I'I
III
II




Il




I


















MISCLLANIE
BY
WlLLIAM M?, THACKEIRAY.
IV.


TILE FOUR GEORGES, THE ENGLISH HUMORISTS,
ROUNDABOUT PAPERS, ETC., ETC.
HO USEHOLD EDITIONV.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1877.




WV. M. THACKERAY'S W\ORKS.
HARPER'S HO USEHOLD EDITION.
NOVELS: Vanity Fair.-Pendennis.-The Newcomes.-The Virginians.Adventures of Philip.-Esmond, and Lovel the Widower. Illustrated. Six volumes, I2MO, Cloth, $I 50 per volume.
MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS: Barry Lyndon, Hoggarty Diamond, &c.*Paris and Irish Sketch Books, &c.-Book of Snobs, Sketches, &c.Four Georges, English Humorists, Roundabout Papers, &c.-Catharine, Christmas Books, &c. Five Volumes, I2M0, Cloth, $1 50 per
volume.
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.
f~p HARPER & BROTHERS will send either of the above volumes by mail, fiostag-e fire-,paid, to any la,-t of the United States or Canada, on receifit of Mhe jrice.




CONTENTS.
THE FOUR GEORGES: SKETCHES OF MANNERS, MORALS,
COURT, AND TOWN LIFE.


GEORGE TIIE FIRST.
GEORGE THE SECOND..
GEORGE THE THIRD...
GEORGE TIIE FOURTH
THE ENGLISH HUMORISTS OF
CENTURY.
SWIFT
CONGREVE AND ADDISON..
STEELE...
PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.
IOGARTII, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING
STERNE AND GOLDSMITH


Page
3...   19
33
49
THE EIGHTEENTH. 69....   91. 112
I         134.  158
179


CHARITY AND HUMOR. A LECTURE


201


ROUNI)ABOUT PAPERS.
ON A LAZY IDLE BOY..... 219
ON Two CHILDREN IN BLACK.......               223
ON RIBBONS.......        227
ON SOME LATE GREAT VICTORIES...            234
THORNS -IN THE CUSHION........ 238
ON SCREENS IN DINING-ROOMS.....       243




iv


CONTENTS.


TUNBRIDGE TOYS......247
DE JUVENTUTE.....251
ON A JOKE I ONCE HEARD FROM TIE LATE TIHOMAS HOOD.  260
ROUND ABOUT THE CHRISTMAS-TREE...... 266
ON A CHALK-MARK ON TIE DOOR....271
ON BEING FOUND OUT....         278
ON A HUNDRED YEARS IENCE........282
SMALL-BEER CHRONICLE....286
OGRES............. 291
ON Two ROUNDABOUT PAPERS WHICI I INTENDED TO WRITE  296
A  MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE.........302
ON LETTS'S DIARY........307
NOTES OF A WEEK'S IIOLIDAY........312
NIL NISI BONUM.........    326
ON HALF A LOAF........ 331
TIlE NOTCH ON THE AXE.-A STORY X LA MODE.
PART I...........336
II............ 339
III........... 345
DE FINIBUS.......350
ON A PEAL OF BELLS.........355
ON A PEAR-TREE.....361
DESSEIN'S............ 365
ON SOME CARP AT SANS SOUCI...372
AUTOUR DE MON CIAPEAU.....376
ON ALEXANDRINES......382
ON A MEDAL OF GEORGE TIE FOURTH...387
" STRANGE TO SAY, ON CLUB PAPER"..  392
TIE LAST SKETCH..........396


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


I. ON THE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA,
II. ON THE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA TO PARIS.
III. ON TIE FUNERAL CEREMONY...
LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROADSIDE SKETCHES.
I. FROM RICHMOND IN SURREY, TO BRUSSELS IN BELGIUM
II. GHENT. -BRUGES......
III. WATERLOO....... 401
408. 416. 431
444, 450




CONTENTS.v
THE FITZ-BOODLE, PAPERS.
ThTZ-B1OODLE'S CONFESSIONS.
PREFACE.457
MISS L.ZWE.470
DOROTIIEA.486
OTTILIA.
CHAP. I. TIIE ALBUM. -THE MEDITERRANEAN HEATH. 495
II. OTTILIA IN PARTICULAR.498
FITz-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
FIRST PROFESSION.506
SECOND PROFESSION.                           513
CRITICAL REVIEWS.
GEORGE CRUIKSIIANK.525
JO1IN LEECH'S PICTURES oF LIFE AND CIhARACTER   549
THE WOLVES AND TILE LAMB..561








LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
-4 -


THE FOUR GEORGES.
GEORGE THE FIRST.
GEORGE THE SECOND
GEORGE THE THIRD.
A LITTLE REBEL.
GEORGE TIlE FOURTHGROUP OF PORTRAITS.


Page
3
19
33
45
49
50


THE ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


SWIFT
CONGIEVE
ADDISON
STEELE.
GAY
POPE
HOGARTIT
STERNE


69
*.   91.  102
112
*   138
143
*   158
179


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.
A LAZY IDT,E Boy..                                     219
SIR J-sH- R-YN-LDS IN A DOMINO, DR. G-LDSM-TH IN AN OLD ENGLISH DRESS.                                          261
LITTLE DUTCHMEN....812




4I




THE FOUR GEORGES:
SKETCHES OF MANNERS, MORALS, COURT, AND TOWN LIFE.
1*












G EORGE TIlE FIlST.




GEORGE THE FIRST.


VERY few years since, I knew
familiarly a lady, who had been
asked in marriage by Horace Walpole, who had been patted on the
head by George I. This lady had
knocked at Dr. Johnson's door; had
been intimate with Fox, the beautiful
Georgina of Devonshire, and that
brilliant Whig society of the reign of
George III.; had known the Duchess
of Queensberry, the patroness of Gay
and Prior, the admired young beauty
of the court of Queen Anne. I often
thought as I took my kind old friend's
hand, how with it I held on to the
old society of wits and men of the
world. I could travel back for seven
score years of time -have glimpses
of Brummell, Selwyn, Chesterfield,
and the men of pleasure; of Walpole
and Conway; of Johnson, Reynolds,
Goldsmith; of North, Chatham, Newcastle; of the fair maids of honor of
George II.'s court; of the German
retainers of George I.'s; where Addison was secretary of state; where
Dick Steele held a place; whither the
great Marlborough came with his
fiery spouse; when Pope, and Swift,
and Bolingbroke yet lived and wrote.
Of a society so vast, busy, brilliant, it
is impossible in four brief chapters to
give a complete notion; but we may
peep here and there into that bygone
world of the Georges, see what they
and their courts were like; glance at
the people round about them; look at
past manners, fashions, pleasures, and


contrast them with our own. I have
to say thus much by way of preface,
because the subject of these lectures
has been misunderstood, and I have
been taken to task for not having
given grave historical treatises, which
it never was my intention to attempt.
Not about battles, about politics,
about statesmen and measures of
state, did I ever think to lecture you:
but to sketch the manners and life of
the old world; to amuse for a few
hours with talk about the old society;
and, with the result of many a
day's and night's pleasant reading,
to try and while away a few winter
evenings for my hearers.
Among the German princes who
sat under Luther at Wittenberg, was
Duke Ernest of Celle, whose younger
son, William of Liineburg, was the
progenitor of the illustrious Hanoverian house at present reigning in Great
Britain.  Duke William   held his
court at Celle, a little town of ten
thousand people that lies on the railway line between Hamburg and Hanover, in the midst of great plains of
sand, upon the river Aller. When
Duke William had it, it was a very
humble wood-built place, with a great
brick church, which he sedulously
frequented, and in which he and
others of his house lie buried. He was
a very religious lord, and was called
William the Pious by his small circle
of subjects, over whom he ruled till




4


THE FOUR GEORGES.


fate deprived him both of sight and and bid every one be quiet and orreason. Sometimes, in his latter days, derly, forbidding all cursing, swearthe good Duke had glimpses of men- ing, and rudeness; all throwing about
tal light, when he would bid his mu- of bread, bones, or roast, or pocketing
sicians play the psalm-tunes wlich he of the same. Every morning, at
loved. One thinks of a descendant seven, the squires shall have their
of his, two hundred years afterwards, morning soup, along with which, and
blind, old, and lost of wits, singing dinner, they shall be served with their
Handel in Windsor Tower.          under-drink - every morning, except
William the Pious had fifteen chil- Friday morning, when there was
drcn, eight daughters and seven sons, sermon, and no drink. Every evenwho, as the property left among them  ing they shall have their beer, and at
was small, drew lots to determine night their sleep-drink. The butler
which one of them should marry, and is especially warned not to allow noble
continue the stout race of the Guelphs. or simple to go into the cellar: wine
The lot fell on Duke George, the shall only be served at the Prince's
sixth brother. The others remained or councillors' table; and every Monsingle, or contracted left-handed mar- day, the honest old Duke Christian
riages after the princely fashion of ordains the accounts shall be ready,
those days. It is a queer picture -  and the expenses in the kitchen, the
that of the old Prince dying in his wine and beer cellar, the bakehouse
little wood-built capital, and his seven and stable, made out.
sons tossing up which should inherit  Duke George, the marrying Duke,
and transmit the crown of Brentford. did not stop at home to partake of
Duke George, the lucky prizeman, the beer and wine, and the sermons.
made the tour of Europe, during He went about fighting wherever
which he visited the court of Queen there was profit to be had. He served
Elizabeth; and in the year 1617, came as general in the army of the circle
back and settled at Zell, with a wife of Lower Saxony, the Protestant
out of Darmstadt.  His remaining army; then he went over to the Embrothers all kept their house at Zell, peror, and fought in his armies in
for economy's sake. And presently, Germany and Italy; and when Gusin due course, they all died - all the tavus Adolphus appeared in Gerhonest Dukes; Ernest, and Christian, many, George took service as a
and Augustus, and Magnus, and Swedish general, and       seized  the
George, and John - and they are Abbey of Hildesheim, as his share of
buried in the brick church of Brent- the plunder. Here, in the year 1641,
ford yonder, by the sandy banks of Duke George died, leaving four sons
the Aller.                        behind him, from the youngest of
Dr. Vehse gives a pleasant glimpse whom descend our royal Georges.
of the way of life of our Dukes in  Under these children  of Duke
Zell. "When the trumpeter on the George, the old God-fearing, simple
tower has blown," Duke Christian ways of Zell appear to have gone out
orders -viz. at nine o'clock in the of mode. The second brother was
morning, and four in the evening -  constantly visiting Venice, and leadevery one must be present at meals, ing a jolly, wicked life there. It was
and those who are not must go with- the most jovial of all places at the
out. None of the servants, unless it end of the seventeenth century; and
be a knave who has been ordered to military men, after a campaign,
ride out, shall eat or drink in the rushed thither, as the warriors of the
kitchen or cellar; or, without special Allies rushed to Paris in 1814, to
leave, fodder his horses at the Prince's gamble, and rejoice, and partake of
cost. When the meal is served in all sorts of godless delights. This
the court-room, a page shall go round Prince, then, loving Venice and its




GEORGE THE FIRST.


pleasures, brought Italian  singers the gambling-table; swapped a batand dancers back with him to quiet talion against a dancing-girl's diaold Zell; and, worse still, demeaned mond necklace; and, as it were,
himself by marrying a French lady pocketed their people.
of birth quite inferior to his own -  As one views Europe, through
Eleanor d'Olbreuse, from whom our contemporary books of travel in the
Queen is descended. Eleanor had a early part of the last century, the
pretty daughter, who inherited a great landscape is awful - wretched wastes,
fortune, which inflamed her cousin, beggarly and plundered; half-burned
George Louis of Hanover, with a cottages    and   trembling  peasants
desire to marry her; and so, with her gathering piteous harvests; gangs
beauty and her riches, she came to a of such tramping along with bayosad end.                           nets behind them, and corporals with
It is too long to tell how the four canes and cats-of-nine-tails to flog
sons of Duke George divided his ter- them to barracks. By these passes
ritories amongst them, and   how, my lord's gilt carriage floundering
finally, they came into possession of through the ruts, as he swears at the
the son of the youngest of the four. postilions, and toils on to the ResiIn this generation the Protestant denz. Hard by, but away from the
faith was very nearly extinguished noise and brawling of the citizens
in the family: and then where should and buyers, is Wilhelmslust or Ludwe in England have gone for a king? wigsruhe, or Monbijou, or Versailles
The third brother also took delight - it scarcely matters which, - near
in Italy, where the priests converted to the city, shut out by woods from
him and his Protestant chaplain too. the beggared country, the enormous,
Mass was said in Hanover once more; hideous, gilded, monstrous marble
and Italian soprani piped their Latin palace, where the Prince is, and the
rhymes in place of the hymns which Court, and the trim  gardens, and
William  the Pious and Dr. Luther huge fountains, and the forest where
sang.  Louis XIV. gave this and the ragged peasants are beating the
other converts a splendid pension. game in (it is death to them to touch
Crowds of Frenchmen and brilliant a feather); and the jolly hunt sweeps
French fashions came into his court. by with its uniform of crimson and
It is incalculable how much that gold; and the Prince gallops ahead
royal bigwig cost Germany. Every puffing his royal horn; and his lords
prince imitated the French  King, and mistresses ride after him; and
and hadhis Versailles, his Wilhelms- the stag is pulled down; and the
hohe or Ludwigslust; his court and grand huntsman gives the knife in
its splendors; his gardens laid out the midst of a chorus of bugles; and
with statues; his fountains, and wa- 'tis time the Court go home to dinter-works, and Tritons; his actors, ner; and our noble traveller, it may
and dancers, and singers, and fiddlers; be the Baron of Pillnitz, or the
his harem, with its inhabitants; his Count de K6nigsmarck, or the exceldiamonds and duchies for these lat- lent Chevalier de Seingalt, sees the
ter; his enormous festivities, his procession gleaming through the trin
gaming-tables, tournaments, masque- avenues of the wood, and hastens to
rades, and banquets lasting a week the inn, and sends his noble name
long, for which the people paid with to the marshal of the Court. Then
their money, when the poor wretches our nobleman arrays himself in green
had it; with their bodies and very and gold, or pink and silver, in the
blood when they had none; being richest Paris mode, and is introduced
sold in thousands by their lords and by the chamberlain, and makes his
masters, who gayly dealt in soldiers, bow to the jolly Prince, and the
staked a regiment upon the red at gracious Princess; and is presented




6


THE FOUR GEORGES.


to the chief lords and ladies, and then robbed of their rights - communities
comes supper and a bank at Faro, laid waste -faith, justice, commerce
where he loses or wins a thousand trampled upon, and well-nigh depieces by daylight. If it is a German stroyed-nay, in the very centre of
court, you may add not a little royalty itself, what horrible stains
drunkenness to this picture of high and meanness, crime and shame! It
life; but German, or French, or is but to a silly harlot that some of
Spanish, if you can see out of your the noblest gentlemen, and some
palace-windows beyond the trim-cut of the proudest women in the world,
forest vistas, misery is lying outside; are bowing down; it is the price of
hunger is stalking about the bare a miserable province that the King
villages, listlessly following precarious ties in diamonds round his mistress's
husbandry; ploughing stony fields white neck. In the first half of the
with starved cattle; or fearfully tak- last century, I say, this is going on
ing in scanty harvests. Augustus is all Europe over. Saxony is a waste
fat and jolly on his throne; he can as well as Picardy or Artois; and
knock down an ox, and eat one al- Versailles is only larger and not
most; his mistress, Aurora   von worse than Herrenhausen.
Konigsmarck, is the loveliest, the  It was the first Elector of Hanover
wittiest creature; his diamonds are who made the fortunate match which
the biggest and most brilliant in the bestowed the race of Hanoverian Sovworld, and his feasts as splendid as ereigns upon us Britons. Nine years
those of Versailles. As for Louis after Charles Stuart lost his head, his
the Great, he is more than mortal. niece  Sophia, one of many chilLift up your glances respectfully, dren of another luckless dethroned
and mark him    eying Madame de sovereign, the ElectorPalatine,marFontanges or Madame de Montespan ried Ernest Augustus of Brunswick,
from under his sublime periwig, as and brought the reversion to the crown
he passes through the great gallery of the three kingdoms in her scanty
where Villars and Vend6me, and trousseau.
Berwick, and Bossuet, and Massillon  One of the handsomest, the most
are waiting.  Can Court be more cheerful, sensible, shrewd, accomsplendid; nobles and knights more plished ofwomen, was Sophia, daughgallant and superb; ladies more love- ter of poor Frederick, the winter king
ly? A grander monarch, or a more of Bohemia. The other daughters of
miserable starved wretch than the lovely, unhappy   Elizabeth Stuart
peasant his subject, you cannot look went off into the Catholic Church;
on. Let us bear both these types in this one, luckily for her family, remind, if we wish to estimate the mained, I cannot say faithful to the
old  society properly.  Remember Reformed Religion, but at least she
the glory and the chivalry?  Yes! adopted no other. An agent of the
Remember the grace and beauty, the French King's, Gourville, a convert
splendor and lofty politeness; the himself, strove to bring her and her
gallant courtesy of Fontenoy, where husband to a sense of the truth; and
the French line bids the gentlemen tells us that he one day asked Maof the English guard to fire first; the dame the Duchess of Hanover, of what
noble constancy of the old King and religion her daughter was, then a
Villars his general, who fits out the pretty girl of thirteen years old. The
last army with the last crown-piece duchess replied that the princess was
from the treasury, and goes to meet of no religion as yet. They were waitthe enemy and die or conquer for ing to know of what religion her husFrance at Denain. But round all band would be, Protestant or Cathothat royal splendor lies a nation en- lie, before instructing her! And the
slaved and ruined: there are people Duke of Hanover having heard all




GEORGE THE FIRST.


7


Gourville's proposal, said that a
change would be advantageous to his
house, but that he himself was too
old to change.
This shrewd woman had such keen
eyes that she knew how to shut them
upon occasion, and was blind to many
faults which it appeared that her husband the Bishop of Osnaburg and
Duke of Hanover committed. He
loved to take his pleasure like other
sovereigns - was a merry prince,
fond of dinner and the bottle; liked
to go to Italy, as his brothers had
done before him; and we read how
he jovially sold 6,700 of his Hanoverians to the seigniory of Venice. They
went bravely off to the Morea, under
command of Ernest's son, Prince
Max, and only 1,400 of them ever
came home again. The German
princes sold a good deal of this kind
of stock. You may remember how
George III.'s Government purchased
Hessians, and the use we made of
them during the War of Independence.
The ducats Duke Ernest got for
his soldiers he spent in a series of the
most brilliant entertainments. Nevertheless, the jovial Prince was economical, and kept a steady eye upon
his own interests. He achieved the
electoral dignity for himself: he married his eldest son George to his beautiful cousin of Zell; and sending his
sons out in command of armies to fight
-now on this side, now on that -
he lived on, taking his pleasure, and
scheming his schemes, a merry, wise
prince enough, not, I fear, a moral
prince, of which kind we shall have
but very few specimens in the course
of these lectures.
Ernest Augustus had seven children
in all, some of whom were scapegraces,
and rebelled against the parental system of primogeniture and non-division of property which the Elector ordained. "Gustchen," the Electress
writes about her second son: - "Poor
Gus is thrust out, and his father will
give him no more keep. I laugh in
the day and cry all night about it;


for I am a fool with my children."
Three of the six died fighting against
Turks, Tartars, Frenchmen.   One
of them conspired, revolted, fled to
Rome, leaving an agent behind him,
whose head was taken off.    The
daughter, of whose early education
we have made mention, was married
to the Elector of Brandenburg, and
so her religion settled finally on the
Protestant side.
A niece of the Electress Sophiawho had been made to change her religion, and marry the Duke of Orleans, brother of the French King;
a woman whose honest heart was always with her friends and dear old
Deutschland, though her fat little
body was confined at Paris, or Marly,
or Versailles-has left us, in her
enormous correspondence (part of
which has been printed in German
and French), recollections of the
Electress, and of George her sen.
Elizabeth Charlotte was at Osnaburg
when George was born (1660). She
narrowly escaped a whipping for being in the way on that auspicious
day.  She seems not to have liked
little George, nor George grown up;
and represents him as odiously hard,
cold, and silent. Silent he may have
been; not a jolly prince like his father before him, but a prudent, quiet,
selfish potentate, going his own way,
managing his own affairs, and understanding his own interests remarkably well.
In his father's lifetime, and at the
head of the Hanover forces of 8,000
or 10,000 men, George served the Emperor, on the Danube against Turks,
at the siege of Vienna, in Italy, and
on the Rhine. When he succeeded
to the Electorate, he handled its affairs with great prudence and dexterity. He was very much liked by his
people of Hanover. He did not show
his feelings much, but he cried heartily on leaving them; as they used for
joy when he came back. He showed
an uncommon prudence and coolness
of behavior when he came into his
kingdom; exhibiting no elation; ren



8


THE FOUR GEORGES.


sonably doubtful whether he should guise of Diana or Minerva; and denot be turned out some day; looking livered immense allegorical compliupon himself only as a lodger, and ments to the princes returned home
making the most of his brief tenure from the campaign.
of St. James's and Hampton Court;   That was a curious state of morals
plundering, it is true, somewhat, and and politics in Europe; a queer condividing amongst his German follow- sequence of the triumph of the moners; but what could be expected of a archical principle.  Feudalism was
sovereign who at home could sell his beaten down. The nobility, in its
subjects at so many ducats per head, quarrels with the crown, had pretty
and make no scruple in so disposing well succumbed, and the monarch was
of them     I fancy a considerable all in all. He became almost divine:
shrewdness, prudence, and even mod- the proudest and most ancient gentry
eration in his ways. The German of the land did menial service for him.
Protestant was a cheaper, and better, Who should carry Louis XIV.'s canand kinder king than the Catholic dle when he went to bed? what
Stuart in whose chair he sat, and so prince of the blood should hold the
far loyal to England, that he let Eng- king's shirt when his Most Christian
land govern herself.              Majesty changed that garment?- the
Having these lectures in view, I French memoirs of the seventeenth
made it my business to visit that ugly century are full of such details and
cradle in which our Georges were squabbles. The tradition is not yet
nursed. The old town of Hanover extinct in Europe. Any of you who
must look still pretty much as in the were present, as myriads were, at that
time when George Louis left it. The splendid pageant, the opening of our
gardens and pavilions ofHerrenhausen Crystal Palace in London, must have
are scarce changed since the day when seen two noble lords, great officers of
the stout old Electress Sophia fell the household, with ancient pedigrees,
down in her last walk there, preced- with embroidered coats, and stars on
ing but by a few weeks to the tomb their breasts and wands in their
James II.'s daughter, whose death hands, walking backwards for near
made way for the Brunswick Stuarts the space of a mile, while the royal
in England.                       procession made its progress. Shall
The two first royal Georges, and we wonder-shall we be angrytheir father, Ernest Augustus, had shall we laugh at these old-world cerquite royal notions regarding mar- emonies   View them as you will,
riage; and Louis XIV. and Charles according to your mood; and with
II. scarce distinguished themselves scorn or with respect, or with anger
more at Versailles or St. James's, and sorrow, as your temper leads you.
than these German sultans in their Up goes Gesler's hat upon the pole.
little city on the banks of the Leine. Salute that symbol of sovereignty
You may see at Herrenhausen the with heartfelt awe; or with a sulky
very rustic theatre in which the Plat- shrug of acquiescence, or with a grinens danced and performed masques, ning obeisance; or with a stout reand sang before the Elector and his bellious No -clap your own beaver
sons. There are the very fauns and down on your pate, and refuse to doff
dryads of stone still glimmering it to that spangled velvet and flauntthrough the branches, still grinning ing feather. I make no comment upon
and piping their ditties of no tone, as the spectators' behavior; all I say is,
in the days when painted nymphs that Gesler's cap is still up in the marhung garlands round them; appeared ket-place of Europe, and not a few
under their leafy arcades with gilt folks are still kneeling to it.
crooks, guiding rams with gilt horns;  Put clumsy, high D)utch statues
descended from "machines" in the in place of the marbles of Velsailles:




GEORGE THE FIRST.


fancy Herrenhausen waterworks in
place of those of Marly: spread the
tables with Schweinskopf, Specksuppe, Lcberkuchen, and the like delicacies, in place of the French cuisine;
and fancy Frau von Kielmansegge
dancing with Count Kainmeijunker
Quirini, or singing French songs
with the most awful German accent:
imagine a coarse Versailles, and we
have a Hanover before us. "I am
now got into the region of beauty,"
writes Mary Wortley, from Hanover
in 1716; "all the women have literally rosy checks, snowy foreheads and
necks, jet eye-brows, to which may
generally be added coal-black hair.
These perfections never leave them to
the day of their death, and have a
very fine effect by candle-light; but I
could wish they were handsome with
a little variety. They resemble one
another as Mrs. Salmon's Court of
Great Britain, and are in as much
danger of melting away by too nearly
approaching the fire." The sly Mary
Wortley saw this painted seraglio of
the first George at Hanover, the year
after his accession to the British
throne. There were great doings and
feasts there. Here Lady Mary saw
George II. too. " I can tell you, without flattery or partiality," she says,
"that our young prince has all the
accomplishments that it is possible to
have at his age, with an air of sprightliness and understanding, and a something so very engaging in his behavior that needs not the advantage of
his rank to appear charming."   I
find elsewhere similar panegyrics upon
Frederick Prince of Wales, George
II.'s son; and upon George III., of
course, and upon George IV. in an
eminent degree. It was the rule to
be dazzled by princes, and people's
eyes winked quite honestly at that
royal radiance.
The Electoral Court of Hanover
was numerous - pretty well paid, as
times went; above all, paid with a
regularity which few other European
courts could boast of. Perhaps you
will be amused to know how the


Electoral  Court  was   composed.
There were the princes of the house
in the first class; in the second, the
single field-marshal of the army (the
contingent was 18,000, Pollnitz says,
and the Elector had other 14,000
troops in his pay). Then follow, in
due order, the authorities civil and
military, the working privy councillors, the generals of cavalry and
infantry, in the third class; the high
chamberlain, high marshals of the
court, high masters of the horse, the
major-generals of cavalry and infantry, in the fourth class; down to
the majors, the hofjunkers or pages,
the secretaries or assessors, of the
tenth class, of whom all were noble.
We find the master of the horse
had 1,090 thalers of pay; the high
chamberlain, 2,000 -a thaler being
about three shillings of our money.
There were two chamberlains, and one
for the Princess; five gentlemen of the
chamber, and five gentlemen ushers;
eleven pages and personages to educate
these young noblemen - such as a
governor, a preceptor, a fecht-meistcr,
or fencing master, and a dancing
ditto, this latter with a handsome
salary of 400 thalers.  There were
three body and court physicians, with
800 and 500 thalers; a court barber,
600 thalers; a court organist; two
musikanten; four French fiddlers;
twelve trumpeters, and a bugler; so
that there was plenty of music, profane and pious, in Hanover. There
were ten chamber waiters, and twentyfour lackeys in livery; a maitred'hotel, and attendants of the kitchen;
a French cook; a body cook; ten
cooks; six cooks' assistants; two
Braten masters, or masters of the
roast-(one fancies enormous spits
turning slowly, and the honest masters of the roast beladling the dripping); a pastry-baker; a pie-baker;
and finally, three scullions, at the
modest remuneration of eleven thalers.
In the sugar-chamber there were four
pastry-cooks (for the ladies, no
doubt); seven officers in the wine
and beer cellars; four bread-bakers;




10


THE FOUR GEORGES.


and five men in the plate-room.
There were 600 horses in the Serene
stables - no less than twenty teams
of princely carriage horses, eight to a
team; sixteen coachmen; fourteen
postilions; nineteen ostlers; thirteen
helps, besides smiths, carriage-masters,
horse-doctors, and other attendants
of the stable. The female attendants
were not so numerous: I grieve to
find but a dozen or fourteen of them
about the Electoral premises, and
only two washerwomen for all the
Court. These functionaries had not
so much to do as in the present age.
I own to finding a pleasure in these
small-beer chronicles. I like to people the old world, with its every-day
figures and inhabitants - not so
much with heroes fighting immense
battles and inspiring repulsed battalions to engage; or statesmen locked
up in darkling cabinets and meditating ponderous laws or dire conspiracies-as with people occupied with
their every-day work or pleasure: my
lord and lady hunting in the forest,
or dancing in the Court, or bowing
to their Serene Highnesses as they
pass in to dinner; John Cook and
is procession bringing the meal
from the kitchen; the jolly butlers
bearing in the flagons from the
cellar; the stout coachman driving
the ponderous gilt wagon, with eight
cream-colored horses in housings of
scarlet velvet and morocco leather; a
postilion on the leaders, and a pair
or a half-dozen of running footmen
scudding along by the side of the
vehicle, with conical caps, long silverheaded maces, which they poised as
they ran, and splendid jackets laced
all over with silver and gold.  I
fancy the citizens' wives and their
daughters looking out from the balconies; and the burghers over their
beer and mumm, rising up, cap in
hand, as the cavalcade passes through
the town with torch-bearers, trumpeters blowing their lusty cheeks out, and
squadrons of jack-booted lifeguardsmen, girt with shining cuirasses,
and bestriding thundering chargers,


escorting his Highness's coach from
Hanover to Herrenhausen; or halting, mayhap, at Madame Platen's
country house of Monplaisir, which
lies half-way between the summerpalace and the Residenz.
In the good old times of which I
am treating, whilst common men
were driven off by herds, and sold
to fight the Emperor's enemies on
the Danube, or to bayonet King
Louis's troops of common men on the
Rhine, noblemen passed from court
to court, seeking service fiom one
prince or the other, and naturally
taking command of the ignoble vulgar of soldiery which battled and
died almost without hope of promotion.  Noble adventurers travelled
fiom court to court in search of employment; not merely noble males,
but noble females too; and if these
latter were beauties, and obtained the
favorable notice of the princes, they
stopped in the courts, became the
favorites of their Serene or Royal
Highnesses; and received great sums
of money and splendid diamonds;
and were promoted to be duchesses,
marchionesses, and the like; and did
not fall much in public esteem for the
manner in which they won their advancement. In this way Mdlle. de
Querouailles, a beautiful French lady,
came to London on a special mission
of Louis XIV., and was adopted by
our grateful country and sovereign,
and figured as Duchess of Portsmouth.   In this way the beautiful
Aurora of Kinigsmarck travelling
about found favor in the eyes of
Augustus of Saxony, and became the
mother of Marshal Saxe, who gave
us a beating at Fontenoy; and in
this manner the lovely sisters Elizabeth and Melusina of Meissenbach
(who had actually been driven out of
Paris, whither they had travelled on
a like errand, by the wise jealousy of
the female favorite there in possession)
journeyed to Hanover, and became
favorites of the serene house there
reigning.
That beautiful Aurora von Konigs



GEORGE THE FIRST.


11


marck and her brother arc wonderful
as types of bygone manners, and
strange illustrations of the morals of
old days. The K6nigsmarcks were
descended from an ancient noble
family of Brandenburg, a branch of
which passed into Sweden, where it
enriched itself and produced several
mighty men of valor.
The founder of the race was
Hans Christof, a famous warrior and
plunderer of the Thirty Years' war.
One of Hans's sons, Otto, appeared
as ambassador at the court of Louis
XIV., and had to make a Swedish
speech at his reception before the
Most Christian King. Otto was a
famous dandy and warrior, but he
forgot the speech, and what do you
think he did? Far from being disconcerted, he recited a portion'of the
Swedish  Catechism  to  his Most
Christian Majesty and his court, not
one of whom understood his lingo
with the exception of his own suite,
who had to keep their gravity as best
they might.
Otto's nephew, Aurora's elder
brother, Carl Johann of Konigsmarck, a favorite of Charles II., a
beauty, a dandy, a warrior, a rascal
of more than ordinary mark, escaped
but deserved being hanged in England, for the murder of Tom Thynne
of Longleat. He had a little brother
in London with him at this time: -
as great a beauty, as great a dandy,
as great a villain as his elder. This
lad, Philip of Konigsmarck, also was
implicated in the affair; and perhaps
it is a pity he ever brought his pretty
neck out of it.  He went over to
Hanover, and was soon appointed
colonel of a regiment of H. E. Highness's dragoons. In early life he had
been page in the court of Celle; and
it was said that he and the pretty
Princess Sophia Dorothea, who by
this time was married to her cousin
George the Electoral Prince, had been
in love with each other as children.
Their loves were now to be renewed,
not innocently, and to come to a fearful end.


A biography of the wife of George
I., by Dr. Doran, has lately appeared,
and I confess I am astounded at the
verdict which that writer has delivered, and at his acquittal of this most
unfortunate lady. That she had a
cold selfish libertine of a husband no
one can doubt; but that the bad
husband had a bad wife is equally
clear. She was married to her cousin
for money or convenience, as all
princesses were married.  She was
most beautiful, lively, witty, accomplished: his brutality outraged her:
his silence and coldness chilled her:
his cruelty insulted her.  No wonder
she did not love him. How could
love be a part of the compact in such
a marriage as that?  With this unlucky heart to dispose of, the poor
creature bestowed it on Philip of
Kinigsmarck, than whom a greater
scamp does not walk the history of
the seventeenth century. A hundred
and eighty years after the fellow was
thrust into his unknown grave, a
Swedish professor lights upon a box
of letters in the University Library at
Upsala, written by Philip and Dorothea to each other, and telling their
miserable story.
The bewitching K6nigsmarck had
conquered two female hearts in Hanover. Besides the Electoral Prince's
lovely young wife Sophia Dorothea,
Philip had inspired a passion in a
hideous old court lady, the Countess
of Platen.  The princess seems to
have pursued him with the fidelity of
many years.   Heaps of letters followed him on his campaigns, and
were answered by the daring adventurer. The princess wanted to fly
with him; to quit her odious husband
at any rate.  She besought her parents to receive her back; had a notion
of taking refuge in France and going
over to the Catholic religion; had
absolutely packed her jewels for flight,
and very likely arranged its details
with her lover, in that last long night's
interview, after which Philip of Konigsmarck was seen no more.
Konigsmarck, inflamed with drink




12


THE FOUR GEORGES.


- there is scarcely any vice of which,
according to his own showing, this
gentleman was not a practitionerhad boasted at a supper at Dresden
of his intimacy with the two Hanoverian ladies, not only with the princess, but with another lady powerful
in Hanover. The Countess Platen,
the old favorite of the Elector, hated
the young Electoral Princess. The
young lady had a lively wit, and constantly made fun of the old one. The
Princess's jokes were conveyed to the
old Platen just as our idle words are
carried about at this present day:
and so they both hated each other.
The characters in the tragedy, of
which the curtain was now about to
fall, are about as dark a set as eye
ever rested on.  There is the jolly
Prince, shrewd, selfish, scheming, loving his cups and his case (I think his
good-humor makes the tragedy but
darker); his Princess, who speaks
little but observes all, his old painted
Jezebel of a mistress; his son, the
Electoral Prince, shrewd too, quiet,
selfish, not ill-humored, and generally
silent, except when goaded into fury
by the intolerable tongue of his lovely
wife; there is poor Sophia Dorothea,
with her coquetry and her wrongs,
and her passionate attachment to her
scamp of a lover, and her wild imprudences, and her mad artifices, and her
insane fidelity, and her furious jealousy regarding her husband (though
she loathed and cheated him), and
her prodigious falsehoods; and the
confidante, of course, into whose
hands the letters are slipped; and
there is Lothario, finally, than whom,
as I have said, one can't imagine a
more handsome, wicked, worthless
reprobate.
How that perverse fidelity of passion pursues the villain! How madly
true the woman is, and how astoundingly she lies! She has bewitched
two or three persons who have taken
her up, and they won't believe in her
wrong. Like Mary of Scotland, she
finds adherents ready to conspire for
her even in history, and people who




have to deal with her are charmed,
and fascinated, and bedevilled. How
devotedly Miss Strickland has stood
by Mary's innocence! Are there not
scores of ladies in this audience who
persist in it too  Innocent! I remember as a boy how a great party
persisted in declaring Caroline of
Brunswick was a martyred angel. So
was Helen of Greece innocent. She
never ran away with Paris, the dangerous young Trojan. Menelaus, her
husband, ill-used her; and there never
was any siege of Troy at all. So
was Bluebeard's wife innocent. She
never peeped into the closet where
the other wives were with their heads
off. She never dropped the key, or
stained it with blood; and her
brothers were quite right in finishing
Bluebeard, the cowardly brute! Yes,
Caroline of Brunswick was innocent;
and Madame Laffarge never poisoned
her husband; and Mary of Scotland
never blew up hers; and poor Sophia
Dorothea was never unfaithful; and
Eve never took the apple -it was a
cowardly fabrication of the serpent's.
George Louis has been held up to
execration as a murderous Bluebeard,
whereas the Electoral Prince had no
share in the transaction in which
Philip of Kinigsmarck was scuffled
out of this mortal scene. The Prince
was absent when the catastrophe
came. The Princess had had a
hundred warnings; mild hints from
her husband's parents; grim remonstrances from himself-but took no
more heed of this advice than such
besotted poor wretches do. On the
night of Sunday, the 1st of July,
1694, KInigsmarck paid a long visit
to the Princess, and left her to get
ready for flight. Her husband was
away at Berlin; her carriages and
horses were prepared and ready for
the elopement. Meanwhile, the spies
of Countess Platen had brought the
news to their mistress. She went to
Ernest Augustus, and procured from
the Elector an order for the arrest of
the Swede. On the way by which he
was to come, four guards were com



GEORGE THE FIRST.                        13
missioned to take him. lie strove to whose weak heart hankered after her
cut his way through the four men, relatives at St. Germains, never could
and wounded more than one of them. be got to allow her cousin, the ElecThey fell upon him; cut him down; tor Duke of Cambridge, to come and
and, as he was lying wounded on the pay his respects to her Majesty, and
ground, the Countess, his enemy, take his seat in her House of Peers.
whom he had betrayed and insulted, Had the Queen lasted a month longcame out and beheld him prostrate. er; had the English Tories been as
He cursed her with his dying lips, bold afid resolute as they were clever
and the furious woman stamped upon and crafty; had the Prince whom the
his mouth with her heel. He was nation loved and pitied been equal to
despatched presently; his body burnt his fortune, George Louis had never
the next day; and all traces of the talked German in St. James's Chapel
man disappeared. The guards who Royal.
killed him were enjoined silence under  When the crown did come to
severe penalties. The princess was George Louis he was in no hurry
reported to be ill in her apartments, about putting it on. He waited at
from which she was taken in October home for awhile; took an affecting
of the same year, being then eight- farewell of his dear Hanover and Herand-twenty years old, and consigned renhausen; and set out in the most
to the castle of Ahlden, where she re- leisurely manner to ascend  "the
mained a prisoner for no less than throne of his ancestors," as he called
thirty-two years. A separation had it in his first speech to Parliament.
been pronounced previously between He brought with him a compact body
her and her husband. She was called of Germans, whose society he loved,
henceforth the " Princess of Ahlden," and whom he kept round the royal
and her silent husband no more ut- person. Ile had his faithful Germanl
tered her name.                   chamberlains; his German secretaFour years after the Kinigsmarck rics; his negroes, captives of his bow
catastrophe, Ernest Augustus, the and spear in Turkish wars; his two
first Elector of Hanover, died, and ugly, elderly German favorites, MesGeorge Louis, his son, reigned in his dames of Kielmansegge and Schulenstead. Sixteen years he reigned in berg, whom  he created respectively
Hanover, after which he became, as Countess of Darlington and Duchess
we know, King of Great Britain, of Kendal. The Duchess was tall,
France, and Ireland, Defender of the and lean of stature, and hence was irFaith.  The wicked old Countess reverently nicknamed the Maypole.
Platen died in the year 1706. She The Countess was a large-sized noblehad lost her sight, but nevertheless woman, and this elevated personage
the legend says that she constantly was denominated the Elephant. Both
saw  Kiinigsmarck's ghost by her of these ladies loved Hanover and its
wicked old bed. And so there was delights; clung round thelinden-trees
an end of her.                    of the great Herrenhausen avenue,
In the year 1700, the little Duke and at first would not quit the place.
of Gloucester, the last of poor Queen Schulenberg, in fact, could not come
Anne's children, died, and the folks of on account of her debts; but finding
Hanover straightway became of pro- the Maypole would not come, the
digious importance in England. TheElephant packed up her trunk and
Electress Sophia was declared the slipped out of Hanover, unwieldy as
next in succession to the English she was.   On this the Maypole
throne. George Louis was created straightway put herself in motion,
Duke of Cambridge; grand deputa- and followed her beloved   George
tions were sent over from our coun- Louis. One seems to be speaking
tIy to Deutschland; but Queen Anne, of Captain Macheath, and Polly, and




14


THE FOUR GEORGES.


Lucy. The king we had selected;
the courtiers who came in his train;
the English nobles who came to welcome him, and on many of whom the
shrewd old cynic turned his back - I
protest it is a wonderful satirical picture. I am a citizen waiting at Grcenwich pier, say, and crying hurrah for
King George; and yet I can scarcely
keep my countenance, and help laughing at the enormous absurdity of this
advent!
Here we are, all on our knees.
Here is the Archbishop of Canterbury
prostrating himself to the head of his
church, with Kielmansegge and
Schulenberg with their ruddled cheeks
grinning behind the defender of the
faith. Here is my Lord Duke of
Marlborough kneeling too, the greatest warrior of all times; he who betrayed King William - betrayed
King James II. - betrayed Queen
Anne - betrayed England to the
French, the Elector to the Pretender,
the Pretender to the Elector; and
here are my Lords Oxford and Bolingbroke, the latter of whom has just
tripped up the heels of the former;
and if a month's more time had been
allowed him, would have had King
James at Westminster..The great
Whig gentlemen made their bows
and congees with proper decorum and
ceremony; but yonder keen old
schemer knows the value of their loyalty. "Loyalty," he must think, "as
applied to me - it is absurd! There
are fifty nearer heirs to the throne
than I am. I am but an accident, and
you fine Whig gentlemen take me for
your own sake, not for mine. You
Tories hate me; you archbishop,
smirking on your knees, and prating
about Heaven, you know I don't care
a fig for your Thirty-nine Articles,
and can't understand a word of your
stupid sermons. You, my Lords
Bolingbroke and Oxford -you know
you were conspiring against me a
month ago; and you, my Lord Duke
of Marlborough - you would sell me
or any man else, if you found your
advantage in it. Come, my good


Melusina, come, my honest Sophia,
let us go into my private room, and
have some oysters and some Rhine
wine, and some pipes afterwards: let
us make the best of our situation; let
us take what we can get, and leave
these bawling, brawling, lying English to shout, and fight, and cheat, in
their own way!"
If Swift had not been committed to
the statesmen of the losing side,
what a fine satirical picture we might
have had of that general sauce qui
peut amongst the Tory party! How
mum the Tories became; how the
House of Lords and House of Commons chopped round; and how decorously the majorities welcomed King
George!
Bolingbroke, making   his last
speech in the House of Lords, pointed
out the shame of the peerage, where
several lords concurred to condemn in
one general vote all that they had approved in former parliaments by many
particular resolutions. And so their
conduct was shameful. St. John had
the best of the argument, but the
worst of the vote. Bad times were
come for him. He talked philosophy,
and professed innocence. He courted
retirement, and was ready to meet
persecution; but, hearing that honest
Mat Prior, who had been recalled
from Paris, was about to preach regarding the past transactions, the
philosopher bolted, and took that
magnificent head of his out of the
ugly reach of the axe. Oxford, the
lazy and good-humored, had more
courage, and awaited the storm at
home. He and Mat Prior both had
lodgings in the Tower, and both
brought their heads safe out of that
dangerous menagerie. When Atterbury was carried off to the same den
a few years afterwards, and it was
asked, what next should be done with
him? "Done with him? Fling him
to the lions," Cadogan said, Marlborough's lieutenant. But the British lion
of those days did not care much for
drinking the blood of peaceful peers
and poets, or crunching the bones of




GEORGE THE FIRST.


15


bishops. Only four men were executed
in London for the rebellion of 1715;
and twenty-two in Lancashire. Above
a thousand taken in arms, submitted
to the King's mercy, and petitioned to
be transported to his Majesty's colonies in America. I have heard that
their descendants took the loyalist side
In the disputes which arose sixty
years after. It is pleasant to find
that a friend of ours, worthy Dick
Steele, was for letting off the rebels
with their lives.
As one thinks of what might have
been, how amusing the speculation
is! We know how the doomed Scottish gentlemen came out at Lord
Mar's summons, mounted the white
cockade, that has been a flower of sad
poetry ever since, and rallied round
the ill-omened  Stuart standard at
Braemar. Mar, with 8,000 men, and
but 1,500 opposed to him, might have
driven the enemy over the Tweed, and
taken possession of the whole of Scotland; but that the Pretender's Duke
did not venture to move when the day
was his own. Edinburgh Castle might
have been in King James's hands;
but that the men who were to escalade it staid to drink his health at
the tavern, and arrived two hours too
late at the rendezvous under the castle wall. There was sympathy enough
in the town —the projected attack
seems to have been known thereLord Mahon quotes Sinclair's account
of a gentleman not concerned, who
told Sinclair, that he was in a house
that evening where eighteen of them
were drinking, as the facetious landlady said, "powdering their hair,"
for the attack on the castle. Suppose
they had not stopped to powder their
hair? Edinburgh Castle, and town,
and all Scotland were King James's.
The north of England rises, and
marches over Barnet Heath upon
London. Wyndham is up in Somersetshire; Packington in Worcestershire; and Vivian in Cornwall. The
Elector of Hanover, and his hideous
mistresses, pack up the plate, and perhaps the crown jewels in London, and


arc off via Harwich and Helvoetsluys,
for dear old Deutschland. The King
- God save him! - lands at Dover,
with tumultuous applause; shouting
multitudes, roaring cannon, the Duke
of Marlborough weeping tears of joy,
and all the bishops kneeling in the
mud. In a few years, mass is said in
St. Paul's; matins and vespers are
sung in York Minster; and Dr.
Swift is turned out of his stall and
deanery house at St. Patrick's, to
give place to Father Dominic, from
Salamanca. All these changes were
possible then, and once thirty years
afterwards -all this we might have
had, but for the pulveris exigui jactu,
that little toss of powder for the hair
which the Scotch conspirators stopped
to take at the tavern.
You understand the distinction I
would draw   between history —of
which I do not aspire to be an expounder - and manners and life such
as these sketches would describe. The
rebellion breaks out in the north; its
story is before you in a hundred volumes, in none more fairly than in the
excellent narrative of Lord Mahon.
The clans are up in Scotland; Derwentwater, Nithsdale and Forster are
in arms in Northumberland - these
are matters of history, for which
you are referred to the due chroniclers.
The Guards are set to watch the
streets, and prevent the people wearing white roses. I read presently of a
couple of soldiers almost flogged to
death for wearing oakboughs in their
hats on the 29th of May- another
badge of the beloved Stuarts. It is
with these we have to do, rather than
the marches and battles of the armies
to which the poor fellows belonged -
with statesmen, and how they looked,
and how they lived, rather than with
measures of State, which belong to
history alone. For example, at the
close of the old Queen's reign, it is
known the Duke of Marlborough left
the kingdom-after what menaces,
after what prayers, lies, bribes offered,
taken, refused, accepted; after what
dark doubling and tacking, let his



16


THE FOUR GEORGES.


tory, if she can or dare, say. The
Queen dead; who so eager to return
as my lord duke? Who shouts God
save the King! so lustily as the great
conqueror of Blenheim and Malplaquet? (By the way, he will send
over some more money for the Pretender yet, on the sly.) Who lays
his hand on his blue ribbon, and lifts
his eyes more gracefully to heaven
than this hero? He makes a quasitriumphal entrance into London, by
Temple Bar, in his enormous gilt
coach- and the enormous gilt coach
breaks down somewhere by Chancery
Lane, and his highness is obliged to
get another. There it is we have
him. We are with the mob in the
crowd, not with the great folks in
the procession. We are not the Historic Muse, liit her ladyship's attendant, tale-bzarer - valet de chambre -
for whom no man is a hero; and,
as yonder one steps from his carriage
to the next handy conveyance, we
take the number of the hack; we look
all over at his stars, ribbons, embroidery; we think within ourselves, O you
unfathomable schemer! 0 you warrior invincible! 0 you beautiful smiling Judas! What master would you
not kiss or betray? What traitor's
head, blackening on the spikes on
yonder gate, ever hatched a tithe of
the treason which has worked under
your periwig?
We have brought our Georges to
London city, and if we would behold
its aspect, may see it in Hogarth's
lively perspective of CheapRide, or
read of it in a hundred contemporary
books which paint the manners of
that age. Our dear old " Spectator"
looks smiling upon the streets, with
their innumerable signs, and describes
them with his charming humor. " Our
streets are filled with Blue Boars,
Black Swans, and Red Lions, not to
mention Flying Pigs and Hogs in
Armor, with other creatures more
extraordinary than any in the deserts
of Africa." A few of these quaint old
figures still remain in London town.
You may still see there, and over its


old hostel in Ludgate Hill, the "Belle
Sauvage" to whom the " Spectator "
so pleasantly alludes in that paper;
and who was, probably, no other
than the sweet American Pocahontas,
who rescued fiom death the daring
Captain Smith. Thereis the "Lion's
Head," down whose jaws the "Spectator's " own letters were passed; and
over a great banker's in Fleet Street,
the effigy of the wallet, which the
founder of the firm bore when he came
into London a country boy. People
this street, so  ornamented, with
crowds of swinging chairmen, with
servants bawling to clear the way,
Mr. Dean in his,cassock, his lackey
marching before him; or Mrs. Dinahl
in her sack, tripping to chapel, her
footboy carrying her ladyship's great
prayer-book; with itinerant tradesmen, singing their hundred cries (I
remember forty years ago, as boy in
London city, a score of cheery, familiar cries that are silent now). Fancy
the beaux thronging to the chocolatehouses, tapping their snuff-boxes as
they issue thence, their periwigs appearing over the red curtains. Fancy
Saccharissa, beckoning and smiling
firom the upper windows, and a crowd
of soldiers brawling and bustling at
the door —gentlemen of the Life
Guards, clad in scarlet, with blue
facings, and laced with gold at the
scams; gentlemen of the Horse Grenadiers, in their caps of sky-blue cloth,
with the garter embroidered on the
front in gold and silver; men of the
Halberdiers, in their long red coats,
as bluff Harry left them, with their
ruff and velvet flat caps. Perhaps the
King's Majesty himself is going to
St. James's as we pass. If he is going
to Parliament, he is in his coach-andeight, surrounded by his guards and
the high officers of his crown. Otherwise his Majesty only uses a chair,
with six footmen walking before, and
six yeomen of the guard at the sides
of the sedan. The officers in waiting
follow the King in coaches. It must
be rather slow work.
Our " Spectator" and "Tatler"




GEORGE THE FIRST.


17


ire full of delightful glimpses of the of people at every hour of the day,
town life of those days. In the corn- but especially at morning and evenpany of that charming guide, we may ing, when their Majesties often walk
go to the opera, the comedy, the pup- with the royal tnmily, who are atpet-show, the auction, even the cock- tended only by a half-dozen yeomen
pit: we can take boat at Temple of the guard, and permit all persons
Stairs, and accompany Sir Roger de to walk at the same time with them.
Coverley and Mr. Spectator to Spring The ladies and gentlemen always
Garden- it will be called Vauxhall appear in rich dresses, for the English,
a few years hence, when Hogarth will who, twenty years ago, did not wear
paint for it. Would you not like to gold lace but in their army, are now
step back into the past, and be intro- embroidered and bedaubed as much
duced to Mr. Addison? -not the as the French. I speak of persons
Right Honorable Joseph Addison, of quality; for the citizen still conEsq., George I.'s Secretary of State, tents himself with a suit of fine cloth,
but to the delightful painter of con- a good hat and wig, and fine linen.
temporary manners; the man who, Everybody is well clothed here, and
when in good-humor himself, was the even the beggars don't make so
pleasantest companion in all Eng- ragged an appearance as they do elseland. I should like to go into Lockit's where."  After our friend, the man
with him, and drink a bowl along of quality, has had his morning or unwith Sir R. Steele (who has just been dress walk in the Mall, he goes home
knighted by King George, and who to dress, and then saunters to some
does not happen to have any money coffee-house or chocolate-house freto pay his share of the reckoning). quented by the persons he would see.
I should not care to follow Mr. Ad- "For 'tis a rule with the English to
dison to his secretary's office in White- go once a day at least to houses of
hall.  There we get into politics. this sort, where they talk of business
Our business is pleasure, and the and news, read the papers, and often
town, and the coffee-house, and the look at one another without opening
theatre, and the Mall. l)elightful their lips. And 'tis very well they
Spectator! kind friend of leisure are so mute: for were they all as
hours! happy companion! true Chris- talkative as people of other nations,
tian gentleman! How much greater, the coffee-houses would be intolerable,
better, you are than thl King Mr. and there would be no hearing what
Secretary kneels to!             one man said where they are so many.
You can have foreign testimony The chocolate-house in St. James's
about old-world London, if you like; Street, where I go every morning to
and my before-quoted friend, Charles pass away the time, is always so full
Louis, Baron de Pollnitz, will conduct that a man can scarce turn about in
us to it. " A man of sense," says he, it."
" or a fine gentleman, is never at a  Delightful as London city was,
loss for company in London, and this King George I. liked to be out of it
is the way the latter passes his time. as much as ever he could; and when
He rises late, puts on a frock, and, there, passed all his time with his
leaving his sword at home, takes his Germans. It was with them as with
cane, and goes where he pleases. The Blucher, 100 years afterwards, when
park is commonly the place where he the bold old Reiter looked down from
walks, because 'tls the Exchange for St. Paul's, and sighed out, " Was fir
men of quality. 'Tis the same thing Plunder!"  The German women
as the Tuileries at Paris, only the plundered; the German secretaries
park has a certain beauty of simplicity plundered; the German cooks and
which cannot be described.   The intendants plundered; even Mustapha
-rand walk is called the Mall; is full and Mahomet, the German negroes,
2




'1THE FOUR GEORGES.


had a share of the booty. Take what
you can get, was the old monarch's
maxim. He was not a lofty monarch,
certainly: he was not a patron of the
fine arts: but he was not a hypocrite,
he was not revengeful, he was not
extravagant. Though a despot in
Hanover, he was a moderate ruler in
England. His aim was to leave it
to itself as much as possible, and to
live out of it as much as he could.
His heart was in Hanover. When
taken ill on his last journey, as he
was passing through Holland, he
thrust his livid head out of the coachwindow, and gasped out, " Osnaburg,
Osnaburg! " He was more than fifty
years of age when he came amongst
us: we took him because we wanted
him, because he served our turn; we
laughed at his uncouth German ways,
and sneered at him. He took our
loyalty for what it was worth; laid
hands on what money he could; kept
us assuredly from Popery and wooden
shoes. I, for one, would have been
on his side in those days. Cynical,
and selfish, as he was, he was better
than a king out of St. Germains with
the French King's orders in his pocket, and a swarm of Jesuits in his
train.
The Fates are supposed to interest
themselves about royal personages;
and so this one had omens and prophecies specially regarding hin.  IHe
was said to be much disturbed at a
prophecy that he should die very soon
after his wife; and sure enough, pallid
Death, having seized upon the luckless Princess in her castle of Ahlden,
presently pounced upon H. M. King
George I., in his travelling chariot,
on the Hanover road. What postilion
can outride that pale horseman? It is
said, George promised one of his lefthanded widows to come to her after
death, if leave were granted to him to


revisit the glimpses of the moon; and
soon after his demise, a great raven
actually flying or hopping in at the
Duchess of Kendal's window at Twickenham, she chose to imagine the
king's spirit inhabited these plumes,
and took special care of her sable visitor. Affecting metempsychosis -
funereal royal bird! How pathetic is
the idea of the Duchess weeping over
it! When this chaste addition to our
English aristocracy died, all her
jewels, her plate, her plunder went
over to her relations in Hanover. I'
wonder whether her heirs took the
bird, and whether it is still flapping
its wings over Herrenhausen?
The days are over in England of
that strange religion of king-worship,
when priests flattered princes in the
Temple of God; when servility was
held to be ennobling duty; when
beauty and youth tried eagerly for
royal favor; and woman's shame was
held to be no dishonor.  Mended
morals and mended manners in courts
and people, are among the priceless
consequences of the freedom which
George I. came to rescue and secure.
He kept his compact with his English
subjects; and if he escaped no more
than other men and monarchs from
the vices of his age, at least we may
thank him for preserving and transmitting the liberties of ours. In our
free air, royal and humble homes have
alike been purified; and Truth, the
birthright of high and low among us,
which quite fearlessly judges our
greatest personages, can only speak
of them now in words of respect and
regard. There are stains in the portrait of the first George, and traits in
it which none of us need admire; but,
among the nobler features, are justice,
courage, moderation - and these we
may recognize ere we turn the picture
to the wall.




I




GEORGE THE SECOND.




GEORGE THE SECOND.


19


GEORGE THE SECOND.


ON the afternoon of the 14th of
June, 1727, two horsemen might have
been perceived galloping along the
road from Chelsea to Richmond.
The foremost, cased in the jackboots
of the period, was a broadfaced, jolly-looking, and very corpulent cavalier; but, by the manner in which he
urged his horse, you might see that
he was a bold as well as a skilful
rider. Indeed, no man loved sport
better; and in the hunting-fields of
Norfolk, no squire rode more boldly
after the fox, or cheered Ringwood
and Sweettips more lustily, than he
who now thundered over the Richmond road.
He speedily reached Richmond
Lodge, and asked to see the owner of
the mansion.  The mistress of the
house and her ladies, to whom our
friend was admitted, said he could not
be introduced to the master, however
pressing the business might be. The
master was asleep after his dinner;
lie always slept after his dinner: and
woe be to the person who interrupted
him! Nevertheless, our stout friend
of the jackboots put the affrighted
ladies aside, opened the forbidden
door of the bedroom, wherein upon
the bed lay a little gentleman; and
here the eager messenger knelt down
in his jackboots.
He on the bed started up, and with
many oaths and a strong German
accent asked who was there, and who
dared to disturb himn
"I am Sir Robert Walpole," said
the messenger. The awakened sleeper hated Sir Robert Walpole. "I
have the honor to announce to your
Majesty that your royal father, King
George I., died at Osnaburg, on Saturday last,'the 10th inst."
" Dat i one big lie! " roared out his
sacred Majesty King George II.: but


Sir Robert Walpole stated the fact,
and fiom that day until three and
thirty years after, George, the second
of the name, ruled over England.
How the King made away with his
father's will under the astonished
nose of the Archbishop of Canterbury; how he was a choleric little
sovereign; how he shook his fist in
the face of his father's courtiers; how
he kicked his coat and wig about in
his rages, and called everybody thief,
liar, rascal, with whom he differed:
you will read in all the history books;
and how he speedily and shrewdly
reconciled himself with the bold minister, whom he had hated during his
father's life, and by whom he was
served during fifteen years of his own
with admirable prudence, fidelity, and
success. But fur Sir Robert Walpole,
we should have had the Pretender
back again. But for his obstinate love
of peace, we should have had wars,
which the nation was not strong
enough nor united enough to endure.
But for his resolute counsels and
good-humored resistance we might
have had German despots attempting
a Hanoverian regimen over us: we
should have had revolt, commotion,
want, and tyrannous misrule, in place
of a quarter of a century of peace,
freedom, and  material prosperity,
such as the country never enjoyed,
until that corrupter of parliaments,
that dissolute tipsy cynic, that courageous lover of peace and liberty,
that great citizen, patriot, and statesman governed it. In religion he was
little better than a heathen; cracked
ribald jokes at bigwigs and bishops,
and laughed at High Church and
Low. In private life the old pagan
revelled in the lowest pleasures: he
passed his Sundays tippling at Richmond; and his holydays bawling after




20


THE FOUR GEORGES.


dogs, or boozing at Houghton with
boors over beef and punch. He cared
for letters no more than his master
did: he judged human nature so
meanly that one is ashamed to have
to own that he was right, and that
men could be corrupted by means so
base. But, with his hireling House
of Commons, he defended liberty for
us; with his incredulity he kept
Church-craft down. There were parsons at Oxford as double-dealing and
dangerous as any priest out of Rome,
and he routed them both. He gave
Englishmen no conquests, but he
gave them peace, and ease, and freedom; the three-per-cents. nearly at
par; and wheat at five and six and
twenty shillings a quarter.
It was lucky for us that our first
Georges were not more highminded
men; especially fortunate that they
loved Hanover so much as to leave
England to have her own way. Our
chief troubles began when we got a
king who gloried in the name of Briton, and, being born in the country,
proposed to rule it. IHe was no more
fit to govern England than his grandfather and great-grandfather, who did
not try. It was righting itself during their occupation. Thedangerous,
noble old spirit of cavalier loyalty
was dying out; the stately old English High Church was emptying itself: the questions dropping which,
on one side and the other; - the side
of loyalty, prerogative, church, and
king;- the side of right, truth, civil
and religious freedom — had set generations of brave men in arms. By
the time when George III. came to
the throne, the combat between loyalty and liberty was come to an end;
and Charles Edward, old, tipsy, and
childless, was dying in Italy.
Those who are curious about European Court history of the last age
know the memoirs of the Margravine
of Bayreuth, and what a Court was
that of Berlin, where George II's
cousins ruled sovereign. -Frederick
the Great's father knocked down his
sons, dauighters, officers of state; he


kidnapped big men all Europe over
to make grenadiers of: his feasts, his
parades, his wine-parties, his tobaccoparties, are all described. Jonathan
Wild the Great in language, pleasures
and behavior, is scarcely more delicate than this German sovereign.
Louis XV., his life, and reign, and
doings, are told in a thousand French
memoirs. Our George II., at least,
was not a worse king than his neighbors. He claimed and took the royal
exemption from doing right which
sovereigns assumed. A   dull little
man of low tastes he appears to us in
England; yet Hervey tells us that
this choleric prince was a great sentimentalist, and that his letters-of
which he wrote prodigious quantities
-were quite    dangerous in their
powers of fascination. He kept his
sentimentalities for his Germans and
his queen. With us English, he
never chose to be familiar. He has
been accused of avarice, yet he did
not give much money, and did not
leave much behind him. He did not
love the fine arts, but he did not pretend to love them. He was no more
a hypocrite about religion than his
father. He judged men by a low
standard; yet, with such men as were
near him, was he wrong in judging as
he did? IIe readily detected lying
and flattery, and liars and flatterers
were perforce his companions. Had
he been more of a dupe lie might have
been more amiable. A dismal experience made him cynical. No boon
was it to him to be clear-sighted, and
see only selfishness and flattery round
about him. What could Walpole
tell him about his Lords and Commons, but that they were all venal?
Did not his clergy, his courtiers, bring
him the same story? Dealing with
men and women in his rude, sceptical
way, he came to doubt about honor,
male and female, about patriotism,
about religion. " He is wild, but he
fights like a man," George I., the
taciturn, said of his son and successor. Courage George II. certainly
had. The Electoral Prince, at the




GEORGE THE SECOND.


21


head of his father's contingent, had
approved himself a good and brave
soldier under Eugene and Marlborough. At Oudenar/e he specially distinguished himsclf. At Malplaquet
the other claimant to the English
throne won but little honor. There
was always a question about James's
courage. Neither then in Flanders,
nor aflerwards in his own ancient
kingdom of Scotland, (lid the luckless
Pretender show  much resolution.
But dapper little George had a famous
tough spirit of his own, and fought
like a Trojan. Ile called out his
brother of Prussia, with sword and
pistol; and I wish, for the interest of
romancers in general, that that famous
duel could have taken place. The
two sovereigns hated each other with
all their might; their seconds were
appointed; the place of meeting was
6ettled; and tle duel was only prevented  by strong representations
made to the two, of the European
laughter which would have been
caused by such a transaction.
Whenever we hear of dapper George
at war, it is certain that he demeaned
himself like a little man of valor. At
Dettingen his horse ran away with
him, and with difficulty was stopped
from carrying him into the enemy's
lines. The King, dismounting from
the fiery quadruped, said bravely,
"Now I know I shall not run away ';
and placed himself at the head of the
foot, drew his sword, brandishing it at
the whole of the French army, and
calling out to his own men to come
on, in bad English, but with the most
famous pluck and spirit. In '45,
when the Pretender was at Derby,
and many people began to look pale,
the King never lost his courage - not
he. "Pooh! don't talk to me that
stuff!" he said, like a gallant little
prince as he was, and never for one
moment allowed his equanimity, or
his business, or his pleasures, or his
travels, to be disturbed. On public
festivals he always appeared in the
hat and coat he wore on the famous
day of Oudenarde; and the people




laughed, but kindly, at the odd old
garment, for bravery never goes out
of fashion.
In private life the Prince showed
himself a worthy descendant of his
father. In this respect, so much has
been said about the first George's
manners, that we need not enter into
a description of the son's German
harem. In 1705 he married a princess remarkable for beauty, for cleverness, for learning, for good temper
one of the truest and fondest wives
ever prince was blessed with, and who
loved him and was faithful to him;
and he, in his coarse fashion, loved
her to the last. It must be told to
the honor of Caroline of Anspach,
that, at the time when German
princes thought no more of changing
their religion than you of altering
your cap, she refused to give up Protestantism for the other creed, although
an archduke, afterwards to be an emperor, was offered to her for a bridegroom. Her Protestant relations in
Berlin were angry at her rebellious
spirit; it was they who tried to convert her (it is droll to think that Frederick the Great, who had no religion
at all, was known for a long time in
England as the Protestant hero), and
these good Protestants set upon Caroline a certain 'Father Urban, a very
skilful Jesuit, and famous winner of
souls. But she routed the Jesuit;
and she refused Charles VI.; and
she married the little Electoral Prince
of Hanover, whom she tended with
love, and with every manner of sacrifice, with artful kindness, with tender
flattery, with entire self-devotion,
thenceforward until her life's end.
When George I. made his first visit
to Hanover, his son was appointed
regent during the royal absence. But
this honor was never again conferred
on the Prince of Wales; he and his
father fell out presently. On the occasion of the christening of his second
son, a roval row took place, and the
Prince, shaking his fist in the Duke
of Newcastle's face, called him a
rogue, and provoked his august father,




22


THE FOUR GEORGES.


He and his wife were turned out
of St. James's, and their princely
children taken from them, by order
of the royal head of the family. Father and mother wept piteously at
parting from their little ones. The
young ones sent some cherries, with
their love, to papa and mamma; the
parents watered the fruit with tears.
They had no tears thirty-five years
afterwards, when Prince Frederick
died - their eldest son, their heir,
their enemy.
The King called his daughtcr-inlaw  "cette diablesse madame la princesse." The frequenters of the latter's
court were forbidden to appear at the
King's: their Royal Highnesses going to Bath, we read how the courtiers followed them thither, and paid
that homage in Somersetshire which
was forbidden in London.    That
phrase of "cette diablesse madame la
princesse," explains one cause of the
wrath of her royal papa. She was a
very clever woman: she had a keen
sense of humor: she had a dreadful
tongue: she turned into ridicule the
antiquated sultan and his hideous
harem.   She wrote savage letters
about him home to members of her
family. So, driven out from the royal presence, the Prince and Princess
set up for themselves in Leicester
Fields, "where," says Walpole, "the
most promising of the young gentlemen of the next party, and the prettiest and liveliest of the young ladies,
formed the new   court."  Besides
Leicester House, they had their lodge
at Richmond, frequented by some of
the pleasantest company of those days.
There were the Herveys, and Chesterfield, and little Mr. Pope from Twickenham, and with him, sometimes, the
savage Dean of St. Patrick's, and
quite a bevy of young ladies, whose
pretty faces smile on us out of history.
There was Lepell, famous in ballad
song; and the saucy, charming Mary
Bellenden, who would have none of
the Prince of Wales's fine compliments, who folded her arms across
her breast, and bade H. R. H. keep


off; and knocked his purse of guineas
into his face, and told him she was
tired of seeing him count them. He
was not an augt-t monarch, this Augustus. Walpole tells how, one night
at the royal card-table, the playful
princesses pulled a chair away from
under Lady Deloraine, who, in revenge, pulled the King's trom under
him, so that his Majesty fell on the
carpet. In whatever posture one sees
this royal George, he is ludicrous
somehow; even at Dettingen, where
he fought so bravely, his figure is absurd - calling out in his broken English, and lunging with his rapier, like
a fencing-master. In contemporary
caricatures, George's son, " the Hero
of Culloden," is also made an object
of considerable fun.
I refrain to quote from Walpole regarding George - for those charming
volumes are in the hands of all who
love the gossip of the last century.
Nothing can be more cheery than
Horace's letters.  Fiddles sing all
through them: wax-lights, fine dresses, fine jokes, fine plate, fine equipages, glitter and sparkle there: never
was such a brilliant, jigging, smirking Vanity Fair as that through
which he leads us. Hervey, the next
great authority, is a darker spirit.
About him there is something frightful: a few years since his heirs opened
the lid of the Ickworth box; it was
as if a Pompeii was opened to us -
the last century dug up, with its temples and its games, its chariots, its
public places -lupanaria. Wandering through that city of the dead,
that dreadfully selfish time, through
those godless intrigues and feasts,
through those crowds, pushing and
eager, and struggling - rouged, and
lying, and fawning - I have wanted
some one to be fiiends with. I have
said to friends conversant with that
history, "Show me some good person about that Court; find me,
among those selfish courtiers, those
dissolute, gay people, some one being
that I can love and regard." There
is that strutting little sultan George


*




GEORGE TIE SECOND.


23


II.; there is that hunchbacked, beetlebrowed Lord Cllesterfield; there is
John IIervey, with his deadly smile,
and ghastly, painted face —I hate
them.   There is Hoadly, cringing
from one bishopric to another: yonder comes little Mr. Pope, from
Twickenham, with his friend, the
Irish dean, in his new cassock, bowing too, but with rage flashing from
under his bushy eyebrows, and scorn
and hate quivering in his smile. Can
you be fond of these?  Of Pope I
might; at least I might love his
genius, his wit, his greatness, his sensibility-with a certain conviction
that at some fancied slight, some
sneer wlhich he imagined, he would
turn upon me and stab me. Can you
trust the Queen? She is not of our
order: their very position makes
kings and queens lonely. One inscrutable attachment that inscrutable
woman has. To that she is faithful,
through all trial, neglect, pain, and
time. Save her husband, she really
cares for no created being. She is
good enough to her children, and
even fond enough of them: but she
would chop them all up into little
pieces to please him. In her intercourse with all around her, she was
perfectly kind, gracious, and natural: but fiiends may die, daughters
may depart, she will be as perfectly
kind and gracious to the next set. If
the King wants her, she will smile
upon him, be she ever so sad; and
walk with him, be she ever so weary;
and laugh at his brutal jokes, be she
in ever so much pain of body or heart.
Caroline's devotion to her husband is
a prodigy to read of. What charm
had the little man? What was there
in those wonderful letters of thirty
pages long, which he wrote to her
when he was absent, and to his mistresses at Hanover, when he was in
London with his wife    Why did
Caroline, the most lovely and accomplished princess of Germany, take a
little red-faced staring princeling for
a husband, and refuse an emperor?
Why, to her last hour, did she love


him so? She killed herself because
she loved him so. She had the gout,
and would plunge her feet in cold
water in order to walk with him.
With the film of death over her eyes,
writhing in intolerable pain, she yet
had a livid smile and a gentle word
for her master.  You have read the
wonderful history of that death-bed?
How she bade him marry again,
and the reply the old king blubbered out, "Non, non: j'aurai des
maitresses." There never was such
a ghastly farce. I watch the astonishing scene- I stand by that awful
bedside, wondering at the ways in
which God has ordained the lives,
loves, rewards, successes, passions,
actions, ends of his creatures-and
can't but laugh, in the presence of
death, and with the saddest heart.
In that often-quoted passage from
Lord iHervey, in which the Queen's
death-bed is described, the grotesque
horror of the details surpasses all
satire: the dreadful humor of the
scepe is more terrible than Swift's
blackest pages, or Fielding's fiercest
irony.  The man who wrote the
story had something diabolical about
him: the terrible verses which Pope
wrote respecting Hervey, in one of
his own moods of almost fiendish
malignity, I fear are true.  I am
frightened as I look back into the
ast, and fancy I behold that ghastly,
beautiful face; as I think of the Queen
writhing on her death-bed, and crying out, " Pray! - pray! " - of the
royal old sinner by her side, who
kisses her dead lips with frantic grief,
and leaves her to sin no more;- of
the bevy of courtly clergymen, and
the archbishop, whose prayers she rejects, and who are obliged for propriety's sake to shuffle off the anxious inquiries of the public, and vow
that her Majesty quitted this life " in
a heavenly frame of mind." What
a life - to what ends devoted! What
a vanity of vanities! It is a theme
for another pulpit than the lecturer's.
For a pulpit?-I think the part
which pulpits play in the deaths of




THE FOUR GEORGES.


kings is the most ghastly of all the
ceremonial: the lying eulogies, the
blinking of disagreeable truths, the
sickening flatteries, the simulated
grief, the falsehood and sycoplancies
- all uttered in the name of Heaven
in our State churches: these monstrous threnodies have been sung
from time immemorial over kings and
queens, good, bad, wicked, licentious.
The State parson must bring out
his commonplaces; his apparatus of
rhetorical black-hangings. Dead king
or live king, the clergyman must flatter him - announce his piety whilst
living, and when dead, perform the
obsequies of " our most religious and
gracious king."
I read that Lady Yarmouth (my
most religious and gracious King's
favorite) sold a bishopric to a clergyman for 5,0001.   (She betted hlin
5,0001. that he would not be made a
bishop, and he lost, and paid her.)
Was he the only prelate of his time
led up by such hands for consecration? As I peep into George II.'s
St. James's, I see crowds of cassocks
rustling up the back-stairs of the ladies of the Court; stealthy clergy
slipping purses into their laps; that
godless old King yawning under his
canopy in his Chapel Royal, as the
chaplain before him is discoursing.
Discoursing about what? - about
righteousness and judgment? Whilst
the chaplain is preaching, the King
is chattering in German almost as
loud as the preacher; so loud that
the clergyman- it may be one Dr.
Young, he who wrote "Night
Thoughts," and discoursed on the
splendors of the stars, the glories of
heaven, And utter vanities of this
world -actually burst out crying in
his pulpit because the defender of the
faith and dispenser of bishoprics
would not listen to him! No wonder
that the clergy were corrupt and indifferent amidst this indifference and
corruption. No wonder that sceptics multiplied and morals degenerated, so far as they depended on
the influence of such a king. No


wonder that Whitefield cried out in
the wilderness, that Wesley quitted
the insulted temple to pray on the
hill-side. I look with reverence on
those men at that time. Which is
the sublimer spectacle - the good
John Wesley, surrounded by his congregation of miners at the pit's mouth,
or the Queen's chaplains mumbling
through their morning office in their
ante-room, under the picture of the
great Venus, with the door opened
into the adjoining chamber, where the
Queen is dressing, talking scandal to
Lord Hervey, or uttering sneers at
Lady Suffolk, who is kneeling with
the basin at her mistress's side? I say
I am scared as I look round at this
society - at this king, at these courtiers, at these politicians, at these bishops - at this flaunting vice and
levity.  Whereabouts in this Court
is the honest man? Where is the
pure person one may like? Tile air
stifles one with its sickly perfumes.
There are some old-world follies and
some absurd ceremonials about our
Court of the present day, which I
laugh at, but as an Englishman, contrasting it with the past, shall I not
acknowledge the change of to-day?
As the mistress of St. James's passes
me now, I salute the sovereign, wise,
moderate, exemplary of life; the good
mother; the good wife; the accomplished lady; the enlightened friend
of art; the tender sympathizer in her
people's glories and sorrows.
Of all the Court of George and
Caroline, I find no one but Lady Suffolk with whom it seems pleasant and
kindly to hold converse. Even the
misogynist Croker, who edited her
letters, loves her, and has that regard
for her with which her sweet graciousncss seems to have inspired
almost all men and some women.
who came near her. I have noted
many little traits which go to prove
the charms of her character (it is not
merely because she is charming, but
because she is characteristic, that I
allude to her).  She writes delightfilly sober letters. Addressing Mr.




GEORGE THE SECOND.


25


Gay at Tunbridge (he was, you know,
a poet, penniless and in disgrace),
she says: " The place you are in, has
strangely filled your head with physicians and cures; but, take my word
for it, many a fine lady has gone there
to drink the waters without being
sick; and many a man has comlained of the loss of his heart, who
ad it in his own possession. I desire you will keep yours; for I shall
not be very fond of a friend without
one, and I have a great mind you
should be in the number of mine."
When Lord Peterborough was
seventy years old, that indomitable
youth addressed some flaming love,
or rather gallantry, letters to Mrs.
Howard-curious relics they are of
the romantic manner of wooing sometimes in use in those days. It is not
passion; it is not love; it is gallantry: a mixture of earnest and acting; high-flown compliments, profound bows, vows, sighs and ogles, in
the manner of the Clelie romances,
and Millamont and Doricourt in the
comedy. There was a vast elaboration of ceremonies and etiquette, of
raptures -a regulated form for kneeling and wooing which has quite
passed out of our downright manners.
Henrietta Howard accepted the noble
old earl's philandering; answered the
queer love-letters with due acknowledgment; made a profound courtesy
to Peterborough's profound bow; and
got John Gay to help her in the composition of her letters in reply to her
old knight. He wrote her charming
verses, in which there was truth as
well as grace. "O wonderful creature!" lie writes: -
"O wonderful creature, a woman of reason I
Never grave out of pride, never gay out
of season I
When so easy to guess who this angel
should be,
Who would think Mrs. Howard ne'er
dreamt it was she?"
The great Mr. Pope also celebrated her in lines not less pleasant,
and painted a portrait of what must
2*


certainly have been a delightful
lady: -
"I know a thing that's most uncommonEnvy, be silent and attend II know a reasonable woman,
Handsome, yet witty, and a friend:
" Not warped by passion, awed by rumor,
Not grave through pride, or gay
through folly:
An equal mixture of good-humor
And exquisite soft melancholy.
"Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?
Yes, she has one, I must averWhen all the world conspires to praise
her,
The woman's deaf, and does not
hear "
Even the women concurred in praising and loving her. The Duchess of
Queensberry bears testimony to her
amiable qualities, and writes to her:
"I tell you so and so, because you
love children, and to have children
love you." The beautiful, jolly Mary
Bellenden, represented by contemporaries as " the most perfect creature
ever known," writes very pleasantly
to her "dear Howard,' her "dear
Swiss," from the country, whither
Mary had retired after her marriage,
and when she gave up being a maid
of honor. "How do you do, Mrs.
Howvard?" Mary breaks out. "How
do you do, Mrs. Howard? that is all
I have to sav. This afternoon I am
taken with a fit of writing; but as to
matter, I have nothing better to entertain you, than news of my farm.
I therefore give you the following list
of the stock of eatables that I am
fatting for my private tooth. It is
well known to the whole county of
Kent, that I have four fat calves, two
fat hogs, fit for killing, twelve promising black pigs, two young chickens, three fine geese, with thirteen
eggs under each (several being duckeggs, else the others do not come to
maturity); all this, with rabbits, and
pigeons, and carp in plenty, beef and
mutton at reasonable rates. Now,
Howard, if you have a mind to stick
a knife into anything I have named,
say so!"




THE FOUR GEORGES.


A jolly set must they have been,
those maids of honor. Pope introduces us to a whole bevy of them, in
a pleasant letter. " I went," he says,
"by water to Hampton Court, and
met the Prince, with all his ladies, on
horseback, coining from hunting.
Mrs. Bellenden and Mrs. Lepell took
me into protection, contrary to the
laws against harboring Papists, and
gave me a dinner, with something I
liked better, an opportunity of conversation with Mrs. Howard. We all
agreed that the life of a maid of
honor was of all things the most
miserable, and wished that all women
who envied it had a specimen of it.
To eat Westphalia ham of a morning,
ride over hedges and ditches on borrowed hacks, come home in the heat
of the day with a fever, and (what is
worse a hundred times) with a red
mark on the forehead from an uneasy
hat-all this may qualify them to
make excellent wives for hunters.
As soon as they wipe off the heat of
the day, they must simper an hour
and catch cold in the Princess's apartment; from thence to dinner with
what appetite they may; and after
that till midnight, work, walk, or
think which way they please. No
lone house in Wales, with a mountain and rookery, is more contemplative than this Court. Miss Lepell
walked with me three or four hours
by moonlight, and we met no creature
of any quality but the King, who gave
audience to the vice-chamberlain all
alone under the garden wall."
I fancy it was a merrier England,
that of our ancestors, than the island
which we inhabit. People high and
low amused themselves very much
more. I have calculated the manner
in which statesmen and persons of
condition passed their time-and
what with drinking, and dining, and
supping, and cards, wonder how they
got through their business at all.
They played all sorts of games, which,
with the exception of cricket and tennis, have quite gone out of our manners now. In the old prints of St.


James's Park, you still see the marks
along the walk, to note the balls when
the Court played at Mall. Fancy
Birdcage walk now so laid out, and
Lord John and Lord Palmerston
knocking balls up and down the avenue! Most of those jolly sports belong to the past, and the good old
games of England are only to be
found in old novels, in old ballads, or
the columns of dingy old newspapers,
which say how a mIain of cocks is to
be fought at Winchester between the
Winchester men and the Hampton
men; or how the Cornwall men and
the )evon men are going to hold a
great wrestling match at Totnes, and
so on.
A hundred and twenty years ago
there were not only country towns in
England, but people who inhabited
them. We were very much more
gregarious; we were amused by very
simple pleasures. Every town had
its fair, every village its wake. The
old poets have sung a hundred jolly
ditties about great cudgel-playings,
famous grinning through horse-col.
lars, great may-pole meetings, and
morris-dances. The girls used to run
races clad in very light attire; and
the kind gentry and good parsons
thought no shame in looking on.
Dancing bears went about the country
with pipe and tabor. Certain wellknown tunes were sung all over the
land for hundreds of years, and high
and low rejoiced in that simple music.
Gentlemen who wished to entertain
their female friends constantly sent
for a band. When Beau Fielding, a
mighty fine gentleman, was courting
the lady whom he married, he treated
her and her companion at his lodgings
to a supper from the tavern, and after
supper they sent out for a fiddler,
three of them. Fancy the three, in a
great wainscoted room, in Covent
Garden or Soho, lighted by two or
three candles in silver sconces, some
grapes and a bottle of Florence wine
on the table, and the honest fiddler
playing old tunes in quaint old minor
keys, as the Beau takes out one lady




GEORGE THE SECOND.


after the other, and solemnly dances
with her!
The very great folks, young noblemen, with their governors, and the
like, went abroad and made the great
tour; the home satirists jeered at the
Frenchified and Italian ways which
they brought back; but the greater
number of people never left the country. The jolly squire often had never
been twenty miles from home. Those
who did go went to the baths, to
Harrogate, or Scarborough, or Bath,
or Epsom. Old letters are full of
these places of pleasure. Gay writes
to us about the fiddlers at Tunbridge; of the ladies having merry
little private balls amongst themselves; and the gentlemen entertaining them by turns with tea and
music. One of the young beauties
whom he met did not care for tea:
"We have a young lady here," he
says, "that is very particular in her
desires. I have known some young
ladies, who, if ever they prayed, would
ask for some equipage or title, a husband or matadores: but this lady,
who is but seventeen, and has 30,0001.
to her fortune, places all her wishes
on a pot of good ale. When her
friends, for the sake of her shape and
complexion, would dissuade her from
it, she answers, with the truest sincerity, that by the loss of shape and
complexion she could only lose a husband, whereas ale is her passion."
Every country town had its assembly-room- mouldy old tenements,
which we may still see in deserted
inn-yards, in decayed provincial cities,
out of which the great wen of London
has sucked all the life. York, at assize times, and throughout the winter,
harbored a large society of northern
gentry. Shrewsbury was celebrated
for its festivities.  At Newmarket,
I read of "a vast deal of good company, besides rogues and blacklegs;"
at Norwich, of two assemblies, with
a prodigious crowd in the hall, the
rooms, and the gallery. In Cheshire
(it is a maid of honor of Queen Caroline who writes, and who is longing


to be back at Hampton Court, and
the fun there) I peep into a country
house, and see a very merry party:
"We meet in the work-room before
nine, cat, and break a joke or two till
twelve, then we repair to our own
chambers and make ourselves ready,
for it cannot be called dressing. At
noon the great bell fetches us into a
parlor, adorned with all sorts of fine
arms, poisoned darts, several pairs of
old boots and shoes worn by men
of might, with the stirrups of King
Charles I., taken from him at Edgehill," -and there they have their
dinner, after wlhicl comes dancing
and supper.
As for Bath, all history went and
bathed and drank there. George II.
and his Queen, Prince Frederick and
his court, scarce a character one can
mention of the early last century, but
was seen in that famous Pump Room
where Beau Nash presided, and his
picture hung between the busts of
Newton and Pope:
"This picture, placed these busts between,
Gives satire all its strength:
Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly at full length."
I should like to have seen the Folly.
It was a splendid, embroidered, beruffled, snuff-boxed, red-heeled, impertinent Folly, and knew how to
make itself respected. I should like
to have seen that noble old madcap
Peterborough in his boots (he actually had the audacity to walk about
Bath in boots!), with his blue ribbon
and stars, and a cabbage under each
arm, and a chicken in his hand, which
he had been cheapening for his din.
ner. Chesterfield came there many a
time and gambled for hundreds, and
grinned through his gout.  Mary
Wortley was there, young and beautiful; and Mary Wortley, old, hideous,
and snuffy. Miss Chudleigh came
there, slipping away from one husband, and on the look-out for another.
Walpole passed many a day there;
sickly, supercilious, absurdly dandifled, and affected; with a brilliant
wit, a delightful sensibility; and foi




THE FOUR GEORGES.


his friends, a most tender, generous, jesties of spades and diamonds.  In
and faithful heart. And if you and I European Courts, I believe the prachad been alive then, and strolling down tice still remains, not for gambling,
Milsom  Street - hush! we should but for pastime. Our ancestors genhave taken our hats off, as an aw- erally adopted it. "Books! prithee,
ful, long, lean, gaunt figure, swathed don't talk to me about books," said
in flannels, passed by in its chair, old Sarah Marlborough. "The only
and a livid face looked out from the books I know are men and cards."
window - great fierce eyes staring "Dear old Sir Roger de Coverley sent
from under a bushy, powdered wig, a all his tenants a string of hogs pudterrible frown, a terrible Roman nose dings and a pack of cards at Christ- and we whisper to one another, mas," says " The Spectator," wishing
"There he is! There's the great to depict a kind landlord. One of
commoner! There is Mr. Pitt!" As the good old lady writers in whose
we walk away, the abbey bells are set letters I have been dipping cries out,
a-ringing; and we meet our testy "Sure, cards have kept ius women
friend Toby Smollett, on the arm of from a great deal of scandal! " Wise
James Quin the actor, who tells us old Johnson regretted that he had
that the bells ring for Mr. Bullock, not learnt to play. "It is very useful
an eminent cowkeeper from Totten- in life," he says; " it generates kindham, who has just arrived to drink ness, and consolidates socicty." David
the waters; and Toby shakes his cane Hume never went to bed without his
at the door of Colonel Ringworm -  wlist. We have Walpole, in one of
the Creole gentleman's lodgings next his letters, in a transport of gratitude
his own -where the colonel's two for the cards. "I shall build an altar
negrocs are practising on the French to Pam," says he, in his pleasant
horn.                             dandified way, "for the escape of my
When we try to recall social Eng- charming Duchess of Grafton." The
land, we must fancy it playing at Duchess had been playing cards at
cards for many hours every day. The Rome, when she ought to have been
custom is well nigh gone out among at a cardinal's concert, where the floor
us now, but fifty years ago was gen- fell in, and all the monsignors were
eral, fifty years before that almost precipitated into the cellar. Even the
universal, in the country. " Gaming Nonconformist clergy looked not unhas become so much the fashion," kindly on the practice. "I do not
writes Seymour, the author of the think," says one of them, "that hon" Court   m     "  that he who in ester,"  Martin Luther comitte  sin by
company should be ignorant of the playing at backgammon for an hour
games in vogue, would be reckoned or two after dinner, in order by unlow-bred, and hardly fit for conversa- bending his mind to promote diges
tion." There were cards everywhere. tion."  As for the High Church parIt was considered ill-bred to read in sons, they all played, bishops and all.
company. "Books were not fit ar- On Twelfth-day the Court used to
tides for drawing-rooms," old ladies play in state. " This being Twelfthused to say. People were jealous, as day, his Majesty, the Prince of Wales,
it were, and angry with them. You and the Knights Companions of the
will find in Hervey that George II. Garter, Thistle, and Bath, appeared
was always furious at the sight of in the collars of their respective orbooks; and his Queen, who loved ders. Their Majesties, the Prince of
reading, had to practise it in secret in Wales, and three eldest Princesses,
her closet. But cards were the re- went to the Chapel Royal, preceded
source of all the world. Every night, by the heralds. The Duke of Manfor hours, kings and queens of Eng- chester carried the sword of State.
land sat down and handled their ma- The King and Prince made offering




GEORGE THE SECOND.


29


at tie altar of gold, frankincense, and
myrrh, according to the annual custom. At night their Majesties played
at hazard with the nobility, for the
benefit of the groom-porter; and
'twas said the king won 600 guineas;
the queen, 360; Princess Amelia,
twenty; Princess Caroline, ten; the
Duke of Grafton and the Earl of
Portmore, several thousands."
Let us glance at the same chronicle,
which is of the year 1731, and see how
others of our forefathers were engaged.
"Cork, 15th January. - This day,
one Tim Cronciil was, for the murder
and robbery of Mr. St. Leger and his
wife, sentenced to be hanged two minutes, then his head to be cut off, and his
body divided in four quarters, to be
placed in four cross-ways. He was
servant to Mr. St. Leger, and committed the murder with the privity
of the servant-maid, who was sentenced to be burned; also of the
gardener, whom he knocked on the
head, to deprive him of his share of
the booty."
" Jan uary 3.- A postboy was shot
by an Irish gentleman on the road
near Stone, in Staffordshire, who died
in two days, for which the gentleman
was imprisoned."
"A poor man was found hanging
in a gentleman's stables at Bungay,
in Norfolk, by a person who cut him
down, and running for assistance, left
his penknife behind him. The poor
man recovering, cut his throat with
the knife; and a river being nigh,
jumped into it; but company coming,
was dragged out alive, and was like
to remain so."
"The Honorable Thomas Finch,
brother to the Earl of Nottingham, is
appointed ambassador at the Hague,
in the room of the Earl of Chesterfield, who is on his return home."
"William Cowper, Esq., and the
Rev. Mr. John Cowper, chaplain in
ordinary to her Majesty, and rector
of Great Berkhamstead, in the county
of Hertford, are appointed clerks of
the commissioners of bankruptcy."


"Charles Craig, Esq., and -
Macnamara, Esq., between whom an
old grudge of three years had subsisted, which had occasioned their being
bound over about fifty times for
breaking the peace, meeting in company with Mr. Eyres, of Galloway,
they discharged their pistols, and all
three were killed on the spot, - to the
great joy of their peaceful neighbors,
say the Irish papers."
" Wheat is 26s. to 28s., and barley
20s. to 22s. a quarter; three per cents.,
92; best loaf sugar. 9Id.; Bohea, 12s.
to 14s.; Pekoe, 18s.; and Hyson, 35s.
per pound."
"At Exon was celebrated with
great magnificence the birthday of
the son of Sir W. Courtney, Bart., at
which more than 1,000 persons were
present.  A  bullock was roasted
whole; a butt of wine and several
tuns of beer and cider were given to
the populace. At the same time Sir
William delivered to his son, then of
age, Powdram Castle, and a great
estate."
" Charlesworth and Cox, two solicitors, convicted of forgery, stood on
the pillory at the Royal Exchage.
The first was severely handled by the
populace, but the other was very
much favored and protected by six or
seven fellows who got on the pillory
to protect him from the insults of the
mob."
" A boy killed by falling upon iron
spikes, from a lamp-post which he
climbed to see Mother Needham stand
in the pillory."
"Mary Lynn was burnt to ashes at
the stake for being concerned in the
murder of her mistress."
"Alexander Russell, the foot soldier, who was capitally convicted for
a street robbery in January sessions,
was reprieved for transportation; but
having an estate fallen to him, obtained a free pardon."
" The Lord John Russell married
to the Lady Diana Spencer, at Marlborough House. Ie has a fortune
of 30,0001. down, and is to have 100,o000. at the death of the Duchess




THE FOUR GEORGES.


Dowager of Marlborough, his grandmother."
" March 1 being the anniversary of
the Queen's birthday, when her Majesty entered the forty-ninth year of her
age, there was a splendid appearance
of nobility at St. James's. Her Majesty was magnificently dressed, and
wore a flowered muslin head-edging,
as did also her Royal Highness. The
Lord Portmore was said to have the
richest dress, though an Italian Count
had twenty-four diamonds instead of
buttons."
New clothes on the birthday were
the fashion for all loyal people. Swift
mentions the custom several times.
Walpole is constantly speaking of it;
laughing at the practice, but having
the very finest clothes from Paris,
nevertheless. If the King and Queen
were unpopular, there were very few
new clothes at the drawing-room. In
a paper in " The True Patriot," No. 3,
written to attack the Pretender, the
Scotch, French, and Popery, Fielding
supposes the Scotch and the Pretender
in possession of London, and himself
about to be hanged for loyalty,when, just as the rope is round his
neck, he says: " My little girl entered
my bedchamber, and put an end to
my dream by pulling open my eyes,
and telling me that the tailor had
just brought home my clothes for
His Majesty's birthday."  In his
"Temple Beau," the beau is dunned
"for a birthday suit of velvet, 401."
Be sure that Mr. Harry Fielding was
dunned too.
The public days, no doubt, were
splendid, but the private court life
must have been awfully wearisome.
" I will not trouble you," writes
Hervey to Lady Sandon, "with any
account of our occupations at Hampton Court. No mill-horse ever went in
a more constant track, or a more unchanging circle; so, by the assistance
of an almanack for the day of the week,
and a watch for the hour of the day,
you may inform yourself fully, without any other intelligence but your
memory, of every transaction within


the verge of the Court. Walking,
chaises, levees, and audiences fill the
morning. At night the King plays
at comnlerce and backgammon, and
the Queen at quadrille, where poor
Lady Charlotte runs her usual nightly gauntlet, the Queen pulling her
hood, and the Princess Royal rapping
her knuckles. 'The Duke of Grafton
takes his nightly opiate of lottery,
and sleeps as usual between the
Princesses Amelia and Caroline.
Lord Grantham strolls from one room
to another (as l)ryden says), like
some discontented ghost that oft
appears, and is forbid to speak; and
stirs himself about as people stir a
fire, not with any design, but in hopes
to make it burn brisker. At last the
King gets up; the pool finishes; and
everybody has their dismission. Their
Majesties retire to Lady Charlotte
and my Lord Lifford; my Lord
Grantham, to Lady Frances and Mr.
Clark: some to supper, some to bed;
and thus the evening and the morning make the day."
The King's fondness for Hanover
occasioned all sorts of rough jokes
among his English subjects, to whom
sauer-kraut and sausages have ever
been ridiculous objects. When our
present Prince Consort came among
us, the people bawled out songs in the
streets indicative of the absurdity of
Germany in general. The sausageshops produced enormous sausages
which we might suppose were the
daily food and delight of German
princes. I remember the caricatures
at the marriage of Prince Leopold
with the Princess Charlotte.  The
bridegroom  was drawn   in  rags.
George III.'s wife was called by
the people a beggarly German duchess; the British idea being that all
princes were beggarly except British
princes. King George paid us back.
He thought there were no manners
out of Germany. Sarah Marlborough once coming to visit the Princess, whilst her Royal Highness was
whipping one of the roaring royal
children, "Ah! " says George, who




GEORGE THE SECOND.


31


was standing by, " you have no good in the gallery. In this way, were the
manners in England, because you are King always to stop in Hanover, one
not properly brought up when you could make a ten years' calendar of
are young."   He insisted that no his proceedings; and settle beforeEnglish cooks could roast, no English hand what his time of business, meals,
coachman could drive: he actually and pleasure would be."
questioned the superiority of our no-  The old pagan kept his promise to
bility, our horses, and our roast beef! his dying wife. Lady Yarmouth was
Whilst he was away from his be- now in full favor, and treated with
loved Hanover, every thing remained profound respect by the Hanover
there exactly as in the Prince's pres- society, though it appears rather negence. There were 800 horses in the lected in England when she came
stables, there was all the apparatus among us. In 1740, a couple of the
of chamberlains, court-marshals, and King's daughters went to see him at
equerries; and court assemblies were Hanover; Anna, the Princess of
held every Saturday, where all the Orange (about whom, and whose
nobility of Hanover assembled at husband and marriage-day, Walpole
what I can't but think a fine and and Hervey have left us the most
touching ceremony.  A large arm- ludicrous descriptions), and Maria of
chair was placed in the assembly- Hesse Cassel, with their respective
room, and on it the King's portrait. lords. This made the Hanover court
The nobility advanced,,and made a very brilliant. In honor of his high
bow to the arm-chair, and to the im- guests, the King gave several fetes;
age which Nebuchadnezzar the king among others, a magnificent masked
had set up; and spoke under their ball, in the green theatre at Herrenvoices before the august picture, just hausen - the garden theatre, with
as they would have done had the linden and box for screen, and grass
King Churfiirst been present himself for a carpet, where the Platens had
He was always going back to Han- danced to George and his father the
over. In the year 1729, he went for late sultan. The stage and a great
two whole years, during which Caro- part of the garden were illuminated
line reigned for him in England, and with colored lamps.  Almost the
he was not in the least missed bv his whole court appeared in white domiBritish subjects. He went again in noes, "like," says the describer of the
'35 and '36; and between the years scene, "like spirits in the Elysian
1740 and 1755 was no less than eight fields. At night, supper was served
times on the Continent, which amuse- in the gallery with three great tables,
ment he was obliged to give up at and the King was very merry. After
the outbreak of the Seven Years' war. supper dancing was resumed, and I did
Here every day's amusement was the not get home till five o'clock by full
same. " Our life is as uniform  as daylight to Hanover.  Some days
that of a monastery," writes a cour- afterwards we had, in the opera-house
tier whom Velse quotes.   " Every at Hanover, a great assembly. The
morning at eleven, and every evening King appeared in a Turkish dress;
at six, we drive in the heat to Herren- his turban was ornamented with a
hausen, through an enormous linden magnificent agraffe of diamonds; the
avenue; and twice a day cover our Lady Yarmouth was dressed as a sulcoats and coaches with dust. In the tana; nobody was more beautiful than
King's society there never is the least the Princess of Hesse."  So, while
change. At table, and at cards, he poor Caroline was resting in her coffin,
sees always the same faces, and at the dapper little George, with his red face
end of the game retires into his cham- and his white eyebrows and goggleher. Twice a week there is a French eyes, at sixty years of age, is dancing
theatre; the other days there is play a pretty dance with Madame Wal



32


THE FOUR GEORGES.


moden, and capering about dressed verses, in which an English dlvine
up like a Turk! For twenty years deplored the famous departed hero,
more, that little old Bajazet went on and over which you may cry or you
in this Turkish fashion, until the fit may laugh, exactly as your humor
came which choked the old man, when suits: -
he ordered the side of his coffin to be  While at his feet expiring Faction lay,
taken out, as well as that of poor  No contest left but who should best obey,
Caroline's who had preceded him, so  Saw in his offspring all himself renewed;
that his sinfull old bones  d ashes  The same fair path of glory still pursued;
ht i     with those of te faith-  Saw to young George Augusta's care immight mingle with those of the faith-  part
ful creature.  0 strutting Turkey-  Whate'er could raise and humanize the
cock of Herrenhausen!   naughty       heart;
little Mahomet! in what Turkish par-  Blend all his grandsire's virtues with his
adise are you now, and where be your  And form their mingled radiance for the
painted houris? So Countess  ar-     thronemouth appeared as a sultana, and his  No farther blessing could on earth be
Majesty in a Turkish dress wore an  T  given -
The next degree of happiness was -
agraffe of diamonds, and was very      heaven l"
merry, was he? Friends! he was your
father's King as well as mine - let us  If he had been good, if he had been
drop a respectful tear over his grave. just, if he had been pure in life, and
He said of his wife that he never wise in council, could the poet have
knew a woman who was worthy to said much nore? It was a parson
buckle her shoe: he would sit alone who came and went over this grave,
weeping before her portrait, and when with Walmoden sitting on it, and
he had dried his eyes, he would go off claimed heaven for the poor old man
to his Walmoden and talk of ler. slumbering below.   Here was one
On the 25th day of October, 1760, who had neither dignity, learning,
he being then in the seventy-seventh morals, nor wit - who tainted a
year of his age, and the thirty-fourth great society by a bad example; who
of his reign, his page went to take in youth, manhood, old age, was
him his royal chocolate, and behold! gross, low, and sensual; and Mr.
the most religious and gracious King Porteus, afterwards my Lord Bishop
was lying dead on the floor. They Porteus, says the earth was not good
went and fetched Walmoden; but enough for him, and that his only
Walmoden could not wake him. The place was heaven! Bravo, Mr. Porsacred Majesty was but a lifeless teus! The divine who wept these
corpse. The King was dead; God tears over George the Second's memsave the King! But, of course, poets ory wore George the Third's lawn.
and clergymen decorously bewailed I don't know whether people still
the late one. Here are some artless admire his poetry or his sermons.








GEORGE THE THIRD.




GEORGE THE THIRD.
GEORGE THE THIRD.


83


WE have to glance over sixty years
in as many minutes. To read the
mere catalogue of characters who
figured (luring that long period,
would occupy our allotted time, and
we should have all text and no sermon. England has to undergo the
revolt of the American colonies; to
submit to defeat and separation; to
shake under the volcano of the French
Revolution; to grapple and fight for
the life with her gigantic enemy Napoleon; to gasp and rally after that
tremendous struggle. The old society, with its courtly splendors, has to
pass away; generations of statesmen
to rise and disappear; Pitt to follow
Chatham to the tomb; the memory
of Rodney and Wolfe to be superseded by Nelson's and Wellington's
glory; the old poets who unite us to
Queen Anne's time to sink into their
graves; Johnson to die, and Scott
and Byron to arise; Garrick to delight the world with his dazzling
dramatic genius, and Kean to leap
on the stage and take possession of
the astonished theatre. Steam has
to be invented; kings to be beheaded,
banished, deposed, restored. Napoleon to be but an episode, and
George III. is to be alive through all
these varied changes, to accompany
his people through all these revolutions of thought, government, society;
to survive out of the old world into
ours.
When I first saw England, she was
in mourning for the young Princess
Charlotte, the hope of the empire. I
came from India as a child, and our
ship touched at an island on the way
home, where my black servant took
me a long walk over rocks and hills
until we reached a garden, where we
saw a man walking. "That is he,"
said the black man: "that is Bona

parte! He eats three sheep every
day, and all the little children he can
lay hands on!" There were people
in the British dominions besides that
poor Calcutta serving-man, with an
equal horror of the Corsican ogre.
With the same childish attendant,
I remember peeping through    the
colonnade at Carleton House, and
seeing the abode of the great Prince
Regent. I can see yet the Guards
pacing before the gates of the place.
The place!    What place?    The
palace exists no more than the palace
of Nebuchadnezzar. It is but a name
now. Where be the sentries who
used to salute as the Royal chariots
drove in and out? The chariots,
with the kings inside, have driven to
the realms of Pluto; the tall Guards
have marched into darkness, and the
echoes of their drums are rolling in
Hades. Where the palace once stood,
a hundred little children are paddling
up and down the steps to St. James's
Park. A score of grave gentlemen
are taking their tea at the " Athenaeum Club; " as many grizzly warriors
are garrisoning the " United Service
Club" opposite. Pall Mall is the
great social Exchange of London now
- the mart of news, of politics, of
scandal, of rumor - the English
forum, so to speak, where men discuss the last despatch from the Crimea, the last speech of Lord Derby,
the next move of Lord John. And,
now and then, to a few antiquarians
whose thoughts are with the past
rather than with the present, it is a
memorial of old times and old people,
and Pall Mall is our Palmyra. Look!
About this spot Tom of Ten Thousand was killed by Konigsmarck's
gang.   In that great red house
Gainsborough lived, and Culloden
Cumberland, George III.'s uncle.




84


THE FOUR GEORGES.


Yonder is Sarah Marlborough's palace, just as it stood when that termagant occupied it. At 25, Walter
Scott used to live; at the house, now
No. 79,* and occupied by the Society
for the Propagation of the Gospel in
Foreign Parts, resided Mrs. Eleanor
Gwynn, comedian. How often has
Queen Caroline's chair issued from
under yonder arch! All the men of
the Georges have passed up and down
the street. It has seen Walpole's
chariot and Chatham's sedan; and
Fox, Gibbon, Sheridan, on their way
to Brookes's; ant( stately William
Pitt stalking on the arm of Dundas;
and Hanger and Tom Sheridan reeling out of Raggett's; and Byron
limping into Wattier's; and Swift
striding out of Bury Street; and
Mr. Addison and Dick Steele, both
perhaps a little the better for liquor;
and the Prince of Wales and the
Duke of York clattering over the
pavement; and Johnson counting
the posts along the streets, after
dawdling before Dodsley's window;
and Harry Walpole hobbling into
his carriage, with a gimcrack just
bought at Christie's; and George
Selwyn sauntering into White's.
In the published letters to George
Selwyn we get a mass of correspondence by no means so brilliant and
witty as Walpole's, or so bitter and
bright as Hervey's, but as interesting,
and even more descriptive of the time,
because the letters are the work of
many hands. You hear more voices
speaking, as it were, and more natural than Horace's dandified treble,
and Sporus's malignant whisper. As
one reads the Selwyn letters - as one
looks at Reynolds's noble pictures
illustrative of those magnificent times
and voluptuous people - one almost
hears the voice of the dead past; the
laughter and the chorus; the toast
called over the brimming cups; the
shout at the racecourse or the gamingtable; the merry joke frankly spoken
to the laughing fine lady. ]How fine


those ladies were, those ladies who
heard and spoke such coarse jokes;
how grand those gentlemen!
I fancy that peculiar product of
the past, the fine gentleman, has almost vanished from off the face of the
earth, and is disappearing like the
beaver or the Red Indian. We can't
have fine gentlemen any more, because we can't have the society in
which they lived. The people will
not obey: the parasites will not be as
obsequious as formerly: children do
not go down on their knees to beg
their parents' blessing: chaplains do
not say grace and retire before the
pudding: servants do not say "your
honor " an, " your worship " at every
moment: tradesmen do not stand hat
in hand as the gentleman passes: authors do not wait for hours in gentlemen's anterooms with a fulsome dedication, for which they hope to get five
guineas from his lordship. In the
days when there were fine gentlemen,
Mr. Secretary Pitt's under-secretaries
did not dare to sit down before him;
but Mr. Pitt, in his turn, went down
on his gouty knees to George II.; and
when George III. spoke a few kind
words to him, Lord Chatham  burst
into tears of reverential joy and gratitude; so awful was the idea of the
monarch, and so great the distinctions
of rank. Fancy Lord John Russell
or Lord Palmerston on their knees
whilst the Sovereign was reading a
despatch, or beginning to cry because
Prince Albert said something civil I
At the accession of George III., the
patricians were yet at the height of
their good fortune. Society recognized their superiority, which they
themselves pretty calmly took for
granted. They inherited not only
titles and estates, and seats in the
house of Peers, but seats in the House
of Commons. There were a multitude of Government places, and not
merely these, but bribes of actual 5001.
notes, which members of the House
took not much shame in receiving.
Fox went into Parliament at 20: Pitt
when just of age: his father when not


* 1856.




GEORGE THE THIRD,


35


much older. It was the good time
for Patricians. Small blame to them
if they took and enjoyed, and overenjoyed, the prizes of politics, the
pleasures of social life.
In these letters to Selwyn, we are
made acquainted with a whole society
of these defunct fine gentlemen: and
can watch with a curious interest a
life which the novel-writers of that
time, I think, have scarce touched upon. To Smollett, to Fielding even,
a lord was a lord: a gorgeous being
with a blue ribbon, a coroneted chair,
and an immense star on his bosom, to
whom commoners paid reverence.
Richardson, a man of humbler birth
than either of the above two, owned
that he was ignorant regarding the
manners of the aristocracy, and besought Mrs. Donnellan, a lady who
had lived in the great world, to examine a volume of Sir Charles Grandison, and point out any errors which
she might see in this particular. Mrs.
Donnellan found so many faults, that
Richardson changed color; shut up
the book; and muttered that it were
best to throw it in the fire. Here, in
Selwyn, we have the real original
men and women of fashion of the early time of George III. We can follow them to the new club at Almack's: we can travel over Europe
with them: we can accompany them
not only to the public places, but to
their'country-houses and private society. Iclre is a whole company of
them; wits and prodigals; some persevering in their bad ways: some repentant, but relapsing; beautiful ladies, parasites, humble chaplains, led
captains. Those fair creatures whom
we love in Reynolds's portraits, and
who still look out on us from his canvases with their sweet calm faces and
gracious smiles —those fine gentlemen who did us the honor to govern
us; who inherited their boroughs;
took their ease in their patient places;
and slipped Lord North's bribes so
elegantly under their ruffles —we
make acquaintance with a hundred of
these fine folks, hear their talk and


laughter, read of their loves, quarrels,
intrigues, debts, duels, divorces; can
fancy them alive if we read the book
long enough. We can attend at
Duke Hamilton's wedding, and behold him marry his bride with the
curtain-ring: we can peep into her
poor sister's death-bed: we can see
Charles Fox cursing over the cards,
or March bawling out the odds at
Newmarket: we can imagine Burgoyne tripping off from St. James's
Street to conquer the Americans, and
slinking back into the club somewhat
crestfallen after his beating; we can
see the young King dressing himself
for the drawing-room and asking ten
thousand questions regarding all the
gentlemen: we can have high or low,
the struggle at the Opera to behold
the Violetta or the Zamperini - the
Macaronies and fine ladies in their
chairs trooping to the masquerade or
Madame Cornelys's - the crowd at
Drury Lane to look at the body of
Miss Ray, whom Parson Hackman
has just pistolled —or we can peep
into Newgate, where poor Mr. Rice
the forger is waiting his fate and his
supper. " You need not be particular about the sauce for his fowl," says
one turnkey to another: " for you
know he is to be hanged in the morning." " Yes," replies the second janitor, " but the chaplain sups with him,
and he is a terrible fellow for melted
butter."
Selwyn has a chaplain and parasite, one Dr. Warner, than whom
Plautus, or Ben Jonson, or Hogarth,
never painted a better character. In
letter after letter he adds fresh strokes
to the portrait of himself, and completes a portrait not a little curious to
look at now that the man has passed
away; all the foul pleasures and gambols in which he revelled, played out;
all the rouged faces into which he
leered, worms and skulls; all the fine
gentlemen  whose shoebuckles   he
kissed, laid in their coffins.  This
worthy clergyman takes care to tell
us that he does not believe in his religion, though, thank heaven, he is not




THE FOUR GEORGES.


so great a rogue as a lawyer. He
goes on Mr. Selwyn's errands, any
errands, and is proud, he says, to be
that gentleman's  proveditor.  He
waits upon the Duke of Queensberry
-old Q. -and     exchanges  pretty
stories with that aristocrat. IHe comes
home "after a hard day's christening," as he says, and writes to his
patron before sitting down to whist
and partridges for supper. He revels
in the thoughts of ox-cheek and burgundy -he is a boisterous, uproarious parasite, licks his master's shoes
with explosions of laughter and cunning smack and gusto, and likes the
taste of that blacking as much as the
best claret in old Q.'s cellar. lie has
Rabelais and Horace at his greasy
fingers' ends. lie is inexpressibly
mean, curiously jolly; kindly and
good-natured in secret-a tenderhearted knave, not a venomous lickspittle. Jesse says, that at his chapel
in Long Acre, " he attained a considerable popularity by the pleasing,
manly, and eloquent style of his delivery." Was infidelity endemic, and
corruption in the air?  Around a
young king, himself of the most exemplary life and undoubted piety,
lived a court society as dissolute as
our country ever knew. George II.'s
bad morals bore their fruit in George
III.'s early years; as I believe that a
knowledge of that good man's example, his moderation, his frugal simplicity, and God-fearing life, tended
infinitely to improve the morals of
the country and purify the whole nation.
After Warner, the most interesting
of Selwyn's correspondents is the Earl
of Carlisle, grandfather of the amiable nobleman at present* Viceroy in
Ireland. The grandfather, too, was
Irish Viceroy, having previously been
treasurer of the King's household:
and, in 1778, the principal commissioner for treating, consulting, and
agreeing upon the means of quieting
the divisions subsisting in his Majes* 1856.


ty's colonies, plantations, and posses*
sions in North America. You may
read his lordship's manifestoes in "The
Royal New York Gazette."  He returned to England, having by no
means quieted the colonies; and
speedily afterwards " The Royal New
York Gazette " somehow ceased to be
published.
This good, clever, kind, highly-bred
Lord Carlisle was one of the English
fine gentlemen who were well-nigh
ruined by the awful debauchery and
extravagance which prevailed in the
great English society of those days.
Its dissolutenes: was awful: it had
swarmed over Europe after the Peace;
it had danced, and raced, and gambled in all the courts. It had made
its bow at Versailles; it had run its
horses on the plain of Sablons, near
Paris, and created the Anglo-mania
there: it had exported vast quantities
of pictures and marbles from Rome
and Florence; it had ruined itself by
building great galleries and palaces
for the reception of the statues and
pictures: it had brought over singing-women and dancing-women from
all the operas of Europe, on whom
my lords lavished their thousands,
whilst they left their honest wives
and honest children languishing in
the lonely, deserted splendors of the
castle and park at home.
Besides the great London society
of those days, there was another unacknowledged  world, extravagant
beyond measure, tearing about in the
pursuit of pleasure; dancing, gambling, drinking, singing; meeting the
real society in the public places (at
Ranelaghs, Vauxhalls, and Ridottos,
about which our old novelists talk so
constantly), and outvying the real
leaders of fashion in luxury, and
splendor, and beauty. For instance,
when the famous Miss Gunning visited Paris as Lady Coventry, where she
expected that her beauty would meet
with the applause which had followed
her sister through England, it apears she was put to flight by an
Eglish lady still more lovely in the




GEORGE THE THIRD.


37


eyes of the Parisians.  A  certain
Mrs. Pitt took a box at the opera opposite the Countess; and was so
much handsomer than her ladyship,
that the parterre cried out that this
was the real English angel, whereupon Lady Coventry quitted Paris in
a huff. The poor thing died presently of consumption, accelerated, it was
said, by the red and white paint with
which she plastered those luckless
charms ot hers. (We must represent
to ourselves all fashionable female
Europe, at that time, as plastered
with white, and raddled with red.)
She left two daughters behind her,
whom George Selwyn loved (he was
curiously fond of little children), and
who are described very drolly and
pathetically in these letters, in their
little nursery, where passionate little
Lady Fanny, if she had not good
cards, flung hers into Lady Mary's
face; and where they sat conspiring
how they should receive a new mother-in-law whom their papa presently
brought home. They got on very
well with their mother-in-law, who
was very kind to them; and they
grew up, and they were married, and
they were both divorced afterwards -
poor little souls! Poor painted mother, poor society, ghastly in its pleasures, its loves, its revelries!
As for my lord commissioner, we
can afford to speak about him; because, though he was a wild and
weak commissioner at one time,
though he hurt his estate, though he
gambled and   lost ten  thousand
pounds at a sitting -"five times
more," says the unlucky gentleman,
"than I ever lost before; " though he
swore he never would touch a card
again; and yet, strange to say, went
back to the table and lost still more:
yet he repented of his errors, sobered
down, and became a worthy peer and
a good country gentleman, and returned to the good wife and the good
children whom he had always loved
with the best part of his heart. He
had married at one and twenty. He
found himself, in the midst of a dis

solute society, at the head of a great
fortune.  Forced into luxury, and
obliged to be a great lord and a great
idler, he yielded to some temptations,
and paid for them a bitter penalty of
manly remorse; from some others he
fled wisely, and ended by conquering
them nobly. But he always had the
good wife and children in his mind,
and they saved him. "I am very
glad you did not come to me the
morning I left London," he writes to
G. Selwyn, as he is embarking for
America. "I can only say, I never
knew till that moment of parting,
what grief was." There is no parting now, where thr are. The faithful wife, the kind, generous gentleman,
have left a noble race behind them:
an inheritor of his nnme and titles,
who is beloved as widely as he is
known; a man most kind, accomplished, gentle, friendly, and pure;
and female descendants occupying
high stations and embellishing great
names; some renowned for beauty,
and all for spotless lives, and pious
matronly virtues.
Another of Selwyn's correspondents is the Earl of March, afterwards
Duke of Queensberry, whose life lasted into this century; and who certainly as earl or duke, young man or graybeard, was not an ornament to any
possiblesociety. The legends about
old Q. are awful. In Selwyn, in Wraxall, and contemporary chronicles, the
observer of human nature may follow
him, drinking, gambling, intriguing
to the end of his career; when the
wrinkled, palsied, toothless old Don
Juan died, as wicked and unrepentant
as he had been at the hottest season
of youth and passion. There is a
house in Piccadilly, where they used
to show a certain low window at
which old Q. sat to his very last days,
ogling through his senile glasses tlhe
women as they passed by.
There must have been a great deal
of good about this lazy, sleepy George
Selwyn, which, no doubt, is set to his
present credit. "Your friendship,"
writes Carlisle to him, "is so diftfr



38                     THE FOUR GEORGES.
ent from any thing I have ever met with a great castle and park, and a
with or seen in the world, that when great fortune, do but be splendid and
I recollect the extraordinary proofs idle! In these letters of Lord Carof your kindness, it seems to me like lisle's from which I have been quota dream."  "I have lost my oldest ing, there is many a just complaint
friend and acquaintance, G. Selwyn," made by  the kind-hearted  young
writes Walpole to Miss Berry: "I noblcmrn.   of the state which'he is
really loved him, not only for his in- obliged to keep; the magnificence in
finite wit, but for a thousand good which he must live; the idleness to
qualities."  I am glad, for my part, which his position as a peer of Engthat such a lover of cakes and ale land bound him. Better for him had
should have had a thousand good he been a lawyer at his desk, or a
qualities - that he should have been clerk in  his office; -a thousand
friendly,  generous,  warm-hearted, times better chance for happiness,
trustworthy. "I rise at six," writes education, employment, security from
Carlisle to him, from  Spa (a great temptation. A  few years since the
resort of fashionable people in our profession of arms was the only one
ancestors' days), " play at cricket till which our nobles could follow. The
dinner, and dance in the evening, church, the bar, medicine, literature,
till I can scarcely crawl to bed at the arts, commerce, were below them.
eleven. Thcri is a life for you! You It is to the middle class we must look
get up at nine; play with Raton your for the safety of England: the work(log till twelve, in your dressing-gown; ing educated men, away from Lord
then creep down to ' White's;' are North's bribery in the senate; the
five hours at table; sleep till supper- good clergy not corrupted into paratime; and then make two wretches sites by hopes of preferment; the
carry you in a sedan-chair, with three tradesmen rising  into manly opaipints of claret in you, three miles for lence; the painters pursuing their
a shilling."  Occasionally, instead of gentle calling: the men of letters in
sleeping at " White's," George went their quiet studies; these are the men
down and snoozed in the House of whom we love and like to read of in
Commons by the side of Lord North. the last age. How small the grandees
He represented Gloucester for many and the men of pleasure look beside
years, and had a borough of his own, them! how contemptible the story of
Ludgershall, for which, when he was the George III. court-squabbles are
too lazy to contest Gloucester, he sat beside the recorded talk of dear old
himsclf  " I have given directions Johnson! What is the grandest cnfor the election of Ludgershall to be tertainmcnt at Windsor, compared to
of Lord Melbourne and myself," he a night at the club over its modest
writes to the Premier, whose friend cups, with Percy and Langton, and
he was, and who was himself as Goldsmith, and poor Bozzy at the
sleepy, as witty, and as good-natured table? I declare I think, of all the
as George.                         polite men of that age, Joshua ReyIf, in looking at the lives of princes, nolds was the finest gentleman. And
courtiers, men of rank and fashion, they were good, as well as witty and
we must perforce depict them as idle, wise, those dear old friends of the
profligate, and criminal, we must past. Theirmindswerenotdebauched
make allowances for the rich men's by excess, or effeminate with luxury.
failings, and recollect that we, too, They toiled their noble day's labor:
were very likely indolent and volup- they rested, and took their kindly
tuous, had we no motive for work, a pleasure: they cheered their holiday
mortal's natural taste for pleasure, meetings with generous witand hearty
and the daily temptation of a large interchange of thought: they were no
income. What could a great peer, prudes, but no blush need follow their




GEORGE THE THIRD.


39


conversation: they were nerry, but
no riot came out of their cups. Ah!
I would have liked a night at the
"Turk's Head," even though bad
news had arrived from the colonies, and Dr. Johnson was growling
against the rebels; to have sat with
him and Goldy; and to have heard
Burke, the finest talker in the world;
and to have had Garrick flashing in
with a story from his theatre! - I like,
I say, to think of that society; and not
merely how pleasant and how wise,
but how good they were. I think it
was on going home one night from
the club that Edmund Burke-his
noble soul full of great thoughts, be
sure, for they never left him; his
heart full of gentleness - was accosled
by a poor wandering woman, to whom
he spoke words of kindness; and
moved by the tears of this Magdalen,
perhaps having caused them by the
good words he spoke to her, he took
her home to the house of his wife and
children, and never left her until he
had found the means of restoring her
to honesty and labor. 0 you fine gentlemen I you Marches, and Selwyns,
and Chesterfields, how small you
look by the side of these great men!
Good-natured Carlisle plays at cricket
all day, and dances in the evening
"till he can scarcely crawl," gayly
contrasting his superior virtue with
George Selvyn's, " carried to bed by
two wretches at midnight with three
pints of claret in him."  I)o you
remember the verses- the sacred
verses - which Johnson wrote on the
death of his humble friend, Lcvett?
"Well tried through manya varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere
Of every friendless name the friend.


"His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause nor left a voii;
And sure the Eternal Master found
His single talent well employed."
Whose name looks the brightest
now, that of Quecnsberry the wealthy
duke, or Selwyn the wit, or Levett
the poor physician?
I hold old Johnson (and shall we
not pardon James Boswell some
errors for embalming him for us?) to
be the great supporter of the British
monarchy and church during the last
age- better than whole benches of
bishops, better than Pitts, Norths,
and the great Burke himself. Johnson had the ear of the nation; his
immense zuthority reconciled it to
loyalty, and shamed it out of irreligion. When George III. talked
with him, and the people heard the
great author's good opinion of the
sovereign, whole generations rallied
to the King. Johnson was revered
as a sort of oracle; and the oracle
declared for church and king. What
a humanity the old man had! He
was a kindly partaker of all honest
pleasures: a fierce foe to all sin, but
a gentle  enemy to   all sinners.
" What, boys, are you for a frolic? "
he cries, when Topham Beauclerc
comes and wakes him up at midnight: " I'm with you."  And away
he goes, tumbles on his homely old
clothes, and trundles through Covent
Garden with the young fellows.
When he used to frequent Garrick's
theatre, and had "the liberty of the
scenes," he says, "All the actresses
knew me, and dropped me a courtesy
as they passed to the stage." That
would make a pretty picture: it is a
pretty picture in my mind, of youth,
folly, gayety, tenderly surveyed by
wisdom's merciful, pure eyes.
George III. and his Queen lived in
a very unpretending but elegantlooking house, on the site of the
hideous pile under which his granddaughter at present reposes.  The
King's mother inhabited Carlton
House, which contemporary prints
I represcnt with a perfect paradise of a


" In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish poured
groan,
And lonely want retired to die.


the


" No summons mocked by chill delay,
No 'etty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.




40


THE FOUR GEORGES.


garden, with trim lawns, green arcades, and vistas of classic statues.
She admired these in company with
my Lord Bute, who had a fine classic
taste, and sometimes counsel took
and sometimes tea in the pleasant
green arbors along with that polite
nobleman. Butc was hated with a
rage of which there have been few
examples in English history.  He
was the butt for everybody's abuse;
for Wilkes's devilish mischief; for
Churchill's slashing satire; for the
hooting of the mob that roasted the
boot, his emblem, in a thousand bonfires; that hated him because he was
a favorite and a Scotchman, calling
him " Mortimer," " Lothario," I
know not what names, and accusing
his royal mistress of all sorts of
crimes - the grave, lean, demure
elderly woman, who, I dare say, was
quite as good as her neighbors.
Chatham lent the aid of his great
malice to influence the popular sentiment against her. He assailed, in
the House of Lords, " the secret influence, more mighty than the throne
itself, which betrayed and clogged
every administration."  The most
furious pamphlets echoed the cry.
"Impeach the King's mother," was
scribbled over every wall at the Court
end of the town, Walpole tells us.
What had she done?     What had
Frederick, Prince of Wales, George's
father, done, that he was so loathed
by George II. and never mentioned
by George III.? Let us not seek for
stones to batter that forgotten grave,
but acquiesce in the contemporary
epitaph over him: -
"Here lies Fred,
Who was alive, and is dead.
Had it been his father,
I had much rather.
Had it been his brother,
Still better than another.
Had it been his sister,
No one would have missed her.
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation.
But since 'tis only Fred,
Who was alive, and is dead,
There's no more to be said."


The widow with eight children
round her, prudently reconciled herself with the King, and won the old
man's confidence and good-will. A
shrewd, hard, domineering, narrowminded woman, she educated her
children according to her lights, and
spoke of the eldest as a dull, good
boy: she kept him very close: she
held the tightest rein over him: she
had curious prejudices and bigotries.
His uncle, the burly Cumberland,
taking down a sabre once, and drawing it to amuse the child -the boy
started back and turned pale. The
Prince felt a generous shock: " What
must they have told him about me?"
he asked.
His mcrther's bigotry and hatred lie
inherited with the cour;aeous obstinacy of his own race; but he was a
firm  believer where his tfthers had
been free-thinkers, and a true and fond
supporter of the Church, of which he
was the titular defender. Like other
dull men, the King was all his life
suspicious of superior people.  He
did not like Fox; he did not like
Reynolds; he did not like Nelson,
Chatham, Burke; he was testy at the
idea of all innovations, and suspicious
of all innovators.  He loved mediocrities; Benjamin West was his
favorite painter; Beattie was his poet.
The King lamented, not without
pathos, in his after life, that his education had been neglected. Ite was
a dull lad brought up by narrowminded people. The cleverest tutors
in the world could have done little
probably to expand that small intellect, though they might have improved his tastes, and taught his
perceptions some generosity.
But he admired as well as he
could. There is little doubt that a
letter, written by the little Princess
Charlotte of Mecklenburg Strelitz, -
a letter containing the most feeble
commonplaces about the horrors of
war, and the most trivial remarks on
the blessings of peace, struck the
young monarch greatly, and decided
him upon selecting the young Prin.




GEORGE THE THIRD.


41


cess as the sharer of his throne. I dom  in a beautiful yacht, with a
pass over the stories of his juvenile harpsichord on board for her to play
loves —of Hannah Lightfoot, the upon, and around her a beautiful
Quaker, to whom they say he was fleet, all covered with flags and
actually married (though I don't know  streamers: and the distinguished
who has ever seen the register) - of Madame Auerbach complimented her
lovely black-haired Sarah Lennox, with an ode, a translation of which
about whose beauty Walpole has may be read in " The Gentleman's
written in raptures, and who used to Magazine " to the present day:lie in wait for tho young Prince, and er gallant navy through the main
make hay at him on the lawn of       Now cleaves its liquid way.
Holland House. He sighed and lie   There to their queen a chosen train
longed, but lie rode away from her.  of nymphs due reverence pay.
Her picture still hangs in Holland," Europa, when conveyed by Jove
Iouse, a magnificent master-piece by  To Crete's distinguished shore,
Reynolds, a canvas worthy of Titian.  Greater attention scarce could prove,
She looks from the castle window,    Or be respected more."
holding a bird in her hand, at black-  They met, and they were married,
eyed young Charles Fox, her nephew. and for years they led the happiest,
lhe royal bird flew away from lovely simplest lives sure ever led by married
Sarah. She had to figure as brides- couple. It is said the King winced
nnaid at her little Mecklenburg rival's when he first saw his homely little
wedding, and died in our own time bride; but, however that may be, he
a quiet old lady, who had become the was a true and faithful husband to
mother of the heroic Napiers.     her, as she was a faithful and loving
They say the little Princess who wife. They had the simplest pleashad written the fine letter about the ures - the very mildest and simplest
horrors of war —a beautiful letter -little country dances, to which a
without a single blot, for which she dozen couple were invited, and where
was to be rewarded, like the heroine the honest King would stand up and
of the old spelling-book story —was dance for three hours at a time to
at play one day with some of her one tune; after which delicious exyoung companions in the gardens of citement they would go to bed without
Strelitz, and that the young ladies' any supper (the Court people grumconversation was, strange to say, bling sadly at that absence of supper),
about husbands.  "Who will take and get up quite early the next mornsuch a poor little princess as me? " ing, and perhaps the next night have
Charlotte said to her friend, Ida von another dance; or the Queen would
Bulow, and at that very moment the play on the spinet - she played pretpostman's horn sounded, and Ida ty well, Haydn said-or the King
said, "Princess! there is the sweet- would read to her a paper out of "The
heart."  As she said, so it actually Spectator," or perhaps one of Ogden's
turned out. The postman brought sermons. O Arcadia! what a life it
letters from the splendid young King must have been! There used to be
of all England, who said, " Princess! Sunday drawing-rooms at Court; but
because you have written such a the young King stopped these, as he
beautiful letter, which does credit to stopped all that godless gambling
your head and heart, come and be whereof we have made mention. Not
Queen of Great Britain, France, and that George was averse to any innoIreland, and the true wife of your cent pleasures, or pleasures which he
most obedient servant, George! " So thought innocent. He was a patron
she jumped for joy; and went up of the arts, after his fashion; kind
stairs and packed all her little trunks; and gracious to the artists whom lie
and set off straightway for her king- favored, and respectful to their call3




THE FOUR GEORGES.


ing. He wanted once to establish an
Order of Minerva for literary and
scientific characters; the knights were
to take rank after the knights of the
Bath, and to sport a straw-colored
ribbon and a star of sixteen points.
But there was such a row amongst
the literati as to the persons who
should be appointed, that the plan
was given up, and Minerva and her
star never came down amongst us.
He objected to painting St. Paul's,
as Popish practice; accordingly, the
most clumsy heathen sculptures decorate that edifice at present. It is
fortunate that the paintings, too, were
spared, for painting and drawing were
wofully unsound at the close of the
last century; and it is far better for
our eyes to contemplate whitewash
(when we turn them away from the
clergyman) than to look at Opie's
pitchy canvases, or Fuseli's livid
monsters.
And yet there is one day in the
year - a day when old George loved
with all his heart to attend it - when
I think St. Paul's presents the noblest
sight in the whole world: when five
thousand charity children, with checks
like nosegays, and sweet, fresh voices,
sing the hymn which makes every
heart thrill with praise and happiness.
I have seen a hundred grand sights
in the world-coronations, Parisian
splendors, Crystal Palace openings,
Pope's chapels with their processions
of long-tailed cardinals and quavering
choirs of fat soprani -but think in
all Christendom there is no such
sight as Charity Children's day.
Non Angli, sed ageli. As one looks at
that beautiful multitude of innocents:
as the first note strikes: indeed one
may almost fancy that cherubs are
singing.
Of church music.the King was always very fond, showing skill in it both
as a critic and a performer. Many
stories, mirthful and affecting, are
told of his behavior at the concerts
which he ordered. When he was
blind and ill he chose the music for
the Ancient Concerts once, and the


music and words which he selected
were from " Samson Agonistes," and
all had reference to his blindness, his
captivity, and his affliction. He would
beat time with his music-roll as they
sang the anthem in the Chapel Royal.
If the page below was talkative or
inattentive, down would come the
music-roll on young scapegrace's
powdered head. The theatre was always his delight. His bishops and
clergy used to attend it, thinking it
no shame to appear where that good
man was seen. He is said not to
have cared for Shakspeare or tragedy
much; farces and pantomimes were
his joy; and especially when clown
swallowed a carrot or a string of
sausages, he would laugh so outrageously that the lovely Princess by
his side would have to say, "My
gracious monarch, do compose yourself." But he continued to laugh,
and at the very smallest farces, as
long as his poor wits were left him.
There is something to me exceedingly touching in that simple early
life of the King's. As long as his
mother lived —a dozen years after
his marriage with the little spinetplayer-he was a great, shy, awkward boy, under the tutelage of that
hard parent. She must have been a
clever, domineering, cruel woman.
She kept her household, lonely and
in gloom, mistrusting almost all people who came about her children.
Seeing the young Duke of Gloucester silent and unhappy once, she
sharply asked him the cause of his
silence. "I am thinking," said the
poor child. " Thinking, sir! and of
what?" "I am thinking if ever I
have a son I will not make him so
unhappy as you make me." The
other sons were all wild, except
George. Dutifully every evening
George and Charlotte paid their visit to
the King's mother at Carlton House.
She had a throat-complaint, of which
she died; but to the last persisted in
driving about the streets to show she
was alive. The night before her
death the resolute woman talked with




GEORGE THE THIRD.


43


her son and daughter-in-law as usual,
went to bed, and was found dead
there in the morning. "George, be
a king! " were the words which she
was for ever croaking in the ears of
her son: and a king the simple, stubborn, affctionate, bigoted man tried
to be.
He did his best; he worked according to his lights; what virtue he knew,
he tried to practise; what knowledge
he could muster he strove to acquire.
He was forever drawing maps, for
example, and learned geography with
no small care and industry. He knew
all about the family histories and genealogies of his gentry, and pretty histories he must hare known. He knew
the whole Army List; and all the facings, and the exact number of the buttons, and all the tags and laces, and the
cut of all the cocked hats, pigtails, and
gaiters in his army. He knew the personnel of the Universities; what doctors were inclined to Socinianism, and
who were sound Churchmen; he knew
the etiquettes of his own and his
grandfather's courts to a nicety, and
the smallest particulars regarding the
routine of ministers, secretaries, embassies, audiences; the humblest page
in the ante-room, or the meanest helper in the stables or kitchen. These
parts of the royal business he was capable of learning, and he learned.
But, as one thinks of an office, almost
divine, performed by any mortal man
- of any single being pretending to
control the thoughts, to direct the
faith, to order the implicit obedience
of brother millions, to compel them
into war at his offence or quarrel; to
command, "In this way you shall
trade, in this way you shall think;
these neighbors shall be your allies
whom you shall help, these others
your enemies whom you shall slay at
my orders; in this way you shall
worship God;"-who can wonder
that, when such a man as George
took such an office on himself, punishment and humiliation should fall
upon people and chief?
Yet there is something grand about


his courage. The battle of the King
with his aristocracy remains yet to be
told by the historian who shall view
the reign of George more justly than
the trumpery panegyrists who wrote
immediately after his decease. It was
he, with the people to back him, who
made the war with America; it was
lie and the people who refused justice
to the Roman Catholics; and on both
questions he beat the patricians. He
bribed: he bullied: he darkly dissembled on occasion: he exercised a slippery perseverance, and a vindictive
resolution, which one almost admires
as one thinks his character over. His
courage was never to be beat. It
trampled North under foot; it beat
the stiff neck of the youngerPitt:
even his illness never conquered that
indomitable spirit. As soon as his
brain was clear, it resumed the
scheme, only laid aside when his reason left him: as soon as his hands
were out of the strait waistcoat,
they took up the pen and the plan
which had engaged him up to the
moment of his malady. I believe it
is by persons believing themselves
in the right that nine-tenths of the
tyranny of this world has been perpetrated. Arguing on that convenient
premiss, the Dey of Algiers would
cut off twenty heads of a morning;
Father Dominic would burn a score
of Jews in the presence of the Most
Catholic King, and the Archbishops
of Toledo and Salamanca sing Amen.
Protestants were roasted, Jesuits hung
and  quartered  at Smithfield, and
witches burned at Salem, and all by
worthy people, who believed they had
the best authority for their actions.
And so, with respect to old George,
even Americans, whom he hated and
who conquered him, may give him
credit for having quite honest reasons
for oppressing them. Appended to
Lord Brougham's biographical sketch
of Lord North are some autograph
notes of the King, which let us most
curiously into the state of his mind.
"The times certainly require," says
he, " the concurrence of all who wish to




44


THE FOUR GEORGES.


prevent anarchy. I have no wish but
the prosperity of my own dominions,
therefore I must look upon all who
would not heartily assist me as bad
men, as well as bad subjects." That
is the way he reasoned. "I wish
nothing but good, therefore every man
who does not agree with me is a traitor and a scoundrel."  Remember
that he believed himself anointed by a
Divine commission; remember that
he was a man of slow parts and imperfect education; that the same awful will of Heaven which placed a
crown upon his head, which made
him tender to his family, pure in his
life, courageous and honest, made him
dull of comprehension, obstinate of
will, and at many times deprived him
of reason. He was the father of his
people; his rebellious children must
be flogged into obedience. He was the
defender of the Protestant faith; he
would rather lay that stout head upon
the block than that Catholics should
have a share in the government of
England. And you do not suppose
that there are not honest bigots enough
in all countries to back kings in this
kind of statesmanship?  Without
doubt the American war was popular
in England. In 1775 the address in
favor of coercing the colonies was carried by 304 to 105 in the Commons,
by 104 to 29 in the House of Lords.
Popular?- so was the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes popular in
France: so was the massacre of St.
Bartholomew: so was the Inquisition exceedingly popular in Spain.
Wars and revolutions are, however, the politician's province. The
great events of this long reign, the
statesmen and orators who illustrated
it, I do not pretend to make the subjects of an hour's light talk. Let us
return to our humbler duty of court
gossip. Yonder sits our little Queen,
surrounded by many stout sons and
fair daughters whom she bore to her
faithful George. The history of the
daughters, as little Miss Burney has
painted them to us, is delightful.
They were handsome - she calls




them beautiful; they were most kind,
loving, and lady-like; they were gracious to every person, high and low,
who served them. They had many
little accomplishments of their own.
This one drew: that one played the
piano: they all worked most prodigiously, and fitted up whole suites of
rooms —pretty, smiling Penelopes,
-with their busy little needles. As
we picture to ourselves the society of
eighty years ago, we must imagine
hundreds of thousands of groups of
women in great high caps, tight
bodies, and full skirts, needling away,
whilst one of the number, or perhaps
a favored gentleman in a pigtail, reads
out a novel to the company. Peep
into the cottage at Olney, for example,
and see there Mrs. Unwin and Lady
Hesketh, those high-bred ladies, those
sweet, pious women, and William
Cowper, that delicate wit, that trembling pietist, that refined gentleman,
absolutely reading out Jonathan
Wild to the ladies! What a change
in our manners, in our amusements,
since then!
King George's household was a
model of an English gentleman's
household. It was early; it was kindly; it was charitable; it was frugal;
it was orderly; it must have been
stupid to a degree which I shudder
now to contemplate. No wonder all
the princes ran away from the lap of
that dreary domestic virtue. It always rose, rode, dined at stated intervals. Day after day was the same.
At the same hour at night the King
kissed his daughters' jolly cheeks;
the Princesses kissed their mother's
hand; and Madame Thielke brought
the royal nightcap. At the same
hour the equerries and women in
waiting had their little dinner, and
cackled over their tea. The King had
his backgammon or his evening concert; the equerries yawned themselves
to death in the anteroom; or the King
and his family walked on Windsor
slopes, the King holding his darling
little Princess Amelia by the hand;
and the people crowded round quite








<I
$r.   r


A    JITTI,E       REBI: 1..




GEORGE THE THIRD.


good-naturedly; and the Eton boys
thrust their chubby cheeks under the
crowd's elbows; and the concert over,
the King never failed to take his
enormous cocked-hat off, and salute
his band, and say, "Thank you,
gentlemen."
A quieter household, a more prosaic
life than this of Kew or Windsor,
cannot be imagined. Rain or shine,
the King rode every day for hours;
poked his red face into hundreds of
cottages round about, and showed
that shovel hat and Windsor uniform
to farmers, to pig-boys, to old women
making apple dumplings; to all sorts
of people, gentle and simple, about
whom countless stories are told.
Nothing can be more undignified than
these stories. When Haroun Alraschid visits a subject incog., the latter
is sure to be very much the better for
the caliph's magnificence. OldGeorge
showed no such royal splendor. He
used to give a guinea sometimes:
sometimes feel in his pockets and find
lie had no money: often ask a man a
hundred questions: about the number of his family, about his oats and
beans, about the rent he paid for his
house, and ride on. On one occasion
lie played the part of King Alfred,
and turned a piece of meat with a
string at a cottager's house. When
the old woman came home, she found
t paper with an enclosure of money,
and a note written by the royal pencil: "Five guineas to buy a jack."
It was not splendid, but it was kind
and worthy of Farmer George. One
day, when the King and Queen were
walking together, they met a little boy
-they were always fond of children,
the good folks - and patted the little
white head. "Whose little boy are
you?" asks the Windsor uniform.
"I am the King's beef-eater's little
boy," replied the child. On which
the King said, " Then kneel down,
and kiss the Queen's hand." But
the innocent offspring of the beef-eater
declined this treat. "No," said he,
" I won't kneel, for if I do, I shall
spoil my new breeches." The thrifty


King ought to have hugged him and
knighted him on the spot. George's
admirers wrote pages and pages of
such stories about him. One morning, before anybody else was up, the
King walked about Gloucester town;
pushed over Molly the housemaid
with her pail, who was scrubbing the
doorsteps; ran up stairs and woke all
the equerries in their bedrooms; and
then trotted down to the bridge,
where, by this time, a dozen of louts
were assembled. "What! is this
Gloucester New Bridge? " asked our
gracious monarch; and the people
answered him, " Yes, your Majesty."
" Why, then, my boys," said he, " let
us have a huzzay!" After giving
them which intellectual gratification,
he went home to breakfast.   Our
fathers read these simple tales with
fond pleasure; laughed at these very
small jokes; liked the old man who
poked his nose into every cottage;
who lived on plain wholesome roast
and  boiled;  who   despised  your
French kickshaws; who was a true
hearty old English gentleman. You
may have seen Gilray's famous print
of him-in the old wig, in the stout
old hideous Windsor uniform-as
the King of Brobdingnag, peering at
a little Gulliver, whom he holds up
in his hand, whilst in the other he
has an opera-glass, through which he
surveys the pygmy?   Our fathers
chose to set up George as the type of
a great king; and the little Gulliver
was the great Napoleon. We prided
ourselves on our prejudices; we blustered and bragged with absurd vainglory; we dealt to our enemy a monstrous injustice of contempt and scorn;
we fought him with all weapons,
mean as well as heroic. There was
no lie we would not believe; no
charge of crime which our furious
prejudices would not credit.    I
thought at one tiine of making a collection of the lies which the French
had written against us, and we had
published against them during the
war: it would be a strange memorial
of popular falsehood.




THE FOUR GEORGES.


Their Majesties were very sociable
potentates: and the Court Chronicler
tells of numerous visits which they
paid to their subjects, gentle and simple: with whom they dined; at whose
great country-houses they stopped;
or at whose poorer lodgings they
affably partook of tea and bread and
butter. Some of the great folks spent
enormous sums in entertaining their
sovereigns.  As marks of special
favor, the King and Queen sometimes
stood as sponsors for the children of
the nobility. We find Lady Salisbury
was so honored in the year 1786; and
in the year 1802, Lady Chesterfield.
The " Court News" relates how her
ladyship received their Majesties on a
state bed "dressed with white satin
and a profusion of lace: the counterpane of white satin embroidered with
gold, and the bed of crimson satin
lined with white." The child was
first brought by the nurse to the
Marchioness of Bath, who presided
as chief nurse. Then the Marchioness
handed baby to the Queen. Then the
Queen handed the little darling to the
Bishop of Norwich, the officiating
clergyman; and, the ceremony over,
a cup of caudle was presented by the
Earl to his Majesty on one knee, on a
large gold waiter, placed on a crimson
velvet cushion. Misfortunes would
occur in these interesting genuflectory
ceremonies of royal worship. Bubb
Doddington, Lord Melcombe, a very
fat, puffy man, in a most gorgeous
court-suit, had to kneel, Cumberland
says, and was so fat and so tight that
he could not get up again. " Kneel,
sir, kneel! " cried my lord in waiting
to a country mayor who had to read
an address, but who went on with
his compliment standing. "Kneel,
sir, kneel I cries my lord, in dreadful
alarm. "I can't!  says the mayor,
turning round; "don t you see I
have got a wooden leg?" In the
capital " Burney Diary and Letters,"
the home and court life of good old
King George and good old Queen
Charlotte are presented at portentous
length. The King rose every morn

ing at six: and had two hours to
himself. He thought it effeminate to
have a carpet in his bedroom. Shortly before eight, the Queen and the
royal family were always ready for
him, and they proceeded to the King's
chapel in the castle. There were no
fires in the passages: the chapel was
scarcely alight; princesses, governesses, equerries grumbled and caught
cold: but cold or hot, it was their
duty to go: and, wet or dry, light or
dark, the stout old George was always
in his place to say amen to the chaplain.
The Queen's character is represented in "Burney" at full length.
She was a sensible, most decorous
woman; a very grand lady on state
occasions, simple enough in ordinary
life; well read as times went, and
giving shrewd opinions about books;
stingy, but not unjust; not generally
unkind to her dependants, but invincible in her notions of etiquette, and
quite angry if her people suffered illhealth in her service. She gave Miss
Burney a shabby pittance, and led
the poor young woman a life which
well-nigh killed  her.  She never
thought but that she was doing Burney the greatest favor, in taking her
from freedom, fame, and competence,
and killing her off with languor in
that dreary court. It was not dreary
to her. Had she been servant instead
of mistress, her spirit would never
have broken down: she never would
have put a pin out of place, or been a
moment from her duty. Size was not
weak, and she could not pardon those
who were. She was perfectly correct
in life, and she hated poor sinners
with a rancor such as virtue sometimes has. She must have had awful
private trials of her own: not merely
with her children, but with her husband, in those long days about which
nobody will ever know any thing
now; when he was not quite insane;
when his incessant tongue was babbling folly, rage, persecution; and she
had to smile and be respectful and
attentive under this intolerable ennui.




GEORGE THE THIRD.


47


The Queen bore all her duties stoutly,
as she expected others to bear them.
At a State christening, the lady who
held the infant was tired and looked
unwell, and the Princess of Wales
asked permission for her to sit down.
"Let her stand," said the Queen,
flicking the snuff off her sleeve. She
would have stood, the resolute old
woman, if she had had to hold the
child till his beard was grown. "I
am seventy years of age," the Queen
said, facing a mob of ruffians who
stopped her sedan: "I have been
fifty years Queen of England, and I
never was insulted before." Fearless,
rigid, unforgiving little queen! I
don't wonder that her sons revolted
from her.
Of all the figures in that large
family group which surrounds George
and his queen, the prettiest, I think,
is the father's darling, the Princess
Amelia, pathetic for her beauty, her
sweetness, her early death, and for
the extreme passionate tenderness
with which her father loved her. This
was his favorite amongst all the children: of his sons, he loved the Duke
of York best. Burney tells a sad
story of the poor old man at Weymouth, and how eager he was to have
this darling son with him.   The
King's house was not big enough to
hold the Prince; and his father had
a portable house erected close to his
own, and at huge pains, so that his
dear Frederick should be near him.
He clung on his arm all the time of
his visit: talked to no one else; had
talked of no one else for some time
before. The Prince, so long expected,
staid but a single night. He had
business in London the next day, he
said. The dulness of the old King's
court stupefied York and the other
big sons of George III. They scared
equerries and ladies, frightened the
modest little circle, with their coarse
spirits and loud talk. Of little comfort, indeed, were the King's sons to
the King.
But the pretty Amelia was his darling; and the little maiden, prattling


and smiling in the fond arms of that
old father, is a sweet image to look
on.  There is a family picture in
Burney, which a man must be very
hard-hearted not to like.  She describes an after-dinner walk of the
royal family at Windsor:-" It was
really a mighty pretty procession,"
she says. "The little Princess, just
turned of three years old, in a robecoat covered with fine muslin, a
dressed close cap, white gloves, and
fan, walked on alone and first, highly
delighted with the parade, and turning from side to side to see everybody
as she passed; for all the terracers
stand up against the walls, to make a
clear passage for the royal family the
moment they come in sight. Then
followed the King and Queen, no less
delighted with the joy of their little
darling. The Princess Royal leaning
on Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, the
Princess Augusta holding by the
Duchess of Ancaster, the Princess
Elizabeth led by Lady Charlotte Bertie, followed. Office here takes place
of rank," says Burney,- to explain
how it was that Lady E. Waldegrave,
as lady of the bed-chamber, walked
before a duchess; -" General Bude,
and the Duke of Montague, and Major
Price as equerry, brought up the rear
of the procession. One sees it; the
band playing its old music, the sun
shining on the happy, loyal club;
and lighting the ancient battlements,
the rich elms, and purple landscape,
and bright greensward; the royal
standard drooping from the great
tower yonder; as old George passes,
followed by his race, preceded by the
charming infant, who caresses the
crowd with her innocent smiles.
"On sight of Mrs. Delany, the
King instantly stopped to speak to
her; the Queen, of course, and the
little Princess, and all the rest, stood
still. They talked a good while with
the sweet old lady, during which time
the King once or twice addressed himself to me. I caught the Queen's
eye, and saw in it a little surprise,
but by no means any displeasure, to




48


THE FOUR GEORGES.


see me of the party. The little Princess went up to Mrs. Delany, of whom
she is very fond, and behaved like a
little angel to her. She then, with a
look of inquiry and recollection, came
behind Mrs. Delany to look at me.
'I am afraid,' said I, in a whisper,
and stooping down, 'your Royal
Highness does not remember me?'
Her answer was an arch little smile,
and a nearer approach, with her lips
pouted out to kiss me."  The Princess wrote verses herself, and there
are some pretty plaintive lines attributed to her, which are more touching than better poetry:"Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,
I laughed, and danced, and talked, and
sung:
And, proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain;
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.
" But when the hour of trial cane,
When sickness shook this trembling
frame,
When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could sing and dance no more,
It then occurred, how sad 'twould be,
Were this world only made for me."
The poor soul quitted it-and ere
yet she was dead the agonized father
was in such a state, that the officers
round about him were obliged to set
watchers over him, and from November, 1810, George III. ceased to reign.
All the world knows the story of his
malady: all history presents no sadder
figure than that of the old man, blind
and deprived of reason, wandering
through the rooms of his palace,
addressing imaginary parliaments,
reviewing fancied troops, holding
ghostly courts. I have seen his picture as it was taken at this time, hanging in the apartment of his daughter,
the Landgravine of Hesse Hombourg
-amidst books and Windsor furni-. ture, and a hundred fond reminiscences of her English home.   The
poor old father is represented in a
purple gown, his snowy beard falling
over his breast- the star of his famous Order still idly shining on it.
He was not only sightless: he became


utterly deaf. All lighlt, all reason,
all sound of human voices, all the
pleasures of this world of God, were
taken from him. Some slight lucid
moments he had; in one of which, the
Queen, desiring to see him, entered
the room, and found him singing a
hymn, and accompanying himself at
the harpsichord. When he had fin
ished, he knelt down and prayed aloucG
for her, and then for his family, and
then for the nation, concluding with
a prayer for himself, that it might
please God to avert his heavy calamity from him, but if not, to give him
resignation  to  submit.  He then
burst into tears, and his reason again
fled.
What preacher need moralize on
this story; what words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too
terrible for tears. The thought of
such a misery smites me down in sub
mission before the Ruler of kings and
men, the Monarch Supreme over em.
pires and republics, the inscrutable
Dispenser of life, death, happiness,
victory.  "0 brothers," I said to
those who heard me first in America
-"0 brothers! speaking the same
dear mother tongue-0 comrades!
enemies no more, let us take a mourn.
ful hand together as we stand by this
royal corpse, and call a truce to battle! Low he lies to whom the proud,
est used to kneel once, and who was
cast lower than the poorest: dead,
whom millions prayed for in vain
Driven off his throne; buffeted by
rude hands; with his children in re.
volt; the darling of his old age killed
before him untimely; our Lear hangs
over her breathless lips and cries,
'Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!'
Vex not his ghost - oh I let him pass -
he hates him
That would upon the rack of this tough
world
Stretch him out longer I
Hush! Strife and Quarrel, over the
solemn grave! Sound, trumpets, a
mournful march. Fall, dark curtain,
upon his pageant, his pride, his grief;
his awful tragedy."








GEORGE THE FOUIRTH.,




GEORGE THE FOURT1I.


49


GEORGE THE FOURTH.


IN Twiss's amusing "Life of Eldon," we read how, on the death of
the Duke of York, the old Chancellor
became possessed of a lock of the
defunct Prince's hair; and so careful
was lie respecting the authenticity of
the relic, that Bessie Eldon, his wife,
sat in the room with the young man
from Hamlet's who distributed the
ringlet into separate lockets, which
each of the Eldon family afterwards
wore. You know how, when George
IV. came to Edinburgh, a better man
than he went on board the royal
yacht to welcome the King to his
kingdom of Scotland, seized a goblet
from  which his Majesty had just
drunk, vowed it should remain forever as an heirloom in his family,
clapped the precious glass in his
pocket, and sat down on it and broke
it when he got home. Suppose the
good sheriff's prize unbroken now
at Abbotsford, should we not smile
with something like pity as we beheld
it? Suppose one of those lockets of
the no-Popery Prince's hair offered for
sale at Christie's, quot libras e duce summo invenies? how many pounds would
you find for the illustrious Duke?
Madame Tussaud    has got King
George's coronation robes; is there
any man now alive who would kiss
the hem of that trumpery l He sleeps
since thirty years: do not any of you
who remember him, wonder that you
once respected and huzzaed and admired him?
To make a portrait of him at first
seemed a matter of small difficulty.
There is his coat, his star, his wig,
his countenance simpering under it:
with a slate and a piece of chalk, I
could at this very desk perform a recognizable likeness of him. And yet
after reading of him in scores of
volumes, hunting him through old
3*


magazines and newspapers, having
him here at a ball, there at a public
dinner, there at races and so forth,
you find you have nothing- nothing
but a coat and a wig and a mask
smiling below  it-nothing but a
great simulacrum.  His sire and
grandsires were men.  One knows
what they were like: what they would
do in given circumstances: that on
occasions they fought and demeaned
themselves like tough good soldiers.
They had friends whom they liked
according to their natures; enemies
whom they hated fiercely; passions,
and actions, and individualities of
their own. The sailor King who
came after George was a man: the
Duke of York was a man, big, burly,
loud, jolly, cursing, courageous.
But this George, what was he   I
look through all his life, and recognize
but a bow and a grin. I try and take
him to pieces, and find silk stockings,
padding, stays, a coat with frogs and
a fur collar, a star and blue ribbon,
a pocket-handkerchief prodigiously
scented, one of Truefitt's best nuttybrown whigs reeking with oil, a set
of teeth and a huge black stock,
under-waistcoats, more under-waistcoats and then nothing. I know of
no sentiment that he ever distinctly
uttered.  Documents are published
under his name, but people wrote
them —private letters, but people
spelt them. He put a great George
P. or George R. at the bottom of the
page and fancied lie had written the
paper: some bookseller's clerk, some
poor author, some man did the work;
saw to the spelling, cleaned up the
slovenly sentences, and gave the lax
maudlin slipslop a sort of consistency.
He must have had an individuality:
the dancing-master whom he emulated, nay, surpassed —the wig-ma



THE FOUR GEORGES.


ker who curled his toupee for him -
the tailor who cut his coats, had that.
But, about George, one can get at
nothing actual. that outside, I am
certain, is pad and tailor's work;
there may be something behind, but
what? We cannot get at the character; no doubt never shall.  Will
men of the future have nothing better
to do than to unswathe and interpret
that royal old mummy? I own I
once used to think it would be good
sport to pursue him, fasten on him,
and pull him down. But now I am
ashamed to mount and lay good dogs
on, to summon a full field, and then
to hunt the poor game.
On the 12th August, 1762, the fortyseventh anniversary of the accession
of the House of Brunswick to the
English throne, all the bells in London pealed in gratulation, and announced that an heir to George III.
was born. Five days afterwards tile
King was pleased to pass letters patent
under the great seal, creating H. R.
H. the Prince of Great Britain, Electoral Prince of Brunswick Liineburg,
Duke of Cornwall and lothsay, Earl
of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord
of the Isles, and Great Steward of
Scotland, Prince of Wales and Earl
of Chester.
All the people at his birth thronged
to see this lovely child; and behind a
gilt china-screen railing in St. James's
Palace, in a cradle surmounted by the
three princely ostrich feathers, the
royal infant was laid to delight the
eyes of the lieges. Among the earliest instances of homage paid to him,
I read that "a curious Indian bow
and arrows were sent to the Prince
from his father's faithful subjects in
New York."   He was fond of playing
with these toys; an old statesman,
orator, and wit of his grandfather's
and great-grandfather's time, never
tired of his business, still eager in his
old age to be well at court, used to
play with the little Prince, and pretend to fall down dead when the
Prince shot at him with his toy bow
and arrows-and get up and fall


down dead over and over again -to
the increased delight of the child. So
that he was flattered from his cradle
upwards; and before his little feet
could walk, statesmen and courtiers
were busy kissing them.
There is a pretty picture of the
royal infant - a beautiful buxom
child -asleep in his mother's lap;
who turns round and holds a finger
to her lip, as if she would bid the
courtiers around respect the baby's
slumbers.  From that day until his
decease, sixty-eight years after, I suppose there were more pictures taken
of that personage than of any other
human being who ever was born and
died - in every kind of uniform and
every possible court-dress - in long
fair hair, with powder, with and without a pig-tail-in every conceivable
cocked-hat —in dragoon uniform —
in Windsor uniform-in a fieldmarshal's clothes- in a Scotch kilt
and tartans, with dirk and claymore
(a stupendous figure) - in a frogged
frock-coat with a fur collar and tight
breeches and silk stockings- in wigs
of every color, fair, brown, and black
-in his famous coronation robes
finally, with which performance he
was so much in love that he distributed copies of the picture to all the
courts and British embassies in Europe, and to numberless clubs, townhalls, and private friends. I remember as a young man how almost every
dining-room had his portrait.
There is plenty of biographical
tattle about the Prince's boyhood.
It is told with what astonishing rapidity he learned all languages, ancient
and modern; how he rode beautifully, sang charmingly, and played
elegantly on the violoncello. That
he was beautiful was patent to all
eyes. He had a high spirit: and
once, when he had had a difference
with his father, burst into the royal
closet and called out, " Wilkes and
liberty forever! " He was so clever,
that he confounded his very governors in learning; and one of them,
Lord Brucc, having made a false




17 80.                        '9 0
'i-iE REGENT.                  THE KING








GEORGE THE FOURTH.


