rivulets, which are fouud in even valley ; and as they approach the sea, often divide j into two or three branches, fertilizing the flat lands through which they run. The | habitations of the natives are scattered, j without order, upon the flats ; and many of them appearing toward the shore, pre- | seuted a delightful scene, viewed from our ships, especially as the sea, within the reef which bounds the coast, is per- fectly still, and affords a safe navigation at all times for the inhabitants, who are often seen paddling in their canoes indo- lently along, in passing from place to place, or in going to fish. It is doubtless the natural fertility of the country, combined with the mildness and serenity of the climate, that renders the natives so careless in their cultivation, j that, in many places, though overflowing j with the richest productions, the smallest f traces of it cannot be observed. The 1 cloth plant, which is raised by seeds j brought from the mountains, and the ! ava, or intoxicating pepper, which they defend from the sun when very young by ] covering them with leaves of the bread- j fruit-tree, are almost the only things to I which they seem to pay any attention, and these they keep very clean. I have inquired very carefully into their manner of cultivating the bread-fruit- tree, but was always answered that they never planted it. This, indeed, must be evident to every one who will examine the places where the young trees come up. It will be always observed that they spring from the roots of the old ones, which run along near the surface of the ground. So that the bread-fruit-trees may be reckoned those that would natu- rally cover the plains, even supposing that the island was not inhabited, in the same manner that the white-barked trees, found at Van Diemen's Land, constitute the forests there ; and from this we may observe, that the inhabitant of Otaheite, instead of being obliged to plant his bread, will rather be under a necessity of preventing its progress, which I suppose is sometimes done to give room for trees of another sort, to afford him some variety in his food. The chief of these are the cocoa-nut and plantain ; the first of which can give no trouble after it has raised itself a foot or two above the ground, but the plantain requires a little more care ; for, after it is planted, it shoots up, and in about three months begins to bear fruit ; during which time it gives young shoots, which supply a succession of fruit ; for the old stocks are cut down as the fruit is taken off. Personal endowments being in great esteem amongst them, they have recourse to several methods of improving them, according to their notions of beauty. In particular, it is a practice, especially amongst the erreoes, or unmarried men of some consequence, to undergo a kind of physical operation to render them fair. This is done by remaining a month or two in the house ; during which time they wear a great quantity of clothes, eat no- thing but bread-fruit,to which they ascribe a remarkable property in whitening them. They also speak as if their corpulence and colour, at other times, depended upon their food ; as they are obliged, from the change of seasons, to use different sorts at different times. Their common diet is made up of at least nine-tenths of vegetable food, and I believe, more particularly, the mahee, or fermented bread-fruit, which enters almost every meal, has a remarkable ef- fect, producing a very sensible coolness 438 ROBERT ANDERSON. about them, which could not be perceived in us who fed on animal food. And it is perhaps owing to this temperate course of life that they have so few diseases among them. Their behaviour, on all occasions, seems to indicate a great openness and gene- rosity of disposition. Omai, indeed, who, as their countryman, should be supposed rather willing to conceal any of their de- fects, has often said that they are some- times cruel in punishing their enemies. According to his representation, they tor- ment them very deliberately ; at one time tearing out small pieces of flesh from dif- ferent parts ; at another, taking out the eyes ; then cutting off the nose ; and, lastly, killing them by opening the belly. But this only happens on particular occa- sions. If cheerfulness argues a conscious innocence, one would suppose that their life is seldom sullied by crimes. This, however, I rather impute to their feel- ings, which, though lively, seem in no case permanent ; for I never saw them, in any misfortune, labour under the appear- ance of anxiety after the critical moment was past. Neither does care ever seem to wrinkle their brow. On the contrary, even the approach of death does not ap- pear to alter their usual vivacity. 1 have seen them when brought to the brink of the grave by disease, and when preparing to go to battle, but in neither case ever observed their countenances overclouded with melancholy or serious reflection. Such a disposition leads them to direct all their aims only to what can give them pleasure and ease. Of their songs they are immoderately fond, and had much pleasure in chanting their love, their tri- umphs in war, and their occupations in peace ; their travels to other islands, and adventures there; and the peculiar beauties and superior advantages of their own island over the rest, or of different parts of it over other less favourable dis- tricts. This marks that they receive great delight from music ; and though they rather expressed a dislike to our compli- cated compositions, yet were they always delighted with the more melodious sounds produced singly on our instruments, as approaching nearer to the simplicity of their own. Neither are they strangers to the sooth- ing effects produced by particular sorts of motion, which, in some cases, seem to allay any perturbation of mind with as much success as music. Of this I met with a remarkable instance ; for on walk- ing one day about Matavai Point, where our tents were erected, I saw a man pad- dling in a small canoe so quickly, and looking about him with such eagerness on each side, as to command all my atten- tion. At first I imagined he had stolen something from one of the ships and was pursued, but, on waiting patiently, saw him repeat his amusement. He went out from the shore, till he was near the place where the swell begins to take its rise, and, watching its first motion very atten- tively, paddled before it with great quick- ness, till he found that it overlooked him, and had acquired sufficient force to carry his canoe before it without passing under- neath. He then sat motionless and was carried along at the same swift rate as the wave, till it landed him upon the beech. Then he started out, emptied his canoe, and went in search of another swell. I could not help concluding that this man felt the most supreme pleasure, while he was driven on so fast and so smoothly by the sea; especially as, though the tents and ships were so near, he did not seem in the least to envy, or even to take any notice of, the crowds of his countrymen collected to view them as objects which were rare and curious. During my stay, two or three of the natives came up who seemed to share his felicity, and always called out when there was an appearance of a favourable swell, as he sometimes missed it, by his back being turned and looking about for it. By them I under- stood that this exercise, which is called choroee, was frequent amongst them ; and they have probably more amusements of this sort, which afford them at least as much pleasure as skating, which is the only one of ours with whose effects I could compare it. The language of Otaheite abounds with beautiful and figurative expressions, which, were it perfectly known, would, I have no doubt, put it upon a level with many of the languages that are most in esteem for their warmth and bold images. For in- stance, the Otaheitans express their no- tions of death very emphatically, by say- ing, " that the soul goes into darkness or rather into night." And if you seem to entertain any doubt in asking the ques- tion, " if such a person is their mother," they immediately reply with surprise, " Yes ; the mother that bore me." They have one expression that corresponds exactly with the phraseology of the VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 439 Scriptures, where we read of the " yearn- ing of the bowels." They use it on all occasions, when the passions give them uneasiness, as they constantly refer pain from grief, anxious desire and other af- fections, to the bowels, as its seat, where they likewise suppose all operations of the mind are performed. Their language admits of that inverted arrangement of words which so much distinguishes the Latin and Greek from most of our modern European tongues, whose imperfections require a more orderly construction, to prevent ambiguities. It is so copious, that for the bread-fruit alone, in its different states, they have above twenty names ; as many for the taro root, and about ten for the cocoa-nut. Add to this, that, besides the common dialect, they often expostu- late in a kind of stanza or recitative, which is answered in the same manner. The times of eating at Otaheite are very frequent. Their first meal, or (as it may rather be called) their last, as they go to sleep after it, is about two o'clock in the morning, and the next is at eight ; at eleven they dine, and again, as Omai expressed it, at two and at five, and sup at eight. In this article of domestic life they have adopted some customs which are exceedingly whimsical. The women, for instance, have not only the mortifica- tion of being obliged to eat by themselves and in a different part of the house from the men, but, by a strange kind of policy, are excluded from a share of most of the better sorts of food. They dare not taste turtle, nor fish of the tunny kind, which is much esteemed, nor some particular sorts of the best plantains ; and it is very seldom that even those of the first rank are suffered to eat pork. The children of each sex also eat apart ; and the women generally serve up their own victuals, for they would certainly starve before any grown man would do them such an office. In this, as well as in some other customs relative to their eating, there is a myste- rious conduct which we could never tho- roughly comprehend. When we inquired into the reasons of it, we could get no other answer but that it is right and ne- cessary it should be so. In other customs respecting the females, there seems to be no such obscurity, especially as to their connections with the men. If a young man and woman from mutual choice cohabit, the man * It is not at all surprising. Remorseless cruelty to women and to children always follows such manner of life, in which no such thing as affection can exist. gives the father of the girl such things as are necessary in common life, as hogs, cloth or canoes, in proportion to the time they are together ; and if he thinks that he has not been sufficiently paid for his daughter, he makes no scruple of forcing her to leave her friend and to cohabit with another person, who may be more liberal. The man, on his part, is always at liberty to make a new choice; but, should his consort become pregnant, he may kill the child, and after that either continue his connection with the mother or leave her. But if he should adopt the child and suffer it to live, the parties are then considered as in the married state, and they commonly live together ever after. However, it is thought no crime in the man to join a more youthful partner to his first wife and to live with both. The custom of changing their connections is, however, much more general than this last ; and it is a thing so common, that they speak of it with great indifference. The erreoes are only those of the better sort, who, from their fickleness, and their possessing the means of purchasing a suc- cession of fresh connections, are con- stantly roaming about ; and from having no particular attachment, seldom adopt the more settled method mentioned above. And so agreeable is this licentious plan of life to their disposition, that the most beautiful of both sexes thus commonly spend their youthful days, habituated to the practice of enormities which would disgrace the most savage tribes, but are peculiarly shocking amongst a people whose general character, in other respects, has evident traces of the prevalence of humane and tender feelings. When an erreqe woman is delivered of a child, a piece of cloth dipped in water is applied to the mouth and nose, which suffocates it. As in such a life their women must contribute a very large share of its happi- ness, it is rather surprising, besides the humiliating restraints they are laid under with regard to food, to find them often treated with a degree of harshness or rather brutality, which one would scarcely suppose a man would bestow on an ob- ject for whom he had the least affection*. Nothing, however, is more common than to see the men beat them without mercy. Robert Anderson, from Cook's Voyages. 440 CAPTAIN SIR F. B. HEAD. CAPTAIN SIR F. B. HEAD is the author of a hook called " Rough Notes taken during rapid Journeys across the Pampas and among the Andes." The Pampas is a plain about nine hundred miles in breadth, extending from Buenos Aires and the coast to the south of Buenos Aires, across to the Andes. To and fro this plain, Captain Head, riding wild horses and feeding on beef and water, galloped in search of gold and silver mines among the mountains, — on which errand, accompanied by a party of Cornish miners, he was em- ployed by one of the companies that sprung up in England in 1824 and 1825. The shareholders have at least succeeded in bringing forth a stirring animating story of a country which but for them no one so fit to describe it was likely to traverse ; and, to those who have no part in their stock, the speech of the honest Cornishman, when he looked down upon the Cordilleras, makes full amends for the want of a dividend. THE ANDES. The snow was all around us and the features of the scene so large, that one could not but reflect on the situation of the many travellers who, in these parts of the Andes, have been overtaken by the storm and have perished. The capatdz told me that these ternporales are so vio- lent that no animal can live in them ; that there is no warning, but that all of a sudden the snow is seen coming over the tops of the mountains in a hurricane of wind ; that hundreds of people have been lost in these storms ; that several had been starved in the house before us ; and that only two years ago, the winter, by suddenly setting in as it generally does, had shut up the Cordillera, and had driven ten poor travellers to this hut. When the violence of the first storms had subsided, the courier came to the spot and found six of the ten lying dead in the hut, and by their sides the other four almost dead with hunger and cold. They had eaten their mules and their dog, and the bones of these animals were now before us. These houses are all erected upon one plan, and are extremely well adapted to their purpose. They are of brick and mortar, and are built solid, ten or twelve feet high, with a brick staircase outside. The room, which is on the top of this foundation, in order to raise it above the snow, is about twelve feet square : the walls are extremely thick, with two or three small open loop-holes about six inches square ; the roof is arched, and the floor is of brick. A place so small, of so massive a con- struction, necessarily possesses the cha- racter of a dungeon ; and, as one stands at the door, the scene around adds a me- lancholy gloom to its appearance ; and one cannot help thinking how sad it must have been to have seen the snow, day after day, getting deeper and deeper and the hope of escaping hourly diminishing, until it was evident that the path was impracticable and that the passage was closed ! But without these reflections the interior is melancholy enough. The table, which had been fixed into the mortar, w r as torn away ; and, to ob- tain a momentary warmth, the wretched people who had been confined here had, in despair, burnt the very door which was to protect them from the elements. They had then, at the risk of their lives, taken out the great wooden lintel which was over the door, and had left the wall above it hanging merely from the adhesion of the mortar. This operation had evidently been done with no instrument but their knives, and it must have been a w r ork of many days. The state of the walls was also a me- lancholy testimony of the despair and horror they had witnessed. In all the places I have ever seen, which have been visited by travellers, I have always been able to read the names and histories of some of those who have gone before me ; for when a man has nothing to lament but that his horses have not arrived, or, in fact, that he has nothing to do, the wall appears to be a friend to whom many entrust their names, their birth-places, the place they propose to visit, and some- times even the fond secrets of their hearts ; but I particularly observed that, in these huts on the Andes, not a name was VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 441 to be seen or a word upon the walls. Those who had died in them were too intent upon their own sufferings; the horror of their situation was unspeakable, and thus these walls remain the silent monuments of past misery. As the air was very cold, and the wind very high, we slept in this hut, and before day-break we were once again upon our poor jaded mules in order to cross the Cumbre, while the surface of the snow was hard from the night's frost. The torrent which we had so long fol- lowed now turned up the ravine to the right. We had pursued it from the east towards the west, but our path was now obstructed by the Cumbre or upper ridge of the Cordillera, which no artifice can avoid, and which is a mountain covered with loose decomposed rock at an angle of very nearly forty-five degrees. At the foot is another of the huts without door, table or lintel, and in which many people have died. After resting my mule for a short time and then girthing my saddle as tight as possible, during which operation he was always trying to bite me, I whispered a little comfort into his long ear; 1 mounted, and then squaring my shoulders and gi- ving a kick or two with my spurs, I com- menced the climb, followed by the party of riders and carga mules. The path ascended in zig-zags from the bottom to the top, and the whole time I was obliged to hold on by the thin mane of the mule. The turnings were so short that the animal was almost falling back- wards ; however, on he went with a de- termination and patience that was quite astonishing. At times he stopped, but the path was so steep and the decomposed rock so loose, that of his own accord in a few seconds he continued. It was very picturesque and interesting to see the whole party beneath threading their way in different paths above each other ; some going towards the north and others to- wards the south — to see the riders leaning forwards, every animal straining to his utmost, and to hear the peons below- cheering on their mules by a song which was both wild and melodious. After climbing in this singular manner for about an hour I reached the summit, and it was really a moment of great tri- umph and satisfaction. Hitherto I had always been looking upwards, but now the difficulties were all overcome and I was able to look down upon the moun- tains. Their tops were covered with snow, and as the eye wandered over the different pinnacles, and up the white trackless ra- vines, one could not but confess that the scene, cheerless and inhospitable as it appeared, was nevertheless a picture both magnificent and sublime. " What a magnificent view ! " said I to one of my Cornish companions, whose honest heart and thoughts were always faithful to old England. " What thing can be more beautiful ? " I added. After smiling for some seconds, he replied, " Them things, Sir, that do wear caps and aprons." F. B. Head. R. H. DANA of Boston, in the United States <5f America, is the author of Two Years Before the Mast, a narrative of a two years' voyage from Boston round Cape Horn to the western coast of America. He was a student of the American University of Cambridge near Boston, and suffering from a weakness of eye-sight, sought a cure by leaving his books for a time, and on the 14th of August 1835 began his voyage as a common sailor in an American merchant ship. He has written an excellent history of his voyage, the best history extant of a seaman's life, honest and true, unaffected in style, and clear and powerful in description. His voyage had the desired effect ; he returned to his studies and is now a lawyer at Boston. DOUBLING CAPE HORN. In our first attempt to double the Cape, when we came up to the latitude of it, we were nearly seventeen hundred miles to the westward ; but> in running for the- U b 442 R. H. DANA. Straits of Magellan, we stood so far to the eastward that we made our second attempt at a distance of not more than four or five hundred miles ; and we had great hopes by this means to run clear of the ice, thinking that the easterly gales, which had prevailed for a long time, would have driven it to the westward. With the wmd about two points free, the yards braced in a little, and two close-reefed top-sails and a reefed fore-sail on the ship, we made great way toward the southward, and al- most every watch when we came on deck the air seemed to grow colder and the sea to run higher. Still we saw no ice, and had great hopes of going clear of it altogether, when one afternoon, about three o'clock, while we were taking a siesta during our watch below, " All hands ! " was called in a loud and fearful voice, " Tumble up here, men ! — tumble up ! — don't stop for your clothes — before we're upon it!" We sprang out of our berths and hurried upon deck. The loud, sharp voice of the cap- tain was heard giving orders, as though for life or death, and we ran aft to the braces, not waiting to look a-head, for not a moment was to be lost. The helm was hard up, the after yards shaking, and the ship in the act of wearing. Slowly, with the stiff ropes and iced rigging, we swung the yards round, everything coming hard, and with a creaking and rending sound, like pulling up a plank which has been frozen into the ice. The ship wore round fairly, the yards were steadied, and we stood off on the other tack, leaving behind us, directly under our larboard quarter, a large ice island, peering out of the mist and reaching high above our tops, while astern, and on either side of the island, large tracks of field-ice were dimly seen heaving and rolling in the sea. We were now safe and standing to the northward ; but in a few minutes more, had it not been for the sharp look-out of the watch, we should have been fairly upon the ice and left our ship's old bones adrift in the southern ocean. After stand- ing to the northward a few hours we wore ship, and the wind having hauled we stood to the southward and eastward. All night long a bright look-out was kept from every part of the deck ; and when- ever ice was seen on the one bow or the other the helm was shifted and the yards braced, and by quick working of the ship she was kept clear. The accustomed cry of "Ice a-head!" — "Ice on the lee bow ! " — " Another island ! " in the same tones, and with the same orders following them, seemed to bring us directly back to our old position of the week before. During our watch on deck, which was from twelve to four, the wind came out a- head with a pelting storm of hail and sleet, and we lay hove to, under a close-reefed fore-top-sail, the whole watch. During the next watch it fell calm with a drench- ing rain until day-break, when the wind came out to the westward and the wea- ther cleared up and showed us the whole ocean, in the course which we should have steered had it not been for the head- wind and calm, completely blocked up with ice. Here then our progress was stopped, and we wore ship and once more stood to the northward and eastward, not for the Straits of Magellan, but to make another attempt to double the Cape still farther to the eastward; for the captain was determined to get round if perseve- rance could do it, and the third time, he said, never failed. With a fair wind we soon ran clear of the field-ice, and by noon had only the stray islands floating far and near upon the ocean. The sun was out bright, the sea of a deep blue fringed with the white foam of the waves, which ran high before a strong south-wester; our solitary ship tore on through the water as though glad to be out of her confinement, and the ice islands lay scattered upon the ocean here and there, of various sizes and shapes, re- flecting the bright rays of the sun and drifting slowly northward before the gale. It was a contrast to much that we had lately seen, and a spectacle not only of beauty but of life ; for it required but little fancy to imagine these islands to be animate masses which had broken loose from the "thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice," and were working their w r ay by wind and current, some alone and some in fleets, to milder climes. No pencil has ever yet given anything like the true effect of an iceberg. In a picture they are huge, uncouth masses stuck in the sea ; while their chief beauty and grandeur — their slow stately motion, the whirling of the snow about their summits, and the fearful groaning and cracking of their parts — the picture cannot give. This is the large iceberg, while the small and distant islands, floating on the smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little floating fairy isles of sapphire. From a north-east course we gradually hauled to the eastward, and after sailing VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 443 about two hundred miles, which brought us as near to the western coast of Terra del Fuego as was safe, and baving lost sight of the ice altogether, for the third time we put the ship's head to the southward to try the passage of the Cape. The weather continued clear and cold, with a strong gale from the westward, and we were fast getting up with the latitude of the Cape, with a prospect of soon being round. One fine afternoon, a man who had gone into the fore-top to shift the rolling tackles sung out, at the top of his voice and with evident glee, " Sad, ho ! " Neither land nor sail had we seen since leaving San Diego, and any one who has traversed the length of a whole ocean alone, can imagine what an excitement such an announcement produced on board. u Sail, ho ! " shouted the cook, jumping out of his galley ; " Sail, ho ! " shouted a man, throwing back the slide of the scuttle, to the watch below, who were soon out of their berths and on deck ; and " Sail, ho ! " shouted the captain down the companion-way to the passenger in the cabin. Beside the pleasure of seeing a ship and human beings in so desolate a place, it was important for us to speak a vessel to learn whether there was ice to the eastward, and to ascertain the longi- tude ; for we had no chronometer, and had been drifting about so long that we had nearly lost our reckoning ; and oppor- tunities for lunar observations are not frequent or sure in such a place as Cape Horn. For these various reasons the ex- citement in our little community was running high, and conjectures were made, and everything thought of for which the captain would hail, when the man aloft sung out, "Another sail, large, on the weather bow ! " This was a little odd, but so much the better, and did not shake our faith in their being sails. At length the man in the top hailed and said he be- lieved it was land after all. " Land in your eye ! " said the mate, who was look- ing through the telescope, " they are ice islands, if I can see a hole through a ladder ;" and a few moments showed the mate to be right, and all our expectations fled ; and instead of what we most wished to see we had what we most dreaded, and what we hoped we had seen the last of. We soon, however, left these astern, having passed within about two miles of them, and at sundown the horizon was clear in all directions. Having a fine wind we were soon up with and passed the latitude of the Cape, and having stood far enough to the south- ward to give it a wide berth, we began to stand to the eastward with a good pro- spect of being round, and steering to the northward on the other side, in a very few days. But ill-luck seemed to have lighted upon us. Not four hours had we been standing on in this course before it fell dead calm, and in half-an-hour it clouded up ; a few straggling blasts, with spits of snow and sleet, came from the eastward; and in an hour more we lay hove to under a close-reefed main top- sail, drifting bodily off to leeward before the fiercest storm that we had yet felt, blowing dead a-head from the eastward. It seemed as though the Genius of the place had been roused at finding that we had nearly slipped through his fingers, and had come down upon us with tenfold fury. The sailors said that every blast, as it shook the shrouds and whistled through the rigging, said to the old ship, " No, you don't ! no, you don't ! " For eight days we lay drifting about in this manner. Sometimes, generally to- wards noon, it fell calm ; once or twice a round copper ball showed itself for a few moments in the place where the sun ought to have been ; and a puff or two came from the westward, giving some hope that a fair wind had come at last. During the first two days w r e made sail for these puffs, shaking the reefs out of the top-sails and boarding the tacks of the courses ; but finding that it only made work for us when the gale set in again, it was soon given up, and we lay-to under our close-reefs. We had less snow and hail than when we were farther to the westward, but we had an abundance of what is worse to a sailor in cold weather — drenching rain. Snow is blinding, and very bad when coming upon a coast, but, for genuine discomfort, give me rain with freezing weather. A snow-storm is ex- citing, and it does not wet through the clothes (which is important to a sailor), but a constant rain there is no escaping from, it wets to the skin and makes all protec- tion vain. We had long ago run through all our dry clothes ; and, as sailors have no other way of drying them than by the sun, we had nothing to do but to put on those which were the least wet. At the end of each watch, when we came below, we took off our clothes and wrung them out ; two taking hold of a pair of trousers, one at each end, and jackets in the same 444 R. H. DANA. way. Stockings, mittens, and all were wrung out also, and then hung up to drain and chafe dry against the bulk- heads. Then, feeling of all our clothes, we picked out those which were the least wet and put them on, so as to be ready for a call, and turned in, covered our- selves up with blankets and slept until three knocks on the scuttle and the dis- mal sound of " All starbowlines, ahoy ! Eight bells, there below ! Do you hear the news?" drawled out from on deck, and the sulky answer of " Ay, ay ! " from be- low, sent us up again. On deck all was as dark as a pocket, and either a dead calm, with the rain pouring steadily down, or more generally a violent gale dead a-head, with rain pelt- ing horizontally, and occasional varia- tions of hail and sleet ; decks afloat with water swashing from side to side, and constantly wet feet— for boots could not be wrung out like drawers, and no com- position could stand the constant soaking. In fact, wet and cold feet are inevitable in such weather, and are not the least of those little items which go to make up the grand total of the discomforts of a winter -passage round the Cape. Few words were spoken between the watches as they shifted ; the wheel was relieved, the mate took his place on the quarter- deck, the look-outs in the bows, and each man had his narrow space to walk fore and aft in, or rather to swing himself for- ward and back in, from one belaying-pin to another — for the decks were too slip- pery with ice and water to allow of much walking. To make a walk, which is ab- solutely necessary to pass away the time, one of us hit upon the expedient of sand- ing the deck ; and afterwards, whenever the rain was not so violent as to wash it j off, the weather-side of the quarter-deck [ and a part of the waist and forecastle i were sprinkled with the sand which we | had on board for holy-stoning ; and thus ' we made a good promenade, where we walked fore and aft, two and two, hour after hour, in our long, dull and comfort- less watches. The bells seemed to be an hour or two apart, instead of half-an-hour, and an age to elapse before the welcome sound of eight bells. The sole object was to make the time pass on. Any change was sought for which would break the monotony of the time ; and even the two hours' trick at the wheel, which came round to each of us in turn once in every ether watch, was looked upon as a relief. Even the never-failing resource of long yarns, which eke out many a watch, seemed to have failed us now ; for we had been so long together that we had heard each other's stories told over and over again, till we had them by heart; each one knew the whole history of each of the others, and we were fairly and literally talked out. Singing and joking we were in no humour for ; and, in fact, any sound of mirth or laughter would have struck strangely upon our ears, and would not have been tolerated any more than whistling or a wind instrument. The last resort, that of speculating upon the the future, seemed now to fail us ; for our discouraging situation and the danger we were really in (as we expected every day to find ourselves drifted back among the ice), " clapped a stopper " upon all that. From saying, " when we get home," we began insensibly to alter it to " if we get home;" and at last the subject was dropped by a tacit consent. In this state of things a new light was struck out, and a new field opened by a change in the watch. One of our watch was laid up for two or three days by a bad hand (for in cold weather the least cut or bruise ripens into a sore), and his place was supplied by the carpenter. This was a windfall ; and there was quite a contest who should have the carpenter to walk with him. As " chips " was a man of some little education, and he and I had had a good deal of intercourse with each other, he fell in with me in my walk. He was a Fin, but spoke English very well, and gave me long accounts of his country, the customs, the trades, the towns, what little he knew of the government (I found he was no friend of Russia), his voyages, his first arrival in America, his marriage and courtship— he had married a country- woman of his, a dressmaker, whom he met with in Boston. I had very little to tell him of my quiet, sedentary life at home ; and in spite of our best efforts, which had protracted these yarns through five or six watches, we fairly talked one another out, and I turned him over to another man in the watch, and put myself upon my own resources. I commenced a deliberate system of time-killing, which united some profit with a cheering up of the heavy hours. As soon as I came on deck, and took my place and regular walk, I began with repeating over to myself a string of matters which I had in my memory, in regular order. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 445 First, the multiplication table and the tables of weights and measures ; then the states of the union, with their capitals ; the counties of England with their shire towns; the kings of England in their order; and a large part of the peerage, which I committed from an almanac that we had on board ; and then the Kanaka numerals. This carried me through my facts, and being repeated deliberately, with long intervals, often eked out the first two bells. Then came the ten command- ments, the thirty-ninth chapter of Job, and a few other passages from scripture. The next in the order, that I never varied from, came Cowper's Castaway, which was a great favourite with me ; the solemn measure and gloomy character of which, as well as the incident that it was founded upon, made it well suited to a lonely watch at sea. Then his lines to Mary, his ad- dress to the Jackdaw, and a short extract from Table Talk (I abounded in Cowper, for I happened to have a volume of his poems in my chest) ; Ille et nefasto, from Horace; and Goethe's Erl King. After I had got through these, I allowed myself a more general range among every- thing that I could remember, both in prose and verse. In this way, with an occasional break by relieving the wheel, heaving the log, and going to the scuttle- butt for a drink of water, the longest watch was passed away ; and I was so regular in my silent recitations, that if there was no interruption by ship's duty, I could tell very nearly the number of bells by my progress. Our watches below were no more varied than the watch on deck. All washing, sewing, and reading was given up ; and we did nothing but eat, sleep, and stand our watch, leading what might be called a Cape Horn life. The forecastle was too uncomfortable to sit up in ; and whenever we were below, we were in our berths. To prevent the rain and the sea-water which broke over the bows, from washing down, we were obliged to keep the scut- tle closed, so that the forecastle was nearly air-tight. In this little, wet, leaky hole, we were all quartered, in an atmosphere so bad, that our lamp, which swung in the middle from the beams, sometimes actu- ally burned blue, with a large circle of foul air about it. Still I was never in bet- ter health than after three weeks of this life. I gained a great deal of flesh ; and we all ate like horses. At every watch, when we came below, before turning-in, the bread-barge and beef-kid were over- hauled. Each man drank his quart of hot tea night and morning ; and glad enough we were to get it, for no nectar and ambrosia were sweeter to the lazy immortals, than was a pot of hot tea, a hard biscuit, and a slice of cold salt beef to us, after a watch on deck. To be sure, we were mere animals, and had this life lasted a year, instead of a month, we should have been little better than the ropes in the ship. Not a razor, nor a brush, nor a drop of water, except the rain and the spray, had come near us all the time ; for we were on an allowance of fresh water; and who would strip and wash himself in salt water on deck, in the snow and ice, with the thermometer at zero ? After about eight days of constant easterly gales, the wind hauled occasion- ally a little to the southward, and blew hard, which, as we were well to the south- ward, allowed us to brace in a little and stand on, under all the sail we could carry. These turns lasted but a short while, and sooner or later it set in again from the old quarter ; yet at each time we made something, and were gradually edging along to the eastward. One night, after one of these shifts of the wind, and when all hands had been up a great part of the time, our watch was left on deck, with the mainsail hanging in the bunthnes, ready to be set, if necessary. It came on to blow worse and worse, with hail and snow beating like so many furies upon the ship, it being as dark and thick as night could make it. The mainsail was blow- ing and slatting with a noise like thun- der, when the captain came on deck, and ordered it to be furled. The mate was about to call all hands, when the captain stopped him, and said that the men would be beaten out, if they were called up so often ; that as our watch must stay on deck, it might as well be doing that as anything else. Accordingly we went upon the yard ; and never shall I fox-get that piece of work. Our watch had been so reduced by sickness, and by some having been left in California, that, with one man at the wheel, we had only the third mate and three beside myself to go aloft ; so that, at most, we could only attempt to furl one yard-arm at a time. We manned the weather yard-arm, and set to work to make a furl of it. Our lower masts being short, and our yards very square, the sail had a head of nearly fifty feet, and a short 446 R. H. DANA. leach made still shorter by the deep reef which was in it, which brought the clew away out on the quarters of the yard, and made a bunt nearly as square as the mizen royal-yard. Beside this difficulty, the yard over which we lay was cased with ice, the gaskets and rope of the foot and leach of the sail as stiff and hard as a piece of suction hose, and the sail itself about as pliable as though it had been made of sheets of sheathing-copper. It blew a perfect hurricane, with alternate blasts of snow, hail, and rain. We had to fist the sail with bare hands. No one could trust himself to mittens, for if he slipped he was a gone man. All the boats were hoisted in on deck, and there was nothing to be lowered for him. We had need of every finger God had given us. Several times we got the sail upon the yard, but it blew away again before we could secure it. It required men to lie over the yard to pass each turn of the gaskets ; and when they were passed, it was almost impossible to knot them so that they would hold. Frequently we were obliged to leave off altogether, and take to beating our hands upon the sail, to keep them from freezing. After some time, which seemed for ever, we got the weather side stowed after a fashion, and went over to leeward for another trial. This was still worse, for the body of the sail had been blown over to leeward ; and as the yard was a-cock-bill by the lying over of the vessel, we had to light it all up to windward. When the yard-arms were furled, the bunt was all adrift again, which made more work for us. We got all secure at last ; but we had been nearly an hour and a half upon the yard, and it seemed an age. It had just struck five bells when we went up, and eight were struck soon after we came down. This may seem slow work; but, considering the state of everything, and that we had only five men to a sail, with just half as many square yards of canvass in it as the main-sail of the Independence, sixty-gun- ship, which musters seven hundred men at her quarters, it is not wonderful that we were no quicker about it. We were glad enough to get on deck, and still more to go below. The oldest sailor in the watch said, as he went down, " I shall never forget that main-yard ; it beats all my going a-fishing. Fun is fun ; but furl- in g one yard-arm of a course, at a time, off Cape Horn, is no better than man- killing." During the greater part of the next two days the wind was pretty steady from the southward. We had evidently made great progress, and had good hope of being soon up with the Cape, if we were not there already. We could put but little confi- dence in our reckoning, as there had been no opportunities for an observation, and we had drifted too much to allow of our dead reckoning being anywhere near the mark. If it would clear off enough to give a chance for an observation, or if we could make land, we should know where we were ; and upon these, and the chances of falling in with a sail from the eastward, we depended almost entirely. Friday, July 22nd. — This day we had a steady gale from the southward, and stood on under close sail, with the yards eased a little by the weather braces, the clouds lifting a little, and showing signs of breaking away. In the afternoon, I was below with Mr. H , the third mate, and two others, filling the bread-locker in the steerage from the casks, when a bright gleam of sunshine broke out and shone down the companion-way and through the skylight, lighting up everything be- low, and sending a warm glow through the heart of every one. It was a sight we had not seen for weeks — an omen — a God-send. Even the roughest and hard- est face acknowledged its influence. Just at that moment we heard a loud shout from all parts of the deck, and the mate called out down the companion-way to the captain, who was sitting in the cabin. What he said we could not distinguish ; but the captain kicked over his chair, and was on deck at one jump. We could not tell what it was ; and anxious as we were to know, the discipline of the ship would not allow of our leaving our places. Yet, as we were not called, we knew there was no danger. We hurried to get through with our job, when, seeing the steward's black face peering out of the pantry, Mr. H— — hailed him, to know what was the matter. " Lan'o, to be sure, sir ! No, you hear 'em sing out, Lan'o ? De cap'em say 'im Cape Horn !" This gave us a new start, and we were soon through our work, and on deck ; and there lay the land, fair upon the larboard beam, and slowly edging away upon the quarter. All hands were busy looking at it — the captain and mates from the quarter- deck, the cook from his galley, and the sailors from the forecastle ; and even Mr. N , the passenger, who had kept in his VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 447 shell for nearly a month, and hardly heen seen hy anybody, and who we had almost forgotten was on board, came out like a butterfly, and was hopping round as bright as a bird. The land was the island of Staten Land, just to the eastward of Cape Horn ; and a more desolate looking spot I never wish to set eyes upon ; bare, broken, and girt with rocks and ice, with here and there, between the rocks and broken hillocks, a little stunted vegetation of shrubs. It was a place well suited to stand at the junction of the two oceans, beyond the reach of human cultivation, and encounter the blasts and snows of a perpetual win- ter. Yet, dismal as it was, it was a plea- sant sight to us ; not only as being the first land we had seen, but because it told us that we had passed the Cape, were in the Atlantic, and that, with twenty-four hours of this breeze, might bid defiance to the Southern Ocean. It told us, too, our latitude and longitude better than any observation ; and the captain now knew where we were, as well as if we were off the end of Long Wharf. In the general joy Mr. N. said he should like to go ashore upon the island, and exa- mine a spot which, probably, no human being had ever set foot upon ; but the captain intimated that he would see the island, specimens and all, in another place, before he would get out a boat, or delay the ship one moment for him. We left the land gradually astern ; and at sun-down had the Atlantic Ocean clear before us. R. H. Dana. ENGLISH PROSE. PART IX. NATURAL HISTORY. ISAAK WALTON (For Notes of his Life see p. 168.) THE TROUT. The trout is a fish highly valued both in this and foreign nations ; he may be justly said, as the old poet said of wine, and we English say of venison, to be a generous fish ; a fish that is so like the buck that he also has his seasons ; for it is observed, that he comes in and goes out of season with the stag and buck ; Gesner says his name is of a German offspring, and says he is a fish that feeds clean and purely, in the swiftest streams and on the hardest gravel; and that he may justly contend with all fresh-water fish, as the mullet may with all sea-fish, for prece- dency and daintiness of taste, and that, being in right season, the most dainty palates have allowed precedency to him. And before I go farther in my dis- course, let me tell you, that you are to observe that, as there be some barren does that are good in summer, so there be some barren trouts that are good in winter ; but there are not many that are so, for usually they be in their perfection in the month of May, and decline with the buck. Now you are to take notice that, in several countries, as in Germany and in other parts, compared to ours, fish do differ much in their bigness and shape, and other ways, and so do trouts ; it is well known that, in the lake Leman, the lake of Geneva, there are trouts taken three cubits long, as is affirmed by Ges- ner, a writer of good credit ; and Mer- cator says, the trouts that are taken in the lake of Geneva are a great part of the merchandise of that famous city. And you are further to know, that there be certain waters that breed trouts remark- able both for their number and smallness. I know a little brook in Kent that breeds them to a number incredible, and you may take them twenty or forty in an hour, but none greater than about the size of a gudgeon ; there are also in divers rivers, especially that relate to, or be near to the sea, as Winchester, or the Thames about Windsor, a little trout called a samlet or skegger-trout, in both which places I have caught twenty or forty at a stand- ing, that will bite as fast and as freely as minnows ; these be by some taken to be young salmons, but in those waters they never grow to be bigger than a herring. There is also in Kent, near to Canter- bury, a trout called there a Fordidge trout, a trout that bears the name of the town where it is usually caught, that is ac- counted the rarest of fish ; many of them near the bigness of a salmon, but known by their different colour, and in their best season they cut very white ; and none of these have been known to be caught with an angle, unless it were one that was caught by Sir George Hastings, an excel- lent angler, and now with God ; and he hath told me, he thought that trout bit not for hunger but wantonness ; and it is NATURAL HISTORY. 449 the rather to be believed, because both he then, and many others before him, have been curious to search into their bellies, what the food was by which they lived, and have found out nothing by which they might satisfy their curiosity. There is also in Northumberland a trout called a bull-trout, of a much greater length and bigness than any in these southern parts : and there are in many rivers that relate to the sea, salmon-trouts, as much different from others, both in shape and in their spots, as we see sheep in some countries differ one from another in their shape and bigness, and in the fineness of their wool ; and certainly, as some pastures breed larger sheep, so do some rivers, by reason of the ground over which they run, breed larger trouts. Now the next thing that I will com- mend to your consideration is, that the trout is of a more sudden growth than other fish ; concerning which you are also to take notice, that he lives not so long as the perch and divers other fishes do, as Sir Francis Bacon hath observed in his History of Life and Death. And next you are to take notice, that he is not like the crocodile, which if he lives never so long, yet always thrives till his death ; but 't is not so with the trout ; for after he is come to his full growth he declines in his body, and keeps his big- ness or thrives only in his head till his death. And you are to know, that he will about, especially before, the time of his spawning, get almost miraculously through wears and flood-gates against the streams, even through such high and swift places as is almost incredible : next, that the trout usually spawns about Oc- tober or November, but in some rivers a little sooner or later ; which is the more observable, because most other fish spawn in the spring or summer, when the sun hath warmed both the earth and water, and made it fit for generation. And you are to note, that he continues many months out of season : for it may be ob- served of the trout, that he is like the buck or the ox, that will not be fat in many months, though he go in the very same pasture that horses do, which will be fat in one month ; and so you may ob- serve, that most other fishes recover strength and grow sooner fat and in season than the trout doth. And next you are to note, that till the sun gets to such a height as to warm the earth and the water, the trout is sick and lean, and lousy and unwholesome : for you shall in winter find him to have a big head, and then to be lank and thin and lean ; at which time many of them have sticking on them sugs or trout-lice, which is a kind of a worm, in shape like a clove or pin, with a big head, and sticks close to him and sucks his moisture ; those I think the trout breeds himself, and never thrives till he free himself from them, which is when warm weather comes ; and then, as he grows stronger, he gets from the dead, still water into the sharp streams and the gravel, and there rubs off these w r orms or lice; and then, as he grows stronger, so he gets him into swifter and swifter streams, and there lies at the watch for any fly or minnow that comes near to him ; and he especially loves the may-fly, which is bred of the cod-worm or cadis ; and these make the trout bold and lusty, and he is usually fatter and better meat at the end of that month than at any time of the year. Now you are to know that it is ob- served, that usually the best trouts are either red or yellow ; though some, as the Fordidge trout, be white and yet good ; but that is not usual : and it is a note ob- servable, that the female trout hath usually a less head and a deeper body than the male trout, and is usually the better meat : and note, that a hog-back and a little head to either trout, salmon, or any other fish, is a sign that that fish is in season. But yet you are to note, that as you see some willows or palm-trees bud and blos- som sooner than others do, so some trouts be in rivers sooner in season ; and as some hollies or oaks are longer before they cast their leaves, so are some trouts in rivers longer before they go out of season. And you are to note, that there are several kinds of trouts, but these several kinds are not considered but by very few men, for they go under the general name of trouts ; just as pigeons do in most places, though it is certain there are tame and wild pigeons ; and of the tame there be helmets and runts, and carriers and cropers, and indeed too many to name. Nay, the Royal Society have found and published lately, that there be thirty and three kinds of spiders ; and yet all, for aught I know, go under that one general name of spider. And 't is so with many kinds of fish, and of trouts especially, which differ in their bigness and shape, and spots and colour. The great Kentish 450 GILBERT WHITE. hens may be an instance compared to other hens ; and doubtless there is a kind of small trout which will never thrive to be big, that breeds very many more than others do that be of a larger size ; which you may rather believe, if you consider that the little wren and titmouse will have twenty young ones at a time, when usually the noble hawk, or the musical thrassel or black-bird, exceed not four or five. Isaak Walton. GILBERT WHITE the author of the Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, a village and large parish in Hampshire, mid-way between the towns of Petersfield and Alton, was born at Selborne on the 18th of July 1720, and educated at Basingstoke and at Oriel Col- lege, Oxford. He retired from Oxford to his native place, and there passed his days, devoted to literature, and particularly to the study of natural history. He was a gentle enthusiast, and tells us that his pursuits, by keeping the body and mind em- ployed, had, under Providence, contributed to much health and cheerfulness of spirits even to old age. He died on the 26th of June 1793. GOLD AND SILVER FISH. "When I happen to visit a family where gold and silver fishes are kept in a glass bowl, I am always pleased with the oc- currence, because it offers me an oppor- tunity of observing the actions and pro- pensities of those beings with whom we can be little acquainted in their natural state. Not long since I spent a fortnight at the house of a friend where there was such a vivary, to which I paid no small attention, taking every occasion to re- mark what passed within its narrow limits. It was here that I first observed the manner in which fishes die. As soon as the creature sickens the head sinks lower and lower, and it stands as it were on its head, till, getting weaker and losing all poise, the tail turns over, and at last it floats on the surface of the water with its belly uppermost. The reason why fishes, when dead, swim in that manner is very obvious; because, when the body is no longer balanced by the fins of the belly, the broad muscular back preponderates by its own gravity and turns the belly uppermost, as lighter from its being a cavity, and because it contains the swim- ming-bladders, which contribute to render it buoyant. Some that delight in gold and silver fishes have adopted a notion that they need no aliment. True it is that they will subsist for a long time with- out any apparent food but what they can collect from pure water frequently changed ; yet they must draw some sup- port from animalcula, and other nourish- ment supplied by the water; because, though they seem to eat nothing, yet the consequences of eating often drop from them. That they are best pleased with such jejune diet may easily be confuted, since, if you toss them crumbs, they will seize them with great readiness, not to say greediness ; however, bread should be given sparingly, lest, turning sour, it cor- rupt the water. They will also feed on the water-plant called lemna (duck's meat), and also on small fry. When they want to move a little they gently protrude themselves with their pinna perforates, but it is with their strong muscular tails only that they and all fishes shoot along with such incon- ceivable rapidity. It has been said that the eyes of fishes are immoveable, but these apparently turn them forward or backward in their sockets as their occa- sions require. They take little notice of a lighted candle though applied close to their heads, but flounce and seem much frightened by a sudden stroke of the hand against the support whereon the bowl is hung, especially when they have been motionless and are perhaps asleep. As fishes have no eyelids, it is not easy to discern when they are sleeping or not, because their eyes are always open. Nothing can be more amusing than a NATURAL HISTORY. 451 glass bowl containing such fishes : the double refractions of the glass and water represent them, when moving, in a shift- ing and changeable variety of dimensions, shades and colours ; while the two me- diums, assisted by the concavo-convex shape of the vessel, magnify and distort them vastly ; not to mention that the in- troduction of another element and its in- habitants into our parlours engages the fancy in a very agreeable manner. Gold and silver fishes, though originally natives of China and Japan, yet are become so well reconciled to our climate as to tbrive and multiply very fast in our ponds and stews. Linnaeus ranks this species of fish under the genus of Cyprinus or carp, and calls it Cyprinus auratus. Gilbert White. SNAKES' SLOUGH. About the middle of this month (Sep- tember) we found in a field near a hedge the slough of a large snake, which seemed to have been newly cast. From circum- stances it appeared as if turned wrong side outward, and as drawn off backward, like a stocking or woman's glove. Not only the whole skin, but scales from the very eyes are peeled off, and appear in the head of the slough like a pair of spectacles. The reptile, at the time of changing his coat, had entangled himself intricately in the grass and weeds, so that the friction of the stalks and blades might promote this curious shifting of his exuviae. Lubrica serpens JUUUI1VU CV.ip»_llO Exuit in spinis vestem. — Lucret. It would be a most entertaining sight could a person be an eye-witness to such a feat, and see the snake in the act of changing his garment. As the convexity of the scales in the eyes in the slough is now inward, that circumstance alone is a proof that the skin has been turned ; not to mention that now the present inside is much darker than the outer. If you look through the scales of the snake's eyes from the concave side, viz. as the reptile used them, they lessen objects much. Thus it appears from what has been said, that snakes crawl out of the mouth of their own sloughs and quit the tail part last, just as eels are skinned by a cook- maid. While the scales of the eyes are growing loose and a new skin is forming, the creature, in appearance, must be blind, and feel itself in an awkward uneasy situ- ation. Gilbert White. SPIDERS. On September the 21st, 1741, being then on a visit, and intent on field diver- sions, I rose before daybreak : when I came into the enclosures, I found the stubbles and clover-grounds matted all over with a thick coat of cobweb, in the meshes of which a copious and heavy dew hung so plentifully that the whole face of the country seemed as it were covered with two or three setting-nets drawn one over another. When the dogs attempted to hunt, their eyes were so blinded and hoodwinked that they could not proceed, but were obliged to lie down and scrape the incumbrances from their faces with their fore-feet ; so that, finding my sport interrupted, I returned home, musing in my mind on the oddness of the occur- rence. As the morning advanced the sun be- came bright and warm, and the day turned out one of those most lovely ones which no season but the autumn produces — cloudless, calm, serene, and worthy of the south of France itself. About nine an appearance very unusual began to demand our attention, a shower of cobwebs falling from very elevated re- gions, and continuing, without any inter- ruption, till the close of the day. These webs were not single, filmy threads, float- ing in the air in all directions, but perfect flakes or rags ; some near an inch broad and five or six long, which fell with a de- gree of velocity that showed they were considerably heavier than the atmosphere. On every side, as the observer turned his eyes, might he behold a continual suc- cession of fresh flakes falling into his sight, and twinkling like stars as they turned their sides towards the sun. How far this wonderful shower ex- tended would be difficult to say, but we know that it reached Bradley, Selborne and Alresford, three places which he in a sort of a triangle, the shortest of whose sides is about eight miles in extent. At the second of those places there was a gentleman (for whose veracity and in- telligent turn we have the greatest vene- ration) who observed it the moment he 452 GILBERT WHITE. got abroad ; but concluded that, as soon as he came upon the hill above his house, where he took his morning rides, he should be higher than this meteor, which he imagined might have been blown, like thistle-down, from the common above : but, to his great astonishment, when he rode to the most elevated part of the down, three hundred feet above his fields, he found the webs in appearance still as much above him as before, still descend- ing into sight in a constant succession, and twinkling in the sun, so as to draw the attention of the most incurious. Neither before nor after was any such fall observed ; but on this day the flakes hung in the trees and hedges so thick, that a diligent person sent out might have gathered baskets full. The remark that I shall make on these cobweb-like appearances, called gossamer, is, that strange and superstitious as the notions about them were formerly, nobody in these days doubts but that they are the real production of small spiders, which swarm in the fields in fine weather in autumn, and have a power of shooting out webs from their tails so as to render them- selves buoyant and lighter than air. But why these apterous insects should that day take such a wonderful aerial excur- sion, and why their webs should at once become so gross and material as to be considerably more weighty than air, and to descend with precipitation, is a matter beyond my skill. If I might be allowed to hazard a supposition, I should imagine that those filmy threads, when first shot, might be entangled in the rising dew, and so drawn up, spiders and all, by a brisk evaporation into the regions where clouds are formed : and if the spiders have a power of coiling and thickening their webs in the air, as Dr. Lister says they have (see his Letters to Mr. Ray), then, when they were become heavier than air, they must fall. Every day in fine weather, in autumn chiefly, do " I see those spiders shooting out their webs and mounting aloft : they will go off from your finger if you will take them into your hand. Last summer one alighted on my book as I was reading in the parlour ; and, running to the top of the page and shooting out a web, took its departure from thence. But what I most wondered at was, that it went off with considerable velocity in a place where no air was stirring ; and I am sure that I did not assist it with my breath : so that these little crawlers seem to have, while mounting, some locomotive power without the use of wings, and to move in the air faster than the air itself. Gilbert White. SOCIALITY OF THE BRUTE CREATION. There is a wonderful spirit of sociality in the brute creation, independent of sex- ual attachment : the congregating of gre- garious birds in the winter is a remark- able instance. Many horses, though quiet with com- pany, will not stay one minute in a field by themselves : the strongest fences can- not restrain them. My neighbour's horse will not only not stay by himself abroad, but he will not bear to be left alone in a strange stable without discovering the utmost impatience, and endeavouring to break the rack and manger with his fore feet : he has been known to leap out at a stable window, through which clung was thrown, after company ; and yet in other respects is remarkably quiet. Oxen and cows will not fatten by themselves, but will neglect the finest pasture that is not recommended by society. It would be needless to instance in sheep, which con- stantly flock together. But this propensity seems not to be confined to animals of the same species ; for we know a doe, still alive, that was brought up from a little fawn with a dairy of cows ; with them it goes afield, and with them it returns to the yard. The dogs of the house take no notice of this deer, being used to her ; but, if strange dogs comeby, a chase ensues; while the master smiles to see his favourite securely leading her pursuers over hedge, or gate, or stile, till she returns to the cows, who, with fierce lowings and menacing horns, drive the assailants quite out of the pasture. Even great disparity of kind and size does not always prevent social advances and mutual fellowship. For v a very in- telligent and observant person has assured me that,in the former part of his life, keep- ing but one horse, he happened also on a time to have but one solitary hen. These two incongruous animals spent much of their time together in a lonely orchard, where they saw no creature but each other. By degrees an apparent regard began to take place between these two sequestered individuals. The fowl would NATURAL HISTORY. 453 approach the quadruped with notes of com- placency, rubbing herself gently against his legs ; while the horse would look down with satisfaction, and move with the greatest caution and circumspection, lest he should trample on his dimiuutive com- panion. Thus, by mutual good offices, each seemed to console the vacant hours of the other. Gilbert White. ALEXANDER WILSON the author of American Ornithology, was the son of a Scotch peasant, and born at Paisley, on the 6th of July 1766. In his thirteenth year he was apprenticed for three years to a weaver, and worked at his trade until about four years after his ap- prenticeship had ended, when he abandoned it to travel as a pedlar, — an occupation which gave him more leisure for reading and for making verses, which he began to write as early as his sixteenth, and to publish about his twenty-fourth year. In 1794 he determined to quit Scotland, because he had made himself obnoxious in Paisley as a favourer of the French revolution, and by writing satires against the people of the town. He saved money by working hard at his loom and living for four months at the rate of a shilling a week, and sailed to the United States, where he landed in July 1794. There he worked successively as a printer, a weaver, a pedlar, and a school- master, until 1802, when the perusal of Edwards's and Catesby's books on natural history aroused his genius ; he applied to drawing, and in 1803 began to make a col- lection of birds. From this time to the day of his death he was engaged, with little intermission, in travelling through the country, collecting materials, and preparing for publication. He meant to complete his work in nine volumes, and lived to finish eight, and the plates for the ninth. He died on the 23rd of August 1813, and was buried in the cemetery of the Swedish church in Southwark, Philadelphia. Wilson's birds were beautifully painted, but in this part of the work he has been since surpassed : as a writer on ornithology, it seems scarcely possible that he should ever be surpassed. It was by frequent excursions in the woods and fields, along lakes, shores and rivers, that he acquired his knowledge, and the descriptions were generally written on the spot, with the subjects in view, leaving as little as possible to recollection. THE WHITE-HEADED OR BALD EAGLE OF AMERICA. The celebrated cataract of Niagara is a noted place of resort for the bald eagle, as well on account of the fish procured there, as for the numerous carcasses of squirrels, deer, bears, and various other animals, that, in their attempts to cross the river above the falls, have been dragged into the current and precipitated down that tremendous gulf, where, among the rocks that bound the rapids below, they furnish a rich repast for the vulture, the raven, and the bald eagle, the subject of the present account. He has been long known to naturalists, being common to both continents, and occasionally met with from a very high northern latitude to the borders of the torrid zone, but chiefly in the vicinity of the sea and along the shores and cliffs of our lakes and large rivers. Formed by nature for braving the severest cold ; feeding equally on the produce of the sea and of the land ; pos- sessing powers of flight capable of out- stripping even the tempests themselves ; unawed by anything but man ; and, from the ethereal heights to which he soars, looking abroad, at one glance, on an im- measurable expanse of forests, fields, lakes and ocean, deep below him, he appears indifferent to the little localities of change of seasons ; as, in a few minutes, he can 454 ALEXANDER WILSON. pass from summer to winter, from the lower to the higher regions of the atmo- sphere, the abode of eternal cold, and from thence descend, at will, to the torrid or the arctic regions of the earth. He is therefore found at all seasons in the coun- tries he inhabits ; but prefers such places as have been mentioned above, from the great partiality he has for fish. In procuring these, he displays, in a very singular manner, the genius and energy of his character, which is fierce, contemplative, daring and tyrannical ; at- tributes not exerted but on particular occasions, but when put forth, overpower- ing all opposition. Elevated on the high dead limb of some gigantic tree that com- mands a wide view of the neighbouring shore and ocean, he seems calmly to con- template the motions of the various fea- thered tribes that pursue their busy avoca- tions below ; the snow-white gulls slowly winnowing the air ; the busy tringce coursing along the sands ; trains of ducks streaming over the surface ; silent and watchful cranes, intent and wading ; cla- morous crows ; and all the winged mul- titudes that subsist by the bounty of this vast liquid magazine of nature. High over all these hovers one whose action instantly arrests his whole attention : by his wide curvature of wing and sudden suspension in air, he knows him to be the fish-hawk, settling over some devoted victim of the deep. His eye kindles at the sight, and balancing himself, with half-opened wings, on the branch, he watches the result. Down, rapid as an arrow from heaven, descends the distant object of his attention, the roar of its wings reaching the ear as it disappears in the deep, making the surges foam around ! At this moment the eager looks of the eagle are all ardour; and, levelling his neck for flight, he sees the fish-hawk once more emerge, struggling with his prey, and mounting in the air with screams of exultation. These are the signal for our hero, who, launching into the air, in- stantly gives chase, and soon gains on the fish-hawk; each exerts his utmost to mount above the other, displaying in these rencontres the most elegant and sublime aerial evolutions. The unencum- bered eagle rapidly advances, and is just on the point of reaching his opponent, when, with a sudden scream, probably of despair and honest execration, the latter drops his fish : the eagle, poising himself for a moment, as if to take a more certain aim, descends like a whirlwind, snatches it in his grasp ere it reaches the water, and bears his ill-gotten booty silently away to the woods. These predatory attacks and defensive manoeuvres of the eagle and the fish- hawk are matters of daily observation along the whole of our sea-board, from Georgia to New England, and frequently excite great interest in the spectators. Sympathy, however, on this as on most other occasions, generally sides with the honest and laborious sufferer, in oppo- sition to the attacks of power, injustice, and rapacity, qualities for which our hero is so generally notorious, and which in his superior, man, are certainly detestable. As for the feelings of the poor fish, they seem altogether out of the question. When driven, as he sometimes is, by the combined courage and perseverance of the fish-hawks from their neighbourhood, and forced to hunt for himself, he retires more inland, in search of young pigs, of which he destroys great numbers. In the lower parts of Virginia and North Carolina, where the inhabitants raise vast herds of those animals, complaints of this kind are very general against him. He also de- stroys young lambs in the early part of spring ; and will sometimes attack old sickly sheep, aiming furiously at their eyes. The nest of this species is generally fixed on a very large and lofty tree, often in a swamp or morass, and difficult to be ascended. On some noted tree of this description, often a pine or cypress, the bald eagle builds, year after year, for a long series of years. When both male and female have been shot from the nest, another pair has soon after taken posses- sion. The nest is large, being added to and repaired every season, until it be- comes a black prominent mass, observable at a considerable distance. It is formed of large sticks, sods, earthy rubbish, hay, moss, &c. Many have stated to me that the female lays first a single egg, and that, after having sat on it for some time, she lays another; when the first is hatched, the warmth of that, it is pre- tended, hatches the other. Whether tins be correct or not I cannot determine ; but a very respectable gentleman of Vir- ginia assured me that he saw a large tree cut down, containing the nest of a bald eagle, in which were two young, one of which appeared nearly three times as large as the other. As a proof of their attach- NATURAL HISTORY. 