51


quantity in quoting Greek, the admirable young Prince instantly corrected him. Lord Bruce could not
remain a governor after this humiliation; resigned his office, and, to
soothe his feelings, was actually promoted to be an earl! It is the most
wonderful reason for promoting a
man that ever I heard. Lord Bruce
was made an carl for a blunder in
prosody; and Nelson was made a
baron for the victory of the Nile.
Lovers of long sums have added
up the millions and millions which
in the course of his brilliant existence
this single Prince consumed. Besides his income of 50,000/., 70,0001.,
100,0001., 120,000/. a year, we read
of three applications to Parliament:
debts to the amount of 160,0001., of
650,0001.; besides mysterious foreign
loans, whereof he pocketed the proceeds. What did he (do for all this
money? Why was he to have it?
If he had been a manufacturing town,
or a populous rural district, or an
army of five thousand men, he would
not have cost more. He, one solitary stout man, who did not toil, nor
spin, nor fight,-what had any mortal
done that he should be pampered so?
In 1784, when he was twenty-one
years of age, Carlton Palace was
given to him, and furnished by the
nation with as much luxury as could
be devised. His pockets were filled
with money: he said it was not
enough; he flung it out of the window:
he spent 10,000/. a year for the coats
on his back. The nation gave him
mnore money, and more, and more.
The sum is past counting. He was
a prince most lovely to look on, and
was christened Prince Florizel on his
first appearance in the world. That
he was the handsomest prince in the
whole world was agreed by men, and
alas! by many women.
I suppose he must have been very
graceful. There are so many testimonies to the charm of his manner,
that we must allow him great elegance and powers of fascination.
He, and the King of France's brother,


the Count d'Artois, a charming young
Prince who danced deliciously on the
tight-rope - a poor old tottering exiled King, who asked hospitality of
King George's successor, and lived
a while in the palace of Mary Stuart
- divided in their youth the title of
first gentleman of Europe. We in
England of course gave the prize to
our gentleman. Until George's death
the propriety of that award was scarce
questioned, or the doubters voted
rebels and traitors. Only the other
day I was reading in the reprint of
the delightful "Noctes " of Christopher North. The health of THE
KING is drunk in large capitals by
the loyal Scotsman. You would
faincy him a hero, a sage, a statesman, a pattern for kings and men.
It was Walter Scott who had that
accident with the broken glass I
spoke of anon. He was the king's
Scottish champion, rallied all Scotland to him, made loyalty the fashion,
and laid about him fiercely with his
claymore upon all the Prince's enemies. The Brunswicks had no such
defenders as those two Jacobite commoners, old Sam Johnson the Lichfield chapman's son, and Walter
Scott, the Edinburgh lawyer's.
Nature and circumstance had done
their utmost to prepare the Prince
for being spoiled: the dreadful dulness of papa's court, its stupid amusements, its dreary occupations, the
maddening humdrum, the stifling
sobriety of its routine, would have
made a scapegrace of a much less
lively prince. All the big princes
bolted from that castle of ennui where
old King George sat, posting up his
books and droning over his Handel;
and old Queen Charlotte over her
snuff and her tambour-fiame. Most
of the sturdy, gallant sons settled
down after sowing their wild oats,
and became sober subjects of their
father and brother-not ill liked by
the nation, which pardons youthfuil
irregularities readily enough, for tho
sake of pluck, and unaffectedness,
and good-hulmor.




THE FOUR GEORGES.


The boy is father of the man.
Our Prince signalized his entrance
into the world by a feat worthy of
his future life. He invented a new
shoebucklc.  It was an inch long
and five inches broad. "It covered
almost the whole instep, reaching
down to the ground on either side of
the foot." A sweet invention! lovely
and useful as the Prince on whose
foot it sparkled. At his first appearance at a court ball, we read that
"his coat was pink silk, with white
cuffs; his waistcoat white silk, embroidered with various-colored foil,
adorned with a profusion of French
paste. And his hat was ornamented
with two rows of steel beads, five
thousand in number, with a button
and loop of the same metal, and
cocked in a new    military style."
What a Florizel! Do these details
seem trivial?  They arc the grave
incidents of his life. His biographers
say that when he commenced housekeeping in that splendid new palace
of his, the Prince of Wales had some
windy projects of encouraging literature, science, and the arts; of having
assemblies of literary characters; and
societies for the encouragement of
geography, astronomy, and botany.
Astronomy, geography, and botany!
Fiddlesticks! French ballet-dancers,
French cooks, horse-jockeys, buffoons,
procurers, tailors, boxers, fencingmasters, china, jewel, and gimcrack
merchants - these were his real companions.  At first he made a pretence of having Burke and Fox and
Sheridan for his friends. But how
could such men be serious before
such an empty scapegrace as this
lad? Fox might talk dice with him,
and Sheridan wine; but what else
had these men of genius in common
with their tawdry young host of
Carlton House?   That ifribble the
leader of such men as Fox and
Burke! That man's opinions about
the constitution, the India Bill, justice to the Catholics-about any
question graver than the button for a
waistcoat or the sauce for a par

tridge - worth any tling!   The
fiiendship between the Prince and
the Whig chiefs was impossible.
They were hypocrites in pretending
to respect him, and if he broke the
hollow compact between them, who
shall blame him? His natural companions were dandies and parasites.
He could talk to a tailor or a cook;
but, as the equal of great statesmen,
to set up a creature, lazy, weak, indolent, besotted, of monstrous vanity,
and levity incurable —it is absurd.
They thought to use him, and did
for a while; but they must have
known how timid he was; how entirely heartless and treacherous, and
have expected his desertion.  His
next set of friends were mere table
companions, of whom he grew tired
too; then we hear of him with a very
few select toadies, mere boys from
school or the Guards, whose sprightliness tickled the fancy of the wornout voluptuary. What matters what
friends lie had  He dropped all his
friends; lie never could have real
friends. An heir to the throne has
flatterers, adventurers  who  hang
about him, ambitious men who use
him; but friendship is denied him.
And women, I suppose, are as false
and selfish in their dealings with such
a character as men. Shall we take
the Leporello part, flourish a catalogue of the conquests of this royal
Don Juan, and tell the names of the
favorites to whom, one after the other,
George Prince flung his pocket-handkerchief? What purpose would it
answer to say how Perdita was pursued, won, deserted, and by whom
succeeded? What good in knowing
that he did actually marry Mrs. FitzHerbert according to the rites cf the
Roman Catholic Church; that her
marriage settlements have been seen
in London; that the names of the
witnesses to her marriage are known.
This sort of vice that we are now
come to presents no new or fleeting
trait of manners. Debauchees, dissolute, heartless, fickle, cowardly,
have been ever since the worldl,egnrl.




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


This one had more temptations than
most, and so much may be said in extenuation for him.
It was an unlucky thing for this
doomed one, and tending to lead him
vet farther on the road to the deuce,
that, besides being lovely, so that women were fascinated by him; and
heir-apparent, so that all the world
flattered hin; he should have a beautiful voice, which led him directly in
the way of drink: and thus all the
pleasant devils were coaxing on poor
Florizel; desire, and idleness, and
vanity, and drunkenness, all clashing
their merry cymbals and bidding him
come on.
We first hear of his warbling sentimental ditties under the walls of Kew
Palace by the moonlight banks of
Thames, with Lord Viscount Leporello keeping watch lest the music
slould be disturbed.
Singing after dinner and supper
was the universal fashion of the day.
You may fancy all England sounding
with choruses, some ribald, some
harmless, but all occasioning the
consumption of a prodigious deal of
fermented liquor.
" The jolly Muse her wings to try no frolic
flights need take,
But round the bowl would dip and fly,
like swallows round a lake,"
sang Morris in one of his gallant
Anacreontics, to which the Prince
many a time joined in chorus, and of
which the burden is, -
" And that I think's a reason fair to drink
and fill again."
This delightful boon companion of
the Prince's found "a reason fair" to
forego filling and drinking, saw the
error of his ways, gave up the bowl
and chorus, and died retired and religious. The Prince's table no doubt
was a very tempting one. The wits
came and did their utmost to amuse
lhim. It is wonderful how the spirits
rise, the wit brightens, the wine has
an aroma, when a great man is at the
head of the table. Scott, the loyal
cavalier, the king's true liegeman, the


very best raconteur of his time, poured
out with an endless generosity his
store of old-world learning, kindness,
and humor. Grattan contributed to
it his wondrous eloquence, fancy,
feeling. Tom Moore perched upon
it for a while, and piped his most exquisite little love-tunes on it, flying
away in a twitter of indignation afterwards, and attacking the Prince with
bill and claw. In such society, no
wonder the sitting was long, and the
butler tired of drawing corks. Itle
member what the usages of the time
were, and that William Pitt, coming
to the House of Commons after havy
ing drunk a bottle of port-wine at his
own house, would go into Bellamy's
with Dundas, and help finish a couple
more.
You peruse volumes after volumes
about our Prince, and find some halfdozen stock stories- indeed not
many more - common to all the
histories. He was good-natured; an
indolent, voluptuous prince, not unkindly. One story, the most favorable
to him  of all, perhaps, is that as
Prince Regent he was eager to hear
all that could be said in behalf of prisoners condemned to death, and anxious, if possible, to remit the capital
sentence. He was kind to his servants. There is a story common to
all the biographies, of Molly the
housemaid, who, when his household
was to be broken up, owing to some
reforms which he tried absurdly to
practise, was discovered crying as she
dusted the chairs because she was to
leave a master who had a kind word
for all his servants. Another tale is
that of a groom of the Prince's being
discovered in corn and oat peculations, and dismissed by the personage
at the head of the stables; the Prince
had word of John's disgrace, remonstrated with him very kindly, generously reinstated him, and bade him
promise to sin no more - a promise
which John kept. Another story is
very fondly told of the Prince as a
young man hearing of an officer's
family in distress, and how he straight



THE FOUR GEORGES.


way borrowed six or eight hundred
pounds, put his long fair hair under
his hat, and so disguised carried the
money to the starving family. He
sent money, too, to Sheridan on his
death-bed, and would have sent more
had not death ended the career of that
man of genius. Besides these, there
are a few pretty speeches, kind and
graceful, to persons with whom he
was brought in contact.  But he
turned upon twenty friends.  He
was fond and familiar with them one
day, and he passed them on the next
without recognition. He used them,
liked them, loved them perhaps in his
way, and then separated from them.
On Monday he kissed and fondled
poor Perdita, and on Tuesday he met
her and did not know her. On Wednesday he was very affectionate with
that wretched Brummell, and on
Thursday forgot him; cheated him
even out of a snuff-box which he owed
the poor dandy; saw him years afterwards in his downfall and poverty,
when the bankrupt Beau sent him
another snuff-box with some of the
snuff he used to love, as a piteous
token of remembrance and submission, and the King took the snuff, and
ordered his horses and drove on, and
had not the grace to notice his old
companion, favorite, rival, enemy, superior. In Wraxall there is some
gossip about him. When the charming, beautiful, generous Duchess of
Devonshire died - the lovely lady
whom he used to call his dearest duchess once, and pretend to admire as
all English society admired her - he
said, "Then we have lost the best
bred woman in England."  "Then
we have lost the kindest heart in
England," said noble Charles Fox.
On another occasion, when three
noblemen were to receive the Garter,
says Wraxall, "A great personage
observed that never did three men receive the order in so characteristic a
manner. The Duke of A. advanced
to the sovereign with a phlegmatic,
cold, awkward air like a clown; Lord
B. came forward fawning and smiling


like a courtier; Lord C. presented
himself easy, unembarrassed, like a
gentleman!"  These are the stories
one has to recall about the Prince an(i
King -kindness to a housemaid,
generosity to a groom, criticism on a
bow.   There are no better stories
about him: they are mean and trivial,
and they characterize him. The great
war of empires and giants goes on.
Day by day victories are won and lost
by the brave. Torn, smoky flags and
battered eagles are wrenched from the
heroic enemy and laid at his feet;
and he sits there on his throne and
smiles, and gives the guerdon of valor
to the conqueror. He! Elliston the
actor, when the Coronation was performed, in which he took the principal
part, used to fancy himself the King,
burst into tears, and hiccough a blessing on the people. I believe it is certain, about George IV., that lie had
heard so much of the war, knighted
so many people, and worn such a
prodigious quantity of marshal's uniforms, cocked-hats, cock's feathers,
scarlet and bullion in general, that lie
actually fancied he had been present
in some campaigns, and, under the
name of General Brock, led a tremendous charge of the German legion at Waterloo.
He is dead but thirty years, and
one asks how a great society could
have tolerated him? Would we bear
him now? In this quarter of a century, what a silent revolution has
been working! how it has separated
us from old times and manners! How
it has changed men themselves! I
can see old gentlemen now among
us, of perfect good breeding, of quiet
lives, with venerable gray heads, fondling their grandchildren; and look
at them, and wonder at what they
were once. That gentleman of the
grand old school, when he was in the
10th Hussars, and dined at the
Prince's table, would fall under it
night after night. Night after night,
that gentleman sat at Brookes's or
Raggett's over the dice. If, in the
petulance of play or drink, that gen



GEORGE THE FOURTH.


55


tieman spoke a sharp word to his
neighbor, he and the other would infallibly go out and try to shoot each
other the next morning. That gentleman would drive his friend Richmond the black boxer down to Moulsey, and hold his coat, and shout and
swear, and hurrah with delight, whilst
the black man was beating Dutch
Sam the Jew. That gentleman would
take a manly pleasure in pulling his
own coat off; and thrashing a bargeman in a street row. That gentleman has been in a watch-house. That
gentleman, so exquisitely polite with
ladies in a drawing-room, so loftily
courteous, if he talked now  as he
used among men in his youth, would
swear so as to make your hair stand
on end.  I met lately a very old
German gentleman, who had served
in our army at the beginning of the
century. Since then he has lived on
his own estate, but rarely meeting
with an Englishman, whose language
- the language of fifty years ago that
is —he possesses perfectly.  When
this highly bred old man began to speak
English to me almost every other
word he uttered was an oath: as they
used (they swore dreadfully in Flanders) with the Duke of York before
Valenciennes, or at Carlton House
over the supper and cards.  Read
Byron's letters.  So accustomed is
the young man to oaths that he employs them even in writing to his
fiiends, and swears by the post. Read
his account of the doings of young
men at Cambridge, of the ribald professors, one of whom "could pour
out Greek like a drunken Helot," and
whose excesses surpassed even those
of the young men. Read Matthews's
description of the boyish lordling's
housekeeping at Newstead, the skullcup passed round, the monk's dresses
from the masquerade warehouse, in
which the young scapegraces used to
sit until daylight, chanting appropriate songs round their wine. " We
come to breakfast at two or three
o'clock," Matthews says.  "There
are gloves and foils for those who


like to amuse themselves, or we fire
pistols at a mark in the hall, or we
worry the wolf." A jolly life truly!
The noble young owner of the mansion writes about such affairs himself
in letters to his friend, Mr. John
Jackson, pugilist, in London.
All the Prince's time tells a similar
strange story of manners and pleasure.  In Wraxall we find the Prime
Minister himself, the redoubted William Pitt, engaged in high jinks with
personages of no less importance than
Lord Thurlow the Lord Chancellor,
and Mr. Dundas the Treasurer of the
Navy.   Wraxall relates how these
three statesmen, returning after dinner from Addiscombe, found a turnpike open and galloped through it
without paying the toll. The turnpike-man, ftncying they were highwaymen, fired a blunderbuss after
them, but missed them; and the poet
sang, -
"How as Pitt wandered darkling o'er the
plain,
His reason drowned in Jenkinson's champagne,
A rustic's hand, but righteous fate withstood,
Had shed a premier's for a robber's
blood."
Here we have the Treasurer of the
Navv, the Lord High Chancellor, and
the Prime Minister, all engaged in a
most undoubted lark.   In Eldon's
"Memoirs," about the very same time,
I read that the bar loved wine, as
well as the woolsack. Not John Scott
himself; he was a good boy always;
and though he loved port-wine, loved
his business and his duty and his fees
a great deal better.
He has a Northern Circuit story of
those days, about a party at the house
of a certain Lawyer Fawcett, who gave
a dinner every year to the counsel.
"On one occasion," related Lord
Eldon, " I heard Lee say, ' I cannot
leave Fawcett's wine. Mind, Davenport, you will go home immediately
after dinner, to read the brief in that
cause that we have to conduct tomorrow.'
" 'Not I,' said Davenport. 'Leave




THE FOUR GEORGES.


my dinner and my wine to read a
brief! No, no, Lee; that won't do.'
"' Then,' said Lee, 'what is to be
done? who else is employed?'
"Davenport. -' Oh! young Scott.'
"Lee. -'Oh! he must go. Mr.
Scott, you must go home immediately, and make yourself acquainted
with that cause, before our consultation this evening.'
" This was very hard upon me; but
I did go, and there was an attorney
from  Cumberland, and one from
Northumberland, and I do not know
how many other persons.   Pretty
late, in came Jack Lee, as drunk as
he could be.
"' I cannot consult to-night; I
must go to bed,' he exclaimed, and
away he went.    Then came Sir
Thomas Davenport.
"' We cannot have a consultation
to-night, Mr. Wordsworth' (Wordsworth, I think, was the name; it was
a Cumberland name), shouted Davenport.  'Don't you see how drunk
Mr. Scott is? it is impossible to consult.' Poor me! who had scarce
any dinner, and lost all my wineI was so drunk that I could not consult!  Well, a verdict was given
against us, and it was all owing to
Lawyer Fawcett's dinner. We moved
for a new trial; and I must say, for
the honor of the bar, that those two
gentlemen, Jack Lee and Sir Thomas
Davenport, paid all the expenses between them of the first trial. It is
the only instance I ever knew; but
they did. We moved for a new trial
(on the ground, I suppose, of the
counsel not being in their senses), and
it was granted. When it came on,
the following year, the judge rose and
said, -
"'Gentlemen, did any of you dine
with Lawyer Fawcett yesterday? for,
if you did, I will not hear this cause
till next year.'
"There was great laughter. We
gained the cause that time."
On another occasion, at Lancaster,
where poor Bozzy must needs be
going the Northern Circuit, "we


found him,"says Mr. Scott, ': lying
upon the pavement inebriated. We
subscribed a guinea at supper for
him, and a half-crown for his clerk"
- (no doubt there was a large bar,
so that Scott's joke did not cost him
much) -" and sent him, when he
waked next morning, a brief with instructions to move for what we denominated the writ of quare adhcesit pavimento? with observations duly calculated to induce him to think that it
required great learning to explain the
necessity of granting it, to the judge
before whom he was to move." Boswell sent all round the town to attorneys for books that might enable him
to distinguish himself — but in vain.
IIe moved, however, for the writ,
making the best use he could of the observations in the brief. Thejudge was
perfectly astonished, and the audience
amazed. The judge said, "I never
heard of such a writ -what can it ba
that adheres pavirnento? Are any of
you gentlemen at the bar able to explain this "
The lar lauglled. At last one of
them said, -
" My lord, Mr. Boswell last night
adlicesit pavimento.  There was no
moving him for some time. At last
he was carried to bed, and he has
been dreaming about himself and the
pavement."
'he canny old gentleman relishes
these jokes. When the Bishop of
Lincoln was moving from the deanery
of St. Paul's, lie says he asked a
learned friend of his, by name Will
Ilay, how lie should move some especially fine claret, about which he was
anxious.
" Pray, my lord bishop," says Hay,
"how much of the wine have you? "
The bishop said six dozen.
"If that is all," IIay answered,
"you have but to ask me six times to
dinner, and I will carry it all away
myself."
There were giants in those days;
hut this joke about wine is not so
fearful as one perpetrated by Orator
Thelwall, in the heat of the French




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


Revolution, ten years later, over a
frothing pot of porter. He blew the
head off, and said, " This is the way
I would serve all kings."
Now we come to yet higher personages, and find their doings recorded
in the blushing pages of timid little
Miss Burney's "Memoirs."  She represents a prince of the blood in quite
a royal condition. The loudness, the
bigness, boisterousness, creaking boots
and rattling oaths of the young
princes, appear to have frightened the
prim household of Windsor, and set
all the teacups twittering on the tray.
On the night of a ball and birthday,
when one of the pretty, kind princesses was to come out, it was agreed
that her brother, Prince William
Henry, should dance the opening
minuet with her, and he came to visit
the household at their dinner.
"At dinner, Mrs. Schwcllenbcrg
presided, attired magnificently; Miss
Goldsworthy, Mrs. Stanforth, Messrs.
D)u Luc and Stanlope, dined with
us; and while we were still eating
fruit, the Duke of Clarence entered.
" He was just risen from the King's
table, and waiting for his equipage to
go home and prepare for the ball.
To give you an idea of the energy of
his Royal Highness's language, I
ought to set apart an objection to
writing, or rather intimating, certain
forcible words, and beg leave to
show you in genuine colors a royal
sailor.
"We all rose, of course, upon his
entrance, and the two gentlemen
placed themselves behind their chairs,
while the footmen left the roorn
But he ordered us all to sit down,
and called the men back to hand
about some wine. He was in exceedingly high spirits, and in the utmost good humor. He placed himself
at the head of the table, next Mrs.
Schwellenberg, and looked remarkably well, gay, and full of sport and
mischief; yet clever withal, as well as
comical.
"' Well, this is the first day I have
ever dined with the King at St.


James's on his birthday. Pray, have
you all drunk his Majesty's health '
"' No, your Royal Highness; your
Royal Highness might make dem do
dat,' said Mrs. Schwellenberg.
"'Oh, by -, I will! Here, you"
(to the footman), "bring champagne;
I'll drink the King's health again if
I die for it.  Yes, I have done it
pretty well already; so has the King,
Ipromise you! I believe his Majesty
was never taken such good care of before; we have kept his spirits up, I
promise you; we lave enabled him to
go through his fatigues; and I should
have done more still, but for the ball
and Mary; - I have promised to
dance with Mary. I must keep sober
for Mary.'"
Indefatigable Miss Burney continues for a dozen pages reporting H.
I. H.'s conversation, and indicating,
with a humor not unworthy of the
clever little author of " Evelina," the
increasing state of excitement of the
young sailor Prince, who drank more
and more champagne, stopped old
Mrs. Schwellenberg's remonstrances
by giving the old lady a kiss, and telling her to hold her potato-trap, and
who did not " keep sober for Mary."
Mary had to find another partner that
night, for the royal William Henry
could not keep his legs.
Will you have a picture of the
amusements of another royal prince?
It is the Duke of York, the blundering general, the beloved commanderin-chief of the army, the brother with
whom George IV. had had many a
midnight carouse, and who continued
his habits of pleasure almost till
death seized his stout body.
In Piickler Muskau's " Letters,"
that German Prince describes a bout
with H. R. H., who in his best time
was such a powerful toper that "six
bottles of claret after dinner scarce
made a perceptible change in his
countenance."
"I remember," says Piickler, " that
one evening, —indeed, it was past
midnight, - he took some of his
guests, among whom were the Aus



THE FOUR GEORGES.


trian ambassador, Count Meervelt,
Count Beroldingen, and myself, into
his beautiful armory. We tried to
swing several Turkish sabres, but
none of us had a very firm grasp;
whence it happened that the Duke
and Meervelt both scratched themselves with a sort of straight Indian
sword so as to draw blood. Meervelt
then wished to try if the sword cut as
well as a Damascus, and attempted to
cut through one of the wax candles
that stood on the table. The experiment answered so ill, that both the
candles and candlesticks all fell to
the ground and were extinguished.
While we were groping in the dark
and trying to find the door, the
Duke's aide-de-camp stammered out
in great agitation, 'By G-, sir, I
remember the sword is poisoned! '
" You may conceive the agreeable
feelings of the wounded at this intelligence! Happily, on further cxamination, it appeared that claret, and
not poison, was at the bottom of the
colonel's exclamation."
And now I have one more story of
the bacchanalian sort, in which Clarence and York, and the very highest
personage of the realm, the great
Prince Regent, all play parts. The
feast took place at the Pavilion at
Brighton, and was described to me by
a gentleman who was present at the
scene. In Gilray's caricatures, and
amongst Fox's jolly associates, there
figures a great nobleman, the Duke
of Norfolk, called Jockey of Norfolk
in his time, and celebrated for his
table exploits.  He had quarrelled
with the Prince, like the rest of the
Whigs; but a sort of reconciliation
had taken place; and now, being a
very old man, the Prince invited him
to dine and sleep at the Pavilion, and
the old Duke drove over from his
Castle of Arundel with his famous
equipage of gray horses, still remembered in Sussex.
The Prince of Wales had concocted
with his royal brothers a notable
scheme for making the old man drunk.
Every person at table was enjoined to


drink wine with the Duke - a challenge which the old toper did not
refuse. He soon began to see that
there was a conspiracy against him;
he drank glass for glass; he overthrew many of the brave. At last
the First Gentleman of Europe proposed bumpers of brandy. One of
the royal brothers filled a great glass
for the Duke.   He stood up and
tossed off the drink. "Now," says
he, " I will have my carriage, and go
home." The Prince urged upon him
his previous promise to sleep under
the roof where he had been so generously entertained. "No," he said;
he had had enough of such hospitality. A trap had been set for him; he
would leave the place at once and
never enter its doors more.
The carriage was called, and came;
but, in the half-hour's interval, the
liquor had proved too potent for the
old man; his host's generous purpose
was answered, and the Duke's old
gray head lay stupefied on the table.
Nevertheless, when his post-chaise
was announced, he staggered to it as
well as he could, and stumbling in,
bade the postilions drive to Arundel.
They drove him for half an hour
round and round the Pavilion lawn;
the poor old man fancied he was going home. When he awoke that
morning he was in bed at the Prince's
hideous house at Brighton.  You
may see the place now for sixpence:
they have fiddlers there every day;
and sometimes buffoons and mountebanks hire the Riding House and do
their tricks and tumbling there. The
tees are still there, and the gravel
walks round which the poor old sinner
was trotted. I can fancy the flushed
faces of the royal princes as they support themselves at the portico pillars,
and look on at old Norfolk's disgrace;
but I can't fancy how the man who
perpetrated it continued to be called
a gentleman.
From drinking, the pleased Muse
now turns to gambling, of which in
his youth our Prince was a great
practitioner. He was a famous pigeon




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


59


for the play-men; they lived upon
Lim.  Egalitd Orleans, it was believed, punished him severely. A
noble lord, whom we shall call the
Marquis of Steyne, is said to have
mulcted him in immense sums. He
frequented the clubs, where play was
then almost universal; and as it was
known that his debts of honor were
sacred, whilst he was gambling Jews
waited outside to purchase his notes
of hand. * His transactions on the
turf were unlucky as well as discreditable: though I believe he, and his
jockey, and his horse, Escape, were
all innocent in that affair which created so much scandal.
Arthur's, Almack's, Bootle's, and
White's were the chief clubs of the
young men of fashion. There was
play at all, and decayed noblemen
and broken-down senators fleeced the
unwary there. In Selwyn's "Letters" we find Carlisle, )evonshire,
Coventry, Queensberry, all undergoing the probation. Charles Fox, a
dreadful gambler, was cheated in very
late times-lost 200,0001. at play.
Gibbon tells of his playing for twentytwo hours at a sitting, and losing
5001. an hour. That indomitable punter said that the greatest pleasure in
life, after winning, was losing. What
hours, what nights, what health did
he waste over the devil's books! I
was going to say what peace of mind;
but he took his losses very philosophically. After an awful night's play,
and the enjoyment of the greatest
pleasure but one in life, he was found
on a sofa tranquilly reading an Eclogue of Virgil.
Play survived long after the wild
Prince and Fox had given up the
dice-box. The dandies continued it.
Byron, Brummell - how many names
could I mention of men of the world
who have suffered by it! In 1837
occurred a famous trial which pretty
nigh put an end to gambling in England. A peer of the realm was found
cheating at whist, and repeatedly seen
to practise the trick called sauter la
coupe. His friends at the clubs saw


him cheat, and went on playing with
him. One greenhorn, who had discovered his foul play, asked an old
man what he should do. " Do," said
the Mammon of Unrighteousness,
"Back him, you fool." The best efforts
were made to screen him. People
wrote him anonymous letters and
warned him; but he would cheat, and
they were obliged to find him out.
Since that day, when my lord's shame
was made public, the gaming-table
has lost all its splendor. Shabby Jews
and blacklegs prowl about racecourses
and tavern parlors, and now and then
inveigle silly yokels with greasy packs
of cards in railroad cars; but play is
a deposed goddess, and her worshippers bankrupt and her table in rags.
So is another famous British institution gone to decay - the Ring:
the noble practice of British boxing,
which in my youth was still almost
flourishing.
The Prince, in his early days, was a
great patron of this national sport, as
his grand-uncle Culloden Cumberland
had been before him; but, being present at a fight at Brighton, where one
of the combatants was killed, the
Prince pensioned the boxer's widow,
and declared he never would attend
another battle. "But, nevertheless,"
— I read in the noble language of
Pierce Egan (whose smaller work on
Pugilism I have the honor to possess),
-" he thought it a manly and decided English feature, which ought not
to be destroyed. His Majesty had a
drawing of the sporting characters in
the Fives' Court placed in his boudoir, to remind him of his former
attachment and support of true courage; and when any fight of note
occurred after he was king, accounts
of it were read to hun by his desire."
That gives one a fine image of a
king taking his recreation; - at ease
in a royal dressing-gown; too majestic to read himself, ordering the
prime minister to read him accounts
of battles: how Crib punched Molyneux's eye, or Jack Randall thrashed
the Game Chicken.




THE FOUR GEORGES.


Where my Prince did actually distinguish himself was in driving. He
drove once in four hours and a half
from Brighton to Carlton Housefifty-six miles. All the young men
of that city were fond of that sport.
But the fashion of rapid driving deserted England; and, I believe, trotted over to America. Where are the
amusements of our youth   I hear
of no gambling now but amongst
obscure ruffians; of no boxing but
amongst the lowest rabble. One solitary four-in-hand still drove round the
parks in London last year; but that
charioteer must soon disappear. He
was very old; he was attired after the
fashion of the year 1825. He must
drive to the banks of the Styx ere
long, - where the ferry-boat waits to
carry him over to the defunct revellers who boxed and gambled and
drank and drove with King George.
The bravery of the Brunswicks,
that all the family must have it, that
George possessed it, are points which
all English writers have agreed to admit; and yet I cannot see how George
IV. should have been endowed with
this quality. Swaddling in featherbeds all his life, lazy, obese, perpetually eating and drinking, his education was quite unlike that of his tough
old progenitors. His grandsires had
confronted hardships and war, and
ridden up and fired their pistols undaunted into the face of death. His
father had conquered luxury and overcome indolence. Here was one who
never resisted temptation; never had
a desire but he coddled and pampered
it; if ever he had any nerve, frittered it
away among the cooks, and tailors, and
barbers, and furniture mongers, and
opera-dancers. What muscle would
not grow flaccid jn such a life-a life
that was never strung up to any action - an endless Capua without any
campaign -all fiddling, and flowers,
and feasting, and flattery, and folly?
When George III. was pressed by the
Catholic question and the India Bill,
he said he would retire to Hanover
rather than yield upon either point;


and he would have done what he said.
But, before yielding, he was determined to fight his Ministers and
Parliament; and he did, and he beat
them. The time came when George
IV. was pressed too upon the Catholic claims; the cautious Peel had
slipped over to that side; the grim
old Wellington had joined it; and
Peel tells us, in his " Memoirs," what
was the conduct of the King. He at
first refused to submit; whereupon
Peel and the Duke offered their resignation, which their gracious master
accepted.  He did these two gentlemen the honor, Peel says, to kiss
them  both when they went away.
(Fancy old Arthur's grim countenance and eagle beak as the monarch
kisses it!) When they were gone he
sent after them, surrendered, and
wrote to them a letter begging them
to remain in office, and allowing them
to have their way. Then his Majesty
had a meeting with Eldon, which is
related at curious length in the lattcr's "Memoirs."  He told Eldon
what was not true about his interview
with the new Catholic converts; utterly misled the old ex-Chancellor;
cried, whimpered, fell on his neck,
and kissed him too. We know old
Eldon's own tears were pumped very
freely. Did these two fountains gush
together? I can't fancy a behavior
more unmanly, imbecile, pitiable.
This a defender of the faith! This a
chief in the crisis of a great nation!
This an inheritor of the courage of
the Georges
Many of my hearers no doubt have
journeyed to the pretty old town of
Brunswick, in company with that
most worthy, prudent, and polite
gentleman, the Earl of Malmesbury,
and fetched away Princess Caroline
for her longing husband, the Prince of
Wales. Old Queen Charlotte would
have had her eldest son marry a niece
of her own, that famous Louisa of
Strelitz, afterwards Queen of Prussia,
and who shares with Marie Antoinette
in the last age the sad pre-eminence
of beauty   and  misfortune.  But




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


61


George III. had a niece at Brunswick:
she was a richer princess than her
Serene Highness of Strelitz: —in
fine, the Princess Caroline was selected to marry the heir to the English
throne. We follow my Lord Malmesbury in quest of her; we are introduced to her illustrious father and
royal mother; we witness the balls
and fetes of the old court; we are
presented to the Princess herself, with
her fair hair, her blue eyes, and her
impertinent  shoulders - a lively,
bouncing, romping Princess, who
takes the advice of her courtly English mentor most generously and
kindly. We can be present at her
very toilette, if we like; regarding
which, and fbr very good reasons, the
British courtier implores her to be
particular.  What a strange court!
What a queer privacy of morals and
manners do we look into! Shall we
regard it as preachers and moralists,
and cry Woe, against the open vice
and selfishness and corruption; or
look at it as we do at the king in the
pantomime, with his pantomime wife
and pantomime courtiers, whose big
heads he knocks together, whom he
pokes with his pantomime sceptre,
whom he orders to prison under the
guard of his pantomime beef-caters,
as he sits down to dine on his pantomime pudding?    It is grave, it is
sad; it is theme most curious for
moral and political speculation; it is
monstrous, grotesque, laughable, with
its prodigious littlenesses, etiquettes,
ceremonials, sham moralities; it is as
serious as a sermon, and as absurd
and outrageous as Punch's puppetshow.
Malmesbury tells us of the private
life of the Duke, Princess Caroline's
father, who was to die, like his warlike son, in arms against the French;
presents us to his courtiers, his favorite; his Duchess, George III's sister,
a grim old Princess, who took the
British envoy aside, and told him
wicked old stories of wicked old dead
people and times; who came to England afterwards when her neplew


was regent, and lived in a shabby
furnished lodging, old, and dingy, and
deserted, and grotesque, but somehow royal. And we go with him to
the Duke to demand the Princess's
hand in form, and we hear the Brunswick guns fire their adieux of salute,
as H. R. H. the Princess of Wales
departs in the frost and snow; and
we visit the domains of the Prince
Bishop of Osnaburg - the Duke of
York of our early time; and we
dodge about from the French revolutionists, whose ragged legions are
pouring over Holland and Germany,
and gayly trampling down the old
world to the tune of Fa ira; and we
take shipping at Slade, and we land
at Greenwich, where the Princess's
ladies and the Prince's ladies are in
waiting to receive her Royal Highness.
What a history follows! Arrived
in London, the bridegroom hastened
eagerly to receive his bride. When
she was first presented to him, Lord
Malmesbury says she very properly
attempted to kneel.  He raised her
gracefully enough, embraced her, and
turning round to me, said,
" Harris, I am not well; pray get
me a glass of brandy."
I said, "Sir, had you not better
have a glass of water ' "
Upon which, much out of humor,
lie said, with an oath, "No; I will
go to the Queen."
What could be expected from a
wedding which had such a beginning
- from such a bridegroom and such
a bride? I am not going to carry
you through the scandal of that story,
or follow the poor Princess through
all her vagaries; her balls and her
dances, her travels to Jerusalem and
Naples, her jigs, and her junketings,
and her tears. As I read her trial in
history, I vote she is not guilty. I
don't say it is an impartial verdict;
but as one reads her story the heart
bleeds for the kindly, generous, outraged creature. If wrong there be,
let it lie at his door who wickedly
thrust her from it. Spite of her fol



THE FOUR GEORGES.


lies, the great hearty people of England loved, and protected, and pitied
her. "God bless you, we will bring
your husband back to you," said a
mechanic one day, as she told Lady
Charlotte Bury with tears streaming
down her cheeks. They could not
bring that husband back; they could
not cleanse that selfish heart. Was
hers the only one he had wounded?
Steeped in selfishness, impotent for
faithful attachment and manly enduring love, -had it not survived remorse, was it not accustomed to desertion?
Malmesbury gives us the beginning
of the marriage story; -how the
Prince reeled into chapel to be married; how he hiccoughed out his
vows of fidelity - you know how he
kept them; how he pursued the woman whom he had married; to what
a state he brought her; with what
blows he struck her; with what malignity he pursued her; what his
treatment of his daughter was; and
what his own life. He the first gentleman of Europe! There is no
stronger satire on the proud English
society of that day, than that they
admired George.
No, thank God, we can tell of better gentlemen; and whilst our eyes
turn away, shocked, from this monstrous image of pride, vanity, weakness, they may see in that England
over which the last George pretended
to reign, some who merit indeed the
title of gentlemen, some who make
our hearts beat when we hear their
names, and whose memory we fondly
salute when that of yonder imperial
manikin is tumbled into oblivion.
I will take men of my own profession
of letters. I will take Walter Scott,
who loved the King, and who was
his sword and buckler, and championed him like that brave Highlander
in his own story, who fights round
his craven chief. What a good gentleman! What a friendly soul, what
a generous hand, what an amiable
life was that of the noble Sir Walter!
I will take another man of letters,


whose life I admire even more, - an
English worthy, doing his duty for
fifty noble years of labor, day by
day storing up learning, day by day
working for scant wages, most charitable out of his small means, bravely
faithful to the calling which lie had
chosen, refusing to turn from his path
for popular praise or princes' favor;
-I mean Robert Southey. We have
left his old political landmarks miles
and miles behind; we protest against
his dogmatism; nay, we begin to
forget it and his politics: but I hope
his life will not be forgotten, for it is
sublime in its simplicity, its energy,
its honor, its affection. In the combat between Time and Thalaba, I
suspect the former destroyer has conquered.  Kehama's curse frightens
very few readers now; but Southey's
private letters are worth piles of
epics, and are sure to last among us,
as long as kind hearts like to sympathize with goodness and purity, and
love and upright life.  "If your
feelings are like mine," he writes to
his wife, ''I will not go to Lisbon
without you, or I will stay at home,
and not part from you. For though
not unhappy when away, still without
you I am not happy. For your sake,
as well as my own and little Edith's,
I will not consent to any separation;
the growth of a vear's love between
her and me, if it please God she
should live, is a thing too delightful
in itself, and too valuable in its consequences, to be given up for any
light inconvenience on your part or
mine.... On these things we will
talk at leisure; only, dear, dear Edith,
we must not part! "
This was a poor literary gentleman. The First Gentleman in Europe had a wife and daughter too.
Did he love them so? Was he faithful to them? Did he sacrifice ease
for them, or show them the sacred
examples of religion  and honor
Heaven gave the Great English Prodigal no such good fortune. Peel proposed to make a baronet of Southey;
and to this advancement the King




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


63


agreed. The poet nobly rejected the
offered promotion.
" I have," he wrote, "a pension of
2001. a year conferred upon me by
the good offices of my old friend C.
Wynn, and I have the laureateship.
The salary of the latter was immediately appropriated, as far as it went,
to a life-insurance for 3,0001., which,
with an earlier insurance, is the sole
provision I have made for my family.
All beyond must be derived from my
own industry. Writing for a livelihood, a livelihood is all that I have
gained; for, having also something
better in view, and never, therefore,
having courted popularity, nor written for the mere sake of gain, it has
not been possible for me to lay by any
thing. Last year, for the first time
in my life, I was provided with a
year's expenditure beforehand. This
exposition may show how unbecoming and unwise it would be to accept
the rank which, so greatly to my
honor, you have solicited for me."
I-ow noble his poverty is, compared
to the wealth of his master! His acceptance even of a pension was made
the object of his opponents' satire:
but think of the merit and modesty
of this State pensioner; and that
other enormous drawer of public
money, who receives 100,0001. a year,
and comes to Parliament with a request for 650,0001. more!
Another true knight of those days
was Cuthbert Collingwood; and I
think, since heaven made gentlemen,
there is no record of a better one than
that. Of brighter deeds, I grant you,
we may read performed by others;
but where of a nobler, kinder, more
beautiful life of duty, of a gentler,
truer heart? Beyond dazzle of success and blaze of genius, I fancy
shining a hundred and a hundred
times higher, the sublime purity of
Collingwood's  gentle glory.  His
heroism stirs British hearts when we
recall it. His love, and goodness,
and piety make one thrill with happy
emotion. As one reads of him and
his great comrade going into the vic- I


tory with which their names are imnmortally connected, how the old
English word comes up, and that old
English feeling of what I should like
to call Christian honor! What gentlemen they were, what great hearts
they had! "We can, my dear Coll,"
writes Nelson to him, " have no little
jealousies; we have only one great
object in view, - that of meeting
the enemy, and getting a glorious
peace for our country." At Trafalgar,
when the "Royal Sovereign" was
pressing alone into the midst of the
combined fleets, Lord Nelson said to
Captain Blackwood: " See how that
noble fellow, Collingwood, takes his
ship into action! How I envy him! "
The very same throb and impulse of
heroic generosity was beating in Collingwood's honest bosom. As he led
into the fight, he said: " What would
Nelson give to be here! "
After the action of the 1st of June,
he writes: -" We cruised for a few
days, like disappointed people looking
for what they could not find, until the
morning of little Sarah's birthday, between eight and nine o'clock, whep.
the French fleet, of twenty-five sail
of the line, was discovered to windward. We chased them, and they bore
down within about five miles of us.
The night was spent in watching and
preparation for the succeeding day;
and many a blessing did I send forth
to my Sarah, lest I should never bless
her more. At dawn, we made our
approach on the enemy, then drew
up, dressed our ranks, and it was
about eight when the admiral made
the signal for each ship to engage her
opponent, and bring her to close
action; and then down we went under a crowd of sail, and in a manner
that would have animated the coldest
heart, and struck terror into the most
intrepid enemy. The ship we were
to engage was two ahead of the
French admiral, so we had to go
through his fire and that of two ships
next to him, and received all their
broadsides two or three times, before
we fired a gun. It was then near ten




THE FOUR GEORGES.


o'clock. I observed to the admiral,
that about that time our wives were
going to church, but that I thought
the peal we should ring about the
Frenchman's ear would outdo their
parish bells."
There are no words to tell what the
heart feels in reading the simple
phrases of such a hero. Here is a
victory and courage, but love sublimer and superior. Here is a Christian soldier spending the night before
battle in watching and preparing for
the succeeding day, thinking of his
dearest home, and sending many
blessings forth to his Sarah, "lest he
should never bless her more." Who
would not say Amen to his supplication? It was a benediction to his
country - the prayer of that intrepid
loving heart.
We have spoken of a good soldier
and good men of letters as specimens
of English gentlemen of the age just
past: may we not also - many of my
elder hearers, I am sure, have read,
and fondly remember his delightful
story - speak of a good divine, and
mention Reginald Heber as one of
the best of English gentlemen? The
charming poet, the happy possessor
of all sorts of gifts and accomplishments, birth, wit, fame, high character, competence -he was the beloved
parish priest in his own home of Hoderel, " counselling his people in their
troubles, advising them in their difficulties, comforting them in distress,
kneeling often at their sick beds at
the hazard of his own life; exhorting,
encouraging where there was need;
where there was strife the peacemaker; where there was want the free
giver."
When the Indian bishopric was
offered to him he refused at first; but
after communing with himself (and
committing his case to the quarter
whither such pious men are wont to
carry their doubts), he withdrew his
refusal, and prepared himself for his
mission and to leave his beloved
parish.  "Little children, love one
another, and forgive one another,"


were the last sacred words he said to
his weeping people. He parted with
them, knowing, perhaps, he should
see them no more. Like those other
good men of whom we have just
spoken, love and duty were his life's
aim. Happy he, happy they who were
so gloriously faithful to both!  lHe
writes to his wife those charming lines
on his journey:"If thou, my love, wert by my side, my
babies at my knee,
How gladly would our pinnace glide
o'er Gunga's mimic sea I
I miss thee at the dawning gray, when,
on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay and woo
the cooler wind.
I miss thee when by Gunga's stream my
twilight steps I guide;
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee by my side.
I spread my books, my pencil try, the
lingering noon to cheer;
But miss thy kind approving eye, thy
meek attentive ear.
But when of morn and eve the star beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far, thy
prayers ascend for me.
Then on I then on! where duty leads
my course be onward still, -
O'er broad Iindostan's sultry meads,
o'er bleak Almorah's hill.
That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
nor wild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits by
yonder western main.
Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they
say, across the dark blue sea:
But ne'er were hearts so blithe and gay
as there shall meet in thee I "
Is it not Collingwood and Sarah, and
Southey and Edith? His affection is
part of his life. What were life without it? Without love, I can fancy
no gentleman.
How touching is a remark Heber
makes in his "Travels through India," that on inquiring of the natives
at a town, which of the governors of
India stood highest in the opinion of
the people, he found that, though
Lord Wellesley and Warren Hastings




GEORGE THE FOURTH.


65


were honored as the two greatest men
who had ever ruled this part of the
world, the people spoke with chief
affection of Judge Cleaveland, who
had died, aged twenty-nine, in 1784.
The people have built a monument
over him, and still hold a religious
feast in his memory. So does his
own country still tend with a heart's
regard the memory of the gentle
Heber.
And Cleaveland died in 1784, and
is still loved by the heathen, is he?
Why, that year 1784 was remarkable
in the life of our friend the First Gentleman of Europe. Do you not know
that he was twenty-one in that year,
and opened Carlton House with a
grand ball to the nobility and gentry,
and doubtless wore that lovely pink
coat which we have described. I was
eager to read about the ball, and
looked to the old magazines for information. The entertainment took
place on the 10th February. In "The
European Magazine " of March, 1784,
I came straightway upon it:"The alterations at Carlton I-Iouse
being finished, we lay before our
readers a description of the state
apartments as they appeared on the
10th instant, when H. t. H. gave a
grand ball to the principal nobility
and gentry..     The entrance to
the state room fills the mind with an
inexpressible idea of greatness and
splendor.
"The state chair is of a gold frame,
covered with crimson damask; on
each corner of the feet is a lion's
head, expressive of fortitude and
strength; the feet of the chair have
serpents twining round them, to denote wisdom.   Facing the throne,
appears the hellnet of Minerva; and
over the windows, glory is represented
by Saint George with a superb gloria.
"But the saloon may be styled the
chef d'oeuvre, and in every ornament
discovers great invention. It is hung
with a figured lemon satin.  The
window-curtains, sofas, and chairs are
of the same color.  The ceiling is
ornamented with emblematical paint4


ings, representing the Graces and
Muses, together with Jupiter, Mercury, Apollo, and Paris. Two ormolu
chandeliers are placed here.  It is
impossible by expression to do justice
to the extraordinary workmanship,
as well as design, of the ornaments.
They each consist of a palm, branching out in five directions for the reception of lights. A beautiful figure
of a rural nymph is represented entwining the stems of the tree with
wreaths of flowers. In the centre of
the room is a rich chandelier. To
see this apartment dans son plus beau
jour, it should be viewed in the glass
over the chimney-picce.  The range
of apartments from the saloon to the
ball-room, when the doors are open,
formed one of the grandest spectacles
that ever was beheld."
In " The Gentleman's Magazine,"
for the very same month and yearMarch, 1784 -is an account of another festival, in which another great
gentleman of English extraction is
represented as taking a principal
share:
"According to order, H. E. the
Commander-in-Chief was admitted to
a public audience of Congress; and,
being seated, the President, after a
pause, informed him that the United
States assembled were ready to receive his communications. Whereupon he arose, and spoke na
follows:" 'Mr. President, - The great
events on which my resignation depended having at length taken place,
I present myself before Congress to
surrender into their hands the trust
committed to me, and to claim the
indulgence of retiring from the service
of my country.
" Happy in the confirmation of out
independence and sovereignty, I resign the appointment I accepted with
diffidence; which, however, was superseded by a confidence in tihe rectitude
of our cause, the support of the supreme power of the nation, and the
patronage of Heaven. I close this
last act of my official life, by com



66


THE FOUR GEORGES.


mending the interests of our dearest spotless nonor, a purity unreproached,
country to the protection of Almighty a courage indomitable, and a consumGod, and those who have the superin- mate victory? Which of these is the
tendence of them to His holy keep- true gentleman? What is it to be a
ing. Having finished the work as- gentleman.  Is it to have lofty aims,
signed me, I retire from the great to lead a pure life, to keep your honor
theatre of action; and, bidding an virgin; to have the esteem of your
affectionate farewell to this august fellow-citizens, and the love of your
body, under whose orders I have so fireside; to bear good fortune meekly;
long acted, I here offer my commis- to suffer evil with constancy; and
sion and take my leave of the em- through evil or good to maintain truth
ployments of my public life.' To always? Show me the happy man
which the President replied:-     whose life exhibits these qualities,
"'Sir, having defended the stan- and him we will salute as a gentledard of liberty in the New World, man, whatever his rank may be;
having taught a lesson useful to those show me the prince who possesses
who inflict and those who feel oppres- them, and he may be sure of our love
sion, you retire with the blessings of and loyalty. The heart of Britain
your fellow-citizens; though the glory still beats kindly for George III., -
of your virtues will not terminate not because he was wise and just,
with your military command, but but because he was pure in life, honest
will descend to remotest ages."'  in intent, and because according to
Which was the most splendid spec- his lights lie worshipped Heaven. I
tacle ever witnessed; - the opening think we acknowledge in the inheritrix
feast of Prince George in London, or of his sceptre, a wiser rule, and a life
the  resignation  of Washington? as honorable and pure; and I am
Which is the noble character for after sure the future painter of our manners
ages to admire; -yon fribble dancing will pay a willing allegiance to that
in lace and spangles, or yonder hero good life, and be loyal to the memory
who sheathes his sword aifter a life of of that unsullied virtue.




THE
ENGLISH HUMORISTS
OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.








I




SWIFT.




THE   ENGLISH    HUMORISTS
OF THE
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.


SWIFT.


IN treating of the English humorists of the past age, it is of the men
and of their lives, rather than of their
books, that I ask permission to speak
to you; and in doing so, you are
aware that I cannot hope to entertain
you with a merely humorous or facetious story. Harlequin without his
mask is known to present a very sober
countenance, and was himself, the
story goes, the melancholy patient
whom the Doctor advised to go and
see Harlequin * - a man full of cares
and perplexities like the rest of us,
whose Self must always be serious to
him, under whatever mask or disguise
or uniform he presents it to the public. And as all of you here must needs
be grave when you think of your own
past and present, you will not look to
find, in the histories of those whose
lives and feelings I am going to try
and describe to you, a story that is
otherwise than serious, and often very
sad. If HIumor only meant laughter, you would scarcely feel more
interest about humorous writers than
labout the private life of poor IIarlequin just mentioned, who possesses in
common with these the power of
making you laugh. But the men re* The anecdote is frequently told of
our performer RICH.


garding whose lives and stories your
kind presence here shows that you
have curiosity and sympathy, appeal
to a great number of our other faculties, besides our mere senseof ridicule.
The humorous writer professes to
awaken and direct your love, your
pity, your kindness -your scorn for
untruth, pretension, imposture- your
tenderness for the weak, the poor, the
oppressed, the unhappy. To the best
of his means and ability he comments
on all the ordinary actions and pas'
sions of life almost. He takes upon
himself to be the week-day preacher,
so to speak. Accordingly, as he
finds, and speaks, and feels the truth
best, we regard him, esteem himsometimes love him. And, as his
business is to mark other people's
lives and peculiarities, we moralize
upon his life when he is gone -and
yesterday's preacher becomes the text
for to-day's sermon.
Of English parents, and of a good
English family of clergymen,* Swift
* He was from a younger branch of the
Swifts of Yorkshire. His grandfather,
the Rev. Thomas Swift, vicar of Goodrich, in Herefordshire, suffered for his
loyalty in Charles I.'s time. That gentleman married Elizabeth Dryden, a mem.
ber of the family of the poet. Sir Walter
Scott gives, with his characteristic minute



ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


was born in Dublin in 1667, seven
months after the death of his father,
who had come to practise there as a
lawyer. The boy went to school at
Kilkenny, and afterwards to Trinity
College, Dublin, where he got a
degree with difficulty, and was wild,
and witty, and poor. In 1688, by
the recommendation of his mother,
Swift was received into the family of
Sir William Temple, who had known
Mrs. Swift in Irela:d.  He left his
patron in 1693, and the next year
took orders in Dublin. But he threw
up the small Irish preferment which
he got and returned to Temple, in
whose family he remained until Sir
William's death in 1699. His hopes
of advancement in England failing,
Swift returned to Ireland, and took
the living of Laracor. Hither ho invited Hester Johnson,* Temple's
natural daughter, with whom he had
contracted a tender friendship, while
they were both dependants of Temple s. And with an occasional visit
to England, Swift now passed nine
years at home.
In 1709 he came to England, and,
with a brief visit to Ireland, during
which he took possession of his deanery of St. Patrick, he now passed five
ness in such points, the exact relationship
between these famous men. Swift was
"the son of Dryden's second cousin."
Swift, too, was the enemy of Dryden's
reputation. Witness the "Battle of the
Books: "-"- The difference was greatest
among the horse," says he of the moderns, "where every private trooper pretended to the command, from Tasso and
Milton to Dryden and Withers." And in
"Poetry, a Rhapsody," he advises the
poetaster to -
" Read all the Prefaces of Dryden,
For these our critics much confide in,
Though merely writ. at first for filling,
To raise the volume's price a shilling."
"Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet,"
was the phrase of Dryden to his kinsman,
which remained alive in a memory tenacious of such matters.
* "< Miss Hetty," she was called in the
family-where her face, and her dress,
and Sir William's treatment of her, all
made the real fact about her birth plain
enough. Sir William left her a thousand
pounds.


years in England, taking the most
distinguished part in the political
transactions which terminated with
the death of Queen Anne. After her
death, his party disgraced, and his
hopes of ambition over, Swift returned to Dublin, where he remained
twelve years. In this time he wrote
the famous 'Drapier's Letters" and
"Gulliver's Travels."   He married
Hester Johnson, Stella, and buried
Esther Vanhomrigh, Vanessa, who
had followed  him   to Ireland from
London, where she had contracted a
violent passion for him. In 1726 and
1727 Swift was in England, which he
quitted for the last time on hearing
of his wife's illness. Stella died in
January, 1728, and Swift not till
1745, having passed the last five of
the seventy-eight years of his life wit)h
an impaired intellect and keepers to
watch him.*
You know, of course, that Swift
has had many biographers; his life
has been told by the kindest and
most good-natured of men, Scott, who
admires but can't bring himself to
love him; and by stout old Johnson,'
* Sometimes, during his mental afflic'
tion, he continued walking about the
house for man:y consecutive hours; sometimes he remained in a kind of torpor.
At times, he would seem to struggle to
bring into distinct consciousness, and
shape into expression, the intellect that
lay smothering under gloomy obstruction
in him. A pier-glass falling by accident,
nearly fell on him. He said he wished it
had! He once repeated slowly several
times, " I am what I am." The last thing
he wrote was an epigram on the building
of a magazine for arms and stores, which
was pointed out to him as he went abroad
during his mental disease:"Behold a proof of Irish sense:
Here Irish wit is seen:
When nothing's left that's worth defence,
They build a magazine "
t Besides these famous books of Scott's
and Johnson's, there is a copious " Life "
by Thomas Sheridan (Dr. Johnson's
"Sherry"), father of Richard Brinsley,
and son of that good-natured, clever
Irish Dr. Thomas Sheridan, Swift's intimate, who lost his chaplaincy by so unluckily choosing for a text on the King's
birthday, "Sufficient for the day is the
evil thereof!" Not to mention less im



SWIFT.


who, forced to admit him into the
company of poets, receives the famous
Irishman, and takes off his hat to him
with a bow of surly recognition, scans
him from head to foot, and passes
over to the other side of the street.
Dr. Wilde of Dublin,* who has written a most interesting volume on the
closing years of Swift's life, calls
Johnson " the most malignant of his
biographers:" it is not easy for an
English critic to please Irishmen -
perhaps to try and please them. And
yet Johnson truly admires Swift:
Johnson does not quarrel with Swift's
change of politics, or doubt his sincerity of religion: about the famous
Stella and Vanessa controversy the
Doctor does not bear very hardly on
Swift. But he could not give the
Dean that honest hand of his; the
stout old gentleman puts it into his
breast, and moves off from him.t
portant works, there is also the 1" Iemarks
on the Life and Writings of Dr. Jonathan
Swift," by that polite and dignified writer,
the Earl of Orrery. His lordship is said to
have striven for literary renown, chiefly
that he might make up for the slight
passed on him by his father, who left his
library away from him. It is to be feared
that the ink he used to wash out that stain
only made it look bigger. He had, however, known Swift, and corresponded with
people who knew him. His work (which
appeared in 1751) provoked a good deal
of controversy, calling out, among other
brochures, the interesting " Observations
on Lord Orrery's Remarks," &c., of Dr.
Delany.
* Dr. Wilde's book was written on the
occasion of the remains of Swift and
Stella being brought to the light of day -
a thing which happened in 1835, when
certain works going on in St. Patrick's
Cathedral, Dublin,afforded an opportunity
of their being examined. One hears with
surprise of these skulls " going the
rounds" of houses, and being made the
objects of dilettante curiosity. The larynx of Swift was actually carried off!
Phrenologists had a low opinion of his
intellect from the observations they took.
Dr. Wilde traces the symptoms of illhealth in Swift, as detailed in his writings
from time to time. He observes, likewise,
that the skull gave evidence of " diseased
action " of the brain during life - such as
would be produced by an increasing tendency to " cerebral congestion."
t ' He [Dr. Johnson] seemed to me to


Would we have liked to live with
him? That is a question which, in
dealing with these people's works, and
thinking of their lives and peculiarities, every reader of biographies must
put to himself. Would you have liked
to be a friend of the great Dean? I
should like to have been Shakspeare's
shoeblack —just to have lived in his
house, just to have worshipped him -
to have run on his errands, and seen
that sweet serene face. I should like,
as a young man, to have lived on
Fielding's staircase in the Temple,
and after helping him up to bed perhaps, and opening his door with his
latch-key, to have shaken hands with
him in the morning, and heard him
talk and crack jokes over his breakfast and his mug of small beer. Who
would not give something to pass a
night at the club with Johnson, and
Goldsmith, and James Boswell, Esq.,
of Auchinleck? The charm of Addison's companionship  and conversation has passed. to us by fond tradition-but Swift? If you had been
his inferior in parts (and that, with a
great respect for all persons present,
I fear is only very likely), his -equal
in mere social station, lie would have
bullied, scorned, and insulted you; if,
undeterred by his great reputation,
you had met him like a man, he
would have quailed before you,* and
have an unaccountable prejudice against
Swift; for I once took the liberty to ask
him if Swift had personally offended him,
and he told me he had not."-BOSWELL'S
Tour to the Hebrides.
* Few men, to be sure, dared this experiment, but yet their success was encouraging. One gentleman made a point
of asking the Dean whether his uncle
Godwin had not given him his education.
Swift, who hated that subject cordially,
and, indeed, cared little for his kindred,
said, sternly, "Yes: he gave me the education of a dog." "Then, sir," cried the
other, striking his fist on the table, " you
have not the gratitude of a dog! "
Other occasions there were when a
bold face gave the Dean pause, even after
his Irish almost-royal position was established. But he brought himself into
greater danger on a certain occasion, and
the amusing circumstances may be once
more repeated here. He had unsparingly




72


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


not had the pluck to reply, and gone
home, and years after written a foul
epigram about you - watched for
you in a sewer, and come out to assail
you with a coward's blow and a dirty
bludgeon. If you had been a lord
with a blue ribbon, who flattered his
vanity, or could help his ambition, he
would have been the most delightful
company in the world. He would
have been so manly, so sarcastic, so
bright, odd, and original, that you
might think he had no object in view
but the indulgence of his humor, and
that he was the most reckless, simple
creature in the world. How he would
have torn your enemies to pieces for
you! and made fun of the Opposition! His servility was so boisterous
that it looked like independence; * he
would have done your errands, but
with the air of patronizing you, and
after fighting your battles, masked,
in the street or the press, would have
kept on his hat before your wife and
daughters in the drawing-room, content to take that sort of pay for his
tremendous services as a bravo.t
lashed the notable Dublin lawyer, Mr.
Sergeant Bettesworth -
"So at the bar, the booby Bettesworth,
Though half a crown outpays his sweat's
worth,
Who knows in law nor text nor margent,
Calls Singleton his brother-sergeant I"
The Sergeant, it is said, swore to have his
life. He presented himself at the deanery.
The Dean asked his name. "Sir, I am
Sergeant Bett-es-worth."
" In what regiment, pray?" asked
Swift.
A guard of volunteers formed themdelves to defend the Dean at this time.
* " But, my Hamilton, I will never
hide the freedom of my sentiments from
you. I am much inclined to believe that
the temper of my friend Swift might occasion his English friends to wish him happily and properly promoted at a distance.
His spirit, for I would give it the proper
name, was ever untractable. The motions of his genius were often irregular.
He assumed more the air of a patron than
of a friend. He affected rather to aictate than to advise."-ORRERY.
t "... An anecdote, which, though
only told by Mrs. Pilkington, is well attested, bears, that the last time he was in


He says as much himself in one of
his letters to Bolingbroke:-" All
my endeavors to distinguish myself
were only for want of a great title
and fortune, that I might be used like
a lord by those who have an opinion
of my parts; whether right or wrong
is no great matter. And so the reputation of wit and great learning
does the office of a blue ribbon or a
coach and six."*
Could there be a greater candor?
It is an outlaw, who says, " These
are my brains; with these I'll win
London he went to dine with the Earl of
Burlington, who was but newly married.
The Earl, it is supposed, being willing to
have a little diversion, did not introduce
him to his lady nor mention his name.
After dinner said the Dean, 'Lady Burlington, I hear you can sing; singme a
song.' The lady looked on this uncere.
monious manner of asking a favor with
distaste, and positively refused. He said,
' She should sing, or he would make her.
Why, madam, I suppose you take me for
one of your poor English hedge-parsons;
sing when I bid you.' As the Earl did
nothing but laugh at this freedom, the
lady was so vexed that she burst into
tears and retired. lls first compliment
to her when he saw her again was,' Pray,
madam, are you as proud and ill-natured
now as when I saw you last?' To which
she answered with great good-humor,
'No, Mr. Dean; I'll sing for you if you
please.' From which time he conceived
a great esteem for her."- SCOTT'S Life.
".. He had not the least tincture of
vanity in his conversation. He was, per.
haps, as he said himself, too proud to be
vain. When he was polite, it was in a
manner entirely his own. In his friend.
ships he was constant and undisguised.
He was the same in his enmities." - ORRERY.
* "I make no figure but at court,
where I affect to turn from the lord to
the meanest of my acquaintances."Journal to Stella.
" I am plagued with bad authors verse
and prose, who send me their books and
poems, the vilest I ever saw; but I have
given their names to my man, never to
let them see me." - Journal to Stella.
The following curious paragraph illustrates the life of a courtier:"Did I ever tell you that the Lord
Treasurer hears ill with the left car, just
as I do?... I dare not tell him that I
am so, for fear he should think that 1
countert.iteel to make my court!  -
Joa;rtdl to Stb!ta.




SWIFT.                               73
titles and   compete with fortune.     Swift's seems to me to be as good
These are my bullets; these I'll turn  a name to point a moral or adorn a
into gold;" and he hears the sound
of coaches and six, takes the road like bad practices of printers have been such
Macheath, and makes society stand    as to deserve the severest animadversion
and deliver. The            from the public..... The adverse party,
and deliver.   hey are all on their full of rage and leisure since their fall, and
knees before him. Down go my lord unanimous in their cause, employ a set of
bishop's apron, and his Grace's blue writers by subscription, who are well
ribbon, and my lay's brocade petti   versed in all the topics of defamation,.ribbon, an                         and have a style and genius levelled to
coat in the mud.   He cases the one the generality of their readers....
of a living, the other of a patent place, However, the mischiefs of the press were
the third of a little snug post about too exorbitant to be cured by such a remedy as a tax upon small papers, and a
the Court, and gives them over to    bill for a much more efliectua regulation
followers of his own. The great prize of it was brought into the House of Conhas not come yet. The coach with mons, but so late in the session that there
the mitre and crosier in it, which ie was no time to pass it, for there always
appeared an unwillingness to'cramp overintends to have for his share, has been  much the liberty of the press."
delayed on the way from St. James's;   But to a clause in the proposed bill,
and he waits and waits until night- that the names of authors should be set
fall when his runners come and tell    every printed book, pamphletorpaper,
fall, when his runners come and tell his Reverence objects altogether; for, says
him that the coach has taken a differ- he, "besides the objection to this clause
ent road, and escaped him.   So he from the practice of pious men, who, in
fires his pistol into the air with a publishing excellent writings for the sercurse, and rides away into his ovn vice of religion, have chosen, out of an
curse, and rinthumble Christian spirit, to conceal their
country.*                            names, it is certain that all persons of true
genius or knowledge have an invincible
fThe war of pamphlets ws cared modesty and suspicion of themselves
the Whig attacks side td the other: aind upon first sending their thoughts into the
the Whig attacks made the Ministry Swift world "
served very sore. Bolingbroke laid hold  This "invincible modesty  was no
of several of the Opposition pamphlet- doubt the sole reason which induced the
ceers, and bewails their " factitiousness" Dean to keep the secret of the "'Drain the following letter:-            pier's Letters" and a hundred humble
"BOLINGBROKE TO THE EARL OF        Christian works of which he was the
STRAFFORD.               author. As for the Opposition, the DocWhitehall, July 23d, 1712.  tor was for dealing severely with them:
~' lhitehall, July 23d, 1712.  he writes to Stella:
"It is a melancholy consideration that
the laws of our country are too weak to     JOURNAL. LETTER XTX.
punish effectually those factitious scrib-Lod,     h, 171
blers, who presume to blacken the bright-     Lo,   rc  2, 1710
est characters, and to give even scurrilous... We have let Guiscard be
language to those who are in the first de- buried at last, after showing him, pickled
grees of honor. This, my lord, among in a trough this fortnight for twopence a
others, is a symptom of the decayed con- piece; and the fellow that showed would
dition of our Government, and serves to point to his body and say, 'See, gentleshow how fatally we mistake licentious- men, this is the wound that was given
ness for liberty. All I could do was to him by His Grace the Duke of Ormond;'
take up Iart, the printer, to send him to and, 'This is the wound,' &c.; and then
Newgate, and to bind him over upon bail the show was over, and another set of
to be prosecuted; this I have done; and rabble came in. 'Tis hard that our laws
if I can arrive at legal proof against the would not suffer us to hang his body in
author, Itidpath, he shall have the same chains, because he was not tried; and in
treatment."                          the eye of the law every man is innocent
Swift was not behind his illustrious till then.....
friend in this virtuous indignation. In   JOURNAL. LETTER XXVIT.
the history of the four last years of the
Queen, the Dean speaks in the most edi-         "Londonz, July 25th, 1711.
fying manner of the licentiousness of the  "I was this afternoon with Mr. Secrcpress and the abusive language of the tary at his office, and helped to hinder a
other party: -                       man of his pardon, who is condemned for
"It must be acknowledged that the a rape. The Under Secretary was will4*




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


tale of ambition, as any hero's that
ever lived and failed. But we must
remember that the morality was lax
-that other gentlemen besides himself took the road in his day-that
public society was in a strange disordered condition, and the State was
ravaged by other condottieri.  The
Boyne was being fought and won,
and lost — the bells rung in William's
victory, in the very same tone with
which they would have pealed for
James's. Men were loose upon politics, and had to shift for themselves.
They, as well as old beliefs and institutions, had lost their moorings and
gone adrift in the storm. As in the
South Sea Bubble, almost everybody
gambled; as in the railway manianot many centuries ago-almost
every one took his unlucky share: a
man of that time, of the vast talents
and ambition of Swift, could scarce
do otherwise than grasp at his prize,
and make his spring at his opportunity. His bitterness, his scorn, his
rage, his subsequent misanthropy, are
ascribed by some panegyrists to a
deliberate conviction of mankind's
unworthiness, and a desire to amend
them by castigating. His youth was
bitter, as that of a great genius bound
down by ignoble ties, and powerless
in a mean dependence; his age was
bitter,* like that of a great genius
that had fought the battle and nearly
won it, and lost it, and thought of it
afterwards writhing in a lonely exile.
A man may attribute to the gods, if
he likes, what is caused by his own
fury, or disappointment, or self-will.
What public man - what statesman
projecting a coup - what king dletermined on invasion of his ncighborwhat satirist meditating an onslaught
on society or an individual, can't give
a pretext for his move? There was
ing to save him; but I told the Secretary
he could not pardon him without a favorable report from the Judge; besides, he
was a fiddler, and consequently a rogue,
and deserved hanging for something else,
and so he shall swing."
* It was his constant practice to keep
his birthday a day of mourning.


a French general the other day who
proposed to march into this country
and put it to sack and pillage, in revenge for humanity outraged by our
conduct at Copenllagn: there is always some excuse for men of the aggressive turn.   They are of their
nature warlike, predatory, eager for
fight, plunder, dominion.*
As fierce a beak and talon as ever
struck-as strong a wing as ever
beat, belonged to Swift. I am glad,
for one, that fate wrested the prey
out of his claws, and cut his wings
and chained him. One can gaze, and
not without awe and pity, at the lonely
eagle chained behind the bars.
That Swift was born at No.7, Hoey's
Court, Dublin, on tile 30th November, 1667, is a certain fact, of which
nobody will deny the sister island the
honor and glory; but, it seems to me,
he was no more an Irishman than a
man born of English parents at Calcutta is a Hindoo.t Goldsmith was
* "These devils of Grub Street rogues,
that write the 'Flying Post' and 'Mledley ' in one paper, will not be quiet. They
are always mauling Lord Treasurer, Lord
Bolingbroke, and me. We have the dog
under prosecution, but Bolingbroke is not
active enough; but I hope to swinge him.
lie is a Scotch rogue, one Ridpath. They
get out upon bail, and write on. We
take them again, and get fresh bail; so it
goes round." — Journal to Stella.
t Swift was by no means inclined to
forget such considerations; and his English birth makes its mark, strikingly
enough, every now and then in his writings. Thus in a letter to Pope (SCOTT'S
Swift. vol. xix. p. 97), he says:" We have had your volume of letters..... Some of those who highly value
you, and a few who know you personally,
are grieved to find you make no distinction between the English gentry of this
kingdom, and the savage old Irish (who
are only the vulgar, and some gentlemen
who live in the Irish parts of the kingdom); but the English colonies, who are
three parts in four, are much more civilized than many counties in England, and
speak better English, and are much better
bred."
And again, in the fourth Drapier's Letter, we have the following: -
" A short paper, printed at Bristol, and
reprinted here, reports Mr. Wood tc say
'that he wonders at the impudence arln
insolence of the Irish in refasin hbib coin.'




SWIFT.


75


an Irishman, and always an Irish- his humor —above all an Englishman
mai: Steele was an Irishman, and of his humor —certainly would, he is
always an Irishman:   Swift's heart afraid to use the poetical power which
was English and in England, his he really possessed; one often fancies
habits English, his logic eminently in reading him that lie dares not be
English; his statement is elaborately eloquent when lie might; that lie does
simple; he shuns tropes and meta- not speak above his voice, as it were.
phors, and uses his ideas and words and the tone of society.
with a wise thrift and economy, as    His initiation  into politics, his
he used his money: with which he knowledge of business, his knowledge
could be generous and splendid upon of polite life, his acquaintance with
great occasions, but which he hus- literature even, which he could not
banded when there was no need to have pursued very sedulously during
spend it. He never indulges in need- that reckless career at Dublin, Swift
less extravagance of rhetoric, lavish got under the roof of Sir William
cpithets, profuse imagery. He lays Temple. He was fond of telling in
his opinion before you with a grave after life what quantities of books he
simplicity and a perfect neatness.* devoured there, and how King WilDreading ridicule too, as a man of liam taught him to cut asparagus in
the Dutch fashion. It was at Shene
When, by the way, it is the true English and at Moor Park, with a salary of
people of Ireland who refuse it, although twenty pounds and a dinner at the
we take it for granted that the Irish will upper servants' table, t   this oreat
do so too whenever they are asked."-      servants ta,    at tis great
HCOTT'S Swift, vol. iv. p. 143.     and lonely Swift passed a ten years'
Hle goes further, in a good-humored apprenticeship- wore a cassock that
satirical paper, "On Barbarous Denomi- was only not a livery - bent down
nations ill Ireland," where (after abusing, knee as
as he was wont, the Scotch cadence, as     proud as L   fer's to suppl
well as expression), lie advances to the cate my lady's good graces, or run on
"Irish brogue," and speaking of the his honor's erads.*    It was hee,
"censure" which it brings down, says:- as he was writing at Temple's table,
"' And what is yet worse, it is too well  ing   is patron's walk, that
known that the bad consequence of this follo      s patron's walk, that
opinion affects those among us who are he saw and heard the men who had
not the least liable to such reproaches far- governed the great world - measured
ther than the misfortune of being born in himself with them, looking up from
Ireland, although of English parents, and
his silent corner, gauged their brains,
whose education has been chiefly in that his silent corne, gauged their brains,
kingdom."- Ibid. vol. vii. p. 149.  weighed their wits, turned them, and
But, indeed, if we are to make any tried them, and marked them. Ah!
thing of Race at all, we must call that what platitudes he must have heard!
man an Englishman whose father comes what feeblejokes what pompous cofrom an old Yorkshire family, and his               what pompou
mother from an old Leicestershire one!  monplaces! what small men they
* "The style of his conversation was must have seemed under those enorvery much of a piece with that of his mous periwigs, to the swarthy, nnwritings, concise and clear and strong.
Being one day at a Sheriff's feast, who down a fine fiddle and broke it; Swift
amongst other toasts called out to him, cried out -
'Mr. Dean, The Trade of Ireland!' he
"' Mantua v   e miscre nimium vicina Creanswered quick: ' Sir, I drink no memo-  Mntua e        mium      Cr
ries! '...                             mone "
"Happening to be in company with a -Dr. DELANY: Observations upon Lord
petulant young man who prided himself Orrery's "Remarks, (-c. on Szwift."
on saying pert things... and who cried London, 1754.
out-'You must know, Mr. Dean, that    * "Don't you remember how I used to
1 set up for a wit?' 'Do you so?' says be in pain when Sir William  Temple
the Dean.  'Take my advice, and sit would look cold and out of humor for
down again I'                       three or four days, and I used to suspect
"At another time, being in company, a hundred reasons? I have plucked ul:
where a lady whisking her long train my spirits since then, faith: he spoiled s
[long train3 were then in fashion] swept fine gentleman."- Journal to Stella.




76


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


couth,  silent Irish  secrctary.  ]
wonder whether it ever struck Temr
pie, that that Irishman was his master? I suppose that dismal conviction
did not present itself under the am
brosial wig, or Temple could never
have lived with Swift. Swift sickened,
rebelled, left the service - ate humble
pic and came back again; and so for
tel years went on, gathering learnilg, swallowing scorn, and submitting with a stealthy rage to his fortulle.
Temple's style is the perfection of
practised and easy good-breeding. If
he does not penetrate very deeply into
a subject, he professes a very gentlemanly acquaintance with it; if he
makes rather a parade of Latin, it
was the custom of his day, as it was
the custom for a gentleman to envelop his head in a periwig and his hands
in lace ruffles. If he wears buckles
and square-toed shoes, he steps in
them with a consummate grace, and
you never hear their creak, or find
them treading upon any lady's train
or any rival's heels in the Court
crowd. When that grows too hot or
too agitated for him, he politely
leaves it. He retires to his retreat of
Shene or Moor Park; and lets the
King's party and the Prince of Orange's party battle it out among
themselves.  He reveres the Sovereign (and no man perhaps ever testified to his loyalty by so elegant a
bow); he admires the Prince of Orange; but there is one person whose
ease and comfort he loves more than
all the princes in Christendom, and
that valuable member of society is
himself Gulielmus Temple, Baronettus. One sees him in his retreat;
between his study-chair and his tulipbeds,* clipping his apricots and prun* "... The Epicureans were more
intelligible in their notion, and fortunate in
their expression, when they placed a
man's happiness in the tranquillity of his
mind and indolence of body; for while we
are composed of both, I doubt both must
have a share in the good or ill we feel.
As men of several languages say the
same things in very different words, so in


[ing his essays, -the statesnan, the
ambassador no more; but the philosopher, the Epicurean, the fine gentleman and courtier at St. James's as at
Shene; where in place of kings and
fair ladies, he pays his court to the
Ciceronian majesty; or walks a minuet with the Epic Muse; or dallies by
the south wall with the ruddy nymph
of gardens.
Temple seems to have received and
exacted a prodigious deal of vencraseveral ages. countries, constitutions of
laws and religion, the same thing seems
to be meant by very different expressions:
what is called by the Stoics apatlhy, or dispassion; by the sceptics, indisturbance;
by the Molinists, quietism; by common
men, peace of conscience,-seems all to
mean but great tranquillity of mind.
For this reason Epicurus passed his life
wholly in his garden; there he studied,
there he exercised, there he taught his
philosophy; and, indeed, no other sort of
abode seems to contribute so much to both
the tranquillity of mind and indolence of
body, which lie made his chief ends. The
sweetness of the air, the pleasantness of
smell, the verdure of plants, the cleanness
and lightness of food, the exercise of
working or walking; but, above all, the
exemption from cares and solicitude,
seem equally to favor and improve both
contemplation and health, the enjoyment
of sense and imagination, and thereby the
quiet and ease both of the body and mind....Where Paradise was, has been
much debated, and little agreed; but what
sort of a place is meant by it may perhaps easier be conjectured. It seems to
have been a Persian word, since Xcnophon and other Greek authors mention it
as what was much in use and delight
among the kings of those eastern coun.
tries. Strabo describing Jericho: 'Ibi esi
palmetum, cui immixtse sunt etiam alise
stirpes hortenscs, locus ferax palmis
abundans, spatio stadiorum centum, totus
irriguus: ibi est Regis Balsami paradisus.' '- Essay on Gardens.
In the same famous essay Temple
speaks of a friend, whose conduct and
prudence he characteristically admires:... I thought it very prudent in a
gentleman of my friends in Staffordshire,
who is a great lover of his garden. to pretend no higher, though his soil be good
enough, than to the perfection of plums;
and in these (by bestowing south walls
upon them) he has very well succeeded,
which he could never have done in attempts upon peaches and grapes; and a
goo(d pluz, is certainly better than an il
peach.y




SWIFT.


tion from his household, and to have
been coaxed, and warmed, and cuddled by the people round about him,
as delicately as any of the plants
which he loved. When he fell ill in
1693, the household was aghast at his
indisposition: mild  Dorothea  his
wife, the best companion of the best
of men"Mild Dorothea, peaceful, wise, and
great,
Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of
fate."
As for Dorinda, his sister,4, Those who would grief describe, might
come and trace
Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's face.
To see her weep, joy every face forsook,
And grief flung sables on each menial
look.
The humble tribe mourned for the
quickening soul,
That furnished life and spirit through
the whole."
Isn't that line in which grief is dcscribed as putting the menials into a
mourning livery, a fine image? One
of the menials wrote it, who did not
like that Temple livery nor those
twenty-pound wages.    Cannot one
fancy the uncouth young    servitor,
with downcast eyes, books and papers
in hand, following at his honor's heels
in the garden walk; or taking his
honor's orders as lie stands by the
great chair, where Sir William has
the gout, and his feet all blistered
with moxa?  When Sir William has
the gout or scolds it must be hard
work at the second table;* the Irish
* SWIFTr' THOUGHTS ON IIANGING.
(Directions to Servants.)
"To grow old in the office of a footnman is the highest of all indignities: therefore, when you find years coming on
without hopes of a place at court, a command in the army, a succession to the
stewardship, an employment in the revenue (which two last you cannot obtain
without reading and writing), or running
away with your master's niece or
laughter, I directly advise you to go upon
the road, which is the only post of honor
left you: there you will meet many of
your old comrades, and live a short life
and a merry one, and make a figure at


secretary owned as much afterwards:
and when he came to dinner, how he
must have lashed and growled and
torn the household with his gibes and
scorn! What would the steward say
about the pride of them Irish schollards - and this one had got no great
credit even at his Irish college, if the
truth were known - and what a contempt his Excellency's own gentleman
must have had for Parson Teague
from Dublin. (The valets and chaplains were always at war. It is hard
to say which Swift thought the more
contemptible.) And what must have
been the sadness, the sadness and
terror, of the housekeeper's little
daughter with the curling black ringlets and the sweet smiling face, when
the secretary who teaches her to read
and write, and whom she loves and
reverences above all things —above
your exit, wherein I will give you some
instructions.
"The last advice I give you relates to
your behavior when you are going to be
hanged: which, either for robbing your
master, for housebreaking, or going upon
the highway, or in a drunken quarrel by
killing the first man you meet, may very
probably be your lot, and is owing to one
of these three qualities: either a love of
good-fellowship, a generosity of mind, or
too much vivacity of spirits. Your good
behavior on this article will concern your
whole community: deny the fact with all
solemnity of imprecations; a hundred of
your brethren, if they can be admitted,
will attend about the bar, and be ready
upon demand to give you a character before the Court; let nothing prevailon you
to confess, but the promise of a pardon
for discovering your comrades: but Isuppose all this to be in vain; for if you escape
now, your fate will be the same another
day. Get a speech to be written by the
best author in Newgate: some of your
kind wenches will provide you with a
holland shirt and white cap, crowned
with a crimson or black ribbon: take
leave cheerfully of all your friends in
Newgate: mount the cart with courage;
fall on your knees; lift up your eyes'
hold a book in your hands, although you
cannot read a word; deny the fact at the
gallowsl kiss and forgive the hangman,
and so farewell; you shall be buried in
pomp at the charge of the fraternity: the
surgeon shall not touch a limb of you;
and your fame shall continue until a successor of equal renown succeeds in your
place...




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


mother, above mild Dorothea, above
that tremendous Sir William in his
square toes and periwig, - when M[r.
Swift comes down from his master
with rage in his heart, and has not a
kind word even for little Hester Johnson?
Perhaps, for the Irish Secretary,
his Excellency's condescension was
even more cruel than his frowns. Sir
William would perpetually quote Latin
and the ancient classics ipropos of his
gardens and his Dutch statues and
plates-bardes, and talk about Epicurus
and Diogenes Laertius, Julius Caesar,
Semiramis, and the gardens of the
Hesperides, Macenas, Strabo describing Jericho, and the Assyrian kings.
Apropos of beans, he would mention
Pythagoras's precept to abstain from
beans, and that this precept probably
meant that wise men should abstain
from public affairs. IHe is a placid
Epicurean; he is a Pythagorean philosopher; lhe is a wise man -that is
the deduction. Does not Swift think
so?   One can imagine the downcast
eyes lifted up for a moment, and the
flash of scorn which they emit. Swift's
eyes were as azure as the heavens;
Pope says nobly (as every thing Pope
said and thought of his friend was
good and noble), "His eyes are as
azure as the heavens, and have a
charming archness in them." And
one person in that household, that
pompous, stately, kindly Moor Park,
saw heaven nowhere else.
But the Temple amenities and
solemnities did not agree with Swift.
He was half killed with a surfeit of
Shene pippins; and in a garden-seat
which he devised for himself at Moor
Park, and where he devoured greedily
the stock of books within his reach,
he caught a vertigo and deafness
which punished and tormented him
through life. He could not bear the
place or the servitude. Even in that
poem of courtly condolence, from
which we have quoted a few lines of
mock melancholy, he breaks out of
the funereal procession with a mad
shriek, as it were, and rushes away


crying his own grief, cursing his own
fate, foreboding madness, and forsaken
by fortune, and even hope.
I don't know any thing more melancholy than the letter to Temple, in
which, after having broke from his
bondage, the poor wretch crouches
piteously towards his cage again, and
deprecates his master's anger. He
asks for testimonials for orders. "The
particulars required of me are what
relate to morals and learning; and
the reasons for quitting your honor's
family- that is, whether the last was
occasioned by any ill action.  They
are left entirely to your honor's mercy, though in the first I think I cannot reproach myself for any thing
further than for infirmities.  This is
all I dare at present beg from your
honor, under circumstances of life not
worth your regard: what is left me to
wish (next to the health and prosperity of your honor and family) is
that Heaven would one day allow me
the opportunity of leaving my acknowledgments at your feet. I beg
my most humble duty and service be
presented to my ladies, your honor's
lady and sister." - Can prostration
fall deeper? could   a  slave bow
lower *
* " He continued in Sir William Temple's house till the death of that great
man." —Anecdotes of the Family of
Swift, by the DEAN.
"It has since pleased God to take this
great and good person to himself."Preface to Temple's Works.
On all public occasions, Swift speaks
of Sir William in the same tone. Butthe
reader will better understand how acutely
lie remembered the indignities he suffered
in his household, from the subjoined extracts from the Journal to Stella: -
" I called at Mr. Secretary the other
day, to see what the d- ailed him on
Sunday: I made him a very proper
speech; told him I observed he was much
out of temper, that I did not expect he
would tell me the cause, but would be
glad to see he was in better; and one
thing I warned him of- never to appear
cold to me for I would not be treated like
a schoolboy; that I had felt too much of
that in my life already" (meaning Sir
William Temple), &c. &c.-Journal to
Stella.
"I am thinking what a veneration we




SWIFT.


79


Twenty years afterwards Bishop
Kennet, describing the same man,
says, "Dr. Swift came into the coffeehouse and had a bow from everybody
but me. When I came to the antechamber [at Court] to wait before
prayers, Dr. Swift was the principal
man of talk and business. He was
soliciting the Earl of Arran to speak
to his brother, the )uke of Ormond,
to get a place for a clergyman. He
was promising Mr. Thorold to undertake, with my Lord Treasurer, that
he should obtain a salary of 2001. per
annum as member of the English
Church at Rotterdam.    He stopped
F. Gwynne, Esq., going into the
Queen with the red bag, and told him
aloud, he had something to say to him
fron  my Lord Treasurer. lie took
out his gold watch, and telling the
time of day, complained that it was
very late. A gentleman said he was
too fast. ' How can I help it,' says
the Doctor, 'if the courtiers give me
a watch that won't go right?' Then
he instructed a young nobleman, that
the best poet in England was Mr.
Pope (a Papist), who had begun a
translation of Homer into English,
for which he would have them all
subscribe: 'For,' says he, 'he shall
not begin to print until I have a thousand guineas for him.'* Lord Treasused to have for Sir William Temple because he might have been Secretary of
State at fifty; and here is a young fellow
hardly thirty in that employment."Ibid.
" The Secretary is as easy with me as
Mr. Addison was. I have often thought
what a splutter Sir William Temple
makes about being Secretary of State."
-Ibid.
" Lord Treasurer has had an ugly fit
of the rheumatism, but is now quite well.
I was playing at one-and-thirty with him
and his family the other night. He gave
us all twelvepence apiece to begin with;
it put me in mind of Sir William Temple." - Ibid.
" I thought I saw Jack Temple [nephew
to Sir lillianm] and his wife pass by me
to-day in their coach; but I took no notice
of them. I am glad I have wholly shaken
off that family."- S. to S., Sept. 1710.
" "Swift must be allowed," says Dr.
Jcobnson, " for a time, to have dictated


urer, after leaving the Queen, came
through  the room, beckoning Dr.
Swift to follow him, - both went off
just before prayers."  There's a little
malice in the Bishop's "just before
prayers."
This picture of the great Dean
seems a true one, and is harsh, though
not altogether unpleasant. He was
doing good, and to deserving men
too, in the midst of these intrigues
and triumphs. His journals and a
thousand anecdotes of him relate his
kind acts and rough manners. His
hand was constantly stretched out to
relieve an honest man - he was cautious about his money, but ready. -
If you were in a strait would you like
such a benefactor? I think I would
rather have had a potato and a friendly word from Goldsmith than have
been beholden to the Dean for a
guinea and a dinner.* He insulted
the political opinions of the English nation."
A conversation on the Dean's pamphlets excited one of the Doctor's liveliest
sallies. "One, in particular, praised his
'Conduct of the Allies.' -JOHNSON: ' Sir,
his " Conduct of the Allies " is a performance of very little ability... Why, sir,
Tom Davies might have written the " Conduct of the Allies! ""'- BOSWELL'S Life
of Johnson.
* " Whenever he fell into the company
of any person for the first time, it was his
custom to try their tempers and disposition by some abrupt question that bore the
appearance of rudeness. If this were well
taken, and answered with good humor, he
afterwards made amends by his civilities.
But if he saw any marks of resentment,
from alarmed pride, vanity, or conceit, he
dropped all further intercourse with the
party.  This will be illustrated by an
anecdote of that sort related by Mrs. Pilkington. After supper, the Dean having
decanted a bottle of wine, poured what
remained into a glass, and seeing it was
muddy, presented it to Mr. Pilkington to
drink it. 'For,' said he, 'I always keep
some poor parson to drink the foul wine
for me.' Mr. Pilkington, entering into
his humor, thanked him, and told him ' he
did not know the difference, but was glad
to get a glass at any rate.' ' Why, then,'
said the Dean, ' you shan't, for I'll drink
it myself. Why, -  take you, you are
wiser than a paltry curate whom I asked
to dine with me a few days ago; for upon
my making the same speech to him, he




80


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


a man as he served him, made wo- terest.*    The Queen, and the bishops,
men cry, guests look foolish, bullied and the world were right, in misunlucky friends, and flung his bene- trusting the religion of that man.
factions into poor men's faces. No;
the Dean   was no Irishman- no * "FROM TIE AIRCBISHOP OF CASTIELL.
Irishman ever gave but with a kind |" Cashell, M1fay 31st, 1735.
word and a kind heart.              "DEAR SIR,It is told, as if it were to Swift's I  "I HAVE been so unfortunate in all my
credit, that the )ean of St. P tlick'  contests of late, that I am resolved tohave
i no more, especially when I am likely to
performed his family devotions every be overmatched; and as I have some
morning regularly, but with such reason to hope what is passed will be forsecrecy that the guests in his house gotten, I confess I did endeavor in my
were never in te least wre of the last to put the best color I could think of
were never in the least aware of the ponaverybdca       My friends judge
upon a very bad cause. My friends judge
ceremony. There was no need surely right of my idleness; but, in reality, it
why a church dignitary should as- has hitherto proceeded from a hurry and
sembl his family  rivil in a crptconfusion, arising from a thousand una l as if  h  ls afraid of heath  ' lucky unforeseen accidents rather than
and as if lie was afraid of heathen i mere sloth. I have but one troublesome
persecution. But I think the world; affair now upon my hands, which by the
was right, and the bishops who ad- help of the prime sergeant, I hope soon to
viset rid of; and then you shall see me a
vise  Queen Anne, when they cou- true Irish bishop. Sir James Ware has
selled her not to appoint the author I made a very useful collection of the memof the "Tale of a Tub" to a bishopric, orable actions of my predecessors. He
gave perfectly good advice.  The man tells me, they were born in such a town
who wrote the alrguments and illus- of England or Ireland; were consecrated
such a year; and if not translated, were
trations in that wild book, could not i buried in the Cathedral church, either on
but be aware what must be the sequel the north or south side. Whence I conof the propositions which he laid elude thata good bishop has nothing more
down.   The   boon  companion    of to do than to eat, drink, grow fat, rich, and
down.  The   boon    companion   of tdie; which laudable example I propose
Pope and Bolingbroke, who chose for the remainder of my life to follow;
these as the friends of his life, and the for to tell you the truth, I have for these
recipients of his confidence and affec- four or five years past met
treachery, baseness,  and  ingratitude
tion, must have heard many an argu- among mankind, that I can hardly think
ment, and joined in many a conver- it incumbent on any man to endeavor to
sation over Pope's port, or St. John's, do good to so perverse a generation.
burgundy,  which would not bear to     "I am truly concerned at the account
you give me of your health. Without
be repeated at other men's boards. I doubt a southern ramble will prove the
I know of few thins more conclusive best remedy you can take to recover your
as to the sincerity of Swift's religion flesh; and I do not know, except in one
than his advice to poor John Gay to stae where you  can choos e as road s
turn clergyman, and look out for a Dublin hither. You have to Kilkenny a
seat on the Bench. Gay, the author turnpike and good inns, at every ten or
f th Beg ar's Opera "   g      twelve miles' end. From Kilkenny hither
of the t Bof ar's Opera aGayt, tol I is twenty long miles, bad road, and no
wildest of the wits about town-it inns at all: but I have an expedient for
was this man that Jonathan Swift I you. At the foot of a very high hill, just
advised to take orders -to invest in midway, there lives in a neat thatched
a cassock and bands -just as he ld- cabin, a parson, who is not poor; his wife
is allowed to be the best little woman in
vised him to husband his shillings, and the world. Her chickens are the fattest,
put his thousand pounds out at in- and her ale the best in all the country.
Besides, the parson has a little cellar of
his own, of which he keeps the key,
said he did not understand such usage, where he always has a hogshead of the
and so walked off without his dinner. best wine that can be got, in bottles well
By the same token, I told the gentleman corked, upon their side; and he cleans,
who recommended him to me that the fel- and pulls out the cork better, I think,
low was a blockhead, and I had done with than Robin. Here I design to meet you
him."' - SHERIDAN'S Life of Swift.  with a coach; if you be tired, you shall stay




SWIFT.


I am not here, of course, to speak
of any man's religious views, except
in so far as they influence his literary
character, his life, his humor. The
most notorious sinners of all those
fellow-mortals whom it is our business to discuss - Harry Fielding and
Dick Steele, were especially loud, and
I believe really fervent, in their expressions of belief; they belabored
freethinkers, and stoned imaginary
atheists on all sorts of occasions, going out of their way to bawl their own
creed, and persecute their neighbor's,
and if they sinned and stumbled, as
they constantly did with debt, with
drink, with all sorts of bad behavior,
they got upon their knees, and cried
" Peccavi " with a most sonorous orthodoxy. Yes; poor Harry Fielding
and poor Dick Steele were trusty and
undoubting Church of England men;
they abhorred Popery, Atheism, and
wooden shoes, and idolatries in general; and hiccoughed Church and
State with fervor.
But Swift? His mind had had a
different schooling, and possessed a
very different logical power. Ile was
not bred up in a tipsy guard-room,
and did not learn to reason in a Covent Garden tavern. Ile could conduct an argument from beginning to
end. He could see forward with a
fatal clearness. In his old age, looking at the " Tale of a Tub," when he
said, "Good God, what a genius I
had when I wrote that book!" I
think he was admiring not the geall night; if not, after dinner, we will set
out about four, and be at Cashell by nine;
and by going through fields and by-ways,
which the parson will show us, we shall
escape all the rocky and stony roads that
lie between this place and that, which are
certainly very bad. I hope you will be
so kind as to let me know a post or two
before you set out, the very day you will
be at Kilkenny, that I may have all things
prepared for you. It may be, if you ask
him, Cope will come; he will do nothing
for me. Therefore, depending upon your
positive promise, I shall add no more
arguments to persuade you, and am, with
the greatest truth, your most faithful and
obedient servant,
"TZHEO. CASHELL."


nius, but the consequences to which
the genius had brought him - a vast
genius, a magnificent genius, a genius
wonderfully bright, and dazzling, and
strong, -to seize, to know, to see, to
flash upon falsehood and scorch it into
perdition, to penetrate into the hidden motives, and expose the black
thoughts of men, - an awful, an evil
spirit.
Ah man! you, educated in Epicurean Temple's library, you whose
friends were Pope and. St. John —
what made you to swear to fatal vows,
and bind yourself to a lifelong hypocrisy before the Heaven which you
adored with such real wonder, humility, and reverence? For Swift was a
reverent, was a pious spirit —for
Swift could love and  could pray.
Through the storms and tempests of
his furious mind, the stars of religion
and love break out in the blue, shining
serenely, though hidden by the driving clouds and the maddened hurricane of his life.
It is my belief that he suffered
frightfully from the consciousness of
his own scepticism, and that he had
bent his pride so far down as to put
his apostasy out to hire.* The paper
left behind him, called " Thoughts on
Religion," is merely a set of excuses
for not protessing disbelief. He says
of his sermons that he preached pamphlets: they have scarce a Christian
characteristic; they might be preached
from the steps of a synagogue, or the
floor of a mosque, or the box of a coffee-house almost, There is little or no
cant - he is too great and too proud
for that; and, in so far as the badness of his sermons goes, he is honest.
But having put that cassock on, it
poisoned him; he was strangled in
his bands. He goes through life,
tearing, like a man possessed with a
* "Mr. Swift lived with him [Sir William Temple] some time, but resolving to
settle himself in some way of living, was
inclined to take orders.  However, although his fortune was very small, he had
a scruple against entering into the Church
merely for support." - Anecdotes of the
Family of Swift, by the DEAN.




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


devil. Like Abudah in the Arabian
story, he is always looking out for
the Fury, and knows that the night
will come and the inevitable hag with
it. What a night, my God, it was!
what a lonely rage and long agonywhat a vulture that tore the heart of
that giant! *  It is awful to think of
the great sufferings of this great man.
Through life he always seems alone,
somehow. Goethe was so. I can't
fancy  Shakspeare otherwise.  The
giants must live apart. The kings
can have no company. But this man
suffered so; and deserved so to suffer.
One hardly reads anywhere of such a
pain.
The "sseva indignatio" of which
he spoke as lacerating his heart, and
which he dares to inscribe on his
tombstone -as if the wretch who lay
under that stone waiting God's judgment had a right to be angrybreaks out from  him in a thousand
pages of his writing, and tears and
rends him. Against men in office, lie
having been overthrown;    against
men in England, he having lost his
chance of preferment there, the furious exile never fails to rage and curse.
Is it fair to call the famous " Drapier's Letters" patriotism?  They
are master-pieces of dreadful humor
and invective: they are reasoned
logically enough too, but the proposition is as monstrous and fabulous as
the Lilliputian island. It is not that
the grievance is so great, but there is
his enemy - the assault is wonderful
for its activity and terrible rage. It
is Samson, with a bone in his hand,
rusling on his enemies and felling
them: one admires not the cause so
much as the strength, the anger, the
fury of the champion. As is the case
with madmen, certain subjects provoke him, and awaken his fits of
* "Dr. Swift had a natural severity of
face, which even his smiles could never
soften, or his utmost gayety render placid
and serene; but when that sternness of
visage was increased by rage, it is scarce
possible to imagine looks or features that
carried in them more terror and austerity." - ORRERY.


wrath. Marriage is one of these; in
a hundred passages in his writings he
rages against it; rages against children; an object of constant satire,
even more contemptible in his eyes
than a lord's chaplain, is a poor curate with a large family. The idea
of this luckless paternity never fails
to bring down from him gibes and
foul language. Could Dick Steele,
or Goldsmith, or Fielding, in his
most reckless moment of satire, have
written any thing like the Dean's
famous " modest proposal" for eating
children?  Not one of these but
melts at the thoughts of childhood,
fondles and caresses it. Mr. Dean
has no such softness, and enters the
nursery with the tread and gayety of
an ogre.*  "I have been assured,"
says he in the " Modest Proposal,"
"by a very knowing American of my
acquaintance in London, that a young
healthy child, well nursed, is, at a
year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether
stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and
I make no doubt it will equally serve
in a?ragout."  And taking up this
pretty joke, as his way is, he argues
it with perfect gravity and logic.
He turns and twists this subject in a
score of different ways: he hashes it;
and he serves it up cold; and he garnishes it; and relishes it always.
He describes the little animal as
" dropped from its dam," advising
that the mother should let it suck
plentifully in the last month, so as to
render it plump and fat for a good
table!  "A  child," says his Reverence, " will make two dishes at an
entertainment for friends; and when
the family dines alone, the fore or
hind quarter will make a reasonable
dish, and so on; and, the subject be*      "London, April 10th, 1713.
"Lady Masham's eldest boy is very ill:
I doubt he will not live; and she stays at
Kensington to nurse him, which vexes us
all. She is so excessively fond, it makes
me mad. She should never leave the
Queen, but leave every thing, to stick to
what is so much the interest of the publie, as well as her own..."-Journal.




SWIFT.


fng so delightful that lie can't leave
it, he proceeds to recommend, in place
of venison for squires' tables, " the
bodies of young lads and maidens not
3xceeding fourteen or under twelve."
Amiable humorist! laughing castigator of morals! There was a process
well known and practised in the
Dean's gay days: when a lout entered the coffee-house, the wags proceeded to what they called " roasting"
him. This is roasting a subject with
a vengeance. The Dean had a native
genius for it. As the "Almanach des
Gourmands " says, On nait rdtijseur.
And it was not merely by the sarcastic method that Swift exposed the
unreasonableness of loving and having children. In Gulliver, the folly
of love and marriage is urged by
graver arguments and advice. In the
famous Lilliputian kingdom, Swift
speaks with approval of the practice
of instantly removing children from
their parents and educating them by
the State; and amongst his favorite
horses, a pair of foals are stated to
be the very utmost a well-regulated
equine couple would permit themselves. In fact, our great satirist was
of opinion that conjugal love was unadvisable, and illustrated the theory
by his own practice and exampleGod help him -which made him
about the most wretched being in
God's world.*
The grave and logical conduct of
an absurd proposition, as exemplified
in the cannibal proposal just mentioned, is our author's constant method through all his works of humor.
Given a country of people six inches
or sixty feet high, and by the mere
process of the logic, a thousand wonderful absurdities are evolved, at so
many stages of the calculation. Turning to the first minister who waited
behind him with a white staff near as
tall as the mainmast of the " Royal
Sovereign," the King of Brobdingnag
observes how contemptible a thing




human grandeur is, as represented by
such a contemptible little creature as
Gulliver. " The Emperor of Lilliput's
features are strong and masculine"
(what a surprising humor there is in
this description!) -" The Emperor's
features," Gulliver says, " are strong
and masculine, with an Austrian lip,
an arched nose, his complexion olive,
his countenance erect, his body and
limbs well proportioned, and his deportment majestic. He is taller by the
breadth of my nail than any of his
court, which alone is enough to strike
an awe into beholders."
What a surprising humor there is in
these descriptions! How noble the
satire is here! How just and honest!
How perfect the image! Mr. Macaulay has quoted the charming lines of
the poet, where the king of the pygmies
is measured by the same standard. We
have all read in Milton of the spear
that was like " the mast of some tall
admiral," but these images are surely
likely to come to the comic poet originally. The subject is before him. He
is turning it in a thousand ways. He
is full of it.  The figure suggests
itself naturally to him, and comes out
of his subject, as in that wonderful
passage, when Gulliver's box having
been dropped by the eagle into the
sea, and Gulliver having been received
into the ship's cabin, he calls upon
the crew to bring the box into the
cabin, and put it on the table, the
cabin being only a quarter the size of
the box. It is the veracity of the
blunder which is so admirable. Had
a man come from such a country as
Brobdingnag he would have blundered
so.
But the best stroke of humor, if
there be a best in that abounding
book, is that where Gulliver, in the
unpronounceable country, describes
his parting from his master the horse.*
* Perhaps the most melancholy satire
in the whole of the dreadful book, is the
description of the very old people in the
"Voyage to Laputa." At Lugnag, Gulliver hears of some persons who never
die, called the Struldbrugs, and expressing a wish to become acquainted with men


* "My health is somewhat mended,
but at best I have an ill head and an
aching heart." — In nay, 1719.






84


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


"I took," he says, "a second leave
of my master, but as I was going to
who must have so much learning and
experience, his colloquist describes the
Struldbrugs to him.
"He said: They commonly acted like
mortals, till about thirty years old, after
which, by degrees, they grew melancholy
and dejected, increasing in both till they
came to fourscore. This he learned from
their own confession: for otherwise there
not being above two or three of that species
born in an age, they were too few to form a
general observation by. When they came
to fourscore, which is reckoned the extremity of living in this country, they had
not only all the follies and infirmities of
other old men, but many more which
arose from the prospect of never dying.
They were not only opinionative, peevish,
covetous, morose, vain, talkative, but incapable of friendship, and dead to all natural affection, which never descended below their grandchildren. Envy and impotent desires are the prevailing passions.
But those objects against which their envy
seems principally directed, are the vices
of the younger sort and the deaths of the
old. By reflecting on the former, they
find themselves cut off from all possibility
of pleasure; and whenever they see a
funeral, they lament, and repent that
others have gone to a harbor of rest, to
which they themselves never can hope to
arrive. They have no remembrance of
any thing but what they learned and observed in their youth and middle age, and
even that is very imperfect. And for the
truth or particulars of any fact, it is safer
to depend on common tradition than upon
their best recollections. The least miserable among them appear to be those who
turn to dotage, and entirely lose their
memories; these meet with more pity and
assistance, because they want many bad
qualities which abound in others.
"If a Struldbrug happened to marry
one of his own kind, the marriage is dissolved of course, by the courtesy of the
kingdom, as soon as the younger of the
two comes to be fourscore. For the law
thinks it to be a reasonable indulgence
that those who are condemned, without
any fault of their own, to a perpetual continuance in the world, should not have
their misery doubled by the load of a
wife.
"As soon as they have completed the
term of eighty years, they are looked on
as dead in law; their heirs immediately
succeed to their estates, only a small pittance is -eserved for their support; and
the poor ones are maintained at the public charge. After that period they are
held incapable of any employment of trust
or profit, they cannot purchase lands or
take leases, neither are they allowed to be


prostrate myself to kiss his hoof, he
did me the honor to raise it gently to
witnesses in any cause, either civil or
criminal, not even for the decision of
meers and bounds.
"At ninety they lose their teeth and
hair; they have at that age no distinction
of taste, but eat and drink whatever they
can get without relish or appetite. The
diseases they were subject to still continue, without increasing or diminishing.
In talking, they forget the common appellation of things, and the names of persons, even of those who are their nearest
friends and relatives. For the same reason, they can never amuse themselves
with reading, because their memory will
not serve to carry them from the beginning of a sentence to the end; and by this
defect they are deprived of the only entertainment whereof they might otherwise
be capable.
'"The language of this country being
always on the flux, the Struldbrugs of
one age do not understand those of
another; neither are they able, after two
hundred years, to hold any conversation
(further than by a few general words)
with their neighbors, the mortals; and
thus they lie under the disadvantage of
living like foreigners in their own country.
" This was the account given me of the
Struldbrugs, as near as I can remember.
I afterwards saw five or six of different
ages, the youngest not above two hundred
years old, who were brought to me several times by some of my friends; but
although they were told 'that I was a
great traveller, and had seen all the
world,' they had not the least curiosity to
ask me a single question; only desired I
would give them slumskudask, or a token
of remembrance; which is a modest way
of begging, to avoid the law, that strictly
forbids it, because they are provided for
by the public, although indeed with a very
scanty allowance.
"They are despised and hated by all
sorts of people; when one of them is born,
it is reckoned ominous, and their birth is
recorded very particularly; so that you
may know their age by consulting tho
register, which, however, has not been
kept above a thousand years past, or at
least has been destroyed by time or public
disturbances. But the usual way of computing how old they are, is by asking
them what kings or great persons they
can remember, and then consulting history; for infallibly the last prince in their
mind did not begin his reign after they
were fourscore years old.
"They were the most mortifying sight
I ever beheld, and the women more horrible than the men; besides the usual deformities in extreme old age, they acquired
an additional ghastliness, in proportion to




SWIFT.


my mouth. I am not ignorant how
much I have been censured for mentioning this last particular. Detractors are pleased to think it improbable
that so illustrious a person should
descend to give so great a mark of
distinction to a creature so inferior
as I. Neither am I ignorant how
apt some travellers are to boast of extraordinary favors they have received.
But if these censurers were better acquainted with the noble and courteous
disposition of the Houyhnhnms they
would soon change their opinion."
The surprise here, the audacity of
circumstantial evidence, the astounding gravity of the speaker, who is not
ignorant how much he has been censured, the nature of the favor conferred, and the respectful exultation
at the receipt of it, are surely complete;
it is truth topsy-turvy, entirely logical
and absurd.
As for the humor and conduct of
this famous fable, I suppose there is
no person who reads but must admire;
as for the moral, I think it horrible,
shameful, unmanly, blasphemous; and
giant and great as this Dean is, I say
we should hoot him. Some of this
audience mayn't have read the last
part of Gulliver, and to such I would
recall the advice of the venerable Mr.
Punch to persons about to marry, and
say "Don't."  When Gullivcr first
lands among the Yahoos, the naked
howling wretches clamber up trees
and assault him, and he describes
himself as "almost stifled with the
filth which fell about him."  The
reader of the fourth part of " Gulliver's Travels " is like the hero himself
in this instance. It is Yahoo language: a monster gibbering shrieks,
and gnashing imprecations against
mankind - tearing down all shreds of
modesty, past all sense of manliness
and shame; filthy in word, filthy in
thought, furious, raging, obscene.
their number of years, which is not to be
described; and among half a dozen, I
soon distinguished which was the eldest,
although there was not above a century or
two between them." - Gullivcr'3 Travels.


And dreadful it is to think that
Swift knew the tendency of his creed
-the fatal rock towards which his logic desperately drifted. That last part
of " Gulliver" is only a consequence
of what has gone before; and the
worthlessness of all mankind, the
pettiness, cruelty, pride, imbecility,
the general vanity, the foolish pretension, the mock greatness, the pompous
dulness, the mean aims, the base successes - all these were present to
him; it was with the din of these
curses of the world, blasphemies
against heaven, shrieking in his ears,
that he began to write his dreadful
allegory- of which the meaning is
that man is utterly wicked, desperate,
and imbecile, and his passions are so
monstrous, and his boasted powers so
mean, that he is and deserves to be the
slave of brutes, and ignorance is better
than his vaunted reason. What had
this man done? what secret remorse
was rankling at his heart? what fever
was boiling in him, that he should
see all the world blood-shot? We view
the world with our own eyes, each of
us; and we make from within us theworld we see.  A weary heart gets
no gladness out of sunshine; a selfish
man is sceptical about friendship, as
a man with no ear doesn't care for
music. A frihtfiul self-consciousness
it must have been, which looked on
mankind so darkly through those
keen eyes of Swift.
A remarkable story is told by Scott,
of I)clany, who interrupted Archbishop King and Swift in a conversation
which left the prelate in tears, and
from which Swift rushed away with
marks of strong terror and agitation
in his countenance, upon which the
Archbishop said to Delany, "You
have just met the most unhappy man
on earth; but on the subject of his
wretchedness you must never ask a
question."
The most unhappy man on earth;
-Miscrrimus - what a character of
him! And at this time all the great
wits of England had been at his feet.
All Ireland had shouted after him,




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


and worshipped him as a liberator, a
saviour, the greatest Irish patriot and
citizen.  Dean  Drapier Bickerstaff
Gulliver- the most famous statesmen, and the greatest poets of his
day, had applauded him, and done
him homage; and at this time, writing over to Bolingbroke from Ireland,
he says, " It is time for me to have
done with the world, and so I would
if I could get into a better before I
was called into the best, and not to die
here in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a
hole."
We have spoken about the men,
and Swift's behavior to them; and
now it behooves us not to forget that
there are certain other persons in the
creation who had rather intimate
relations with the great Dean.*  Two
women whom     he loved and injured
are known by every reader of books
so familiarly, that if we had seen
them, or if they had been relativcs of
our own, we scarcely could have
known them better. Who hasn't in
* The name of Varina has been thrown
into the shade by those of the famous
Stella and Vanessa; but she had a story
of her own to tell about the blue eyes of
young Jonathan. One may say that the
book of Swift's Life opens at places kept
by these blighted flowers  Varina must
have a paragraph.
She was a Miss Jane Waryng, sister to: college chum of his. In 1696, when
Swift was nineteen years old, we find him
writing a love-letter to her, beginning,
" Impatience is the most inseparable quality of a lover." But absence made a great
difference in his feelings; so, four years
afterwards, the tone is changed. He
writes again, a very curious letter, offering
to marry her, and putting the offer in
such a way that nobody could possibly
accept it.
After dwelling on his poverty, &c., he
says, conditionally, "I shall be blessed to
have you in my arms, without regarding
whether your person be beautiful, or your
fortune large. Cleanliness in the first,
and competency in the second, is all I ask
for I"
The editors do not tell us what became
of Varina in life. One would be glad to
know that she met with some worthy
partner, and lived long enough to see her
little boys laughing over Lilliput, without
any arriere pensee of a sad character
about the great Dean I


his mind an image of Stella? Who
does not love her? Fair and tender
creature: pure and affectionate heart!
Boots it to you, now that you have
been at rest for a hundred and twenty
years, not divided in death from the
cold heart which caused yours, whilst
it beat, such faithful pangs of love
and grief- boots it to you now, that
the whole world loves and deplores
you?  Scarce any man, I believe,
ever thought of that grave, that did
not cast a flower of pity on it, and
write over it a sweet epitaph. Gentle
lady, so lovely, so loving, so unhappy!
you have had countless champions;
millions of manly hearts mourning
for you. From generation to gencration we take up the fond tradition of
your beauty: we watch and follow
your tragedy, your bright morning
love and purity, your constancy, your
grief, your sweet martyrdom. We
know your legend by heart.   You
are one of the saints of English story.
And if Stella's love and innocence
are charming to contemplate, I will
say that in spite of ill-usage, in spite
of drawbacks, in spite of mysterious
separation and union, of hope delayed
and sickened heart -in the teeth of
Vanessa, and that little episodical
aberration which plunged Swift into
such woful pitfalls and quagmires of
amorous perplexity —in spite of the
verdicts of most women, I believe,
who, as far as my experience and
conversation go, generally take Vanessa's part in the controversy - in
spite of the tears which Swift caused
Stella to shed, and the rocks and the
barriers which fate and temper interposed, and which prevented the pure
course of that true love from running
smoothly - the brightest part of
Swift's story, the pure star in that
dark and tempestuous life of Swift's,
is his love for Hester Johnson. It
has been my business, professionally
of course, to go through a deal of
sentimental reading in my time, and
to acquaint myself with love-making,
as it has been described in various
languages, and at various ages of the




SWIFT.


87


world; and I know of nothing more
manly, more tender, more exquisitely
touching, than some of these brief
notes, written in what Swift calls
"his little language" in his journal
to Stella.* He writes to her night and
morning often. He never sends away
a letter to her but he begins a new
one on the same day. He can't bear
to let go her kind little hand, as it
were. He knows that she is thinking
of him, and longing for him faraway
in Dublin yonder. He takes her letters from under his pillow and talks
to them, familiarly, paternally, with
fond epithets and pretty caresses -as
he would to the sweet and artless
creature who loved him. " Stay," he
writes one morning-it is the 14th
of l)ecember, 1710 -" Stay, I will
answer some of your letter this morning in bed. Let me see. Come and
appear, little letter! Here I am, says
he, and what say you to Stella this
morning fresh and fasting? And can
Stella read this writing without hurting her dear eyes? " he goes on, after
more kind prattle and lond whispering.   The dear eyes shine clearly
upon him then -the good angel of
his life is with him and blessing him.
Ah, it was a hard fate that wrung
from them so many tears, and stabbed
pitilessly that pure and tender bosom.
A  hard fate: but would she have
changed it? I have heard a woman
say that she would have taken Swift's
cruelty to have had his tenderness.
Ic had a sort of worship for her whilst
* A sentimental Champollion might
find a good deal of matter for his art, in
expounding the symbols of the " Little
Language." Usually, Stella is " M. D.,"
but sometimes her companion Mrs. Dingley, is included in it. Swift is "Presto: "
also P. D. F. R. We have  Good-night,
M. D.; Night, M. D.; Little, M. D.; Stellakins; Pretty Stella; Dear, roguish, impudent, pretty M. D." Every now and
then he breaks into rhyme, as -
"I wish you both a merry new year,
Roast-beef, minced-pies, and good strong
beer,
And me a share of your good cheer,
That I was there, as you were here,
And you arc a little saucy dear."


he wounded her. He speaks of her
after she is gone; of her wit, of her
kindness, of her grace, of her beauty,
with a simple love and reverence that
are indescribably touching; in contemplation of her goodness his hard
heart melts into pathos; his cold
rhyme kindles and glows into poetry,
and he falls down on his knees, so to
speak, before the angel whose life lie
had embittered, confesses his own
wretchedness and unworthiness, and
adores her with cries of remorse and
love:" When on my sickly couch I lay,
Impatient both of night and day,
And groaning in unmanly strains,
Called every power to ease my pains,
Then Stella ran to my relief,
With cheerful face and inward grief,
And though by heaven's severe decree
She suffers hourly more than me,
No cruel master could require
From slaves employed for daily hire,
What Stella, by her friendship warmed,
With vigor and delight performed.
Now, with a soft and silent tread
Unheard she moves about my bed:
My sinking spirits now supplies
With cordials in her hands and eyes.
Best patron of true friends I beware;
You pay too dearly for your care
If, while your tenderness secures
My life, it must endanger yours:
For such a fool was never found
Who pulled a palace to the ground,
Only to have the ruins made
Materials for a house decayed."
One little triumph Stella had in
her life —one dear little piece of
injustice was performed in her favor,
for which I confess, for my part, I
can't help thanking fate and the
Dean. That other person was sacrificed to her - that - that young woman, who lived five doors from Dr.
Swift's lodgings in Bury Street, and
who flattered him, and made love to
him in such an outrageous manner
- Vanessa was thrown over.
Swift did not keep Stella's letters to
him in reply to those he wrote to her.*
* The following passages are from a
paper begun by Swift on the evening of
the day of her death, Jan. 28, 1727-8:"She was sickly from her childhood,
until about the age of fifteen; but then
she grew into perfect health, and was
looked upon as one of the most beautiful,




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


He kept Bolingbroke's, and Pope's, that famous collection he describes
and Harley's, and Peterborough's: his lodging in Bury Street, where he
but Stella, "very carefully," the Lives has the first-floor, a dining-room and
say, kept Swift's. Of course: that is bed-chamber, at eight shillings     a
the way of the world: and so we can- week; and in Letter VI. he says " lhe
not tell what her style was, or of has visited a lady just come to town,"
what sort were the little letters which  whose name somehow is not menthe Doctor placed there at night, and  tioned; and in Letter VIII. he enters
bade to appear from under his pillow  a query of Stella's — " What do you
of a morning. But in Letter IV. of mean ' that boards near mle, that I
dine with now    and then'?   What
graceful, and agreeable young women in the deuce! You know whom I have
London-only a little too fat. Her hair..
was blacker than a raven, and every fea- (lined with every day since I left you,
ture of her face in perfection.       better than I do."    Of course she
"... Properly speaking " -he goes does. Of course Swift has not the
on, with a calmness which, under the cir- sli-htest idea of what she means. But
cumstances, is terrible —" she has been     e
dying six months!...               in a few letters more it turns out that
"Never was any of her sex born with the Doctor has been to (line "gravebetter gifts of the mind, or who more ly" with a Mrs. Vanhoinrigh: then
improved them by reading and convers  that lis negbor:
tion..... All of us who had the happi- at     as been to "is neghor:
ness of her friendship agreed unanimous- then that he has been unwell, and
ly, that in an afternoon's or evening's con- means to dine for the whole week
versation she never failed before we part- with his neighbor! Stella was quite
cd of delivering the best thing that was riht in  her
said in the company. Some of us have right    n  her previsons.   She saw
written down several of her sayings, or from  the very first hint what was
what the French call bons mots, wherein going to happen; and scented Vanessa
she excelled beyond belief."                n
The specimens on record, however, in in the air.*  'he rival is at the
the Dean's paper, called " Bons Mots de Dean's feet. The pupil and teacher
Stella," scarcely bear out this last part of are reading together, and drinking
the panegyric. But the following prove tea together, and going to prayers toher wit: -                                                  i
"A gentleman who had been very silly gether, and learning Latin together,
and pert in her company, at last began and conjugating aro, amas, amavi toto grieve at remembering the loss of a gether. The little language is over
child lately dead. A bishop sitting by for poor Stella. By the rule of gramcomforted him n-that he should be easy, mar and the course of conjugation,
because 'the child was gone to heaven.'                             n
'No, my lord,' said she; 'that is it which doesn't amavi come after amo and
most grieves him, because he is sure never amras?
to se       e hid th extremely ill, her  The loves of Cadenus and Vanessal
physician said, ' Madam, you are near the
bottom of the hill, but we will endeavor  * "I am so hot and lazy after my mornto get you up again.'  She answered, ing's walk, that I loitered at Mrs. Van' Doctor, I fear I shall be out of breath homrigh's, where my best gown and peribefore I get up to the top.'          wig was, and out of mere listlessness dine
"A very dirty clergyman of her ac- there, very often; so I did to-day."quaintance, who affected smartness and Journal to S.ella.
repartees, was asked by some of the com-  Mrs. Vanhomrigh, "Vanessa's" mothpany how his nails came to be so dirty. er, was the widow of a Dutch merchant
lie was at a loss; but she solved the diffi- who held lucrative appointments in King
culty by saying, ' The Doctor's nails grew  William's time.  The family settled in
dirty by scratching himself.'        I London in 1709, and had a house in Bury
"A Quaker apothecary sent her a vial, Street, St. James's - a street made notacorked; it had a broad brim, and a label ble by such residents as Swift and Steele;
of paper about its neck. ' What is that?' and, in our own time, Moore and Crabbe.
- said she -' my apothecary's son I' The  t " Vanessa was excessively vain. Tihe
ridiculous resemblance, and the sudden- character given of her by Cadenus is fine
ness of the question, set us all a-laugh- painting, but in general fictitious.  She
ing." - Swift's Works, SCOTT'S Ed. vol. was fond of dress; impatient to be adix. 295-6.                            mired; very romantic in her turn of mind;




SWIFT.


89


you may peruse in Cadenus's own
poem on the subject, and in poor
Vanessa's vehement cxpostulatory
verses and letters to him; she adores
him, implores him, admires him,
thinks him something god-like, and
only prays to be admitted to lie at his
feet.*  As they are bringing him
home from church, those divine feet
of Dr. Swift's are found pretty often
in Vanessa's parlor. He likes to be
admired and adored. He finds Miss
Vanhomrigh to be a woman of great
taste and spirit, and beauty and wit,
and a fortune too. He sees her every
day; he does not tell Stella about
the business: until the impetuous
Vanessa becomes too fond of him,
until the Doctor is quite fiightened
by the young woman's ardor, and
confounded   by  her warmth. He
superior, in her own opinion, to all her
sex; full of pertness, gayety, and pride;
not without some agreeable accomplishments, but far from being either beautiful
or genteel;... happy in the thoughts
of being reported Swift's concubine, but
still aiming and intending to be his wife."
-LORD ORRERY.
* " You bid me be easy, and you would
see me as often as you could. You had
better have said, as often as you can get
the better of your inclinations so much;
or as often as you remember there was
such a one in the world. If you continue
to treat me as you do, you will not be
made uneasy by me long. It is impossible to describe what I have suffered since
I saw you last: I am sure I could have
borne the rack much better than those
killing, killing words of yours. Sometimes I have resolved to die without seeing you more; but those resolves, to your
misfortune, did not last long; for there is
something in human nature that prompts
one so to find relief in this world I must
give way to it, and beg you would see me,
and speak kindly to me; for I am sure
you'd not condemn any one to suffer what
I have done, could you but know it. The
reason I write to you is, because I cannot
tell it to you, should I see you; for when
I begin to complain, then you are angry,
and there is something in your looks so
awful that it strikes me dumb. Oh I that
you may have but so much regard for me
left that this complaint may touch your
soul with pity. I say as little as ever I can:
did you but know what I thought, I am
sure it would move you to forgive me;
and believe I cannot help telling you this
and live." - VANESSA. (M. 1714.)
5


wanted to marry neither of them -
that I believe was the truth; but if
he had not married Stella, Vanessa
would have had him in spite of himself. When he went back to Ireland,
his Ariadne, not content to remain in
her isle, pursued the fugitive Dean.
In vain he protested, he vowed, he
soothed, and bullied; the news of the
Dean's marriage with Stella at last
came to her, and it killed her-she
died of that passion.*
* " If we consider Swift's behavior, so
far only as it relates to women, we shall
find that he looked upon them rather as
busts than as whole figures."-ORRERY.
" You must have smiled to have found
his house a constant seraglio of very virtuous women, who attended him from
morning to night." - ORRERY.
A correspondent of Sir Walter Scott's
furnished him with the materials on which
to found the following interesting passage
about Vanessa-after she had retired to
cherish her passion in retreat: -
" Marley Abbey, near Celbridge, where
Miss Vanhomrigh resided, is built much
in the form of a real cloister, especially
in its external appearance. An aged man
(upwards of ninety, by his own account)
showed the grounds to my correspondent.
He was the son of Mrs. Vanhomrigh's
gardener, and used to work with his
father in the garden while a boy. IIe
remembered the unfortunate Vanessa
well; and his account of her corresponded with the usual description of her person, especially as to her embonpoint. He
said she went seldom abroad, and saw little company: her constant amusement
was reading, or walking in the garden.... She avoided company, and was
always melancholy, save when Dean
Swift was there, and then she seemed
happy. The garden was to an uncommon
degree crowded with laurels. The old man
said that when Miss Vanhomrigh expected
the Dean she always planted with her own
hand a laurel or two against his arrival.
He showed her favorite seat, still called
'Vanessa's bower.' Three or four trees
and some laurels indicate the spot..
There were two seats and a rude table
within the bower, the opening of which
commanded a view of the Liffey....
In this sequestered spot, according to the
old gardener's account, the Dean and Vanessa used often to sit, with books and
writing-materials on the table before
them." — SCOTT'S Swift, vol. i. pp. 246-7.
"... But Miss Vanhomrigh, irritated at the situation in which she found
herself, determined on bringing to a crisis
those expectations of a union with the
object of her affections -to the hope of




90


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


And when she died, and Stella
heard that Swift had written beautifully regarding her, "That doesn't
surprise me," said Mrs. Stella, "for
we all know the Dean could write
beautifully about a broomstick." A
woman-a true woman! Would you
have had one of them forgive the other?
which she had clung amid every vicissitude of his conduct towards her. The
most probable bar was his undefined connection with Mrs. Johnson, which, as it
must have been perfectly known to her,
had, doubtless, long elicited her secret
jealousy, although only a single hint to
that purpose is to be found in their correspondence, and that so early as 1713,
when she writes to him - then in Ireland
-'If you are very happy, it is ill-natured
of you not to tell me so, except 'tis what
is inconsistent with mine.' Her silence
and patience under this state of uncertainty for no less than eight years, must
have been partly owing to her awe for
Swift, and partly, perhaps, to the weak
state of her rival's health, which, from
year to year, seemed to announce speedy
dissolution. At length, however, Vanessa's impatience prevailed, and she ventured on the decisive step of writing to
Mrs. Johnson herself, requesting to know
the nature of that connection. Stella, in
reply, informed her of her marriage with
the Dean; and full of the highest resentment against Swift for having given another female such a right in him as Miss
Vanhomrigh's inquiries implied, she sent
to him her rival's letter of interrogatories,
and, without seeing him, or awaiting his
reply, retired to the house of Mr. Ford,
near Dublin. Every reader knows the
consequence. Swift, in one of those paroxysms of fury to which he was liable,
both from temper and disease, rode instantly to Marley Abbey. As he entered
the apartment, the sternness of his countenance, which was peculiarly formed to
express the fiercer passions, struck the
unfortunate Vanessa with such terror
that she could scarce ask whether he
would not sit down. He answered by
flinging a letter on the table, and, instantly leaving the house, remounted his horse,
and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa
opened the packet, she only found her
own letter to Stella. It was her deathwarrant. She sunk at once under the
disappointment of the delayed yet cherished hopes which had so long sickened
her heart, and beneath the unrestrained
wrath of him for whose sake she had indulged them. How long she survived the
last interview is uncertain, but the time
does not seem to have exceeded a few
weeks." - SCOTT.


In a note in his biography, Scott
says that his friend Dr. 'luke, of
Dublin, has a lock of Stella's hair,
enclosed in a paper by Swift, on
which are written, in the Dean's
hand, the words: " Only a woman's
hair."  An instance, says Scott, of
the Dean's desire to veil his feelings
under the mask of cynical indifference.
See the various notions of critics!
Do those words indicate indifference
or an attempt to hide feeling?  )id
you ever hear or read four words
more pathetic?    Only a woman's
hair: only love, only fidelity, only
purity, innocence, beauty; only the
tenderest heart in the world stricken
and wounded, and passed away now
out of reach of pangs of hope deferred,
love insulted, and pitiless desertion:
- only that lock of hair left; and
memory and remorse, for the guilty,
lonely wretch, shuddering over the
grave of his victim.
And yet to have had so much love,
he must have given some. Treasures
of wit and wisdom, and tenderness,
too, must that man have had locked
up in the caverns of his gloomy heart,
and shown fitfully to one or two whom
he took in there. But it was not good
to visit that place. People did not
remain there long, and suffered for
having  been  there.*  He shrank
away from all affections sooner or
later. Stella and Vanessa both died
near him, and away from him. He
had not heart enough to see them die.
He broke from his fastest friend, Sheridan; he slunk away from his fondest
admirer, Pope. His laugh jars on
one's ear after seven score years. He
was always alone- alone and gnashing in the darkness, except when
* " M. Swift est Rabelais dans son bon
sens, ct vivant en bonne compagnie. II
n'a pas, a la verite, la galte du premier,
mais il a toute la finesse, la raison, le
choix, le bon gout qui manquent A notre
curi de Meudon. Ses vers sont d'un
gout singulier, et presque inimitable; la
bonne plaisanterie est son partage en vers
et en prose; mais pour le bien entendre
il faut faire un petit voyage dans son
pays." -VOLTAIRE: Lettres sur les i!:,
gluis. Let. 22.








CONGRENY E.




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


91


Stclla's sweet smile came and shone to me, that thinking of him is like
upon him. When that went, silence thinking of an empire falling. We
and utter night closed over him. An have other great names to mention —
immense genius: an awful downfall none I think, however, so great or so
and ruin. So great a man he seems gloomy.
CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


A GREAT number of years ago,
before the passing of the Reform Bill,
there existed at Cambridge a certain
debating club, called the " Union;"
and I remember that there was a
tradition amongst the undergraduates
who frequented that renowned school
of oratory, that the great leaders of
the Opposition and Government had
their eves upon the University Debating Club, and that if a man distinguished himself there he ran some
chance of being returned to Parliament as a great nobleman's nominee.
So Jones of John's, or Thomson of
Trinity, would rise in their might,
and draping themselves in their
gowns, rally round the monarchy, or
hurl defiance at priests and kings,
with the majesty of Pitt or the fire of
Mirabeau, fancying all the while that
the great nobleman's emissary was
listening to the debate from the back
benches, where he was sitting with
the family seat in his pocket. Indeed
the legend said that one or two
young Cambridge men, orators of the
"Union" were actually caught up
thence, and carried down to Cornwall
or old Sarum, and so into Parliament.
And many a young fellow deserted
the jogtrot University curriculum,
to hang on in the dust behind the
fervid wheels of the parliamentary
chariot.
Where, I have often wondered,
were the sons of Peers and Members
of Parliament in Anne's and George's


time   Were they all in the army, or
hunting in the country, or boxing the
watch?   How was it that the young
gentlemen from the University got
such a prodigious number of places?
A lad composed a neat copy of verses
at Christchurch or Trinity, in which
the death of a great personage was
bemoaned, the French king assailed,
the Dutch or Prince Eugene complimented, or the reverse; and the party
in power was presently to provide for
the young poet; and a commissionership, or a post in the Stamps, or the
secretaryship of an Embassy, or a
clerkship in the Treasury, came into
the bard's possession. A wonderful
fruit-bearing rod was that of Busby's.
What have men of letters got in our
time? Think, not only of Swift, a
king fit to rule in any time or empire
- but Addison, Steele, Prior, Tickell,
Congreve, John Gay, John Dennis,
and many others, who got public
employment, and pretty little pickings
out of the public purse.* The wits
* The following is a conspectus of
them: -
ADDISON. - Commissioner of Appeals;
Under Secretary of State; Secretary
to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland;
Keeper of the Records in Ireland;
Lord of Trade; and one of the Principal Secretaries of State, successively.
STEELE. -Commissioner of the Stamp
Office; Surveyor of the Royal Stables
at Hampton Court; and Governor of
the Royal Company of Comedians;




92


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


of whose names we shall treat in this
lecture and two following, all (save
one) touched the King's coin, and
had, at some period of their lives, a
happy quarter-day coming round for
them.
They all began at school or college
in the regular way, producing panegyrics upon public characters, what
were called odes upon public events,
battles, sieges, court marriages and
deaths, in which the gods of Olympus
and the tragic muse were fatigued
with invocations, according to the
fashion of the time in France and in
England. "Aid us, Mars, Bacchus,
Apollo," cried Addison, or Congreve,
singing of William or Marlborough. " Accourez, c/astes nymphes de
Parnasse," says Boileau, celebrating
the Grand Monarch. "Des sons que
ma lyre enfante marquez en bien la
cadence, et vous vents, faites silence!
je vais parler de Louis!"  Schoolboys' themes and foundation exercises
are the only relics left now of this
scholasticfashion. The Olympians are
left quite undisturbed in their mountain. What man of note, what contributor to the poetry of a country
newspaper, would now think of writing
a congratulatory ode on the birth of
the heir to a dukedom, or the marriage of a nobleman?   In the past
century the young gentlemen of the
Commissioner of "Forfeited Estates
in Scotland."
PRIOR. —Secretary to the Embassy at
the Hague; t-entleman of the Bedchamber to King William; Secretary
to the Embassy in France; Under
Secretary of State; Ambassador to
France.
TICKELL.-Under Secretary of State;
Secretary to the Lords Justices of
Ireland.
CONGREVE. -Commissioner for licensing
Hackney Coaches; Commissioner for
Wine Licenses; place in the Pipe Office; post in the Custom House; Secretary of Jamaica.
GAY. - Secretary to the Earl of Clarendon
(when Ambassador to Hanover).
JOHN DENNIS.-A place in the Custom
House.
"En Angleterre...le le ettres sont
plus en honneur qu'ici." —VOLTAIRE:
Lettres sur les Anglais. Let. 20.


Universities all exercised themselves
at these queer compositions; and
some got fame, and some gained
patrons and places for life, and many
more took nothing by these efforts of
what they were pleased to call their
muses.
William Congreve's * Pindaric
Odes are still to be found in "Johnson's Poets," that now unfiequented
poets'-corner, in which so many forgotten big-wigs have a niche; but
though he was also voted to be one
of the greatest tragic poets of any
day, it was Congreve's wit and humor
which first recommended him to courtly fortune. And it is recorded that
his first play, the "Old Bachelor,"
brought our author to the notice of
that great patron of English muses,
Charles Montague Lord Halifax —
who, being desirous to place so
eminent a wit in a state of ease and
tranquillity, instantly made him one
of the Commissioners for licensing
hackney-coaches, bestowed on him
soon after a place in the Pipe Office,
and likewise a post in the Custom
House of the value of 600/.
A commissionership of hackneycoaches - a post in the Custom House
-a place in the Pipe Office, and
all for writing a comedy! Doesn't
it sound like a fable, that place in
the Pipe Office?t "Ah, l'heureux
* He was the son of Colonel William
Congreve, and grandson of Richard Congreve, Esq., of Congreve and Stretton in
Staffordshire- a very ancient family.
t "PIPE. —Pipe, in law, is a roll in
the Exchequer, called also the great roll.
"Pipe QOfce is an office in which a
person called the Clerk of the Pipe makes
out leases of Crown lands, by warrant
from the Lord Treasurer, or Commissioners of the Treasury, or Chancellor of the
Exchequer.
"Clerk of the Pipe makes up all accounts ofsheriffs, &c. "- REES: Cyclopoed.
Art. PIPE.
"Pipe Office. - Spelman thinks so
called, because the papers were kept in a
large pipe or cask.
"'These be at last brought into that
office of Her Majesty's Exchequer, which
we, by a metaphor, do call the pipe..
because the whole receipt is finally conveyed into it by means of divers small




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


temps que celui de ces fables! " Men
of letters there still be: but I doubt
whether any Pipe Offices are left.
The public has smoked them long
ago.
Words, like men, pass current for
a while with the public, and being
known everywhere abroad, at length
take their places in society; so even
the most secluded and refined ladies
here present will have heard the
phrase from their sons or brothers at
school, and will permit me to call
William Congreve, Esquire, the most
eminent literary "swell" of his age.
In my copy of "Johnson's Lives,"
Congreve's wig is the tallest, and put
on with the jauntiest air of all the
laurelled worthies. " I am the great
Mr. Congreve," he seems to say, looking out from his voluminous curls.
People called him the great Mr. Congreve.* From the beginning of his
career until the end everybody admired
him. Having got his education in
Ireland, at the same school and college with Swift, he came to live in
the Middle Temple, London, where
he luckily bestowed no attention to
the law; but splendidly frequented
the coffee-houses and theatres, and
appeared in the side box, the tavern,
the Piazza, and the Mall, brilliant,
beautiful, and victorious from the
first. Everybody acknowledged the
young   chieftain.  The great Mr.
Dryden t declared that he was equal
to Shakspeare, and bequeathed to
him his own undisputed poetical
crown, and writes of him: " Mr.
pipes or quills.' —BACON: The Offce of
Alienations."
[We are indebted to Richardson's Dictionary for this fragment of erudition.
But a modern man of letters can know
little on these points-by experience.]
* " It has been observed that no change
of Ministers affected him in the least; nor
was he ever removed from any post that
was given to him, except to abetter. His
place in the Custom House, and his office
of Secretary in Jamaica, are said to have
brought him in upwards of twelve hundred a year."- Biog. Brit., Art. CONGREVE.
1 Dryden addressed his " twelfth epistle" to "I My dear friend, Mr. Congreve,"


Congreve has done me the favor to
review the 'JEncis,' and compare my
version with the original.   I shall
never be ashamed to own that this
excellent young man has showed me
many faults which I have endeavored
to correct."
The " excellent young man" was
but three or four and twenty when the
great Dryden thus spoke of him:
the greatest literary chief in England,
the veteran field-marshal of letters,
himself the marked man of all Europe,
and the centre of a school of wits who
daily gathered round his chair and
tobacco-pipe at Wills'. Pope dedion his comedy called the " Double Dealer," in which he says:" Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please;
Xet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants
his ease.
In differing talents both adorned their
age:
One for the study, t'other for the stage.
But both to Congreve justly shall submit,
One matched in judgment, both o'ermatched in wit.
In him all beauties of this age we see,"
&c., &c.
The " Double Dealer," however, was not
so palpable a hit as the "Old Bachelor,"
but, at first, met with opposition. The
critics first having fallen foul of it, our
" Swell" applied the scourge to that presumptuous body, in the "Epistle Dedicatory " to the " Right Honorable Charles
Montague."
"I was conscious," said he, "where a
true critic might have put me upon my
defence. I was prepared for the attack,...but I have not heard any thing said
sufficient to provoke an answer."
lie goes on" But there is one thing at which I am
more concerned than all the false criticisms that are made upon me; and that is,
some of the ladies are offended. I am
heartily sorry for it; for I declare, I would
rather disoblige all the critics in the world
than one of the fair sex. They are concerned that I have represented some women vicious and affected. How can I
help it? It is the business of a comic
poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.... I should be very glad of
an opportunity to make my compliments
to those ladies who are offended. But
they can no more expect it in a comedy
than to be tickledl by a surgeon when he s
letting their blood."




94


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


cated his "Iliad" to him; *   Swift,
Addison, Steele, all acknowledge Congreve's rank, and lavish compliments
upon him. Voltaire went to wait
upon him as on one of the Representatives of Literature; and the man who
scarce praises any other living person
- who flung abuse at Pope, and Swift,
and Steele, and Addison - the Grub
Street Timon, old John Dennis,t
was hat in hand to Mr. Congreve;
and said that when he retired from
the stage, Comedy went with him.
Nor was he less victorious elsewhere. He was admired in the drawing-rooms as well as the coffee-houses;
as much beloved in the side-box as
on the stage. He loved, and conquered,  and  jilted  the  beautiful
Bracegirdle, t the heroine of all his
plays, the favorite of all the town of
lier day; and the Duchess of Marlborough,Marlborough's daughter, had
such an admiration of him, that when
* "Instead of endeavoring to raise a
vain monument to myself, let me leave
behind me a memorial of my friendship
with one of the most valuable men as well
as finest writers of my age and country -
one who has tried, and knows by his own
experience, how hard an undertaking it is
to do justice to Homer-and one who, I
am sure, seriously rejoices with me at the
period of my labors. To him, therefore,
having brought this long work to a conclusion, I desire to dedicate it, and to
have the honor and satisfaction of placing
together in this manner the names of Mr.
Congreve and of-A. POPE." - Postscript to Translation of the Iliad of
HIomer. Mar. 25, 1720.
t " When asked why he listened to the
praises of Dennis, he said he had much
rather be flattered than abused. Swift
had a particular friendship for our author,
and generally took him under his protection In his high authoritative manner." -
THos. DAVIES: Dramatic Miscellanies.
"Congreve was very intimate for
years with Mrs. Bracegirdle, and lived in
the same street, his house very near hers,
until his acquaintance with the young
Duchess of Marlborough. He then quitted that house. The Duchess showed us
a diamond necklace (which Lady Di. used
afterwards to wear) that cost seven thousand pounds, and was purchased with the
money Congreve left her. How much
better would it have been to have given it
to poor Mrs. Bracegirdle." - DR. YOUNG.
Spence's Anecdotes.


he died she had an ivory figure mnde
to imitate him,* and a large wax
doll with gouty feet to be dressed just
as the great Congreve's gouty feet
were dressed in his great lifetime. He
saved some money by his Pipe Office,
and his Custom House office, and his
Hackney Coach office, and nobly left
it, not to Bracegirdle, who wanted it,t
but to the Duchess of Marlborough,
who didn't. t
How can I introduce to you that
merry and shameless Comic Muse wh(
won him   such a reputation    Nell
Gwynn's servant fought the otherfootman for having called his mistress a bad
name: and in like manner, and with
pretty like epithets, Jeremy Collier
attacked that godless, reckless Jezebel, the English comedy of his time,
* " A glass was put in the hand of the
statue, which was supposed to bow to her
Grace, and to nod in approbation of what
she spoke to it."- THOS. DAVIES: Dra.
matic Miscellanies.
t rhe sum Congreve left Mrs. Brace.
girdle was 2001., as is said in the "Dramatic Miscellanies" of Tom Davies;
where are some particulars about this
charming actress and beautiful woman.
She had a "lively aspect," says Tom,
on the authority of Cibber, and " such a
glow of health and cheerfulness in her
countenance, as inspired everybody with
desire."  "Scarce an audience saw her
that were not half of them her lovers."
Congreve and Rowe courted her in the
persons of their lovers. " In Tamerlane,
iowe courted her Selima, in the person
of Axalla.... Congreve insinuated
his addresses in his Valentine to her Angelica, in his ' Love for Love;' in his Osmyn to her Almena, in the 'Mourning
Bride;' and, lastly, in his Mirabel, to
her Millamant, in the ' Way of the World.'
Mirabel, the fine gentleman of the play,
is, I believe, not very distant from the real
character of Congreve." - Dramatic Miscellanies, vol. iii. 1784.
She retired from the stage when Mrs.
Oldfield began to be the public favorite.
She died in 1748, in the eighty-fifth year
of her age.
l Johnson calls his legacy the " accumulation of attentive parsimony, which,"
he continues, " though to her (the Duchess) superfluous and useless, might have
given great assistance to the ancient family from which he descended, at that time,
by the imprudence of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress."Lives of the Poets.




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


95


and called her what Nell Gwynn's turned out when the Puritans hooted
man's fellow-servants  called  Nell her, to fight and defend her. But the
Gwynn's man's mistress. The ser- jade was indefensible, and it is pretty
vants of the theatre, Dryden, Con- certain her servants knew it.
greve,* and others, defended them-    There is life and death going on in
selves with the same success, and for every thing: truth and lies always at
the same cause which set Nell's lackey battle. Pleasure is always warring
fighting.  She was a disreputable, against self-restraint. Doubtisalways
daring, laughing, painted French crying Psha! and sneering. A man
baggage, that Comic Muse.      She in life, a humorist, in writing about
came over from the Continent with life, sways over to one principle or the
Charles (who chose many more of other, and laughs with the reverence
his female friends there) at the Resto- for right and the love of truth in his
ration-a    wild, dishevelled  Lais, heart, or laughs at these from the
with eyes bright with wit and wine other side.  Didn't I tell you that
- a saucy court-favorite that sat at dancing was a serious business to
the King's knees, and laughed in his Harlequin? I have read two or three
face, and when she showed her bold of Congreve's plays over before speakcheeks at her chariot-window, had ing of him; and my feelings were
some of the noblest and most famous rather like those, which I dare say
people of the land bowing round her most of us here have had, at Pompeii,
wheel. She was kind and popular looking at Sallust's house and the
enough, that daring Comedy, that relics of an orgy: a dried wine-jar or
audacious poor Nell: she was gay two, a charred supper-table, the breast
and generous, kind, frank, as such of a dancing-girl pressed against the
people can afford to be: and the men ashes, the laughing skull of a jester:
who lived with her and laughed with a perfect stillness round about, as the
her, took her pay and drank her wine, cicerone twangs his moral, and the
blue sky shines calmly over the ruin.
phletcalled" Amendments of Mr. Colliers
blet called II Amendm~enltsofMr. Collier's The Congreve Muse is dead, and her
False and Imperfect Citations," &c. A  song choked in Time's ashes. We
specimen or two are subjoined: -    gaze at the skeleton, and wonder at
" The greater part of these examples the life which once revelled in its mad
which he has produced are only demon-.    We take the skull up, and
strations of his own impurity: they only
savor of his utterance, and were sweet mnse over the frolic and daring, the
enough till tainted by his breath.  wit, scorn, passion, hope, desire, with
"Where the expression is unblamable which that empty bowl once ferin its own pure and genuine signification,        ti      o    g
he enters into it, himself, like the evil ment. We think of the glances
spirit; he possesses the innocent phrase, that allured, the tears that melted, of
and makes it bellow forth his own blas- the bright eyes that shane in those
"IfIdonotreturnhimcivilitiesincall- vacant sockets; and of lips whispering him names, it is because I am not ing love, and cheeks dimpling with
very well versed in his nomenclatures. smiles, that once covered yon ghastly. I will only call him Mr. Collier, yellow framework. They used to cal
and that I will call him as often as I think those teeth pearls once. See! there's
ie shall deserve it.  athose teeth pearls once. See! there's
lie shall deserve It.
" The corruption of a rotten divine is the cup she drank fram, the gold
the generation of a sour critic."   chain she wore on her neck, the vase
" Congreve," says Dr. Johnson, "a which held her rouge for her cheeks,
very young man, elated with success, and
impatient of censure, assumed an air of her looking-glass, and the harp she
confidence and security.... The dis- used to dance to. Instead of a feast
pute was protracted through two years; we find a gravestone, and in place of
but at last Comedy grew more mod- a mistress,   few bones.
est, and Collier lived to see the reward of
his labors in the reformation of the thea-  Reading in these plays now, is like
tre." - Life of Congreve.           shutting your cars and looking at




96


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


people dancing. What does it mean?
the measures, the grimaces, the bowing, shuffling and retreating, the
cavalier seul advancing upon those
ladies - those ladies and men twirling
round at the end in a mad galop,
after which everybody bows and the
quaint rite is celebrated.  Without
the music we can't understand that
comic dance of the last century —its
strange gravity and gayety, its decorum or its indecorum. It has a jargon
of its own quite unlike life; a sort of
moral of its own quite unlike life too.
I'm afraid it's a Heathen mystery, symbolizing a Pagan doctrine; protesting
- as the Pompeians very likely were,
assembled at their theatre and laughing at their games; as Sallust and his
friends, and their mistresses, protested, crowned with flowers, with cups in
their hands- against the new, hard,
ascetic, pleasure-hating doctrine whose
gaunt disciples, lately passed over from
the Asian shores of the Mediterranean,
were for breaking the fair images of
Venus, and flinging the altars of
Bacchus down.
I fancy poor Congreve's theatre is
a temple of Pagan delights, and mysteries not permitted except among
heathens. I fear the theatre carries
down that ancient tradition and worship, as masons have carried their
secret signs and rites from temple to
temple.  When the libertine hero
carries off the beauty in the play, and
the dotard is laughed to scorn for
having the young wife: in the ballad,
when the poet bids his mistress to
gather roses while she may, and warns
her that old Time is still a-flying: in
the ballet, when honest Corydon
courts Phillis under the treillage of
the pasteboard cottage, and leers at
her over the head of grandpapa in
red stockings, who is opportunely
asleep; and when seduced by the
invitations of the rosy youth she
comes forward to the footlights, and
they perform on each other's tiptoes
that pas which you all know, and
which is only interrupted by old
grandpapa awaking from his doze at


the pasteboard chalet (whither lie
returns to take another nap in case
the young people get an encore):
when Harlequin, splendid in youth,
strength, and agility, arrayed in gold
and a thousand colors, springs over
the heads of countless perils, leaps
down the throat of bewildered giants,
and, dauntless and splendid, dances
danger down: when Mr. Punch, that
godless old rebel, breaks every law
and laughs at it with odious triumph,
outwits his lawyer, bullies the beadle,
knocks his wife about the head, and
hangs the hangman -don't you see
in the comedy, in the song, in the
dance, in the ragged little Puncl's
puppet-show —the Pagan protest?
Doesn't it seem as if Life puts in its
plea and sings its comment? Look
how the lovers walk and hold each
other's hands and whisper!  Sings
the chorus - " There is nothing like
love, there is nothing like youth, there
is nothing like beauty of your spring.
time. Look! how old age tries to
meddle with merry sport! Beat hiru
with his own crutch, the wrinkled old
dotard! There is nothing like youth,
there is nothing like beauty, there is
nothing like strength. Strength and
valor win beauty and youth.  Be
brave and conquer. Be young and
happy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy! Would
you know the Segreto per esser felice?
Here it is, in a smiling mistress and a
cup of Falernian." As the boy tosses
the cup and sings his song-hark!
what is that chant coming nearer
and nearer?  What is that dirge
which will disturb us? The lights of
the festival burn dim - the cheeks
turn pale- the voice quavers —and
the cup drops on the floor. Who's
there? Death and Fate are at the
gate, and they will come in.
Congreve's comic feast flares with
lights, and round the table, emptying
their flaming bowls of drink, and exchanging the wildest jests and ribaldry, sit men and women, waited on
by rascally valets and attendants as
dissolute as their mistresses - perhaps
the very worst company in the world.




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


97


There doesn't seem to be a pretence
of morals. At the head of the table
sits Mirabel or Belmour (dressed
in the French fashion and waited on
by English imitators of Scapin and
Frontin). Their calling is to be irresistible, and to conquer everywhere.
Like the heroes of the chivalry story,
whose long-winded loves and combats
they were sending out of fashion,
they are always splendid and triumphant - overcome all dangers,
vanquish all enemies, and win the
beauty at the end.  Fathers, husbands, usurers, are the foes these
champions contend With. They are
merciless in old age, invariably, and
an old man plays the part in the
dramas which the wicked enchanter
or the great blundering giant performs in the chivalry tales, who
threatens and grumbles and resists -
a huge stupid obstacle always overcome by the knight. It is an old
man with a money-box: Sir Belmour
his son or nephew spends his money
and laughs at him. It is an old man
with a young wife whom he locks up:
Sir Mirabel robs him of his wife,
trips up his gouty old heels and
leaves the old hunks. The old fool,
what business has he to hoard his money, or to lock up blushing eighteen?
Money is for youth, love is for youth,
away with the old people. When
Millamant is sixty, having of course
divorced the first Lady Millamant,
and married his friend Doricourt's
grand-daughter out of the nursery -
it will be his turn; and young Belmour will make a fool of him. All
this pretty morality you have in the
comedies of William Congreve, Esq.
They are full of wit. Such manners
as he observes, he observes with great
humor; but ah! it's a weary feast,
that banquet of wit where no love is.
It palls very soon; sad indigestions
follow it and lonely blank headaches
in the morning.
I can't pretend to quote scenes from
the splendid Congrevc's plays ** The scene of Valentine's pretended
madness in " Love for Love" is a splen5*


which are undeniably bright, witty,
and daring - any more than I could
did specimen of Congreve's daring manner: -
"Scandal. -And have you given your
master a hint of their plot upon him
"Jeremy.-Yes, Sir; he says he'll
favor it, and mistake her for Angelica.
" Scandal. -It may make us sport.
" Foresight. -Mercy on us I
Valentine. - Husht - interrupt me
not-I'll whisper predictions to thee, and
thou shalt prophesie; —I am truth, and
can teach thy tongue a new trick, -I have
told thee what's passed-now I'll tell
what's to come:-Dost thou know what
will happen to-morrow? Answer me not
-for I will tell thee. To-morrow knaves
will thrive thro' craft, and fools thro' fortune; and honesty will go as it did, frostnipt in a summer suit. Ask me questions
concerning to-morrow.
"Scandal.- Ask him, Mr. Foresight.
"Foresight.-Pray what will be done
at Court?
' Valentine. - Scandal will tell you;
-I am truth, I never come there.
"Foresight. -In the city?
"Valentine. - Oh, prayers will be said
in empty churches at the usual hours.
Yet you will see such zealous faces behind counters as if religion were to be
sold in every shop. Oh, things will go
methodically in the city, the clocks will
strike twelve at noon, and the horn'd herd
buzz in the Exchange at two. Husbands
and wives will drive distinct trades, and
care and pleasure separately occupy the
family. Coffee-houses will be full of
smoke and stratagem. And the crept
'prentice that sweeps his master's shop
in the morning, may, ten to one, dirty his
sheets before night. But there are two
things that you will see very strange;
which are, wanton wives with their legs
at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains
about their necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further; you look
suspiciously. Are you a husband?
" Foresight. -I am married.
" Valentine. —Poor creature I Is your
wife of Covent-garden Parish?
"Foresight. -No; St. Martin's-in-the.
Fields.
" Valentine. -Alas, poor man   his
eyes are sunk, and his hands shrivelled;
his legs dwindled, and his back bow'd.
Pray, pray, for a metamorphosis - change
thy shape, and shake off age; get thee
Medea's kettle and be boiled anew; come
forth with lab'ring callous hands, and
chine of steel, and Atlas' shoulders. Let
Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty
chairmen, and make thee pedestals to
stand erect upon, and look matrimony in
the face. Ha, ha, ha I That a man
should have a stomach to a wedding-sup



ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


ask you to hear the dialogue of a
witty bargeman and a brilliant fishper, when the pidgeons ought rather to
be laid to his feet I Ha, ha, ha I
" Foresight.- His frenzy is very high
now, Mr. Scandal.
"Scandal. —I believe it is a springtide.
" Foresight. - Very likely - truly;
you understand these matters.   Ar.
Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer
with you about these things he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious
and hieroglyphical.
" Valentine.- Oh, why would Angelica be absent from my eyes so long?
"Jeremy. - She's here, Sir.
" Mrs. Foresight.-Now, Sister I
"Mrs. Frail. -0 Lord I what must I
say?
"Scandal.-Humor him, Madam, by
all means.
" Valentine. - Where is she? Oh I
see her: she comes, like Riches, Health,
and Liberty at once, to a despairing,
starving, and abandoned wretch. Ohwelcome, welcome I
"Airs. Frail.-How d'ye, Sir? Can
I serve you?
" Valentine.-Hark'ee-I have a secret to tell you. Endymion and the moon
shall meet us on lMount Latmos, and
we'll be married in the dead of night.
But say not a word. Hymen shall put
his torch into a dark lanthorn, that it may
be secret; and Juno shall give her peacock poppy-water, that he may fold his
ogling tail; and Argus's hundred eyes be
shut-hal   Nobody shall know, but
Jeremy.
" MArs. Frail.-No, no; we'll keep it
secret; it shall be done presently.
" Valentine.-The sooner the better.
Jeremy, come hither- closer- that none
may overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you
news: Angelica is turned nun, and I am
turning friar, and yet we'll marry one
another in spite of the Pope. Get me a
cowl and beads, that I may play my part;
for she'll meet me two hours hence in
black and white, and a long veil to cover
the project, and we won't see one another's
faces 'till we have done something to be
ashamed of, and then we'll blush once for
all....
" Enter TATTLE.
" Tattle. -Do you know me, Valentine?
" Valentine. -You I - who are you?
No, I hope not.
"Tattle. -I am Jack Tattle, your
friend.
" Valentine.-My friend I What to
do? I am no married man, and thou
canst not lye with my wife; I am very
poor, and thou canst not borrow money


woman exchanging compliments at
Billingsgate; but sonic of his verses
of me. Then, what employment have I
for a friend?
" Tattle.-Hah I A good open speaker, and not to be trusted with a secret.
"Angelica.-Do you know me, Valentine?
"Valentine.- Oh, very well.
" Angelica. - Who am I?
" Valentine. -You're a woman, one
to whom Heaven gave beauty when it
grafted roses on a brier. You are the
reflection of Heaven in a pond; and he
that leaps at you is sunk. You are all
white-a sheet of spotless paper-when
you first are born; but you are to be
scrawled and blotted by every goose's
quill. I know you; for I loved a woman,
and loved her so long that I found out a
strange thing: I found out what a woman
was good for.
"Tattle. - Ay I pr'ythee, what's that?
" Valentine.- Why, to keep a secret.
" Tattle.-O Lord
"Valentine. —Oh, exceeding good to
keep a secret; for, though she should
tell, yet she is not to be believed.
" Tattle. -Hah I Good again, faith.
" Valentine. —I would have music.
Sing me the song that I like." —CONGREVE: Lovefor Love.
There is a Mirs. Nickleby, of the year
1700, in Congreve's Comedy of "The
Double Dealer," in whose character the
author introduces some wonderful traits
of roguish satire. She Is practised on by
the gallants of the play, and no more
knows how to resist them than any of the
ladies above quoted could resist Congreve.
" Lady Plyant. - Oh I reflect upon the
honor of your conduct  Offering to pervert me " [the joke is that the gentleman
is pressing the lady for her daughter's
hand, not for her own] — " perverting me
from the road of virtue, in which I have
trod thus long, and never made one trip
-not one faux pas. Oh, consider it:
what would you have to answer for, if
you should provoke me to frailty I Alasl
humanity is feeble, heaven knows I Very
feeble, and unable to support itself.
" Mellefont. - Where am I? Is it day?
and am I awake? Madam -
" Lady Plyant. -0 Lord, ask me the
question  I'll swear I'll deny it- therefore don't ask me; nay, you shan't ask
me, I swear I'll deny it. 0 Gemini, you
have brought all the blood into my face;
I warrant I am as red as a turkey-cock.
0 fie, cousin Mellefont I
"Mellefont. -Nay, Madam, hear me;
I mean"Lady Plyant.-Hear you? No, no;
I'll deny you first, and hear you afterwards. For one does not know how one's




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.                          99
-— they were amongst the most fa- he was an "excellent young man."
mous lyrics of the time, and pro- Richelieu at eighty could have hardly
nounced equal to Horace by his con- said a more excellent thing.
temporaries - may give an idea of     When he advances to make one of
his power, of his grace, of his dar- his conquests, it is with a splendid
ing  manner, his    magnificence in gallantry, in full uniform and with
compliment, and his polished   sar- the fiddles playing, like Grammont's
casm. He writes as if he was so French dandies attacking the breach
accustomed to conquer, that he has a of Lerida.
poor opinion of his victims. Noth-     "Cease, cease to ask her name,"
ing's new except their faces, says he: he writes of a young lady at the
"every woman is the same."      He Wells at Tunbridge, whom he salutes
says this in his first comedy, whicl with a magnificent complimentlie wrote languidly * in illness, when Cease, cease to ask her name,
mind may change upon hearing-hearing  The crowned Muse's noblest theme,
is one of the senses, and all the senses are  hose glory by immortal fame
fallible. I won't trust my honor, I assure  Shall only sounded be.
you; my honor is infallible and uncomat-  But if you long to know,
able.                                 Then look round yonder dazzling row;
"Mellefont. -For heaven's sake, Mad-  Who most does like an angel show,
aam -        -You may be sure 'tis she."
" Lady l1yant.-Oh, name it no more. Here are lines about another beauBless me, how can you talk of heaven,   w
and have so much wickedness in your ty, who perhaps was not so well
heart' May be, you dosn't think it a sin. pleased at the poet's manner of celeThey say some of you gentlemen don't brating herthink it a sin; but still, my honor, if it
were no sin —  But, then, to marry my " When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly
daughter for the convenience of frequent  fair,
opportunities -I'll never consent to that:  With eyes so bright and with that awful
as sure as can be, I'll break the match.  air,
" Mellefont. - Death and amazement I  I thought my heart which durst so high
Madam, upon my knees-                     aspire
"Lady l'lyant. - Nay, nay, rise up!  As bold as his who snatched celestial
come, you shall see my good-nature. I    fire.
know love is powerful, and nobody can
helphis passion. 'Tisnotyourfault; nor  But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot
I swear, it is not mine. How can I help  spoke,
it, if I have charms? And how can you  Forth from her coral lips such folly
help it, if you are made a captive? I    broke:
swear it is pity it should be a fault; but,  Like balm the trickling nonsense healed
my honor. Well, but your honor, too-     my wound,
but the sin I Well, but the necessity. 0  And what her eyes enthralled, her
Lord, here's somebody coming. I dare     tongue unbound."
not stay. Well, you must consider of
your crime; and strive as much as can be Amoret is a cleverer woman than the
against it-strive, be sure; but don't lovely Lesbia, but the poet does not
be melancholick-don't despair; but
never think that I'll grant you any thing. seem to respect one much more than
O Lord, no; but be sure you lay all the other; and describes both with
thoughts aside of the marriage, for though exquisite satirical humorI know you don't love Cynthia, only as a
blind for your passion to me —yet it will "Fair Amoret is gone astray:
make me jealous. O Lord, what did I     Pursue and seek her every lover.
say? Jealous I No, I can't be jealous;  I'll tell the signs by which you may
for I must not love you. Therefore don't  The wandering shepherdess discover.
hope; but don't despair neither. They're
coming; I must fly. - The Double Deal-  Coquet and coy at once her air,
er: Act 2, sc. v. page 156.             Both studied, though both seem neg* " There seems to be a strange affec-  lected;
tation in authors of appearing to have
done every thing by chance. The ' Old apparentlycomposed withgreatelaborateBachelor' was written for amusement in ness of dialogue and incessant ambition
the languor of convalescence. Yet it is of wit." - JOHNSON: Lives of the Poets,




100


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to be unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart every glance,
Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them;
For she'd persuade they wound by
chance,
Though certain aim and art direct
them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing which she despises."
What could Amoret have done to
bring down such shafts of ridicule
upon her? Could she have resisted
the irresistible Mr. Congreve? Could
anybody? Could Sabina, when she
woke and heard such a bard singing
under her    window?    "See,"  he
writes -
"See 1 see, she wakes - Sabina wakes I
And now the sun begins to rise?
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
From his bright beams, than her fair
eyes.
With light united, day they give;
But different fates ere night fulfil:
How many by his warmth will live I
How many will her coldness kill "
Are you melted? Don't you think
him a divine man? If not touched
by the brilliant Sabina, hear the
devout Selinda: -
"Pious Selinda goes to prayers,
If I but ask her favor;
And yet the silly fool's in tears,
If she believes I'll leave her:
Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her:
Would she could make of me a saint,
Or I of her a sinner 1"
What a conquering air there is about
these! What an      irresistible  Mr.
Congreve it is! Sinner! of course
he will be a sinner, the delightful
rascal! Win her! of course he will
win her, the victorious rogue! He
knows he will: he must - with
such a grace, with such a fashion,
with such a splendid embroidered suit.
You see him with red-heeled shoes
deliciously turned out, passing a fair
jewelled hand through his dishevelled
periwig, and delivering a killing ogle


along with his scented billet. And
Sabina? What a comparison that is
between the nymph and the sun!
The sun gives Sabina the pas, and
does not venture to rise before her
ladyship: the morn's bright beams are
less glorious than her fair eyes: but
before night everybody will be frozen
by her glances: everybody but one
lucky rogue who shall be nameless.
Louis Quatorze in all his glory is
hardly more splendid than our Phcebus Apollo of the Mall and Spring
Gardens.*
When Voltaire came to visit the
great  Congreve, the latter rather
affected to despise his literary reputation, and in this perhaps the great
Congreve was not far wrong.t A touch
of Steele's tenderness is worth all his
* "Among those by whom it (' Wills's')
was frequented, Southerne and Congreve
were principally distinguished by Dryden's friendship.... But Congreve
seems to have gained yet farther than
Southerne upon Dryden's friendship. He
was introduced to him by his first play;
the celebrated ' Old Bachelor ' being put
into the poet's hands to be revised. Dryden, after making a few alterations to fit
it for the stage, returned it to the author
with the high and just commendation, that
it was the best first play he had ever
seen."-SCOTT'S Drydcn, vol. i. p. 370.
t It was in Surrey Street, Stran(l
(where he afterwards died), that Voltaire
visited him, in the decline of his life.
The anecdote relating to his saying
that he wished "to be visited on no othe!
footing than as a gentleman who led a life
of plainness and simplicity," is common tc
all writers on the subject of Congreve, and
appears in the English version of Voltaire's "Letters concerning the English
Nation," published in London, 1733, as
also in Goldsmith's "Memoir of Voltaire."
But it is worthy of remark, that it does
not appear in the text of the same Letters
in the edition of Voltaire's " (Euvres
Completes " in the " Pantheon Litteraire."
Vol. v. of his works. (Paris, 1837.)
" Celui de tous les Anglais qui i portd
le plus loin la gloire du thaitre comique
est feu M. Congreve. II n'a fait que peu
de pieces, mais toutes sont excellentes dans
leur genre.... Vous y voyez partout
le langage des honnetes gens avec des actions de fripon; ce qui prouve qu'il connaissait bien son monde, et qu'il vivait
dans ce qu'on appelle la bonne compagnie."-VOLTAIRE: Lettres sur les
Anglais. Let. 19.




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


101


finery; a flash of Swift's lightning, a
beam of Addison's pure sunshine,
and his tawdry playhouse taper is invisible. But the ladies loved him,
and he was undoubtedly a pretty
fellow.*
* On the death of Queen Mary he published a Pastoral-"< The Mourning Muse
of Alexis." Alexis and Menalcas sing alternately in the orthodox way. The
Queen is called PASTORA.
" I mourn PASTORA dead, let Albion
mourn,
And sable clouds her chalky cliffs
adorn,"
says Alexis. Among other phenomena,
we learn that -
"With their sharp nails themselves the
Satyrs wound,
And tug their shaggy beards, and bite
with grief the ground"(a degree of sensibility not always found
in the Satyrs of that period).... It
continues -
" Lord of these woods and wide extended
plains,
Stretched on the ground and close to
earth his face,
Scalding with tears the already faded
grass.
To dust must all that IIeavenly beauty
come?
And must Pastora moulder in the tomb?
Ah Death I more fierce and unrelenting
far
Than wildest wolves and savage tigers
are;
With lambs and sheep their hunger is
appeased,
But ravenous Death the shepherdess
has seized."
This statement that a wolf eats but a
sheep, whilst Death eats a shepherdess -
that figure of the " Great Shepherd " lying
speechless on his stomach, in a state of
despair which neither winds nor floods
nor air can exhibit - are to be remembered
in poetry surely: and this style was admired in its time by the admirers of the
great Congreve I
In the "Tears of Amaryllis for Amyntas" (the young Lord Blandford, the
great Duke of Marlborough's only son),
Amaryllis represents Sarah Duchess I
The tigers and wolves, nature and motion, rivers and echoes, come into work
here again. At the sight of her grief"Tigers and wolves their wonted rage
forego,
And dumb distresJ and new compassion
show,


We have seen in Swift a humorous
philosopher, whose truth frightens
one, and whose laughter makes one
melancholy. We have had in Congreve a humorous observer of another
school, to whom the world seems to
have no moral at all, and whose
ghastly doctrine seems to be that we
Nature herself attentive silence kept,
And motion seemed suspended while she
wept! "
And Pope dedicated the "Iliad" to the
author of these lines - and Dryden wrote
to him in his great hand: -
"Time, place, and action may with pains
be wrought,
But Genius must be born, and never can
be taught.
This is your portion, this your native
store;
Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,
To SHAKSPEARE gave as much she could
not give him more.
Maintain your Post: that's all the fame
you need,
For 'tis impossible you should proceed;
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning the ungrateful
stage:
Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense,
I live a Rent-charge upon Providence:
But you, whom every Muse and Grace
adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains, and oh I defend
Against your Judgment your departed
Friend I
Let not the insulting Foe my Fame pursue;
But shade those Laurels which descend
to You:
And take for Tribute what these Lines
express;
You merit more, nor could my Love do
less."
This is a very different manner of welcome to that of our own day. In Shadwell, Higgons, Congreve, and the comic
authors of their time, when gentlemen
meet they fall into each other's arms, with
"Jack, Jack, I must buss thee;" or,
" Fore George, Harry, I must kiss thee,
lad." And in a similar manner the poets
saluted their brethren. Literary gentlemen do not kiss now; I wonder if they
love each other better?
Steele calls Congreve " Great Sir" and
"Great Author;" says "Well-dressed
barbarians knew his awful name," and
addresses him as if he were a prince; and
speaks of "' Pastora" as one of the most
famous tragic compositions.




102


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


should eat, drink, and be merry when
we can, and go to the deuce (if there
be a deuce) when the time comes.
We come now to a humor that flows
from quite a different heart and spirit
-a wit that makes us laugh and
leaves us good and happy; to one of
the kindest benefactors that society
has ever had; and I believe you have
divined already that I am about to
mention Addison's honored name.
From reading over his writings,
and the biographies which we have of
him, amongst which the famous article
in "The Edinburgh Review"* may
be cited as a magnificent statue of the
great writer and moralist of the last
age, raised by the love and the marvellous skill and genius of one of the
most illustrious artists of our own;
looking at that calm, fair face, and
clear countenance - those chiselled
features pure and cold, I can't but
fancy that this great man-in this
respect, like him of whom we spoke
in the last lecture -was also one of
the lonely ones of the world. Such
men have very few equals, and they
don't herd with those. It is in the
nature of such lords of intellect to
be solitary - they are in the world,
but not ofit; and our minor struggles,
brawls, successes, pass under them.
* " To Addison himself we are bound
by a sentiment as much like affection as
any sentiment can be which is inspired by
one who has been sleeping a hundred and
twenty years in Westminster Abbey....
After full inquiry and impartial reflection
we have long been convinced that he deserved as much love and esteem as can
justly be claimed by any of our infirm
and erring race." -MACAULAY.
' Many who praise virtue do no more
than praise it. Yet it is reasonable to
believe that Addison's profession and
practice were at no great variance; since,
amidst that storm of faction in which
most of his life was passed, though his
station made him conspicuous, and his
activity made him formidable, the character given him by his friends was never
contradicted by his enemies. Of those
with whom interest or opinion united
him, he had not only the esteem but the
kindness; and of others, whom the violence of opposition drove against him,
though he might lose the love, he retained
the reverence." -JOHNSON.. Kind, just, serene, impartial, his
fortitude not tried beyond easy endurance, his affections not much used,
for his books were his family, and his
society was in public; admirably
wiser, wittier, calmer, and more instructed than almost every man witl
whom he met, how could Addison
suffer, desire, admire, feel much  I
may expect a child to admire me for
being taller or writing more cleverly
than she; but how can I ask my
superior to say that I am a wonder
when he knows better than I? In
Addison's days you could scarcely
show him a literary performance,
a sermon, or a poem, or a piece of
literary criticism, but he felt he could
do better.  His justice must have
made him indifferent.  He didn't
praise, because he measured his compeers by a higher standard than common people have.*  How was he who
was so tall to look up to any but the
loftiest genius? He must have stooped
to put himself on a level with most
men. By that profusion of graciousness and smiles with which Goethe
or Scott, for instance, greeted almost
every literary beginner, every small
literary adventurer who came to his
court and went away charmed fiom
the great king's audience, and cuddling to his heart the compliment
which his literary majesty had paid
him-each of the two good-natured
potentates of letters brought their
star and ribbon into discredit. Everybody had his majesty's orders. Everybody had his majesty's cheap portrait,
on a box surrounded with diamonds
worth twopence apiece. A very great
and just and wise man ought not to
praise indiscriminately, but give his
idea of the truth. Addison praises
the ingenious Mr. Pinkethman: Addison praises the ingenious Mr. Dog* "Addison was perfect good company
with intimates, and had something more
charming in his conversation than I ever
knew in any other man; but with any
mixture of strangers, and sometimes only
with one, he seemed to preserve his dignity much, with a stiff sort of silence."POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.




Ar D Ts oN-.








CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


103


gett, the actor, whose benefit is com- a time when tye-wigs were only
ing off that night: Addison praises worn by the laity, and the fathers
Don Saltero: Addison praises Milton of theology did not think it decent
with all his heart, bends his knee and to appear except in a full bottom.
frankly pays homage to that imperial Having been at school at Salisbury,
genius.*  But between those degrees and the Charterhouse, in 1687, when
of his men his praise is very scanty. he was fifteen years old, he went to
I don't think the great Mr. Addison Queen's College, Oxford, where he
liked young Mr. Pope, the Papist, speedily began to distinguish himself
much; I don't think he abused him. by the making of Latin verses. The
But when Mr. Addison's men abused beautiful and fanciful poem of " The
Mr. Pope, I don't think Addison took Pygmies and Cranes,' is still read
his pipe out of his mouth to contradict by lovers of that sort of exercise; and
them.t                             verses are extant in honor of King
Addison's father was a clergyman William, by which it appears that it
of good repute in Wiltshire, and rose was the loyal youth's custom to toast
in thechurch.t His famous son never that sovereign in bumpers of purple
lost his clerical training and scholas- Lyeaus: many more works are in thz
tic gravity, and was called " a parson Collection, including one on the Peace
in a tye-wig" II in London afterwards at ofRyswick, in 1697, which was so good
that Montague got him a pension of
* "Milton's chief talent, and indeed 3001. a year, on which Adldison set
his distinguishing excellence, lies in the out on  wiis travels.
sublimity of his thoughts.  There areout on is travels.
others of the moderns, who rival him in  During his ten years at Oxford,
every other part of poetry; but in the Addison had deeply imbued himself
greatness of his sentiments he triumphs with the Latin poetical literatur and
over all the poets, both modern and ancient, Homer alone excepted. It is im- had these poets at his fingers' ends
possible for the imagination of man to when he travelled in Italy.*  His
disturb itself with greater ideas than patron went out of office, and his pcnr~, rthnzo zv;{ ho, had, lfliC~rl tnthr i hR




11UnIJ   WlI4C;II11  lIU  11ail   Jllt   wguYlllgl-l  111 1110
first, second, and sixth books." —Spectator, No. 279.
" If I were to name a poet that is a
perfect master in all these arts of working on the imagination, I think Milton
may pass for one."- Ibid, No. 417.
These famous papers appeared in each
Saturday's "Spectator," from  January
19th to May 3d, 1712. Beside his services
to Milton, we may place those he did to
Sacred Music.
t " Addison was very kind to me at first,
but my bitter enemy afterwards."- POPE.
Spence's Anecdotes.
"' Leave him as soon as you can,' said
Addison to me, speaking of Pope; 'he
will certainly play you some devilish trick
else: he has an appetite to satire.' "-LADY WORTLEY MONTAGU. Spence's Anecdotes.
t Lancelot Addison, his father, was
the son of another Lancelot Addison, a
clergyman in Westmoreland. He became
Dean of Lichfield and Archdeacon of
Coventry.
II "The remark of Mandeville, who,
when he had passed an evening in his
company, declared that he was ' a parson
in a tye-wig,' can detract little from his
character. He was always reserved to
atrangers, and was not incited to uncom

mon freedom by a character like that of
Mandeville."-JOHNSON: Lives of the
Poets.
" Old Jacob Tonson did not like Mr.
Addison: he had a quarrel with him,
and, after his quitting the secretaryship,
used frequently to say of him -' One day
or other you'll see that man a bishop -
I'm sure he looks that way; and indeed I
ever thought him a priest in his heart.'"
-POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.
"Mr. Addison staid above a year at
Blois. He would rise as early as between
two and three in the height of summer,
and lie abed till between eleven and twelve
in the depth of winter. He was untalkative whilst here, and often thoughtful:
sometimes so lost in thought, that I have
come into his room and staid five minutes there before he has known any thing
of it. He had his masters generally at supper with him; kept very little company be.
side; and had no amour that I know of;
and I think I should have known it if he
had had any."-ABBE PIILIPPEAUX OF
BLOIS. Spence's Anecdotes.
* His knowledge of the Latin poets.
from Lucretius and Catullus down to
Claudian and Prudentius, was singularly
exact and profound." — MACAULAY.




104


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


sion was unpaid: and hearing that
this great scholar, now eminent and
known to the literati of Europe (the
great Boileau,* upon perusal of Mr.
Addison's elegant hexameters, was
first made aware that England was
not altogether a barbarous nation) -
hearing that the celebrated Mr. Addison, of Oxford, proposed to travel
as governor to a young gentleman on
the grand tour, the great Duke of
Somerset proposed to Mr. Addison to
accompany his son, Lord Hartford.
Mr. Addison was delighted to be
of use to his Grace, and his lordship
his Grace's son, and expressed himself ready to set forth.
His Grace the Duke of Somerset
now announced to one of the most
famous scholars of Oxford and Europe that it was his gracious intention
to allow my Lord Hartford's tutor
one hundred guineas per annum.
Mr. Addison wrote back that his
services were his Grace's, but he by
no means found his account in the
recompense for them. The negotiation was broken off. They parted
with a profusion of congees on one
side and the other.
Addison remained abroad for some
time, living in the best society of
Europe. How could he do otherwise?  He must have been one of
the finest gentlemen the world ever
saw: at all moments of life serene
and courteous, cheerful and calm.t
He could scarcely ever have had a
degrading thought. He might have
omitted a virtue or two, or many,
but could not have had many faults
committed for which he need blush
or turn pale. When warmed into
* " Our country owes it to him, that
the famous Monsieur Boileau first conceived an opinion of the English genius
for poetry, by perusing the present he
made him of the ' Muse Anglicane.' "TICKELL: Preface to Addison's Works.
t " It was my fate to be much with the
wits; my father was acquainted with all
of them. Addison was the best company
in the world. I never knew anybody that
had so much wit as Congreve." —LADY
WORTLEY MONTAGU. Spence's Anecdotes.


confidence, his conversation appears
to have been so delightful that the
greatest wits sat rapt and charmed to
listen to him. No man bore poverty
and narrow fortune with a more lofty
cheerfulness.  His  letters  to  his
friends at this period of his life, when
he had lost his Government pension,
and given up his college chances, are
full of courage, and a gay confidence
and philosophy: and they are none
the worse in my eyes, and I hope
not in those of his last and greatest
biographer (though Mr. Macaulay is
bound to own and lament a certain
weakness for wine, which the great
and good Joseph Addison notoriously
possessed, in common with countless
gentlemen of his time), because some
of the letters are written when his
honest hand was shaking a little in
the morning after libations to purple Lyamus over night. He was fond
of drinking the healths of his friends:
he writes to Wyche,* of Hamburg,
" MR. ADDISON TO MR. WYCHE.
"DEAR SIR,
"MY hand at present begins to grow
steady enough for a letter, so the propercst use I can put it to is to thank ye honest gentleman that set it a shaking. I have
had this morning a desperate design in
my head to attack you in verse, which I
should certainly have done could I have
found out a rhyme to rummer. But
though you have escaped for y~ present,
you are not yet out of danger, if I can alit.
tie recover my talent at crambo. I am sure,
in whatever way I write to you, it will be
impossible for me to express ye deep
sense I have of ye many favours you have
lately shown me. I shall only tell you that
Hambourg has been the pleasantest stage
I have met with in my travails. If any
of my friends wonder at me for living so
long in that place, I dare say it will be
thought a very good excuse when I tell
him Mr. Wyche was there. As your
company made our stay at Hambourg
agreeable, your wine has given us all
ye satisfaction that we have found in
our journey through Westphalia.  If
drinking your health will do you any
good, you may expect to be as long-lived
as Methuselah, or, to use a more familiar
instance, as ye oldest hoc in ye cellar.
I hope yo two pair of legs that was left
a swelling behind us are by this time
come to their shapes again. I can't forbear troubling you with my hearty re




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


105


gratefully  remembering    Wyche's
"hoc."   "I have been drinking your
health to-day with Sir Richard Shirley," he writes to Bathurst. "I
have lately had the honor to meet my
Lord Effingham at Amstardam,
where we have drunk Mr. Wood's
health a hundred times in excellent
champagne," he writes again. Swift*
spee;ts to ye owners of them, and desiring you to believe me always,
"Dear Sir,
" Yours," &c.
' To Mr. Wyche, Ilis Majesty's Resident
at Hlambourg,
"May, 1703."
- From the Life of Addison, by Miss
AIKIN. Vol. i. p. 146.
* It is pleasing to remember that the
relation between Swift and Addison was,
on the whole, satisfactory from first to
last. The value of Swift's testimony,
when nothing personal inflamed his vision or warped his judgment, can be
doubted by nobody.
"Sept. 10, 1710.-I sat till ten in the
evening with Addison and Steele.
"11.-Mr. Addison and I dined together at his lodgings, and I sat with him
part of this evening.
"18.-To-day I dined with Mr. Stratford at Mr. Addison's retirement near
Chelsea.... I will get what good offices I can from Mr. Addison.
"27.- To-day all our company dined
at Will Frankland's, with Steele and Addison, too.
" 29. - I dined with Mr. Addison," &c.
- Journal to Stella.
Addison inscribed a presentation copy
of his Travels "To Dr. Jonathan Swift,
the most agreeable companion, the truest
friend, and the greatest genius of his
age."-(SCOTT. From the information
of Mr. Theophilus Swift.)
" Mr. Addison, who goes over first
secretary, is a most excellent person; and
being my most intimate friend, I shall use
all my credit to set him right in his notions
of persons and things." - Letters.
" I examine my heart, and can find no
other reason why I write to you now, besides that great love and esteem I have
always had for you. I have nothing to
ask you either for my friend or for myself." - SwVIT  to  ADDISON   (1717).
SCOTT'S Swift. Vol. xix. p. 274.
Political differences only dulled for a
while their friendly communications.
Time renewed them; and Tickell enjoyed
Swift's friendship as a legacy from the
man with whose memory his is so honorably connected.


describes him over his cups, when
Joseph yielded to a temptation which
Jonathan resisted. Joseph was of a
cold nature, and needed perhaps the
fire of wine to warm his blood. If
he was a parson, he wore a tye-wig,
recollect. A better and more Christian man scarcely ever breathed
than Joseph Addison. If he had not
that little weakness for wine —why,
we could scarcely have found a fault
with him, and could not have liked
him as we do.*
At thirty-three years of age, this
most disting-ished wit, scholar, and
gentleman was without a profession
and an income. His book of" Travels" had failed: his "Dialogues on
Medals " had had no particular success; his Latin verses, even though
reported the best since Virgil, or Statius at any rate, had not brought him
a Government place, and Addison
was living up two shabby pair of
stairs in the Iaymarket (in a poverty over which old Samuel Johnson
rather chuckles), when in these shabby rooms an emissary from Government and Fortune came and found
him.t A poem was wanted about
the Duke of Marlborough's victory
of Blenheim.  Would Mr. Addison
write one?  Mr. Boyle, afterwards
Lord Carleton, took back the reply
to the Lord Treasurer Godolphin,
that Mr. Addison would. When the
poem  had reached a certain stage,
it was carried to Godolphin; and
the last lines which he read were
these: -
* "Addison usually studied all the
morning; then met his party at Button's;
dined there, and staid five or six hours,
and sometimes far into the night. I was
of the company for about a year, but
found it too much for me: it hurt my
health, and so I quitted it."-POPE.
Spence's Anecdotes.
t " When he returned to England (in
1702), with a meanness of appearance
which gave testimony of the difficulties to
which he had been reduced, he found his
old patrons out of power, and was, therefore for a time, at full leisure for the cultivation of his mind."-JOHNSON: Lives
of the Poets.




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


" But, 0 my Muse what numbers wilt
thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle
joined?
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous
sound
The victor's shouts and dying groans
confound;
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the
skies,
And all the thunders of the battle rise.
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty
soul was proved,
that, in the shock of charging hosts
unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of
war:
In peaceful thought the field of death
surveyed,
To fainting squadrons lent the timely
-aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where
to rage.
So when an angel, by divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty
land
(Such as of late o'er pale Britannia
passed),
Calm and serene he drives the furious
blast;
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to
perform,
Rides on the whirlwind and directs the
storm."
Addison left off at a good moment.
That simile was pronounced to be
of the greatest ever produced in poetry. That angel, that good angel,
flew off with Mr. Addison, and landed
him in the place of Commissioner of
Appeals - vice Mr. Locke providentially promoted. In the following year
Mr. Addison went to Hanover with
Lord Halifax, and the year after was
made Under Secretary of State. O
angel visits! you come "few and far
between"   to  literary gentlemen's
lodgings! Your wings seldom quiver at second-floor windows now!
You laugh? You think it is in
the power of few writers now-a-days
to call up such an angel? Well, perhaps not; but permit us to comfort
ourselves by pointing out that there
are in the poem of the " Campaign"
some as bad lines as heart can desire;
and to hint that Mr. Addison did
very wisely in not going further with


my Lord Godolphin than that angelical simile. Do allow me, just for a
little harmless mischief, to read you
some of the lines which follow. Here
is the interview between the Duke
and the King of the Romans after the
battle: -
" Austria's young monarch, whose imperial sway
Sceptres and thrones are destined to
obey,
Whose boasted ancestry so high extends
That in the Pagan Gods his lineage ends,
Comes from afar, in gratitude to own
The great supporter of his father's
throne.
What tides of glory to his bosom ran
Clasped in the embraces of the godlike
man
How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixed,
To see such fire with so much sweetness mixed I
Such easy greatness, such a graceful
port,
So learned and finished for the camp or
court I"
How many fourth-form     boys at
Mr. Addison's school of Charterhouse
could write as well as that now?
The "Campaign " has blunders, tri.
umphant as it was; and weak points
like all campaigns,*
In the year 1718 " Cato" came
out. Swift has left a description of
the first night of the performance.
All the laurels of Europe were scarcely sufficient for the author of this prodigious poem.t Laudations of Whig
and Tory chiefs, popular ovations,
complimentary garlands from literary
* "Mr. Addison wrote very fluently;
but he was sometimes very slow and scrupulous in correcting. He would show his
verses to several friends; and would alter
almost every thing that any of them hinted
at as wrong. He seemed to be too diffident of himself, and too much concerned
about his character as a poet, or (as he
worded it) too solicitous for that kind of
praise which, God knows, is but a very
little matter after all I "-  OPE. Spence's
Anecdotes.
t "As to poetical affairs," says Pope,
in 1713, " I am content at present to be a
bare looker-on.... Cato was not so
much the wonder of Rome in his days, as
he is of Britain in ours; and though all
the foolish industry possible has been
used to make it thought a party play, yet
what the author once said Qf another may




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


107


men, translations in all languages, delight and homage from     all-save
fiom John Dennis in a minority of one.
Mr. Addison was called the "great
Mr. Addison" after this. The Coffee-house Senate saluted him Divus:
it was heresy to question that decree.
Meanwhile he was writing political
papers and advancing in the political
profession. He went Secretary to
Ireland. He was appointed Secretary
of State in 1717. And letters of his
are extant, bearing date some year
or two before, and written to young
the most properly in the world be applied
to him on this occasion:"' Envy itself is dumb - in wonder lost;
And factions strive who shall applaud
him most.'
"The numerous and violent claps of
the Whig party on the one side of the
theatre were echoed back by the Tories on
the other; while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find their
applause proceeding more from the hands
than the head.... I believe you have
heard that, after all the applauses of the
opposite faction, my Lord Bolingbroke
sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the
box, and presented him with fifty guineas
in acknowledgment (as he expressed it)
for defending the cause of liberty so well
against a perpetual dictator."-PorPE's
Letter to SiR W. TRUMBULL.
" Cato" ran for thirty-five nights without interruption. Pope wrote the Prologue, and Garth the Epilogue.
It is worth noticing how many things
in "Cato " keep their ground as habitual
quotations, e.g.:"... big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome."
" 'Tis not in mortals to command success,
But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll
deserve it."
" Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury."
"I think the Romans call it Stoicism."
" My voice is still for war."
"When vice prevails, and impious men
bear sway,
The post of honor is a private station."
Not to mention" The woman who deliberates is lost."
And the eternal -
" Plato, thou rcasonest well,"
which avenges, perhaps, on the public
their neglect of the play I


Lord Warwick, in which he addresses
him as "my dearest lord," and asks
affectionately about his studies, and
writes very prettily about nightingales
and birds'-nests, which he has found
at Fulham   for his lordship. Those
nightingales were intended to warble
in the ear of Lord Warwick's mamma.
Addison married her ladyship in
1716; and died at Holland House
three years after that splendid but
dismal union.*
* "The lady was persuaded to marry
him on terms much like those on which a
Turkish princess is espoused —to whom
the Sultan is reported to pronounce,
'Daughter, I give thee this man for thy
slave.' The marriage, if uncontradicted
report can be credited, made no addition to his happiness; it neither found
them, nor made them, equal.
Rowe's ballad of 'The Despairing Shepherd' is said to have been written, either
before or after marriage, upon this memorable pair."- DR. JOHNSON.
"I receivedcthe news of Mr. Addison's
being declared Secretary of State with the
less surprise, in that I knew that post was
almost offered to him before. At that time
he declined it, and I really believe that he
would have done well to have declined it
now. Such a post as that, and such a
wife as the Countess, do not seem to be,
in prudence, eligible for a man that is
asthmatic, and we may see the day when
he will be heartily glad to resign them
both."-LADY WORTLEY MONTAGU to
POPE: JVorks, Lord Wlharncliffe's edit.,
vol. ii. i. 111.
The issue of this marriage was a
daughter, Charlotte Addison, who inherited, on her mother's death, the estate of
Bilton, near Rugby, which her father had
purchased. She was of weak intellect, and
died, unmarried, at an advanced age.
Rowe appears to have been faithful
to Addison during his courtship, for
his Collection contains " Stanzas to
Lady Warwick, on Mr. Addison's going
to Ireland," in which her ladyship is
called " Chloe," and Joseph  Addison
"Lycidas;" besides the  ballad mentioned by the Doctor, and which is entitled "Colin's Complaint."  But not
even the interest attached to the name of
Addison could induce the reader to peruse
this composition, though one stanza may
serve as a specimen: -
"What though I have skill to complain -
Though the Muses my temples have
crowned;
What though, when they hear my sweet
strain,
The Muses sit weeping around.




108


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


But it is not for his reputation as
the great author of " Cato " and the
" Campaign," or for his merits as
Secretary of State, or for his rank
and high distinction as my Lady
Warwick's husband, or for his eminence as an Examiner of political
questions on the Whig side, or a Guardian of British liberties, that we admire Joseph Addison.    It is as a
Tatler of small talk and a Spectator
of mankind, that we cherish and love
him, and owe as much pleasure to
him as to any human being that ever
wrote. He came in that artificial
age, and began to speak with his noble, natural voice. He came, the
gentle satirist, who hit no unfair
blow; the kind judge who castigated
only in smiling. While Swift went
about, hanging and ruthless -a literary Jeffreys-in Addison's kind
court only minor cases were tried:
only peccadilloes and small sins
against society: only a dangerous libcrtinism in tuckers and hoops; * or
" Ah, Colin I thy hopes are in vain;
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy false one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine."
* One of the most humorous of these
is the paper on Hoops, which, "The Spectator" tells us, particularly pleased his
friend SIR ROGER:
" MR. SPECTATOR," You have diverted the town almost a
whole month at the expense of the country; it is now high time that you should
give the country their revenge.  Since
your withdrawing from this place, the
fair sex are run into great extravagances.
Their petticoats, which began to heave
and swell before you left us, are now
blown up into a most enormous concave,
and rise every day more and more; in
short, sir, since our women knew themselves to be out of the eye of the SPECTATOR, they will be kept within no compass.
You praised them a little too soon, for
the modesty of their head-dresses; for as
the humor of a sick person is often driven
out of one limb into another, their superfluity of ornaments, instead of being entirely banished, seems only fallen from
their heads upon their lower parts.
What they have lost in height they make
up in breadth, and, contrary to all rules
of architecture, widen the foundations at


a nuisance in the abuse of beaux'
canes and snuff-boxes. It may be a
lady is tried for breaking the peace of
our sovereign lady Queen Anne, and
ogling  too dangerously from    the
side-box: or a Templar for beating
the watch, or breaking Priscian's
head: or a citizen's wife for caring
too much for the puppet-show, and
too little for her husband and children: every one of the little sinners
brought before him is amusing, and
he dismisses each with the pleasantest
penalties and  the most charming
words of admonition.
Addison wrote his papers as gayly
as if he was going out for a holiday.
When Steele's " Tatler" first began
the same time that they shorten the superstructure.
"The women give out, in defence of
these wide bottoms, that they are very
airy and very proper for the season; but
this I look upon to be only a pretence
and a piece of art, for it is well known we
have not had a more moderate summer
these many years, so that it is certain the
heat they complain of cannot be in the
weather; besides, I would fain ask these
tcnder-constitutioned ladies, why they
should require more cooling than their
mothers before them?
"I find several speculative persons are
of opinion that our sex has of late years
been very saucy, and that the hoop-petticoat is made use of to keep us at a distance. It is most certain that a woman's
honor cannot be better intrenched than
after this manner, in circle within circle,
amidst such a variety of outworks and
lines of circumvallation. A female who
is thus invested in whalebone is sufficiently secured against the approaches
of an ill-bred fellow, who might as well
think of Sir George Etheridge's way of
making love in a tub as in the midst of so
many hoops.
"Among these various conjectures,
there are men of superstitious tempers
who look upon the hoop-petticoat as a
kind of prodigy. Some will have it that
it portends the downfall of the French
king, and observe, that the farthingale
appeared in England a little before the
ruin of the Spanish monarchy. Others
are of opinion that it foretells battle and
bloodshed, and believe it of the same
prognostication as the tail of a blazing
star. For my part, I am apt to think
that it is a sign that multitudes are coming into the world rather than going out
of it," &c., &c. - Spectator, No. 127.




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


his prattle Addison, then in Ireland,
caught at his iriend's notion, poured
in paper after paper, and contributed
the stores of his mind, the sweet
fruits of his reading, the delightful
gleanings of his daily observation,
with a wonderful profusion, and as it
seemed an almost endless fecundity.
lie was six and thirty years old: full
and ripe. He had not worked crop
after crop from his brain, manuring
hastily, subsoiling indifferently, cutting and sowing and cutting again,
like other luckless cultivators of letters. He had not done much as yet;
a few Latin poems -graceful prolusions; apolite book of travels; a dissertation on medals, not very deep;
four acts of a tragedy, a great classical exercise; and the " Campaign," a
large prize poem that won an enormous prize. But with his friend's
discovery of " The Tatler," Addison's
calling was found, and the most delightful talker in the world began to
speak. He does not go very deep:
let gentlemen of a profound genius,
critics accustomed to the plunge of
the bathos, console themselves by
thinking that he couldn't go very
deep. There are no traces of suffering in his writing. He was so good,
so honest, so healthy, so cheerfully
selfish, if I must use the word. There
is no deep sentiment. I doubt, until
after his marriage, perhaps, whether
he ever lost his night's rest or his
day's tranquillity about any woman
in his life; * whereas poor Dick Steele
had capacity enough to melt, and to
languish, and to sigh, and to cry his
honest old eyes out, for a dozen.
His writings do not show insight into
or reverence for the love of women,
which I take to be, one the consequence of the other. He walks about
the world watching their pretty humors, fashions, follies, flirtations,
rivalries; and noting them with the
* "Mr. Addison has not had one
epithalamium that I can hear of, and
must even be reduced, like a poorer and
a better poet, Spenser, to make his own."
- POPE'S Lettet s.


most charming archness. He sees
them in public, in the theatre, or the
assembly, or the puppet-show; or at
the toy-shop higgling for gloves and
lace; or at the auction, battling together over a blue porcelain dragon,
or a darling monster in Japan; or at
church, eying the width of their
rival's hoops, or the breadth of their
laces, as they sweep down the aisles.
Or he looks out of his window at the
"Garter" in St. James's Street, at
Ardelia's coach, as she blazes to the
drawing-room with her coronet and
six footmen; and remembering that
her father was a Turkey merchant in
the city, calculates how many sponges
went to purchase her ear-ring, and
how many drums of figs to build her
coach-box; or he demurely watches
behind a tree in Spring Garden as
Saccharissa (whom he knows under
her mask) trips out of her chair to
the alley where Sir Fopling is waiting. He sees only the public life of
women. Addison was one of the
most resolute club-men of his day.
He passed many hours daily in those
haunts.  Besides drinking - which
alas! is past praying for —you
must know it, he owned, too, ladies,
that he indulged in that odious practice of smoking. Poor fellowl He
was a man's man, remember. The
only woman he did know, he didn't
write about. I take it there would
not have been much humor in that
story.
He likes to go and sit in the smoking-room at the " Grecian," or the
"Devil;" to pace 'Change and the
Mall * - to mingle in that great club
* " I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure till he
knows whether the writer of it be a black
or a fair man, of a mild or a choleric disposition, married or a bachelor; with
other particulars of a like nature, that
conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this
curiosity, which is so natural to a reader,
I design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writings: and shall give some account in them
of the persons that are engaged in this
work. As the chief trouble of compiling




110


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


of the world - sitting alone in it
somehow: having good-will and kinddigesting, and correcting, will fall to my
share, I must do myself the justice to
open the work with my own history....
There runs a story in the family, that
when my mother was gone with child of
me about three months, she dreamt that
she was brought to bed of a judge.
Whether this might proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending in the
family, or my father's being a justice of
the peace, I cannot determine; for I am
not so vain as to think it presaged any
dignity that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighborhood put upon it.
The gravity of my behavior at my very first
appearance in the world, and all the time
that I sucked, seemed to favor my mother's dream; for, as she has often told me,
I threw away my rattle before I was two.nonths old, and would not make use of
m;y coral till they had taken away the
bells from it.
" As for the rest of my infancy, there
being nothing in it remarkable, I shall
pass it over in silence. I find that during
my nonage I had the reputation of a very
sullen youth, but was always the favorite
of my schoolmaster, who used to say
that my parts were solid and would wear
well. I had not been long at the university before I distinguished myself by a
most profound silence; for during the
space of eight years, excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words:
and, indeed, I do not remember that I
ever spoke three sentences together in my
whole life....
"I have passed my latter years in this
city, where I am frequently seen in most
public places, though there are not more
than half a dozen of my select friends
that know me.... There is no place
of general resort wherein I do not often
make my appearance; sometimes I am
seen thrusting my head into a round of
politicians at 'MWill's,' and listening with
great attention to the narratives that are
made in these little circular audiences.
Sometimes I smoke a pipe at 'Child's,'
and whilst I seem attentive to nothing but
' The Postman,' overhear the conversation
of every table in the room. I appear on
Tuesday night at 'St. James's Coffeehouse; and sometimes join the little
committee of politics in the inner room,
as one who comes to hear and improve.
My face is likewise very well known at
the 'Grecian,' the 'Cocoa-tree,' and in
the theatres both of Drury Lane and the
Haymarket. I have been taken for a
merchant upon the Exchange for above
these two years; and sometimes pass for
a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers


ness for every single man and woman
in it - having need of some habit and
custom binding him to some few;
never doing any man a wrong (unless
it be a wrong to hint a little doubt
about a man's parts, and to damn
him with faint praise); and so he
looks on the world and plays with the
ceaseless humors of all of us - laughs
the kindliest laugh - points our
neighbor's foible or eccentricity out
to us with the most good-natured,
smiling confidence; and then, turning over his shoulder, whispers our
foibles to our neighbor. What would
Sir Roger de Coverley be without his
follies and his charming little braincracks? *  If the good knight did
not call out to the people sleeping in
church, and say "Amen " with such
a delightful pomposity: if he did not
make a speech in the assize-court apropos de bottes, and merely to show his
dignity to Mr. Spectator:t if he did
at 'Jonathan's.' In short, wherever I
see a cluster of people, I mix with them,
though I never open my lips but in my
own club.
"Thus I live in the world rather as a
' Spectator' of mankind than as one of
the species; by which means I have made
myself a speculative statesman, soldier,
merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling in any practical part in life. I am
very well versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can discern the errors
in the economy, business, and diversions
of others, better than those who are engaged in them -as standers-by discover
blots which are apt to escape those who
are in the game.... In short, I have
acted, in all the parts of my life, as a
looker-on, which is the character I intend
to preserve in this paper."-Spectator,
No. 1.
* " So effectually, indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery which had
recently been directed against virtue, that,
since his time, the open violation of decency has always been considered,
amongst us, the sure mark of a fool." -
MACAULAY.
t "The Court was sat before Sir Roger
came; but, notwithstanding all the justices had taken their places upon the
bench, they made room for the old knight
at the head of them; who for his reputation in the country took occasion to whisper in the judge's ear that he was glad
his lordship had met with so much good
weather in his circuit. I was listening




CONGREVE AND ADDISON.


not mistake Madam Doll Tearsheet
for a lady of quality in Temple Garden: if he were wiser than he is: if
lie had not his humor to salt his life,
and were but a mere English gentleman and game preserver —of what
worth were he to us  We love him
for his vanities as much as his virtues.
What is ridiculous is delightful in
him; we are so fond of him because
we laugh at him so. And out of that
laughter, and out of that sweet weakness, and out of those harmless eccentricities and follies, and out of that
touched brain, and out of that honest
manhood and simplicity —we get a
result of happiness, goodness, tenderness, pity, piety; such as, if my audience will think their reading and
hearing over, doctors and divines but
seldom have the fortune to inspire.
And why not?      Is the glory of
Heaven to be sung only by gentlemen
in black coats? Must the truth be
only expounded in gown and surplice, and out of those two vestments
can nobody preach it? Commend me
to this preacher without ordersthis parson in the tye-wig. When
this man looks from the world, whose
weaknesses he describes so benevolently, up to the Heaven which shines
over us all, I can hardly fancy a human face lighted up with a more serene rapture: a human intellect thrillto the proceedings of the Court with much
attention, and infinitely pleased with that
great appearance and solemnity which so
properly accompanies such a public administration of our laws; when, after
about an hour's sitting, I observed, to my
great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that
my friend Sir Roger was getting up to
speak. I was in some pain for him, till I
found he had acquitted himself of two
or three sentences, with a look of much
business and great intrepidity.
"Upon his first rising, the Court was
hushed, and a general whisper ran among
the country people that Sir Roger was up.
The speech he made was so little to the
purpose, that I shall not trouble my readers with an account of it, and I believe
was not so much designed by the knight
himself to inform the Court, as to give
him a figure in my eyes, and to keep up
his credit in the country."- Spectator,
No. 122.


ing with a purer love and adoration
than Joseph Addison's. Listen to
him: from your childhood you have
known the verses: but who can hear
theirsacred music without love and
awe -
"Soon as the evening shades prevail,
'he moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
And all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice nor sound
Among their radiant orbs be found;
In reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine."
It seems to me those verses shine
like the stars. They shine out of a
great deep calm. When he turns to
Heaven, a Sabbath conies over that
man's mind: and his face lights up
from it with a glory of thanks and
prayer. His sense of religion stirs
through his whole being. In     the
fields, in the town: looking at the
birds in the trees: at the children in
the streets: in the morning or in the
moonlight: over his books in his own
room: in a happy party at a country
merry-making or a town assembly,
good-will and peace to God's creatures, and love and awe of Him who
made them, fill his pure heart and
shine from his kind face. If Swift's
life was the most wretched, I think
Addison's was one of the most enviable. A life prosperous and beautiful
- a calm death - an immense fame
and affection afterwards for his happy
and spotless name.*
* " Garth sent to Addison (of whom
he had a very high opinion) on his deathbed, to ask him whether the Christian religion was true."-Dr. YOUNG. Spence's
Anecdotes.
"I have always preferred cheerfulness
to mirth. The latter I consider as an act,
the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth
is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed
and permanent. Those are often raised
into the greatest transports of mirth who
are subject to the greatest depression of




112


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


STEELE.
WHAT do we look for in studying as a contemptible boor, and scarcely
the history of a past age? Is it to mentions, except to flout it, the great
learn the political transactions and intrigue of the Queen's latter days,
characters of the leading public men? which was to have ended in bringing
is it to make ourselves acquainted with back the Pretender. Again, I read
the life and being of the time?  If Marlborough's life by a copious archwe set out with the former grave pur- deacon, who has the command of impose, where is the truth, and who be- mense papers, of sonorous language,
lieves that he has it entire? What of what is called the best informacharacter of what great man is known tion; and I get little or no insight
to you? You can but make guesses into this secret motive which, I beas to character, more or less happy. lieve, influenced the whole of MarlIn common life don't you often judge borough's career, which caused his
and misjudge a man's whole conduct, turnings and windings, his opportune
setting out from a wrong impression? fidelity and treason, stopped his army
The tone of a voice, a word said in almost at Paris gate, and landed him
joke, or a trifle in behavior - the cut finally on the Hanoverian side - the
of his hair or the tie of his neckcloth winning side: I get, I say, no truth,
may disfigure him in your eyes, or or only a portion of it, in the narrapoison your good opinion; or at the tive of either writer, and believe that
end of years of intimacy it may be Coxe's portrait, or Swift's portrait, is
your closest friend says something, re- quite unlike the real Churchill. I
veals something which had previously take this as a single instance, prepared
been a secret, which alters all your to be as sceptical about any other,
views about him, and shows that he and say to the Muse of History, " 0
has been acting on quite a different venerable daughter of Mnemosyne, I
motive to that which you fancied you doubt every single statement you ever
knew. And if it is sowiththose you made since your ladyship was a
know, how much more with those Muse! For all your grave airs and
you don't know?  Say, for example, high pretensions, you are not a whit
that I want to understand the character more trustworthy than some of vour
of the Duke of Marlborough. I read lighter sisters on whom your partisans
Swift's history of the times in which look down. You bid me listen to a
lie took a part; the shrewdest of general's oration to his soldiers: Nonobservers and initiated, one would sense! He no more made it than
think, into the politics of the age —  Turpin made his dying speech at
he hints to me that Marlborough was Newgate. You pronounce a panegyric
a coward, and even of doubtful mili- of a hero: I doubt it, and say you
tary capacity: he speaks of Walpole flatter outrageously. You utter the
condemnation of a loose character: I
melancholy: on the contrary, cheerful- doubt it, and think you are prejudiced
ness, though it does not give the mind and take the side of the Dons. You
such an exquisite gladness, prevents us offer me  n  toiorh
from falling into any depths of sorrow.  er me an autobiography: I doubt
Mirth is like a flash of lightning that all autobiographies I ever read; exbreaks through a gloom of clouds, and cept those, perhaps, of Mr. Robinson
glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps Crusoe Mariner and writers of his
up a kind of daylight in the mind, and  a      ee  ae n  t in
fills it with a steady and perpetual seri- class.  ese ave no oect n setting
ty. — ADDISON: Spectator, p. 381.  themselves right with the public or




STEELE.




el




STEELE.


their own consciences; these have no
motive for concealment or half-truths;
these call for no more confidence than
I can cheerfully give, and do not
force me to tax my credulity or to
fortify it by evidence. I take up a
volume of Dr. Smollett, or a volume
of' The Spectator,' and say the fiction
carries a greater amount of truth in
solution than the volume which purports to be all true. Out of the fictitious book I get the expression of the
life of the time; of the manners, of
the movement, the dress, the pleasures, the laughter, the ridicules of
society - the old times live again, and
I travel in the old country of England. Can the heaviest historian do
imore for met "
As we read in these delightful volumes of "The Tatler" and " Spectator," the past age returns, the England
of our ancestors is revivified. The
Maypole rises in the S;rand again in
London; the churches are thronged
with daily worshippers; the beaux are
gathering in thecoffee-houses; the gentry are going to the drawing-room;
the ladies are thronging to the toyshops; the chairmen are jostling in the
streets; the footmen are running with
links before the chariots, or fighting
round the theatre doors. In the country I see the young Squire riding to
Eton with his servants behind him,
and Will Wimble, the friend of the
family, to see him safe. To make that
journey from the Squire's and back,
Will is a week on horseback. The
coach takes five days between London
and Bath. The judges and the bar ride
the circuit. If my lady comes to
town in her post-chariot, her people
carry pistols to fire a salute on Captain Macheath if he should appear,
and her couriers ride ahead to prepare
apartments for her at the great caravanserais on the road; Boniface receives her under the creaking sign of
"The Bell" or "The Ram," and he
and his chamberlains bow her up the
great stair to the state-apartments,
whilst her carriage rumbles into the
court-yard, where the* " Exeter Fly "
6


is housed that performs the journey
in eight days, God willing, having
achieved its daily flight of twenty
miles, and landed its passengers for
supper and sleep.  The curate is
taking his pipe in the kitchen, where
the Captain's man - having hung up
his master's half pike - is at his bacon
and eggs, bragging of Ramillics and
Malplaquet to the town's folk, who
have their club in the chimney-corner.
The Captain is ogling the chambermaid in the wooden gallery, or bribing her to know who is the pretty
young mistress that has come in the
coach. The pack-horses are in the
great stable, and the drivers and hostlers carousing in the tap. And in
Mrs. Landlady's bar, over a glass of
strong waters, sits a gentleman of
military appearance, who travels with
pistols, as all the rest of the world
does, and has a rattling gray mare in
the stables which will be saddled and
away with its owner half an hour before the "Fly " sets out on its last
day's flight. And some five miles on
the road, as the " Exeter Fly "comes
jingling and creaking onwards, it
will suddenly be brought to a halt by
a gentleman on a gray mare, with a
black vizard on his face, who thrusts
a long pistol into the coach window,
and bids the company to hand out
their purses... It must have been
no small pleasure even to sit in the
great kitchen in those days, and see
the tide of humankind pass by. We
arrive at places now, but we travel no
more. Addison talks jocularly of a
difference of manner and costume
being quite perceivable at Staines,
where there passed a young fellow
"with a very tolerable periwig,"
though, to be sure, his hat was out of
fashion, and had a Ramillies cock. I
would have liked to travel in those
days (being of that class of travellers
who are proverbially pretty easy coram latronibus) and have seen my friend
with the gray mare and the black vizard. Alas! there always came a day
in the life of that warrior when it was
the fashion to accompany him as he




114


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


passed - without his black mask, and
with a nosegay in his hand, accompanied by halberdiers and attended by
the sheriff —in a carriage without
springs, and a clergyman jolting beside him, to a spot close by Cumberland Gate and the Marble Arch, where
a stone still records that here Tyburn
turnpike stood. What a change in a
century; in a few years! Within a
few yards of that gate the fields began: the fields of his exploits, behind
the hedges of which he lurked and
robbed. A great and wealthy city has
grown over those meadows. Were a
man brought to die there now, the
windows would be closed and the inhabitants keep their houses in sickening horror. A hundred years back,
people crowded to see that last act of a
highwayman's life, and make jokes on
it. Swift laughed at him, grimly advising him to provide a Holland shirt
and white cap crowned with a crimson
or black ribbon for his exit, to mount
the cart cheerfully- shake hands
with the hangman, and so- farewell.
Gay wrote the most delightful ballads,
and made merry over the same hero.
Contrast these with the writings of
our present humorists! Compare
those morals and ours -those manners and ours!
We can't tell -you would not bear
to be told the whole truth regarding
those men and manners. You could
no more suffer in a British drawingroom, under the reign of Queen Victoria, a fine gentleman or fine lady of
Queen Anne's time, or hear what they
heard and said, than you would receive
an ancient Briton. It is as one reads
about savages, that one contemplates
the wild ways, the barbarous feasts,
the terrific pastimes, of the men of
pleasure of that age. We have our
fine gentlemen, and our " fast men;"
permit me to give you an idea of one
particularly fast nobleman of Queen
Anne's days, whose biography has
been preserved to us by the law reporters.
In 1691, when Steele was a boy at
school, my Lord Mohun was tried by


his peers for the murder of William
Mountfbrd, comedian. In "Howell's
State Trials," the reader will find not
only an edifying account of this
exceedingly fast nobleman, but of the
times and manners of those days.
My lord's friend, a Captain Hill,
smitten with the charms of the beautiful Mrs. Bracegirdle, and anxious to
marry her at all hazards, determined
to carry her off, and for this purpose
hired a hackney-coach with six horses,
and a half-dozen of soldiers, to aid
him in the storm. The coach with a
pair of horses (the four leaders being
in waiting elsewhere) took its station
opposite my Lord Craven's house in
Drury Lane, by which door Mrs.
Bracegirdle was to pass on her way
from the theatre. As she passed in
company of her mamma and a friend,
Mr. Page, the Captain seized her by
the hand, the soldiers hustled Mr.
Page and attacked him sword in hand,
and Captain Hill and his noble friend
endeavored to force Madam Bracegirdle into the coach.  Mr. Page
called for help; the population of
Drury Lane rose: it was impossible
to effect the capture; and bidding the
soldiers go about their business, and
the coach to drive off, Hill let go of
his prey sulkily, and waited for other
opportunities of revenge. The man
of whom he was most jealous was
Will Mountford, the comedian; Will
removed, he thought Mrs. Bracegirdle might be his: and accordingly
the Captain and his lordship lay that
night in wait for Will, and as he was
coming out of a house in Norfolk
Street, while Mohun engaged him in
talk, Hill, in the words of the Attorney-General, made a pass, and ran him
clean through the body.
Sixty-one of my lord's peers finding him not guilty of murder, while
but fourteen found him guilty, this
very fast nobleman was discharged:
and made his appearance seven years
after in another trial for murderwhen he, my Lord Warwick, and
three gentlemen of the military profession, were concerned in the fight




STEELE.


which ended in the death of Captain
Coote.
This jolly company were drinking
together at "Lockits " in Charing
Cross, when angry words arose between Captain Coote and Captain
French; whom my Lord Mohun and
my Lord the Earl of Warwick* and
Holland endeavored to pacify. My
Lord Warwick was a dear friend of
Captain Coote, lent him a hundred
pounds to buy his commission in the
Guards; once when the captain was
arrested for 131. by his tailor, my lord
lent him five guineas, often paid his
reckoning for him, and showed him
other offices of friendship. On this
evening the disputants, French and
Coote, being separated whilst they
were up stairs, unluckily stopped to
drink ale again at the bar of " Lockit's."  The row began afresh-Coote
lunged at French over the bar, and at
last all six called for chairs, and went
to Leicester Fields, where they fell to.
Their lordships engaged on the side of
Captain Coote. My Lord of Warwick was severely wounded in the
hand, Mr. French also was stabbed,
but honest Captain Coote got a couple
of wounds - one especially, " a wound
in the left side just under the short
ribs, and piercing through the dia* The husband of the Lady Warwick
who married Addison, and the father of
the young Earl, who was brought to his
stepfather's bed to see "how a Christian
could die." He was amongst the wildest
of the nobility of that day; and in the curious collection of Chap-Books at the British Museum, I have seen more than one
anecdote of the freaks of the gay lord.
He was popular in London, as such daring
spirits have been in our time. The anecdotists speak very kindly of his practical
jokes. Mohun was scarcely out of prison
for his second homicide, when he wont on
Lord Macclesfield's embassy to the Elector of Hanover, when Queen Anne sent the
garter to H. E. Highness. The chronicler
of the expedition speaks of his lordship
as an amiable young man, who had been
in bad company, but was quite repentant
and reformed. He and Macartney afterwards murdered the Duke of Hamilton
between them, in which act Lord Mohun
died. This amiable baron's name was
Charles, and not Henry, as a recent novelist has christcWd him.


phragma," which did for Uaptain
Coote. Hencethetrialsof myLords
Warwick and Mohun: hence the
assemblage of peers, the report of the
transaction, in which these defunct
fast men still live for the observation
of the curious. My Lord of Warwick is brought to the bar by the
Deputy Governor of the Tower ot'London, having the axe carried before him
by the gentlemanjailerwho stood with
it at the bar, at the right hand of the
prisoner, tu ni  the edge from him;
the prisoner, at is approach, making
three bows, one to his Grace the Lord
High Steward, the other to the peers
on each hand; and his Grace and the
peers return the salute. And besides
these great personages, august in
periwigs, and nodding to the right?n            C51
and left, a host of the small come up
out of the past and pass before us -
the jolly captains brawling in the
tavern, and laughing and cursing
over their cups - the drawer that
serves, the bar-girl that waits, the
bailiff on the prowl, the chairmen
trudging through the black lampless
streets, and smoking their pipes by
the railings, whilst swords are clashing in the garden within. " Help
there! a gentleman is hurt!" The
chairmen put up their piM, and help
the gentleman over the railings, and
carry him, gliastly and bleeding, to
the Bagnio in Lon- Acre, where they
knock up the surgeon - a pretty tall
gentleman: but that wound under
the short ribs has done for him.
Surgeon, lords, captains, bailiffs,
chairmen, and gentleman jailer with
your axe, where be, you now? The
gentleman axemans head is off his
own shoulders; the lords and judges
can wag theirs no longer; the bailiff's
writs have ceased to run; the honest
chairmen's pipes are put out, and
with their brawny calves they have
walked away into Hades - all as
irrecoverably done for as Will Mountford or Captain Coote. The subject
of our night's lecture saw all these
people - rode in Captain Coote's
company of the Guards very proba

phragma," which did for Captain
Coote. Hence the trials of my Lords
Warwick and Mohun: hence the
assemblage of peers, the report of the
transaction, in which these defunct
fast men still live for the observation
of the curious. My Lord of Warwick is brought to the bar by the
Deputy Governor of the Tower of London, having the axe carried before him
by the gentlemanjailer,who stood with
it at the bar, at the right hand of the
prisoner, turning the edge from him;
the prisoner, at his approach, making
three bows, one to his Grace the Lord
High Steward, the other to the peers
on each hand; and his Grace and the
peers return the salute. And besides
these great personages, august in
periwigs, and nodding to the right
and left, a host of the small come up
out of the past and pass before us -
the jolly captains brawling in the
tavern, and laughing and cursing
over their cups - the drawer that
serves, the bar-girl that waits, the
bailiff on the prowl, the chairmen
trudging through the black lampless
streets, and smoking their pipes by
the railings, whilst swords are clashing in the garden within.  "Help
there! a gentleman is hurt!" The
chairmen put up their pipes, and help
the gentleman over the railings, and
carry him, ghastly and bleeding, to
the Bagnio in Long Acre, where they
knock up the surgeon - a pretty tall
gentleman: but that wound under
the short ribs has done for him.
Surgeon, lords, captains, bailiffs,
chairmen, and gentleman jailer with
your axe, where be you now? The
gentleman axeman's head is off his
own shoulders; the lords and judges
can wag theirs no longer; the bailiff's
writs have ceased to run; the honest
chairmen's pipes are put out, and
with their brawny calves they have
walked away into Hades - all as
irrecoverably done for as Will Mountford or Captain Coote. The subject
of our night's lecture saw all these
people- rode in Captain Coote's
company of the Guards very proba



116


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


bly —wrote and sighed for Bracegirdle, went home tipsy in many a
chair, after many a bottle, in many a
tavern - fled from many a bailiff.
In 1709, when the publication of
"The Tatler" began, our great-greatgrandfathers must have seized upon
that new and delightful paper with
much such eagerness as lovers of light
literature in a later day exhibited
when the Waverley novels appeared,
upon which the public rushed, forsaking that feeble entertainment of
which the Miss Porters, the Anne of
Swanseas, and worthy Mrs. Radcliffe
herself, with her dreary castles and
exploded old ghosts, had had pretty
much the monopoly. I have looked
over many of the comic books with
which our ancestors amused themselves, from the novels of Swift's
coadjutrix, Mrs. Manley, the delectable author of " The New Atlantis,"
to the facetious productions of Tom
Durfey and Tom Brown, and Ned
Ward, writer of " The London Spy "
and several other volumes of ribaldry.
The slang of the taverns and ordinaries, the wit of the Bagnios, form the
strongest part of the farrago of which
these libels are composed. In the
excellent newspaper collection at the
B:itish Museum, you may see, besides,
the " Craftsmen  and  " Postboy"
specimens, and queer specimens they
arc, of the higher literature of Queen
Anne's time. Here is an abstract
from a notable journal bearing date,
Wednesday, October 13th, 1708, and
entitled " The British Apollo; or, curivus amusements for the ingenious, by a
society of gentlemen."  "The British
Apollo" invited and professed to answer questions upon all subjects of
wit, morality, science, and even religion; and two out of its four pages
are filled with queries and replies
much like some of the oracular penny
prints of the present time.
One of the first querists, referring
to the passage that a bishop should
be the husband of one wife, argues
that polygamy isjustifiable in the laity.
The society of gen lemen conducting


"The British Apollo" are posed
by this casuist, and promised to give
him an answer. Celinda then wishes
to know from " the gentlemen," concerning the souls of the dead, whether
they shall have the satisfaction to
know those whom they most valued
in this transitory life. The gentlemen of" The Apollo " give but cold
comfort to poor Celinda. They are
inclined to think not: for, say they,
since every inhabitant of those regions
will be infinitely dearer than here are
our nearest relatives - what have we
to do with a partial friendship in that
happy place? Poor Celinda! it may
have been a child or a lover whom
she had lost, and was pining after,
when the oracle of " British Apollo"
gave her this dismal answer. She has
solved the question for herself by this
time, and knows quite as well as the
society of gentlemen.
From theology we come to physics,
and Q. asks, " Why does hot water
freeze sooner than cold?" Apollo
replies, " Hot water cannot be said to
freeze sooner than cold; but water
once heated and cold may be subject
to freeze by the evaporation of the
spirituous parts of the water, which
renders it less able to withstand the
power of frosty weather."
The next query is rather a delicate
one. "You, Mr. Apollo, who are
said to be the God of wisdom, pray
give us the reason why kissing is so
much in fashion: what benefit one
receives by it, and who was the inventor, and you will oblige Corinna."
To this queer demand the lips of
Phoebus, smiling, answer: " retty
innocent Corinna! Apollo owns that
he was a little surprised by your kissing question, particularly at that part
of it where you desire to know the benefit you receive by it. Ah! madam, had
you a lover, you would not come to
Apollo for a solution; since there is
no dispute but the kisses of mutual
lovers give infinite satisfaction. As
to its invention, 'tis certain nature
was its author, and it began with the
first courtship."




STEELE.


117


After a column more of questions,
follow nearly two pages of poems,
signed by Philander, Armenia, and
the like, and chiefly on the tender
passion; and the paper wound up
with a letter from Leghorn, an account of the Duke of Marlborough
and Prince Eugene before Lille, and
proposals for publishing two sheets
on the present state of./Ethiopia, by
Mr. Hill: all of which is printed for
the authors by J. Mayo, at the Printing Press against Water Lane in
Flect Street. What a change it must
have been-how    Apollo's oracles
must have been struck dumb, when
" The Tatler " appeared, and scholars,
gentlemen, men of the world, men of
genius, began to speak!
Shortly before the Boyne was
fought, and young Swift had begun
to make acquaintance with English
court manners and English servitude,
in Sir William Temple's family, another Irish youth was brought to
learn his humanities at the old school
of Charterhouse, near Smithfield; to
which foundation he had been appointed by James, Duke of Ormond,
a governor of the House, and a patron
of the lad's family. The boy was an
orphan, and described, twenty years
after, with the sweet pathos and simplicity, some of the earliest recollections of a life which was destined to
be checkered by a strange variety of
good and evil fortune.
I am afraid no good report could
be given by his masters and ushers
of that thick-set, square-faced, blackeyed, soft-hearted little Irish boy.
He was very idle. He was whipped
deservedly a great number of times.
Though he had very good parts of
his own, he got other boys to do his
lessons for him, and only took just as
much trouble as should enable him to
scuffle through his exercises, and by
good fortune escape the floggingblock. One hundred and fifty years
after, I have myself inspected, but
only as an amateur, that instrument
of righteous torture still existing, and
in occasional use, in a secluded pri

vate apartment of the old Charterhouse School; and have no doubt it
is the very counterpart, if not the
ancient and interesting machine itself,
at which poor Dick Steele submitted
himself to the tormentors.
Besides being very kind, lazy, and
good-natured, this boy went invariably into debt with the tart-woman;
ran out of bounds, and entered into
pecuniary, or rather promissory, engagements with the neighboring lollipop-vendors and piemen -exhibited
an early fondness and capacity for
drinking mum and sack, and borrowed from all his comrades who had
money to lend. I have no sort of
authority for the statements here
made of Steele's early life; but if the
child is father of the man, the father
of young Steele of Merton, who left
Oxford without taking a degree, and
entered the Life Guards- the father
of Captain Steele of Lucas's Fusiliers,
who got his company through the
patronage of my Lord Cutts —the
father of Mr. Steele the Commissioner
of Stamps, the editor of "The Gazette"
"The Tatler" and "Spectator," the
expelled Member of Parliament, and
the author of "The Tender Husband "
and " The Conscious Lovers;" if man
and boy resembled each other, Dick
Steele the schoolboy must have been
one of the most generous, good-fornothing, amiable little creatures that
ever conjugated the verb tupto, I beat,
tuptonmai, I am whipped, in any school
in Great Britain.
Almost every gentleman who does
me the honor to hear me will remember that the very greatest character
which he has seen in the course of his
life, and the person to whom he has
looked up with the greatest wonder
and reverence, was the head boy at
his school. The schoolmaster himself
hardly inspires such an awe. The
head'boy construes as well as the
schoolmaster himself. When he begins to speak the hall is hushed, and
every little boy listens. He writes
off copies of Latin verses as melodiously as Virgil. He is good-nat




118


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


tured, and, his own masterpieces
achieved, pours out other copies of
verses for other boys with an astonishing ease and fluency; the idle ones
only trembling lest they should be
discovered on giving in their exercises, and whipped because their
poems were too good. I have seen
great men in my time, but never such
a great one as that head boy of my
childhood: we all thought he must
be Prime Minister, and I was disappointed on meeting him in after-life
to find he was no more than six feet
high.
Dick Steele, the Charterhouse
gownboy, contracted such an admiration in the years of his childhood,
and retained it faithfully through his
life. Through the school and through
the world, whithersoever his strange
fortune led this erring, wayward,
affectionate creature, Joseph Addison
was always his head boy. Addison
wrote his exercises. Addison did his
best themes. He ran on Addison's
messages: fagged for him and blacked
his shoes: to be in Joe's company
was Dick's greatest pleasure; and he
took a sermon or a caning from his
monitor with the most boundless
reverence, acquiescence, and affection.*
Steele found Addison a stately college Don at Oxford, and himself did
not make much figure at this place.
He wrote a comedy, which, by the advice of a friend, the humble fellow
burned there; and some verses, which
I dare say are as sublime as other
gentlemen's composition at that age;
but being smitten with a sudden love
for military glory, he threw up the
cap and gown for the saddle and bri* "Steele had the greatest veneration
for Addison, and used to show it, in all
companies, in a particular manner. Addison, now and then, used to play a little
upon him; but he always took it well." —
POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.
" Sir Richard Steele was the best-natured creature in the world: even in his
worst state of health, he seemed to desire
nothing but to please and be pleased." -
Dr. YOUNG. Spence's Anecdotes.


die, and rode privately in the Horse
Guards, in the Duke of Ormond's
troop - the second - and, probably,
with the rest.of the gentlemen of his
troop, " all mounted on black horses
with white feathers in their hats, and
scarlet coats richly laced," marched
by King William, in Hyde Park, in
November, 1699, and a great show of
the nobility, besides twenty thousand
people, and above a thousand coaches.
" The Guards had just got their new
clothes," "The London Post" said:
" they are extraordinary grand, and
thought to be the finest body of horse
in the world." But Steele could
hardly have seen any actual service.
He who wrote about himself, his
mother, his wife, his loves, his debts,
his friends, and the wine he drank,
would have told us of his battles if
he had seen any. His old patron,
Ormond, probably got him his cornetcy in the Guards, from which he
was promoted to be a captain in Lucas's Fusiliers, getting his company
through the patronage of Lord Cutts,
whose secretary he was, and to whom
he dedicated his work called " The
Christian Hero." As for Dick,
whilst writing this ardent devotional
work, he was deep in debt, in drink,
and in all the follies of the town; it
is related that all the officers of
Lucas's, and the gentlemen of the
Guards, laughed at Dick.* And in
* The gayety of his dramatic tone may
be seen in this little scene between two
brilliant sisters, from his comedy "The
Funeral, or Grief a la Mode."  Dick
wrote this, he said, from " a necessity of
enlivening his character," which, it
seemed, the " Christian Hero " had a tendency to make too decorous, grave, and
respectable in the eyes of readers of that
pious piece.
[Scene draws and discovers LADY CHARLOTTE, reading at a table, — LADY
HARRIET, playing at a glass, to and
fro, and viewing herself.]
" L. Ha.-Nay, good sister, you may
as well talk to me [looking at herself as
she speaks] as sit staring at a book which
I know you can't attend. - Good Dr. Lu.
cas may have writ there what he pleases,
but there's no putting Francis, Lord
Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton, out of




STEELE.


truth a theologian in liquor is not a
respectable object, and a hermit,
though he may be out at elbows,
must not be in debt to the tailor.
Steele says of himself that he was
always sinning and repenting.    He
beat his breast and cried most piteously when he did repent: but as soon
as crying had made him thirsty, he
fell to sinning again. In that charming paper in "' The Tatler," in which
he records his father's death, his
mother's griefs, his own most solemn
and tender emotions, he says he is
interrupted by the arrival of a hamper
of wine, " the same as is to be sold at
Garraway's, next week;" upon the
receipt of which he sends for three
friends, and they fall to instantly,
"drinking two bottles apiece, with
great benefit to themselves, and not
your head, or making him absent from
your eyes. Do but look on me, now,
and deny it if you can.
"L. Ch.-You are the maddest girl
[smiling].
" L. Ha. -Look ye, I knew you could
not say it and forbear laughing [looking
over Charlotte]. -Oh I I see his name as
plain as you do-F-r-a-n, Fran,-c-i-s,
cis, Francis, 'tis in every line of the book.
"L. Ch. [rising] -It's in vain, I see,
to mind any thing in such impertinent
company —but granting 'twere as you
say, as to my Lord Hardy - 'tis more excusable to admire another than one's self.
"L. Ha.-No, I think not,-yes, I
grant you, than really to be vain of one's
person, but I don't admire myself-Pish I
I don't believe my eyes to have that softness. [Looking in the glass.] They
a'n't so piercing: no, 'tis only stuff, the
men will be talking. -Some people are
such admirers of teeth -Lord, what signifies teeth I [Showing her teeth.] A
very black-a-moor has as white a set of
teeth as I.-No, sister, I don't admire
myself, but I've a spirit of contradiction
in me: I don't know I'm in love with myself, only to rival the men.
"L. Ch.-Ay, but Mr. Campley will
gain ground even of that rival of his, your
dear self.
" L. Ha.-Oh, what have I done to
you, that you should name that insolent
intruder? A confident, opinionative fop.
No, indeed, if I am, as a poetical lover of
mine sighed and sung of both sexes,
The public envy and the public care,


separating till two o'clock in the
morning."
His life was so. Jack the drawer
was always interrupting it, bringing
him a bottle from " The Rose," or inviting him over to a bout there with
Sir Plume and Mr. Diver; and Dick
wiped his eyes, which were whimpering over his papers, took down his
laced hat, put on his sword and wig,
kissed his wife and children, told
them a lie about pressing business,
and went off to the " Rose " to the
jolly fellows.
While Mr. Addison was abroad,
and after he came home in rather a
dismal way to wait upon Providence
in his shabby lodging in the Haymarket, young Captain Steele was
cutting a much smarter figure than
that of his classical friend of Charter- I want but to be sure I should heartily
torment him by banishing him, and then
consider whether he should depart this
life or not.
" L. Ch. -Indeed, sister, to be serious
with you, this vanity in your humor does
not at all become you.
"L. Ha. -Vanity! All the matter is,
we gay people are more sincere than you
wise folks: all your life's an art. - Speak
you real. -Look you there.- [Hauling
her to the glass.] Are you not struck
with a secret pleasure when you-view
that bloom in your look, that harmony in
your shape, that promptitude in your
mien?
"L. Ch.- Well, simpleton, if I am at
first so simple as to be a little taken with
myself, I know it a fault, and take pains
to correct it.
"L. Ha. - Pshaw  Pshaw I Talk this
musty tale to old Mrs. Fardingale; 'tis
tiresome for me to think at that rate.
" L. Ch.- They that think it too soon
to understand themselves will very soon
find it too late. —But tell me honestly,
don't you like Campley?
" L. Ha.-The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward thing did not think
of getting me so easily.- Oh, I hate a
heart I can't break when I please. - What
makes the value of dear china, but that
'tis so brittle? - were it not for that, you
might as well have stone mugs in your
closet." - The Funeral, Oct. 2d.
"We knew the obligations the stage
had to his writings [Steele's]; there being
scarcely a comedian of merit in our whole
company whom his 'Tatlers' had not
made better by his recommendation of
them." - CIBBER.


I shan't be so easily catched- I thank him




120


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


house Cloister and Maudlin Walk.
Could not some painter give an
interview between the gallant captain
of Lucas's, with his hat cocked, and
his lace, and his face too, a trifle tarnished with drink, and that poet, that
philosopher, pale, proud, and poor,
his friend and monitor of school-days,
of all days? How Dick must have
bragged about his chances and his
hopes, and the fine company he kept,
and the charms of the reigning toasts
and popular actresses, and the number of bottles that lie and my lord and
some other pretty fellows had cracked
over night at " The Devil," or " The
Garter! " Cannot one fancy Joseph
Addison's calm smile and cold gray
eyes following Dick for an instant, as
he struts down the Mall, to dine with
the Guard at St. James's, before he
turns, with his sober pace and threadbare suit, to walk back to his lodgings
up the two pair of stairs? Steele's
name was down for promotion, Dick
always said himself, in the glorious,
vious, and immortal William's last
rable-book. Jonathan Swift's name
had been written there by the same
hand too.
Our worthy fiiend, the author of
"The Christian Hero," continued to
make no small figure about town by
the use of his wits.* He was appointed Gazetteer: he wrote, in 1703,
" The Tender Husband," his second
play, in which there is some delightful farcical writing, and of which he
fondly owned in after-life, and when
Addison was no more, that there
were  "many applauded    strokes"
from  Addison's beloved hand.t Is
* " There is not now in his sight that
excellent man, whom Heaven made his
friend and superior, to be at a certain place
in pain for what he should say or do. I
will go on in his further encouragement.
The best woman that ever man had cannot now lament and pine at his neglect of
himself."-STEELE [of himself]: The
Theatre. No. 12, Feb. 1719-20.
t " The Funeral" supplies an admirable
stroke of humor, —one which Sydney
Smith has used as an illustration of the faculty in his Lectures.


it not a pleasant partnership to ret
member?    Can't one fancy   Steele
full of spirits and youth, leaving his
gay company to go to Addison's lodging, where his friend sits in the
shabby sitting-room, quite serene,
and cheerful, and poor ' In 1704,
Steele came on the town with another
comedy, and behold it was so moral
and religious, as poor Dick insisted,
-so dull the town thought, -that
"The Lying Lover " was damned.
Addison's hour of success now
came, and he was able to help our
friend the " Christian Hero " in such
a way, that, if there had been any
chance of keeping that poor tipsy
champion upon his legs, his fortune
was safe, and his competence assured.
Steele procured the place of Commis.
sioner of Stamps: he wrote so richly,
so gracefully often, so kindly always, with such a pleasant wit and
easy frankness, with such a gush of
good spirits and good humor, that his
early papers may be compared to
Addison's own, and are to be read,
by a male reader at least, with quite
an equal pleasure.*
The undertaker is talking to his employes about their duty.
Sable. -" Ha, youl —A  little more
upon the dismal [forming their countenances]; this fellow has a good mortal
look, —place him near the corpse: that
wainscot-face must be o' top of the stairs;
that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks
as if he were full of some strange misery) at
the end of the hall. So —But I'll fix you all
myself. Let's have no laughing now on any
provocation. Look yonder,-that hale
well-looking  puppy  You ungrateful
scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you
out of a great man's service, and show
you the pleasure of receiving wages?
Did not 1 give you ten, then fifteen, and
twenty shillings a week to be sorrowful?
and the more I give you I think the glad.
der you are!"
*        " From my own Apartment.
Nor. 16.
"There are several persons who have
many pleasures and entertainments in
their possession, which they do not enjoy;
it is, therefore, a kind and good office to
acquaint them with their own happiness,
and turn their attention to such instances
of their good fortune as they are apt to
overlook. Persons in the married state




STEELE.


121


After "The Tatler " in 1711, the
famous "Spectator" made its apoften want such a monitor; and pine
away their days by looking upon the
same condition in anguish and murmuring, which carries with it, in the opinion
of others, a complication of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes.
" I am led into this thought by a visit I
made to an old friend who was formerly
my schoolfellow. He came to town last
week, with his family for the winter; and
yesterday morning sent me word his wife
expected me to dinner. I am, as it were,
at home at that house, and every member
of it knows me for their well-wisher. I
cannot, indeed, express the pleasure it is
to be met by the children with so much
joy as I am when I go thither. The boys
anl girls strive who shall come first,
when they think it is I that am knocking
at the door; and that child which loses
the race to me runs back again to tell the
father it is Mr. Bickerstaff. This day I
was led in by a pretty girl that we all
thought must have forgot me; for the
family has been out of town these two
years. Her knowing me again was a
mighty subject with us, and took up our
discourse at the first entrance; after
which, they began to rally me upon a
thousand little stories they heard in the
country, about my marriage to one of my
neighbors' daughters; upon which, the
gentleman, my friend, said, ' Nay; if Mr.
Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his
old companions, I hope mine shall have
the preference: there is Mrs. Mary is now
sixteen, and would make him as fine a
widow as the best of them. But I know
him too well; he is so enamoured with
the very memory of those who flourished
in our youth, that he will not so much as
look upon the modern beauties. I remember, old gentleman, how often you went
home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress when Teraminta reigned
in your heart. As we came up in the
coach, I repeated to my wife some of
your verses on her.' With such reflections on little passages which happened
long ago, we passed our time during a
cheerful and elegant meal. After dinner,
his lady left the room, as did also the
children. As soon as we were alone, he
took me by the hand: 'Well, my good
friend,' says he, ' I am heartily glad to see
thee; I was afraid you would never have
seen all the company that dined with you
to-day again. Do not you think the good
woman of the house a little altered since
you followed her from the playhouse to
find out who she was for me ' I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he
spoke, which moved me not a little. But,
to turn the discourse, I said, ' She is not,
G*


pearance, and this was followed, at
various intervals, by many periodicals
indeed, that creature she was when she
returned we the letter I carried from you,
and told me, 11 She hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be employed no more to
trouble her, who had never offended me;
but would be so much the gentleman's
friend as to dissuade him from a pursuit
which he could never succeed In." You
may remember I thought lier in earnest,
and you were forced to employ your
cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot
expect her to be forever fifteen.'  Fifteen I I replied my good friend.  Ah I
you little understand - you, that have
lived a bachelor -how great, how exquisite, a pleasure there is in being really
beloved I It Is impossible that the most
beauteous face In nature should raise in
me such pleasing ideas as when I look
upon that excellent woman. That fading
in her countenance Is chiefly caused by
her watching with me in my fever. This
was followed by a fit of sickness, which
bad liked to have carried me off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I haveso many
obligations to her that I cannot, with any
sort of moderation, think of her present
state of health. But, as to what you say
of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasure beyond what I ever knew in the possession of her beauty when I was In the
vigor of youth. Every moment of her
life brings me fresh instances of her complacency to my inclinations, and her prudence in regard to my fortune. Her face
is to me much more beautiful than when I
first saw it; there is no decay In any feature which I cannot trace from the very
instant it was occasioned by some anxious
concern for my welfare and interests.
Thus, at the same time, metbinks, the
love I conceived towards her for what she
was, is heightened by my gratitude for
what she Is. The love of a wife is as
much above the idle passion commonly
called by that name, as the loud laughter
of buffoons is interior to the elegant mirth
of gentlemen. Oh I she Is an Inestimable
jewel I In her examination of her household affairs, she shows a certain fearful.
ness to find a fault, which makes her ser.
vants obey her like children; and the
meanest we have hag an Ingenuous shame
for an offence not always to be seen In
children in other families. I speak freely
to you, my old friend; ever since her sickness, things that gave me - the quickest
joy before turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play In the next
room, I know the poor things by their
steps, and am considering what they must
do should they lose their mother In their
tender years. Tke pleasure Iuscd to take
in telling my boys stories of battles, and


pearance, and this was followed, at
various intervals, by many periodicals
indeed, that creature she was when she
returned me the letter I carried from you,
and told me, ' She hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be employed no more to
trouble her, who had never offended me;
but would be so much the gentleman's
friend as to dissuade him from a pursuit
which he could never succeed in." You
may remember I thought her in earnest,
and you were forced to employ your
cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot
expect her to be forever fifteen.'  Fifteen ' replied my good friend. ' Ahl
you little understand —you, that have
lived a bachelor -how great, how exquisite, a pleasure there is in being really
beloved  It is impossible that the most
beauteous face in nature should raise in
me such pleasing ideas as when I look
upon that excellent woman. That fading
in her countenance is chiefly caused by
her watching with me in my fever. This
was followed by a fit of sickness, which
had liked to have carried me off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so many
obligations to her that I cannot, with any
sort of moderation, think of her present
state of health. But, as to what you say
of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasure beyond what I ever knew in the possession of her beauty when I was in the
vigor of youth. Every moment of her
life brings me fresh instances of her complacency to my inclinations, and her prudence in regard to my fortune. Her face
is to me much more beautiful than when I
first saw it; there is no decay in any feature which I cannot trace from the very
instant it was occasioned by some anxious
concern for my welfare and interests.
Thus, at the same time, methinks, the
love I conceived towards her for what she
was, is heightened by my gratitude for
what she is. The love of a wife is as
much above the idle passion commonly
called by that name, as the loud laughter
of buffoons is inferior to the elegant mirth
of gentlemen. Oh I she is an inestimable
jewel  In her examination of her household affairs, she shows a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her ser.
vants obey her like children; and the
meanest we have has an ingenuous shame
for an offence not always to be seen in
children in other families. I speak freely
to you, my old friend; ever since her sick.
ness, things that gave me the quickest
joy before turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next
room, I know the poor things by their
steps, and am considering what theymust
do should they lose their mother in their
tender years. The pleasure I used to take
in telling my boys stories of battles, and




122                     ENGLISH HUMORISTS.
under the same editor, -" The Guar- to which post, and to that of Surveyor
dian"-" The Englishman "-" The of the Royal Stables at Hampton
Lover," whose love was rather insipid  Court, and to the Commission of the
-" The Reader," of whom the pub- Peace for Middlesex, and to the honor
lic saw no more after his second ap- of knighthood, Steele had been prepearance -" The    Theatre," under ferred   soon after the accession of
the pseudonyme of Sir John Edgar, George I.; whose cause honest Dick
which Steele wrote while Governor had nobly fought, through disgrace
of the Royal Company of Comedians, and danger, against the most formidaasking my girl questions about the dispos- point of war.  His mother, between
al of her baby, and the gossipping of it, laughing and chiding, would have him
is turned into inward reflection and mel- put out of the room; but I would not part
ancholy.'                            with him so. I found, upon conversation
" He would have gone on in this tender with him, though he was a little noisy
way, when the good lady entered, and, in his mirth, that the child had excellent
with an inexpressible sweetness in her parts, and was a great master of all the
countenance, told us ' she had been learning on the other side of eight years
searching her closet for something very old. I perceived him a very great histogood to treat such an old friend as I was.' rian in ' AEsop's Fables: but he frankly
Her husband's eyes sparkled with pleas- declared to me his mind,' that he did not
ure at the cheerfulness of her counte- delight in that learning, because he did
nance; and I saw all his fears vanish in not believe they were true;' for which
an instant. The lady observing something reason I found he had very much turned
in our looks which showed we had been his studies, for about a twelvemonth past,
more serious than ordinary, and seeing into the lives of Don Bellianis of Greece,
her husband receive her with great con- Guy of Warwick, ' The Seven Champions,'
cern under a forced cheerfulness, imme- and other historians of that age. I could
diately guessed at what we had been talk- not but observe the satisfaction the father
ing of; and applying herself to me, said, took in the forwardness of his son, and
with a smile, ' Mr. Bickerstaff, do not be- that these diversions might turn to some
lieve a word of what he tells you; I shall profit. I found the boy had made restill live to have you for my second, as I marks which might be of service to him
have often promised you, unless he takes during the course of his whole life. He
more care of himself than he has done would tell you the mismanagement of
since his coming to town. You must know  John Hickerthrift, find fault with the pashe tells me, that he finds London is a much sionate temper in Bevis of Southampton,
more healthy place than the country; for and loved St. George for being the chainhe sees several of his old acquaintances pion of England; and by this means
and schoolfellows are here-young fel- had his thoughts insensibly moulded into
lows with fair, full-bottomed periwigs. the notions of discretion, virtue, and
I could scarce keep him this morning honor. I was extolling his accomplishfrom going out open-breasted.' My friend, ments, when his mother told me ' that the
who is always extremely delighted with little girl who led me in this morning was,
her agreeable humor, made her sit down in her way, a better scholar than he.
with us. She did it with that easiness Betty,' said she, 'deals chiefly in fairies
which is peculiar to women of sense; and sprites; and sometimes in a winter
and to keep up the good-humor she had night will terrify the maids with her acbrought in with her, turned her raillery counts, until they are afraid to go up to
upon me. ' Mr. Bickerstaff, you remem- bed.'
her you followed me one night from the  " I sat with them until it was very late,
playhouse; suppose you should carry me sometimes in merry, sometimes in serious
thither to-morrow night, and lead me in discourse, with this particular pleasure,
the front box.' This put us into a long which gives the only true relish to all
field of discourse about the beauties who conversation, a sense that every one of
were the mothers to the present, and us liked each other. I went home, conshined in the boxes twenty years ago. I sidering the different conditions of a martold her, 'I was glad she had transferred ried life and that of a bachelor; and I
so many of her charms, and I did not must confess it struck me with a secret
question but her eldest daughter was concern, to reflect, that, whenever I go
within half a year of being a toast.'  off, I shall leave no traces behind me.
"We were pleasing ourselves with this In this pensive mood I return to my
fantastical preferment of the young lady, family; that is to say, to my maid, my
when, on a sudden, we were alarmed with dog, my cat, who only can be the better
the noise of a drum, and immediately or worse for what happens to me."- The
entered my little godson to give me a Tatler.




STEELE.


123


ble enemies, against traitors and bullies, against Bolingbroke and Swift in
the last reign. With the arrival of
the King, that splendid conspiracy
broke up; and a golden opportunity
came to Dick Steele, whose hand,
alas, was too careless to gripe it.
Steele married twice; and outlived
his places, his schemes, his wife, his
income, his health, and almost every
thing but his kind heart.   That
ceased to trouble him in 1729, when
he died, worn out and almost forgotten by his contemporaries, in Wales,
where he had the remnant of a property. Posterity has been kinder to this
amiable creature; all women especially are bound to be grateful to Steele,
as he was the first of our writers who
really seemed to admire and respect
them. Congreve the Great, who alludes to the low estimation in which
women were held in Elizabeth's time,
as a reason why the women of Shakspeare make so small a figure in the
poet's dialogues, though lie can himself pay splendid compliments to
women, yet looks on them as mere
instruments of gallantry, and destined, like the most consummate fortifications, to fall after a certain time,
before the arts and bravery of the
besieger, man. There is a letter of
Swift's, entitled "Advice to a very
Young Married Lady," which shows
the Dean's opinion of the female society of his day, and that if he despised man he utterly scorned women
too. No lady of our time could be
treated by any man, were he ever
so much of a wit or Dean, in such a
tone of insolent patronage and vulgar
protection.  In this performance,
Swift hardly takes pains to hide his
opinion that a woman is a fool: tells
her to read books, as if reading was a
novel accomplishment; and informs
her that " notone gentleman's daughter in a thousand has been brought to
read or understand her own natural
tongue." Addison laughs at women
equally; but, with the gentleness and
politeness of his nature, smiles at
them and watches them, as if they


were harmless, half-witted, amusing,
pretty creatures, only made to be
men's playthings.   It was Steele
who first began to pay a manly homage to their goodness and understanding, as well as to their tenderness and
beauty.* In his comedies, the heroes
do not rant and rave about the divine beauties of Gloriana or Statira,
as the characters were made to do in
the chivalry romances and the highflown dramas just going out of vogue;
but Steele admires women's virtue,
acknowledges their sense, and adores
their purity and beauty, with an ardor and strength which should win
the goodwill of all women to their
hearty and respectful champion. It
is this ardor, this respect, this manliness, which makes his comedies so
pleasant and their heroes such fine
gentlemen. He paid the finest compliment to a woman that perhaps
ever was offered. Of one woman,
whom Congreve had also admired
and celebrated, Steele says, that " to
have loved her was a liberal education."  " How often," he says, dedicating a volume to his wife, "how
often has your tenderness removed
pain from my sick head, how often
anguish from my afflicted heart! If
there are such beings as guardian
angels, they are thus employed. I
cannot believe one of them to be more
good in inclination, or more charm* "As to the pursuits after affection
and esteem, the fair sex are happy in this
particular, that with them the one is mucl
more nearly related to the other than in
men. The lose of a woman is inseparable
from some esteem of her; and as she is
naturally the object of affection, the
woman who has your esteem has also
some degree of your love. A man that
dotes on a woman for her beauty will
whisper his friend, ' That creature has a
great deal of wit when you are well acquainted with her.' And if you examine
the bottom of your esteem for a woman,
you will find you have a greater opinion
of her beauty than anybody else. As to
us men, I design to pass most of my time
with the facetious Harry Bickerstaff; but
William Bickerstaff, the most prudent
man of our family, shall be my executor.'
- Tatler, No. 206.




124


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


ing in form, than my wife." His
breast seems to warm and his eyes to
kindle when he meets with a good
and beautiful woman, and it is with
his heart as well as with his hat that
he salutes her.  About children, and
all that relates to home, he is not less
tender, and more than once speaks in
apology of what he calls his softness.
lie would have been nothing without
that delightful weakness. It is that
which gives his works their worth,
and his style its charm. It, like his
life, is full of faults and careless blunders; and redeemed, like that, by his
sweet and compassionate nature.
We possess of poor Steele's wild
and checkered life some of the most
curious memoranda that ever were
left of a man's biography.* Most
* The Correspondence of Steele passed
after his death into the possession of his
daughter Elizabeth, by his second wife,
Miss Scurlock, of Carmarthenshire. She
married the Hon. John, afterwards third
Lord Trevor. At her death, part of the
letters passed to Mr. Thomas, a grandson
of a natural daughter of Steele's; and
part to Lady Trevor's next of kin, Mr.
Scurlock. They were published by the
learned Nichols-from whose later edition of them, in 1809, our specimens are
quoted.
Here we have him, in his courtship -
which was not a very long one: -
To MRS. SCURLOCK.
" Aug. 30, 1707.
"MADAM, -
"I BEG pardon that my paper is not
finer, but I am forced to write from a
coffee-house, where I am attending about
business. There is a dirty crowd of busy
faces all around me, talking of money;
while all my ambition, all my wealth, is
love I Love which animates my heart,
sweetens my humor, enlarges my soul,
and affects every action of my life. It is
to my lovely charmer I owe, that many
noble ideas are continually affixed to my
words and actions; it is the natural effect
of that generous passion to create in the
admirer some similitude of the object admired. Thus, my dear, am I every day
to improve from so sweet a companion.
Look up, my fair one, to that Heaven
which made thee such; and join with me
to implore its influence on our tender innocent hours, and beseech the Author
of love to bless the rites He has ordained
-and mingle with our happiness a just
sense of our transient 'condition, and a


men's letters, from  Cicero down to
Walpole, or down to the great men
resignation to His will, which only can
regulate our minds to a steady endeavor
to please Him and each other.
"I am forever your faithful servant,
i "RICH. STEELE."
Some few hours afterwards, apparently, Mistress Scurlock received the next
one - obviously written later in the day -
" Saturday night (Aug. 30, 1707).
"' DEAR, LOVELY MRS. SCURLOCK, -
"I HAVE been in very good company,
where your health, under the character
of the woman I loved best, has been often
drunk; so that I may say that I am dead
drunk for your sake, which is more than
I die for you.      RICH. S 2EELE."
" To MRS. SCURLOCK.
" Sept. 1, 1707.
" MADAM," IT is the hardest thing in the world
to be in love, and yet attend business.
As for me, all who speak to me find me
out, and 1 must lock myself up, or other
people will do it for me.
" A gentleman asked me this morning,
'What news from Lisbon?' and I answered, ' She is exquisitely handsome.'
Another desired to know 'when I had
last been at Hampton Court?' I replied,
'It will be on Tuesday come se'nnight.'
Pr'ythee allow me at least to kiss your
hand before that day, that my mind may
be in some composure. 0 Love I
'A thousand torments dwell about thee,
Yet who could live, to live without
thee?'
"Methinks I could write a volume to
you; but all the language on earth would
fail in saying how much, and with what
disinterested passion,
"I am ever yours,
" RICH. STEELE."
Two days after this, he is found expounding his circumstances and prospects
to the young lady's mamma. He dates
from "Lord Sunderland's office, Whitehall;" and states his clear income at 1,0251.
per annum. "I promise myself," says
he, " the pleasure of an industrious and
virtuous life, in studying to do things
agreeable to you."
They were married, according to the
most probable conjectures, about the 7th
Sept. There are traces of a tiff about
the middle of the next month; she being
prudish and fidgety, as he was impassioned and reckless. General progress,
however, may be seen from the following
notes. The "house in Bury Street, St
James's," was now taken.




STEELE.


of our own time, if you will, are doctored compositions, and written with
an eye suspicious towards posterity.
That dedication of Steele's to his wife
is an artificial performance, possibly;
at least it is written with that degree
of artifice which an orator uses in
arranging a statement for the House,
or a poet employs in preparing a sentiment in verse or for the stage. But
there are some 400 letters of Dick
Steele's to his wife, which that thrifty
woman    preserved  accurately, and
which could have been written but for
"To TIRS. STEELE.
" Oct. 16, 1707.
" DEAREST BEING ON EARTH, -
" PARDON me if you do not see me till
eleven o'clock, having met a schoolfellow
from India, by whom I am to be informed
on things this night which expressly concern your obedient husband,
"RICH. STEELE."
"To MRS. STEELE.
"Eight o'clock, Fountain Tavern,
Oct. 22, 1707.
" MY DEAR," I BEG of you not to be uneasy; for I
have done a great deal of business to-day
very successfully, and wait an hour or
two about my ' Gazette.'"
"Dec. 22, 1707.
" MY DEAR, DEAR WIFE, -
"I WRITE to let you know I do not
come home to dinner, being obliged to
attend some business abroad, of which I
shall give you an account (when I see you
in the evening), as becomes your dutiful
and obedient husband."
" Devil Tavern, Temple Bar,
Jan. 3, 1707-8.
" DEAR PRUE, -
" I HAVE partly succeeded in my business to-day, and enclose two guineas as
earnest of more. Dear Prue, I cannot
come home to dinner. I languish for
your welfare, and will never be a moment
careless more.
"Your faithful husband," &c.
" Jani. 14, 1707-8.
' DEAR WIFE,"MR. EDGECOMBE, Ned Ask, and Mr.
Lumley have desired me to sit an hour
with them at 'The George,' in Pall Mall,
for which I desire your patience till
twelve o'clock, and that you will go to
bed," &c.
" Gray's Inn, Feb. 3, 1708.
" DEAR PRUE,"IF the man who has my shoemaker's
hill calls. let him be answered that I shall


her and her alone.    They contain
details of the business, pleasures,
quarrels, reconciliations of the pair;
they have all the genuineness of conversation; they are as artless as a
child's prattle, and as confidential as
a curtain-lecture. Some are written
from the printing-office, where he is
waiting for the proof-sheets of his
"Gazette," or his "Tatler;" some
are written from the tavern, whence
he promises to come to his wife
"within a pint of wine," and where
he has given a rendezvous to a friend,
call on him as I come home. I stay here
in order to get Jonson to discount a bill
for me, and shall dine with him for that
end. He is expected at home every minute. Your most humble, obedient servant," &c.
" Tennis-Court Cofee-house,
lEay 5, 1708.
" DEAR WIFE,"I HOPE I have done this day what
will be pleasing to you; in the mean time
shall lie this night at a baker's, one
Leg, over against' The Devil Tavern,' at
Charing Cross. I shall be able to confront the fools who wish me uneasy, and
shall have the satisfaction to see thee
cheerful and at case.
" If the printer's boy be at home, send
him hither; and let Mrs. Todd send by
the boy my night-gown, slippers, and
clean linen.  You shall hear from me
early in the morning," &c.
Dozens of similar letters follow, with
occasional guineas, little parcels of tea,
or walnuts, &c. In 1709 "The Tatler"
made its appearance. The following curious note dates April 7, 1710:" I enclose to you [' Dear Prue'] a receipt for the saucepan and spoon, and a note
of 231. of Lewis's, which will make up
the 501. I promised for your ensuing occasion.
"I know no happiness in this life in
any degree comparable to the pleasure I
have inyour person and society. I only
beg of you to add to your other charms a
fearfulness to see a man that loves you in
pain and uneasiness, to make me as happy
as it is possible to be in this life. Rising
a little in a morning, and being disposed
to a cheerfulness... would not be
amiss."
In another, he is found excusing his
coming home, being "invited to supper
to Mr. Boyle's:" " Dear Prue," he says
on this occasion, "do not send after me,
for I shall be ridiculous."




ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


or a money-lender: some are composed in a high state of vinous excitement, when his head is flustered with
burgundy, and his heart abounds with
amorous warmth for his darling Prue:
some are under the influence of the
dismal headache and repentance next
morning: some, alas, are from the
lock-up house, where the lawyers
have impounded him, and where he
is waiting for bail. You trace many
years of the poor fellow's career in
these letters.  In September, 1707,
from which day she began to save
the letters, he married the beautiful
Mistress Scurlock.  You have his
passionate protestations to the lady;
his respectful proposals to her mamma; his private prayer to Heaven
when the union so ardently desired
was completed; his fond professions
of contrition and promises of amendment, when, immediately after his
marriage, there began to be just
cause for the one, and need for the
other.
Captain Steele took a house for his
lady upon their marriage, " the third
door from Germain Street, left hand
of Berry Street," and the next year
he presented his wife with a country
house at Hampton. It appears she
had a chariot and pair, and sometimes four horses; lie himself enjoyed
a little horse for his own riding. He
paid, or promised to pay, his barber
fifty pounds a year, and always went
abroad in a laced coat and a large
black buckled periwig, that must have
cost somebody fifty guineas. IIe was
rather a well-to-do gentleman, Captain Steele, with the proceeds of his
estates in Barbadoes (left to him by
his first wife), his income as a writer
of "The Gazette," and his office of
gentleman waiter to his Royal Highness Prince George. His second wife
brought him a fortune too. But it is
melancholy to relate, that with these
houses and chariots and horses and
income, the Captain was constantly
in want of money, for which his beloved bride was asking as constantly.
In the course of a few pages we begin


to find the shoemaker calling for
money, and some directions from the
Captain, who has not thirty pounds
to spare. He sends his wife, "the
beautifullest object in the world," as
he calls her, and evidently in reply to
applications of her own, which have
gone the way of all waste paper, and
lighted Dick's pipes, which were
smoked a hundred and forty years
ago - he sends his wife now a guinea,
then a half-guinea, then a couple of
guineas, then half a pound of tea;
and again no money and no tea at
all, but a promise that his darling
Prue shall have some in a day or
two: or a request, perhaps, that she
will send over his night-gown and
shaving-plate to the temporary lodging where the nomadic Captain is
lying, hidden from the bailiffs. Oh!
that a Christian hero and late Captain
in Lucas's should be afraid of a dirty
sheriff's officer! That the pink and
pride of chivalry should turn pale before a writ! It stands to record in
poor Dick's own handwriting - the
queer collection is preserved at the
British Museum to this present day
-that the rent of the nuptial house
in Jermyn Street, sacred to unutterable tenderness and Prue, and three
doors from Bury Street, was not paid
until after the landlord had put in an
execution on Captain Steele's furniture. Addison sold the house and
furniture at Hampton, and, after deducting the sum in which his incorrigible friend was indebted to him,
handed over the residue of the proceeds of the sale to poor Dick, who
wasn't in the least angry at Addison's
summary proceeding, and I dare say
was very glad of any sale or execution, the result of which was to give
him a little ready money. Having a
small house in Jermyn Street for which
he couldn't pay, and a country house
at Hampton on which he had borrowed money, nothing must content
Captain Dick but the taking, in 1712,
a much finer, larger, and grander
house, in Bloomsbury Square; where
his unhappy landlord got no better




STEELE.


127


satisfaction than his friend in St.
James's, and where it is recorded that
Dick, giving a grand entertainment,
had a half-dozen queer-looking fellows in livery to wait upon his noble
guests, and confessed that his servants
were bailiffs to a man. " I fared like
a distressed prince," the kindly prodigal writes, generously complimenting
Addison for his assistance in "The
Tatler," -" I fared like a distressed
prince, who calls in a powerful neighbor to his aid. I was undone by my
auxiliary; when I had once called
him in, I could not subsist without
dependence on him." Poor, needy
Prince of Bloomsbury! think of him
in his palace, with his allies from
Chancery Lane ominously guarding
him.
All sorts of stories are told indicative of his recklessness and his
good humor. One narrated by Dr.
Hoadly is exceedingly characteristic;
it shows the life of the time: and our
poor friend very weak, but very kind
both in and out of his cups.
" My father," says Dr. John Hoadly, the Bishop's son, "when Bishop
of Bangor, was, by invitation, present at one of the Whig meetings,
held at 'The Trumpet,' in Shire Lane,
when Sir Richard, in his zeal, rather
exposed himself, having the double
duty of the day upon him, as well to
celebrate the immortal memory of
King William, it being the 4th November, as to drink his friend Addison up to conversation pitch, whose
phlegmatic constitution was hardly
warmed for society by that time.
Steele was not fit for it. Two remarkable circumstances happened.
John Sly, the hatter of facetious
memory, was in the house; and
John, pretty mellow, took it into his
head to come into the company on
his knees, with a tankard of ale in
his hand to drink off to the immortal
memory, and to return in the same
manner.   Steele, sitting next my
father, whispered him -Do laugh.
It is humanity to laugh. Sir Richard,
in the evening, being too much in the


same condition, was put into a chair,
and sent home.     Nothing would
serve him but being carried to the
Bishop of Bangor's, late as it was.
However, the chairmen carried him
home, and got him up stairs, when his
great complaisance would wait on
them down stairs, which he did, and
then was got quietly to bed." *
There is another amusing story,
which, I believe, that renowned collector, Mr. Joseph Miller, or his successors, have incorporated into their
work. Sir Richard Steele, at a time
when he was much occupied with theatrical affairs, built himself a pretty
private theatre, and, before it was
opened to his friends and guests, was
anxious to try whether the hall was
well adapted for hearing. Accordingly he placed himself in the most remote part of the gallery, and begged
the carpenter who had built the house
to speak up from the stage. The man
at first said that he was unaccustomed
to public speaking, and did not know
what to say to his honor; but the
good-natured knight called out to him
to say whatever was uppermost; and,
after a moment, the carpenter began
in a voice perfectly audible: " Sir
Richard Steele! " he said, "for three
months past me and my men has been
a working in this theatre, and we've
never seen the color of your honor's
money: we will be very much obliged
if you'll pay it directly, for until you
do we won't drive in another nail." Sir
Richard said that his friend's elocution was perfect, but that he didn't
like his subject much.
The great charm of Steele's writing is its naturalness. He wrote so
quickly and carelessly, that he was
forced to make the reader his confil
dant, and had not the time to deceive
him. He had a small share of booklearning, but a vast acquaintance with
the world. He had known men and
* Of this famous Bishop, Steele wrote,
"Virtue with so much ease on Bangor
sits,
All faults he pardons, though he none
commits."




128


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


taverns. He had lived with gownsmen, with troopers, with gentlemen
ushers of the Court, with men and
women of fashion; with authors and
wits, with the inmates of the sponging-houses, and with the frequenters
of all the club and coffee-houses in
the town. He was liked in all company because he liked it; and you
like to see his enjoyment as you like
to see the glee of a boxful of children
at the pantomime. He was not of
those lonely ones of the earth whose
greatness obliged them to be solitary:
on the contrary, he admired, I think,
more than any man who ever wrote;
and, full of hearty applause and sympathy, wins upon you by calling you
to share his delight and good humor.
His laugh rings through the whole
house. He must have been invaluable at a tragedy, and have cried as
much as the most tender young lady
in the boxes. He has a relish for
beauty and goodness wherever he
meets it. He admired Shakspeare
affectionately, and more than any
man of his time; and, according to
his generous expansive nature, called
upon all his company to like what he
liked himself. He did not damn with
faint praise: he was in the world and
of it; and his enjoyment of life presents the strangest contrast to Swift's
savage indignation and Addison's
lonely serenity.* Permit me to read
* Here we have some of his later letters: -
" To LADY STEELE.
"Hampton Court, March 16, 1716-17.
"DEAR PRUE,
" IF you have written any thing to me
which I should have received last night,
I beg your pardon that I cannot answer
till the next post.... Your son at the
present writing is mighty well employed
in tumbling on the floor of the room and
sweeping the sand with a feather. He
grows a most delightful child, and very
full of play and spirit. He is also a very
great scholar: he can read his primer;
and I have brought down my Virgil. He
makes most shrewd remarks about the
pictures. We are very intimate friends
and playfellows. He begins to be very
ragged; and I hope I shall be pardoned
if I equip him with new clothes and


to you a passage from each writer,
curiously indicative of his peculiar
humor: the subject is the same, and
the mood the very gravest. We have
said that upon all the actions of man,
the most trifling and the most solfrocks, or what Mrs. Evans and I shall
think for his service."
"To LADY STEELE.
[Undated.]
" You tell me you want a little flattery
from me. I assure you I know no one
who deserves so much commendation as
yourself, and to whom saying the best
things would be so little like flattery.
The thing speaks for itself, considering
you as a very handsome woman that loved
retirement -one who does not want wit,
and yet is extremely sincere; and so I
could go through all the vices which attend the good qualities of other people,
of which you are exempt. But, indeed,
though you have every perfection, you
have an extravagant fault, which almost
frustrates the good in you to me; and that
is, that you do not love to dress, to ap.
pear, to shine out, even at my request,
and to make me proud of you, or rather
to indulge the pride I have that you are
mine..
" Your most affectionate, obsequious
husband,          RICHARD STEELE.
" A quarter of Molly's schooling is
paid. The children are perfectly well."
"To LADY STEELE.
"~March 26, 1717.
MY DEAREST PRUE,
"I HAVE received yours, wherein you
give me the sensible affliction of'telling
me enow of the continual pain in your
head.... When I lay in your place, and
on your pillow, I assure you I fell into
tears last night, to think that my charm.
ing little insolent might be then awake
and in pain; and took it to be a sin to go
to sleep.
" For this tender passion towards you,
I must be contented that your Prueshi)
will condescend to call yourself my wellwisher.".
At the time when the above later letters
were written, Lady Steele was in Wales,
looking after her estate there.  Steele,
about this time, was much occupied with
a project for conveying fish alive, by
which, as he constantly assures his wife,
he firmly believed he should make hid
fortune. It did not succeed, however.
Lady Steele died in December of the
succeeding year.  She lies buried iJ
Westminster Abbey.




STEELE.


129


emn, the humorist takes upon himself
to comment.    All readers of our
old masters know the terrible lines of
Swift, in which he hints at his philosophy and describes the end of mankind: *"Amazed, confused, its fate unknown,
The world stood trembling at Jove's
throne;
While each pale singer hung his head,
Jove, nodding, shook the heavens and
said:
'Offending race of human kind,
By nature, reason, learning, blind;
You who through frailty stepped aside,
And you who never erred through
pride;
You who in different sects were
shammed,
And come to see each other damned;
(So some folk told you, but they knew
No more of Jove's designs than you;)
The world's mad business now is o'er,
And I resent your freaks no more;
I to such blockheads set my wit,
I damn such fools - go, go, you're bit I "'
Addison, speaking on the very
same theme, but with how different a
voice, says, in his famous paper on
Westminster Abbey    (" Spectator,"
No. 26):-" For my own part,
though I am always serious, I do not
know what it is to be melancholy,
and can therefore take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes
with the same pleasure as in her most
gay and delightful ones. When I
look upon the tombs of the great,
every emotion of envy dies within me;
when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out;
when I meet with the grief of parents
on a tombstone, my heart melts with
compassion; when I see the tomb
of the parents themselves, I consider
the vanity of grieving for those we
must quickly follow." (I have owned
that I do not think Addison's heart
melted very much, or that he indulged very inordinately in the
" vanity of grieving.") " When," he
goes on, " when I see kings lying by
those who deposed them: when I
consider rival wits placed side by
side, or the holy men that divided
* Lord Chesterfield sends these verses
to Voltaire in a characteristic letter.


the world with their contests and
disputes, - I reflect with sorrow and
astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. And, when I read the several
dates on the tombs of some that died
yesterday and some 600 years ago, I
consider that Great Day when we
shall all of us be contemporaries, and
make our appearance together."
Our third humorist comes to speak
upon the same subject. You will
have observed in the previous extracts
the characteristic humor of each
writer - the subject and the contrast
- the fact of Death, and the play of
individual thought, by which each
comments on it, and now hear the
third writer-death, sorrow, and
the grave being for the moment also
his theme. " The first sense of sorrow I ever knew," Steele says in
" The Tatler," " was upon the death
of my father, at which time I was
not quite five years of age: but was
rather amazed at what all the house
meant, than possessed of a real understanding why nobody would play
with us. I remember I went into the
room where his body lay, and my
mother sat weeping alone by it. I
had my battledore in my hand, and fell
a beating the coffin, and calling papa;
for, I know not how, I had some idea
that he was locked up there. My
mother caught me in her arms, and,
transported beyond all patience of the
silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces,
and told me in a flood of tears, ' Papa
could not hear me, and would play
with me no more; for they were
going to put him under ground,
whence he would never come to us
again.' She was a very beautiful
woman, of a noble spirit, and there
was a dignity in her grief amidst all
the wildness of her transport, which
methought struck me with an instinct
of sorrow that, before I was sensible
what it was to grieve, seized my
very soul, and has made pity the
weakness of my heart ever since."
Can there be three more character



130


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


istic moods of minds and men?
" Fools, do you know any thing of this
mystery? " says Swift, stamping on a
grave, and carrying his scorn for
mankind actually beyond it. " Miserable, purblind wretches, how dare
you to pretend to comprehend the
Inscrutable, and how can your dim
eyes pierce the unfathomable depths
'of yonder boundless heaven?" Addison, in a much kinder language
and gentler voice, utters much the
same sentiment: and speaks of the
rivalry of wits, and the contests of
holy men, with the same sceptic
placidity. "Look what a little vain
dust we are," he says, smiling over
the tombstones; and catching, as is
his wont, quite a divine effulgence as
he looks heavenward, he speaks, in
words of inspiration almost, of "the
Great Day, when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together."
The third, whose theme is Death,
too, and who will speak his word of
moral as Heaven teaches him, leads
you up to his father's coffin, and
shows you his beautiful mother weeping, and himself an unconscious little
boy wondering at her side. His own
natural tears flow as he takes your
hand and confidingly asks your sympathy. " See how good and innocent
and beautiful women are," he says;
" how tender little children! Let us
love these and one another, brother -
God knows we have need of love and
pardon." So it is each man looks with
is own eyes, speaks with his own
voice, and prays his own prayer.
When Steele asks your sympathy
for the actors in that charming scene
of Love and Grief and Death, who
can refuse it? One yields to it as to
the frank advance of a child, or to
the appeal of a woman. A man is
seldom more manly than when he is
what you call unmanned - the source
of his emotion is championship, pity,
and courage; the instinctive desire to
cherish those who are innocent and
unhappy, and defend those who are
tender and weak. If Steele is not


our friend, he is nothing. He is by
no means the most brilliant of wits
nor the deepest of thinkers: but he
is our friend: we love him, as children
love their love with an A, because he
is amiable. Who likes a man best
because he is the cleverest or the
wisest of mankind; or a woman because she is the most virtuous, or talks
French, or plays the piano better
than the rest of her sex? I own to
liking Dick Steele the man, and Dick
Steele the author, much better than
much better men and much better
authors.
The misfortune regarding Steele is,
that most part of the company here
present must take his amiability upon
hearsay, and certainly can't make
his intimate acquaintance. Not that
Steele was worse than his time; on
the contrary, a far better, truer, and
higher-hearted man than most who
lived in it. But things were done in
that society, and names were named,
which would make you shudder now.
What would be the sensation of a
polite youth of the present day, if at
a ball he saw the young object of his
affections taking a box out of her
pocket and a pinch of snuff: or if at
dinner, by the charmer's side, she
deliberately put her knife into her
mouth? If she cut her mother's
throat with it, mamma would scarcely
be more shocked. I allude to these
peculiarities of by-gone times as an
excuse for my favorite, Steele, who
was not worse, and often much more
delicate, than his neighbors.
There exists a curious document
descriptive of the manners of the last
age, which describes most minutely
the amusements and occupations of
persons of fashions in London at the
time of which we are speaking; the
time of Swift and Addison and
Steele.
When Lord Sparkish, Tom Neverout, and Colonel Alwit, the immortal
personages of Swift's polite conversation, came to breakfast with my Lady
Smart, at eleven o'clock in the morning, my Lord Smart was absent at




STEELE.


131


the levee. His lordship was at home lings a pound in those days). When
to dinner at three o'clock to receive my Lady Sparkish sent her footman
his guests; and we may sit down to out to my Lady Match to come at
this meal, like the Barmecide's, and six o'clock and play at quadrille, her
see the fops of the last century before ladyship warned the man to follow
us. Seven of them sat down at din- his nose, and if he fell by the way not
ner, and were joined by a country to stay to get up again. And when
baronet, who told them  they kept the gentlemen asked the hall-porter if
court hours. These persons of fash- his lady was at home, that functionion began their dinner with a sirloin ary replied, with manly waggishness,
of beef, fish, a shoulder of veal, and a " She was at home just now, but she's
tongue. My Lady Smart carved the not gone out yet."
sirloin, my Lady Answerall helped   After the puddings, sweet and
the fish, and the gallant Colonel cut black, the fritters and soup, came the
the shoulder of veal. All made a third course, of which the chief dish
considerable inroad on the sirloin was a hot venison pasty, which was
and the shoulder of veal with the ex- put before Lord Smart, and carved
ception of Sir John, who had no ap- by that nobleman. Besides the paspetite, having already partaken of a ty, there was a hare, a rabbit, some
beefsteak and two mugs of ale, be- pigeons, partridges, a goose, and a
sides a tankard of March beer as ham. Beer and wine were freely imsoon as he got out of bed. They bibed during this course, the gentledrank claret, which the master of the men always pledging somebody with
house said should always be drunk every glass which they drank; and
after fish; and my Lord Smart par- by this time the conversation between
ticularly recommended some excellent Tom Neverout and Miss Notable had
cider to my Lord Sparkish, which oc- grown so brisk and lively, that the
casioned some brilliant remarks from  Derbyshire baronet began to think
that nobleman. When the host called the young gentlewoman was Tom's
for wine, he nodded to one or other sweetheart; on which Miss remarked,
of his guests, and said, " Tom Never- that she loved Tom " like pie." Afout, my service to you."          ter the goose, some of the gentlemen
After the first course came almond- took a dram of brandy, " which was
pudding, fritters, which the Colonel very good for the wholesomes," Sir
took with his hands out of the dish, John said; and now having had a
in order to help the brilliant Miss tolerably substantial dinner, honest
Notable; chickens, black puddings, Lord Smart bade the butler bring up
and soup; and Lady    Smart, the the great tankard full of Octoberto
elegant mistress of the mansion, find- Sir John. The great tankard was
ing a skewer in a dish, placed it in passed from hand to hand and mouth
her plate with  directions that it to mouth, but when pressed by the
should be carried down to the cook, noble host upon the gallant Tom
and dressed for the cook's own dinner. Neverout, he said, "No, faith, my
Wine and small beer were drunk dur- lord; I like your wine, and won't
ing this second course; and when the put a churl upon a gentleman. Your
Colonel called for beer, he called the honor's claret is good enough for me."
butler Friend, and asked whether the And so, the dinner over, the host
beer was good. Various jocular re- said, "Hang saving, bring us up a
marks passed from the gentlefolks to ha'porth of cheese."
the servants; at breakfast several  The cloth was now taken away,
persons had a word and a joke for and a bottle of burgundy was set
Mrs. Betty, my lady's maid, who down, of which the ladies were invitwarmed the cream and had charge of ed to partake before they went to
the canister (the tea cost thirty shil- their tea. When they withdrew, the




132


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


gentlemen promised to join them in
an hour: fresh bottles were brought;
the " dead men," meaning the empty
bottles, removed; and " D'you hear,
John? bring clean glasses," my Lord
Smart said. On which the gallant
Colonel Alwit said, "I'll keep my
glass; for wine is the best liquor to
wash glasses in."
After an hour the gentlemen joined
the ladies, and then they all sat and
played quadrille until three o'clock in
the morning, when the chairs and the
flambeaux came, and this noble company went to bed.
Such were manners six or seven
score years ago. I draw no inference
from this queer picture - let all moralists here present deduce their own.
Fancy the moral condition of that society in which a lady of fashion joked
with a footman, and carved a sirloin,
and provided besides a great shoulder
of veal, a goose, hare, rabbit, chickens, partridges, black puddings, and a
ham for a dinner for eight Christians.
What- what could have been the
condition of that polite world in which
people openly ate goose after almondpudding, and took their soup in the
middle of dinner? Fancy a Colonel
in the Guards putting his hand into a
dish of beignets d'abricot, and helping
his neighbor, a young lady du monde!
Fancy a noble lord calling out to the
servants, before the ladies at his table,
" Hang expense, bring us a ha'porth
of cheese! " Such were the ladies of
Saint James's - such were the frequenters  of "White's  ChocolateHouse," when Swift used to visit it,
and Steele described it as the centre
of pleasure, gallantry, and entertainment, a hundred and forty years ago!
Dennis, who ran amuck at the literary society of his day, falls foul of
poor Steele, and thus depicts him:"Sir John Edgar, of the county of,    in Ireland, is of a middle
stature, broad shoulders, thick legs, a
shape like the picture of somebody
over a farmer's chimney-a short
chin, a short nose, a short forehead,
a broad flat face, and a dusky coun

tenance.  Yet with such a face and
such a shape, he discovered at sixty
that he took himself for a beauty,
and appeared to be more mortified at
being told that he was ugly, than he
was by any reflection made upon his
honor or understanding.
"He is a gentleman born, witness
himself, of very honorable family;
certainly of a very ancient one, for his
ancestors flourished in Tipperary long
before the English ever set foot in Ireland. He has testimony of this more
authentic than the Herald's office, or
any human testimony. For God has
marked him more abundantly than he
did Cain, and stamped his native
country on his face, his understanding, his writings, his actions, his passions, and, above all, his vanity. The
Hibernian brogue is still upon all
these, though long habit and length
of days have worn it off his tongue." *
* Steele replied to Dennis in an "Answer to a Whimsical Pamphlet, called the
Character of Sir John Edgar." What
Steele had to say against the crossgrained old Critic discovers a great deal
of humor:" Thou never didst let the sun into thy
garret, for fear he should bring a bailiff
along with him....
" Your years are about sixty-five, an
ugly, vinegar face, that if you had any
command you would be obeyed out of
fear, from your ill-nature pictured there;
not from any other motive. Your height
is about some five feet five inches. You
see I can give your exact measure as well
as if I had taken your dimension with a
good cudgel, which I promise you to do
as soon as ever I have the good fortune to
meet you....
"Your doughty paunch stands before
you like a firkin of butter, and your duck
legs seem to be cast for carrying burdens.
" Thy works are libels upon others, and
satires upon thyself; and while they bark
at men of sense, call him knave and fool
that wrote them. Thou hast a great antipathy to thy own species; and hatest the
sight of a fool but in thy glass."
Steele had been kind to Dennis, and
once got arrested on account of a pecuniary service which he did him. When
John heard of the fact-" S'death "
cries John; " why did not he keep out of
the way as I did? "
The " Answer" concludes by mentioning that Cibber had offered Ten Pounds
for the discovery of the authorship of




STEELE.


133


Although this portrait is the work
of a man who was neither the friend of
Steele nor of any other man alive, yet
there is a dreadful resemblance to the
original in the savage and exaggerated traits of the caricature, and everybody who knows him must recognize
Dick Steele. Dick set about almost
all the undertakings of his life with
inadequate means, and, as he took and
furnished a house with the most generous intentions towards his friends,
the most tender gallantry towards his
wife, and with this only drawback,
that he had not wherewithal to pay
the rent when quarter-day came, - so,
in his life, he proposed to himself the
most magnificent schemes of virtue,
forbearance, public and private good,
and the advancement of his own and
the national religion; but when he
had to pay for these articles - so difficult to purchase and so costly to
maintain - poor Dick's money was
not forthcoming: and when Virtue
called with her little bill, Dick made
a shuffling excuse that he could not
see her that morning, having a headache from being tipsy overnight; or
when stern Duty rapped at the door
with his account, Dick was absent,
and not ready to pay. He was shirking at the tavern; or had some particular business (of somebody's else)
Dennis's pamphlet; on which, says Steele,
— "I am only sorry he has offered so
much, because the twentieth part would
have over-valued his whole carcass. But
I know the fellow that he keeps to give answers to his creditors will betray him; for
he gave me his word to bring officers on the
top of the house that should make a hole
through the ceiling of his garret, and so
bring him to the punishment he deserves.
Some people think this expedient out of
the way, and that he would make his escape upon hearing the least noise. I say
so too; but it takes him up half an hour
every night to fortify himself with his old
hair trunk, two or three joint-stools, and
some other lumber, which he ties together
with cords so fast that it takes him up the
same time in the morning to release himself."


at the ordinary: or he was in hiding,
or worse than in hiding, in the lockup house. What a situation for a
man!- for a philanthropist - for a
lover of right and truth - for a magnificent designer and schemer! Not
to dare to look in the face the Religion which he adored and which he
had offended: to have to shirk down
back lanes and alleys, so as to avoid
the friend whom he loved and who
had trusted him; to have the house
which he had intended for his wife,
whom he loved passionately, and for
her ladyship's company which he
wished to entertain splendidly, in the
possession of a bailiff's man; with a
crowd of little creditors, - grocers,
butchers, and small-coal men- lingering round the door with their bills
and jeering at him. Alas! for poor
Dick Steele! For nobody else, of
course. There is no man or woman
in our time who makes fine projects
and gives them up from idleness or
want of means. When Duty calls
upon us, we no doubt are always at
home and ready to pay that grim taxgatherer. When we are stricken with
remorse, and promise reform, we keep
our promise, and are never angry, or
idle, or extravagant any more. There
are no chambers in our hearts, destined for family friends and affections,
and now occupied by some Sin's emissary and bailiff in possession. There
are no little sins, shabby peccadilloes,
importunate remembrances, or disappointed holders of our promises to retbrm, hovering at our steps, or knock.
ing at our door! Of course not. We
are living in the nineteenth century;
and poor Dick Steele stumbled and
got up again, and got into jail and
out again, and sinned and repented,
and loved and suffered, and lived and
died, scores of years ago. Peace be
with him! Let us think gently of
one who was so gentle: let us speak
kindly of one whose own breast exuberated with human kindness.




134


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


MATTHEW PRIOR was one of those
famous and lucky wits of the auspicious reign of Queen Anne, whose
name it behooves us not to pass over.
Mat was a world-philosopher of no
small genius, good nature, and acumen.* He loved, he drank, he sang.
He describes himself, in one of his
lyrics, "in a little Dutch chaise on a
Saturday night; on his left hand his
Horace, and a friend on his right,"
going out of town from the Hague to
pass that evening, and the ensuing
Sunday, boozing at a Spielhaus with
his companions, perhaps bobbing for
perch in a Dutch canal, and noting
down, in a strain and with a grace not
* Gay calls him —"Dear Prior...
beloved by every muse." —Afr. Pope's
Welcome from Greece.
Swift and Prior were very intimate,
and he is frequently mentioned in the
"Journal to Stella." "Mr. Prior," says
Swift, " walks to make himself fat, and I
to keep myself down.... We often
walk round the park together."
In Swift's works there is a curious tract
called " Remarks on the Characters of the
Court of Queen Anne" [SCOTT'S edition,
vol. xii.] The " Remarks " are not by the
Dean; but at the end of each is an addition in Italics from his hand, and these
are always characteristic. Thus, to the
Duke of Marlborough, he adds, " Detestably covetous," &c. Prior is thus noticed:"MATTHEW PRIOR, Esq., Commissioner
of Trade.
"On the Queen's accession to the
throne, he was continued in his office; is
very well at court with the ministry, and
is an entire creature of my Lord Jersey's,
whom he supports by his advice; is one
of the best poets in England, but very
facetious in conversation. A thin, hollow-looked man, turned of forty years
old. This is near the truth."
"Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtues and vices were as othlr
men's are.


unworthy of his Epicurean master, the
charms of his idleness, his retreat, and
his Batavian Chloe. A vintner's son
in Whitehall, and a distinguished
pupil of Busby of the Rod, Prior attracted some notice by writing verses
at St. John's College, Cambridge,
and, coming up to town, aided Montague * in an attack on the noble old
English lion John Dryden; in ridicule of whose work, "  he Hind and
the Panther," he brought out that
remarkable and famous burlesque,
" The Town and Country Mouse."
Aren't you all acquainted with it?
Have you not all got it by heart?
What! have you never heard of it?
High hopes he conceived and he smothered great fears,
In a life party-colored - half pleasure,
half care.
" Not to business a drudge, nor to faction
a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and
grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord, how
merry was he I
"Now in equipage stately, now humble
on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither
would trust;
And whirled in the round as the wheel
turned about,
He found riches had wings, and knew
man was but dust."
-PRIOR'S Poents. [For my own monument.]
* "They joined to produce a parody,
entitled 'The town and Country Mouse,'
part of which Mr. Bayes is supposed to
gratify his old friends, Smart and Johnson, by repeating to them. The piece is
therefore founded upon the twice-told jest
of the ' Rehearsal.'... There is nothing
new or original in the idea.... In this
piece, Prior, though the younger man,
seems to have had by far the largest share."
- SCOTT'S Dryden, vol. i. p. 330.




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


135


See what fame is made of! The won- dorial plate; and in an heroic poem,
derful part of the satire was, that, as addressed by him to her late lamented
a natural consequence of " The Town Majesty, Queen Anne, Mat makes
and Country Mouse," Matthew Prior some magnificent allusions to these
was made Secretary of Embassy at dishes and spoons, of which Fate had
the Hague! I believe it is dancing, deprived him. All that he wants, he
rather than singing, which distin- says, is her Majesty's picture; withguishes the young English diploma- out that lie can't be happy.
tists of the present day; and have
seen them in various parts perform  Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I
adore:
that part of their duty very finely. In  Thee, Queen of Peace, if Time and Fate
Prior's time it appears a different    have power
accomplishment led to preferment.   Higher to raise the glories of thy reign,
Could you write a copy of Alcaics   In words sublimer and a nobler strain
May future bards the mighty theme rethat was the question. Could you       hearse
turn out a neat epigram  or two?    Here, Stator Jdve, and Phoebus, king of
Could you compose " The Town and       verse,
Country Mouse "?    It is manifest  The votive tablet I suspend."
that, by the possession of this faculty, With that word the poem  stops
the most difficult treaties, the laws of abruptly. The votive tablet is susforeign nations, and the interests of pended forever, like Mahomet's coffin.
our own, are easily understood. Prior News came that the Queen was dead.
rose in the diplomatic service, and said Stator Jove, and Phoebus, king of
good things that proved his sense and verse, were left there, hovering to
his spirit. When the apartments at this day, over the votive tablet. The
Versailles were shown to him, with picture was never got, any more than
the victories of Louis XIV. painted the spoons and dishes: the inspiraon the walls, and Prior was asked tion ceased, the verses were not wantwhether the palace of the King of ed —the ambassador wasn't wanted.
England had any such decorations, Poor Mat was recalled from his cm" The monuments of my master's ac- bassy, suffered disgrace along with his
tions," Mat said, of William whom  patrons, lived under a sort of cloud
he cordially revered, "are to be seen ever after, and disappeared in Essex.
everywhere except in his own house." When deprived of all his pensions and
Bravo, Mat! Prior rose to be full emoluments, the hearty and generous
ambassador at Paris,* where he some- Oxford pensioned him. They playedl
how was cheated out of his ambassa- for gallant stakes -the bold men of


* " IIe was to have been in the same commission with the Duke of Shrewsbury, but
that that nobleman," says Johnson, "refused to be associated with one so meanly born. Prior therefore continued to act
without a title till the Duke's return next
year to England, and then he assumed the
style and dignity of ambassador."
He had been thinking of slights of this
sort when he wrote his Epitaph: -
" Nobles and heralds, by your leave,
Here lies what once was Matthew
Prior,
The son of Adam and of Eve;
Can Bourbon or Nassau claim
higher?"
But, in this case, the old prejudice got
the better of the old joke.


those days-and lived and gave
splendidly.
Johnson quotes from Spence a legend, that Prior, after spending an
evening with Harley, St. John, Pope,
and Swift, would go off and smoke a
pipe with a couple of friends of his, a
soldier and his wife, in Long Acre.
Those who have not read his late Excellency's poems should be warned
that they smack not a little of the
conversation of his Long Acre friends.
Johnson speaks slightingly of his
lyrics; but with due deference to the
great Samuel, Prior's seem to me
amongst the easiest, the richest, the
most charmingly humorous of English




136


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


lyrical poems.* Horace is always in
his mind; and his song, and his philosophy, his good sense, his happy,
easy turns and melody, his loves and
his Epicureanism, bear a great resemblance to that most delightful and
accomplished master. In reading his
works, one is struck with their modern
air, as well as by their happy similarity to the songs of the charming owner
of the Sabine farm. In his verses
addressed to Halifax, he says, writing
of that endless theme to poets, the
vanity of human wishes, -
"So when in fevered dreams we sink,
And waking, taste what we desire,
The real draught but feeds the fire,
The dream is better than the drink.
"Our hopes like towering falcons aim
At objects in an airy height:
To stand aloof and view the flight,
Is all the pleasure of the game."
Would not you fancy that a poet
of our own days was singing? and
in the verses of Chloe weeping and
reproaching him for his inconstancy,
where he says,* His epigrams have the genuine
bparklc.
T TIE REMEDY WORSE THAN TIIE DISEASE.
"I sent for Radcliff; was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over:
He felt my pulse, prescribed a pill,
And I was likely to recover.
"But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warmed the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician."
' Yes, every poet is a fool;
By demonstration Ned can show it;
Happy could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet."
On his death-bed poor Lubin lies,
His spouse is in despair;
With frequent sobs and mutual sighs,
They both express their care.
4 A different cause,' says Parson Sly,
'The same effect may give;
Poor Lubin fears that he shall die,
His wife that he may live."'


"The God of us versemen, you know,
child, the Sun,
How, after his journey, he sets up his
rest.
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to
run,
At night he declines on his Thetis'a
breast.
"So, when I am wearied with wandering
all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening
I come:
No matter what beauties I saw in my
way:
They were but my visits, but thou art
my home I
"Then finish, dear Chloc, this pastoral
war,
And let us like Horace and Lydia
agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter
than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me."
If Prior read Horace, did not
Thomas Moore study Prior? Love
and pleasure find singers in all days.
Roses are always blowing and fading
- to-day as in that pretty time when
Prior sang of them, and of Chloc
lamenting their decay: -
"She sighed, she smiled, and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said:
See, friend, in some few leisure hours,
See yonder what a change is made I
"Ah me the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one:
At morn both flourisht, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
"At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her
bowed:
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.
"Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas, may be to-morrow:
Go, Damon, bid the Muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow."
Damon's knell was rung in 1721.
May his turf lie lightly on him! Deus
sit propitius huic potatori, as Walter
de Mapes sang.*    Perhaps Samuel
* " PRIOR TO SIR THOMAS HANMER.
Aug. 4, 1709.
" DEAR SIR,"FRIENDSHIP may live, I grant you,
without being fed and cherished by cor



PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


137


Johnson, who spoke slightingly of
Prior's verses, enjoyed them more
respondence; but with that additional
benefit I am of opinion it will look more
cheerful and thrive better: for in this
case, as in love, though a man is sure of
his own constancy, yet his happiness depends a good deal upon the sentiments
of another, and while you and Chloe are
alive, 'tis not enough that I love you both,
except I am sure you both love me again;
and as one of her scrawls fortifies my
mind more against affliction than all Epictetus, with Simplicius's comments into
the bargain, so your single letter gave me
more real pleasure than all the works of
Plato..... I must return my answer
to your very kind question concerning my
health. The Bath waters have done a
good deal towards the recovery of it, and
the great specific, Cape caballum, will, I
think, confirm it. Upon this head I must
tell you that my mare Betty grows blind,
and may one day, by breaking my neck,
perfect my cure: if at Rixham fair any
pretty nagg that is between thirteen and
fourteen hands presented himself, and you
would be pleased to purchase him for me,
one of your servants might ride him to
Euston, and I might receive him there.
This, sir, is just as such a thing happens.
If you hear, too, of a Welsh widow, with
a good jointure, that has her goings and
is not very skittish, pray, be pleased to
cast your eye on her for me too. You
see, sir, the great trust I repose in your
skill and honor, when I dare put two such
commissions in your hand.".. -The
Hanmer Correspondence, p. 120.
"FROM5 MR. PRIOR.
" Paris, 1-12 May, 1714.
" MY DEAR LORD AND FRIEND, -
"' MATTHEW never had so great occasion to write a word to Henry as now:
it is noised here that I am soon to return.
The question that I wish I could answer
to the many that ask, and to our friend
Colbert de Torcy (to whom I made your
compliments in the manner you commanded) is, what is done for me; and to
what I am recalled? It may look like a
bagatelle, what is to become of a philosopher like me? but it is not such: what is
to become of a person who had the honor
to be chosen, and sent hither as intrusted,
in the midst of a war, with what the
Queen designed should make the peace;
returning with the Lord Bolingbroke, one
of the greatest men in England, and one of
the finest heads in Europe (as they say
here, if true or not, n'importe); having
been left by him in the greatest character
(that of Her Majesty's Plenipotentiary),
exercising that power conjointly with the
Duke of Shrewsbury, and solely after his
7


than he was willing to own. The
old moralist had studied them as well
departure; having here received more
distinguished honor than any Minister,
except an Ambassador, ever did, and
some which were never given to any but
who had that character; having had all
the success that could be expected; having (God be thanked!) spared no pains,
at a time when at home the peace is voted
safe and honorable -at a time when the
Earl of Oxford is Lord Treasurer and
Lord Bolingbroke First Secretary of
State? This unfortunate person, 1 say,
neglected, forgot, unnamed to any thing
that may speak the Queen satisfied with
his services, or his friends concerned as
to his fortune.
"Mr. de Torcy put me quite out of
countenance, the other day, by a pity
that wounded me deeper than ever did
the cruelty of the late Lord Godolphin.
He said he would write to Robin and
Harry about me. God forbid, my lord,
that I should need any foreign intercession, or owe the least to any Frenchman
living, besides the decency of behavior
and the returns of common civility: some
say I am to go to Baden, others that I am
to be added to the Commissioners for
settling the commerce. In all cases I am
ready, but in the mean time, die aliquid
de tribus capellis. Neither of these two
are. I presume, honors or rewards, neither
of them (let me say to my dear Lord
Bolingbroke, and let him not be angry
with me) are what Drift may aspire to,
and what Mr. Whitworth, who was his
fellow-clerk, has or may possess. I am
*far from desiring to lessen the great merit
of the gentleman I named, for I heartily
esteem and love him; but in this trade of
ours, my lord, in which you are the general, as in that of the soldiery, there is a
certain right acquired by time and long
service. You would do any thing for
your Queen's service, but you would not
be contented to descend, and be degraded
to a charge, no way proportioned to that
of Secretary of State, any more than Mr.
Ross, though he would charge a party
with a halbard in his hand, would be content all his life after to be Sergeant.
Was my Lord Dartmouth, from Secretary, returned again to be Commissioner
of Trade, or from Secretary of War,
would Frank Gwyn think himself kindly
used to be returned again to be Commissioner? In short, my lord, you have put
me above myself, and if I am to return to
myself, I shall return to something very
discontented and uneasy. I am sure, my
lord, you will make the best use you can
of this hint for my good. If I am to have
any thing, it will certainly be for HIcr
Majesty's service, and the credit of my
friends in the Ministry, that it be done




138


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


as Mr. Thomas Moore, and defended
them, and showed that he remembered them very well too, on an occasion when their morality was called in
question by that noted puritan, James
Boswell, Esq., of Auchinleck.*
In the great society of the wits,
John Gay deserved to be a favorite,
and to have a good place.t In his
before I am recalled from home, lest the
world may think either that I have merited to be disgraced, or that ye dare not
stand by me. If nothing is to be done,
iat voluntas Dei. I have writ to Lord
Treasurer upon this subject, and having
implored your kind intercession, I promise you it is the last remonstrance of this
kind that I will ever make. Adieu, my
lord; all honor, health, and pleasure to
you.             Yours ever, MATT."
" P.S. -Lady Jersey is Just gone from
me. We drank your healths together in
usquebaugh after our tea: we are the
greatest friends alive. Once more, adieu.
There is no such thing as the 'Book of
Travels you mentioned; if there be, let
friend Tilson send us more particular account of them, for neither I nor Jacob
Tonson can find them. Pray send Barton back to me, I hope with some comfortable tidings."-Bolingbroke's Letters.
* "I asked whether Prior's poems
were to be printed entire; Johnson said
they were. I mentioned Lord Hales's censure of Prior in his preface to a collection
of sacred poems, by various hands, published by him at Edinburgh a great many
years ago, where he mentions 'these impure tales, which will be the eternal
opprobrium of their ingenious author.'
JOHNSON: 'Sir, Lord Hales has forgot.
There is nothing in Prior that will excite
to lewdness. If Lord Hales thinks there
is, he must be more combustible than other
people.' I instanced the tale of 'Paulo
Purganti and his wife.' JOHNSON: ' Sir,
there is nothing there but that his wife
wanted to be kissed, when poor Paulo was
out of pocket. No, sir, Prior is a lady's
book. No lady is ashamed to have it
standing in her library."-BOSWExL'^
Life of Johnson.
t Gay was of an old Devonshire family,
but his pecuniary prospects not being
great, was placed in his youth in the house
of a silk-mercer in London. He was born
in 1688 —Pope's year, and in 1712 the
Duchess of Monmouth made him her secretary. Next year he published his
"Rural Sports," which he dedicated to
Pope, and so made an acquaintance, which
became a memorable friendship.
"Gay," says Pope, "was quite a natural man, wholly without art or design,


set all were fond of him. His success offended nobody. He missed a
fortune once or twice. He was talked
of for court favor, and hoped to win
it; but the court favor jilted him.
Craggs gave him some South Sea
Stock; and at one time Gay had
very nearly made his fortune. But
Fortune shook her swift wings and
jilted him too; and so his friends, instead of being angry with him, and
jealous of him, were kind and fond
of honest Gay. In the portraits of
the literary worthies of the early part
of the last century, Gay's face is the
pleasantest perhaps of all. It appears
adorned with neither periwig nor
night-cap (the full dress and negliqee of
learning, without which the painters
of those days scarcely ever portrayed
wits), and he laughs at you over his
shoulder with an honest boyish glee
- an artless sweet humor. He was so
kind, so gentle, so jocular, so delightfully brisk at times, so dismally wobegone at others, such a natural good
creature, that the Giants loved him.
The great Swift was gentle and sportive with him,* as the enormous
Brobdingnag maids of honor were
with little Gulliver. He could frisk
and fondle round Pope,t and sport
and spoke just what he thought and as he
thought it. He dangled for twenty years
about a court, and at last was offered to
be made usher to the young princess.
Secretary Craggs made Gay a present of
stock in the South Sea year; and he was
once worth 20,0001. but lost it all again.
He got about 5001. by the first' Beggar's
Opera,' and 1,1001. or 1,2001. by the second.
He was negligent and a bad manager.
Latterly, the Duke of Queensberry took
his money into his keeping, and let him
only have what was necessary out of it,
and, as he lived with them, he could not
have occasion for much. He died worth
upwards of 3,0001." —PoEr.  Spence's
Anecdotes.
* " Mr. Gay is, in all regards, as honest
and sincere a man as ever I knew."SwIFT, To Lady Betty Germaine, Jan.
1733.
t " Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit a man; simplicity, a child;
With native humor tempering virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the
age;




GAY.








PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


139


and bark, and caper, without offend- beautiful and  young,"   of Prior)
ing the most thin-skinned of poets pleaded his cause with indignation,
and men; and when he was jilt- and quitted the court in a huff, cared in   that little  court affair of rying off with them into their retirewhich we have spoken, his warm- ment their kind, gentle          protege.
hearted patrons the Duke and Duch- With these kind lordly folks, a real
ess of Queensberry * (the " Kitty, Duke and Duchess, as delightful as
Above temptation in a low estate,   mine (as brother poets) had ever a bias to
And uncorrupted e'en among the great: the side of liberty, I know you will be an
A safe companion, and an easy friend,  honest man and an inoffensive one. Upon
Unblamed through life, lamented in the the whole, I know you are incapable of
end.                            being so much of either party as to be
These are thy honors; not that here thy good for nothing. Therefore, once more,
bust                            whatever you are, or in whatever state you
Is mixed with heroes, or with kings thy are, all hail I
dust;                             " One or two of your own friends comBut that the worthy and the good shall plained they had nothing from you since
ay,                             the Queen's death; I told them no man
Striking their pensive bosoms, 'Here living loved Mr. Gay better than I, yet I
lies Gay.'"                     had not once written to him in all his
PoPE's Epitaph on Gay. voyage.  This I thought a convincing
"A hare who, in a civil way,       proof, but truly one may be a friend to
Complied with every thing, like Gay."  another without telling him  so every
Fables, " The Hare and     month. But they had reasons, too, themmany Friends.)s Belves to allege in your excuse, as men
who really value one another will never
"I can give you no account of Gay," want such as make their friends and
says Pope, curiously, " since he was raf- themselves easy. The late universal confled for, and won back by his Duchess." cern in public affairs threw us all into a
- Works, Roscoe's Ed., vol. ix. p. 392.  hurry of spirits: even I, who am more a
Here is the letter Pope wrote to him  philosopher than to expect any thing from
when the death of Queen Anne brought any reign, was borne away with the curback Lord Clarendon from Hanover, and rent, and full of the expectation of the
lost him the secretaryship of that noble- successor. During your Journeys, I knew
man, of which he had had but a short not whither to aim a letter after you; that
tenure.                              was a sort of shooting flying; add to this
Gay's court prospects were never hap- the demand Homer had upon me, to write
py from this time. His dedication of the fifty verses a day, besides learned notes
"*Shpherd's Week " to Bolingbroke, all of which are at a conclusion for this
Swift used to call the "original s5t '      Rejoice with me, 0 my friend
which had hurt him with the house of year.riend
anovrerthat my labor is over; come and make
-                     merry with me in much feasting. We
"Sept. 23,1714. will feed among the lilies (by the lil"DEAR MR. GAY, -                     ies I mean the ladies). Are not the Rosa"WELCOME to your native soil l wel- lindas of Britain as charming as the
come to your friends I thrice welcome to Blousalindas of the Hague? or have the
me I whether returned in glory, blest with two great Pastoral poets of our own nacourt interest, the love and familiarity of tion renounced love at the same time?
the great, and filled with agreeable hopes; for Phillips, unnatural Phillips, hath deor melancholy with dejection, contempla- serted it, yea, and in a rustic manner
tive of the changes of fortune, and doubt- kicked his Rosalind. Dr. Parnell and I
ful for the future; whether returned a have been inseparable ever since you
triumphant Whig or a desponding Tory, went. We are now at the Bath, where
equally all hail I equally beloved and wel- (if you are not, as 1 heartily hope, better
come to me l If happy, I am to partake engaged) your company would be the
of your elevation; if unhappy, you have greatest pleasure to us in the world. Talk
still a warm corner in my heart, and a not of expenses: Homer shall support
retreat at Benfield in the worst of times his children. I beg a line from  you,
at your service. If you are a Tory, or directed to the Post-house in Bath. Poor
thought so by any man, I know it can Parnell is in an ill state of health.
proceed from nothing but your gratitude  't Pardon me if I add a word of advice
to a few people who endeavored to serve in the poetical way. Write something on
you, and whose politics were never your the King, or Prince, or Princess. On
concern. If you are a Whig, as I rather whatsoever foot you may be with the
hope, and as I think your principles and court, this can do no harm. I shall never




140


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


those who harbored Don Quixote, and
loved that dear old Sancho, Gay
lived, and was lapped in cotton, and
had his plate of chicken, and his
saucer of cream, and frisked, barked,
and wheezed, and grew fat, and so
ended.* He became very melancholy
and lazy, sadly plethoric, and only
occasionally diverting in his latter
days. But everybody loved him, and
the remembrance of his pretty little
tricks; and the raging old Dean of
St. Patrick's, chafing in his banishment, was afraid to open the letter
which Pope wrote him, announcing
the sad news of the death of Gay.t
Swift's letters to him are beautiful;
and having no purpose but kindness
in writing to him, no party aim to
advocate, or slight or anger to wreak,
every word the Dean says to his favorite is natural, trustworthy, and
kindly. His admiration for Gay's
parts and honesty, and his laughter
at his weaknesses, were alike just and
genuine. He paints his character in
wonderful pleasant traits of jocular
satire. "I writ lately to Mr. Pope,"
Swift says, writing to Gay: "I wish
you had a little villakin in his neighorhood; but you are yet too volatile,
and any lady with a coach and six
horses would carry you to Japan."
know where to end, and am confounded
in the many things I have to say to you,
though they all amount but to this, that I
am, entirely, as ever,  Yours, &c.
Gay took the advice " in the poetical
way, and published " An Epistle to a
Lady, occasioned by the arrival of her
Royal Highness the Princess of Wales."
But though this brought him access to
court, and the attendance of the Prince
and Princess at his farce of the " What
d'ye call it?" it did not bring him a
place. On the accession of George II.,
he was offered the situation of Gentleman
Usher to the Princess Louisa (her Highness being then two years old); but " by
this offer," says Johnson, "he thought
himself insulted."
* " Gay was a great eater. As the
French philosopher used to prove his
existence by Cogito, ergo sum, the greatest proof of Gay's existence is, Edit, ergo est." - CONGREVE, in a Letter to
Pope. Spence's Anecdotes.
t Swift indorsed the letter-" On my


"If your ramble," says Swift, in
another letter, " was on horseback, I
am glad of it, on account of your
health; but I know your arts of packing up a journey between stagecoaches and friends' coaches-for
you are as arrant a cockney as any
hosier in Cheapside. I have often
had it in my head to put it into yours,
that you ought to have some great
work in scheme, which may take up
seven years to finish, besides two or
three under-ones that may add another thousand pounds to your stocks,
and then I shall be in less pain about
you. I know you can find dinners,
but you love twelvepenny coaches too
well, without considering that the interest of a whole thousand pounds
brings you but half a crown a day."
And then Swift goes off from Gay to
pay some grand compliments to her
Grace the Duchess of Queensberry,
in whose sunshine Mr. Gay was basking, and in whose radiance the Dean
would have liked to warm himself too.
But we have Gay here before us, in
these letters —lazy, kindly, uncommonly idle; rather slovenly, I'm
afraid; forever eating and saying
good things; a little round Frenchl
abbe of a man, sleek, soft-handed, and
soft-hearted.
dear friend Mr. Gay's death; received
Dec. 15, but not read till the 20th, by an
impulse foreboding some misfortune."
"It was by Swift's interest that Gay
was made known to Lord Bolingbroke,
and obtained his patronage."- SCOTT'S
Swift, vol. i. p. 156.
Pope wrote on the occasion of Gayl'
death, to Swift, thus: -
[Dec. 5,1732.]
"... One of the dearest and longest
ties I have ever had is broken all on a
sudden by the unfortunate death of poor
Mr. Gay. An inflammatory fever carried
him out of this life in three days....
He asked of you a few hours before, when
in acute torment by the inflammation in
his bowels and breast.... His sisters,
we suppose, will be his heirs, who are
two widows.... Good God how often
are we to die before we go quite off this
stage? In every friend we lose a part of
ourselves, and the best part. God keep
those we have left few arc worth praying for, and one's self the least of all."




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


141


Out object in these lectures is rather to describe the men than their
works; or to deal with the latter only
in as far as they seem to illustrate the
character of their writers. Mr. Gay's
" Fables," which were written to benefit that amiable Prince, the Duke of
Cumberland, the warrior of Dettingen and Culloden, I have not, I own,
been able to peruse since a period of
very early youth; and it must be confessed that they did not effect much
benefit upon the illustrious young
Prince, whose manners they were intended to mollify, and whose natural
ferocity our gentle-hearted Satirist
perhaps proposed to restrain. But
the six pastorals called the "Shepherd's Week," and the burlesque
poem of " Trivia," any man fond of
lazy literature will find delightful at
the present day, and must read from
beginning to end with pleasure. They
are to poetry what charming little
Dresden china figures are to sculpture: graceful, minikin, fantastic;
with a certain beauty always accompanying them. The pretty little personages of the pastoral, with gold
clocks to their stockings, and fresh
satin ribbons to their crooks and
waistcoats and bodices, dance their
loves to a minuet-tune played on a
bird-organ, approach the charmer, or
rush from the false one daintily on
their red-heeled tip-toes, and die of
despair or rapture, with the most pathetic little grins and ogles; or repose, simpering at each other, under
an arbor of pea-green crockery; or
piping to pretty flocks that have just
been washed with the best Naples in
a stream of Bergamot.   Gay's gay
plan seems to me far pleasanter than
that of Phillips -his rival and Pope's
- a serious and dreary idyllic cockney; not that Gay's "Bumkincts"
and "Hobnelias" are a whit more
natural than the would-be serious
characters of the other posture-master; but the quality of this true hunorist was to laugh and make laugh,
though always with a secret kindness
and tenderness, to perform the droll

est little antics and capers, but always
with a certain grace, and to sweet
music - as you may have seen a Savoyard boy abroad, with a hurdygurdy and a monkey, turning over
head and heels, or clattering and
pirouetting in a pair of wooden
shoes, yet always with a look of love
and appeal in his bright eyes, and a
smile that asks and wins affection
and protection.   Happy they who
have that sweet gift of nature! It
was this which made the great folks
and court ladies free and friendly with
John Gay —which made Pope and
Arbuthnot love him    which melted
the savage heart of Swift when he
thought of him-and drove away,
for a moment or two, the dark frenzies which obscured the lonely tyrant's
brain, as he heard Gay's voice with
its simple melody and artless ringing
laughter.
What used to be said about Rubini,
qu'il avait des larmes dans la voix, may
be said of Gay,* and of one other
humorist of whom we shall have to
speak. In almost every ballad of his,
however slight,t in "The Beggar's
* " Gay, like Goldsmith, had a musical
talent. 'Hle could play on the flute,' says
Malone, 'and was, therefore, enabled to
adapt so happily some of the airs in the
" Beggar's Opera." ' " —Notes to Spence.
t "'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wistful look;
Her head was crowned with willows
That trembled o'er the brook.
"' Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover -
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean,
And let my lover rest;
Ah I what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
" The merchant, robbed of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.




142


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


Opera"* and in its wearisome continuation (where the verses are to the
full as pretty as in the first piece,
howevever), there is a peculiar, hinted,
pathetic sweetness and melody.      It
charms and melts you.    It's indefina"' How can they say that Nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why, then, beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep?'
"All melancholy lying,
Thus wailed she for her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o'er the white wave stooping,
Itis floating corpse she spied;
Then like a lily drooping,
She bowed her head, and died."
- A   Ballad from  the " What d'ye call
it?"
' What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or, rather, Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's,
and Gay's, in the 'What d'ye call it ' 'Twas
when the seas were roaring'? I have been
well informed tlat they all contributed."Cowper to Unwin, 1783.
"* Dr. Swift had been observing once
to Mr. Gay, what an odd pretty sort of
thing a Newgate pastoral might make.
Gay was inclined to try at such a thing
for some time, but afterwards thought it
would be better to write a comedy on the
Fanme plan. This was what gave rise to
'Tlie lBeggar's Opera.' lie began on it,
and when he first mentioned it to Swift,
the Doctor did not much like the project.
As he carried it cn, he showed what he
wrote to both of us; and we now and
then gave a correction, or a word or two
of advice; but it was wholly of his own
writing. When it was done, neither of us
thought it would succeed. We showed it
to Congreve, who, after reading it over,
said, 'It would either take greatly, or be
damned confoundedly.' We were all, at
the first night of it, in great uncertainty
of the event, till we were very much encouraged by overhearing the Duke of
Argyle, who sat In the next box to us, say,
'It will do-it must do I —I see it in the
eyes of them 1' This was a good while before the first act was over, and so gave us
ease soon; for the Duke [besides his own
good taste] has a more particular research
than any one now living in discovering the
taste of the public. lIe was quite right in
this as usual; the good nature of the audience appeared stronger and stronger every
act, and ended in a clamor of applause."Porp. Spence's Anecdotes.


ble, but it exists; and is the property
of John Gay's and Oliver Goldsmith's
best verse, as fiagance is of a violet,
or fieshness of a rose.
Let me read a piece from one of
his letters, which is so famous that
most people here are no doubt familiar
with it, but so delightful that it is always pleasant to hear:" I have Just passed part of this summer
at an old romantic seat of my Lord Harcourt's which lie lent me. It overlooks a
common hayfield, where, under the shade
of a haycock, sat two lovers-as constant
as ever were found in romance-beneath
a spreading bush. The name of the one
(let it sound as it will) was John Hewet;
of the other Sarah Drew. John was a
well set man, about five and twenty; Sarah a brave woman of eighteen. John
had for several months borne the labor of
the day in the same field with Sarah;
when she milked, it was his morning and
evening charge to bring the cows to her
pails. Their love was the talk, but not
the scandal, of the whole neighborhood,
for all they aimed at was the blameless
possession of each other in marriage. It
was but this very morning that he had obtained her parents' consent, and it was
but till the next week that they were to
wait to be happy. Perhaps this very day,
in the intervals of their work, they were
talking of their wedding- clothes; and
John was now matching several kinds of
poppies and field-flowers, to make her a
present of knots for the day. While they
were thus employed (it was on the last of
July), a terrible storm  of thunder and
lightning arose, that drove the laborers to
what shelter the trees or hedges afforded.
Sarah, frightened and out of breath, sunk
on a haycock; and John (wllo never separated from her) eat by her side, having
raked two or three heaps together to secure her. Immediately there was heard
so loud a crash, as if heaven had burst
asunder. The laborers, all solicitous for
each other's safety, called to one another:
those that were nearest our lovers, hearing no answer, stepped to tihe place where
they lay: they first saw a little smoke,
and after, this faithful pair-John with
one arm  about his Sarah's neck, and the
other held over her face, as if to screen
her from the lightning. They were struck
dead, and already grown stiff and cold in
this tender posture. There was no mark
or discoloring on their bodies-only that
Sarah's eyebrow was a little singed, and
a small spot between her breasts. They
were buried the next day in one grave."
And the proof that this description
is delightful and beautiful is, that the








POPE.