455 ment to their young, a person near Nor- folk informed me, that in clearing a piece of wood on his place, they met with a large dead pine-tree, on which was a bald eagle's nest and young. The tree being on fire more than half-way up, and the flames rapidly ascending, the parent eagle darted around and among the flames, until her plumage was so much injured that it was with difficulty she could make her escape, and even then she several times attempted to return to relieve her offspring. No bird provides more abundantly for its young than the bald eagle. Fish are daily carried thither in numbers, so that they sometimes lie scattered round the tree, and the putrid smell of the nest may be distinguished at the distance of several hundred yards. The young are at first covered with a thick whitish or cream- coloured cottony down; they gradually become of a gray colour as their plumage developes itself, continue of the brown - gray until the third year, when the white begins to make its appearance on the head, neck, tail-coverts, and tail ; these by the end of the fourth year are completely white, or very slightly tinged with cream ; the eye also is at first hazel, but gra- dually brightens into a brilliant straw-co- lour, with the white plumage of the head. Such at least was the gradual progress of this change, witnessed by myself, on a very fine specimen brought up by a gen- tleman, a friend of mine, who, for a con- siderable time, believed it to be what is usually called the gray eagle, and was much surprised at the gradual metamor- phosis. This will account for the circum- stance so frequently observed, of the gray and white-headed eagle being seen toge- ther, both being in fact the same species, in different stages of colour, according to their difference of age. The flight of the bald eagle, when taken into consideration with the ardour and energy of his character, is noble and in- teresting. Sometimes the human eye can just discern him, like a minute speck, moving in slow curvatures along the face of the heavens, as if reconnoitring the earth at that immense distance. Some- times he glides along in a direct horizontal fine, at a vast height, with expanded and unmoving wings, till he gradually disap- pears in the distant blue ether. Seen gliding in easy circles over the high shores and mountainous cliffs that tower above the Hudson and Susquehanna, he attracts the eye of the intelligent voyager, and adds great interest to the scenery. At the great cataract of Niagara, already men- tioned, there rises from the gulf into which the falls of the horse-shoe descends, a stupendous column of smoke or spray, reaching to the heavens, and moving off in large black clouds, according to the direction of the wind, forming a very striking and majestic appearance. The eagles are here seen sailing about, some- times losing themselves in this thick column, and again reappearing in another place, with such ease and elegance of motion as renders the whole truly sub- lime. The white-headed eagle is three feet long and seven feet in extent ; the bill is of a rich yellow ; cere the same, slightly tinged with green ; mouth flesh-coloured, tip of the tongue bluish-black ; the head, chief part of the neck, vent, tail-coverts, and tail, are white in the perfect or old birds of both sexes, in those under three years of age these parts are of a gray- brown ; the rest of the plumage is deep dark brown, each feather tipt with pale brown, lightest on the shoulder of the wing, and darkest towards its extremities. The ^'conformation of the wing is admi- rably adapted for the support of so large a bird ; it measures two feet in breadth on the greater quills, and sixteen inches on the lesser ; the longest primaries are twenty inches in length, and upwards of one inch in circumference where they enter the skin ; the broadest secondaries are three inches in breadth across the vane; the scapulars are very large and broad, spreading from the back to the wing, to prevent the air from passing through ; another range of broad flat fea- thers, from three to ten inches in length, also extend from the lower part of the breast to the wing below, for the same purpose ; between these lies a deep trian- gular cavity; the thighs are remarkably thick, strong, and muscular, covered w r ith long feathers pointing backwards, usually called the femoral feathers ; the legs, which are covered half way below the knee, before, with dark brown downy feathers, are of a rich yellow, the colour of ripe Indian corn ; feet the same ; claws blue-black, very large and strong, parti- cularly the inner one, which is consider- ably the largest; soles very rough and warty ; the eye is sunk under a bony or cartilaginous projection, of a pale yellow colour, and is turned considerablv for- 456 ALEXANDER WILSON. wards, not standing parallel with the cheeks ; the iris is of a bright straw-co- lour, pupil black. The male is generally two or three inches shorter than the female ; the white on the head, neck and tail being more tinged with yellowish, and its whole ap- pearance less formidable ; the brown plu- mage is also lighter, and the bird itself less daring than the female, — a circum- stance common to almost all birds of prey. The eagle is said to live to a great age ; sixty, eighty, and, as some assert, one hundred years. This circumstance is re- markable when we consider the seeming intemperate habits of the bird ; some- times fasting, through necessity, for se- veral days, and at other times gorging itself with animal food till its craw swells out the plumage of that part, forming a large protuberance on the breast. This, how- ever, is its natural food, and for these ha- bits its whole organization is particularly adapted. It has not, like men, invented rich wines, ardent spirits, and a thousand artificial poisons in the form of soups, sauces and sweetmeats. Its food is simple ; it indulges freely, uses great exercise, breathes the purest air, is healthy, vigo- rous and long-lived. The lords of the creation themselves might derive some useful hints from these facts, were they not already, in general, too wise or too proud to learn from their inferiors, the fowls of the air and beasts of the field. Alexander Wilson. THE MOCKING-BIRD. This celebrated and very extraordinary bird, in extent and variety of vocal powers, stands unrivalled by the whole feathered songsters of this, or perhaps any other country ; and shall receive from us, in this place, all that attention and respect which superior merit is justly entitled to. Among the many novelties which the discovery of this part of the western con- tinent first brought into notice, we may reckon that of the mocking-bird ; which is not only peculiar to the New World, but inhabits a very considerable extent of both North and South America, having been traced from the States of New En- gland to Brazil, and also among many of the adjacent islands. They are, however, much more numerous in those states south than in those north of the river Delaware, being generally migratory in the latter and resident (at least many of them) in the former. A warm climate and low country, not far from the sea, seem most congenial to their nature ; ac- cordingly, we find the species less nu- merous to the west than to the east of the great range of the Alleghany in the same parallels of latitude. In the severe winter of 1808-9, I found these birds oc- casionally from Frederick sburgh, in Vir- ginia, to the southern parts of Georgia; becoming still more numerous the farther I advanced to the south. The berries of the red cedar, myrtle, holly, cassine shrub, many species of smilax, together with gum-berries, gall-berries, and a profusion of others, with which the luxuriant swampy thickets of those regions abound, furnish them with a perpetual feast. Winged insects also, of which they are very fond and remarkably expert at catch- ing, abound there even in winter, and are an additional inducement to residency. Though rather a shy bird in the northern states, here he appeared almost half do- mesticated, feeding on the cedars and among the thickets of smilax that lined the roads, while I passed within a few feet; playing around the planter's door and hopping along the shingles. During the month of February I sometimes heard a solitary one singing; but on the 2nd of March, in the neighbourhood of Sa- vannah, numbers of them were heard on every hand vying in song with each other, and with the brown thrush, making the whole woods vocal with their melody. Spring was at that time considerably ad- vanced, and the thermometer ranging be- tween 70 and 78 degrees. On arriving at New York, on the 22nd of the same month, I found many parts of the country still covered with snow, and the streets piled with ice to the height of two feet, while neither the brown thrush nor mocking-bhd were observed, even in the lower parts of Pennsylvania, until the 20th of April. The precise time at which the mocking- bird begins to build his nest, varies ac- cording to the latitude in which he re- sides. In the lower parts of Georgia he commences building early in April, but in Pennsylvania rarely before the 10th of May ; and in New York and the States of New England still later. There are par- ticular situations to which he gives the preference. A solitary thorn-bush ; an NATURAL HISTORY. 457 almost impenetrable thicket ; an orange- tree, cedar, or holly-bush, are favourite spots, and frequently selected. It is no great objection with him that these hap- pen sometimes to be near the farm or mansion-house: always ready to defend, but never over anxious to conceal his nest, he very often builds within a small distance of the house ; and not unfre- quently in a pear or apple-tree, rarely at a greater height than six or seven feet from the ground. The nest varies a little with different individuals, according to the conveniency of collecting suitable materials. A very complete one is now lying before me, and is composed of the following substances. First, a quantity of dry twigs and sticks, then withered tops of weeds of the preceding year, inter- mixed with fine straws, hay, pieces of wool and tow ; and, lastly, a thick layer of fine fibrous roots of a light brown co- lour lines the whole. The eggs are four, sometimes five, of a cinerous blue marked with large blotches of brown. The female sits fourteen days, and generally produces two broods in the season, unless robbed of her eggs, in which case she will even build and lay the third time. She is, however, extremely jealous of her nest, and very apt to forsake it if much dis- turbed. It is even asserted by some of our bird dealers, that the old ones will actually destroy the eggs and poison the young if either the one or the other have been handled. But I cannot give credit to this unnatural report. I know, from my own experience, at least, that it is not always their practice ; neither have I ever witnessed a case of the kind above-men- tioned. During the period of incubation, neither cat, dog, animal nor man can ap- proach the ne&t without being attacked. The cats, in particular, are persecuted whenever they make their appearance, till obliged to retreat. But his whole vengeance is most particularly directed against that mortal enemy of his eggs and young, the black snake. Whenever the insidious approaches of this reptile are discovered, the male darts upon it with the rapidity of an arrow, dexterously eluding its bite, and striking it violently and incessantly about the head, where it is very vulnerable. The snake soon be- comes sensible of its danger and seeks to escape, but the intrepid defender of his young redoubles his exertions, and, unless his antagonist be of great magnitude, often succeeds in destroying him. All its pretended powers of fascination avail it nothing against the vengeance of this noble bird. As the snake's strength be- gins to flag, the mocking-bird seizes and rifts it up partly from the ground, beating it with his wings ; and, when the business is completed, he returns to the repository of his young, mounts the summit of the bush, and pours out a torrent of song in token of victory. As it is of some consequence to be able to distinguish a young male bird from a female, the following marks may be at- tended to, by which some pretend to be able to distinguish them in less than a week after they are hatched. These are the breadth and purity of the white on the wings, for that on the tail is not so much to be depended on. This white, in a full-grown male bird, spreads over the whole nine primaries, down to, and con- siderably below, their coverts, which are also white, sometimes slightly tipt with brown. The white of the primaries also extends equally far on both vanes of the feathers. In the female the white is less pure, spreads over only seven or eight of the primaries, does not descend so far, and extends considerably farther down on the broad than on the narrow side of the feathers. The black is also more of a brownish cast. The young birds, if intended for the cage, ought not to be left till they are nearly ready to fly, but should be taken rather young than otherwise ; and may be fed every half-hour with milk thick- ened with Indian meal, mixing occasion- ally with it a little fresh meat cut or minced very fine. After they begin to eat of their own accord, they ought still to be fed by hand, though at longer intervals, and a few cherries, strawberries, &c, now and then thrown in to them. The same sort of food, adding grasshoppers and fruit, particularly the various kinds of berries in which they delight ; and plenty of clear fine gravel is found very proper for them after they are grown up. Should the bird at any time appear sick or de- jected, a few spiders thrown in to him will generally remove these symptoms of disease. If the young bird is designed to be taught by an old one, the best singer should be selected for this office, and no other allowed to be beside him ; or, if by the bird-organ, or mouth-whistling, it should be begun early and continued pretty constantly by the same person, 458 ALEXANDER WILSON. until the scholar, who is seldom inatten- tive, has completely acquired his lesson. The hest singing birds, however, in my own opinion, are those that have been reared in the country, and educated under the tuition of the feathered choristers of the surrounding fields, groves, woods and meadows. The plumage of the mocking-bird, though none of the homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it ; and, had he no- thing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice ; but his figure is well-proportioned and even hand- some. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening and laying up lessons from al- most every species of the feathered crea- tion within his hearing, are really sur- prising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To these qualities we may add that of a voice full, strong and musical, and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow tones of the wood- thrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle. In measure and accent he faithfully follows his originals. In force and sweet- ness of expression he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, mounted on the top of a tall bush or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre- eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompani- ment. Neither is this strain altogether imitative. His own native notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various song- birds, are bold and full, and varied seem- ingly beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally inter- spersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiminished ardour for half-an-hour or an hour at a time. His expanded wings and tail glistening with white, and the buoyant gaiety of his action arresting the eye as his song most irresistibly does the ear, he sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstasy— he mounts and descends as his song swells or dies away ; and, as my friend Mr. Bartram has beau- tifully expressed it, " He bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as if to re- cover or recall his very soul expired in the last elevated strain." While thus ex- erting himself, a bystander destitute of sight would suppose that the whole fea- thered tribes had assembled together on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect, so perfect are his imi- tations. He many times deceives the sportsman and sends him in search of birds that perhaps are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates : even birds themselves are frequently im- posed on by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates ; or dive with precipitation into the depth of thickets at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow- hawk. The mocking-bird loses little of the power and energy of his song by confine- ment. In his domesticated state, when he commences his career of song, it is impossible to stand by uninterested. He whistles for the dog; Caesar starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the hen hurries about with hanging wings and bristled feathers clucking to protect its injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mewing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by his master, though of considerable length, fully and faithfully. He runs over the quiverings of the canary, and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale, or red bird, with such supe- rior execution and effect, that the morti- fied songsters feel their own inferiority and become altogether silent, while he seems to triumph in their defeat by re- doubling his exertions. This excessive fondness for variety, how- ever, in the opinion of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks ; and the warblings of the blue bird, which he exquisitely ma- nages, are mingled with the screaming of swallows or the cackling of hens ; amidst the simple melody of the robin, we are suddenly surprised by the shrill reitera- tions of the whip-poor-will, while the notes of the killdeer, blue jay, martin, baltimore, and twenty others, succeed with such imposing reality, that we look round for the originals, and discover with astonishment that the sole performerinthis singular concert is the admirable bird now before us. During this exhibition of his powers, he spreads his vrings, expands his tail, and throws himself aroimd the cage NATURAL HISTORY. 459 in all the ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing hut to dance, keeping time to the measure of his own music. Both in his native and domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he begins his delightful solo, and sere- nades us the livelong night with a full display of his vocal powers, making the whole neighbourhood ring with his inimi- table medley. Were it not to seem invidious in the eyes of foreigners, I might in this place make a comparative statement between the powers of the mocking-bird and the only bird, I believe, in the world worthy of being compared with him, — the Euro- pean nightingale. This, however, I am unable to do from my own observation, having never myself heard the song of the latter ; and, even if I had, perhaps some- thing might be laid to the score of par- tiality, which, as a faithful biographer, I am anxious to avoid. I shall therefore present the reader with the opinion of a distinguished English naturalist and cu- rious observer on this subject, the Ho- nourable Daines Barrington, who, at the time he made the communication, was vice-president of the Royal Society, to which it was addressed. " It may not be improper here," says this gentleman, " to consider whether the nightingale may not have a very formi- dable competitor in the American mock- ing-bird, though almost all travellers agree that the concert in the European woods is superior to that of the other parts of the globe. I have happened, however, to hear the American mocking- bird in great perfection at Messrs. Vogels and Scotts, in Love-lane, Eastcheap. This bird is believed to be still living, and hath been in England these six years. During the space of a minute he imitated the 1 wood-lark, chaffinch, blackbird, thrush, and sparrow ; I was told also that he ' would bark like a dog ; so that the bird j seems to have no choice in his imitations, i though his pipe comes nearest to our | nightingale of any bird I have yet met j with. With regard to the original notes, j however, of this bird, we are still at a I loss, as this can only be known by those j who are accurately acquainted with the I song of the other American birds. Kalm, i indeed, informs us that the natural song j is excellent ; but this traveller seems not to have been long enough in America to have distinguished what were the genuine notes : with us, mimics do not often suc- ceed but in imitations. I have little j doubt, however, but that this bird would j be fully equal to the song of the nightin- gale in its whole compass ; but then, from the attention which the mocker pays to any other sort of disagreeable noise, these capital notes would be always debased by a bad mixture." On this extract I shall make a few re- marks. If, as is here conceded, the mock- ing-bird be fully equal to the song of the nightingale, and, as I can with confidence add, not only to that but to the song of almost every other bird, besides being ca- pable of exactly imitating various other sounds and voices of animals, his vocal powers are unquestionably superior to those of the nightingale, which possesses its own native notes alone. Farther, if we consider, as is asserted by Mr. Bar- rington, that " one reason of the nightin- gale's being more attended to than others is, that it sings in the night ; " and if we believe with Shakespeare, that The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than a wren, wiiat must we think of that bird who, in the glare of day, when a multitude of songsters are straining then* throats in melody, overpowers all competition, and, by the superiority of his voice, expression and action, not only attracts every ear, but frequently strikes dumb his mortified rivals ? when the silence of night, as well as the bustle of day, bear witness to his melody, and wdien even in captivity in a foreign country he is declared, by the best judges in that country, to be fully equal to the song of their sweetest bird in its whole compass ? The supposed degrada- tion of his song by the introduction of extraneous sounds and unexpected imita- tions, is, in fact, one of the chief excel- lencies of this bird, as these changes give a perpetual novelty to his strain, keep attention constantly awake, and impress every hearer with a deeper interest in what is to follow. In short, if w r e believe in the truth of that mathematical axiom, that the whole is greater than a part, all that is excellent or delightful, amusing or striking in the music of birds, must be- long to that admirable songster whose vocal powers are equal to the whole com- pass of their whole strains. The native notes of the mocking-bird have a considerable resemblance to those of the brown thrush, but may easily be X2 460 ALEXANDER WILSON. distinguished by their greater rapidity, sweetness, energy of expression and va- riety. Both, however, have in many parts of the United States, particularly in those to the south, obtained the name of mock- ing-bird ; the first, or brown thrush, from its inferiority of song, being called the French, and the other the English mock- ing-bird, — a mode of expression probably originating in the prejudices of our fore- fathers, with whom everything French was inferior to everything English. The mocking-bird is frequently taken in trap-cages, and by proper management may be made sufficiently tame to sing. The upper parts of the cage (which ought to be of wood) should be kept covered until the bird becomes a little more re- conciled to confinement. If placed in a wire cage, uncovered, he will soon destroy himself in attempting to get out. These birds, however, by proper treatment, may be brought to sing perhaps superior to those raised by hand, and cost less trouble. The opinion which the naturalists of Eu- rope entertain of the great difficulty of raising the mocking-bird, and that not one in ten survives, is very incorrect. A person called on me a few days ago with twenty-nine of these birds, old and young, which he had carried about the fields with him for several days for the conve- nience of feeding them while engaged in trapping others. He had carried them thirty miles, and intended carrying them ninety-six miles farther, viz. to New York, and told me that he did not expect to lose one out of ten of them. Cleanliness and regularity in feeding are the two prin- cipal things to be attended to, and these rarely fail to succeed. The eagerness with which the nest of the mocking-bird is sought after in the neighbourhood of Philadelphia, has ren- dered this bird extremely scarce for an extent of several miles round the city. In the country round Wilmington and New- castle they are very numerous, from whence they are frequently brought here for sale. The usual price of a singing bird is from seven to fifteen, and even twenty dollars. I have known fifty dollars paid for a remarkably fine singer; and one instance where one hundred dollars were refused for a still more extraordi- nary one. Attempts have been made to induce these charming birds to pair and rear their young in a state of confinement, and the result has been such as to prove it, by proper management, perfectly practi- cable. In the spring of 1808, a Mr. Klein, living in North Seventh-street, Philadel- phia, partitioned off about twelve feet square in the third story of his house. This was lighted by a pretty large wire- grated window. In the centre of this small room he planted a cedar bush, five or six feet high, in a box of earth, and scattered about a sufficient quantity of materials suitable for building. Into this place a male and female mocking-bird were put and soon began to build. The female laid five eggs, all of which she hatched, and fed the young with great affection until they were nearly able to fly. Business calling the proprietor from home for two weeks he left the birds to the care of his domestics, and on his re- turn found, to his great regret, that they had been neglected in food. The young ones were all dead and the parents "them- selves nearly famished. The same pair have again commenced building this sea- son in the same place, and have at this time, July 4th, 1809, three young likely to do well. The place might be fitted up with various kinds of shrubbery so as to resemble their native thickets, and ought to be as remote from noise and interrup- tion of company as possible, and strangers rarely allowed to disturb or even approach them. The mocking-bird is nine and a half inches long and thirteen in breadth. Some individuals are, however, larger and some smaller, those of the first hatch being uniformly the biggest and stoutest. The upper parts of the head, neck and back are a dark brownish ash, and when new moulted a fine light gray ; the wings and tail are nearly black, the first and second rows of coverts tipt with white ; the primary coverts in some males are wholly white, in others tinged with brown. The three first primaries are white from their roots as far as their co- verts ; the white on the next six extends from an inch to one and three -fourths farther down, descending equally on both sides of the feather ; the tail is cuneiform, the two exterior feathers wholly white, the rest, except the middle ones, tipt with white ; the chin is white ; sides of the neck, breast, belly and vent, a brownish white, much purer in wild birds than in those that have been domesticated; iris of the eye yellowish cream coloured, in- clining to golden ; bill black, the base of the lower mandible whitish ; legs and NATURAL HISTORY. 461 I feet black and strong. The female very I much resembles the male. The breast of 1 the young bird is spotted like that of the thrush. Mr. William Bartram observes of the mocking-bird, that " formerly, say thirty or forty years ago, they were nu- merous, and often staid all winter with us, or the year through, feeding on the berries of ivy, smilax, grapes, persimmons, and other berries. The ivy {Hedera helix) they were particularly fond of, though a native of Europe. We have an ancient plant adhering to the wall of the house, covering many yards of surface ; this vine is very fruitful, and here many would feed and lodge during the winter, and, in very severe cold weather, sit on the top of the chimney to warm themselves." He also adds, " I have observed that the mocking-bird ejects from his stomach through his mouth the hard kernels of berries, such as smilax, grapes, &c, re- taining the pulpy part." Alexander Wilsoit. REGINALD HEBER Bishop of Calcutta, was born at Malpas in the county of Chester, on the 21st of April 1783, and was educated at a private school and at Brazennose College, Oxford. He was an amiable, excellent man, zealous in the performance of his sacred duties, and universally beloved. For thirteen years he was rector of a country parish. In 1823, baring accepted the bishoprick of Calcutta, he sailed to India, and during a journey through his diocese was cut off by an apoplectick fit which struck him while bathing. He died at Trichinopoly on the 3rd of April 1826. In the following extract from a narrative of a journey through the upper pro- vinces of India, published after his death, the waning of an innate eagerness for the chase against the dignity of the mitre is amusing. The good bishop goes out just that poor Mr. Lloulderson may not be disappointed; he loads his pistols and borrows a very fine double-barrelled gun only for self-defence ; and fires his first barrel to defend himself from the tiger who was running away, merely as he was directed : but he seems to have fired the second barrel of his own free will, and to have been, perhaps, a very little disposed to hearken to the conscientious flattery of Mr. Boulderson, " I should not wonder if vou hit him that last time." THE TIGER— THE LION. November 20, 1824, at Kulleanpoor in the north of Hindoostan. The young Raja, Gourman Singh, men- tioned, in the course of conversation, that there was a tiger in an adjoining tope, which had done a good deal of mischief, that he should have gone after it himself had he not been ill, and had he not thought that it would be a fine diversion for Mr. Boulderson and me. I told him I was no sportsman, but Mr. Boulder- son's eyes sparkled at the name of tiger, and he expressed great anxiety to beat up his quarters in the afternoon. Under such ( ircumstances I did not like to de- prive him of his sport, as he would not leave me by myself, and went, though with no intention of being more than a spectator. Mr. Boulderson, however, ad- vised me to load my pistols for the sake of defence, and lent me a very fine double- barrelled gun for the same purpose. We set out a little after three on our ele- phants, with a servant behiud each how- dah carrying a large chatta, which, how- ever, was almost needless. The Raja, in spite of his fever, made his appearance too, saying that he could not bear to be left behind. A number of people, on foot and horseback, attended from our own camp and the neighbouring villages, and the same sort of interest and delight was evidently excited which might be pro- duced in England by a great coursing party. The Raja was on a little female elephant, hardly bigger than the Durham ox, and almost as shaggy as a poodle. She 462 REGINALD HEBER. was a native of the neighbouring wood, where they are generally, though not al- ways, of a smaller size than those of Ben- gal and Chittagong. He sat in a low howdah, with two or three guns ranged beside him, ready for action. Mr. Boul- derson had also a formidable apparatus of muskets and fowling-pieces, projecting over his mohoufs head. We rode about two miles across a plain covered with long jungly grass, which very much put me in mind of the country near the Cuban. Quails and wild fowl rose in great num- bers, and beautiful antelopes were seen scudding away in all directions. With them our party had no quarrel ; their flesh is good for little, and they are in general favourites both with native and English sportsmen, who feel disinclined to meddle with a creature so graceful and so harmless. At last we came to a deeper and more marshy ground, which lay a little before the tope pointed out to us; and while Mr. Boulderson was doubting whether we should pass through it, or skirt it, some country people came running to say that the tiger had been tracked there that morning. We therefore went in, keeping line as if we had been beating for a hare, through grass so high that it reached up to the howdah of my elephant, though a tall one, and almost hid the Raja entirely. We had not gone far before a very large animal of the deer kind sprung up just be- fore me, larger than a stag, of a dusky brown colour, with spreading, but not palmated horns. Mr. Boulderson said it was a mohr, a species of elk ; that this was a young one, but that they sometimes grew to an immense size, so that he had stood upright between the tips of their horns. He could have shot it, but did not like to fire at present, and said it was, after all, a pity to meddle with such harm- less animals. The mohr accordingly ran off unmolested, rising with splendid bounds up to the very top of the high jungle, so that his whole body and limbs were seen from time to time above it. A little fur- ther, another rose, which Mr. Boulderson said was the female ; of her I had but an imperfect view. The sight of these curi- ous animals had already, however, well re- paid my coming out, and from the anima- tion and eagerness of everybody round me, the anxiety with which my compa- nions looked for every waving of the jun- gle-grass, and the continued calling and shouting of the horse and foot behind us, it was impossible not to catch the conta- gion of interest and enterprise. At last the elephants all drew up their trunks into the air, began to roar, and to stamp violently with their fore feet, the Raja's little elephant turned short round, and in spite of all her mohout could say or do, took up her post, to the Raja's great annoyance, close in the rear of Mr. Boulderson. The other three (for one of my baggage elephants had come out too, the mohout, though unarmed, not caring to miss the show) went on slowly but boldly, with their trunks raised, their ears expanded, and their sagacious little eyes bent intently forward. " We are close upon him," said Mr. Boulderson, " fire where you see the long grass shake, if he rises before you." Just at that moment my elephant stamped again violently. " There, there," cried the mohout, "I saw his head !" A short roar, or rather loud growl, followed, and I saw immedi- ately before my elephant's head the mo- tion of some large animal stealing away through the grass. I fired as directed, and a moment after, seeing the motion still more plainly, fired the second barrel. Another short growl followed, the motion was immediately quickened, and was soon lost in the more distant jungle. Mr. Boulderson said, " I should not wonder if you hit him that last time ; at any rate we shall drive him out of the cover, and then I will take care of him." In fact, at that moment, the crowd of horse and foot spectators at the jungle side begun to run off in all directions. We went on to the place, but found it was a false alarm, and, in fact, we had seen all we were to see of him, and went twice more through the jungle in vain. A large extent of high grass stretched out in one direction, and this we had now not sufficient day-light to explore. In fact, that the animal so near me was a tiger at all, I have no evi- dence but its growl, Mr. Boulderson's be- lief, the assertion of the mohout, and what is, perhaps, more valuable than all the rest, the alarm expressed by the elephants. I could not help feeling some apprehen- sion that my firing had robbed Mr. Boul- derson of his shot, but he assured me that I was quite in rule ; that in such sport no courtesies could be observed, and that the animal in fact rose before me, but that he should himself have fired without scruple if he had seen the rustle of the grass in time. Thus ended my first, and probably my last essay, in the field sports of In- NATURAL HISTORY. 463 dia, in which I am much mistaken, not- withstanding what Mr. Boulderson said, if I harmed any living creature. I asked Mr. Boulderson, in our return, whether tiger hunting was generally of this kind, which I could not help com- paring to that chase of bubbles which enables us in England to pursue an otter. In a jungle, he answered, it must be al- ways pretty much the same, inasmuch as, except under very peculiar circumstances, or when a tiger felt himself severely wounded, and was roused to revenge by despair, his aim was to remain concealed, and to make off as quietly as possible. It was after he had broken cover, or when he found himself in a situation so as to be fairly at bay, that the serious part of the sport began, in which case he attacked his enemies boldly, and always (bed fight- ing. He added that the lion, though not so large or swift an animal as the tiger, was generally stronger and more courage- ous. Those which have been killed in India, instead of running away when pur- sued through a jungle, seldom seem to think its cover necessary at all. When they see their enemies approaching, they spring out to meet them, open-mouthed, in the plain, bke the boldest of all ani- mals, a mastiff dog. They are thus gene- rally shot with very bttle trouble, but if they are missed or only sbghtly wounded , they are truly formidable enemies. Though not swift, they leap with vast strength and violence, and their large heads, immense paws, and the great weight of their body forwards, often enable them to spring on the head of the largest elephants, and fairly pull them down to the ground, riders and all. "When a tiger springs on an elephant, the latter is generally able to | shake liim off under his feet, and then woe j be to him ! The elephant either kneels on him and crushes him at once, or gives him a kick which breaks half his ribs, and sends him flying perhaps twenty paces. The elephants, however, are often dread- fully torn, and a large old tiger sometimes clings too fast to be thus dealt with. In this case it often happens that the ele- phant himself falls, from pain or from the hope of rolling on his enemy, and the people on his back are in very consider- able danger, both from friends and foes, for Mr. Boulderson said the scratch of a tiger was sometimes venomous, as that of a cat is said to be. But this did not often happen, and in general persons wounded by his teeth or claws, if not killed out- right, recovered easily enough. Reginald Heher. JOHN JAMES AUDUBON author of a History of the Birds of America, — the most magnificent of works on Ornithology, — was from his earliest childhood passionately devoted to the study of nature : following the bent of his genius he ransacked the woods, the lakes, the rairies and the shores of the Atlantic, passing years away from his wife and children in the wildest solitudes of the pathless and gloomy forests, until he had accompbshed his work. No accident could quench his enthusiasm : he had made two hundred original drawings of birds, when a pair of Norway rats got into the box in which his treasures were locked, and gnawed them to pieces to make a nest for their young. He slept not, as he tells us, for several nights, and the days passed bke days of obli- vion, till he took up his gun, his note-book and his pencils, went forth to the woods as gaily as if nothing had happened, and within three years bad bis portfolio filled again. In the spring of the present year (1843), being between seventy and eighty years of age, he left his home, with a friend and two attendants, for the head waters of the Yellow Stone river in the Rocky Mountains, in quest of materials for a new work, The Quadrupeds of North America, of which some numbers have been already pubbshed. The Ornithology contains four hundred and thirty -five plates, and between two and 464 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. three thousand figures of birds, of the colours of life, and of the size of life, from the humming-bird to the wild turkey ; the price of this, the original edition, was two hundred guineas ; the written part was published separately, under the title of Or- nithological Biography, and was worthy of the plates. Both are united in an octavo edition, now in the course of publication in America, and indeed nearly completed, which brings this noble work within the reach of common fortunes. Audubon not only has the genius and the unconquerable firmness of purpose which make a great man, but kind, artless, and unassuming, he is one of the happy great who are born to be loved as well as admired. THE WILD TURKEY. About the beginning of October, when scarcely any of the seeds and fruits have yet fallen from the trees, these birds as- semble in flocks, and gradually move to- wards the rich bottom lands of the Ohio and Mississippi. The males, or as they are more commonly called, the gobblers, associate in parties of from ten to a hun- dred, and search for food apart from the j females ; while the latter are seen either advancing singly, each with its brood of young, then about two-thirds grown, or in connexion with other families, forming parties, often amounting to seventy or eighty individuals, all intent on shunning the old cocks, which, even when the young birds have attained this size, will fight with, and often destroy them by repeated blows on the head. Old and young, how- ever, all move in the same course, and on foot, unless their progress be interrupted by a river, or the hunter's dog force them to take wing. When they come upon a river, they betake themselves to the high- est eminences, and there often remain a whole day, or sometimes two, as if for the purpose of consultation. During this time the males are heard gobbling, calling and making much ado, and are seen strutting about as if to raise their courage to a pitch befitting the emergency. Even the females and young assume something of the same pompous demeanour, spread out their tails and run round each other, pur- ring loudly, and performing extravagant leaps. At length, when the weather ap- pears settled, and all around is quiet, the whole party mounts to the tops of the highest trees, whence, at a signal, con- sisting of a single cluck, given by a leader, the flock takes flight for the opposite shore. The old and fat birds easily get over, even should the river be a mile in breadth ; but the younger and less robust frequently fall into the water, — not to be drowned, however, as might be imagined. They bring their wings close to their body, spread out their tail as a support, stretch forward their neck, and striking out their legs with great vigour, proceed rapidly towards the shore ; on approaching which, should they find it too steep for landing, they cease their exertions for a few mo- ments, float down the stream until they come to an accessible part, and by a vio- lent effort generally extricate themselves from the water. It is remarkable, that immediately after thus crossing a large stream, they ramble about for some time, as if bewildered. In this state they fall an easy prey to the hunter. When the turkeys arrive in parts where the mast is abundant, they separate into smaller flocks, composed of birds of all ages and both sexes, promiscuously min- gled, and devour all before them. This happens about the middle of November. So gentle do they sometimes become after these long journeys, that they have been seen to approach the farm-houses, asso- ciate with the domestic fowls, and enter the stables and corn- cribs in quest of food. In this way, roaming about the forests, and feeding chiefly on mast, they pass the autumn and part of the winter. As early as the middle of February the females separate, and fly from the males. The latter strenuously pursue, and begin to gobble or to utter the notes of exulta- tion. The sexes roost apart, but at no great distance from each other. When a female utters a call-note, all the gobblers within hearing return the sound, rolling note after note with as much rapidity as if they intended to emit the last and the first together, not with spread tail, as when fluttering round the females on the ground, or practising on the branches of the trees on which they have roosted for the night, but much in the manner of the domestic turkey, when an unusual or unexpected noise elicits its singular hubbub. If the call of the female comes from the ground, NATURAL HISTORY. 465 all the males immediately fly towards the spot, and the moment they reach it, whe- ther the hen be in sight or not, spread out and erect their tail, draw the head back on the shoulders, depress their wings with a quivering motion, and strut pom- pously about, emitting at the same time a succession of puffs from the lungs, and stopping now and then to listen and look. But whether they spy the female or not, they continue to puff and strut, moving with as much celerity as their ideas of ceremony seem to admit. While thus occupied, the males often encounter each other, in which case desperate battles take place, ending in bloodshed, and often in the loss of many lives, the weaker falling under the repeated blows inflicted upon their head by the stronger. I have often been much diverted, while watching two males in fierce conflict, by seeing them move alternately backwards and forwards, as either had obtained a better hold, their wings drooping, their tails partly raised, their body-feathers ruf- fled, and their heads covered with blood. If, as they thus struggle, and gasp for breath, one of them should lose his hold, his chance is over, for the other, still hold- ing fast, hits him violently with spurs and wings, and in a few minutes brings him to the ground. When a male and a female have come to- gether, I believe the connexion continues for that season, although the former by no means confines his attentions to one fe- male. The hens follow their favourite cock, roosting in his immediate neigh- bourhood, if not on the same tree, until they begin to lay, when they separate themselves, in order to save their eggs from the male, who would break them all. The females then carefully avoid him, ex- cepting during a short period each day. After this the males become clumsy and slovenly, if one may say so, cease to fight with each other, and give up gobbling or calling so frequently. Turkey-cocks when at roost sometimes strut and gobble, but I have more gene- rally seen them spread out and raise their tail, and emit the pulmonic puff, lowering their tail and other feathers immediately after. During clear nights, or when there is moonshine, they perform this action at intervals of a few minutes, for hours toge- ther, without moving from the same spot, and iudeed sometimes without rising on their legs, especially towards the end of the love-season. They then separate from the hens, and one might suppose that they had entirely deserted their neighbour- hood. At such seasons I have found them lying by the side of a log, in some retired part of the dense woods and cane thickets, and often permitting one to approach within a few feet. They are then unable to fly, but run swiftly, and to a great dis- tance. A slow turkey-hound has led me miles before I could flush the same bird. Chases of this kind I did not undertake for the purpose of killing the bird, it being then unfit for eating, and covered with ticks, but with the view of rendering my- self acquainted with its habits. They thus retire to recover flesh and strength, by purging with particular species of grass, and using less exercise. As soon as their condition is improved, the cocks come together again, and recommence their rambles. Let us now return to the fe- males. About the middle of April, when the season is dry, the hens begin to look out for a place in which to deposit their eggs. This place requires to be as much as pos- sible concealed from the eye of the crow, as that bird often watches the turkey when going to her nest, and, waiting in the neighbourhood until she has left it, removes and eats the eggs. The nest, which consists of a few withered leaves, is placed on the ground, in a hollow scooped out, by the side of a log, or in the fallen top of a dry leafy tree, under a thicket of sumach or briars, or a few feet within the edge of a cane-brake, but always in a dry place. The eggs, which are of a dull cream colour, sprinkled with red dots, sometimes amount to twenty, although the more usual number is from ten to fifteen. When depositing her eggs, the female always approaches the nest with extreme caution, scarcely ever taking the same course twice ; and when about to leave them, covers them carefully with leaves, so that it is very difficult for a person who may have seen the bird to discover the nest. Indeed, few turkeys' nests are found, unless the female has been suddenly started from them, or a cunning lynx, fox or crow has sucked the eggs and left their shells scattered about. Turkey hens not unfrequently prefer islands for depositing their eggs and rear- ing their young, probably because such places are less frequented by hunters, and because the great masses of drifted timber which usually accumulate at their heads, may protect and save them in cases of X5 ~ 466 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. great emergency. When I have found these birds in such situations, and with young, I have always observed that a single discharge of a gun made them run immediately to the pile of drifted wood and conceal themselves in it. I have often walked over these masses, which are fre- quently from ten to twenty feet in height, in search of the game which I knew to be concealed in them. When an enemy passes within sight of a female, while laying or sitting, she never moves, unless she knows that she has been discovered, but crouches lower till he has passed. I have frequently ap- proached within five or six paces of a nest, of which I was previously aware, on assuming an air of carelessness, and whist- ling or talking to myself, the female re- maining undisturbed ; whereas if I went cautiously towards it, she would never suffer me to approach within twenty paces, but would run off, with her tail spread on one side, to a distance of twenty or thirty yards, when assuming a stately gait, she would walk about deliberately, uttering every now and then a cluck. They seldom abandon their nest when it has been discovered by men, but, I be- lieve, never go near it again when a snake or other animal has sucked any of the eggs. The female in general rears only a single brood each season. Several hens sometimes associate together, I believe for their mutual safety, deposit their eggs in the same nest, and rear their broods together. I once found three sitting on forty-two eggs. In such cases, the com- mon nest is always watched by one of the females, so that no crow, raven, or per- haps even pole-cat, dares approach it. The mother will not leave her eggs, when near hatching, under any circumstances, while life remains. She will even allow an enclosure to be made around her, and thus suffer imprisonment rather than aban- don them. I once witnessed the hatching of a brood of turkeys, which I watched for the purpose of securing them together with the parent. I concealed myself on the ground within a very few feet, and saw her raise herself half the length of her legs, look anxiously upon the eggs, cluck with a sound peculiar to the mother on such occasions, carefully remove each half-empty shell, and with her bill caress and dry the young birds, that already stood tottering and attempting to make their way out of the nest. Yes, I have seen this, and have left mother and young to better care than mine could have proved — to the care of their Creator and mine. I have seen them all emerge from the shell, and, in a few moments after, tumble, roll and push each other for- ward with astonishing and inscrutable in- stinct. Before leaving the nest with her young brood, the mother shakes herself in a violent manner, picks and adjusts the feathers about her belly, and assumes quite a different aspect. She alternately inclines her eyes obliquely upwards and sideways, stretching out her neck, to dis- cover hawks or other enemies, spreads her wings a little as she walks, and softly clucks to keep her innocent offspring close to her. They move slowly along, and as the hatching generally takes place in the afternoon, they frequently return to the nest to spend the first night there. After this they remove to some distance, keep- ing on the highest undulated grounds, the mother dreading rainy weather, which is extremely dangerous to the young in this tender state, wdien they are only covered by a kind of soft hairy down of surprising delicacy. In very rainy seasons turkeys are scarce, for if once completely wetted the young seldom recover. To prevent the disastrous effects of rainy weather, the mother, like a skilful physician, plucks the buds of the spice-wood bush and gives them to her young. In about a fortnight the young birds, which had previouslyrested on the ground, leave it and fly at night to some very large low branch, where they place themselves under the deeply-curved wings of their kind and careful parent, dividing them- selves for that purpose into two nearly equal parties. After this they leave the woods during the day, and approach the natural glades or prairies, in search of strawberries, and subsequently of dew- berries, blackberries and grasshoppers, thus obtaining abundant food, and enjoy- ing the beneficial influence of the sun's rays. They roll themselves in deserted ants' nests, to clear their growing feathers of the loose scales, and prevent ticks and other vermin from attacking them, these insects being unable to bear the odour of the earth in which ants have been. The young turkeys now advance rapidly in growth, and in the month of August are able to secure themselves from un- expected attacks of wolves, foxes, lynxes and even cougars, by rising quickly from the ground, by the help of their powerful NATURAL HISTORY. 467 iegs, and reaching with ease the highest branches of the tallest trees. The young cocks show the tuft on the breast about this time, and begin to gobble and strut, while the young hens purr and leap, in the manner which I have already de- scribed. The old cocks have also assembled by this time, and it is probable that all the turkeys now leave the extreme north- western districts, to remove to the Wa- bash, Illinois, Black River, and the neigh- bourhood of Lake Erie. Of the numerous enemies of the wild turkey, the most formidable, excepting man, are the lynx, the snowy owl, and the Virginian owl. The lynx sucks their eggs and is extremely expert at seizing both young and old, which he effects in the following manner : — When he has discovered a flock of turkeys, he follows them at a distance for some time, until he ascertains the direction in which they are proceeding. He then makes a rapid circular movement, gets in advance of the flock and lays himself down in ambush until the birds come up, when he springs upon one of them by a single bound and secures it. While once sitting in the woods on the banks of the Wabash, I ob- served two large turkey-cocks on a log by the river, pluming and picking them- selves. I watched their movements for a while, when of a sudden one of them flew across the river, while I perceived the other struggling under the grasp of a lynx. When attacked by the two large species of owl above mentioned, they often effect their escape in a way which is somewhat remarkable. As turkeys usually roost in flocks, on naked branches of trees, they are easily discovered by their enemies, the owls, which, on silent wing, approach and hover around them, for the purpose of reconnoitring. This, however, is rarely done without being discovered, and a single cluck from one of the turkeys announces to the whole party the approach of the murderer. They instantly start upon their legs and watch the motions of the owd, which, selecting one as its victim, comes down upon it like an arrow, and would in- evitably secure the turkey, did not the latter at that moment lower its head, stoop and spread its tail in an inverted manner over its back, by which action the aggressor is met by a smooth inclined plane, along which it glances without ! hurting the turkey ; immediately after which the latter drops to the ground and thus escapes, merely with the loss of a few feathers. John James Audubon. THE KEY WEST PIGEON. It was at Key West that I first saw this beautiful pigeon. The Marion was brought | to anchor close to, and nearly opposite, I the little town of the same name, some ! time after the setting of the sun. The | few flickering lights I saw nearly fixed the I size of the place in my imagination. In a trice the kind captain and I were seated I in his gig, and I felt the onward move- I ment of the light bark as if actually on wing, so well-timed was the puUing of the . brave tars who were taking us to the shore. In this place I formed acquaint- ' ance with major Glassel of the United I States artillery, and his family. Major Glassel sent one of his sergeants I with me to search the wdiole island, with | which he was perfectly acquainted. The name of this soldier was Sykes, and his life, like mine, had been a chequered one ; for there are few pleasures unaccompanied with pains, real or imaginary, and the worthy sergeant had had his share of both. I soon discovered that he was a perfect woodsman, for although we tra- '■ versed the densest thickets, in close and gloomy weather, he conducted me quite 1 across the island, in as masterly a manner i as ever did an Indian on a like occasion. But perhaps, kind reader, a copy of my 1 journal for that day, may afford you a ! clearer idea of our search for rare birds than any other means that I could devise. ! Before I proceed, however, allow me to state, that while at Charleston, in South Carolina, I saw at my friend Bachman's ' house the head of a pigeon which Dr. Strobel had sent from Key West, and , which I perceived did not belong to the Zenaida Dove. Sergeant Sykes had seen the pigeon, and acquainted as he was with the buds of the country, he gave some hope that we might procure a few of them that very day; and now for my 1 journal. May 6, 1832.— When I reached the gar- I rison I found the sergeant waiting for me. I gave him some small shot, and we set off, not in full run, nor even at a dog- trot, i but with the slowness and carefulness usually employed by a lynx or a cougar \ when searching for prey. We soon 468 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. reached the thickets, and found it neces- sary to move in truth very slowly, one foot warily advanced hefore the other, one hand engaged in opening a passage, and presently after occupied in securing the cap on the head, in smashing some dozens of hungry musquitoes, or in draw- ing the sharp thorn of a cactus from a leg or foot, in securing our gun-locks, or in assisting ourselves to rise after a fall oc- casioned by stumbling against the pro- jecting angle of a rock. But we pushed on, squeezed ourselves between the stub- born branches, and forced our way as well as we could, my guide of course having the lead. Suddenly I saw him stoop, and observing the motion of his hand, immediately followed his example. Re- duced by his position to one-half of his natural height, he moved more briskly, inclined to the right, then to the left, then pushed forward, and raising his piece as he stopped, immediately fired. " I have it," cried he ;" " what ? " cried I, " the pigeon ! " — and he disappeared. The heat was excessive, and the brushwood here was so thick and tangled, that had not Mr. Sykes been a United States' sol- dier, I should have looked upon himasbent on retaliating on behalf of " the eccentric naturalist;" for, although not more than ten paces distant from me, not a glimpse of him could I obtain. After crawling to the spot I found him smoothing the fea- thers of a pigeon which I had never seen, nay, the most beautiful yet found in the United States. How I gazed on its re- splendent plumage ! how I marked the expression of its rich-coloured, large and timid eye, as the poor creature was gasp- ing its last breath ! Ah, how I looked on this lovely bird ! I handled it, turned it, examined its feathers and form, its bill, its legs and claws, weighed it by estimate, and after a while formed a winding-sheet for it of a piece of paper. Did ever an Egyptian pharmacopolist employ more care in embalming the most illustrious of the Pharaohs, than I did in trying to pre- serve from injury this most beautiful of the woodland cooers ! I never felt, nor did my companion, that our faces and hands were covered with musquitoes ; and although the per- spiration made my eyes smart, I was as much delighted as ever I had been on such an occasion. We travelled onward, much in the same manner, until we reached the opposite end of the island ; but not an- other bird did we meet this day. As we sat near the shore gazing on the curious light pea-green colour of the sea, I unfolded my prize, and as I now more quietly observed the brilliant changing metallic hues of its plumage, I could not refrain from exclaiming, " But who will draw it?" for the obvious difficulties of copying nature struck me as powerfully as they ever had done, and brought to my memory the following passage : La Nature se joue du pinceau des hommes ; — lorsgu'on croit qu'il a atteint sa plus grande beaute, elle sourit et s'embellit encore ! We returned along the shore of this curious island to the garrison, after which major Glassel's barge conveyed me on board of the Marion. John James Audubon. THE ZENAIDA DOVE. The impressions made on the mind in youth are frequently stronger than those at a more advanced period of life, and are generally retained. My father often told me, that when yet a child, my first at- tempt at drawing was from a preserved specimen of a dove, and many times re- peated to me that birds of this kind are usually remarkable for the gentleness of their disposition, and that the manner in j which they prove their mutual affection j and feed their offspring, was undoubtedly j intended in part to teach other beings a \ lesson of connubial and parental attach- ment. Be this as it may, hypothesis or not, I have always been especially fond of doves. The timidity and anxiety which they all manifest on being disturbed du- ring incubation, and the continuance of their mutual attachment for years, are distinguishing traits in their character. Who can approach a sitting dove, hear its notes of remonstrance, or feel the feeble strokes of its wings, without being sensible that he is committing a wrong act? The cooing of the Zenaida dove is so peculiar, that one who hears it for the first time naturally stops to ask, " What bird is that?" A man who was once a pirate assured me, that several times, while at certain wells dug in the burning shelly sands of a well-known key, which must here be nameless, the soft and me- lancholy cry of the doves awoke in his breast feelings which had long slumbered, NATURAL HISTORY. 469 melted his heart to repentance, and caused him to linger at the spot in a state of mind which he only who compares the wretchedness of guilt within him with the happiness of former innocence can truly feel. He said he never left the place without increased fears of futurity, associated as he was, although L helieve by force, with a band of the most despe- rate villains that ever annoyed the navi- gation of the Florida coasts. So deeply moved was he by the notes of any bird, and especially by those of a dove, the only soothing sounds he ever heard during his life of horrors, that through these plaintive notes, and them alone, he was induced to escape from his vessel, aban- don his turbulent companions, and return to a family deploring his absence. After paying a parting visit to those wells, and listening once more to the cooings of the Zenaida dove, he poured out his soul in supplications for mercy, and once more became what one has said to be " the noblest work of God," an honest man. His escape was effected amidst difficulties and dangers, but no danger seemed to him to be compared with the danger of one living in the violation of human and divine laws, and now he lives in peace in the midst of his friends. The Zenaida dove always places her nest on the ground, sometimes artlessly at the foot of a low bush, and so exposed that it is easily discovered by any one searching for it. Sometimes, however, it uses great discrimination, placing it be- tween two or more tufts of grass, the tops of which it manages to bend over, so as completely to conceal it. The sand is slightly scooped out, and the nest is com- posed of slender dried blades of grass, matted in a circular form, and imbedded amid dry leaves and twigs. The fabric is more compact than the nest of any other pigeon with which I am acquainted, it being sufficiently solid to enable a person to carry the eggs or young in it with | security. The eggs are two, pure white, and translucent. When sitting on them, or when her young are still small, this bird rarely removes from them, unless an attempt be made to catch her, which she however evades with great dexterity. On several occasions of this kind, I have thought that the next moment would render me the possessor of one of those doves alive. Her beautiful eye was steadily bent on mine, in which she must have discovered my intention, her body was gently made to retire sidewise to the far- ther edge of her nest, as my hand drew nearer to her, and just as I thought 1 had hold of her, off she glided with the quick- ness of thought, taking to wing at once. She would then alight within a few yards of me, and watch my motions with so much sorrow, that her wings drooped, and her whole frame trembled as if suf- fering from intense cold. Who could stand such a scene of despair ? I left the mother to her eggs or offspring. On one occasion, however, I found two young birds of this species about half- grown, which I carried off. When I robbed this nest no parent bird was near. The little ones uttered the usual lisping notes of the tribe at this age, and as I put their bills in my mouth, I discovered that they might be easily raised. They were afterwards fed from the mouth with In- dian corn-meal, which they received with avidity, until placed under the care of a pair of common tame pigeons, which at once fostered them. John James Audubon. ENGLISH PROSE. PART X. MISCELLANIES. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (For Notes of his Life see p. 20.) THE DEFENCE OF POESIE. DRAMATICK POETRY, LYRIC K POETRY, AND HEROICK POETRY. Comedy is an imitation of the common errors of our life, which the poet repre- senteth in the most ridiculous and scorn- ful sort that may he ; so as it is impos- sible that any beholder can be content to be such an one. Now as in geometry the oblique must be known as well as the right, and in arithmetic the odd as well as the even, so in the actions of our life, who seeth not the filthiness of evil want- eth a great foil to perceive the beauty of virtue. This doth the comedy handle so in our private and domestical matters, as with hearing it, we get as it were an ex- perience what is to be looked for of a niggardly Demea, of a crafty Davus, of a flattering Gnatho, of a vain-glorious Thraso ; and not only to know what ef- fects are to be expected, but to know who be such by the signifying badge given them by the comedient. And little reason hath any man to say, that men learn the evil by seeing it so set out ; since, as I said before, there is no man living, but by the force truth hath in nature, no sooner seeth these men play their parts, but wisheth them in Pistrinum, although per- chance the sack of his own faults lie so behind his back, that he seeth not him- self to dance the same measure ; whereto yet nothing can more open his eyes, than to see i_his own actions contemptibly set forth. So that the right use of comedy will, I think, by nobody be blamed ; and much less of the high and excellent tra- gedy, that openeth the greatest wounds and showeth forth the ulcers that are covered with tissue ; that maketh kings fear to be tyrants, and tyrants manifest their tyrannical humours, that with stir- ring the effects of admiration and com- miseration, teacheth the uncertainty of this world, and upon how weak foun- dations gilded roofs are builded, that maketh us know, Qui sceptra scevus duro imperio regit, Timet timentes, rnetus in auciorem redit. But how much it can move, Plutarch yieldeth a notable testi- mony of the abominable tyrant Alexander Pheraeus, from whose eyes a tragedy, well made and represented, drew abundance of tears, who without all pity had mur- dered infinite numbers, and some of his own blood ; so as he, that was not ashamed to make matters for tragedies, yet could not resist the sweet violence of a tragedy. And if it wrought no further good in him, it was that he, in despite of himself, with- drew himself from hearkening to that which might mollify his hardened heart. But it is not the tragedy they do mislike ; for it were too absurd to cast out so ex- cellent a representation of whatsoever is most worthy to be learned. Is it the Lyric that most displeaseth, who with his tuned lyre and w r ell-accorded voice giveth praise, the reward of virtue to virtuous acts ; who giveth moral pre- MISCELLANIES. 471 cepts and natural problems, who some- times raiseth up his voice to the height of the heavens, in singing the lauds of the immortal God ? Certainly I must confess mine own barharousuess, I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung but by some blind Crowder, with no rougher voice than rude style ; which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work, trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar ? In Hun- gary I have seen in the manner of all feasts and other such like meetings, to have songs of their ancestors' valour, which that right soldier-like nation tliink one of the chiefest kindlers of brave courage. The incomparable Lacedaemo- nians did not only cany that kind of music ever with them to the field, but even at home, as such songs were made, so were they all content to be singers of them -. when the lusty men were to tell what they did, the old men what they had done, and the young what they would do. And where a man may say, that Pindar many times praiseth highly victories of small moment, rather matters of sport than virtue, as it may be an- swered, it was the fault of the poet and not of the poetry, so indeed the chief fault was in the time and custom of the Greeks, who set those toys at so high a price, that Philip of Macedon reckoned a horse-race won at Olympus among his three fearful febcities. But as the un- imitable Pindar often did, so is that kind most capable and most fit to awake the thoughts from the sleep of idleness to em- brace honourable enterprises. There rests the Heroical, whose very name, I think, should daunt all back- biters. For by what conceit can a tongue be directed to speak evil of that which draweth with him no less champions than Achilles, Cyrus, iEneas, Turnus, Tydeus, Rinaldo ? who doth not only teach and move to a truth, but teacheth and moveth to the most high and excellent truth ; who maketh magnanimity and justice shine ! through all the misty fearfulness and foggy desires. Who, if the saying of Plato or Tully be true, that who could see virtue ' would be wonderfully ravished with the I love of her beauty ; this man setteth her | out to make her more lovely in her holi- day apparel, to the eye of any that will \ deign not to disdain until they under- ! stand. But if anything be already said in the defence of sweet poetry, all concur to j the maintaining the heroical, which is not I only a kind, but the best and most ac- ! complished kind of poetry ; for as the j image of each action stirreth and instruct- I eth the mind, so the lofty image of such worthies most inflameth the mind with desire to be worthy, and informs with counsel how to be worthy. Only let zEneas be worn in the tablet of your me- mory, how he governeth himself in the ruin of his country, in the preserving his old father, and carrying away his religious | ceremonies ; how in storms, how in sports, | how in war, how in peace, how a fugitive, | how victorious, how besieged, how be- I sieging, how to strangers, how to allies, I how to enemies, how to his own ; lastly, I how in his inward self, and how in his outward government, and I think in a j mind most prejudiced with a prejudicating | humour, he will be found in excellency fruitful. Sir Philip Sidney. JOHN SELDEN was called by Grotius " the Glory of the English Nation," and is thus portrayed by Lord Clarendon : he " was a person whom no character can flatter, or transmit in any expressions equal to his merit and virtue ; he was of so stupendous learning in all kinds and in all languages, that a man would have thought he had been entirely con- versant amongst books, and had never spent an hour but in reading and writing ; yet his humanity, courtesy and affability were such, that he would have been thought to have been bred in the best courts, but that his good-nature, charity and delight in doiug good and in communicating all he knew exceeded that breeding." He was the son of a yeoman, born on the 16th of December 1584, at a house called 472 JOHN SELDEN. the Lacies at Salvinton, near Terring, in Sussex, and educated at the free-school of Chichester and at Hart Hall, Oxford, from which he proceeded to Clifford's Inn, and thence to the Inner Temple, London, to study the law. He came into parliament in 1625, and was a strenuous leader of the Commonwealth party. In 1640 he was mem- ber for the University of Oxford. He disapproved of the bill of attainder against lord Strafford, and had the virtue to keep a conscience and vote against his party. In 1643 he was a lay member of the Assembly of Divines at Westminster, and was often vexed at their meetings by frivolous disputes that hindered business. On one occasion a question arose about the distance from Jericho to Jerusalem ; the party which contended for the shorter distance urged that the two cities could not be far apart, bee use fishes had been carried from one city to the other and sold in the market : this posed the greater distance party, till Selden quietly interposed, " Per- haps the fishes were salted." He died on the 30th of November 1654, at the countess of Kent's house in the White Friars, and was buried in the Temple Church. He was the author of many works of astonishing learning, of which the principal are, On T ties of Honour, On the Idolatry of the Syrians, On Tythes, On the English Right to Dominion over the surrounding Seas, and On Hebrew Antiquities. His wit is recorded in his Table Talk, collected by Richard Milward, who had the opportunity of hearing his discourse for twenty years together. The passages which follow are from the Tabic Talk, except the last, which is taken from Rushworth's Historical Collections. These Collections, in eight folio volumes, comprise proceedings in parliament and the courts of law, and state papers from 1618, the sixteenth year of James I., down to the execution of Charles I., on the 30th of January 1649. Their author, John Rush- worth, was a clerk in the House of Commons during the Long Parliament ; he was born about the year 1607, and died, aged about eighty-three, in the King's Bench Prison in Southwark, where he had dragged on a miserable life for six years, having lost the use of his memory and understanding, partly by age, partly by drinking strong liquors to keep up his spirits. BOOKS. 'T is good to have translations, because they serve as a comment, so far as the judgment of the man goes. In answering a book 't is best to be short, otherwise he that I write against will suspect I intend to weary him, not to satisfy him. Besides, in being long, I shall give my adversary a huge advantage ; somewhere or other he will pick a hole. In quoting of books, quote such authors as are usually read ; others you may read for your own satisfaction, but not name them. Quoting of authors is most for matter of fact, and then I write them as I would produce a witness ; sometimes for a free expression, and then I give the author his due and gain myself praise by reading him. To quote a modern Dutchman where I may use a classic author, is as if I were to justify my reputation, and I neglect all persons of note and quality that know me and bring the testimonial of the scul- lion in the kitchen. John Selden. CEREMONY. Ceremony keeps up all things ; 't is like a penny-glass to a rich spirit, or some excellent water ; without it the water were spilt, the spirit lost. Of all people, ladies have no reason to cry down ceremony, for they take them- selves slighted without it ; and were they not used with ceremony, with comple- ments and addresses, with legs and kiss- ing of hands, they were the pitifullest* * "Pitifullest," "most to be pitied;" the meaning is, that ceremony is a strong fence against rudeness and brutality, which are more painful to women than to men. MISCELLANIES. 473 creatures in the world ; but yet methinks, to kiss their hands after their lips, as some do, is like little boys that, after they eat the apple, fall to the paring, out of a love they have to the apple. John Selden. GENTLEMEN. What a gentlemau is, is hard with us to define. In other countries he is known by his privileges ; in Westminster Hall he is one that is reputed one ; in the court of honour, he that hath arms. The king cannot make a gentleman of blood, but he can make a gentleman by creation. If you ask which is the better of these two, civilly, the gentleman of blood ; morally, the gentleman by creation may be the better ; for the other maybe a debauched man, this a person of worth. Gentlemen have ever been more tem- perate in their religion than the common people, as having more reason, the others running in a hurry. In the beginning of Christianity, the fathers writ contra gen- tes and contra gentiles ; they were all one : but after all were Christians, the better sort of people still retained the name of gentiles, throughout the four provinces of the Roman empire ; as gentil- homme in French, gentil-huomo in Ita- lian, gentil-huomhre in Spanish, and gentil-man in EngUsh. And they, no question, being persons of quality, kept up those feasts which we borrow from the gentiles, as Christmas, Candlemas, May-day, &c, continuing what was not directly against Christianity, which the common people would never have en- dured. John Selden. MORAL HONESTY. They that cry down moral honesty cry down that which is a great part of religion, — my duty towards God and my duty to- wards man. What care I to see a man run after a sermon, if he cozen and cheat as soon as he comes home ? On the other side, morality must not be without religion, for if so, it may change as I see convenience. Religion must govern it. He that has not religion to govern his morality, is not a drachm better than my mastiff-dog; so long as you stroke him and please him, and do not pinch him, he will play with you as finely as may be, he is a very good moral mastiff; but if you hurt him, he will fly in your face and tear out your throat. John Selden. CHARLES I. SUMMONING A PAR- LIAMENT TO OXFORD. The king calling his friends from the parliament, because he had use of them at Oxford, is as if a man should have use of a little piece of wood and he runs down into the cellar and takes the spiggot, in the mean time all the beer runs about the house : when his friends are absent, the king will be lost. John Selden. PREFERMENT. When you would have a child go to such a place, and you find him unwilling, I you tell him he shall ride a cock-horse, and then he will go presently : so do those that govern the state deal by men, I to work them to their ends ; they tell i them they shall be advanced to such or such a place, and they will do anything I they would have them. A great place strangely qualifies. John Read, groom of the chamber to my lord | of Kent, was in the right. Attorney Nov being dead, some were saying, how wiil the king do for a fit man ? Why, any man, says John Read, may execute the place. I warrant, says my lord, thou thinkest thou understandest enough to perform it. Yes, quoth John, let the king make me attorney, and I would fain see that man that durst tell me there *s anything I understand not. When the pageants are a-coming, there is a great thrusting and a riding upon one another's backs to look out at the window ; stay a little and they will come just to you, you may see them quietly. So it is when a new statesman or officer is to be chosen ? there is a great expec- tation and listening who it should be ; stay awhile and you may know quietly. Missing preferment makes the pres- byters fall foul upon the bishops. Men that are in hopes and in the way of rising, keep in the channel, but they that have none, seek new ways : 't is so among the 474 JOHN SELDEN. lawyers ; he that hath the judge's ear will be very observant of the way of the court ; but he tbat hath no regard will be flying out. My lord Digby having spoken some- thing in the House of Commons for which they would have questioned him, was presently called to the upper house. He did by the parliament as an ape when he hath done some waggery ; his master spies him, and he looks for his whip, but before he can come at him, whip says he to the top of the house. Some of the parliament were discon- tented, that they wanted places at court, which others had got ; but when they had them once, then they were quiet. Just as at a christening, some that get no sugar-plums when the rest have, mutter and grumble ; presently the wench comes again with her basket of sugar-plums, and then they catch and scramble, and when they have got them, you hear no more of them. John Selden. REASON. In giving reasons, men commonly do with us as the woman does with her child ; when she goes to market about her business, she tells it she goes to buy it a fine thing, to buy it a cake or some plums. They give us such reasons as they think we will be catched withal, but never let us know the truth. When the schoolmen talk of recta ratio in morals, either they understand reason, as it is governed by a command from above ; or else they say no more than a woman, when she says a thing is so, be- cause it is so ; that is, her reason per- suades her it is so. The other acception has sense in it : as, take a law of the land, I must not depopulate, my reason tells me so. Why ? because if I do, I incur the detriment. The reason of a thing is not to be in- quired after till you are sure the thing itself be so. We commonly are at " What is the reason of it ?" before we are sure of the thing. It was an excellent ques- tion of my lady Cotton, when Sir Robert Cotton was magnifying of a shoe, which was Moses's or Noah's, and wondering at the strange shape and fashion of it ; but Mr. Cotton, says she, are you sure it is a shoe ? John Selden. THANKSGIVING. At first we gave thanks for every vic- tory as soon as ever it was obtained ; but since we have had many, now we can stay a good while. We are just like a child ; give him a plum, he makes his leg ; give him a second plum, he makes another leg : at last, when his belly is full, he forgets what he ought to do ; then his nurse, or somebody else that stands by him, puts him in mind of his duty, " Where 's your leg ?" John Selden. CHURCH GOVERNMENT. On the 1st of February 1641, part of the ministers' remonstrance concerning the government of the church was read in the House of Commons, in the debate whereof, some sharp repartees passed be- tween Mr. Grimston and Mr. Selden. Mr. Grimston arguing thus : that bishops are jure divino, is a question ; that arch- bishops are not jure divino, is out of ques- tion. Now that bishops, which are ques- tioned whether jure divino, or archbishops which, out of question, are not jure divino, should suspend ministers that are jure divino, I leave to you to be considered. To which Mr. Selden answered, that the convocation is jure divino, is a question, that parliaments are not jure divino, is out of question : that religion is jure divino, there is no question. Now, sir, that the convocation, which is question- able whether jure divino, and parliaments which, out of question, are not jure divino, should meddle with religion, which ques- tionless is jure divino, I leave to your consideration. John Selden. MISCELLANIES. 475 THOMAS FULLER was born at Aldwinkle, St. Peter, near Thrapston, in the county of Northampton, in 1608. In his childhood he was taught by his father, who was a clergyman, and at the age of twelve was sent to Queen's College, Cambridge. In 1631 he removed to Sidney College. He had several church preferments in succession, and before 1640, had settled in London and was preacher at the Savoy. On the 27th of March 1642, in the interval between the king's leaving Whitehall and the beginning of the civil war, he displeased the parliament by preaching at Westminster Abbey from the text, 2 Sam. xix. 30, " Yea, let him take all, so that my lord the king return in peace." After the war broke out he joined the king at Oxford, and in April 1643, his goods were sequestered by the parliament and he lost his books and manuscripts. He preached at Oxford before the Court and displeased the cavaliers also, for he was thought lukewarm. In 1643 he was appointed chaplain to Sir Ralph Hopton, the king's general in the west of England ; following the army from place to place, he employed himself in gathering materials for his Worthies of England, the plan and design of which are set forth in the first of the following extracts. One part of his design, " the moderate profit," was not fulfilled to his personal benefit, for the book was not published until after his death. He was active in the king's sendee ; after the battle of Cheriton Down, on the 29th of March 1644, being left in Basing House, he animated the garrison to so vigorous a defence, that Sir William Waller, the ge- neral of the parliament, was obliged to raise the siege. About 1646 he returned to London and was chosen lecturer at St. Clement's Lane, near Lombard Street ; he re- moved the lecture to St. Bride's, Fleet Street. Beside The Worthies of England, he wrote The Church History of Britain, An Account of Palestine, and other works. He lived to see the Restoration, and would have been raised to a bishoprick but for his death, which happened on the 16th of August 1661. He was a thorough lover of his country, and his book, The Worthies of England, contains much valuable information given in a very amusing manner. THE DESIGN OF FULLER'S WOR THIES OF ENGLAND. England may not unfitly be compared to a house, not very great, but convenient ; and the several shires may properly be resembled to the rooms thereof. Now, as learned Master Camden and painful Master Speed, with others, have described the rooms themselves, so it is our inten- tion, God willing, to describe the fur- niture of these rooms ; such eminent commodities which every county doth produce, with the persons of quality bred therein, and some other observables coin- cident with the same subject. Cato, that great and grave philosopher, did commonly demand, when any new project was propounded unto him, Cui bono ? what good woukTensue, in case the same was effected ? A question more fit to be asked than facile to be answered in all undertakings, especially in the setting forth of new books, insomuch that they themselves, who complain that they are too many already, help daily to make them more. Know, then, I propound five ends to myself in this book : first, to gain some glory to God ; secondly, to preserve the memories of the dead ; thirdly, to present examples to the living ; fourthly, to en- 476 THOMAS FULLER. tertain the reader with delight ; and lastly (which I am not ashamed puhlickly to profess), to procure some honest profit to myself. If not so happy to obtain all, I will be joyful to attain some ; yea, con- tented and thankful, too, if gaining any (especially the first) of these ends, the motives of my endeavours. First, glory to God, which ought to be the aim of all our actions ; though too often our bow starts, our hand shakes, and so our arrow misseth the mark. Yet I hope that our describing so good a land, with the various fruits and fruitful va- rieties therein, will engage both writer and reader in gratitude to that God who hath been so bountiful to our nation. In order whereunto, I have not only always taken, but often sought occasions to ex- hort to thankfulness, hoping the same will be interpreted no straggling from my subject, but a closing with my calling. Secondly, to preverve the memories of the dead. A good name is an ointment poured out, smelt where it is not seen. It hath been the lawful desire of men in all ages to perpetuate their memories, thereby in some sort revenging themselves of mortality, though few have found out effectual means to perform it. For monu- ments made of wood are subject to be burnt ; of glass, to be broken ; of soft stone, to moulder ; of marble and metal (if escaping the teeth of time), to be de- molished by the hand of covetousness ; so that, in my apprehension, the safest way to secure a memory from oblivion, is (next his own virtues) by committing the same in writing to posterity. Thirdly, to present examples to the living, having here precedents of all sorts and sizes ; of men famous for valour, wealth, wisdom, learning, religion, and bounty to the public, on which last we most largely insist. The scholar, being taxed by his writing-master for idleness in his absence, made a fair defence, when pleading that his master had neither left him paper whereon, or copy whereby to write. But rich men will be without excuse, if not expressing their bounty in some proportion, God having provided them paper enough (" the poor you have always with you"), and set them signal examples, as in our ensuing work will plainly appear. Fourthly, to entertain the reader with delight. I confess the subject is but dull in itself, to tell the time and place of men's birth and deaths, their names, with the names and number of their books ; and therefore this bare skeleton of time, place, and person must be fleshed with some pleasant passages. To this intent I have purposely interlaced (not as meat, but as condiment) many delightful sto- ries, that so the reader, if he do not arise (which I hope and desire) religiosior or doctior, with more piety or learning, at least he may depart jucundior, with more pleasure and lawful delight. Lastly, to procure moderate profit to myself in compensation of my pains. It was a proper question which plain-dealing Jacob pertinently propounded to Laban his father-in-law, " And now when shall I provide for mine house also?" Hitherto no stationer hath lost by me ; hereafter it will be high time for me (all things con- sidered) to save for myself. Thomas Fuller. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Queen Elizabeth, second daughter to king Henry VJIL, w r as born at Greenwich, September 7, 1533. She was heir only to the eminences of her father, his learn- ing, bounty, courage and success ; besides grace and true goodness, wherein she was daughter to her mother. Her learning appears in her two Latin speeches to the university ; and a third, little better than extempore, to the Po- land ambassador. Her bounty was better than her father's, less flowing from hu- mour, and more founded on merit, and ordered with moderation ; seeing that is j the best liberality that so enricheth the receiver that it doth not impoverish the giver. Her courage was undaunted, never making herself so cheap to her favourites but that she still valued her own author- ity, whereof this an eminent instance : — A prime officer with a white staff, whose name I purposely forbear, coming into her presence, the queen willed him to confer such a place, now void, on one of her servants, whom she commended unto him. " Pleaseth your highness, madam," saith the lord, "the disposal thereof pertaineth to me by virtue of this white staff conferred upon me." " True," said the queen : " yet I never gave you your office so absolutely, but I still re- served myself of the quorum." " But of the quorum, madam !" returned the lord, MISCELLANIES. 477 presuming on the favour of her highness. Hereat the queen, in some passion, snatch- ing the staff out of his hand, " You shall acknowledge me," said she, " of the quo- rum, quorum, quorum, before you have it again." The lord waited staffless almost a day (which seemed so long unto him as if the sun stood still) before the same was reconferred upon him. Her success was admirable, keeping the king of Spain at arms'-end all her reign. She was well skilled in the queen-craft ; and, by her policy and prosperity, she was much beloved by her people ; inso- much that, since it hath been said, " that queen Elizabeth might lawfully do that which king James might not." For, al- though the laws were equally the rule to them both, yet her popularity sugared many bitter things ; her subjects thank- ing her for taking those taxes which they refused to pay to her successor. She died at Richmond, March 24, Anno Domini 1602. Thomas Fuller. KENT THE VANGUARD OF ENGLAND. Kent hath so carried away the credit in all ages for manhood, that the leading of the front or van-guard (so called from avant-garde, or go on guard, because first in marching), in former times hath simply and absolutely belonged unto them ; I say absolutely, for I find two other shires contending for that place. The best is, it is but a book combat betwixt learned writers ; otherwise, if real, such a division were enough to rout an army without other enemy. But let us see how all may be peaceably composed. It is probable that the Cornish men led the van in the days of king Arthur, wdio, being a native of Cornwall, had most cause to trust his own countrymen. But I behold this as a temporary honour which outlasted not his life who bestowed it. The men of Archenfeld, in Hereford- shire, claimed by custom to lead the van- guard ; but surely this privilege was topical and confined to the Welsh wars, with which the aforesaid men, as bor- derers, were best acquainted. As for Kent, Cantia nostra primes co- hortis honorem, et primos congressus hos- tium usque in hodiernum diem in omnibus proeliis obtinet, saith my author *. Thomas Fuller. CHERRIES. These were fetched out of Flanders, and first planted in this county (Kent) by king Henry the Eighth, in whose time they spread into thirty-two parishes, and were sold at great rates. I have read that one of the orchards of this primitive plan- tation, consisting but of thirty acres, pro- duced fruit of one year sold for one thou- sand pounds ; plenty, it seems, of cherries in that garden, meeting with a scarcity of them in all other places. No English fruit is dearer than those at first, cheaper at last, pleasanter at all times ; nor is it less wholesome than deli- cious. And it is much that of so many feeding so freely on them, so few are found to surfeit. Their several sorts do ripen so successively, that they continue in season well nigh a quarter of a year. It is incredible how many cherries one tree in this county did bear in a plentiful year ; I mean not how many pound (being the fruit of other trees) have been weighed thereon (the common fallacy of the word bear amongst the country-folk), but sim- ply how many did naturally grow there- upon. We leave the wholesomeness of this fruit, both for food and physic, to be praised by others, having hitherto not met with any discommending it. As for the i outlandish proverb, " He that eateth j cherries with noblemen shall have his j eyes spurted out with the stones," it fix- ! eth no fault in the fruit ; the expression being merely metaphorical, wherein the folly of such is taxed, who associate them- selves equal in expense with others in higher dignity and estate, till they be losers at last, and well laughed at for their pains. Thomas Fuller. TENTERDEN'S STEEPLE IS THE CAUSE OF THE BREACH IN GOODWIN SANDS. It is used commonly in derision of such i who, being demanded to render a reason ! of some important accident, assign non j causam ])ro causa, or a ridiculous and im- S probable cause thereof. And hereon a story depends. When the vicinage in Kent met to con- sult about the inundation of Goodwin Sands, and what might be the cause * Joannes Sarisburiensis, de Nugis Curial. 6. cap. 18. 478 THOMAS FULLER. thereof, an old man imputed it to the building of Tenterden steeple in this county ; " for those sands," said he, " were firm lands before that steeple was built, which ever since were overflown with sea-water." Hereupon all heartily laughed at his unlogical reason, making that the effect in Nature, which was only the consequent in time ; not flowing from, but following after, the building of that steeple. But one story is good till another is heard. Though this be all whereon this proverb is generally grounded, I met since with a supplement thereunto. It is this. Time out of mind money was constantly collected out of this county to fence the east banks thereof against the irruption of the seas ; and such sums were deposited in the hands of the bishop of Rochester. But, because the sea had been very quiet for many years without any encroachings, the bishop commuted that money to the building of a steeple, and endowing of a church, in Tenterden. By this diversion of the collection for the maintenance of the banks, the sea afterwards brake in upon Goodwin Sands. And now the old man had told a rational tale, had he found but the due favour to finish it. And thus, sometimes, that is causelessly accounted ignorance in the speaker, which is nothing but impatience in the auditors, unwilling to attend the end of the discourse. Thomas Fuller. LONDON COCKNEYS. Let us observe, first, the antiquity of this proverb, then the meaning; lastly, the application thereof to Londoners. It is more than four hundred years old ; for, when Hugh Bigot added artificial fortifi- cations to the natural strength of his cas- tle at Bungay in Suffolk, he gave out this rhyme, therein vaunting it for impregna- ble :— Were I in my castle of Bungey, Upon the river of Waveney, I would not care for the king of Cockeney *. Meaning thereby king Henry the Second, then peaceably possessed of London, whilst some other places did resist him ; though afterwards he so humbled this Hugh, that he was fain, with large sums of money and pledges for his loyalty, to redeem this his castle from being razed to the ground. I meet with a double sense of this word Cockney: some taking it for, — 1. One coa/cs'd or cocker'd (made a wanton or nestlecock of, delicately bred and brought up), so that when grown men or women they can endure no hardship, nor comport with pains-taking. 2. One utterly igno- rant of husbandry or housewifery, such as is practised in the country, so that they may be persuaded anything about rural commodities ; and the original thereof, and the tale of the citizen's son, who knew not the language of a cock, but called it neighing, is commonly known. Here I take no notice of his fancy who will have it called Cockney by transposi- tion, quasi incoct (raw and rude), as forced and far-fetched. The name is generally fixed on such who are born within the sound of Bow- bell, and are tender enough, and suffici- ently ignorant in country businesses. One merrily persuaded a she-citizen, that, see- ing malt did not grow, the good house- wives in the country did spin it ; "I knew as much," said the Cockney, " for one may see the threads hang out at the ends thereof." However, be it known unto all people, that as there are delicate and silly folk in the country, so are there as hardy men and skilful housewives in the city ; no disparagement to any of what place soever. Thomas Fuller. TO DINE WITH DUKE HUMPHREY. This proverb hath altered the original meaning thereof; for, first it signified aliend vivere quadra, to eat by the bounty or feed by the favour of another man ; for, Humphrey duke of Gloucester (commonly called the good duke) was so hospitable, that every man of fashion, otherwise un- provided, was welcome to dine with him ; it not being so proper for strangers to sup in those days with the greatest house- keepers. The said duke was so bountiful, that his alms-dish of silver was very massy when empty (what then when full ?), which alms-dish came afterwards into the possession of the duke of Somerset, who sent it to lord Rivers, to sell the same, to furnish himself for a sea-voyage. But, after the death of good duke Hum- * Camden's Britannia, in Suffolk. MISCELLANIES. 479 phrey (when many of his former alms- j walk away the want of a dinner ; whereas, men were at a loss for a meal's meat), I indeed, that nohle person interred in St. this proverb did alter its copy ; to dine Paul's was Sir John Beauchamp, consta- with duke Humphrey importing to be ble of Dover, warden of the Cincme Ports, dinnerless. knight of the garter, son to Guy earl of A general mistake fixed this sense ; | Warwick, and brother to Thomas earl of namely, that duke Humphrey was buried Warwick ; whilst duke Humphrey was in the body of St. Paul's church, where ; honourably buried at St. Albans. many men chew their meat with feet, and Thomas Fuller. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE was born in London, in the year 1628, and went to school at Penshurst in Kent, and at Bishops Stortford in Hertfordshire. At the age of seventeen he entered Emma- nuel College, Cambridge, where he studied under the care of Dr. Cudworth, and being designed for publick life, carefully learned the French and Spanish languages. He travelled to France in 1648, and on his way thither, being in the Isle of Wight (where Charles I. was then a prisoner), fell in love with Dorothy Osborne, whom he married on his return in 1654, and then went to live with his father in Ireland. In 1661, after the Restoration, he sat in the Irish Parliament as member for Cirlow, but soon after the year 1662, he removed with his family to England, bearing letters of recommendation from the duke of Ormond, the lord lieutenant, to lord Clarendon and the earl of Arlington. His first publick employment happened in this way. Cromwell, who had humbled Holland and Spain, and had possessed himself of Dunkirk, without which the French king coidd neither subdue Flanders nor hope for dominion on the sea, was hindered by death from making a treaty with Spain to check the power of France and restore Calais to England. Charles II. sold Dunkirk to France, in 1662, and, in 1664, waged war with Holland. The French joined the Dutch in 1666, and in 1667 the Dutch fleet sailed up the Thames, took Sheerness, advanced as far as Gravesend, and ap- peared before Portsmouth and Plymouth. It was in the year 1665, during this war with Holland, that Sir William Temple was first employed to treat for an alliance with the bishop of Munster against the Dutch ; he succeeded, was made a baronet, and became English resident at Brussels, which then helonged to Spain. In 1667, a peace between England, France and Holland was concluded at Breda, and war began between France and Spain. Charles II. then directed Temple to re- turn from Brussels to England, and on his way to come through Holland and see De Wit, grand pensionary, or first minister of the States, and concert with him the means of saving Flanders from France. De Wit resembled Temple in integrity, firm- ness and sound judgment : for ten years he served his country as her chief magistrate, having a yearly salary, at first of £300, afterward of £700, — for his reward, in 1672, he was murdered, cut in pieces, broiled and eaten by the rabble at the Hague. These two plain men, thinking alike, that state affairs should be conducted by the same rules of truth and common honesty that govern dealings between common peo- ple, and having full confidence in each other, were not long in coming to agreement. Temple went on to London, where he remained but five days, and returning to the Hague with full power, concluded in five other days the defensive treaty called The Triple Alliance, to which Sweden acceded three days afterward. By that treaty the 480 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. contracting parties bound themselves to force France to make peace with Spain, re- taining only either her conquests in Flanders or the county of Burgundy. Spain, in spite at being required to yield anything, and in order to keep alive the jealousy of England and Holland against France, chose the worse offer; she gave up the fron- tiers of Flanders : on this concession, a general treaty of peace, which Temple managed on the part of England, was concluded in 1668, at Aix-la-Chapelle, and he remained English ambassador at the Hague. In 1669 a secret correspondence began between Charles II. and Louis XIV. : the king of England became the pensioner of France for £200,000 yearly, and for the sake of the pension promised to make war against Holland. This foul compact was unknown to Temple, who, in September 1670, was suddenly recalled to England. De Wit suspected the truth, and imparted his suspicions to the English ambassador, who replied that he could not believe it possible for any crown ever to enter into counsels so destructive to honour and safety ; however, he could answer for nobody besides himself, but that he would ; and if such a thing should happen, he would have no part in it. When he came to London he was pressed by the king to return to the Hague, and pave the way for a war with Holland ; he refused, and retired to a house which he had purchased at Sheen near Richmond, where, during his retire- ment, he wrote Observations on the United Provinces, and one part of his Miscellanies. The king, reaping neither honour nor profit from his second Dutch war, sent, in 1674, for Temple, who, by the mediation of the Spanish ambassador, concluded in London a peace between England and Holland, — the dominion of England over the narrow seas being acknowledged. He then went ambassador to the Hague to me- diate a general peace. Before he began his journey he asked and obtained a long interview with the king, that he might learn his true disposition. He found that Charles was disposed to establish the Roman Catholick religion and arbitrary govern- ment, and told him that it could not be ; he reminded him that in France, which our' king had taken for his pattern, the sovereign had only to consult the nobles and clergy, — for the peasants having no land, were as insignificant in the government as children were here, — that, on the contrary, the great bulk of land in England lay in the hands of the yeomanry or lower gentry, and their hearts were high by ease and plenty, as those of the French peasantry were wholly dispirited by labour and want : he ended with a saying of Gourville, a Frenchman, the only foreigner of the time that understood England well: — a king of England, who will be the man of his peo- ple, is the greatest king in the world ; but if he will be anything more, he is nothing at all : — all this the king heard attentively, promised to be the man of his people, and continued to be the pensioner of France. The mission of Sir William Temple, after long delays, ended in 1679, with the' peace of Nimeguen. During the negotiation, and while he was at the Hague, the prince of Orange, afterward William III., dined and supped once or twice a week at his house, and consulted him on a proposal which had been made, some time past, for a marriage between that prince and the princess Mary, eldest daughter of the duke of York. Lady Temple was employed to describe the person, humour and dis- position of the young princess ; being satisfied on those points, William came over to England, and the marriage was celebrated on the 23rd of October 1677. In the year (1679) in which the peace of Nimeguen was concluded, Charles, by the advice of Temple, chose a new Privy Council, and promised that he would take no measure without the consent of his councillors. Temple's object was to keep the king and the Parliament in union, as the only means of saving Flanders and Holland from France ; but the House of Commons would not listen to foreign affairs, which MISCELLANIES. 481 they looked upon as tricks designed to withdraw their attention from the Popish plot ; they were wholly bent upon the bill for excluding the duke of York from the throne, a measure which Temple opposed, and to which Charles was determined not to assent. It had been agreed by the Privy Council that secretary Jenkins should carry down to the Commons a message from the king, that he never would consent to the duke's exclusion; the task of conveying a message so unpopular was not coveted by the secretary, and it was afterwards decided, in the king's chamber, that the errand should be done by Temple ; he did it, but told the king that he was very sensible how much of his confidence he formerly had, and how much he had lost without knowing the occasion, or else he might have had part in advising the change of what was last night resolved, as well as in executing it, and that he had not so good a stomach to business as to be content only with swallowing what other people had chewed. At this time he began to think of retiring altogether from pubbck life, for he saw that the opposing parties were resolute to carry things to extremity, — lord Shaftesbury and his party to force the exclusion of the duke of York, and the king to govern without a parliament. On the 10th of January 1681 the parliament was dissolved, and a new parliament convened to meet at Oxford in the following March. Temple was asked by the Heads of the University of Cambridge if he would offer himself for their election ; he applied to the king to learn his pleasure ; Charles seemed at first careless, and bade him do as he liked, but on being pressed, said he thought Temple would not be able to do much good in the House, and might as well let it alone ; upon this Sir William retired to Sheen, and sent the king word that he would never meddle again with publick affairs ; the king declared he w r as not angry, but within a week he struck the name of Temple out of his council. Temple continued to live at Sheen until 1686, always kindly received by Charles, and afterward by James II., when the court was at Richmond. In 1686 he re- moved to an estate that he had purchased at Moor Park, near Farnham in Surrey. Notwithstanding his friendship with the prince of Orange, he refused to take any part in the Revolution of 1688, or to enter into the publick service. William III. frequently visited and consulted him on his most secret affairs. In 1688 Swift be- came his private secretary, and with some intervals of absence, resided with him until his death, which happened in January 1699, at Moor Park. His heart was buried in his garden, his body in Westminster Abbey. He left the bulk of his fortune to his two grand-daughters, on condition that they did not marry Frenchmen, thus speaking from the grave his dislike to France. He is considered, next to Dryden, the best English prose writer of the age of Charles II. His works consist of Letters, Political and other Essays, and Memoirs. The Memoirs were in three parts. The first, which related to the Triple Alliance and the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, he burned, because it gave honour to lord Arling- ton for the Triple Alliance, which that nobleman afterwards broke through to help forward the intrigues of Charles with France : the facts which were related in this first part are preserved in Sir William's letters. The second part, which was pub- lished in his life-time, perhaps without his consent, embraced the period of his second employment from 1674 to the Peace of Nimeguen in 1679 : the third, beginning at 1679, ended in 1681, when, at the age of fifty-three, he retired from pubbck life, observing, almost to the letter, the wiser hah of a maxim of his own, that no man should make love after forty, nor be occupied with business after fifty. By one of his essays he chanced to call forth the most admirable work which cri- tical learning has produced, — Bentley's Dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris, in answer to the honourable Charles Boyle. Toward the end of the seventeenth cen- 4S2 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. tury a question was rife among the scholars of Europe, whether the ancients had more intellectual power than the moderns. Temple, in an essay upon ancient and modern learning, took the side of the ancients, and asserting that the oldest books we have, are still in their kind the best, lavished praise upon ^Esop's Fables and Phalaris's Epistles, which he regarded as the most ancient of profane writings. Bentley took no part in the dispute, but in an Appendix to Reflections on Ancient and Modern Learning, written by Mr. Wotton, who espoused the cause of the mo- derns, he gave sufficient reasons for believing that the Epistles of Phalaris and iEsop's Fables are spurious, the forgeries of some sophist who lived a thousand years after the age of Phalaris. It so happened that an edition of Phalaris had been recently published by the honourable Charles Boyle, a young gentleman of Christ Church, Oxford, under the patronage of Dr. Aldrich, the dean of Christ Church. On the ap- pearance of Mr. Wotton's book, the college rose in arms, and its leaders, Atterbury, Smalridge, Aldrich, Freind and Alsop combined, in Mr. Boyle's name, to extinguish Bentley by an examination of his remarks on Phalaris, in a volume which contained a great show of erudition, and a reality of malicious wit. The publick thought that Bentley was driven from the field with disgrace, but he girded himself up r and sent forth a crushing answer, from which there was no escape, in which a profusion of learning was applied with a skill and force never equalled in a controversy of that kind, and enlivened with humour, which was full of entertainment for the un- learned. Sir "William Temple's death happened just before this annihilation of Phalaris. ENGLISH GARDENS. But after so much ramble into ancient times and remote places, to return home and consider the present way and humour of our gardening in England; which seem to have grown into such vogue and to have been so mightily improved in three or four-and-twenty years of his majesty's reign, that perhaps few countries are be- fore us, either in the elegance of our gar- dens or in the number of our plants ; and I believe none equals us in the variety of fruits, which may be justly called good ; and from the earliest cherry and straw- berry to the last apples and pears, may furnish every day of the circling year. For the taste and perfection of what we esteem the best, I may truly say that the French, who have eaten my peaches and grapes at Shene in no very ill year, have generally concluded that the last are as good as any they have eaten in France on this side Fontainbleau ; and the first as good as any they have eat in Gascony ; I mean those which come from the stone and are properly called peaches, not those which are hard and are termed pavies; for these cannot grow in too warm a cli- mate, nor ever be good in a cold; and are better at Madrid than in Gascony it- self. Italians have agreed my white figs to be as good as any of that sort in Italy, which is the earlier kind of white fig there ; for in the latter kind, and the blue, we cannot come near the warm climates no more than in the Frontignac or Muscat grape. My orange-trees are as large as any I saw when I was young in France, except those of Fontainbleau, or what I have seen since in the Low Countries, except some very old ones of the prince of Orange's ; as laden with flowers as any can well be, as full of fruit as I suffer or desire them, and as well-tasted as are commonly brought over, except the best sorts of Seville and Portugal. And thus much I could not but say, in defence of our climate, which is so much and so ge- nerally decried abroad by those who never saw it ; or, if they have been here, have yet perhaps seen no more of it than what belongs to inns, or to taverns and ordi- naries ; who accuse our country for their own defaults, and speak ill not only of our gardens and houses, but of our hu- mours, our breeding, our customs andl manners of life, by what they have ob- served of the meaner and baser sort of mankind, and of company among us ; be- cause they w T anted themselves, perhaps,! either fortune or birth, either quality orl merit, to introduce them among the good.f MISCELLANIES. 483 I must needs add one thing more in fa- vour of our climate which I heard the king say, and I thought new and right and truly like a king of England that loved and esteemed his own country : 't was in reply to some of the company that were reviling our climate and extol- ling those of Italy and Spain, or at least of France : he said, he thought that was the best climate where he could be abroad in the air with pleasure, or at least with- out trouble and inconvenience, the most days of the year and the most hours of the day ; and this he thought he could be in England more than in any country he knew of in Europe. And I believe it is true, not only of the hot and the cold, but even among our neighbours in France and the Low Countries themselves; where the heats or the colds, and changes of sea- sons, are less treatable than they are with us. The truth is, our climate wants no heat to produce excellent fruits ; and the de- fault of it is only the short season of our heats or summers, by which many of the latter are left behind and imperfect with us. But all such as are ripe before the end of August are, for aught I know, as good with us as anywhere else. This makes me esteem the true region of gar- dens in England to be the compass of ten miles about London, where the accidental warmth of air from the fires and steams of so vast a town, makes fruits as well as corn a great deal forwarder than in Hamp- shire or Wiltshire, though more south- ward by a full degree. There are, besides the temper of our climate, two things particular to us that contribute much to the beauty and ele- gance of our gardens, which are the gravel of our walks and the fineness and almost perpetual greenness of our turf. The first is not known anywhere else, which leaves all then* dry walks in other countries very unpleasant and uneasy. The other cannot be found in France or in Holland as we have it, the soil not admitting that fine- ness of blade in Holland nor the sun that greenness in France during most of the summer ; nor indeed is it to be found but in the finest of our soils. Whoever begins a garden ought in the first place, and above all, to consider the soil, upon which the taste of not only his fruits but his legumes, and even herbs and salads will wholly depend ; and the default of soil is without remedy ; for al- though all borders of fruit may be made with what earth you please (if you will be at the charge), yet it must be renewed in two or three years, or it runs into the na- ture of the ground where it is brought. Old trees spread their roots further than any body's care extends or the forms of the garden will allow; and after all, where the soil about you is ill, the air is so too in a degree and has influence upon the taste of fruit. What Horace says of the productions of kitchen-gardens, under the name of Caulis, is true of all the best sorts of fruits, and may determine the choice of soil for all gardens. Caule suburbano qui siccis crevit in agris Dulcior ; irriguis nihil est elutius hortis. Plants from dry fields those of the town excel ; Nothing more tasteless is than water 'd grounds, Any man had better throw away his care and his money upon anything else than upon a garden in wet or moist ground. Peaches and grapes will have no taste but upon a sand or gravel ; but the richer these are the better ; and neither I salads, peas, or beans have at all the taste I upon a clay or rich earth as they have j upon either of the others, though the size 1 and colour of fruits and plants may per- I haps be more upon the worse soils. Next to your choice of soil is to suit I your plants to your ground, since of this every one is not master ; though perhaps Varro's judgment upon this case is the wisest and the best ; for to one that asked him, What he should do if his father or ancestors had left him a seat in an ill air or upon an ill soil ? he answered, Win- sell it and buy another in good. But what if I cannot get half the worth ? Why then take a quarter ; but however sell it for anything rather than live upon it. Sir William Temple. LONG LIFE. For the honour of our climate it has been observed by ancient authors, that the Britons w T ere longer-lived than any other nation to them known. And in modern times there have been more and greater examples of this kind than in any other countries of Europe. The story of Old Parr is too late to be forgotten by many now alive, who was brought out of Derbyshire to the court in King Charles the First's time, and hived to a hundred and fifty-three years old; and might have, Y2 484 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. as was thought, gone further if the change of country air and diet for that of the town had not carried him off, perhaps untimely at that very age. The late Ro- bert earl of Leicester, who was a person of great learning and observation, as well as of truth, told me several stories very extraordinary upon this subject ; one of a countess of Desmond, married out of England in Edward the Fourth's time, and who lived far in king James's reign, and was counted to have died some years above a hundred and forty ; at which age she came from Bristol to London to beg some relief at court, having long been very poor by the ruin of that Irish family into which she was married. Another he told me was of a beggar at a bookseller's shop, where he was some weeks after the death of prince Henry ; and observing those that passed by, he was saying to his company, that never such a mourning had been seen in En- gland. This beggar said, No, never since the death of prince Arthur. My lord Leicester, surprised, asked what she meant, and whether she remembered it ? She said, very well; and upon his more cu- rious inquiry, told him that her name was Rainsford, of a good family in Oxfordshire : that when she was about twenty years old, upon the falseness of a lover she fell distracted ; how long she had been so nor what passed in that time she knew not ; that, when she was thought well enough to go abroad, she was fain to beg for her living; that she was some time at this trade before she recovered any memory of what she had been or where bred ; that, when this memory returned, she went down into her country, but hardly found the memory of any of her friends she had left there, and so returned to a parish in Southwark, where she had some small al- lowance among other poor, and had been for many years ; and once a-week walked into the city and took what alms were given her. My lord Leicester told me he sent to inquire at the parish, and found their account agree with the wo- man's ; upon which he ordered her to call at his house once a-week, which she did for some time ; after which he heard no more of her. This story raised some dis- course upon a remark of some in the company, that mad people are apt to live long. They alleged examples of their own knowledge ; but the result was that, if it were true, it must proceed from the na- tural vigour of their tempers, which dis- posed them to passions so violent, as ended in frenzies ; and from the great abstinence and hardships of diet they are forced upon by the methods of their cure and severity of those who had them in care, no other drink but water being al- lowed them, and very little meat. The last story I shall mention from that noble person upon this subject, was of a morrice-dance in Herefordshire ; whereof he said he had a pamphlet still in his li- brary, written by a very ingenious gentle- man of that county, and which gave an account how such a year of king James's reign there went about the country a set of morrice-dancers, composed of ten men who danced, a maid Marian, and a tabor and pipe; and how these twelve one with another made up twelve hundred years. 'T is not so much that so many in one small county should live to that age, as that they should be in vigour and in hu- mour to travel and to dance. I have in my life met with two of above a hundred and twelve ; whereof the wo- man had passed her life in service, and the man in common labour till he grew old and fell upon the parish. But I met with one who had gone a much greater length, which made me more curious in my inquiries. 'T was an old man who begged usually at a lonely inn upon the road in Staffordshire, who told me he was a hundred and twenty-four years old ; that he had been a soldier in the Cales voyage under the earl of Essex, of which he gave me a sensible account ; that after his return he fell to labour in his own parish, which was about a mile from the place where I met him ; that he continued to work till a hundred and twelve, when he broke one of his ribs by a fall from a cart, and, being thereby disabled, he fell to beg. This agreeing with what the master of the house told me was reported and believed by all his neighbours, I asked him what his usual food was; he said, milk, bread, and cheese, and flesh when it was given him. I asked him what he used to drink ? he said, sir, we have the best water in our parish that is in all the neighbourhood. Whether he never drank anything else ? He said, yes, if any body gave it him, but not other- wise. And the host told me he had got many a pound in his house, but never spent one penny. I asked if he had any neighbours as old as he ? and he told me but one, who had been his fellow-soldier at Cales, and was three years older ; but MISCELLANIES. 485 he had been most of his time in a good service, and had something to live on now he was old. I have heard, and very credibly, of temperance rather than of luxury and ex- cess. And, indeed, if a rich man does not in many tbings live like a poor, he will certainly be the worse for his riches. If many in my life above an hundred years j he does not use exercise, which is but vo- old, brought as witnesses upon trials of titles and bounds of land ; but I have ob- served most of them have been of Der- byshire, Staffordshire or Yorkshire, and none above the rank of common farmers. The oldest I ever knew any persons of quality, or indeed any gentleman either at home or abroad, was fourscore-and- twelve. This, added to all the former re- cites or observations, either of long-lived luntary labour; if he does not restrain appetite hy choice, as the other does by necessity ; if he does not practise some- times even abstinence and fasting, which is the last extreme of want and poverty ; if his cares and his troubles increase with his riches, or his passions with his plea- sures, he will certainly impair in health whilst he improves his fortunes, and lose more than he gains by the bargain ; since races or persons in any age or country, ' health is the best of all human posses- makes it easy to conclude, that health sions, and without which the rest are not and long life are usually blessings of the j relished or kindly enjoyed, poor, not of the rich, and the fruits of I Sir William Temple. JOHN DRYDEN was born on the 9th of August 1631, at Aldwinkle, All-Saints, near Thrapston in { Northamptonshire. He was educated at Westminster under Dr. Busby, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1658 he wrote Heroick Stanzas to the Memory of Oliver Cromwell, ending — His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest ; His name a great example stands, to show How strangely high endeavours may be blest, Where piety and valour jointly go. Whatever may be thought of the justice of this panegyrick, it is to the honour of Dryden that he did not, like the time-servers above whom he stood, strive to blot out his eulogy by abuse. Bound as he afterward was to the court of Charles, neither duty nor decency allowed him to repeat the praise, but no taunts, and he was often taunted, could tempt him to unsay it ; he kept an honest silence. After the Restoration he made literature his profession, and from 1664 to 1681, wrote almost wholly for the stage. His earlier tragedies were what are called he- roick or rhyming plays, — high-sounding verse abounding in extravagance and fustian ; but he laid aside the practice of writing tragedies in rhyme and closed in a better strain. The faults of his comedies, in which liveliness of dialogue was liis chief aim, were of a viler kind ; for these he lived to make the world such atonement as sorrow and repentance can give. His plays and his person were ridiculed in The Rehearsal, the witty work of the second Villiers, duke of Buckingham, and assistants, which was first acted in 1671, and in which Dryden, who had been made poet laureate in 1668, is figured as the hero, under the name of Mr. Bayes. In 1681 he published his first political satire, Absalom and Achitophel (the duke of Monmouth and the earl of Shaftesbury), in which he laid open the arts of Shaftes- bury and the popish plot faction, to raise Monmouth to the throne by the exclusion of the duke of York. In this poem, portraying the duke of Buckingham in the cha- racter of Zimri, he gave more than a requital for Mr. Bayes. The satire had great success and was followed by The Medal, in which lord Shaftesbury was again at- 486 JOHN DRYDEN. tacked — by Mac Flecknoe, a satire against Shadwell the true blue Protestant poet, — and by about two hundred lines of the second part of Absalom and Achitophel, in which the minor agents of the Whig party were satirized, the bulk of the poem being the work of Nahum Tate. In 1 682 he published the Religio Laici, a poem partly reli- gious and partly political ; arguing against the Deists, the Church of Rome and the Dis- senters, he concludes in favour of the Church of England. This poem is considered to be a master-piece of argument in verse, and was the model of Cowper's satires. James II. became king on the 6th of February 1685 ; after his accession Dry den joined the Church of Rome. He already held the office of Royal Historiographer as well as that of Poet Laureate, with a salary of £200 and the yearly butt of Canary, and now £100 a-year was added to his pension. In 1687 he vindicated his change of opinion in the poem of The Hind and the Panther, a parable in which ' a milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged," represents the Church of Rome, and The Panther, sure the noblest next the hind, And fairest creature of the spotted kind, the Church of England, while other divisions of Christians are classed under the names of the Bear, the Boar, the Hare, the Fox, and the Wolf. The poem is in three parts : the first part describes the characters of the various sects : at the close the Hind meeting the Panther, and Considering her a well-bred civil beast, And more a gentlewoman than the rest, begins a conversation which, through the second part, is directed to the great question of infallibility, and, in the third, to the political position of the churches of England and Rome, the downfall of the former being predicted. The sincerity of Dryden's conversion, though called in question by his cotempora- ries, cannot be fairly doubted : it is little to say that his profession was unchanged after the Revolution, — for had he been insincere or indifferent, a recantation would have been too infamous, — but he brought up his sons in his new faith, a fact which, unless he is to be thought worse than the worst of mankind, is decisive. Nor, look- ing to the poem itself, would it have been easy to believe that the writer of The Hind and the Panther was not in earnest. It would be hard to think this the language of a hypocrite : — What weight of ancient witness can prevail, If private reasons hold the public scale ? But, gracious God, how well dost thou provide For erring judgments an unerring guide ! Thy throne is darkness in the abyss of light, A blaze of glory that forbids the sight. O, teach me to believe thee thus conceal'd, And search no farther than thyself reveal' d; But her alone for my director take, Whom thou hast promised never to forsake ! My thoughtless youth was wing'd with vain desires ; My manhood, long misled by wandering fires, Follow' d false lights ; and when their glimpse was gone, My pride struck out new sparkles of her own. Such was I, such by nature still I am ; Be thine the glory, and be mine the shame ! And again — If joys hereafter must be purchased here With loss of all that mortals hold so dear, Then welcome infamy and public shame, And last, a long farewell to worldly fame ! 'T is said with ease ; but oh, how hardly tried By haughty souls to human honour tied ! O sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride ! MISCELLANIES. 487 Down then, thou rebel, never more to rise ! And what thou didst, and dost, so dearly prize, That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice 'T is nothing thou hast given ; then add thy tears For a long race of unrepenting years. 'Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give. Then add those may-be years thou hast to live. Yet nothing still : then poor and naked come, Thy Father will receive his unthrift home, And thy blest Saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum At the Revolution of 1688 Dryden lost his places and his pension. He again wrote for the stage; in 1690, Don Sebastian, the best of his plays, was produced, and was followed by some very inferior : Love Triumphant, his last, was acted in 1 692. In that year the publication of his translations began with Juvenal and Persius, in which he was assisted by his two sons, and Congreve and others, he himself supplying the whole of Persius, and the 1st, 3rd, 6th, 10th and 16th satires of Juvenal. July 1697 gave to the world his Virgil, which Pope pronounced to be the most noble and spirited transla- tion in any language. Tonson the publisher urged Dryden to dedicate it to the king, but the poet held fast his faith to his banished lord, and all that the bookseller could do was to make the engraver of the plates exalt the nose of the pious xEneas into the likeness of king William's. In the same year, 1697, he wrote Alexander's Feast, the noblest ode in our language. In 1700 he published those imitations of Chaucer and Boccaccio which are called his Fables. He died on the 1st of May 1700, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, between the graves of Chaucer and Cowley. Dr. Johnson, who gives Dryden the title of the father of English criticism, speaks thus of his prose : — " Criticism, either didactick or defensive, occupies almost all his prose, except those pages which he has devoted to his patrons ; but none of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The pauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled ; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid ; the whole is airy, animated and vigorous ; what is little is gay, what is great is splendid. Though all is easy, nothing is feeble ; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh ; and though since his earlier works more than a century has passed, they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete." Dryden was married in 1665 to lady Elizabeth Howard, the daughter of the earl of Berkshire, and the sister of his early friend and companion in literature, Sir Robert Howard. He left three sons, all of whom died without issue. He lived from his marriage to his death in the house No. 43, Gerrard-street, Soho-square. His mornings were spent in study ; after dinner he went usually to Will's Coffee-house, at the end of Bow-street, on the north side of Russell-street, Covent-garden ; the original sign, the Cow, was changed, in Dryden's time, into the Rose, and the house took its better known name from that of the landlord, William Erwin or Urwin. Dryden had his established chair, by the chimney in winter and near the balcony in summer, from which he delivered his judgments to the wits of the day. He made frequent excursions to the country, was a great snuff-taker, and fond of fishing. DEDICATION OF THE MOCK AS- TROLOGER, A COMEDY, TO THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE. May it please your Grace, — Amongst those few persons of wit and honour whose favourable opinion I have desired, your own virtue and my great obligations to your grace have justly given you the precedence. For what coidd be more glo- rious to me, than to have acquired some part of your esteem, who are admired and 488 JOHN DRYDEN. honoured by all good men ; who have been, for so many years together, the pat- tern and standard of honour to the nation ; and whose whole life has been so great an example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder how it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if it had not likewise been a part of the former ? As you came into the world with all the advantages of a noble birth and education, so you have rendered both yet more conspicuous by your virtue. Fortune, indeed, has per- petually crowned your undertakings with success, but she has only waited on your valour, not conducted it. She has mini- stered to your glory like a slave, and has been led in triumph by it ; or, at most, while honour led you by the hand to greatness, fortune only followed to keep you from sliding back in the ascent. That which Plutarch accounted her favour to Cymon and Lucullus, was but her justice to your grace ; and never to have been overcome where you led in person, as it was more than Hannibal could boast, so it was all that Providence could do for that party which it had resolved to ruin. Thus, my lord, the last smiles of victory were on your arms ; and, everywhere else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to suspend herself, and to doubt, before she took her flight, whether she were able wholly to abandon that cause for which you fought. But the greatest trials of your courage and constancy were yet to come. Many had ventured their fortunes and exposed their lives to the utmost dangers for their king and country, who ended their loyalty with the war, and submitting to the ini- quity of the times, chose rather to redeem their former plenty by acknowledging an usurper, than to suffer with an unprofit- able fidelity (as those meaner spirits called it) for their lawful sovereign. But, as 1 dare not accuse so many of our nobility, who were content to accept their patri- monies from the clemency of the con- queror, and to retain only a secret vene- ration for their prince, amidst the open worship which they were forced to pay to the usurper who had dethroned him, so I hope I may have leave to extol that virtue which acted more generously ; and which was not satisfied with an inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself to view and asserted the cause by open martyrdom. Of these rare patterns of loyalty your grace was chief. Those ex- amples you could not find you made. Some few Catos there were with you, whose invincible resolution could not be conquered by that usurping Caesar. Your virtue opposed itself to his fortune and overcame it, by not submitting to it. The last and most difficult enterprize he had to effect, when he had conquered three nations, was to subdue your spirit ; and he died weary of that war, and unable to finish it. In the meantime, you lived more hap- pily in your exile than the other on his throne ; your loyalty made you friends and servants amongst foreigners ; and you lived plentifully without a fortune, for you lived on your own desert and reputa- tion. The glorious name of the valiant and faithful Newcastle was a patrimony which could never be exhausted. Thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear and calm; and though it was afterwards overcast, yet in that gene- ral storm you were never without a shelter. And now you are happily arrived to the evening of a day as serene as the dawn of it was glorious, but such an evening as I hope, and almost prophecy, is far from night. 