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


143


great Mr. Pope admired it so much
that he thought proper to steal it and
to send it off to a certain lady and
wit, with whom he pretended to be in
love in those days - my Lord Duke of
Kingston's daughter, and married to
Mr. Wortley Montagu, then his Majesty's Ambassador at Constantinople.
We are now come to the greatest
name on our list - the highest among
the poets, the highest among the
English wits and humorists with
whom we have to rank him. If the
author of " The Dunciad " be not a
humorist, if the poet of " The Rape
of the Lock " be not a wit, who deserves to be called so? Besides that
brilliant genius and immense fame,
for both of which we should respect
him, men of letters should admire
him as being the greatest literary
artist that England has seen. He polished, he refined, he thought; he took
thoughts from other works to adorn
and complete his own; borrowing an
idea or a cadence from another poet
as he would a figure or a simile from
a flower, or a river, stream, or any
object which struck him in his walk,
or contemplation of Nature. He began to imitate at an early age; * and
* " Waller, Spenser, and Dryden were
Mr. Pope's great favorites, in the order
they are named, in his first reading, till he
was about twelve years old."-POPE.
Spence's Anecdotes.
"Mr. Pope's father (who was an honest merchant, and dealt in Hollands,
wholesale) was no poet, but he used to
set him to make English verses when very
young. He was pretty difficult in being
pleased; and used often to send him
oack to new turn them. ' These are not
good rhimes;' for that was my husband's  word  for  verses."-POPE'x
MOTHER. Spence.
" I wrote things, I'm ashamed to say how
soon. Part of an Epic Poem when about
twelve. The scene of it lay at Rhodes
and some of the neighboring islands; and
the poem opened under water with a description of the Court of Neptune." —
POPE. Ibid.
"His perpetual application (after he
set to study of himself) reduced him in
four years' time to so bad a state of health,
that, after trying physicians for a good
while in vain, he resolved to give way to


taught himself to write by copying
printed books. Then he passed into
the hands of the priests, and from his
first clerical master, who came to him
when he was eight years old, he went
to a school at Twyford, and another
school at Hyde Park, at which places
he unlearned all that he had got from
his first instructor. At twelve years
old, he went with his father into
Windsor Forest, and there learned
for a few months under a fourth
priest. "And this was all the teaching I ever had," he said, " and God
knows it extended a very little way."
When he had done with his priests
he took to reading by himself, for
which he had a very great eagerness
and enthusiasm, especially for poetry.
He learned versification from Dryden,
he said. In his youthful poem of
" Alcander," he imitated every poet,
Cowley, Milton, Spenser, Statius,
Homer, Virgil. In a few years lie
had dipped into a great number of the
English, French, Italian, Latin, and
Greek poets. " This I did," he says,
" without any design, except to amuse
myself; and got the languages by
hunting after the stories in the several poets I read, rather than read the
books to' get the languages. I followed everywhere as my fancy led
me, and was like a boy gathering
flowers in the fields and woods, just
as they fell in his way. These five
or six years I looked upon as the
happiest in my life." Is not here a
beautiful  holiday  picture?  The
his distemper; and sat down calmly in a
full expectation of death in a short time.
Under this thought, he wrote letters to
take a last farewell of some of his more
particular friends, and, among the rest,
one to the Abbd Southcote. The Abbe was
extremely concerned, both for his very ill
state of health and the resolution he said
he had taken. He thought there might
vet be hope, and went immediately to Dr.
Radcliffe, with whom he was well acquainted, told him Mr. Pope's case, got
full directions from him, and carried them
down to Pope in Windsor Forest. The
chief thing the Doctor ordered him was to
apply less, and to ride every day. The
following his advice soon restored him to
his health." - OPrE. Spence.




144


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


forest and the fairy story-book - the
boy spelling Ariosto or Virgil under
the trees, battling with the Cid for
the love of Chimene, or dreaming of
Armida's garden-peace and sunshine round about -the kindest love
and tenderness waiting for him at his
quiet home yonder-and      Genius
throbbing in his young heart, and
whispering to him, "You shall be
great; you shall be famous; you too
shall love and sing; you will sing her
so nobly that some kind heart shall
forget you are weak and ill formed.
Every poet had a love. Fate must
give one to you too,"- and day by
day he walks the forest, very likely
looking out for that charmer. " They
were the happiest days of his life," he
says, when he was only dreaming of
his fame: when he had gained that
mistress she was no consoler.
That charmer made her appearance, it would seem, about the year
1705, when Pope was seventeen.
Letters of his are extant, addressed
to a certain Lady M —, whom the
youth courted, and to whom     he
expressed his ardor in language, to
say no worse of it, that is entirely
pert, odious, and affected. He imitated love-compositions as he had been
imitating love-poems just before-it
was a sham mistress he courted, and
a sham passion, expressed as became
it. These unlucky letters found their
way into print years afterwards, and
were sold to the congenial Mr. Curll.
If any of my hearers, as I hope they
may, should take a fancy to look at
Pope's correspondence, let them pass
over that first part of it; over, perhaps, almost all Pope's letters to
women; in which there is a tone of
not pleasant gallantry, and, amidst a
profusion of compliments and politenesses, a something which makes one
distrust the little pert, prurient bard.
There is very little indeed to say
about his loves, and that little not
edifying. He wrote flames and raptures and elaborate verse and prose
for Lady Mary Wortley Montagu;
but that passion probably came to a


climax in an impertinence, and was
extinguished by a box on the ear, or
some such rebuff, and he began on a
sudden to hate her with a fervor much
more genuine than that of his love
had been. It was a feeble, puny
grimace of love, and paltering with
passion. After Mr. Pope had sent
off one of his fine compositions to
Lady Mary, he made a second draft
from the rough copy, and favored
some other friend with it. He was
so charmed with the letter of Gay's
that I have just quoted, that lie had
copied that and amended it, and sent
it to Lady Mary as his own. A gentleman who writes letters a deuxjins,
and after having poured out his heart
to the beloved, serves up the same
dish rechauffe' to a friend, is not verl3
much in earnest about his loves, how.
ever much he may be in his piques
and vanities when his impertinence
gets its due.
But, save that unlucky part of " The
Pope Correspondence," I do not
know, in the range of our literature,
volumes more delightful.* You live
*    R "MR. POPE TO THE REV. MR. BROOM,
1'ULHAM, NORFOLK.
" Aug. 29th, 1730,
"DEAR SIR, —
" I INTENDED to write to you on this
melancholy subject, the death of Mr.
Fenton, before yours came, but staid
to have informed myself and you of the
circumstances of it. All I hear is, that.
he felt a gradual decay, though so early
in life, and was declining for five or six.
months. It was not, as I apprehended,
the gout in his stomach, but, I believe,
rather a complication first of gross humors, as he was naturally corpulent, not
discharging themselves, as he used no
sort of exercise. No man better bore
the approaches of his dissolution (as I
am told), or with less ostentation yielded
up his being. The great modesty which
you know was natural to him, and the
great contempt he had for all sorts of
vanity and parade, never appeared more
than in his last moments: he had a conscious satisfaction (no doubt) in acting
right, in feeling himself honest, true, and
unpretending to more than his own. So
he died as he lived, with that secret, yet
sufficient contentment.
"As to any papers left behind him, I
dare say they can be but few; for this
reason, he never wrote out of vanity, or




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.                        145
in them in the finest company in the little apprete and conscious that they
world. A little stately, perhaps; a are speaking to whole generations
thought much of the applause of men. I kind of Horace from Dr. -; and if Mr.
know an Instance when he did his utmost Tonson went, he was pre-engaged to atto conceal his own merit that way; and if tend him, being to have the printing of the
we join to this his natural love of ease, I said copy. So, in short, I borrowed this
fancy we must expect little of this sort: stone-horse of my publisher, which he
at least, I have heard of none, except had of Mr. Oldmixon for a debt. He lent
some few  further remarks on Waller me, too, the pretty boy you see after me.
(which his cautious integrity made him  He was a smutty dog yesterday, and cost
leave an order to be given to Mr. Ton- me more than two hours to wash the ink
son), and perhaps, though it is many off his face; but the devil is a fair-conyears since I saw it, a translation of the ditioned devil, and very forward in his
first book of ' Oppian.' He had begun a catechism. If you have any more bags he
tragedy of ' Dion,' but made small prog- shall carry them.'
ress in it.                            "I thought Mr. Lintot's civility not to
" As to his other affairs, he died poor, be neglected, so gave the boy a small bag
but honest, leaving no debts or legacies, containing three shirts and an ElzevirVirexcept of a few pounds to Mr. Trumbull gil, and, mounting in an instant, proceeded
and my lady, in token of respect, grate- on the road, with my man before, my
fulness, and mutual esteem.          courteous stationer beside, and the afore" I shall with pleasure take upon me said devil behind.
to draw this amiable, quiet, deserving,  "Mr. Lintot began in this manner:
unpretending, Christian, unphilosophical ' Now, damn them I What if they should
character in his epitaph.  There truth put it into the newspaper how you and I
may be spoken in a few words; as for went together to Oxford? What would
flourish and oratory and poetry, I leave I care? If I should go down into Sussex
them to younger and more lively writers, they would say I was gone to the Speaker;
such as love writing for writing's sake, but what of that? If my son were but
and would rather show their own fine big enough to go on with the business, by
parts than report the valuable ones of any G —d, I would keep as good company as
other man. So the elegy I renounce.  old Jacob.'
"I condole with you from my heart on  "Hereupon, I inquired of his son. ' The
the loss of so worthy a man, and a friend lad,' says he, ' has fine parts, but is someto us both....                    what sickly, much as you are. I spare for
"Adieu; let us love his memory and nothing in his education at Westminster.
profit by his example. Am very sincere- Pray, don't you think Westminster to be
ly, dear sir,                        the best school in England? Most of the
Your affectionate and real servant."  late Ministry came out of it; so did many
of this Ministry. I hope the boy will make
" To TIE EARL OF BURLINGTON.      his fortune.'
"'Don't you design to let him pass a
"A ugust, 1714. year at Oxford?' 'To what purpose?'
"MY LORD,                            said he. 'The Universities do but make
"IF your mare could speak, she would pedants, and I intend to breed him a man
give you an account of what extraor- of business.'
dinary company she had on the road,    " As Mr. Lintot was talking I observed
which, since she cannot do, I will.  he sat uneasy on his saddle, for which I
" It was the enterprising Mr. Lintot, expressed some solicitude. 'Nothing,'
the redoubtable rival of Mr. Tonson, who, says he. 'I can bear it well enough; but,
mounted on a stone-horse, overtook me in since we have the day before us, methinks
Windsor Forest. He said he heard I de- it would be very pleasant for you to rest
signed for Oxford, the seat of the Muses, a while under the woods.' When we were
and would, as my bookseller, by all means alighted, ' See, here, what a mighty pretty
accompany me thither.                Horace I have in my pocket? What, if
"I asked him where he got his horse? you amused yourself In turning an ode
He answered he got it of his publisher; till we mount again?  Lord  if you
' for that rogue, my printer,' said he, dis- pleased, what a clever miscellany might
appointed me. I hoped to put him in you make at leisure hours?' ' Perhaps I
good humor by a treat at the tavern of a may,' said I, ' if we ride on: the motion
brown fricassee of rabbits, which cost ten is an aid to my fancy; a round trot very
shillings, with two quarts of wine, besides much awakens my spirits; then jog on
my conversation.  thought myself cock- apace, and 1'll think as hard as I can.'
sure of his horse, which he readily prom-  " Silence ensued for a full hour; after
ised me, but said that Mr. Tonson had which Mr. Lintot lugged the reins, stopped
just such another design of going to Cam- short, and broke out, ' Well, sir, how far
bridge, expecting there the copy of a new  have you gone ' I answered, seven miles.
7*




146                    ENGLISH HUMORISTS.
who are listening; but in the tone of they are, beyond the mere conversatheir voices —pitched, as no doubt tion key —in the expression of their


'Z-ds, sir,' said Lintot, 'I thought you
had done seven stanzas. Oldsworth, in a
ramble round Wimbledon Hill, would
translate a whole ode in half this time.
I'll say that for Oldsworth [though I lost
by his Timothy's], he translates an ode of
Horace the quickest of any man in England. I remember Dr. Klng would write
verses in a tavern, three hours after he
could not speak: and there is Sir Richard,
in that rumbling old chariot of his, between Fleet Ditch and St. Giles's Pound,
shall make you half a Job.'
"' Pray, Mr. Lintot,' said I,' now you
talk of translators, what is your method
of managing them?' 'Sir,' replied he,
' these are the saddest pack of rogues in
the world: in a hungry fit, they'll swear
they understand all the languages in the
universe. I have known one of them take
down a Greek book upon my counter and
cry, " Ah, this is Hebrew, and must read
it from the latter end." By G-d, I cal
never be sure in these fellows, for I neither
understand Greek, Latin, French, nor Italian myself. But this is my way: I agree
with them for ten shillings per sheet, with
a proviso that I will have their doings
corrected with whom I please; so by one
or the other they are led at last to the true
sense of an author; my judgment giving
the negative to all my translators.' 'Then
how are you sure these correctors may
not impose upon you?  'Why, I get any
civil gentleman (especially any Scotchman) that comes into my shop, to read the
original to me in English; by this I know
whether my first translator be deficient,
and whether my corrector merits his money or not.
"'I'll tell you what happened to me
last month. I bargained with S-  for
a new version of " Lucretius," to publish
against Tonson's, agreeing to pay the
author so many shillings at his producing
so many lines. He made a great progress
in a very short time, and I gave it to the
corrector to compare with the Latin; but
he went directly to Creech's translation,
and found it the same, word for word, all
but the first page. Now, what d'ye think
I did? I arrested the translator for a
cheat; nay, and I stopped the corrector's
pay, too, upon the proof that he had made
use of Creech instead of the original.'
" ' Pray tell me next how you deal with
the critics?' 'Sir,' said he, 'nothing
more easy. I can silence the most formidable of them: the rich ones for a sheet
apiece of the blotted manuscript, which
cost me nothing; they'll go about with it
to their acquaintance, and pretend they
had it from the author, who submitted it
to their correction: this has given some
of them such an air, that in time they


come to be consulted with and dedicated
to as the tip-top critics of the town. As
for the poor critics, I'll give you one instance of my management, by which you
may guess the rest: A lean man, that
looked like a very good scholar, came to
me t'other day; he turned over your
Homer, shook his head, shrugged up his
shoulders, and pished at every line of it.
" One would wonder," says he, "at the
strange presumption of some men; Homer
is no such easy task as every stripling,
every versifier - he was going on when
my wife called to dinner. "Sir," said
I, "will you please to eat a piece of
beef with me?" "Mr. Lintot," said he,
"I am very sorry you should be at the
expense of this great book: I am really
concerned on your account." " Sir, I am
much obliged to you: if you can dine upon
a piece of beef, together with a slice of
pudding"-   "Mr. Lintot, I do not say
but Mr. Pope, if he would condescend
to advise with men of learning" -
"Sir, the pudding is upon the table, if
you please to go in." My critic complies;
he comes to a taste of your poetry, and
tells me in the same breath that the book
is commendable, and the poetry excellent.
"' Now, sir,' continued Mr. Lintot, ' in
return for the frankness I have shown,
pray tell me, is it the opinion of your
friends at court that my Lord Lansdowne
will be brought to the bar or not?' I told
him I heard he would not, and I hoped it,
my lord being one I had particular obligations to.  'That may be,' replied Mr.
Lintot; 'but by G- if he is not, I shall
lose the printing of a very good trial.'
" These, my lord, are a few traits with
which you discern the genius of Mr. Lintot, which I have chosen for the subject of
a letter. I dropped him as soon as I got
to Oxford, and paid a visit to my Lord
Carleton, at Middleton....
" I am," &c.
"DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE.
( Sept. 29, 1725.
"I am now returning to the noble scene
of Dublin - into the grand monde - for
fear of burying my parts; to signalize
myself among curates and vicars, and
correct all corruptions crept in relating to
the weight of bread and butter through
those dominions where I govern. I have
employed my time (besides ditching)
in finishing, correcting, amending, and
transcribing my ' Travels' [Gulliver's], in
four parts complete, newly augmented,
and intended for the press when the world
shall deserve them, or rather, when a
printer shall be found brave enough to
venture his ears. I like the scheme of our




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


147


thoughts, their various views and
natures, there is something generous,
and cheering, and ennobling. You are
in the society of men who have filled
the greatest parts in the world's story
-you are with St. John the statesman; Peterborough the conqueror;
Swift, the greatest wit of all times;
Gay, the kindliest laugher-it is a
privilege to sit in that company. Delightful and generous banquet! with a
little faith and a little fancy any one
of us here may enjoy it, and conjure
meeting after distresses and dissensions;
but the chief end I propose to myself in
all my labors is to vex the world rather
than divert it; and if I could compass that
design without hurting my own person
and fortune, I would be the most indefatigable writer you have ever seen, without
reading. I am exceedingly pleased that
you have done with translations: Lord
fTreasurer Oxford often lamented that a
rascally world should lay you under a
necessity of mis-employing your genius
for so long a time; but since you will now
be so much better employed, when you
think of the world, give it one lash the
more at my request. I have ever hated
all societies, professions, and communities; and all my love is towards individuals
-for instance, I hate the tribe of lawyers,
but I love Councillor Such-a-one and
Judge Such-a-one: it is so with physicians
(I will not speak of my own trade), soldiers, English, Scotch, French and the
rest. But principally I hate and detest
that animal called man - although I
heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and so
on.... I have got materials towards a
treatise proving the falsity of that definition animal rationale, and to show it
should be only rationis capax.... The
matter is so clear that it will admit of
no dispute-nay, I will hold a hundred pounds that you and I agree in the
point....
" Dr. Lewis sent me an account of Dr.
Arbuthnot's illness, which is a very sensible affliction to me, who, by living so long
out of the world, have lost that hardness
of heart contracted by years and general
conversation. I am daily losing friends,
and neither seeking nor getting others.
Oh l if the world had but a dozen Arbuthnots in it, I would burn my 'Travels I '"
"MR. POPE TO DR. SWIFT.
" October 15, 1725.
r am wonderfully pleased with the
suddenness of your kind answer.   It
makes me hope you are coming towards


up those great figures out of the past,
and listen to their wit and wisdom.
Mind that there is always a certain
cachet about great men —they may
be as mean on many points as you
or I, but they carry their great air
-they speak of common life more
largely and generously than common
men do - they regard the world with
a manlier countenance, and see its
real features more fairly than the
timid shufflers who only dare to look
up at life through blinkers, or to have
us, and that you incline more and more to
your old friends.... Here is one [Lord
Bolingbroke] who was once a powerful
planet, but has now (after long experience
of all that comes of shining) learned to
be content with returning to his first
point without the thought or ambition of
shining at all. Here is another [Edward,
Earl of Oxford], who thinks one of the
greatest glories of his father was to have
distinguished and loved you, and who
loves you hereditarily. Here is Arbuthnot, recovered from the jaws of death,
and more pleased with the hope of seeing
you again than of reviewing a world,
every part of which he has long despised
but what is made up of a few men like
yourself....
" Our friend Gay is used as the friends
of Tories are by Whigs-and generally
by Tories too. Because he had humor, ho
was supposed to have dealt with Dr.
Swift, in like manner as when any one
had learning formerly, he was thought to
have dealt with the devil....
" Lord Bolingbroke had not the least
harm by his fall; I wish he had received
no more by his other fall. But Lord Bolingbroke is the most improved mind since
you saw him, that ever was improved
without shifting into a new body, or being
paullo minus ab angelis. I have often
imagined to myself, that if ever all of us
meet again, after so many varieties and
changes, after so much of the old world
and of the old man in each of us has been
altered, that scarce a single thought of the
one, any more than a single action of the
other, remains just the same; I have fancied, I say, that we should meet like the
righteous in the millennium, quite at
peace, divested of all our former passions,
smiling at our past follies, and content to
enjoy the kingdom of the just in tranquillity.
"I designed to have left the following
page for Dr. Arbuthnot to fill, but he is
so touched with the period in yours to me,
concerning him, that he intends to answer
it by a whole letter. "....




148


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


an opinion when there is a crowd to
back it. IIe who reads these noble
records of a past age salutes and
reverences the great spirits who adorn
it. You may go home now and talk
with St. John; you may take a volume from your library and listen to
Swift and Pope.
Might I give counsel to any young
hearer, I would say to him, Try to
frequent the company of your betters.
In books and life that is the most
wholesome society; learn to admire
rightly; the great pleasure of life is
that. Note what the great men admired; they admired great things:
narrow  spirits admire basely, and
worship meanly. I know nothing in
any story more gallant and cheering
than the love and friendship which
this company of famous men bore
towards one another. There never
has been a society of men more fiiendly, as there never was one more illustrious. Who dares quarrel with Mr.
Pope, great and famous himself, for
liking the society of men great and
famous? and for liking them for the
qualities which made them so? A
mere  pretty fellow  from  White's
could not have written "The Patriot King," and would very likely
have despised little Mr. Pope, the
decrepit Papist, whom the great St.
John held to be one of the best and
greatest of men: a mere nobleman of
the court could no more have won
Barcelona, than he could have written
Peterborough's letters  to  Pope,*
which are as witty as Congreve: a
mere Irish Dean could not have
written "Gulliver;" and all these
men loved Pope, and Pope loved all
* Of the Earl of Peterborough, Walpole says, -" He was one of those men
of careless wit and negligent grace, who
scatter a thousand bon-mots and idle
verses, which we painful compilers gather
and hoard, till the authors stare to find
themselves authors. Such was this lord,
of an advantageous figure and enterprising spirit; as gallant as Amadis, and as
brave: but a little more expeditious in his
journeys; for he is said to have seen more
kings and more postilions than any man in
Europe.... He was a man, as his friend


these men. To name his friends is
to name the best men of his time.
Addison had a senate; Pope reverenced his equals. Iie spoke of Swift
with respect and admiration always.
His admiration for Bolingbroke was
so great, that when some one said of
his friend, " There is something in
that great man which looks as if he
was placed here by mistake," " Yes,"
Pope   answered, "and, when the
comet appeared to us a month or two
ago, I had sometimes an imagination
that it might possibly be come to
carry him home, as a coach comes to
one's door for visitors." So these
great spirits spoke of one another.
Show me six of the dullest middleraged gentlemen that ever dawdled
round a club table, so faithful and so
friendly.
said, who would neither live nor die like
any other mortal."
"FROM TIIE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH
TO POPE.
"You must receive my letter with a
just impartiality, and give grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day: I sink
grievously with the weather-glass, and am
quite spiritless when oppressed with the
thoughts of a birthday or a return.
"Dutiful affection was bringing me to
town; but undutiful laziness, and being
much out of order, keep me in the country: however, if alive, I must make my
appearance at the birthday.
"You seem to think it vexatious that
I shall allow you but one woman at a time
either to praise or love. If I dispute with
you on this point, I doubt every fairy will
give a verdict against me. So, sir, with a
Mahometan indulgence, I allow you pluralities, the favorite privileges of our
church.
"I find you don't mend upon correction; again I tell you you must not think
of women in a reasonable way; you know
we always make goddesses of those we
adore upon earth; and do not all the good
men tell us we must lay aside reason in
what relates to the Deity?
".. I should have been glad of any
thing of Swift's. Pray, when you write
to him next, tell him I expect him with impatience, in a place as odd and as out of
the way as himself.       Yours."
Peterborough married Mrs. Anastasia
Robinson, the celebrated singer.




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


149


We have said before that the chief
wits of this time, with the exception
of Congrcve, were what we should
now call men's men.    They spent
many hours of the four and twenty, a
fourth part of each day nearly, in
clubs and coffee-houses, where they
dined, drank, and smoked. Wit and
news went by word of mouth; a journal of 1710 contained the very smallest portion of one or the other. The
chiefs spoke, the faithful kabitues sat
round; strangers came to wonder and
listen.  Old Dryden had his headquarters at " Will's," in Russell
Street, at the corner of Bow Street:
at which place Pope saw him when he
was twelve years old. The company
used to assemble on the first floor -
what was called the dining-room floor
in those days - and sat at various
tables smoking their pipes.   It is
recorded that the beaux of the day
thought it a great honor to be allowed
to take a pinch out of Dryden's snuffbox. When Addison began to reign,
he with a certain crafty propriety- a
policy let us call it- which belonged
to his nature, set up his court, and
appointed the officers of his royal
house. IHis palace was " Button's,"
opposite " Will's." * A quiet opposition, a silent assertion of empire,
distinguished this great man. Addison's ministers were Budgell, Tickell,
Phillips, Carey; his master of the
horse, honest Dick Steele, who was
what Duroc was to Napoleon, or
Hardy to Nelson; the man who performed his master's bidding, and
* "Button had been a servant in the
Countess of Warwick's family, who, under
the patronage of Addison, kept a coffeehouse on the south side of Russell Street,
about two doors from Covent Garden.
Here it was that the wits of that time used
to assemble. It is said that when Addison
had suffered any vexation from the Countess, he withdrew the company from Button's house.
"From the coffee-house he went again
to a tavern, where he often sat late and
drank too much wine." — DR. JOHNSON.
Will's coffee-house was on the west side
of Bow Street, and " corner of Russell
Street." See "Handbook of London."


would have cheerfully died in his
quarrel.  Addison lived with these
people for seven or eight hours every
day. The male society passed over
their punch-bowls and tobacco-pipes
about as much time as ladies of that
age spent over Spadille and Manille.
For a brief space, upon coming up
to town, Pope formed part of King
Joseph's court, and was his rather too
eager and obsequious humble servant.* Dick Steele, the editor of the
"Tatler," Mr. Addison's man, and
his own man too —a person of no
little figure in the world of letters,
patronized the young poet, and set
him a task or two. Young Mr. Pope
did the tasks very quickly and smartly (lie had been at the feet, quite as a
boy, of Wycherley's t decrepit repu* " My acquaintance with Mr. Addison
commenced in 1712: I liked him then as
well as I liked any man, and was very
fond of his conversation. It was very
soon after that Mr. Addison advised me
'not to be content with the applause of
half the nation.' He used to talk much
and often to me, of moderation in parties:
and used to blame his dear friend Steele
for being too much of a party man. IIe
encouraged me in my design of translating the ' Iliad,' which was begun that year,
and finished in 1718." —POPE. Spence's
Anecdotes.
"Addison had Budgell, and I think
Phillips, in the house with him.-Gay
they would call one of my eleves. -They
were angry with me for keeping so much
with J)r. Swift and some of the late Ministry." - POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.
t "To MR. ALCOURT.
" Jan. 21, 1715-16.
"I know of nothing that will be so interesting to you at present as some circumstances of the last act of that eminent
comic poet and our friend, Wycherlcy.
He had often told me, and I doubt not he
did all his acquaintance, that he would
marry as soon as his life was despaired
of. Accordingly, a few days before his
death, he underwent the ceremony, and
joined together those two sacraments
which wise men say we should be the last
to receive; for, if you observe, matrimony is placed after extreme unction in our
catechism, as a kind of hint of the order
of time in which they are to be taken.
The old man then lay down, satisfied in
the consciousness of having, by this one
act, obliged a woman who (he was told)




150


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


tation, and propped up for a year Pope's pamphlet against him       was
that doting old wit): he was anxious written quite without Mr. Addison's
to be well with the men of letters, to approval.*  Indeed, " The Narrative
get a footing and a recognition. He of Dr. Robert Norris on the Phrenzy
thought it an honor to be admitted of J. D." is a vulgar and mean satire,
into their company; to have the and such a blow as the magnificent
confidence of Mr. Addison's friend, Addison could never desire to see
Captain Steele. His eminent parts any partisan of his strike in any liteobtained for him the honor of herald- rary quarrel. Pope was closely allied
ing Addison's triumph of " Cato "    with Swift when he wrote this pamwith his admirable prologue, and phlet. It is so dirty that it has been
heading the victorious procession as printed in Swift's works, too. It bears
it were. Not content with this act the foul marks of the master hand.
of homage and admiration, he wanted  Swift admired and enjoyed with all
to distinguish himself by assaulting his heart the prodigious genius of the
Addison's enemies, and attacked John  young Papist lad out of Windsor ForDennis with a prose lampoon, which est, who had never seen a university
highly offended his lofty patron. Mr. in his life, and came and conquered
Steele was instructed to write to the Dons and the doctors with his
Mr. Dennis, and inform him that Mr. wit. He applauded, and loved him,
too, and protected him, and taught
had merit, and shown an heroic resentment him mischief. I wish  ddison could
of the ill-usage of his next heir. Some. I wis A             i
hundred pounds which he had with the have loved him   better.  The best
lady discharged his debts; a jointure of satire that ever has been penned
5001. a year made her a recompense; and would never have been written then;
the nephew was left to comfort himself and one of the best characters the
as well as he could with the miserable remains of a mortgaged estate. I saw our world ever knew would have been
friend twice after this was done-less without a flaw.  But he who had
peevish in his sickness than he used to be so few equals could not bear one, and
in his health; neither much afraid of dy- P       r.   Wh
ing, nor (which in him had been more       was more than that       hen
likely) much ashamed of marrying. The Pope, trying for himself, and soaring
evening before he expired, he called his on his immortal young wings, found
young wife to the bedside, and earnestly that his, too, was a genius, which no
entreated her not to deny him one request
— the last he should make. Upon her as- pinion of that age could follow, he
surances of consenting to it, he told her: rose and left Addison's company,
'My dear, it is only this-that you will settling on his own eminence, and
never marry an old man again.' I cannot singing  his own song.
help remarking that sickness, which often
destroys both wit and wisdom, yet seldom  It was not possible that Pope should
has power to remove that talent which we remain a retainer of Mr. Addison;
callhumor. Mr. Wycherley showed his nor likely that after escaping from his
even in his last compliment; though I vassalage and assuming an independthink his request a little hard, for why
shouldhebar her from doublingher joint- ent crown, the sovereign whose alleure on the same easy terms?         giance he quitted should view him
"So trivial as these circumstances are, I amicably.t  They did not do wrong
should not be displeased myself to know
such trifles when they concern or charac-  * "Addison, who was no stranger to
terize any eminent person. The wisest the world, probably saw the selfishness of
and wittiest of men are seldom wiser or Pope's friendship; and resolving that he
wittier than others in these sober mo- should have the consequences of his ofments; at least, our friend ended much ficiousness to himself, informed Dennis
in the same character he had lived in; by Steele that he was sorry for the insult."
and Horace's rule for play may as well be -JOHNSON: Lije of Addison.
applied to him as a playwright: -      t "While I was heated with what I
"' Servetur ad imum    heard, I wrote a letter to Mr. Addison, to
Qualis ab incepto processerit et sibi con- let him know ' that I was not unacquainted
stet.'                         with this behavior of his; that if I was to
" I am," &c.  speak of him severely in return for it, it




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


151


to mislike each other. They but
followed the impulse of nature, and
the consequence of position. When
Bernadotto became heir to a throne,
the Prince Rloyal of Sweden was
naturally Napoleon's enemy. " There
are many passions and tempers of
mankind," says Mr. Addison in " The
Spectator," speaking a couple of years
before their little differences between
him and Mr. Pope took place, " which
naturally dispose us to depress and
vilify the merit of one rising in the
esteem of mankind. All those who
made their entrance into the world
with the same advantages, and were
once looked on as his equals, are apt
to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their own deserts. Those
who were once his equals envy and defame him, because they now see him
the superior; and those who were
once his superiors, because they look
upon him as their equal." Did Mr.
Addison, justly perhaps thinking that,
as young Mr. Pope had not had the
benefit of a university education, he
couldn't know Greek, therefore he
couldn't translate Homer, encourage
his young friend Mr. Tickell, of
Queen's, to translate that poet, and
aid him with his own known scholarship and skill? *  It was natural
that Mr. Addison should doubt of the
learning of an amateur Grecian,
should have a high opinion of Mr.
Tickell, of Queen's, and should help
that ingenious young man. It was
should not be in such a dirty way; that I
should rather tell him himself fairly of his
faults, and allow his good qualities; and
that it should be something in the following manner.' I then subjoined the first
sketch of what has since been called my
satire on Addison. IHe used me very
civilly ever after; and never did me any
injustice that I know of, from that time to
his death, which was about three years
after."- POPE. Spence's Anecdotes.
* "That Tickell should have been
guilty of a villany seems to us highly improbable; that Addison should have been
guilty of a villany seems to us highly improbable: but that these two men should
have conspired together to commit a villany, seems, to us, improbable in a tenfold
degree." - MACAULAY.


natural, on the other hand, that Mr.
Pope and Mr. Pope's friend should
believe that this counter-translation,
suddenly advertised and so long written, though Tickell's college friends
had never heard of it — though, when
Pope first wrote to Addison regarding
his scheme, Mr. Addison knew nothing of the similar project of Tickell,
of Queen's - it was natural that Mr.
Pope and his friends, having interests,
passions, and prejudices of their own,
should believe that Tickell's translation was but an act of opposition
against Pope, and that they should
call Mr. Tickell's emulation Mr. Addison's envy - if envy it were.,' And were there one whose fires
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires,
Blest with each talent and each heart to
please,
And born to write, converse, and live with
ease;
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear like the Turk no brother near the
throne;
View him with scornful yet with jealous
eyes,
And hate, for arts that caused himself to
rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil
leer,
And without sneering, teach the rest to
sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame as to commend,
A timorous foe and a suspicious friend;
Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged:
Like Cato give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars every sentence
raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise;
Who but must laugh if such a man there
be,
Who would not weep if Atticus were
he?"
" I sent the verses to Mr. Addison,"
said Pope, " and he used me very civilly ever after that." No wonder he
did. It was shame very likely more
than fear that silenced him. Johnson
recounts an interview between Pope
and Addison after their quarrel, in
which Pope was angry, and Addison tried to be contemptuous and




152


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


calm. Such a weapon as Pope's
must have pierced any scorn. It
flashes forever, and quivers in Addison's memory. His great figure
looks out on us from the past - stainless but for that - pale, calm, and
beautiful: it bleeds from that black
wound. He should be drawn, like
St. Sebastian, with that arrow in his
side. As he sent to Gay and asked
his pardon, as he bade his stepson
come and see his death, be sure he had
forgiven Pope, when he made ready
to show how a Christian could die.
Pope then formed part of the Addisonian court for a short time, and
describes himself in his letters as
sitting with that coterie until two
o'clock in the morning over punch
and burgundy amidst the fumes of
tobacco. To use an expression of
the present day, the " pace " of those
viveurs of the former age was awful.
Peterborough lived into the very jaws
of death; Godolphin labored all day
and gambled at night; Bolingbroke,*
writing to Swift, from  Dawley, in
his retirement, dating his letter at
six o'clock in the morning, and rising,
as he says, refreshed, serene, and calm,
* "LORD BOLTNGBROKE TO THE THREE
YAHOOS OF TWICKENHAM.
" July 23, 1726.
" JONATHAN, ALEXANDER, JOHN,
MOST EXCELLENT TRIUMVIRS OF PARNASSUS, -
" Though you are probably very indifferent where I am, or what I am doing,
yet I resolve to believe the contrary. I
persuade myself that you have sent at
least fifteen times within this fortnight to
Iawley farm, and that you are extremely
mortified at my long silence. To relieve
you, therefore, from this great anxiety of
mind, I can do no less than write a few
lines to you; and I please myself beforehand with the vast pleasure which this
epistle must needs give you. That I
may add to this pleasure, and give
further proofs of my beneficent temper,
I will likewise inform you, that I shall
be in your neighborhood again, by the
end of next week: by which time I hope
that Jonathan's imagination of business
will be succeeded by some imagination
more becoming a professor of that divine
science, la bagatelle. Adieu. Jonathan,
Alexander, John, mirth be with you I "


calls to mind the time of his London
life; when about that hour lie used
to be going to bed, surfeited with
pleasure, and jaded with business;
his head often full of schemes, and
his heart as often full of anxiety. It
was too hard, too coarse a life for the
sensitive, sickly Pope. He was the
only wit of the day, a friend writes
to me, who wasn't fat.* Swift was
fat; Addison was fat; Steele was
fat; Gay and Thomson were prcposterously fat -all that fuddling
and punch-drinking, that club and
coffee-house boozing, shortened the
lives and enlarged the waistcoats of
the men of that age. Pope withdrew
in a great measure from this boisterous London company, and being put
into an independence by the gallant
exertions of Swift t and his private
fiiends, and by the enthusiastic national admiration which justly rewarded his great achievement of the
" Iliad," purchased that famous villa
of Twickenham which his song and
life celebrated; duteously bringing
his old parents to live and die there,
entertaining his friends there, and
making occasional visits to London in his little chariot, in which
Atterbury compared him to " Homer
in a nutshell."
"Mr. Dryden was not a genteel
man," Pope quaintly said to Spence,
speaking of the manner and habits
of the famous old patriarch    of
"Will's."  With regard to Pope's
own manners, we have the best contemporary authority that they were
singularly refined and polished. With
his extraordinary sensibility, with his
known tastes, with his delicate frame,
* Prior must be excepted from this
observation. "He was lank and lean."
t Swift exerted himself very much in
promoting the " Iliad " subscription; and
also introduced Pope to Harley and Bolingbroke. - Pope realized by the" Iliad"
upwards of 5,0001., which he laid out
partly in annuities, and partly in the purchase of his famous villa. Johnson remarks that "it would be hard to find a
man so well entitled to notice by his wit,
that ever delighted so much in talkin:
of his money."




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


153


with his power and dread of ridicule,
Pope could have been no other than
wliat we call a highly-bred person.*
His closest friends, with the exception
of Swift, were among the delights and
ornaments of the polished society of
their age. Garth,t the accomplished
and benevolent, whom Steele has described so charmingly, of whom Codrington said that his character was
" all beauty," and whom Pope himself called the best of Christians without knowing it; Arbuthnot, t one of
the wisest, wittiest, most accom* " His (Pope's) voice in common conversation was so naturally musical, that
I remember honest Tom Southerne used
always to call him' the little nightingale.'"
ORRERY.
t Garth, whom Dryden calls " generous as his Muse," was a Yorkshireman.
He graduated at Cambridge, and was
made M.D. in 1691. lie soon distinguished
himself in his profession, by his poem of
"The Dispensary," and in society, and
pronounced Dryden's funeral oration.
le was a strict Whig, a notable member
of the "Kit-Cat," and a friendly, convivial, able man. He was knighted by
George I., with the Duke of Marlborough's
sword. lie died in 1718.
$ " Arbuthnot was the son of an Episcopal clergyman in Scotland, and belonged to an ancient and distinguished
Scotch family. IIc was educated at Aberdeen; and, coming up to London-according to a Scotch practice often enough
alluded to-to make his fortune-first
made himself'known by 'An Examination of Dr. Woodward's account of the
Deluge.' He became physician successively to Prince George of Denmark and
to Queen Anne. He is usually allowed
to have been the most learned, as well as
one of the most witty and humorous
members of the Scriblerus Club. The
opinion entertained of him by the humorists of the day is abundantly evidenced
In their correspondence. When he found
himself in his last illness, he wrote thus,
from his retreat at Hampstead, to Swift: -
" Hfampstead, Oct. 4, 1734.
"' MY DEAR AND WORTHY FRIEND, -
"'You have no reason to put me
among the rest of your forgetful friends,
for I wrote two long letters to you, to
which I never received one word of answer. The first was about your health;
the last I sent a great while ago, by one
De la Mar. I can assure you with great
truth that none of your friends or acquaintance has a more warm heart towards


plished, gentlest of mankind; Bolingbroke, the Alcibiades of Ilis age;
the generous Oxford; the magnificent, the witty, the famous, and chivalrous Peterborough: these were
the fast and faithful friends of Pope,
the most brilliant company of friends,
let us repeat, that the world has ever
seen. The favorite recreation of his
leisure hours was the society of painters, whose art he practised. In his
correspondence are letters between
him and Jervas, whose pupil he loved
to be- Richardson, a celebrated artyou than myself. I am going out of this
troublesome world, and you, among the
rest of my friends, shall have my last
prayers and good wishes.
L'.. I came out to this place so reduced by a dropsy and an asthma, that I
could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor
move.   I most earnestly desired and
begged of God that he would take me.
Contrary to my expectation, upon venturing to ride (which I had forborne for
some years), I recovered my strength to a
pretty considerable degree, slept, and had
my stomach again.... What I did, I
can assure you was not for life, but ease;
for I am at present in the case of a man
that was almost in harbor, and then blown
back to sea-who has a reasonable hope
of going to a good place, and an absolute
certainty of leaving a very bad one. Not
that I have any particular disgust at the
world; for I have as great comfort in my
own family and from the kindness of
my friends as any man; but the world, in
the main, displeases me, and I have too
true a presentiment of calamities that are
to befall my country.  However, if I
should have the happiness to see you
before I die, you will find that I enjoy
the comforts of life with my usual cheerfulness. I cannot imagine why you are
frightened from a journey to England:
the reasons you assign are not sufficient
-the journey I am sure would do you
good. In general, I recommend riding,
of which I have always had a good opinion, and can now confirm it from my own
experience.
' My family give you their love and
service. The great loss I sustained in
one of them gave me my first shock, and
the trouble I have with the rest to bring
them to a right temper to bear the loss
of a father who loves them, and whom
they love, is really a most sensible affliction to me. I am afraid, my dear friend,
we shall never see one another more in
this world. I shall, to the last moment,
preserve my love and esteem for you,
being well assured you will never leave




154


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


ist of his time, and who painted for
him a portrait of his old mother, and
for whose picture he asked and thanked
Jervas in one of the most delightful
letters that ever was penned,* -and
the paths of virtue and honor; for all
that is in this world is not worth the least
deviation from the way. It will be great
pleasure to me to hear from you sometimes; for none are with more sincerity
than I am, my dear friend, your most
faithful friend and humble servant.'"
"Arbuthnot," Johnson says, "was a
man of great comprehension, skilful in
his profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with ancient literature, and able
to animate his mass of knowledge by a
bright and active imagination; a scholar
with great brilliance of wit; a wit who, in
the crowd of life, retained and discovered
a noble ardor of religious zeal."
Dugald Stewart has testified to Arbuthnot's ability in a department of which he
was particularly qualified to judge: "Let
me add, that, in the list of philosophical
reformers, the authors of' Martinus Scriblerus' ought not to be overlooked. Their
happy ridicule of the scholastic logic and
metaphysics is universally known; but
few are aware of the acuteness and sagacity displayed in their allusions to some
of the most vulnerable passages in Locke's
'Essay.' In this part of the work it is
commonly understood thatArbuthnot had
the principal share." - See Preliminary
Dissertatzon to Encyclopcedia Britannzca, note to p. 242, and also note B. B. B., p.
2C5.
* " To MR. RICHARDSON.
"Twickenham, June 10, 1733.
"As I know you and I mutually desire
to see one another, I hope that this day
our wishes would have met, and brought
you hither. And this for the very reason,
which possibly might hinder you coming,
that my poor mother is dead. I thank
God, her death was as easy as her life
was innocent; and as it cost her not a
groan, or even a sigh, there is yet upon
her countenance such an expression of
tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that
it is even amiable to behold it. It would
afford the finest image of a saint expired
that ever painter drew; and it would be
the greatest obligation which even that
obliging art could ever bestow on a friend,
if you could come and sketch it for me. I
am sure, if there be no very precedent
obstacle, you will leave any common
business to do this; and I hope to see you
this evening, or to-morrow morning as
early, before this winter flower is faded.
I will defer her interment till to-morrow
night. I know you love me, or I could
not have written this-I could not (at


the wonderful Kneller, who bragged
more, spelt worse, and painted better
than any artist of his day.*
It is affecting to note, through
Pope's correspondence, the marked
way in which his friends, the greatest,
the most famous, and wittiest men of
the time-generals and statesmen,
philosophers and divines —all have
a kind word and a kind thought for
the good simple old mother, whom
Pope tended so affectionately. Those
men would have scarcely valued her,
but that they knew how much he
loved her, and that they pleased him
by thinking of her. If his early letters to women are affected and insincere, whenever he speaks about this
one, it is with a childish tenderness
and an almost sacred simplicity. In
1713, when young Mr. Pope had, by
a series of the most astonishing victories and dazzling achievements,
seized the crown of poetry, and the
town was in an uproar of admiration,
or hostility, for the young chief;
when Pope was issuing his famous
decrees for the translation of the
"Iliad;"   when  Dennis and the
lower critics were hooting and assailing him; when Addison and the
gentlemen of his court were sneering
with sickening hearts at the prodigious triumphs of the young conqueror; when Pope, in a fever of victory,
and genius, and hope, and anger, was
struggling through the crowd of
shouting friends and furious detractors to his temple of Fame, his old
mother writes from the country, " My
deare," says she- "My deare, there's
Mr. Blount, ofMapel Durom, dead
the same day that Mr. Inglefield died.
this time) have written at all. Adieu i
May you die as happy I  Yours," &c.
* "Mr. Pope was with Sir Godfrey
Kneller one day, when his nephew, a
Guinea trader, came in. 'Nephew,' said
Sir Godfrey, ' you have the honor of seeing the two greatest men in the world.''I don't know how great you may be,'
said the Guinea man, *but I don't like
your looks: I have often bought a man
much better than both of you together, all
muscles and bones, for ten guineas.' -
DR. WARBURTON. Spence's Anecdotes.




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


155


Your sister is well; but your brother his daily walks, except occasionally
is sick. My service to Mrs. Blount, his faithful dog to bear him company.
and all that ask of me. I hope to " I had rather die at once," said the
hear from you, and that you are well, gallant little cripple, " than live in
which is my daily prayer; and this fear of those rascals."
with my   blessing."  The triumph     As for his death, it was what the nomarches by, and the car of the young ble Arbuthnot asked and enjoyed for
conqueror, the hero of a hundred himself- a euthanasia —a beautiful
brilliant victories: the fond mother end. A perfect benevolence, affection,
sits in the quiet cottage at home and serenity, hallowed the departure of that
says, " I send you my daily prayers, high soul. Even in the very halluand I bless you, my deare."         cinations of his brain, and weakIn our estimate of Pope's character, nesses of his delirium, there  was
let us always take into account that something almost sacred. Spence deconstant tenderness and fidelity of scribes him in his last days, looking
affection which pervaded and sanc- up and with a rapt gaze as if sometified his life, and never forget that thing had suddenly passed before him.
maternal benediction.*  It accom- "He said to me, 'What's that '
panied him  always: his life seems pointing into the air with a very
purified by those artless and heartfelt steady regard, and  then  looked
prayers. And he seems to have re- down and said, with a smile of the
ceived and deserved the fond attach- greatest softness, ''Twas a vision!'
ment of the other members of his He laughed scarcely ever, but his
family. It is not a little touching to companions describe his countenance
read in Spence of the enthusiastic ad- as often illuminated by a peculiar
miration with which his half-sister sweet smile.
regarded him, and the simple anec-    " When," said Spence,* the kind
dote by which she illustrates her love. anecdotist whom Johnson despised"I think no man was ever so little "When I was telling Lord Bolingfond of money."  Mrs. Rackett says broke that Mr. Pope, on every catchabout her brother, "I think my broth- ing and recovery of his mind, was
er when he was young read more always saying something kindly of
books than any man in the world;" his present or absent friends; and
and she falls to telling stories of his that this was so surprising, as it
school-days, and the manner in which seemed to me as if humanity had outhis master at Twyford ill-used him. lasted understanding, Lord Boling"I don't think my brother knew      broke said, 'It has so,' and then
what fear was," she continues; and added, 'I never in my life knew a
the accounts of Pope's friends bear man who had so tender a heart for his
out this character for courage. When particular friends, or a more general
he had exasperated the dunces, and friendship for mankind.     I  have
threats of violence and personal as- known him these thirty years, and
sault were brought to him, the daunt- value myself more for that man's love
less little champion never for one
instant allowed fear to disturb him,  * Joseph Spence was the son of a
or condescended to take any guard in clergyman, near Winchester. He was a
short time at Eton, and afterwards be* Swift's mention of him as one   came a Fellow of New College, Oxford, a
-     whose fill piety excels  clergyman, and professor of poetry. He
hatever Grecian story texls"   was a friend of Thomson's, whose reputat ion he aided. He published an "Essay
is well known. And a sneer ofWalpole's on the Odyssey " in 1726, which introduced
may be put to a better use than he ever him to Pope. Everybody liked him. His
intended it for, apropos of this subject. — "Anecdotes" were placed, while still in
He charitably sneers, in one of his letters, MS., at the service of Johnson and also of
at Spence's "fondling an old mother- in Malone. They were published by Mr.
imitation of Pope I                 Singer in 1820.




156


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


than'-    Here," Spence says, "St.
John sunk his head, and lost his voice
in tears." The sob which finishes the
epitaph is finer than words. It is the
cloak thrown over the father's face in
the famous Greek picture, which hides
the grief and heightens it.
In Johnson's " Life of Pope ' you
will find described, with rather a
malicious minuteness, some of the
personal habits and infirmities of the
great little Pope.  His body  was
crooked, he was so short that it was
necessary to raise his chair in order to
place him on a level with other people
at table.*  He was sewed up in a
buckram suit every morning, and required a nurse like a child. His contemporaries reviled these misfortunes
with a strange acrimony, and made
his poor deformed person the butt for
many a bolt of heavy wit. The facetious Mr. Dennis, in speaking of him,
says, " If you take the first letter of
Mr. Alexander Pope's Christian
name, and the first and last letters of
his surname, you have A. P. E."
Pope catalogues, at the end of the
Dunciad, with a rueful precision,
other pretty names, besides Ape,
which Dennis called him. That great
critic pronounced Mr. Pope was a
little ass, a fool, a coward, a Papist,
and therefore a hater of Scripture, and
so forth. It must be remembered
that the pillory was a flourishing and
popular institution in those days.
Authors stood in it in the body sometimes: and dragged their enemies
thither morally, hooted them with
foul abuse, and assailed them with
* He speaks of Arbuthnot's having
helped him through " that long disease,
my life." But not only was he so feeble
as is implied in his use of the " buckram,"
but "it now appears," says Mr. Peter
Cunningham, " from his unpublished letters, that, like Lord Hervey, he had recourse to ass's-milk for the preservation
of his health." It is to his lordship's use
of that simple beverage that he alludes
when he says:"Let Sporus tremble I-A. What, that
thing of silk,
Sporus, that mere white-curd of ass's
milk?"


garbage of the gutter. Poor Pope's
figure was an easy one for those
clumsy caricaturists to draw. Any
stupid hand could draw a hunchback,
and write Pope underneath. They
did. A libel was published against
Pope, with such a fiontispiece. This
kind of rude jesting was an evidence
not only of an ill nature, but a dull
one. When a child makes a pun, or
a lout breaks out into a laugh, it is
some very obvious combination of
words, or discrepancy of objects,
which provokes the intantine satirist,
or tickles the boorish wag; and many
of Pope's revilers laughed, not so
much because they were wicked, as
because they knew no better.
Without the utmost sensibility,
Pope could not have been the poet he
was; and through his life, however
much he protested that he disregarded
their abuse, the coarse ridicule of his
opponents stung and tore him. One of
Cibber's pamphlets coming into Pope's
hands, whilst Richardson the painter
was with him, Pope turned round and
said, "These things are my diversions;" and Richardson, sitting by
whilst Pope perused the libel, said he
saw his features "writhing with anguish."  How little human nature
changes! Can't one see that little
figure? Can't one fancy one is rending Horace? Can't one fancy one is
speaking of to-day?
The tastes and sensibilities of Pope,
which led him to cultivate the society
of persons of fine manners, or wit, ot
taste, or beauty, caused him to shrink
equally from that shabby and boisterous crew which formed the rank and
file of literature in his time: and he
was as unjust to these men as they to
him.   The delicate little creature
sickened  at habits and company
which were quite tolerable to robuster
men: and in the famous feud between
Pope and the Dunces, and without attributing any peculiar wrong to either,
one can quite understand how the
two parties should so hate each other.
As I fancy, it was a sort of necessity
that when Pope's triumph passed, Mr.




PRIOR, GAY, AND POPE.


157


Addison and his men should look ness, and held up those wretched
rather contemptuously down on it shifts and rags to public ridicule. It
from their balcony; so it was natural was Pope that has made generations
for Dennis and Tibbald, and Web- of the reading world (delighted with
ster and Cibber, and the worn and the   mischief, as who would not
hungry pressmen in the crowd below, be that reads it?) believe that author
to howl at him and assail him. And and wretch, author and rags, author
Pope was more savage to Grub Street and dirt, author and drink, gin, cowthan Grub Street was to Pope. The heel, tripe, poverty, duns, bailiffs,
thong with which he lashed them    squalling  children  and clamorous
was dreadful; he fired upon that landladies, were always associated
howling crew such shafts of flame and together. The condition of authorpoison, he slew and wounded so fierce- ship began to fall from the days of
ly, that in reading the "Dunciad"  the "Dunciad;"    and I believe in
and the prose lampoons of Pope, one my heart that much of that obloquy
feels disposed to side against the ruth- which has since pursued our calling
less little tyrant, at least to pity those was occasioned by Pope's libels and
wretched folks upon whom he was so wicked wit. Everybody read those.
unmerciful. It was Pope, and Swift Everybody was familiarized with the
to aid him, who established among us idea of the poor devil, the author.
the Grub Street tradition. He revels The manner is so captivating that
in base descriptions of poor men's young authors practise it, and begin
want; he gloats over poor Dennis's their career with satire. It is so easy
garret, and flannel nightcap, and red to write, and so pleasant to read! to
stockings; he gives instructions how fire a shot that makes a giant wince,
to find Curll's authors, the historian perhaps; and fancy one's self his conat the tallow-chandler's under the queror. It is easy to shoot - but not
blind arch in Petty France, the two as Pope did. The shafts of his satire
translators in bed together, the poet rise sublimely: no poet's verse ever
in the cock-loft in Budge Row, whose mounted higher than that wonderful
landlady keeps the ladder.  It was flight with which the "Dunciad"
Pope, I fear, who contributed, more concludes: * -
than any man who ever lived, to depreciate the literary calling. It was "She comes, she comes I the sable throne
not an unprosperous one before that     behold
tima    ehaese;alattee              Of Night prime val and of Chaos old;
time, as we have seen; at least there  Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay,
were great prizes in the profession  And all its varying rainbows die away;
which had made Addison a Minister,   Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,
and Prior an Ambassador, and Steele  The meteor drops, and in a flah exa Commissioner, and Swift all but a  As, one by one, at dread Mecdea's strain
Bishop. The profession of letters    The sickening stars fade off the ethereal
was ruined by that libel of the " Dun-  plain;
ciad."  If authors were wretched and  As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand
poor before, if some of them lived in Close  one by one, to everlasting
haylofts, of which their landladies     rest;kept the ladders, at least nobody came  Thus, at her fell approach and secret
to disturb them  in their straw;if     might,
to                                   Art after Art goes out, and all is night.
three of them had but one coat be-   See skulking Faith to her old cavern
tween them, the two remained invisi-   fled,
ble in the garret, the third, at any  Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her
rate, appeared decently at the coffee-  head;
house, and paid his twopence like a     He (Johnson) repeated to us, in his
gentleman. It was Pope that dratcd forcible melodious manner, the concin dinto light all this poverty and inmca- iag lines of the ' Dunciad.' "- 3BOSWELL.




158


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven
before,
Shrinks to her second cause and is no
more.
Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And, unawares, Morality expires.
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to
hine,
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse
divine.
Lo   thy dread empire, Chaos, is restored,
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain
fall,
And universal darkness buries all." *
In  these astonishing lines Pope
reaches, I think, to the very greatest
height which his sublime art has attained, and shows himself the equal
of all poets of all times. It is the
brightest ardor, the loftiest assertion
of truth, the most generous wisdom,
illustrated by the noblest poetic figure, and spoken in words the aptest,
grandest, and most harmonious. It
is heroic courage speaking: a splendid declaration of righteous wrath
and war. It is the gage flung down,
and the silver trumpet ringing defiance to falsehood and tyranny, deceit,
dulness, superstition. It is Truth,
the champion, shining and intrepid,
and fronting the great world-tyrant


with armies of slaves at his back. It
is a wonderful and victorious single
combat, in that great battle, which
has always been waging since society
began.
In speaking of a work of consummate art one does not try to show
what it actually is, for that were vain;
but what it is like, and what are the
sensations produced in the mind of
him who views it. And in considering Pope's admirable career, I am
forced into similitudes drawn from
other courage and greatness, and into
comparing him with those who
achieved triumphs in actual war. I
think of the works of young Pope
as I do of the actions of young Bonaparte or young Nelson. In their
common life you will find frailties
and meannesses, as great as the vices
and follies of the meanest men. But
in the presence of the great occasion,
the great soul flashes out, and conquers transcendent. In thinking of
the splendor of Pope's young victories, of his merit, unequalled as his
renown, I hail and salute the achieving genius and do homage to the
pen of a hero.


HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


I SUPPOSE, as long as novels last
and authors aim at interesting their
public, there must always be in the
story a virtuous and gallant hero, a
wicked monster his opposite, and a
pretty girl who finds a champion;
bravery and virtue conquer beauty;
and vice, after seeming to triumph
* "Mr. Langton informed me that he
once related to Johnson (on the authority
of Spence), that Pope himself admired
these lines so much that when he repeated
them his voice faltered. 'And well it
might, sir,' said Johnson, 'for they are
noble lines.' "-J. BOSWELL, junior.


through a certain number of pages, is
sure to be discomfited in the last
volume, when justice overtakes him
and honest folks come by their own.
There never was perhaps a greatly
popular story but this simple plot was
carried through it: mere satiric wit
is addressed to a class of readers and
thinkers quite different to those simple souls who laugh and weep over
the novel. I fancy very few ladies
indeed, for instance, could be brought
to like "Gulliver" heartily, and
(putting the coarseness and diftlirence




IIOGARTII.








HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


159


of manners out of the question) to
relish the wonderful satire of " Jonathan Wild." In that strange apologue,
the author takes for a hero the greatest rascal, coward, traitor, tyrant,
hypocrite, that his wit and experience,
both large in this matter, could enable
him to devise or depict; he accompanies this villain through all the
actions of his life, with a grinning
deference and a wonderful mock respect: and doesn't leave him, till he is
dangling at the gallows, when the
satirist makes him a low bow, and
wishes the scoundrel good day.
It was not by satire of this sort, or
by scorn and contempt, that Hogarth
achieved his vast popularity and acquired his reputation.* His art is
quite simple,t he speaks popular
parables to interest simple hearts,
and to inspire them with pleasure or
* Coleridge speaks of the "beautiful
female faces" in Hlogarth's pictures, "in
whom," he says, " the satirist never extinguished that love of beauty which belonged to him as a poet." - The Friend.
t " I was pleased with the reply of a
gentleman, who, being asked which book
he esteemed most in his library, answered ' Shakspeare:' being asked.which
he esteemed next best, replied ' Iogarth.'
His graphic representations are indeed
books: they have the teeming, fruitful,
suggestive meaning of words. Other pictures we look at -his prints we read....
" The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every picture would
almost unvulgarize every subject which
he might choose....
"I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have necessarily something in them to make us like them; some
are indifferent to us, some in their nature
repulsive, and only made interesting by the
wonderful skill and truth to nature in the
painter; but I contend that there is in most
of them that sprinkling of the better nature, which, like holy water, chases away
and disperses the contagion of the bad.
They have this in them, besides, that they
bring us acquainted with the every-day
human face,- they give us skill to detect
those gradations of sense and virtue
(which escape the careless or fastidious
observer) in the circumstances of the
world about us; and prevent that disgust
at common life, that tcedium quotidianarum formarum, which an unrestricted
passion for ideal forms and beauties is in
danger of producing. In this, as in many


pity or warning and terror. Not one
of his tales but is as easy as " Goody
Twoshoes;" it is the moral of
Tommy was a naughty boy and the
master flogged him, and Jacky was a
good boy and had plum-cake, which
pervades the whole works of the
homely and famous English moralist.
And if the moral is written in rather
too large letters after the fable, we must
remember how simple the scholars
and schoolmaster both were, and like
other things, they are analogous to the
best novels of Smollett and Fielding." —
CHARLES LAMB.
" It has been observed that Hogarth's
pictures are exceedingly unlike any other
other representations of the same kind of
subjects - that they form a class, and have
a character, peculiar to themselves. It
may be worth while to consider in what
this general distinction consists.
"In the first place, they are, in the
strictest sense, historical pictures; and if
what Fielding says be true, that his novel
of ' Tom Jones' ought to be regarded as
an epic prose-poem, because it contained
a regular development of fable, manners,
character, and passion, the compositions
of Hogarth will, in like manner, be found
to have a higher claim to the title of epic
pictures than many which have of late arrogated that denomination to themselves.
When we say that Hogarth treated his
subject historically, we mean that his
works represent the manners and humors
of mankind in action, and their characters
by varied expression. Every thing in his
pictures has life and motion in it. Not
only does the business of the scene never
stand still, but every feature and muscle
is put into full play; the exact feeling of
the moment is brought out, and carried to
its utmost height, and then instantly
seized and stamped on the canvas foreve,.. The expression is always taken en
passant, in a state of progress or change,
and, as it were, at the salient point....
His figures are not like the back-ground on
which they are painted: even the pictures
on the wall have a peculiar look of their
own. Again, with the rapidity, variety,
and scope of history, Hogarth's heads
have all the reality and correctness of
portraits. He gives the extremes of character and expression, but he gives them
with perfect truth and accuracy. This is,
in fact, what distinguishes his compositions from all others of the same kind,
that they are equally remote from caricature, and from mere still life.... His
faces go to the very verge of caricature,
and yet never (we believe in any single
instance) go beyond it.' - IAZLITT.




160


ENGLISH HIUMORISTS.


neither the less because they are so
artless and honest. " It was a maxim
of Dr. Harrison's," Fielding says, in
" Amelia," - speaking of the benevolent divine and philosopher who represents the good principle in that
novel -" that no man can descend
below himself, in doing any act which
may contribute to protect an innocent
person, or to bring a rogue to the gallows." The moralists of that age had
no compunction, you see; they had
not begun to be sceptical about the theory of punishment, and thought that
the hanging of a thief was a spectacle
for edification. Masters sent their apprentices, fathers took their children,
to see Jack Sheppard or Jonathan
Wild hanged, and it was as undoubting subscribers to this moral law,
that Fielding wrote and Hogarth
painted. Except in one instance,
where, in the mad-house scene in " The
Rake's Progress," the girl whom he has
ruined is represented as still tending
and weeping over him in his insanity,
a glimpse of pity for his rogues never
seems to enter honest Hogarth's mind.
There's not the slightest doubt in the
breast of the jolly Draco.
The famous set of pictures called
"Marriage a la Mode," and which
are now exhibited in the National
Gallery in London, contains the most
important and highly wrought of the
logarth comedies.  The care and
method with which the moral grounds
of these pictures are laid is as remarkable as the wit and skill of the
observing and dexterous artist. He
has to describe the negotiations for a
marriage pending between the daughter of a rich citizen Alderman and
young Lord Viscount Squanderfield,
the dissipated son of a gouty old
Earl. Pride and pomposity appear
in every accessory surrounding the
Earl. He sits in gold lace and velvet
-as how should such an Earl wear
any thing but velvet and gold lace?
His coronet is everywhere: on his
footstool, on which reposes one gouty
toe turned out; on the sconces and
looking-glasses; on the dogs; on his


lordship's very crutches; on his great
chair of state and tie great baldaquin
behind him; under which he sits
pointing majestically to his pedigree,
which shows that his race is sprung
from the loins of William the Con.
queror, and confronting the old Al.
derman from the City, who has
mounted his sword for the occasion,
and wears his Alderman's chain, and
has brought a bag full of money,
mortgage-deeds, and thousand-pound
notes, for the arrangement of the
transaction pending between them.
Whilst the steward (a Methodisttherefore a hypocrite and cheat: for
Hogarth scorned a Papist and a Dissenter) is negotiating between the
old couple, their children sit together,
united but apart. My lord is admiring his countenance in the glass,
while his bride is twiddling her marriage-ring on her pocket-handkerchief, and listening with rueful countenance to Counsellor Sisvertongue,
who has been drawing the settlements.
The girl is pretty, but the painter,
with a curious watchfulness, has taken
care to give her a likeness to her father; as in the young Viscount's face
you see a resemblance to the Earl, his
noble sire. The sense of the coronet
pervades the picture, as it is supposed
to do the mind of its wearer. The
pictures round the room are sly hints
indicating the situation of the parties
about to marry. A martyr is led to
the fire; Andromeda is offered to
sacrifice; Judith is going to slay
Holofernes. There is the ancestor of
the house (in the picture it is the Earl
himself as a young man), with a comet over his head, indicating that the
career of the family is to be brilliant
and brief. In the second picture, the
old lord must be dead, for Madam has
now the Countess's coronet over her
bed and toilet-glass, and sits listening
to that dangerous Counsellor Silvertongue, whose portrait now actually
hangs up in her room, whilst the
counsellor takes his ease on the sofa
by her side, evidently the familiar of
the house, and the confidant of the




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


161


mistress. My lord takes his pleasure tombstone outside playing at "halfelsewhere thaj at home, whither he penny under the hat" with street
returns jaded and tipsy from the blackguards, and is deservedly caned
"Rose," to find his wife yawning in by the beadle. Frank is made overher drawing-room, her whist-party seer of the business, whilst Tom is
over, and the daylight streaming in; sent to sea. Frank is taken into
or he amuses himself with the very partnership and marries his master's
worst company abroad, whilst his daughter, sends out broken victuals
wife sits at home listening to foreign to the poor, and listens in his nightsingers, or wastes her money at auc- cap and gown, with the lovely Mrs.
tions, or, worse still, seeks amuse- Goodchild by his side, to the nuptial
Inent at masquerades. The dismal music of the City bands and the marend is known. My lord draws upon row-bones and cleavers; whilst idle
the counsellor, who kills him, and is Tom, returned from sea, shudders in
apprehended whilst endeavoring to a garret lest the officers are coming to
escape. My lady goes back perforce take him for picking pockets. The
to.the Alderman in the City, and Worshipful Francis Goodchild, Esq.,
faints upon reading Counsellor Sil- becomes Sheriff of London, and parvertongue's dying speech at Tyburn, takes of the most splendid dinners
where the counsellor has been exe- which money can purchase or Aldercuted for sending his lordship out of men devour; whilst poor Tom  is
the world. Moral:-Don't listen to taken up in a night-cellar, with that
evil silver-tongued counsellors: don't one-eyed and disreputable accomplice
marry a man for his rank, or a wo- who first taught him to play chuckman for her money: don't frequent farthing on a Sunday. What hapfoolish auctions and masquerade balls pens next? Tom is brought up beunknown to your husband: don't fore the justice of his country, in the
have wicked companions abroad and person of Mr. Alderman Goodchild,
neglect your wife, otherwise you will who weeps as lie recognizes his old
be run through the body, and ruin brother 'prentice, as Tom's one-eyed
will ensue, and disgrace, and Tyburn. friend peaches on him, and the clerk
The people are all naughty, and makes out the poor rogue's ticket for
Bogey carries them all off. In " The Newgate. Then the end comes. Tom
Rake's  Progress,"  a loose life is goes to Tyburn in a cart with a coffin
ended by a similar sad catastrophe. in it; whilst the Right Honorable
It is the spendthrift coming into pos- Francis Goodchild, Lord Mayor of
session of the wealth of the paternal London, proceeds to his Mansion
miser; the prodigal surrounded by House in his gilt coach with four footflatterers, and wasting his substance men and a sword-bearer, whilst the
on the very worst company; the bail- Companies of London march in the auiffs, the gambling-house, and Bedlam  gust procession, whilst the trainbands
for an end. In the famous story of of the City fire their pieces and get
" Industry and Idleness," the moral drunk in his honor; and - 0 crownis pointed in a manner similarly clear. ing delight and glory of all - whilst
Fair-haired Frank Goodchild smiles his Majesty the King looks out from his
at his work, whilst naughty Tom Idle royal balcony, with his ribbon on his
snores over his loom. Frank reads breast, and his Queen and his star by
the edifying ballads of " Whitting- his side, at the corner house of St.
ton" and "The London 'Prentice," Paul's Churchyard.
whilst that reprobate Tom Idle pre-  How the times have changed! The
fers "Moll Flanders," and drinks new Post Office now not disadvanhugely of beer. Frank goes to church tageously occupies that spot where the
of a Sunday, and warbles hymns from  scaffolding is in the picture, where
the gallery; while Tom lies on a the tipsy trainband-man is lurching
8




162


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


against the post, with his wig over
one eye, and the 'prentice-boy is trying to kiss the pretty girl in the gallery. Passed away 'prentice-boy and
pretty girl! Passed away tipsy trainband-man with wig and bandolierl
On the spot where Tom Idle (for
whom I have an unaffected pity)
made his exit from this wicked world,
and where you see the hangman
smoking his pipe as he reclines on the
gibbet and views the hills of Harrow
or Hampstead beyond, a splendid
marble arch, a vast and modern city
-clean, airy, painted drab, populous
with nursery-maids and children, the
abode of wealth and comfort- the
elegant, the prosperous, the polite
Tyburnia rises, the most respectable
district in the habitable globe!
In that last plate of the London
Apprentices, in which the apotheosis
of the Right Honorable Francis Goodchild is drawn, a ragged fellow is
represented in the corner of the simple,
kindly piece, offering for sale a broadside, purporting to contain an account
of the appearance of the ghost of Tom
Idle, executed at Tyburn.  Could
Tom's ghost have made its appearance in 1847, and not in 1747, what
changes would have been remarked
by that astonished escaped criminal!
Over that road which the hangman
used to travel constantly, and the
Oxford stage twice a week, go ten
thousand carriages every day: over
yonder road, by which Dick Turpin
fled to Windsor, and Squire Western
journeyed into town, when he came
to take up his quarters at" The Hercules Pillars" on the outskirts of
London, what a rush of civilization
and order flows now! What armies
of gentlemen with umbrellas march
to banks, and chambers, and countinghouses! What regiments of nurserymaids and pretty infantry; what
peaceful processions of policemen,
what light broughams and what gay
carriages, what swarms of busy apprentices and artificers, riding on
omnibus-roofs, pass daily and hourly!
Tom Idle's times are quite changed:


many of the institutions gone into
disuse which were admired in his day.
There's more pity and kindness and
a better chance for poor Tom's successors now than at that simpler
period when Fielding hanged him
and Hogarth drew him.
To the student of history, these
admirable works must be invaluable,
as they give us the most complete
and truthful picture of the manners,
and even the thoughts, of the past
century. We look, and see pass bcfore us the England of a hundred
years ago — the peer in his drawingroom, the lady of fashion in her apartment, foreign singers surrounding
her, and the chamber filled with
gewgaws in the mode of that day;
the church, with its quaint florid architecture and singing congregation;
the parson with his great wig, and
the beadle with his cane: all these
are represented before us, and we are
sure of the truth of the portrait. We
see how the Lord Mayor dines in state;
how the prodigal drinks and sports at
the bagnio; how the poor girl beats
hemp in Bridewell; how the thief
divides his booty and drinks his punch
at the night-cellar, and how he finishes his career at the gibbet. We
may depend upon the perfect accuracy
of these strange and varied portraits of
the bygone generation: we see one
of Walpole's Members of Parliament
chaired after his election, and the
lieges celebrating the event, and drinking confusion to the Pretender: we see
the grenadiers and trainbands of the
City marching out to meet the enemy;
and have before us, with sword and
firelock, and white Hanoverian horse
embroidered on the cap, the very
figures of the men who ran away with
Johnny Cope, and who conquered at
Culloden. The Yorkshire wagon rolls
into the inn yard; the country parson, in his jack-boots, and his bands
and short cassock, comes trotting
into town, and we fancy it is Parson
Adams, with his sermons in his
pocket. The Salisbury fly sets forth
from the old "Angel -you see the




HOGARTH, SMOLLE




passengers entering the great heavy
vehicle, up the wooden steps, their
hats tied down with handkerchiefs
over their faces, and under their arms,,word, hanger, and case-bottle; the
landlady - apoplectic with the liquors
in her own bar-is tugging at the
bell; the hunchbacked postilion - he
may have ridden the leaders to Humphrey Clinker-is begging a gratuity;
the miser is grumbling at the bill;
Jack of " The Centurion" lies on the
top of the clumsy vehicle, with a
soldier by his side -it may be Smollett's Jack Hatchway- it has a
likeness to Lismahago. You see the
suburban fair and the strolling company of actors; the pretty milk-maid
singing under the windows of the
enraged French musician: it is such
a girl as Steele charmingly described
in " The Guardian," a few years before
this date, singing, under Mr. Ironside's
window in Shire Lane, her pleasant
carol of a May morning. You see
noblemen and black-legs bawling and
betting in the Cockpit: you sec Garrick as he was arrayed in " King
Richard;" Macheath and Polly in
the dresses which they wore when
they charmed our ancestors, and when
noblemen in blue ribbons sat on the
stage and listened to their delightful
music. You see the ragged French
soldiery, in their white coats and
cockades, at Calais Gate: they are
of the regiment, very likely, which
friend Roderick Random joined before he was rescued by his preserver
Monsieur de Strap, with whom he
fought on the famous day of Dettingen.  You see the judges en the
bench; the audience laughing in the
pit; the student in the Oxford theatre; the citizen on his country walk;
you see Broughton the boxer, Sarah
Malcolm the murderess, Simon Lovat
the traitor, John Wilkes the demagogue, leering at you with that squint
which has become historical, and that
face which, ugly as it was, he said he
could make as captivating to woman
as the countenance of the handsomest
beau in town. All these sights and;TT, AND FIELDING.              163
people are with you. After looking
in "The Rake's progress" at Hogarth's picture of St. James's Palace
Gate, you may people the street, but
little altered within these hundred
years, with the gilded carriages and
thronging chairmen that bore the
courtiers your ancestors to Queen
Caroline's drawing-room more than a
hundred years ago.
What manner of man * was lie
* Hogarth (whose family name was
Hogart) was the grandson of a Westmoreland yeoman. His father came to London, and was an author and schoolmaster.
William was born in 1698 (according to
the most probable conjecture) in the parish of St. Martin, Ludgate. He was early
apprenticed to an engraver of arms on
plate. The following touches are from
his "Anecdotes of Himself." (Edition of
1833.)
" As I had naturally a good eye, and a
fondness for drawing, shows of all sorts
gave me uncommon pleasure when an
infant; and mimicry, common to all children, was remarkable in me. An early
access to a neighboring painter drew my
attention from play; and I was, at every
possible opportunity, employed in making
drawings. I picked up an acquaintance
of the same turn, and soon learned to
draw the alphabet with great correctness.
My exercises, when at school, were more
remarkable for the ornaments which
adorned them than for the exercise itself.
In the former, I soon found that blockheads with better memories could much
surpass me; but for the latter I was particularly distinguished...
"I thought it still more unlikely that
by pursuing the common method, and
copying old drawings, I could ever attain the power of making new designs,
which was my first and greatest ambition.
I therefore endeavored to habituate myself to the exercise of a sort of technical
memory; and by repeating in my own
mind the parts of which objects were
composed, I could by degrees combine
and put them down with my pencil.
Thus, with all the drawbacks which resulted from the circumstances I have mentioned, I had one material advantage over
my competitors, viz., the early habit I thus
acquired of retaining in my mind's eye,
without coldly copying it on the spot,
whatever I intended to imitate.
"The instant I became master of my
own time, I determined to qualify myself
for engraving on copper. In this I readily got employment; and frontispieces
to books, such as prints to 'Hudibras,' in
twelves, &c., soon brought me into the




164                      ENGLISH    HUMORISTS.
who   executed  these  portraits- so In the National Collection of Pictures
various, so faithful, and so admirable? most of us have seen the best and
way. But the tribe of booksellers re- tious of being singular, dropped all expecmained as my father had left them... tations of advantage from that source, and
which put me upon publishing on my returned to the pursuit of my former
own account. But here again I had to dealings with the public at large.
encounter a monopoly of printsellers,   "As to portrait-painting, the chief
equally mean and destructive to the in- branch of the art by which a painter can
genious; for the first plate I published, procure himself a tolerable livelihood, and
called ' The Taste of the Town,' in which the only one by which a lover of money
the reigning follies were lashed, had no can get a fortune, a man of very moderate
sooner begun to take a run, than I found talents may have great success in it, as
copies of it in the print-shops, vending at the artifice and address of a mercer is
half price, while the original prints were infinitely more useful than the abilities of
returned to me again, and I was thus a painter. By the manner in which the
obliged to sell the plate for whatever these present race of professors in England
pirates pleased to give me, as there was no conduct it, that also becomes still life."
place of sale but attheirshops. Owing to
this, and other circumstances, by engrav-  "By this inundation of folly and puff"
ing, until I was near thirty, I could do little (he has been speaking of the success of
more than maintain myself; but even then, Vanloo, who came over here in 1737), " I
I was a punctual paymaster.           must confess I was much disgusted, and
" I then married, and " -          determined to try if by any means I could
[But William is going too fast here. stem the torrent, and, by opposing, end it.
He made (' a stolen union," on March 23, I laughed at the pretensions of these
1729, with Jane, daughter of Sir James quacks in coloring, ridiculed their producThornhill, sergeant-painter. For some tions as feeble and contemptible, and astime Sir James kept his heart and his serted that it required neither taste nor
purse-strings close, but "soon after be- talents to excel their most popular percame both reconciled and generous to the formances.  This interference excited
oung couple."- Hogarth's Works, by much enmity, because, as my opponents
ICHOLS and STEEVENS, vol. i. p. 44.]  told me, my studies were in another way.
"-commenced painter of small Con- 'You talk,' added they, 'with ineffable
versation Pieces, from twelve to fifteen contempt of portrait-painting; if it is so
inches high. This, being a novelty, suc- easy a task, why do not you convince the
ceeded for a few years."              world, by painting a portrait yourself?
[About this time Hogarth had summer Provoked at this language, I, one day at
lodgings at South Lambeth, and did the Academy in St. Martin's Lane, put the
all kinds of work, "embellishing" the following question: 'Supposing any man,
" Spring Gardens " at " Vauxhall," and at this time, were to paint a portrait as
the like. In 1731, he published a satirical well as Vandyke, would it be seen or acplate against Pope, founded on the well- knowledged, and could the artist enjoy
known imputation against him of his hav- the benefit or acquire the reputation due
ing satirized the Duke of Chandos, under to his performance?'
the name of Timon, in his poem on       "They asked me in reply, If I could
"Taste." The plate represented a view  paint one as well? and I frankly anof Burlington House, with Pope white- swered, I believed I could....
washing it, and bespattering the Duke of  "Of the mighty talents said to be rcChandos's coach. Pope made no retort, quisite for portrait-painting I had not the
and has never mentioned Hogarth.]     most exalted opinion."
" Before I had done any thing of much  Letls now hear him on the question
consequence in this walk, I entertained of thetcademy: —
some hopes of succeeding in what the    " To pester the three great estates of
puffers in books call The Great Style of the empire, about twenty or thirty stuHistory Painting; so that without having dents drawing after a man or a horse, aphad a stroke of this grand business before, pears, as must be acknowledged, foolish
I quitted small portraits and familiar con- enough: but the real motive is, that a
versations, and with a smile at my own few bustling characters, who have access
temerity, commenced history-painter, and to people of rank, think they can thus get
on a great staircase at St. Bartholomew's a superiority over their brethren, be apHospital, painted two Scripture stories, pointed to places, and have salaries, as in
the Pool of Bethesda and the ' Good France, for telling a lad when a leg or an
Samaritan,' with features seven feet high. arm is too long or too short....... But as religion, the great promoter  " France, ever aping the magnificence
of this style in other countries, rejected it of other nations, has in its turn assumed
in England, I was unwilling to sink into a foppish kind of splendor sufficient to
p portrait manufacturer; and still ambi- dazzle the eyes of the neighboring states,




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.                     165
most carefully finished series of his William Hogartl regarded the world.
comic paintings, and the portrait of No man was ever less of a hero; you
his own honest face, of which the see him     before you, and can fancy
bright blue eyes shine out from  the what he was -a jovial, honest Loncanvas, and give you an idea of that don citizen, stout and sturdy; a
keen and brave look with which hearty, plain-spoken man,* loving
and draw vast sums of money from this with some indications of his mind, fully ancountry....                          swered my purpose. The ridiculous was
" To return to our Royal Academy: I apparent to every eye! A Brutus  A
am told that one of their leading objects saviour of his country with such an
will be, sending young men abroad to aspect-was so arrant a farce, that though
study the antique statues, for such kind it gave rise to much laughter in the lookof studies may sometimes improve an ex- ers-on, galled both him and his adherents
alted genius, but they will not create it; to the bone..
and whatever has been the cause, this  "Churchill, Wilkes's toad-echo, put
same travelling to Italy has, in several in- ' The North Briton' into verse, in an
stances that I have seen, reduced the stu- Epistle to Hogarth; but as the abuse was
dent from nature, and led him to paint precisely the same, except a little poetical
marble figures, in which he has availed heightening, which goes for nothing, it
himself of the great works of antiquity, made no impression.... However, havas a coward does when he puts on the ing an old plate by me, with some parts
armor of an Alexander; for, with similar ready, such as the background and a dog,
pretensions and similar vanity, the paint- I began to consider how I could turn so
er supposes he shall be adored as a second much work laid aside to some account,
Raphael Urbino."                     and so patched up a print of Master
We must now hear him on his " Sigis- Churchill in the character of a Bear. The
munda: "-                            pleasure and pecuniary advantage which
" As the most violent and virulent I derived from these two engravings, toabuse thrown on ' Sigismunda ' was from  gether with occasionally riding on horsea set of miscreants, with whom I am  back, restored me to as much health as
proud of having been ever at war-I can be expected at my time of life."
mean the expounders of the mysteries of  * "It happened in the early part of
old pictures- I have been sometimes told Hogarth's lite, that a nobleman who was
they were beneath my notice. This is uncommonly ugly and deformed came to
true of them individually; but as they sit to him for his picture. It was executhave access to people of rank, who seem  ed with a skill that did honor to the artas happy in being cheated as these mer- ist's abilities; but the likeness was rigidly
chants are in cheating them, they have a observed, without even the necessary atpower of doing much mischief to a mod- tention to compliment or flattery. The
ern artist. However mean the vendor of peer, disgusted at this counterpart of himpoisons, the mineral is destructive:-to self, never once thought of paying for a
me its operation was troublesome enough. reflection that would only disgust him
III nature spreads so fast that now was with his deformities. Some time was
the time for every little dog in the profes- suffered to elapse before the artist apsion to bark I"                      plied for his money; but afterwards many
Next comes a characteristic account of applications were made by him (who had
his controversy with Wilkes and Churchill. then no need of a banker) for payment,
" The stagnation rendered it necessary without success. The painter, however,
that I should do some timed thing, to re- at last hit upon an expedient.... It was
cover my lost time, and stop a gap in my couched in the following card: -
income. This drew forth my print of    "'Mr. Hogarth's dutiful respects to Lord
'The Times,' a subject which tended to -. Finding that he does not mean to
the restoration of peace and unanimity, have the picture which was drawn for
and put the opposers of these humane ob- him, is informed again of Mr. Hogarth's
jects in a light which gave great offence necessity for the money. If, therefore,
to those who were trying to foment disaf- his Lordship does not send for it, in three
fection in the minds of the populace. One days it will be disposed of, with the addiof the most notorious of them, till now  tion of a tail, and some other little appendmy friend and flatterer, attacked me in ages, to Mr. Hare, the famous wild-beast
' The North Briton,' in so infamous and man: Mr. Hogarth having given that
malign a style, that he himself, when gentleman a conditional promise of it, for
pushed even by his best friends, was an exhibition-picture, on his Lordship's
driven to so poor an excuse as to say he refusal.'
was drunk when he wrote it.....         This intimation had the desired
" This renowned patriot's portrait drawn effect."- Works, by NICHO.L and STEr&
like as I could as to features, and marked VENS, vol. i. p. 25.




166


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


his laugh, his friend, his glass, his dle-dee and tweedlc-dum, and given
roast-beef of Old England, and having a hearty applause and admiration to
a proper bourgeois scorn for French  Hogarth, too, but not exactly as a
frogs, for mounseers, and   wooden painter of scriptural subjects, or as a
shoes in general, for foreign fiddlers, rival of Correggio. It does not take
foreign singers, and, above all, for for- away from one's liking for the man,
eign painters whom  he held in the or from the moral of his story, or
most amusing contempt.              the humor of it —from     one's adIt must have been great fun to miration for the prodigious merit of
hear him rage against Correggio and his performances, to remember that
the Carracci; to watch him thump the he persisted to the last in believing
table and snap his fingers, and say  that the world was in a conspiracy
" Historical painters  be hanged: against him with respect to his talents
here's the man that will paint against as an historical painter, and that a
any of them for a hundred pounds. set of miscreants, as he called them,
Correggio's 'Sigismunda!' Look at were employed to run      his genius
Bill Hogarth's 'Sigismunda;' look    down.  They say it was Liston's
at my altar-piece at St. Mary Red- firm belief, that he was a great and
cliffe, Bristol; look at my 'Paul be- neglected tragic actor; they say that
fore Felix,' and see whether I'm  not every one of us believes in his heart,
as good as the best of them." *     or would like to have others believe,
Posterity has not quite confirmed  that he is something which he is not.
honest Hogarth's opinion about his One of the most notorious of the
talents for the sublime. Although   "miscreants,"   Hogarth  says, was
Swift could not see the difference be- Wilkes, who assailed him  in  " The
tween tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum, North Briton;" the other was Churchposterity has not shared the Dean's ill, who put "The North Briton"
contempt for Handel; the world has attack into heroic verse, and published
discovered a difference between twee- his "Epistle to Hogarth."  Hogarth
replied by that caricature of Wilkes, in
* " Garrick himself was not more duc- which the patriot still figures before
tile to flattery. A word in favor of' Sigis- us, with his Satanic grin and squint,
munda' might have commanded a proof- and by a caricature of Churchill, in
print or forced an original print out of our which he is represented as a bear with
ar'tist    ^ hands."..r.which he is represented as a bear with
artist's hands."...
" The following authenticated story of a staff, on which, lie the first, lie the
our artist (furnished by the late Mr. Bel- second - lie the tenth, are engraved
chior, F.R.S., a surgeon of eminence) will in unmistakable letters.  There is
also serve to show how much more easy it very little  iste  about honest Hois to detect ill-placed or hyperbolical adu-very lttle mistake about honest Holation respecting others, than when ap- garth's satire: if he has to paint a
plied to ourselves. Hogarth, being at man with his throat cut, he draws
dinner with the great Cheselden and some him with his head almost off; and he
other company, was told that Mr. John
Freke, surgeon of St. Bartholomew's Hos- tried to do the same for his enemies
pital, a few evenings before at Dick's in this little controversy. "Having
Coffee-House, had asserted that Greene an old plate by me," says he, "with
was as eminent in composition as Handel. some parts a eady, such as the back'That fellow Frekc,' replied Hogarth, 'is some  parts ready, such as the backalways shooting his bolt absurdly, one ground, and a dog, I began to conway or another. Handel is a giant in sider how I could turn so much work
music; Greene only a light Florimel kind laid aside to some account, and so
of a composer.2 'y,' says our artist's
informant, 'but at the same time Mr. patchedup aprintofMaster Churchill,
Freke declared you were as good a por- in the character of a bear; the pleastrait-painter as Vandyke.' ' There he ure and pecuniary advantage which
was right,' adds Hogarth, 'and so, by I derived from these two engravings,
G-, I am, give me my time and let me
choose my subject.' "- Works, by NCH- together with occasionally riding on
OLS and STEEVENS, vol. i. pp. 236, 237.  horseback, restored me to as much




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


167


health as I can expect at my time of
life."
And so he concludes his queer little book of Anecdotes: "I have gone
through the circumstances of a life
which till lately passed pretty much
to my own satisfaction, and I hope in
no respect injurious to any other man.
This I may safely assert, that I have
done my best to make those about me
tolerably happy, and my greatest enemy cannot say I ever did an intentional injury. What may follow, God
knows."
A queer account still exists of a
holiday jaunt taken by Hogarth and
four fiiends of his, who set out, like
the redoubted Mr. Pickwick and his
companions, but just a hundred years
before those heroes, and made an
excursion to Gravesend, Rochester,
Sheerness. and adjacent places.* One
of the gentlemen noted down the
proceedings of the journey, for which
Hogarth and a brother artist made
drawings. The book is chiefly curious at this moment from showing the
citizen life of those days, and the
rough jolly style of merriment, not of
the five companions merely, but of
thousands of jolly fellows of their
time. Hogarth and his friends, quitting the "Bedford Arms," Covcnt
Garden, with a song, took water to
Billingsgate, exchanging compliments
with the bargemen as they went down
the river. At Billingsgate, Hogarth
made "a caracatura" of a facetious
porter, called the Duke of Puddledock,
who agreeably entertained the party
with the humors of the place. Hence
they took a Gravesend boat for themselves; had straw to lie upon, and a
tilt over their heads, they say, and
went down the river at night, sleeping,
and singing jolly choruses.
They arrived at Gravesend at six,
when they washed their faces and
hands, and had their wigs powdered.
Then they sallied forth for Rochester
* He made this excursion in 1732, his
companions being John Thornhill (son of
Sir James), Scott the landscape-painter,
To thall, and Forrest.


on foot, and drank by the way three
pots of ale. At one o'clock they went
to dinner with excellent port, and a
quantity more beer, and afterwards
Hogarth and Scott played at hopscotch in the town ball.   It would
appear that they slept, most of them,
in one room, and the chronicler of the
party describes them all as waking at
seven o'clock, and telling each other
their dreams.    You   have  rough
sketches by Hogarth of the incidents
of this holiday excursion. The sturdy little painter is seen sprawling
over a plank to a boat at Gravesend;
the whole company are represented
in one desi-n, in a fisherman's room,
where they had all passed.the night.
One gentleman in a nightcap is
shaving himself; another is being
shaved by the fisherman; a third,
with a handkerchief over his bald
pate, is taking his breakfast; and
Ilogarth is sketching the whole scene.
They describe at night how they
returned to their quarters, drank to
their friends, as usual, emptied several cans of good flip, all singing
merrilv.
It is a jolly party of tradesmen engaged at high jinks. These were the?5      C5
manners and pleasures of Hoaarth, of
his time very likely, of men not very
refined, but honest and merry. It is
a brave London citizen, with John
Bull habits, prejudices, and pleasures.*
* 11 Dr. Johnson made four lines once,
on the death of poor Hogarth, which were
equall. true and pleasing; I know not
why ffarrick's were preferred to them:
The hand of him here torpid Iles,
That drew the essential forms of grace;
Here, closed in death, the attentive
eyes,
That saw the manners in the face.,
11 Mr. Hogartb, among the variety of
kindnesses shown to me when I was too
young to have a proper sense of them,
was used to be very earnest that I should
obtain the acquaintance, and if possible
the friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose
conversation was, to the talk of other
men, like Titian's painting compared to
Hudson's, be said: I but don't you tell
i-ipnnle nnw that T tmv sin-) ennflniii-d ho:


on foot, and drank by the way three
pots of ale. At one o'clock they went
to dinner with excellent port, and a
quantity more beer, and afterwards
Hogarth and Scott played at hopscotch in the town hall.  It would
appear that they slept, most of them,
in one room, and the chronicler of the
party describes them all as waking at
seven o'clock, and telling each other
their dreams.   You have    rough
sketches by Hogarth of the incidents
of this holiday excursion. The sturdy little painter is seen sprawling
over a plank to a boat at Gravesend;
the whole company are represented
in one design, in a fisherman's room,
where they had all passed the night.
One gentleman in a nightcap is
shaving himself; another is being
shaved by the fisherman; a third,
with a handkerchief over his bald
pate, is taking his breakfast; and
Ilogarth is sketching the whole scene.
They describe at night how they
returned to their quarters, drank to
their friends, as usual, emptied several cans of good flip, all singing
merrily.
It is a jolly party of tradesmen engaged at high jinks. These were the
manners and pleasures of Hogarth, of
his time very likely, of men not very
refined, but honest and merry. It is
a brave London citizen, with John
Bull habits, prejudices, and pleasures.*
* "Dr. Johnson made four lines once,
on the death of poor Hogarth, which were
equally true and pleasing; I know not
why Garrick's were preferred to them:" ' The hand of him here torpid lies,
That drew the essential forms of grace;
Here, closed in death, the attentive
eyes,
That saw the manners in the face.'
" Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of
kindnesses shown to me when I was too
young to have a proper sense of them,
was used to be very earnest that I should
obtain the acquaintance, and if possible
the friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose
conversation was, to the talk of other
men, like Titian's painting compared to
Hudson's, he said: 'but don't you tell
people now that I say so,' continued he;




168


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


Of SMOLLETT'S associates and
manner of life the author of the admirable "Humphrey Clinker" has
given us an interesting account, in
that most amusing of novels.*
'for the connoisseurs and I are at war,
you know; and because I hate them, they
think I hate Titian — and let them I '..
Of Dr. Johnson, when my father and he
were talking about him one day, 'That
man,' says Hogarth,' is not contented with
believing the Bible; but he fairly resolves,
I think, to believe nothing but the Bible.
Johnson,' added he, 'though so wise a
fellow, is more like King David than King
Solomon, for he says in his haste, All men
are liars.' " -MRS. Piozzr.
Hogarth died on the 26th of October,
1764. The day before his death, he was
removed from his villa at Chiswick to
Leicester Fields, "in a very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful." He had
just received an agreeable letter from
Franklin. He lies buried at Chiswick.
* "To SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, BART.,
OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXON.
" DEAR PHILLIPS,- In my last, I
mentioned my having spent an evening
with a society of authors, who seemed to
be jealous and afraid of one another. My
uncle was not at all surprised to hear me
say I was disappointed in their conversation. 'A man may be very entertaining
and instructive upon paper,' said he, ' and
exceedingly dull in common discourse. I
have observed, that those who shine most
in private company are but secondary
stars in the constellation of genius. A
small stock of ideas is more easily managed, and sooner displayed, than a great
quantity crowded together. There is very
seldom any thing extraordinary in the
appearance and address of a good writer;
whereas a dull author generally distinguishes himself by some oddity or extravagance. For this reason I fancy that an
assembly of grubs must be very diverting.
"My curiosity being excited by this
hint, I consulted my friend Dick Ivy, who
undertook to gratify it the very next day,
which was Sunday last. He carried me
to dine with S-, whom you and I have
long known by his writings. He lives in
the skirts of the town; and every Sunday
his house is open to all unfortunate brothers of the quill, whom he treats with
beef, pudding, and potatoes, port, punch,
and Calvert's entire butt beer. He has
fixed upon the first day of the week for
the exercise of his hospitality, because
some of his guests could not enjoy it on
any other, for reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly received in a plain,


I have no doubt that this picture
by Smollett is as faithfil a one as any
from the pencil of his kindred humorist, Hogarth.
We have before us, and painted by
yet decent habitation, which opened backwards into a very pleasant garden, kept in
excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none
of the outward signs of authorship either
in the house or the landlord, who is one
of those few writers of the age that stand
upon their own foundation, without patronage, and above dependence. If there
was nothing characteristic in the entertainer, the company made ample amends
for his want of singularity.
" At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates seated at table;
and I question if the whole kingdom could
produce such another assemblage of originals. Among their peculiarities, I do
not mention those of dress, which may bo
purely accidental. What struck me wero
oddities originally produced by affectation, and afterwards confirmed by habit.
One of them wore spectacles at dinner,
and another his hat flapped; though (as.
Ivy told me) the first was noted for having
a seaman's eye when a bailiff was in the
wind; and the other was never known to
labor under any weakness or defect of
vision, except about five years ago, when
he was complimented with a couple of
black eyes by a player, with whom he
had quarrelled in his drink. A third
wore a laced stocking, and made use of
crutches, because, once in his life, he had
been laid up with a broken leg, though
no man could leap over a stick with more
agility. A fourth had contracted such an
antipathy to the country, that he insisted
upon sitting with his back towards the
window that looked into the garden: and
when a dish of cauliflower was set upon
the table, he snuffed up volatile salts to
keep him from fainting; yet this delicate
person was the son of a cottager, born
under a hedge, and had many years run
wild among asses on a common. A fifth
affected distraction: when spoke to, he always answered from the purpose. Sometimes he suddenly started up, and rapped
out a dreadful oath; sometimes he burst
out a-laughing; then he folded his arms,.
and sighed; and then he hissed like fifty
serpents.
" At first, I really thoughthe was mad;
and, as he sat near me, be.imn to be under
some apprehensions for ny own safety;
when our landlord, perceiving me alarm.
ed, assured me aloud that I had nothing
to fear. ' The gentleman,' said he, ' is trying to act a part for which he is by no
means qualified: if he had all the inclination in the world, it is not in his power to
be mad; his spirits are too flat to be




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.                      169
his own hand, Tobias Smollett, the worn and battered, but still brave and
manly, kindly, honest, and irascible; full of heart, after a long struggle
kindled into phrensy.'  "Tis no bad talents, but also their nations and dialects,
p-p-puff, how-owever,' observed a person were so various, that our conversation
in a tarnished laced coat: 'aff-ffected resembled the confusion of tongues at
m-madness w-ill p-pass for w-wit w-with Babel.  We had the Irish brogue, the
nine-nineteen out of t-twenty.'  ' And Scotch accent, and foreign idiom, twanged
affected stuttering for humor,' replied our off by the most discordant vociferation;
landlord; 'though, God knows I there is for as they all spoke together, no man had
no affinity betwixt theln.' It seems this any chance to be heard, unless he could
wag, after having made some abortive bawl louder than his fellows. It must be
attempts in plain speaking, had recourse owned, however, there was nothing peto this defect, by means of which he fie- dantic in their discourse; they carefully
quently extorted the laugh of the com- avoided all learned disquisitions, and enpany, without the least expense of genius; deavored to be facetious: nor did their
rand that imperfection, which he had at endeavors always miscarry; some droll
first counterfeited, was now become so repartee passed, and much laughter was
habitual, that he could not lay it aside.  excited; and if any individual lost his
"A certain winking genius, who wore temper so far as to transgress the bounds
yellow gloves at dinner, had, on his first of decorum, he was effectually checked by
introduction, taken such offence at S —, the master of the feast, who exerted a
because he looked and talked, and ate and sort of paternal authority over this irritadrank, like any other man, that he spoke ble tribe.
contemptuously of his understanding ever  The most learned philosopher of the
after, and never would repeat his visit, whole collection, who had been expelled
until he had exhibited the following proof the university for atheism, has made great
of his caprice.  Wat Wyvil, the poet, progress in a refutation of Lord Bolinghaving made some unsuccessful advances broke's metaphysical works, which is
towards an intimacy with S-, at last said to be equally ingenious and orthodox:
gave him to understand, by a third person, but, in the mean time, he has been prethat he had written a poem in his praise, sented to the grand jury as a public nuiand a satire against his person: that if he sance for having blasphemed in an alewould admit him to his house, the first house on the Lord's-day.  The Scotchshould be immediately sent to press; but man gives lectures on the pronunciation
that if he persisted in declining his friend- of the English language, which he is now
ship, he would publish the satire without publishing by subscription.
delay.  --  replied, that he looked upon  "The Irishman is a political writer,
Wyvil's panegyric as, in effect, a species and goes by the name of My Lord Potaof infamy, and would resent it accord- toe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication
ingly with a good cudgel; but if he pub- of a Minister, hoping his zeal would be
lished the satire, he might deserve his rewarded with someplace orpension; but
compassion, and had nothing to fear from  finding himself neglected in that quarter,
his revenge. Wyvil having considered  he whispered about that the pamphlet
the alternative, resolved to mortify --  was written by the Minister himself, and
by printing the panegyric, for which he he published an answer to his own proreceived a sound drubbing.  Then he duction. In this he addressed the author
swore the peace against the aggressor, under the title of 'your lordship,' with
who, in order to avoid a prosecution at such solemnity, that the public swallowed
law, admitted him to his good graces. It the deceit, and bought up the whole imwas the singularity in S —'s conduct on pression.  The wise politicians of the
this occasion, that reconciled him to the metropolis declared they were both masyellow-gloved philosopher, who owned he terly performances, and chuckled over the
had some genius; and from that period flimsy reveries of an ignorant garretteer,
cultivated his acquaintance.          as the profound speculations of a veteran
" Curious to know upon what subjects statesman, acquainted with all the secrets
the several talents of my fellow-guests of the cabinet. The imposture was dewere employed, I applied to my communi- tected in the sequel, and our Hibernian
cative friend, Dick Ivy, who gave me to pamphleteer retains no part of his asunderstand that most of them were, or sumed importance but the bare title of
had been, understrappers, or journeymen, ' my lord,' and the upper part of the table
to more creditable authors, for whom  at the potato-ordinary in Shoe Lane.
they translated, collated, and compiled, in  " Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who
the business of bookmaking; and that all had obliged the public with a humorous
of them had, at different times, labored in satire, entitled ' The Balance of the Engthe service of our landlord, though they lish Poets;' a performance which evinced
had now set up for themselves in various the great modesty and taste of the author,
departments of literature. Not only their Iand, in particular, his intimacy with the
8*




170                      ENGLISH HUMORISTS.
against a hard fortune. His brain    was still resolute, and his courage
had been busied with a hundred differ- steady; the battle over, he could do
ent schemes; he had been reviewer justice to the enemy with whom he
and historian, critic, medical writer, had been so fiercely engaged, and
poet, pamphleteer. He had fbught give a not unfriendly grasp to the
endless literary battles; and braved hand that had Imauled him. He is like
and wielded for years the cudgels of one of those Scotch cadets, of whom
controversy. It was a hard and sav- history gives us so many examples,
age fight in those days, and a niggard and whom, with a national fidelity,
pay. He was oppressed by illness, the great Scotch novelist has painted
age, narrow  fortune; but his spirit so charmingly. Ot gentle birth* and
elegancies of the English language. The humane to others; bold, upright, and insage, who labored under the dypoo/ofltc, dependent in his own character; stooped
or, ' horror of green fields,' had just fin- to no patron, sued for no favor, but honished a treatise on practical agriculture, estly and honorably maintained himself
though, in fact, he had never seen corn on his literary labors.... He was a doatgrowing in his life, and was so ignorant ing father, and an affectionate husband;
of grain, that our entertainer, in the face and the warm zeal with which his memof the whole company, made him own ory was cherished by his surviving friends
that a plate of hominy was the best rice- showed clearly the reliance which they
pudding he had ever eat.             placed upon his regard." - SIR WALTER
" The stutterer had almost finished his SCOTT.
travels through Europe and part of Asia,  * Smollett of Bonhill, in Dumbartonwithout ever budging beyond the liberties shire. Arms, azure, a bend, or, between
of the King's Bench, except in term-time a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw
with a tipstaff for his companion: and as a banner, argent, and a bugle-horn, also
for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious ppr. Crest, an oak-tree, ppr. Motto,
member of the whole society, he had hap- Viresco.
pily wound up the catastrophe of a vir-  Smollett's father, Archibald, was the
gin tragedy, from the exhibition of which fourth son of Sir James Smollett of Bonhe promised himself a large fund of profit hill, a Scotch Judge and Member of Parand reputation. Tim had made shift to liament, and one of the commissioners for
live many years by writing novels, at the framing the Union with England. Archirate of five pounds a volume; but that bald married, without the old gentlebranch of business is now engrossed by man's consent, and died early, leaving
female authors, who publish merely for his children dependent on their grandthe propagation of virtue, with so much father. Tobias, the second son, was born
ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowl- in 1721, in the old house of Dalquharn in
edge of the human heart, and all in the the valley of Leven: and all his life loved
serene tranquillity of high life, that the and admired that valley and Loch Lomond
reader is not only enchanted by their beyond all thevalleysand lakes in Europe.
genius, but reformed by their morality.  He learned the "rudiments" at Dumbar" After dinner, we adjourned into the ton Grammar School, and studied at Glasgarden, where I observed Mr. S —  give gow.
a short separate audience to every Indi-  But when he was only eighteen, his
vidual in a small remote filbert-walk, from  grandfather died, and left him without
whence most of them dropped off one af- provision (figuring as the old judge in
ter another, without further ceremony."  " Roderick Random " in consequence, acSmollett's house was in Lawrence cording to Sir Walter). Tobias, armed
Lane, Chelsea, and is now destroyed. See with " The Regicide, a Tragedy "- a proHandbook of London, p. 115.          vision precisely similar to that with which
"The person of Smollett was eminent- Dr. Johnson had started, just before
ly handsome, his features prepossessing, -came up to London. "The Regicide"
and, by the joint testimony of all his sur- came to no good, though at first patronviving friends, his conversation, in the ized by Lord Lyttleton (" one of those
highest degree, instructive and amusing. little fellows who are sometimes called
Of his disposition, those who have read great men," Smollett says); and Smollett
his works (and who has not?) may form  embarked as " surgeon's mate " on board
a very accurate estimate; for in each of a line-of-battle ship, and served in the
them he has presented, and sometimes Carthagena expedition, in 1741. He left
under various points of view, the leading the service in the West Indies, and after
features of his own character without residing some time in Jamaica, returned
disguising the most unfavorable of them. to England in 1746....When unseduced by his satirical   He was now unsuccessful as a physipropensities, he was kind, generous, and cian, to begin with; published the satires,




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


171


narrow means, going out from his
northern home to win his fortune in
the world, and to fight his way, armed
with courage, hunger, and keen wits.
His crest is a shattered oak-tree, with
green leaves yet springing from it.
On his ancient coat-of-arms there is a
lion and a horn; this shield of his
was battered and dinted in a hundred
fights and brawls,* through which
the stout Scotchman bore it courageously. You see somehow that he is
a gentleman, through all his battling
and struggling, his poverty, his hardfought successes, and his defeats. His
novels are recollections of his own
"Advice" and " Reproof," without any
luck; and (1747) married the " beautiful
and accomplished Miss Lascelles."
In 1748 he brought out his " Roderick
Random," which at once made a "hit."
The subsequent events of his life may be
presented, chronologically, in a bird's-eye
view:1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he
chiefly wrote " Peregrine Pickle."
1751. Published "Peregrine Pickle."
1753. Published "Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom."
1755. Published version of " Don Quixote."
1756. Began " The Critical Review."
1738. Published his "History of England."
1763-1766. Travelling in France and
Italy: published his " Travels."
1769. Published "Adventures of an
Atom."
1770. Set out for Italy; died at Leghorn
21st of October, 1771, in the fifty-first year
of his age.
* A good specimen of the old " slashing" style of writing is presented by the
paragraph on Admiral Knowles, which
subjected Smollett to prosecution and imprisonment. The admiral's defence on
the occasion of the failure of the Rochfort
expedition came to be examined before
the tribunal of " The Critical Review."
" He is," said our author, " an admiral
without conduct, an engineer without
knowledge, an officer without resolution,
and a man without veracity I"
Three months' imprisonment in the
King's Bench avenged this stinging paragraph.
But " The Critical" was to Smollett a
perpetual fountain  of "hot water."
Among less important controversies may
be mentioned that with Grainger, the
translator of "Tibullus."  Grainger replied in a pamphlet; and in the next number of " The Review " we find him threat

adventures; his characters di-awn, as
I should think, from personages with
whom he became acquainted in his
own career of life. Strange companions he must have had; queer acquaintances he made in Glasgow College-in the country apothecarv's
shop; in the gun-room of the man-ofwar where he served as surgeon; and
in the hard life on shore, where the
sturdy adventurer struggled for fortune. He did not invent much, as I
fancy, but had the keenest perceptive
faculty, and described what he saw
with wonderful relish and delightful
broad humor. I think Uncle Bowlened with " castigation," as an " owl that
has broken from his mew I"
In Dr. Moore's biography of him is a
pleasant anecdote. After publishing the
"Don Quixote," he returned to Scotland
to pay a visit to his mother: -
" On Smollett's arrival, he was introduced to his mother with the connivance
of Mrs. Telfer (her daughter), as a gentleman from the West Indies, who was intimately acquainted with her son. Tho
better to support his assumed character,
he endeavored to preserve a serious countenance, approaching to a frown; but
while his mother's eyes were riveted on
his countenance, he could not refrain
from smiling: she immediately sprung
from her chair, and throwing her arms
round his neck, exclaimed, ' Ah, my son I
my son I I have found you at last 1'
"She afterwards told him, that if he
had kept his austere looks, and continued
to gloom, he might have escaped detection
some time longer; but ' your old roguish
smile,' added she, 'betrayed you atonce.'"
" Shortly after the publication of 'The
Adventures of an Atom,' disease again
attacked Smollett with redoubled violence. Attempts being vainly made to
obtain for him the office of Consul in
some part of the Mediterranean, he was
compelled to seek a warmer climate, without better means of provision than his
own precarious finances could afford.
The kindness of his distinguished friend
and countryman, Dr. Armstrong (then
abroad), procured for Dr. and Mrs. Smollett a house at Monte Nero, a village situated on the side of a mountain overlooking the sea, in the neighborhood of Leghorn, a romantic and salutary abode,
where he prepared for the press, the last,
and like music' sweetest in the close,' the
most pleasing of his compositions, 'The
Expedition of Humphrey Clinker.' This
delightful work was published in 1771."
- Sir WALTER SCOTT.




172


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


ing, in " Roderick  Random," is as ship* in which he was making his last
good a character as Squire Western voyage, and Fielding relates how the
himself: and Mr. Morgan, the Welsh man finally went down on his knees
apothecary, is as pleasant as Dr. and begged his passenger's pardon.
Caius. What man who has made He was living up to the last days of
his inestimable acquaintance - what his life, and his spirit never gave in.
novel-reader who loves Don Quixote His vital power must have been imand Major Dalgetty - will refuse his mensely strong. Lady Mary Wortmost cordial acknowledgments to ley Montagu t prettily characterizes
the admirable Lieutenant Bismahago. Fielding and this capacity for happiThe novel of "Humphrey Clinker" ness which he possessed, in a little
is, I do think, the most laughable
story that has ever been written since  * The dispute with the captain arose
the goodly art of novel-writing began. from the wish of that functionary to inWinifred Jenkins and Tabitha Bram- trude on his right to his cabin, for which
iem        Jke    Eni Tm i      t.h  he had paid thirty pounds. After recountble must keep Englishmen on the ing the circumstances of the apology, he
grin for ages yet to come; and in their characteristically adds: -
letters and the story of their loves    And here, that I may not be thought
there is a perpetual fount of sparklingo  the sly trumpeter of my own raises, I do
ere  a perpetual  unt  spalin  utterly disclaim all praise on the occasion.
laughter, as inexhaustible as Bladud's Neither did the greatness of my mind
well.                                dictate, nor the force of my Christianity
exact, this forgiveness. To speak truth, I
FIELDING, too,     has  described, forgave him from a motive which would
IELDING, too,      has  described, make men much more forgiving, if they
though with   a greater hand, the were much wiser than they are: because it
characters and scenes which he knew  was convenient for me so to do."
and saw. He had more than ordi-        t Lady Mary was his second-cousin —
r b   n   c- their respective grandfathers being sons
nary opportunities for becoming ac- of George Fielding, Earl of Desmond, son
quainted with life.  His family and of William, Earl of Denbigh.
education, first-his fortunes and      In a letter dated just a week before his
misfortunes afterwards, brought him  death, she says,"H. Fielding has given a true picture
into the society of every rank and of himself and his first wife in the charac.
condition of man. He is himself the ters of Mr. and MArs. Booth, some comhero of his books: lie is wild Tom   pliments to his own figure excepted; and
Jones, he is wild Captain Booth; less I am persuaded, several of the incidenta
he mentions are real matters of fact. I
wild, I am glad to think, than his pre- wonder he does not perceive Tom Jones
decessor: at least heartily conscious and MAr. Booth are sorry scoundrels.....
of demerit, and anxious to amend.    Fielding has really a fund of true humor,
Wen  F i   ft c e uo      and was to be pitied at his first entrance
When Fielding first came upon the into the world, having no choice, as he
town in 1727, the recollection of the said himself, but to be a hackney writer
great wits was still fresh in the coffee- or a hackney coachman. His genius dehouses and assemblies, and the judges served a better fate; but I cannot help
e  a  y              blaming that continued indiscretion, to
there declared that young    Harry give it the softest name, that has run
Fielding had more spirits and wit through his life, and I am afraid still rethan Congreve or any of his brilliant mains.... Since I was born no origisuccessors. His figure wvas tall and nal appeared excepting Congreve, and
e h        m       Fielding, who would, I believe, have apstalwart; his face handsome, manly, proached nearer to his excellences, if not
and noble-looking; to the very last forced by his necessities to publish withdays of his life he retained a grandeur out correction, and throw many productions into the world he would have thrown
of air, and, although worn down by into the fire, if meat could have been got
disease, his aspect and presence im- without money, or money without scribposed respect upon the people round bling..... I am sorry not to see any
about him.                           more of Peregrine Pickle's performances:
A.           p     b       Mr  I wish you would tell me his name." -
A dispute took place between Mr. Letters and     Works (Lord WHARNFielding and the captain of the I CLIFFE'S, Ed.), vol. iii. pp. 93, 94.




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


173


notice of his death, when she compares him to Steele, who was as
improvident and as happy as he was,
and says that both should have gone
on living forever. One can fancy
the eagerness and gusto with which
a man of Fielding's frame, with his
vast health and robust appetite, his
ardent spirits, his joyful humor, and
his keen and hearty relish for lite,
must have seized and drunk that cup
of pleasure which the town offered to
him. Can any of my hearers remember the youthful feats of a college
breakfast - the meats devoured and
the cups quadftd in that Homeric
feast?  I can call to mind some of
the heroes of those youthful banquets,
and fancy young Fielding from Leyden, rushing upon the feast, with his
great laugh and immense healthy
young appetite, eager and vigorous
to enjoy. The young man's wit and
manners made him friends everywhere: he lived with the grand Man's
society of those days; he was courted
by peers and men of wealth and
fashion. As lie had a paternal allowance from his father, General Fielding, which, to use Henry's own
phrase, any man might pay who
would; as he liked good wine, good
clothes, and good company, which
are all expensive articles to purchase, Harry Fielding began to run
into debt, and borrow money in that
easy manner in which Captain Booth
borrows money in the novel: was in
nowise particular in accepting a few
pieces from the purses of his rich
friends, and bore down upon more
than one of them, as Walpole tells us
only too truly, for a dinner or a
guinea. To supply himself with the
latter, he began to write theatrical
pieces, having already, no doubt, a
considerable acquaintance amongst
the Oldfields and Bracegirdles behind
the scenes. He laughed at these
pieces and scorned them. When the
audience upon one occasion began to
hiss a scene which he was too lazy to
correct, and regarding which, when
Garrick remonstrated with him, he


said that the public was too stupid
to find out the badness of his work:
when the audience began to hiss, Fielding said, with characteristic coolness
-" They have found it out, have
they?"   He did not prepare his
novels in this way, and with a very
different care and interest laid the
foundations and built up the edifices
of his future fame.
Time and shower have very little
damaged those. The fashion and
ornaments are, perhaps, of the architecture of that age; but the buildings
remain strong and lofty, and of admirable proportions - masterpieces
of genius and monuments of workmanlike skill.
I cannot offer or hope to make a hero
of Harry Fielding. Why hide his
faults? Why conceal his weaknesses
in a cloud of periphrases?  Why
not show him, like him as he is, not
robed in a marble toga, and draped
and polished in an heroic attitude,
but with inked ruffles, and claretstains on his tarnished laced coat,
and on his manly face the marks of
good-fellowship, of illness, of kindness, of care, and wine. Stained as
you see him, and worn by care and
dissipation, that man retains some of
the most precious and splendid human qualities and endowments. He
has an admirable natural love of
truth, the keenest instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happiest
satirical gift of laughing it to scorn.
His wit is wonderfully wise and detective; it flashes upon a rogue, and
lightens up a rascal like a policeman's
lantern. He is one of the manliest
and kindliest of human beings: in
the midst of all his imperfections, he
respects female innocence and infantine tenderness, as you would suppose
such a great-hearted, courageous soul
would respect and care for them. He
could not be so brave, generous,
truth-telling as he is, were lie not
infinitely mercifil, pitiful, and tender.
He will give any man his purse - he
can't help kindness and profusion.
He may have low tastes, but not a




174


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


mean mind; lie admires with all his
heart good and virtuous men, stoops
to no flattery, bears no rancor, disdains all disloyal arts, does his public
duty uprightly, is fondly loved by
his family, and dies at his work.*
If that theory be -and I have no
doubt it is - the right and safe one,
that human nature is always pleased
with the spectacle of innocence rescued by fidelity, purity, and courage;
I suppose that of the heroes of Fielding's three novels, we should like
honest Joseph Andrews the best, and
Captain Booth the second, and Tom
Jones the third.t
Joseph Andrews, though he wears
Lady Booby's cast-off livery, is, I
think, to the full as polite as Tom
Jones in his fustian-suit, or Captain
Booth in regimentals. He has, like
those heroes, large calves, broad
shoulders, a high courage, and a
handsome face.    The accounts of
Joseph's bravery and good qualities;
his voice, too musical to halloo to
the dogs; his bravery in riding races
for the gentlemen of the county, and
his constancy in refusing bribes and
temptation, have something affecting
in their naivete and freshness, and
prepossess one in favor of that handsome young hero. The rustic bloom
of Fanny, and the delightful simplicity of Parson Adams, are described
with a fiiendliness which wins the
reader of their story; we part from
them with more regret than from
Booth and Jones.
Fielding, no doubt, began to write
* He sailed for Lisbon, from Gravesend, on Sunday morning, June 30th,
1754; and began "The Journal of a Voyage" during the passage. He died at
Lisbon, in the beginning of October of
the same year. He lies buried there, in the
English Protestant churchyard, near the
Estrella Church, with this inscription over
him:"HENRICUS FIELDING.
LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM
FOVERE NATUM."
t Fielding himself is said by Dr. Warton to have preferred "Joseph Andrews"
to his other writings.


this novel in ridicule of "Pamela,"
for which work one can understand
the hearty contempt and antipathy
which such an athletic and boisterous
genius as Fielding's must have entertained.  He couldn't do otherwise
than laugh at the puny cockney bookseller, pouring out endless volumes
of sentimeLtal twaddle, and hold him
up to scorn as a mollcoddle and a
milksop. His genius had been nursed
on sack-posset, and not on dishes of
tea. His muse had sung the loudest
in tavern choruses, had seen the daylight streaming in over thousands
of emptied bowls, and reeled home to
chambers on the shoulders of the
watchman.    Richardson's  goddess
was attended by old maids and dowagers, and fed on muffins and bohea.
"Milksop!" roars Harry Fielding,
clattering at the timid shop-shutters.
" Wretch!  Monster!  Mohock "
shrieks the sentimental author of
"Pamela; " * and all the ladies of
his court cackle out an affrighted
chorus. Fielding proposes to write a
book in ridicule of the author, whom
he disliked and utterly scorned and
laughed at; but lie is himself of so
generous, jovial, and kindly a turn
that he begins to like the characters
which he invents, can't help making
them manly and pleasant as well as
ridiculous, and before he has done
with them all, loves them heartily
every one.
Richardson's sickening antipathy
for Harry Fielding is quite as natural
as the other's laughter and contempt
* "Richardson," says worthy Mrs.
Barbauld, in her Memoir of him, prefixed
to his Correspondence, "was exceedingly
hurt at this (' Joseph Andrews '), the more
so as they had been on good terms, and he
was very intimate with Fielding's two
sisters. He never appears cordially to
have forgiven it (perhaps it was not in
human nature he should), and he always
speaks in his letters with a great deal of
asperity of ' Tom Jones,' more indeed
than was quite graceful in a rival author.
No doubt he himself thought his indignation was solely excited by the loose morality of the work and of its author, but
he could tolerate Cibber."




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


175


at the sentimentalist  I have not
learned that these likings and dislikings have ceased in the present day:
and every author must lay his account
not only to misrepresentation, but to
honest enmity among critics, and to
being hated and abused for good as
well as for bad reasons. Richardson
disliked Fielding's works quite honestly: Walpole quite honestly spoke
of them as vulgar and stupid. Their
squeamish stomachs sickened at the
rough fare and the rough guests assembled at Fielding's jolly revel.
Indeed the cloth might have been
cleaner: and the dinner and the company were scarce such as suited a
dandy. The kind and wise old Johnson would not sit down with him.*
But a greater scholar than Johnson
could afford to admire that astonishing genius of Harry Fielding: and
we all know the lofty panegyric which
Gibbon wrote of him, and which remains a towering monument to the
great novelist's memory. " Our immortal Fielding," Gibbon writes,
"was of the younger branch of the
Earls of Denbigh, who drew their
origin from the Counts of Hapsburgh.
The successors of Charles V. may
disdain their brethren of England:
but the romance of 'Tom Jones,'
that exquisite picture of human manners, will outlive the palace of the
Escurial and the Imperial Eagle of
Austria."
There can be no gainsaying the sentence of this great judge. To have
your name mentioned by Gibbon is
like having it written on the dome of
St. Peter's. Pilgrims from all the
world admire and behold it.
As a picture of manners, the novel
of " Tom Jones " is indeed exquisite:
as a work of construction quite a
wonder: the by-play of wisdom; the
* It must always be borne in mind, that
besides that the Doctor couldn't be expected to like Fielding's wild life (to say
nothing of the fact that they were of opposite sides in politics), Richardson was
one of his earliest and kindest friends.
Yet Johnson too (as Boswell tells us) read
Amelia" through without stopping.


power of observation; the multiplied
felicitous turns and thoughts; the
varied character of the great Comic
Epic: keep the reader in a perpetual
admiration   and  curiosity.*   But
against Mr. Thomas Jones himself
we have a right to put in a protest,
and quarrel with the esteem the author
evidently has for that character.
Charles Lamb says finely of Jones,
that a single hearty laugh from him
" clears the air" -but then it is in a
certain state of the atmosphere.  It
might clear the air when such personages as Blifil or Lady Bellaston poison
it. But I fear very much that (except
until the very last scene of the story),
when   Mr. Jones enters    Sophia's
drawing-room, the pure air there is
rather tainted with the young gentleman's tobacco-pipe and punch. I
can't say that I think Mr. Jones a
virtuous character; I can't say but
that I think Fielding's evident liking
and admiration for Mr. Jones shows
that the great humorist's moral sense
was blunted by his life, and that here,
in Art and Ethics, there is a great
error. If it is right to have a hero
whom we may admire, let us at least
* " Manners change from generation
to generation, and with manners morals
appear to change-actually change with
some, but appear to change with all but
the abandoned. A young man of the
present day who should act as Tom Jones
is supposed to act at Upton, with Lady
Bellaston, &c., would not be a Tom Jones;
and a Tom Jones of the present day, without perhaps being in the ground a better
man, would have perished rather than
submit to be kept by a harridan of fortune.
Therefore, this novel is, and indeed pretends to be, no example of conduct. But,
notwithstanding all this, I do loathe the
cant which can recommend ' Pamela' and
'Clarissa Harlowe as strictly moral, although they poison the imagination of the
young with continued doses of tinct. lyttce,
while Tom Jones is prohibited as loose.
I do not speak of young women; but a
young man whose heart or feelings can
be injured, or even his passions excited,
by this novel, is already thoroughly corrupt. There is a cheerful, sunshiny,
breezy spirit, that prevails everywhere,
strongly contrasted with the close, hot,
day-dreamy continuity of Richardson." -
COLERIDGE: Literary Remains, vol. ii.
p. 374.




176


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


take care that he is admirable: if, as
is the plan of some authors (a plan
decidedly against their interests, be
it said), it is propounded that there
exists in life no such being, and therefore that in novels, the picture of life,
there should appear no such character; then Mr. Thomas Jones becomes
an admissible person, and we examine
his defects and good qualities, as we
do those of Parson Thwackum or Miss
Seagrim. But a hero with a flawed
reputation; a hero spunging for a
guinea; a hero who can't pay his
landlady, and is obliged to let his
honor out to hire, is absurd, and his
claim to heroic rank untenable.  I
protest against Mr. Thomas Jones
holding such rank at all. I protest
even against his being considered a
more than ordinary young fellow,
ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered, and
fond of wine and pleasure. He would
not rob a church, but that is all; and
a pretty long argument may be debated, as to which of these old types,
the spendthrift, the hypocrite, Jones
and Blifil, Charles and Joseph Surface, - is the worst member of society
and the most deserving of censure.
The prodigal Captain Booth is a
better man than his predecessor Mr.
Jones, in so far as he thinks much more
humbly of himself than Jones did:
goes down on his knees, and owns his
weaknesses, and cries out, "Not for
my sake, but for the sake of my pure
and sweet and beautiful wife Amelia,
I pray you, O critical reader, to forgive me." That stern moralist regards him from the bench (the judge's
practice out of court is not here the
question), and says, " Captain Booth,
it is perfectly true that your life has
been disreputable, and that on many
occasions you have shown yourself to
be no better than a scamp - you have
been tippling at the tavern, when the
kindest and sweetest lady in the
world has cooked your little supper
of boiled mutton, and awaited you all
the night; you have spoiled the little
dish of boiled mutton thereby, and
caused pangs and pains to Amelia's


tender heart.*   You have got into
debt without the means of Faying it.
You have gambled the money with
which you ought to have paid your
rent. You have spent in drink or in
worse amusements the sums which
your poor wife has raised upon her
little home treasures, her own ornaments, and the toys of her children.
But, you rascal! you own humbly
that you are no better than you
should be; you never for one moment pretend that you are any thing
but a miserable weak-minded rogue.
You do in your heart adore that
* "Nor was she (Lady Mary Wortley
Montagu) a stranger to that beloved first
wife, whose picture he drew in his ' Amelia,' when, as she said, even the glowing
language he knew how to employ, did not
do more than justice to the amiable qualities of the original, or to her beauty, although this had suffered a little from the
accident related in the novel-a frightful
overturn, which destroyed the gristle of
her nose. He loved her passionately, and
she returned his affection....
"His biographers seem to have been
shy of disclosing, that, after the death of
this charming woman, he married her
maid. And yet the act was not so discreditable to his character as it may sound.
The maid had few personal charms, but
was an excellent creature, devotedly attached to her mistress, and almost broken.
hearted for her loss. In the first agonies
of his own grief, which approached to
frenzy, he found no relief but from weeping along with her; nor solace, when a
degree calmer, but in talking to her of the
angel they mutually regretted. This made
her his habitual confidential associate,
and in process of time he began to think
he could not give his children a tenderer
mother, or secure for himself a more
faithful housekeeper and nurse. At least,
this was what he told his friends; and it
is certain that her conduct as his wife
confirmed it, and fully justified his good
opinion." -Letters and Forks of La(dy
Mfary Wortlejy Montagu. Edited by Lord
WHARNCLIFFE. Introductory Anecdotes,
vol. i. pp. 80, 81.
Fielding's first wife was Miss Craddock,
a young lady from Salisbury, with a fortune of 1,5001., whom he married in 1736.
About the same time he succeeded, himself, to an estate of 2001. per annum, and
on the joint amount he lived for some time
as a splendid country gentleman in Derbyshire. Three years brought him to the
end of his fortune; when he returned to
London, and became a student cf law.




HOGARTH, SMOLLETT, AND FIELDING.


177


angelic woman, your wife, and for
her sake, sirrah, you shall have your
discharge.  Lucky for you and for
others like you, that, in spite of your
failings and imperfections, pure hearts
pity and love you. For your wife's
sake you are permitted to go hence
without a remand; and I beg you, by
the way, to carry to that angelical lady
the expression of the cordial respect
and admiration of this court." Amelia pleads for her husband, Will
Booth: Amelia pleads for her reckless
kindly old father, Harry Fielding.
To have invented that character is
not only a triumph of art, but it is a
good action. They say it was in his
own homne that Fielding knew her and
loved her: and from his own wife that
he drew the most charming character
in English fiction.  Fiction! why
fiction? why not history?  I know
Amelia just as well as Lady Mary
WVortley  Montagu.   I believe in
Colonel Bath almost as much as in
Colonel Gardiner or the Duke of
Cumberland.   I admire the author
of "Amelia," and thank the kind
master who introduced me to that
sweet and delightful companion and
friend. "Amelia" perhaps is not a
better story than " Tlom Jones," but
it has the better ethics; the prodigal
repents at least, before forgiveness, -
whereas that odious broad-backed Mr.
Jones carries off his beauty with
scarce an interval of remorse for his
manifold errors and short-comings;
and is not halt punished enough
before the great prize of fortune and
love falls to his share. I am angry
with Jones. Too much of the plumcake and rewards of life fall to that
boisterous, swaggering young scapegrace.  Sophia actually surrenders
without a proper sense of decorum;
the fond, foolish, palpitating little
creature! -" Indeed, Mr. Jones,"
she says, -" it rests with you to
appoint the day." I suppose Sophia
is drawn from life as well as Amelia;
and many a young fellow, no better
than Mr. Thomas Jones, has carried
by a coup de main the heart of many


a kind girl who was a great deal too
good for him.
What a wonderful art! What an
admirable gift of nature was it by
which the author of these tales
was endowed, and which enabled him
to fix our interest, to waken our sympathy, to seize upon our credulity, so
that we believe il his people - speculate gravely upon their faults or their
excellences, prefer this one or that,
deplore Jones's fondness for drink and
play, Booth's fondness for play and
drink, and the unfortunate position
of the wives of both gentlemen - love
and admire those ladies with all our
hearts, and talk about them as faithfully as if we had breakfasted with
them this morning in their actual
drawing-rooms, or should meet them
this afternoon in the Park! What a
genius! what a vigor! what a brighteyed intelligence and observation!
what a wholesome hatred for meannessand knavery! what a vast sympathy! what a cheerfulness! what a
manly relish of life! what a love of
human kind! what a poet is here!
— watching, meditating, brooding,
creating! What multitudes of truths
has that man left behind him! What
generations he has taught to laugh
wisely and fairly! What scholars he
has formed and accustomed to the exercise of thoughtful humor and the
manly play of wit! What a courage
he had! What a dauntless and constant cheerfulness of intellect, that
burned bright and steady through all
the storms of his life, and never deserted its last wreck!  It is wonderful
to think of the pains and misery
which the man suffered; the pressure
of want, illness, remorse which he endured; and that the writer was neither
malignant nor melancholy, his view of
truth never warped, and his generous
human kindness never surrendered.*
* In " The Gentleman's Magazine " for
1786, an anecdote is related of Harry
Fielding, " in whom," says the correspondent, " good-nature and philanthropy
in their extreme degree were known to be
the prominent features." It seems that




178


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


In the quarrel mentioned before,
which happened on Fielding's last
voyage to Lisbon, and when the stout
captain of the ship fell down on his
knees and asked the sick man's pardon-" I did not suffer," Fielding
"some parochial taxes" for his house in
Beaufort Buildings had long been demanded by the collector. " At last, Harry went off to Johnson, and obtained by
a process of literary mortgage the needful
sum. He was returning with it, when he
met an old college chum whom he had
not seen for many years. He asked the
chum to dinner with him at a neighboring
tavern; and, learning that he was in difficulties, emptied the contents of his pocket
into his. On returning home he was informed that the collector had been twice
for the money. 'Friendship has called
for the money and had it,' said Fielding;
'let the collector call again.'"
It is elsewhere told of him, that being
in company with the Earl of Denbigh,
his kinsman, and the conversation turning
upon their relationship, the Earl asked
him how it was that he spelled his name
" Fielding," and not" Feilding," like the
head of the house? " I cannot tell, my
lord," said he, "except it be that my
branch of the family were the first that
knew how to spell."
In 1749, he was made Justice of the
Peace for Westminster and Middlesex, an
office then paid by fees, and very laborious, without being particularly reputable.
It may be seen from his own words, in
the Introduction to " The Voyage," what
kind of work devolved upon him, and in
what a state he was, during these last
years; and still more clearly, how he
comported himself through all.
" Whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was almost fatigued to
death with several long examinations, relating to five different murders, all committed within the space of a week, by
different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his Grace the Duke
of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, the
King's messenger, to attend his Grace the
next morning in Lincoln's Inn Fields,
upon some business of importance: but
I excused myself from complying with the
message, as, besides being lame, I was
very ill with the great fatigues I had lately undergone, added to my distemper.
"His Grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington the very next morning, with another summons; with which, though in
the utmost distress, I immediately complied; but the Duke happening, unfortunately for me, to be then particularly
engaged, after I had waited some time,
sent a gentleman to discourse with me on
the best plan which could be invented for


says, in his hearty, manly way, his
eyes lighting  up as it were with
their old fire -"I did not suffer a
brave man and an old man to remain
a moment in that posture, but immediately forgave him." Indeed, I think,
these murders and robberies, which were
every day committed in the streets; upon
which I promised to transmit my opinion
in writing to his Grace, who, as the gentleman informed me, intended to lay it
before the Privy Council.
" Though this visit cost me a severe
cold, I, notwithstanding, set myself down
to work, and in about four days sent the
Duke as regular a plan as I could form,
with all the reasons and arguments I
could bring to support it, drawn out on
several sheets of paper; and soon received a message from the Duke, by Mr.
Carrington, acquainting me that my plan
was highly approved of, and that all the
terms of it would be complied with.
"The principal and most material of
these terms was the immediately depositing 6001. in my hands; at which small
charge I undertook to demolish the then
reigning gangs, and to put the civil policy
into such order, that no such gangs should
ever be able for the future to form themselves into bodies, or at least to remain
any time formidable to the public.
" I had delayed my Bath journey for
some time, contrary to the repeated advice of my physical acquaintances and
the ardent desire of my warmest friends,
though my distemper was now turned to
a deep jaundice; in which case the Bath
waters are generally reputed to be almost
infallible. But I had the most eager de.
sire to demolish this gang of villains and
cut-throats."...
"After some weeks the money was
paid at the Treasury, and within a few
days after 2001. of it had come into my
hands, the whole gang of cut-throats was
entirely dispersed.....
Further on, he says -
"I will confess that my private affairs
at the beginning of the winter had but a
gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered
the public or the poor of those sums
which men, who are always ready to plunder both as much as they can, have been
pleased to suspect me of taking; on the
contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming, the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say hath not
been universally practised), and by refusing to take a shilling from a man who
most undoubtedly would not have had
another left, I had reduced an income of
about 5001. a year of the dirtiest money
upon earth, to little more than 3001., a
considerable portion of which remained
with my clerk."








STERNE.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


179


with his noble spirit and unconquerable generosity, Fielding reminds one
of those brave men of whom one reads
in stories of English shipwrecks and
disasters -of the officer on the African
shore, when disease has destroyed the
crev, and he himself is seized by
fever, who throws the lead with a
death-stricken hand, takes the soundings, carries the ship out of the river
or off the dangerous coast, and dies


in the manly endeavor-of the
wounded captain, when the vessel
founders, who never loses his heart,
who eyes the danger steadily, and
has a cheery word for all, until the
inevitable fate overwhelms him, and
the gallant ship goes down. Such a
brave and gentle heart, such an intrepid and courageous spirit, I love
to recognize in the manly, the English Harry Fielding.


STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


ROGER STERNE, Sterne's father,
was the second son of a numerous
race, descendants of Richard Sterne,
Archbishop of York, in the reign of
James II.; and children of Simon
Sterne and Mary Jaques, his wife,
heiress of Elvington, near York.*
Roger was a lieutenant in Handyside's regiment, and engaged in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars. He married the daughter of a noted sutler -
"N. B., he was in debt to him," his
son writes, pursuing the paternal biography - and marched through the
world with this companion; she following the regiment and bringing
many children to poor Roger Sterne.
The captain was an irascible but kind
and simple little man, Sterne says,
and informs us that his sire was run
through the body at Gibraltar, by a
brother officer, in a duel which arose
out of a dispute about a goose. Roger
never entirely recovered from the effects of this rencontre, but died presently at Jamaica, whither he had followed the drum.
Laurence, his second child, was
born at Clonmel, in Ireland, in 1713,
* "He came of a Suffolk family —one
of whom settled in Nottinghamshire. The
famous " starling " was actually the family
crest.


and travelled, for the first ten years
of his life, on his father's march, from
barrack to transport, from Ireland to
England.*
One relative of his mother's took
her and her family under shelter for
ten months at Mullingar: another
collateral descendant of the Archbishop's housed them for a year at
his castle near Carrickfergus. Larry
Sterne was put to school at Halifax
in England, finally was adopted by
his kinsman of Elvington, and parted
company with his father, the Captain,
who marched on his path of life till
he met the fatal goose, which closed
his career. The most picturesque and
delightful parts of Laurence Sterne's
writings, we owe to his recollections
of the military life. Trim's montero
cap, and Le Fevre's sword, and dear
Uncle Toby's roquelaure, are doubtless reminiscences of the boy, who
had lived with the followers of William and Marlborough, and had beat
* " It was in this parish (of Animo, in
Wicklow), during our stay, that I had that
wonderful escape in falling through a
mill-race, whilst the mill was going, and
of beingtaken up unhurt; the story is incredible, but known for truth in all that
part of Ireland, where hundreds of the
common people flocked to see me."STERNE.




180


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


time with his little feet to the fifes of
Ramillies in Dublin barrack-yard, or
played with the torn flags and halberds of Malplaquet on the paradeground at Clonmcl.
Laurence remained at Halifax
school till he was eighteen years old.
His wit and cleverness appear to have
acquired the respect of his master
here; for when the usher whipped
Laurence for writing his name on the
newly whitewashed school-room ceiling, the pedagogue in chief rebuked
the understrapper, and said that the
name should never be effaced, for
Sterne was a boy of genius, and would
come to preferment.
His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent Sterne to Jesus College,
Cambridge, where he remained five
years, and, taking orders, got, through
his uncle's interest, the living of Sutton and the prebendary of York.
Through his wife's connections, he
got the living of Stillington. He
married her in 1741; having ardently
courted the young lady for some years
previously.  It was not until the
young lady fancied herself dying, that
she made Sterne acquainted with the
extent of her liking for him.  One
evening when he was sitting with her,
with an almost broken heart to see
her so ill (the Rev. Mr. Sterne's heart
was a good deal broken in the course
of his life), she said -" My dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for I verily
believe I have not long to live; but I
have left you every shilling of my fortune:" a generosity which overpowered Sterne. She recovered: and so
they were married, and grew heartily
tired of each other before many years
were over. "Nescio quid est materia
cum me," Sterne writes to one of his
friends (in dog-Latin, and very sad
dog-Latin too); "sed sum fatigatus
et aegrotus de mea uxoreplus quam
unquam: " which means, I am sorry
to say, "I don't know what is the
matter with me: but I am more tired
and sick of my wife than ever." *
* "My wife returns to Toulouse, and
proposes to pass the Pummcr at Big

This to be sure was five and twenty
years after Laurey had been overcome
by her generosity and she by Laurey's
love. Then he wrote to her of the
delights of marriage, saying, " We
will be as merry and as innocent as
our first parents in Paradise, before
the arch fiend entered that indescribable scene. The kindest affections will
have room to expand in our retirement: let the human tempest and
hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is beyond the horizon of peace.
My L. has seen a polyanthus blow in
December? - Some friendly wall has
sheltered it from the biting wind. No
planetary influence shall reach us but
that which presides and cherishes the
sweetest flowers. The gloomy family
of care and distrust shall be banished
from our dwelling, guarded by thy
kind and tutelar deity. We will sing
our choral songs of gratitude and
rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage.
Adieu, my L. Return to one who
languishes for thy society! - As I
take up my pen, my poor pulse
quickens, my pale face glows, and
tears are trickling down on my paper
as I trace the word L."
And it is about this woman, with
whom he finds no fault but that she
bores him, that our philanthropist
writes, " Sum fatigatus et segrotus"
- Sum mortaliter in amore with somebody else! That fine flower of love,
that polyanthus over which Sterne
snivelled so many tears, could not last
for a quarter of a century!
Or rather it could not be expected
that a gentleman with such a fountain at command should keep it to
arroser one homely old lady, when a
score of younger and prettier people
might be refreshed fiom  the same
gushing source.* It was in Dccemnadres. I, on the contrary, go and visit
my wife, the church, in Yorkshire. We
all live the longer, at least the happier,
for having things our own way; this is
my conjugal maxim. I own 'tis not the
best of maxims, but I maintain 'tis not the
worst."- STERNE'S Letters: 20th January, 1764.
* In a collection of " Seven Letters by




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


181


her, 1767, that the Rev. Laurence
Sterne, the famous Shandean, the
charming Yorick, the delight of the
fashionable world, the delicious divine,
for whose sermons the whole polite
world was subscribing, * the occupier
Sterne and his Friends" (printed for
private circulation in 1844) is a letter of
M. Tollot, who was in France with Sterne
and his family in 176l. Here is a paragraph: -
" Nous arrivames le lendemain a Montpcllier, od nous trouvames notre ami Mr.
Sterne, sa femme, sa fille, Mr. IHuet, et
quelques autres Anglaises.  J'eus, je
vous Pavoue, beaucoup de plaisir en
revoyant le bon et agreable Tristram....
II avait etd assez longtemps A Toulouse,
ou ii se serait amus6 sans sa femme, qui
le poursuivit partout, et qui voulait etre
de tout. Ces dispositions dans cette bonne
dame lui ont fait passer d'assez mauvais
momens; ii supporte tous ces desagremens
avec une patience d'ange."
About four months after this very characteristic letter, Sterne wrote to the same
gentleman to whom Tollot had written;
and from his letter we may extract a companion paragraph:".... All which being premised, I
have been for eight weeks smitten with
the tenderest passion that ever tender
wight underwent. I wish, dear cousin,
thou couldst conceive (perhaps thou canst
without my wishing it) how deliciously I
cantered away with it the first month,
two up, two down, always upon my
haunches, along the streets from my hotel
to hers, at first once —then twice, then
three times a day, till at length I was
within an ace of setting up my hobbyhorse in her stable for good and all. I
might as well, considering how the enemies of the Lord have blasphemed thereupon. The last three weeks we were
every hour upon the doleful ditty of parting; and thou mayst conceive, dear cousin, how it altered my gait and air: for I
went and came like any loudened carl,
and did nothing but jouer des sentimens
with her from sun-rising even to the setting of the same; and now she is gone to
the south of France; and to finish the
comedie, I fell ill, and broke a vessel in
my lungs, and half bled to death. Voila
mon histoire I"
Whether husband or wife had most of
the "patience d'ange" may be uncertain;
but there can be no doubt which needed
it most I
* " 'Tristram Shandy' is still a greater
object of admiration, the man as well as
the book: one is invited to dinner,
when he dines, a fortnight before. As
to the volumes yet published, there is much
good fun in them and humor sometimes


of Rabelais's easy-chair, only fresh
stuffed and more elegant than when
in possession of the cynical old curate
of Mcudon,* -   the luore than rival
hit and sometimes missed. Have you
read his 'sermons,' with his own comic
figure, from a painting by Reynolds, at
the head of them? They are in the style
I think most proper for the pulpit, and
show a strong imagination and a sensible
heart; but you see him often tottering on
the verge of laughter, and ready to throw
his periwig in the face of the audience."
- GRAY'S Letters: June 22d, 1760.
"It having been observed that there
was little hospitality in London-Johnson: ' Nay, sir. any man who has a name,
or who has the power of pleasing, will be
very generally invited in London. The
man, Sterne, I have been told, has had
engagements for three months.' Goldsmith: ' And a very dull fellow.' Johnson:
'Why, no, sir.'" —BOSWELL'S Life of
Johnson.
"Her [Miss Monckton's] vivacity enchanted the sage, and they used to talk
together with all imaginable ease.  A
singular instance happened one evening,
when she insisted that some of Sterne's
writings were very pathetic.  Johnson
bluntly denied it. ' I am sure,' said she,
'they have affected me.' 'Why,' said
Johnson, smiling, and rolling himself
about-'that is, because, dearest, you're
a dunce.' When she some time afterwards
mentioned this to him, he said with equal
truth and politeness, 'Madam, if I had
thought so, I certainly should not have
said it.' "- bid.
* A passage or two from Sterne's " Sermons" may not be without interest here.
Is not the following, levelled against the
cruelties of the Church of Rome. stamped
with the autograph of the author of
"The Sentimental Journey"?"To be convinced of this, go with me
for a moment into the prisons of the
Inquisition-behold religion with mercy
and justice chained down under her feet,
— there, sitting ghastly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks, and instruments of torment. - Hark I - what a
piteous groan I - See the melancholy
wretch who uttered it, just brought forth
to undergo the anguish of a mock-trial,
and endure the utmost pain that a studied
system of religious cruelty has been able
to invent.  Behold this helpless victim
delivered up to his tormentors. His body
so wasted with sorrow and long confinement, you'll see every nerve and muscle
as it suffers. Observe the last movement
of that horrid engine. What convulsions
it has thrown him into  Consider the
nature of the posture in which he now
lies stretched.  What exquisite torture




182


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


of the Dean of St. Patrick's, wrote
the above-quoted respectable letter to
his friend in London: and it was in
April of the same year that he was
pouring out his fond heart to Mrs.
Elizabeth Draper, wife of "Daniel
Draper, Esq., Councillor of Bombay,
and, in 1775, chief of the factory of
Surat- a gentleman very much respected in that quarter of the globe."
" I got thy letter last night, Eliza,"
he endures by it. 'Tis all nature can
bear. Good GOD see how it keeps his
weary soul hanging upon his trembling
lips, willing to take its leave, but not
suffered to depart. Behold the unhappy
wretch led back to his cell, - dragged out
of it again to meet the flames -and the
insults in his last agonies, which this
principle-this principle, that there can
be religion without morality-has prepared for him." - Sermon 27th.
The next extract is preached on a text
to be found in Judges xix. vv. 1, 2, 3, concerning a " certain Levite: "" Such a one the Levite wanted to share
his solitude and fill up that uncomfortable
blank in the heart in such a situation: for,
notwithstanding all we meet with in
books, in many of which, no doubt, there
are a good many handsome things said
upon the sweets of retirement, &c....
yet still ' it is not good for man to be
alone: ' nor can all which the cold-hearted
pedant stuns our ears with upon the subject, ever give one answer of satisfaction
to the mind; in the midst of the loudest
vauntings of philosophy, nature will have
her yearnings for society and friendship;
-a good heart wants some object to be
kind to -and the best parts of our blood,
and the purest of our spirits, suffer most
under the destitution.
"Let the torpid monk seek Heaven
comfortless and alone. God speed him I
For my own part, I fear I should never so
find the way: let me be wise and religious,
but let me be MAN; wherever thy Providence places me, or whatever be the road
I take to Thee, give me some companion
in my journey, be it only to remark to,
'How our shadows lengthen as our sun
goes down; '- to whom I may say,' How
fresh is the face of Nature I how sweet
the flowers of the field I how delicious are
these fruits 1 " — Sermon 18th.
The first of these passages gives us
another drawing of the famous "Captive." The second shows that the same
reflection was suggested to the Rev. Laurence by a text in Judges as by the fillede-Chambre.
Sterne's Sermons were published as
those of " Mr. Yorick."


Sterne writes, "on my return from
Lord Bathurst's, where I dined " -
(the letter has this merit in it, that it
contains a pleasant reminiscence of
better men than Sterne, and introduces us to a portrait of a kind old
gentleman)- " I got thy letter last
night, Eiiza, on my return from Lord
Bathurst's; and where I was heard -
as I talked of thee ali hour without intermission - with so much pleasure
and attention, that the good old Lord
toasted your health three different
times; and now he is in his 85th year,
says he hopes to live long enough to
be introduced as a friend to my fair
Indian disciple, and to see her eclipse
all other Nabobesses as much in
wealth as she does already in exterior,
and, what is far better" (for Sterne is
nothing without his morality), " in
interior merit. This nobleman is an
old friend of mine. You know he
was always the protector of men of
wit and genius, and has had those of
the last century, Addison, Stecle,
Pope, Swift, Prior, &c., always at his
table. The manner in which his notice began of me was as singular as it
was polite. He came up to me one
day as I was at the Princess of Wales's
court, and said, 'I want to know you,
Mr. Sterne; but it is fit you also
should know who it is that wishes
this pleasure. You have heard of an
old Lord Bathurst, of whom your
Popes and Swifts have sung and
spoken so much? I have lived my
life with geniuses of that cast; but
have survived them; and, despairing
ever to find their equals, it is some
years since I have shut up my books
and closed my accounts; but you have
kindled a desire in me of opening
them once more before I die: which I
now do: so go home and dine with
me.' This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy, for he has all the wit and promptness of a man of thirty; a disposition
to be pleased, and a power to please
others, beyond whatever I knew:
added to which a man of learning,
courtesy, and feeling.
"He heard me talk of thee, Eliza,




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


183


with uncommon satisfaction -    for
there was only a third person, and of
sensibility, with us: and a most sentimental afternoon till nine o'clock have
we passed!* But thou, Eliza, wert
the star that conducted and enlivened
the discourse! And when I talked not
of thee, still didst thou fill my mind,
and warm every thought I uttered,
for I am not ashamed to acknowledge
I greatly miss thee. Best of all good
girls! - the sufferings I have sustained all night in consequence of thine,
Eliza, are beyond the power of words... And so thou hast fixed thy Bramin's portrait over thy writing-desk,
and will consult it in all doubts and
difficulties? - Grateful and good girl!
Yorick smiles contentedly over all
thou dost: his picture does not do
justice to his own complacency. I am
glad  your shipmates are fiiendly
beings" (Eliza was at Deal, going
back to the Councillor at Bombay, and
indeed it was high time she should be
off). "You could least dispense with
what is contrary to your own nature,
which is soft and gentle, Eliza; it
would civilize savages - though pity
were it thou shouldst be tainted with
the office. Write to me, my child,
* "I am glad that you are in love:
'twill cure you at least of the spleen,
which has a bad effect on both man and
woman. I myself must ever have some
Dulcinea in my head; it harmonizes the
soul; and in these cases I first endeavor
to make the lady believe so, or rather, I
begin first to make myself believe that I
am in love; but I carry on my affairs
quite in the French way, sentimentally:
' L'amour,' say they, ' n'est rien sans sentiment.'  Now, notwithstanding they
make such a pother about the word, they
have no precise idea annexed to it. And
so much for that same subject called
love." -STERNE'S Letters: May 23, 1765.
"P. S. - My 'Sentimental Journey'
will please Mrs. J-   and my Lydia"
[his daughter, afterwards Mrs. Medalle]
"I can answer for those two. It is a
subject which works well, and suits the
frame of mind I have been in for some
time past. I told you my design in it was
to teach us to love the world and our fellow creatures better than we do -so it
runs most upon those gentler passions
and affections which aid so much to it."
- Letters [1767].


thy delicious letters. Let them speak
the easy carelessness of a heart that
opens itself anyhow, everyhow. Such,
Eliza, I write to thee! " (The artless
rogue, of course he did!) " And so I
should ever love thee, most artlessly,
most affectionately, if Providence permitted thy residence in the same section of the globe: for I am all that
honor and affection can make me
' THY BRAMIN.'"
The Bramin continues addressing
Mrs. Draper until the departure of the
"Earl of Chatham" Indiaman from
Deal, on the 2d of April, 1767. He
is amiably anxious about the fresh
paint for Eliza's cabin; he is uncommonly solicitous about her companions on board: "I fear the best of
your shipmates are only genteel by
comparison with the contrasted crew
with which thou beholdest them. So
was -you know who -     from the
same fallacy which was put upon your
judgment when - but I will not mortify you! "
" You know who " was, of course,
Daniel Draper, Esq., of Bombay - a
gentleman very much respected in
that quarter of' the globe, and about
whose probable health our worthy
Bramin writes with delightful candor: -
"I honor you, Eliza, for keeping
secret some things which, if explained,
had been a panegyric on yourself.
There is a dignity in venerable affliction which will not allow it to appeal
to the wbrld for pity or redress. Well
have you supported that character, my
amiable, my philosophic friend! And,
indeed, I begin to think you have as
many virtues as my Uncle Toby's
widow. Talking of widows — pray,
Eliza, if ever you are such, do not
think of giving yourself to some
wealthy Nabob, because I design to
marry you myself. My wife cannot
live long, and I know not the woman
I should like so well for her substitute
as yourself. 'Tis true I am ninetyfive in constitution, and you but
twenty-five; but what I want n youth,
I will make up in wit and good



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ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


humor. Not Swift so loved his Stella,
Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his
Saccharissa. Tell me, in answer to
this, that you approve and honor the
proposal."
Approve and honor the proposal!
The coward was writing gay letters
to his friends this while, with sneering allusions to this poor foolish
Bramine. Her ship was not out of
the Downs, and the charming Sterne
was at the " Mount Coffee-house,"
with a sheet of gilt-edged paper
before him, offering that precious
treasure, his heart, to Lady P —,
asking whether it gave her pleasure to
see him unhappy? whether it added to
her triumph that her eyes and lips
had turned a man into a fool? -
quoting the Lord's Prayer, with a
horrible baseness of blasphemy, as a
proof that he had desired not to be led
into temptation, and swearing himself the most tender and sincere fool
in the world. It was from his home
at Coxwould that he wrote the Latin
letter, which, I suppose, he was
ashamed to put into English. I find
in my copy of the Letters, that there
is a note of I can't call it admiration,
at Letter 112, which seems to announce that there was a No. 3 to
whom the wretched, worn-out old
scamp was paying his addresses;*
* "To MRS. H-.
"Coxwould, Nov. 15, 1767.
"Now be a good dear woman, my
H —, and execute those commissions
well, and when I see you I will give you
a kiss-there's for you I But I have
something else for you which I am fabricating at a great rate, and that is my
' Sentimental Journey,' which shall make
you cry as much as it has affected me, or
I will give up the business of sentimental
writing....   I am yours, &c. &c.,
"T. SHANDY."
'T   T THE EARL OF-.
"Coxwould, Nov. 28,1767.
"MY LORD,-'Tis with the greatest
pleasure I take my pen to thank your
lordship for your letter of inquiry about
Yorick: he was worn out, both his spirits
and body, with the' Sentimental Journey.'
'Tis true, then, an author must feel himself, or his reader will not; but I have


and the year after, having come back
to his lodgings in Bond Street, with
his " Sentimental Journey " to launch
upon the town, eager as ever for
praise and pleasure-as     vain, as
wicked, as witty, as false as he had
ever been-   death at length seized
the feeble wretch, and, on the 18th of
March, 1768, that "bale of cadaverous goods," as he calls his body, was
consigned to Pluto.* In his last letter there is one sign of grace- the
real affection with which he entreats
a friend to be a guardian to his
daughter Lydia. All his letters to
her are artless, kind, affectionate, and
torn my whole frame into pieces by my
feelings: I believe the brain stands as
much in need of recruiting as the body.
Therefore I shall set out for town the
twentieth of next month, after having recruited myself a week at York. I might
indeed solace myself with my wife (who
is come from France); but, in fact, I have
long been a sentimental being, whatever
your lordship may think to the contrary."
* " In February, 1768, Laurence Sterne,
his frame exhausted by long debilitating
illness, expired at his lodgings in Bond
Street, London. There was something in
the manner of his death singularly resembling the particulars detailed by fMrs.
Quickly as attending that of Falstaff, the
compeer of Yorick for infinite jest, however unlike in other particulars. As he
lay on his bed totally exhausted, he complained that his feet were cold, and requested the female attendant to chafe
them. She did so, and it seemed to relieve him. He complained that the cold
came up higher; and whilst the assistant
was in the act of chafing his ankles and
legs, he expired without a groan. It was
also remarkable that his death took place
much in the manner which he himself had
wished; and that the last offices were
rendered him, not in his own house, or by
the hand of kindred affection, but in an
inn, and by strangers.
"We are well acquainted with Sterne's
features and personal appearance, to
which he himself frequently alludes. Ile
was tall and thin, with a hectic and consumptive appearance." — Sir WALTER
SCOTT.
" It is known that Sterne died in hired
lodgings, and I have been told that his
attendants robbed him even of his gold
sleeve-buttons while he was expiring."Dr. FERRIAR.
"He died at No. 41 (now a cheesemonger's) on the west side of Old Bond
Street." -Handbook of London.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


185


rot sentimental; as a hundred pages
in his writings are beautiful, and full,
not of surprising humor merely, but
of genuine love and kindness. A
perilous trade, indeed, is that of a
man who has to bring his tears and
laughter, his recollections, his personal
griefs and joys, his private thoughts
and feelings, to market, to write them
on paper, and sell them for money.
Does he exaggerate his grief, so as to
get his reader's pity for a false sensibility  feign indignation, so as to
establish a character for virtue? elaborate repartees, so that he may pass
for awit  steal from other authors,
and put down the theft to the credit
side of his own reputation for ingenuity and learning? feign originality?
affect benevolence or misanthropy?
appeal to the gallery gods with claptraps and vulgar baits to catch applause.
How much of the paint and emphasis is necessary for the fair business
of the stage, and how much of the
rant and rouge is put on for the vanity of the actor. His audience trusts
him: can he trust himself? How
much was deliberate calculation and
imposture -how much was false sensibility- and how much true feeling? Where did the lie begin, and
did he know where? and where did
the truth end in the art and scheme
of this man of genius, this actor, this
quack? Some time since, I was in
the company of a French actor, who
began after dinner, and at his own request, to sing French songs of the
sort called des chansons grivoises, and
which he performed admirably, and
to the dissatisfaction of most persons
present.  Having finished these, he
commenced a sentimental ballad -it
was so charmingly sung, that it
touched all persons present, and especially the singer himself, whose
voice trembled, whose eyes filled with
emotion, and who was snivelling and
weeping quite genuine tears by the
time his own ditty was over. I suppose Sterne had this artistical sensibility; he used to blubber perpetually
9


in his study, and finding his tears
infectious, and that they brought him
a great popularity, he exercised the
lucrative gift of weeping: he utilized
it, and cried on every occasion. I
own that I don't value or respect
much the cheap dribble of those fountains. He fatigues me with his perpetual disquiet and his uneasy appeals to my risible or sentimental
faculties. He is always looking in
my face, watching his effect, uncertain whether I think him an impostor
or not; posture-making, coaxing, and
imploring me. "See what sensibility
I have —own now that I'm very
clever - do cry now, you can't resist
this."  The humor of Swift and
Rabelais, whom he pretended to succeed, poured from them as naturally
as song does from a bird; they lose
no manly dignity with it, but laugh
their hearty great laugh out of their
broad chests, as Nature bade them.
But this man -who can make you
laugh, who can make you cry too -
never lets his reader alone, or will
permit his audience repose: when
you are quiet, he fancies he must
rouse you, and turns over head and
heels, or sidles up and whispers a
nasty story.  The man is a great
jester, not a great humorist. He goes
to work systematically and of cold
blood; paints his face, puts on his
ruff and motley clothes, and  lays
down his carpet, and tumbles on it.
For instance, take " The Sentimental Journey," and see in the writer
the deliberate propensity to make
points and seek applause. He gets to
"Dessein's Hotel," he wants a carriage to travel to Paris, he goes to the
inn-yard, and begins what the actors
call "business" at once. There is
that little carriage (the desobligeante).
"Four months had elapsed since it
had finished its career of Europe in
the corner of Monsieur Dessein's
courtyard, and having sallied out
thence but a vamped-up business at
first, though it had been twice taken
to pieces on Mount Sennis, it had not
profited much by its adventures, but




186


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


by none so little as the standing so
many months unpitied in the corner
of Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard.
Much, indeed, was not to be said for
it - but something might - and
when a few words will rescue misery
out of her distress, I hate the man
who can be a churl of them."
Le tour est fait! Paillasse has tumbled! Paillasse has jumped over the
desobligeante, cleared it, hood and all,
and bows to the noble company. Does
anybody believe that this is a real
Sentiment? that this luxury of generosity, this gallant rescue of Misery
- out of an old cab, is genuine feeling? It is as genuine as the virtuous
oratory of Joseph Surface when he
begins, "The man who," &c., &c.,
and wishes to pass off for a saint with
his credulous, good-humored dupes.
Our friend purchases the carriage:
after turning that notorious old monk
to good account, and effecting (like a
soft and good-natured Paillasse as he
was, and very free with his money
when he had it) an exchange of
snuff-boxes with the old Franciscan,
jogs out of Calais; sets down in immense figures on the credit side of his
account the sous he gives away to the
Montreuil beggars; and, at Nampont,
gets out of the chaise, and whimpers
over that famous dead donkey, for
which any sentimentalist may cry
who will. It is agreeably and skilfully done - that dead jackass: like
M. de Soubise's cook on the campaign,
Sterne dresses it, and serves it up
quite tender and with a very piquant
sauce. But tears, and fine feelings,
and a white pocket-handkerchief, and
a funeral sermon, and horses and
feathers, and a procession of mutes,
and a hearse with a dead donkey inside! Psha, mountebank! I'll not
give thee one penny more for that
trick, donkey and all!
This donkey had appeared once
before with signal effect. In 1765,
three years before the publication of
" The Sentimental Journey," the seventh and eighth volumes of "Tristram  Shandy" were given to the


world, and the famous Lyons donkey
makes his entry in those volumes
(pp. 315, 316):"'Twas by a poor ass, with a couple
of large panniers at his back, who had
just turned in to collect eleemosynary
turnip-tops and cabbage-leaves, and
stood dubious, with his two forefeet
at the inside of the threshold, and
with his two hinder feet towards the
street, as not knowing very well
whether he was to go in or no.
"Now 'tis an animal (be in what
hurry I may) I cannot bear to strike:
there is a patient endurance of suffering wrote so unaffectedly in his looks
and carriage which pleads so mightily
for him, that it always disarms me,
and to that degree that I do not like
to speak unkindly to him: on tho
contrary, meet him where I will,
whether in town or country, in cart
or under panniers, whether in liberty
or bondage, I have ever something
civil to say to him on my part; and,
as one word begets another (if he has
as little to do as I), I generally fall
into conversation with him; and surely never is my imagination so busy
as in framing responses from the etchings of his countenance; and where
those carry me not deep enough, in
flying from my own heart into his,
and seeing what is natural for an ass
to think - as well as a man, upon the
occasion. In truth, it is the only
creature of all the classes of beings
below me with whom I can do this.... With an ass I can commune forever.
"'Come, Honesty,' said I, seeing
it was impracticable to pass betwixt
him and the gate, ' art thou for coming in or going out? "
" The ass twisted his head round
to look up the street.
"' Well!' replied I, 'we'll wait a
minute for thy driver.'
"He turned his head thoughtful
about, and looked wistfully the opposite way.
"' I understand thee perfectly,' answered I: 'if thou takest a wrong
step in this affair, he will cudgel thee




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


187


to death. Well i a minute is but a
minute; and if it saves a fellow-creature a drubbing, it shall not be set
down as ill spent.'
" He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went on, and,
in the little peevish contentions between hunger and unsavoriness, had
dropped it out of his mouth half a
dozen times, and had picked it up
again. ' God help thee, Jack!' said
I,' thou hast a bitter breakfast on't -
and many a bitter day's labor, and
many a bitter blow, I fear, for its
wages!   'Tis all, all bitterness to
thee -whatever life is to others!
And now thy mouth, if one knew
the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare say,
as soot' (for he had cast aside the
stem), 'and thou hast not a friend
perhaps in all this world that will
give thee a macaroon.' In saying
this, I pulled out a paper of 'em,
which I had just bought, and gave
him one; -and, at this moment that
I am telling it, my heart smites me
that there was more of pleasantry in
the conceit of seeing how an ass
would eat a macaroon, than of benevolence in giving him one, which
presided in the act.
" When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I pressed him to come in. The
poor beast was heavy loaded - his
legs seemed to tremble under him -
he hung rather backwards, and, as I
pulled at his halter, it broke in my
hand. He looked up pensive in my
face: 'Don't thrash me with it; but
if you will you may.' 'If I do,' said
I, ' I'll be d —."
A critic who refuses to see in this
charming description wit, humor, pathos, a kind nature speaking, and a
real sentiment, must be hard indeed
to move and to please. A page or
two farther we come to a description
not less beautiful- a landscape and
figures, deliciously painted by one
who had the keenest enjoyment and
the most tremulous sensibility: -
"'Twas in the road between Nismes
and Lunel, where is the best Muscatto wine in all France: the sun


was set, they had done their work:
the nymphs had tied up their hair
afresh, and the swains were preparing for a carousal. My mule made a
dead point.  ''Tis the pipe and
tambourine,' said I —'I never will
argue a point with one of your family as long as I live; ' so leaping off
his back, and kicking off one boot
into this ditch and t'other into that,
'I'll take a dance,' said I, 'so stay
you here.'
"A sun-burnt daughter of labor
rose up from the group to meet me as
I advanced towards them; her hair,
which was of a dark chestnut approaching to a black, was tied up in
a knot, all but a single tress.
" We want a cavalier,' said she,
holding out both her hands, as if to
offer them.  ' And a cavalier you
shall have,' said I, taking hold of
both of them. ' We could not have
done without you,' said she, letting go
one hand, with self-taught politeness,
and leading me up with the other.
"A lame youth, whom Apollo had
recompensed with a pipe, and to
which he had added a tambourine of
his own accord, ran sweetly over the
prelude, as he sat upon the bank.
'Tie me up this tress instantly,' said
Nannette, putting a piece of string
into my hand. It taught me to forget I was a stranger. The whole
knot fell down -we had been seven
years acquainted. The youth struck
the note upon the tambourine, his pipe
followed, and off we bounded.
"The sister of the youth —who
had stolen her voice from heavensang alternately with her brother.
'Twas a Gascoigne roundelay: ' Viva
lajoia, fidon la tristessa.' The nymphs
joined in unison, and their swains an
octave below them.
" Viva la joia was in Nannette's
lips, viva la joia in her eyes. A transient spark of amity shot across the
space betwixt us. She looked amiable. Why could I not live and end
my days thus? 'Just Disposer of
our joys and sorrows!' cried I, ' why
could not a man sit down in the lap




188


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


of content here, and dance, and sing,
and say his prayers, and go to heaven
with this nut-brown maid? ' Capriciously did she bend her head on one
side, and dance up insidious. 'Then
'tis time to dance off,' quoth I."
And with this pretty dance and
chorus, the volume artfully concludes.
Even here one can't give the whole
description. There is not a page in
Sterne's writing but has something
that were better away, a latent corruption- a hint, as of an impure
presence.*
* " With regard to Sterne, and the charge
of licentiousness which presses so seriously upon his character as a writer, I would
remark that there is a sort of knowingness, the wit of which depends, 1st, on
the modesty it gives pain to: or, 2dly, on
the innocence and innocent ignorance
over which it triumphs; or, 3dly, on a
certain oscillation in the individual's own
mind between the remaining good and the
encroaching evil of his nature -a sort of
dallying with the devil- a fiuxionary art
of combining courage and cowardice, as
when a man snuffs a candle with his fingers for the first time, or better still, perhaps, like that trembling daring with
which a child touches a hot tea-urn, because it has been forbidden; so that the
mind has its own white and black angel;
the same or similar amusement as may be
supposed to take placebetween an old debauchee and a prude -the feeling resentment, on the one hand, from a prudential
anxiety to preserve appearances and have
a character; and on the other, an inward
sympathy with the enemy. We have only
to suppose society innocent, and then
nine-tenths of this sort of wit would be
like a stone that falls in snow, making no
sound, because exciting no resistance;
the remainder rests on its being an offence
against the good manners of human nature itself.
" This source, unworthy as it is, may
doubtless be combined with wit, drollery,
fancy, and even humor; and we have only
to regret the misalliance; but that the latter are quite distinct from the former, may
be made evident by abstracting in our
imagination the morality of the characters
of Mr. Shandy, my Uncle Toby, and
Trim, which are all antagonists to this
spurious sort of wit, from the rest of
'Tristram Shandy,' and by supposing,
instead of them, the presence of two or
three callous debauchees. The result will
be pure disgust. Sterne cannot be too
severely censured for thus using the best
dispositions of our nature as the panders
and condiments for the basest."-COL



Some of that dreary double entendre
may be attributed to freer times and
manners than ours, but not all. The
foul Satyr's eves leer out of the
leaves constantly: the last words the
famous author wrote were bad and
wicked —the last lines the poor
stricken wretch penned were for pity
and pardon. I think of these past
writers and of one who lives amongst
us now, and am grateful for the innocent laughter and the sweet and unsullied page which the author of
"David Copperfield" gives to my
children.
"Jetd sur cette boule,
Laid, chetif et souffrant;
Etouffd dans la foule,
Faute d'1tre assez grand:
"Une plainte touchante
De ma bouche sortit.
Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante,
Chante, pauvre petit I
" Chanter, ou je m'abuse,
Est ma tache ici bas.
Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse,
Ne m'aimeront-ils pas? "
In those charming lines of Beranger, one may fancy described the
career, the sufferings, the genius, the
gentle nature, of GOLDSMITt, and
the esteem in which we hold him.
Who, of the millions whom he has
amused, doesn't love him? To be
the most beloved of English writers,
what a title that is for a man! *  A
ERIDGE: Literary Remains, vol. i. pp.
141, 142.
* '" He was a friend to virtue, and in
his most playful pages never forgets what
is due to it. A gentleness, delicacy, and
purity of feeling, distinguishes whatever
he wrote, and bears a correspondence to
the generosity of a disposition which
knew no bounds but his last guinea....
" The admirable ease and grace of the
narrative, as well as the pleasing truth
with which the principal characters are
designed, make ' The Vicar of Wakefield
one of the most delicious morsels of fictitious composition on which the human
mind was ever employed.
".. We read 'The Vicar of Wakefield ' in youth and in age - we return to
it again and again, and bless the memory
of an author who contrives so well to
reconcile us to human nature."- Sir
WALTER SCOTT.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


189


wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness and affection, quits the country village where his boyhood has
been passed in happy musing, in idle
shelter, in fond longing to see the
great world out of doors, and achieve
name and fortune; and after years
of dire struggle, and neglect and
poverty, his heart turning back as
fondly to his native place as it had
longed eagerly for change when sheltered there, he writes a book and a
poem, full of the recollections and
feelings of home; he paints the friends
and scenes of his youth, and peoples
Auburn and Wakefield with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander he must,
but he carries away a home-relic with
him, and dies with it on his breast.
His nature is truant; in repose it
longs for change: as on the journey
it looks back for friends and quiet.
He passes to-day in building an aircastle for to-morrow, or in writing
yesterday's elegy; and he would fly
away this hour, but that a cage and necessity keep him. What is the charm
of his verse, of his style, and humor?
His sweet regrets, his delicate compassion, his soft smile, his tremulous sympathy, the weakness which he owns?
our love for him is half pity. You
come hot and tired from the day's
battle, and this sweet minstrel sings
to you. Who could harm the kind
vagrant harper? Whom did he ever
hurt? He carries no weapon, save
the harp on which he plays to you;
and with which he delights great and
humble, young and old, the captains
in the tents, or the soldiers round the
fire, or the women and children in the
villages, at whose porches he stops
and sings his simple songs of love
and beauty. With that sweet story
of "The Vicar of Wakefield" * he
* "Now Herder came," says Goethe
in his Autobiography, relating his first
acquaintance with Goldsmith's masterpiece, " and together with his great knowledge brought many other aids, and the
later publications besides. Among these
he announced to us 'The Vicar of Wakefield' as an excellent work, with the German translation of which he would make


has found entry into every castle and
every hamlet in Europe. Not one of
us acquainted by reading it aloud to us
himself..
"A Protestant country clergyman is
perhaps the most beautiful subject for a
modern idyl; he appears like Melchisedek, as priest and king in one person.
To the most innocent situation which can
be imagined on earth, to that of a husbandman, he is, for the most part, united
by similarity of occupation as well as by
equality in family relationships; he is a
father, a master of a family, an agriculturist, and thus perfectly a member of the
community. On this pure, beautiful,
earthly foundation rests his higher calling; to him is it given to guide men
through life, to take care of their spiritual education, to bless them at all the
leading epochs of their existence, to instruct, to strengthen, to console them, and,
if consolation is not sufficient for the
present, to call up and guarantee the
ope of a happier future. Imagine such
a man with pure human sentiments,
strong enough not to deviate from them
under any circumstances, and by this already elevated above the multitude of
whom one cannot expect purity and firmness: give him the learning necessary for
his office, as well as a cheerful, equable
activity, which is even passionate, as it
neglects no moment to do good -and you
will have him well endowed. But at the
same time add the necessary limitation,
so that he must not only pause in a small
circle, but may also, perchance, pass over
to a smaller; grant him good-nature, placability, resolution, and every thing else
praiseworthy that springs from a decided
character, and over all this a cheerful
spirit of compliance, and a smiling toleration of his own failings and those of others, —then you will have put together
pretty well the image of our excellent
Wakefield.
" The delineation of this character on
his course of life through joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the
story, by the combination of the entirely
natural with the strange and the singular,
make this novel one of the best which has
ever been written; besides this, it has the
great advantage that it is quite moral, nay,
in a pure sense, Christian- represents
the reward of a good-will and perseverance in the right, strengthens an unconditional confidence in God, and attests the
final triumph of good over evil; and all
this without a trace of cant or pedantry. The author was preserved from both
of these by an elocution of mind that
shows itself throughout in the form of
irony, by which this little work must appear to us as wise as it is amiable. The
author, Dr. Goldsmith, has, without ques



190


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


us, however busy or hard, but once
or twice in our lives has passed an
evening with him, and undergone the
charm of his delightful music.
Goldsmith's father was no doubt
the good Dr. Primrose, whom we all
tion, a great insight into the moral world,
into its strength and its infirmities; but
at the same time he can thankfully acknowledge that he is an Englishman, and
reckon highly the advantages which his
country and his nation afford him. The
family, with the delineation of which he
occupies himself, stands upon one of the
last steps of citizen comfort, and yet
comes in contact with the highest; its narrow circle, which becomes still more contracted, touches upon the great world
through the natural and civil course of
things; this little skiff floats on the agitated waves of English life, and in weal
or woe it has to expect injury or help
from the vast fleet which sails around
it.
" I may suppose that my readers know
this work, and have it in memory; whoever hears it named for the first time here,
as well as he who is induced to read it
again, will thank me." - GOETHE: Truth
and Poetry; from my own Life. (English Translation, vol. i. pp. 378, 379.)
"He seems from    infancy to have
been compounded of two natures, one
bright, the other blundering; or to have
had fairy gifts laid in his cradle by the
'good people' who haunted his birthplace, the old goblin mansion on the banks
of the Inny.
"He carries with him the wayward
elfin spirit, if we may so term it, throughout his career. His fairy gifts are of no
avail at school, academy, or college; they
unfit him for close study and practical
science, and render him heedless of every
thing that does not address itself to his
poetical imagination and genial and festive feelings; they dispose him to break
away from restraint, to stroll about
hedges, green lanes, and haunted streams,
to revel with jovial companions, or to rove
the country like a gypsy in quest of odd
adventures....
" Though his circumstances often compelled him to associate with the poor,
they never could betray him into companionship with the depraved. His relish
for humor, and for the study of character,
as we have before observed, brought him
often into convivial company of a vulgar
kind; but he discriminated between their
vulgarity and their amusing qualities, or
rather wrought from the whole store
familiar features of life which form the
staple of his most popular writings." —
WABHINGTON IRVING.


of us know.* Swift was yet alive,
when the little Oliver was born at
Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the county
of Longford, in Ireland. In 1730,
two years after the child's birth,
Charles Goldsmith removed his f:imily
to Lissoy, in the county Westmeath,
that sweet "Auburn" which every
person who hears me has seen in
fancy. Here the kind parson t brought
up his eight children; and loving all
the world, as his son says, fancied all
the world loved him. He had a crowd
of poor dependants    besides  those
hungry children. He kept an open
table; round which sat flatterers and
poor friends, who laughed at the honest rector's many jokes, and ate the
produce of his seventy acres of farm.
Those who have seen an Irish house
* "The family of Goldsmith, Goldsmyth, or, as it was occasionally written,
Gouldsmith, is of considerable standing
in Ireland, and seems always to haive held
a respectable station in society. Its origin
is English, supposed to be derived from
that which was long settled at Crayford
in Kent." - PRIOR'S Life of Goldsmith.
Oliver's father, great-grandfather, and
great-great-grandfather were clergymen;
and two of them married clergymen's
daughters.
t "At church, with meek and unaffected
grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with
double sway,
And fools who came to scoff remained
to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;
E'en children followed with endearing
wile
And plucked his gown to share the good
man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,
Their welfare pleased him, and their
cares distressed;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs
were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in
Heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts his awful
form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves
the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling
clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head." -
The Deserted Village.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


191


in the present day can fancy that one
of Lissoy. The old beggar still has his
allotted corner by the kitchen turf; the
maimed old soldier still gets his potatoes and butter-milk; the poor cottier still asks his honor's charity, and
prays God bless his reverence for the
sixpence: the ragged pensioner still
takes his place by right and sufferance. There's still a crowd in the
kitchen and a crowd round the parlor-table, profusion, confusion, kindness, poverty. If an Irishman comes
to London to make his fortune, he
has a half-dozen of Irish dependants
who take a percentage of his earnings.
The good Charles Goldsmith* left
but little provision for his hungry
race when death summoned him: and
one of his daughters being engaged to a Squire of rather superior
dignity, Charles Goldsmith impoverished the rest of his family to provide
the girl with a dowry.
The small-pox, which scourged all
Europe at that time, and ravaged the
roses off the cheeks of half the world,
fell foul of poor little Oliver's face,
* " In May this year (1768), he lost his
brother, the Rev. Henry Goldsmith, for
whom he had been unable to obtain preferment in the church...
".. To the curacy of Kilkenny
WVest, the moderate stipend of which,
forty pounds a year, is sufficiently celebrated by his brother's lines. It has been
stated that Mr. Goldsmith added a school,
which, after having been held at more than
one place in the vicinity, was finally fixed
at Lissoy. Here his talents and industry
gave it celebrity, and under his care the
sons of many of the neighboring gentry
received their education. A fever breaking out among the boys about 1765, they
dispersed for a time, but re-assembling at
Athlone, he continued his scholastic labors
there until the time of his death, which
happened, like that of his brother, about
the forty-fifth year of his age. He was a
man of an excellent heart and an amiable
disposition." - PRIoa's Goldsmith.
" Where'er I roam, whatever realms to
see,
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to
thee:
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless
pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening
chain." — The Traveller.


when the child was eight years old,
and left him scarred and disfigured
for his life. An old woman in his
father's village taught him his letters,
and pronounced him a dunce: Paddy
Byrne, the hedge-schoolmaster, took
him in hand; and from Paddy Byrne,
he was transmitted to a clergyman at
Elphin. When a child was sent to
school in those days, the classic phrase
was that he was placed under Mr. Soand-so'sferule. Poor little ancestors!
It is hard to think how ruthlessly you
were birched; and how much of needless whipping and tears our small
forefathers had to undergo! A relative - kind uncle Contarine, took the
main charge of little Noll; who went
through his school-days righteously
doing as little work as he could:
robbing orchards, playing at ball, and
making his pocket-money fly about
whenever fortune sent it to him.
Everybody knows the story of that
famous " Mistake of a Night," when
the young schoolboy, provided with
a guinea and a nag, rode up to the
"best house" in Ardagh, called for
the landlord's company over a bottle
of wine at supper, and for a hot cake
for breakfast in the morning; and
found, when he asked for the bill,
that the best house was Squire Featherstone's, and not the inn for which
he mistook it. Who does not know
every story about Goldsmith? That
is a delightful and fantastic picture of
the child dancing and capering about
in the kitchen at home, when the old
fiddler gibed at him for his ugliness,and
called him JEsop; and little Noll made
his repartee of "Heralds proclaim
aloud this saying-See iEsop dancing and his monkey playing." One
can fancy a queer pitiful look of
humor and appeal upon that little
scarred face, the funny little dancing
figure, the funny little brogue. In
his life, and his writings, which are the
honest expression of it, he is constantly bewailing that homely face
and person: anon, he surveys them
in the glass ruefully; and presently
assumes the most comical dignity.




192


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


He likes to deck out his little person
in splendor and fine colors.  He
presented himself to be examined
ibr ordination in a pair of scarlet
breeches, and said honestly that he
did not like to go into the church,
because he was fond of colored clothes.
When he tried to practice as a doctor,
he got by hook or by crook, a black
velvet suit, and looked as big and
grand as he could, and kept his hat
over a patch on the old coat: in
better days he bloomed out in plumcolor, in blue silk, and in new velvet.
For some of those splendors the heirs
and assignees of Mr. Filby, the tailor,
have never been paid to this day:
perhaps the kind tailor and his creditor have met and settled the little
account in Hades.*
They showed until lately a window
at Trinity College, Dublin, on which
the nameofO. Goldsmith was engraved
with a diamond.   Whose diamond
was it? Not the young sizar's, who
made but a poor figure in that place
of learning. He was idle, penniless,
and fond of pleasure: t he learned
his way early to the pawnbroker's
shop. He wrote ballads, they say,
for the street-singers, who paid him a
crown for a poem: and his pleasure
was to steal out at night and hear his
verses sung. He was chastised by his
tutor for giving a dance in his rooms,
and took the box on the ear so much
to heart, that he packed up his all,
pawned his books and little property,
and disappeared from college and
family. He said he intended to go to
America, but when his money was
spent, the young prodigal came home
* " When Goldsmith died, half the unpaid bill he owed to Mr. William Filby
(amounting in all to 791.) was for clothes
supplied to this nephew Hodson." - FORSTER's Goldsmith, p. 520.
As this nephew Hodson ended his
days (see the same page) " a prosperous
Irish gentleman," it is not unreasonable
to wish that he had cleared off Mr. Filby's bill.
t " Poor fellow! Ile hardly knew an
ass from a mule, nor a turkey from a
goose, but when he saw it on the table."
-CUMBERLAND'S Memoirs.


ruefully, and the good folks there
killed their calf- it was but a lean
one - and welcomed him back.
After college, he hung about his
mother's house, and lived for some
years the life of a buckeen -passed
a month with this relation and that,
a year with one patron, a great deal
of time at the public-house.* Tired
of this life, it was resolved that he
should go to London and study at the
Temple; but he got no farther on the
road to London and the woolsack
than Dublin, where he gambled away
the fifty pounds given to him for his
outfit, and whence he returned to the
indefatigable forgiveness of home.
Then he determined to be a doctor,
and uncle Contarine helped him to a
couple of years at Edinburgh. Then
from Edinburgh he felt that he ought
to hear the famous professors of Leyden and Paris, and wrote most amusing pompous letters to his uncle about
the great Farheim, Du Petit, and
Duhamel du Monceau, whose lectures
he proposed to follow. If uncle Contarine believed those letters -if Oliver's mother believed that story which
the youth related of his going to
Cork, with the purpose of embarking
for America, of his having paid his
passage money, and having sent his
kit on board; of the anonymous cap.
tain sailing away with Oliver's valuable luggage, in a nameless ship,
never to return; if uncle Contarine
and the mother at Ballymahon believed his stories, they must have been
a very simple pair; as it was a very
simple rogue indeed who cheated
them. When the lad, after failing in
his clerical examination, after failing
in his plan for studying the law, took
* "( These youthful follies, like the fermentation of liquors, often disturb the
mind only in order to its future refinement: a life spent in phlegmatic apathy
resembles those liquors which never ferment, and are consequently always muddy." -GOLDSMITI: Memoir of Voltaire.
"He [Johnson] said ' Goldsmith was
a plant that flowered late. There appeared nothing remarkable about him
when he was young.' " - BOSWELL.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


193


leave of these projects and of his
parents, and set out for Edinburgh,
he saw mother, and uncle, and lazy
Ballymahon, and green native turf,
and sparkling river for the last time.
He was never to look on old Ireland
more, and only in fancy, revisit her.
"But me not destined such delights to
share,
My prime of life in wandering spent
and care,
Impelled, with step unceasing, to pursue
Some fleeting good that mocks me with
the view;
That like the circle bounding earth and
skies
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies:
My fortune leads to traverse realms unknown,
And find no spot of all the world my
own."
I spoke in a former lecture of that
high courage which enabled Fielding,
in spite of disease, remorse, and
poverty, always to retain a cheerful
spirit and to keep his manly benevolence and love of truth, intact, as if
these treasures had been confided to
him for the public benefit, and he was
accountable to posterity for their
honorable employ; and a constancy
equally happy and admirable I think
was shown by Goldsmith, whose sweet
and friendly nature bloomed kindly
always in the midst of a life's storm,
and rain, and bitter weather.* The
poor fellow was never so friendless but
he could befriend some one; never so
pinched and wretched but he could
give of his crust, and speak his word
of compassion. If he had but his
flute left, he could give that, and
make the children happy in the dreary
* "An 'inspired idiot,' Goldsmith,
hangs strangely about him [Johnson].
~..Yet, on the whole, there is no evil in
the 'gooseberry-fool,' but rather much
good; of a finer, if of a weaker sort than
Johnson's; and all the more genuine that
he himself could never become conscious
of it, -though unhappily never cease attempting to become so: the author of the
genuine 'Vicar of Wakefield,' nill he
will he, must needs fly towards such a
mass of genuine manhood." - OARLiLEYS
Essays (2d ed.), vol. iv. p. 91.
9)*


London court.    He could give the
coals in that queer coal-scuttle we
read of to his poor neighbor: he
could give away his blankets in
college to the poor widow, and warm
himself as he best might in the feathers: he could pawn his coat to save
his landlord from jail: when he was
a school-usher he spent his earnings
in treats for the boys, and the goodnatured schoolmaster's wife said
justly that she ought to keep Mr.
Goldsmith's money as well as the
young gentlemen's. When he met
his pupils in later life nothing would
satisfy the Doctor but he must treat
them still. " Have you seen the print
of me after Sir Joshua Reynolds?"
he asked of one of his old pupils.
" Not seen it? not bought it? Sure,
Jack, if your picture had been published, I'd not have been without it
half an hour."   His purse and his
heart were everybody's, and his
friends' as much as his own. When
he was at the height of his reputation,
and the Earl of Northumberland,
going as Lord Lieutenant to Ireland,
asked if he could be of any service
to Dr. Goldsmith, Goldsmith recommended his brother, and not himself,
to the great man. "My patrons," he
gallantly said, "are the booksellers,
and I want no others." * Hard
* "At present, the few poets of England no longer depend on the great for
subsistence; they have now no other patrons but the public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a generous master. It is indeed too-frequently
mistaken as to the merits of every candidate for favor; but to make amends, it is
never mistaken long. A performance indeed may be forced for a time into reputation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon
sinks; time, the touchstone of what is
truly valuable, will soon discover the
fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself any share of success till
his works have been read at least ten
years with satisfaction.
' A man of letters at present, whose
works are valuable, is perfectly sensible
of their value. Every polite member of
the community, by buying what he writes,
contributes to reward him. The ridicule,
therefore, of living in a garret might have
been wit in the last age, but continues




194


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


patrons they were, and hard work he
did; but he did not complain much:
if in his early writings some bitter
words escaped him, some allusions to
neglect and poverty, he withdrew
these expressions when his works
were republished, and better days
seemed to open for him; and he did
not care to complain that printer or
publisher had overlooked his merit,
or left him poor.   The Court face
was turned from honest Oliver, the
Court patronized Beattie; the fashion
did not shine on him - fashion adored
Sterne. t Fashion pronounced Kelly
to be the great writer of comedy of
his day. A little, not ill-humor, but
plaintiveness - a little betrayal of
such no longer, because no longer true.
A writer of real merit now may easily
be rich, if his heart be set only on fortune: and for those who have no merit,
it is but fit that such should remain in
merited obscurity."- GOLDSMITH: Citizen qf the World, Let. 84.
t Goldsmith attacked Sterne obviously enough, censuring his indecency, and
slighting his wit, and ridiculing his manner, in the 53d letter in " The Citizen of
the World."
"As in common conversation," says
he, " the best way to make the audience
laugh is by first laughing yourself; so in
writing, the properest manner is to show
an attempt at humor, which will pass upon
most for humor in reality. To effect this,
readers must be treated with the most
perfect familiarity; in one page the author is to make them a low bow, and in
the next to pull them by the nose; he
must talk in riddles, and then send them
to bed in order to dream for the solution," &c.
Sterne's humorous mot on the subject of
the gravest part of the charges, then, as
now, made against him, may perhaps
be quoted here, from the excellent, the
respectable, Sir Walter Scott: -
" Soon after ' Tristram 'had appeared,
Sterne asked a Yorkshire lady of fortune
and condition, whether she had read his
book. 'Ihave not, Mr. Sterne, was the
answer; ' and to be plain with you, I am
Informed it is not proper for female perusal.' 'My dear good lady,' replied the author, ' d not be gulled by such stories;
the book is like your young heir there'
(pointing to a child of three years old,
who was rolling on the carpet in his
white tunic); he shows at times a good
deal that is usually concealod, but it is all
in perfect innocence.'


wounded pride which he showed, render him not the less amiable. The
author of " The Vicar of Wakefield "
had a right to protest when Newbery
kept back the MS. for two years; had
a right to be a little peevish with
Sterne; a little angry when Colman's actors declined their parts in
his delightful comedy, when the manager refused to have a scene painted
for it, and pronounced its damnation
before hearing. He had not the great
ublic with him; but he had the noble
ohnson, and the admirable Reynolds,
and the great Gibbon, and the great
Burke, and the great Fox —friends
and admirers illustrious indeed, as
famous as those, who, fifty years betore, sat round Pope's table.
Nobody knows, and I dare say
Goldsmith's buoyant temper kept no
account of, all the pains which he endured during the early period of his
literary career. Should any man of
letters in our day have to bear up
against such, heaven grant he may
come out of the period of misfortune
with such a pure kind heart as that
which Goldsmith obstinately bore in
his breast. The insults to which he
had to submit are shocking to read
of- slander, contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity perverting his
commonest motives and actions; he
had his share of these, and one's
anger is roused at reading of them,
as it is at seeing a woman insulted
or a child assaulted, at the notion
that a creature so very gentle and
weak, and full of love, should have
had to suffer so. And he had worse
than insult to undergo - to own to
fault and deprecate the anger of ruffians. There is a letter of his extant
to one Griffiths, a bookseller, in which
poor Goldsmith is forced to confess
that certain books sent by Griffiths
are in the hands of a friend from
whom Goldsmith had been forced to
borrow money. " He was wild, sir,"
Johnson said, speaking of Goldsmith
to Boswell, with his great, wise benevolence and noble mercifulness of
heart-"Dr. Goldsmith was will,




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


sir; but he is so no more." Ah!
if we pity the good and weak man
who suffers undeservedly, let us deal
very gently with him from whom
misery extorts not only tears, but
shame; let us think humbly and
charitably of the human nature that
suffers so sadly and falls so low.
Whose turn may it be to-morrow?
What weak heart, confident before
trial, may not succumb under temptation invincible? Cover the good
man who has been vanquished —
cover his face, and pass on.
For the last half-dozen years of his
life, Goldsmith was far removed from
the pressure of any ignoble necessity;
and in the receipt, indeed, of a pretty
large income from the booksellers his
patrons.  Had he lived but a few
years more, his public fame would
have been as great as his private reputation, and he might have enjoyed
alive a part of that esteem which his
country has ever since paid to the
vivid and versatile genius who has
touched on almost every subject of literature, and touched nothing that he
did not adorn. Except in rare instances, a man is known in our profession, and esteemed as a skilful workman, years before the lucky hit which
trebles his usual gains, and stamps him
a popular author. In the strength of
his age, and the dawn of his reputation, having for backers and friends
the most illustrious literary men of
his time,* fame and prosperity might
* "Goldsmith told us that he was now
busy in writing a Natural History; and
that he might have full leisure for it he had
taken lodgings at a farmer's house, near
to the six-mile stone in the Edgware
Itoad, and had carried down his books in
two returned postchaises. He said he
believed the farmer's family thought him
an odd character, similar to that in which
'The Spectator appeared to his landlady
and her children; he was' The Gentleman.'
Mr. Mickle, the translator of ' The Lusiad,'
and I went to visit him at this place a few
days afterwards. He was not at home;
but, having a curiosity to see his apartment, we went in, and found curious scraps
of aescriptions of animals scrawled upon
the wall with a blacklead pencil." - BosM ELL.


have been in store for Goldsmith, had
fate so willed it; and, at forty-six, had
not sudden disease carried him off.
I say prosperity rather than competence, for it is probable that no sum
could have put order into his affairs
or sufficed for his irreclaimable habits
of dissipation. It must be remembered
that he owed 2,0001., when he died.
" Was ever poet," Johnson asked, " so
trusted before? " As has been the case
with many another good fellow of his
nation, his life was tracked and his substance wasted by crowds of hungry
beggars and lazy dependants. If they
came at a lucky time (and be sure
they knew his affairs better than lie
did himself, and watched his payday), he gave them of his money; if
they begged on empty-purse days he
gave them his promissory bills: or
he treated them to a tavern where he
had credit; or he obliged them with
an order upon honest Mr. Filby for
coats, for which he paid as long as he
could earn, and until the shears of
Filby were to cut for him no more.
Staggering under a load of debt and
labor, tracked by bailiffs and reproachful creditors, running from a
hundred poor dependants, whose
appealing looks were perhaps the
hardest of all pains for him to bear,
devising fevered plans for the morrow,
new histories, new comedies, all sorts
of new literary schemes, flying from
all these into seclusion, and out of
seclusion into pleasure —at last, at
five and forty, death seized him and
closed his career.* I have been many
a time in the chambers in the Temple
*  When Goldsmith was dying, Dr.
Turton said to him, 'Your pulse is in
greater disorder than it should be, from
the degree of fever which you have; is
your mind at ease? ' Goldsmith answered
it was not."-DR. JOHNSON (in Boswell).
" Chambers, you find, is gone far, and
poor Goldsmith is gone much farther.
He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe, by the fear of distress. He had
raised money and squandered it, by every
artifice of acquisition and folly of expense.
But let not his failings be remembered;
he was a very great man." -Dr. JOHNSOY
to Boswell, July 5th, 1774.




196


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


which were his, and passed up the
staircase, which Johnson, and Burke
and Reynolds trod to see their friend
their poet, their kind Goldsmith — th(
stair on which the poor women sal
weeping bitterly when they heard thai
the greatest and most generous of all
men was dead within the black oak
door.* All, it was a different lot from
that for which the poor fellow sighed,
when he wrote with heart yearning for
home those most charming of all fond
verses in which he fancies he revisits
Auburn:" Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangled walks and ruined
grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to
view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy
train,
Swells at my heart, and turns the past to
pain.
In all my wanderings round this world
of care,
In all my griefs - and God has given my
share -
I still had hopes my latest hours to
crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me
down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by
repose;


I still had hopes -for pride attends us
stillAmidst the swains to show my book.,      learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to
t      draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw;
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns
_ pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first
she flewI still had hopes —my long vexations
past,
Here to return, and die at home at last.
0 blest retirement, friend to life's decline I
Retreats from care that never must be
mine -
How blest is he who crowns, in shades
like these,
A youth of labor with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temp.
tations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to
fly
For him no wretches born to work and
weep
Explore the mine or tempt the danger,
ous deep;
No surly porter stands in guilty state
To spurn imploring famine from hit
gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue'4
friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived de.
cay,
Whilst resignation gently slopes ths
way:
And all his prospects brightening at thc,
last,
His heaven commences ere the world be
past."
In these verses, I need not say wit),
what melody, with what touching
truth, with what exquisite beauty of
comparison- as indeed in hundreds
more pages of the writings of this honest soul - the whole character of the
man is told — his humble confession of
faults and weakness; his pleasant
little vanity, and desire that his village should admire him; his simple
scheme of good in which everybody
was to be happy - no beggar was to
be refused his dinner —nobody in
fact was to work much, and he to be
the harmless chief of the Utopia, and
the monarch of the Irish Yvetot. He
would have told again, and without
fear of their failing, those famous


-


* "When Burke was told [of Goldpmith's death] he burst into tears. leynolds was in his painting-room when the
messenger went to him; but at once he
laid his pencil aside, which in times of
great family distress he had not been
known to do, left his painting room, and
did not re-enter it that day...
" The staircase of Brick Court is said
to have been filled with mourners, the
reverse of domestic; women without a
home, without domesticity of any kind,
with no friend but him they had come to
weep for; outcasts of that great, solitary,
wicked city, to whom he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable. And he
had domestic mourners, too. His coffin
was re-opened at the request of Miss
Horneck and her sister (such was the regard he was known to have for them )
that a lock might be cut from his hair.
It was in Mrs. Gwyn's possession when
she died, after nearly seventy years." -
FORSTER'S Goldsmith.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


jokes * which had hung fire in London; he would have talked of his
great friends of the Club - of my Lord
Clare and my Lord Bishop, my Lord
Nugent-sure he knew them intimately, and was hand and glove with some
of the best men in town - and he
would have spoken of Johnson and of
Burke, and of Sir Joshua who had
painted him -and he would have
told wonderful sly stories of Ranelagh
and the Pantheon, and the masquerades at Madame Cornelis'; and he
would have toasted, with a sigh, the
Jessamy Bride- the lovely Mary
Horneck.
The figure of that charming young
lady forms one of the prettiest recol'.ections of Goldsmith's life. She and
* " Goldsmith's incessant desire of being conspicuous in company was the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such
disadvantage as one should hardly have
supposed possible in a man of his genius.
When his literary reputation had risen
deservedly high, and his society was much
courted, he became very jealous of the
extraordinary attention which was everywhere paid to Johnson. One evening, in
a circle of wits, he found fault with me for
talkingof Johnson as entitled to the honor
of unquestionable superiority. ' Sir,' said
he, 'you are for making a monarchy of
what should be a republic.'
"He was still more mortified, when,
talking in a company with fluent vivacity,
and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of all present, a German who sat
next him, and perceived Johnson rolling
himself as if about to speak, suddenly
stopped him, saying, ' Stay, stay -Toctor
Shonson is going to zayzomething.' This
was no doubt very provoking, especially
to one so irritable as Goldsmith, who frequently mentioned it with strong expressions of indignation.
" It may also be observed that Goldsmith
was sometimes content to be treated with
an easy familiarity, but upon occasions
would be consequential and important.
An instance of this occurred in a small
particular. Johnson had a way of contracting the names of his friends, as
Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy....
I remember one day, when Tom Davies
was telling that Dr. Johnson said -' We
are all in labor for a name to Goldy's
play,' Goldsmith seemed displeased that
such a liberty should be taken with his
name, and said, ' I have often desired him
not to call me Goldy.'"
This is one of several of Boswell's


her beautiful sister, who married Bunbury, the graceful and humorous amateur artist of those days when Gilray
had but just begun to try his powers,
were among the kindest and dearest
of Goldsmith's many friends, cheered
and pitied him, travelled abroad with
him, made him welcome at their home,
and gave him many a pleasant holiday.   He bought his finest clothes
to figure at their country-house at
Barton -he wrote them droll verses. They loved him, laughed at him,
played him tricks, and made him happy. He asked for a loan from Garrick, and Garrick kindly supplied him,
to enable him to go to Barton: but
there were to be no more holidays,
and only one brief struggle more for
depreciatory mentions of Goldsmithwhich may well irritate biographers and
admirers -and also those who take that
more kindly and more profound view of
Boswell's own character, which was
opened up by Mr. Carlyle's famous article
on his book. No wonder that Mr. Irving
calls Boswell an "incarnation of toadyism." And the worst of it is, that Johnson himself has suffered from this habit
of the Laird of Auchinleck's. People are
apt to forget under what Boswellian
stimulus the great Doctor uttered many
hasty things: - things no more indicative
of the nature of the depths of his character
than the phosphoric gleaming of the sea,
when struck at night, is indicative of
radical corruption of nature I In truth, it
is clear enough on the whole that both
Johnson and Goldsmith appreciated each
other, and that they mutually knew it.
They were -as it were, tripped up and
flung against each other, occasionally, by
the blundering and silly gambolling of
people in company.
Something must be allowed for Boswell's "rivalry for Johnson's  good
graces " with Oliver (as Sir Walter Scott
has remarked), for Oliver was intimate
with the Doctor before his biographer
was,- and, as we all remember marched
off with him to " take tea with Mrs. Williams," before Boswell had advanced to
that honorable degree of intimacy. But,
in truth, Boswell - though he perhaps
showed more talent in his delineation of
the Doctor than is generally ascribed to
him -had not faculty to take a fair view
of two great men at a time. Besides, as
Mr. Forster justly remarks, "he was impatient of Goldsmith from the first hour
of their acquaintance."-Life and Adventures, p. 292.




198


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


poor Goldsmith. A lock of his hair
was taken from the coffin and given
to the Jessamy Bride.  She lived
quite into our time. Hazlitt saw her
an old lady, but beautiful still, in
Northcote's painting-room, who told
the eager critic how proud she always
was that Goldsmith had admired her.
The younger Colman has left a touching reminiscence of him. Vol. i. 63, 64.
"I was only five years old," he
says, "when Goldsmith took me on
his knee one evening whilst he was
drinking coffee with my father, and
began to play with me, which amiable
act I returned, with the ingratitude
of a peevish brat, by giving him a very
smart slap on the face: it must have
been a tingler, for it left the marks of
my spiteful paw on his cheek. This
infantile outrage was followed by
summary justice, and I was locked up
by my indignant father in an adjoining room to undergo solitary imprisonment in the dark. Here I began
to howl and scream most abominably,
which was no bad step towards my
liberation, since those who were not
inclined to pity me might be likely to
set me free for the purpose of abating
a nuisance.
"At length a generous friend appeared to extricate me from jeopardy,
and that generous friend was no other than the man I had so wantonly
molested by assault and battery - it
was the tender-hearted Doctor himself, with a lighted candle in his hand,
and a smile upon his countenance,
which was still partially red from the
effects of my petulance. I sulked and
sobbed as he fondled and soothed, till
I began to brighten. Goldsmith seized
the propitious moment of returning
good-humor, when he put down the
candle and began to conjure. He
placed three hats, which happened to
be in the room, and a shilling under
each. The shillings he told me were
England, France, and Spain. ' Hey
presto cockalorum! ' cried the Doctor, and lo, on uncovering the shillings, which had been dispersed each
beneath a separate hat, they were all


found congregated under one. I was
no politician at five years old, and
therefore might not have wondered at
the sudden revolution which brought
England, France, and Spain all under
one crown; but, as also Iwas no conjurer, it amazed me beyond measure....
From that time, whenever the Doctor
came to visit my father, 'I plucked
his gown to share the good man's
smile;' a game at romps constantly
ensued, and we were always cordial
friends and merry playfellows. Our
unequal companionship varied somewhat as to sports as I grew older;
but it did not last long: my senior
playmate died in his forty-fifth year,
when I had attained my eleventh...
In all the numerous accounts of his
virtues and foibles, his genius and absurdities, his knowledge of nature and
ignorance of the world, his ' compassion for another's woe 'was always predominant; and my trivial story of his
humoring a froward child weighs but
as a feather in the recorded scale of his
benevolence."
Think of him reckless, thriftless,
vain if you like - but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity.
He passes out of our life, and goes to
render his account beyond it. Think
of the poor pensioners weeping at his
grave; think of the noble spirits that
admired and deplored him; think of
the righteous pen that wrote his epitaph - and of the wonderful and
unanimous response of affection with
which the world has paid back the
love he gave it. His humor delighting us still: his song fresh and beautiful as when first he charmed with it:
his words in all our mouths: his very
weaknesses beloved and familiar —
his benevolent spirit seems still to
smile upon us: to do gentle kind.
nesses: to succor with sweet charity:
to soothe, caress, and forgive: to
plead with the fortunate for the
unhappy and the poor.
His name is the last in the list of
those men of humor who have formed
the themes of the discourses which you
have heard so kindly.




STERNE AND GOLDSMITH.


199


Long before I had ever hoped for
such an audience, or dreamed of the
possibility of the good fortune which
has brought me so many friends, I
was at issue with some of my literary
brethren upon a point- which they
held from tradition I think rather
than experience - that our profession
was neglected in this country; and
that men of letters were ill received
and held in slight esteem. It would
hardly be grateful of me now to alter
my old opinion that we do meet with
good-will and kindness, with generous
helping hands in the time of our
necessity, with cordial and friendly
recognition.  What claim had any
one of these of whom I have been
speaking, but genius? What return
of gratitude, fame, affection, did it not
bring to all?
What punishment befell those who
were unfortunate among them, but
that which follows reckless habits and
careless lives?  For these faults a
wit must suffer like the dullest prodigal that ever ran in debt. He must
pay the tailor if he wears the coat;
his children must go in rags if he
spends his money at the tavern; he
can't come to London and be made
Lord Chancellor if he stops on the
road and gambles away his last shilling at Dublin. And he must pay the
social penalty of these follies too,
and expect that the world will shun
the man of bad habits, that women
will avoid the man of loose life, that
prudent folks will close their doors as
a precaution, and before a demand
should be made on their pockets by
the needy prodigal. With what difficulty had any one of these men to
contend, save that eternaland mechanical one of want of means and lack of
capital, and of which thousands of
young lawyers, young doctors, young
soldiers and sailors, of inventors, manufacturers, shopkeepers, have to complain? Hearts as brave and resolute
as ever beat in the breast of any wit
or poet, sicken and break daily in the
vain endeavor and unavailing struggle
against life's lifficulty. Don't we see


daily ruined inventors, gray-haired
midshipmen, balked heroes, blighted
curates, barristers pining a hungry
life out in chambers, the attorneys
never mounting to their garrets, whilst
scores of them are rapping at the door
of the successful quack below? If
these suffer, who is the author, that
he should be exempt? Let us bear
our ills with the same constancy with
which others endure them, accept our
manly part in life, hold our own, and
ask no more. I can conceive of no
kings or laws causing or curing Goldsmith's improvidence, or Fielding's
fatal love of pleasure, or Dick Steele's
mania for running races with the
constable.  You never can outrun
that sure-footed officer -not by any
swiftness or by dodges devised by any
genius, however great; and he carries
off the Tatler to the spunging-house,
or taps the Citizen of the World on the
shoulder as he would any other mortal.
Does society look   down on a
man because he is an author? I
suppose if people want a buffoon they
tolerate him only in so far as he is
amusing; it can hardly be expected
that they should respect him as an
equal.  Is there to be a guard of
honor provided for the author of the
last new novel or poem? how long is
he to reign, and keep other potentates
out of possession?  H e retires, grumbles, and prints a lamentation that
literature is despised. If Captain A.
is left out of Lady B.'s parties he does
not state that the army is despised:
if Lord C. no longer asks Counsellor
D. to dinner, Counsellor D. does not
announce that the bar is insulted.
IIe is not fair to society if he enters
it with this suspicion hankering about
him; if he is doubtful about his reception, how hold up his head honestly,
and look frankly in the face that
world about which he is full of suspicion?  Is he place-hunting, and
thinking in his mind that he ought
to be made an Ambassador, like
Prior, or a Secretary of State, like
Addison? his pretence of equality
falls to the ground at once: he is




200


ENGLISH HUMORISTS.


scheming for a patron, not shaking
the hand of a friend, when he meets
the world. Treat such a man as he
deserves; laugh at his buffoonery, and
give him a dinner and a bon jour;
laugh at his self-sufficiency and absurd assumptions of superiority, and
his equally ludicrous airs of martyrdom: laugh at his flattery and his
scheming, and buy it, if it's worth the
having. Let the wag have his dinner
and the hireling his pay, if you want
him, and make a profound bow
to the grand homine incompris, and the
boisterous martyr, and show him the
door. The great world, the great aggregate experience, has its good sense,
as it has its good humor. It detects
a pretender, as it trusts a loyal heart.
It is kind in the main: how should
it be otherwise than kind, when it is
so wise and clear-headed? To any
literary man who says, "It despises
my profession," I say, with all my
might —no, no, no. It may pass
over your individual case - how many
a brave fellow has failed in the race,
and perished unknown in the strug

gle! -but it treats you as you merit
in the main. If you serve it, it is not
unthankful; if you please, it is
pleased; if you cringe to it, it detects
you, and scorns you if you are mean;
it returns your cheerfulness with its
good humor; it deals not ungenerously with your weaknesses; it recognizas most kindly your merits; it
gives you a fair place and fair play.
To any one of those men of whom
we have spoken was it in the main
ungrateful?  A  king might refuse
Goldsmith a pension, as a publisher
might keep his masterpiece and the
delight of all the world in his desk for
two years; but it was mistake, and
not ill-will. Noble and illustrious
names of Swift, and Pope, and Addison! dear and honored memories
of Goldsmith and Fielding! kind
friends, teachers, benefactors! who
shall say that our country, which continues to bring you such an unceasing tribute of applause, admiration,
love, sympathy, does not do honor to
the literary calling in the honor which
it bestows upon you!




CHARITY AND HUMOR.
A LECTURE.








CHARITY AND HUMOR.


EVERAL charitable ladies of this
city, to some of whom I am under great personal obligation, having
thought that a Lecture of mine would
advance a benevolent end which they
had in view, I have preferred, in place
of delivering a Discourse, which many
of my hearers no doubt know already,
upon a subject merely literary or
biographical, to put together a few
thoughts which may serve as a supplement to the former Lectures,* if
you like, and which have this at least
in common with the kind purpose
which assembles you here, that they
rise out of the same occasion, and
treat of charity.
Besides contributing to our stock
of happiness, to our harmless laughter
and amusement, to our scorn for falsehood and pretension, to our righteous
hatred of hypocrisy, to our education
in the perception of truth, our love
of honesty, our knowledge of life, and
shrewd guidance through the world,
have not our humorous writers, our
gay and kind week-day preachers,
done much in support of that holy
cause which has assembled you in
this place; and which you are all
abetting, the cause of love and charity,
the cause of the poor, the weak, and
the unhappy; the sweet mission of
love and tenderness, and peace and


good-will towards men? That same
theme which is urged upon you by
the eloquence and example of good
men to whom you are delighted
listeners on Sabbath-days, is taught
in his way and according to his power
by the humorous writer, the commentator on every-day life and manners.
And as you are here assembled for
a charitable purpose, giving your
contributions at the door to benefit
deserving people who need them without, I like to hope and think that the
men of our calling have done something in aid of the cause of charity,
and have helped, with kind words and
kind thoughts at least, to confer happiness and to do good. If the humorous writers claim to be week-day
preachers, have they conferred any
benefit by their sermons? Are people
happier, better, better disposed to
their neighbors, more inclined to do
works of kindness, to love, forbear,
forgive, pity, after reading in Addison,
in Steele, in Fielding, in Goldsmith,
in Hood, in Dickens? I hope and
believe so, and fancy that in writing
they are also acting charitably, contributing with the means which Heaven supplies them, to forward the end
which brings you, too, together.
A love of the human species is a
very vague and indefinite kind of
virtue, sitting very easily on a man,
not confining his actions at all,
shining in print, or exploding in


* This Lecture was delivered as supplementary to the course on the English
Htumorists.




204


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


paragraphs, after which efforts of benevolence, the philanthropist is sometimes said to go home, and be no
better than his neighbors. Tartuffe
and Joseph Surface, Stiggins and
Chadband, who are always preaching
fine sentiments, and are no more
virtuous than hundreds of those whom
they denounce and whom they cheat,
are fair objects of mistrust and satire;
but their hypocrisy, the homage, according to the old saying, which vice
pays to virtue, has this of good in it,
that its fruits are good: a man may
preach good morals, though he may
be himself but a lax practitioner; a
Pharisee may put pieces of gold into
the charity-plate out of mere hypocrisy and ostentation, but the bad
man's gold feeds the widow and the
fatherless as well as the good man's.
The butcher and baker must needs
look, not to motives, but to money,
in return for their wares.
I am not going to hint that we of
the Literary calling resemble Monsieur Tartuffe or Monsieur Stiggins,
though there may be such men in our
body, as there are in all.
A literary man of the humoristic
turn is pretty sure to be of a philanthropic nature, to have a great sensibility, to be easily moved to pain or
pleasure, keenly to appreciate the
varieties of temper of people round
about him, and sympathize in their
laughter, love, amusement, tears.
Such a man is philanthropic, manloving by nature, as another is irascible, or red-haired, or six feet high.
And so I would arrogate no particular
merit to literary men for the possession of this faculty of doing good
which some of them enjoy. It costs
a gentleman no sacrifice to be benevolent on paper; and the luxury of
indulging in the most beautiful and
brilliant sentiments never makes any
man a penny the poorer. A literary
man is no better than another, as far
as my experience goes; and a man
writing a book, no better nor no
worse than one who keeps accounts
in a ledger, or follows any other occu

pation. Let us, however, give him
credit for the good, at least, which he
is the means of doing, as we give
credit to a man with a million for the
hundred which he puts into the plate
at a charity-sermon. He never misses
them. He has made them in a moment by a lucky speculation, and
parts with them, knowing that he has
an almost endless balance at his bank,
whence he can call for more. But
in esteeming the benefaction, we are
grateful to the benefactor, too, somewhat; and so of men of genius, richly
endowed, and lavish in parting with
their mind's wealth, we may view
them at least kindly and favorably,
and be thankful for the bounty of
which Providence has made them the
dispensers.
I have said myself somewhere, I do
not know with what correctness (for
definitions never are complete), that
humor is wit and love; I am sure, at
any rate, that the best humor is that
which contains most humanity, that
which is flavored throughout with
tenderness and kindness. This love
does not demand constant utterance
or actual expression, as a good father,
in conversation with his children or
wife, is not perpetually embracing
them, or making protestations of his
love; as a lover in the society of his
mistress is not, at least as far as I am
led to believe, forever squeezing her
hand or sighing in her ear, "My
soul's darling, I adore you!" He
shows his love by his conduct, by his
fidelity, by his watchful desire to make
the beloved person happy; it lightens
from his eye when she appears, though
he may not speak it; it fills his heart
when she is present or absent; influences all his words and actions; suffuses his whole being; it sets the
father cheerily to work through the
long day, supports him through the
tedious labor of the weary absence or
journey, and sends him happy home
again, yearning towards the wife and
children. This kind of love is not a
spasm, but a life.  It fondles and
caresses at due seasons, no doubt; but




CHARITY AND HUMOR.


205


the fond heart is always beating
fondly and truly, though the wife is
not sitting hand in hand with him, or
the children hugging at his knee.
And so with a loving humor: I think
it is a genial writer's habit of being;
it is the kind, gentle spirit's way of
looking out on the world - that sweet
friendliness which fills his heart and
his style.  You recognize it, even
though there may not be a single
point of wit, or a single pathetic
touch in the page; though you may
not be called upon to salute his genius
by a laugh or a tear. That collision
of ideas which provokes the one or
the other must be occasional. They
must be like papa's embraces, which
I spoke of anon, who only delivers
them now and again, and cannot be
expected to go on kissing the children all night. And so the writer's
jokes and sentiment, his ebullitions
of feeling, his outbreaks of high
spirits, must not be too frequent. One
tires of a page of which every sentence sparkles with points, of a sentimentalist who is always pumping the
tears from his eyes or your own. One
suspects the genuineness of the tear,
the naturalness of the humor; these
ought to be true and manly in a man,
as every thing else in his life should
be manly and true; and he loses his
dignity by laughing or weeping out
of place, or too often.
When   the Reverend   Laurence
Sterne begins to sentimentalize over
the carriage in Monsieur Dessein's
court-yard, and pretends to squeeze a
tear out of a rickety old shandrydan;
when, presently, he encounters the
dead donkey on his road to Paris,
and snivels over that asinine corpse,
I say: "Away you drivelling quack:
do not palm off these grimaces of
grief upon simple folks who know no
better, and cry, misled by your hypocrisy." Tears are sacred. The tributes of kind hearts to misfortune, the
mites which gentle souls drop into
the collections made for God's poor
and unhappy, are not to be tricked
out of them by a whimpering hypo

crite, handing round a begging-box
for your compassion, and asking your
pity for a lie. When that same man
tells me of Lefevre's illness and Uncle
Toby's charity; of the noble at Rennes
coming home and reclaiming his
sword, I thank him for the generous
emotion, which, springing genuinely
from his own heart, has caused mine
to admire benevolence, and sympathize
with honor; and to feel love, and
kindness, and pity.
If I do not love Swift, as, thank
God, I do not, however immensely I
may admire him, it is because I revolt
from the man who placards himself as
a professional hater of his own kind;
because he chisels his savage indignation on his tomb-stone, as if to perpetuate his protest against being born
of our race -the suffering, the weak,
the erring, the wicked, if you will, but
still the friendly, the loving children
of God our Father: it is because, as
I read through Swift's dark volumes,
I never find the aspect of nature seems
to delight him; the smiles of children
to please him; the sight of wedded
love to soothe him. I do not remember in any line of his writing a passing
allusion to a natural scene of beauty.
When he speaks about the families of
his comrades and brother clergymen,
it is to assail them with gibes and
scorn, and to laugh at them brutally
for being fathers, and for being poor.
He does mention in the Journal to
Stella, a sick child, to be sure —a
child of Lady Masham, that was ill
of the small-pox -but then it is to
confound the brat for being ill, and
the mother for attending to it, when
she should have been busy about a
court intrigue, in which the Dean was
deeply engaged. And he alludes to a
suitor of Stella's, and a match she
might have made, and would have
made, very likely, with an honorable
and faithful and attached man, Tisdall, who loved her, and of whom
Swift speaks, in a letter to this lady,
in language so foul that you would
not bear to hear it. In treating of
the good the humorists have done, of




206


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


the love and kindness they have
taught and left behind them, it is not
of this one I dare speak.  Heaven
help the lonely misanthrope! be kind
to that multitude of sins, with so
little charity to cover them!
Of Mr. Congreve's contributions to
the English stock of benevolence, I do
not speak; for, of any moral legacy
to posterity, I doubt whether that
brilliant man ever thought at all. He
had some money, as I have told;
every shilling of which he left to his
friend the Duchess of Marlborough, a
lady of great fortune and the highest
fashion. He gave the gold of his
brains to persons of fortune and
fashion too. There is no more feeling
in his comedies than in as many
books of Euclid. He no more pretends to teach love for the poor, and
good-will for the unfortunate, than
a dancing-master does; he teaches
pirouettes and flic-flacs; and how to
bow to a lady, and to walk a minuet.
In his private life, Congreve was immensely liked -more so than any
man of his age, almost; and to have
been so liked, must have been kind
and good-natured. His good-nature
bore him through extreme bodily ills
and pain, with uncommon cheerfulness and courage. Being so gay, so
bright, so popular, such a grand seigneur, be sure he was kind to those
about him, generous to his dependants, serviceable to his friends. Society does not like a man so lonu as
it liked Congreve, unless he is likable; it finds out a quack very soon;
it scorns a poltroon or a curmudgeon;
we may be certain that this man was
brave, good-tempered, and liberal;
so, very likely, is Monsieur Pirouette,
of whom we spoke; he cuts his capers,
he grins, bows, and dances to his fiddle. In private he may have a hundred virtues; in public, he teaches
dancing.  His business is cotillons,
not ethics.
As much may be said of those
charming and lazy Epicureans, Gay
and Prior, sweet lyric singers, comrades of Anacreon, and disciples of




love and the bottle. "Is there any
moral shut within the bosom of a
rose? " sings our great Tennyson.
Does a nightingale preach from  a
bough, or the lark from his cloud?
Not knowingly; yet we may be
grateful, and love larks and roses,
and the flower-crowned minstrels, too,
who laugh and who sing.
Of Addison's contributions to the
charity of the world, I have spoken
before, in trying to depict that noble
figure; and say now, as then, that
we should thank him as one of the
greatest benefactors of that vast and
immeasurably spreading family which
speaks our common tongue. Whereever it is spoken, there is no man
that does not feel, and understand,
and use the noble English word
"gentleman."  And there is no man
that teaches us to be gentlemen better
than Joseph Addison. Gentle in our
bearing  through life; gentle and
courteous to our neighbor; gentle in
dealing with his follies and weaknesses; gentle in treating his opposition; deferential to the old; kindly
to the poor, and those below us in
degree; for people above us and below us we must find, in whatever
hemisphere we dwell, whether kings
or presidents govern us; and in no
republic or monarchy that I know
of, is a citizen exempt from the tax of
befriending poverty and weakness, of
respecting age, and of honoring his
father and mother. It has just been
whispered to me — I have not been
three months in the country, and, of
course, cannot venture to express an
opinion of my own - that, in regard
to paying this latter tax of respect and
honor to age, some very few of the
Republican youths are occasionally
a little remiss. I have heard of young
Sons of Freedom publishing their
Declaration of Independence before
they could well spell it; and cutting
the connection between father and
mother before they had learned to
shave. My own time of life having
been stated by various enlightened
organs of public opinion, at almost




CHARITY AND HUMOR.


207


any figure from forty-five to sixty, I dandy in the height of the fashion,
cheerfully own that I belong to the rise up and give her his place. I
Fogy interest, and ask leave to rank think Mr. Spectator, with his short
in, and plead for, that respectable face, if he had seen such a deed of
class.  Now  a gentleman can but courtesy, would have smiled a sweet
be a gentleman, in Broadway or smile to the doer of that gentlemanthe backwoods, in Pall-Mall or Cal- like action, and have made him a
ifornia; and where and whenever low bow from under his great perihe lives, thousands of miles away wig, and have gone home and written
in the wilderness, or hundreds of a pretty paper about him.
years hence, I am sure that reading  I am sure Dick Steele would have
the writings of this true gentleman, hailed him, were he dandy or methis true Christian, this noble Joseph chanic, and asked him to a tavern to
Addison, must do him good.    He share a bottle, or perhaps half a dozen.
may take Sir Roger de Covcrley to Mind, I do not set down the five last
the Diggings with him, and learn to flasks to Dick's score for virtue, and
be gentle and good-humored, and ur- look upon them as works of the most
bane, and friendly in the midst of that questionable supererogation.
struggle in which his life is engaged.  Steele, as a literary benefactor to
I take leave to say that the most the world's charity, must rank very
brilliantyouth of this city may read high, indeed, not merely from  his
over this delightful memorial of a by- givings, which were abundant, but
gone age, of fashikns long passed because his endowments are proaway; of manners lo.g since changed digiously increased in value since he
and modified; of noble gentlemen, bequeathed them, as the revenues of
and a great, and a brilliant and the lands, bequeathed to our Foundpolished society; and find in it much ling-Hospital at London, by honest
to charm and polish, to refine and Captain Coram, its founder, are iminstruct him. Acourteousness, which mensely enhanced by the houses since
can be out of place at no time, and built upon them. Steele was the
under no flag.  A politeness and founder of sentimental writing in
simplicity, a truthful manhood, a English, and how the land has been
gentle respect and deference, which since occupied, and what hundreds of
may be kept as the unbought grace us have laid out gardens and built up
of life, and cheap defence of mankind, tenements on Steele's ground! Belong after its old artificial distinctions, fore his time, readers or hearers were
after periwigs, and small-swords, and never called upon to cry except at a
ruffles, and red-heeled shoes, and tragedy, and compassion was not extitles, and stars and garters, have pected to express itself otherwise than
passed away. I will tell you when I in blank verse, or for personages
have been put in mind of two of the much lower in rank than a dethroned
finest gentlemen books bring us any monarch, or a widowed or a jilted
mention of. I mean our books (not empress. He stepped off the highbooks of history, but books of humor). heeled cothurnus, and came down
I will tell you when I have been put into common life; he held out his
in mind of the courteous gallantry of great hearty arms, and embraced us
the noble knight, Sir Roger de Co- all; he had a bow for all women; a
verley of Coverley Manor, of the kiss for all children; a shake of the
noble Hidalgo Don Quixote of La hand for all men, high or low; he
Mancha: here in your own omnibus- showed us Heaven's sun shining
carriages and railway-cars, when I every day  on quiet homes; not
have seen a woman step in, hand- gilded palace-roofs only, or court
some or not, well-dressed or not, and processions, or heroic warriors fighta workman in hob-nail shoes, or a ing for princesses and pitched battles




208


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


He took away comedy from behind
the fine lady's alcove, or the screen
where the libertine was watching her.
lie ended all that wretched business
of wives jeering at their husbands, of
rakes laughing wives, and husbands
too, to scorn. That miserable rouged,
tawdry, sparkling, hollow -hearted
comedy of the Restoration fled before
him, and, like the wicked spirit in the
Fairy-books, shrank, as Steele let the
daylight in, and shrieked, and shuddered, and vanished. The stage of
humorists has been common-life
ever since Steele's and Addison's
time; the joys and griefs, the aversions and sympathies, the laughter
and tears of nature.
And here, coming off the stage, and
throwing aside the motley habit, or
satiric disguise, in which he had before entertained you, mingling with
the world, and wearing the same
coat as his neighbor, the humorist's
service became straightway immensely more available; his means of doing
good infinitely multiplied; his success, and the esteem in which he was
held, proportionately increased. It
requires an effort, of which all minds
are nut capable, to understand Don
Quixote; children and common people still read Gulliver for the story
merely. Many more persons are
sickened by Jonathan Wild than
can comprehend the satire of it.
Each of the great men who wrote
those books was speaking from behind
the satiric mask I anon mentioned.
Its distortions appall many simple
spectators: its settled sneer or laugh
is unintelligible to thousands, who
have not the wit to interpret the
meaning of the visored satirist preaching from within. Many a man was
at fault about Jonathan Wild's
greatness, who could feel and relish
Allworthy's goodness in Tom Jones,
and Doctor Harrison's in Amelia,
and dear Parson Adams, and Joseph
Andrews. We love to read; we
may grow ever so old, but we love to
read of them still - of love and beauty, of frankness, and bravery, and


generosity. We hate hypocrites and
cowards; we long to defend oppressed innocence, and to soothe and
succor gentle women and children.
We are glad when vice is foiled and
rascals punished; we lend a foot to
kick Blifil down stairs; and as we
attend the brave bridegroom to his
wedding on the happy marriage day,
we ask the groomsman's privilege to
salute the blushing cheek of Sophia.
A lax morality in many a vital point
I own in Fielding, but a great hearty
sympathy and benevolence; a great
kindness for the poor; a great gentleness and pity for the unfortunate; a
great love for the pure and good:
these are among the contributions to
the charity of the world with which
this erring but noble creature endowed
it.
As for Goldsmith, if the youngest
and most unlettered person here has
not been happy with the family at
Wakefield; has not rejoiced when
Olivia returned, and been thankful
for her forgiveness and restoration;
has not laughed with delighted good
humor over Moses's gross of green
spectacles; has not loved with all his
heart the good Vicar, and that kind
spirit which created these charming
figures, and devised the beneficent fiction which speaks to us so tenderly -
what call is there for me to speak?
In this place, and on this occasion,
remembering these men, I claim from
you your sympathy for the good they
have done, and for the sweet charity
which they have bestowed on the
world.
When humor joins with rhythm
and music, and appears in song, its
influence is irresistible; its charities
are countless, it stirs the feelings
to love, peace, friendship, as scarce
any moral agent can.   The songs
of Beranger are hymns    of love
and tenderness; I have seen great
whiskered Frenchmen warbling the
"Bonne Vielle," the "Soldats au
pas, au pas;" with tears rolling down
their mustaches. At a Burns's Festival, I have seet Scotchmen singing




CIIARITY AND HUMOR.


209


Burns, while the drops twinkled on
their furrowed checks: while each
rough hand was flung out to grasp
its neighbor's; while early scenes and
sacred recollections, and dear and delightful memories of the past, came
rushing back at the sound of the familiar words and music, and the softened heart was full of love and friendship and home. Humor! if tears are
the alms of gentle spirits, and may be
counted, as sure they may, among the
sweetest of life's charities.  Of that
kindly sensibility, and sweet sudden
emotion, which exhibits itself at the
eyes, I know no such provocative as
humor. It is an irresistible sympathizer; it surprises you into compassion; you are laughing and disarmed,
and suddenly forced into tears.  I
heard a humorous balladist not long
since, a minstrel with wool on his
head, and an ultra-Ethiopian complexion, who performed a negro ballad, that I confess moistened these
lSpectacles in the most unexpected
manner. They have gazed at dozens
of tragedy-queens, dying on the stage,
and expiring in appropriate blank
verse, and I never wanted to wipe
them. They have looked up, with
deep respect be it said, at many scores
of clergymen in pulpits, and without
being dimmed; and behold a vagabond with a corked face and a banjo
sings a little song, strikes a wild note
which sets the whole heart thrilling
with happy pity. Humor! humor is
the mistress of tears; she knows the
way to the fons lachrymarum, strikes
in dry and rugged places with her
enchanting wand, and bids the fountain gush and sparkle. She has refreshed myriads more from her natural springs, than ever tragedy has
watered from her pompous old urn.
Popular humor, and especially modern popular humor, and the writers,
its exponents, are always kind and
chivalrous, taking the side of the
weak against the strong. In our
plays, and books, and entertainments
for the lower classes in England, I
scarce remember a story or theatrical
10


piece in which a wicked aristocrat is
not bepommelled by a dashing young
champion of the people. There was
a book which had an immense popularity in England, and I believe has
been greatly read here, in which the
Mysteries of the Court of London
were said to be unveiled by a gentleman, who I suspect knows about as
much about the court of London as
he does of that of Pekin. Years ago I
treated myself to sixpennyworth of
this performance at a railway station,
and found poor dear George the
Fourth, our late most religious and
gracious king, occupied in the most
flagitious designs against the tradesmen's families in his metropolitan
city. A couple of years after, I took
sixpennyworth more of the same delectable history: George the Fourth
was still at work, still ruining the
peace of tradesmen's families; he had
been at it for two whole years, and a
bookseller at the Brighton station told
me that this book was by many, many
times the most popular of all periodical talcs then published, because,
says he, " it lashes the aristocracy!"
Not long since, I went to two pennytheatres in London; immense eager
crowds of people thronged the buildings, and the vast masses thrilled and
vibrated with the emotion produced
by the piece represented on the stage,
and burst into applause or laughter,
such as many a polite actor would
sigh for in vain. In both these pieces
there was a wicked Lord kicked out
of the window- there is always a
wicked Lord kicked out of the window.   First piece: — " Domestic
drama - Thrilling interest! -Weaver's family in distress! - Fanny gives
away her bread to little Jacky, and
starves! - Enter wicked Lord: tempts
Fanny with offer of Diamond Necklace, Champagne Suppers, and Coach
to ride in! - Enter sturdy Blacksmith.- Scuffle between Blacksmith
and Aristocratic minion: exit wicked
Lord out of the window." Fanny,
of course, becomes Mrs. Blacksmith.'
The second piece was a nautical




210


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


drama, also of thrilling interest, consisting chiefly of hornpipes, and acts
of most tremendous oppression on the
part of certain Earls and Magistrates
towards the people. Two wicked
Lords were in this piece the atrocious
scoundrels: one Aristocrat, a deepdyed villain, in short duck trowsers
and Berlin cotton gloves; while the
other minion of wealth enjoyed an
eye-glass with a blue ribbon, and
whisked about the stage with a penny
cane. Having made away with Fanny
Forester's lover, Tom Bowling, by
means of a press-gang, they meet her
all alone on a common, and subject
her to the most opprobrious language
and behavior: " Release me, villains! " says Fanny, pulling a brace
of pistols out of her pockets, and
crossing them over ler breast so as
to cover wicked Lord to the right,
wicked Lord to the left; and they
might have remained in that position
ever so much longer (for the aristocratic rascals had pistols too), had not
Tom Bowling returned from sea at
the very nick of time, armed with a
great marlinespike, with which -
whack! whack! down goes wicked
Lord, No. 1 - wicked Lord, No. 2.
Fanny rushes into Tom's arms with
an hysterical shriek, and I dare say
they marry and are very happy ever
after. - Popular fun is always kind:
it is the champion of the humble
against the great. In all popular parables, it is Little Jack that conquers,
and the Giant that topples down. I
think our popular authors are rather
hard upon the great folks. Well, well!
their Lordships have all the money,
and can afford to be laughed at.
In our days, in England, the importance of the humorous preacher
has prodigiously increased; his audiences are enormous; every week or
month his happy congregations flock
to him; they never tire of such sermons. I believe my friend Mr.
Punch is as popular to-day as he has
been any day since his birth; I believe that Mr. Dickens's readers are
even more numerous than they have


ever been since his unrivalled pen commenced to delight the world with its
humor. We have among us other
literary parties; we have Punch, as I
have said, preaching from his booth;
we have a Jerrold party very numerous, and faithful to that acute thinker
and distinguished wit; and we have
also-it must be said, and it is still to
be hoped - a Vanity-Fair party, the
author of which work has lately been
described by " The London Times "
newspaper as a writer of considerable
parts, but a dreary misanthrope, who
sees no good anywhere, who sees the
sky above him green I think, instead
of blue, and only miserable sinners
round about him. So we are; so is
every writer and every reader I ever
heard of; so was every being who
ever trod this earth, save One. I cannot help telling the truth as I view it,
and describing what I see. To describe it otherwise than it seems to me
would be falsehood in that calling in
which it has pleased Heaven to place
me; treason to that conscience which
says that men are weak; that truth
must be told; that fault must be
owned; that pardon must be prayed
for; and that love reigns supreme
over all.
I look back at the good which of
late years the kind English Humorists have done; and if you are pleased
to rank the present speaker among
that class, I own to an honest pride
at thinking what benefits society has
derived from men of our calling.
That "Song of the Shirt," which
Punch first published, and the noble,
the suffering, the melancholy, the tender Hood sang, may surely rank as a
great act of charity to the world, and
call from it its thanks and regard for
its teacher and benefactor.  That
astonishing poem, which you all of
you know, of the " Bridge of Sighs,"*
* THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
"Drowned I Drowned I "- HAMLET.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.




CHARITY AND HUMOR.


who can read it without tenderness,
without reverence to Heaven, charity to man, and thanks to the beneficent genius which sang for us so
nobly?
I never saw the writer but once;
but shall always be glad to think
that some words of mine, printed in a


Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair I
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently, and humanly;
Not of the stains of her:
All that remains of her
Now, is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,Her fair auburn tresses,Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her Father?
Who was her Mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun I
Oh I it was pitiful I
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.


periodical of that day, and in praise
of  these  amazing verses    (which,
strange to say, appeared almost unnoticed at first in the magazine in
which Mr. Hood published them) -
I am proud, I say, to think that some
words of appreciation of mine reached
him  on his death-bed, and pleased
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river.
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world I
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,
Over the brink of it,
Picture it-think of it,
Dissolute man I
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can t


Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair I
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently- kindlySmoothe and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly I
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity
Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast 1
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving with meekness
IIer sins to her Saviour I'




212


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


and soothed him in that hour of manful resignation and pain.
As for the charities of Mr. Dickens,
multiplied kindnesses which he has
conferred upon us all; upon our children; upon people educated and uneducated; upon the myriads here and
at home, who speak our common
tongue; have not you, have not I, all
of us, reason to be thankful to this
kind friend, who soothed and charmed
so many hours, brought pleasure and
sweet laughter to so many homes;
made such multitudes of children
happy; endowed us with such a
sweet store of gracious thoughts, fair
fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoyments? There are creations of Mr.
Dickens's which seem to me to rank
as personal benefits; figures so delightful, that one feels happier and
better for knowing them, as one does
for being brought into the society of
very good men and women.     The
atmosphere in which these people live
is wholesome to breathe in; you feel
that to be allowed to speak to them
is a personal kindness; you come
away better for your contact with
them; your hands seem cleaner from
having the privilege of shaking theirs.
Was there ever a better charity sermon preached in the world than
Dickens's Christmas Carol?  I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout England; was the
means of lighting up hundreds of
kind fires at Christmas time; caused
a wonderful outpouring of Christmas
good feeling; of Christmas punchbrewing; an awful slaughter of
Christmas turkeys, and roasting and
basting of Christmas beef. As for
this man's love of children, that amiable organ at the back of his honest
head must be perfectly monstrous.
All children ought to love him. I
know two that do, and read his books
ten times for once that they peruse the
dismal preachments of their father. I
know one who, when she is happy,
reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she is
unhappy, reads Nicholas Nickleby;
when she is tired, reads Nicholas


Nicklebv; when she is in bed, reads
Nicholas Nickleby; when she has
nothing to do, reads Nicholas Nickleby; and when she has finished the
book, reads Nicholas Nickleby over
again. This candid young critic, at
ten years of age, said, " I like Mr.
Dickens's books much better than
your books, papa;" and frequently
expressed her desire that the latter
author should write a book like one
of Mr. Dickens's books. Who can?
Every man must say his own thoughts
in his own voice, in his own way; *
* The following is from " The Curate's
Walk," in Punch, for 1847.
" It was the third out of the four bellbuttons at the door at which the Curate
pulled; and the summons was answered
after a brief interval.
" I must premise that the house before
which we stopped was No. 14, Sedan
Buildings, leading out of Great Guelph
Street - Dettingen Street, Culloden Street,
Minden Square and Upper and Lower
Caroline Row form part of the same quarter - a very queer and solemn quarter to
walk in, I think, and one which always
suggests Fielding's novels to me. I can
fancy Captain Booth strutting before the
very door at which we were standing, in
tarnished lace, with his hat cocked over his
eye, and his hand on his hanger; or Lady
Bellaston:s chair and bearers coming
swinging down Great Guelph Street,
which we have just quitted to enter Sedan
Buildings.
"Sedan Buildings is a little flagged
square, ending abruptly with the huge
walls of Bluck's Brewery. The houses,
by many degrees smaller than the large
decayed tenements in Great Guelph
Street, are still not uncomfortable, although shabby. There are brass plates
on the doors, two on some of them; or
simple names, as 'Lunt,' 'Padgemorc,'
&c. (as if no other statement about Lunt
and Padgemore were necessary at all),
under the bells. There arc pictures of
mangles before two of the houses, and a
gilt arm with a hammer sticking out from
one. I never saw a Goldbeater. What
sort of a being is he, that he always sticks
out his ensign in dark, mouldy, lonely,
dreary, but somewhat respectable places?
What powerful Mulciberlan fellows they
must be, those Goldbeaters, whacking
and thumping with huge mallets at the
precious metals all day. I wonder what
is Goldbeater's skin? and if they get impregnated with the metal? and are their
great arms under their clean shirts on
Sundays, all gilt and shining? It is a
quiet, kind, respectable place somehow,




CHARITY AND HUMOR.


lucky is he who has such a charming all the children in the world trooping
gift of nature as this, which brings to him, and being fond of him.
in spite of its shabbiness. Two pewter coner, decorated with near halfa dozen
pints and a jolly little half-pint are hang- of plates, yellow bowls, and crockery.
ing on the railings in perfect confidence, And on the table there were two or three
basking in what little sun comes into the bits of dry bread, and a jug with water,
Court. A group of small children are with which these three young people (it
making an ornament of oyster-shells in being then near three o'clock) were about
one corner. Who has that half-pint? Is to make their meal called tea.
it for one of those small ones, or for some  "That little Betsy, who looks so small,
delicate female recommended to take is nearly ten years old; and has been a
beer? The windows in the Court, upon mother ever since the age of about five.
some of which the sun glistens, are not I mean to say, that her own mother havcracked, and pretty clean; it is only the ing to go out upon her charing operations,
black and dreary look behind which gives Betsy assumes command of the room
them a poverty-stricken appearance. No during her parent's absehce: has nursed
curtains or blinds. A bird-cage and a her sisters from babyhood up to the presvery few pots of flowers here and there. ent time: keeps order over them, and
This - with the exception of a milkman the house as clean as you see it: and goes
talking to a whitey-brown woman, made out occasionally and transacts the family
up of bits of flannel and strips of faded purchases of bread, moist sugar, and
chintz and calico seemingly, and holding mother's tea. They dine upon bread, tea
a long bundle which cried - this was all and breakfast upon bread when they have
I saw in Sedan Buildings while we were it, or go to bed without a morsel. Their
waiting until the door should open.  holiday is Sunday, which they spend at
" At last the door was opened, and by Church and Sunday-school. The younger
a porteress so small, that I wonder how  children scarcely ever go out save on that
she could ever have reached up to the day, but sit sometimes in the sun, which
latch. She bobbed a courtesy and smiled comes in pretty pleasantly; sometimes
at the Curate, whose face gleamed with blue in the cold, for they very seldom see
benevolence too, in reply to that saluta- a fire except to heat irons by, when
tion.                                mother has a job of linen to get up.
"'Mother not at home?' says Frank Father was a journeyman book-binder
Whitestock., patting the child on the head. who died four years ago, and is buried
"' Mother's out charing, sir,' replied among thousands and thousands of the
the girl; 'but please to walk up, sir.' nameless dead who lie crowding the
And she led the way up one or two pairs black churchyard of St. Timothy's parof stairs to that apartment in the house ish.
which is called the second-floor front;  "The Curate evidently took especial
in which was the abode of the char- pride in Victoria, the youngest of these
woman.                               three children of the charwoman, and
" There were two young persons in the caused Betsy to fetch a book which lay at
room, of the respective ages of eight and the window, and bade her read. It was a
five, I should think. She of five years of Missionary Register which the Curate
age was hemming a duster, being perched opened hap-hazard, and this baby began
on a chair at the table in the middle of the to read out in an exceedingly clear and
room. The elder, of eight, politely wiped resolute voice abouta chair with a cloth for the accommoda-  "' The island of Raritongo is the least
tion of the good-natured Curate, and came frequented of all the Caribbean Archipeland stood between his knees, immediately ago. Wankyfungo is four leagues southalongside of his umbrella, which also re- east by cast, and the peak of the crater
posed there, and which she by no means of Shuagnahua is distinctly visible. "The
equalled in height.                  Irascible" entered Raritongo Bay on the
"' These children attend my school at evening of Thursday 29th, and the next
Saint Timothy's,' Mr. Whitestock said; day the Rev. Mr. Flethers, Mrs. Flethers,
' and Betsy keeps the house while her and their nine children, and Shangpooky,
mother is from home.'                the native converted at Cacabawgo, landed
" Any thing cleaner or neater than this and took up their residence at the house
house it was impossible to conceive. of Ratatua, the principal chief, who enterThere was a big bed, which must have tained us with a yam, a pig,' &c., &c., &c.
been the resting-place of the whole of  " Raritongo, Wankifungo, Archipelago.
this little family. There were three or I protest this little woman read off each
four religious prints on the walls, besides of these long words with an ease which
two framed and glazed, of Prince Coburg perfectly astonished me. Many a lieutenand the Princess Charlotte. There were ant in Her Majesty's Heavies would be
brass candlesticks, and a lamb on the puzzled with words of half the length.
chimney-piece, and a cupboard in the Whitestock, by way of reward for het




214


CHARITY AND HUMOR.


I remember when that famous
Nicholas Nickleby came out, seeing
a letter from a pedagogue in the north
of England, which, dismal as it was,
was immensely comical. "Mr. Dickens's ill-advised publication," wrote
the poor schoolmaster, "has passed
like a whirlwind over the schools of
the North."  He was a proprietor of
a cheap school; Dotheboys-Hall was
a cheap school. There were many
such establishments in the northern
counties. Parents   were   Shamed,
that never were ashamed before, until
the kind satirist laughed at them;
relatives were frightened; scores of
little scholars were taken away;
poor school-masters had to shut their
shops up; every pedagogue was voted
a Squeers, and many suffered, no
scholarship, gave her another pat on the
head; having received which present with
a courtesy, she went and put back the
book into the window, and, clambering
back into the chair, resumed the hemming
of the blue duster.
" I suppose it was the smallness of these
people, as well as their singular, neat, and
tidy behavior, which interested me so.
Here were three creatures not so high as
the table, with all the labors, duties, and
cares of life upon their little shoulders,
working and doing their duty like the
biggest of my readers; regular, laborious,
cheerful- content with small pittances,
practising a hundred virtues of thrift and
order.
" Elizabeth, at ten years of age, might
walk out of this house, and take the command of a small establishment. She can
wash, get up linen, cook, make purchases,
and buy bargains. If I were ten years
old and three feet in height, I would
marry her, and we would go and live in
a cupboard, and share the little half-pint
pot of porter for dinner. 'Melia, eight
years of age, though inferior in accomplishments to her sister, is her equal in
size, and can wash, scrub, hem, go errands,
put her hand to the dinner, and make herself generally useful. In a word, she is fit
to be a little housemaid, to make every
thing but the beds, which she cannot as
yet reach up to. As for Victoria's qualifications, they have been mentioned before. I wonder whether the Princes
Alice can read off ' Raritongo,' &c., as
gliby as this surprising little animal.
"I asked the Curate's permission to
make these young ladies a present, and
accordingly produced the sum of sixpence
to be divided amongst the three. ' What


doubt unjustly; but afterwards schoolboys' backs were not so much caned;
school-boys' meat was less tough
and more plentiful; and school-boys'
milk was not so sky-blue. What a
kind light of benevolence it is that
plays round Crummles and the Phenomenon, and all those poor theatre
people in that charming book! What
a humor? and what a good-humor!
I coincide with the youthful critic,
whose opinion has just been mentioned, and own to a family admiration for Nicholas Nickleby.
One might go on, though the task
would be endless and needless, chronicling the names of kind folks with
whom this kind genius has made us
familiar. Who does not love the
Marchioness, and Mr. Richard Swivwill you do with it? I said, laying down
the coin.
" They answered all three at once, and
in a little chorus, 'We'll give it to mother.'
This verdict caused the disbursement of
another sixpence, and it was explained to
them that the sum was for their own
private pleasures, and each was called
upon to declare what she would purchase.
"Elizabeth says, 'I would like two
penn'orth of meat, if you please, sir.'
" 'Melia: ' Ha'porth of treacle, three
farthings' worth of milk, and the same of
fresh bread.'
"Victoria, speaking very quick, and
gasping in an agitated manner. ' Ha'pny
- aha - orange, and ha'pny - aha - apple, and ha'pny-aha-treacle, and, and
aha'-here her imagination failed her.
She did not know what to do with the
rest of the money.
" At this 'Melia actually interposed,
'suppose she and Victoria subscribed a
farthing a piece out of their money, so
that Betsy might have a quarter of a
pound of meat?' She added that her
sister wanted it, and that it would do her
good. Upon my word, she made the proposals and the calculations in an instant,
and all of her own accord. And before
we left them, Betsy had put on the queerest little black shawl and bonnet, and had
a mug and basket ready to receive the purchases in question.
("Sedan Court has a particularly friend.
ly look to me since that day. Peace be
with you, 0 thrifty, kindly, simple,loving
little maidens I May their voyage in life
prosper I Think of that great journey before them, and the little cock-boat manned
by babies venturing over the stormy
sea." - SPEC.




CHARITY AND HUMOR.


eller! Who does not sympathize,
not only with Oliver Twist, but his
admirable young friend the Artful
Dodger? Who has not the inestimable advantage of possessing a Mrs.
Nickleby in his own family? Who
does not bless Sairey Gamp, and wonder at Mrs. Harris? Who does not
venerate the chief of that illustrious
family who, being stricken by misfortune, wisely and greatly turned his attention to "coals," the accomplished,
the Epicurean, the dirty, the delightful Micawbcr?


I may quarrel with Mr. Dickens's
art a thousand and a thousand times,
I delight and wonder at his genius; I
recognize in it - I speak with awe and
reverence - a commission from that
Divine  Beneficence, whose blessed
task we know it will one day be to wipe
every tear from every eye. Thankfully
I take my share of the feast of love
and kindness, which this gentle, and
generous, and charitable soul has
contributed to the happiness of the
world. I take and enjoy my share,
and say a Benediction for the meal.








ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.
10*








I




K     (    2~12.' T< 
- 


41.       I
-,, I     I
-. 11 "
-,'-L, -. —.,,   I


-/I


-1, - -- -Z
-, II


A LAZY IDLE Boy.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


ON   A LAZY    IDLE   BOY.      the world of to-day, the world of rapid
motion, and rushing railways, and
IHAD occasion to pass a week in the commerce and intercourse of men.
the autumn in the little old town From  the northern gate, the iron
of Coire or Chur, in the Grisons, road stretches away to Zurich, to
where lies buried that very ancient Basle, to Paris, to home. From the
British king, saint, and martyr, Lu- old southern barriers, before which a
cius,* who founded the Church of St. little river rushes, and around which
Peter, on Cornhill. Few people note stretch the crumbling battlements of
the church now-a-days, and fewer ever the ancient town, the road bears the
heard of the saint. In the cathedral at slow diligence or lagging vetturino by
Chur, his statue appears surrounded the shallow Rhine, through the awful
by other sainted persons of his family. gorges of the Via Mala, and presentWith tight red breeches, a Roman ly over the Spligen to the shores of
habit, a curly brown beard, and a Como.
neat little gilt crown and sceptre, he  I have seldom seen a place more
stands, a very comely and cheerfill quaint, pretty, calm, and pastoral,
image: and, from what I may call his than this remote little Chur. What
peculiar position with regard to Corn- need have the inhabitants for walls
hill, I beheld this figure of St. Lucius and ramparts, except to build sumwith more interest than I should have mer-houses, to trail vines, and hang
bestowed upon personages who, hie- clothes to dry on them? No enemies
rarchically, are, I dare say, his supe- approach the great mouldering gates:
riors.                             only at morn and even the cows come
The pretty little city stands, so to lowing past them, the village maidens
speak, at the end of the world - of chatter merrily round the fountains,
and babble like the ever-voluble
* Stow quotes the inscription, still stream that flows under the old walls.
extant, " from the table fast chained in St. The schoolboys, with book and satchPeter's Church, Cornhill;" and says, el, in smart uniforms, march up to
London, and after some chronicle buried at the gymnasium, and return thence at
London, and after some chronicle burled
at Glowccster " —but, oh I these incorrect their stated time. There is one coffeechroniclers I when Alban Butler, in "The house in the town, and I see one old
Lives of the Saints," v. xii., and Mur- gentleman goes to it. There are shops
ray's "Handbook," and the Sacristan at wit no customers seemingly, and the
Chur, all say Lucius was killed therewith no customers seemingly, and the
and I saw his tomb with my own eyes I  lazy tradesmen look out of their little




220


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


windows at the single stranger sauntering by. There is a stall with baskets of queer little black grapes and
apples, and a pretty brisk trade with
half a dozen urchins standing round.
But, beyond this, there is scarce any
talk or movement in the street.
There's nobody at the book-shop.
"If you will have the goodness to
come again in an hour," says the
banker, with his mouthful of dinner at one o'clock, "you can have
the money." There is nobody at the
hotel, save the good landlady, the
kind waiters, the brisk young cook
who ministers to you. Nobody is in
the Protestant church- (oh! strange
sight, the two confessions are here at
peace!) —nobody in the Catholic
church: until the sacristan, from his
snug abode in the cathedral close, espies the traveller eying the monsters
and pillars before the old sharktoothed arch of his cathedral, and
comes out (with a view to remuneration possibly) and opens the gate, and
shows you the venerable church, and
the queer old relics in the sacristy,
and the ancient vestments (a black
velvet cope, amongst other robes, as
fresh as yesterday, and presented by
that notorious "pervert," Henry of
Navarre and France), and the statue
of St. Lucius who built St. Peter's
Church, on Cornhill.
What a quiet, kind, quaint, pleasant, pretty old town! Has it been
asleep these hundreds and hundreds
of years, and is the brisk young
Prince of the Sidereal Realms in his
screaming car drawn by his snorting
steel elephant coming to waken it?
Time was when there must have been
life and bustle and commerce here.
Those vast, venerable walls were not
made to keep out cows, but men-atarms, led by fierce captains, who
prowled about the gates, and robbed
the traders as they passed in and out
with their bales, their goods, their
pack-horses, and their wains. Is the
place so dead that even the clergy
of the different denominations can t
quarrel? Why, seven or eight, or a


dozen, or fifteen hundred years ago
(they haven't the register at St.
Peter's up to that remote period. I
dare say it was burnt in the fire of
London) —a dozen hundred years
ago, when there was some life in
the town, St. Lucius was stoned here
on account of theological differences,
after founding our church in Cornhill.
There was a sweet pretty river walk
we used to take in the evening and
mark the mountains round glooming
with a deeper purple; the shades
creeping up the golden walls; the
river brawling, the cattle calling,
the maids and chatterboxes round the
fountains babbling and bawling; and
several times in the course of our sober walks we overtook a lazy slouching boy, or hobble-de-hoy, with a rusty
coat, and trousers not too long, and
big feet trailing lazily one after the
other, and large lazy hands dawdling from out the tight sleeves, and
in the lazy hands a little book, which
my lad held up to his face, and which
I dare say so ciarmed and ravished
him, that he was blind to the beautiful sights around him; unmindful, I
would venture to lay any wager, of the
lessons he had to learn for to-morrow;
forgetful of mother waiting supper,
and father preparing a scolding; -
absorbed utterly and entirely in his
book.
What was it that so fascinated the
young student, as he stood by the river shore? Not the Pons Asinoruin.
What book so delighted him, and
blinded him to all the rest of the
world, so that he did not care to see
the apple-woman with her fruit, or
(more tempting still to sons of Eve)
the pretty girls with their apple
cheeks, who laughed and prattled
round the fountain! What was the
book? Do you suppose it was Livy,
or the Greek grammar? No; it was
a NOVEL that you were reading, you
lazy, not very clean, good-for-nothing,
sensible boy! It was D'Artagnan
locking up General Monk in a box, or
almost succeeding in keeping Charles




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


221


the First's head on. It was the prisoner of the Chateau d'If cutting himself out of the sack fifty feet under water (I mention the novels I like best
myself- novels without love or talking, or any of that sort of nonsense,
but containing plenty of fighting, escaping, robbery, and rescuing) - cutting himself out of the sack, and
swimming to the island of Monte
Cristo. 0 Dumas! O thou brave,
kind, gallant old Alexandre! I hereby offer thee homage, and give thee
thanks for many pleasant hours. I
have read thee (being sick in bed) for
thirteen hours of a happy day, and
had the ladies of the house fighting
for the volumes. Be assured that lazy boy was reading Dumas (or I will
go so far as to let the reader here
pronounce the eulogium, or insert the
name of his favorite author); and as
for the anger, or it may be, the reverberations of his schoolmaster, or the
remonstrances of his father, or the
tender pleadings of his mother that
he should not let the supper grow
cold - I don't believe the scapegrace
cared one fig. No! Figs arc sweet,
but fictions are sweeter.
Have you ever seen a score of
white-bearded, white-robed warriors,
or grave seniors of the city, seated at
the gate of Jaffal or Beyrout, and
listening to the story-teller reciting
his marvels out of "Antar " or " The
Arabian Nights"? I was once present when a young gentleman at
table put a tart away from him, and
said to his neighbor, the Younger
Son (with rather a fatuous air), " I
never eat sweets."
" Not eat sweets! and do you know
why?" says T.
"Because I am past that kind of
thing," says the young gentleman.
"Because you are a glutton and a
sot! " cries the Elder (and Juvenis
winces a little). "All people who
have natural, healthy appetites, love
sweets; all children, all women, all
Eastern people, whose tastes are not
corrupted  by gluttony and strong
drink." And a plateful of rasp

berries and cream disappeared before
the philosopher.
You take the allegory? Novels
are sweets. All people with healthy
literary appetites love then - almost
all women; - a vast number of
clever, hard-headed men. Why, one
of the most learned physicians of
England said to me only yesterday,
" I have just read 'So-and-So' for
the second time" (naming one of
Jones's exquisite fictions). Judges,
bishops, chancellors, mathematicians,
are notorious novel-readers; as well
as young boys and sweet girls, and
their kind, tender mothers. Who
has not read about Eldon, and how
he cried over novels every night when
he was not at whist?
As for that lazy naughty boy at
Chur, I doubt whether he will like
novels when he is thirty years of age.
He is taking too great a glut of them
now. He is eating jelly until he will
be sick. He will know most plots by
the time he is twenty, so that he will
never be surprised when the Stranger
turns out to be the rightful earl, -
when the old waterman, throwing off
his beggarly gabardine, shows his
stars and the collars of his various
orders, and clasping Antonia to his
bosom, proves himself to be the
prince, her long-lost father. He will
recognize the novelist's same characters, though they appear in red-heeled
pumps and ailes-de-pqieon, or the garb
of the nineteenth century. He will
get weary of sweets, as boys of private schools grow (or used to grow,
for I have done growing some little
time myself, and the practice may
have ended too) -as private schoolboys used to grow tired of the pudding
before their mutton at dinner.
And pray what is the moral of this
apologue? The moral I take to be
this: the appetite for novels extending to the end of the world; far away
in the frozen deep, the sailors reading
them to one another during the endless night;- far away under the
Syrian stars, the solemn sheiks and
elders hearkening to the poet as he




222


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


recites his tales; far away in the
Indian camps, where the soldiers listen
to -- 's tales, or — 's, after the hot
day's march; far away in the little
Chur yonder, where the lazy boy
pores over the fond volume, and
drinks it in with all his eyes; - the
demand being what we know it is,
the merchant must supply it, as he
will supply saddles and pale ale for
Bombay or Calcutta.
But as surely as the cadet drinks
too much pale ale, it will disagree
with him; and so surely, dear youth,
will too much novels cloy on thee. I
wonder, do novel-writers themselves
read many novels? If you go into
Gunter's, you don't see those charming young ladies (to whom I present
my most respectful compliments) eating tarts and ices, but at the proper
even-tide they have good plain wholesome tea and bread and butter. Can
anybody tell me does the author of
"The   Tale of Two Cities" read
novels? does the author of "The
Tower of London" devour romances? does the dashing " Harry Lorrequer" delight in "Plain or Ringlets " or " Sponge's Sporting Tour"?
Does the veteran, from whose flowing
pen we had the books which delighted
our young   days, "Darnley," and
"Richelieu," and" Delorme,"* relish
the works of Alexandre the Great,
and thrill over "The Three Musqueteers"? Does the accomplished
author of "The Caxtons" read the
other tales in" Blackwood "? (For example, that ghost-story printed last
August, and which for my part,
though I read it in the public reading
room at "The Pavilion Hotel" at
Folkestone, I protest frightened me
so that I scarce dared look over my
shoulder.) Does " Uncle Tom" admire "Adam   Bede;" and does the
author of " The Vicar of Wrexhill"
* By the way, what a strange fate is
that which befell the veteran novelist
He was appointed her Majesty's ConsulGeneral in Venice, the only city in Europe
where the famous " Two Cavaliers " cannot by any possibility be seen riding together.


laugh over " The Warden " and " The
Three Clerks"? Dear youth of ingenuous countenance and ingenuous
pudor! I make no doubt that the
eminent parties above named all partake of novels in moderation-eat
jellies-but mainly nourish themselves upon wholesome roast and
boiled.
Here, dear youth aforesaid! our
" Cornhill Magazine" owners strive
to provide thee with facts as well as
fiction; and though it does not become them to bra, of their Ordinary,
at least they invite thee to a table
where thou shalt sit in good company.
That story of "The Fox"* was
written by one of the gallant seamen
who sought for poor Franklin under
the awful Arctic Night; that account
of China t is told by the man of all
the empire most likely to know of
what he speaks: those pages regarding Volunteers t come from an honored hand that has borne the sword in
a hundred famous fields, and pointed
the British guns in the greatest siege
in the world.
Shall we point out others? We
are fellow-travellers, and shall make
acquaintance as the voyage proceeds.
In the Atlantic steamers, on the first
day out (and on high and holy days
subsequently), the jellies set down on
table are richly ornamented; medioque
infonte leporun rise the American and
British flags nobly emblazoned in tin.
As the passengers remark this pleasing phenomenon, the Captain no
doubt improves the occasion by expressing a hope, to his right and left,
that the flag of Mr. Bull and his
younger Brother may always float
side by side in friendly emulation.
Novels having been previously compared to jellies-here are two (one
perhaps not entirely saccharine, and
flavored with an anmawi aliquid very
* " The Search for Sir John Franklin.
(From the Private Journal of an Officer of
' The Fox.') "
t 'The Chinese and the Outer Barbarians." By Sir John Bowring.
ft "Our Volunteers."  By Sir John
Burgoyne.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


223


distasteful to some palates) - two
novels * under two flags, the one that
ancient ensign which has hung before
the well-known booth of "Vanity
Fair; " the other that fresh and handsome standard which has lately been
hoisted on " Barchester Towers."
Pray, sir, or madam, to which dish
will you be helped?
So have I seen my friends Captain
Lang and Captain Comstock press
their guests to partake of the fare on
that memorable "First day out,"
when there is no man, I think, who
sits down but asks a blessing on his
voyage, and the good ship dips over
the bar, and bounds away into the
blue water.
ON TWO CHILDREN IN
BLACK.
MONTAIGNE and "Howel's Letters " are my bedside books. If I wake
at night, I have one or other of them
to prattle me to sleep again. They
talk about themselves forever, and
don't weary me. I like to hear them
tell their old stories over and over
again.  I read them  in the dozy
hours, and only half remember them.
I am informed that both of them tell
coarse stories. I don't heed them. It
was the custom of their time, as it is
of Highlanders and Iottentots, to
dispense with a part of dress which
we all wear in cities.  But people
can't afford to be shocked either at
Cape Town or at Inverness every
time they meet an individual who
wears his national airy raiment. I
never knew " The Arabian Nights"
was an improper book until I happened
once to read it in a "family edition."
Well, qui s'excuse.... Who, pray,
has accused me as yet? Here am I
smothering dear good old Mrs. Grundy's objections, before she has opened
her mouth. I love, I say, and scarce
ever tire of hearing the artless prat* "Lovel the Widower " and " Framley,karsonage."


tle of those two dear old friends, the
Perigourdin gentleman and the priggish little Clerk of King Charles's
Council.  Their egotism  in nowise
disgusts me. I hope I shall always
like to hear men, in reason, talk about
themselves.  What subject does a
man know better? If I stamp on a
friend's corn, his outcry is genuine
-he confounds my clumsiness in the
accents of truth.  He is speaking
about himself, and expressing  his
emotion of grief or pain in a manner
perfectly authentic and veracious. I
have a story of my own, of a wrong
done to me by somebody, as far back
as the year 1838: whenever I think of
it, and have had a couple glasses of
wine, I cannot help telling it. The
toe is stamped upon: the pain is
just as keen as ever: I cry out, and
perhaps utter imprecatory language.
I told the story only last Wednesday
at dinner: -
"Mr. Roundabout," says a lady
sitting by me, " how comes it that in
your books there is a certain class (it
may be of men, or it may be of
women, but that is not the question
in point) -how  comes it, dear sir,
there is a certain class of persons
whom you always attack in your
writings, and savagely rush at, goad,
poke, toss up in the air, kick, and
trample on "
I couldn't help myself. I knew I
ought not to do it. I told her the
whole story, between the entrees and
roast. The wound began to bleed
again. The horrid pang was there,
as keen and as fresh as ever. If I
live half as long as Tithonus,* that
crack across my heart can never be
cured. There are wrongs and griefs
that can't be mended. It is all very
well of you, my dear Mrs. G., to say
that this spirit is unchristian, and
that we ought to forgive and forget,
and so forth. How can I forget at
will? How forgive? I can forgive
the occasional waiter who broke my
* " Tithonus," by Tennyson, had appeared in the preceding (the 2d) number of " The Cornhill Magazine."




2.24


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


beautiful old decanter at that very
dinner. I am not going to do him
any injury. But all the powers on
earth can t make that claret-jug whole.
So, you see, I told the lady the inevitable story. I was egotistical. I was
selfish, no doubt; but I was natural,
and was telling the truth. You say
you are angry with a man for talking
about himself. It is because you
yourself are selfish, that that other
person's Self does not interest you.
Be interested by other people and
with their affairs. Let them prattle
and talk to you, as I do my dear old
egotists just mentioned. When you
have had enough of them, and sudden hazes come over your eyes, lay
down the volume; pop out the candle, and dormez bien. I should like to
write a nightcap book - a book that
you can muse over, that you can
smile over, that you can yawn over
— a book of which you can say,
"VWell, this man is so and so and
so and so; but he has a friendly
heart (although some wiseacres have
painted him as black as Bogey), and
you may trust what he says."   I
should like to touch you sometimes
with a reminiscence that shall waken
your sympathy, and make you say, lo
anche have so thought, felt, smiled,
suffered. Now, how is this to be done
except by egotism?  Linea recta
brevissima.  That right line "I" is
the very shortest, simplest, straightforwardest means of communication
between us, and stands for what it is
worth, and no  more.  Sometimes
authors say, "The present writer
has often remarked; " or "The undersigned has observed;" or "Mr.
Roundabout presents his compliments
to the gentle reader, and begs to
state," &c.: but "I" is better and
straighter than all these grimaces of
modesty: and although these are
Roundabout Papers, and may wander
who knows whither, I shall ask leave
to maintain the upright and simple
perpendicular. When this bundle of
egotisms is bound up together, as they
may be one day, if no accident pre

vents this tongue from wagging, or
this ink from running, they will bore
you very likely; so it would to read
through  "Howel's Letters" from
beginning to end, or to eat up the
whole of a ham: but a slice on occasion may havea relish: a dip into
the volume at random and so on for a
page or two: and now and then a
smile; and presently a gape; and the
book drops out of your hand; and so,
bon soir, and pleasant dreams to you.
I have frequently seen men at clubs
asleep over their humble servant's
works, and am always pleased. Even
at a lecture I don't mind, if they
don't snore. Only the other day when
my friend A. said, "You've left off
that Roundabout business, I see; very
glad you have," I joined in the general roar of laughter at the table. I
don't care a fig whether Archilochus
likes the papers or no.  You don't
like partridge, Archilochus, or porridge, or what not? Try some other
dish. I at not going to force mine
down your throat, or quarrel with
you if you refuse it. Once in America
a clever and candid woman said to
me, at the close of a dinner, during
which I had been sitting beside her,
"Mr. Roundabout, I was told I
should not like you; and I don't."
" Well, ma'am," says I, in a tone of
the most unfeigned simplicity, "I
don't care." And we became good
friends immediately, and esteemed
each other ever after.
So, my dear Archilochus, if you
come upon this paper, and say,
" Fudge! " and pass on to another, I
for one shall not be in the least mortified. If you say, "What does he
mean by calling this paper On Two
Children in Black, when there's nothing about people in black at all, unless the ladies he met (and evidently
bored) at dinner, were black women?
What is all this egotistical pother?
A plague on his I's! " My dear fellow, if you read "Montaigne's Essays," you must own that he might
call almost any one by the name of
any other, and that an essay on the




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


225


Moon or &n essay on Green Cheese and they had picture-books in several
would be at appropriate a title as one languages, English, and French, and
of his on Coaches, on the Art of Dis- German, I remember.  Two more
coursing, or Experience, or what you aristocratic-looking little men I never
Will. Besides, if I have a subject set eyes on. They were travelling
(and I have) I claim to approach it with a very handsome, pale lady in
in a roundabout manner.            mourning, and a maid-servant dressed
You remember Balzac's tale of the in black, too; and on the lady's face
Peau de Chagrin, and how    every there  was the deepest grief. The
time the possessor used it for the ac- little boys clambered and played about
complishment of some wish the fairy the carriage, and she sat watching.
Peau shrank a little and the owner's It was a railway-carriage from Franklife correspondingly shortened?  I fort to Heidelberg.
have such a desire to be well with my  I saw at once that she was the
public that I am actually giving up mother of those children, and going
my favorite story. I am killing my to part from them. Perhaps I have
goose, I know I am. I can't tell my  tried parting with my own, and not
story of the children in black after found the business very pleasant.
this; after printing it, and sending it Perhaps I recollect driving down
through the country. When they are (with a certain trunk and carpet-bag
gone to the printer's these little on the box) with my own mother to
things become public property. I the end of the avenue, where we
take their hands. I bless them. I waited —only a few minutes —until
s:Ly, "Good-by, my little  dears." the whirring wheels of that "DefiI am quite sorry to part with them: ance"  coach  were heard  rolling
but the fact is, I have told all my towards us  as certain as death.
friends about them already, and don't Twang goes the horn; up goes the
dare to take them about with me any trunk; down come the steps. Bah!
more.                              I see the autumn evening: I hear the
Now every word is true of this lit- wheels now: I smart the cruel smart
tie anecdote, and I submit that there again: and, boy or man, have never
lies in it a most curious and exciting  been able to bear the sight of people
little mystery. I am like a man who parting from their children.
gives you the last bottle of his '25  I thought these little men might
claret. It is the pride of his cellar; be going to school for the first time
he knows it, and he has a right to in their lives; and mamma might
praise it. He takes up the bottle, be taking them  to the doctor, and
fashioned so slenderly -takes it up would leave them with many fond
tenderly, cants it with care, places it charges, and little wistful secrets of
before his friends, declares how good love, bidding the elder to protect his
it is, with honest pride, and wishes younger brother, and the younger to
he had a hundred dozen bottles more be gentle, and to remember to pray
of the same wine in his cellar. Si to God always for his mother, who
quid novisti, &c., I shall be very glad would pray for her boy too. Our
to hear from you. I protest and vow  party made friends with these young
I am giving you the best I have.   ones during the little journey; but
Well, who those little boys in black the poor lady was too sad to talk exwere, I shall never probably know to cept to the boys now and again, VoAd
my dying day. They were very pret- sat in her corner, pale, and silently
ty little men, with pale faces, and looking at them.
large, melancholy eyes; and they had  The next day, we saw the lady and
beautiful little hands, and little boots, her maid driving in the direction of
and the finest little shirts, and black the railway-station, without the boys.
paletots lined with the richest silk; The parting had taken place, then




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That night they would sleep among
strangers. The little beds at home
were vacant, and poor mother might
go and look at them. Well, tears
flow, and friends part, and mothers
pray every night all over the world.
I dare say we went to see Heidelberg
Castle, and admired the vast shattered walls, and quaint gables; and
the Neckar running its bright course
through that charming scene of peace
and beauty; and ate our dinner, and
drank our wine with relish.  The
poor mother would eat but little
Abendessen that night; and, as for
the children - that first night at
school - hard  bed, hard  words,
strange boys bullying, and laughing,
and jarring you with their hateful
merriment -as for the first night at
a strange school, we most of us remember what that is. And the first
is not the worst, my boys, there's the
rub. But each man has his share of
troubles, and, I suppose, you must
have yours.
From Heidelberg we went to BadenBaden: and, I dare say, saw Madame de Schlangenbad and Madame
de la Cruchecassee, and Count Punter,
and honest Captain Blackball. And
whom should we see in the evening,
but our two little boys, walking on
each side of a fierce, yellow-faced,
bearded man! We wanted to renew
our acquaintance with them, and they
were coming forward quite pleased to
greet us. But the father pulled back
one of the little men by his paletot,
gave a grim scowl, and walked away.
I can see the children now looking
rather frightened away from us and
up into the father's face, or the cruel
uncle's - which was he? I think he
was the father. So this was the end
of them. Not school, as I at first had
imagined. The mother was gone,
who had given them the heaps of
pretty books, and the pretty studs in
the shirts, and the pretty silken
clothes, and the tender- tender cares;
and they were handed to this scowling
practitioner of Trente et Quarante.
Ah I this is worse than school. Poor




little men! poor mother sitting by the
vacant little beds!  We saw  the
children once or twice after, always
in Scowler's company; but we did
not dare to give each other any marks
of recognition.
From Baden we went to Basle,
and thence to Lucerne, and so over
the St. Gothard into Italy. From
Milan we went to Venice; and now
comes the singular part of my story.
In Venice there is a little court of
which I forget the name: but in it is
an apothecary's shop, whither I went
to buy some remedy for the bites of
certain animals which abound in Venice. Crawling animals, skipping animals, and humming, flying animals;
all three will have at you at once; and
one night nearly drove me into a straitwaistcoat. Well, as I was coming
out of the apothecary's with the bottle of spirits of hartshorn in my hand
(it really does do the bites a great
deal of good), whom should I light
upon but one of my little HeidelbergBaden boys!
I have said how handsomely they
were dressed as long as they were
with their mother. When I saw the
boy at Venice, who perfectly recognized me, his only garb was a wretched yellow cotton gown. His little
feet, on which I had admired the little
shiny boots, were without shoe or stocking. He looked at me, ran to an old
hag of a woman, who seized his
hand; and with her he disappeared
down one of the thronged lanes of
the city.
From Venice we went to Trieste
(the Vienna railway at that time was
only opened as far as Laybach, and
the magnificent Semmering Pass was
not quite completed). At a station
between Laybach and Graetz, one of
my companions alighted for refreshment, and came back to the carriage,
saying:"There's that horrible man from
Baden, with the two little boys."
Of course, we had talked about the
appearance of the little boy at Venice, and his strange altered garb.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


227


My companion said they were pale,
wretched-looking, and dressed quite
shabbily.
I got out at several stations, and
looked at all the carriages. I could
not see my little men. From that
day to this I have never set eyes on
them. That is all my story. Who
were they? What could they be?
How can you explain that mystery
of the mother giving them up; of the
remarkable splendor and elegance of
their appearance while under her
care; of their bare-footed squalor in
Venice, a month afterwards; of their
shabby habiliments at Laybach?
Had the father gambled away his
money, and sold their clothes? How
came they to have passed out of the
hands of a refined lady (as she evidently was, with whom I first saw
them) into the charge of quite a common woman like her witl whom I
saw one of the boys at Venice? Here
is but one chapter of the story. Can
any man write the next, or that
preceding the strange one on which I
happened to light? Who knows?
the mystery may have some quite
simple solution. I saw two children,
attired like little princes, taken from
their mother and consigned to other
care; and a fortnight afterwards, one
of them bare-footed and like a beggar.
Who will read this riddle of The
Two Children in Black?
ON RIBBONS.
THE uncle of the present Sir
Louis N. Bonaparte, K. G., &c., inaugurated his reign as Emperor over
the neighboring nation by establishing an Order, to which all citizens of
his country, military, naval, and civil
— all men most distinguished in science, letters, arts, and commercewere admitted. The emblem of the
Order was but a piece of ribbon, more
or less long or broad, with a toy at
the end of it. The Bourbons had
toys and ribbons of their own, blue,


black, and all-colored; and on their
return to dominion such good old
Tories would naturally have preferred
to restore their good old Orders of
Saint Louis, Saint Esprit, and Saint
Michel; but France had taken the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor so to
her heart that no Bourbon sovereign
dared to pluck it thence.
In England, until very late days, we
have been accustomed rather to poohpooh national Orders, to vote ribbons and crosses tinsel gewgaws,
foolish foreign ornaments, and so
forth. It is known how the Great
Duke (the breast of whose own coat
was plastered with some half-hundred
decorations) was averse to the wearing of ribbons, medals, clasps, and
the like, by his army. We have all
of us read how uncommonly distinguished Lord Castlereagh looked at
Vienna, where he was the only gentleman present without any decoration
whatever. And the Great Duke's
theory was, that clasps and ribbons,
stars and garters, were good and
proper ornaments for himself, for the
chief officers of his distinguished
army, and for gentlemen of high
birth, who might naturally claim to
wear a band of garter blue across
their waistcoats; but that for common people your plain coat, without
stars and ribbons, was the most sensible wear.
And no doubt you and I are as
happy, as free, as comfortable; we
can walk and dine as well; we can
keep the winter's cold out as well,
without a star on our coats, as without a feather in our hats. How often
we have laughed at the absurd mania
of the Americans for dubbing their
senators, members of Congress, and
States' representatives, Honorable!
We have a right to call our Privy
Councillors Right Honorable, our
Lords' sons Honorable, and so forth:
but for a nation as numerous, well
educated, strong, rich, civilized, free
as our own, to dare to give its distinguished citizens titles of honor- monstrous assumption of low-bred arro



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gance and parvenu vanity! Our titles
are respectable, but theirs absurd.
Mr. Jones, of London, a Chancellor's
son, and a tailor's grandson, is justly
Honorable, and entitled to be Lord
Jones at his noble father's decease:
but Mr. Brown, the senator from
New York, is a silly upstart for tacking Honorable to his name, and our
sturdy British good sense laughs at
him. Who has not laughed (I have
myself) at Honorable Nahum Dodge,
Honorable Zeno Scudder, Honorable
Hiram Boake, and the rest? A
score of such queer names and titles I
have smiled at in America. And,
mutato nomine? I meet a born idiot,
who is a peer and born legislator.
This drivelling noodle and his descendants through life are your natural
superiors and mine - your and my
children's superiors. I read of an
alderman kneeling and knighted at
court: I see a gold-stick waddling
backwards before Majesty in a procession, and if we laugh, don't you suppose the Americans laugh too?
Yes, stars, garters, orders, knighthoods, and the like, are folly. Yes,
Bobus, citizen and soap-boiler, is a
good man, and no one laughs at him
or good Mrs. Bobus, as they have
their dinner at one o'clock. But who
will not jeer at Sir Thomas on a melting day, and Lady Bobus, at Margate,
eating shrimps in a donkey-chaise?
Yes, knighthood is absurd: and chivalry an idiotic superstition: and Sir
Walter Manny was a zany: and Nelson,with his flaming stars and cordons,
splendent upon a day of battle, was
a madman: and Murat, with his
crosses and orders, at the head of his
squadrons charging victorious, was
only a crazy mountebank, who had
been a tavern-waiter, and was puffed
up with absurd vanity about his dress
and legs. And the men of the
French line at Fontenoy, who told
Messieurs de la Garde to fire first,
were smirking French dancing-masters; and the Black Prince, waiting
upon his royal prisoner, was acting
an inane masquerade: and Chivalry


is nought; and Honor is humbug
and Gentlemanhood is an extinct
folly; and Ambition is madness; and
desire of distinction is criminal vanity; and glory is bosh; and fair fame
is idleness; and nothing is true but
two and two; and the color of all the
world is drab; and all men are equal;
and one man is as tall as another;
and one man is as good as another
- and a great dale betther, as the Irish
philosopher said.
Is this so? Titles and badges of
honor are vanity; and in the American Revolution you have his Excellency General Washington sending back,
and with proper spirit sending back,
a letter in which he is not addressed
as Excellency and General. Titles
are abolished; and the American
Republic swarms with men claiming
and bearing them. You have the
French soldier cheered and happy in
his dying agony, and kissing with
frantic joy the chiefs hand who lays
the little cross on the bleeding bosom.
At home you have the Dukes and
Earls jobbing and intriguing for the
Garter; the Military Knights grumbling at the Civil Knights of the Bath;
the little ribbon eager for the collar;
the soldiers and seamen from India
and the Crimea marching in procession
before the Queen, and receiving from
her hands the cross bearing her royal
name. And, remember, there are not
only the cross wearers, but all the
fathers and friends; all the women
who have prayed for their absent heroes; Harry's wife, and Tom's mother, and Jack's daughter, and Frank's
sweetheart, each of whom wears in her
heart of hearts afterwards the badge
which son, father, lover, has won by
his merit; each of whom is made happy and proud, and is bound to the
country by that little bit of ribbon.
I have heard, in a lecture about
George the Third, that, at his accession, the King had a mind to establish an order for literary men. It
was to have been called the Order of
Minerva- I suppose with an Owl for
a badge. The knights were to have




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


229


w-rn a star of sixteen points, and a
yellow ribbon; and good old Samuel
Johnson was talked of as President,
or Grand Cross, or Grand Owl, of
the society. Now about such an order
as this there certainly may be doubts.
Consider the claimants, the difficulty
of settling their claims, the rows and
squabbles amongst the candidates,
and the subsequent decision of posterity! Dr. Beattie would have ranked
as first poet, and twenty years after
the sublime Mr. Hayley would, no
doubt, have claimed the Grand Cross.
Mr. Gibbon would not have been
eligible, on account of his dangerous
freethinking opinions; and her sex,
as well as her republican sentiments,
might have interfered with the knighthood of the immortal Mrs. Catherine
Macaulay.   How Goldsmith would
have paraded the ribbon at Madame
Cornelys's, or the Academy dinner!
How Peter Pindar would have railed
at it! Fifty years later, the noble
Scott would have worn the Grand
Cross and deserved it; but Gifford
would have had it; and Byron, and
Shelley, and Hazlitt, and Hunt would
have been without it; and had Keats
been proposed as officer, how the
Tory prints would have yelled with
rage and scorn!  Had the star of
Minerva lasted to our present time -
but I pause, not because the idea is
dazzling, but too awful. Fancy the
claimants, and the row about their
precedence? Which philosopher shall
have the grand cordon? - which the
collar?-which the little scrap no
bigger than a butter-cup? Of the
historians- A, say,-and C, and
F, and G, and S, and T,-which
shall be Companion and which Grand
Owl?. Of the poets, who wears, or
claims, the largest and brightest star?
Of the novelists, there is A, and B,
and CD; and E (star of first magnitude, newly discovered), and F (a
magazine of wit), and fair G, and H,
and I, and brave old J, and charming
K, and L, and M, and N, and O
(fair twinklers), and I am puzzled between three  P's - Peacock, Miss


Pardoe, and Paul Pry —and Queechy, and R, and S, and T, mere etfils,
and very likely U, O gentle reader, for
who has not written his novel now-adays? -who has not a claim to the
star and straw-colored ribbon?- and
who shall have the biggest and largest?
Fancy the struggle! Fancy the squabble! Fancy the distribution of prizes!
Who shall decide on them? Shall
it be the sovereign? shall it be the
Minister for the time being? and has
Lord Palmerston made a deep study
of novels? In this matter the late
Ministry,* to be sure, was better qualified; but even then, grumblers who
had not got their canary cordons,
would have hinted at professional
jealousies entering the Cabinet; and,
the ribbons being awarded, Jack
would have scowled at his because
Dick had a broader one; Ned been
indignant because Bob's was as large:
Tom would have thrust his into the
drawer, and scorn to wear it at all.
No - no: the so-called literary world
was well rid of Minerva and her
yellow  ribbon.  The great poets
would have been indifferent, the little
poets jealous, the funny men furious,
the philosophers satirical, the historians supercilious, and, finally, the
jobs without end.  Say, ingenuity
and cleverness are to be rewarded by
State tokens and prizes-and take
for granted the Order of Minerva is
established - who shall have it? A
great philosopher? no doubt we cordially salute him G. C. M. A great
historian? G. C. M. of course. A
great engineer? G. C. M. A great
poet? received with acclamation G.
C. M. A great painter? oh! certainly, G. C. M. If a great painter, why
not a great novelist? Well, pass, great
novelist, G. C. M. But if a poetic, a
pictorial, a story-telling or musiccomposing artist, why not a singing
artist? Why not a basso-profondo?
Why not a primo tenore? And if a
singer, why should not a ballet-dancer
* That of Lord Derby, in 1859, which
included Mr. Disraeli and Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton.




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come bounding on the stage with his
cordon, and cut capers to the music
of a row of decorated fiddlers? A
chemist puts in his claim for having
invented a new color; an apothecary
for a new pill; the cook for a new
sauce; the tailor for a new cut of
trousers. We have brought the star
of Minerva down from the breast to
the pantaloons. Stars and garters!
can we go any farther; or shall we
give the shoemaker the yellow ribbon
of the order for his shoe-tie?
When I began this present Roundabout excursion, I think I had not
quite made up my mind whether we
would have an Order of all the Talents or not: perhaps I rather had a
hankering for a rich ribbon and gorgeous star, in which my family might
like to see me at parties in my
best waistcoat. But then the door
opens, and there come in, and by the
same right too, Sir Alexis Soyer!
Sir Alessandro Tamburini!    Sir
Agostino Velluti! Sir Antonio Paganini (violinist)! Sir Sandy McGuffbg
(piper to the most noble the Marquis
of Farintosh)! Sir Alcide Flicflac
(premier danscur of H. M. Theatre)!
Sir Harlcy Quin and Sir Joseph Grimaldi (from Covent Garden)! They
have all the yellow ribbon. They
are all honorable, and clever, and
distinguished artists. Let us elbow
through the rooms, make a bow to
the lady of the house, give a nod to
Sir George Thrum, who is leading
the orchestra, and go and get some
champagne and seltzer-water from
Sir Richard Gunter, who is presiding
at the buffet. A national decoration
might be well and good: a token
awarded by the country to all its
bene-merentibus: but most gentlemen
with Minerva stars would, I think, be
inclined to wear very wide breastcollars to their coats. Suppose yourself, brother penman, decorated with
this ribbon, and looking in the glass,
would you not laugh? Would not
wife and daughters laugh at that
canary-colored emblem?
But suppose a man, old or young,


of figure ever so stout, thin, stumpy,
homely, indulging in looking-glass
reflections with that hideous ribbon
and cross called V. C. on his coat,
would he not be proud? and his
family, would not they be prouder?
For your noblemen there is the famous old blue garter and star, and
welcome. If I were a marquis - if I
had thirty —forty thousand a year
(settle the sum, my dear Alnaschar,
according to your liking), 1 should
consider myself entitled to my seat in
Parliament and to my garter. The
garter belongs to the Ornamental
Classes.  Have you seen the new
magnificent Pavo Spicfer at the Zoological Gardens, and do you grudge
him his jewelled coronet and the azure
splendor of his waistcoat?  I like
my Lord Mayor to have a gilt coach;
my magnificent monarch to be surrounded by magnificent nobles: I
huzzah respectfully when they pass in
procession. It is good for Mr. Briefless (50 Pump Court, fourth floor)
that there should be a Lord Chancellor
with a gold robe and fifteen thousand
a year. It is good for a poor curate
that there should be splendid bishops
at Fulham and Lambeth: their Lordships were poor curates once, and
have won, so to speak, their ribbon.
Is a man who puts into a lottery to
be sulky because he does not win the
twenty thousand pounds prize? Am
I to fall into a rage, and bully my
family when I come home, after
going to see Chatsworth or Windsor,
because we have only two little drawing rooms? Welcome to your garter,
my Lord, and shame upon him qui
mal y pense!
So I arrive in my roundabout way
near the point towards which I have
been trotting ever since we set out.
In a voyage to America, some nine
years since, on the seventh or eighth
day out from Liverpool, Captain
--      came to dinner at eight bells
as usual, talked a little to the persons
right and left of him, and helped the
soup with his accustomed politeness.
Then he went on deck, and was back




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


231


in a minute, and operated on the fish,
looking rather grave the while.
Then he went on deck again; and
this time was absent, it may be, three
or five minutes, during which the fish
disappeared, and the entrees arrived,
and the roast beef. Say ten minutes
passed - I can't tell after nine years.
Then L-       came down with a
pleased and happy countenance this
time, and began carving the sirloin:
' We have seen the light," he said.
"Madam, may I help you to a little
gravy, or a little horse-radish?" or
what not?
I forget the name of the light; nor
does it matter. It was a point off
Newfoundland for which he was on
the look-out, and so well did "The
Canada" know where she was, that,
between soup and beef, the captain
had sighted the headland by which
his course was lying.
And so through storm and darkness, through fog and midnight, the
ship had pursued her steady way
over the pathless ocean and roaring
seas, so surely that the officers who
sailed her knew her place within a
minute or two, and guided us with a
wonderful providence safe on our way.
Since the noble Cunard Company has
run its ships, but one accident, and
that through the error of a pilot, has
happened on the line.
By this little incident (hourly of
course repeated, and trivial to all
sea-going people) I own I was immensely moved, and never can think
of it but with a heart full of thanks
and awe. We trust our lives to these
seamen, and how nobly they fulfil their
trust! They are, under heaven, as a
providence for us. Whilst we sleep,
their untiring watchfulness keeps
guard over us. All night through
that bell sounds at its season, and
tells how our sentinels defend us.  It
rang when " The Amazon " was on
fire, and chimed its heroic signal of
duty, and courage, and honor. Think
of the dangers these seamen undergo
for us: the hourly peril and watch;
the familiar storm; the dreadful ice

berg; the long winter nights when
the decks are as glass, and the sailor
has to climb through icicles to bend
the stiff sail on the yard! Think of
their courage and their kindnesses in
cold, in tempest, in hunger, in wreck!
"The women and children to the
boats," says the captain of " The Birkenhead," and, with the troops formed
on the deck, and the crew obedient to
the word of glorious command, the
immortal ship goes down. Read the
story of " The Sarah Sands: -
"SARAII SANDS.
"The screw steam-ship ' Sarah Sands,'
1,330 registered tons, was chartered by the
East India Company in the autumn of
1858, for the conveyance of troops to India. She was commanded byJohn Squire
Castle. She took out a part of the 54th
Regiment, upwards of 350 persons, besides
the wives and children of some of the men,
and the families of some of the officers.
All went well till the 11th November,
when the ship had reached lat. 14 S., long.
56 E., upwards of 400 miles from the
Mauritius.
"Between three and four p.m. on that
day a very strong smell of fire was perceived arising from the after-deck, and
upon going below into the hold, Captain
Castle found it to be on fire, and immense
volumes of smoke arising from it. Endeavors were made to reach the seat of
the fire, but in vain; the smoke and heat
were too much for the men. There was,
however, no confusion. Every order was
obeyed with the same coolness and courage
with which it was given. The engine
was immediately stopped. All sail was
taken in, and the ship brought to the
wind, so as to drive the smoke and fire,
which was in the after-part of the ship,
astern. Others were, at the same time,
getting fire-hoses fitted and passed to the
scene of the fire. The fire, however, continued to increase, and attention was
directed to the ammunition contained in the
powder-magazines, which were situated
one on each side the ship immediately
above the fire. The starboard magazine
was soon cleared. But by this time the
whole of the after-part of the ship was so
much enveloped in smoke that it was
scarcely possible to stand, and great fears
were entertained on account of the port
magazine. Volunteers were called for,
and came immediately, and, under the
guidance of LieutenantHughes, attempted
to clear the port magazine, which they
succeeded in doing, with the exception,
as was supposed, of one or two barrels.
It was most dangerous work. The men




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became overpowered with the smoke and
heat, and fell; and several, while thus
engaged, were dragged up by ropes,
senseless.
"The flames soon burst up through
the deck, and running rapidly along the
various cabins, set the greater part on
fire.
" In the mean time Captain Castle took
steps for lowering the boats. There was
a heavy gale at the time, but they were
launched without the least accident. The
soldiers were mustered on deck; - there
was no rush to the boats; - and the men
obeyed the word of command as if on
parade. The men were informed that
Captain Castle did not despair of saving
the ship, but that they must be prepared
to leave her if necessary. The women and
children were lowered into the port lifeboat, under the charge of Mr. Very, third
officer, who had orders to keep clear of
the ship until recalled.
" Captain Castle then commenced constructing rafts of spare spars. In a short
time, three were put together, which
would have been capable of saving a great
number of those on board. Two were
launched overboard, and safely moored
alongside, and then a third was left
across the deck forward, ready to be
launched.
" In the mean time the fire had made
great progress. The whole of the cabins
were one body of fire, and at about 8.30
p.m. flames burst through the upper deck,
and shortly after the mizzen rigging caught
fire. Fears were entertained of the ship
paying off, in which case the flames would
have been swept forwards by the wind;
but fortunately the after-braces were
burnt through, and the main-yard swung
round, which kept the ship's head to
wind. About nine p.m., a fearful explosion took place in the port magazine,
arising, no doubt, from the one or two
barrels of powder which it had been impossible to remove. By this time the
ship was one body of flame, from the
stern to the main rigging, and thinking it
scarcely possible to save her, Captain
Castle called Major Brett (then in command of the troops, for the Colonel was
in one of the boats) forward, and, telling
him that he feared the ship was lost, requested him to endeavor to keep order
amongst the troops till the last, but, at
the same time, to use every exertion to
check the fire. Providentially, the iron
bulkhead in the after-part of the ship
withstood the action of the flames, and
here all efforts were concentrated to keep
it cool.
"'No person,' says the captain,' can
describe the manner in which the men
worked to keep the fire back; one party
were below, keeping the bulkhead cool,
and when several were dragged up sense

less, fresh volunteers took their places,who
were, however, soon in the same state.
At about ten p.m., the maintopsail-yard
took fire. Mr. Welch, one quartermaster,
and four or five soldiers, went aloft with
wet blankets, and succeeded in extinguishing it, but not until the yard and
mast were nearly burnt through. The
work of fighting the fire below continued
for hours, and about midnight it appeared
that some impression was made; and after
that, the men drove it back, inch by inch,
until daylight, when they had completely
got it under. The ship was now in a
frightful plight. The after-part was literally burnt out -merely the shell remaining-the port quarter blown out by the
explosion: fifteen feet of water in the
hold.'
" The gale still prevailed, and the ship
was rolling and pitching in a heavy sea,
and taking in large quantities of water
abaft: the tanks, too, were rolling from
side to side in the hold.
" As soon as the smoke was partially
cleared away, Captain Castle got spare
sails and blankets aft to stop the leak,
passing two hawsers round the stern, and
setting them up. The troops were employed baling and pumping. This continued during the whole morning.
"In the course of the day the ladies
joined the ship. The boats were ordered
alongside, but they found the sea too
heavy to remain there. The gig had been
abandoned during the night, and the crew,
under Mr. Wood, fourth officer, had got
into another of the boats. The troops
were employed the remainder of the day
baling and pumping, and the crew securing the stern. All hands were employed
during the following night baling and
pumping, the boats being moored alongside, where they received some damage.
At daylight, on the 13th, the crew were
employed hoisting the boats, the troops
were working manfully baling and pumping. Latitude at noon, 13 deg. 12 min.
south. At five p.m., the foresail and foretopsail were set, the rafts were cut away,
and the ship bore for the Mauritius. On
Thursday, the 19th, she sighted the Island
of Rodrigues, and arrived at Mauritius on
Monday the 23d."
The Nile and Trafalgar are not
more glorious to our country, are not
greater victories, than these won by our
merchant seamen. And if you look
in the Captains' reports of any maritime register, you will see similar acts
recorded every day I have such a
volume, for last year, now lying
before me. In the second number, as
I open it at hazard, Captain Roberts,




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233


master of the ship "Empire," from
Shields to London, reports how on
the 14th ult. (the 14th December,
1859), he, "being off Whitby, discovered the ship to be on fire between
the main hold and boilers: got the
hose from the engine laid on, and
succeeded in subduing the fire; but
only apparently; for at seven the
next morning, ' The Dudgeon' bearS. S. E. seven miles' distance, the fire
again broke out, causing the ship to
be enveloped in flames on both sides
of midships: got the hose again
into play and all hands to work with
buckets to combat with the fire.
Did not succeed in stopping it till
four P.M., to effect which, were
obliged to cut away the deck and top
sides, and throw overboard part of
the cargo. The vessel was very much
damaged and leaky: determined to
make for the Humber. Ship was run
on shore, on the mud, near Grimsby
harbor, with five feet of water in
her hold. The donkey-engine broke
down. The water increased so fast
as to put out the furnace fires, and
render the ship almost unmanageable.
On the tide flowing, a tug towed the
ship off the mud, and got her into
Grimsby to repair."
On the 2d of November, Captain
Strickland, of "The   Purchase"
brigantine, from Liverpool to Yarmouth, U. S., "encountered heavy
gales from W.N.W. to W.S.W., in
lat. 43~ N., long. 34~ W., in which
we lost jib, foretopmast, staysail, topsail, and carried away the foretopmast
stays, bobstays, and bowsprit, headsails, cut-water, and stern, also started the wood ends, which caused the
vessel to leak. Put her before the
wind and sea, and hove about twentyfive tons of cargo overboard to lighten
the ship forward. Slung myself in a
bowline, and by means of thrusting
2&-inch rope in the opening, contrived to stop a great portion of the
leak.
"December 16th.- The crew continuing night and day at the pumps,
could not keep the ship free; deemed
11


it prudent for the benefit of those concerned to bear up for the nearest port.
On arriving in lat. 48~ 45' N., long.
23~ W., observed a vessel with a signal of distress flying. Made towards
her, when she proved to be the barque
' Carleton,' water-logged. The captain and crew asked to be taken off.
Hove to, and received them on board,
consisting of thirteen men: and their
ship was abandoned. We then proceeded on our course, the crew of
the abandoned vessel assisting all
they could to keep my ship afloat.
We arrived at Cork harbour on the
27th ult."
Captain Coulson, master of the brig
"Othello," reports that his brig
foundered off Portland, December
27; - encountering a strong gale, and
shipping two heavy seas in succession,
which hove the ship on her beamends. "Observing no chance of saving the ship, took to the long-boat,
and, within ten minutes of leaving
her, saw the brig founder. We were
picked up the same morning by the
French ship ' Commerce de Paris,'
Captain Tombarel."
Here, in a single column of a newspaper, what strange, touching pictures
do we find of seamen's dangers, vicissitudes, gallantry, generosity! The
ship on fire - the captain in the gale
slinging himself in a bowline to stop
the leak - the Frenchman in the
hour of danger coming to his British
comrade's rescue - the brigantine,
almost a wreck, working up to the
barque with the signal of distress flying, and taking off her crew of thirteen
men. "We then proceeded on our
course, the crew of the abandoned vessel
assisting all they could to keep my ship
afloat."  What noble, simple words!
What courage, devotedness, brotherly love! Do they not cause the
heart to beat, and the eyes to fill?
This is what seamen do daily, and
for one another. One lights occasionally upon different stories. It
happened, not very long since, that
the passengers by one of the great
ocean steamers were wrecked, and,




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after undergoing the most severe
hardships, were left, destitute and helpless, at a miserable coaling port.
Amongst them were old men, ladies,
and children. When the next steamer arrived, the passengers by that
steamer took alarm at the haggard
and miserable appearance of their unfortunate predecessors, and actually
remonstrated with their own captain,
urging him not to take the poor creatures
on board. There was every excuse,
of course. The last-arrived steamer
was already dangerously full; the
cabins were crowded; there were sick
and delicate people on board - sick
and delicate people who had paid a
large price to the company for room,
food, comfort, already not too sufficient. If fourteen of us are in an
omnibus, will we see three or four
women outside, and say," Come in,
because this is the last 'bus, and it
rains"? Of course not: but think
of that remonstrance, and of that
Samaritan master of " The Purchase "
brigantine!
In the winter of '53, I went from
Marseilles to Civita Vecchia, in one
of the magnificent P. and 0. ships,
" The Valetta," the master of which
subsequently did distinguished service
in the Crimea. This was his first
Mediterranean voyage, and lie sailed
his ship by the charts alone, going
into each port as surely as any pilot.
I remember walking the deck at night
with this most skilful, gallant, wellbred, and well-educated gentleman,
and the glow of eager enthusiasm
with which he assented, when I asked
him whether he did not think a RIBBON or ORDER would be welcome or
useful in his service.
Why is there not an ORDER OF
BRITANNIA for British seamen? In
the Merchant and the Royal Navy
alike, occur almost daily instances
and occasions for the display of science, skill, bravery, fortitude in trying
circumstances, resource in danger. In
the first number of "The Cornhill
Magazine," a friend contributed a
most touching story of the M'Clintock


expedition, in the dangers and dreadful glories of which he shared; and the
writer was a merchant captain. How
many more are there (and, for the
honor of England, may there be
many like him!) -gallant, accomplished, high-spirited, enterprising
masters of their noble profession!
Can our fountain of Honor not be
brought to such men?  It plays upon
captains and colonels in seemly profusion.  It pours forth not illiberal
rewards upon doctors and judges.
It sprinkles mayors and aldermen. It
bedews a painter now and again. It
has spirted a baronetcy upon two,
and bestowed a coronet upon one
noble man of letters. Diplomatists
take their Bath in it as of right; and
it flings out a profusion of glittering
stars upon the nobility of the three
kingdoms. Cannot Britannia find a
ribbon for her sailors? The Navy,
royal or mercantile, is a Service. The
command of a ship, or the conduct
of her, implies danger, honor, science, skill, subordination, good faith.
It may be a victory, such as that of
"The Sarah Sands;" it may be discovery, such as that of " The Fox;"
it may be heroic disaster, such as that
of" The Birkcnhcad;" and in such
events merchant seamen, as well as
royal seamen, take their share.
Why is there not, then, an Order
of Britannia? One day a young
officer of " The Euryalus ' * may win
it:  and, having just   read  the
memoirs of LORD DUNDONALD, I
know who ought to have the first
Grand Cross.
ON SOME LATE GREAT VICTORIES.
ON the 18th day of April last I
went to see a friend in a neighboring
Crescent, and on the steps of the
next house beheld a group something
* Prince Alfred was serving on board
the frigate "Euryalus" when this was
written.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


235


like that here depicted. A news-boy
had stopped in his walk, and was
reading aloud the journal which it
was his duty to deliver; a pretty
orange-girl, with a heap of blazing
fruit, rendered more brilliant by one
of those great blue papers in which
oranges are now artfully wrapped,
leant over the railing and listened;
and opposite the nympham discentem
there was a capering and acute-eared
young satirist of a crossing-sweeper,
who had left his neighboring professional avocation and chance of profit
in order to listen to the talc of the
little news-boy.
That intelligent reader, with his
hand following the line as he read it
out to his audience, was saying:" And- now- Tom- coming up
smiling - after his fall - dee -delivered a rattling clinker upon the Benicia Boy's - potato-trap - but was
met by a- punisher on the nose -
which," &c., &c.; or words to that
effect. Betty at 52 let me in, while
the boy was reading his lecture; and,
having been some twenty minutes or
so in the house and paid my visit, I
took leave.
The little lecturer was still at work
on the 51 doorstep, and his audience
had scarcely changed their position.
Having read every word of the battle
myself in the morning, I did not stay
to listen further; but if the gentleman
who expected his paper at the usual
hour that day experienced delay and
a little disappointment I shall not be
surprised.
I am not going to expiaiate on the
battle. I have read in the correspondent's letter of a Northern newspaper,
that in the midst of the company assembled, the reader's humble servant
was present, and in a very polite society, too, of "poets, clergymen, men
of letters, and members of both
Houses of Parliament."  If so, I
must have walked to the station in
my sleep, paid three guineas in a profound fit of mental abstraction, and
returned to bed unconscious, for I
certainly woke there about the time


when history relates that the fight
was over. I do not know whose colors I wore - the Benician's, or those
of the Irish champion; nor remember
where the fight took place, which, indeed, no somnambulist is bound to
recollect. Ought Mr. Sayers to be
honored for being brave, or punished
for being naughty? By the shade of
Brutus the elder, I don't know.
In George II.'s time, there was a
turbulent navy lieutenant (Handsome
Smith he was called -his picture is
at Greenwich now, in brown velvet,
and gold and scarlet; his coat handsome, his waistcoat exceedingly handsome; but his face by no means the
beauty) - there was, I say, a turbulent young lieutenant who was broke
on a complaint of the French ambassador, for obliging a French ship of
war to lower her topsails to his ship
at Spithead. But, by the King's orders, Tom was next day made Captain Smith. Well, if I were absolute
king, I would send Tom Sayers to
the mill for a month, and make him
Sir Thomas on coming out of Clerkenwell. You arc a naughty boy,
Tom! but then, you know, we ought
to love our brethren, though ever
so naughty. We are moralists, and
reprimand you; and you are hereby
reprimanded accordingly.  But in
case England should ever have
need of a few score thousand champions, who laugh at danger; who
cope with giants; who, stricken to
the ground, jump up and gayly rally,
and fall, and rise again, and strike,
and die rather than yield-in case
the country should need such men,
and you should know them, be pleased
to send lists of the misguided persons
to the principal police stations, where
means may some day be found to utilize their wretched powers, and give
their deplorable energies a right direction. Suppose, Tom, that you and
your friends are pitted against an immense invader - suppose you are
bent on holding the ground, and dying there, if need be- suppose it is
life, freedom, honor, home, you are




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fighting for, and there is a death-dealing sword or rifle in your hand, with
which you are going to resist some
tremendous enemy who challenges
your championship on your native
shore? Then, Sir Thomas, resist
him to the death, and it is all right:
kill him, and heaven bless you. Drive
him into the sea, and there destroy,
smash, and drown him; and let us
sing Laudamus. In these national
cases, you see, we override the indisputable first laws of morals. Loving
your neighbor is very well, but
suppose your neighbor comes over
from Calais and Boulogne to rob you
of your laws, your liberties, your
newspapers, your parliament (all of
which some dear neighbors of ours
have given up in the most self-denying manner): suppose any neighbor
were to cross the water and propose
this kind of thing to us? Should we
not be justified in humbly trying to
pitch him into the water? If it were
the King of Belgium himself we must
do so. I mean that fighting, of course,
is wrong; but that there are occasions when, &c. - I suppose I mean
that that one-handed fight of Sayers is
one of the most spirit-stirring little stories ever told: and, with every love
and respect for Morality- my spirit
says to her, "Do, for goodness' sake,
my dear madam, keep your true, and
pure, and womanly, and gentle remarks for another day. Have the
great kindness to stand a leetle aside
and justlet us see one or two more
rounds between the men. That little
man with the one hand powerless on
his breast facing yonder giant for
hours, and felling him, too, every now
and then! It is the little ' Java' and
the 'Constitution' over again."
I think it is a most fortunate event
for the brave Heenan, who has acted
and written since the battle with a
true warrior's courtesy, and with a
great deal of good logic too, that the
battle was a drawn one. The advantage was all on Mr. Sayers' side. Say
a young lad of sixteen insults me in
the street, and I try and thrash him,


and do it. Well, I have thrashed a
young lad. You great, big tyrant,
couldn't you hit one of your own size?
But say the lad thrashes me? In
either case I walk away discomfited:
but in the latter, I am positively put
to shame. Now, when the ropes were
cut from that death-grip, and Sir
Thomas released, the gentleman of
Benicia was confessedly blind of one
eye, and speedily afterwards was blind
of both. Could Mr. Sayers have held
out for three minutes, for five minutes,
for ten minutes more? He says he
could. So we say we could have
held out, and did, and had beaten off
the enemy at Waterloo, even if the
Prussians hadn't come up. The opinions differ pretty much according to
the nature of the opinants. I say the
Duke and Tom could have held out,
that they meant to hold out, that
they did hold out, and that there has
been fistifying enough. That crowd
which came in and stopped the fight
ought to be considered like one of
those divine clouds which the gods
send in Homer:
" Apollo shrouds
The godlike Trojan in a veil of clouds."
It is the best way of getting the godlike Trojan out of the scrape, don't
you see? The nodus is cut; Tom is
out of chancery; the Benicia Boy not
a bit the worse, nay, better than if he
had beaten the little man. He has
not the humiliation of conquest. He
is greater, and will be loved more
hereafter by the gentle sex. Suppose
he had overcome the god-like Trojan?
Suppose he had tied Tom's corpse to
his cab-wheels, and driven to Farn.
ham, smoking the pipe of triumph?
Faugh! the great hulking conqueror!
Why did you not hold your hand
from yonder hero? Everybody, I
say, was relieved by that opportune
appearance of the British gods, protectors of native valor, who interfered,
and " withdrew " their champion.
Now, suppose six feet two con.
queror, and five feet eight beaten;
would Sayers have been a whit the




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237


less gallant and meritorious?  If any stupendous victories, that, had
Sancho had been allowed really to opportunity so served, they might
reign in Barataria, I make no doubt have been heroes too.  If you are
that, with his good sense and kindness not, friend, it is not your fault, whilst
of heart, he would have devised some I don't wish to detract from any genmeans of rewarding the brave van- tleman's reputation who is. There.
quished, as well as the brave victors My worst enemy can't take objection
in the Baratarian army, and that a to that. The point might have been
champion who had fought a good put more briefly perhaps; but, if you
fight would have been a knight of please, we will not argue that quesKing Don Sancho's orders, whatever tion.
the upshot of the combat had been.  Well, then. The victories which I
Suppose Wellington overwhelmed on wish especially to commemorate in
the plateau of Mont St. John; sup- this paper, are the six great, compose Washington attacked and beaten plete, prodigious, and undeniable
at Valley Forge- and either suppo- victories, achieved by the corps which
sition is quite easy -and what be- the editor of "The Cornhill Magacomes of the heroes?  They would zine" has the honor to command.
have been as brave, honest, heroic, When I seem to speak disparagingly
wise; but their glory, where would it but now of generals, it was that chief
have been? Should we have had I had in my I (if you will permit me
their portraits hanging in our cham- the expression). I wished him not
bers? have been familiar with their to be elated by too much prosperity;
histories? have pondered over their I warned him against assuming heroletters, common lives, and daily say- ic imperatorial airs, and cocking his
ings? There is not only merit, but laurels too jauntily over his ear. I
luck which goes to making a hero out was his conscience, and stood on the
of a gentleman. Mind, please you, splash-board of his triumph-car, whisI am not saying that the hero is after pering, " Hominem meiento te." As
all not so very heroic; and have not we rolled along the way, and passed
the least desire to grudge him his the weathercocks on the temples, I
mnerit because of his good fortune.  saluted the symbol of the goddess
Have you any idea whither this Fortune with a reverent awe. " We
Roundabout Essay on some late great have done our little endeavor," I said,
victories is tending? Do you sup- bowing my head, "and mortals can
pose that by those words I mean do no more. But we might have
Trenton, Brandywine, Salamanca, fought bravely, and not won. We
Vittoria, and so forth? By a great might have cast the coin, calling,
victory I can't mean that affair at 'Head,' and lo! Tail might have
Farnham, for it was a drawn fight. come uppermost."  0 thou Ruler of
Where, then, are the victories, pray, Victories! - thou Awarder of Fame!
and when are we coming to them?  - thou Giver of Crowns (and shilMy good sir, you will perceive that lings) - if thou hast smiled upon us,
in this Nicaean discourse, I have only shall we not be thankful? There is
as yet advanced as far as this - that a Saturnine philosopher, standing at
a hero, whether he wins or loses, is a the door of his book-shop, who, I
hero; and that if a fellow will but fancy, has a pooh-pooh expression as
be honest and courageous, and do his the triumph passes.  (I can't see
best, we are for paying all honor to quite clearly for the laurels, which
him. Furthermore, it has been assert- have fallen down over my nose.) One
cd that Fortune has a good deal to do hand is reining in the two white elewvith the making of heroes; and thus phants that draw the car; I raise the
hinted for the consolation of those other hand up to - to the laurels,
who don't happen to be engaged in and pass on, waving him a graceful




238


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recognition. Up the Hill of Ludgate
-around the Pauline Square- by
the side of Chepe - until it reaches
our own Hill of Corn - the procession passes. The Imperator is bowing to the people; the captains of the
legions are riding round the car, their
gallant minds struck by the thought,
" Have we not fought as well as yonder fellow, swaggering in the chariot,
and are we not as good as he?"
Granted, with all my heart, my dear
lads. When your consulship arrives,
may you be as fortunate.  When
these hands, now growing old, shall
lay down sword and truncheon, may
you mount the car, and ride to the
temple of Jupiter. Be yours the laurels then. Neque me myrtts dedecet,
looking cosily down from the arbor
where I sit under the arched vine.
I fancy the Imperator standing on
the steps of the temple (erected by
Titus) on the Mons Frumentarius,
and addressing the citizens: " Quirites! " he says, "in our campaign of
six months, we have been engaged
six times, and in each action have
taken near upon a hundred thousand
prisoners. Go to! What are other
magazines compared to our magazine? (Sound, trumpeter!) What
banner is there like that of Cornhill?
You, philosopher yonder!"   (He
shirks under his mantle.) "Do you
know what it is to have a hundred
and ten thousand readers? A hundred thousand readers? a hundred
thousand buyers!" (Cries of" No!"
-"Pooh!"    "Yes, upon my honor!"  "Oh, come!" and murmurs
of applause and derision) — " I say
more than a hundred thousand purchasers- and I believe as much as a
million readers "  (Immense sensation.) "To these have we said an
unkind word? We have enemies;
have we hit them an unkind blow?
Have we sought to pursue party aims,
to forward private jobs, to advance
selfish schemes? The only persons
to whom wittingly we have given
pain are some who have volunteered
for our corps —and of these volun

teers we have had tlhousands." (Murmurs   and   grumbles.)   ' What
commander, citizens, could place all
these men-could make officers of
all these men?" (cries of "Nono! " and laughter) - "could say,
'I accept this recruit, though he is
too short for our standard, because
he is poor, and has a mother at home
who wants bread?' could enroll this
other, who is too weak to bear arms,
because he says, 'Look, sir, I shall
be stronger anon.' The leader of
such an army as ours must select his
men, not because they are good and
virtuous, but because they are strong
and capable. To these our ranks are
ever open, and in addition to the
warriors who surround me"- (the
generals look proudly conscious) -" I
tell you, citizens, that I am in treaty'
with other and most tremendous
champions, who will march by the
side of our veterans to the achievement of fresh victories. Now, blow
trumpets!  Bang, ye gongs! and
drummers, drub the thundering skins!
Generals and chiefs, we go to sacrifice
to the gods."
Crowned with flowers, the captains
enter the temple, the other Magazines
walking modestly behind them. The
people huzza; and, in some instances,
kneel and kiss the fringes of the robes
of the warriors.  The Philosopher
puts up his shutters, and retires into
his shop, deeply moved. In ancient
times, Pliny (uapud Smith) relates it
was the custom of the Imperator " te
paint his whole body a bright red;"
and, also, on ascending the Hill, to
have some of the hostile chiefs led
aside "to the adjoining prison, and
put to death."  We propose to dispense with both these ceremonies.
TIIORNS IN THE CUSHION.
IN the Essay with which this volume commences, " The Cornhill Magazine " was likened to a ship sailing
forth on her voyage, and the captain




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


239


uttered a very sincere prayer for her
prosperity. The dangers of storm
and rock, the vast outlay upon ship
and cargo, and the certain risk of the
venture, gave the chief officer a feeling of no small anxiety; for who
could say from what quarter danger
might arise, and how his owner's
property might be imperilled 2 After
a six months' voyage, we with very
thankful hearts could acknowledge
our good fortune: and, taking up the
apologue in the Roundabout manner,
we composed a triumphal procession
in honor of the Magazine, and imagined the Imperator thereof riding in
a sublime car to return thanks in the
Temple of Victory. Cornhill is accustomed to grandeur and greatness,
and has witnessed, every ninth of
November, for I don't know  how
many centuries, a prodigious annual
pageant, chariot, progress and flourish
of trumpetry; and being so very near
the Mansion House, I am sure the
reader will understand how the idea
of pageant and procession came
naturally to my mind. The imagination easily supplied a gold coach,
eight cream-colored horses of your
true Pegasus breed, huzzaing multitudes, running footmen, and clanking
knights in armor, a chaplain and
a sword-bearer with a muff on his
head, scowling out of the coach-window, and a Lord Mayor all crimson,
fur, gold-chain, and white ribbons,
solemnly occupying the place of state.
A playful fancy could have carried
the matter farther, could have depicted the feast in the Egyptian all,
the Ministers, Chief Justices, and
right reverend prelates taking their
seats round about his lordship, the
turtle and other delicious viands, and
Mr. Toole behind the central throne,
bawling out to the assembled guests
and dignitaries: "My Lord So-andso, my Lord What-d'ye-call-'im, my
Lord Etcaetera, the Lord Mayor
pledges you all in a loving-cup."
Then the noble proceedings come to
an end; Lord Simper proposes the
ladies; the company rises from table,


and adjourns to coffee and muffins.
The carriages of the nobility and
guests roll back to the West. The
Egyptian Hall, so bright just now,
appears in a twilight glimmer, in
which waiters are seen ransacking the
dessert, and rescuing the spoons.
His lordship and the Lady Mayoress
go into their private apartments.
The robes are doffed, the collar and
white ribbons are removed.   The
Mayor becomes a man, and is pretty
surely in a fluster about the speeches
which he has just uttered; remembering too well now, wretched creature,
the principal points which he didn't
make when he rose to speak. He goes
to bed to headache, to care, to repentance, and, I dare say, to a dose of
something which his body-physician
has prescribed for him. And there
are ever so many men in the city who
fancy that man happy!
Now, suppose that all through that
9th of November his lordship has had
a racking rheumatism, or a toothache,
let us say, during all dinner-time —
through which he has been obliged to
grin and mumble his poor old speeches. Is he enviable? Would you
like to change with his lordship?
Suppose that bumper which his golden
footman brings him, instead i'fackins
of ypocras or canary, contains some
abomination of senna? Away! Remove the golden goblet, insidious cupbearer! You now begin to perceive
the gloomy moral which I am about
to draw.
Last month we sang the song of
glorification, and rode in the chariot
of triumph. It was all very well. It
was right to huzza, and be thankful,
and cry, Bravo, our side! and besides,
you know, there was the enjoyment of
thinking how pleased Brown, and
Jones, and Robinson (our dear
friends) would be at this announcement of success. But now that the
performance is over, my good sir, just
step into my private room, and see
that it is not all pleasure - this winning of successes. Cast your eye
over those newspapers, over those let.