'T is the evening of a summer's sun which keeps the daylight long within the skies. The health of your body is maintained by the vigour of your mind : neither does the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the other bend under the pains of study. Methinks I behold in you another Caius Marius, who, in the extremity of his age, exercised him- self almost every morning in the Campus Martius amongst the youthful nobility of Rome. And afterwards in your retire- ments, when you do honour to poetry, by employing part of your leisure in it, I re- gard you as another Silius Italicus, who having passed over his consulship with applause, dismissed himself from business and from the gown, and employed his age amongst the shades in the reading and imitation of Virgil. In which, lest anything should be want- ing to your happiness, you have, by a rare effect of fortune, found in the person of your excellent lady, not only a lover but a partner of your studies ; a lady whom our age may justly equal with the Sappho of the Greeks or the Sulpitia of the Ro- mans ; who, by being taken into your bosom, seems to be inspired with your genius ; and, by writing the history of your life in so masculine a style, has al- ready placed you in the number of the heroes. She has anticipated that great MISCELLANIES. 489 portion of fame which envy often hinders a living virtue from possessing ; which would indeed have been given to your ashes, but with a later payment ; and of which you could have no present use, ex- cept it were by a secret presage of that which was to come, when you were no longer in a possibility of knowing it. So that if that were a praise or satisfaction to the greatest of emperors, which the most judicious of poets gives him — Prsesenti tibi maturos largimur honores, &c. that the adoration which was not allowed to Hercules and Romulus till after death was given to Augustus living, then cer- tainly it cannot be denied but that your grace has received a double satisfaction ; the one, to see yourself consecrated to immortality while you are yet alive ; the other, to have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and so pious an histo- rian. John Dryden. THE DRAMATICK UNITIES OF PLACE AND TIME. I am not now to defend my own cause, when that of all the ancients and moderns is in question. For this gentleman, who accuses me of arrogance, has taken a course not to be taxed with the other ex- treme of modesty. Those propositions, which are laid down in my discourse as helps to the better imitation of nature, are not mine (as I have said), nor were ever pretended so to be, but derived from the authority of Aristotle and Horace, and from the rules and examples of Ben Jonson and Corneille. These are the men with whom properly he contends, and against " whom he will endeavour to make it evident, that there is no such thing as what they all pretend." His argument against the unities of place and time is this : — " That 't is as impossible for one stage to present two rooms or houses truly as two countries or kingdoms, and as impossible that five hours or twenty -four hours should be two hours, as that a thousand hours or year* should be less than what they are, or the greatest part of time to be comprehended in the less ; for all of them being impos- sible, they are none of them nearest the truth or nature of what they present ; for impossibilities are all equal and admit of no degree." This argument is so scattered into parts, that it can scarce be united into a syllogism ; yet, in obedience to him, I will abbreviate and comprehend as much of it as I can in few words, that my an- swer to it may be more perspicuous. I conceive his meaning to be what follows as to the unity of place (if I mistake I beg his pardon, professing it is not out of any design to play the argumentative poet). If one stage cannot properly present two rooms or houses, much less two countries or kingdoms, then there can be no unity of place. But one stage cannot properly perform this ; therefore there can be no unity of place. I plainly deny his minor proposition, the force of which, if I mistake not, de- pends on this, that the stage being one place cannot be two. This indeed is as great a secret as that we are all mortal ; but to requite it with another, I must crave leave to tell him, that though the stage cannot be two places, yet it may properly represent them successively, or at several times. His argument is indeed no more than a mere fallacy, which will evidently appear when we distinguish place, as it relates to plays, into real and imaginary. The real place is that theatre or piece of ground on which the play is acted. The imaginary, that house, town or country where the action of the drama is supposed to be, or, more plainly, where the scene of the play is laid. Let us now apply this to that Herculean argument, " which if strictly and duly weighed, is to make it evident that there is no such thing as what they all pretend." 'T is impossible, he says, for one stage to pre- sent two rooms or houses ; I answer, 't is neither impossible nor improper for one real place to represent two or more ima- ginary places, so it be done successively ; which, in other words, is no more than this, that the imagination of the audi- ence, aided by the w r ords of the poet and painted scenes, may suppose the stage to be sometimes one place, sometimes an- other ; now a garden or wood, and im- mediately a camp ; which I appeal to every man's imagination if it be not true. Neither the ancients nor moderns, as much fools as he is pleased to think them, ever asserted that they could make one place two ; but they might hope, by the good leave of this author, that the change of a scene might lead the ima- gination to suppose the place altered ; so that he cannot fasten those absurdities 490 JOHN DRYDEN. upon this scene of a play, or imaginary place of action, that it is one place and yet two. And this being so clearly proved, that 't is past any show of a reasonable denial, it will not be hard to destroy that other part of his argument which depends upon it ; namely, that 't is as impossible for a stage to represent two rooms or houses as two countries or kingdoms ; for his reason is already overthrown, which was, because both were alike impossible. This is manifestly otherwise ; for 't is proved that a stage may properly repre- sent two rooms or houses ; for the ima- gination being judge of what is repre- sented, will in reason be less choked with the appearance of two rooms in the same house, or two houses in the same city, than with two distant cities in the same country, or two remote countries in the same universe. Imagination in a man or reasonable creature is supposed to partici- pate of reason, and when that governs, as it does in the belief of fiction, reason is not destroyed, but misled or blinded ; that can prescribe to the reason, during the time of the representation, somewhat like a weak belief of what it sees and hears ; and reason suffers itself to be so hood- winked, that it may better enjoy the pleasures of the fiction ; but it is never so wholly made a captive as to be drawn headlong into a persuasion of those things which are most remote from probability ; it is in that case a free-born subject, not a slave ; it will contribute willingly its assent, as far as it sees convenient, but will not be forced. Now, there is a greater vicinity in nature betwixt two rooms than betwixt two houses ; betwixt two houses than betwixt two cities ; and so of the rest. Reason, therefore, can sooner be led by imagination to step from one room into another than to walk to two distant houses, and yet rather to go thither than to fly like a witch through the air and be hurried from one region to another. Fancy and reason go hand and hand ; the first cannot leave the last behind : and though fancy, when it sees the wide gulph, would venture over as the nimbler, yet it is with- held by reason, which will refuse to take the leap when the distance over it ap- pears too large. If Ben Jonson himself will remove the scene from Rome into Tuscany in the same act, and from thence return to Rome in the scene which im- mediately follows, reason will consider there is no proportionable allowance of time to perform the journey, and there- fore will choose to stay at home. So then, the less change of place there is, the less time is taken up in transporting the persons of the drama with analogy to reason; and in that analogy, or resem- blance of fiction to truth, consists the excellency of the play. For what else concerns the unity of place I have already given my opinion of it in my essay, that there is a latitude to be allowed to it, as several places in the same town or city, or places adjacent to each other in the same country, which may all be comprehended under the larger denomination of one place ; yet with this restriction, that the nearer and fewer those imaginary places are, the greater resemblance they will have to truth ; and reason, which cannot make them one, will be more easily led to suppose them so. What has been said of the unity of place may easily be applied to that of time. I grant it to be impossible that the greater part of time should be com- prehended in the less, that twenty -four hours should be crowded into three : but there is no necessity of that supposition ; for as place, so time relating to a play is either imaginary or real : the real is com- prehended in those three hours, more or less, in the space of which the play is represented ; the imaginary is that which is supposed to be taken up in the repre- sentation, as twenty-four hours, more or less. Now, no man ever could suppose that twenty-four real hours could be in- cluded in the space of three ; but where is the absurdity of affirming that the feigned business of twenty -four imagined hours may not more naturally be repre- sented in the compass of three real hours, than the like feigned business of twenty- four years in the same proportion of real time ? for the proportions are always real and much nearer, by his permission of twenty-four to three, than of four thou- sand to it. I am almost fearful of illustrating any- thing by similitude, lest he should confute it for an argument ; yet I think the com- parison of a glass will discover very aptly the fallacy of his argument, both con- cerning time and place. The strength of his reason depends on this, that the less cannot comprehend the greater. I have already answered, that we need not sup- pose it does ; I say not that the less can comprehend the greater, but only that it may represent it ; as in a glass or mirror MISCELLANIES. 491 of half-a-yard diameter, a whole room and many persons in it may be seen at once ; not that it can comprehend that room or those persons, but that it represents them to the sight. John Dry den. JONATHAN SWIFT (For Notes of his Life see p. 298.) ADVICE TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN. On Style. I should have been glad if you had ap- plied yourself a little more to the study of the English language, than I fear you have done ; the neglect whereof is one of the most general defects among the scholars of this kingdom, who seem not to have the least conception of a style, but run on in a flat kind of phraseology, often mingled with barbarous terms and expressions peculiar to the nation; nei- ther do I perceive that any person either finds or acknowledges his wants upon this head, or in the least desires to have them supplied. Proper words in proper places make the true definition of a style. But this would require too ample a dis- quisition to be now dwelt on : however, I shall venture to name one or two faults which are easy to be remedied, with a very small portion of abilities. The first is the frequent use of obscure terms, which by the better sort of vulgar are called fine language ; than which I do not know a more universal, inexcusable, and unnecessary mistake, among the cler- gy of all distinctions, but especially the younger practitioners. I have been cu- rious enough to take a list of several hundred words in a sermon of a new be- ginner, which not one of Ms hearers among a hundred could possibly under- stand ; neither can I easily call to mind any clergyman of my own acquaintance who is wholly exempt from this error, although many of them agree with me in the dislike of the thing. But I am apt to put myself in the place of the vulgar, and think many words difficult or obscure, which the preacher will not allow to be so, because those words are obvious to scholars. I beheve the method observed by the famous lord Falkland, in some of his writings, would not be an ill one for young divines : I was assured by an old person of quality who knew him well, that when he doubted whether a word was perfectly intelligible or not, he used to consult one of his lady's chambermaids (not the waiting-woman, because it was possible she might be conversant in ro- mances), and by her judgment was guided whether to receive or reject it. And if that great person thought such a caution necessary in treatises offered to the learned world, it will be sure at least as proper in sermons, where the meanest hearer is sup- posed to be concerned, and where very often a lady's chambermaid may be al- lowed to equal half the congregation, both as to quality and understanding. But I know not how it comes to pass that professors in most arts and sciences are generally the worst qualified to explain their meanings to those who are not of their tribe ; a common farmer shall make you understand in three words, that his foot is out of joint, or his collar-bone broken ; wherein a surgeon after a hun- dred terms of art, if you are not a scho- lar, shall leave you to seek. It is fre- quently the same case in law, physic, and even many of the meaner arts. And upon this account it is, that among hard words, I number, likewise, those which are peculiar to divinity, as it is a science, because I have observed several clergymen, otherwise little fond of ob- scure terms, yet in their sermons very liberal of those which they find in eccle- siastical writers, as if it were our duty to understand them : which I am sure it is not. And I defy the greatest divine to produce any law either of God or man, which obliges me to comprehend the meaning of omniscience, omnipresence, ubiquity, attribute, beatific vision, with a thousand others so frequent in pulpits, any more than that of eccentric, idiosyn- crasy, entity, and the like. I am the more earnest in this matter because it is a general complaint, and the justest in the world. For a divine has nothing to say to the wisest congregation 492 JONATHAN SWIFT. of any parish in this kingdom, which he may not express in a manner to be under- stood by the meanest among them. How- ever, not to contend whether a logician might possibly put a case that would serve for an exception, I will appeal to any man of letters, whether at least nine- teen in twenty of those perplexing words might not be changed into easy ones, such as naturally first occur to ordinary men, and probably did so at first to those very gentlemen who are so fond of the former. We are often reproved by divines from the pulpits, on account of our ignorance in things sacred, and perhaps with justice enough : however, it is not very reason- able for them to expect that common men should understand expressions which are never made use of in common life. No gentleman thinks it safe or prudent to send a servant with a message without repeating it more than once, and endea- vouring to put it into terms brought down to the capacity of the bearer : yet after all this care it is frequent for servants to mistake and sometimes occasion misun- derstandings among friends, although the common domestics in some gentlemen's families have more opportunities of im- proving their minds than the ordinary sort of tradesmen. Although, as I have already observed, our English tongue is too little cultivated in this kingdom, yet the faults are, nine in ten, owing to affectation, and not to the want of understanding. When a man's thoughts are clear, the properest words will generally offer themselves first, and his own judgment will direct him in what order to place them, so as they may be best understood ; where men err against this method, it is usually on purpose, and to show their knowledge of the world. In short, that simplicity, without which no human performance can arrive to any great perfection, is nowhere more emi- nently useful than in this. Jonathan Swift. SATIRE AGAINST MODERN CRITICKS. The third and noblest sort, is that of the True Critic, whose original is the most ancient of all. Every true critic is a hero born, descending in a direct line, from a celestial stem by Momus and Hy- bris, who begat Zoilus, who begat Tigel- lius, who begat Etcetera the elder ; who begat Bentley, and Rymer, and Wotton, and Perrault, and Dennis ; who begat Etcetera the younger. And these are the critics from whom the commonwealth of learning has in all ages received such immense benefits, that the gratitude of their admirers placed their origin in heaven, among those of Hercules, Theseus, Perseus, and other great deservers of mankind. But heroic virtue itself has not been exempt from the obloquy of evil tongues. For it has been objected that those ancient heroes, ' famous for their combating so many gi- ants, and dragons, and robbers, were in their own persons a greater nuisance to mankind than any of those monsters they subdued ; and therefore to render their obligations more complete, when all other vermin were destroyed, should, in con- science, have concluded with the same justice upon themselves. Hercules most generously did, and has upon that score procured to himself more temples and votaries than the best of his fellows. For these reasons, I suppose it is, why some have conceived it would be very expe- dient for the public good of learning, that every true critic, as soon as he had finished his task assigned, should imme- diately deliver himself up to ratsbane or hemp, or leap from some convenient alti- tude ; and that no man's pretensions to so illustrious a character should by any means be received before that operation were performed. Now, from this heavenly descent of criticism, and the close analogy it bears to heroic virtue, it is easy to assign the proper employment of a true ancient ge- nuine critic ; which is, to travel through this vast world of writings ; to pursue and hunt those monstrous faults bred within them ; to drag out the lurking errors, like Cacus from his den ; to multiply them like Hydra's heads, and rake them toge- ther like Augeas's dung : or else drive away a sort of dangerous fowl, who have a perverse inclination to plunder the best branches of the tree of knowledge, like those stymphalian birds that eat up the fruit. These reasonings will furnish us with an adequate definition of a true critic : that he is discoverer and collector of -writers' faults ; which may be farther put beyond dispute by the following demon-] strati on ; that whoever will examine the MISCELLANIES. 493 writings in all kinds wherewith this an- cient sect has honoured the world, shall immediately find, from the whole thread and tenor of them, that the ideas of the authors have heen altogether conversant and taken up with the faults and ble- mishes, and oversights, and mistakes of other writers ; and, let the subject treated on be whatever it will, their imaginations are so entirely possessed and replete with the defects of other pens, that the very quintessence of what is bad does of ne- cessity distil into their own ; by which means the whole appears to be nothing else but an abstract of the criticisms themselves have made. Having thus briefly considered the ori- ginal and office of a critic, as the word is understood in its most noble and uni- versal acceptation, I proceed to refute the objections of those who argue from the silence and pretermission of authors ; by which they pretend to prove that the very art of criticism, as now exercised, and by me explained, is wholly modern; and consequently, that the critics of Great Britain and France have no title to an original so ancient and illustrious as I have deduced. Now, if I can clearly make out, on the contrary, that the ancient writers have particularly described both the person and the office of a true critic, agreeable to the definition laid down by me, their grand objection from the silence of authors will fall to the ground. I confess to have for a long time borne a part in this general error ; from which I should never have acquitted myself, but through the assistance of our noble mo- derns ! whose most edifying volumes I turn undefatigably over night and day, for the improvement of my mind and the good of my country; these have, with un- wearied pains, made many useful searches into the weak sides of the ancients, and given us a comprehensive list of them. Besides, they have proved beyond con- tradiction, that the very finest things de- livered of old, have been long since invented and brought to light by much later pens ; and that the noblest disco- veries those ancients ever made of art or nature have all been produced by the transcending genius of the present age; which clearly shows how little merit those ancients can justly pretend to ; and takes off that blind admiration paid them by men in a corner, who have the unhap- piness of conversing too little with present things. Reflecting maturely upon all this, and taking in the whole compass of hu- man nature, I easily concluded that these ancients, highly sensible of their many imperfections, must needs have endea- voured, from some passages in their works, to obviate, soften, or divert the censo- rious reader, by satire, or panegyric upon the critics, in imitation of their masters, the moderns. Now, in the common- places of both these, I was plentifully instructed by a long course of useful study in prefaces and prologues ; and therefore immediately resolved to try what I could discover of either, by a diligent perusal of the most ancient writers, and especially those who treated of the earliest times. Here I found, to my great surprise, that although they all entered, upon occasion, into particular descriptions of the true critic, according as they were governed by their fears or their hopes, yet what- ever they touched of that kind was with abundance of caution, adventuring no far- ther than mythology and hieroglyphic. This, I suppose, gave ground to superfi- cial readers, for urging the silence of au- thors against the antiquity of the true critic, though the types are so apposite, and the applications so necessary and natural, that it is not easy to conceive how any reader of a modern eye and taste could overlook them. I shall venture from a great number to produce a few, which I am very confident will put this question beyond dispute. It well deserves considering, that these ancient writers, in treating enigmatically upon the subject, have generally fixed upon the very same hieroglyph, varying only the story, according to their affec- tions or their wit. For first, Pausanias is of opinion that the perfection of writing correct was entirely owing to the institu- tion of critics ; and, that he can possibly mean no other than the true critic, is, I think, manifest enough from the following description. He says, they were a race of men who delighted to nibble at the super- fluities and excrescences of books ; which the learned at length observing, took warning, of their own accord, to lop the luxuriant, the rotten, the dead, the sapless, and the overgrown branches from their works. But now, all this he cunningly shades under the following allegory ; that the Nauplians in Argos learned the art of pruning their vines, by observing, that when an ass had browsed upon one of them, it thrived the better and bore fairer fruit. But Herodotus, holding the very 494 WILLIAM COBBETT. same hieroglyph, speaks much plainer, and almost in terminis. He has been so bold as to tax the true critics of igno- rance and malice ; telling us openly, for I think nothing can be plainer, that in the western part of Libya there were asses with horns : upon which relation Ctesias yet refines, mentioning the very same animal about India, adding, that whereas all other asses wanted a gall, these horned ones were so redundant in that part, that their flesh was not to be eaten because of its extreme bitterness. Now the reason why those ancient writers treated this subject only by types and figures was, because they durst not make open attacks against a party so potent and terrible as the critics of those ages were ; whose very voice was so dreadful, that a legion of authors would tremble and drop their pens at the sound ; for so Herodotus tells us expressly in another place, how a vast army of Scy- thians was put to flight in a panic terror by the braying of an ass. From hence it is conjectured by certain profound philo- logers, that the great awe and reverence paid to a true critic by the writers of Britain have been derived to us from those our Scythian ancestors. Jonathan Swift. WILLIAM COBBETT (For Notes of his Life see p. 5.) OBSERVANCE DUE FROM HUS- BANDS TO THEIR WIVES. Men must frequently be from home at all hours of the day and night. Sailors, soldiers, merchants, all men out of the common track of labour, and even some in the very lowest walks, are sometimes compelled" by their affairs, or by circum- stances, to be from their homes. But I protest against the habit of spending lei- sure hours from home, and near to it ; and doing this without any necessity, and by choice : liking the next door or any house in the same street better than your own. When absent from necessity, there is no wound given to the heart of the wife; she concludes that you would be with her if you could, and that satisfies; she laments the absence, but submits to it without complaining. Yet in these cases her feelings ought to be consulted as much as possible ; she ought to be fully apprized of the probable du- ration of the absence and of the time of return ; and if these be dependent on cir- cumstances, those circumstances ought to be fully stated ; for you have no right to keep her mind upon the rack, when you have it in your power to put it in a state of ease. Few men have been more fre- quently taken from home by business, or by a necessity of some sort, than I have ; and I can positively assert, that as to my return, I never once disappointed my wife in the whole course of our married life. If the time of return was contingent, I never failed to keep her informed from day to day: if the time was -fixed, or when it became fixed, my arrival was as sure as my life. Now, if all young men knew how much value women set upon this species of fidelity, there would be fewer unhappy couples than there are. If men have ap- pointments with lords they never dream of breaking them ; and 1 can assure them that wives are as sensitive in this respect as lords. I had seen many instances of conjugal unhappiness arising out of that carelessness which left wives in a state of uncertainty as to the movements of their husbands ; and I took care, from the very outset, to guard against it. For no man has a right to sport with the feelings of any innocent person whatever, and par- ticularly with those of one who has com- mitted her happiness to his hands. The truth is, that men in general look upon women as having no feelings different from their own ; and they know that they themselves would regard such disap- pointments as nothing. But this is a great mistake ; women feel more acutely than men ; their love is more ardent, more pure, more lasting, and they are more frank and sincere in the utterance of their feelings. They ought to be treated with due consideration had for all their amiable qualities and all their MISCELLANIES. 495 weaknesses, and nothing by which their minds are affected ought to be deemed a trifle. When we consider what a young wo- man gives up on her wedding-day; she makes a surrender, an absolute surrender, of her liberty for the joint lives of the parties ; she gives the husband the abso- lute right of causing her to live in what place, and in what manner and what so- ciety he pleases ; she gives him the power to take from her, and to use, for his own purposes, all her goods, unless reserved by some legal instrument ; and, above all, she surrenders to him her person. Then, when we consider the pains which they endure for us, and the large share of all the anxious parental cares that fall to their lot; when we consider their devo- tion to us, and how unshaken their affec- tion remains in our ailments, even though the most tedious and disgusting; when we consider the offices that they perform, and cheerfully perform, for us when, were we left to one another, we should perish from neglect; when we consider their devotion to their children, how evidently they love them better in numerous in- stances than their own lives ; when we consider these things, how can a just man think anything a trifle that affects their happiness ? I was once going in my gig up the hill, in the village of Frankford, near Philadelphia, when a little girl about two years old, who had toddled away from a small house, was lying basking in the sun in the middle of the road. About two hundred yards before I got to the child, the teams, five big horses in each of three waggons, the drivers of which had stopped to drink at a tavern on the brow of the hill, started off and came nearly abreast, galloping down the road. I got my gig off the road as speedily as I could, but expected to see the poor child crushed to pieces. A young man, a journeyman carpenter, who was shingling a shed by the side of the road, seeing the child and seeing the danger, though a stranger to the parents, jumped from the top of the shed, ran into the road, and snatched up the child from scarcely an inch before the hoof of the leading horse. The horse's leg knocked him down, but he, catching the child by its clothes, flung it back out of the way of the other horses, and saved himself by rolling back with surprising agility. The mother of the child, who had apparently been washing, seeing the teams coming, and seeing the situation of the child, rushed out, and catching up the child just as the carpenter had flung it back, and hugging it in her arms, uttered a shriek, such as I never heard before, never heard since, and I hope shall never hear again ; and then she dropped down as if perfectly dead. By the application of the usual means she was restored, how- ever, in a little while ; and I, being about to depart, asked the carpenter if he were a married man, and whether he were a relation of the parents of the child ? He said he was neither. " Well then," said I, " you merit the gratitude of every fa- ther and mother in the world, and I will show mine by giving you what I have," pulling out the nine or ten dollars that I had in my pocket. M No, I thank you, sir," said he, " I have only done what it was my duty to do." Bravery, disinterestedness and maternal affection surpassing these it is impossible to imagine. The mother was going right in amongst the feet of these powerful and wild horses, and amongst the wheels of the waggons. She had no thought for her- self ; no feeling of fear for her own life ; her shriek was the sound of inexpressible joy — joy too great for her to support her- self under. Perhaps ninety-nine mothers out of every hundred would have acted the same part under similar circum- stances. There are, comparatively, very few women not replete with maternal love; and, by-the-by, take you care, if you meet with a girl who " is not fond of children," not to marry her by any means. Some few there are who even make a boast that they " cannot bear children," that is, cannot endure them. I never knew a man that was good for much who had a dislike to little children, and I never knew a woman of that taste who was good for anything at all. I have seen a few such in the course of my life, and I have never wished to see one of them a second time. William Cobbett. SOBRIETY OF CONDUCT AND WARMTH OF FEELING. If any young man imagine that great sobriety of conduct in young women must be accompanied with seriousness ap- proaching to gloom, he is, according to my experience and observation, very much deceived. The contrary is the fact ; for I have found that, as amongst men, 496 WILLIAM COBBETT. your jovial companions are, except over the bottle, the dullest and most insipid of souls ; so amongst women, the gay, the rattling and laughing are, unless some party of pleasure or something out of domestic life is going on, generally in the dumps. Some stimulus is always craved after by this description of women ; some sight to be seen, something to see or to hear other than what is to be found at home, which, as it affords no incitement, nothing " to raise and keep up the spirits," is looked upon merely as a place to be at for want of a better ; merely a place for eating and drinking and the like ; merely a biding place, whence to sally in search of enjoyments. A greater curse than a wife of this description it would be some- what difficult to find : and, in your cha- racter of lover, you are to provide against it. I hate a dull, melancholy, moping thing; I could not have existed in the same house with such a thing for a single month. The mopers are, too, all giggle at other times ; the gaiety is for others, and the moping for the husband to com- fort him, happy man, when he is alone : plenty of smiles and of badinage for others, and for him to participate with others, but the moping is reserved exclu- sively for him. One hour she is capering about as if rehearsing a jig, and the next sighing to the motion of a lazy needle or weeping over a novel ; and this is called sentiment. Music, indeed! Give me a mother singing to her clean and fat and rosy baby, and making the house ring with her extravagant and hyperbolical en- comiums on it. That is the music which is " the food of love," and not the formal pedantic noises, an affectation of skill in which is now-a-days the ruin of half the young couples in the middle rank of life. Let any man observe, as I so frequently have, with delight the excessive fondness of the labouring people for their children. Let him observe with what pride they dress them out on a Sunday, with means deducted from their own scanty meals. Let him observe the husband, who has toiled all the week like a horse, nursing the baby, while the wife is preparing the bit of dinner. Let him observe them both abstaining from a sufficiency, lest the children should feel the pinchings of hunger. Let him observe, in short, the whole of their demeanour, the real mutual affection evinced not in words but in un- equivocal deeds. Let him observe these things, and having then cast a look at the lives of the great and wealthy, he will say with me that, when a man is choosing his partner for life, the dread of poverty ought to be cast to the winds. A la- bourer's cottage on a Sunday, the hus- band or wife having a baby in arms look- ing at two or three older ones playing between the flower-borders going from the wicket to the door, is, according to my taste, the most interesting object that eyes ever beheld ; and it is an object to be beheld in no country upon earth but England. In France a labourer's cottage means a shed with a dung heap before the door ; and it means much about the same in America, where it is wholly in- excusable. An ardent-minded young man (who, by the bye, will, as I am afraid, have been wearied by this rambling digression) may fear that this great sobriety of conduct in a young woman, for which I have been so strenuously contending, argues a want of that warmth which he naturally so much desires ; and, if my observation and experience warranted the entertaining of this fear, I should say, had I to live my life over again, give me the warmth and 1 will stand my chance as to the rest. But this observation and this experience tell me the contrary ; they tell me that levity is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the companion of a want of ardent feel- ing. Women of light minds have seldom any ardent passion ; love is a mere name, unless confined to one object ; and young women, in whom levity of conduct is ob- servable, will not be thus restricted. I do not, however, recommend a young man to be too severe in judging where the conduct does not go beyond mere levity, for something depends here upon constitution and animal spirits, and some- thing also upon the manners of the country. That levity which, in a French girl, I should not have thought a great deal of, would have frightened me away from an English or an American girl. When I was in France, just after I was married, there happened to be amongst our acquaintance a gay sprightly girl of about seventeen. I w r as remonstrating with her one day on the facility with which she seemed to shift her smiles from object to object, and she, stretching one arm out in an upward direction, the other in a downward direction, raising herself upon one foot, leaning her body on one side, and thus throwing herself into a flying attitude, answered my grave lecture MISCELLANIES. 