240


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ters. See what the critics say of your
harmless jokes, neat little trim sentences, and pet waggeries! Why,
you are no better than an idiot; you
are drivelling; your powers have left
you; this always overrated writer is
rapidly sinking to, &c.
This is not pleasant; but neither is
this the point. It may be the critic
is right and the author wrong.  It
may be that the archbishop's sermon
is not so fine as some of those discourses twenty years ago which used
to delight the faithful in Granada.
Or it may be (pleasing thought!)
that the critic is a dullard, and does
not understand what he is writing
about. Everybody who has been to
an exhibition has heard visitors discoursing about the pictures before
their faces. One says, "This is very
well!" another says, "This is stuff
and rubbish; " another cries, " Bravo!
this is a masterpiece:" and each has
a right to his opinion. For example,
one of the pictures I admired most at
the Royal Academy is by a gentleman on whom I never, to my knowledge, set eyes.  This picture is No.
346, "Moscs," by Mr. S. Solomon.
I thought it had a great intention, I
thought it finely drawn and composed.
It nobly represented, to my mind, the
dark children of the Egyptian bondage, and suggested the touching
story. My newspaper says, " Two
ludicrously ugly women looking at
a dingy baby, do not form a pleasing
object; "and so good-by, Mr. Solomon.
Are not most of our babies served so
in life? and doesn't Mr. Robinson
consider Mr. Brown's cherub an ugly,
squalling little brat? So cheer up,
Mr. S. S. It may be the critic who
discoursed on your baby is a bad
judge of babies. When Pharaoh's
kind daughter found the child, and
cherished and loved it, and took it
home, and found a nurse for it, too, I
dare say there were grim, brickdustcolored chamberlains, or some of the
tough, old, meagre, yellow princesses
at court, who never had children
themselves, who cried out, "Faugh!


the horrid little squalling wretch!"
and knew he would never come to
good; and said, "Didn't I tell you
so? " when he assaulted the Egyptian.
Never mind, then, Mr. S. Solomon,
I say, because a critic pooh-poohs
your work of art-your Moses —
your child —your foundling. Why,
did not a wiseacre in " Blackwood's
Magazine " lately fall foul of " Tom
Jones?" O hypercritic!  So, to be
sure, did good old Mr. Richardson,
who could write novels himself- but
you, and I, and Mr. Gibbon, my dear
sir, agree in giving our respect and
wonder and admiration, to the brave
old master.
In these last words I am supposing
the respected reader to be endowed
with a sense of humor, which he may
or may not possess; indeed, don't
we know many an honest man who can
no more corn prehend ajoke than he can
turn a tune? But I take for granted,
my dear sir, that you are brimming
over with fun —you nayn't make
jokes, but you could if you would -
you know you could: and in your
quiet way you enjoy them extremely.
Now, many people neither make them,
nor understand them when made, nor
like them when understood, and are
suspicious, testy, and angry with
jokers. Have you ever watched an
elderly male or female —an elderly
"party," so to speak, who begins to
find out that some young wag of the
company is " chaffing" him? Have
you ever tried the sarcastic or Socratic
method with a child? Little simple
he or she, in the innocence of the
simple heart, plays some silly freak,
or makes some absurd remark, which
you turn to ridicule. The little creature dimly perceives that you are
making fun of him, writhes, blushes,
grows uneasy, bursts into tears,upon my word it is not fair to try the
weapon of ridicule upon that innocent young victim. The awful objurgatory practice he is accustomed to.
Point out his fault, and lay bare the
dire consequences thereof: expose it
roundly, and give him a proper, sol



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


241


emn, moral whipping -but do not to do, and prefer thistles to pine-apattempt to castigare ridendo. Do not ples; they may be conscientious,
laugh at him writhing, and cause all acute, deeply learned, delightful judgthe other boys in the school to laugh. es, who see your joke in a moment,
Remember your own young days and the profound wisdom lying underat school, my friend- the tingling neath. Wise or dull, laudatory or
cheeks, burning ears, bursting heart, otherwise, we put their opinions aside.
and passion of desperate tears, with If they applaud, we are pleased: if
which you looked up, after having they shake their quick pens, and fly
performed some blunder, whilst the off with a hiss, we resign their favors
doctor held you to public scorn before and put on all the fortitude we can
the class, and cracked his great clumsy muster.  I would rather have the
jokes upon you —helpless, and a lowest man's good word than his bad
prisoner! Better the block itself, and one, to be sure; but as for coaxing a
the lictors, with their fasces of birch- compliment, or wheedling him into
twigs, than the maddening torture of good-humor, or stopping his angry
those jokes                       mouth with a good dinner, or acceptNow, with respect to jokes - and ing his contributions for a certain
the present company of course ex- Magazine, for fear of his barking or
cepted - many people, perhaps most snapping elsewhere - allons donc!
people, are as infants. They have These shall not be our acts. Bowlittle sense of humor. They don't wow, Cerberus! Here shall be no
like jokes. Raillery in writing annoys sop for thee, unless - unless Cerberus
and offends them. The coarseness is an uncommonly good dog, when
apart, I think I have met very, very we shall bear no malice because he
few women who liked the banter of flew at us from our neighbor's gate.
Swift and Fielding. Their simple,   What, then, is the main grief you
tender natures revolt at laughter. Is spoke of as annoying you - the tooththe satyr always a wicked brute at ache in the Lord Mayor's jaw, the
heart, and are they rightly shocked thorn in the cushion of the editorial
at his grin, his leer, his horns, hoofs, chair? It is there.  Ah! it stings
and ears? Fi donec, le vilain monstre me now as I write. It comes with
with his shrieks, and his capering almost every morning's post.  At
crooked legs! Let him go and get a night I come home, and take my letpair of well-wadded black silk stock- ters up to bed (not daring to open
ings, and pull them over those horrid them), and in the morning I find one,
shanks; put a large gown and bands two, three thorns on my pillow. Three
over beard and hide; and pour a I extracted yesterday; two I found
dozen of lavender-water into his lawn this morning. They don't sting quite
handkerchief, and cry, and never so sharply as they did; but a skin is
make a joke again. It shall all be a skin, and they bite, after all, most
hlighly-distilled poesy, and perfumed wickedly. It is all very fine to adsentiment, and gushing eloquence; vertise on the Magazine, " Contribuand the foot shan't peep out, and tions are only to be sent to Messrs.
plague take it. Cover it up with the Smith, Elder, and Co., and not to the
surplice. Out with your cambric, dear Editor's private residence." My dear
ladies, and let us all whimper together. sir, how little you know man or
Now, then, hand on heart, we de- woman kind, if you fancy they will
dare that it is not the fire of adverse take that sort of warning! How am
critics which afflicts or frightens the I to know (though, to be sure, I
editorial bosom. They may be right; begin to know now), as I take the
they may be rogues who have a per- letters off the tray, which of those ensonal spite; they may be dullards velopes contains a real bond fide letter,
who kick and bray as their nature is and which a thorn? One of the best
11*




242


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


invitations this year I mistook for a
thorn-letter, and kept it without opening. This is what I call a thornletter:" Camberwell, June 4.
"       SIR,- May I hope, may I entreat, that
you will favor me by perusing the enclosed lines, and that they may be found
worthy of insertion in "The Cornhill
Magazine." We have known better days,
sir. I have a sick and widowed mother
to maintain, and little brothers and sisters
who look to me. I do my utmost as a
governess to support them. I toil at night
when they are at rest, and my own hand
and brain are alike tired. If I could add
but a little to our means by my pen, many
of my poor invalid's wants might be supplied, and I could procure for her comforts
to which she is now a stranger. Heaven
knows it is not for want of will or for want
of energy on my part, that she is now in
ill-health, and our little household almost
without bread. Do - do cast a kind glance
over my poem, and if you can help us, the
widow, the orphans, will bless you1 I
remain, sir, in anxious expectancy,
"Your faithful servant,
"S. S. S."
And enclosed is a little poem or two,
and an envelope with its penny stamp
- heaven help us! - and the writer's
name and address.
Now you see what I mean by a
thorn. Here is the case put with true
female logic.  "I am poor; I am
good; I am ill; I work hard; I have
a sick mother and hungry brothers
and sisters dependent on me. You
can help us if you will." And then
I look at the paper, with the thousandtl part of a faint hope that it
may be suitable, and I find it won't
(lo: and I knew it wouldn't do: and
why is this poor lady to appeal to my
pity and bring her poor little ones
kneeling to my bedside, and calling
for bread which I can give them if I
choose?  No day passes but that
argument ad nisericordiam is used.
Day and night that sad voice is crying
out for help. Thrice it appealed to
me yesterday. Twice this morning
it cried to me: and I have no doubt
when I go to get my hat, I shall find
it with its piteous face and its pale
family about it, waiting for me in the
hall. One of the immense advantages


which women have over our sex is,
that they actually like to read these
letters. Like letters?  0 mercy on
us! Before I was an editor I did not
like the postman much:- but now!
A very common way with these
petitioners is to begin with a fine
flummery about the merits and eminent genius of the person whom they
are addressing. But this artifice, I
state publicly, is of no avail. When
I see that kind of herb, I know the
snake within it, and fling it away before it has time to sting. Away, reptile, to the waste-paper basket, and
thence to the flames!
But of these disappointed people,
some take their disappointment and
meekly bear it. Some hate and hold
you their enemy because you could
not be their friend.  Some, furious
and envious, say, " Who is this man
who refuses what I offer, and how
dares he, the conceited coxcomb, to
deny my merit? "
Sometimes my letters contain not
mere thorns, but bludgeons. Here
are two choice slips from that noble
Irish oak, which has more than once
supplied alpeens for this meek and
unoffending skull: -
"Theatre Royal, Donnybrook.
"SIR,-I have just finished reading
the first portion of your Tale, Lovel the
JWidower, and am much surprised at the
unwarrantable strictures you pass therein
on the corps de ballet.
"I have been for more than ten years
connected with the theatrical profession,
and I beg to assure you that the majority
of the corps de ballet are virtuous, wellconducted girls, and, consequently, that
snug cottages are not taken for them in
the Regent's Park.
" I also have to inform you that theatri.
cal managers are in the habit of speaking
good English, possibly better English than
authors.
"You eitherknow nothingof the subject
in question,or you assert awilful falsehood.
"I am happy to say that the characters
of the corps de ballet, as also those of
actors and actresses, are superior to the
snarlings of dyspeptic libellers, or the
spiteful attacks and brutum fulmen of
ephemeral authors.
"I am, sir, your obedient servant,
A. B.C.
" The Editor of' The Cornhill Magazine.'"




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


243


" Theatre Royal, Donnybrook.
t" SIR, - I have just read, in ' The Cornhill Magazine,' for January, the first portion of a Tale written by you, and entitled
Lovel the Widower.
"In the production in question you
employ all your malicious spite (and you
have great capabilities that way) in trying
to degrade the character of the corps de
ballet. When you imply that the majority
of ballet-girls have villas taken for them
in the Regent's Park, I say you tell a deliberate falsehood.
" Having been brought up to the stage
from infancy, and, though now an actress,
having been seven years principal dancer
at the opera, I am competent to speak on
the subject. I am only surprised that so
vile a libeller as yourself should be allowed
to preside at the Dramatic Fund dinner on
the 22d instant. I think it would be much
better if you were to reform your own
life, instead of telling lies of those who
are immeasurably your superiors.
"Yours in supreme disgust,
"A. D."
The signatures of the respected
writers are altered, and for the site of
their Theatre Royal an adjacent place
is named, which (as I may have been
falsely informed) used to be famous
for quarrels, thumps, and broken
heads. But, I say, is this an easy
chair to sit on, when you are liable
to have a pair of such shillelaghs flung
at it? And, prithee, what was all the
quarrel about? In the little history
of " Lovel the Widower" I described,
and brought to condign punishment,
a certain wretch of a ballet-dancer,
who lived splendidly for a while on illgotten gains, had an accident, and
lost her beauty, and died poor, deserted, ugly, and every way odious. In
the same page, other little balletdancers are described, wearing homely
clothing, doing their duty, and carrying their humble savings to the family
at home. But nothing will content
my dear correspondents but to have
me declare that the majority of
ballet-dancers have villas in the Regent's Park, and to convict me of
"deliberate falsehood." Suppose, for
instance, I had chosen to introduce a
red-haired washerwoman into a story?
I might get an expostulatory letter
saying, " Sir, in stating that the ma

jority of washerwomen are red-haired,
you are a liar! and you had best not
speak of ladies who are immeasurably
your superiors." Or suppose I had
ventured to describe an illiterate
haberdasher? One of the craft might
write to me, "Sir, in describing
haberdashers as illiterate, you utter
a wilful falsehood. Haberdashers use
much better English than authors."
It is a mistake, to be sure. I have
never said what my correspondents
say I say. There is the text under
their noses, but what if they choose to
read it their own way?  "Hurroo,
lads! Here's for a fight. There's a
bald head peeping out of the hut.
There's a bald head! It must be
Tim Malone's." And whack! come
down both the bludgeons at once.
Ah me! we wound where we never
intended to strike; we create anger
where we never meant harm; and
these thoughts are the thorns in our
Cushion. Out of mere malignity, I
suppose, there is no man who would
like to make enemies. But here, in
this editorial business, you can't do
otherwise: and a queer, sad, strange,
bitter thought it is, that must cross
the mind of many a public man:
"Do what I will, be innocent or
spiteful, be generous or cruel, there
are A and B, and C and D, who will
hate me to the end of the chapter -
to the chapter's end -to the Finis
of the page- when hate, and envy,
and fortune, and disappointment shall
be over."
ON SCREENS IN DININGROOMS.
A GRANDSON of the late Rev. Dr.
Primrose (of Wakefield, vicar) wrote
me a little note from his country living
this morning, and the kind fellow had
the precaution to write "No thorn"
upon the envelope, so that, ere I
broke the seal, my mind might be
relieved of any anxiety lest the letter
should contain one of those lurking




244


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stabs which are so painful to the present gentle writer.  Your epigraph,
my dear P., shows your kind and
artless nature; but don't you see it is
of no use? People who are bent upon
assassinating you in the manner mentioned will write "No thorn" upon
their envelopes too; and you open the
case, and presently out flies a poisoned
stiletto, which springs into a man's
bosom, and makes the wretch howl
with anguish. When the bailiffs are
after a man, they adopt all sorts of disguises, pop out on him from all conceivable corners, and tap his miserable
shoulder. His wife is taken ill; his
sweetheart, who remarked his brilliant, too brilliant appearance at the
Hyde Park review, will meet him at
Cremorne, or where you will. The
old friend who has owed him that
money these five years will meet him
at so-and-so and pay. By one bait
or other the victim is hooked, netted,
landed, and down goes the basket-lid.
It is not your wife, your sweetheart,
your friend, who is going to pay you.
It is Mr. Nab the bailiff. You know
-     you are caught. You are off in
a cab to Chancery Lane.
You know, I say?   Why should
you know? I make no manner of
doubt you never were taken by a
bailiff in your life. I never was. I
have been in two or three debtors'
prisons, but not on my own account.
Goodness be praised! I mean you
can't escape your lot; and Nab only
stands here metaphorically as the
watchful, certain, and untiring officer
of Mr. Sheriff Fate. Why, my dear
Primrose, this morning along with
your letter, comes another, bearing
the well known superscription of another old friend, which I open without
the least suspicion, and what do I
find? A few lines from my friend
Johnson, it is true, but they are written on a page covered with feminine
handwriting. "Dear Mr. Johnson,"
says the writer, "I have just been
perusing with delight a most charming
tale by the Archbishop of Cambray. It
is called ' Telemachus;' and I think


it would be admirably suited to ' The
Cornhill Magazine.'  As you know
the Editor, will you have the great
kindness, dear Mr. Johnson, to communicate with him personally (as that
is much better than writing in a
roundabout way to the Publishers,
and waiting goodness knows how long
for an answer), and state my readiness to translate this excellent and
instructive story.  I do not wish to
breathe a word against 'Lovel Parsonage,' ' Framley the Widower,' or any
of the novels which have appeared in
'The Cornhill Magazine,' but I am
sure ' Telemachus' is as good as new
to English readers, and in point of
interest and moralityfar," &c., &c., &c.
There it is. I am stabbed through
Johnson. He has lent himself to this
attack on me. He is weak about
women. Other strong men are. He
submits to the common lot, poor fellow. In my reply I do not use a
word of unkindness. I write him
back gently that I fear " Telema.
chus" won't suit us. He can send
the letter on to his fair correspondent.
But however soft the answer, I question whether the wrath will be turned
away. Will there not be a coolness
between him and the lady? and is it
not possible that henceforth her fine
eyes will look with darkling glances
upon the pretty orange cover of our
magazine?
Certain writers, they say, have a bad
opinion of women. Now am I very
whimsical in supposing that this disappointed candidate will be hurt at
her rejection, and angry or cast down
according to her nature? "Angry,
indeed!" says Juno, gathering up
her purple robes and royal raiment.
"Sorry, indeed! "  cries Minerva,
lacing on her corselet again, and
scowling under her helmet. (I imagine the well known Apple case
has just been argued and decided.)
" Hurt, forsooth! Do you suppose
we care for the opinion of that hobnailed lout of a Paris? Do you suppose that I, the Goddess of Wisdom,
can't make allowances for mortal ig



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


245


norance, and am so base as to bear Have you never had a dispute, and
malice against a poor creature who found out that you were wrong? So
knows no better   You little know  much the worse for you. Woe be to
the goddess nature when you dare to the man qui croit toujours avoir raison.
insinuate that our divine minds are His anger is not a brief madness, but
actuated by motives so base. A love a permanent mania. His rage is not
bf justice influences us. We are above a fever-fit, but a black poison inflarn
mean revenge. We are too magnan- ing him, distorting his judgment, disimous to be angry at the award of turbing his rest, imbittering his cup,
such a judge in favor of such a crea- gnawing at his pleasures, causing him
ture." And rustling out their skirts, more cruel suffering than ever he can
the ladies walk away together. This inflict on his enemy. 0 la belle mois all veey well. You are bound to rale! As I write it, I think about one
believe them. They are actuated by or two little affairs of my own. There
no hostility: not they. Theybearno is old Dr. Squaretoso (he certainly
malice-of course not. But when the was very rude to me, and that's the
Trojan war occurs presently, which fact); there is Madame Pomposa (and
side will they take?  Many brave certainly her ladyship's behavior was
souls will be sent to Hades. Hector about as cool as cool could be). Nevwill perish. Poor old Priam's bald cr mind, old Squaretoso: never mind,
numskull will be cracked, and Troy Madame Pomposa! Here is a hand.
town will burn, because Paris prefers Let us be friends, as we once were,
golden-haired Venus to ox-eyed Juno and have no more of this rancor.
and gray-eyed Minerva.              I had hardly sent that last RoundThe last Essay of this Roundabout about Paper to the printer (which, I
Series, describing the griefs and mis- submit, was written in a placable and
eries of the editorial chair, was written, not unchristian frame of mind), when
as the kind reader will acknowledge, Saturday came, and with it, of course,
in a mild and gentle, not in a warlike my " Saturday Review."  I rememor satirical spirit.  I showed how  ber at New York coming down to
cudgels were applied; but surely the breakfast at the hotel one morning,
meek object of persecution hit no aftera criticism had appeared in" The
blows in return. The beating did New    York Herald," in which an
not hurt much, and the person assault- Irish waiter had given me a dressing
ed could afford to keep his good- for a certain lecture on Swift. Ah!
humor; indeed, I admired that brave my dear little enemy of the T. R. D.,
though illogical little actress, of what were the cudgels in your little
the T. R. D-bl-n, for her fiery vindi- billet-doux compared to those noble
cation of her profession's honor. I New York shillelaghs? All through
assure her I had no intention to tell the Union, the literary sons of Erin
1-s - well, let us say, monosyllables have marched alpeen-stock in hand,
- about my superiors: and I wish and in every city of the States they
her nothing but well, and when Mac- call each other and everybody else
mahon (or shall it be Mulligan?) Roi the finest names. Having come to
d'Irlande ascends his throne, I hope breakfast, then, in the public room, I
she may be appointed professor of sit down, and see —that the nine
English to the princesses of the royal people opposite have all got" New
llouse. Nuper - in former days - I York Heralds" in their hands. One
too have militated; sometimes, as I dear little lady, whom I knew, and
new  think, unjustly; but always who sat opposite, gave a pretty blush,
I vow, without personal rancor. and popped her paper under the taWhich of us has not idle words to re- blecloth. I told her I had had my
call, flippant jokes to regret? Have whipping already in my own private
you never committed an imprudence? room, and begged her to continue her




246


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reading. I may have undergone ago- dinners, and for the conversation
nies, you see, but every man who has which did not take place there, - is
been bred at an English public school this tolerable press practice, legitimate
comes away from a private interview joking, or honorable warfare?  I
with Dr. Birch with a calm, even have not the honor to know my next
a smiling face. And this is not im- door neighbor, but I make no doubt
possible, when you are prepared. that he receives his friends at dinner;
You screw your courage up -you go I see his wife and children pass conthrough the business.  You come stantly; I even know the carriages of
back and take your seat on the form, some of the people who call upon
showing not the least symptom of un- him, and could tell their names. Now,
easiness or of previous unpleasantries. suppose his servants were to tell mine
But to be caught suddenly up, and what the doings are next door, who
whipped in the bosom of your family comes to dinner, what is eaten and
-to sit down to breakfast, and cast said, and I were to publish an account
your innocent eye on a paper, and of these transactions in a newspaper,
find, before you are aware, that " The I could assuredly get money for the
Saturday Monitor " or " Black Mon- report; but ought I to write it, and
day Instructor " has hoisted you and what would you think of me for doing
is laying on - that is indeed a trial. so
Or perhaps the family has looked at  And suppose, Mr. Saturday Rethe dreadful paper beforehand, and viewer — you censor morun, vyou who
weakly tries to hide it. "Where is pique yourself (and justly and hon'The Instructor,'or'TheMonitor'?" orably in the main) upon your
say you. " Where is that paper? " character of gentleman, as well of
says mamma to one of the young la- writer, - suppose, not that you yourdies. Lucy hasn't it. Fanny hasn't self invent and indite absurd twaddle
seen it. Emily thinks that the gov- about gentlemen's private meetings
crness has it. At last,out it is brought, and transactions, but pick this wretchthat awful paper! Papa is amazing- ed garbage out of a New York street,
ly tickled with the article on Thom- and hold it up for your readers'
son; thinks that show-up of Johnson amusement-don't you think, my
is very lively; and now - heaven be friend, that you might have been betgood to us I -he has come to the ter employed? Here, ismy "Saturday
critique on himself —" Of all the Review," and in an American paper
rubbish which we have had from Mr. subsequently sent to me, I light, asTomkins, we do protest and vow    tonished, on an account of the dinthat this last cartload is" &c. Ah, ners of my friend and publisher,
poor Tomkins! -but most of all, which are described as" tremendously
ah! poor Mrs. Tomkins, and poor heavy," of the conversation (which
Emily, and Fanny, and Lucy, who does not take place), and of the guests
have to sit by and see paterfamilias assembled at the table. I am informed
put to the torture!              that the proprietor of " The CornNow, on this eventful Saturday, I hill" and the host on these occasions,
did not cry, because it was not so much is " a very good man, but totally unthe Editor as the Publisher of " The read; " and that on my asking him
Cornhill Magazine " who was brought whether Dr. Johnson was dining beout for a dressing; and it is wonderful hind the screen, he said, " God bless
how gallantly one bears the misfor- my soul, my dear sir, there's no pertunes of one's friends. That a writer son by the name of Johnson here, nor
should be taken to task about his any one behind the screen," and that
books, is fair, and he must abide the a roar of laughter cut him short. I
praise or the censure. But that a am informed by the same New York
publisher should be criticised for his correspondent that I have touched up




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


a contributor's article; that I once
said to a literary gentleman, who was
proudly pointing to an anonymous
article as his writing, "Ah! I thought
I recognized your hoof in it." I am
told by the same authority that "The
Cornhill Magazine " " shows symptoms of being on the wane," and having sold nearly a hundred thousand
copies, he (the correspondent) "should
think forty thousand was now about
the mark." Then the graceful writer
passes on to the dinners, at which it
appears the Editor of the Magazine
"is the great gun, and comes out with
all the geniality in his power."
Now suppose this charming intelligence is untrue  Suppose the publisher (to recall the words of my
friend the Dublin actor of last month)
is a gentleman to the full as well informed as those whom he invites to
his table? Suppose he never made the
remark,.beginning -" God bless my
soul, my dear sir," &c., nor any thing
resembling it? Suppose nobody roared
with laughing? Suppose the Editor
of "The Cornhill Magazine" never
" touched up" one single line of the
contribution which bears "marks of
his hand"? Suppose he never said
to any literary gentleman, " I recognized your hoof" in aly periodical
whatever? Suppose the 40,000 subscribers, which the writer to New York
"considered to be about the mark,"
should be between 90,000 and 100,000
(and as he will have figures, there
they are)? Suppose this back-door
gossip should be utterly blundering and untrue, would any one wonder? Ah! if we had only enjoyed the
happiness to number this writer
among the contributors to our Magazine, what a cheerfulness and easy
confidence his presence would impart
to our meetings! He would find that
"poor Mr. Smith" had heard that
recondite anecdote of Dr. Johnson
behind the screen; and as for "the
great gun of those banquets," with
what geniality should not I "come
out" if I had an amiable companion close by me, dotting down my


conversation for "The New York
Times"!
Attack our books, Mr. Correspondent, and welcome.   They are fair
subjects for just censure or praise.
But woe be to you, if you allow private rancors or animosities to influence you in the discharge of your public duty. In the little court where
you are paid to sit as judge, as critic,
you owe it to your employers, to your
conscience, to the honor of your calling, to deliver just sentences; and
you shall have to answer to heaven
for your dealings, as surely as my
Lord Chief Justice on the Bench.
The dignity of letters, the honor of
the literary calling, the slights put by
haughty and unthinking people upon
literary men, - don't we hear outcries
upon these subjects raised daily? As
dear Sam Johnson sits behind the
screen, too proud to show his threadbare coat and patches among the more
prosperous brethren of his trade, there
is no want of dignity in him, in that
homely image of labor ill rewarded,
genius as yet unrecognized, independence sturdy and uncomplaining. But
Mr. Nameless, behind the publisher's
screen uninvited, peering at the company and the meal, catching up scraps
of the jokes, and noting down the
guests' behavior and conversation,what a figure his is! Allons, Mr.
Nameless! Put up your notebook;
walk out of the hall; and leave gentlemen alone who would be private.
and wish you no harm.
TUNBRIDGE      TOYS.
I WONDER whether those little
silver pencil-cases with a movable
almanac at the butt-end are still
favorite implements with boys, and
whether peddlers still hawk them
about the country? Are there peddlers and hawkers still, or are rustics
and children grown too sharp to deal
with them? Those pencil-cases, as far
as my memory serves me, were not




248


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of much use. The screw upon which
the movable almanac turned was
constantly getting loose.  The i of
the table would work from its moorings, under Tuesday or Wednesday,
as the case might be, and you would
find, on examination, that Th. or W.
was the 234 of the month (which was
absurd on the face of the thing), and
in a word your cherished pencil-case
an utterly unreliable time-keeper.
Nor was this a matter of wonder.
Consider the position of a pencil-case
in a boy's pocket. You had hardbake in it; marbles, kept in your
purse when the money was all gone;
your mother's purse, knitted so fondly
and supplied with a little bit of gold,
long since —prodigal little son!scattered amongst the swine - I mean
amongst brandy-balls, open tarts,
three-cornered puffs, and similar
abominations.  You had a top and
string; a knife; a piece of cobbler's
wax; two or three bullets; a Little
Warbler; and I, for my part, remember, for a considerable period, a brassbarrelled pocket-pistol (which would
fire beautifully, for with it I shot off a
button from Butt Major's jacket); -
with all these things, and ever so
many more, clinking and rattling in
your pockets, and your hands, of
course, keeping them in perpetual
movement, how could you expect
your movable almanac not to be
twisted out of its place now and
again - your pencil-case to be bentyour licorice water not to leak out
of your bottle over the cobbler's wax,
your bull's-eyes not to ram up the
lock and barrel of your pistol, and so
forth?
In the month of June, thirty-seven
years ago, I bought one of those
pencil-cases from a boy whom I shall
call Hawker, and who was in my
form. Is he dead? Is he a millionnaire  Is he a bankrupt now?  He
was an immense screw at school, and
I believe to this day that the value
of the thing for which I owed and
eventually paid three-and-sixpence,
was in reality not one-and-nine.




I certainly enjoyed the case at first
a good deal, and amused myself with
twiddling round the movable calendar. But this pleasure wore off. The
jewel, as I said, was not paid for, and
Hawker, a large and violent boy, was
exceedingly unpleasant as a creditor.
His constant remark was, " When
are you going to pay me that threeand-sixpence 1  What sneaks your
relations must be? They come to
see you. You go out to them on
Saturdays and Sundays, and they
never give you any thing! Don't tell
me, you little humbug! " and so forth.
The truth is that my relations were
respectable; but my parents were
making a tour in Scotland; and my
friends in London, whom I used to
go and see, were most kind to me,
certainly, but somehow never tipped
me. That term, of May to August,
1823, passed in agonies then, in consequence of my debt to 'Hawker.
What was the pleasure of a calendar
pencil-case in comparison with the
doubt and torture of mind occasioned
by the sense of the debt, and the constant reproach in that fellow's scowling
eyes and gloomy, coarse reminders?
How was I to pay off such a debt out
of sixpence a week? ludicrous!
Why did not some one come to see
me, and tip me'? Ah! my dear sir,
if you have any little friends at school,
go and see them, and do the natural
thing by them. You won't miss the
sovereign. You don't know what a
blessing it will be to them. Don't
fancy they are too old -try 'em.
And they will remember you, and
bless you in future days; and their
gratitude shall accompany your dreary
after-life; and they shall meet you
kindly when thanks for kindness arc
scant. O mercy! shall I ever forget
that sovereign you gave me, Captain
Bob? or the agonies of being in debt
to Hawker? In that very term, a
relation of mine was going to India.
I actually was fetched from school in
order to take leave of him. I am
afraid I told Hawker of this circumstance. I own I speculated upon my




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


friend's giving me a pound.   A    Away I ran and paid Hawker his
pound? Pooh! A relation going to three-and-six. Ouf! what a weight
India, and deeply affected at parting it was off my mind! (He was a Norfrom his darling kinsman, might give folk boy, and used to go home from
five pounds to the dear fellow!... Mrs. Nelson's "Bell Inn," Aldgate
There was Hawker when I came - but that is not to the point.) The
back- of course there he was. As next morning, of course, we were an
he looked in my scared face, his hour before the time. I and another
turned livid with rage. He muttered boy shared a hackney-coach; twocurses, terrible from the lips of so and-six; porter for putting luggage
young a boy. My relation, about to on coach, threepence. I had no more
cross the ocean to fill a lucrative ap- money of my own left. Rasherwell,
pointment, asked me with much in- my companion, went into the " Boltterest about my progress at school, in-Tun  coffee-room, and had a
heard  me construe a passage of good breakfast. I couldn't; because,
Eutropius, the pleasing Latin work though I had five and twenty shilon which I was then engaged; gave lings of my parents' money, I had
me a God bless you, and sent me none of my own, you see.
back to school; upon my word of    I certainly intended to go without
honor, without so much as a half- breakfast, and still remember how
crown! It is all very well, my dear strongly I had that resolution in my
sir, to say that boys contract habits mind. But there was that hour to
of expecting tips from their parents' wait. A beautiful August morning
friends, that they become avaricious, -I am very hungry. There is Rashand so forth.  Avaricious! fudge! erwell " tucking " away in the coffeeBoys contract habits of tart and toffee room. I pace the street, as sadly aleating, which they do not carry into most as if I had been coming to
after-life. On the contrary, I wish I school, not going thence. I turn into
did like 'cm.   What raptures of a court by mere chance-I vow it
pleasure one could have now for five was by mere chance - and there I see
shillings, if one could but pick it off a coffee-shop with a placard in the
the pastrycook's tray! No. If you window, Coffee, Twopence. Roundof
have any little friends at school, out buttered toast, Twopence. And here
with your half-crowns, my friend, and am I, hungry, penniless, with five
impart to those little ones the little and twenty shillings of my parents'
fleeting joys of their age.      money in my pocket.
Well, then. At the beginning of  What would you have done? You
August, 1823, Bartlemy-tide holidays see I had had my money, and spent
came, and I was to go to my parents, it in that pencil-case affair. The five
who were at Tunbridge Wells. My and twenty shillings were a trust —
place in the coach was taken by my by me to be handed over.
tutor's servants -" Bolt-in-Tun,"  But then would my parents wish
Fleet Street, seven o'clock in the their only child to be actually without
morning, was the word. My Tutor, breakfast? Having this money, and
the Rev. Edward P-, to whom I being so hungry, so very hungry,
hereby present my best compliments, mightn't I take ever so little?
had a parting interview with me: Mightn't I at home eat as much as I
gave me my little account for my chose.
governor: the remaining part of the  Well, I went into the coffee-shop
coach-hire; five shillings for my own and spent fourpence. I remember the
expenses; and some five and twenty taste of the coffee and toast to this
shillings on an old account which had day —a peculiar, muddy, not-sweetbeen overpaid, and was to be restored enough, most fragrant coffee - a rich,
to my family.                    rancid, yet not-buttered-enough, deli



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cious toast. The waiter had nothing.
At any rate, fourpence I know was
the sum I spent. And the hunger
appeased, I got on the coach a guilty
being.
At the last stage, -what is its
name? I have forgotten in seven
and thirty years, -there is an inn
with a little green and trees before it;
and by the trees there is an open carriage. It is our carriage. Yes, there
are Prince and Blucher, the horses;
and my parents in the carriage. Oh 1
how I had been counting the days
until this one came! Oh! how happy had I been to see them yesterday!
But there was that fourpence. All
the journey down the toast had choked
me, and the coffee poisoned me.
I was in such a state of remorse
about the fourpence, that I forgot
the maternal joy and caresses, the
tender paternal voice. I pull out the
twenty-four shillings and eightpence
with a trembling hand.
" Here's your money," I gasp out,
"which Mr. P-     owes you, all but
fourpence. I owed three-and-sixpence
to Hawker out of my money for a
pencil-case, and I had none left, and
Itook fourpence of yours, and had
some coffee at a shop."
I suppose I must have been choking whilst uttering this confession.
"( My dear boy," says the governor,
" why didn't you go and breakfast at
the hotel?"
"Ie must be starved," says my
mother.
I had confessed; I had been a
prodigal; I had been taken back to
my parents' arms again. It was not
a very great crime as yet, or a very
long career of prodigality; but don t
we know that a boy who takes a pin
which is not his own will take a thousand pounds when occasion serves,
bring his parents' gray heads with
sorrow to the grave, and carry his
own to the gallows   Witness the
career of Dick Idle, upon whom our
friend Mr. Sala has been discoursing.
Dick only began by playing pitch-and
toss on a tombstone: playing fair,


for what we know: and even for that
sin he was promptly caned by the
beadle. The bamboo was ineffectual
to cane that reprobate's bad courses
out of him. From pitch-and-toss he
proceeded to man-slaughter if necessary: to highway robbery; to Tyburn
and the rope there. Ah! heaven be
thanked, my parents' heads are still
above the grass, and mine still out of
the noose.
As I look up from my desk, I see
Tunbridge Wells Common and the
rocks, the strange familiar place which
I remember forty years ago. Boys
saunter over the green with stumps
and cricket-bats. Other boys gallop
by on the riding-master's hacks. I
protest it is Cramp, Riding Master, as
it used to be in the reign of George
IV., and that Centaur Cramp must
be at least a hundred years old. Yonder comes a footman with a bundle
of novels from the library. Are they
as good as our novels   Oh! how
delightful they were! Shades of Valancour, awful ghost of Manfroni, how
I shudder at your appearance! Sweet
image of Thaddeus of Warsaw, how
often has this almost infantile hand
tried to depict you in a Polish cap
and richly embroidered tights! And
as for Corinthian Tom in light blue
pantaloons and Hessians, and Jerry
Hawthorn fiom the country, can all
the fashion, can all the splendor of
real life which these eyes have subsequently beheld, can all the wit I have
heard or read in later times, compare
with your fashion, with your brilliancy, with your delightful grace,
and sparkling vivacious rattle
Who knows? They may have kept
those very books at the library still
- at the well-remembered library on
the Pantiles, where they sell that delightful, useful Tunbridge ware. I
will go and see. I went my way to
the Pantiles, the queer little oldworld Pantiles, where, a hundred years
since, so much good company came
to take its pleasure. Is it possible
that in the past century, gentlefolks
of the first rank (as I read lately in a




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


lecture on George II. in " The Cornhill Magazine") assembled here and
entertained each other with gaming,
dancing, fiddling, and tea? There
are fiddlers, harpers, and trumpeters
performing at this moment in a weak
old balcony, but where is the fine
company?  Where are the earls,
duchesses, bishops, and magnificent
embroidered gamesters? A half-dozen of children and their nurses are
listening to the musicians: an old lady or two in a poke bonnet passes,
and for the rest, I see but an uninteresting population of native tradesmen.
As for the library, its window is full
of pictures of burly theologians and
their works, sermons, apologues, and
so forth. Can I go in and ask the
young ladies at the counter for "Manfroni, or the One-Handed Monk,"
and "Life in London, or the Adventures of Corinthian Tom, Jcremiah
Hawthorn, Esq., and their friend Bob
Logic"? - absurd.  I turn away
abashed from the casement-from
the Pantiles — no longer Pantiles but
Parade. I stroll over the Common,
and survey the beautiful purple hills
around, twinkling with a thousand
bright villas, which have sprung up
over this charming ground since first
I saw it. What an admirable scene of
peace and plenty! What a delicious
air breathes over the heath, blows the
cloud shadows across it, and murmurs
through the full-clad trees! Can the
world show a land fairer, richer, more
cheerful? I see a portion of it when
I look up from the window at which
I write. But fair scene, green woods,
bright terraces gleaming in sunshine,
and purple clouds swollen with summer rain - nay, the very pages over
which my head bends - disappear
fiom before my eyes. They are looking backwards, back into forty years
off, into a dark room, into a little
house hard by on the Common here,
in the Bartlemy-tide holidays. The
parents have gone to town for two
days: the house is all his own, his
own and a grim old maid-servant's,
and a little boy is seated at night in


the lonely drawing-room, poring over
"Manfroni,   or  the  One-Handed
Monk," so frightened that he scarcely dares to turn round.
DE JUVENTUTE.
OUR last paper of this veracious
and roundabout series related to a
period which can only be historical to
a great number of readers of this
Magazine. Four I saw at the station
to-day with orange-covered books in
their hands, who can but have known
George IV. by books, and statues,
and pictures. Elderly gentlemen were
in their prime, old men in their middle
age, when he reigned over us. His
image remains on coins; on a picture
or two hanging here and there in a
Club or old-fashioned dining-room;
on horseback, as at Trafalgar Square,
for example, where I defy any monarch to look more uncomfortable. He
turns up in sundry memoirs and histories which have been published of
late days; in Mr. Massey's " History;"
in " The Buckingham and Grenville
Correspondence; " and gentlemen who
have accused a certain writer of disloyalty are referred to those volumes
to see whether the picture drawn of
George is overcharged. Charon has
paddled him off; he has mingled with
the crowded republic of the dead. His
effigy smiles from a canvas or two.
Breechless he bestrides his steed in
Trafalgar Square. I believe he still
wears his robes at Madame Tussaud's
(Madame herself having quitted
Baker Street and life, and found him
she modelled t'other side the Stygian
stream). On the head of a five-shilling piece we still occasionally come
upon him,with St. George, the dragonslayer, on the other side of the coin.
Ah me! did this George slay many
dragons? Was he a brave, heroic
champion, and rescuer of virgins?
Well! well! have you and I overcome all the dragons that assail us?




252


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come alive and victorious out of all
the caverns which we have entered in
life, and succored, at risk of life and
limb, all poor distressed persons in
whose naked limbs the dragon Poverty is about to fasten his fangs,
whom the dragon Crime is poisoning
with his horrible breath, and about to
crunch up and devour? 0 my royal
liege! 0 my gracious prince and
warrior! You a champion to fight
that monster? Your feeble spear ever
pierce that slimy paunch or plated
back? See how the flames come
gurgling out of his red-hot brazen
throat! What a roar! Nearer and
nearer he trails, with eyes flaming like
the lamps of a railroad engine. How
he squeals, rushing out through the
darkness of his tunnel! Now he is
near. Now he is here. And now -
what? - lance, shield, knight, feathers, horse and all? 0 horror, horror!
Next day, round the monster's cave,
there lie a few bones more. You, who
wish to keep yours in your skins, be
thankful that you are not called upon
to go out and fight dragons.  Be
grateful that they don't sally out and
swallow you. Keep a wise distance
from their caves, lest you pay too
dearly for approaching them.  Remember that years passed, and whole
districts were ravaged, before the
warrior came who was able to cope
with the devouring monster. When
that knight does make his appearance,
with all my heart let us go out and
welcome him with our best songs,
huzzas, and laurel wreaths, and eagerly recognize his valor and victory.
But he comes only seldom. Countless knights were slain before St.
George won the battle. In the battle
of life are we all going to try for the
honors of championship? If we can
do our duty, if we can keep our place
pretty honorably through the combat,
let us say, Laus Deo! at the end of it,
as the firing ceases, and the night
fallJ over the field.
The old were middle-aged, the
elderly were in their prime, then,
thirty years since, when yon royal


George was still fighting the dragon.
As for you, my pretty lass, with your
saucy hat and golden tresses tumbled
in your net, and you, my spruce
young gentleman in your mandarin's
cap (the young folks at the countryplace where I am staying are so attired), your parents were unknown to
each other, and wore short frocks
and short jackets, at the date of this
five-shilling piece. Only to-day I
met a dog-cart crammed with children
-children with mustaches and mandarin caps- children with saucy hats
and hair-nets - children in short
frocks and knickerbockers (surely the
i)rettiest boy's dress that has appeared
these hundred years) - children from
twenty years of age to six; and father,
with mother by hjs side, driving in
front -and on father's countenance
I saw that very laugh which I remember perfectly in the time when
this crown-piece was coined -in his
time, in King George's time, when
we were school-boys seated on the
same form. The smile was just as
broad, as bright, as jolly, as I remember it in the past-unforgotten,
though not seen or thought of, for
how many decades of years, and quite
and instantly familiar, though so long
out of sight.
Any contemporary of that coin
who takes it up and reads the inscription round the laurelled head,
"Georgius IV. Britanniarum Rex.
Fid. Def. 1823," if he will but look
steadily enough at the round, and
utter the proper incantation, I dare
say may conjure back his life there.
Look well, my elderly friend, and
tell me what you see? First, I see a
Sultan, with hair, beautiful hair, and
a crown of laurels round his head,
and his name is Georgius Rex. Fid.
Def., and so on. Now the Sultan has
disappeared; and what is that I see?
A boy, - a boy in ajacket. He is at a
desk; he has great books before him,
Latin and Greek books and dictionaries. Yes, but behind the great
books, which he pretends to read, is a
little one, with pictures, which he is




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


253


really reading. It is -yes, I can the young man gets up and speaks to
read now -it is "The Heart of him. And now what is here? He
Mid Lothian," by the author of is in a room with ever so many chil" Waverley " - or, no, it is " Life in dren, and the miniature hanging up.
London, or the Adventures of Corin- Can it be a likeness of that woman
thian Tom, Jeremiah Hawthorn, and who is sitting before that copper urn,
their friend Bob Logic," by Pierce with a silver vase in her hand, from
Egan; and it has pictures,- oh! such which she is pouring hot liquor into
funny pictures! As he reads, there cups  Was she ever a fairy? She is
comes behind the boy, a man, a der- as fat as a hippopotamus now. He
vish, in a black gown, like a woman, is sitting on a divan by the fire. He
and a black square cap, and lie has a has a paper on his knees. Read the
book in each hand, and he seizes the name of the paper. It is " The Suboy who is reading the picture-book, perfine Review." It inclines to think
and lays his head upon one of his that Mr. Dickens is not a true gentlebooks, and smacks it with the other. man, that Mr. Thackeray is not a true
The boy makes faces, and so that gentleman, and that when the one is
picture disappears.               pert and the other is arch, we, the genNow the boy has grown bigger. tlemen of "The Superfine Review,"
He has got on a black gown and cap, think, and think rightly, that we
something like the dervish. He is at have some cause to be indignant.
a table, with ever so many bottles on The great cause why modern humor
it, and fruit, and tobacco; and other and modern sentimentalism repel us,
young dervishes come in. They seem  is that they are unwarrantably faas if they were singing.  To them  miliar. Now, Mr. Sterne, "The Suenters an old moollah, he takes down perfine Reviewer" thinks, "was a true
their names, and orders them all to sentimentalist, because he was above
go to bed. What is this? a carriage, all things a true gentleman."  The
with four beautiful horses all gallop- flattering inference is obvious: let us
ing-a man'in red is blowing a be thankful for having an elegant
trumpet. Many young men are on moralist watching over us, and learn,
the carriage-one of them is driving if not too old, to imitate his high-bred
the horses. Surely they won't drive politeness and catch his unobtrusive
into that? — ah! they have all disap- grace. If we are unwarrantably fapeared. And now I see one of the miliar, we know who is not. If we
young men alone. He is walking in repel by pertness, we know who never
a street -a dark street - presently a does. If our language offends, we
light comes to a window. There is know whose is always modest. O
the shadow of a lady who passes. He pity! The vision has disappeared off
stands there till the light goes out. the silver, the images of youth and
Now he is in a room scribbling on a the past are vanishing away! We
piece of paper, and kissing a minia- who have lived before railways were
ture every now and then. They seem  made, belong to another world. In
to be lines each pretty much of a how many hours could the Prince of
length. I can read heart, smart, dart; Wales drive from Brighton to LonMary, fairy; Cupid, stupid; true, you; don, with a light carriage built exand never mind what more. Bah I it pressly, and relays of horses longing
is bosh. Now see, he has got a gown to gallop the next stage? Do you
on again, and a wig of white hair on remember Sir Somebody, the coachhis head, and he is sitting with other man of the Age, who took our halfdervishes in a great room full of them, crown so affably? It was only yesand on a throne in the middle is an terday; but what a gulf between now
old Sultan in scarlet, sitting before a and then! Then was the old world.
desk, and he wears a wig too - and Stage-coaches, more or less swift.




254


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riding-horses, pack-horses, highwaymen, knights in armor, Norman invaders, Roman    legions, Druids,
Ancient Britons painted blue, and so
forth —all these belong to the old
period. I will concede a halt in the
midst of it, and allow that gunpowder
and printing tended to modernize the
world. But your railroad starts the
new era, and we ofa certain age belong
to the new time and the old one. We
are of the time of chivalry as well as
the Black Prince or Sir Walter Manny. We are of the age of steam. We
have stepped out of the old world on
to " Brunel's " vast deck, and across
the waters ingens patet tellus. Towards
what new continent are we wending?
to what new laws, new manners, new
politics, vast new expanses of liberties unknown as yet, or only surmised? I used to know a man who
had  invented  a   flying-machine.
" Sir," he would say, "give me but
five hundred pounds, and I will make
it. It is so simple of construction
that I tremble daily lest some other
person should light upon and patent
my discovery." Perhaps faith was
wanting; perhaps the five hundred
pounds. He is dead, and somebody
else must make the flying-machine.
But that will only be a step forward
on the journey already begun since we
quitted the old world. There it lies
on the other side of yonder embankments. You young folks have never
seen it; and Waterloo is to you no
more than Agincourt, and George
IV. than Sardanapalus. We elderly people have lived in that pre-railroad world, which has passed into
limbo and vanished from under us.
I tell you it was firm under our feet
once, and not long ago. They have
raised those railroad embankments
up, and shut off the old world that
was behind them. Climb up that
bank on which the irons are laid, and
look to the other side -it is gone.
There is no other side. Try and
catch yesterday. Where is it? Here
is a "Times" newspaper, dated Monday 26th, and this is Tuesday 27th.


se von deny there was such a
8uppo
day as yesterday
We who lived before railways, and
survive out of the ancient world, are
like Father Noah and his family out
of the Ark. The children will gather
round and say to us patriarchs, " Tell
us, grandpapa, about the old world."
And we shall mumble our old stories:
and we shall drop off one by one
and there will be fewer and fewer of
us, and these very old and feeble.
There will be but ten pre-railroadites
left: then three -then two - then
one - tfien 0! If the hippopotamus
had the least sensibility (of which I
cannot trace any signs either in his
hide or his face), I think he would go
down to the bottom of his tank, and
never come up again. Does he not
see that lie belongs to bygone ages,
and that his great hulking barrel of
a body is out of place in these times
What has he in common with the
brisk young life surrounding him?
In the watches of the ni(rbt, when the
keepers are asleep, when the birds are
on one leg, Nvhen even the little armadillo is quiet, and the monkeys have
ceased their chatter, — she, I mean the
hippopotamus, and the elephant, and
the long-necked giraffe, perhaps may.Y
lay their beads together and have a
colloquy about the great silent antediluvian world which they remember,
where mighty monsters floundered
through the ooze crocodiles basked
on the banks, and dragons darted
out of the caves and waters before
men were made to slay them. We
who lived before railways are antediluvians-we must pass away. We
are growing scarcer every day; and
old -old - very old rehets of the
times when George was still figbting
the Dragon.
Not long since, a company of horseriders paid a visit to our wateringplace. We went to see them, and I
bethought me that young Walter
Juvenis, who was in the place, might
like also to witness the performance.
A pantomime is not always amusing
to persons who have. attained a cer,


Suppose you deny there was such a
day as yesterday?
We who lived before railways, and
survive out of the ancient world, are
like Father Noah and his family out
of the Ark. The children will gather
round and say to us patriarchs, " Tell
us, grandpapa, about the old world."
And we shall mumble our old stories:
and we shall drop off one by one;
and there will be fewer and fewer of
us, and these very old and feeble.
There will be but ten pre-railroadites
left: then three -then two - then
one - then 0! If the hippopotamus
had the least sensibility (of which I
cannot trace any signs either in his
hide or his face), I think he would go
down to the bottom of his tank, and
never come up again. Does he not
see that he belongs to bygone ages,
and that his great hulking barrel of
a body is out of place in these times?
What has he in common with the
brisk young life surrounding him?
In the watches of the night, when the
keepers are asleep, when the birds are
on one leg, when even the little armadillo is quiet, and the monkeys have
ceased their chatter, — he, I mean the
hippopotamus, and the elephant, and
the long-necked giraffe, perhaps may
lay their heads together and have a
colloquy about the great silent antediluvian world which they remember,
where mighty monsters floundered
through the ooze, crocodiles basked
on the banks, and dragons darted
out of the caves and waters before
men were made to slay them. We
who lived before railways are antediluvians-we must pass away. We
are growing scarcer every day; and
old -old — very old relicts of the
times when George was still fighting
the Dragon.
Not long since, a company of horseriders paid a visit to our wateringplace. We went to see them, and I
bethought me that young Walter
Juvenis, who was in the place, might
like also to witness the performance.
A pantomime is not always amusing
to persons who have attained a cer




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


255


tain age; but a boy at a pantomime;s always amused and amusing, and
to see his pleasure is good for most
hypochondriacs.
We sent to Walter's mother, requesting that he might join us, and
the kind lady replied that the boy had
already been at the morning performance of the equestrians, but was most
eager to go in the evening likewise.
And go he did; and laughed at all
Mr. Merryman's remarks, though he
remembered them with remarkable
accuracy, and insisted upon waiting
to the very end of the fun, and was
only induced to retire just before its
conclusion by representations that
the ladies of the party would be
incommoded if they were to wait and
undergo the rush and trample of the
crowd round about. When this fact
was pointed out to him, he yielded at
once, though with a heavy heart, his
eyes looking longingly towards the
ring as we retreated out of the booth.
We were scarcely clear of the place,
when we heard " God save the Queen,"
played by the equestrian band, the
signal that all was over. Our companion entertained us with scraps of
the dialogue on our way home -
precious crumbs of wit which he had
brought away from that feast. He
laughed over them again as we walked
under the stars. He has them now,
and takes them out of the pocket of
his memory, and crunches a bit, and
relishes it with a sentimental tenderness, too, for he is, no doubt, back at
school by this time; the holidays are
over; and Doctor Birch's young
friends have re-assembled.
Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple mouths to grin! As the
jaded Merryman uttered them to the
old gentleman with the whip, some
of the old folks in the audience, I dare
say, indulged in reflections of their
own. There was one joke- I utterly
forget it —but it began with Merryman saying what he had for dinner.
He had mutton for dinner, at one
o'clock, after which " he had to come
to business."  And then came the


point. Walter Juvenis, Esq., Rev.
Doctor Birch's, Market Rodborough,
if you read this, will you please send
me a line, and let me know what was
the joke Mr. Merryman made about
having his dinner? You remember
well enough. But do I want to know?
Suppose a boy takes a favorite, longcherished lump of cake out of his
pocket, and offers you a bite? Merci I
The fact is, I don t care much about
knowing that joke of Mr. Merryman's.
But whilst he was talking about his
dinner, and his mutton, and his landlord, and his business, I felt a great
interest about Mr. M., in private life
-about his wife, lodgings, earnings,
and general history, and I dare say
was forming a picture of those in my
mind:-wife cooking the mutton;
children waiting for it; Merryman in
his plain clothes, and so forth; during which contemplation the joke
was uttered and laughed at, and Mr.
M., resuming his professional duties,
was tumbling over head and heels.
Do not suppose I am going sicut est
inos, to indulge in moralities about
buffoons, paint, motley, and mountebanking. Nay, Prime Ministers rehearse theirjokes; Opposition leaders
prepare and polish them; Tabernacle
preachers must arrange them in their
minds before they utter them.  All I
mean is, that I would like to know any
one of these performers thoroughly,
and out of his uniform; that preacher,
and why in his travels this and that
point struck him; wherein lies his
power of pathos, humor, eloquence;
-that Minister of State, and what
moves him, and how his private heart
is working; - I would only say that,
at a certain time of life, certain things
cease to interest: but about some
things when we cease to care, what
will be the use of life, sight, hearing?
Poems are written, and we cease to
admire. Lady Jones invites us, and
we yawn; she ceases to invite us, and
we are resigned. The last time I saw
a ballet at the opera - oh! it is many
years ago - I fell asleep in the stalls,




256


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wagging my head in insane dreams,
and I hope affording amusement to
the company, while the feet of five
hundred nymphs were cutting flicflacs
on the stage at a few paces' distance.
Ah, I remember a different state of
things! Credite posteri. To see those
nymphs - gracious   powers,  how
beautiful they were! That leering,
painted, shrivelled, thin-armed, thickankled old thing, cutting dreary
capers, coming thumping down on
her board out of time - that an operadancer? Pooh! My dear Walter,
the great difference between my time
and yours, who will enter life some
two or three years hence, is that, now,
the dancing women and singing
women are ludicrously old, out of
time, and out of tune; the paint is
so visible, and the dinge and wrinkles
of their wretched old cotton stockings,
that I am surprised how anybody can
like to look at them. And as for
laughing at me for falling asleep, I
can't understand a man of sense
doing otherwise. In my time, a la
bonne heure. In the reign of George
IV., I give you my honor, all the
dancers at the opera were as beautiful
as Houris. Even in William IV.'s
time, when I think of Duvernay prancing in as the Bayadere, - I say it was
a vision of loveliness such as mortal
eyes can't see now-a-days. How well
I remember the tune to which she used
to appear!  Kaled used to say to the
Sultan, "My lord, a troop of those
dancing and singing gurls called
Bayadbres approaches," and, to the
clash of cymbals, and the thumping
of my heart, in she used to dance!
There has never been any thing like
it - never. There never will be - I
laugh to scorn old people who tell me
about your Noblet, your Montessu,
your Vestris, your Parisot - pshaw,
the senile twaddlers! And the impudence of the young men, with their
music and their dancers of to-day:
I tell you the women are dreary old
creatures. I tell you one air in an
opera is just like another, and they
send all rational creatures to sleep.


Ah, Ronzi de Begnis, thou lovely
one! Ah, Caradori, thou smiling
angel! Ah, Malibran! Nay, I will
come to modern times, and acknowledge that Lablache was a very good
singer thirty years ago (though Porto
was the boy for me): and then we
had Ambrogetti, and Curioni, and
Donzelli, a rising young singer.
But what is most certain and lamentable is the decay of stage beauty
since the days of George IV. Think
of Sontag! I remember her in Otello
and the Donna del Lago in '28. I remember being behind the scenes at the
opera (where numbers of us young
fellows of fashion used to go), and
seeing Sontag let her hair fall down
over her shoulders previous to her
murder by Donzelli. Young fellows
have never seen beauty like that, heard
such a voice, seen such hair, such eyes.
Don't tell me! A man who has been
about town since the reign of George
IV., ought he not to know better than
you young lads who have seen nothing? The deterioration of women is
lamentable; and the conceit of the
young fellows more lamentable still,
that they won't see this fact, but
persist in thinking their time as good
as ours.
Bless me! when I was a lad, the
stage was covered with angels, who
sang, acted, and danced. When I
remember the Adelphi, and the actresses there: when I think of Miss
Chester, and Miss Love, and Mrs.
Serle at Sadler's Wells, and her forty
glorious pupils -of the Opera and
Noblet, and the exquisite young
Taglioni, and Pauline Leroux, and
a host more! One much-admired
being of those days I confess I never
cared for, and that was the chief male
dancer - a very important personage
then, with a bare neck, bare arms, a
tunic, and a hat and feathers, who
used to divide the applause with the
ladies, and who has now sunk down
a trap-door for ever. And this frank
admission ought to show that I am
not your mere twaddling laudator
temporis acti-your old fogy who




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


257


can see no good except in his own
time.
They say that claret is better nowa-days, and cookery much improved
since the days of my monarch —
of George IV. Pastry Cookery is certainly not so good. I have often
eaten half a crown's worth (including,
I trust, ginger beer) at our school
pastrycook's, and that is a proof that
the pastry must have been very good,
for could I do as much now? I
passed by the pastrycook's shop
lately, having occasion to visit my
old school. It looked a very dingy
old baker's; misfortunea may have
come over him - those penny tarts
certainly did not look so nice as I
remember them: but he may have
grown careless as he has grown old
([ should judge him to be iiow about
ninety-six years of age), and his
hand may have lost its cunning.
Not that we were not great epicures.
I remember how     we constantly
grumbled at the quantity of the food
in our master's house - which on my
conscience I believe was excellent
and plentiful-and how we tried
once or twice to eat him out of house
and home. At the pastrycook's we
may have over-eaten ourselves (I have
admitted half a crown's worth for my
own part, but I don't like to mention
the real figure for fear of perverting
the present generation of boys by my
monstrous  confession) - we  may
have eaten too much, I say. We did;
but what then? Tile school apothecary was sent for: a couple of small
globules, at night, a trifling preparation of senna in the morning, and
we had not to go to school, so that
the draught was an actual pleasure.
For our amusements, besides the
games in vogue, which were pretty
much in old times as they are now
[except cricket, par exemple - and I
wish the present youth joy of their
bowling, and suppose Armstrong and
Whitworth will bowl at them with
light field-pieces next), there were
novels - ah! I trouble you to find
such novels in the present day! O
12


"Scottish Chiefs,"didn't we weep over
you! O "Mysteries of Udolpho,"
didn't I and Briggs Minor draw pictures out of you, as I have said?
Efforts, feeble indeed, but still giving
pleasure to us and our friends. "I
say, old boy, draw us Vivaldi tortured
in the Inquisition," or " Draw us Don
Quixote and   the windmills, you
know," amateurs would say, to boys
who had a love of drawing. " Peregrine Pickle" we liked, our fathers
admiring it, and telling us (the sly
old boys) it was capital fun; but I
think I was rather bewildered by it,
though "Roderick Random" was
and remains delightful. I don't remember having Sterne in the school
library, no doubt because the works
of that divine were not considered
decent for young people. Ah! not
against thy genius, O falther of Uncle
Toby and Trim, would I say a word
in disrespect. But I am thankful to
live in times wlhen men no longer
have the temptation to write so as to
call blushes on women's cheeks, and
would shame to whisper wicked allusions to honest boys. Then, above
all, we had WALTER SCOTT, the kindly, the generous, the pure -the companion of what countless delightful
hours; the purveyor of how much
happiness; the friend whom wve recall
as the constant benefactor of our
youth! How vwell I remember the
type and the brownish paper of the
old duodecimo "Tales of My Landlord "! I have never dared to read
"The Pirate," and "The Bride of
Lammermoor," or "Kenilworth,"
from that day to this, because the finale
is unhappy, and people die, and are
murdered at the end. But "Ivanhoe," and " Quentin  Durward!"
Oh! for a half-holiday, and a quiet
corner, and one of those books again!
Those books, and perhaps those eyes
with which we read them; and, it
may be, the brains behind the eyes I
It may be the tart was good; but
how fresh the appetite was! If the
gods would give me the desire of my
heart, I should be able to write a story




258


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which boys would relish for the next
few dozen of centuries. The boy
critic loves the story: grown.up, he
loves the author who wrote the story.
Hence the kindly tie is established
between writer and reader, and lasts
pretty nearly for life. I meet people
now who don't care for Walter Scott,
or " The Arabian Nights;" I am sorry for them, unless they in their time
have found their romancer- their
charming Scheherazade. By the way,
Walter, when you are writing, tell
me who is the favorite novelist in the
fourth form now? Have you got
any thing so good and kindly as dear
Miss Edgeworth's Frank? It used
to belong to a fellow's sisters generally; but though he pretended to despise it, and said, " Oh, stuff for girls!"
he read it; and I think there were
one or two passages which would try
my eyes now, were I to meet with the
little book.
As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is
only my witty way of calling Tom
and Jerry), I went to the British
Museum the other day on purpose to
get it; but somehow, if you will
press the question so closely, on reperusal, Tom  and Jerry is not so
brilliant as I had supposed it to be.
The pictures are just as fine as ever;
and I shook hands with broad-backed
Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian Tom
with delight, after many years' absence. But the style of the writing,
I own, was not pleasing to me; I
even thought it a little vulgar - well!
well! other writers have been considered vulgar - and as a description
of the sports and amusements of London in the ancient times, more curious
than amusing.
But the pictures! - oh! the pictures
are noble still! First, there is Jerry
arriving from the country, in a green
coat and leather gaiters, and being
measured for a fashionable suit at
Corinthian House, by Corinthian
Tom's tailor. Then away for the
career of pleasure and fashion. The
park! delicious excitement! The theatre! the saloon!! the green-room!!!


Rapturous bliss —the opcra itself
and then perhaps to Temple Bar, to
knock down a Charley theree  There
are Jerry and Tom, with their tights
and little cocked hats, coming from
the opera -very much as gentlemen
in waiting on royalty are habited
now. There they are at Almack's
itself, amidst a crowd of high-bred
personages, with the Duke of Clarence
himself looking at them  dancing.
Now, strange change, they are in
Tom Cribb's parlor, where they don't
seem to be a whit less at home than
in fashion's gilded halls: and now
they are at Newgate, seeing the irons
knocked off the malefactors' legs previous to execution. What hardened
ferocity in the countenance of the
desperado in yellow breeches! What
compunction in the face of the gentleman in black (who, I suppose, has
been forging), and who clasps his
hands, and listens to the chaplain!
Now we haste away to merrier scenes:
to Tattersall's (all, gracious powers!
what a funny fellow that actor was
who performed Dicky Green in that
scene at the play!); and now we are
at a private party, at which Corinthian
Tom is waltzing (and very gracefully,
too, as you must confess) with Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob Logic, the
Oxonian, is playing on the piano!
"After," the text says, " the Oxonian
had played several pieces of lively
music, he requested as a favor that
Kate and his friend Tom would perform a waltz. Kate without any hesitation immediately stood up. Tom
offered his hand to his fascinating
partner, and the dance took place.
The plate conveys a correct representation of the ' gay scene' at that precise moment.   The anxiety of the
Oxonian to witness the attitudes of
the elegant pair had nearly put a stop
to their movements.   On turning
round from the pianoforte and presenting his comical mugq, Kate could
scarcely suppress a laygh."
And no wonder; just look at it
now, and compare Master Logic's
countenance and attitude with the




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


259


splendid elegance of Tom! Now
every London man is weary and blase.
There is an enjoyment of life in these
young bucks of 1823 which contrasts
strangely with our feelings of 1860.
Here, for instance, is a specimen of
their talk and walk.   "'If,' says
LOGIC -' if enjoyment is your motto,
you may make the most of an evening
at Vauxhall, more than at any other
place in the metropolis. It is all free
and easy. Stay as long as you like,
and depart when you think proper.'
-'Your description is so flattering,'
replied JERRY, 'that I do not care
how soon the time arrives for us to
start.' LOGIC proposed a ' bit of a
stroll' in order to get rid of an hour
or two, which was immediately accepted by Tom and Jerry. A turn or
two in Bond Street, a stroll through
P';ccadilly, a look in at TATTERSALL'S,
a ramble through Pall Mall, and a
strut on the Corinthian path, fully occupied the time of our heroes until
the hour for dinner arrived, when a
few glasses of TOM's rich wines soon
put them on the qui vive. VAUXIIALL
was then the object in view, and the
TRIO started, bent upon enjoying the
pleasures which this place so amply
affords."
Iow nobly those inverted commas,
those Italics, those capitals, bring out
the writer's wit and relieve the eye!
They are as good as jokes, though
you mayn't quite perceive the point.
Mark the varieties of lounge in which
the young men indulge-now a stroll,
then a look in, then a ramble, and presently a strut.  When George, Prince
of Wales, was twenty, I have read
in an old Magazine, "The Prince's
Lounge" was a peculiar manner of
walking which the young bucks imitated. At Windsor George III. had
a cat's path- a sly early walk which
the good old king took in the gray
morning before his household was
astir. What was the Corinthian path
here recorded? Does any antiquary
know?   And what were the rich
wines which our friends took, and
which enabled them to enjoy Vaux



hall?  Vauxhall is gone, but the
wines which could occasion such a
delightful perversion of the intellect
as to enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, what were they?
So the game of life proceeds, until
Jerry Hawthorn, the rustic, is fairly
knocked up by all this excitement
and is forced to go home, and the
last picture represents him getting
into the coach at the " White Horse
Cellar," he being one of six inside;
whilst his friends shake him by the
hand; whilst the sailor mounts on the
roof; whilst the Jews hang round
with oranges, knives, and sealingwax; whilst the guard is closing the
door. Where are they now, those
scaling-wax venders? where are the
guards? where are the jolly teams?
where are the coaches? and where
the youth that climbed inside and
out of them; that heard the merry
horn which sounds no more; that
saw the sun rise over Stonehengc;
that rubbed away the bitter tears at
night after parting as the conch sped
on the journey to school and London;
that looked out with beating heart
as the milestones flew by, for the welcome corner where began home and
holidays?
It is night now: and here is home.
Gathered under the quiet roof, elders
and children lie alike at rest. In the
midst of a great peace and calm, the
stars look out from the heavens. T'he
silence is peopled with the past; sorrowful remorses for sins and shortcomings - memories of passionate
joys and griefs rise out of their
graves, both now alike calm and sad.
Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me,
that have long ceased to shine. The
town and the fair landscape sleep
under the starlight, wreathed in the
autumn mists. Twinkling among
the houses, a light keeps watch, here
and there, in what may be a sick
chamber or two.   The clock tolls
sweetly in the silent air. Here is
night and rest. An awful sense of
thanks makes the heart swell, and
the heald bow, as I pass to my room




'60


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through the sleeping house, and feel
as though a hushed blessing were
upon it.
--— 4k ---
ON A JOKE I ONCE HEARD
FROM THE LATE THOMAS
HOOD.
THE good-natured reader who has
perused some of these rambling papers has long since seen (if to see
has been worth his trouble) that the
writer belongs to the old-fashioned
classes of this world, loves to remember very much more than to prophesy,
and though he can't help being carried onward and downward, perhaps,
on the hill of life, the swift milestones
marking their forties, fifties -how
many tens or lustres shall we say? -
he sits under Time, the white-wigged
charioteer, with his back to the
horses, and his face to the past, looking at the receding landscape and the
hills fading into the gray distance.
Ah me! those gray, distant hills
were green once, and here, and covered with smiling people! As we
came up the hill there was difficulty,
and here and there a hard pull to be
sure, but strength and spirits, and all
sorts of cheery incident and companionship on the road; there were the
tough struggles (by heaven's merciful
will) overcome, the pauses, the faintings, the weakness, the lost way, perhaps, the bitter weather, the dreadful
partings, the lonely night, the passionate grief-towards these I turn
my thoughts as I sit and think in my
hobby-coach under Time, the silverwigged charioteer. The young folks
in the same carriage meanwhile are
looking forwards. Nothing escapes
their keen eyes- not a flower at the
side of a cottage garden, nor a bunch
of rosy-faced children at the gate: the
landscape is all bright, the air brisk
and jolly, the town yonder looks
beautiful, and do you think they have
learned to be difficult about the dishes
at the inn?


Now, suppose Paterfamilias on his
journey with his wife and children in
the sociable, and he passes an ordinary brick house on the road with an
ordinary little garden in the front, we
will say, and quite an ordinary knocker to the door, and as many sashed
windows as you please, quite common
and square, and tiles, windows, chimney-pots, quite like others; or suppose, in driving over such and such a
common, he sees an ordinary tree, and
an ordinary donkey browsing under
it, if you like —wife and daughter
look at these objects without the
slightest particle of curiosity or interest. What is a brass knocker to them
but a lion's head, or what not? and a
thorn-tree with a pool beside it, but
a pool in which a thorn and a jackass
are reflected?
But you remember how once upon a
time your heart used to beat, as you
beat on that brass knocker, and whose
eyes looked from the window above.
You remember how by that thorn-tree
and pool, where the geese were performing a prodigious evening concert,
there might be seen, at a certain hour,
somebody in a certain cloak and bonnet, who happened to be coming from
a village yonder, and whose image
has flickered in that pool. In that
pool, near the thorn? Yes, in that
goose-pool, never mind how long ago,
when there were reflected the images
of. the geese - and two geese more.
Here, at least, an oldster may have
the advantage of his young fellowtravellers, and so Putney Heath or
the New Road may be invested with
a halo of brightness invisible to them,
because itonly beams out of his own
soul.
I have been reading " The Memorials of Hood" by his children,* and
wonder whether the book will have
the same interest for others and for
younger people, as for persons of my
own age and calling. Books of travel
to any country become interesting
to us who have been there.   Men
* lfemorials of Thomas Hood. Moxon,
1860. 2 vols.








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ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


261


revisit the old school, though hateful
to them, with ever so much kindliness
and sentimental affection. There was
the tree under which the bully licked
you: here the ground where you had
to fag out on holidays, and so forth.
In a word, my dear sir, You are the
most interesting subject to yourself,
of any that can occupy your worship's
thoughts. I have no doubt a Crimean
soldier, reading a history of that siege,
and how Jones and the gallant 99th
were ordered to charge or what not,
thinks, "Ah, yes, we of the 100th were
placed so and so, I perfectly remember." So with this memorial of poor
Hood, it may have, no doubt, a
greater interest for me than for
others, for I was fighting, so to speak,
in a different part of the field, and
engaged, a young subaltern, in the
Battle of Life, in which Hood fell,
young still, and covered with glory.
"The Bridge of Sighs" was his
Corunna, his Heights of Abraham -
sickly, weak, wounded, he fell in the
full blaze and fame of that great victory.
What manner of man was the
genius who penned that famous song?
What like was Wolfe, who climbed
and conquered on those famous
Heights of Abraham? We all want
to know details regarding men who
have achieved famous feats, whether
of war, or wit, or eloquence, or endurance, or knowledge. His one or two
happy and heroic actions take a man's
name and memory out of the crowd
of names and memories. Henceforth
he stands eminent. We scan him:
we want to know all about him; we
walk round and examine him, are
curious, perhaps, and think are we
not as strong and tall and capable as
yonder champion; were we not bred
as well, and could we not endure the
winter's cold as well as he? Or we
look up with all our eyes of admiration; will find no fault in our hero:
declare his beauty and proportions
perfect; his critics envious detractors,
and so forth.  Yesterday, before he
performed his feat, he was nobody.


Who cared about his birthplace, his
parentage, or the color of his hair?
To-day, by some single achievement,
or by a series of great actions to
which his genius accustoms us, he is
famous, and antiquarians are busy
finding out under what schoolmaster's
ferule he was educated, where his
grandmother was vaccinated, and so
forth. If half a dozen washing-bills
of Goldsmith's were to be found tomorrow, would they not inspire a
general interest, and be printed in a
hundred papers    I lighted upon
Oliver, not very long since, in an old
Town and Country Magazine, at the
Pantheon masquerade "in an old
English habit."  Straightway my
imagination ran out to meet him, to
look at him, to follow him about. I
forgot the names of scores of fine gentlemen of the past age, who were mentioned besides. We want to see this
man who has amused and charmed
us; who has been our friend, and
given us hours of pleasant companionship and kindly thought.  I
protest when I came, in the midst of
those names of people of fashion,
and beaux, and demireps, upon those
names " Sir J. R-yn-lds, in a domino;
Mr. Cr-d-ck and Dr. G-ldsm-th, in two
old English dresses," I had, so to speak,
my heart in my mouth. What, you
here, my dear Sir Joshua? Ah, what
an honor and privilege it is to see
you! This is Mr. Goldsmith? And
very much, sir, the ruff and the slashed
doublet become you!  0 Doctor!
what a. pleasure I had and have in
reading the Animated Nature.  Iow
did you learn the secret of writing
the decasyllable line, and whence that
sweet wailing note of tenderness that
accompanies your song? Was Beau
Tibbs a real man, and will you do me
the honor of allowing me to sit at
your table at supper?  Don't you
think you know how he would have
talked l Would you not have liked
to hear him prattle over the champagne?
Now, Hood is passed away - passed
off the earth as much as Goldsmith




262


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


or Horace. The times in which he
lived, and in which very many of us
lived and were young, are changing
or changed. I saw Hood once as a
young man at a dinner which seems
almost as ghostly now as that masquerade at the Pantheon (1772), of
which we were speaking anon. It
was at a dinner of the Literary Fund,
in that vast apartment which is hung
round with the portraits of very large
Royal Freemasons, now unsubstantial ghosts. There at the end of the
room was Hood. Some publishers, I
think, were our companions. I quite
remember his pale face; he was thin
and deaf, and very silent; he scarcely
opened his lips during the dinner, and
he made one pun. Some gentleman
missed his snuff-box, and Hood said,
- ( the Freemasons' Tavern was
kept, you must remember, by Mr.
CUFF in those days, not by its present proprietors). Well, the box being
lost, and asked for, and CUFF (remember that name) being the name
of the landlord, Hood opened his
silent jaws and said... Shall
I tell you what he said? It was not
a very good pun which the great punster then made. Choose your favorite pun out of" Whims and Oddities,"
and fancy that was the joke which he
contributed to the hilarity of our little
table.
Where those points are drawn on
the page, you must know, a pause
occurred, during which I was engaged
with "Hood's Own," having been
referred to the book by this life of the
author which I have just been reading.  I am not going to dissert on
Hood's humor; I am not a fair judge.
Have I not said elsewhere that there
are one or two wonderfully old gentlemen still alive who used to give me
tips when I was a boy? I can't be a
fair critic about them. I always think
of that sovereign, that rapture of raspberry-tarts, which made my young
days happy. Those old sovereigncontributors may tell stories ever so
old, and I shall laugh; they may commit murder, and I shall believe it was


justifiable homicide.  There is my
friend Baggs, wlo goes about abusing
me, and of course our dear mutual
friends tell me. Abuse away, mon
bon! You were so kind to me when
I wanted kindness, that you may take
the change out of that gold now, and
say I am a cannibal and negro if
you will. Ha, Baggs! Dost thou
wince as thou readest this line? Does
guilty conscience throbbing at thy
breast tell thee of whom the fable is
narrated? Puff out thy wrath, and,
when it has ceased to blow, my Baggs
shall be to me as the Baggs of old -
the generous, the gentle, the friendly.
No, on second thoughts, I am determined I will not repeat that joke
which I heard Hood make. lIe says
he wrote these jokes with such ease
that he sent manuscripts to the publishers faster than they could acknowledge the receipt thereof. I won't say
that they were all good jokes, or that
to read a great book full of them is a
work at present altogether jocular.
Writing to a friend respecting some
memoir of him which had been published, Hood says, " You will judge
how well the author knows me, when
he says my mind is rather serious
than comic." At the time when he
wrote these words, he evidently undervalued his own serious power,
and thought that in punning and
broad grinning lay his chief strength.
Is not there something touching in
that simplicity and humility of faith?
"To make laugh is my calling," says
he; "I must jump, I must grin, I
must tumble, I must turn language
head over heels, and leap through
grammar;" and he goes to his work
humbly and courageously, and what
he has to do that does he with all his
might, through sickness, through sorrow, through exile, poverty, fever, depression - there he is, always ready to
his work, and with a jewel of genius in
his pocket! Why, when he laid down
his puns and pranks,put the motley off
and spoke out of his heart, all England
and America listened with tears and
wonder! Other men have delusions




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


of conceit, and fancy themselves greater than they are, and that the world
slights them. Have we not heard
how Liston always thought he ought
to play Hamlet    Here is a man with
a power to touch the heart almost unequalled, and he passes days and
years in writing, " Young Ben he
was a nice young man! " and so forth.
To say truth, I have been reading in
a book of " Hood's Own" until I am
perfectly angry.  "You great man,
you good man, you true genius and
poet," I cry out, as I turn page after
page.   "l)o, do, make no more of
these jokes, but be yourself and take
your station."
When Hood was on his deathbed,
Sir Robert Peel, who only knew of
his illness, not of his imminent danger, wrote to him a noble and touching letter, announcing that a pension
was conferred on him:"I am more than repaid," writes Peel,
"by the personal satisfaction which I
have had in doing that for which you return me warm and characteristic acknowledgments.
" You perhaps think that you are known
to one with such multifarious occupations
as myself, merely by general reputation as
an author; but I assure you that there can
be little, which you have written and acknowledged, which I have not read; and
that there are few who can appreciate and
admire more than myself the good sense
and good feeling which have taught you to
infuse so much fun and merriment into
writings correcting folly and exposing absurdities, and yet never trespassing beyond
those limits within which wit and facetiousness are not very often confined.
You may write on with the consciousness
of independence, as free and unfettered
as if no communication had ever passed
between us. I am not conferring a private obligation upon, but am fulfilling the
intentions of the legislature, which has
placed at the disposal of the Crown a certain sum (miserable, indeed, in amount)
to be applied to the recognition of public claims on the bounty of the Crown.
If you will review the names of those
whose claims have been admitted on
account of their literary or scientific eminence, you will find an ample confirmation of the truth of my statement.
" One return, indeed, I shall ask of you,
-that you will give me the opportunity
of making your personal acquaintance."


closing a copy of Peel's letter, says,
"Sir R. Peel came from Burleigh on
Tuesday night, and went down to
Brighton on Saturday.  If he had
written by post, I should not have
had it till to-day. So lie sent his servant with the enclosed on Saturday
night; another mark of considerate
attention." He is frightfully unwell,
he continues: his wife says he looks
quite green; but ill as he is, poor fellow, " his well is not dry.  He has
pumped out a sheet of Christmas fun,
is drawing some cuts, and shall write
a sheet more of his novel."
Oh, sad, marvellous picture of
courage, of honesty, of patient endurance, of duty struggling against pain!
How noble Peel's figure is standing
by that sick-bed! how generous his
words, how dignified and sincere his
compassion! And the poor dying
man, with a heart full of natural gratitude towards his noble benefactor,
must turn to him and say - " If it be
well to be remembered by a Minister,
it is better still not to be forgotten by
him in a 'hurly Burleigh ' "  Can
you laugh? Is not the joke horribly
pathetic from the poor dying lips?
As dying Robin Hood must fire a last
shot with his bow - as one reads of
Catholics on their death-beds putting
on a Capuchin dress to go out of the
world - here is poor Hood at his last
hour putting on his ghastly motley,
and uttering one joke more.
He dies, however, in dearest love
and peace with his children, wife,
friends; to the former especially his
whole life had been devoted, and every
day showed his fidelity, simplicity,
and affection. In going through the
record of his most pure, modest, honorable life, and living along with him,
you come to trust him thoroughly,
and feel that here is a most loyal,
affectionate, and upright soul, with
whom you have been brought into
communion. Can we say as much
of the lives of aH men of letters?
Iere is one at least without guile,
without pretension, without scheming,
of a pure life, to his family and little


And Hood, writing to a friend, en



264


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


modest circle of friends tenderly devoted.
And what a hard work, and what
a slender reward!     In  the  little
domestic details with which the book
abounds, what a simple life is shown
to us! The most simple little pleasures and amusements delight and
occupy him. You have revels on
shrimps; the good wife making the
pie; details about the maid, and criticisms on her conduct; wonderful
tricks played with the plum-pudding
- all the pleasures centring round the
little humble home. One of the first
men of his time, he is appointed editor
of a Magazine at a salary of 3001. per
annum, signs himself exultingly " Ed.
N. M. M.," and the family rejoice
over the income as over a fortune.
He goes to a Greenwich dinnerwhat a feast and a rejoicing afterwards! -
c" Well, we drank 'the Boz with a delectable clatter, which drew from him a
good warm-hearted speech... He looked
very well, and had a younger brother
along with him.... Then we had songs.
Barham chanted a Robin Hood ballad,
and Cruikshank sang aburlesque ballad of
Lord H-; and somebody, unknown to
me, gave a capital imitation of a French
showman. Then we toasted Mrs. Boz,
and the Chairman, and Vice, and the Traditional Priest sang the ' Deep, deep sea,'
in his deep, deep voice; and then we drank
to Proctor who wrote the said song; also
Sir J. Wiison's good health, and Cruiksnank's, and Ainsworth's: and a Manchester friend of the latter sang a Manchester
ditty, so full of trading stuff, that it really
seemed to have been not composed, but
manufactured. Jerdan, as Jerdanish as
usual on such occasions - you know how
paradoxically he is quite at home in dintng out. As to myself, I had to make my
second maiden speech, for Mr. Monckton
Milnes proposed my health in terms my
modesty might allow me to repeat to you,
but my memory won't. However, I ascribed the toast to my notoriously bad
health, and assured them that their wishes
had already improved it -that I felt a
brisker circulation-a more genial warmth
about the heart, and explained that a certain trembling of my hand was not from
palsy, or myold ague,but an inclination in
my hand to shake itself with every one
present. Whereupon I had to go through
the friendly ceremony with as many of
the company as were within reach, besides
a few more who came express from the


other end of the table. Very gratifying,
wasn't it? Though I cannot go quite so
far as Jane, who wants me to have that
hand chopped off, bottled, and preserved
in spirits. She was sitting up for me,
very anxiously, as usual when I go out,
because I am so domestic and steady, and
was down at the door before I could ring
at the gate, to which Boz kindly sent me
in his own carriage. Ioor girl I what
would she do if she had a wild husband
instead of a tame one? "
And the poor anxious wife is sitting
up, and fondles the hand which has
been shaken by so many illustrious
men! The little feast dates back only
eighteen years, and yet somehow it
seems as distant as a dinner at Mr.
Thrale's, or a meeting at Will's.
Poor little gleam of sunshine! very
little good cheer enlivens that sad
simple life. We have the triumph of
the Magazine: then a new Magazine
projected and produced: then illness
and the last scene, and the kind Peel
by the dying man's bedside speaking
noble words of respect and sympathy,
and soothing the last throbs of the
tender honest heart.
I like, I say, Iood's life even better than his books, and I wish with
all my heart, Monsieur etcher confrere,
the same could be said for both of us,
when the inkstream of our life hath
ceased to run. Yes: if I drop first,
dear Baggs, I trust you may find reason to modify some of the unfavorable views of my character, which you
are so freely imparting to our mutual
fiiends. What ought to be the literary man's point of honor now-a-days?
Suppose, friendly reader, you are one
of the craft, what legacy would you
like to leave to your children? First
of all (and by heaven's gracious help)
you would pray and strive to give
them such an endowment of love as
should last certainly for all their lives,
and perhaps be transmitted to their
children. You would (by the same
aid and blessing) keep your honor
pure, and transmit a name unstained
to those who have a right to bear it.
You would - though this faculty of
giving is one of the easiest of the
literary man's qualities-you would




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


265


out of your earnings, small or great,
be able to help a poor brother in need,
to dress his wounds, and, if it were
but twopence, to give him succor.
Is the money which the noble Macaulay gave to the poor lost to his family?  God forbid.  To the loving
hearts of his kindred is it not rather
the most precious part of their inheritance? It was invested in love and
righteous doing, and it bears interest
in heaven. You will, if letters be your
vocation, find saving harder than giving and spending. To save be your
endeavor, too, against the night's
coming, when no man may work;
when the arm is weary with the long
day's labor; when the brain perhaps
grows dark; when the old, who can
labor no more, want warmth and rest,
and the young ones call for supper.
I copied the little galley-slave who
is made to figure in the initial letter
of this paper, from a quaint old silver
spoon which we purchased in a curiosity-shop at the Hague. It is one of
the gift spoons so common in Holland,
and which have multiplied so astonishingly of late years at our dealers
in old silverware. Along the stem of
the spoon are written the words:
"Anno 1609, Bin ick aldus ghekledt
gheghaen " —"In the year 1609 I
went thus clad." The good Dutchman was released from his Algerine
captivity (I imagine his figure looks
like that of a slave amongst the
Moors), and in his thank-offering to
some godchild at home, he thus piously records his escape.
Was not poor Cervantes also a
captive amongst the Moors? Did
not Fielding, and Goldsmith, and
Smollett, too, die at the chain as well
as poor Iood? Think of Fielding
going on board his wretched ship in
the Thames, with scarce a hand to
bid him farewell; of brave Tobias
Smollett, and his life, how hard, and
how poorly rewarded; of Goldsmith,
and the physician whispering, "Have
you something on your mind? " and
the wild dying eyes answering, "Yes."
Notice how Boswell speaks of Gold12*


smith, and the splendid contempt with
which he regards him. Read Hawkins on Fielding, and the scorn with
which Dandy Walpole and Bishop
Hurd speak of him. Galley-slaves
doomed to tug the oar and wear the
chain, whilst my lords and dandies
take their pleasure, and hear fine
music, and disport with fine ladies in
the cabin!
But stay. Was there any cause
for this scorn? Had some of these
great men weaknesses which gave inferiors advantage over them? Men of
letters cannot lay their hands on their
hearts, and say, "No, the fault was
fortune's, and the indifferent world's,
not Goldsmith's nor Fielding's."
There was no reason why Oliver
should always be thriftless; why
Fielding and Steele should sponge
upon their friends; why Sterne should
make love to his neighbors' wives.
Swift, for a long time, was as poor as
any wag that ever laughed: but he
owed no penny to his neighbors: Addison, when he wore his most threadbare coat, could hold his head up, and
maintain his dignity: and, I dare
vouch, neither of those gentlemen,
when they were ever so poor, asked
any man alive to pity their condition,
and have a regard to the weaknesses
incidental to the literary profession.
Galley-slave, forsooth! If you are
sent to prison for some error for which
the law awards that sort of laborious
seclusion, so much the more shame
for you. If you are chained to the
oar a prisoner of war, like Cervantes,
you have the pain, but not the shame,
and the friendly compassion of mankind to reward you. Galley-slaves,
indeed! What man has not his oar
to pull? There is that wonderful old
stroke-oar in the Queen's galley.
How many years has he pulled?
Day and night, in rough water or
smoo th, with what i nvinci ble vigor and
surprising gayety, he plies his arms.
There is in the same Galrie Capitaine,
that well-known, trim figure, the bowoar; how he tugs, and with what a
will! How both of them  have been




266


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


abused in their time!   Take the
Lawyer's galley, and that dauntless
octogenarian in command; when has
he ever complained or repined about
his slavery? There is the Priest's
galley- black and lawn sails- do
any mariners out of Thames work
harder? When lawyer, and statesman, and divine, and writer are snug
in bed, there is a ring at the poor Doctor's bell.  Forth he must go, in
rheumatism or snow; a galley-slave
bearing his galley-pots to quench the
flames of fever, to succor mothers and
young children in their hour of peril,
and, as gently and soothingly as may
be, to carry the hopeless patient over
to the silent shore. And have we not
just read of the actions of the Queen's
galleys and their brave crews in the
Chinese waters? -men   not more
worthy of human renown and honor
to-day in their victory, than last year
in their glorious hour of disaster. So
with stout hearts may we ply the oar,
messmates all, till the voyage is over,
and the Harbor of Rest is found!
-4 -ROUND ABOUT THE CIHRISTMAS TREE.
THI, kindly Christmas tree, from
which I trust every gentle reader has
pulled a bonbon or two, is yet all
aflame whilst I am   writing, and
sparkles with the sweet fruits of its
season. You young ladies, may you
have plucked pretty giftlings from it;
and out of the cracker sugar-plum
which you have split with the captain
or the sweet young curate may you
have read one of those delicious conundrums which the confectioners introduce into the sweetmeats, and
which apply to the cunning passion
of love. Those riddles are to be read
at your age, when I dare say they
are amusing. As for Dolly, Merry,
and Bell, who are standing at the
tree, they don't care about the loveriddle part, but understand the sweetalmond portion very well. They are




four, five, six years old. Patience,
little people! A dozen merry Christmases more, and you will be reading
those  wonderful love-conundrums,
too. As for us elderly folks, we watch
the babies at their sport, and the young
people pulling at the branches: and
instead of finding bonbons or sweeties
in the packets which we pluck off the
boughs, we find enclosed Mr. Carnifex's review of the quarter's meat;
Mr. Sartor's compliments, and little
statement for self and the young gentlemen; and Madame     de SainteCrinoline's respects to the young
ladies, who encloses her account, and
will send on Saturday, please; or we
stretch our hand out to the educational branch of the Christmas tree,
and there find a lively and amusing
article from the Rev. Henry Holyshade, containing our dear Tommy's
exceedingly moderate account for the
last term's school expenses.
The tree yet sparkles, I say. I am
writing on the day before Twelfth
Day, if you must know; but already
ever so many of the fruits have been
pulled, and the Christmas lights have
gone out. Bobby Miseltow, who has
been staying with us for a week (and
who has been sleeping mysteriously
in the bath-room), comes to say he is
going away to spend the rest of the
holidays with his grandmother- and
I brush away the manly tear of regret as I part with the dear child.
"Well, Bob, good-by, since you will
go. Compliments to grandinamma.
Thank her for the turkey. Here's"
-     (A slight pecuniary transaction
takes place at this juncture, and Bob
nods and winks, and puts his hand in
his waistcoat pocket.) " You have had
a pleasant week? "
BOB. -" Haven't I! " (And exit,
anxious to know the amount of the coin
which has just chanqed hands.)
He is gone, and as the dear boy
vanishes through the door (behind
which I see him perfectly), I too cast
up a little account of our past Christmas week. When Bob's holidays are
over, and the printer has sent me




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


267


back this manuscript, I know Christmas will be an old story. All the fruit
will be off the Christmas tree then;
the crackers will have cracked off; the
almonds will have been crunched; and
the sweet-bitter riddles will have been
read; the lights will have perished
off the dark green boughs; the toys
growing on them will have been distributed, fought for, cherished, neglected, broken. Ferdinand and Fidelia
will each keep out of it (be still, my
gushing heart!) the remembrance of
a riddle read together, of a doublealmond munched together, and the
moiety of an exploded cracker....
The maids, I say, will have taken
down all that holly stuff and nonsense
about the clocks, lamps, and lookingglasses, the dear boys will be back at
school, fondly thinking of the pantomime-fairies whom they have seen;
whose gaudy gossamer wings are battered by this time; and whose pink
cotton (or silk is it? ) lower extremities are all dingy and dusty. Yet
but a few days, Bob, and flakes of
paint will have cracked off the fairy
flower-bowers, and the revolving temples of adamantine lustre will be as
shabby as the city of Pekin. When
you read this, will Clown still be
going on lolling his tongue out of
his mouth, and saying,  'How are
you to-morrow?" To-morrow, indeed! He must be almost ashamed
of himself (if that cheek is still capable
of the blush of shame) for asking the
absurd question.  To-morrow, indeed!   To-morrow  the diffugient
snows will give place to Spring;
the snowdrops will lift their heads;
Ladyday may be expected, and the
pecuniary duties peculiar to that feast;
in place of bonbons, trees will have an
eruption of light green knobs; the
whitebait season will bloom... as
if one need go on describing these
vernal phenomena, when Christmas
is still here, though ending, and the
subject of my discourse!
We have all admired the illustrated
papers, and noted how boisterously
jolly they become at Christmas time.


What wassail-bowls, robin-r3dbrcasts,
waits, snow  landscapes, bursts of
Christmas song! And then to think
that these festivities are prepared
months before - that these Christmas
pieces are prophetic! How kind of
artists and poets to devise the festivities beforehand, and serve them pat
at the proper time! We ought to
be grateful to them, as to the cook
who gets up at midnight and sets the
pudding a-boiling, which is to feast us
at six o'clock. I often think with
gratitude of the famous Mr. Nelson
Lee-the author of I don't know
how many hundred glorious pantomimes - walking by the summer
wave at Margate, or Brighton perhaps, revolving in his mind the idea
of some new gorgeous spectacle of
faery, which the winter shall see complete. He is like cook at midnight
(si parca licet).  He watches and
thinks.  He pounds the sparkling
sugar of benevolence, the plums of
fancy, the sweetmeats of fun, the figs
of- well, the figs of fairy fiction, let
us say, and pops the whole in the
seething caldron of imagination, and
at due season serves up TIHE PANTOMIME.
Very few men in the course of
nature can expect to see all the pantomimes in one season, but I hope to
the end of my life I shall never forego
reading about them in that delicious
sheet of " The Times " which appears
on the morning after Boxing-day.
Perhaps reading is even better than
seeing. The best way, I think, is to
say you are ill, lie in bed, and have
the paper for two hours, reading all
the way down from Drury Lane
to the Britannia at Hoxton. Bob
and I went to two pantomimes. One
was at the Theatre of Fancy, and the
other at the Fairy Opera, and I don't
know which we liked the best.
At the Fancy, we saw " Harlequin
Hamlet, or Daddy's Ghost and Nunky's Pison," which is all very well -
but, gentlemen, if you don't respect
Shakspeare, to whom will you be
civil? The palace and ramparts of




268


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


Elsinore by moon and snow light is
one of Loutherbourg's finest efforts.
The banqueting hall of the palace is
illuminated: the peaks and gables
glitter with the snow: the sentinels
march blowing their fingers with the
cold —the freezing of the nose of
one of them is very neatly and dexterously arranged: the snow-storm
rises: the winds howl awfully along
the battlements: the waves come
curling, leaping, foaming to shore.
Hamlet's umbrella is whirled away in
the storm. He and his two friends
stamp on each other's toes to keep
them warm. The storm-spirits rise
in the air, and are whirled howling
round the palace and the rocks. My
eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots
fly hurtling through the air! As the
storm reaches its height (here the
wind instruments come in with prodigious effect, and I compliment Mr.
Brumby and the violoncellos) -as
the snow-storm rises (queek, queek,
queek, go  the fiddles, and  then
thrumpty thrump comes a pizzicato
movement in Bob Major, which sends
a shiver into your very boot-soles),
the thunder-clouds deepen (bong,
bong, bong, from the violoncellos).
The forked lightning quivers through
the clouds in a ziz-zag scream of
violins - and look, look, look! as the
frothing, roaring waves come rushing
up the battlements, and over the
reeling parapet, each hissing wave
becomes a ghost, sends the gun-carriages rolling over the platform, and
plunges howling into the water again.
Hamlet's mother comes on to the
battlements to look for her son. The
storm whips her umbrella out of her
hands, and she retires screaming in
pattens.
The cabs on the stand in the great
market-place at Elsinore are seen to
drive off, and several people are
drowned The gas-lamps along the
street are wrenched from their foundations, and shoot through the troubled
air. Whist, rush, hish! how the
rain roars and pours! The darkness
becomes awful, always deepened by


the power of the music - and see -
in the midst of a rush, and whirl, and
scream of spirits of air and wave —
what is that ghastly figure moving
hither? It becomes bigger, bigger,
as it advances down the platform —
more ghastly, more horrible, enormous!   It is as tall as the whole
stage.  It seems to be advancing
on the stalls and pit, and the whole
house screams with terror, as the
GHOST OF TIE LATE HAMLET comes
in, and begins to speak.  Several
people faint, and the light-fingered
gentry pick pockets furiously in the
darkness.
In the pitchy darkness, this awful
figure throwing his eyes about, the
gas in the boxes shuddering out of
sight, and the wind-instruments bugling the most horrible wails, the
boldest spectator must have felt
frightened. But hark! what is that
silver shimmer of the fiddles? Is it
-can it be - the gray dawn peeping
in the stormy east?   The ghost's
eyes look blankly towards it, and roll
a ghastly agony. Quicker, quicker
ply the violins of Phoebus Apollo.
Redder, redder grow the orient clouds.
Cockadoodledoo! crows that great
cock which has just come out on the
roof of the palace. And now the
round sun himself pops up fiom behind the waves of night. Where is
the ghost   He is gone! Purple
shadows of morn "slant o'er the
snowy sward," the city wakes up in
life and sunshine, and we confess we
are very much relieved at the disappearance of the ghost. We don't like
those dark scenes in pantomimes.
After the usual business, that
Ophelia should be turned into Columbine was to be expected; but I
confess I was a little shocked when
Hamlet's mother became Pantaloon,
and was instantly knocked down by
Clown Claudius. Grimaldi is getting
a little old now, but for real humor
there are few clowns like him. Mr.
Shuter, as the gravedigger, was chaste
and comic, as he always is, and the
scene-painters surpassed themselves.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


269


"Harlequin  Conqueror and the
Field of Hastings," at the other house,
is very pleasant too. The irascible
William is acted with great vigor by
Snoxall, and the battle of Hastings
is a good piece of burlesque. Some
trifling liberties are taken with history,
but what liberties will not the merry
genius of pantomime permit himself
At the battle of Hastings, William is
on the point of being defeated by the
Sussex volunteers, very elegantly led
by the always pretty Miss Waddy
(as Haco Sharpshooter), when a shot
from the Normins kills Harold. The
fairy Edith hercpllon comes forward,
and finds his body, which straiglitway
leaps up a live harlequin, whilst the
Conqueror makes an excellent clown,
and the Archbishop of Bayeux a diverting pantaloon, &c., &c., &c., &c.
Perhaps these are not the pantomimes we really saw; but one description will do as well as another.
The plots, you see, are a little intricate
and difficult to understand in pantomimes; and I may have mixed up
one with another. That I was at the
theatre on Boxing-night is certainbut the pit was so full that I could
only see fairy legs glittering in the
distance, as I stood at the door. And
if I was badly off, I think there was
a young gentleman behind me worse
off still. I own that he has good
reason (though others have not) to
speak ill of me behind my back, and
hereby beg his pardon.
Likewise to the gentleman who
picked up a party in Piccadilly, who
had slipped and fallen in the snow,
and was there on his back, uttering
energetic expressions; that party begs
to offer thanks, and compliments of
the season.
Bob's behavior on New Year's day,
I can assure Dr. Holyshade, was
highly creditable to the boy. He had
expressed a determination to partake
of every dish which was put on the
table; but after soup, fish, roast-beef,
and roast-goose, he retired from active
business until the pudding and mincepies made their appearance, of which


he partook liberally, but not too
freely. And he greatly advanced in
my good opinion by praising the
punch, which was of my own manufacture, and which some gentlemen
present (Mr. O'M-g-n, amongst
others) pronounced to be too weak.
Too weak! A bottle of rum, a bottle
of Madeira, half a bottle of brandy,
and two bottles and half of watercan this mixture be said to be too
weak for any mortal? Our young
friend amused the company during
the evening, by exhibiting a twoshilling magic-lantern, which he liad
purchased, and likewise by singing
"Sally, come up!" a quaint but
rather monotonous melody, which I
am told is sung by the poor negro on
the banks of the broad Mississippi.
What other enjoyments did we
proffer for the child's amusement during the Christmas week? A great
philosopher was giving a lecture to
young folks at the British Institution.
But when this diversion was proposed
to our young friend Bob, he said,
"Lecture? No, thank you. Not as I
knows on," and made sarcastic signals on his nose. Perhaps he is of
Dr. Johnson's opinion about lectures:
"Lectures, sir! what man would go
to hear that imperfectly at a lecture,
which he can read at leisure in a
book? " I never went, of my own
choice, to a lecture; that I can vow.
As for sermons, they are different; I
delight in them, and they cannot, of
course, be too long.
Well, we partook of yet other
Christmas delights besides pantomime, pudding, and pie. One glorious, one delightful, one most unlucky
and pleasant day, we drove in n
broughlam, with a famous horse,
which carried us more quickly and
briskly than any of your vulgar railways, over Battersea Bridge, on
which the horse's hoofs rung as if it
had been iron; through suburban villages, plum-caked with snow; under
a leaden sky, in which the su% hung
like a red-hot warming-pan; by pond
after pond, where not only men and




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


boys, but scores after scores of women
and girls, were sliding, and roaring,
and clapping their lean old sides with
laughter, as they tumbled down, and
their hobnailed shoes flew up in the
air; the air fiostv with a lilac haze,
through which villas, and commons,
and churches, and plantations glimmered. We drive up the hill, Bob
and I; we make the last two miles in
eleven minutes; we pass that poor,
armless man who sits there in the
cold, following you with his eyes. I
don't give any thing, and Bob looks
disappointed. We are set down neatly
at the gate, and a horse-holder opens
the brougham  door. I don't give
any thing; again disappointment on
Bob's part. I pay a shilling apiece,
and we enter into the glorious building, which is decorated for Christmas,
and straightway forgetfulness onBob's
part of every thing but that magnificent scene. The enormous edifice is
all decorated for Bob and Christmas.
The stalls, the columns, the fountains,
courts, statues, splendors, are all
crowned for Christmas. The delicious
negro is singing his Alabama choruses
for Christmas and Bob.   Hie has
scarcely done, when, Tootarootatoo!
Mr. Punch is performing his surprising actions, and hanging the beadle.
The stalls are decorated. The refreshment-tables are piled with good
things; at many fountains " MULLED
CLARET" is written up in appetizing
capitals. " Mulled Claret - oh, jolly!
How cold it is! " says Bob; I pass on.
"It's only three o'clock," says Bob.
"No, only three," I say, meekly.
"We dine at seven," sighs Bob, " and
it's so-o-o coo-old."  I still would
take no hints. No claret, no refreshment, no sandwiches, no sausage-rolls
for Bob. At last I am obliged to tell
him all. Just before we left home, a
little Christmas bill popped in at the
door and emptied my purse at the
threshold. I forgot all about the transaction, and had to borrow half a crown
from John Coachman to pay for our
entrance into the palace of delight.
Now you see, Bob, why I could not


treat you on that second of January
when we drove to the palace together;
when the girls and boys were sliding
on the ponds at Dulwich; when the
darkling river was full of floating ice,
and the sun was like a warming-pan
in the leaden sky.
One more Christmas sight we had,
of course; and that sight I think I
like as well as Bob himself at Christmas, and at all seasons. We went to
a certain garden of delight, where,
whatever your cares are, I think you
can manage to folret some of them,
and muse, and be iot unhappy; to a
garden beginning with a Z, which is
as lively as Noah's ark; where the fox
has brought his brush, and the cock
has brought his comb, and the elephant has brought his trunk, and the
kangaroo has brought his bag, and
the condor his old white wig and
black satin hood. On this day it was
so cold that the white bears winked
their pink eyes, as they plapped up
and down by their pool, and seemed
to say, "Alla, this weather reminds
us of dear home! "   Cold! bah! I
have got such a warm coat," says
brother Bruin, " I don't mind; " and
he laughs on his pole, and clucks
down a bun.  Tile squealing hyenas
gnashed their teeth and laughed at us
quite refreshingly at their window;
and, cold as it was, Tiger, Tiger,
burning bright, glared at us red-hot
through his bars, and snorted blasts
of hell. The woolly camel leered at
us quite kindly as he paced round his
ring on his silent pads. We went to
our favorite places. Our dear wambat
came up, and had himself scratched
very affably. Our fellow-creatures in
the monkey-room held out their little
black hands, and piteously asked us
for Christmas alms.  Those darling
alligators on their rock winked at us
in the most friendly way. The solemn
eagles sat alone, and scowled at us
from their peaks; whilst little Tom
Ratel tumbled over head and heels
for us in his usual diverting manner.
If I have cares in my mind, I come
to the Zoo, and fancy they don't pass




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


271


the gate. I recognize my friends, my
enemies, in countless cages. I entertained the eagle, the vulture, the old
billy-goat, and the black-pated, crimson-necked, blear-eyed, baggy, hookbeaked old marabou stork yesterday
at dinner; and when Bob's aunt came
to tea in the evening, and asked him
what he had seen, he stepped up to
her gravely, and said -
" First I saw the white bear,
then I saw the black,
Tlen I saw the camel with
a hump upon his back.
Chorus of Then I saw the camel with
Children.    a HUMP upon his back l
Then I saw the gray wolf,
with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wambat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant with
his waving trunk,
Then I saw the monkeys -
mercy, how unpleasantly
they-smelt I"
There. No one can beat that piece
of wit, can he, Bob? And so it is all
over; but we had a jolly time, whilst
you were with us, hadn't we? Present my respects to the doctor; and I
hope, my boy, we may spend another
merry Christmas next year.
ON A   CHALK-MARK ON TIlE
DOOR.
ON the doorpost of the house of a
friend of mine, a few inches above the
lock, is a little chalk-mark, which
some sportive boy in passing has probably scratched on the pillar. The
door-steps, the lock, handle, and so
forth, are kept decently enough; but
this chalk-mark, I suppose some three
inches out of the housemaid's beat,
has already been on the door for
more than a fortnight, and I wonder
whether it will be there whilst this
paper is being written, whilst it is at
the printer's, and, in fine, until the
month   passes  over?  I wonder
whether the servants in that house
will read these remarks about the
chalk-mark? T;at "The Cornhill


Magazine " is taken in in that house I
know. In fact I have seen it there.
In fact I have read it there. In fact
I have written it there. In a word,
the house to which I allude is minethe "editor's private residence," to
which, in spite of prayers, entreaties,
commands, and threats, authors, and
ladies especially, will send their communications, although they won't
understand that they injure their
own interests by so doing; for how
is a man who has his own work to
do, his own exquisite inventions to
form and perfect-Maria to rescue
from the unprincipled Earl - the
atrocious General to confound in his
own machinations - the angelic Dean
to promote to a bishopric, and so
forth - how is a man to do all this,
under a hundred interruptions, and
keep his nerves and temper in that
just and equable state in which they
ought to be when he comes to assume
the critical office? As vou will send
here, ladies, I must tell you you have
a much worse chance than it you forward your valuable articles to Cornhill. Here your papers arrive, at
dinner-time, we will say. Do you
suppose that is a pleasant period, and
that we are to criticise vou between
the ovnum and inalum, between the
soup and the dessert? I have touched,
I think, on this subject before.  I
say again, if you want real justice
shown you, don't send your papers to
the private residence. At home, for
instance, yesterday, having given
strict orders that I was to receive nobody, " except on business," do yon
suppose a smiling young Scottish
gentleman, who forced himself into
my study, and there announced himself as agent of a Cattle-food Company, was received with pleasure?
There, as. I sat in my arm-chair, suppose he had proposed to draw a
couple of my teeth, would I have
been pleased? I could have throttled
that agent. I dare say the whole of
that day's work will be found tinged
with a ferocious misanthropy, occasioned by my clever young friend's
y                   t) - ~~r ----J~




272


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


intrusion. Cattle-food, indeed! As
if beans, oats, warm mashes, and a
ball, are to be pushed down a man's
throat just as he is meditating on the
great social problem, or (for I think
it was my epic I was going to touch
up) just as he was about to soar to
the height of the empyrean!
Having got my cattle-agent out of
the door, I resume my consideration
of that little mark on the doorpost,
which is scored up as the text of the
present little sermon; and which I
hope will relate, not to chalk, nor to
any of its special uses or abuses (such
as milk, neck-powder, and the like),
but to servants. Surely ours might
remove that unseemly little mark.
Suppose it were on my coat, might I
not request its removal? I remember, when I was at school, a little
careless boy, upon whose forehead an
ink-mark remained, and was perfectly
recognizable for three weeks after its
first appearance. May I take any
notice of this chalk-stain on the forehead of my house? Whose business
is it to wash that forehead? and ought
I to fetch a brush and a little hot
water, and wash it off myself?
Yes. But that spot removed, why
not come down at six, and wash the
doorsteps? I dare say the early rising and exercise would do me a great
deal of good.  The housemaid, in
that case, might lie in bed a little
later, and have her tea and the morning paper brought to her in bed: then,
of course, Thomas would expect to
be helped about the boots and knives;
cook about the saucepans, dishes, and
what not; the lady's-maid would
want somebody to take the curlpapers out of her hair, and get her
bath ready. You should have a set
of servants for the servants, and these
under-servants should have slaves to
wait on them. The king commands
the first lord in waiting to desire the
second lord to intimate to the gentleman usher to request the page of the
antechamber to entreat the groom of
the stairs to implore John to ask the
captain of the buttons to desire


the maid of the still-room to beg the
housekeeper to give out a few more
lumps of sugar, as his Majesty has
none for his coffee, which probably is
getting cold during the negotiation.
In our little Brentfords we are all
kings, more or less. There are
orders, gradations, hierarchies, everywhere. In your house and mine
there are mysteries unknown to us.
I am not going into the horrid old
question of " followers."  I don't
mean cousins from the country, lovestricken policemen, or gentlemen in
mufti from Knightsbridge Barracks;
but people who have an occult right
on the premises; the uncovenanted
servants of the house; gray women
who are seen at evening with baskets
flitting about area-railings; dingy
shawls which drop you furtive courtesies in your neighborhood; demure
little Jacks, who start up from behind
boxes in the pantry. Those outsiders
wear Thomas's crest and livery, and
call him " Sir;" those silent women
address  the  female  servants as
"Mum," and courtesy before them,
squaring their arms over their wretched lean aprons. Then, again, those
servi servorum have dependants in the
vast, silent, poverty-stricken world
outside your comfortable kitchen fire,
in the world of darkness, and hunger,
and miserable cold, and dank, flagged
cellars, and huddled straw, and rags, in
which pale children are swarming. It
may be your beer (which runs with
great volubility) has a pipe or two
which communicates with those dark
caverns where hopeless anguish pours
the groan, and would scarce see light
but for a scrap or two of candle which
has been whipped away from your
worship's kitchen. Not many years
ago -I don't know whether before
or since that white mark was drawn
on the door-a lady occupied the
confidential place of housemaid in this
" private residence," who brought a
good character, who seemed to have
a cheerful temper, whom I used to hear
clattering and bumping overhead or
on the stairs long before daylight



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


273


there, I say, was poor Camilla, scouring the plain, trundling and brushing, and clattering with her pans and
brooms, and humming at her work.
Well, she had established a smuggling
communication of beer over the area
frontier. This neat-handed Phyllis
used to pack up the nicest baskets of
my provender, and convey them to
somebody outside -I believe, on my
conscience, to some poor friend in distress. Camilla was consigned to her
doom.   She was sent back to her
friends in the country; and when she
was gone we heard of many of her
faults. She expressed herself, when
displeased, in language that I shall
not repeat. As for the beer and
meat, there was no mistake about
them. But apres   Can I have the
heart to be very angry with that poor
jade for helping another poorer jade
out of my larder? on your honor
and conscience, when you were boy,
and the apples looked temptingly
over Farmer Quarringdon's hedge,
did you never? -    When   there
was a grand dinner at home, and you
were sliding, with Master Bacon, up
and down the stairs, and the dishes
came out, did you ever do such a
thing as just to? - Well, in
many and many a respect servants are
like children. They are under domination.  They are subject to reproof, to ill temper, to petty exactions
and stupid tyrannies not seldom.
They scheme, conspire, fawn, and are
hypocrites. "Little boys should not
loll on chairs." " Little girls should
be seen, and not heard;" and so
forth. Have we not almost all learnt
these expressions of old foozles: and
uttered them ourselves when in the
square-toed state? The Eton master, who was breaking a lance with
our Paterfamilias of late, turned on
Paterfamilias, saying, He knows not
the nature and exquisite candor of
well-bred English boys. Exquisite
fiddlestick's end, Mr. Master! Do
you mean for to go for to tell us that
the relations between young gentlemen and their schoolmasters are


entirely frank and cordial; that the
lad is familiar with the man who can
have him flogged; never shirks his exercises; never gets other boys to do his
verses; never does other boys' verses;
never breaks bounds; never tells fibs
-I mean the fibs permitted by scholastic honor? Did I know of a boy
who pretended to such a character, I
would forbid my scapegraces to keel)
company with him. Did I know a
schoolmaster who pretended to believe
in the existence of many hundred
such boys in one school at one time,
I would set that man down as a baby
in knowledge of the world. "Who
was making that noise? "  "I don't
know, sir." And he knows it was
the  boy  next him    in  school.
" Who was climbing over that wall? "
"I don't know, sir." And it is in
the speaker's own trousers, very
likely, the glass bottle-tops have left
their cruel scars.  And so with servants.  " Who ate up the three
pigeons which went down in the
pigeon-pie at breakfast this morning? "  "0 dear me! sir, it was
John, who went away last month!"
-or, "I think it was Miss Mary's
canary-bird, which got out of the
cage, and is so fond of pigeons, it
never can have enough of them."
Yes, it was the canary-bird; and
Eliza saw it; and Eliza is ready to
vow she did. These statements are
not true; but please don't call them
lies. This not lying; this is voting
with your party. You must back
your own side. The servants'-hall
stands by the servants'-hall against
the dining-room. The schoolboys
don't tell tales of each other. They
agree not to choose to know who has
made the noise, who has broken the
window, who has eaten up the pigeons, who has picked all the plovers'eggs out of the aspic, how it is that
liqueur brandy of Glcdstane's is in
such porous glass bottles —and so
forth. Suppose Brutus had a footman, who came and told him that the
butler drank the Curacoa, which of
these servants would you dismiss? -




274


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


the butler, perhaps, but the footman kles of Pincot the lady 's-maid, and
certainly.                        little Miss scolding Martha, who waits
No. If your plate and glass are up five-pair of stairs in the nursery.
beautifully bright, your bell quickly Little Miss, Tommy, papa, mamma,
answered, and Thomas ready, neat, you all expect from Martha, fiom Pinand good-humored, you are not to cot, from Jenkins, from Jeames, obexpect absolute truth from him. The sequious civility and willing service.
very obsequiousness and perfection of My dear, good people, you can't have
his service prevents truth. He may truth too. Suppose you ask for your
be ever so unwell in mind or body, newspaper, and Jeames says, "I'm
and he must go through his service -  reading it, and jest beg not to be dishand the shining plate, replenish the turbed;" or suppose you ask for a
spotless glass, lay the glittering fork -  can of water, and he remarks, " You
never laugh when you yourself or your great, big, 'ulking fellar, ain't you big
guests joke —be profoundly atten- enough to bring it hup yoursulf?"
tive, and yet look utterly impassive -  what would your feelings be? Now,
exchange a few hurried curses at the if you made similar proposals or redoor with that unseen slavey who quests to Mr. Jones next door, this is
ministers without, and with you be the kind of answer Jones would give
perfectly calm and polite. If you are you. You get truth habitually from
ill, he will come twenty times in an equals only; so my good Mr. Holyhour to your bell; or leave the girl shade, don't talk to me about the haof his heart- his mother, who is bitual candor of the young Etonian
going to America - his dearest friend, of high birth, or I have my own opinwho has come to say farewell -his ion of your candor or discernment
lunch, and his glass of beer just fiesh- when you do. No. Tom Bowling is
ly poured out-any or all of these, the soul of honor and has been true
if the door-bell rings, or the master to Black-eyed Syousan since the last
calls out " THOMAS" from the hall. time they parted at Wapping Old
Do you suppose you can expect ab- Stairs; but do you suppose Tom is
solute candor from a man whom you perfectly frank, familiar, and abovemay order to powder his hair? As board in his conversation with Adbetween the Rev. Henry Holyshade miral Nelson, K.C.B.? There are
and his pupil, the idea of entire un- secrets, prevarications, fibs, if you
reserve is utter bosh; so the truth as will, between Tom and the Admiral
between you and Jeames or Thomas, - between your crew and their capor Mary the housemaid, or Betty the tain. I know I hire a worthy, clean,
cook, is relative, and not to be demand- agreeable, and conscientious male or
ed on one side or the other. Why, female hypocrite, at so many guineas
respectful civility is itself a lie, which a year, to do so and so for me. Were
poor Jeames often has to utter or per- he other than hypocrite I would send
form to many a swaggering vulgarian, him about his business. Don't let
who should black Jeames's boots, did my displeasure be too fierce with him
Jeames wear them, and not shoes. for a fib or two on his own account.
There is your little Tom, just ten,  Some dozen years ago, my family
ordering the great, large, quiet, or- being absent in a distant part of the
derly young man about - shrieking country, and my business detaining
calls for hot water-bullying Jeames me in London, I remained in my
because the boots are not varnished own house with three servants on
enough, or ordering him to go to the board wages. I used only to breakstables, and ask Jenkins why the fast at home; and future ages will be
deuce Tomkins hasn't brought his interested to know that this meal used
pony round - or what you will.to consist, at that period, of tea, a
There is mamma rapping the knuc- penny roll, a pat of butter, and, per



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


275


haps, an egg. My weekly bill used ly he lied, poor John! One evening,
invariably to be about fifty shillings; being at Brighton, in the convalesso that, as I never dined in the house, cence, I remember John's step was
you see, my breakfast, consisting of unsteady, his voice thick, his laugh
the delicacies before mentioned, cost queer- and having some quinine to
about seven shillings and threepence give me, John brought the glass to
per diem. I must, therefore, have con- me - not to my mouth, but struck me
sumed daily -                     with it pretty smartly in the eye,
s. d. which was not the way in which Dr.
A quarter ofapound of tea (say)... 1 3 Elliotson had intended his prescripOne pound of butter (say).........1 3
Apenrly               (say);  I. 3~j *.* 0tion should be taken.  Turning that
One pound of lump sugar........... 1 0 eye upon him, I ventured to hint that
A new-laidegg.................... 2 9 my attendant had been drinking.
Drinking!   I never was more huWhich is the only possible way I have miliated at the thought of my own
for making out the sum.           injustice  than  at  John's reply.
Well, I fell ill while under this re- "Drinking! Sulp me! I have had
gimen, and had an illness which, but ony one pint of beer with my dinner
for a certain doctor, who was brought at one o'clock!" - and he retreats,
to me by a certain kind friend I had holding on by a chair.  These are
in those days, would, I think, have fibs, you see, appertaining to the situprevented the possibility of my tell- ation. John is drunk. "Sulp him,
ing this interesting anecdote now a he has only had an 'alf-pint of beer
dozen years after. Don't be fright- with his dinner six hours ago;" and
ened, my dear madam; it is not a none of his fellow-servants, will say
horrid, sentimental account of a mal- otherwise.  Polly is smuggled on
ady you are coming to-only a board ship. Who tells thelieutenant
question of grocery. This illness, I when he comes his rounds?  Boys
say, lasted some seventeen days, dur- are playing cards in the bedroom.
ing which the servants were admirably The outlying fag announces master
attentive and kind; and poor John, coming —out   go  candles - cards
especially, was up at all hours, watch- popped into bed - boys sound asleep.
ing night after night - amiable, cheer- Who had that light in the dormitory?
ful, untiring, respectful, the very best Law bless you! the poor dear innoof Johns and nurses.              cents are every one snoring. Every
Twice or thrice in the seventeen one snoring, and every snore is a lie
days I may have had a glass of eau told through the nose! Suppose one
sucrei - say a dozen glasses of eau of your boys or mine is engaged in
sucree —certainly not more. Well, that awful crime, are we going to
this admirable, watchful, cheerful, break our hearts about it? Come,
tender, affectionate John brought me come.  We pull a long face, waggle
in a little bill for seventeen pounds of a grave head, and chuckle within our
sugar consumed during the illness -  waistcoats.
" Often 'ad sugar and water; always  Between me and those fellow-creawas a callin' for it," says John, wag- tures of mine who are sitting in the
ging his head quite gravely. You are room below, how strange and wonderdead, years and years ago, poor John ful is the partition!  We meet at
-so patient, so friendly, so kind, so every hour of the daylight, and are incheerful to the invalid in the fever. debted to each other for a hundred
But confess now, wherever you are, offices of duty and comfort of life;
that seventeen pounds of sugar to and we live together for years, and
make six glasses of eau stcrde was a don't know  each  other.  John's
little too strong, wasn't it, John? Alh, voice to me is quite different from
how frankly, how trustily, how brave- John's voice when it addresses his




276


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


mates below. If I met Hannah in the
street with a bonnet on, I doubt whether I should know her. And all
these good people with whom I may
live for years and years have cares,
interests, dear friends and relatives,
mayhap schemes, passions, longing
hopes, tragedies of their own, from
which a carpet and a few planks and
beams utterly separate me. When
we were at the seaside, and poor
Ellen used to look so pale and run
after the postman's bell, and seize a
letter in a great scrawling hand, and
read it, and cry in a corner, how
should we know that the poor little
thing's heart was breaking?  She
fetched the water, and she smoothed
the ribbons, and she laid out the
dresses, and brought the early cup of
tea in the morning, just as if she had
had no cares to keep her awake. Henry
(who lived out of the house) was the
servant of a friend of mine who lived
in chambers.  There was a dinner
one day, and Henry waited all
through the dinner. The champagne
was properly iced, the dinner was
excellently served; every guest was
attended to; the dinner disappeared;
the dessert was set; the claret was in
perfect order, carefully decanted, and
more ready. And then Henry said,
" If you please, sir, may I go home? "
He had received word that his house
was on fire; and, having seen through
his dinner, he wished to go and look
after his children, and little sticks of
furniture. Why, such a man's livery is
a uniform of honor.  The crest on
his button is a badge of bravery.
Do you see- I imagine I do myself-in these little instances a tinge
of humor? Ellen's heart is breaking
for handsome Jeames of Buckley
Square, whose great legs are kneeling, and who has given a lock of his
precious powdered head, to some
other than Ellen. Henry is preparing
the sauce for his master's wild-ducks
while the engines are squirting over
his own little nest and brood. Lift
these figures up but a story from the
basement to;he ground-floor, and the


fun is gone. We may be en pleinetragedie. Ellen may breathe her last
sigh in blank verse, calling down
blessings upon James the profligate
who deserts her. Henry is a hero,
and epaulets are on his shoulders.
Atqui sciebat, &c., whatever tortures
are in store for him, he will be at his
post of duty.
You concede, however, that there
is a touch of humor in the two tragedies here mentioned. Why? Is it
that the idea of persons at service is
somehow   ludicrous? Perhaps it is
made more so in this country by the
splendid appearance of the liveried
domestics of great people. When
you think that we dress in black ourselves, and put our fellow-creatures
in green, pink, or canary-colored
breeches; that we order them   to
plaster their hair with flour, having
brushed that nonsense out of our own
heads fifty years ago; that some of
the most genteel and stately among
us cause the men who drive their
carriages to put on little Albino
wigs, and sit behind great nosegays
- I say I suppose it is this heaping
of gold lace, gaudy colors, blooming
plushes, on honest John Trot, which
makes the man absurd in our eyes,
who need be nothing but a simple
reputable citizen and in-door laborer.
Suppose, my dear sir, that you yourself were suddenly desired to put on a
full dress, or even undress, domestic
uniform with our friend Jones's crest
repeated in varied combinations of
button on your front and back? Suppose, madam, your son were told,
that he could not get out except
in lower garments of carnation or
amber-colored plsll - would you let
him?... But as you justly say, this
is not the question, and besides it is a
question fraught with danger, sir;
and radicalism, sir; and subversion
of the very foundations of the social
fabric, sir.... Well, John, we won't
enter on your great domestic question. Don't let us disport with
Jeames's dangerous strength, and the
edge-tools about his knife-board: but




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


with Betty and Susan who wield the
playful mop, and set on the simmering kettle. Surely you have heard
Mrs. Toddles talking to Mrs. Doddles
about their mutual maids. Miss
Susan must have a silk gown, and
Miss Betty must wear flowers under
her bonnet when she goes to church
if you please, and did you ever hear
such  impudence? The servant in
many small establishments is a constant and endless theme ot talk.
What small wage, sleep, meal, what
endless scouring, scolding, tramping on messages, fall to that poor
Susan's lot; what indignation at the
little kindly passing word with the
grocer's young man, the pot-boy, the
chubby butcher! Where such things
will end, my dear Mrs. Toddles, I
don't know. What wages they will
want next, my dear Mrs. 1)oddles, &c.
Here, dear ladies, is an advertiscment which I cut out of "The
Times " a few days since, expressly
for you: -! A LADY is desirous of obtaining a
A. SITUATION for a very respectable young woman as HEAD KITCHENMAID under a man-cook. She has lived
four years under a very good cook and
housekeeper. Can make ice, and is an
excellent baker. She will only take a
place in a very good family, where she
can have the opportunity of improving
herself, and, if possible, staying for two
years. Apply by letter to," &c., &c.
There, Mrs. Toddles, what do you
think of that, and did you ever?
Well, no, Mrs. Doddles. Upon my
word now, Mrs. T., I don't think
I ever did. A   respectable young
woman - as head kitchen-maid -
under a man-cook, will only take a
place in a very good family, where
she can improve, and stay two years.
Just note up the conditions, Mrs.
Toddles, mum, if you please, mum,
and then let us see:1. This young woman is to be
HEAD kitchen-maid, that is to say,
there is to be a chorus of kitchenmaids, of which Y. W. is to be
chief.
2. She will only be situated under a


man-cook. (A) Ought he to be a
French cook; and (B), if so,
would the lady desire him to be a
Protestant?
3. She will only take a place in a
very  good family.  How  old
ought the family to be, and what
do you call good? that is the
question. How  long after the
Conquest will do?  Would a
banker's family do, or is a baronet's good enough? Best say
what rank in the peerage would
be sufficiently high. But the
lady does not say whether she
would like a High Church or a
Low   Church  family.  Ought
there to be unmarried sons, and
may they follow a profession?
and please say how many daughters; and would the lady like
them to be musical? And how
many company dinners a week?
Not too many, for fear of fatiguing the upper kitchen-maid;
but sufficient, so as to keep the
upper kitchen - maid's hand in.
[N. B. - I think I can see a
rather bewildered expression on
the countenances of Mcsdamcs
Doddles and Toddles as I am
prattling on in this easy bantering way.]
4. The head kitchen-maid wishes
to stay for two years, and improve herselfunder the man-cook,
and having of course sucked the
brains (as the phrase is) fiom
under the chef's nightcap, then
the head kitchen-maid wishes to
go.
And upon my word, Mrs. Toddles,
mum, I will go and fetch the cab for
her. The cab? Why not her ladyship's own carriage and pair, and the
head coachman to drive away the
head kitchen-maid? You see she
stipulates for every thing - the time
to come; the time to stay; the family
she will be with; and as soon as she
has improved herselfenough, of course
the upper kitchen-maid will step into
the carriage and drive off.




278


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


Well, upon my word and conscience if things are coming to this
pass, Mrs. Toddles and Mrs. Doddles,
mum, I think I will go up stairs and
get a basin and a sponge, and then
down stairs and get some hot water;
and then I will go and scrub that
chalk-mark off my own door with my
own hands.
It is wiped off, I declare! After
ever so many weeks! Who has done
it? It was just a little round-about
mark, you know, and it was there
for days and weeks, before I ever
thought it would be the text of a
Roundabout Paper.
ON BEING FOUND OUT.
AT the close (let us say) of Queen
Anne's reign, when I was a boy at
a private and preparatory school for
young gentlemen, I remember the
wiseacre of a master ordering us all,
one night, to march into a little garden at the back of the house, and
thence to proceed one by one into a
tool or hen house (I was but a tender
little thing just put into short clothes,
and can't exactly say whether the
house was for tools or hens), and in
that house to put our hands into a
sack which stood on a bench, a candle
burning beside it. I put my hand
into the sack. My hand came out
quite black. I went and joined the
other boys in the school-room; and
all their hands were black too.
By reason of my tender age (and
there are some critics, who, I hope,
will be satisfied by my acknowledging
that I am a hundred and fifty-six next
birthday) I could not understand what
was the meaning of this night excursion - this candle, this tool-house,
this bag of soot. I think we little
boys were taken out of our sleep to
be brought to the ordeal. We came,
then, and showed our little hands to
the master; washed them or notmost probably, I should say, notand so went bewildered back to bed.


Something had been stolen in the
school that day; and Mr. Wiseacre
having read in a book of an ingenious method of finding out a thief by
making him put his hand into a sack
(which, if guilty, the rogue would
shirk from doing), all we boys were
subjected  to the trial. Goodness
knows what the lost object was, or
who stole it. We all hid black hands
to show to the master.   And the
thief, whoever he was, was not Found
Out that time.
I wonder if the rascal is alive -an
elderly scoundrel he must be by this
time; and a hoary old hypocrite to
whom an old schoolfellow presents
his kindest regards - parenthetically
remarking what a dreadful place that
private school was; cold, chilblains,
bad dinners, not enough victuals,
and caning awful! - Are  ou alive
still, I say, you nameless villiin, who
escaped discovery on that day of
crime?   I hope you have escaped
often since, old sinner. Ah, what a
lucky thing it is, for you and me, my
man, that we are not found out in all
our peccadilloes; and that our backs
can slip away from the master and
the cane!
Just consider what life would be,
if every rogue was found out, and
flogged coram populo! What a butchery, what an indecency, what an endless swishing of the rod! Don't cry
out about my misanthropy. My good
friend Mealymouth, I will trouble you
to tell me, do you go to church?
When there, do you say, or do you
not, that you are a miserable sinner
and saying so, do you believe or disbelieve it? If you are a M. S., don't
you deserve correction, and aren't
you grateful if you are to be let off?
I say again, what a blessed thing it
is that we are not all found out!
Just picture to yourself everybody
who does wrong being found out, and
punished accordingly. Fancy all the
boys in all the school being whipped;
and then the assistants, and then the
head master (Dr. Badford let us call
him).  Fancy the provost-marshal




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS


279


being tied up, having previously superintended the correction of the whole
army. After the young gentlemen
have had their turn for the faulty
exercises, fancy Dr. Lincolnsinn being taken up for certain faults in his
Essay and Review. After the clergyman has cried his peccavi, suppose
we hoist up a bishop, and give him a
couple of dozen! (I see my Lord
Bishop of Double-Gloucester sitting
in a very uneasy posture on his right
reverend bench.)  After we have
cast off the bishop, what are we to
say to the Minister who appointed
him? My Lord Cinqwarden, it is
painful to have to use personal correction to a boy of your age; but
really... Siste tandem carnifex!
The butchery is too horrible. The
hand drops powerless, appalled at the
quantity of birch which it must cut
and brandish. I am glad we are not
all found out, I say again; and protest, my dear brethren, against our
having our deserts.
To fancy all men found our and
punished is bad enough; but imagine
all women found out in the distinguished social circle in whichllou and
I have the honor to move. Is it not a
mercy that a many of these fair criminals remain unpunished and undiscovered? There is Mrs. Longbow, who is
forever practising, and who shoots
poisoned arrows, too; when you meet
her you don't call her liar, and charge
her with the wickedness she has done,
and is doing. There is Mrs. Painter,
who passes for a most respectable
woman, and a model in society.
There is no use in saying what you
really know regarding her and her
goingson. There is Diana Hunterwhat a little haughty prude it is;
and yet we know stories about her
which are not altogether edifying. I
say it is best, for the sake of the good,
that the bad should not all be found
out. You don't want your children
to know the history of that lady in the
next box, who is so handsome, and
whom they admire so. Ah me! what
would life be if e w ere all found out,


and punished for all our faults?
Jack Ketch would be in permanence;
and then who would hang Jack
Ketch?
They talk of murderers being pretty certainly found out.  Psha! I
have heard an authority awfully competent vow and declare that scores
and hundreds of murders are conmmitted, and nobody is the wiser.
That terrible man mentioned one or
two ways of committing murder,
which he maintained were quite common, and were scarcely ever found
out. A man, for instance, comes
home to his wife, and... but I
pause - I know that this Magazine
has a very large circulation. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands -
why not say a million of people at
once?- well, say a million, read it.
And amongst these countless readers,
I might be teaching some monster
how to make away with his wife
without being found out, some fiend
of a woman how to destroy her dear
husband. I will not then tell this
easy and simple way of murder, as
communicated to me by a most respectable party in the confidence of
private intercourse.  Suppose some
gentle reader were to try this most
simple and easy receipt - it seems to
me almost infallible - and come to
grief in consequence, and be found
out and hanged?   Should I ever
pardon myself for having been the
means of doing injury to a single one
of our esteemed subscribers?  The
prescription whereof I speak-that
is to say, whereof I don't speakshall be buried in this bosom. No, I
am a humane man. I am not one of
your Bluebeards to go and say to my
wife, "My dear! I am going away
for a few days to Brighton. Here are
all the keys of the house. You may
open every door and closet, except
the one at the end of the oak-room
opposite the fire-place, with the little
bronze Shakspeare on the mantelpiece
(or what not)." 'I don't say this to a
woman - unless, to be sure, I want
to get rid of her — because, after such




280


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


a caution, I know she'll peep into the
closet. I say nothing  about the
closet at all. I keep the key in my
pocket, and a being whom I love, but
who, as I know, has many weaknesses,
out of harm's way. You toss up
your head, dear angel, drub on the
ground with your lovely little feet, on
the table with your sweet rosy fingers,
and cry, " Oh, sneerer! You don't
know the depth of woman's feeling,
the lofty scorn of all deceit, the entire
absence of mean curiosity in the sex,
or never, never would you libel us
so!" Ah, Delia! dear, dear Delia!
It is because I fancy I do know something about you (not all, mind - no,
no; no man knows that) - Ah, my
bride, my ringdove, my rose, my
poppet-choose, in fact, whatever
name you like - bulbul of my grove,
fountain of my desert, sunshine of my
darkling life, and joy of my dungeoned
existence, it is because I do know a
little about you that I conclude to say
nothing of that private closet, and
keep my key in my pocket. You
take away that closet-key then, and
the house-key. You lock Delia in.
You keep her out of harm's way and
gadding, and so she never can be found
out.
And yet by little strange accidents
and coincidents how we are being
found out every day! You remember
that old story of the Abbd Kakatoes,
who told the company at supper one
night how the first confession he ever
received was- from a murderer let
us say. Presently enters to supper
the Marquis de Croquemitaine. " Palsambleu, abbe!" says the brilliant
marquis, taking a pinch of snuff,
"are you here?    Gentlemen and
ladies! I was the abbe's first penitent, and I made him a confession
which I promise you astonished him."
To be sure how queerly things are
found out!   Here is an instance.
Only the other day I was writing in
these Roundabout Papers about a
certain man, whom I facetiously called
Baggs, and who had abused me to
my friends, who of course told me.


Shortly after that paper was published
another friend -Sacks let us call
him - scowls fiercely at me as I
am sitting in perfect good-humor
at the club, and passes on without
speaking. A cut. A quarrel. Sacks
thinks it is about him that I was
writing: whereas, upon my honor
and conscience, I never had him
once in my mind, and was pointing my moral from quite another
man.   But don't you see, by this
wrath of the guilty-conscienced Sacks,
that he had been abusing me too?
He has owned himself guilty, never
having been accused. He has winced
when nobody thought of hitting him.
I did but put the cap out, and madly
butting and chafing, belold my friend
rushes to put his head into it! Never
mind, Sacks, you are found out; but
I bear you no malice, my man.
And yet to be found out, I know
from my own experience, must be
painful and odious, and cruelly mortifying to the inward vanity. Suppose
I am a poltroon, let us say. With
fierce mustache, loud talk, plentiful
oaths, and an immense stick, I keep
up, nevertheless, a character for courage. I swear fearfully at cabmen
and women; brandish my bludgeon,
and perhaps knock down a little man
or two with it; brag of the images
which I break at the shooting-gallery,
and pass amongst my friends for a
whiskery fire-eater, afraid of neither
man nor dragon. All me! Suppose
some brisk little chap steps up and
gives me a caning in St. James's
Street, with all the heads of my
friends looking out of all the club
windows. My reputation is gone. I
frighten no man more.   My nose
is pulled by whipper-snappers, who
jump up on a chair to reach it.
I am found out. And in the days
of my triumphs, when people were
yet afraid of me, and were taken in by
my swagger, I always knew that I was
a lily-liver, and expected that I should
be found out some day.
That certainty of being found out
must haunt and depress many a bold




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


281


braggadocio spirit. Let us say it is
a clergyman, who can pump copious
floods of tears out of his own eyes and
those of his audience. He thinks to
himself, " I am but a poor swindling,
chattering rogue.  My bills are unpaid. I have jilted several women
whom I have promised to marry. I
don't know whether I believe what I
preach, and I know I have stolen the
very sermon over which I have been
snivelling.  Have they found me
out?" says he, as his head drops
down on the cushion.
Then your writer, poet, historian,
novelist, or what not? "The Beacon"
says that "Jones's work is one of the
first order." " The Lamp " declaies
that "Jones's tragedy surpasses every
work since the days of Him of Avon.
The "Comet" asserts that " J.'s
'Life of Goody Twoshoes' is a KrTja
ke ei,a noble and enduring monument to the fame of that admirable
Englishwoman," and so forth. But
then Jones knows that he has lent the
critic of " The Beacon " five pounds;
that his publisher has a half-share in
" The Lamp;" and that " The
Comet" comes repeatedly to dine with
him. It is all very well. Jones is immortal until he is found out; and then
down comes the extinguisher, and the
immortal is dead and buried. The idea
(dies ire! ) of discovery must haunt
many a man, and make him uneasy,
as the trumpets are puffing in his
triumph. Brown, who has a higher
place than he deserves, cowers before
Smith, who has found him out. What
is a chorus of critics shouting " Bravo"?-a public clapping hands and
flinging garlands?  Brown knows
that Smith has found him out. Puff,
trumpets! Wave, banners! Huzza,
boys, for the immortal Brown! " This
is all very well," B. thinks (bowing
the while, smiling, laying his hand to
his heart); "but there stands Smith
at the window: he has measured me;
and some day the others will find me
out too." It is a very curious sensation to sit by a man who has found
you out, and who, as you know, has
13


found you out, or, vice versd, to sit
with a man whom you have found
out. His talent? Bah! His virtue?
We know a little story or two about
his virtue, and he knows we know it.
We are thinking over friend Robinson's antecedents, as we grin,.bow,
and talk; and we are both humbugs
together. Robinson a good fellow, is
he? You know how he behaved to
Hicks     A good-natured man, is he?
Pray do you remember that little
story of Mrs. Robinson's black eye?
How men have to work, to talk, to
smile, to go to bed, and try and sleep,
with this dread of being found out on
their consciences!  Bardolph, who
has robbed a church, and Nym, who
has taken a purse, go to their usual
haunts, and smoke their pipes with
their companions.  Mr. Detective
Bullseye appears, and says, "Oh,
Bardolph! I want you about that
there pyx business!  Mr. Bardolph
knocks the ashes out of his pipe, puts
out his hands to the little steel cuffs,
and walks away quite meekly. He
is found out. He must go. "Goodby, Doll Tearsheet! Good-by, Mrs.
Quickly, ma'am!" The other gentlemen and ladies de la socite look on
and exchange mute adieux with the
departing friends. And an assured
time will come when the other gentlemen and ladies will be found out too.
What a wonderful and beautiful
provision of nature it has been, that,
for the most part, our womankind
are not endowed with the faculty of
finding us out! They don't doubt,
and probe, and weigh, and take your
measure. Lay down this paper, my
benevolent friend and reader, go into
your drawing-room now, and utter a
joke ever so old, and I wager sixpence
the ladies there will all begin to laugh.
Go to Brown's house, and tell Mrs.
Brown and the young ladies what you
think of him, and see what a welcome
you will get! In like manner, let him
come to your house, and tell your
good lady his candid opinion of you,
and fancy how she will receive him!
Would you have your wife and-chil



282


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dren know you exactly for what you
are, and esteem you precisely at your
worth? If so, my friend, you will
live in a dreary house, and you will
have but a chilly fireside. Do you
suppose the people round it don't
see your homely face as under a
glamour, and, as it were, with a halo
of love round it? You don't fancy
you are, as you seem to them? No
such thing, my man. Put away that
monstrous conceit, and be thankful
that they have not found you out.
ON A      HUNDRED       YEARS
HENCE.
WHERE have I just read of a game
played at a country house?  The
party assembles round a table with
pens, ink, and paper.  Some one
narrates a tale containing more or
less incidents and personages. Each
person of the company then writes
down, to the best of his memory and
ability, the anecdote just narrated,
and finally the papers are to be read
out. I do not say I should like to
play often at this game, which might
possibly be a tedious and lengthy
pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the
young ladies playing their pianopieces; or to Hobbs and Nobbs lingering round the bottle and talking
over the morning's run with the
hounds; but surely it is a moral and
ingenious sport. They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and
amusing. The original story becomes
so changed and distorted that at the
end of all the statements you are
puzzled to know where the truth is at
all. As time is of small importance
to the cheerful persons engaged in this
sport, perhaps a good way of playing
it would be to spread it over a couple
of years. Let the people who played
the game in '60 all meet and play it
once more in '61, and each write his
story over again. Then bring out


your original and compare notes.
Not only will the stories dit'er from
each other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves. In the
course of the year the incidents will
grow or will dwindle strangely. The
least authentic of the statements will
be so lively or so malicious, or so
neatly put, that it will appear most
like the truth. I like these tales and
sportive exercises. I had begun a
little print collection once.  I had
Addison in his nightgown in bed at
Holland House, requesting young
Lord Warwick to remark how     a
Christian should die. I had Cainbronne clutching his cocked-hat, and
uttering the immortal la Garde meurt
et ne se rend pas. I had " The Vengeur " going down, and all the crew
hurrahing like madmen. I had Alfred
toasting the muffin; Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with
extracts from Napoleon's bulletins,
and a fine authentic portrait of Baron
Munchausen.
What man who has been before the
public at all has not heard similar
wonderful anecdotes regarding himself and his own history? In these
humble essaykins I have taken leave
to egotize. I cry out about the shoes
which pinch me, and, as I fancy, more
naturally and pathetically than if my
neighbor's corns were trodden under
foot. I prattle about the dish which
I love, the wine which I like, the talk
I heard yesterday - about Brown's
absurd airs -Jones's ridiculous elation when he thinks he has caught me
in a blunder (a part of the fun, you
see, is that Jones will read this, and
will perfectly well know that I mean
him, and that we shall meet and
grin at each other with entire politeness). This is not the highest kind
of speculation, I confess, but it is a
gossip which amuses some folks. A
brisk and honest small-beer will refresh those who do not care for the
frothy outpourings of heavier taps.
A two of clubs may be a good, handy
little card sometimes, and able to
tackle a king of diamonds, if it is a




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283


little trump. Some philosophers get averages of lying?  Is the same
their wisdom with deep thought and amount of lies told about every man,
out of ponderous libraries; I pick up and do we pretty much all tell the
my small crumbs of cogitation at a same amount of lies  Is the averdinner-table; or from Mrs. Mary and age greater in Ireland than in ScotMiss Louisa, as they are prattling land, or vice versa - among women
over their five-o'clock tea.     than among men? Is this a lie I am
Well, yesterday at dinner Jucundus telling now? If I am talking about
was good enough to tell me a story you, the odds are, perhaps, that it is.
about myself which he had heard I look back at some which have been
from a lady of his acquaintance, to told about me, and speculate on them
whom I send my best compliments. with thanks and   wonder.  Dear
The tale is this. At nine o'clock on friends have told them of me, have
the evening of the 31st of November told them to me of myself. Have
last, just before sunset, I was seen they not to and of you, dear friend?
leaving No. 96, Abbey Road, St. A friend of mine was dining at a large
John's Wood, leading two little chil- dinner of clergymen, and a story, as
dren by the hand, one of them in a true as the sausage story above given,
nankeen pelisse, and the other having was told regarding me, by one of
a mole on the third finger of his left those reverend  divines, in whose
hand (she thinks it was the third fin- frocks sit some anile chatterboxes, as
ger, but is quite sure it was the left any man who knows this world
hand). Thence I walked with them  knows. They take the privilege of
to Charles Boroughbridge's, pork and their gown. They cabal, and tattle,
sausage man, No. 29, Upper Theresa and hiss, and cackle comminations
Road. Here, whilst I left the little under their breath. I say the old
girl innocently eating a polony in the women of the other sex are not more
front shop, I and Boroughbridge re- talkative or more mischievous than
tired with the boy into the back par- some of these. " Such a man ought
lor, where Mrs. Boroughbridge was not to be spoken to," says Gobeplaying cribbage.  She put up the mouche, narrating the story-and
cards and boxes, took out a chopper such a story! "And I am surprised
and a napkin, and we cut the little he is admitted into society at all."
boy's little throat (which he bore with Yes, dear Gobemouche, but the story
great pluck and  resolution), and wasn't true; and I had no more done
made him into sausage-meat by the the wicked deed in question than I
aid of Purkis's excellent sausage- had run away with the Queen of Shemachine. The little girl at first could ba.
not understand her brother's absence,  I have always longed to know
but, under the pretence of taking her what that story was (or what collecto see Mr. Fechter in Hamlet, I led tion of histories), which a lady had in
her down to the New River at Sad- her mind to whom a servant of mine
ler's Wells, where a body of a child in applied for a place, when I was breaka nankeen pelisse was subsequently ing up my establishment once, and
found, and has never been recognized going abroad. Brown went with a
to the present day. And this Mrs. very good character from us, which,
Lynx can aver, because she saw the indeed, she fully deserved after several
whole transaction with her own eyes, years' faithful service. But when
as she told Mr. Jucundus.        Mrs. Jones read the name of the perI have altered the little details son out of whose employment Brown
of the anecdote somewhat. But this came, " That is quite sufficient," says
story is, I vow and declare, as true as Mrs. Jones. " You may go. I will
Mrs. Lynx's.  Gracious goodness! never take a servant out of that
how do lies begin? What are the house."   Ah, Mrs. Jones, how   I




284


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should like to know what that crime
was, or what that series of villanies,
which made you determine never to
take a servant out of my house. Do
you believe in the story of the little
boy and the sausages? Have you
swallowed that little minced infant?
Have you devoured that young Polonius? Upon my word you have
maw enough. We somehow greedily
gobble down all stories in which the
characters of our friends are chopped
up, and believe wrong of them without inquiry. In a late serial work
written by this hand, I remember
making some pathetic remarks about
our propensity to believe ill of our
neighbors - and I remember the remarks, not because they were valuable, or novel, or ingenious, but because, within three days after they
had appeared in print, the moralist
who wrote them, walking home with
a friend, heard a story about another
friend, which story he straightway believed, and which story was scarcely
more true than that sausage fable
which is here set down. 0 mea culpa,
mea maxima culpa! But though the
preacher trips, shall not the doctrine
be good? Yea, brethren! Here be
the rods. Look you, here are the
scourges. Choose me a nice long,
swishing, buddy one, light and wellpoised in the handle, thick and bushy
at the tail. Pick me out a whip-cord
thong with some dainty knots in it
— and now - we all deserve itwhish, whish, whish. Let us cut into
each other all round.
A favorite liar and servant of mine
was a man I once had to drive a
brougham. He never came to my
house, except for orders, and once
when he helped to wait at dinner so
clumsily that it was agreed we would
dispense with his further efforts. The
(job) brougham horse used to look
dreadfully lean and tired, and the
livery-stable keeper complained that
we worked him too hard. Now, it
turned out that there was a neighboring butcher's lady who liked to ride
in a brougham; and Tomkins lent


her ours, drove her cheerfully to Rich.
mond and Putney, and, I suppose,
took out a payment in mutton-chops.
We gave this- good Tomkins wine
and medicine for his family when sick
- we supplied him with little comforts and extras which need not now
be remembered - and the grateful
creature rewarded us by informing
some of our tradesmen whom he
honored with his custom, "Mr.
Roundabout? Lor'blessyou! Icarry
him up to bed drunk every night in
the week." He) Tomkins, being a
man of seven stone weight and five
feet high; whereas his employer was
- but here modesty interferes, and I
decline to enter into the avoirdupois
question.
Now, what was Tomkins's motive
for the utterance and dissemination
of these lies? They could further no
conceivable end or interest of his
own. I-lad they been true stories,
Tomkins's master would still, and
reasonably, have been more angry
than at the fables. It was but suicidal
slander on the part of Tomkins
must come to a discovery - must end
in a punishment. The poor wretch
had got his place under. as it turned
out, a fictitious character. He might
have stayed in it, for of course Tomkins had a wife and poor innocent
children. He might have had bread,
beer, bed, character, coats, coals. Ile
might have nestled in our little island,
comfortably sheltered from the storms
of life; but we were compelled to
cast him out, and send him driving,
lonely, perishing, tossing,. starving,
to sea -to drown.     To drown?
There be other modes of death whereby rogues die. Good:by, Tomkins.
And so the night-cap is put on, and
the bolt is drawn for poor T.
Suppose we were to invite volunteers amongst our respected readers
to send in little statements of the lies
which they know have been told about
themselves; what a heap of correspondence, what an exaggeration of
inalignities, what a crackling bonfire
of incendiary falsehoods, mizht we


her ours, drove her cheerfully to Richmond and Putney, and, I suppose,
took out a payment in mutton-chops.
We gave this good Tomkins wine
and medicine for his family when sick
- we supplied him with little comforts and extras which need not now
be remembered - and the grateful
creature rewarded us by informing
some of our tradesmen whom he
honored with his custom, "Mr.
Roundabout? Lor' bless you! I carry
him up to bed drunk every night in
the week." He, Tomkins, being a
man of seven stone weight and five
feet high; whereas his employer was
- but here modesty interferes, and I
decline to enter into the avoirdupois
question.
Now, what was Tomkins's motive
for the utterance and dissemination
of these lies? They could further no
conceivable end or interest of his
own. Had they been true stories,
Tomkins's master would still, and
reasonably, have been more angry
than at the fables. It was but suicidal
slander on the part of Tomkins -
must come to a discovery - must end
in a punishment. The poor wretch
had got his place under. as it turned
out, a fictitious character. He might
have stayed in it, for of course Tomkins had a wife and poor innocent
children. He might have had bread,
beer, bed, character, coats, coals. He
might have nestled in our little island,
comfortably sheltered from the storms
of life; but we were compelled to
cast him out, and send him driving,
lonely, perishing, tossing, starving,
to sea -to drown.     To drown?
There be other modes of death whereby rogues die. Good-by, Tomkins.
And so the night-cap is put on, and
the bolt is drawn for poor T.
Suppose we were to invite volunteers amongst our respected readers
to send in little statements of the lies
which they know have been told about
themselves; what a heap of correspondence, what an exaggeration of
malignities, what a crackling bonfire
of incendiary falsehoods, might we




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


285


not gather together! And a lie once
set going, having the breath of life
breathed into it by the father of lying,
and ordered to run its diabolical little
course, lives with a prodigious vitality.
You say, " Magna est veritas et prcevalebit." Psha! Great lies are as
great as great truths, and prevail constantly, and day after day. Take an
instance or two out of my own little
budget. I sit near a gentleman at
dinner, and the conversation turns
upon a certain anonymous literary
performance which at the time is
amusing the town. "Oh," says the
gentleman, "everybody knows who
wrote that paper: it is Momus's."
I was a young author at the time,
perhaps proud of my bantling: "I
beg your pardon," I say, "it was
written by your humble servant."
"Indeed!" was all that the man replied, and he shrugged his shoulders,
turned his back, and talked to his
other neighbor.  I never heard sarcastic incredulity more finely conveyed than by that "indeed." "Impudent liar," the gentleman's face
said, as clear as face could speak.
Where was Magna Veritas, and how
did she prevail then? She lifted up
her voice, she made her appeal, and
she was kicked out of court. In New
York I read a newspaper criticism
one day (by an exile from our shores
who has taken up his abode in the
Western Republic), commenting upon
a letter of mine which had appeared
in a contemporary volume, and wherein it was stated that the writer was a
lad in such and such a year, and, in
point of fact, I was, at the period
spoken of, nineteen years of age.
"Falsehood, Mr. Roundabout," says
the noble critic: " you were then not
a lad; you were then six and twenty
years of age." You see he knew
better than papa and mamma and
parish register. It was easier for him
to think and say I lied, on a twopenny matter connected with my own
affairs, than to imagine he was mistaken. Years ago, in a time when
we were very mad wags, Arcturus


and myself met a gentleman from
China who knew the language. We
began to speak Chinese against him.
We said we were born in China. We
were two to one.   We spoke the
mandarin dialect with perfect fluency.
We had the company with us; as in
the old, old days, the squeak of the
real pig was voted not to be so natural
as the squeak of the sham pig. 0
Arcturus, the sham pig squeaks in
our streets now to the applause of
multitudes, and the real porker
grunts unheeded in his sty!
I once talked for some little time
with an amiable lady: it was for the
first time; and I saw an expression
of surprise on her kind face, which
said as plainly as face could say, " Sir,
do you know that up to this moment I
have had a certain opinion of you, and
that I begin to think I have been mistaken or misled "  I not only know
that she had heard evil reports of me,
but I know who told her- one of
those acute fellows, my dear brethren,
of whom we spoke in a previous sermon, who has found me out - found
out actions which I never did, found
out thoughts and sayings which I
never spoke, and judged me accordingly. Ah, my lad! have I found
you out? 0 risuin teneatis. Perhaps
the person I am accusing is no more
guilty than I.
How comes it that the evil which
men say spreads so widely and lasts
so long, whilst our good, kind words
don't seem somehow to take root and
bear blossom? Is it that in the stony
hearts of mankind these pretty flowers can't find a place to grow? Certain it is that scandal is good brisk
talk, whereas praise of one's neighbor
is by no means lively hearing. An
acquaintance grilled, scored, devilled,
and served with mustard and cayenne
pepper, excites the appetite; whereas
a slice of cold friend with currant jelly
is but a sickly, unrelishing meat.
Now, such being the case, my dear
worthy Mrs. Candor, in whom I
know there are a hundred good and
generous qualities: it being perfectly




286


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clear that the good things which we
say of our neighbors don't fructify,
but somehow perish in the ground
where they are dropped, whilst the evil
words are wafted by all the winds of
scandal, take root in all soils, and
flourish amazingly-seeing, I say,
that this conversation does not give
us a fair chance, suppose we give up
censoriousness altogether, and decline
uttering our opinions about Brown,
Jones, and Robinson (and Mesdames
B., J., and R.) at all. We may be
mistaken about every one of them, as,
please goodness, those anecdote-mongers against whom I have uttered my
meek protest have been mistaken
about me. We need not go to the
extent of saying that Mrs. Manning
was an amiable creature, much misunderstood; and Jack Thurtell a gallant, unfortunate fellow, not near so
black as he was painted; but we will
try and avoid personalities altogether
in talk, won't we. We will range the
fields of science, dear madam, and
communicate to each other the pleasing results of our studies. We will,
if you please, examine the infinitesimal wonders of nature through the
microscope. We will cultivate entomology. We will sit with our arms
round each other's waists on the
pons asinorum, and see the stream of
mathematics flow beneath. We will
take refuge in cards, and play at
"beggar my neighbor," not abuse my
neighbor. We will go to the Zoological Gardens and talk freely about the
gorilla and his kindred, but not talk
about people who can talk in their
turn. Suppose we praise the High
Church  we offend the Low Church.
The Broad Church   High and Low
are both offended.  What do you
think of Lord Derby as a politician?
and what is your opinion of Lord
Palmerston? If you please, will you
play me those lovely variations of" In
my cottage near a wood? " It is a
charming air (you know it in French,
I suppose? A! tedirai-je maman!)
and was a favorite with poor Marie
Antoinette. I say "poor because I


have a right to speak with pity of a
sovereign who was renowned for so
much beauty and so much misfortune.
But as for giving any opinion on her
conduct, saying that she was good or
bad, or indifferent, goodness forbid!
We have agreed we will not be censorious. Let us have a game at cards
- at ccarte, if you please. You deal.
I ask for cards. I lead the deuce of
clubs....
What? there is no deuce! Deuce
take it! What? People will go on
talking about their neighbors, and
won't have their mouths stopped by
cards, or ever so much microscopes
and aquariums      Ah, my poor dear
Mrs. Candor, I agree with you. By
the way, did you ever see any thing
like Lady Godiva Trotter's dress last
night? People will go on chattering,
although we hold our tongues; and,
after all, my good soul, what will
their scandal matter a hundred years
hence?
SMALL-BEER CHRONICLE.
NOT long since, at a certain banquet, I had the good fortune to sit by
Doctor Polymathesis, who knows
every thing, and who, about the time
when the claret made its appearance,
mentioned that old dictum of the
grumbling Oxford Don, that "ALL
CLARET would be port if it could!"
Imbibing a bumper of one or the
other not ungratefully, I thought to
myself, "Here surely, Mr. Roundabout, is a good text for one of your
reverence's sermons." Let us apply
to the human race, dear brethren,
what is here said of the vintages of
Portugal and Gascony, and we shall
have no difficulty in perceiving how
many clarets aspire to be ports in
their way; how most men and women of our acquaintance, how we
ourselves, arc Aquitanians giving
ourselves Lusitanian airs; how we
wish to have credit for being stronger,
braver, more beautiful, more worthy,
than we really are.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


287


Nay, the beginning of this hypoc- into the district where humbug and
risy -a desire to excel, a desire to vanity begin, and there the moralizer
be hearty, fruity, generous, strength- catches you, and makes an example
imparting —is a virtuous and noble of you. For instance, in a certain
ambition; and it is most difficult for novel in another place, my friend Mr.
a man in his own case, or his neigh- Talbot Twysden is mentioned - a
bor's, to say at what point this ambi- man whom you and I know to be a
tion transgresses the boundary of wretched ordinaire, but who persists
virtue, and becomes vanity, pretence, in treating himself as if he was the
and self-seeking.  You are a poor finest '20 port. In our Britain there
man, let us say, showing a bold face are hundreds of men like him; forever
to adverse fortune, and wearing a striving to swell beyond their natuconfident aspect. Your purse is very ral size, to strain  beyond  their
narrow, but you owe no man a penny; natural strength, to step beyond their
your means are scanty, but your wife's natural stride. Search, search within
gown is decent; your old coat well your own waistcoats, dear brethren —
brushed; your children at a good you know in your hearts, which of
school; you grumble to no one; ask your ordinaire qualities you would
favors of no one; truckle to no neigh- pass off, and fain consider as first-rate
bors on account of their superior port. And why not you yourself,
rank, or (a worse, and a meaner, and Mr. Preacher? says the congregation.
a more common crime still) envy none Dearly beloved, neither in nor out of
for their better fortune. To all out- this pulpit do I profess to be bigger,
ward appearances you are as well to or cleverer, or wiser, or better than
do as your neighbors, who have thrice any of you. A short while since, a
your income. There may be in this certain Reviewer announced that I
case some little mixture of pretension gave myself great pretensions as a
in your life and behavior. You cer- philosopher. I a philosopher! I ad
tainly do put on a smiling face whilst vance pretensions! My dear Saturfortune is pinching you.  Your wife day friend, And you? Don't you
and girls, so smart and neat at even- teach every thing to everybody? and
ing parties, are cutting, patching, and punish the naughty boys if they don't
cobbling all day to make both ends of learn as you bid them? You teach.
life's haberdashery meet. You give a politics to Lord John and Mr. Gladfriend a bottle of wine on occasion, stone.  You teach poets how  to
but are content yourself with a glass write; painters, how to paint; gentleof whiskey and water. You avoid a men, manners; and opera-dancers,
cab, saying that of all things you like how to pirouette. I was not a little
to walk home after dinner (which you amused of late by an instance of the
know, my good friend, is a fib). I modesty of our Saturday friend, who,
grant you that in this scheme of life more Athenian than the Athenians,
there does enter ever so little hypoc- and apropos of a Greek book by a
risy; that this claret is loaded, as it Greek author, sat down and gravely
were; but your desire toportiJy your- showed the Greek gentleman how to
self is amiable, is pardonable, is per- write his own language.
haps honorable: and were there no    No, I do not, as far as I know, try
other hypocrisies than yours in the to be port at all; but offer in these
world, we should be a set of worthy presents, a sound genuine ordinaire,
fellows; and sermonizers, moralizers, at 18s. per doz. let us say, grown on
satirizers, would have to hold their my own hill-side, and offered de bon
tongues, and go to some other trade ceur to those who will sit down
to get a living.                   under my tonnel/e, and have a halfBut yon know you will step over that hour's drink and gossip. It is none
boundary line of virtue and modesty, of your hot porto, my friend. I




288


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know there is much better and
utronger liquor elsewhere.  Some
pronounce it sour: some say it is
thin; some that it has woefully
lost its flavor. This may or may not
be true. There are good and bad
years; years that surprise everybody;
years of, which the produce is' small
and bad, or rich and plentiful. But if
my tap is not genuine it is naught,
and no man should give himself the
trouble to drink it. I do not even
say that I would be port if I could;
knowing that port (by which I would
imply much stronger, deeper, richer,
and more durable, liquor than my
vineyard can furnish) is not relished
by all palates or suitable to all heads.
e will assume, then, dear brother,
that you and I are tolerably modest
people; and, ourselves being thus out
of the question, proceed to show how
pretentious our neighbors are, and
how very many of them would be
port if they could.
Have you never seen   a small
man from college  placed amongst
great folk, and giving himself the
airs of a man of fashion? He goes
back to his common room with fond
reminiscences of Ermine Castle or
Strawberry Hall. He writes to the
dear countess, to say that dear Lord
Lollypop is getting on very well at
St. Boniface, and that the accident
which he met with in a scuffle with
an inebriated bargeman only. showed
his spirit and honor, and will'not
permanently disfigure his lordship's
nose. He gets his clothes from dear
Lollypop's London tailor, and wears
a mauve or magenta tie when he
rides out to see the hounds. A love
of fashionable people is a weakness, I
do not say of all, but of some tutors.
Witness that Eton tutor t'other day,
who intimated that in Cornhill we
could not understand the perfect
purity, delicacy, and refinement of
those genteel families who sent their
sons to Eton. O usher, mon ami!
Old Sam Johnson, who, too, had
been an usher in his early life, kept
a little of that weakness always.


Suppose Goldsmith had knocked him
up at three in the morning and proposed a boat to Greenwich, as Topham Beauclerc and his friends did,
would he have said, " What, my boy,
are you for a frolic? I'm with you!"
and gone and put on his clothes?
Rather he would have pitched poor
Goldsmith down stairs. He would
have liked to be port if he could. Of
course we wouldn't. Our opinion
of the Portugal grape is known. It
grows very high, and is very sour,
and we don't go for that kind of
grape at all.
" I was walking with Mr. Fox "and sure this anecdote comes very
pat after the grapes- " I was walking with Mr. Fox in the Louvre,"
says Benjamin West (apud some
aper I have just been reading), " and
remarked how many people turned
round to look at me. This shows the
respect of the French for the fine
arts." This is a curious iust.ince of
a very small claret indeed, which imn
agined itself to be port of the strong
est body. There are not many
instances of a faith so deep, so simple
so satisfactory, as this. I have mel
many who would like to be port,
but with few of the Gascon sort, who
absolutely believed they were port.
George III. believed in West's port,
andthought Reynolds'soverrated stuff
When I saw West's pictures at Phil
adelphia, I looked at them with as.
tonishment and awe. Hide, blushing
glory, hide your head under youi
old night-cap. O' immortality! is
this the end of you? Did any of you,
my dear brethren, ever try and read
"Blackmore's Poems," or "The
Epics of Baour-Lormian," or "The
Henriade," or- what shall we say?
- Pollok's "Course of Time "?
They were thought to be more lasting
than brass by some people, and where
are they now? And our masterpieces
of literature-our ports-that, if
not immortal, at any rate are to last
their fifty, their hundred years - oh,
sirs, don't you think a very small
cellar will hold them?




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289


Those poor people in brass, on
pedestals, hectoring about Trafalgar
Square and that neighborhood, don't
you think many of them - apart even
from the ridiculous execution-cut
rather a ridiculous figure, and that
we are too eager to set up our ordinaire heroism and talent for port?
A Duke of Wellington or two I will
grant, though even of these idols a
moderate supply will be sufficient.
Some years ago, a famous and witty
French critic was in London, with
whom I walked the streets. I am
ashamed to say that I informed him
(being in hopes that he was about to
write some papers regarding the
manners and customs of this country)
that all the statues he saw represented
the Duke of Wellington. That on
the arch opposite Apsley House? the
Duke in a cloak, and cocked-hat, on
horseback.  That behind   Apslev
House in an airy fig-leaf costume'
the Duke again. That in Cockspur
Street? the Duke with a pigtailand so on. I showed him an army
of Dukes. There are many bronze
heroes who after a few years look already as foolish, awkward, and out
of place as a man, say at Shoolbred's
or Swan and Edgar's. For example,
those three Grenadiers in Pall Mall,
who have been up only a few months,
don't you pity those unhappy household troops, who have to stand frowning and looking fierce there; and
think they would like to step down
and go to barracks?   That they
fought very bravely there is no doubt;
but so did the Russians fight very
bravely; and the French fight very
bravely; and so did Colonel Jones and
the 99th, and Colonel Brown and the
100th; and I say again that ordinaire
should not give itself port airs, and
that an honest ordinaire would blush
to be found swaggering so. I am
sure if you could consult the Duke
of York, who is impaled on his
column between the two clubs, and
ask his late Royal Highness whether
he thought he ought to remain there,
he would say no. A brave, worthy
13*


man, not a braggart or boaster, to be
put upon that heroic perch must be
painful to him. Lord George Bentinck, I suppose, being in the midst
of the family park in Cavendish
Square, may conceive that he has a
right to remain in his place. But
look at William of Cumberland, with
his hat cocked over his eye, prancing
behind Lord George on his Romannosed charger; he, depend on it,
would be for getting off his horse if
he had the permission. He did not
hesitate about trifles, as we know;
but he was a very truth-telling and
honorable soldier: and as for heroic
rank and statuesque dignity, I would
wager a dozen of '20 port against a
bottle of pure and sound Bordeaux, at
18s. per dozen (bottles included), that
he never would think of claiming any
such absurd distinction. They have
got a statue of Thomas Moore at
Dublin, I hear. Is he on horseback?
Some men should have, say, a fifty
years' lease of glory. After a while
some gentlemen now in brass should
go to the melting furnace, and reappear in some other gentleman's
shape. Lately I saw that Melville
column rising over Edinburgh; come,
good men and true, don't you feel a
little awkward and uneasy when you
walk under it? Who was this to
stand in heroic places? and is yon the
man whom Scotchmen most delight
to honor? 1 must own deferentially
that there is a tendency in North
Britain to over-esteem its heroes.
Scotch ale is very good and strong,
but it is not stronger than all the
other beer in the world, as some Scottish patriots would insist. When there
has been a war, and stout old Sandy
Sansculotte returns home from India
or Crimea, what a bagpiping, shouting, hurraying, and self-glorification
takes place round about him! You
would fancy, to hear Me Orator after
dinner, that the Scotch had fought
all the battles, killed all the Russians,
Indian rebels, or what not. In
Cupar-Fife, there's a little inn called
" Thle Battle of Waterloo," and what




290


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do you think the sign is? "The
Battle of Waterloo " is one broad
Scotchman laying about him with a
broadsword. Yes, yes, my dear Mac,
you are wise, you are good, you are
clever, you are handsome, you are
brave, you are rich, &c.; but so is
Jones over the border. Scotch salmon
is good, but there are other good fish
in the sea. I once heard a Scotchman lecture on poetry in London.
Of course the pieces he selected were
chiefly by Scottish authors, and
Walter Scott was his favorite poet. I
whispered to my neighbor, who was a
Scotchman (by the way, the audience
were almost all Scotch, and the room
was All-Mac's —I beg   your pardon, but I could't help it, I really
couldn't help it) -" The professor has said the best poet was a
Scotchman: I wager that he will say
the worst poet was a Scotchman,
too." And sure enough that worst
poet, when he made his appearance,
was a Northern Briton.
And as we are talking of bragging,
and I am on my travels, can I forget
one mighty republic - one - two
mighty republics, where people are
notoriously fond of passing off their
claret for port? I am very glad, for
the sake of a kind friend, that there
is a great and influential party in the
United, and, I trust, in the Confederate States,* who believe that Catawba wine is better than the best Champagne.   Opposite that famous old
White House at Washington, whereof I shall ever have a grateful memory, they have set up an equestrian
statue of General Jackson, by a selftaught American artist of no inconsiderable genius and skill.  At an
evening party a member of Congress
seized me in a corner of the room,
and asked me if I did not think this
was the finest equestrian statue in the
world? How was I to deal with this
plain question, put to me in a corner?
I was bound to reply, and accordingly
said that I did not think it was the




finest statue in the world. " Well,
sir," says the member of Congress,
"but you must remember that Mr.
M — had never seen a statue when
he made this!"  I suggested that to
see other statues might do Mr. M —
no harm. Nor was any man more
willing to own his defects, or more
modest regarding his merits, than the
sculptor himself, whom I met subsequently. But oh! what a charming
article there was in a Washington
paper next day about the impertinence
of criticism and offensive tone of
arrogance which Englishmen adopted
towards men and works of genius in
America!    "Who was this man,
who," &c., &c.? The Washington
writer was angry because I would not
accept this American claret as the finest
port-wine in the world. Ah, me! It
is about blood and not wine that the
quarrel now is, and who shall foretell
its end?
How much claret that would be
port if it could is handed about in
every society! In the House of Commons what small-beer orators try to
pass for strong? Stay: have I a spite
against any one? It is a fact that
the wife of the member for Bungay
has left off asking me and Mrs.
Roundabout to her evening parties.
Now is the time to have a slap at him.
I will say that he was always overrated, and that now he is lamentably
falling off even from what he has
been.  I will back   the Member
for Stoke Poges against him; and
show that the dashing young Member for Islington is a far sounder man
than either. Have I any little literary
animosities? Of course not. Men
of letters never have.  Otherwise,
how I could serve out a competitor
here, make a face over his works, and
show that his would-be port is very
meagre ordinaire indeed! Nonsense,
man! Why so squeamish? Do they
spare you! Now you have the whip
in your hand, won't you lay on? You
used to be a pretty whip enough as a
young man, and liked it too. Is there
no enemy who would be the better for


I


* Written in July, 1861.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


291


a little thonging? No. I have mili- don't they often set,ip to be esprits
tated in former times, not without forts?  Don't they pretend to be
glory; but I grow peaceable as I grow  women of fashion, and cut their betold. And if I have a literary enemy, ters? Don't they try and pass off
why, he will probably write a book their ordinary-looking girls as beauere long, and then it will be his turn, ties of the first order? Every man in
and my favorite review will be down his circle knows women who give
upon him.                         themselves airs, and to whom we can
My brethren, these sermons are apply the port-wine simile.
professedly short; for I have that  Come, my friends. Here is enough
opinion of my dear congregation, of ordinaire and port for to-day. My
which leads me to think that were I bottle has run out. Will anybody
to preach at great length they would have any more? Let us go up stairs,
yawn, stamp, make noises, and perhaps and get a cup of tea from the ladies.
go straightway out of church; and yet
with this text I protest I could go on
for hours. What multitudes of men,
what multitudes of women, my dears,OGRES
pass off their ordinaire for port, their
small beer for strong! In literature,  I DARESAY the reader has remarked
in politics, in the army, the navy, the that the upright and independent
church, at the bar, in the world, what vowel, which stands in the vowel-list
an immense quantity of cheap liquor between E and 0, has formed the
is made to do service for better sorts! subject of the main part of these
Ask Sergeant Roland his opinion of essays. How does that vowel feel
Oliver Q.C.  " Ordinaire, my good this morning?-fresh, good-humored,
fellow, ordinaire, with a port-wine and lively? T'he Roundabout lines,
label." Ask Oliver his opinion of Ro- which fall from this pen, are correland. "Never was a man so overrated spondingly brisk and cheerful. Has
l)y the world and by himself." Ask any thing, on the contrary, disagreed
'lweedledumski his opinion of Twee- with the vowel? Has its rest been
dledeestein's performance, "A quack, disturbed, or was yesterday's dinner
my tear sir! an ignoramus, I geef too good, or yesterday's wine not
you my vort? He gombose an opera! good enough? Under such circumHe is not fit to make dance a bear I" stances, a  darkling, misanthropic
Ask Paddington and Buckmister, tinge, no doubt, is cast upon the
those two "swells" of fashion, what paper. The jokes, if attempted, are
they think of each other? They are elaborate and dreary.  The bitter
notorious ordinaire. You and I re- temper breaks out.  That sneering
member when they passed for very manner is adopted, which you know,
small wine, and now how high and and which exhibits itself so especially
mighty they have become! What do when the writer is speaking about
you say to Tomkins's sermons? Ordi- women. A moody carelessness comes
naire, trying to go down as orthodox over him. He sees no good in any
port, and very meagre ordinaire too! body or thing: and treats gentlemen,
To Hopkins's historical works? - to ladies, history, and things in general,
Pumkins's poetry?  Ordinaire, ordi- with alike gloomy flippancy. Agreed.
naire again - thin, feeble, overrated; When the vowel in question is in that
and so down the whole list.  And mood, if you like airy gayety and
when we have done discussing our tender gushing benevolence -if you
men friends, have we not all the wo- want to be satisfied with yourself and
men? Do these not advance absurd the rest of your fellow-beings; I
pretensions?  Do these never give recommend you, my dear creature,
themselves airs?  With feeble brains, to go lo some other shop in Cornhill,




292


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


or turn to some other article. There
are moods in the mind of the vowel
of which we are speaking, when it is
ill conditioned and captious. Who
always keeps good health, and good
humor? Do not philosophers grumble?, Are not sages sometimes out
of temper? and do not angel-women
go off in tantrums? To-day my
mood is dark. I scowl as I dip my
pen in the inkstand.
Here is the day come round - for
every thing here is done with the utmost regularity; -intellectual labor,
sixteen hours; meals, thirty-two
minutes; exercise, a hundred and
forty-eight minutes;  conversation
with the family, chiefly literary, and
about the housekeeping, one hour
and four minutes; sleep, three hours
and fifteen minutes (at the end of the
month, when the Magazine is complete, I own I take eight minutes
more); and the rest for the toilette
and the world. Well, I say, "The
Roundabout Paper Day " being come,
and the subject long since settled in
my mind, an excellent subject —a
most telling, lively and popular
subject -I go to breakfast determined
to finish that meal in nine and threefourths minutes, as usual, and then
retire to my desk and work, when -
oh, provoking! - here in the paper is
the very subject treated, on which
I was going to write! Yesterday
another paper which I saw treated
it - and of course, as I need not tell
you, spoiled  it.  Last Saturday,
another paper had an article on the
subject; perhaps you may guess what
it was- but I won't tell you. Only
this is true, my favorite subject, which
was about to make the best paper we
have had for a long time: my bird,
my game that I was going to shoot
and serve up with such a delicate
sauce, has been found by other sportsmen; and pop, pop, pop, a half-dozen
of guns have banged at it, mangled
it, and brought it down.
" And can't you take some other
text? " say you. All this is mighty
well. But if you have set your heart


on a certain dish for dinner, be it cold
boiled veal, or what you will, and
they bring you turtle and venison,
don't you feel disappointed? During
your walk you have been making up
your mind that that cold meat, with
moderation and a pickle, will be a
very sufficient dinner: you have accustomed your thoughts to it; and
here, in place of it, is a turkey, surrounded by coarse sausages, or a
reeking pigeon-pie or a fulsome roast
pig. I have known many a good and
kind man made furiously angry by
such a contretemps. I have known
him lose his temper, call his wife and
servants names, and a whole household made miserable. If, then, as is
notoriously the case, it is too dangerous to balk a man about his dinner,
how much more about his article?
I came to my meal with an ogre-like
appetite and gusto. Fee, faw, fum!
Wife, where is that tender little
Princekin? Have you trussed him,
and did you stuff him nicely, and
have you taken care to baste him and
do him, not too brown, as I told you?
Quick! I am hungry! I begin to
whet my knife, to roll my eyes about,
and roar, and clap my huge chest like
a gorilla; and then my poor Ogrina
has to tell me that the little princes
have all run away whilst she was in
the kitchen, making the paste to bake
them in! I pause in the description.
I won't condescend to report the bad
language, which you know must ensue, when an ogre, whose mind is ill
regulated, and whose habits of selfindulgence are notorious, finds himself disappointed of his greedy hopes.
What treatment of his wife, what
abuse and brutal behavior to his
children, who, though ogrillons, are
children! My dears, you may fancy,
and need not ask my delicate pen
to describe, the language and behavior of a vulgar, coarse, greedy, large
man with an immense mouth and
teeth, which are too frequently employed in the gobbling and crunching
of raw man's meat.
And in this circuitous way vou see




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


293


I have reached my present subject,
which is, Ogres. You fancy they are
dead or only fictitious charactersmythical representatives of strength,
cruelty, stupidity, and lust for blood?
Though they had seven-leagued boots,
you remember all sorts of little whipping-snapping Tom Thumbs used to
elude and outrun them. They were
so stupid that they gave into the most
shallow  ambuscades and artifices:
witness that well-known ogre, who,
because Jack cut open the hasty-pudding, instantly ripped open his own
stupid waistcoat and interior. They
were cruel, brutal, disgusting, with
their sharpened teeth, immense knives,
and roaring voices! but they always
ended by being overcome by little
Tom Thumbkins, or some other smart
little champion.
Yes; they were conquered in the
end there is no doubt. They plunged
headlong (and uttering the most
frightful bad language) into some pit
where Jack came with his smart couteau de chasse, and whipped their brutal
heads off. They would be going to
devour maidens,
"But ever when it seemed
Their need was at the sorest,
A knight, in rcrmor bright,
Came riding through the forest."
And down, after a combat, would go
the brutal persecutor, with a lance
through his midriff. Yes, I say, this
is very true and well. But you remember that round the ogre's cave
the ground was covered, for hundreds
and hundreds of yards, with the bones
of the victims whom he had lured into
the castle. Many knights and maids
came to him and perished under his
knife and teeth. Were dragons the
same as ogres? monsters dwelling in
caverns, whence they rushed, attired
in plate armor, wielding pikes and
torches, and destroying stray passengers who passed by their lair? Monsters, brutes, rapacious tyrants, ruffians, as they were, doubtless they
ended by being overcome. But, before they were destroyed, they did a
deal of mischief: The bones round


their caves were countless. They had
sent many brave souls to Hades, before their own fled, howling out of
their rascal carcasses, to the same
place of gloom.
There is no greater mistake than
to suppose that fairies, champions,
distressed damsels, and by consequence ogres, have ceased to exist.
It may not be ogreable to them (pardon the horrible pleasantry, but as I
am writing in the solitude of my
chamber, I am grinding my teeth -
yelling, roaring, and cursing - brandishing my scissors and paper-cutter,
and as it were, have become an ogre).
I say there is no greater mistake than
to suppose that ogres have ceased to
exist. We all know ogres. Their
caverns are round us, and about us.
There are the castles of several ogres
within a mile of the spot where I
write. I think some of them suspect
I am an ogre myself. I am not: but
I know they are.  I visit them. I
don't mean to say that they take
a cold roast prince out of the cupboard, and have a cannibal feast before mle. But I see the bones lying
about the roads to their houses, and
in the areas and gardens. Politeness,
of course, prevents me from making
any remarks; but I know them well
enough. One of the ways to know
'cm is to watch the scared looks of
the ogres' wives and children. They
lead an awful life. They are present
at dreadful cruelties. In their excesses
those ogres will stab about, and kill
not only strangers who happen to
call in and ask a night's lodging, but
they will outrage, murder, and chop
up their own kin.   We all know
ogres, I say, and have been in their
dens often. It is not necessary that
ogres who ask you to dine should
offer their guests the peculiar dish
which they like. They cannot always
get a Tom Thumb family. They eat
mutton and beef too; and I dare say
even go out to tea, and invite you
to drink it. But I tell you there are
numbers of them going about in the
world. And now you have my word




294


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


for it, and this little hint, it is quite world - the  neighboring  marketcurious what an interest society may town, let us say, or earl's castlebe made to have for you, by your though their nature and reputation
determining to find out the ogres you were pretty well known, their notomeet there.                      rious foibles were never alluded to.
What does the man mean? says You would say, " What, BlunderMrs. Downright, to whom ajoke is a bore, my boy! How do you do? How
very grave thing. I mean, madam, well and fresh you look! What's the
that in the company assembled in receipt you have for keeping so young
your genteel drawing-room, who bow and rosy?"  And your wife would
here and there, and smirk in white softly ask after Mrs. Blunderbore and
neckcloths, you receive men who the dear children. Or it would be,
elbow  through   life  successfully "My dear Humguffin! try that pork.
enough, but who are ogres in private: It is home-bred, home-fed, and, I
men wicked, false, rapacious, flatter- promise you, tender. Tell me if you
ing; cruel hectors at home, smiling think it as good as yours? John, a
courtiers abroad; causing wives, chil- glass of Burgundy to Colonel Humdren, servants, parents, to tremble be- guffin!"  You don't suppose there
fore them, and smiling and bowing as would be any unpleasant allusions to
they bid strangers welcome into their disagreeable home-reports regarding
castles. I say, there are men who Humguffin's manner of furnishing
have crunched the bones of victim  his larder?  I say we all of us
after victim; in whose closets lie know ogres. We shake hands and
skeletons picked frightfully clean. dine with ogres. And if inconvenient
When these ogres come out into the moralists tell us we are cowards for
world, you don't suppose they show  our pains, we turn round with a tu
their knives, and their great teeth? quoque, or say that we don't meddle
A neat simple white neckcloth, a with other folk's affairs; that people
merry, rather obsequious manner, a are much less black than they are
cadaverous look, perhaps, now and painted, and so on. What! Won't
again, and a rather dreadful grin; half the county go to Ogreham
but I know ogres very considerably Castle? Won't some of the clergy say
respected: and when you hint to grace at dinner? Won't the mothers
such and such a man, "My dear sir, bring their daughters to dance with
Mr. Sharpus, whom you appear to the young Rawheads? And if Lady
like, is, I assure you, a most dreadful Ogreham happens to die - I won t
cannibal;" the gentleman cries, "Oh, say to go the way of all flesh, that is
psha, nonsense!  Dare say not so too revolting -I say if Ogreham
black as he is painted. Dare say not is a widower, do you aver, on your
worse than his neighbors."  We con- conscience and honor, that mothers
done every thing in this country —  will not be found to offer their young
private treason, falsehood, flattery, girls to supply the lamented lady's
cruelty at home, roguery, and double place? How stale this misanthropy
dealing. What! Do you mean to say is! Something must have disagreed
in your acquaintance you don't know  with this cynic.  Yes, my good
ogres guilty of countless crimes of woman. I dare say you would like
fraud and force, and that knowing to call another subject. Yes, my fine
them  you don't shake hands with fellow; ogre at home; supple as a
them; dine with them at your table; dancing-master abroad, and shaking
and meet them at their own? De- in thy pumps, and wearing a horpend upon it, in the time when there rible grin of sham gayety to conwere real live ogres in real caverns ceal thy terror, lest I should point
or castles, gobbling up real knights thee out: —thou art prosperous and
and virgins, when they went into the honored, art thou? I say thou hast




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


295


been a tyrant and a robber. Thou
hast plundered the poor. Thou hast
bullied the weak. Thou hast laid
violent hands on the goods of the
innocent and confiding.  Thou hast
made a prey of the meek and
gentle who asked for thy protection.
Thou hast been hard to thy kinsfolk,
and cruel to thy family. Go, monster! Ah, when shall little Jack come
and drill daylight through thy wicked
cannibal carcass?  I see the ogre
pass on, bowing right and left to the
company; and he gives a dreadful
sidelong glance of suspicion as he is
talking to my lord bishop in the corner there.
Ogres in our days need not be
giants at all. In former times, and
in children's books, where it is necessary to paint your moral in such large
letters that there can be no mistake
about it, ogres are made with that
enormous mouth and ratelier which
you know of, and with which they can
swallow down a baby, almost without
using that great knife which they
always carry. They are too cunning
now-a-days. They go about in society, slim, small, quietly dressed, and
showing no especially great appetite.
In my own young days there used to
be play ogres -men who would
devour a young fellow in one sitting,
and leave him without a bit of flesh
on his bones. They were quiet, gentlemanlike-looking people. They got
the young fellow into their cave.
Champagne pat-de-foie-gras, and
numberless good things, were handed
about; and then, having eaten, the
young man was devoured in his turn.
I believe these card and dice ogres
have died away almost as entirely as
the hasty-pudding giants whom Tom
Thumb overcame. Now, there are
ogres in City courts who lure you
into their dens. About our Cornish
mines I am told there are many most
plausible ogres, who tempt you into
their caverns, and pick your bones
there. In a certain newspaper there
used to be lately a whole column of
advertisements from ogres who would


put on the most plausible, nay, piteous
appearance, in order to inveigle their
victims. You would read, " A tradesman, established for seventy years in
the City, and known, and much respected by Messrs. N. M. Rothschild
and Baring Brothers, has pressing
need fbr three pounds until next Saturday. He can give security for half
a million, and forty thousand pounds
will be given for the use of the loan,"
and so on; or, "An influential body
of capitalists are about to establish a
company, of which the business will
be enormous and the profits proportionately prodigious. They will require A SECRETARY, of good address
and appearance, at a salary of two
thousand per annum.  He need not
be able to write, but address and
manners are absolutely necessary.
As a mark of confidence in the company, he will have to deposit," &c.;
or, "A young widow (of pleasing
manners and appearance) who has a
pressing necessity for four pounds
ten for three weeks, offers her irard's
grand piano valued at three hundred
guineas; a diamond cross of eight
hundred pounds; and board and
lodging in her elegant villa near
Banbury Cross, with the best references and society, in return for the
loan."  I suspect these people are
ogres.  There are ogres and ogres.
Polyphemus was a great, tall, oneeyed, notorious ogre, fetching his
victims out of a hole, and gobbling
them one after another. There could
be no mistake about him. But so
were the Sirens ogres-pretty blueeyed things, peeping at you coaxingly
from out of the water, and singing
their melodious wheedles. And the
bones round their caves were more
numerous than the ribs, skulls, and
thigh-bones round the cavern of
hulking Polypheme.
To the castle-gates of some of these
monsters up rides the dapper champion of the pen; puffs boldly upon
the horn which hangs by the chain;
enters the hall resolutely, and challenges the big tyrant sulking within.




296


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We defy him to combat, the enormous
roaring ruffian! We give him a meeting on the green plain before his
castle. Green? No wonder it should
be green: it is manured with human
bones. After a few graceful wheels
and curvets, we take our ground.
We stoop over our saddle. 'Tis but
to kiss the locket of our lady-love's
hair. And now the visor is up: the
lance is in rest (Gillott's iron is the
point for me). A touch of the spur in
the gallant sides of Pegasus, and we
gallop at the great brute.
" Cut off his ugly head, Flibbertygibbet, my squire!  And who are
these who pour out of the castle? the
imprisoned maidens, the maltreated
widows, the poor old hoary grandfathers, who have been locked up in
the dungeons these scores and scores
of years, writhing under the tyranny
of that ruffian! Ah ye knights of
the pen! May honor be your shield,
and truth tip your lances! Be gentle
to all gentle people. Be modest to
women. Be tender to children. And
as for the Ogre Humbug, out sword,
and have at him.
ON TWO ROUNDABOUT PAPERS WHICH      I INTENDED
TO WRITE.*
WE have all heard of a place paved
with  good   intentions:-a  place
which I take to be a very dismal, useless and unsatisfactory terminus for
many pleasant thoughts, kindly fancies, gentle wishes, merry little quips
and pranks, harmless jokes which die
as it were the moment of their birth.
Poor little children of the brain I He
was a dreary theologian who huddled
you under such a melancholy cenotaph, and laid you in the vaults under
the flagstones of Hades! I trust
* The following paper was written in
1861, after the extraordinary affray between Major Murray and the money-lender in a house in Northumberland Street,
Strand, and subsequent to the appearance
of M. Du Chaillu's book on Gorillas.


that some of the best actions we have
all of us committed in -our lives have
been committed in fancy. It is not all
wickedness we are thinking, que diable!
Some of our thoughts are bad enough,
I grant you. Many a one you and I
have had here below. Ah, mercy,
what a monster! what crooked horns!
what leering eyes! what a flaming
mouth! what cloven feet, and what a
hideous writhing tail I Oh, let us fall
down on our knees, repeat our most
potent exorcisms, and overcome the
brute. Spread your black pinions,
fly - fly to the dusky realms of Eblis,
and bury thyself under the pavingstones of his hall, dark genie! But
all thoughts are not so. No - no.
There are the pure: there are the
kind: there are the gentle. There
are sweet unspoken thanks before a
fair scene of nature: at a sun-setting
below a glorious sea; or a moon and
a host of stars shining over it; at a
bunch of children playing in the
street, or a group of flowers by the
hedge-side, or a bird singing there.
At a hundred moments or occurrences
of the day good thoughts pass through
the mind, let us trust, which never
are spoken; prayers are made which
never are said; and Te Deum is sung
without church, clerk, choristers, parson, or organ. Why, there's my enemy: who got the place I wanted;
who maligned me to the woman I
wanted to be well with; who supplanted me in the good graces of my
patron. I don't say any thing about
the matter: but, my poor old enemy,
in my secret mind I have movements
of as tender charity towards you, you
old scoundrel, as ever I had when we
were boys together at school. You
ruffian I do you fancy I forget that we
were fond of each other?  We are
still. We share our toffy; go halves
at the tuck-shop; do each other's exercises; prompt each other with the
word in construing or repetition; and
tell the most frightful fibs to prevent
each other fiom being found out. We
meet each other in public. Ware a
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ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


297


of the room! Our friends hustle round
us. Capulet and Montague are not
more at odds than the houses of
Roundabout and Wrightabout, let us
say. It is, "My dear Mrs. Buffer, do
kindly put yourself in the chair between those two men!"   Or, "My
dear Wrightabout, will you take that
charming Lady Blancmange down to
supper? She adores your poems;
and gave five shillings for your autograph-at the fancy fair." In like
manner the peace-makers gather
round Roundabout on his part; he
is carried to a distant corner, and
coaxed out of the way of the enemy
with whom he is at feud.
When we meet in the Square at
Verona, out flash rapiers, and we fall
to. But in his private mind Tybalt
owns that Mercutio has a rare wit,
and Mercutio is sure that his adversary is a gallant gentleman. Look at
the amphitheatre yonder. You do
not suppose those gladiators who
fought and perished, as hundreds of
spectators in that grim Circus held
thumbs down, and cried, " Kill, kill! "
- you do not suppose the combatants
of necessity hated each other? No
more than the celebrated trained
bands of literary sword-and-buckler
men hate the adversaries whom they
meet in the arena. They engage at
the given signal; feint and parry;
slash, poke, rip each other open, dismember limbs, and hew off noses:
but in the way of business, and, I
trust, with mutual private esteem.
For instance, I salute the warriors of
the Superfine Company with the honors due among warriors. Here's at
you, Spartacus, my lad. A hit, I acknowledge. A   palpable hit! Ha!
how do you like that poke in the eye
in return? When the trumpets sing
truce, or the spectators are tired, we
bow to the noble company: withdraw; and get a cool glass of wine in
our rendezvous des braves gladiateurs.
By the way, I saw that amphitheatre of Verona under the strange light
of a lurid eclipse some years ago: and
I have been there in spirit for these


twenty lines past, under a vast gusty
awning, now with twenty thousand
fellow-citizens looking on from the
benches, now in the circus itself, a
grim gladiator with sword and net, or
a meek martyr - was I? - brought
out to be gobbled up by the lions? or
a huge, shaggy, tawny lion myself,
on whom the dogs were going to be
set? What a day of excitement I
have had to be sure! But I must
get away from Verona, or who knows
how much farther the Roundabout
Pegasus may carry me?
We were saying, my Muse, before
we dropped and perched on earth for
a couple of sentences, that our unsaid
words were in some limbo or other,
as real as those we have uttered; that
the thoughts which have passed
through our brains are as actual as
any to which our tongues and pens
have given currency. For instance,
besides what is here hinted at, I have
thought ever so much more about
Verona: about an early Christian
church I saw there; about a great dish
of rice we had at the inn; about the
bugs there; about ever so many more
details of that day's journey from
Milan to Venice; about lake Garda,
which lay on the way from Milan, and
so forth. I say what fine things we
have thought of, haven't we, all of us?
Ah, what a fine tragedy that was I
thought of, and never wrote  On
the day of the dinner of the Oystermongers' Company, what a noble
speech I thought of in the cab, and
broke down - I don't mean the cab,
but the speech. Ah, if you could
but read some of the unwritten
Roundabout Papers-how you would
be amused! Aha! my friend, I catch
you saying, "Well, then, I wish this
was unwritten with all my heart."
Very good. I owe you one. I do
confess a hit, a palpable hit.
One day in the past month, as I
was reclining on the bench of thought,
with that ocean "The Times" newspaper spread before me, the ocean cast
up on the shore at my feet two famous
subjects for Roundabout Papers, and




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I picked up those waifs, and treasured
them away until I could polish them
and bring them to market. That
scheme is not to be carried out. I
can't write about those subjects. And
though I cannot write about them, I
may surely tell what are the subjects
I am going not to write about.
The first was that Northumberland
Street encounter, which all the papers
have narrated. Have any novelists
of our days a scene and catastrophe
more strange and terrible than this
which occurs at noonday within a few
yards of the greatest thoroughfare in
Europe? At the theatres they have
a new name for their melodramatic
pieces, and call them  " Sensation
ramas." What a sensation Drama
this is! What have people been flocking to see at the Adelphi Theatre for
the last hundred and fifty nights
A woman pitched overboard out of a
boat, and a certain Miles taking a
tremendous "header," and bringing
her to shore? Bagatelle! What is
this compared to the real life-drama,
of which a mid-day representation
takes place just opposite the Adelphi in Northumberland Street? The
brave Dumas, the intrepid Ainsworth, the terrible Eugene Sue, the
cold-shudder-inspiring " Woman in
White," the astounding author of the
"Mysteries of the Court of London,"
never invented any thing more tremendous than this. It might have happened to you and me. We want to
borrow a little money. We are directed to an agent. We propose a
pecuniary transaction at a short date.
He goes into the next room, as we
fancy, to get the bank-notes, and returns with " two very pretty, delicate
little ivory-handled pistols," and blows
a portion of our heads off. After
this, what is the use of being squeamish about the probabilities and possibilities in the writing of fiction
Years ago I remember making merry
over a play of Dumas, called Kean, in
which the " Coal-Hole Tavern" was
represented on the Thames, with a
fleet of pirate-ships moored alongside.


Pirate-ships? Why not? What a
cavern of terror was this in Northumberland Street, with its splendid furniture covered with dust, its empty
bottles, in the midst of which sits a
grim "agent," amusing himself by
tiring pistols, aiming at the unconscious mantelpiece, or at the heads of
his customers I
After this, what is not possible?
It is possible Hungerford Market is
mined, and will explode some day.
Mind how you go in for a penny ice
unawares. "Pray, step this way,"
says a quiet person at the door. You
enter -into a back room:- a quiet
room; rather a dark room. "Pray,
take your place in a chair." And
she goes to fetch the penny ice.
Malheureux I The chair sinks down
with you -sinks, and sinks, and
sinks - a large wet flannel suddenly
envelops your face and throttles you.
Need we say any more?       After
Northumberland Street, what is improbable? Surely there is no difficulty in crediting  Bluebeard.  I
withdraw my last month's opinions
about ogres. Ogres? Why not? I
protest I have seldom contemplated
any thing more terribly ludicrous than
this "agent" in the dingy splendor
of his den, surrounded by dusty ormolu and piles of empty bottles, firing
pistols for his diversion at the mantelpiece until his clients come in!  Is
pistol-practice so common in Northumberland Street, that it passes
without notice in the lodging-houses
there?
We spake anon of good thoughts.
About bad thoughts? Is there some
Northumberland Street chamber in
your heart and mine, friend: close to
the every-day street of life: visited
by daily friends: visited by people
on business; in which affairs are
transacted; jokes are uttered; wine
is drunk; through which people
come and go; wives and children
pass; and in which murder sits unseen until the terrible moment when
he rises up and kills? A farmer,
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ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


299


in his room where he sits at his daily
meals and rest: caressing his children,
joking with his friends, smoking his
pipe in his calm. One night the gun
is taken down: the farmer goes out:
and it is a murderer who comes back
and puts the piece up and drinks by
that fire-side. Was he a murderer
yesterday when he was tossing the
baby on his knee, and when his hands
were playing with his little girl's
yellow hair?  Yesterday there was
no blood on them at all: they were
shaken by honest men: have done
many a kind act in their time very
likely. He leans his head on one of
them, the wife comes in with her
anxious looks of welcome, the children
are prattling as they did yesterday
round the father's knee at the fire,
and Cain is sitting by the embers, and
Abel lies dead on the moor. Think
of the gulf between now and yesterday. Oh, yesterday! Oh, the days
when those two loved each other and
said their prayers side by side! He
goes to sleep, perhaps, and dreams
that his brother is alive. Be true, 0
dream! Let him live in dreams, and
wake no more. Be undone, 0 crime,
O crime! But the sun rises: and
the officers of conscience come: and
yonder lies the body on the moor. I
happened to pass, and looked at the
Northumberland Street house the
other day. A few loiterers were gazing up at the dingy windows. A
plain ordinary face of a house enough
— and in a chamber in it one man
suddenly rose up, pistol in hand, to
slaughter another.  Have you ever
killed any one in your thoughts?
Has your heart compassed any man's
death? In your mind, have you ever
taken a brand from the altar, and
slain your brother? How many plain
ordinary faces of men do we look at,
unknowing of murder behind those
eyes? Lucky for you and me, brother, that we have good thoughts unspoken. But the bad ones? I tell you
that the sight of those blank windows
in Northumberland Street — through
which, as it were, my mind could pic

ture the awful tragedy glimmering behind -set me thinking, "Mr. StreetPreacher, here is a text for one of
your pavement sermons. But it is too
glum and serious. You eschew dark
thoughts: and desire to be cheerful
and merry in the main." And, such
being the case, you see we must have
no Roundabout Essay on this subject.
Well, I had another arrow in my
quiver. (So, you know, had William
Tell a bolt for his son, the apple of
his eye; and a shaft for Gessler, in
case William  came to any trouble
with the first poor little target.) And
this, I must tell you, was to have
been a rare Roundabout performance
- one of the very best that has ever
appeared in this series. It was to
have contained all the deep pathos
of Addison; the logical precision of
Rabelais; the childlike playfulness of
Swift; the manly stoicism of Sterne;
the metaphysical depth of Goldsmith; the blushing modesty of
Fielding; the epigrammatic terseness
of Walter Scott; the uproarious humor of Sam Richardson; and the
gay simplicity of Sam Johnson; —it
was to have combined all these qualities, with some excellences of modern
writers whom I could name:- but
circumstances have occurred which
have rendered this Roundabout Essay
also impossible.
I have not the least objection to
tell you what was to have been the
subject of that other admirable Roundabout Paper. Gracious powers I the
Dean of St. Patrick's never had a
better theme. The paper was to have
been on the Gorillas, to be sure. I
was going to imagine myself to
be a young surgeon apprentice from
Charleston, in South Carolina, who
ran away to Cuba on account of
unhappy family circumstances, with
which nobody has the least concern;
who sailed thence to Africa in a large,
roomy schooner with an extraordinary
vacant space between decks. I was
subject to dreadful ill treatment from
the first mate of the ship, who, when
I found she was a slaver, altogether




300


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declined to put me on shore. I was
chased- we were chased - by three
British frigates and a seventy-four,
which we engaged and captured; but
were obliged to scuttle, and sink, as
we could sell them in no African port:
and I never shall forget the look of
manly resignation, combined with
considerable disgust, of the British
Admiral as he walked the plank, after
cutting off his pigtail, which he handed
to me, and which I still have in charge
for his family at Boston, Lincolnshire,
England.
We made the port of Bpoopoo, at
the confluence of the Bungo and
Sgglolo rivers (which you may see in
Swammerdahl's map) on the 31st
April last year. Our passage had
been so extraordinarily rapid, owing
to the continued drunkenness of the
captain and chief officers, by which I
was obliged to work the ship and take
her in command that we reached Bpoopoo six weeks before we were expected, and five before the coffres from
the interior and from the great slave
dep6t at Zbabblo were expected.
Their delay caused us not a little discomfort, because, though we had
taken the four English ships, we
knew that Sir Byam Martin's ironcased squadron, with " The Warrior,"
" The Impregnable," "The Sanconiathon," and "The Berosus," were
cruising in the neighborhood, and
might prove too much for us.
It not only became necessary to
quit Bpoopoo before the arrival of
the British fleet or the rainy season,
but to get our people on board as soon
as might be. While the chief mate,
with a detachment of seamen, hurried
forward to the Pgogo lake, where we
expected a considerable part of our
cargo, the second mate, with six men,
four chiefs, King Fbumbo, an Obi
man, and myself, went N.W. by W.,
towards King Mtoby's-town, where
we knew many hundreds of our between-deck passengers were to be got
together. We went down the Pdodo
river, shooting snipes, ostriches, and
rhinoceros in plenty, and I think a


few elephants, until, by the advice of a
guide, who, I now believe, was treacherous, we were induced to leave the
Pdodo, and march N.E., by N.N.
Here Lieutenant Larkins, who had
persisted in drinking rum from morning to night, and thrashing me in his
sober moments during the whole journey, died, and I have too good reason
to know was eaten with much relish
by the natives. At Mgoo, where there
are barracoons and a dep6t for our
cargo we had no news of our expected
freight; accordingly, as time pressed
exceedingly, parties were despatched
in advance towards the great Washaboo lake, by which the caravans usually come towards the coast. Here we
found no caravan, but only four negroes down with the ague, whom I
treated, I am bound to say, unsuccessfully, whilst we waited for our friends.
We used to take watch and watch in
front of the place, both to guard ourselves from attack, and get early news
of the approaching caravan.
At last, on the 23d September, as
I was in advance with Charles Rogers,
second mate, and two natives with
bows and arrows, we were crossing a
great plain skirted by a forest, when
we saw emerging from a ravine what I
took to be three negroes - a very tall
one, one of a moderate size, and one
quite little.
Our native guide shrieked out some
words in their language, of which
Charles Rogers knew something. 1
thought it was the advance of the
negroes whom we expected. "No!"
said Rogers (who swore dreadfully in
conversation), "it is the Gorillas!"
And he fired both barrels of his gun,
bringing down the little one first, and
the female afterwards.
The male, who was untouched,
gave a howl that you might have
heard a league off; advanced towards
us as if he would attack us, and then
turned and ran away with inconceirable celerity towards the wood.
We went up towards the fallen
brutes. The little one by the female
appeared to be about two years old.




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301


It lay bleating and moaning on the walking with his nurse and footman.
ground, stretching out its little hands, The footman had run off to alarm his
with movements and looks so strange- master, and certainly I never saw a
ly resembling human, that my heart footman run quicker.  The whole
sickened with pity. The female, who army of Gorillas rushed forward to
had been shot through both legs, could rescue their prince, and punish his
not move. She howled most hideously enemies. If the King Gorilla's emowhen I approached the little one.  tion was great, fancy what the queen's
"We must be off," said Rogers, must have been when she came up!
"or the whole Gorilla race may be She arrived, on a litter, neatly enough
down upon us."  " The little one is made with wattled branches, on which
only shot in the leg," I said. "I'll she lay, with her youngest child, a
bind the limb up, and we will carry prince of three weeks old.
the beast with us on board."        My little protege, with the wounded
The poor little wretch held up its leg, still persisted in hugging me with
leg to show it was wounded, and its arms (I think I mentioned that
looked to me with appealing eyes. It they are longer than those of men in
lay quite still whilst I looked for and general), and as the poor little brute
found the bullet, and, tearing off a was immensely heavy, and the Gorilpiece of my shirt, bandaged up the las go at a prodigious pace, a litter
wound. I was so occupied in this was made for us likewise; and my
business, that I hardly heard Rogers thirst much refreshed by a footman
cry, " Run! run! " and when I (the same domestic who had given the
looked up -                       alarm) running hand over hand. up
When I looked up, with a roar the a cocoanut-tree, tearing the rinds off,
most horrible I ever heard - a roar? breaking the shell on his head, and
ten thousand roars - a whirling army handing me the fresh milk in its cup.
of dark beings rushed by me. Rogers, My little patient partook of a little,
who had bullied me so frightfully stretching out its dear little unduring the voyage, and who had en- wounded foot, with which, or with its
couraged my fatal passion for play, hand, a Gorilla can help itself indisso that I own I owed him 1,500 dol- criminately. Relays of large Gorillas
lars, was overtaken, felled, brained, relieved each other at the litters at
and torn into ten thousand pieces; intervals of twenty minutes, as I caland I dare say the same fate would culated by my watch, one of Jones
have fallen on me, but that the little and Bates's, of Boston, Mass., though
Gorilla, whose wound I had dressed, I have been unable to this day. to asflung its arms round my neck (their certain how these animals calculate
arms, you know, are much longer time with such surprising accuracy.
than ours). And when an immense We slept for that night undergray Gorilla, with hardly any teeth,  And now, you see, we arrive at
brandishing the trunk of a gollybosh- really the most interesting part of my
tree about sixteen feet long, came up travels in the country which I into me roaring, the little one squeaked tended to visit, viz. the manners and
out something plaintive, which, of habits of the Gorillas chez eux. I give
course, I could not understand; on the heads of this narrative only, the
which suddenly the monster flung full account being suppressed for a
down his tree, squatted down on his reason which shall presently be given.
huge hams by the side of the little The heads, then, of the chapters, are
patient, and began to bellow and briefly as follows: -
weep.                               The author's arrival in the Gorilla
And now, do you see whom I had country.  Its geographical position.
rescued? I had rescued the young Lodgings assigned to him utip a gum-tree.
Prince of the Gorillas, who was out Constant attachment of the little prince.




302


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His royal highness's gratitude. Anecdotes of his wit, playfulness, and extraordinary precocity. Am offered a portion of poor Larkins for my supper, but
decline with horror.  Footman brings
me a young crocodile: fishy but very
palatable.  Old crocodiles too tough:
ditto rhinoceros. Visit the queen mother
— an enormous old Gorilla, quite white.
Prescribe for her majesty. Meeting of
Gorillas at what appears a parliament
amongst them: presided over by old Gorilla in cocoa-nut-fibre wig. T/eir sports.
Their customs.   A  privileged class
amongst them.  Extraordinary likeness
of Gorillas to people at home, both at
Charleston, S. C., my native place; and
London, Enqland, which I have visited.
Flat-nosed Gorillas and blue-nosed Gorillas; their hatred, and wars between
them.  In a part of the country (its
geographical position described) I see
several negroes under Gorilla domination.  Well treated by their masters.
Frog-eatinq Gorillas across the Salt
Lake.   Bull-headed  Gorillas - their
mutual hostility. Green Island Gorillas.
Mlore quarrelsome than the Bull-heads,
and howl much louder. I am called to
attend one of the princesses.  Evident
partiality of H.R.H. for me. Jealousy
and rage of large red-headed Gorilla.
How shall I escape?
Ay, how indeed? Do you wish to
know?    Is your curiosity excited?
Well, I do know how I escaped. I
could tell the most extraordinary adventures that happened to me. I could
show you resemblances to people at
home, that would make them blue
with rage and you crack your sides
with laughter...  And what is the
reason I cannot write this paper,
having all the facts before me?  The
reason is, that walking down St.
James Street yesterday, I met a friend
who says to me, "Roundabout, my
boy, have you seen your picture?
Here it is!" And he pulls out a
portrait, executed in photography, of
your humble servant, as an immense
and most unpleasant-featured baboon,
with long hairy hands, and called by
the waggish artist " A Literary Go

rilla."  0 horror! And now you see
why I can't play off this joke myself,
and moralize on the fable, as it has
been narrated already de mle.
A MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE.
THIS group * of dusky children of
the captivity is copied out of a
little sketch-book which I carried in
many a roundabout journey, and will
point a moral as well as any other
sketch in the volume. Yonder drawing was made in a country where
there was such hospitality, friendship,
kindness shown to the humble designer, that his eyes do not care to
look out for faults, or his pen to note
them. How they sang! how they
laughed and grinned! how they
scraped, bowed, and complimented
you and each other, those negroes of
the cities of the Southern parts of the
then United States! My business
kept me in the towns; I was but in
one negro-plantation village, and
there were only women and little children, the men being out a-field. But
there was plenty of cheerfulness in the
huts, under the great trees-I speak
of what I saw - and amidst the dusky
bondsmen of the cities. I witnessed
a curious gayety; heard amongst the
black folk endless singing, shouting,
and laughter; and saw on holidays
black gentlemen and ladies arrayed
in such splendor and comfort as freeborn workmen in our towns seldom
exhibit. What a grin and bow that
dark gentleman performed, who was
the porter at the colonel's, when he
said, " You write your name, mas'r,
else I will forgot." I am not going
into the slavery question, I am not an
advocate for  the institution," as I
know, madam, by that angry toss of
your head, you are about to declare
me to be. For domestic purposes,
my dear lady, it seemed to me about
* Alluding to the woodcut which accompanied this paper when it first appeared.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


303


tho dearest institution that can be de- ern on Pontchartrain we had a bouillavised. In a house in a Southern city baisse than which a better was never
you will find fifteen negroes doing eaten at Marseilles: and not the least
the work which John, the cook, the headache in the morning, I give you
housemaid, and the help, do perfectly my word; on the contrary, you only
in your own comfortable London wake with a sweet refreshing thirst for
house. And these fifteen negroes are claret and water. They say there is
the pick of a family of some eighty fever there in the autumn: but not in
or ninety. Twenty are too sick, or the spring-time, when the peach-blostoo old for work, let us say: twenty soms blush over the orchards, and the
too clumsy: twenty are too young, sweet herbs come to flavor the juleps.
and have to be nursed and watched   I was bound from New Orleans to
by ten more.*  And master has to Saint Louis; and our walk was conmaintain the immense crew to do the stantly on the Levee, whence we
work of half a dozen willing hands. could see a hundred of those huge
No, no; let Mitchell, the exile from  white Mississippi steamers at their
poor dear enslaved Ireland, wish for a moorings in the river: " Look," said
gang of "fat niggers;" rwould as my friend Lochlomond to me, as we
soon you should make me a present stood one day on the quay - " look
of a score of Bengal elephants, when at that post! Look at that coffeeI need but a single stout horse to pull house behind it! Sir, last year a
my brougham.                      steamer blew up in the river yonder,
How hospitable they were, those just where you see those men pulling
Southern men! In the North itself off in the boat. By that post where
the welcome was not kinder, as I, you are standing a mule was cut in
who have eaten Northern and South- two by a fragment of the burst maern salt, can testify. As for New Or- chinery, and a bit of the chimneyleans, in spring-time, -just when the stove in that first-floor window of the
orchards were flushing over with coffee-house killed a negro who was
peach-blossoms, and the sweet herbs cleaning knives in the top-room! "  I
came to flavor the juleps -it seemed looked at the post, at the coffeeto me the city of the world where you house window, at the steamer in
can eat and drink the most and suffer which I was going to embark, at my
the least. At Bordeaux itself, claret friend, with a pleasing interest not diis not better to drink than at New Or- vested of melancholy. Yesterday, it
leans. It was all good —believe an was the mule, thinks I, who was cut
expert Robert- from the half-dollar in two: it may be eras mihi. Why,
Medoc of the public hotel table, to the in the same little sketch-book, there is
private gentleman's choicest wine. a drawing of an Alabama river steamClaret is, somehow, good in that er which blew up on the very next
gifted place at dinner, at supper, and voyage after that in which your humat breakfast in the morning. It is ble servant was on board! Had I but
good: it is superabundant- and there waited another week, I might have.
is nothing to pay. Find me speaking... These incidents give a queer
ill of such a country! When I do, zest to the voyage down the lifepone me pigris campis: smother me in stream in America. When our huge,
a desert, or let Mississippi or Garonne tall, white, paste-board castle of a
drown me! At that comfortable tav- steamer began to work up stream,
every limb in her creaked and groaned,
* This was an account given by a gen- and quivered, so that you  might
tleman atRichmondofhis establishment. fancy she would burst right off.
Six European servants would have kept Wouldshe bold together, or would
Sihr         sur    peaar1Would she hold together, or would
his house and stables well. "His farm,"
he said, "barely sufficed to maintain the she split into ten million of shivers?
negroes residing on it."          O my home and children! Would




304


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your humble servant's body be cut in
two across yonder chain on the Levee,
or be precipitated into yonder firstfloor, so as to damage the chest of a
black man cleaning boots at the window? The black man is safe for me,
thank goodness. But you see the
Jittle accident might have happened. It
has happened; and if to a mule, why
not to a more docile animal? On
our journey up the Mississippi, I give
you my honor we were on fire three
times, and burned our cook-room
down. The deck at night was a great
firework - the chimney spouted myriads of stars, which fell blackening on
our garments, sparkling on to the
deck, or gleaming into the mighty
stream through which we labored -
the mighty yellow stream with all its
snags.
How I kept up my courage through
these dangers shall now be narrated.
The excellent landlord of the " Saint
Charles Hotel," when I was going
away, begged me to accept two bottles of the very finest Cognac, with
his compliments; and I found them
in my state-room with my luggage.
Lochlomond came to see me off, and
as he squeezed my hand at parting,
" Roundabout," says he, " the wine
mayn't be very good on board, so
I have brought a dozen-case of the
Medoc which you liked;" and we
grasped together the hands of friendship and farewell. Whose boat is this
pulling up to the ship? It is our friend
Glenlivat, who gave us the dinner on
Lake Pontchartrain. "Roundabout,"
says he, " we have tried to do what
we could for you, my bo y; and it
has been done de bon cceur  (I detect
a kind tremulousness in the good. fellow's voice as he speaks). "I sayhem I- the a -  the wine isn't too
good on board, so I've brought you
a dozen of Medoc for your voyage,
you know. And God bless you; and
when I come to London in May I
shall come and see you. Hallo! here's
Johnson come to see you off, too I "
As I am a miserable sinner, when
Johnson grasped my hand, he said,


"Mr. Roundabout, you can't be sure
of the wine on board these steamers,
so I thought I would bring you a
little case of that light claret which
you liked at my house." Et de trois!
No wonder I could face the Mississippi with so much courage supplied
to me!   Where are you, honest
friends, who gave me of your kindness and your cheer?  May I be
considerably boiled, blown up, and
snagged, if I speak hard words of
you. May claret turn sour ere I do!
Mounting the stream, it chanced
that we had very few passengers.
How far is the famous city of Memphis from New Orleans? I do not
mean the Egyptian Memphis, but the
American Memphis, from which to
the American Cairo we slowly toiled
up the river —to the American Cairo
at the confluence of the Ohio and
Mississippi rivers. And at Cairo we
parted company from the boat, and
from some famous and gifted fellowpassengers who joined us at Memphis,
and whose pictures we had seen in
many cities of the South. I do not
give the names of these remarkable
people, unless, by some wondrous
chance, in inventing a name I should
light upon that real one which some
of them bore; but if you please I will
say that our fellow-passengers whom
we took in at Memphis were no less
personages than the Vermont Giant
and the famous Bearded Lady of
Kentucky and her son. Their pictures I had seen in many cities through
which I travelled with my own little
performance. I think the Vermont
Giant was a trifle taller in his pictures
than he was in life (being represented
in the former, as, at least, some two
stories high): but the lady's prodigious beard received no more than
justice at the hands of the painter;
that portion of it which I saw being
really most black, rich, and curly -
I say the portion of beard, for this
modest or prudent woman kept I
don't know how much of the beard
covered up with a red handkerchief,
from which I suppose it only emerged




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


305


when she went to bed, or when she
exhibited it professionally.
The Giant, I must think, was an
overrated giant. I have known gentlemen, not in the profession, better
made, and I should say taller, than
the Vermont gentleman. A strange
feeling I used to have at meals; when,
on looking round our little society, I
saw the Giant, the Bearded Lady of
Kentucky, the little Bearded Boy of
three years old, the Captain (this I
think; but at this distance of time I
would not like to make the statement
on affidavit), and the three other
passengers, all with their knives in
their mouths making play at the
dinner-a strange feeling I say it
Was, and as though I was in a castle
if ogres.  But, after all, why so
Iqueamish? A few scores of years
Jack, the finest gentlemen and ladies
if Europe did the like. Belinda ate
k!ith her knife; and Saccharissa had
Only that weapon, or a two-pronged
Ark, or a spoon, for her pease. Have
you ever looked at Gilray's print of
the Prince of Wales, a languid volup'-iry, retiring after his meal, and
noted the toothpick which he uses?...You are right, madam; I own
that the subject is revolting and terrible. I will not pursue it. Onlyallow that a gentleman, in a shaky
steamboat, on a dangerous river, in a
far-offcountry, which caught fire three
times during the voyage- (of course
I mean the steamboat, not the country), -seeing a giant, a voracious
supercargo, a bearded lady, and a
little boy not three years of age,
with a chin already quite black and
curly, all plying their victuals down
their throats with their knives -
allow, madam, that in such a company a man had a right to feel a
little nervous. 1 don't know whether
you have ever remarked the Indian
jugglers swallowing their knives, or
seen, as I have, a whole table of people performing the same trick, but if
you look at their eyes when they do it,
I assure you there is a roll in them
which is dreadful.
14


Apart fiom this usage, which they
practise in common with many thousand most estimable citizens, the
Vermont gentleman, and the Kentucky whiskered lady - or did I say
the reverse -whichever you like,
my   dear sir-were quite    quiet,
modest, unassuming people. She sat
working with her needle, if I remember right. He, I suppose, slept in
the great cabin, which was seventy
feet long at the least, nor, I am bound
to say, did I hear in the night any
snores or roars, such as you would
fancy ought to accompany the sleep
of ogres. Nay, this giant had quite a
small appetite, (unless, to be sure, he
went forward and ate a sheep or two
in private with his horrid knife-oh,
the dreadful thought! - but in public,
I say, he had quite a delicate appetite),
and was also a tea-totaller. I don't
remember to have heard the lady's
voice, though I might, not unnaturally, have been curious to hear it. Was
her voice a deep, rich, magnificent
bass; or was it soft, fluty, and mild?
I shall never know now. Even if she
comes to this country, I shall never
go and see her. I have seen her, and
for nothing.
You would have fancied that, as
after all we were only some halfdozen on board, she might have dispensed with her red handkerchief, and
talked, and eaten her dinner in comfort: but in covering her chin there
was a kind of modesty. That beard
was   her profession: that beard
brought the public to see her: out of
her business she wished to put that
beard aside as it were: as a barrister
would wish to put off his wig. I
know some who carry theirs into
private life, and who mistake you
and me for jury-boxes when they address us: but these are not your
modest barristers, not your true
gentlemen.
Well, I own I respected the lady
for the modesty with which, her public business over, she retired into
private life. She respected her life,
and her beard. That beard having




306


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done its day's work, she puts it
away in a handkerchief; and becomes,
as far as in her lies, a private ordinary person. All public men and
women of good sense, I should think,
have this modesty. When, for instance, in my small way, poor Mrs.
Brown comes simpering up to me,
with her album in one hand, a pen in
the other, and says, "Ho, ho, dear
Mr. Roundabout, write us one of your
amusing," &c., &c., my beard drops
behind my handkerchief instantly.
Why am I to wag my chin and grin
for Mrs. Brown's good pleasure?
My dear madam, I have been making
faces all day. It is my profession.
do my comic business with the
greatest pains, seriousnesss, and
trouble: and with it make, I hope, a
not dishonest livelihood. If you ask
Mons. Blondin to tea, you don't have
a rope stretched from your garret
window to the opposite side of the
square, and request Monsieur to take
his tea out on the centre of the rope?
I lay my hand on this waistcoat, and
declare that not once in the course
of our voyage together did I allow
the Kentucky Giant to suppose I was
speculating on his stature, or the
Bearded Lady to surmise that I
wished to peep under the handkerchief which muffled the lower part of
her face.
"And the more fool you," says
some cynic. (Faugh, those cynics, I
hate 'em!) Don't you know, sir,
that a man of genius is pleased to
have his genius recognized; that a
beauty likes to be admired; that an
actor likes to be applauded; that
stout old Wellington himself was
pleased, and smiled when the people
cheered him as he passed? Suppose
you had paid some respectful elegant
compliment to that lady? Suppose
you had asked that giant, if, for once,
he would take any thing at the liquorbar? you might have learned a great
deal of curious knowledge regarding
giants and bearded ladies, about
whom you evidently now know very
little. There was that little boy of


three years old, with a fine beard
already, and his little legs and arms,
as seen out of his little frock, covered
with a dark down. What a queer
little capering satyr! He was quite
ood-natured, childish, rather solemn.
Ie had a little Norval dress, I remember: the drollest little Norval.
I have said the B. L. had another
child. Now this was a little girl of
some six years old, as fair and as
smooth of skin, dear madam, as your
own darling cherubs. She wandered
about the great cabin quite melancholy. No one seemed to care for
her. All the family affections were
centred on Master Esau yonder. His
little beard was beginning to be a little
fortune already, whereas Miss Rosalba was of no good to the family.
No one would pay a cent to sec her
little fair face. No wonder the poor
little maid was melancholy. As I
looked at her, I seemed to walk more
and more in a fairy tale, and more
and more in a cavern of ogres. Was
this a little fondling whom they had
picked up in some forest, where lie
the picked bones of the queen, her
tender mother, and the tough old
defunct monarch, her father? No.
Doubtless they were quite good-natured people, these. I don't believe
they were unkind to the little girl
without the mustaches. It may
have been only my fancy that she
repined because she had a cheek no
more bearded than a rose's.
Would you wish your own daughter, madam, to have a smooth check,
a modest air, and a gentle feminine
behavior, or to be - I won't say a
whiskered prodigy, like this Bearded
Lady of Kentucky - but a masculine
wonder, a virago, a female personage
of more than female strength, courage,
wisdom? Some authors, who shall
be nameless, are, I know, accused of
depicting the most feeble, brainless,
namby-pamby heroines, forever whimpering tears and prattling commonplaces. You would have the
heroine of your novel so beautiful
that she should charm the captain (or




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


307


hero, whoever he may be) with her
appearance; surprise and confound
the bishop with her learning; outride
the squire and get the brush, and,
when he fell from his horse, whip out
a lancet and bleed him; rescue from
fever and death the poor cottager's
family whom the doctor had given up;
make 21 at the butts with the rifle,
when the poor captain only scored 18;
give him twenty in fifty at billiards
and beat him; and draw tears from
the professional Italian people by her
exquisite performance (of voice and
violoncello) in the evening; -I say,
if a novelist would be popular with
ladies-the great novel- readers of
the world - this is the sort of heroine
who would carry him through half a
dozen editions. Suppose I had asked
that Bearded Lady to sing? Confess,
now, miss, you would not have been
displeased if I had told you that she
had a voice like Lablache, only ever
so much lower.
My dear, you would like to be a
heroine? You would like to travel
in triumphal caravans; to see your
effigy placarded on city walls; to have
your lev6es attended by admiring
crowds, all crying out, "Was there
ever such a wonder of a woman?"
You would like admiration? Consider the tax you pay for it. You
would be alone were you eminent.
Were you so distinguished from your
neighbors - I will not say by a beard
and whiskers, that were odious - but
by a great and remarkable intellectual
superiority —would you, do you
think, be any the happier? Consider
envy. Consider solitude. Consider
the jealousy and torture of mind
which this Kentucky lady must feel,
suppose she should hear that there is,
let us say, a Missouri prodigy, with
a beard larger than hers? Consider
how she is separated from her kind
by the possession of that wonder of
a beard? When that beard grows
gray, how lonely she will be, the poor
old thing! If it falls off, the public
admiration falls off too; and how she
will miss it- the compliments of the


trumpeters, the admiration of the
crowd, the gilded progress of the car.
I see an old woman alone in a decrepit old caravan, with cobwebs on
the knocker, with a blistered ensign
flapping idly over the door. Would
you like to be that deserted person?
Ah, Chloe! To be good, to be simple, to be modest, to be loved, be thy
lot. Be thankful thou art not taller,
nor stronger, nor richer, nor wiser,
than the rest of the world!
ON LETTS'S DIARY.
MINE is one of your No. 12 diaries,
three shillings cloth boards; silk
limp, gilt edges, three-and-six; French
morocco, tack ditto, four-and-six. It
has two pages, ruled with faint lines
for memoranda, for every week, and
a ruled account at the end, for the
twelve months from January to December, where you may set down your
incomings and your expenses. I hope
yours, my respected reader, are large;
that there are many fine round sums
of figures on each side of the page:
liberal on the expenditure side, greater
still on the receipt. I hope, sir, you
will be " a better man," as they say,
in '62 than in this moribund '61,
whose career of life is just coming to
its terminus. A better man in purse?
in body? in soul's health'? Amen,
good sir, in all. Who is there so
good in mind, body, or estate, but
bettering won't still be good for him?
O unknown Fate, presiding over next
year, if you will give me better health,
a better appetite, a better digestion,
a better income, a better temper in
'62 than you have bestowed in '61, I
think your servant will be the better
for the changes.  For instance, I
should be the better for a new coat.
This one, I acknowledge, is very old.
The family says so. My good friend,
who amongst us would not be the
better if he would give up some old
habits? Yes, yes. You agree with
me. You take the allegor? Alas




308


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at our time of life we don't like to
give up those old habits, do we? It
is ill to change. There is the good
old loose, easy, slovenly bedgown,
laziness, for example. What man of
sense likes to fling it off and put on a
tight guinde prim  dress-coat that
pinches him? There is the cosey
wraprascal, self-indulgence -  how
-easy it is!  How warm! How it
always seems to fit! You can walk
but in it; you can go down to dinner
in it. You can say of such what Tully
says of his books: Pernoctat nobiscum,
pereqrinatur, rusticatur. It is a little
slatternly - it is a good deal stained
- it isn't becoming -it smells of
cigar-smoke; but, allons done! let the
world call me idle and sloven. I love
my ease better than my neighbor's
opinion. I live to please myself; not
you, Mr. Dandy, with your supercilious airs. I am a philosopher. Perhaps I live in my tub, and don't make
any other use of it- We won't
pursue further this unsavory metaphor; but, with regard to some of
your old habits, let us say, -
1. The habit of being censorious,
and speaking ill of your neighbors.
2. The habit of getting into a passion with your man-servant, your
maid-servant, your daughter, wife,
&c.
3. Tie habit of indulging too much
at table.
4. The habit of smoking in the
dinicg-room after dinner.
5. The habit of spending,insane
sums Qf money in bric-a-brac, tall
copies, binding, Elzevirs, &c.; '20
Port, outrageously fine horses, ostentatious entertainments, and what
not? or,
6. The habit of screwing meanly,
when rich, and chuckling over the
saving of half a crown, whilst you
are poisoning your friends and family
with bad wine.
7. The habit of going to sleep immediately after dinner, instead of
cheerfully entertaining Mrs. Jones
and the family: or,
8. LADIES! The habit of running


up bills with the milliners, and swindling paterfamilias on the house bills.
9. The habit of keeping him waiting for breakfast.
10. The habit of sneering at Mrs.
Brown and the Miss Browns, because
they are not quite dat monde, or quite
so genteel as Lady Smith.
11. The habit of keeping your
wretched father up at balls till five
o'clock in the morning, when he has to
be at his office at eleven.
12. The habit of fighting with each
other, dear Louisa, Jane, Arabella,
Amelia.
13. The habit of always ordering
John Coachman three-quarters of an
hour before you want him.
Such habits, I say, sir or madam,
if you have had to note in your diary
of '61, I have not the slightest doubt
you will enter in your pocket-book of
'62. There are habits Nos. 4 and 7,
for example. I am morally sure that
some of us will not give up those bad
customs, though the women cry out
and grumble, and scold ever so justly.
There are habits Nos. 9 and 13. I
feel perfectly certain, my dear young
ladies, that you will continue to keep
John Coachman waiting; that you
will continue to give the most satisfactory reasons for keeping him waiting:
and as for (9), you will show that you
once (on the 1st of April last, let us
say) camne to breakfast first, and that
you are always first in consequence.
Yes; in our '62 diaries, I fear we
may all of us make some of the '61
entries. There is my friend Freehand, for instance. (Aha! Master
Freehand, how you will laugh to find
yourself here!) F. is in the habit of
spending a little, ever so little, more
than his income. He shows you how
Mrs. Freehand works, and works
(and, indeed, Jack Freehand, if you
say she is an angel, you don't say too
much of her); how they toil, and
how they mend, and patch, and
pinch; and how they can't live on
their means. And I very much fear
-nay, I will bet him half a bottle of
Gladstone 14s. per dozen claret - that




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


309


the account which is a little on the
wrong side this year will be a little
on the wrong side in the next ensuing year of grace.
A   diary.  Dies.  IIodie. How
queer to read are some of the entries
in the journal! Here are the records
of dinners eaten, and gone the way of
flesh. The lights burn blue somehow, and we sit before the ghosts of
victuals. Hark at the dead jokes resurging! Memory greets them with
the ghost of a smile. Here are. the
lists of the individuals who have dined
at your own humble table.    The
agonies endured before and during
those entertainments are renewed,
and smart again. What a failure
that special grand dinner was! How
those dreadful occasional waiters did
break the old china! What a dismal
hash poor Mary, the cook, made of
the French dish which she would try
out of Francatelli! How angry Mrs.
Pope was at not going down to dinner before Mrs. Bishop! How Trimalchio sneered at your absurd attempt to give a feast; and Harpagon
cried out at your extravagance and ostentation! How Lady Almack bullied
the other ladies in the drawing-room
(when no gentlemen were present):
never asked you back to dinner
again: left her card by her footman:
and took not the slightest notice of
your wife and daughters at Lady
Hustleby's assembly! On the other
hand, how easy, cosey, merry, comfortable, those little dinners were;
got up at one or two days' notice;
when everybody was contented; the
soup as clear as amber; the wine as
good as Trimalchio's own; and the
people kept their carriages waiting,
and would not go away till midnight!
Along with the catalogue of bygone pleasures, balls, banquets, and
the like, which the pages record,
comes a list of much more important
occurrences, and remembrances of
graver import.   On two days of
Dives's diary are printed notices that
"Dividends are due at the Bank."
Let us hope; dear sir, that this an

nouncement considerably interests
you; in which case, probably, you
have no need of the almanac-maker's
printed reminder. If you look over
poor Jack Reckless's note- book,
amongst his memoranda of racing
odds given and taken, perhaps you
may read:-" Nabbam's bill, due
29th September, 1421. 15s. 6d." Let
us trust, as the day has passed, that
the little transaction here noted has
been satisfactorily terminated. If
you are paterfamilias, and a worthy
kind gentleman, no doubt you have
marked down on your register, 17th
December (say), "Boys come home."
Ah, how carefully that blest day is
marked in their little calendars! In
my time it used to be, Wednesday,
13th November, "5 weeks from the
holidays;" Wednesday, 20th NovemBER, "4 weeks from the holidays;"
until sluggish time sped on, and we
came to WEDNESDAY 18TH DECEMBER. 0 rapture! Do you remember
pea-shooters? I think we only had
them on going home for holidays
from  private schools,- at public
schools, men are too dignified. And
then came that glorious announcement, Wednesday, 27th, " Papa took
us to the Pantomime;" or if not papa,
perhaps you condescended to go to the
pit, under charge of the footman.
That was near the end of the year
-and mamma gave you a new
pocket-book, perhaps, with a little
coin, God bless her, in the pocket.
And that pocket-book was for next
year, you know; and, in that pocketbook you had to write down that sad
day, Wednesday, January 24th, eighteen hundred and never mind what,
-when Dr. Birch's young friends
were expected to re-assemble.
Ah me! Every person who turns
this page over has his own little
diary, in paper or ruled in his memory tablets, and in which are set down
the transactions of the now dying
year. Boys and men, we have
our calendar, mothers and maidens.
For example, in your calendar pocketbook, my good Eliza, what a sad, sad
*




310


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day that is- how fondly and bitterly
remembered —when your boy went
off to his regiment, to India, to danger, to battle perhaps! What a day
was that last day at home, when the
tall brother sat yet amongst the family,
the little ones round about him wondering at saddle-boxes, uniforms,
sword-cases, gun-cases, and other
wonderous apparatus of war and
travel which poured in and filled the
hall; the new dressing-case for the
beard not yet grown; the great swordcase at which little brother Tom
looks so admiringly! What a dinner
that was, that last dinner, when little
and grown children assembled together, and all tried to be cheerful!
What a night was that last night,
when the young ones were at roost
for the last time together under the
same roof, and the mother lay alone
in her chamber counting the fatal
hours as they tolled one after another,
amidst hr t h wtin her tears, her watching he
fond prayers!  What a night that
was, and yet how quickly the melancholy dawn came! Only too soon
the sun rose over the houses. And
now in a moment more the city seemed
to wake. The house began to stir.
The family gathers together for the
last meal. For the last time in the
midst of them   the widow kneels
amongst her kneeling children, and
falters a prayer in which she commits
her dearest, her eldest born, to the
care of the Father of all. 0 night,
what tears you hide - what prayers
you hear! And so the nights pass
and the days succeed, until that one
cones when tears and parting shall be
no more.
In your diary, as in mine, there are
days marked with sadness, not for
this year only, but for all. On a certain day —and the sun, perhaps,
shining ever so brightly - the housemother comes down to her family
with a sad face, which scares the
children round about in the midst of
their laughter and prattle.  They
may have forgotten- but she has not
-a day which came, twenty years


ago it may be, and which she remem,
bers only too well: the long nightwatch; the dreadful dawning and the
rain beating at the pane; the infant
speechless, but moaning in its little
crib; and then the awful calm, the
awful smile on the sweet cherub face,
when the cries have ceased, and the
little suffering breast heaves no more.
Then the children, aw they see their
mother's face, remember this was the
day on which their little brother died.
It was before they were born; but
she remembers it. And as they pray
together, it seems almost as if the
spirit of the little lost one was hovering round the group. So they pass
away: fiiends, kindred, the dearestloved, grown people, aged, infants.
As we go on the down-hill journey,
the mile-stones are grave-stones, and
in each more and more names are
written; unless haply you live beyond
man's common age, when friends
have dropped off, and tottering, and
feeble, and unpitied, you reach the
terminus alone.
In this past year's diary is there
any precious day noted on which you
have made a new friend'? This is a
piece of good fortune bestowed but
grudgingly on the old. After a certain
age a new friend is a wonder, like
Sarah's child.  Aged persons are
seldom capable of bearing friendships.
Do you remember how warmly you
loved Jack and Tom when you were
at school; what a passionate regard
you had for Ned when you were at
college, and the immense letters you
wrote to each other '? How often do
you write, now that postage costs
nothing? There is the age of blossoms and sweet budding green: the
age of generous summer; the autumn
when the leaves drop; and then winter, shivering and bare. Quick, children, and sit at my feet: for they are
cold, very cold: and it seems as if
neither wine nor worsted will warm
'em.
In this past year's diary is there
any dismal day noted in which you
have lost a friend? In mine there is.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


311


I do not mean by death. Those who
are gone, you have. Those who departed loving you, love you still; and
you love them always. They are not
really gone, those dear hearts and
true; they are only gone into the
next room: and you will presently
get up and follow them, and yonder
door will close upon you, and you
will be no more seen. As I am in
this cheerful mood, I will tell you a
fine and touching story of a doctor
which I heard lately. About two years
since there was, in our or some other
city, a famous doctor, into whose
consulting-room crowds came daily,
so that they might be healed. Now
this doctor had a suspicion that there
was something vitally wrong with
himself, and he went to consult another famous physician at Dublin, or
it may be at Edinburgh. And he of
Edinburgh punched his comrade's
sides; and listened at his heart and
lungs; and felt his pulse, I suppose;
and looked at his tongue; and when
he had done, Doctor London said to
Doctor Edinburgh, "Doctor, how
long have I to live? " And Doctor
Edinburgh said to Doctor London,
"Doctor, you may last a year."
Then Doctor London came home,
knowing that what Doctor Edinburgh said was true. And he made
up his accounts, with man and heaven,
I trust. And he visited his patients
as usual. And he went about healing, and cheering, and soothing, and
doctoring; and thousands of sick
people were benefited by him. And he
said not a word to his family at home;
but lived amongst them cheerful and
tender, and calm, and loving; though
he knew the night was at hand when
he should see them and work no
more.
And it was winter time, and they
came and told him that some man at
a distance-very sick, but very rich
— wanted him; and, though Doctor
London knew that he was himself at
death's door, he went to the sick
man; for he knew the large fee would
be good for his children after him.


And he died; and his family never
knew until he was gone, that he had
been lono- aware of the inevitable
doom.
This is a cheerful carol for Christmas, is it not? You see, in regard to
these Roundabout discourses, I never
know whether they are to be merry or
dismal. My hobby has the bit in his
mouth; goes his own way; and sometimes trots through a park, and sometimes paces by a cemetery.   Two
davs since came the printer's little
enissary, with. a note saying, 11 We
are. waiting for the Roundabout Paper! " A Roundabout Paper about
what or whom? How stale it has
become, that   iinted jollity about
Christmas!  &rols, and   wassailbowls, and holly, and mistletoe, and
yule-logs de corninande - what heaps
of these have we not had for years
past! Well, year after year the
season comes.   Come frost, come
thaw, come snow, come rain, year
after year my neighbor the parson
has to make his sermon. They are
getting together the bonbons, iced
cakes, Christmas trees at Fortnum
and Mason's now. The genii of the
theatres are composing the Christmas
pantomime, which our young folks
will see and note anon ia their little
diaries.
And now, brethren, may I conclude this discourse with an extract
out of that great diary, the newspaer? I read it but yesterday, and it
Kas mingled with all my thoughts
since then. Here are the two paragraphs, which appeared following
each other: -
11 Mr. R., the Advocate-General of
Oalcutta has been appointed to the
post of Legisla ive Member of the
Council of the Governor-General."
11 Sir R. S., A( gent to the Governor-General for Central India, died on
the 29th of October, of bronchitis."
These two men, whose different
fates are recorded in two paragraphs
and half a dozen lines of the same
newspaper, were sisters' sons. In one
of the stories by the presept writer, a


And he died; and his family never
knew until he was gone, that he had
been long aware of the inevitable
doom.
This is a cheerful carol for Christmas, is it not? You see, in regard to
these Roundabout discourses, I never
know whether they are to be merry or
dismal. My hobby has the bit in his
mouth; goes his own way; and sometimes trots through a park, and sometimes paces by a cemetery.  Two
days since came the printer's little
emissary, with a note saying, "We
are waiting for the Roundabout Paper!" A Roundabout Paper about
what or whom? How stale it has
become, that printed jollity about
Christmas!  Carols, and  wassailbowls, and holly, and mistletoe, and
yule-logs de commiande - what heaps
of these have we not had for years
past!  Well, year after year the
season comes.   Come frost, come
thaw, come snow, come rain, year
after year my neighbor the parson
has to make his sermon. They are
getting together the bonbons, iced
cakes, Christmas trees at Fortnum
and Mason's now. The genii of the
theatres are composing the Christmas
pantomime, which our young folks
will see and note anon in their little
diaries.
And now, brethren, may I conclude this discourse with an extract
out of that great diary, the newspaper? I read it but yesterday, and it
has mingled with all my thoughts
since then. Here are the two paragraphs, which appeared following
each other: -
"Mr. R., the Advocate-General of
(Calcutta, has been appointed to the
post of Legislative Member of the
Council of the Governor-General."
" Sir R. S., Agent to the Governor-General for Central India, died on
the 29th of October, of bronchitis."
These two men, whose different
fates are recorded in two paragraphs
and half a dozen lines of the same
newspaper, were sisters' sons. In one
of the stories by the present writer, a




312


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


man is described tottering "up the
steps of the ghaut," having just
parted with his child, whom he is despatching to England from India. I
wrote this, remembering in long, long
distant days, such a ghaut, or riverstair, at Calcutta; and a day when,
down those steps, to a boat which was
in waiting, came two children, whose
mothers remained on the shore. One
of those ladies was never to see her
boy more; and he, too, is just dead
in India, "of bronchitis, on the 29th
October."  We were first-cousins;
had been little playmates and friends
from the time of our birth; and the
first house in London to which I was
taken was that of our aunt, the
mother of his Honor the Member of
Council. His Honor was even then
a gentleman of the long robe, being,
in truth, a baby in arms. We Indian children were consigned to a
school of which our deluded parents
had heard a favorable report, but
which was governed by a horrible little tyrant, who made our young lives
so miserable that I remember kneeling by my little bed of a night, and
saying, " Pray God, I may dream of
my mother!" Thence we went to a
public school: and my cousin to Addiscombe and to India.
" For thirty-two years," the paper
says, "Sir Richmond Shakespear
faithfully and devotedly served the
Government of India, and during
that period but once visited England,
for a few months and on public duty.
In his military capacity he saw much
service, was present in eight gene-:al engagements, and was badly
Aounded in the last. In 1840, when
L young lieutenant, he had the rare
rood fortune to be the means of rescuing from almost hopeless slavery in
Khiva 416 subjects of the Emperor
of Russia; and, but two years later,..
greatly contributed to the happy recovery of our own prisoners from a
similar fate in Cabul. Throughout
his career this officer was ever ready
and zealous for the public service, and
freely risked life and liberty in the


discharge of his duties. Lord Canning, to mark his high sense of Sir
Richmond Shakespear's public services, had lately offered him the
Chief Commissionership of Mysore,
which he had accepted, and was about
to undertake, when death terminated
his career."
When he came to London the cousins and playfellows of early Indian
days met once again, and shook hands.
" Can I do any thing for you "  I
remember the kind fellow  asking.
He was always asking that question:
of all kinsmen; of all widows and orphans; of all the poor; of young men
who might need his purse or his ser.
vice. I saw a young officer yesterday
to whom the first words Sir Richmond
Shakespear wrote on his arrival in
India were, " Can I do any thing for
you?"   His purse was at the corn
mand of all. His kind hand was al
ways open. It was a gracious fat.
which sent him to rescue widows and
captives. Where could they have had
a champion more chivalrous, a pro.
tector more loving and tender?
I write down his name in my littl'
book, among those of others dearly
loved, who, too, have been summoned
hence. And so we meet and part;
we struggle and succeed; or we fail
and drop unknown on the way. As
we leave the fond mother's knee, th4
rough trials of childhood and boy.
hood begin; and then manhood i
upon us, and the battle of life with
its chances, perils, wounds, defeats,
distinctions. And Fort William guns
are saluting in one man's honor,*
while the troops are firing the last
volleys over the other's grave -over
the grave of the brave, the gentle, the
faithful Christian soldier.
NOTES OF A WEEK'S HOLI
DAY.
MOST of us tell old stories in ou,
families. The wife and children laughl
* W. R. oblit March 22, 1862.




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LITTLE DUTCHMEN.




I




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


313


for the hundredth time at the joke.
The old servants (though old servants
are fewer every day) nod and smile a
recognition at the well-known anecdote.  "Don't tell that story of
Grouse in the gun-room," says Diggory to Mr. Hardcastle in the play,
"or I must laugh." As we twaddle,
and grow old and forgetful, we may
tell an old story; or, out of mere
benevolence, and a wish to amuse a
friend when conversation is flagging,
disinter a Joe Miller now and then;
but the practice is not quite honest,
and entails a certain necessity of hypocrisy on story hearers and tellers.
It is a sad thing to think that a man
with what you call a fund of anecdote
is a humbug, more or less amiable
and pleasant. What right have I to
tell my " Grouse in the gun-room"
over and over in the presence of my
wife, mother, mother-in-law, sons,
daughters, old footman or parlormaid, confidential clerk, curate, or
what not? I smirk and go through
the history, giving my admirable imitations of the characters introduced:
I mimic Jones's grin, Iobbs's squint,
Brown's stammer, Grady's brogue,
Sandy's Scotch accent, to the best of
my power: and the family part of
my audience laughs good-humoredly.
Perhaps the stranger, for whose
amusement the performance is given,
is amused by it, and ]lughs too. But
this practice continued is not moral.
This self-indulgence on your part,
my dear Paterfamilins, is weak, vain
- not to say culpable. I can imagine
many a worthy man, who begins unguardedly to read this page, and
comes to the present sentence, lying
back in his chair, thinking of that
story which he has told innocently
for fifty years, and rather piteously
owning to himself, " Well, well, it is
wrong; I have no right to call on my
poor wife to laugh, my daughters to
affect to he amused, by that old, old
jest of mine. And they would have
gone on laughing, and they would
have pretended to be amused, to their
dying day, if this man had not flung
14*


his damper over our hilarity."..
I lay down the pen, and think, "Are
there any old stories which I still tell
myself in the bosom of my family?
Have I any 'Grouse in my gunroom'? "  If there are such, it is
because my memory fails, not because
I want applause, and wantonly repeat
myself. You see, men with the socalled fund of anecdote will not repeat the same story to the same individual; but they do think that, on
a new party, the repetition of a joke
ever so old may be honorably tried.
I meet men walking the London
street, bearing the best reputation,
men of anecdotal powers:- I know
such, who very likely will read this.
and say, " Hang the fellow, he means
me!"  And soI do. No-no man
ought to tell an anecdote more than
thrice, let us say, unless he is sure he
is speaking only to give pleasure to
his hearers- unless he feels that it is
not a mere desire for praise which
makes him open his jaws.
And is it not with writers as with
raconteurs? Ought they not to have
their ingenuous modesty? May authors tell old stories, and how many
times over? When I come to look
at a place which I have visited any
time these twenty or thirty years, I
recall not the place merely, but the
sensations I had at first seeing it, and
which are quite difftrent to my feelings to-day. That first day at Calais;
the voices of the women crying out at
night, as the vessel came alongside the
pier: the supper at Quillacq and
the flavor of the cutlets and wine;
the red-calico canopy under which I
slept: the tiled floor, and the fresh
smell of the sheets; the wonderful
postilion in his jack-boots and pigtail;-all return with perfect clearness to my mind, and I am seeing
them and not the objects which are
actually under my eyes. Here is
Calais. Yonder is that commissioner
I have known this score of years.
Here are the women screaming and
burstling over the baggage; the people at the passport-barrier who take




314


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


your papers. My good people, I
hardly see you. You no more interest me than a dozen orange-women in
Covent Garden, or a shop book-keeper
in Oxford Street. But you make me
think of a time when you were indeed
wonderful to behold - when the little
French soldiers wore white cockades
in their shakos - when the diligence
was forty hours going to Paris; and
the great-booted postilion, as surveyed by youthful eyes from the coupe, with his jurons, his ends of rope
for the harness, and his clubbed pigtail, was a wonderful being, and
productive of endless amusement.
You young folks don't remember the
apple-girls who used to follow the
diligence up the hill beyond Boulogne,
and the delights of the jolly road?
In making continental journeys with
young folks, an oldster may be very
quiet, and, to outward appearance,
melancholy; but really he has gone
back to the days of his youth, and
he is seventeen or eighteen years
of age (as the case may be), and is
amusing himself with all his might.
He is noting the horses as they come
squealing out of the post-house yard
at midnight; he is enjoying the delicious meals at Beauvais and Amiens,
and quaffing ad libitum the rich tabled'h6te wine; he is hail-fellow with
the conductor, and alive to all the incidents of the road. A man can be
alive in 1860 and 1830 at the same
time, don't you see? Bodily, I may
be in 1860, inert, silent, torpid; but
in the spirit I am walking about in
1828, let us say; - in a blue dresscoat and brass buttons, a sweet figured
silk waistcoat (which I button round
a slim waist with perfect ease), looking at beautiful beings with gigot
sleeves and tea-tray hats under the
golden chestnuts of the Tuileries, or
round the Place Vend6me, where the
drapeau blanc is floating from  the
statueless column. Shall we go and
dine at " Bombarda's," near the
"Hotel Breteuil," or at the "Cafe
Virginie? " - Away!  " Bombarda's" and the " H6tel Bretelil" have


been pulled down ever so long. They
knocked down the poor old Virginia
Coffee-house last year. My spirit goes
and dines there. My body, perhaps,
is seated with ever so many people in
a railway-carriage, and no wonder my
companions find me dull and silent.
Have you read Mr. Dale Owen's
"Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World"? -(My dear sir, it will
make your hair stand quite refreshingly on end). In that work you will
read that when gentlemen's or ladies'
spirits travel off a few score or thousand miles to visit a fiiend, their
bodies lie quiet and in a torpid state
in their beds or in their arm-chairs at
home. So in this way, I am absent.
My soul whisks away thirty years
back into the past. I am looking out
anxiously for a beard. I am getting
past the age of loving Byron's poems,
and pretend that I like Wordsworth
and Shelley much better. Nothing I
eat or drink (in reason) disagrees
with me; and I know whom I think
to be the most lovely creature in the
world. Ah, dear maid (of that remote but well-remembered period),
are you a wife or widow now? -are
you dead? - are you thin and withered and old? -or are you grown
much stouter, with a false front?
and so forth.
0 Eliza, Eliza! — Stay, was she
Eliza? Well, I protest I have forgotten what your Christian name
was. You know I only met you for
two days, but your sweet face is before me now, and the roses blooming
on it are as fresh as in that time of
May. Ah, dear Miss X-, my timid
youth and ingenuous modesty would
never have allowed me, even in my
private thoughts, to address you otherwise than by your paternal name, but
that (though I conceal it) I remember
perfectly well, and that your dear and
respected father was a brewer.




CARILLON. -I was awakened this
morning with the chime which Antwerp cathedral clock plays at halfhours. The tune has been haunting




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


315


me ever since, as tunes will. You
dress, eat, drink, walk, and talk to
yourself to their tune: their inaudible
jingle accompanies you all day: you
read the sentences of the paper to
their rhythm. I tried uncouthly to
imitate the tune to the ladies of the
family at breakfast, and they say it
is "the shadow dance of Dinorah."
It may be so. I dimly remember
that my body was once present during the performance of that opera,
whilst my eyes were closed, and my
intellectual fiaculties dormant at the
back of the box; howbeit, I have
learned that shadow dance fiom hearing it pealing up ever so high in the
air, at night, morn, noon.
How pleasant to lie awake and
listen to the cheery peal! whilst the
old city is asleep at midnight, or
waking up rosy at sunrise, or basking
in noon, or swept by the scudding rain
which drives in gusts over the broad
places, and the great shining river;
or sparkling in snow which dresses up
a hundred thousand masts, peaks,
and towers; or wrapped round with
thunder-cloud canopies, before which
the white gables shine whiter; day
and night the kind little carillon
plays its fantastic melodies overhead.
The bells go on ringing. Quot vivos
vocant, mortuos plangunt, fulgura frangunt; so on to the past and future
tenses, and for how many nights,
days, and years! Whilst the French
were pitching their fulgura into
Chasse's citadel, the bells went on
ringing quite cheerfully. Whilst the
scaffolds were up and guarded by
Alva's soldiery, and regiments of
penitents, blue, black, and gray,
poured out of churches and convents,
droning their dirges, and marching to
the place of the Hotel de Ville, where
heretics and rebels were to meet their
doom, the bells up yonder were
chanting at their appointed halfhours and quarters, and rang the
mauvais quart d'heure for many a poor
soul. This bell can see as far away
as the towers and dykes of Rotterdam.
That one can call a greeting to St.


Ursula's at Brussels, and toss a recognition to that one at the town-hall
of Oudenarde, and remember how
after a great struggle there a hundred
and fifty years ago the whole plain
was covered with the flying French
cavalry- Burgundy, and Berri, and
the Chevalier of St. George flying like
the rest. "What is your clamor
about Oudenarde?" says another
bell (Bob Major this one must be).
" Be still, thou querulous old clapper!
Ican see over to Hougoumont and
St. John. And aboutforty-fiveyears
since, I rang all through one Sunday
in June, when there was such a battle
going on in the corn-fields there, as
none of you others ever heard tolled
of. Yes, from morning service until
after vespers, the French and English
were all at it, ding-dong." And then
calls of business intervening, the bells
have to give up their private jangle,
resume their professional duty, and
sing their hourly chorus out of
Dinorah.
What a prodigious distance those
bells can be heard! I was awakened
this morning to their tune, I say. I
have been hearing it constantly ever
since. And this house whence I
write, Murray says, is two hundred
and ten miles from Antwerp. And
it is a week off; and there is the bell
still jangling its shadow dance out of
Dinorah. An audible shadow you
understand, and an invisible sound,
but quite distinct; and a plague take
the tune!
UNDER TIlE BELLS. - Who has
not seen the church under the bells?
Those lofty aisles, those twilight chapels, that cumbersome pulpit with its
huge carvings, that wide gray pavement flecked with various light from
the jewelled windows, those famous
pictures between the voluminous columns over the altars, which twinkle
with their ornaments, their votive
little silver hearts, legs, limbs, their
little guttering tapers, cups of sham
roses, and what not? I saw two regiments of little scholars creeping in and




316


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


forming square, each in its appointed
place, under the vast roof; and teachers presently coming to them.  A
stream of light from the jewelled windows beams slanting down upon each
little squad of children, and the tall
background of the church retires into
a grayer gloom. Pattering little feet
of laggards arriving echo through the
great nave. They trot in and join
their regiments, gathered under the
slanting sunbeams. What arc they
learning?  Is it truth? Those two
gray ladies with their books in their
hands in the midst of these little people have no doubt of the truth of
every word they have printed under
their eyes. Look, through the windows jewelled all over with saints, the
light comes streaming dowvn from the
sky, and heaven's own illuminations
paint the book! A sweet, touching
picture indeed it is, that of the little
children assembled in this immense
temple, which has endured for ages,
and grave teachers bending over them.
Yes, the picture is very pretty of the
children and the teachers, and their
book - but the text? Is it the truth,
the only truth, nothing but the
truth? If I thought so, I would go
and sit down on the form cum parvalis, and learn the precious lesson with
all my heart.
BEADLE. - But I submit, an obstacle to conversions is the intrusion and
impertinence of that Swiss fellow with
the baldric - the officer who answers
to the beadle of the British Islands,
and is pacing about the church with
an eye on the congregation.  Now
the boast of Catholics is that their
churches are open to all; but in certain places and churches there are
exceptions.  At Rome I have been
into St. Peter's at all hours: the
doors are always open, the lamps are
always burning, the faithful areforever
kneeling at one shrine or the other.
But at Antwerp not so.    In the
afternoon you can go to the church,
and be civilly treated; but you must
pay a franc at the side gate.  In the


forenoon the doors are open, to bL
sure, and there is no one to levy an
entrance-fee. I was standing ever so
still, looking through the great gates
of the choir at the twinkling lights,
and listening to the distant chants
of the priests performing the service,
when a sweet chorus from the organloft broke out behind me overhead,
and I turned round. My friend the
drum-major ecclesiastic was down
upon me in a moment.     "Do not
turn your back to the altar during
divine service," says he, in very
intelligible English.  I take the rebuke, and turn a soft right-about face,
and listen a while as the ser ice continues. See it I cannot, nor the altar
and its ministrants. We are separated
from these by a great screen and
closed gates of iron, through which
the lamps glitter and the chant comes
by gusts only. Seeing a score of
children trotting down a side aisle, I
think I may follow them. I am tired
of looking at that hideous old pulpit
with its grotesque monsters and decorations. I slip off to the side aisle;
but my friend the drum-major is
instantly after me — almost I thought
he was going to lay hands on me.
" You mustn't go there," says he;
"you mustn't disturb the service.'
I was moving as quietly as might be,
and ten paces off there were twenty
children kicking and clattering at.
their ease.  I point them out to the
Swiss.  " They come to pray," say:i
he.  " You don't come to pray,
you" -     When I come to pay,"
says I, " I am welcome;" and with
this withering sarcasm, I walk out
of church in a huff. I don't envy the
feelings of that beadle after receiving
point blank such a stroke of wit.
LEO BELGICUS.- Perhaps you will
say after this I am a prejudiced critic.
I see the pictures in the cathedral fuming under the rudeness of that beadle,
or at the lawful hours and prices, pes-.
tered by a swarm of shabby touters,
who come behind me chattering in bad
English, and who w-'ild have me see




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


317


the sights through their mean, greedy
eyes. Better see Rubens anywhere
than in a church. At the Academy,
for example, where you may study
him at your leisure. But at church
- I would as soon ask Alexandre
Dumas for a sermon. Either would
paint you a martyrdom very fiercely
and picturesquely - writhing muscles
flaming coals, scowling captains and
executioners, swarming groups, and
light, shade, color, most dexterously
brilliant or dark; but in Rubens I
am admiring tile performer rather
than the piece. With what astonishing rapidity lie travels over his
canvas! how tellingly the cool lights
and warm shadows are made to contrast and relieve each other! how that
blazing, blowsy penitent in yellow
satin and glittering hair carries down
the stream of light across the picture!
This is the way to work, my boys,
and earn a hundred florins a day.
See! I am as sure of my line as a
skater of making his figure of eight!
and down with a sweep goes a brawny
arm or a flowing curl of drapery.
The figures arrange themselves as if
by magic. The paint-pots are exhausted in fiurnishing brown shadows.
The pupils look wondering on, as the
master careers over the canvas. Isabel or Helena, wife No. 1 or No. 2,
are sitting by, buxom, exuberant,
ready to be painted; and the children
are boxing in the corner, waiting till
they are wanted to figure as cherubs
in the picture. Grave burghers and
gentlefolks come in on a visit. There
are oysters and Rhenish always ready
on yonder table. Was there ever
sucha painter? He has been an ambassador, an actual Excellency, and
what better man could be chosen?
He speaks all the languages. He
earns a hundred florins a day. Prodigious! Thirty-six thousand five
hundred florins a year. Enormous I
He rides out to his castle with a score
of gentlemen after him, like the Governor. That is his own portrait as
St. George. You know he is an English knight? Those are his two wives


as the two Maries. He chooses the
handsomest wives. He rides the handsomest horses. He paints the handsomest pictures. He gets the handsomest prices for them. That slim
young Van l)yck, who was his pupil,
has genius too, and is painting all the
noble ladies in England, and turning
the heads of some of them. And Jordaens - what a droll dog and clever
fellow! Have you seen his fat Silenus? The master himself could not
paint better. And his altar-piece at
St. Bavon's? He can paint you
any thing that Jordaens can - a
drunken jollification of boors and
doxies, or a martyr howling with half
his skin off: What a knowledge of
anatomy! But there is nothing like
the master- nothing. He can paint
you his thirty-six thousand five hundred florins' worth a year. Have
you heard of what he has done for
the French Court? Prodigious! I
can't look at Rubens' pictures without fancying I see that handsome
figure swaggering before the canvas.
And Hans Hemmelinck at Bruges?
Have you never seen that dear old hospital of St. Joln, on passing the gate
of which vou enter into the fifteenth
century?  I see the wounded soldier
still lingering in the house, and tended
by the kind gray sisters. His little
panel on its easel is placed at the
light. IIe covers his board with
the most wondrous, beautiful little figures, in robes as bright as
rubies and amethysts. I think he
must have a magic glass, in which
he catches the reflection of little cherubs with many-colored wings, very
little and bright. Angels, in long
crisp robes of white, surrounded with
halos of gold, come and flutter across
the mirror, and he draws them. He
hears mass every day. He fasts
through Lent. No monk is more austere and holy than Hans. Which do
you love best to behold, the lamb or the
lion? the eagle rushing through the
storm, and pouncing nmayhap on carrion; or the linnet warbling on the
spray?




318


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By much the most delightful of the
Christopher set of Rubens to my mind
(and ego is introduced on these occasions, so that the opinion may pass
only for my own, at the reader's humble service to be received or declined)
is the " Presentation in the Temple: " splendid in color, in sentiment
sweet and tender, finely conveying
the story. To be sure, all the others
tell their tale unmistakably- witness
that coarse " Salutation,' that magnificent "Adoration of the Kings"
(at the Museum), by the same strong
downright hands; that wonderful
" Communion of St. Francis," which,
I think, gives the key to the artist's
faire better than any of his performances. I have passed hours before
that picture in my time, trying and
sometimes fancying I could understand by what masses and contrasts the
artist arrived at his effect. In many
others of the pictures parts of his
method are painfully obvious, and
you see how grief and agony are produced by blue lips, and eyes rolling
blood-shot with dabs of vermilion.
There is something simple in the


and were pointing out the tricks of
his mystery. Pardon, O great chief,
magnificent master and poet! You
can do. We critics, who sneer and
are wise, can but pry, and measure,
and doubt, and carp. Look at the
lion. Did you ever see such a gross,
shaggy, mangy, roaring brute? Look
at him eating lumps of raw meat -
positively bleeding, and raw  and
tough - till, faugh! it turns one's
stomach to see him- O the coarse
wretch! Yes, but he is a lion. Rubens has lifted his great hand, and
the mark he has made has endured
for two centuries, and we still continue wondering at him, and admiring him. What a strength in that
arm! What splendor of will hidden
behind that tawny beard, and those
honest eyes! Sharpen your pen, my
good critic. Shoot a feather into
him; hit him, and make him wince.
Yes, you may hit him fair, and make
him bleed, too; but, for all that, he
is a lion - a mighty, conquering, generous, rampagious Leo Belgicus -
monarch of his wood. And he is not
dead yet, and I will not kick at him.


practice. Contort the eyebrow sufficiently, and place the eyeball near it,  SIR ANTONY.- In that " Pieta"
- by a few lines you have anger or of Van 1)yck, in the Museum, have
fierceness depicted. Give me a mouth you ever looked at the yellow-robed
with no special expression, and pop a angel, with the black scarf thrown
dab of carmine at each extremity — over her wings and robe? What a
and there are the lips smiling. This charming figure of grief and beauty!
is art if you will, but a very naive What a pretty compassion it inspires!
kind of art: and now you know the It soothes and pleases me like a sweet
trick, don't you see how easy it is?  rhythmic chant. See how delicately
the yellow robe contrasts with the
Tu QUOQUE. — Now you know      blue sky behind, and the scarf binds
the trick, suppose you take a canvas the two! If Rubens lacked grace,
and see whether you can do it? Van Dyck abounded in it. What
There are brushes, palettes, and galli- a consummate elegance!  What a
pots full of paint and varnish. Have perfect cavalier! No wonder the fine
you tried, my dear sir — you, who ladies inEngland admired Sir Antony.
set up to be a connoisseur? Have Look at -
you tried? I have - and many a     Here the clock strikes three, and
day. And the end of the day's la- the three gendarmes who keep the
bor? O dismal conclusion! Is this Musee cry out, "Allons!  Sortons!
puerile niggling, this feeble scrawl,II esttrois heures! Allez! Sortez!"
this impotent rubbish, all you can and they skip out of the gallery as
produce - you, who but now found happy as boys running from school.
Rubens commonplace and vulgar, And we must go too, for though




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319


many stay behind —many Britons
with Murray's handbooks in their
handsome hands - they have paid a
franc for entrance-fee, you see; and
we knew nothing about the franc for
entrance until those gendarmes with
sheathed sabres had driven us out of
this Paradise.
But it was good to go and drive on
the great quays, and see the ships
unlading, and by the citadel, and
wonder howabouts and whereabouts
it was so strong. We expect a citadel
to look like Gibraltar or Ehrenbreitstein at least. But in this one there
is nothing to see but a flat plain and
some ditches, and some trees, and
mounds of uninteresting green. And
then I remember how there was a boy
at school, a little dumpy fellow of no
personal appearance whatever, who
couldn't be overcome except by a
much bigger champion, and the immensest quantity of thrashing.  A
perfect citadel of a boy, with a General Chasse sitting in that bomb-proof
casemate, his heart, letting blow after
blow come thumping about his head,
and never thinking of giving in.
And we go home, and we dine in
the company of Britons, at the comfortable Hotel du Parc, and we have
bought a novel apiece for a shilling,
and every half-hour the sweet carillon
plays the waltz from Diorah in
the air. And we have been happy;
and it seems about a month since we
left London yesterday; and nobody
knows where we arc, and we defy care
and the postman.
SPOORWEG.- Vast green flats,
speckled by spotted cows, and bound
by a gray frontier of windmills; shining canals stretching through the
green; odors like those exhaled from
the Thames in the dog-days, and a
fine pervading smell of cheese; little
trim houses, with tall roofs, and great
windows of many panes; gazebos, or
summer-houses, hanging over peagreen canals; kind-looking, dumpling-faced farmers' women, with laced
caps and golden frontlets and ear

rings; about the houses and towns
which we pass a great air of comfort
and neatness; a queer feeling of
wonder that you can't understand
what your fellow-passengers are saying, the tone of whose voices, and
a certain comfortable dowdiness of
dress, are so like our own;-whilst
we are remarking on these sights,
sounds, smells, the little railway journey from Rotterdam to the Hague
comes to an end. I speak to the
railway porters and hackney coachmen in English, and they reply in
their own language, and it seems
somehow as if we understood each
other perfectly. The carriage drives
to the handsome, comfortable, cheerful hotel. We sit down a score at
the table; and there is one foreigner
and his wife, —I mean every other
man and woman at dinner are English. As we are close to the sea, and
in the midst of endless canals, we
have no fish. We are reminded of
dear England by the noble prices
which we pay for wines. I confess I
lost my temper yesterday at Rotterdam, where I had to pay a florin for
a bottle of ale (the water not being
drinkable, and country or Bavarian
beer not being genteel enough for the
hotel);-I confess, I say, that my
fine temper was ruffled, when the
bottle of pale ale turned out to be a
pint bottle; and I meekly told the
waiter that I had bought beer at
Jerusalem at a less price. But then
Rotterdam is eighteen hours from
London, and the steamer with the
passengers and beer comes up to
the hotel windows; whilst to Jerusalem they have to carry the ale on
camels' backs from Beyrout or Jaffa,
and through hordes of marauding
Arabs, who evidently don't care for
pale ale, though I am told it is not
forbidden in the Koran. Mine would
have been very good, but I choked
with rage whilst drinking it. A florin
for a bottle, and that bottle having
the words "imperial pint," in bold
relief, on the surface! It was too
much.   I intended not to say any




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


thing about it; but I must speak.
A florin a bottle, and that bottle a
pint! Oh, for shame! for shame!
i can't cork down my indignation;
I froth up with fury; I am pale with
wrath, and bitter with scorn.
As we drove through the old city at
night, how it swarmed and hummed
with lifel What a special clatter,
crowd, and outcry there was il the
Jewish quarter, where myriads of
young ones were trotting about the
fishy street! Why don't they have
lamps? We passed by canals seeming so full that a pailful of water
more would overflow the place. The
laquais-de-place calls out the names of
the buildings: the town-hall, the cathedral, the arsenal, the synagogue,
the statue of Erasmus. Get along!
We know the statue of Erasmus well
enough. We pass over drawbridges
by canals where thousands of barges
are at roost.  At roost-at rest!
Shall we have rest in those bedrooms,
those ancient lofty bedrooms, in that
inn where we have to pay a florin for
a pint of pa-psha at the " New Bath
Hotel" on the Boompjes?    If this
dreary edifice is the " New Bath,"
what must the Old Bath be like? As
I feared to go to bed, I sat in the
coffee-room as long as I might; but
three young men were imparting their
private adventures to each other with
such freedom and liveliness that I
felt I ought not to listen to their artless prattle. As I put the light out,
and felt the bedclothes and darkness
overwhelm me, it was with an awful
sense of terror-that sort of sensation which I should think going down
in a diving-bell would give. Suppose
the apparatus goes wrong, and they
don't understand your signal to
mount? Suppose your matches miss
fire when you wake; when you want
them, when you will have to rise in half
an hour, and do battle with the horrid
enemy who crawls on you in the darkness? I protest I never was more
surprised than when I woke and beheld the light of dawn. Indian birds
and strange trees were visible on the


ancient gilt hangings of the lofty
chamber, and through the windows
the Boompjes and the ships along tile
quay. We have all read of deserters
being brought out, and made to kneel,
with their eyes bandaged, and hearing the word to "Fire" given! I
declare I underwent all the terrors of
execution that night, and wonder how
I ever escaped unwounded.
But if ever I go to the "Bath
Hotel," Rotterdam, again, I am a
Dutchman. A guilder for a bottle of
pale ale, and that bottle a pint! Ah i
for shame - for shame!
MINE EASE IN MINE INN.-DO
you object to talk about inns? It
always seems to me to be very good
talk. Walter Scott is full of inns.
In " Don Quixote " and "Gil Bias"
there is plenty of inn-talk. Sterne,
Fielding, and Smollett constantly
speak about them; and, in their travels, the last two tot up the bill, and
describe the dinner quite honestly;
whilst Mr. Sterne becomes sentimental over a cab, and weeps generous
tears over a donkey.
How I admire and wonder at the
information in Murray's Handbooks
- wonder how it is got, and admire
the travellers who get it. For instance, you read: Amiens (please select your towns), 60,000 inhabitants.
Hotels, &c.-" Lion d'Or," good and
clean.  "Le Lion    d'Argent," so
so.  "Le Lion Noir," bad, dirty,
and dear. Now say, there are three
travellers- three inn-inspectors, who
are sent forth by Mr. Murray on a
great commission, and who stop at
every inn in the world. The eldest
goes to the "Lion d'Or" —capital
house, good table-d'h6te. excellent
wine, moderate charges. The second
commissioner tries the " Silver Lion"
- tolerable house, bed, dinner, bill,
and so forth. But fancy commissioner No. 3 -the poor fag, doubtless,
and boots of the party. He has to go
to the "Lion Noir."  He knows he
is to have a bad dinner- he eats it
uncomplainingly. He is to have bad




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321


wine. He swallows it, grinding his   The prettiest little brick city, the
wretched tetlh, and aware that he pleasantest little park to ride in, the
will be unwell in consequence. He neatest comfortable people walking
knows he is to have a dirty bed, and about, the canals not unsweet, and
what he is to expect there. He pops busy and picturesque with old-world
out the candle. He sinks into those life.  Rows upon rows of houses,
dingy sheets. He delivers over his built with the neatest little bricks.
body to the nightly tormentors, he pays with windows fresh painted, and tale
an exorbitant bill, and he writes down doors polished and carved to a nicety.
"Lion Noir, bad, dirty, dear."  Next What a pleasant spacious garden oui
day the commission sets out for Arras, inn has, all sparkling with autumn
we will say, and they begin again: flowers, and bedizened with statues!
"Le Cochon d'Or," "Le Cochon At the end is a row of trees, and q
d'Argent," "Le Cochon Noir "-and summer-house, over the canal, where
that is poor Boots's inn, of course. you might go and smoke a pipe with
What a life that poor man must lead! Mynheer Van Dunch, and quite
What horrors of dinners he has to go cheerfully catch the ague. Yesterday,
through! What a hide he must have! as we passed, they were making hay,
And yet not impervious; for unless and stacking it in a barge which was
he is bitten, how is he to be able to lying by the meadow, handy. Round
warn  others?  No;    on  second about Kensington Palace there are
thoughts, you will perceive that he houses, roofs, chimneys, and bricks
ought to have a very delicate skin. like these. I feel that a Dutchman is
The monsters ought to troop to him  a man and a brother. It is very funeagerly, and bite him instantaneously ny to read the newspaper, one can unand freely, so that he may be able to derstand it somehow. Sure it is the
warn all future handbook buyers of neatest, gayest little city-scores and
their danger. I fancy this man de- hundreds of mansions looking like
voting himself to danger, to dirt, to Cheyne Walk, or the ladies' schools
bad dinners, to sour wine, to damp about Chiswick and Hackney.
l)ds, to midnight agonies, to extortionate bills. I admire him, I thank  LE Gros LOT.- To a few lucky
him. Think of this champion, who men the chance befalls of reaching
devotes his body for us - this daunt- fame at once, and (if it is of any profit
less gladiator going to do battle alone morituro) retaining the admiration of
in the darkness, with no other armor the world. Did poor Oliver, when
than a light helmet of cotton, and a he was at Leyden yonder, ever think
lorica of calico. I pity and honor that he should paint a little picture
him. Go, Sparticus I Go, devoted which should secure him the applause
man -to bleed, to groan, to suffer-  and pity of all Europe for a century
and smile in silence as the wild beasts after?  He and Sterne drew  the
assail thee!                     twenty thousand prize of fame. The
How did I come into this talk? I latter had splendid instalments during
protest it was the word inn set me his lifetime.  The ladies pressed
off- and here is one, the "H6tel round him; the wits admired him,
dc Belle Vue," at the Hague, as cornm- the fashion hailed the successor of
forthble, as handsome, as cheerful, as Rabelais.  Goldsmith's little gem
any I ever took mine ease in. And was hardly so valued until later days.
the Bavarian beer, my dear friend, Their works still form the wonder
how good and brisk and light it is! and delight of the lovers of English
Take another glass - it refreshes and art; and the pictures of the Vicar
does not stupefy- and then we will and Uncle Toby are among the msssally out, and see the town and the terpieces  of our English school.
park and the pictures.            Here in the Hague Gallery is Paul




322


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Potter's pale, eager face, and yonder
is the magnificent work by which the
young fellow  achieved  his fame.
How did you, so young, come to
paint so welll  What hidden power
lay in that weakly lad that enabled
him to achieve such a wonderful victory? Could little Mozart, when he
was five years old, tell you how he
came to play those wonderful sonatas?
Potter was gone out of the world before he was thirty, but left this prodigy (and I know not how many
more specimens of his genius and skill)
behind him. The details of this admirable picture are as curious as the
effect is admirable and complete.
The weather being unsettled, and
clouds and sunshine in the gusty sky,
we saw in our little tour numberless
Paul Potters - the meadows streaked
with sunshine and spotted with the
cattle, the city twinkling in the distance, the thunder-clouds glooming
overhead. Napoleon carried off the
picture (vide Murray) amongst the
spoils of his bow and spear to decorate
his triumph of the Louvre. If I were
a conquering prince, I would hare
this picture certainly, and the Raphael
"Madonna" fiom   Dresden, and the
Titian "Assumption" from Venice,
and that matchless Rembrandt of the
" Dissection." The prostrate nations
would howl with rage as my gendarmes took off the pictures, nicely
packed, and addressed to" Mr. the
Director of my Imperial Palace of
the Louvre, at Paris. This side uppermost." TheAustrians, Prussians,
Saxons, Italians, &c., should be free to
come and visit my capital, and bleat
with tears before the pictures torn from
their native cities. Their ambassadors would meekly remonstrate, and
with faded grins make allusions to
the feeling of despair occasioned by
the absence of the beloved works of
art. Bah! I would offer them a
pinch of snuff out of my box as I
walked along my gallery, with their
Excellencies  cringing  after  me.
Zenobia was a fine woman and a
queen, but she had to walk in Aure

lian's triumph. The procedi was peu
dglicat?  En usez tOns, mon cher
monsieur! (The marquis says the
"Macaba" is delicious.) What a
splendor of color there is in that
cloud! What a richness, what a
freedom of handling, and what a
marvellous precision! I trod upon
your Excellency's corn? —a thousand pardons. His Excellency grins
and declares that he rather likes to
have his corns trodden on. Were
you ever very angry with Soultabout that Murillo which we have
bought? The veteran loved that
picture because it saved the life of a
fellow-creature - the fellow-creature
who hid it, and whom the Duke intended to hang unless the picture was
forthcoming.
We gave several thousand pounds
for it - how many thousand? About
its merit is a question of taste which
we will not here argue. If you
choose to place Murillo in the first
class of painters, founding his claim
upon these Virgin altar-pieces, I am
your humble servant.  Tom Moore
painted altar-pieces as well as Milton,
and warbled Sacred Songs and Loves
of the Angels after his fashion. I
wonder did Watteau ever try historical subjects? And as for Greuze,
you know that his heads will fetch
1,000/., 1,5001., 2,000., - as much as
a Sevres " cabaret" of Rose du Barri.
If cost price is to be your criterion of
worth, what shall we say to that little
receipt for 101. for the copyright of
" Paradise Lost," which used to hang
in old Mr. Rogers's room? When
living painters, as frequently happens
in our days, see their pictures sold at
auctions for four or five times the
sums which they originally received,
are they enraged or elated? A hundred years ago the state of the. picture-market was different: that dreary old Italian stock was much higher
than at present; Rembrandt himself, a
close man, was known to be in difficulties. If ghosts are fond of money
still, what a wrath his must be at
the present value of his works I




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323


The Hague Rembrandt is the
greatest and grandest of all his pieces
to my mind. Some of the heads are
as sweetly and lightly painted as
Gainsborough; the faces not ugly,
but delicate and high-bred; the exquisite gray tones are charming to
mark and study; the heads not
plastered, but painted with a free,
liquid brush: the result, one of the
great victories won by this consummate chief, and left for the wonder
and delight of succeeding ages.
The humblest volunteer in the
ranks of art, who has served a campaign or two ever so ingloriously, has
at least this good fortune of understanding, or fancying he is able to
understand, how the battle has been
fought, and how the engaged general
won it. This is the Rhinelander's
most brilliant achievement - victory
along the whole line. "The Nightwatch " at Amsterdam is magnificent
in parts, but on the side to the spectator's right, smoky and dim. "The
Five Masters of the Drapers" is
wonderful for depth, strength, brightness, massive power. What words
are these to express a picture! to
describe a description! I once saw
a moon riding in the sky serenely,
attended by her sparkling maids of
honor, and a little lady said, with an
air of great satisfaction, " I must
sketch it." Alh, my dear lady, if with
an H. B., a Bristol board, and a bit
of india-rubber, you can sketch the
starry firmament on high, and the
moon in her glory, I make you my
compliment! I can't sketch " The
Five Drapers " with any ink or pen
at present at command-but can
look with all my eyes, and be thankful to have seen such a masterpiece.
They say he was a moody, ill-conditioned man, the old tenant of the
mill. What does he think of the
" Vander Helst" which hangs opposite his " Night-watch," and which
is one of the great pictures of the
world? It is not painted by so great
a man as Rembrandt; but there it is
- to see it is an event of your life.


Having beheld it you have lived in the
year 1648, and celebrated the treaty
of Munster. You have shaken the
hands of the Dutch Guardsmen,
eaten from their platters, drunk their
Rhenish, heard their jokes, as they
wagged their jolly beards. The Amsterdam Catalogue discourses thus
about it: - a model catalogue: it
gives you the prices paid, the signatures of the painters, a succinct description of the work.
" This masterpiece represents a
banquet of the civic guard, which
took place on the 18th June, 1648, in
the great hall of the St. Joris Doele,
on the Singel at Amsterdam, to celebrate the conclusion of the Peace at
Munster.  The thirty-five figures
composing the picture are all portraits.
"' The Captain WITSE 'is placed at
the head of the table, and attracts our
attention first.  He is dressed in
black velvet, his breast covered with
a cuirass, on his head a broad-brimmed
black hat with white plumes.
He is comfortably seated on a chair
of black oak, with a velvet cushion,
and holds in his left hand, supported
on his knee, a magnificent drinkinghorn, surrounded by a St. George
destroying the dragon, and ornamented with olive-leaves. The captain's
features express cordiality and goodhumor; he is grasping the hand of
'Lieutenant VAN WAVERN' seated
near him, in a habit of dark gray,
with lace and buttons of gold, lacecollar and wristbands, his feet crossed,
with boots of yellow leather, with
large tops, and gold spurs, on his
head a black hat and dark-brown
plumes. Behind him, at the centre
of the picture, is the standard-bearer,
'JACOB BANNING,' in an easy martial
attitude, hat in hand, his right hand
on his chair, his right leg on his left
knee. He holds the flag of blue silk,
in which the Virgin is embroidered
(such a silk! such a flag! such a
piece of painting!) emblematic of the
town of Amsterdam.   The banner
covers his shoulder, and he looks to



S24


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wards the u/ectutor frankly and complacently.
" The man behind him is probably
one of the sergeants.  His head is
bare. He wears a cuirass, and yellow
gloves, gray stockings, and boots with
large tops, and kneecaps of cloth. He
has a napkin on his knees, and in his
hand a piece of ham, a slice of bread,
and a knife. The old man behind is
probably ' WILLIAM THE DRUMMER.'
He has his hat in his right hand, and
in his left a gold-footed wineglass,
filled with white wine. He wears a
red scarf, and a black satin doublet,
with little slashes of yellow silk. Behind the drummer, two matchlockmen are seated at the end of the
table. One in a large black habit, a
napkin on his knee, a hausse-col of
iron, and a linen scarf and collar.
He is eating with his knife. The
other holds a long glass of white
wine. Four musketeers, with different shaped hats, are behind these,
one holding a glass, the three others
with their guns on their shoulders.
Other guests are placed between the
personage who is giving the toast and
the standard-bearer. One with his
hat off, and his hand uplifted, is talking to another. The second is carving a fowl. A third holds a silver
plate; and another, in the background, a silver flagon, from which
he fills a cup. The corner behind
the captain is filled by two seated
personages, one of whom is peeling
an orange. Two others are standing,
armed with halberts, of whom one
holds aplumedhat. Behind him are
other three individuals, one of them
holding a pewter pot, on which the
name 'Poock,' the landlord of the
'Hotel Doele,' is engraved.  At
the back, a maid-servant is coming in
with a pasty, crowned with a turkey.
Most of the guests are listening to the
captain. From an open window in
the distance, the fa9ades of two
houses are seen, surmounted by stone
figures of sheep."
There, now you know all about it:
now you can go home and paint just


such another. If you do, do pray
remember to paint the hands of the
figures as they are here depicted;
they are as wonderful portraits as
the faces. None of your slim Van
Dyck elegances, which have done
duty at the cuffs of so many doublets;
but each man with a hand for himself, as with a face for himself. I
blushed for the coarseness of one
of the chiefs in this great company,
that fellow behind " WILLIAM THE
DRUMMER," splendidly attired, sitting full in the face of the public;
and holding a pork-bone in his hand.
Suppose "The Saturday Review"
critic were to come suddenly on this
picture? Ah! what a shock it would
give that noble nature! Why is that
knuckle of pork not painted out? at
any rate, why is not a little fiinge of
lace painted round it? or a cut pink
paper? or couldn't a smelling-bottle
be painted in instead, with a crest
and a gold top, or a cambric pockethandkerchief, in lieu of the horrid pig,
with a pink coronet in the corner? or
suppose you covered the man's hand
(which is very coarse and strong),
and gave him the decency of a kid
glove? But a piece of pork in a
naked hand? 0 nerves and eau de
Cologne, hide it, hide it!
In spite of this lamentable coarseness, my noble sergeant, give me thy
hand as nature made it! A great,
and famous, and noble handiwork I
have seen here. Not the greatest
picture in the world - not a work of
the highest genius-but a performance so great, various, and admirable, so shrewd of humor, so wise
of observation, so honest and complete of expression, that to have seen
it has been a delight, and to remember
it will be a pleasure for days to come.
Well done, Bartholomeus Vander
Helst! Brave, meritorious, victorious, happy Bartholomew, to whom it
has been given to produce a masterpiece!
May I take off my hat and pay a
respectful complimenrt to Jan Steen,
Esq.? He is a glorious composer




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325


His humor is as frank as Fielding's.
Look at his own figure sitting in the
window-sill yonder, and roaring with
laughter! What a twinkle in the
eyes! what a mouth it is for a song,
or a joke, or a noggin! I think the
composition in some of Jan's pictures
amounts to the sublime, and look at
them with the same delight and admiration which I have felt before
works of the very highest style. This
gallery is admirable-and the city
in which the gallery is, is perhaps
even more wonderful and curious to
behold than the gallery.
The first landing at Calais (or, I
suppose, on any foreign shore) -the
first sight of an Eastern city - the
first view of Venice - and this of
Amsterdam, are among the delightful
shocks which I have had as a traveller. Amsterdam is as good as Venice, with a superadded humor and
grotesqueness, which gives the sightseer the mnost singular zest and
pleasure.  A run through Pekin I
could hardly fancy to be more odd,
strange, and yet familiar. This rush,
and crowd, and prodigious vitality;
this immense swarm of life; these
busy waters, crowding barges, swinging drawbridges, piled ancient gables,
spacious markets teeming with people; that ever-wonderful Jews' quarter; that dear old world of painting
and the past, yet alive, and throbbing,
and palpable -actual, and yet passing before you swiftly and strangely
as a dream! Of the many journeys
of this Roundabout life, that drive
through Amsterdam is to be specially
and gratefully remembered.  You
have never seen the palace of Amsterdam, my dear sir? Why, there's a
marble hall in that palace that will
frighten you as much as any hall in


"Vathek," or a nightmare. At one
end of that old, cold, glassy, glittering,
ghostly, marble hall there stands a
throne, on which a white marble king
ought to sit with his white legs
gleaming down into the white marble
below, and his white eyes looking at a
great white marble Atlas, who bears
on his icy shoulders a blue globe as
big as the full moon. If he were not
a genie, and enchanted, and with a
strength altogether hyperatlantean,
he would drop the moon with a shriek
on to the white marble floor, and it
would splitter into perdition. And
the palace would rock, and heave,.
and tumble; and the waters would
rise, rise, rise; and the gables sink,
sink, sink; and the barges would
rise up to the chimneys; and the
water-souchee fishes would flap over
the Boompjes, where the pigeons and
storks used to perch; and the Amster,
and the Rotter, and the Saar, and
the Op, and all the dams of 1olland, would burst, and the Zuyder
Zee roll over the dykes; and you
would wake out of your dream, and
find yourself sitting in your armchair.
Was it a dream? it seems like one.
Have we been to Holland? have we
heard the chimes at midnight at Antwerp? Were we really away for a
week, or have I been sitting up in the
room dozing, before this stale old
desk?  Iere's the desk; yes. But,
if it has been a dream, how could I
have learned to hum that tune out of
Dinorah? Ah, is it that tune, or myself that I am humming? If it was a
dream, how comes this yellow NOTICE
DES TABLEAUX DU MUSEE D'AMSTERDAM AVEC FACSIMILE DES
MONOGRAMMES before me, and this
signature of the gallant


2aMc4eaS1r,,d J &




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Yes, indeed, it was a delightful little holiday; it lasted a whole week.
With the exception of that little pint
of amari aliquid at Rotterdam, we
were all very happy. We might have
gone on being happy for whoever
knows how many days more? a week
more, ten days more: who knows
how long that dear teetotum happiness can be made to spin without toppling over?
But one of the party had desired
letters to be sent poste restante, Amsterdam. The post-office is hard by
that awful palace where the Atlas is,
and which we really saw.
There was only one letter, you see.
Only one chance of finding us. There
it was.  "The post has only this
moment come in," says the smirking
commissioner. And he hands over
the paper, thinking he has done something clever.
Before the letter had been opened,
I could read COME BACK, as clearly
as if it had been painted on the wall.
It was all over. The spell was broken.
The sprightly lightly holiday fairy
that had frisked and gambolled so
kindly beside us for eight days of sunshine - or rain which was as cheerful as sunshine - gave a parting piteous look, and whisked away and
vanished.  And  yonder scuds the
postman, and here is the old desk.
-4 -NIL NISI BONUM.
ALMOST the last words which Sir
Walter spoke to Lockhart, his biographer, were, "Be a good man, my
dear!" and with the last flicker
of breath on his dying lips he sighed
a farewell to his family, and passed
away blessing them.
Two men, famous, admired, beloved,
have just left us, the Goldsmith and
the Gibbon of our time.* Ere a few
weeks are over, many a critic's pen
* Washington Irving died, Nov. 28,
1859; Lord Macaulay died, Dec. 28, 1859.


will be at work, reviewing their
lives, and passing judgment on their
works. This is no review or history
or criticism: only a word in testimony
of respect and regard from a man of
letters, who owes to his own professional labor the honor of becoming
acquainted with these two eminent
literary men. One was the first ambassador whom the New World of
Letters sent to the Old. He was born
almost with the Republic; the pater
patrice had laid his hand on the child's
head. He bore Washington's name:
he came amongst us bringing the
kindest sympathy, the most artless,
smiling goodwill. His new country
(which some people here might be
disposed to regard rather superciliously) could send us, as he showed in
his own person, a gentleman, who,
though himself born in no very high
sphere, was most finished, polished,
easy, witty, quiet, and, socially, the
equal of the most refined Europeans.
If Irving's welcome in England was
a kind one, was it not also gratefully
remembered? If he ate our salt, did
he not pay us with a thankful heart?
Who can calculate the amount of
friendliness and good feeling for our
country which this writer's generous
and untiring regard for us disseminated in his own? His books are
read by millions* of his countrymen
whom he has taught to love England,
and why to love her. It would have
been easy to speak otherwise than he
did: to inflame national rancors,
which, at the time when he first became known as a public writer, war
had just renewed: to cry down the
old civilization at the expense of the
new: to point out our faults, arrogance, short-comings, and give the
republic to infer how much she was
the parent state's superior.  There
are writers enough in the United
States, honest and otherwise, who
preach that kind of doctrine. But
the good Irving, the peaceful, the
* See his Life in the most remarkable
"Dictionary of Authors," published lately
at Philadelphia, by Mr. Alibone.




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327


friendly, had no place for bitterness
in his heart, and no scheme but kindness.  Received in England with
extraordinary tenderness and friendship (Scott, Southey, Byron, a hundred others have borne witness to their
liking for him), he was a messenger
of goodwill and peace between his
country and ours.  "See, friends!"
lie seems to say, " these English are
not so wicked, rapacious, callous,
proud, as you have been taught to
believe them. I went amongst them
a humble man; won my way by my
pen; and, when known, found every
hand held out to me with kindliness
and welcome. Scott is a great man,
you acknowledge.  Did not Scott's
King of England give a gold medal
to him, and another to me, your
countryman, and a stranger? "
Tradition ill the United States still
fondly retains the history of the feasts
and rejoicings which awaited Irving
on his return to his native country
from Europe. He had a national
welcome; he stammered     in his
speeches, hid himself in confusion,
and the people loved him all the better.  He had worthily represented
America in Europe. In that young
community a man who brings home
with him abundant European testimonials is still treated with respect (I
liave found American writers, of wideworld reputation, strangely solicitous
about the opinions of quite obscure
British critics, and elated or depressed
by their judgments); and Irving went
home medalled by the King, diplomatized by the University, crowned
and honored and admired. He had
not in any way intrigued for his honors, he had fairly won them; and in
Irving's instance, as in others, the old
country was glad and eager to pay
them.
In America, the love and regard
for Irving was a national sentiment.
Party wars are perpetually raging
there, and are carried on by the press
with a rancor and fierceness against
individuals which exceed British, almost Irish, virulence. It seemed to


me, during a year's travel in the
country, as if no one ever aimed a
blow at Irving. All men held their
hand from that harmless, friendly
peacemaker. I had the good fortune
to see him at New York, Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and Washington,* and
remarked how in every place he was
honored and welcome. Every large
city has its "Irving House." The
country takes pride in the fame of its
men of letters. The gate of his own
charming little domain on the beautiful
Hudson River was forever swingingbcfore visitors who came to him. He shut
out no one.t I had seen many pictures of this house, and read descriptions of it, in both of which it was
treated with a not unusual American
exaggeration.  It was but a pretty
little cabin of a place; the gentleman
of the press who took notes of the
place, whilst his kind old host was
sleeping, might have visited the whole
house in a couple of minutes.
And how came it that this house
was so small, when Mr. Irving's books
were sold by hundreds of thousands,
nay, millions, when his profits were
known to be large, and the habits of
life of the good old bachelor were
notoriously modest and simple? IIe
had loved once in his life. The lady
he loved died; and he, whom all the
world loved, never sought to replace
* At Washington, Mr. Irving came to
a lecture given by the writer, which Mr.
Filmore and General Pierce, the President
and PresidentElect, were also kind enough
to attend together. " Two Kings of Brentford smelling at one rose," says Irving,
looking up with his good-humored smile.
f Mr. Irving described to me, with that
humor and good humor which he always
kept, how, amongst other visitors, a member of the British press, who had carried
his distinguished pen to America (where
he employed it in vilifying his own country), came to Sunnyside, introduced himself to Irving, partook of his wine and
luncheon, and in two days described Mr.
Irving, his house, his nieces, his meal, and
his manner of dozing afterwards, in a
New York paper. On another occasion,
Irving said, laughing, "Two persons came
to me, and one held me in conversation
whilst the other miscreant took my portlait I"




828


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her. 1.tn't say how  much the
thought of that fidelity has touched
me. Does not the very cheerfulness
of his after-life add to the pathos of
that untold story  To grieve always
was not in his nature; or, when he
had his sorrow, to bring all the world
in to condole with him and bemoan
it. Deep and quiet he lays the love
of his heart, and buries it; and grass
and flowers grow over the scarred
ground in due time.
Irving had such a small house and
such narrow rooms, because there was
a great number of people to occupy
them. He could only afford to keep
one old horse (which, lazy and aged
as it was, managed once or twice to
run away with that careless old horseman). He could only afford to give
plain sherry to that amiable British
paragraph-monger from New York,
who saw the patriarch asleep over his
modest, blameless cup, and fetched
the public into his private chamber
to look at him. Irving could only
live very modestly, because the wifeless, childless man had a number of
children to whom he was as a father.
He had as many as nine nieces, I am
told-I saw two of these ladies at
his house -with all of whom   the
dear old man had shared the produce
of his labor and genius.
" Be a good man, my dear."  One
can't but think of these last words of
the veteran Chief of Letters, who had
tasted and tested the value of worldly
success, admiration, prosperity. Was
Irving not good, and, of his works,
was nothislife the best part? In his
family, gentle, generous, good-humored, affectionate, self-denying: in
society, a delightful example of complete gentlemanhood; quite unspoiled
by prosperity; never obsequious to
the great (or, worse still, to the base
and mean, as some public men are
forced to be in his and other countries); eager to acknowledge every
contemporary's merit; always kind
and affable to the young members of
his calling; in his professional bargains and mercantile dealings deli

cately honest and grateful; one of the
most charming masters of our lighter
language; the constant friend to us
and our nation; to men of letters
doubly dear, not for his wit and genius merely, but as an examplar of
goodness, probity, and pure life: - I
don't know what sort of testimonial
will be raised to him in his own country, where generous and enthusiastic
acknowledgment of American merit
is never wanting: but Irving was in
our service as well as theirs: and as
they have placed a stone at Greenwich
yonder in memory of that gallant
young Bellot, who shared the perils
and fate of some of our Arctic seamen, I would like to hear of some
memorial raised by English writers
and friends of letters in affectionate
remembrance of the dear and good
Washington Irving.
As for the other writer, whose departure many friends, some few most
dearly-loved relatives, and multitudes
of admiring readers deplore, our republic has already decreed his statue,
and he must have known that he had
earned this posthumous honor. He
is not a poet and man of letters merely, but citizen, statesman, a great
British worthy. Almost from   the
first moment when he appears,
amongst boys, amongst college students, amongst men, he is marked,
and takes rank as a great Englishman. All sorts of successes are easy
to him: as a lad he goes down into
the arena with others, and wins all
the prizes to which he has a mind. A
place in the senate is straightway
offered to the young man. He takes
his seat there; he speaks, when so
minded, without party anger or intrigue, but not without party faith
and a sort of heroic enthusiasm for
his cause. Still he is poet and philosopher even more than orator. That
he may have leisure and means to
pursue his darling studies, he absents
himself for a while, and accepts a
richly-remunerative post in the East.
As learned a man may live in a cottage or a college common-room; but




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


329


it always seemed to me that ample
means and recognized rank were Macaulay's as of rilgt. Years ago there
was a wretched outcry raised because
Mr. Macaulay dated a letter from
Windsor Castle, where he was staying. Immortal gods! Was this man
not a fit guest for any palace in the
world  or a fit companion for any
man or woman in it? I dare say,
after Austerlitz, the old K. K. court
officials and footmen sneered at Napoleon for dating from Sch6nbrunn.
But that miserable "'Windsor Castle "
outcry is an echo out of fast-retreating old-world remembrances. The
place of such a natural chief was
amongst the first of the land; and
that country is best, according to our
British notion at least, where the man
of eminence has the best chance of
investing his genius and intellect.
I a company of giants were got
together, very likely one or two of
the mere six-feet-six people might be
angry at the incontestable superiority
of the very tallest of the party: and
so I have heard some London wits,
rather peevish at Macaulay's superiority, complain that he occupied
too much of the talk, and so forth.
Now that wonderful tongue is to
speak no more, will not many a man
grieve that he no longer has the
chance to listen?  To  remember
the talk is to wonder: to think not
only of the treasures he had in his
memory, but of the trifles he had
stored there, and could produce with
equal readiness. Almost on the last
day I had the fortune to see him, a
conversation happened suddenly to
spring up about senior wranglers,
and what they had done in after life.
To the almost terror of the persons
present, Macaulay began with the
senior wrangler of 1801-2-3-4, and so
on, giving the name of each, and relating his subsequent career and rise.
Every man who has known him has
his story regarding that astonishing
memory. It may be that he was not
ill pleased that you should recognize
it; but to those prodigious intellectual
15


feats, which were so easy tohim, who
would grudge his tribute of homage?
His talk was, in a word, Admirable,
and we admired it.
Of the notices which haveappeared
regarding Lord Macaulay, up to the
day when the present lines  are written (the 9th of January), the reader
should not deny himself the ppasure
of looking especially at       is a
good sign of the times — w"n such
articles as these (I mean the- articles
in " The Times " and 1 -Saturday
Review ") appear in our public prints
about our public men. They educate us, as it were, to admire rightly.
An uninstructed person in a museum
or at a concert may pass by without
recognizing a picture or a passage of
music, which the connoisseur by his
side may show him is a masterpiece
of harmony, or a wonder of artistic
skill. After reading these papers you
like and respect more the person  a
have admired so much already.   d
so with regard to Macaulay's style
there may be faults of course -what
critic can't point them out 1 But for
the nonce we are not talking about
faults: we want to say nil nisi bonum.
Well - take at hazard any three
pa(res of the 11 Essays " or " History     and, glimmering below the
stream of the narrative, as it were,
you, an average reader, see one, two,
three, a half-score of allusions to
other historic facts, characters, literahich you are acthis epithet used?
ile drawn? How
does he manage, in two or three
words, to paint an individual, or to
indicate a landscape? Your neighbor, who has his reading, and his little
stock of literature stowed away in hit
mind, shall detect more points, allusions, happy touches, indicating not
only the prodigious memory and vast
learning of this master, but the wonderful industry, the honest, humble
previous toil of this great scholar. He
reads twenty books to wrath ft sentence; lie travels a hundred miles to
make a line of description.


feats, which were so easy to him, who
would grudge his tribute of homage?
His talk was, in a word, admirable,
and we admired it.
Of the notices which haveappeared
regarding Lord Macaulay, up to the
day when the present lines are written (the 9th of January), the reader
should not deny himself the pleasure
of looking especially at two. itt is a
good sign of the times when such;
articles as these (I mean the- articles
in "The Times" and " Saturday
Review ") appear in our public prints
about our public men. They educate us, as it were, to admire rightly.
An uninstructed person in a museum
or at a concert may pass by without
recognizing a picture or a passage of
music, which the connoisseur by his
side may show him is a masterpiece
of harmony, or a wonder of artistic
skill. After reading these papers you
like and respect more the person you
have admired so much already. And
so with regard to Macaulay's style
there may be faults of course -what
critic can't point them out? But for
the nonce we are not talking about
faults: we want to say nil nisi bonum.
Well —take at hazard any three
pages of the "Essays" or "History; "- and, glimmering below the
stream of the narrative, as it were,
you, an average reader, see one, two,
three, a half-score of allusions to
other historic facts, characters, literature, poetry, with which you are acquainted. Why this this epithet used?
Whence is that simile drawn? How
does he manage, in two or three
words, to paint an individual, or to
indicate a landscape? Your neighbor, who has his reading, and his little
stock of literature stowed away in his
mind, shall detect more points, allusions, happy touches, indicating not
only the prodigious memory and vast
learning of this master, but the wonderful industry, the honest, humble
previous toil of this great scholar. He
reads twenty books to write a sentence; he travels a hundred miles to
make a line of description.