497 by singing in a very sweet voice (signifi- cantly bowing her head and smiling at the same time) the following Unes from the vaudeville in the play of Figaro : — Si 1' amour a des ailes ; N'est ce pas pour voltiger? That is, if love has wings, is it not to flutter about with ? The wit, argument and manner altogether silenced me. She, after I left France, married a very worthy man, has had a large family, and has been, and is, a most excellent wife and mother. But that which does sometimes well in France does not do here at all. Our manners are more grave ; steadiness is the rule and levity the exception. Love may voltige in France, but in England it cannot with safety to the lover ; and it is a truth, which I believe no man of atten- tive observation will deny, that, as in ge- neral English wives are more warm in their conjugal attachments than those of France, so with regard to individuals, that those English women who are the most light in their manners, and who are the least constant in their attachments, have the smallest portion of that warmth, that indescribable passion which God has given to human beings as the great counter- balance to all the sorrows and sufferings of life. William Cobbett. CHARLES LAMB (For Notes of his Life seep. 13.) A COMPLAINT OF THE DECAY OF BEGGARS IN THE METROPOLIS. The all-sweeping besom of societarian reformation — your only modern Alcides' club to rid the time of its abuses — is up- lift with many-handed sway to extirpate the last fluttering tatters of the bugbear Mendicity from the metropolis. Scrips, wallets, bags, — staves, dogs and crutches, — the whole mendicant fraternity with all their baggage, are fast posting out of the purlieus of this eleventh persecution. From the crowded crossing, from the corners of streets and turnings of alleys, the parting genius of beggary is " with sighing sent." I do not approve of this wholesale going to work, this impertinent crusado, or helium ad exterminationem, proclaimed against a species. Much good might be sucked from these beggars. They were the oldest and the honour- ablest form of pauperism. Their appeals were to our common nature ; less revolt- ing to an ingenuous mind than to be a suppliant to the particular humours or caprice of any fellow-creature, or set of fellow-creatures, parochial or societarian. Theirs were the only rates uninvidious in the levy, ungrudged in the assessment. There was a dignity springing from the very depth of their desolation ; as to be naked is to be so much nearer to the being a man than to go in livery. The greatest spirits have felt this in their reverses ; and when Dionysius from king turned schoolmaster, do we feel any- thing towards him but contempt ? Could Vandyke have made a picture of him, swaying a ferula for a sceptre, which would have affected our minds with the same heroic pity, the same compassionate admiration, with which we regard his Be- lisarius begging for an obolum ? Would the moral have been more graceful, more pathetic ? The bbnd beggar in the legend — the father of pretty Bessy — whose story dog- grel rhymes and ale-house signs cannot so degrade or attenuate, but that some sparks of a lustrous spirit will shine through the disguisements — this noble earl of Cornwall (as indeed he was) and memorable sport of fortune, fleeing from the unjust sentence of his liege lord, stript of all and seated on the flowering green of Bethnal, with his more fresh and springing daughter by his side, illu- mining his rags and his beggary — would the child and parent have cut a better figure, doing the honours of a counter, or expiating their fallen condition upon the three-foot eminence of some sempstering shop-board ? In tale or history your beggar is ever the just antipode to your king. The poets and romancical writers (as dear Margaret Newcastle would call them), when they would most sharply and feelingly paint a 498 CHARLES LAMB. reverse of fortune, never stop till they have brought down their hero in good earnest to rags and the wallet. The depth of the descent illustrates the height he falls from. There is no medium which can be presented to the imagination with- out offence. There is no breaking the fall. Lear, thrown from his palace, must divest him of his garments till he answer " mere nature ; " and Cresseid, fallen from a prince's love, must extend her pale arms, pale with other whiteness than of beauty, supplicating lazar alms with bell and clap-dish. The Lucian wits knew this very well ; and with a converse policy, when they would express scorn of greatness without the pity, they show us an Alexander in the shades cobbling shoes, or a Semiramis getting up foul linen. How would it sound in song, that a great monarch had declined his affections upon the daughter of a baker ! yet do we feel the imagination at all violated when we read the " true ballad," where king Cophetua woos the beggar maid ? Pauperism, pauper, poor man, are ex- pressions of pity, but pity alloyed with contempt. No one properly contemns a beggar. Poverty is a comparative thing, and each degree of it is mocked by its " neighbour grice." Its poor rents and comings-in are soon summed up and told. Its pretences to property are almost ludicrous. Its pitiful attempts to save excite a smile. Every scornful companion can weigh his trifle-bigger purse against it. Poor man reproaches poor man in the streets with impolitic mention of his con- dition, his own being a shade better, while the rich pass by and jeer at both. No rascally comparative insults a beggar, or thinks of weighing purses with him. He is not in the scale of comparison. He is not under the measure of property. He confessedly hath none, any more than a dog or a sheep. No one twitteth him with ostentation above his means. No one accuses him of pride, or upbraideth him with mock humility. None jostle with him for the wall, or pick quarrels for precedency. No wealthy neighbour seeketh to eject him from his tenement. No man sues him. No man goes to law with him. If I were not the independent gentleman that I am, rather than I would be a retainer to the great, a led captain, or a poor relation, I would choose, out of the delicacy and true greatness of my mind, to be a beggar. Rags, which are the reproach of po- verty, are the beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public. He is never out of the fashion or limpeth awkwardly behind it. He is not required to put on court-mourning. He weareth all colours, fearing none. His costume hath under- gone less change than the quaker's. He is the only man in the universe who is not obliged to study appearances. The ups and downs of the world concern him no longer. He alone continueth in one stay. The price of stock or land affecteth him not. The fluctuations of agricultural or commercial prosperity touch him not, or at worst but change his customers. He is not expected to become bail or surety for any one. No man troubleth him with questioning his religion or politics. He is the only free man in the universe. The mendicants of this great city were so many of her sights, her lions. 1 can no more spare them than I could the cries of London. No corner of a street is com- plete without them. They are as indis- pensable as the ballad singer ; and in their picturesque attire as ornamental as the signs of old London. They were the standing morals, emblems, mementos, dial-mottos, the spital sermons, the books for children, the salutary checks and pauses to the high and rushing tide of greasy citizenry — Look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there. Above all, those old blind Tobits that used to line the wall of Lincoln's Inn Garden, before modern fastidiousness had expelled them, casting up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if possible) of light, with their faithful dog guide at their feet, — whither are they fled ? or into what corners, blind as themselves, have they been driven, out of the wholesome air and sun-warmth ? immersed between four walls, in what withering poor-house do they endure the penalty of double dark- ness, where the chink of the dropt half- penny no more consoles their forlorn be- reavement, far from the sound of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread of the passenger? Where hang their useless staves ? and who will farm their dogs ? Have the overseers of St. L caused them to be shot ? or were they tied up in sacks, and dropt into the Thames, at the suggestion of B , the mild rector of ? Well fare the soul of unfasti- MISCELLANIES. 499 dious Vincent Bourne, most classical, and at the same time, most English of the Latinists ! who has treated of this human and quadrupedal alliance, this dog and man friendship, in the sweetest of his poems, the Epitaphium in Canem, or Dog's Epitaph. Reader, peruse it; and say, if customary sights, which could call up such gentle poetry as this, were of a nature to do more harm or good to the moral sense of the passengers through the daily thoroughfares of a vast and busy metropolis. Pauperis hie Iri requiesco Lyciscus, herilis, Dum vixi, tutela vigil columenque senectae, Dux caeco fidus : nee, me ducente, solebat, Praetenso hinc atque nine baculo, per iniqua loco- rum Incertam explorare viam ; sed fila secutus, Quae dubios regerent passus, vestigia tuta Fixit inoffenso gressu ; gelidumque sedile In nudo nactus saxo, qua praetereuntium Unda frequens confluxit, ibi miserisque tenebras Lamentis, noctemque oculis ploravit obortam. Ploravit nee frustra ; obolum dedit alter et alter, Queiscorda et mentem indiderat natura benignam: Ad latus interea jacui sopitus herile, Vel mediis vigil in somnis ; ad herilia jussa Auresque atque animum arrectus, seu frustula amice Porrexit sociasque dapes, seu longa diei Taedia perpessus, reditum sub nocte parabat. Hi mores, haec vita fuit, dum fata sinebant, Dum neque languebam morbis, nee inerte senectu ; Quae tandem obrepsit, veterique satellite caecum Orbavit dominum : prisci sed gratia facti Ne tota intereat, longos delecta per annos, Exiguum hunc Irus tumulum de cespite fecit, Etsi inopis, non ingratae, munuscula dextrae ; Carmine signavitque brevi, dominumque canem- que Quod memoret, fidumque canem dominumque benignum. Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard ; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear O'er the highways and crossings ; but would plant, Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers by in thickest confluence flow'd : To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd. Nor wail'd to all in vain ; some here and there, The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. I meantime at his feet obsequious slept ; Not all asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick 'd up at his least motion ; to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps ; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary. These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side. But lest the grace of so good deeds shculd die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the beggar and his dog. These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a well-known figure, or part of the figure of a man, who used to glide his comely upper-half over the pavements of London, wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a ma- chine of wood ; a spectacle to natives, to foreigners, and to children. He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like com- plexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sunshine. He was a natural curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple. The infant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his own level. The common cripple would despise his own pusillanimity, view- ing the hale stoutness, and hearty heart, of this half-limbed giant. Few but must have noticed him ; for the accident, which brought him low, took place during the riots of 1780, and he has been a ground- ling so long. He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he neighboured. He was a grand fragment ; as good as an Elgin marble. The nature, which should have recruited his reft legs and thighs, was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, and he was half a Hercules. I heard a tremendous voice thundering and growl- ing, as before an earthquake, and casting down my eyes, it was this mandrake re- viling a steed that had started at his por- tentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just stature to have rent the offend- ing quadruped in shivers. He was as the man-part of a centaur, from which the horse-half had been cloven in some dire Lapithan controversy. He moved on as if he could have made shift with yet half of the body-portion which was left him. The os sublime was not wanting ; and he threw out yet a jolly countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two years had he driven this out-of-door trade, and now that his hair is grizzled in the service, but his good spirits no w r ay impaired, because he is not content to exchange his free air and exercise for the restraints of a poor- house, he is expiating his contumacy in one of those houses (ironically christened) of Correction. Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a nuisance, w^hich called for legal interference to remove ? or not rather a salutary and a touching object to the passers-by in a great city ? Among her 500 MRS. JAMESON. shows, her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity (and what else but an accumulation of sights — endless sights — is a great city ; or for what else is it de- sirable?) was there not room for one Lusus (not Natures, indeed, but) Jcciden- tium ? What, if in forty-and-two years' going about the man had scraped toge- ther enough to give a portion to his child (as the rumour ran) of a few hundreds — whom had he injured ? whom had he im- posed upon? The contributors had en- joyed their sight for their pennies. What, if after being exposed all day to the heats, the rains, and the frosts of heaven — shuffling his ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and painful motion— he was en- abled to retire at night to enjoy himself at a club of his fellow cripples over a dish of hot meat and vegetables, as the charge was gravely brought against him by a clergyman deposing before a House of Commons' committee — was this, or was his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact) deserved a statue rather than a whipping-post, and is inconsistent at least with the exaggeration of nocturnal orgies which he has been slandered with — a rea- son that he should be deprived of his chosen, harmless, nay, edifying, way of life, and be committed in hoary age for a sturdy vagabond ? There was a Yorick once, whom it would not have shamed to have sate down at the cripples' feast, and to have thrown in his benediction, ay, and his mite too,, for a companionable symbol. " Age, thou hast lost thy breed." Hah of these stories about the prodigi- ous fortunes made by begging are (I verily believe) misers' calumnies. One was much talked of in the public papers some time since, and the usual charitable in- ferences deduced. A clerk in the Bank was surprised with the announcement of a five hundred pound legacy left him by a person whose name he was a stranger to. It seems that in his daily morning walks from Peckham (or some village there- abouts), where he lived, to his office, it had been his practice for the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of some blind Bartimeus, that sate begging alms by the way- side in the Borough. The good old beggar recog- nised his daily benefactor by the voice only; and, when he died, left all the amassings of his alms (that had been half a century perhaps in the accumulating) to his old Bank friend. Was this a story to purse up people's hearts and pennies, against giving an alms to the blind ? or not rather a beautiful moral of well-di- rected charity on the one part, and noble gratitude upon the other ? I sometimes wish I had been that Bank clerk. I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind of creature, blinking, and looking up with his no eyes in the sun — Is it possible I could have steeled my purse against him ? Perhaps I had no small change. Reader, do not be frightened at the hard words, imposition, imposture — give, and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have unawares (like this Bank clerk) entertained angels. Shut not thy purse -strings always against painted distress. Act a charity some- times. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the " seven small children," in whose name he im- plores thy assistance, have a veritable ex- istence. Rake not into the bow r els of un- welcome truth, to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a per- sonate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indi- gent bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit looks and mumping tones, think them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, which, concerning these poor peo- ple, thou canst not certainly tell whether they are feigned or not. Charles Lamb. MRS. JAMESON author of the Characteristics of Women, and an exquisite critick of Shakespeare, has brought into clear light the mysteries of womanhood in the understanding, passions, imagination, and affections, choosing his female characters as the subjects of her admirable sketches. MISCELLANIES. 501 THE CHARACTER OF PORTIA IN THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. Portia is endued with her own share of those delightful qualities, which Shake- speare has lavished on many of his female characters; hut besides the dignity, the sweetness and tenderness which should distinguish her sex generally, she is in- dividualized by qualities peculiar to her- self ; by her high mental powers, her en- thusiasm of temperament, her decision of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit. These are innate ; she has other distin- guishing qualities more external, and which are the result of the circumstances in which she is placed. Thus she is the heiress of a princely name and countless wealth ; a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited round her ; and from infancy she has breathed an atmosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment. Accord- ingly there is a commanding grace, a high- bred, airy elegance, a spirit of magnifi- cence in all that she does and says, as one to whom splendour had been familiar from her very birth. She treads as though her footsteps had been among marble palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar floors and pavements of jasper and por- phyry — amid gardens full of statues, and flowers, and fountains, and haunting music. She is full of penetrative wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and lively wit ; but as she has never known want, or grief, or fear, or disappointment, her wisdom is without a touch of the sombre or the sad ; her affections are all mixed up with faith, hope, and joy ; and her wit has not a par- ticle of malevolence or causticity. All the finest parts of Portia's character are brought to bear in the trial-scene. There she shines forth all her divine self. Her intellectual powers, her elevated sense of religion, her high honourable principles, her best feelings as a woman, are all displayed. She maintains at first a calm self-command, as one sure of carry- ing her point in the end ; yet the painful heart-thrilling uncertainty in which she keeps the whole court, until suspense verges upon agony, is not contrived for effect merely ; it is necessary and inevita- ble. She has two objects in view; to deliver her husband's friend, and to main- tain her husband's honour by the dis- charge of his just debt, though paid out of her own wealth ten times over. It is evident that she would rather owe the safety of Antonio to anything rather than the legal quibble with which her cousin Bellario has armed her, and which she re- serves as a last resource. Thus all the speeches addressed to Shylock in the first instance, are either direct or indirect expe- riments on his temper and feelings. She must be understood from the beginning to the end, as examining with intense anxiety the effect of her own words on his mind and countenance ; as watching for that relenting spirit, which she hopes to awaken either by reason or persuasion. She begins by an appeal to his mercy, in that matchless piece of eloquence, which, with an irresistible and solemn pathos, falls upon the heart like " gentle dew from heaven :" — but in vain ; for that blessed dew drops not more fruitless and unfelt on the parched sand of the desert, than do these heavenly w r ords upon the ear of Shylock. She next attacks his avarice : Shylock, there 's thrice thy money offer'd thee ! Then she appeals, in the same breath, both to his avarice and his pity : Be merciful ! Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond. All that she says afterwards — her strong expressions, which are calculated to strike a shuddering horror through the nerves — the reflections she interposes — her delays and circumlocution to give time for any latent feeling of commiseration to display itself — all, all are premeditated, and tend in the same manner to the object she has in view. Thus — You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; Therefore lay bare your bosom ! These two speeches, though addressed ap- parently to Antonio, are spoken at Shy- lock, and are evidently intended to pene- trate his bosom. In the same spirit she asks for the balance to weigh the pound of flesh ; and entreats of Shylock to have a surgeon ready — Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death ! Shylock. Is it so nominated in the bond ? Portia. It is not so express'd — but what of that ? 'Twere good you do so much, for charity. So unwilling is her sanguine and generous spirit to resign all hope, or to believe that humanity is absolutely extinct in the bosom of the Jew, that she calls on An- tonio, as a last resource, to speak for him- 502 MRS. JAMESON. self. His gentle, yet manly resignation — the deep pathos of his farewell, and the affectionate allusion to herself in his last address to Bassanio — Commend me to your honourable wife ; Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death, &c. are well calculated to swell that emotion, which through the whole scene must have heen labouring suppressed within her heart. At length the crisis arrives, for patience and womanhood can endure no longer; and when Shylock, carrying his savage bent " to the last hour of act," springs on his victim — " A sentence ! come, pre- pare ! " then the smothered scorn, indig- nation and disgust burst forth with an impetuosity which interferes with the judi- cial solemnity she had at first affected ; — particularly in the speech — Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more, But just the pound of flesh : if thou takest more, Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple ; nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, — Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. But she afterwards recovers her propriety, and triumphs with a cooler scorn and a more self-possessed exultation. It is clear that, to feel the full force and dramatic beauty of this marvellous scene, we must go along with Portia as well as with Shylock; we must understand her concealed purpose, keep in mind her noble motives, and pursue in our fancy the under current of feeling working in her mind throughout. The terror and the power of Shylock's character, — his deadly and in- exorable malice, — would be too oppress- ive ; the pain and pity too intolerable, and the horror of the possible issue too overwhelming, but for the intellectual re- lief afforded by this double source of in- terest and contemplation. I come now to that capacity for warm and generous affection, that tenderness of heart, which render Portia not less love- able as a woman than admirable for her mental endowments. The affections are to the intellect what the forge is to the metal ; it is they which temper and shape it to all good purposes, and soften, strengthen and purify it. Her surrender of herself in heart and soul, of her maiden freedom and her vast possessions, can never be read without deep emotions ; for not only all the ten- derness and delicacy of a devoted woman are here blended with all the dignity which becomes the princely heiress of Belmont, but the serious, measured self-possession of her address to her lover, when all sus- pense is over and all concealment super- fluous, is most beautifully consistent with the character. It is, in truth, an awful moment, that in which a gifted woman first discovers that, besides talents and powers, she has also passions and af- fections ; when she first begins to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her existence ; when she first confesses that her happiness is no longer in her own keeping, but is surrendered for ever and for ever into the dominion of another ! Uncommon powers of mind are so far from affording relief or resource in the first intoxicating surprise — I had almost said terror— of such a revelation, that they render it more intense. The sources of thought multiply beyond calculation the sources of feeling ; and mingled, they rush together, a torrent deep as strong. Because Portia is endued with that en- larged comprehension which looks before and after, she does not feel the less, but the more : because, from the height of her commanding intellect, she can con- template the force, the tendency, the con- sequences of her own sentiments — be- cause she is fully sensible of her own situation and the value of all she con- cedes — the concession is not made with less entireness and devotion of heart, less confidence in the truth and worth of her lover, than when Juliet, in a similar mo- ment, but without any such intrusive re- flections — any check but the instinctive delicacy of her sex, flings herself and her fortunes at the feet of her lover : — And all my fortunes at thy foot I '11 lay, And follow thee, my lord, through all the world. In Portia's confession, which is not breathed from a moon-lit balcony, but spoken openly in the presence of her at- tendants and vassals, there is nothing of the passionate self-abandonment of Juliet, nor of the artless simplicity of Miranda, but a consciousness and a tender serious- ness, approaching to solemnity, which are not less touching. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am : though for myself alone, I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better ; yet, for you, I would be trebled twenty times myself ; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times MISCELLANIES. 503 More rich ; that only to stand high in your ac- count, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, Mends, Exceed account ; but the full sum of me Is sum of something ; which to term in gross, Is anunlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised, Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn ; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours, my lord. Mrs. Jameson. THE CHARACTER OF MIRANDA. The character of Miranda resolves it- self into the very elements of woman- hood. She is beautiful, modest and tender, and she is these only ; they comprise her whole being, external and internal. She is so perfectly unsophisticated, so deli- cately refined, that she is all but ethereal. Let us imagine any other woman placed beside Miranda, — even one of Shake- speare's own loveliest and sweetest crea- tions, — there is not one of them that could sustain the comparison for a moment ; not one that would not appear somewhat coarse or artificial when brought into im- mediate contact with this pure child of nature, this " Eve of an enchanted Para- dise." What, then, has Shakespeare done ? — u wondrous skill and sweet wit of the man!" — he has removed Miranda far from all comparison with her own sex ; he has placed her between the demi- demon of earth and the delicate spirit of air. The next step is into the ideal and supernatural; and the only being who approaches Miranda, with whom she can be contrasted, is Ariel. Beside the subtle essence of this ethereal sprite, this crea- ture of elemental light and air, that " ran upon the winds, rode the curl'd clouds, and in the colours of the rainbow lived," Miranda herself appears a palpable reality, a woman " breathing thoughtful breath," a woman, walking the earth in her mortal loveliness, with a heart as frail-strung, as passion-touched, as ever fluttered in a female bosom. I have said that Miranda possesses merely the elementary attributes of wo- manhood, but each of these stand in her with a distinct and peculiar grace. She resembles nothing upon earth ; but do we therefore compare her, in our own minds, with any of those fabled beings with which the fancy of ancient poets peopled the forest depths, the fountain or the ocean ? — oread or diyad fleet, sea-maid, or naiad of the stream ? We cannot think of them together. Miranda is a con- sistent, natural, human being. Our im- pression of her nymph-like beauty, her peerless grace and purity of soul, has a distinct and individual character. Not only is she exquisitely lovely, being what she is, but we are made to feel that she could not possibly be otherwise than as she is portrayed. She has never beheld one of her own sex ; she has never caught from society one imitated or artificial grace. The impulses which have come to her, in her enchanted solitude, are of heaven and nature, not of the world and its vanities. She has sprung up into beauty beneath the eye of her father, the princely magician ; her companions have been the rocks and woods, the many- shaped, many-tinted clouds, and the silent stars; her playmates the ocean-billows, that stooped their foamy crests and ran rippling to kiss her feet. Ariel and his attendant sprites hovered over her head, ministered duteous to her every wish, and presented before her pageants of beauty and grandeur. The very air, made vocal by her father's art, floated in music around her. If we can pre-suppose such a situa- tion with all its circumstances, do we not behold in the character of Miranda not only the credible but the natural, the ne- cessary results of such a situation ? She retains her woman's heart, for that is un- alterable and inalienable, as a part of her being ; but her deportment, her looks, her language, her thoughts — all these, from the supernatural and poetical circum- stances around her, assume a cast of the pure ideal ; and to us, who are in the secret of her human and pitying nature, nothing can be more charming and con- sistent than the effect which she produces upon others, who, never having beheld anything resembling her, approach her as " a wonder," as something celestial. Contrasted with the impression of her refined and dignified beauty, and its effect on all beholders, is Miranda's own soft simplicity, her virgin innocence, her total ignorance of the conventional forms and language of society. It is most natural that, in a being thus constituted, the first 504 MRS. JAMESON. nanimity with which man, in a high staM of civilization, disguises his real supfl riority, and does humble homage to tlfl being of whose destiny he disposes ; whiH Miranda, the mere child of nature, I struck with wonder at her own new em ■ tions. Only conscious of her own wea-B ness as a woman, and ignorant of the usages of society which teach us to d semble the real passion, and assume (al sometimes abuse) an unreal and transie; power, she is equally ready to place hi life, her love, her service, beneath tears should spring from compassion, " suffering with those that she saw suf- fer ;" and that her first sigh should be offered to a love at once fearless and sub- missive, delicate and fond. She has no taught scruples of honour like Juliet ; no coy concealments like Viola ; no assumed dignity standing in its own defence. Her bashfulness is iess a quality than an in- stinct ; it is like the self-folding of a flower, spontaneous and unconscious. I suppose there is nothing of the kind in poetry equal to the scene between Ferdinand and Miranda. In Ferdinand, who is a noble creature, we have all the chivalrous mag- feet. Mrs. Jameso THE END. ERRATA. Page 17, col. 1, line 21, for " I will," well read " I will, well," — — 194, in Life, line 7, blot out the ; next after parishioners. 233, lines 26 and 27, for The Misellas, Sfc, read His Misellas, of the Rambler. 254, line 26, for 1623 read 1622. „ line 48, for Alban read Allan's. 271, line 3, for a treasurer read treasurer. 281, line 23, for a read by. 310, line 10, for 1722 read 1723. 334, line 48, for he has read I have. 'C and blot out Printed by Richard and John E. Taylor, Red Lion Court, Fleet Street. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111