330


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Many Londoners - not all - have
seen the British Museum Library. I
speak a cceur ouvert, and pray the
kindly reader to bear with me. I
have seen all sorts of domes of Peters
and Pauls, Sophia, Pantheon, - what
not? -and have been struck by none
of them so much as by that catholic
dome in Bloomsbury, under which
our million volumes are housed.
What peace, what love, what truth,
what beauty, what happiness, for all,
what generous kindness for you and
me, are here spread out! It seems to
me one cannot sit down in that place
without a heart full of grateful reverence. I own to have said my grace
at the table, and to have thanked
heaven for this my English birthright,
freely to partake of these bountiful
books, and to speak the truth I find
there. Under the dome which held
Macaulay's brain, and from which his
solemn eyes looked out on the world
but a fortnight since, what a vast,
brilliant, and wonderful store of learning was ranged! what strange lore
wouldhe not fetch for you at your
bidding! A volume of law, or history, a book of poetry familiar or forgotten (except by himself, who forgot
nothing), a novel ever so old, and he
had it at hand. I spoke to him once
about "Clarissa."  "Not read 'Clarissa! " he cried out. "If you have
once thoroughly entered on 'Clarissa'
and are infected by it, you can't leave
it. When I was in India I passed
one hot season at the hills, and there
were the Governor-General, and the
Secretary of Government, and the
Commander-in-Chief, and theirwives.
I had ' Clarissa' with me: and, as
soon as they began to read, the whole
station was in a passion of excitement
about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes, and her scoundrelly Lovelace!
The Governor's wife seized the book,
and the Secretary waited for it, and
the Chief Justice could not read it for
tears!" He acted the whole scene:
he paced up and down the " Athenaeum " library: I dare say he could
have spoken pages of the book - of


that book, and of what countless
piles of others!
In this little paper let us keep to the
text of nil nisi bonum. One paper I
have read regarding Lord Macaulay
says "he had no heart." Why, a
man's books may not always speak
the truth, but they speak his mind in
spite of himself: and it seems to me
this man's heart is beating through
every page he penned. He is always
in a storm of revolt and indignation
against wrong, craft, tyranny. How
he cheers heroic resistance! how he
backs and applauds freedom struggling for its own! how he hates
scoundrels, ever so victorious and successful! how he recognizes genius,
though selfish villains possess it! The
critic who says Macaulay had no heart,
might say that Johnson had none:
and two men more generous, and
more loving, and more hating, and
more partial, and more noble, do not
live in our history. Those who knew
Lord Macaulay knew how admirably
tender and generous,* and affectionate he was. It was not his business
to bring his family before the theatre
footlights, and call for bouquets from
the gallery as he wept over them.
If any young man of letters reads
this little sermon -and to him, indeed, it is addressed - I would say to
him, "Bear Scott's words in your
mind, and'be good, my dear."' Hero
are two literary men gone to their account, and, laus Deo, as far as we
know, it is fair, and open, and clean.
Here is no need of apologies for shortcomings, or explanations of vices
which would have been virtues but
for unavoidable, &c. Here are two
examples of men most differently
gifted: each pursuing his calling;
each speaking his truth as God bade
him; each honest in his life; just
and irreproachable in his dealings;
dear to his friends; honored by his
* Since the above was written, ], have
been informed that it has been found, on
examining Lord Macaulay's papers, that
he was in the habit of giving away more
than a fourth part of his annual income.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


331


country; beloved at his fireside. It
has been the fortunate lot of both to
give incalculable happiness and delight to the world, which thanks
them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may not
be our chance, brother scribe, to be
endowed with such merit, or rewarded
with such fame. But the rewards of
these men are rewards paid to our
service. We may not win the baton
or epaulettes; but God give us
strength to guard the honor of the
flag!
ON HALF A LOAF.
A LETTER TO MESSRS. BROADWAY,
BATTERY, AND    CO., OF   NEW
YORK, BANKERS.
Is it all over? May we lock up
the case of instruments? Have we
signed our wills; settled up our affairs; pretended to talk and rattle quite
cheerfully to the women at dinner,
so that they should not be alarmed;
sneaked away under some pretext,
and looked at the children sleeping in
their beds with their little unconscious
thumbs in their mouths, and a flush
on the soft-pillowed cheek; made
every arrangement with Colonel
MacTurk, who acts as our second,
and knows the other principal a great
deal too well to think he will ever
give in; invented a monstrous figment about going to shoot pheasants
with Mac in the morning, so as to
soothe the anxious fears of the dear
mistress of the house; early as the
hour appointed for the - the little
affair —was, have we been awake
hours and hours sooner; risen before
daylight, with a faint hope, perhaps,
that MacTurk might have come to
some arrangement with the other
side; at seven o'clock (confound his
punctuality!) heard his cab-wheel at
the door, and let him in looking perfectly trim, fresh, jolly, and well
shaved; driven off with him in the
cold morning, after a very unsatisfactory breakfast of coffee and stale


bread and butter (which choke, somehow, in the swallowing); driven off
to Wormwood Scrubs in the cold,
muddy, misty, moonshiny morning;
stepped out of the cab, where Mac
has bid the man to halt on a retired
spot in the common; in one minute
more, seen another cab arrive, from
which descend two gentlemen, one of
whom has a case like MacTurk's under his arm; - looked round and
round the solitude, and seen not one
single sign of a policeman - no, no
more than in a row in London; -
deprecated the horrible necessity
which drives civilized men to the use
of powder and bullet; - taken ground
as firmly as may be, and looked on
whilst Mac is neatly loading his weapons; and when all ready, and one
looked for the decisive One, Two,
Three - have we even heard Captain
O'Toole (the second of the other principal) walk up, and say, "Colonel
MacTurk, I am desired by my principal to declare at this eleventh -
this twelfth hour, that he is willing
to own that he sees HE HAS BEEN
WRONG in the dispute which has
arisen between him and your friend;
that he apologizes for offensive expressions which he has used in the
heat of the quarrel; and regrets the
course he has taken?" If something
like this has happened to you, however great your courage, you have
been glad not to fight - however
accurate your aim, you have been
pleased not to fire.
On the sixth day of January in this
year sixty-two, what hundreds of
thousands-I may say, what millions of Englishmen, were in the position of the personage here sketched
- Christian men, I hope, shocked at
the dreadful necessity of battle;
aware of the horrors which the conflict must produce, and yet feeling
that the moment was come, and that
there was no arbitrament left but
that of steel and cannon! My reader,
perhaps, has been in America. If ha
has, he knows what good people are
to be found there; how polished, how




832


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generous, how gentle, how courteous.
But it is not the voices of these you
hear in the roar of hate, defiance,
folly, falsehood, which comes to us
across the Atlantic. You can't hear
gentle voices; very many who could
speak are afraid. Men must go forward, or be crushed by the maddened
crowd behind them. I suppose after
the perpetration of that act ofwhat shall we call it - of sudden
war, which Wilkes did, and Everett
approved, most of us believed that
battle was inevitable. Who has not
read the American papers for six
weeks past? Did you ever think the
United States Government would
give up those Commissioners? I
never did, for my part. It seems to
me the United States Government
have done the most courageous act
of the war. Before that act was done,
what an excitement prevailed in
London! In every Club there was a
parliament sitting in permanence: in
every domestic gathering this subject
was sure to form a main part of the
talk. Of course I have seen many
people who have travelled in America,
and heard them on this matterfriends of the South, friends of the
North, friends of peace, and American
stockholders in plenty. " They will
never give up the men, sir," that was
the opinion on all sides; and, if they
would not, we knew what was to
happen.
For weeks past this nightmare of
war has been riding us. The City
was already gloomy enough. When
a great domestic grief and misfortune
visits the chief person of the State,
the heart of the people, too, is sad and
awe-stricken. It might be this sorrow
and trial were but presages of greater
trials and sorrow to come. What if
the sorrow of war is to be added to
the other calamity? Such forebodings have formed the theme of many
a man's talk, and darkened many a
fireside. Then came the rapid orders
fr ships to arm and troops to depart.
How many of us have had to say
farewell to fiiends whom duty called


away with their regiments; on whom
we strove to look cheerfully, as we
shook their hands, it might be for the
last time; and whom our thoughts
depicted, treading the snows of the
immense Canadian frontier, where
their intrepid little band might have
to face the assaults of other enemies
than winter and rough weather! I
went to a play one night, and protest
I hardly know what was the entertainment which passed before my eyes.
In the next stall was an American
gentleman, who knew me. "Good
heavens, sir," I thought, "is it decreed that you and I are to be authorized to murder each other next week;
that my people shall be bombarding
your cities, destroying your navies,
making a hideous desolation of your
coast; that our peaceful frontiers shall
be subject to fire, rapine, and murder?" "They will never give up
the men," said the Englishman.
" They will never give up the men,"
said the American. And the Christmas piece which the actors were playing proceeded like a piece in a dream.
To make the grand comic performance doubly comic, my neighbor
presently informed me how one of the
best friends I had in America- the
most hospitable, kindly, amiable of
men, from whom I had twice received
the warmest welcome and the most
delightful hospitality - was a prisoner in Fort Warren, on charges by
which his life perhaps might be risked.
I think that was the most dismal
Christmas fun which these eyes ever
looked on.
Carry out that notion a little further, and depict ten thousand, a hundred thousand homes in England
saddened by the thought of the coming calamity, and oppressed by the
pervading gloom. My next- door
neighbor perhaps has parted with her
son. Now the ship in which he is,
with a thousand brave comrades, is
ploughing through the stormy midnight ocean. Presently (under the
flag we know of) the thin red line in
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ing its way through the vast Canadian
snows.  Another neighbor's boy is
not gone, but is expecting orders to
sail; and some one else, besides the
circle at home maybe, is in prayer
and terror, thinking of the summons
which calls the young sailor away.
By firesides modest and splendid, all
over the three kingdoms, that sorrow
is keeping watch, and myriads of
hearts beating with that thought,
"Will they give up the men? "
I don't know how, on the first day
after the capture of the Southern
Commissioners was announced, a rumor got abroad in London that the
taking of the men was an act according to law, of which our nation could
take no notice. It was said that the
law authorities had so declared, and
a very noble testimony to the loyalty
of Englishmen, I think, was shown by
the instant submission of high-spirited
gentlemen, most keenly feeling that
the nation had been subject to a coarse
outrage, who were silent when told
that the law was with the aggressor.
The relief which presently came,
when, after a pause of a day, we found
that law was on our side, was indescribable.  The nation might then
take notice of this insult to its honor.
Never were people more eager than
ours when they found they had a
right to reparation.
I have talked during the last week
with many English holders of American securities, who, of course, have
been aware of the threat held over
them. "England," says "The New
York Herald," "cannot afford to go to
war with us, for six hundred millions'
worth of American stock is owned by
British subjects, which, in event of
hostilities, would be confiscated; and
we now call upon the Companies not
to take it off their hands on any
terms. Let its forfeiture be held over
England as a weapon in terrorem.
British subjects have two or three
hundred millions of dollars invested
in shipping and other property in the
United States.  All this property,
together with the stocks, would be


seized, amounting to nine hundred
millions of dollars. Will England
incur this tremendous loss for a mere
abstraction? "
Whether "a mere abstraction"
here means the abstraction of the two
Southern Commissioners from under
our flag, or.the abstract idea of injured
honor, which seems ridiculous to
" The Herald," it is needless to ask.
I have spoken with many men who
have money invested in the States;
but I declare I have not met one
English gentleman whom the publication of this threat has influenced
for a moment. Our people have nine
hundred millions of dollars invested
in the United States, have they?
And " The Herald  " calls upon the
Companies" not to take any of this
debt off our hands. Let us, on our
side, entreat the English press to give
this announcement every publicity.
Let us do every thing in our power
to make this "call upon the Americans " well known in England. I hope
English newspaper editors will print
it, and print it again and again. It
is not we who say this of American
citizens, but American citizens who
say this of themselves. "Bull is
odious. We can't bear Bull. Ho
is haughty, arrogant, a braggart, and
a blusterer; and we can't bear brag
and bluster in our modest and decorous country. We hate Bull, and if
he quarrels with us on a point in
which we are in the wrong, we have
goods of his in our custody, and we
will rob him! " Suppose your London banker saying to you, "Sir, I
have always thought your manners
disgusting, and your arrogance insupportable. You dare to complain of
my conduct because I have wrongfully
imprisoned Jones. My answer to
your vulgar interference is, that I confiscate your balance! "
What would be an English merchant's character after a few such
transactions? It is not improbable
that the moralists of " The Herald "
would call him a rascal. Why have
the United States been paying seven,




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eight, ten per cent for money for years
past, when the same commodity can be
got elsewhere at half that rate of interest? Why, because, though among
the richest proprietors in the world,
creditors were not sure of them. So
the States have had to pay eighty
millions yearly for the use of money
which would cost other borrowers but
thirty. Add up this item of extra interest alone for a dozen years, and see
what a prodigious penalty the States
have been paying for repudiation here
and there, for sharp practice, for
doubtful credit. Suppose the peace
is kept between us, the remembrance
of this last threat alone will cost the
States millions and millions more. If
they must have money, we must have
a greater interest to insure our jeopardized capital. Do American Companies want to borrow money - as
want to borrow they will? Mr.
Brown, show the gentlemen that extract from " The New York Herald,"
which declares that the United States
will confiscate private property in the
event of a war. As the country newspapers say, "Please, country papers,
copy this paragraph." And, gentlemen in America, when the honor of
your nation is called in question, please
to remember that it is the American
press which glories in announcing
that you are prepared to be rogues.
And when this war has drained
uncounted hundreds of millions more
out of the United States exchequer,
will they be richer or more inclined to
pay debts, or less willing to evade
them, or more popular with their
creditors, or more likely to get money
from men whom they deliberately
announce that they will cheat?  I
have not followed "The Herald " on
the " stone-ship"  question - that
great naval victory appears to me not
less horrible and wicked than suicidal.
Block the harbors forever; destroy
the inlets of the commerce of the
world; perish cities, -so that we
may wreak an injury on them. It is
the talk of madmen, but not the less
wicked. The act injures the whole


Republic: but it is perpetrated. It is
to deal harm to ages hence; but it
is done. The Indians of old used to
burn women and their unborn children.  This stone-ship business is
Indian warfare. And it is performed
by men who tell us every week that
they are at the head of civilization,
and that the Old World is decrepit,
and cruel, and barbarous, as compared to theirs.
The same politicians who throttle
commerce at its neck, and threaten to
confiscate trust-money, say that when
the war is over, and the South is subdued, then the turn of the old country
will come, and a direful retribution
shall be taken for our conduct. This
has been the cry all through the war.
" We should have conquered the
South," says an American paper
which I read this very day, " but for
England." Was there ever such puling
heard from men who have an army
of a million, and who turn and revile
a people who have stood as aloof from
their contest as we have from the war
of Troy?   Or is it an outcry made
with malice prepense?  And is the
song of " The New York Times"
a variation of " The Herald " tune 1
" The conduct of the British in
folding their arms and taking no part
in the fight, has been so base that it
has caused the prolongation of the
war, and occasioned a prodigious
expense on our part. Therefore, as
we have British property in our
hands, we, &c., &c." The lamb troubled the water dreadfully, and the
wolf, in a righteous indignation,
"confiscated" him.  Of course we
have heard that at an undisturbed time
Great Britain would never have dared
to press its claims for redress. Did
the United States wait until we were
at peace with France before they went
to war with us last? Did Mr. Seward
yield the claim which he confesses to
be just, until he himself was menaced
with war?    How   long were the
Southern gentlemen kept in prison?
What caused them to be set free? and
did the Cabinet of Washington see its




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error before or after the demand for
redress? * The captor was feasted at
Boston, and the captives in prison
hard by. If the wrong-doer was to be
punished, it was Captain Wilkes who
ought to have gone into limbo. At
any rate, as " the Cabinet of Washington could not give its approbation
to the commander of ' The San Jacinto,'" why were the men not sooner
set free?  To sit at the Tremont
House, and hear the captain after
dinner give his opinion on international law, would have been better
sport for the prisoners than the grim
salle-h-nmanger at Fort Warren.
I read in the commercial news
brought by " The Teutonia," and
published in London on the present
13th January, that the pork market
was generally quiet on the 29th December last; that lard, though with
more activity, was heavy and decidedly lower; and at Philadelphia, whiskey is steady and stocks firm. Stocks
are firm: that is a comfort for the
English holders, and the confiscating
process recommended by " The Herald" is at least deferred. But presently comes an announcement which
* "At the beginning of December the
British fleet on the West Indian station
mounted 850 guns, and comprised five
liners, ten first-class frigates, and seventeen powerful corvettes.... In little
more than a month the fleet available for
operations on the American shore had
been more than doubled. The re-enforcements prepared at the various dockyards
included two line-of-battle ships, twentynine magnificent frigates-such as 'The
Shannon,' The Sutlej, ' The Euryalus,'
'The Orlando,' The (alatea; eight corvettes, armed like the frigates in part,
with 100 and 40 pounder Armstrong guns;
and the two tremendous iron-cased ships,
'The Warrior) and ' The Black Prince;'
and their smaller sisters ' The Resistance,
and 'The Defence.' There was work to
be done which might have delayed the
commission of a few of these ships for
some weeks longer; but if the United
States had chosen war instead of peace,
the blockade of their coasts would have
been supported by a steam fleet of more
than sixty splendid ships, armed with
1,800 guns, many of them of the heaviest
and most effective kind."- Saturday Reviw:, i;m. 11.


is not quite so cheering:-" The
Saginaw Central Railway Company
(let us call it) has postponed its January dividend on account of the disturbed condition of public affairs."
A la bonne heure. The bond and
share holders of the Saginaw must
look for loss and depression in times
of war. This is one of war's dreadful taxes and necessities; and all
sorts of innocent people must'suffer
by the misfortune. The corn was
high at Waterloo when a hundred and
fifty thousand men came and trampled it down on a Sabbath morning.
There was no help for that calamity,
and the Belgian farmers lost their
crops for the year. Perhaps I am a
farmer myself - an innocent colonus;
and instead of being able to get to
church with my family, have to see
squadrons of French dragoons thundering upon my barley, and squares
of English infantry forming and
trampling all over my oats. (By the
way, in writing of "Panics," an ingenious writer in " The Atlantic Magazine" says that the British panics
at Waterloo were frequent and notorious). Well I am a Belgian peasant,
and I sec the British running away
and the French cutting the fugitives
down. What have I done that these
men should be kicking down my
peaceful harvest for me, on which I
counted to pay my rent, to feed my
horses, my household, my children?
It is hard. But it is the fortune of
war. But suppose the battle over;
the Frenchman says, "You scoundrel! why did you not take a part
with me? and why did you stand like
a double-faced traitor looking on? I
should have won the battle but for
you.   And I hereby confiscate the
farm you stand on, and you and your
family may go to the workhouse.
The New York press holds this
argument over English people in terrorem. " We Americans may be ever so
wrong in the matter in dispute, but if
you push us to war, we will confiscate
vour English property." Very good.
I1 is peace now. Confidence ofcourse




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is restored between us. Our eighteen
hundred peace commissioners have no
occasion to open their mouths; and
the little question of confiscation is
postponed. Messrs. Battery, Broadway, and Co., of New York, have the
kindness to sell my Saginaws for what
they will fetch. I shall lose half my
loaf very likely; but for the sake of a
quiet life, let us give up a certain quantity of farinaceous food; and half a
loaf, you know, is better than no
bread at all.
THE NOTCH ON THE AXE.
A STORY A LA MODE.
PART I.
" EvERY one remembers in the
Fourth Book of the immortal poem
of your Blind Bard (to whose sightless orbs no doubt Glorious Shapes
were apparent, and Visions Celestial)
how Adam discourses to Eve of the
Bright Visitors who hovered round
their Eden'Millions of spiritual creatures walk the
earth,
Unseen, both when we wake and when we
sleep.'
" 'How often,' says Father Adam,
'from the steep of echoing hill or
thicket, have we heard celestial voices
to the midnight air, sole, or responsive to each other's notes, singing!'
After the Act of Disobedience, when
the erring pair from Eden took their
solitary way, and went forth to toil
and trouble on common earththough the Glorious Ones no longer
were visible, you cannot say they
were gone. It was not that the
Bright Ones were absent, but that
the dim eyes of rebel man no longer
could see them. In your chamber
hangs a picture of one whom you
never knew, but whom you have long
held in tenderest regard, and who
was painted for you by a friend of
mine, the Knight of Plympton. She
communes with you. She smiles on
you. When your spirits are low, her


bright eyes shine on you and cheer
you. Her innocent sweet smile is a
caress to you. She never fails to
soothe you with her speechless prattle.
You love her. She is alive with you.
As you extinguish your candle and
turn to sleep, though your eyes see
her not, is she not there still smiling?
As you lie in the night awake, and
thinking of your duties, and the morrow's inevitable toil oppressing the
busy, weary, wakeful brain as with a
remorse, the crackling fire flashes up
for a moment in the grate, and she is
there, your little Beauteous Maiden,
smiling with her sweet eyes! When
moon is down, when fire is out, when
curtains are drawn, when lids are
closed, is she not there, the little
Beautiful One, though invisible,
present and smiling still? Friend,
the Unseen Ones are round about us.
Does it not seem as if the time were
drawing near when it shall be given
to men to behold them? "
The print of which my friend spoke,
and which, indeed, hangs in my room,
though he has never been there, is
that charming little winter piece of
Sir Joshua, representing the little
Lady Caroline Montague, afterwards
Duchess of Bccleuch. She is represented as standing in the midst of
a winter landscape, wrapped in muff
and cloak; and she looks out of her
picture with a smile so exquisite that
a Herod could not see her without
being charmed.
"II beg your pardon, Mr. PINTO,"
I said to the person with whom I
was conversing. (I wonder, by the
way, that I was not surprised at his
knowing how fond I am of this print.)
" You spoke of the Knight of Plympton. Sir Joshua died, 1792: and you
say he was your dear friend u"
As I spoke I chanced to look at
Mr. Pinto; and then it suddenly
struck me: Gracious powers! Perhaps you are a hundred years old,
now I think of it. You look more
than a hundred. Yes, you may be a
thousand years old for what I know.
Your teeth are false. One eye iJ




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337


wridently false. Can I say that the
other is not? If a man's age may be
calculated by the rings round his
eyes, this man may be as old as
Methusaleh. He has no beard. He
wears a large curly glossy brown
wig, and his eyebrows are painted a
deep olive-green. It was odd to hear
this man, this walking mummy, talking sentiment, in these queer old
chambers in Shepherd's Inn.
Pinto passed a yellow bandanna
handkerchief over his awful white
teeth, and kept his glass eye steadily
fixed on me. " Sir Joshua's friend?
said he (you perceive, eluding my
direct question). "Is not every one
that knows his pictures Reynolds's
friend? Suppose I tell you that I
have been in his painting room scores
of times, and that his sister Th6 has
made me tea, and his sister Toffy has
made coffee   for me?   You will
only say I am an old ombog."
(Mr. Pinto, I remarked, spoke all
languages with an accent equally
foreign.) "Suppose I tell you that
I knew Mr. Sam Johnson, and did
not like him? that I was at that very
ball at Madame Cornelis's, which you
have mentioned in one of your little
- what do you call them? - bah!
my memory begins to fail me —in
one of your little Whirligig Papers?
Suppose I tell you that Sir Joshua
has been here, in this very room? "
"Have you, then, had these apartments for - more - than - seventy
years?" I asked.
" They look as if they had not been
swept for that time-don't they?
Hey? I did not say that I had them
for seventy years, but that Sir Joshua
has visited me here."
"When?"     I asked, eying the
man sternly, for I began to think he
was an impostor.
He answered me with a glance still
more stern: "Sir Joshua Reynolds
was here this very morning, with
Angelica Kaufmann and Mr. Oliver
Goldschmidt. He is still very much
attached to Angelica, who still does
not care for him. Because he is dead
15*


(and I was in the fourth mourning
coach at his funeral) is that any
reason why he should not come back
to earth again? My good sir, you
are laughing at me. He has sat
many a time on that very chair which
you are occupying. There are several spirits in the room now, whom
you cannot see. Excuse me." Here
he turned round as if he was addressing somebody, and began rapidly
speaking a language unknown to me.
"It is Arabic," he said; "a bad
patois I own. I learned it in Barbary,
when I was a prisoner amongst the
Moors. In anno 1609, bin ick aldus
ghekledt gheghaen. Ha! you doubt
me: look at me well. At least I am
like "
Perhaps some of my readers remember a paper of which the figure
of a man carrying a barrel formed the
initial letter, and which I copied fiom
an old spoon now in my possession.
As I looked at Mr. Pinto I do declare
he looked so like the figure on that
old piece of plate that I started and
felt very uneasy. "Ha!" said he,
laughing through his false teeth (I
declare they were false - I could see
utterly toothless gums working up
and down behind the pink coral),
" vou sec I wore a beard den; I am
slafed now; perhaps you tink I am
a spoon. - Ha, ha!"  And as he
laughed he gave a cough which I
thought would have coughed his
teeth out, his glass eye out, his wig
off, his very head off; but he stopped
this convulsion by stumping across
the room and seizing a little bottle
of bright pink medicine, which, being
opened, spread a singular acrid aromatic odor through the apartment;
and I thought I saw -but of this
I cannot take an affirmation- a
light green and violet flame flickering
round the neck of the phial as he
opened it.  By the way, from the
peculiar stumping noise which he
made in crossing the bare-boarded
apartment, I knew at once that my
strange entertainer had a wooden
leg. Over the dust which lay quite




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thick on the boards, you could see he shook his hand once, twice, thrice,
the mark of one foot very neat and at me, and glared at me out of his eye
pretty, and then a round 0, which was in a peculiar way.
naturally the impression made by the  Of what happened now I protest I
wooden stump. I own I had a queer cannot give an accurate account. It
thrill as I saw the mark, and telt a seemed to me that there shot a flame
comfort that it was not cloven.   from his eve into my brain, whilst
In this desolate apartment in which behind his glass eye there was a green
Mr. Pinto had invited me to see him, illumination as if a candle had been
there were three chairs, one bottom- lit in it. It seemed to me that from
less, a little table on which you might his long fingers two quivering flames
put a breakfast-tray, and not a single issued, sputtering, as it were, which
other article of furniture. In the penetrated me, and forced me back
next room, the door of which was into one of the chairs- the broken
open, I could see a magnificent gilt one - out of which I had much diffidressing-case, with some splendid dia- culty in scrambling, when the strange
mond and ruby shirt-studs lying by glamor was ended. It seemed to me
it, and a chest of drawers, and a that, when I was so fixed, so transcupboard apparently full of clothes.  fixed in the broken chair, the man
Remembering him in Baden Baden floated up to the ceiling, crossed his
in great magnificence, I wondered at legs, folded his arms as if he was lyhis present denuded state. " You ing on a sofa, and grinned down at
have a house elsewhere, Mr. Pinto?" me. When I came to myself, he was
I said.                           down from the ceiling, and, taking me
"Many," says he. "I have apart- out of the broken cane-bottomed
ments in many cities. I lock dem  chair, kindly enough —" Bah!" said
up, and do not carry mosh logish."  he, " it is the smell of my medicine.
I then remembered that his apart- It often gives the vertigo. I thought
ment at Baden, where I first met you would have had a little fit. Come
him, was bare, and had no bed in into the open air."  And we went
it.                               down the steps, and into Shepherd's
" There is, then, a sleeping-room  Inn, where the setting sun was just
beyond?"                         shining on the statue of Shepherd;
~" This is the sleeping-room."  (He the laundresses where trapesing about;
pronounces it dis. Can this, by the the porters were leaning against the
way, give any clew to the nationality railings; and the clerks were playing
of this singular man?)           at marbles, to my inexpressible con" If you sleep on these two old solation.
chairs you have a rickety couch; if  " Yon said you were going to dine
on the floor, a dusty one."       at the ' Gray's-inn Coffee-house,"'
" Suppose I sleep up dere?" said he said. I was. I often dine there.
this strange man, and he actually There is excellent wine at the
pointed up to the ceiling. I thought " Gray's-inn Coffee-house;" but I
him mad, or what he himself called declare I NEVER SAID 80. I was not
"an ombog."   "I know. You do astonished at his remark; no more
not believe me; for why should I astonished than if I was in a dream.
deceive you? I came but to propose Perhaps I was in a dream. Is life a
a matter of business to you. I told dream? Are dreams facts? Is sleepyou I could give you the clew to the ing being really awake? I don't
mystery of the Two Children in Black, know. I tell you I am puzzled. I
whom you met at Baden, and you have read " The Woman in White,"
came to see me. If I told you, you " The Strange Story " -not to menwould not believe me. What for try tion that story " Stranger than Ficand convinz you? Ha hey? "  And tion " in  The Cornhill Magazine "



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that story for which THREE credible crispd for a moment. Then he looked
witnesses are ready to vouch. I have steadily towards one of those great
had messages from the dead; and not porcelain stools which you see in
only from the dead, but from people gardens - and - it seemed to me -
who never existed at all. I own I I tell you I won't take my affidavitam in a state of much bewilderment; I may have been maddened by the
but, if you please, will proceed with six glasses I took of that pink elixir
my simple, my artless story.     - I may have been sleep-walking:
Well, then. We passed from Shep- perhaps am as I write now —I may
herd's Inn into Holborn, and looked have been under the influence of that
for a while at Woodgate's bric-a-brac astounding MEDIUM  into whose
shop, which I never can pass without hands I had fallen - but I vow I
delaying at the windows -indeed, if heard Pinto say, with rather a ghastI were going to be hung, I would beg ly grin at the porcelain stool,
the cart to stop, and let me have one
look more at that delightful onnium  Nay, nfer hague your gory locks at
me,
gatherum. And passing Woodgate's,  Dou canst not say I did it."
we come to Gale's little shop, "No.
47," which is also a favorite haunt of (He pronounced it, by the way, I dit
mine.                            it, by which I know that Pinto was a
Mr. Gale happened to be at his German.)
door, and as we exchanged saluta-  I heard Pinto say those very words,
tions, " Mr. Pinto," I said, "will you and sitting on the porcelain stool, I
like to see a real curiosity in this saw, dimly at first, then with an awcuriosity shop? Step into Mr. Gale's ful distinctness-a ghost-an eidolittle back room."               lon - a form - A HEADLESS MAN
In that little back parlor there are seated, with his head in his lap, which
Chinese gongs; there are old Saxe wore an expression of piteous surand Sevres plates; there is Firsten- prise.
berg, Carl Theodor, Worcester,     At this minute, Mr. Gale entered
Amstel, Nankin   and other jim- from the front shop to show a customcrockery. And in the corner what er some delf plates; and he did not
do you think there is? There is an see -but we did-the figure rise up
actual GUILLOTINE. If you doubt from   the porcelain stool, shake its
me, go and see -Gale, High Hol- head, which it held in its hand, and
born, No. 47. It is a slim instru- which kept its eyes fixed sadly on us,
ment, much slighter than those which and disappear behind the guillotine.
they make now; -some nine feet     " Come to the ' Gray's-inn Coffeehigh, narrow, a pretty piece of up- house,'" Pinto said, "and I will tell
holstery enough. There is the hook you how the notch came to the axe."
over which the rope used to play And we walked down Holborn at
which unloosened the dreadful axe about thirty-seven minutes past six
above; and look! dropped into the o'clock.
orifice where the head used to go -  If there is any thing in the above
there is THE AXE itself, all rusty, statement which astonishes the reader,
with A   GREAT  NOTCH   IN  THE I promise him that in the next chapBLADE.                           ter of this little story he will be
As Pinto looked at it -Mr. Gale astonished still more.
was not in the room, I recollect; happcning to have been just called out
by a customer who offered him three           A.
pound fourteen and sixpence for a  "You will excuse me," I said to
blue Shepherd in pate tendre, -Mr. my companion, "for remarking, that
Pinto gave a little start, and seemed when you addressed the individual


II
I




340


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


sitting on the porcelain stool, with
his head in his lap, your ordinarily benevolent features" -(this I confess
was a bouncer, for between ourselves a
more sinister and ill-looking rascal
than Mons. P. I have seldom set eyes
on)-"your ordinarily handsome face
wore an expression that was by no
means pleasing. You grinned at the
individual just as you did at me when
you went up to the cei-, pardon me
as I thought you did, when I fell down
in a fit in your chambers;" and I qualified my words in a great flutter and
tremble; I did not care to offend the
man - I did not dare to offend the
man. I thought once or twice of
jumping into a cab, and flying; of
taking refuge in Day and Martin's
Blacking Warehouse; of speaking
to a policeman, but not one would
come. I was this man's slave. I followed him like his dog. I could not
get away from him. So, you see, I
went on meanly conversing with him,
and affecting a simpering confidence.
I remember when I was a little boy at
school, going up fawning and smiling
in this way to some great hulking
bully of a sixth-form boy. So I said
in a word, "Your ordinarily handsome face wore a disagreeable expression," &c.
"It is ordinarily very handsome,"
said he, with such a leer at a couple
of passers-by that one of them cried,
Oh, crikey, here's a precious guy!"
and a child in its nurse's arms, screamed itself into convulsions. " Oh, oui,
che suis tres-choli gardon, bien peau,
cerdainement," continued Mr. Pinto;
"but you were right.  That - that
person was not very well pleased when
he saw me. There was no love lost between us, as you say; and the world
never knew a more worthless miscreant. I hate him, voyez-vouz? I
hated him alife; I hate him dead. I
hate him man; I hate him ghost: and
lie know it, and tremble before me.
If I see him twenty tausend years
hence - and why not? - I shall hate
him still. You remarked how he was
dressed? "


"In black satin breeches and striped stockings; a white pique waistcoat, a gray coat, with large metal
buttons, and his hair in powder. HIe
must have worn a pigtail - only ""Only it was cut off!   Ha, ha,
ha!" Mr. Pinto cried, yelling a laugh,
which I observed made the policemen
stare very much. " Yes. It was cut
off by the same blow which took off
the scoundrel's head - ho, ho, ho! "
And he made a circle with his hook.
nailed finger round his own yellow
neck, and grinned with a horrible triumph. " I promise you that fellow
was surprised when he found his head
in the pannier. Ha I ha! Do you
ever cease to hate those whom you
hate? "- fire flashed terrifically from
his glass eye, as he spoke - "or to
love dose whom you once loved. Oh,
never, never!"  And here his natural eye was bedewed with tears. "But
here we are at the 'Gray's-inn Coffee-house.'  James, what is the
joint?"
That very respectful and efficient
waiter brought in the bill of fare, and
I, for my part, chose boiled leg of
pork and pease-pudding, which my
acquaintance said would do as well as
any thing else; though I remarked he
only trifled with the pease-pudding,
and left all the pork on the plate. In
fact, he scarcely ate any thing. But
he drank a prodigious quantity of
wine; and I must say that my friend
Mr. Hart's port-wine is so good that
I myself took- well, I should think,
I took three glasses. Yes, three, certainly. He -I mean Mr. P.,- the
old rogue, was insatiable: for we had
to call for a second bottle in no time.
When that was gone, my companion
wanted another. A little red mounted up to his yellow cheeks as he drank
the wine, and he winked at it in a
strange manner.   "I remember,"
said he, musing, "when port-wine
was scarcely drunk in this country -
though the Queen liked it, and so did
Harley; but Bolingbroke didn't —
he drank Florence and Champagne.
Dr. Swift put water to his wine.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


341


'Jonathan,' I once said to him - but
bah! autres teinps, autres mceurs.
Another magnum, James."
This was all very well. "My good
sir," I said, " it may suit you to order
bottles of '20 port, at a guinea a
bottle; but that kind of price does not
suit me.  I only happen to have
thirty-four and sixpence in my pockct, of which I want a shilling for the
waiter, and eighteenpence for my cab.
You rich foreigners and swells may
spend what you like" (I had him
there: for my friend's dress was as
shabby as an old-clothes-man's); " but
a man with a family, Mr. Whatd'you-call'im, cannot afford to spend
seven or eight hundred a year on his
dinner alone."
"Bah!" he said. "Nunkey pays
for all, as you say. I will what you
call stant the dinner, if you are so
poor!" and again he gave that disagreeable grin, and placed an odious
crooked-nailed and by no means clean
finger to his nose. But I was not so
afraid of him now, for we were in a
public place; and the three glasses
of port-wine had, you see, given me
courage.
" What a pretty snuff-box!" he remarked as I handed him mine, which I
am still old-fashioned enough to carry.
It is a pretty old gold box enough, but
valuable to me especially as a relic
of an old, old relative, whom I can
just remember as a child, when she
was very kind to me. " Yes; a pretty
box. I can remember when many
ladies -most ladies, carried a box -
nay, two boxes - tabatiere and bonbonniere. What lady carries snuff-box
now, hey?  Suppose your astonishment if a lady in an assembly were to
offer you a prise? I can remember a
lady with such a box as this, with a
tour, as we used to call it then; with
paniers, with a tortoise-shell cane,
with the prettiest little high-heeled
velvet shoes in the world! - ah!
that was a time, that was a time!
Ah, Eliza, Eliza, I have thee now
in my mind's eye!    At Bungay
on the Waveney, did I not walk


with thee, Eliza?  Aha, did I not
love thee?  Did I not walk with
thee then? Do I not see thee still? "
This was passing strange.  My
ancestress —but there is no need to
publish her revered name - did
indeed live at Bungay Saint Mary's,
where she lies buried. She used to
walk with a tortoise-shell cane. She
used to wear little black velvet shoes,
with the prettiest high heels in the
world.
" Did you - did you - know, then,
my great gr-ndm-ther? " I said.
He pulled up his coat-sleeve - "Is
that her name? " he said.
" Eliza - "
There, I declare, was the very name
of the kind old creature written in red
on his arm.
" You knew her old," he said,
divining my thoughts (with his strange
knack); "I knew her young and
lovely.  I danced with her at the
Bury ball.  Did I not, dear, dear
Miss -?"
As I live, he here mentioned dear
gr-nny's maiden name. Her maiden
name was. Her honored married name was.
"She married your great gr-ndf-th-r the year Poseidon won the Newmarket Plate," Mr. Pinto dryly remarked.
Merciful powers!  I remember,
over the old shagreen knife and spoon
case on the sideboard in my gr-nny's
parlor, a print by Stubbs of that
very horse.  My grandsire, in a red
coat, and his fair hair flowing over his
shoulders, was over the mantelpiece,
and Poseidon won the Newmarket
Cup in the year 1783!
"Yes; you are right. I danced a
minuet with her at Bury that very
night, before I lost my poor leg. And
I quarrelled with your grandf-,
ha! "
As he said "Ha!" there came
three quiet little taps on the tableit is the middle table in the " Gray'sinn Coffee-house," under the bust of
the late Duke of W-ll-ngt-n.
"I fired in the air," he continued;




342


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"did I not? "   (Tap, tap, tap.)
" Your grandfather hit me in the leg.
He married three months afterwards.
' Captain Brown,' I said, 'who could
see Miss Sm-th without loving her '
She is there! She is there!" (Tap,
tap, tap.) " Yes, my first love " -
But here there came tap, tap, which
everybody knows means "No."
"I forgot," he said with a faint
blush stealing over his wan features,
" she was not my first love. In Germ
- in my own country - there was a
young woman "Tap, tap, tap.  There was here
quite a lively little treble knock; and
when the old man said, " But I loved
thee better than all the world, Eliza,"
the affirmative signal was briskly
repeated.
And this I declare UPON MY HONOR.
There was, I have said, a bottle of
port-wine before us - I should say a
decanter. That decanter was LIFTED
UP, and out of it into our respective
glasses two bumpers of wine were
poured. I appeal to Mr. Hart, the
landlord-I appeal to James, the
respectful and intelligent waiter, if
this statement is not true?  And
when we had finished that magnum,
and I said- for I did not now in the
least doubt of her presence - " Dear
gr-nny, may we have another magnum X - the table distinctly rapped
" No."
"Now, my good sir," Mr. Pinto
said, who really began to be affected
by the wine, "you understand the
interest I have taken in you. I loved
Eliza-   " (of course I don't mention
family names). "I knew you had
that box which belonged to her- I
will give you what you like for that
box. Name your price at once, and
I pay you on the spot."
" Why, when we came out, you
said you had not sixpence in your
pocket."
" Bah! give you any thing you like
- fifty- a hundred- a tausend
pound."
"Come, come," said I, "the gold
of the box may be worth nine guin

eas, and the facon we will put at six
more."
" One  tausend  guineas!"   he
screeched. "One tausend and fifty
pound, dere! " and he sank back in
his chair —no, by the way, on his
bench, for he was sitting with his
back to one of the partitions of the
boxes, as I dare say James remembers.
" Don't go on in this way," I continued, rather weakly, for I did not
know whether I was in a dream.
" If you offer me a thousand guineas
for this box I must take it. Mustn't
I, dear gr-nny? "
The table most distinctly said,
"Yes;" and putting out his claws to
seize the box, Mr. Pinto plunged his
hooked nose into it and eagerly inhaled some of my 47 with a dash of
Hardman.
"But stay, you old harpy!" I exclaimed, being now in a sort of rage,
and quite familiar with him. " Where
is the money. Where is the check? "
" James, a piece of note-paper and
a receipt stamp!"
"This is all mighty well, sir," I
said, " but I don't know you; I never
saw you before. I will trouble you
to hand me that box back again, or
give me a check with some known
signature."
"Whose? Ha, HA, HA!"
The room happened to be very
dark. Indeed, all the waiters were
gone to supper, and there were only
two gentlemen snoring in their respective boxes. I saw a hand come
quivering down from the ceiling - a
very pretty hand, on which was a
ring with a coronet, with a lion rampant gules for a crest. Isaw that hand
take a dip of ink and write across the
paper.  Mr. Pinto, then, taking a
gray receipt-stamp out of his blue
leather pocket-book, fastened it on to
the paper by the usual process; and
the hand then wrote across the receipt
stamp, went across the table and
shook hands with Pinto, and then, as
if waving him an adieu, vanished in
the direction of the ceiling.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


343


There was the paper before me,
wet with the ink. There was the pen
which THE HAND had used. Does
anybody doubt me? I have that pen
now. A cedar-stick of a not uncommon sort, and holding one of Gillott's
pens. It is in my inkstand now, I
tell you. Anybody may see it. The
handwriting  on the   check, for
such the document was, was the writing of a female.  It ran thus:" London, midnight, March 31, 1862.
Pay the bearer one thousand and fifty
pounds. Rachel Sidonia. To Messrs.
Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London."
"Noblest and best of women!"
said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper
with much reverence. " My good Mr.
Roundabout, I suppose you do not
question that signature?"
Indeed, the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto, and Co., is known to be one
of the richest in Europe, and as for
the Countess Rachel, she was known
to be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment. There
was only one little difficulty, the
Countess Rachel died last October.
I pointed out this circumstance, and
tossed over the paper to Pinto with a
sneer.
"C'est a brendre ou a laisser," he
said with some heat. " You literary
men are all imprudent; but I did not
tink you such a fool wvie dis. Your
box is not worth twenty pound, and
I offer you a tausend because I know
you want money to pay dat rascal
Tom's college bills." (This strange
man actually knew that my scapegrace
Tom has been a source of great expense and annoyance to me.) "You
see money costs me nothing, and you
refuse to take it! Once, twice; will
you take this check in exchange for
your trumpery snuff-box? "
What could I do? My poor granny's legacy was valuable and dear to
me, but after all a thousand guineas
are not to be had every day. " Be it
a bargain," said I. "Shall we have
a glass of wine on it " says Pinto;
and to this proposal I also unwilling

ly acceded, reminding him, by the
way, that he had not yet told me the
story of the headless man.
" Your poor gr-ndm-ther was right
just now, when she said she was not
my first love. 'Twas one of those
banale expressions" (here Mr. P.
blushed once more) "which we use
to women. We tell each she is our
first passion. They reply with a
similar illusory formula. No man is
any woman's first love; no woman
any man's. We are in love in our
nurse's arms, and women coquette
with their eyes before their tongue
can form a word. How could your
lovely relative love me? I was far, far
too old for her. I am older than I
look. I am so old that you would
not believe my age were I to tell you.
I have loved many and many a woman before your relative. It has not
always been fortunate for them to
love me. Ah, Sophronia! Round
the dreadful circus where you fell,
and whence I was dragged corpselike by the heels, there sat multitudes
more savage than the lions which
mangled your sweet form!     Ah,
tenez! when we marched to the terrible stake together at Valladolid —
the Protestant and the J- But
away with memory! Boy! it was
happy for thy grandam that she loved
me not.
"During that strange period," he
went on " when the teeming Time
was great with the revolution that
was speedily to be born, I was on
a mission in Paris with my excellent, my maligned friend, Cagliostro.
Mesmer was one of our band. I
seemed to occupy but an obscure rank
in it: though, as you know, in secret
societies the humble man may be a
chief and director- the ostensible
leader but a puppet moved by unseen
hands. Never mind who was chief,
or who was second. Never mind my
age. It boots not to tell it; why
shall I expose myself to your scornful
incredulity - or reply to your questions in words that are familiar to




344


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


you, but which yet you cannot under- dreadful fate befell poor Fatima. An
stand   Words are symbols of things accident shortened her life.  Poor
which you know, or of things which thing! she had a foolish sister who
you don't know. If you don't know urged her on. I always told her to
them, to speak is idle."  (Here I beware of Ann. She died. They
confess Mr. P. spoke for exactly said her brothers killed me. A gross
thirty-eight minutes, about physics, falsehood. Am I dead? If I were,
metaphysics, language, the origin could I pledge you in this wine? "
and destiny of man, during which    "Was your name," I asked, quite
time I was rather bored, and, to re- bewildered, " was your name, pray,
lieve my ennui, drank a half glass or then, ever Blueb — "
so of wine.) "LOVE, friend, is the  "Hush! the waiter will overhear
fountain of youth! It may not hap- you. Methought we were speaking
pen to me once -once in an age: but of Blanche de Bechamel.  I loved
when I love, then I am young,   I her, young man. My pearls, and
loved when I was in Paris. Bathilde, diamonds, and treasure, my wit, my
Bathilde, I loved thee —ah, how   wisdom, my passion, I flung them all
fondly! Wine, I say, more wine! into the child's lap. I was a fool!
Love is ever young. I was a boy at Was strong Samson not as weak as
the little feet of Bathilde de Bechamel I? Was Solomon the Wise much
— the fair, the fond, the fickle, ah, better when Balkis wheedled him?
the false!" the strange old man's I said to the king —  But enough
agony was here really terrific, and he of that, I spake of Blanche de Bechshowed himself much more agitated amel.
than he had been when speaking      "Curiosity was the poor child's
about my gr-ndm-th-r.             foible. I could see, as I talked to
"I thought Blanche might love her, that her thoughts were elsewhere
me. I could speak to her in the (as yours, my friend, have been absent
language of all countries, and tell her once or twice to-night). To know
the lore of all ages. I could trace the the secret of Masonry was the wretched
nursery legends which she loved up child's mad desire. With a thousand
to their Sanscrit source, and whisper wiles, smiles, caresses, she strove
to her the darkling mysteries of Egyp- to coax it from me - from metian Magi. I could chant for her the ha! ha!
wild chorus that rang in the dishev-  "I had an apprentice - the son of
elled Eleusinian revel: I could tell a dear friend, who died by my side at
her, and I would, the watchword Rossbach, when Soubise, with whose
never known but to one woman, the army I happened to be, suffered a
Saban Queen, which Hiram breathed dreadful defeat for neglecting my
in the abysmal ear of Solomon - You advice. The young Chevalier Goby
don't attend. Psha! you have drunk de Mouchy was glad enough to serve
too much wine!" Perhaps I may as as my clerk, and help in some chemwell own that I was not attending, ical experiments in which I was enfor he had been carrying on for about gaged with my friend Dr. Mesmer.
fifty-seven minutes; and I don't like Bathilde saw this young man. Since
a man to have all the talk to him- women were, has it not been their
self.                             business to smile and deceive, to fon"Blanche de Bechamel was wild, die and lure?   Away! From the
then, about this secret of Masonry. In very first it has been so!"  And as
early, early days I loved, I married a my companion spoke, he looked as
girl fair as Blanche, who, too, was wicked as the serpent that coiled
tormented by curiosity, who, too, round the tree, and hissed a poisoned
would peep into my closet-into the counsel to the first woman.
only secret I guarded from her. A   " One evening I went, as was my




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


345


wont, to see Blanche. She was radiant: she was wild with spirits: a
saucy triumph blazed in her blue eyes.
She talked, she rattled in her childish
way. She uttered, in the course of
her rhapsody, a hint, an intimation,
so terrible that the truth flashed across
me in a moment. Did I ask her?
She would lie to me. But I know
how to make falsehood impossible.
And I ordered her to go to sleep."
At this moment the clock (after
its previous convulsions) sounded
TWELVE. And as the new Editor*
of " The Cornhill Magazine "- and
he, I promise you, won't stand any
nonsense —will only allow seven
pages, I am obliged to leave off at THE
VERY MOST INTERESTING POINT OF
TIIE STORY.
PART III.
"ARE you of our fraternity? I see
you are not. The secret which Mademoiselle de B1chamel confided to me
in her mad triumph and wild hoyden
spirits-she was but a child, poor
thing, poor thing, scarce fifteen: -
but I love them young -a folly not
unusual with the old! "  (Here Mr.
Pinto thrust his knuckles into his
hollow eyes; and, I am sorry to say,
so little regardful was he of personal
cleanliness, that his tears made streaks
of white over his gnarled dark hands.)
"Ah, at fifteen, poor child, thy fate
was terrible! Go to! It is not good
to love me, friend.  They prosper
not who do. I divine you.    You
need not say what you are thinking" —
In truth, I was thinking, if girls
fall in love with this sallow, hooknosed, glass-eyed, wooden-legged,
'dirty, hideous old man, with the
sham teeth, they have a queer taste.
That is what I was thinking.
"Jack Wilkes said the handsomest
man in London had but half an hour's
start of him. And without vanity, I
* Mr. Thackeray retired from the
Editorship of "The Cornhill Magazine"
in March, 1862.


am scarcely uglier than Jack Wilkes.
We were members of the same club
at Medenham Abbey, Jack and I, and
had many a merry night together.
Well, sir, I - Mary of Scotland knew
me but as a little hunch-backed musicmaster; and yet, and yet, I think she
was not indifferent to her David Riz
-and she came to misfortune. They
all do - they all do! "
" Sir, you are wandering from your
point!" I said, with some severity.
For, really, for this old humbug to
hint that he had been the baboon who
frightened the club at Medenham,
that he had been in the Inquisition at
Valladolid - that under the name of
D. Riz, as he called it, he had known
the lovely Queen of Scots- was a
little too much. "Sir," then I said,
" you were speaking about a Miss de
Bechamel. I really have not time to
hear all your biography."
" Faith, the good wine gets into my
head." (I should think so, the old
toper!  Four bottles all but two
glasses.) " To return to poor Blanche.
As I sat laughing, joking with her,
she let slip a word, a little word,
which filled me with dismay. Some
one had told her a part of the Secret
- the secret which has been divulged
scarce thrice in three thousand vears
- the Secret pf the Freemasons. Do
you know what happens to those uninitiate who learn that secret? to
those wretched men, the initiate who
reveal it? "
As Pinto spoke to me, he looked
through and through me with his
horrible piercing glance, so that I sat
quite uneasily on my bench. He continued: " Did I question her awake?
I knew she would lie to me. Poor
child! I loved her no less because I
did not believe a word she said. I
loved her blue eye, her golden hair,
her delicious voice, that was true in
song, though when she spoke, false
as Eblis!  You are aware that I
possess in rather a remarkable degree
what we have agreed to call the mesmeric power. I set the unhappy girl
to sleep. Then she was obliged to




346


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


tell me all. It was as I had surmised.
Goby de Mouchy, my wretched, besotted, miserable secretary, in his
visits to the chateau of the old Marquis de Bechamel, who was one of our
society, had seen Blanche. I suppose
it was because she had been warned
that he was worthless and poor, artful, and a coward, she loved him.
She wormed out of the besotted wretch
the secrets of our Order. 'Did he tell
fou the NUMBER ONE V'  I asked.
"She said, ' Yes.'
"' Did he,' I further inquired, 'tell
you the'"'Oh, don't ask me, don't ask
me!' she said, writhing on the sofa,
where she lay in the presence of the
Marquis de Bechamel, her most unhappy father. Poor Bechamel, poor
Bechamel! How pale he looked as I
spoke! ' Did lie tell you,' I repeated
with a dreadful calm, 'the NUMBER
TWO?' She said, ' Yes.'
" The poor old marquis rose up,
and clasping his hands, fell on his
knees before Count Cagl —  Bah! I
went by a different name then. Vat's
in a name? Dat vich ve call a Rosicrucian by any other name vil smell
as sveet. ' Monsieur,' he said, 'I am
old- I am rich. I have five hundred
thousand livres of rentes in Picardy.
I have half as much in Artois. I
have two hundred and eighty thousand on the Grand Livre.    I am
promised by my Sovereign a dukedom
and his orders with a reversion to my
heir. I am a grandee of Spain of the
First Class, and Duke of Volovento.
Take my titles, my ready money, my
life, my honor, every thing I have in
the world, but don't ask the THIRD
QUESTION.'
"'Godefroid de Bouillon, Comte
de Bechamel, Grandee of Spain and
Prince of Volovento, in our Assembly what was the oath you swore?' "
The old man writhed as he remembered its terrific purport.
" Though my heart was racked with
agony, and I would have died, ay,
cheerfully" (died, indeed, as if that
were a penalty!) "to spare yonder


lovely child a pang, I said to her
calmly, 'Blanche de Bechamel, did
Goby de Mouchy tell you secret
NUMBER THREE? '
" She whispered a oui that was
quite faint, faint and small. But her
poor father fell in convulsions at her
feet.
"She died suddenly that night.
Did I not tell you those I love come
to no good? When General Bonaparte crossed the Saint Bernard, he
saw in the convent an old monk with
a white beard, wandering about the
corridors, cheerful and rather stout,
but mad -mad as a March hare.
'General,' I said to him, 'did you
ever see that face before?' He had
not. He had not mingled much with
the higher classes of our society before the Revolution. I knew the
poor old man well enough; he was
the last of a noble race, and I loved
his child."
" And did she die by? ""Man! did I say so? Do I whisper the secrets of the Vehmgericht?
I say she died that night; and hehe, the heartless, the villain, the
betrayer, -you saw him seated in
yonder curiosity shop, by yonder
guillotine, with his scoundrelly head
in his lap.
"You saw how slight that instrument was?   It was one of the first
which Guillotin made, and which he
showed to private friends in a hangar
in the Rue Picpus, where he lived.
The invention created some little
conversation amongst scientific men
at the time, though I remember a
machine in Edinburgh of a very
similar construction, two hundredwell, many, many years ago —and at
a breakfast which Guillotin gave, he
showed us the instrument, and much
talk arose amongst us as to whether
people suffered under it.
"And now I must tell you what
befell the traitor who had caused all
this suffering. Did he know that the
poor child's death was a SENTENCE?
e felt 4 cowardly satisfaction that
with her was gone the secret of his




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


347


treason. Then he began to doubt.
I had MEANS to penetrate all his
thoughts, as well as to know his
acts. Then he became a slave to a
horrible fear. He fled in abject terror
to a convent. They still existed in
Paris; and behind the walls of Jacobins the wretch thought himself secure. Poor fool! I had but to set
one of my somnambulists to sleep.
Her spirit went forth and spied the
shuddering wretch in his cell. She
described the street, the gate, the
convent, the very dress which he
wore, and which you saw to-day.
" And now this is what happened.
In  his chamber in the Rue St.
Honord, at Paris, sat a man alone
-a man who has been maligned, a
man who has been called a knave
and charlatan, a man who has been
persecuted even to the death, it is
said, in Roman Inquisitions, forsooth,
and elsewhere. Ha! ha! A man
who has a mighty will.
"And looking towards the Jacobins
convent (of which, from his chamber,
he could see the spires and trees),
this man WILLED. And it was not
yet dawn. And he willed; and one
who was lying in his cell in the convent of Jacobins, awake and shuddering with terror for a crime which he
had committed, fell asleep.
"But though he was asleep, his eyes
were open.
"And after tossing and writhing,
and clinging to the pallet, and saying, 'No, I will not go,' he rose up
and donned his clothes - a gray coat,
a vest of white pique, black satin
small-clothes, ribbed silk stockings,
and a white stock with a steel buckle;
and he arranged his hair, and he
tied his cue, all the while being in
that strange somnolence which walks,
which moves, which FLIES sometimes,
which sees, which is indifferent to
pain, which OBEYS. And he put on
his hat, and he went forth from his
cell; and though the dawn was not
yet, he trod the corridors as seeing
them. And he passed into the cloister, and then into the garden where


lie the ancient dead. And he came
to the wicket, which Brother Jerome
was opening just at the dawning.
And the crowd was already waiting
with their cans and bowls to receive
the alms of the good brethren.
" And he passed through the crowd
and went on his way, and the few
people then abroad who marked him,
said, ' Tiens!  How very odd he
looks! He looks like a man walking
in his sleep!' This was said by various persons: -
"By milk-women, with their cans
and carts, coming into the town.
" By roysterers who had been drinking at the taverns of the Barrier, for
it was Mid-Lent.
"By the sergeants of the watch,
who eyed him sternly as he passed
near their halberds.
"But he passed on unmoved by
the halberds,
" Unmoved by the cries of the roysterers,
"By the market-women coming
with their milk and eggs.
"He walked through the Rue St.
Honor6, I say: -
"By the Rue Rambuteau,
"By the Rue St. Antoine,
"By the King's Chateau of the Bastile,
"By the Faubourg St. Antoine.
"And he came to No. 29 in the
Rue Picpus —a house which then
stood between a court and garden -
" That is, there was a building of
one story, with a great coach-door.
" Then there was a court, around
which were stables, coach-houses, offices.
" Then there was a house -a two
storied house, with a perron in front.
" Behind the house was a garden -
a garden of two hundred and fifty
French feet in length.
" And as one hundred feet of France
equal one hundred and six feet of
England, this garden, my friends,
equalled exactly two hundred and
sixty-five feet of British measure.
"In the centre of the garden was a
fountain and a statue -- or, to speak




348


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more correctly, two statues.  One
was recumbent,- a man. Over him,
sabre in hand, stood a woman.
"The man was Olofernes. The
woman was Judith. From the head,
from the trunk, the water gushed. It
was the taste of the doctor; - was it
not a droll of taste?
"At the end of the garden was the
doctor's cabinet of study. My faith,
a singular cabinet, and singular pictures!"Decapitation of Charles Premier
at Vitehall.
"Decapitation of Montrose at Edimbourg.
"Decapitation  of  Cinq  Mars.
When I tell you that he was a man
of taste, charming!
"Through this garden, by these
statues, up these stairs, went the pale
figure of him who, the porter said,
knew the way of the house. He did.
Turning neither right nor left, he
seemed to walk through the statues,
the obstacles, the flower-beds, the
stairs, the door, the tables, the chairs.
"In the corner of the room was
THAT INSTRUMENT which Guillotin
had just invented and perfected. One
day he was to lay his own head under
his own axe. Peace be to his name!
With him I deal not!
" In a frame of mahogany, neatly
worked, was a board with a half-circle in it, over which another board
fitted.  Above was a heavy axe,
which fell - you know how. It was
held up by a rope, and when this rope
was untied, or cut, the steel fell.
" To the story which I now have to
relate you may give credence, or not,
as you will. The sleeping man went
up to that instrument.
"He laid his head in it, asleep."
"Asleep!"
"He then took a little penknife
out of the pocket of his white dimity
waistcoat.
" He cut the rope asleep.
"The axe descended on the head of
the traitor and villain. The notch in
it was made by the steel buckle of his
stock, which was cut through.


" A strange legend has got abroad
that after the deed was done, the figure rose, took the head fiom the basket, walked forth through the garden,
and by the screaming porters at the
gate, and went and laid itself down at
the Morgue. But for this I will not
vouch. Only of this be sure. ' There
are more things in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamed of in your
philosophy.' More and more the
light peeps through the chinks. Soon,
amidst music ravishing, the curtain
will rise, and the glorious scene be
displayed. Adieu! Remember me.
Ha! 'tis dawn," Pinto said. And ho
was gone.
I am ashamed to say that my first
movement was to clutch the check
which he had left with me, and which
I was determined to present the very
moment the bank opened. I know the
importance of these things, and that
men change their mind sometimes. I
sprang through the streets to the
great banking house of Manasseh in
Duke Street. It seemed to me as
if I actually flew as I walked. As the
clock struck ten I was at the counter
and laid down my check.
The gentleman who received it,
who was one of the Hebrew persuasion, as were the other two hundred
clerks of the establishment, having
looked at the draft with terror in his
countenance, then looked at me, then
called to himself two of his fellowclerks, and queer it was to see all their
aquiline beaks over the paper.
"Come, come " said I, "don't
keep me here all day. Hand me over
the money, short, if you please! " for
I was, you see, a little alarmed, and
so determined to assume some extra
bluster.
"Will you have the kindness to
step into the parlor to the partners? "
the clerk said, and I followed him.
"What, again?" shrieked a baldheaded, red-whiskered gentleman,
whom I knew to be Mr. Manasseh.
"Mr. Salathiel, this is too bad!
Leave me with this gentleman, S."
And the clerk disappeared.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


349


(' Sir," he said, "I know how you
cmne by thin; the Count de Pinto
gave it you. It is too bad! I honor my parents; I honor their parents;
I honor their bills! But this one of
grandma's is too bad - it is upon my
word, now. She've been dead these
fiveand thirty years. And this last four
months she has left her burial-place
and took to drawing on our'ouse!
It's too bad, grandma; it is too bad! "
and he appealed to me, and tears actually trickled down his nose.
"Is it the Countess Sidonia's
tzheck or not?" I asked haughtily.
" But, I tell you, she's dead! It's
a shame! -it's a shame! -it is,
grandmamma!" and he cried, and
wiped his great nose in his yellow
pocket-handkerchief. " Look year -
will you take pounds instead of guineas   She's dead, I tell you! It's no
go! Take the pounds- one tausend
pound! — ten nice, neat, crisp hundred-pound notes, and go away vid
you, do!"
" I will have my bond, sir, or nothing," I said; and I put on an attitude
of resolution which I confess surprised even myself.
"Wcry vell," he shrieked, with
many oaths, "then you shall have
noting -ha, ha, ha! - noting but a
policeman!  Mr. Abednego, call a
policeman! Take that, you humbug
and impostor!" and here with an
abundance of frightful language, which
I dare not repeat, the wealthy banker
abused and defied me.
Au bout du compte, what was I to
do, if a banker did not choose to honor a check drawn by his dead grandmotherl I began to wish I had my
snuff-box back. I began to think I
was a fool for changing that little oldfashioned gold for this slip of strange
paper.
Meanwhile the banker had passed
from his fit of anger to a paroxysm of
despair. He seemed to be addressing
some person invisible, but in the
room: "Look here, ma'am, you've
really been coming it too strong. A
hundred thousand in six months, and


now a thousand more! The 'ouse
can't stand it; it won't stand it, I say!
What    Oh! mercy, mercy!"
As he uttered these words, A
HAND fluttered over the table in the
air! It was a female hand: that
which I had seen the night before.
That female hand took a pen from
the green baize table, dipped it in a
silver inkstand, and wrote on a quarter of a sheet of foolscap on the blotting-book, " How about the diamond
robbery? If you do not pay, I will
tell him where they are."
What diamonds? what robbery?
what was this mystery? That will
never be ascertained, for the wretched
man's demeanor instantly changed.
" Certainly, sir; - oh, certainly," he
said, forcing a grin. "How will you
have the money, sir? All right, Mr.
Abednego. This way out."
"I hope I shall often see you again,"
I said; on which I own poor Manasseh
gave a dreadful grin, and shot back
into his parlor.
I ran home, clutching the ten delicious, crisp hundred pounds, and
the dear little fifty which made up the
account. I flew through the streets
again.  I got to my chambers.  I
bolted the outer doors. I sank back
in my great chair, and slept...
My first thing on waking was to
feel for my   money.   Perdition!
Where was I? Ha! -on the table
before me was my grandmother's
snuff-box, and by its side one of those
awful - those admirable - sensation
novels, which I had been reading,
and which are full of delicious wonder.
But that the guillotine is still to be
seen at Mr. Gale's, No. 47, High
Holborn, I give you MY HONOR. I
suppose I was dreaming about it. I
don't know. What is dreaming?
What is life? Why shouldn't I sleep
on the ceiling? - and am I sitting on
it now, or on the floor? I am puzzled.
But enough. If the fashion for sensation novels goes on, I tell you I
will write one in fifty volumes. For
the present, DIXI. But between




350


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ourselves, this Pinto, who fought at
the Colosseum, who was nearly being roasted by the Inquisition, and
sang ducts at Holyrood, I am rather
sorry to lose him after three little
bits of Roundabout Papers.    Et
ous?
DE FINIBUS.
WHEN Swift was in love with
Stella, and despatching her a letter
from London thrice a month by the
Irish packet, you may remember how
he would begin letter No. xxrII.,
we will say, on the very day when
xxII. had been sent away, stealing
out of the coffee-house or the assembly so as to be able to prattle with
his dear; "never letting go her kind
hand, as it were," as some commentator or other has said in speaking of
the Dean and his amour. When Mr.
Johnson, walking to Dodsley's, and
touching the posts in Pall Mall as he
walked, forgot to pat the head of one
of them, he went back and imposed
his hands on it,-impelled I know
not by what superstition.  I have
this I hope not dangerous mania too.
As soon as a piece of work is out of
hand, and before going to sleep, I
like to begin another: it may be to
write only half a dozen lines: but
that is something towards Number
the Next. The printer's boy has not
yet reached Green Arbor Court with
the copy. Those people who were
alive half an hour since, Pendennis,
Clive Newcome, and (what do you
call him? what was the name of the
last hero? I remember now!) Philip
Firmin, have hardly drunk their glass
of wine, and the mammas have only
this minute got the children's cloaks
on, and have been bowed out of my
premises -and here I come back to
the study again: tamen usque recurro.
How lonely it looks now all these
people are gone! My dear good
friends, some folks are utterly tired of
you, and say, " What a poverty of




friends the man has? Ile is always
asking us to meet those Pendennises,
Newcomes, and so forth. Why does
he not introduce us to some new
characters? Why is he not thrilling
like Twostars, learned and profound
like Threestars, exquisitely humorous
and human like Fourstars? Why,
finally, is he not somebody else?"
My good people, it is not only impossible to please you all, but it is
absurd to try. The dish which one
man devours, another dislikes. Is
the dinner of to-day not to your
taste? Let us hope to-morrow's entertainment will be more agreeable.... I resume my original subject.
What an odd, pleasant, humorous,
melancholy feeling it is to sit in the
study, alone and quiet, now all these
people are gone who have been boarding and lodging with me for twenty
months! They have interrupted my
rest: they have plagued me at all
sorts of minutes: they have thrust
themselves upon me when I was ill,
or wished to be idle, and I have
growled out a " Be hanged to you,
can't you leave me alone now?"
Once or twice they have prevented
my going out to dinner. Many and
many a time they have prevented my
coming home, because I knew they
were there waiting in the study, and
a plague take them! and I have left
home and family, and gone to dine at
the Club, and told nobody where I
went. They have bored me, those people. They have plagued me at all sorts
of uncomfortable hours. They have
made such a disturbance in my mind
and house, that sometimes I have
hardly known what was going on in
my family, and scarcely have heard
what my neighbor said to me. They
are gone at last; and you would expect me to be at ease? Far from it.
I should almost be glad if Woolcomb
would walk in and talk to me; or
Twysden reappear, take his place in
that chair opposite me, and begin one
of his tremendous stories.
Madmen, you know, see visions,
hold conversations with, even draw




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


351


the likeness of, people invisible to
you and me. Is this making of
people out of fancy madness  and
are novel-writers at all entitled to
strait-waistcoats? I often forget people's names in life; and in my own
stories contritely own that I make
dreadful blunders regarding them;
but I declare, my dear sir, with respect to the personages introduced
into your humble servant's fables, I
know the people utterly - I know
the sound of their voices. A gentleman came in to see me the other day,
who was so like the picture of Philip
Firmin in Mr. Walker's charming
drawings in " The Cornhill Magazine," that he was quite a curiosity to
me. The same eyes, beard, shoulders, just as you have seen them from
month to month. Well, he is not
like the Philip Firmin in my mind.
Asleep, asleep in the grave, lies the
bold, the generous, the reckless, the
tender-hearted creature whom I have
made to pass through those adventures which have just been brought
to an end. It is years since I heard
the laughter ringing, or saw the bright
blue eyes. When I knew him, both
were young. I become young as I
think of him. And this morning he
was alive again in this room, ready
to laugh, to fight, to weep.  As I
write, do you know, it is the gray of
evening; the house is quiet; everybody is out: the room is getting a
little dark, and I look rather wistfully up from the paper with perhaps
ever so little fancy that HE MAY
COME IN           No?   No movement. No gray shade, growing more
palpable, out of which at last look the
well-known eyes. No, the printer
came and took him away with the
last page of the proofs. And with
the printer's boy did the whole cortege
of ghosts flit away, invisible? Ha!
stay! what is this? Angels and ministers of grace I The door opens, and
a dark form -enters, bearing a black
-a black suit of clothes. It is John.
He says it is time to dress for dinner.


Every man who has had his Ger'
man tutor, and has been coached
through the famous " Faust" of
Goethe (thou wert my instructor,
good old Weissenborn, and these eyes
beheld the great master himself in
dear little Weimar town!) has read
those charming verses which are prefixed to the drama, in which the poet
reverts to the time when his work was
first composed, and recalls the friends
now departed, who once listened to
his song. The dear shadows rise up
around him, he says; he lives in the
past again. It is to-day which appears vague and visionary. We humblerwriters cannot create Fausts, or
raise up monumental works that shall
endure for all ages: but our books
are diaries, in which our own feelings
must of necessity be set down. As
we look to the page written last
month, or ten years ago, we remember the day and its events; the child
ill, mayhap, in the adjoining room,
and the doubts and fears which racked
the brain as it still pursued its work;
the dear old friend who read the
commencement of the tale, and whose
gentle hand shall be laid in ours no
more. I own for my part that, in
reading pages which this hand penned
formerly, I often lose sight of the text
under my eyes. It is not the words
I see; but that past day; that bygone
page of life's history; that tragedy,
comedy it may be, which our little
home company was enacting; that
merrymaking which we shared; that
funeral which we followed; that bitter, bitter grief which we buried.
And, such being the state of my
mind, I pray gentle readers to deal
kindly with their humble servant's
manifold short-comings, blunders, and
slips of memory. As sure as I read
a page of my own composition, I find
a fault or two, half a dozen. Jones
is called Brown. Brown, who is
dead, is brought to life. Aghast, and
months after the number was printed,
I saw that I had called Philip Firmin, Clive Newcome. Now     Clive
Newcome is the hero of another story




352


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by the reader's most obedient writer.
The two men are as different, in my
mind's eye, as - as Lord Palmerston
and Mr. Disraeli let us say. But
there is that blunder at page 990, line
76, volume 84 of "The Cornhill
Magazine," and it is past mending;
and I wish in my life I had made
no worse blunders or errors than that
which is hereby acknowledged.
Another Finis written. Another
mile-stone passed on this journey from
birth to the next world! Sure it is
a subject for solemn cogitation. Shall
we continue this story-telling business, and be voluble to the end of
our age? Will it not be presently
time, O prattler, to hold your tongue,
and let younger people speak?  I
have a friend, a painter, who, like
other persons who shall be nameless,
is growing old. He has never painted
with such laborious finish as his works
now show. This master is still the
most humble and diligent of scholars.
Of Art, his mistress, he is always an
eager, reverent pupil. In his calling,
in yours, in mine, industry and humility will help and comfort us. A word
with you. In a pretty large experience I have not found the men who
write books superior in wit or learning to those who don't write at all.
In regard of mere information, nonwriters must often be superior to
writers. You don't expect a lawyer
in full practice to be conversant with
all kinds of literature; he is too busy
with his law; and so a writer is commonly too busy with his own books
to be able to bestow attention on the
works of other people. After a day's
work (in which I have been depicting,
let us say, the agonies of Louisa on
parting with the Captain, or the atrocious behavior of the wicked Marquis
to Lady Emily), I march to the Club,
proposing to improve my mind and
keep myself "posted up," as the
Americans phrase it, with the literature of the day. And what happens?
Given, a walk after luncheon, a pleasing book, and a most comfortable
arm-chair by the fire, and you know


the rest. A doze ensues. Pleasing
book drops suddenly, is picked up
once with an air of some confusion, is laid presently softly in
lap: head falls on comfortable arm.
chair cushion: eyes close: soft nasal
music is heard. Am I telling Club
secrets? Of afternoons, after lunch,
I say, scores of sensible fogies have a
doze.  Perhaps I have fallen asleep
over that very book to which " Finis "
has just been written. " And if the
writer sleeps, what happens to the
readers?" says Jones, coming down
upon me with his lightning wit.
What? You did sleep over it? And
a very good thing too. These eyes
have more than once seen a friend
dozing over pages which this hand
has written.  There is a vignette
somewhere in one of my books of a
friend so caught napping with "Pendennis," or the "Newcomes," in his
lap; and if a writer can give you a
sweet, soothing, harmless sleep, has
he not done you a kindness? So is
the author who excites and interests
you worthy of your thanks and benedictions. I am troubled with fever
and ague, that seizes me at odd intervals and prostrates me for a day.
There is cold fit, for which, I am thankful to say, hot brandy and water
is prescribed, and this induces hot
fit, and so on. In one or two of these
fits I have read novels with the most
fearful contentment of mind. Once,
on the Mississippi, it was my dearly
beloved "Jacob Faithful:" once at
Frankfort O. M., the delightful
"Vingt Ans Apres" of Monsieur
Dumas: once at Tunbridge Wells,
the thrilling "Woman in White:"
and these books gave me amusement
from morning till sunset. I remember those ague fits with a great deal
of pleasure and gratitude. Think of
a whole day in bed, and a good novel
for a companion! No cares: no remorse about idleness: no visitors:
and the Woman in White or the
Chevalier d'Artagnan to tell me stories from dawn till night  "Please,
ma'am, my master's compliments:




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


353


and can h-: have the third volume "
(This message was sent to an astonished friend and neighbor who lent me
volume by volume, the W. in W.)
How do you like your novels? I like
mine strong, " hot with," and no mistake: no love-making: no observations about society: little dialogue,
except where the characters are bullying each other: plenty of fighting:
and a villain in the cupboard, who is
to suffer tortures just before Finis. I
don't like your melancholy Finis. I
never read the history of a consumptive heroine twice. If I might give a
short hint to an impartial writer (as
" The Examiner " used to say in old
days), it would be to act not a la mode
le pays de Pole (I think that was the
phraseology), but always to give quarter. In the story of Philip, just come
to an end, I have the permission of
the author to state that he was going
to drown the two villains of the piece
— a certain Doctor F —   and a certain Mr. T. H-     on board "The
President," or some other tragic ship
- but you see I relented. I pictured
to myself Firmin's ghastly face amid
the crowd of shuddering people on
that reeling deck in the lonely ocean,
and thought, "Thou ghastly lying
wretch, thou shall not be drowned:
thou shalt have a fever only; a knowledge of thy danger; and a chanceever so small a chance -of repentance." I wonder whether he did
repent when he found himself in the
yellow-fever in Virginia? The probability is, he fancied that his son had
injured him very much, and forgave
him on his deathbed. Do you imagine there is a great deal of genuine
right-down remorse in the world?
Don't people rather find excuses
which make their minds easy; endeavor to prove to themselves that they
have been lamentably belied and misunderstood; and try and forgive the
persecutors who will present that bill
when it is due; and not bear malice
against the cruel ruffian who takes
them to the police-office for stealing
the spoons? Years ago I had a quar16


rel with a certain well-known person
(I believed a statement regarding
him which his friends imparted to me,
and which turned out to be quite incorrect).  To his dying day that
quarrel was never quite made up. I
said to his brother, "Why is your
brother's soul still dark against me?
It is I who ought to be angry and
unforgiving: for I was in the wrong."
In the region which they now inhabit
(for Finis has been set to the volumes
of the lives of both here below), if
they take any cognizance of our
squabbles, and tittle-tattles, and gos —
sips on earth here, I hope they admit
that my little error was not of a nature
unpardonable.   If you have never
committed a worse, my good sir, surely the score against you will not be
heavy.  Ha, dilectissimi fratres! It
is in regard of sins not found out that
we may say or sing (in an undertone,
in a most penitent and lugubrious
minor-key), AIiserere nobis iiseris peccatoribus.
Among the sins of commission
which novel-writers not seldom perpetrate, is the sin of grandiloquence,
or tall-talking, against which for my
part, I will offer up a special libera
me. This is the sin of schoolmasters,
governesses, critics, sermoners, and
instructors of young or old people.
Nay (for I am making a clean breast,
and liberating my soul), perhaps of
all the novel-spinners now extant,
the present speaker is the most addicted to preaching. Does he not
stop perpetually in his story and
begin to preach to you? When he
ought to be engaged with business, is
he not forever taking the Muse by
the sleeve, and plaguing her with
some of his cynical sermons? I cry
peccavi loudly and heartily. I tell
you I would like to be able to write a
story which should show no egotism
whatever -in which there should be
no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity (and so forth); but an incident
in every other page, a villain, a battle, a mystery, in every chapter.  I
should like to be able to feed a reader




354


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so spicily as to leave him hungering
and thirsting for more at the end of
every monthly meal.
Alexandre Dumas describes himself, when inventing the plan of a
work, as lying silent on his back for
two whole days on the deck of a
yacht in a Mediterranean port. At
the end of the two days he arose and
called for dinner. In those two days
he had built his plot. lie had
moulded a mighty clay, to be cast
presently in perennial brass.  The
chapters, the characters, the incidents,
the combinations, were all arranged
in the artist's brain ere he set a pen
to paper. My Pegasus won't fly, so
as to let me survey the field below me.
He has no wings, he is blind of one
eye certainly, he is restive, stubborn,
slow; crops a hedge when he ought
to be galloping, or gallops when he
ought to be quiet. He never will
show off when I want him. Sometimes he goes at a pace which surprises
me. Sometimes, when I most wish
him to make the running, the brute
turns restive, and I am obliged to let
him take his own time. I wonder
do other novel-writers experience this
fatalism?  They must go a certain
way, in spite  of themselves.   I
have been surprised at the observations made by some of my characters.
It seems as if an occult Power was
moving the pen.    The personage
does or says something, and I ask,
how the dickens did he come to think
of that? Every man has remarked
in dreams the vast dramatic power
which is sometimes evinced; I won't
say the surprising power, for nothing
does surprise you in dreams. But
those strange characters you meet
make instant observations of which
you never can have thought previously. In like manner, the imagination foretells things. We spake anon
of the inflated style of some writers.
What also if there is an afflated style,
- when a writer is like a Pythoness
on her oracle tripod, and mighty
words, words which he cannot help,
come blowing, and bellowing, and


whistling, and moaning through the
speaking pipes of his bodily organ?
I have told you it was a very queer
shock to me the other day when, with
a letter of introduction in his hand,
the artist's (not my) Philip Firmin
walked into this room, and sat down
in the chair opposite. In the novel of
"Pendennis," written ten years ago,
there is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented (as I suppose authors invent their personages
out of scraps, heel-taps, odds and
ends of characters). I was smoking
in a tavern parlor one night-and
this Costigan came into the room
alive - the very man: - the most remarkable resemblance of the printed
sketches of the man, of the rude
drawings in which I had depicted
him. Ite had the same little coat,
the same battered hat, cocked on one
eye, the same twinkle in that eye.
"Sir," said I, knowing him to be
an old friend whom I had met in unknown regions, " sir," I said, " may
I offer you a glass of brandy and
water?  " Bedad, ye may," says he,
" and I'll sing ye a song tu."  Of
course he spoke with an Irish brogue.
Of course he had been in the army.
In ten minutes he pulled out an Army
Agent's account, whereon his name
was written. A few months after we
read of him in a police court. How
had I come to know him, to divine
him?  Nothing shall convince me
that I have not seen that man in the
world of spirits. In the world of
spirits and water I know I did: but
that is a mere quibble of words.  I
was not surprised when he spoke in
an Irish brogue. I had had cognizance of him before somehow. Who
has not felt that little shock which
arises when a person, a place, some
words in a book (there is always a
collocation) present themselves to
you, and you know that you have
before met the same person, words,
scene, and so forth?
They used to call the good Sir
Walter the "Wizard of the North."
What if some writer should appear




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355


'hilo can write so enchantingly that he
shall be able to call into actual life the
people whom he invents? What if
Mignon, and Margaret, and Goetz
von Berlichingen are alive now
(though I don't say they are visible),
and Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe
were to step in at that open window by
the little garden yonder?  Suppose
Uncas and our noble old Leather
Stocking were to glide silent in?
Suppose Athos, Porthos, and Aramis
should enter with a noiseless swagger, curling their mustaches? And
dearest Amelia Booth, on Uncle
Toby's arm; and Tittlebat Titmouse,
with his hair dyed green; and all the
Crummies company of comedians,
with the Gil Bias troop; and Sir
Roger Dc Coverley; and the greatest
of all crazy gentlemen, the Knight
of La Mancha, with his blessed
squire? I say to you, I look rather
wistfully towards the window, musing
upon these people.  Were any of
them to enter, I think I should not
be very much frightened. Dear old
friends what pleasant hours I have
had with them! We do not see
each other very often, but when we do,
we are ever happy to meet. I had a
capital half hour with Jacob Faithful
last night; when the last sheet was
corrected, when "Finis" had been
written, and the printer's boy, with
the copy, was safe in Green Arbor
Court.
So you are gone, little printer's
boy witli the last scratches and corrections on the proof, and a fine
flourish by way of Finis at the
story's end. The last corrections?
I say those last corrections seem
never to be finished. A plague upon
the weeds! Every day, when I walk
in my own little literary garden-plot,
I spy some, and should like to have a
spud, and root them out. Those idle
words, neighbor, are past remedy.
That turning back to the old pages
produces any thing but elation of
mind. Would you not pay a pretty
fine to be able to cancel some of
them? Oh, the sad old pages, the


dull old pages! Oh, the cares, the
ennui, the squabbles, the repetitions,
the old conversations over and over
again! But now and again a kind
thought is recalled, and now and
again a dear memory.   Yet a few
chapters more, and then the last:
after which, behold Finis itself come
to an end, and the Infinite begun.
ON A PEAL OF BELLS.
As some bells in a church hard by
are making a great holiday clanging
in the summer afternoon, I am reminded, somehow, of a July day, a
garden, and a great clanging of bells
years and years ago, on the very day
when George IV. was crowned. I remember a little boy lying in that garden reading his first novel. It was
called " The Scottish Chiefs." The
little boy (who is now ancient and not
little) read this book in the summerhouse of his great grandmamma.
She was eighty years of age then. A
most lovely and picturesque old lady,
with a long tortoise-shell cane, with a
little puff, or tour, of snow-white (or
was it powdered?) hair under her cap,
with the prettiest little black-velvet
slippers and high heels you ever saw.
She had a grandson, a lieutenant in
the navy; son of her son, a captain in
the navy; grandson of her husband,
a captain in the navy. She lived for
scores and scores of years in a dear
little old Hampshire town inhabited by
the wives, widows, daughters of navy
captains, admirals, lieutenants. Dear
me! Don't I remember Mrs. Duval,
widow of Admiral Duval; and the
Miss Dennets, at the Great House at
the other end of the town, Admiral
Dennet's daughters; and the Miss
Barrys, the late Captain Barry's
daughters; and the good old Miss
Maskews, Admiral Maskews's daughter; and that dear little Miss Norval,
and the kind Miss Bookers, one of
whom married Captain, now Admiral,
Sir Henry Excellent, K.C.B X Far,




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far away into the past I look and see
the little town with its friendly glimmer. That town was so like a novel of
Miss Austen's that I wonder was she
born and bred there? No, we should
have known, and the good old ladies
would have pronounced her to be a
little idle thing, occupied with her
silly books, and neglecting her housekeeping. There were other towns in
England, no doubt, where dwelt the
widows and wives of other navy captains; where they tattled, loved each
other, and quarrelled; talked about
Betty the maid, and her fine ribbons
indeed! took their dish of tea at six,
played at quadrille every night till ten,
when there was a little bit of supper,
after which Betty came with the lanthorn; and next day came, and next,
and next, and so forth, until a day
arrived when the lanthorn was out,
when Betty came no more: all that
little company sank to rest under the
daisies, whither some folks will presently follow them. How did they
live to be so old, those good people?
Moi qui vous parle, I perfectly recollect
old Mr. Gilbert, who had been to sea
with Captain Cook; and Captain
Cook, as you justly observe, dear
Miss, quoting out of your "Mangnall's Questions," was murdered by
the natives of Owhyhee, anno 1779.
Ah! don't you remember his picture,
standing on the seashore, in tights
and gaiters, with a musket in his hand,
pointing to his people not to fire from
the boats, whilst a great tattooed savage is going to stab him in the back?
Don't you remember those houris
dancing before him and the other
officers at the great Otaheite ball?
Don't you know that Cook was at
the siege of Quebec, with the glorious Wolfe,who fought under the Duke
of Cumberland, whose royal father
was a distinguished officer at Ramillies, before he commanded in chief
at Dettingen? Huzza! Give it them,
my lads! My horse is down? Then
I know I shall not run away.  Do
the French run? then I die content.
Stop. Wo! Quo me rapis?      My


Pegasus is galloping off, goodness
knows where, like his Majesty's charger at Dettingen.
How do these rich historical and
personal reminiscences come out of
the subject at present in   hand
What is that subject, by the way?
My dear friend, if you look at the last
essaykin (though you may leave it
alone, and I shall not be in the least
surprised or offended), if you look at
the last paper, where the writer imagines Athos and Porthos, Dalgetty
and Ivanhoe, Amelia and Sir Charles
Grandison, Don Quixote and Sir
Roger, walking in at the gardenwindow, you will at once perceive
that NOVELS and their heroes and
heroines are our present subject of
discourse, into which we will presently plunge. Are you one of us, dear
sir, and do you love novel-reading?
To be reminded of your first novel
will surely be a pleasure to you.
Hush! I never read quite to the
end of my first," The Scottish Chiefs."
I couldn't. I peeped in an alarmed
furtive manner at some of the closing
pages. Miss Porter, like a kind dear
tender-hearted creature, would not
have Wallace's head chopped off at
the end of Vol. V. She made him
die in prison,* and if I remember
right (protesting I have not read the
book for forty two or three years),
Robert Bruce made a speech to his
soldiers, in which he said, "And
Bannockburn   shall equal Cambuskenneth." t But I repeat, I could not
* I find, on reference to the novel, that
Sir William died on the scaffold, not in
prison. His last words were, "'My
prayer is heard. Life's cord is cut by
heaven. Helen I Helen I May heaven
preserve my country, and' --   Hi
stopped. He fell. And with that mighty
shock the scaffold shook to its foundation."
t The remark of Bruce (which I protest
I had not read for forty-two years), I find
to be as follows:-" When this was ut.
tered by the English heralds, Bruct
turned to Ruthven, with an heroic smile,
'Let him come, my brave barons I and he
shall find that Bannockburn shall page
with CambuskennethI "'  In the same
amiable author's famous novel of " Thad




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357


read the end of the fifth volume of
that dear delightful book for crying.
Good heavens! It was as sad, as sad
as going back to school.
The glorious Scott cycle of romances came to me some four or five
years afterwards; and I think boys
of our year were specially fortunate
in coming upon those delightful books
at that special time when we could
best enjoy them. Oh, that sunshiny
bench on half-holidays, with Claverhouse or Ivanhoe for a companion!
I have remarked of very late days
some little men in a great state of
delectation over the romances of
Captain Mayne Reid, and Gustave
Aimard's Prairie and Indian Stories,
and during occasional holiday visits,
lurking off to bed with the volume
under their arms. But are those Indians and warriors so terrible as our
Indians and warriors were? (I say,
are they? Young gentlemen, mind,
I do not say they are not.) But as
an oldster I can be heartily thankful
for the novels of the 1-10 Geo. IV.,
let us say, and so downward to a
period not unremote. Let us see;
there is, first, our dear Scott. Whom
do I love in the works of that dear
old master   Amo -
The Baron of Bradwardine, and
Fergus. (Captain Waverley is certainly very mild.)
Amo Ivanhoe; LOCKSLEY; the
Templar.
Amo Quentin Durward, and specially Quentin's uncle, who brought
the Boar to bay. I forget the gentleman's name.
I have never cared for the Master
of Ravenswood, or fetched his hat out
deus of Warsaw," there is more crying
than in any novel I ever remember to have
read. See, for example, the last page...
"Incapable of speaking, Thaddeus led his
wife back to her carriage.... His tears
gushed out in spite of himself, and
mingling with hers, poured those thanks,
those assurances, of animated approbation through her heart, which made it even
ache with excess of happiness."... And
a sentence or two further. " Kosciusko
did bless him, and embalmed the benedTction with a shower of tears."


of the water since he dropped it there
when I last met him (circa 1825).
Amo SALADIN and the Scotch
knight in " The Talisman." The Sultan best.
Amo CLAVERHOUSE.
Amo MAJOR DALGETTY. Delightful Major! To think of him is to
desire to jump up, run to the book,
and get the volume down from the
shelf. About all those heroes of
Scott, what a manly bloom there is,
and honorable modesty! They are
not at all heroic. They seem to
blush somehow in their position of
hero, and as it were to say, " Since it
must be done, here goes!" They
are handsome, modest, upright, simple, courageous, not too clever. If
I were a mother (which is absurd), I
should like to be mother-in-law to
several young men of the WalterScott-hero sort.
Much as I like those most unassuming, manly, unpretending gentlemen, I have to own that I think
the heroes of another writer, viz, -
LEATHER-STOCKING,
UNCAS,
HARDHEART,
TOM COFFIN,
are quite the equals of Scott's men;
perhaps Leather-stocking is better
than any one in " Scott's lot." La
Longue carabine is one of the great
prize-men of fiction. He ranks with
your Uncle Toby, Sir Roger do
Coverley, Falstaff- heroic figures,
all- American or British, and the
artist has deserved well of his country
who devised them.
At school, in my time, there was a
public day, when the boys' relatives,
an examining bigwig or two from the
universities, old schoolfellows, and so
forth, came to the place. The boys
were all paraded; prizes were administered; each lad being in a new suit
of clothes- and magnificent dandies,
I promise you, some of us were. Oh,
the chubby cheeks, clean collars,
glossy new raiment, beaming faces,
glorious in youth -fit tueri coeum -
bright with truth, and mirth, and




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honor! To see a hundred boys marshalled in a chapel or old hall; to
hear their sweet fresh voices when
they chant, and look in their brave
calm faces; I say, does not the sight
and sound of them smite you, somehow, with a pang of exquisite kindness?... Well. As about boys,
so about Novelists. I fancy the boys
of Parnassus School all paraded. I
am a lower boy myself in that
academy. I like our fellows to look
well, upright, gentlemanlike. There
is Master Fielding -he with the
black eye. What a magnificent build
of a boy! There is Master Scott, one
of the heads of the school. Did you
ever see the fellow more hearty and
manly? Yonder lean, shambling,
cadaverous lad, who is always borrowing money, telling lies, leering after
the housemaids, is Master Laurence
Sterne-a bishop's grandson, and
himself intended for the Church; for
shame, you little reprobate! But
what a genius the fellow has! Let
him have a sound flogging, and as
soon as the young scamp is out of
the whipping-room give him a gold
medal. Such would be my practice if
I were Doctor Birch, and master of
the school.
Let us drop this school metaphor,
this birch, and all pertaining thereto.
Our subject, I beg leave to remind
the reader's humble servant, is novel
heroes and heroines. How do you
like your heroes, ladies? Gentlemen,
what novel heroines do you prefer?
When I set this essay going, I sent
the above question to two of the most
inveterate novel-readers of my acquaintance. The gentleman refers
me to Miss Austen; the lady says
Athos, Guy Livingston, and (pardon
my rosy blushes) Colonel Esmond,
and owns that in youth she was very
much in love with Valancourt.
" Valancourt? and who was he? "
cry the young people. Valancourt,
my dears, was the hero of one of the
most famous romances which ever was
published in this country. The beauty
and elegance of Valancourt made your


young grandmammas' gentle hearts
to beat with respectful sympathy.
He and his glory have passed away.
Ah, woe is me that the glory of
novels should ever decay; that dust
should gather round them on the
shelves; that the annual checks
from Messieurs the publishers should
dwindle, dwindle! Inquire at Mudie's, or the London Library, who
asks for " The Mysteries of Udolpho "
now? Have not even "The Mysteries
of Paris " ceased to frighten? Alas!
our novels are but for a season; and
I know characters whom a painful
modesty forbids me to mention, who
shall go to limbo along with "Valancourt," and  "Doricourt," and
"Thaddeus of Warsaw."
A dear old sentimental friend, with
whom I discoursed on the subject of
novels yesterday, said that her favorite hero was Lord Orville, in
" Evelina," that novel which Doctor
Johnson loved so. I took down the
book from a dusty old crypt at a club,
where Mrs. Barbauld's novelists repose; and this is the kind of thing,
ladies and gentlemen, in which your
ancestors found pleasure: -
"And here, whilst I was looking
for the books, I was followed by Lord
Orville. He shut the door after he
came in, and, approaching me with a
look of anxiety, said, 'Is this true,
Miss Anville - are you going? '
"'I believe so, my lord,' said I,
still looking for the books.
"'So suddenly, so unexpectedly:
must I lose you?'
"' No great loss, my lord,' said I,
endeavoring to speak cheerfully.
"' Is it possible,' said he gravely,
'Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity? '
" I can't imagine,' cried I, 'what
Mrs. Selwyn has done with those
books.'
"' Would to heaven,' continued he,
'I might flatter myself you would
allow me to prove it!'
"'I must run up stairs,' cried I,
greatly confused, ' and ask what she
has done with them.'




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359


c" You are going, then,' cried he,
taking my hand, 'and you give me
not the smallest hope of any return!
Will you not, my too lovely friend,
will you not teach me, with fortitude
like your own, to support your absence? '
"'My lord,' cried I, endeavoring to
disengage my hand, 'pray let me go!'
"'I will,' cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one
knee, ' if you wish me to leave you.'
"'Oh, my lord,' exclaimed I, 'rise,
I beseech you; rise.  Surely your
lordship is not so cruel as to mock
me.'
"' Mock you!' repeated he earnestly, 'no, I revere you. I esteem and
admire you above all human beings!
You are the friend to whom my soul
is attached, as to its better half. You
are the most amiable, the most perfect of women; and you are dearer to
me than language has the power of
telling.'
"I attempt not to describe my
sensations at that moment; I scarce
breathed; I doubted if I existed; the
blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet
refused to sustain me. Lord Orville
hastily rising supported me to a chair
upon which I sank almost lifeless.
"I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven
on my heart; but his protestations,
his expressions, were too flattering
for repetition; nor would he, in spite
of my repeated efforts to leave him,
suffer me to escape; in short, my dear
sir, I was not pooof against his solicitations, and he drew from me the
most sacred secret of my heart! " *
Other people may not much like
this extract, madam, fiom your favor* Contrast this old perfumed, powdered
D'Arblay conversation with the present
modern talk. If the two young people
wished to hide their emotions now-a-days,
and express themselves in modest language, the story would run: -
" Whilst I was looking for the books,
Lord Orville came in. He looked uncommonly down in the mouth, as he said, 'Is
this true, Miss Anville; are you going to
out?'
"'To absquatulate, Lord Orville,' said


ite novel, but when you come to read
it, you will like it. I suspect that
when you read that book which you
so love, you read it a deux. Did you
not yourself pass a winter at Bath,
when you were the belle of the assembly? Was there not a Lord Orville
in your case too? As you think of
him eleven lustres pass away. You
look at him with the bright eyes of
those days, and your hero stands
before you, the brave, the accomplished, the simple, the true gentleman; and he makes the most elegant
of bows to one of the most beautiful
young women the world ever saw;
and he leads you out to the cotillon,
to the dear unforgotten music. Hark
to the horns of Elfland, blowing, blowing! Bonne Vieille, you remember
their melody, and your heart-strings
thrill with it still.
Of your heroic heroes, I think our
friend Monseigneur Athos, Count de
la Fere, is my favorite. I have read
about him from sunrise to sunset with
the utmost contentment of mind. He
has passed through how many volumes? Forty? Fifty? I wish for
my part there were a hundred more,
I, still pretending that I was looking for
the books.
" You're very quick about it,' said he.
" ' Guess it's no great loss,' I remarked,
as cheerfully as I could.
" (You don't think I'm chaffing? said
Orville, with much emotion.
"'What has Mrs. Selwyn done with
the books?' I went on.
"' What, going?' said he, ' and going
for good? I wish I was such a goodplucked one as you, Miss Anville,'" &c.
The conversation, you perceive, might
be easily written down to this key; and
if the hero and heroine were modern,
they would not be suffered to go through
their dialogue on stilts, but would converse in the natural graceful way at present customary. By the way, what a
strange custom that is in modern lady
novelists to make the men bully the women l In the time of Miss Porter and
Madame D'Arblay, we have respect, profound bows and courtesies, graceful courtesy, from men to women. In the time
of Miss Bronte, absolute rudeness. Is it
true, mesdames, that you like rudeness,
and are pleased at being ill-used by men?
I could point to more than one lady novelist who so represents you.




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and would never tire of him rescuing necessary; his chief points out to him
prisoners, punishing ruffians, and run- in Jeremy Taylor (fol., London,
ning scoundrels through the midriff M.DCLV.) a few remarks such as
with his most graceful rapier. Ah, might befit a dear old archbishop deAthos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are parting this life. When I come back
a magnificent trio. I think I like to dress for dinner, the archbishop is
d'Artagnan in his own memoirs best. dead on my table in five pages; mediI bought him years and years ago, cine, topography, theology, all right,
price fivepence, in a little parchment- and Jones has gone home to his famicovered Colonge-printed volume, at a ly some hours. Sir Christopher is
stall in Gray's Inn Lane. Dumas the architect of St. Paul's. He has
glorifies him and makes a Marshal of not laid the stones or carried up the
him; if I remember rightly, the origi- mortar. There is a great deal of carnal d'Artagnan was a needy adventur- penter's and joiner's work in novels
er, who died in exile very early in which surely a smart professional
Louis XIV.'s Lreign. Did you ever hand might supply. A smart profesread the " Chevalier d'Harmenthal"? sional hand  I give you my word,
Did you ever read the " Tulipe Noire," there seem to me parts of novels - let
as modest as a story by Miss Edge- us say the love-making, the "busiworth? I think of the prodigal ban- ness," the villain in the cupboard,
quets to which this Lucullus of a man and so forth, which I should like tq
has invited me, with thanks and won- order John Footman to take ill hand,
der. To what a series of splendid as I desire him to bring the coals and
entertainments he has treated me! polish the boots. Ask me indeed to
Where does he find the money for pop a robber under a bed, to hide a
these prodigious feasts? They say will which shall be forthcoming in due
that all the works bearing Dumas's season, or at my time of life to write
name are not written by him. Well? a namby-pamby love conversation be.
Does not the chief cook have aides tween Emily and Lord Arthur! I feel
under him? Did not Rubens's pupils ashamed of myself, and especially
paint on his canvases? Had not Law- when my business obliges me to dc
rence assistants for his backgrounds? the love-passages, I blush so, thougk
For myself, being also du ametier, I quite alone in my study, that you
confess I would often like to have would fancy I was going off in an
a competent, respectable, and rapid apoplexy. Are authors affected bj
clerk for the business part of my their own works? I don't knov
novels; and on his arrival, at eleven about other gentlemen, but if I makg
o'clock, would say, "Mr. Jones, if a joke myself I cry; if I write a pa
you please, the archbishop must die thetic scene I am laughing wildly all
this morning in about five pages. the time -at least Tomkins thinks
Turn to article 'Dropsy' (or what so. You know I am such a cynic
you will) in Encyclopaedia. Take    The editor of " The Cornhill Maga.
care there are no medical blunders in zine " (no soft and yielding character
his death.  Group his daughters, like his predecessor, but a man of
physicians, and chaplains round him. stern resolution) will only allow these
In Wales's 'London,' letter B, third harmless papers to run to a certain
shelf, you will find an account of Lam- length. But for this veto I should
beth, and some prints of the place. gladly have prattled over half a sheet
Color in with local coloring.  The more, and have discoursed on mans
daughter will come down, and speak heroes and heroines of novels whom
to her lover in his wherry at Lambeth fond memory brings back to me. Of
Stairs," &c., &c. Jones (an intelli- these books I have been a diligent stu
gent young man) examines the medi- dent from those early days, which are
cal, historical, topographical books recorded at the commencement of this




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


361


little essay. Oil, delightful novels,
well remembered! Oh, novels, sweet
and delicious as the raspberry opentarts of budding boyhood! Do I forget one night after prayers (when we
under-boys were sent to bed) lingering at my cupboard to read one little
half-page more of my dear Walter
Scott - and down came the monitor's dictionary upon my head!
Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York,
I have loved thee faithfully for forty
years! Thou wert twenty years old
(say), and I but twelve, when I knew
thee. At sixty odd, love, most of the
ladies of thy Orient race have lost the
bloom of youth, and bulged beyond
the line of beauty; but to me thou
art ever young and fair, and I will do
battle with any felon Templar who
assails thy fair name.
4 ---
ON A PEAR-TREE.
A GRACIOUS reader no doubt has remarked that these humble sermons
have for subjects some little event
which happens at the preacher's own
gate, or which falls under his peculiar
cognizance. Once, you may remember, we discoursed about a chalk-mark
on the door. This morning Betsy, the
housemaid, comes with a frightened
look, and says, "Law, mum! there's
three bricks taken out of the garden
wall, and the branches broke, and all
the pears taken off the pear-tree I"
Poor peaceful suburban pear-tree!
Jail-birds have hopped about thy
branches, and robbed them of their
smoky fruit. But those bricks removed; that ladder evidently prepared, by which unknown marauders may enter and depart from my
little Englishman's castle; is not
this a subject of thrilling interest, and
may it not be continued in a future
number — that is the terrible question. Suppose, having escaladed the
outer wall, the miscreants take a fancy
to storm the castle? Well - well!
16*


we are armed; we are numerous; we
are men of tremendous courage, who
will defend our spoons with our lives;
and there are barracks close by (thank
goodness!) whence, at the noise of
our shouts and firing, at least a thousand bayonets will bristle to our rescue.
What sound is yonder? A church
bell. I might go myself, but how
listen to the sermon? I am thinking
of those thieves who have made a
ladder of my wall, and a prey of my
pear-tree. They may be walking to
church at this moment, neatly shaved,
in clean linen, with every outward
appearance of virtue. If I went, I
know I should be watching the congregation, and thinking, " Is that
one of the fellows who came over my
wall?" If, after the reading of the
eighth Commandment, a man sang
out with particular energy, " Incline
our hearts to keep this law," I should
think, " Aha, Master Basso, did you
have pears for breakfast this morning? ' Crime is walking round me,
that is clear. Who is the perpetrator?... What a changed aspect the
world has, since these last few lines
were written! I have been walking
round about my premises, and in
consultation with a gentleman in a
single-breasted blue coat, with pewter
buttons, and a tape ornament on the
collar. He has looked at the holes
in the wall, and the amputated tree.
We have formed our plan of defence
-perhaps of attack. Perhaps some
day you may read in the papers,
" DARING ATTEMPT AT BURGLARY
- HEROIC VICTORY OVER THE VILLAINS," &c., &c. Rascals as yet unknown! perhaps you, too, may read
these words, and may be induced to
pause in your fatal intention. Take
the advice of a sincere friend, and
keep off. To find a man writhing in
my man-trap, another mayhap impaled in my ditch, to pick off another
from my tree (scoundrel! as though
he were a pear), will give me no
pleasure; but such things may happen. Be warned in time, villains!




362


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Or, if you must pursue your calling
as cracksmen, have the goodness to
try some other shutters.  Enough!
subside into your darkness, children
of night! Thieves! we seek not to
have you hanged-you are but as
pegs whereon to hang others.
I may have said before, that if I
were going to be hanged myself, I
think 1 should take an accurate note
of my sensations, request to stop at
some public-house on the road to
Tyburn, and be provided with a private room and writing-materials, and
give an account of my state of mind.
Then, gee up, carter! I beg your
reverence to continue your apposite,
though not novel, remarks on my
situation; and so we drive up to
Tyburn turnpike, where an expectant
crowd, the obliging sheriffs, and the
dexterous and rapid Mr. Ketch are
already in waiting.
A number of laboring people are
sauntering about our streets and
taking their rest on this holiday —
fellows who have no more stolen my
pears than they have robbed the
crown jewels out of the Tower - and
I say I cannot help thinking in my
own mind, " Are you the rascal who
got over my wall last night "  Is
the suspicion haunting my mind written on my countenance? I trust not.
What if one man after another were
to come up to me and say, "How
dare you, sir, suspect me in your
mind of stealing your fruit? Go be
hanged, you and your jargonels!"
You rascal thief! it is not merely
three halfp'orth of sooty fruit you rob
me of; it is my peace of mind -my
artless innocence and trust in my
fellow-creatures, my childlike belief
that every thing they say is true.
How can I hold out the hand of
friendship in this condition, when my
first impression is, "My good sir, I
strongly suspect that you were up my
pear-tree last night? " It is a dreadful state of mind. The core is black;
the death-stricken fruit drops on the
bough, and a great worm is within -
fattening, and feasting, and wrig

gling! Who stole the pears, I say
Is it you, brother? Is it you, madam?   Come, are you ready to
answer - respondere parati et cantare
pares? (O shame! shame!)
Will the villains ever be discovered
and punished who stole my fruit?
Some unlucky rascals who rob orchards are caught up the tree at once.
Some rob through life with impunity.
If I, for my part, were to try and get
up the smallest tree, on the darkest
night, in the most remote orchard, I
wager any money I should be found
out - be caught by the leg in a mantrap, or have Towler fastening on me.
I always am found out; have been;
shall be. It's my luck. Other men
will carry off bushels of fruit, and get
away undetected, unsuspected; whereas I know woe and punishment would
fall upon me were I to lay my hand on
the smallest pippin. So be it. A
man who has this precious self-knowledge will surely keep his hands from
picking and stealing, and his feet
upon the paths of virtue.
I will assume, my benevolent
friends and present reader, that you
yourself are virtuous, not from a fear
of punishment, but from a sheer love
of good. but as you and I walk
through life, consider what hundreds
of thousands of rascals we must have
met, who have not been found out at
all. In high places and low, in Clubs
and on 'Change, at church or the
balls and routs of the nobility and
gentry, how dreadful it is for benevolent beings like you and me to have to
think these undiscovered though not
unsuspected scoundrels are swarming! What is the difference between
you and a galley-slave?  Is yonder
poor wretch at the hulks not a man
and a brother too? Have you ever
forged, my dear sir? Have you ever
cheated your neighbor? Have you
ever ridden to Hounslow Heath, and
robbed the mail?  Have you ever
entered a first-class railway-carriage,
where an old gentleman sat alone in
a sweet sleep, daintily murdered him,
taken his pocket-book, and got out at




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


363


the next station1  You know that
this circumstance occurred in France a
few months since. If we have travelled in France this autumn, we may
have met the ingenious gentleman
who perpetrated this daring and successful coup. We may have found him
a well-informed and agreeable man.
I have been acquainted with two or
three gentlemen who have been discovered after-after the performance
of illegal actions. What? That agreeable rattling fellow we met was the
celebrated Mr. John Sheppard? Was
that amiable quiet gentleman in spectacles the well-known Mr. Fauntleroy   In Hazlitt's admirable paper,
" Going to a Fight," he describes a
dashing sporting fellow who was in
the coach, and who was no less a man
than the eminent destroyer of Mr.
William Weare. Don't tell me that
you would not like to have met (out
of business) Captain Sheppard, the
Reverend Doctor Dodd, or others
rendered famous by their actions and
misfortunes, by their lives and their
deaths. They are the subjects of ballads, the heroes of romance. A friend
of mine had the house in May Fair,
out of which poor Doctor Dodd was
taken handcuffed.  There was the
paved hall over which he stepped.
That little room at the side was, no
doubt, the study where he composed
his elegant sermons.  Two years
since I had the good fortune to partake of some admirable dinners in
Tyburnia- magnificent dinners indeed; but rendered doubly interesting
from the fact that the house was that
occupied by the late Mr. Sadleir.
One night the late Mr. Sadleir took
tea in that dining-room, and, to the
surprise of his butler, went out, having put into his pocket his own creamjug. The next morning, you know,
he was found dead on Hampstead
Heath, with the cream-jug lying by
him, into which he had poured the
poison by which he died. The idea
of the ghost of the late gentleman
fitting about the room gave a strange
interest to the banquet. Can vou


fancy him taking his tea alone in the
dining-room? He empties that creamjug and puts it in his pocket; and
then he opens yonder door, through
which he is never to pass again. Now
he crosses the hall: and hark! the
hall-door shuts upon him, and his
steps die away. They are gone into
the night.  'hey traverse the sleeping city.  They lead him into the
fields, where the gray morning is
beginning to glimmer. He pours
something from a bottle into a little
silver jug. It touches his lips, the
lying lips. Do they quiver a prayer
ere that awful draught is swallowed?
When the sun rises they are dumb.
I neither knew this unhappy man,
nor his countryman -Laertes let us
call him - who is at present in exile,
having been compelled to fly from
remorseless creditors.  Laertes fled
to America, where he earned his
bread by his pen. I own to having
a kindly feeling towards this scapegrace, because, though an exile, he
did not abuse the country whence he
fled. I have heard that he went away
taking no spoil with him, penniless
almost; and on his voyage he made
acquaintance with a certain Jew; and
when he fell sick, at New York, this
Jew befriended him, and gave him
help and money out of his own store,
which was but small. Now, after
they had been a while in the strange
city, it happened that the poor Jew
spent all his little money, and he too
fell ill, and was in great penury. And
now it was Laertes who befriended
that Ebrew Jew. He feed doctors;
he fed and tended the sick and hungry. Go to, Laertes! I know thee
not. It may be thou art justly exul
patrice. But the Jew shal intercede
for thee, thou not, let us trust, hopes
less Christian sinner.
Another exile to the same shore I
knew: who did not? Julius Caesar
hardly owed more money than Cucedicus: and, gracious powers! Cucedicus, how did you manage to spend
and owe so much? All day he was
at work for his clients; at night he




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was occupied in the Public Council.
He neither had wife nor children.
The rewards which he received for
his orations were enough to maintain
twenty rhetoricians.  Night after
night I have seen him eating his
frugal meal, consisting but of a fish,
a small portion of mutton, and a
small measure of Iberian or Trinacrian
wine, largely diluted with the sparkling waters of Rhenish Gaul. And
this was all he had; and this man
earned and paid away talents upon
talents; and fled, owing who knows
how many more! Does a man earn
fifteen thousand pounds a year, toiling by day, talking by night, having
horrible unrest in his bed, ghastly
terrors at waking, seeing an officer
lurking at every corner, a sword of
justice forever hanging over his head
-and have for his sole diversion a
newspaper, a lonely mutton-chop, and
a little sherry and seltzer-water? In
the German stories we read how men
sell themselves to- a certain Personage, and that Personage cheats them.
He gives them wealth; yes, but the
gold-pieces turn into worthless leaves.
He sets them before splendid banquets; yes, but what an awful grin
that black footman has who lifts up
the dish-cover; and don't you smell
a peculiar sulphurous odor in the
dish  Faugh! take it away; I can't
cat.  He promises them splendors
and triumphs. The conqueror's car
rolls glittering through the city, the
multitudes shout and huzza. Drive
on, coachman. Yes, but who is that
hanging on behind the carriage? Is
this the reward of eloquence, talents,
industry? Is this the end of a life's
labor? Don't you remember how,
when the dragon was infesting the
neighborhood of Babylon, the citizens
used to walk dismally out of evenings,
and look at the valleys round about
strewed with the bones of the victims
whom the monster had devoured?
O insatiate brute, and most disgusting, brazen, and scaly reptile! Let
us be thankful, children, that it has
not gobbled us up too. Quick. Let


us turn away, and pray that we may
be kept out of the reach of his horrible
maw, jaw, claw!
When I first came up to London,
as innocent as Monsieur Gil Bias, I
also fell in with some pretty acquaintances, found my way into several
caverns, and delivered my purse to
more than one gallant gentleman of
the road. One I remember especially
-one who never eased me personally
of a single maravedi- one than
whom I never met a bandit more
gallant, courteous, and amiable. Rob
me? Rolando feasted me; treated
me to his dinner and his wine; kept
a generous table for his friends, and I
know was most liberal to many of
them. How well I remember one
of his speculations! It was a great
plan for smuggling tobacco. Revenue
officers were to be bought off; silent
ships were to ply on the Thames;
cunning dep6ts were to be established,
and hundreds of thousands of pounds
to be made by the coup. How his
eyes kindled as he propounded the
scheme to me!  How easy and cerItain it seemed! It might have succeeded: I can't say: but the bold and
merry, the hearty and kindly Rolando
came to grief — a little matter of
imitated signatures occasioned a Bank
persecution of Rolando the Brave.
He walked about armed, and vowed
he would never be taken alive: but
taken he was; tried, condemned,
sentenced to perpetual banishment;
and I heard that for some time he
was universally popular in the colony
which had the honor to possess him.
What a song he could sing! 'Twas
when the cup was sparkling before
us, and heaven gave a portion of its
blue, boys, blue, that I remember the
song of Roland at "The Old Piazza
Coffee-house." And now where is
"The Old Piazza Coffee-house?"
Where is Thebes? where is Troy?
where is the Colossus of Rhodes?
Ah, Rolando, Rolando! thou wert a
gallant captain, a cheery, a handsome,
a merry. At me thou never presentcdst pistol. Thou badest the bumper




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


365


of Burgundy fill, fill for me, giving
those who preferred it Champagne.
Ccelum  non animun, &c.  Do you
think he has reformed now that he
has crossed the sea, and changed the
air? I have my own opinion. Howbeit, Rolando, thou wert a most kind
and hospitable bandit. And I love
not to think of thee with a chain at
thy shin.
Do you know how all these memories
of unfortunate men have come upon
me? When they came to frighten
me this morning by speaking of my
robbed pears, my perforated garden
wall, I was reading an article in " The
Saturday Review" about Rupilius. I
have sat near that young man at a public dinner, and beheld him in a gilded
uniform. But yesterday he lived in
splendor, had long hair, a flowing
beard, a jewel at his neck, and a smart
surtout. So attired, he stood but yesterday in court; and to-day he sits
over a bowl of prison cocoa, with a
shaved head, and in a felon's jerkin.
That beard and head shaved, that
gaudy deputy-lieutenant's coat exchanged for felon uniform, and your
daily bottle of champagne for prison
cocoa, my poor Rupilius, what a comfort it must be to have the business
brought to an end! Champagne was
the honorable gentleman's drink in
the House of Commons dining-room,
as I am informed.  What uncommonly dry champagne that must
have been! When we saw him outwardly happy, how miserable he
must have been! when we thought
him prosperous, how dismally poor!
When the great Mr. Harker, at the
public dinners, called out- " Gentlemen, charge your glasses, and please
silence for the Honorable Member for
Lambeth!" how that Honorable Member must have writhed inwardly! One
day, when there was a talk of a gentleman's honor being questioned,
Rupilius said, "If any man doubted
mine, I would knock him down."
But that speech was in the way of
business. The Spartan boy, who
stole the fox, smiled while the beast


I was gnawing him under his cloak:
I promise you Rupilius had some
sharp fangs gnashing under his. We
have sat at the same feast, I say: we
have paid our contribution to the
same charity. Ah! when I ask this
day for my daily bread, I pray not to
be led into temptation, and to be delivered from evil.
DESSEIN'S.
I ARRIVED by the night-mail packet from Dover.  The passage had
been rough, and the usual consequences had ensued. I was disinclined to travel farther that night on
my road to Paris, and knew the
Calais hotel of old as one of the
cleanest, one of the dearest, one of
the most comfortable hotels on the
continent of Europe.  There is no
town more French than Calais. That
charming old " H6tel Dessein," with
its court, its gardens, its lordly
kitchen, its princely waiter- a gentleman of the old school, who has welcomed the finest company in Europe
-have long been known to me. I
have read complaints in " The
Times," more than once, I think,
that the Dessein bills are dear. A
bottle of soda-water certainly costs
- well, never mind how much. I
remember as a boy, at the "Ship " at
Dover (imperante Carolo Decimo),
when, my place to London being
paid, I had but 12s. left after a certain
little Paris excursion (about which
my benighted parents never knew any
thing), ordering for dinner a whiting,
a beefsteak, and a glass of negus, and
the bill was, dinner 7s., glass of negus
2s., waiter 6d., and only half a crown
left, as I was a sinner, for the guard
and coachman on the way to London!
And I was a sinner. I had gone
without leave. What a long, dreary,
guilty forty hours' journey it was
from Paris to Calais, I remember!
How did I come to think of this
escapade, which occurred in the Easter




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vacation of the year 1830? I always
think of it when I am crossing to Calais. Guilt, sir, guilt remains stamped
on the memory, and I feel easier in
my mind now that it is liberated of
this old peccadillo. I met my college tutor only yesterday. We were
travelling, and stopped at the same
hotel. He had the very next room
to mine. After he had gone into his
apartment, having shaken me quite
kindly by the hand, I felt inclined to
knock at his door and say, " Doctor
Bentley, I beg your pardon, but do
you remember, when I was going
down at the Easter vacation in 1830,
you asked me where I was going to
spend my vacation?   And I said,
With my friend Slingsby, in Huntingdonshire. Well, sir, I grieve to
have to confess that I told you a fib.
I had got 201. and was going for a
lark to Paris, where my friend Edwards was staying." There, it is out.
The Doctor will read it, for I did not
wake him up after all to make my
confession, but protest he shall have
a copy of this Roundabout sent to
him when he returns to his lodge.
They gave me a bed-room there;
a very neat room on the first floor,
looking into the pretty garden. The
hotel must look pretty much as it did
a hundred years ago when he visited
it. I wonder whether he paid his
bill?  Yes: his journey was just
begun. He had borrowed or got the
money somehow. Such a man would
spend it liberally enough when he had
it, give generously - na, drop a tear
over the fate of the poor fellow whom
he relieved. I don't believe a word
he says, but I never accused him of
stinginess about money. That is a
fault of much more virtuous people
than he.  Mr. Laurence is ready
enough with his purse when there are
anybody's guineas in it. Still when
I went to bed in the room, in his
room; when I think how I admire,
dislike, and have abused him, a certain dim feeling of apprehension
filled my mind at the midnight hour.
What if I should see his lean figure


in the black-satin breeches, his sinister
smile, his long thin finger pointing
to me in the moonlight (for I am in
bed, and have popped my candle out),
and he should say, " You mistrust
me, you hate me, do you? And you,
don't you know how Jack, Tom, and
-Harry, your brother authors, hate
you? " I grin and laugh in the moonlight, in the midnight, in the silence.
"0 you ghost in black-satin breeches
and a wig! I like to be hated by
some men," I say. "I know men
whose lives are a scheme, whose
laughter is a conspiracy, whose smile
means something else, whose hatred
is a cloak, and I had rather these men
should hate me than not."
"My good sir," says lie, with a
ghastly grin on his lean face, "you
have vour wish."
"Apres?" I say. "Please let me
go to sleep. I shan't sleep any the
worse because ""Because there are insects in the
bed, and they sting you? " (This is
only by way of illustration, my good
sir; the animals don't bite me now.
All the house at present seems to me
excellently clean.) "'Tis absurd to
affect this indifference. If you are
thin-skinned, and the reptiles bite,
they keep you from sleep.
" There are some men who cry out
at a flea-bite as loud as if they were
torn by a vulture," I growl.
"Men of the genus irritabile, my
worthy good gentleman!- and you
are one."
"Yes, sir, I am of the profession,
as you say; and I dare say make
a great shouting and crying at a small
hurt."
" You are ashamed of that quality
by which you earn your subsistence,
and such reputation as you have
Your sensibility is your livelihood,
my worthy friend. You feel a pang
of pleasure or pain? It is noted in
your memory, and some day or other
makes its appearance in your manuscript. Why, in your last Roundabout rubbish you mention reading
your first novel on the day when




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


367


King George IV. was crowned. I
remember him in his cradle at St.
James's, a lovely little babe; a gilt
Chinese railing was before him, and I
dropped the tear of sensibility as I
gazed on the sleeping cherub."
"A   tear - a  fiddlestick,  Mr.
STERNE," I growled out, for of
course I knew my friend in the wig
and satin breeches to be no other than
the notorious, nay, celebrated Mr.
Laurence Sterne.
" Does not the sight of a beautiful
infant charm and melt you, mon ami?
If not, I pity you. Yes, he was beautiful. I was in London the year he
was born. I used to breakfast at the
' Mount Coffee-house.' I did not become the fashion until two years later,
when my ' Tristram' made his appearance, who has held his own for
a hundred years. By the way, mon
bon mnonsieur, how many authors of
your present time will last till the
next century? Do you think Brown
will? "
I laughed with scorn as I lay in
my bed (and so did the ghost give a
ghastly snigger).
"Brown!" I roared.   "One of
the most over-rated men that ever put
pen to paper!"
" What do you think of Jones? "
I grew indignant with this old
cynic. "As a reasonable ghost, come
out of the other world, you don't
mean," I said, "to ask me a serious
opinion of Mr. Jones? His books
may be very good reading for maidservants and school-boys, but you
don't ask me to read them? As a
scholar yourself you  must know
that" -
" Well, then, Robinson?"
"Robinson, I am told, has merit.
I dare say; I never have been able to
read his books, and can't, therefore,
form any opinion about Mr. Robinson.
At least you will allow that I am not
speaking in a prejudiced manner about
him."
"Ah! I see you men of letters
have your cabals and jealousies, as
we had in my time. There was an


Irish fellow by the name of Gouldsmith, who used to abuse me; but he
went into no genteel company- and
faith! it mattered little, his praise or
abuse. I never was more surprised
than when I heard that Mr. Irving,
an American gentleman of parts and
elegance, had wrote the fellow's life.
To make a hero of that man, my dear
sir, 'twas ridiculous! You followed
in the fashion, I hear, and chose to
lay a wreath before this queer little
idol. Preposterous! A pretty writer,
who has turned some neat couplets.
Bah! I have no patience with Master Posterity, that has chosen to take
up this fellow, and make a hero of
him! And there was another gentleman of my time, Mr. Thiefeatcher
Fielding, forsooth! a fellow with the
strength, and the tastes, and the manners of a porter! What madness has
possessed you all to bow before that
Calvert Butt of a man? - a creature
without elegance or sensibility! The
dog had spirits, certainly. I remember my Lord Bathurst praising them:
but as for reading his books-mafoi,
I would as lief go and dive for tripe
in a cellar.  The man's vulgarity
stifles me. IIe wafts me whiffs of
gin. Tobacco and onions are in his
great coarse laugh, which chql thme,
pardi; and I don't think muoebetter
of the other fellow - the Scots' gallipot purveyor - Peregrine Clinker,
Humphrey Random -how did the
fellow call his rubbish? Neither of
these men had the bel air, the bon ton,
the je ne sais quoi. Pah! If I meet
them in my walks by our Stygian
river, I give them a wide berth, as
that hybrid apothecary fellow would
say. An ounce of civet, good apothecary; horrible, horrible! The mere
thought of the coarseness of those
men gives me the chair de poule. Mr.
Fielding, especially, has no more sensibilitv than a butcher in Fleet Market. He takes his heroes out of alehouse kitchens, or worse places still.
And this is the person whom Posterity
has chosen to honor along with meme   Faith, Monsieur Posterity, you




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have put me in pretty company, and
I see you are no wiser than we were
in our time. Mr. Fielding, forsooth!
Mr. Tripe and Onions! Mr. Cowheel and Gin! Thank you for nothing, Monsieur Posterity I "
" And so," thought I, " even among
these Stygians this envy and quarrelsomeness (if you will permit me
the word) survive? What a pitiful
meanness! To be sure, I can understand this feeling to a certain extent;
a sense of justice will prompt it. In
my own case, I often feel myself
forced to protest against the absurd
praises lavished on contemporaries.
Yesterday, for instance, Lady Jones
was good enough to praise one of my
works. Tres bien. But in the very
next minute she began, with quite
as great enthusiasm, to praise Miss
Hobson's last romance.  My good
creature, what is that woman's praise
worth who absolutely admires the
writings of Miss Hobson? I offer a
friend a bottle of '44 claret, fit for a
pontifical supper.  'This is capital
wine,'says he; 'and now we have
finished the bottle, will you give me
a bottle of that ordinaire we drank
the other day?' Very well, my good
man. You are a good judge-of
ordi.ivre, I dare say. Nothing so
provfNis my anger, and rouses my
sense of justice, as to hear other men
undeservedly praised.  In a word,
if you wish to remain friends with
me, don't praise anybody. You tell
me that the Venus de' Medici is
beautiful, or Jacob Omnium is tall.
Que diable! Can't I judge for myself'? Haven't I eyes and a foot-rule?
I don't think the Venus is so handsome, since you press me.  She is
pretty, but she has no expression.
And as for Mr. Omnium, I can see
much taller men in a fair for twopence."
"And so," I said, turning round
to Mr. Sterne, you are actually jealous of Mr. Fielding? 0 you men
of letters, you men of letters! Is not
the world (your world, I mean) big
enough for all of you? "


I often travel in my sleep. I often
of a night find myself walking in my
night-gown about the gray streets.
It is awkward at first, but somehow
nobody makes any remark. I glide
along over the ground with my naked
feet. The mud does not wet them.
The passers-by do not tread on
them. I am wafted over the ground.
down the stairs, through the doors.
This sort of travelling, dear friends,
I am sure you have all of you indulged.
Well, on the night in question (and
if you wish to know the precise date,
it was the 31st of September last),
after having some little conversation
with Mr. Sterne in our bed-room, I
must have got up, though I protest I
don't know how, and come down
stairs with him into the coffee-room
of the "II6tel Dessein," where the
moon was shining, and a cold supper
was laid out. I forget what we had
-"vol-au-vent d'oeufs de Phenixagneau aux pistaches 'a la Barmecide,"-what matters what we had?
"As regards supper this is certain,
the less you have of it the better."
That is what one of the guests remarked,-a shabby old man, in a
wig, and such a dirty, ragged, disreputable dressing-gown that I should
have been quite surprised at him, only
one never is surprised in dr- under certain circumstances.
"I can't eat 'em now," said the
greasy man (with his false teeth, I
wonder he could eat any thing). "I
remember Alvanley eating three suppers once at Carlton House —one
night de petite comitc'."
"Petit comite, sir," said Mr. Sterne,
"Dammy, sir, let me tell my own
story my own way. I say, one night
at Carlton House, playing at blind
hookey with York, Wales, Tom
Raikes, Prince Boothby, and Dutch
Sam the boxer, Alvanley ate three
suppers, and won three and twenty
hundred pounds in ponies. Never saw
a fellow with such an appetite, except
Wales in his good time. But he destroyed the finest digestion a man




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369


ci er had with maraschino, by Jove -
always at it."
" Try mine," said Mr. Sterne.
" What a doosid queer box!" says
Mr. Brummell.
" I had it from a Capuchin friar in,his town. The box is but a horn
one; but to the nose of sensibility
Araby's perfume is not more delicate."
" I call it doosid stale old rappee,"
says Mr. Brummell -(as for me I
declare I could not smell any thing at
all in either of the boxes). " Old boy
in smock-frock, tale a pinch "
The old boy in the smock-frock,
as Mr. Brummell called him, was a
very old man, with long white beard,
wearing, not a smock-frock, but a
shirt; and he had actually nothing
else save a rope round his neck, which
hung behind his chin in the queerest way.
" Fair sir," he said, turning to Mr.
Brummell, "when the     Prince of
Wales and his father laid siege to our
town ""What nonsense are you talking,
old cock?"   says Mr. Brummell;
" Wales was never here.  His late
Majesty George IV. passed through
on his way to Hanover. My good
man, you don't seem to know what's
up at all. What is he talkin' about
the siege of Calais  I lived here
fifteen  years! Ought to   know.
What's his old name? "
"I am Master Eustace of Saint
Peter's," said the old gentleman in
the shirt.  "When my Lord King
Edward laid siege to this city " -
"Laid siege to Jericho! " cries Mr.
Brummell. " The old man is cracked
-cracked, sir 1"
"-Laid siege to this city," continued the old man, " I and five more
promised Messire Gautier de Mauny
that we would give ourselves up as
ransom for the place. And we came
before our Lord King Edward, attired
as you see, and the fair queen begged
our lives out of her gramercy."
" Queen, nonsense! you mean the
Princess of Wales-pretty woman,


petit nez retroulsse, grew monstrous
stout?" suggested Mr. Brummcll,
whose reading was evidently not extensive.  " Sir Sidney Smith was a
fine fellow, great talker, hook nose,
so has Lord Cochrane, so has Lord
Wellington. She was very sweet on
Sir Sidney."
"Your acquaintance with the history of Calais does no, seem to be
considerable," said Mr. Sterne to Mr.
Brummell, with a shrug.
"Don't it, bishop -- for I conclude you are a bishop by your wig.
I know Calais as well as any man. I
lived here for years before I took that
confounded consulate at Caen. Lived
in this hotel, then at Leleux's. People used to stop here. Good fellows
used to ask for poor George Brummell; Hertford did, so did the Duchess
of Devonshire. Not know Calais indeed! That is a good joke. Had
many a good dinner here: sorry I
ever left it."
" My Lord King Edward," chirped
the queer old gentleman in the shirt,
" colonized the place with his English,
after we had yielded it up to him. I
have heard tell they kept it for nigh
three hundred years, till my Lord
de Guise took it from a fair Queen,
Mary of blessed memory, a holy
woman. Eh, but Sire Gautier of
Mauny was a good knight, a valiant
captain, gentle and courteous withal!
Do you remember his ransoming
the "" What is the old fellow twaddlin
aboutq " cries Brummell. "He it
talking about some knight? - I nevet
spoke to a knight, and very seldom to
a baronet. Firkins, my butterman,
was a knight-a knight and alderman. Wales knighted him once on
going into the City."
"I am not surprised that the gentleman should not understand Messire
Eustace of St. Peter's," said the
ghostly individual addressed as Mr.
Sterne. " Your reading doubtless has
not been very extensive "
" Dammy, sir, speak for yourself!"
cries Mr. Brummell, testily. "I




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never professed to be a reading man,
but I was as good as my neighbors.
Wales wasn't a reading man; York
wasn't a reading man; Clarence
wasn't a reading man; Sussex was,
but he wasn't a man in society. I
remember reading your ' Sentimental
Journey,' old boy: read it to the
Duchess at Beauvoir, I recollect, and
she cried over it.  Doosid clever
amusing book, and does you great
credit. Birron wrote doosid clever
books, too; so did Monk Lewis.
George Spencer was an elegant poet,
and my dear Duchess of Devonshire,
if she had not been a grande dame,
would have beat 'em all, by George.
Wales couldn't write: he could sing,
but he couldn't spell."
"Ah, you know the great world?
so did I in my time, Mr. Brummell.
I have had the visiting tickets of
half the nobility at my lodgings in
Bond Street. But they left me there
no more cared for than last year's
calendar," sighed Mr. Sterne. "Iwonder who is the mode in London now?
)ne of our late arrivals, my Lord
Macaulay, has prodigious merit and
learning, and, faith, his histories are
more amusing than any novels, my
own included."
" Don't know, I'm sure; not in my
line. Pick this bone of chicken,"
says Mr. Brummell, trifling with a
skeleton bird before him.
" I remember in this city of Calais
worse fare than yon bird,' said old
Mr. Eustace of St. Peter's. " Marry,
sirs, when my Lord King Edward
laid siege to us, lucky was he who
could get a slice of horse for his
breakfast, and a rat was sold at the
price of a hare."
"Hare is coarse food, never tasted
rat," remarked the Beau. "Tableil'hte poor fare enough for a man
like me, who has been accustomed to
the best of cookery. But rat - stifle
me! I couldn't swallow that: never
could bear hardship at all."
" We had to bear enough when my
Lord of England pressed us. 'Twas
pitiful to sec the faces of our women


as the siege went on, and hear the
little ones asking for dinner."
"Always a bore, children. At
dessert, they are bad enough, but at
dinner they're the deuce and all," remarked Mr. Brummell.
Messire Eustace of St. Peter's did
not seem to pay much attention to
the Beau's remarks, but continued
his own train of thought as old men
will do.
" I hear," said he, " that there has
actually been no war between us of
France and you men of England for
well nigh fifty year. Ours has ever
been a nation of warriors. And besides her regular found men-at-arms,
'tis said the English of the present
time have more than a hundred
thousand of archers with weapons
that will carry for half a mile. And
a multitude have come amongst us
of late from a great Western country,
never so much as heard of in my time
-valiant men and great drawers of
the long-bow, and they say they have
ships in armor that no shot can penetrate. Is it so? Wonderful; wonderful! The best armor, gossips, is
a stout heart."
"And if ever manly heart beat
under shirt-frill, thine is that heart,
Sir Eustace! " cried Mr. Sterne enthusiasticallv.
"We, of rl'ance, were never accused of lack of courage, sir, in so
far as 1 know," said Messire Eustace.
" We have shown as much in a thousand wars with you English by sea
and land; and sometimes we conquered, and sometimes, as is the fortune of war, we were discomfited.
And notably in a great sea-fight which
befell off Ushant on the first of June
- Our Admiral, Messire Villaret de
Joyeuse, on board his galleon named
' The Vengeur,' being sore pressed by
an English bombard, rather than yield
the crew of his ship to mercy, determined to go down with all on board
of her: and to the cry of Vive la
Repub - or, I would say, of Notre
Dame a la Rescousse, he and his crew
all sank to an immortal grave " —




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371


"' Sir," said I, looking with amaze- did but my duty at a painful moment;
ment at the old gentleman, " surely, and 'tis matter of wonder to me that
surely, there is some mistake in your men talk still, and glorify such a tristatement. Permit me to observe that fling matter. By our Lady's grace, in
the action of the first of June took the fair kingdom  of France, there
place five hundred years after your are scores of thousands of men, gentle
time, and" -                      and simple, who would do as I did.
"Perhaps I am    confusing  my Does not every sentinel at his post,
dates," said the old gentleman, with does not every archer in the front of
a faint blush. " You say I am mix- battle, brave it, and die where his
ing up the transactions of my time captain bids him? Who am I that
on earth with the story of my success- I should be chosen out of all France
ors? It may be so. We take no to be an example of fortitude? I
count of a few centuries more or less braved no tortures, though these I
in our dwelling by the darkling Sty- trust I would have endured with a
gian river. Of late, there  came good heart. I was subject to threats
amongst us a good knight, Messire only. Who was the Roman knight
de Cambronne, who fought against of whom    the Latin clerk Horatius
you English in the country of Flan- tells "
ders, being captain of the guard of  "A Latin clerk? Faith, I forget
my Lord the King of France, in a my Latin," says     Mr. Brummell.
famous battle where you English "Ask the parson here."
would have been utterly routed but  "Messire  Regulus, I remember,
for the succor of the Prussian hea- was his name. Taken prisoner by
then. This Messire de Cambronne, the Saracens, he gave his knightly
when bidden to yield by you of Eng- word, and was permitted to go seek a
land, answered this, 'The guard dies, "ansom among his own people. Being
but never surrenders; ' and fought a unable to raise the sum  that was a
long time afterwards, as became a fitting ransom for such a knight, he
good knight. In our wars with you returned to Afric, and cheerfully subof England it may have pleased the mitted to the tortures which the PayFates to give you the greater suc- nims inflicted. And'tis said he took
cess, but on our side, also, there has leave of his friends as gayly as though
been no lack of brave deeds performed he were going to a village kermes, or
by brave men."                    riding to his garden house in the sub" King Edward may have been the urb of the city."
victor, sir, as being the strongest,  "Great, good, glorious man!"
but you are the hero of the siege of cried Mr. Sterne, very much moved.
Calais! " cried Mr. Sterne.  "Your "Let me embrace that gallant hand,
story is sacred, and your name has been and bedew it with my tears! As long
blessed for five hundred years. Where- as honor lasts thy name shall be reever men speak of patriotism and sac- membered. See this dew-drop twinrifice, Eustace of Saint Pierre shall be kling on my cheek! 'Tis the sparkling
beloved and remembered. I prostrate tribute that Sensibility pays to Valor.
myself before the bare feet which stood Though in my life and practice I may
before King Edward. What collar turn from Virtue, believe me, I never
of chivalry is to be compared to that have ceased to honor her! Ah, Virglorious order which you   wear? tue! Ah, Sensibility! Oh"Think, sir, how  out of the myriad  Here Mr. Sterne was interrupted
millions of our race, you, and some by a monk of the Order of St. Franfew more, stand forth as exemplars cis, who stepped into the room, and
of duty and honor. Fortunati nimi- begged us all to take a pinch of his
um! "                             famous old rappee. I suppose the snuff." Sir," said the old gentleman, " I was very pungent, for, with a great




372


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start, I woke up; and now perceived
that I must have been dreaming altogether. "Dessein's" of nowadays
is not the "Dessein's" which Mr.
Sterne, and Mr. Brummell, and I recollect in the good old times. The
town of Calais has bought the old
hotel, and " Dessein " has gone over
to " Quillacq's." And I was there
yesterday. And I remember old diligences, and old postilions in pigtails
and jack-boots, who were once as
alive as I am, and whose cracking
whips I have heard in the midnight
many and many a time. Now, where
are they? Behold! they have been
ferried over Styx, and have passed
away into limbo.
I wonder what time does my boat
go? Ah! Here comes the waiter
bringing me my little bill.
ON SOME CARP AT SANS
SOUCI.
WE have lately made the acquaintance of an old lady of ninety, who
has passed the last twenty-five years
of her old life in a great metropolitan
establishment, the workhouse, namely, of the parish of Saint Lazarus.
Stay-twenty three or four years
ago, she came out once, and thought
to earn a little money by hop-picking;
but being overworked, and having to
lie out at night, she got a palsy which
has incapacitated her from all further
labor, and has caused her poor old
limbs to shake ever since.
An illustration of that dismal proverb which tells us how poverty makes
us acquainted with strange bed-fellows, this poor old shaking body has
to lay herself down every night in her
work-house bed by the side of some
other old woman with whom she may
or may not agree. She herself can't
be a very pleasant bed-fellow, poor
thing! with her shaking old limbs
and cold feet. She lies awake a deal
of the night, to be sure, not thinking
of happy old times, for hers never


were happy; but sleepless with aches,
and agues, and rheumatism of old age.
" The gentleman gave me brandy and
water," she said, her old voice shaking with rapture at the thought. I
never had a great love for Queen
Charlotte, but I like her better now
from what this old lady told me. The
Queen, who loved snuff herself, has
left a legacy of snuff to certain poorhouses; and, in her watchful nights,
this old woman takes a pinch of
Queen Charlotte's snuff, "and it do
comfort me, sir, that it do! " Pulveris exigui munus. Here is a forlorn
aged creature, shaking with palsy,
with no soul among the great struggling multitude of mankind to care
for her, not quite trampled out of life,
but past and forgotten in the rush,
made alittle happy, and soothed in
her hours of unrest by this penny
legacy. Let me think as I write. (The
next month's sermon, thank goodness! is safe to press.)  This discourse will appear at the season when
I have read that wassail-bowls make
their appearance; at the season of
pantomime, turkey, and sausages,
plum-puddings,  jollifications  for
schoolboys; Christmas bills, and reminiscences more or less sad and
sweet for elders. If we oldsters are
not merry, we shall be having a semblance of merriment. We shall see
the young folks laughing round the
holly-bush. We shall pass the bottle
round cosily as we sit by the fire.
That old thing will have a sort of festival too. Beef, beer, and pudding
will be served to her for that day also.
Christmas falls on a Thursday. Friday is the workhouse day for coming
out. Mary, remember that old Goody
Twoshoes has her invitation for Friday, 26th December! Ninety is she,
poor old soul? Ah! what a bonny
face to catch under a mistletoe! " Yes,
ninety, sir," she says, "and my
mother was a hundred, and my grandmother was a hundred and two."
Herself ninety, her mother a hundred, her grandmother a hundred
and two? What a queer calculation




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373


Ninety! Very good, granny: you
were born, then, in 1772.
Your mother, we will say, was
twenty-seven when you were born,
and was born therefore in 1745.
Your grandmother was thirty when
her daughter was born, and was born
therefore in 1715.
We will begin with the present
granny first. My good old creature,
you can't of course remember, but
that little gentleman for whom your
mother was laundress in tle Temple
was the ingenious Mr. Goldsmith,
author of a "History of England,"
"The Vicar of Wakefield," and
many diverting pieces. You were
brought almost an infant to his chambers, in Brick Court, and he gave you
some sugar-candy, for the doctor was
always good to children. That gentleman who well-nigh smothered you by
sitting down on you as you lay in a
chair asleep was the learned Mr. S.
Johnson, whose history of " Rasselas "
you have never read, my poor soul;
and whose tragedy of "Irene" I
don't believe any man in these kingdoms ever perused.   That tipsy
Scotch gentleman who used to come
to the chambers sometimes, and at
whom everybody laughed, wrote a
more amusing book than any of the
scholars, your Mr. Burke and your
Mr. Johnson, and your Doctor Goldsmith. Your father often took him
home in a chair to his lodgings; and
has done as much for Parson Sterne
in Bond Street, the famous wit. Of
course, my good creature, you remember the Gordon Riots, and crying No
Popery before Mr. Langdale's house,
the Popish distiller's and that bonny
fire of my Lord Mansfield's books in
Bloomsbury Square? Bless us, what
a heap of illuminations you have
seen! For the glorious victory over
the Americans at Breed's Hill; for
the peace in 1814, and the beautiful
Chinese bridge in St. James's Park;
for the coronation of his Majesty,
whom you recollect as Prince of
Wales, Goody, don't you? Yes; and
you went in a procession of laundress

es to pay your respects to his good
lady, the injured Queen of England,
at Brandenburg House; and you
remember your mother told you
how she was taken to see the Scotch
lords executed at the Tower. And
as for your grandmother, she was born
five years after the battle of Malplaquet, she was; where her poor father
was killed, fighting like a bold Briton
for the Queen. With the help of a
" Wade's Chronology," I can make
out ever so queer a history for you,
my poor old body, and a pedigree as
authentic as many in the peeragebooks.
Peerage-books and pedigrees?
What does she know about them?
Battles and victories, treasons, kings,
and beheadings, literary gentlemen,
and the like, what have they ever been
to her? Granny, did you ever hear of
General Wolfe? Your mother may
have seen him embark, and your
father may have carried a musket
under him. Your grandmother may
have cried huzza for Marlborough;
but what is the Prince Duke to you,
and did you ever so much as hear
tell of his name? How many hundred or thousand of years had that
toad lived who was in the coal at the
defunct Exhibition?-and yet he
was not a bit better informed than
toads seven or eight hundred years
younger.
" Don't talk to me your nonsense
about Exhibitions, and Prince Dukes,
and toads in coals, or coals in toads,
or what is itq " says granny. "I
know there was a good Queen Charlotte, for she left me snuff; and it
comforts me of a night when I lie
awake."
To me there is something very
touching in the notion of that little
pinch of comfort doled out to granny,
and gratefully inhaled by her in the
darkness. Don't you remember what
traditions there used to be of chests
of plate, bulses of diamonds, laces of
inestimable value, sent out of the
country privately by the old Queen to
enrich certain relations in M-ckl-nb-rg




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Str-l-tz? Not all the treasure went.
Non omnis moritur. A.poor old palsied thing at midnight is made happy
sometimes as she lifts her shaking old
hand to her nose. Gliding noiselessly
among the beds where lie the poor
creatures huddled in their cheerless
dormitory, I fancy an old ghost with a
snuff-box that does not creak. "There,
Goody, take of my rappee. You will
not sneeze, and I shall not say 'God
bless you.'  But you will think
kindly of old Queen Charlotte, won't
you? Ah! I had a many troubles,
a many troubles. I was a prisoner
almost so much as you are. I had
to eat boiled mutton every day:
entre nous, I abominated it. But I
never complained. I swallowed it. I
made the best of a hard life. We
have all our burdens to bear. But
hark! I hear the cock-crow, and snuff
the morning air." And with this the
royal ghost vanishes up the chimney
-if there be a chimney in that dismal harem, where poor old Twoshoes
and her companions pass their nights
— their dreary nights, their restless nights, their cold long nights,
shared in what glum companionship,
illumined by what a feeble taper!
" Did I understand you, my good
Twoshoes, to say that your mother
was seven and twenty years old when
you were born, and that she married
your esteemed father when she herself
was twenty-five 1 1745, then, was the
date of your dear mother's birth. I
dare say her father was absent in the
Low Countries, with his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland, under
whom he had the honor of carrying
a halberd at the famous engagement
of Fontenoy —or if not there, he
may have been at Preston Pans,
under General Sir John Cope, when
the wild Highlanders broke through
all the laws of discipline, and the
English lines; and, being on the spot,
did he see the famous ghost which
didn't appear to Colonel Gardiner of
the Dragoons? My good creature,
is it possible you don't remember that
Doctor Swift, Sir Robert Walpolc


(my Lord Orford, as you justly say),
old Sarah Marlborough, and little
Mr. Pope, of Twitnam, died in the
year of your birth? What a wretched
memory you have! What? haven't
they a library, and the commonest
books of reference at the old convent
of Saint Lazarus, where you dwell?"
" Convent of Saint Lazarus, Prince
William, Dr. Swift, Atossa, and
Mr. Pope, of Twitnam!   What is
the gentleman talking about?" says
old Goody, with a " Ho! ho!" and
a laugh like an old parrot-you
know they live to be as old as
Methuselah, parrots do, and a parrot of a hundred is comparrotively
young (ho! ho! ho!).    Yes, and
likewise carps live to an immense
old age. Some which Frederick the
Great fed at Sans Souci are there
now, with great humps of blue
mould on their old backs; and they
could tell all sorts of queer stories,
if they chose to speak -but they
are very silent, carps are-of their
nature pel communicatives. Oh! what
has been thy long life, old Goody,
but*a dole of bread and water and a
perch on a cage; a dreary swim round
and round a Lethe of a pond  What
are Rossbach or Jena to those mouldy
ones, and do they know it is a grandchild of England who brings bread
to feed them?
No! Those Sans Souci carps may
live to be a thousand years old, and
have nothing to tell but that one day
is like another; and the history of
friend Goody Twoshoes has not much
more variety than theirs. Hard labor, hard fare, hard bed, numbing
cold all night, and gnawing hunger
most days. That is her lot. Is it
lawful in my prayers to say, "Thank
heaven, I am not as one of these "?
If I were eighty, would I like to feel
the hunger always gnawing, gnawing? to have to get up and make a
bow when Mr. Bumble the beadle
entered the common room? to have
to listen to Miss Prim, who came to
give me her ideas of the next world?
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375


like to have to sleep with another
gentleman of my own age, gouty, a
bad sleeper, kicking in his old dreams,
and snoring; to march down my vale
of years at word of command, accommodating my tottering old steps to
those of the other prisoners in my
dingy, hopeless old gang; to hold out
a trembling hand for a sickly pittance
of gruel, and say, "Thank you,
ma'm," to Miss Prim, when she has
done reading her sermon. John!
when Goody Twoshoes comes next
Friday, I desire she may not be disturbed by theological controversies.
You have a very fair voice, and I
heard you and the maids singing a
hymn very sweetly the other night,
and was thankful that our humble
household should be in such harmony.
Poor old Twoshoes is so old and
toothless and quaky, that she can't
sing a bit; but don't be giving yourself airs over her, because she can't
sing and you can. Make her comfortable at our kitchen hearth. Set
that old kettle to sing by our hob.
Warm her old stomach with nutbrown ale and a toast laid in the fire.
Be kind to the poor old school-girl of
ninety, who has had leave to come out
for a day of Christmas holiday. Shall
there be many more Christmases for
thee? Think of the ninety she has
seen already; the fourscore and ten
cold, cheerless, nipping New Years!
If you were in her place, would you
like to have a remembrance of better
early days, when you were young,
and happy, and loving, perhaps; or
would you prefer to have no past on
which your mind could rest? About
the year 1788, Goody, were your
cheeks rosy, and your eyes bright,
and did some young fellow in powder
and a pigtail look in them? We may
grow old, but to us some stories never
are old. On a sudden they rise up,
not dead, but living -not forgotten,
but freshly remembered.  The eyes
gleam on us as they used to do. The
dear voice thrills in our hearts. The
rapture of the meeting, the terrible,
terrible parting, again and again the


tragedy is acted over.  Yesterday, in
the street, I saw a pair of eyes so like
two which used to brighten at my
coming once, that the whole past
came back as I walked lonely, in the
rush of the Strand, and I was young
again in the midst of joys and sorrows,
alike sweet and sad, alike sacred and
fondly remembered.
If I tell a tale out of school, will
any harm come to my old school-girl?
Once, a lady gave her a half-sovereign,
which was a source of great pain and
anxiety to Goody Twoshoes.   She
sewed it away in her old stays somewhere, thinking here at least was a
safe investment - (vestis - a vest -
an investment,-pardon me, thou
poor old thing, but I cannot help the
pleasantry). And what do you think?
Another pensionnaire of the establishment cut the coin out of Goody's
stays-an old woman who went upon
two crutches! Faugh, the old witch!
What? Violence amongst these
toothless, tottering, trembling, feeble
ones? Robbery amongst the penniless? Dogs coming and snatching
Lazarus's crumbs out of his lap? Al,
how indignant Goody was as she
told the story!  To that pond at
Potsdam where the carps live for
hundreds of hundreds of years, with
hunches of blue mould on their back,
I dare say the little Prince and Princess of Preussen-Britannicn  come
sometimes with crumbs and cakes to
feed the mouldy ones.  Those eyes
may have goggled from beneath the
weeds at Napoleon's jack-boots: they
have seen Frederick's lean shanks
reflected in their pool; and perhaps
Monsieur de Voltaire has fed themand now, for a crumb of biscuit they
will fight, push, hustle, rob, squabble,
gobble, relapsing into their tranquillity when the ignoble struggle is over.
Sans souci, indeed! It is mighty well
writing "Sans souci " over the gate;
but where is the gate through which
care has not slipped? She perches
on the shoulders of the sentry in the
sentry-box: she whispers the porter
sleeping in his armchair: she glides




37G


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up the staircase, and lies down between
th3 king and queen in their bed-royal;
this very night I dare say she will
perch upon poor old Goody Twoshoes's meagre bolster, and whisper,
" Will the gentleman and those ladies
ask me again?   No, no; they will
forget poor old Twoshoes." Goody!
For shame of yourself! Do not be
cynical. Do not mistrust your fellowcreatures. What? Has the Christmas
morning dawned upon thee ninety
times? For fourscore and ten years
has it been thy lot to totter on this
earth, hungry and obscure?  Peace
and goodwill to thee, let us say at this
Christmas season. Come, drink, eat,
rest a while at our hearth, thou poor
old pilgrim! And of the bread which
God's bounty gives us, I pray, brother
reader, we may not forget to set aside
a part for those noble and silent poor,
from whose innocent hands war has
torn the means of labor. Enough!
As I hope for beef at Christmas, I vow
a note shall be sent to Saint Lazarus
Union House, in which Mr. Roundabout requests the honor of Mrs. Twoshoes's company on Friday, 26th
December.
-4 —
AUTOUR DE MON CHAPEAU.
NEVER have I seen a more noble
tragic face.  In the centre of the
forehead there was a great furrow of
care, towards which the brows rose
piteously. What a deep solemn grief
in the eyes! They looked blankly at
the object before them, but through
it, as it were, and into the grief beyond.
In moments of pain, have you not
looked at some indifferent object so 1
It mingles dumbly with your grief,
and remains afterwards connected
with it in your mind. It may be
some   indifferent thing- a  book
which you were reading at the time
when you received her farewell letter
(how well you remember the paragraph afterwards - the shape of the
words, and their position on the


page); the words you were writing
when your mother came in, and said
it was all over- she was MARRIED -
Emily married - to that insignificant
little rival at whom you have laughed
a hundred times in her company.
Well, well; my friend and reader,
whoe'er you be —old man or young,
wife or maiden - you have had your
grief-pang. Boy, you have lain awake
the first night at school, and thought
of home. Worse still, man, you have
parted from the dear ones with bursting heart; and, lonely boy, recall the
bolstering an unfeeling comrade gave
you; and lonely man, just torn from
your children - their little tokens of
affection yet in your pocket -pacing
the deck at evening in the midst of
the roaring ocean, you can remember
how you were told that supper was
ready, and how you went down to the
cabin and had brandy and water and
biscuit. You remember the taste of
them. Yes; forever. You took them
whilst you and your Grief were sitting
together, and your Grief clutched you
round the soul. Serpent, how you
have writhed round me, and bitten
me! Remorse, Remembrance, &c.,
come in the night season, and I feel
you gnawing, gnawing!... I
tell you that man's face was like
Laocoon's (which, by the way, I
always think over-rated. The real
head is at Brussels, at the Duke
Daremberg's, not at Rome).
That man! What man? That
man of whom I said that his magnificent countenance exhibited the noblest
tragic woe. He was not of European
blood. He was handsome, but not of
European beauty. His face whitenot of a Northern whiteness; his eyes
protruding somewhat, and rolling in
their grief. Those eyes had seen the
Orient sun, and his beak was the
eagle's. His lips were full.  The
beard, curling round them, was unkempt and tawny. The locks were
of a deep, deep coppery red. The
hands, swart and powerful, accustomed to the rough grasp of the
wares in which lie dealt, seemed un'




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


377


used to the flimsy artifices of the bath.
He came from the Wilderness, and its
sands were on his robe, his check, his
tattered sandal, and the hardy foot it
covered.
And his grief- whence came his
sorrow? I will tell you. He bore it
in his hand. IIe had evidently just
concluded the compact by which it
became his. His business was that
of a purchaser of domestic raiment.
At early dawn - nay, at what hour
when the city is alive -do we not all
hear the nasal cry of "Clo? "  In
Paris, Habits   Galons, Marchand
d'habits, is the twanging signal with
which the wandering merchant makes
his presence known. It was in Paris
I saw this man.  Where else have I
not seen him? In the Roman Ghetto
- at the Gate of David, in his fathers'
once imperial city. The man I mean
was an itinerant vender and purchaser
of wardrobes - what you call an...
Enough! You know his name.
On his left shoulder hung his bag;
and he held in that hand a white hat,
which I am sure he had just purchased, and which was the cause of
the grief which smote his noble features. Of course I cannot particularize the sum, but he had given too much
for that hat. He felt he might have
got the thing for less money. It was
not the amount, I am sure; it was
the principle involved. He had given
fourpence (let us say) for that which
threepence would have purchased.
He had been done: and a manly shame
was upon him, that he, whose energy,
acuteness, experience, point of honor,
should have made him the victor in
any mercantile duel in which he
should engage, had been overcome by
a porter's wife, who very likely sold
him the old hat, or by a student who
was tired of it. I can understand his
grief. Do I seem to be speaking of
it in a disrespectful or flippant way?
Then you mistake me. He had been
outwitted. He had desired, coaxed,
schemed, haggled, gotwhat he wanted, and now found he had paid too
much for his bargain.  You don't
17


suppose I would ask you to laugh at
that man's grief? It is you, clumsy
cynic, who are disposed to sneer,
whilst it may be tears of genuine
sympathy are trickling down this nose
of mine. What do you mean by
laughing? If you saw a wounded
soldier on the field of battle, would
you laugh? If you saw a ewe robbed
of her lamb, would you laugh, you
brute? It is you who are the cynic,
and have no lbeling: and you sneer
because that grief is unintelligible to
In
you which touches my finer sensibility. The OLD-CLOTFIES'-MAN had
been defeated in one of the daily battles of his most interesting, checkered,
adventurous life.
Have you ever figured to yourself
what such a life must be? The pursuit and conquest of twopence must
be the most ea-er and fascinating of
occupations. We might, all engage
in that business if we would. Do not
whist-players, for example, toil and
think, and lose their temper over sixpenny points? They bring study,
natural genius, long forethought,
Temory, and careful historical experience to bear upon their favorite
labor. Don't tell me that it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings the
rub, which keeps them for hours over
their painted pasteboard. It is the
desire to conquer. Hours pass by.
Night gloorns. Dawn, it may be,
rises unheeded; and they sit clling
for fresh cards at the " Portland," or
the 11 Union," while waning candles
splutter in the sockets, and languid
waiters snooze in the ante-room.
Sol rises. Jones has lost four pounds:
Brown has won two; Robinson lurks
away to his famil h  e and (mayhap, indi(mant   rs. R. Hours of
evening, night, morning, have passed
have been waging
tle.  What is the
to Jones., the gain
of two to rown? B. is, perhaps, so
rich that two pounds more or less are
as nought to him; J. is so hopelessly
involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit his creditors, or altei- his


suppose I would ask you to laugh at
that man's grief? It is you, clumsy
cynic, who are disposed to sneer,
whilst it may be tears of genuine
sympathy are trickling down this nose
of mine. What do you mean by
laughing?  If you saw a wounded
soldier on the field of battle, would
you laugh? If you saw a ewe robbed
of her lamb, would you laugh, you
brute? It is you who are the cynic,
and have no feeling: and you sneer
because that grief is unintelligible to
you which touches my finer sensibility. The OLD-CLOTHES'-MAN had
been defeated in one of the daily battles of his most interesting, checkered,
adventurous life.
Have you ever figured to yourself
what such a life must be? The pursuit and conquest of twopence must
be the most eager and fascinating of
occupations. We might all engage
in that business if we would. Do not
whist-players, for example, toil and
think, and lose their temper over sixpenny points? They bring study,
natural genius, long forethought,
memory, and careful historical experience to bear upon their favorite
labor. Don't tell me that it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings the
rub, which keeps them for hours over
their painted pasteboard. It is the
desire to conquer. Hours pass by.
Night glooms. Dawn, it may be,
rises unheeded; and they sit calling
for fresh cards at the " Portland," or
the " Union," while waning candles
splutter in the sockets, and languid
waiters snooze in the ante-room.
Sol rises. Jones has lost four pounds:
Brown has won two; Robinson lurks
away to his family house and (mayhap, indignant) Mrs. R. Hours of
evening, night, morning, have passed
away whilst they have been waging
this sixpenny battle. What is the
loss of four pounds to Jones, the gain
of two to Brown? B. is, perhaps, so
rich that two pounds more or less are
as nought to him; J. is so hopelessly
involved that to win four pounds cannot benefit his creditors, or altei his




378


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


condition; but they play for that licious novels. I look up and watch
stake: they put forward their best the eager eye flashing down the page,
energies: they ruff, finesse (what arc being, for my part, perfectly contentthe technical words, and how do I ed with my twaddling old volume of
know?) It is but a sixpenny game if " Howel's Letters," or " The Gentleyou like; but they want to win it. man's Magazine."  I am actually arSo as regards my friend yonder with rived at such a calm frame of mind
the hat. He stakes his money: he that I like batter-pudding. I never
wishes to win the game, not the hat should have believed it possible; but
merely. I am not prepared to say it is so. Yet a little while, and I may
that he is not inspired by a noble am- relish water-gruel. It will be the age
bition. Caesar wished to be first in a of mon lait de poule et mon bonnet de nuit.
village: If first of a hundred yokels, And then - tle cotton extinguisher
why not first of two? And my friend is pulled over the old noddle, and the
the old-clothes'-man wishes to win little flame of life is popped out.
his game, as well as to turn his little  Don't you know elderly people who
sixpence.                         make learned notes in Army Lists,
Suppose in the game of life —and Peerages, and the like? This is the
it is but a twopenny game after all -  batter-pudding, water-gruel of old age.
you are equally eager of winning. The worn-out old digestion does not
Shall you be ashamed of your ambi- care for stronger food. Formerly it
tion, or glory in it?  There are could swallow twelve hours' tough
games, too, which are becoming reading, and digest an encyclopaedia.
to particular periods of life.  I re-  If I had children to educate, I
member in the days of our youth, would, at ten or twelve years of age,
when my fiiend Arthur Bowler was an have a professor, or professoress, of
eminent cricketer. Slim, swift, strong, whist for them, and cause them to be
well-built, he presented a goodly ap- well grounded in that great and usepearance on the ground in his flannel ful game. You cannot learn it well
uniform.  Ailitdsti non sine gloria, when you are old, any more than you
Bowler, my boy! Hush! We tell no can dancing or billiards.  In our
tales. Mum is the word.   Yonder house at home we youngsters did not
comes Charley his son. Now Clarley play whist because we were dear obehis son has taken the field, and is fa- dient children, and the elders said
mous among the eleven of his school. playing at cards was "a waste of
Bowler senior, with his capacious time."  A  waste of time, my good
waistcoat, &c., waddling after a ball, people! Allons! What do elderly
would present an absurd object, where- home-keeping people do of a night
as it does the eyes good to see Bowler after dinner? Darby gets his newsjunior scouring the plain - a young paper; my dear Joan her " Missionary
exemplar of joyful health, vigor, ac- Magazine" or her volume of Cumtivity. The old boy wisely contents ming's Sermons - and don't you
himself with amusements more be- know what ensues? Over the arm of
coming his age and waist; takes his Darby's arm-chair the paper flutters
sober ridle; visits his farm soberly -  to the ground unheeded, and he perbusies himself about his pigs, his forms the trumpet obligato que vous
ploughing, his peaches, or what not? savez on his old nose. My dear old
Very small routinier amusements in- Joan's head nods over her sermon
terest him; and (thank goodness!) na- (awakening though the doctrine may
ture provides very kindly for kindly- be). Ding, ding, ding: can that be
disposed fogies. We relish those things ten o'clock? It is time to send the
which we scorned in our lusty youth. servants to bed, my dear - and to bed
I see the young folks of an evening master and mistress go too.  But
kin ling and glowing over their de- they have not wasted their time play



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


379


ing at cards. Oh, no! I belong to a
Club where there is whist of a night;
and not a little amusing is it to hear
Brown speak of Thompson's play,
and vice versa. But there is one man
- Greatorex let us call him- who
is the acknowledged captain and
primus of all the whist-players. We
all secretly admire him. I, for my
part, watch him in private life, hearkcn to what he says, note what he orders for dinner, and have that feeling
of awe for him that I used to have as
a boy for the cock of the school.
Not play at whist? " Quelle triste
vieillesse oous vous preparez! " were the
words of the great and gocd Bishop
of Autun.  I can't.  It is too late
now. Too late! too late! All! humiliating  confession!  That joy
might have been clutched, but the
life-stream has swept us by it — the
swift life-stream rushing to the ncaring sea. Too late! too late! Twenty-stone my boy! When you read in
the papers " Valse h deux temps,"
and all the fashionable dances taught
to adults by " Miss Lightfoots," don't
you feel that you would like to go in
and learn? Ah, it is too late! You
have passed the choreas, Master Twenty-stone, and the young people are
dancing without you.
I don't believe much of what my
Lord Byron the poet says; but when
lie wrote, " So, for a good old gentlemanly vice, I think I shall put up
with avarice," I think his lordship
meant what he wrote, and if he practised what he preached, shall not
quarrel with him. As an occupation
in declining years, I declare I think
saving is useful, amusing, and not
unbecoming. It must be a perpetual
amusement. It is a game that can
be played by day, by night, at home
and abroad, and at which you must
win in the long-run. I am tired and
want a cab. The fare to my house,
say, is two shillings. The cabman
will naturally want half a crown. I
pull out my book. I show him the
distance is exactly three miles and
fifteen hundred and ninety yards.


I offer him my card -my winning
card. As he retires with the two
shillings, blaspheming inwardly, every
curse is a compliment to my skill.
I have played him and beat him; and
a sixpence is my spoil and just reward.
This is a game, by the way, which
women play far more cleverly than
we do. But what an interest it imparts to life! During the whole
drive home I know I shall have my
game at the journey's end; am sure
of my hand, and shall beat my adversary. Or I can play in another way.
I won't have a cab at all, I will wait
for the omnibus: I will be one of the
damp fourteen in that steaming vehicle. I will wait about in the rain for an
hour, and 'bus after 'bus shall pass,
but I will not be beat. I uill have a
place, and get it at length, with my
boots wet through, and an umbrella
dripping between my legs. I have a
rheumatism, a cold, a sore throat, a
sulky evening, - a doctor's bill tomorrow perhaps? Yes, but I have
won my game, and am gainer of a
shilling on this rubber.
If you play this game all through
life it is wonderful what daily interest
it has, and amusing occupation. For
instance, my wife goes to sleep after
dinner over her volume of sermons.
As soon as the dear soul is sound
asleep, I advance softly and puff out
her candle. Her pure dreams will be
all the happier without that light;
and, say she sleeps an hour, there is
a penny gained.
As for clothes, parbleu! there is
not much money to be saved in clothes,
for the fact is, as a man advances in
life - as he becomes an Ancient Briton
(mark the pleasantry) - he goes
without clothes.  When my tailor
proposes something in the way of a
change of raiment, I laugh in his
face. My blue coat and brass buttons
will last these ten years. It is seedy?
What then? I don't want to charm
anybody in particular. You say that
my clothes are shabby? What do I
care? When I wished to look well
in somebody's eyes, the matter may




380


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


have been different. But now, when
I receive my bill of 101. (let us say)
at the year's end, and contrast it with
old tailors' reckonings, I feel that I
have played the game with master
tailor, and beat him; and my old
clothes are a token of the victory.
I do not like to give servants boardwages, though they are cheaper than
household bills; but I know they
save out of board-wages, and so beat
me. This shows that it is not the
money but the game which interests
me. So about wine. I have it good
and dear. I will trouble you to tell
me where to get it good and cheap.
You may as well give me the address
of a shop where I can buy meat for
fourpence a pound, or sovereigns for
fifteen shillings apiece. At the game
of auctions, docks, shy wine-merchants, depend on it there is no winning; and I would as soon think of
buying jewelry at an auction in
Fleet Street as of purchasing wine
from one of your dreadful needy wineagents such as infest every man's
door.  Grudge myself good wine?
As soon grudge my horse corn.
tMerci! that would be a very losing
game indeed, and your humble servant has no relish for such.
But in the very pursuit of saving
there must be a hundred harmless delights and pleasures which we who
are careless necessarily forego. What
do you know about the natural history of your household? Upon your
honor and conscience, do you know
the price of a pound of butter? Can
you say what sugar costs, and how
much your family consumes and
ought to consume? How much lard
do you use in your house? As I
think on these subjects I own I hang
down the head of shame. I suppose
for a moment that you, who are reading this, are a middle-aged gentleman,
and paterfamilias. Can you answer
the above questions? You know, sir,
you cannot. Now turn round, lay
down the book, and suddenly ask
Mrs. Jones and your daughters if they
can answer. They cannot. They


look at one another. They pretend
they can answer. They can tell you
the plot and principal characters
of the last novel. Some of them
know something about history, geology, and so forth. But of the natural history of home - Nichts, and for
shame on you all! Ioonnis soyez! For
shame on you? for shame on us!
In the early morning I hear a sort
of call or jodel under my window,
and know 'tis the matutinal milkman
leaving his can at my gate. 0 household gods! have I lived all these years,
and don't know the price or the
quantity of the milk which is delivered
in that can? Why don't I know?
As I live, if I live till to-morrow
morning, as soon as I hear the call of
Lactantius, I will dash out upon him.
How many cows? How much milk,
on an average, all the year round?
What rent? What cost of food and
dairy servants? What loss of animals, and average cost of purchase?
If I interested myself properly about
my pint (or hogshead, whatever it be)
of milk, all this knowledge would ensue; all this additional interest in
life. What is this talk of my friend,
Mr. Lewes, about objects at the seaside, and so forth? *  Objects at the
seaside? Objects at the area-bell:
objects before my nose: objects
which the butcher brings me in
his tray: which the cook dresses and
puts down before me, and over which
I say grace! My daily life is surrounded with objects which ought to
interest me. The pudding I eat (or
refuse, that is neither here nor there;
and, between ourselves, what I have
said about batter-pudding may be
taken cou grano —we are not come
to that yet, except for the sake of
argument or illustration) - the pudding, I say, on my plate, the eggs
that made it, the fire that cooked it.
the tablecloth on which it is laid, and
so forth- are each and all of these
objects a knowledge of which I may
acquire-a knowledge of the cost


* "Seaside Studies." By G. H. Lowes.




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


and production of which I might
advantageously learn? To the man
who does know these things, I say
the interest of life is prodigiously increased. The milkman becomes a
study to him; the baker a being he
curiously and tenderly examines.
Go, Lewes, and clap a hideous seaanemone into a glass: I will put a
cabman under mine, and make a
vivisection of a butcher. 0 Lares,
Penates, and gentle household gods,
teach me to sympathize with all that
comes within my doors! Give me an
interest in the butcher's book. Let
me look forward to the ensuing number of the grocer's account with eagerness.  It seems ungrateful to my
kitchen-chimney not to know the cost
of sweeping it; and I trust that many
a man who reads this, and muses on
it, will feel, like the writer, ashamed
of himself, and hang down his head
humbly.
Now, if to this household game
you could add a little money interest,
the amusement would be increased
far beyond the mere money value, as
a game at cards for sixpence is better
than a rubber for nothing. If you
can interest yourself about sixpence,
all life is invested with a new excitement. From sunrise to sleeping you
can always be playing that gamewith butcher, baker, coal-merchant,
cabman, omnibus-man - nay, diamond-merchant and stock-broker.
You can bargain for a guinea over
the price of a diamond necklace, or
for a sixteenth per cent in a transaction at the Stock Exchange. We all
know men who have this faculty who
are not ungenerous with their money.
They give it on great occasions.
They are more able to help than you
and I who spend ours, and say to
poor Prodigal who comes to us out
at elbow, " My dear fellow, I should
have been delighted, but I have already anticipated my quarter, and am
going to ask Screwby if he can do
any thing for me."
In this delightful, wholesome, evernovel twopenny game, there is a


danger of excess, as there is in every
other pastime or occupation of life.
If you grow too eager for your twopence, the acquisition or the loss of
it may affect your peace of mind, and
peace of mind is better than any
amount of twopences. My friend,
the old-clothes'-man, whose agonies
over the hat have led to this rambling
disquisition, has, I very much fear,
by a too eager pursuit of small profits,
disturbed the equanimity of a mind
that ought to be easy and happy.
"Had I stood out," he thinks, "I
might have had the hat for threepence," and he doubts whether, having given fourpence for it, he will
ever get back his money. My good
Shadrach, if you go through life
passionately deploring the irrevocable, and allow yesterday's transactions
to imbitter the cheerfulness of to-day
and to-morrow -as lief walk down
to the Seine, souse in, hats, body,
clothes-bag, and all, and put an end
to your sorrow and sordid cares. Before and since Mr. Franklin wrote
his pretty apologue of the Whistle
have we not all made bargains of
which we repented, and coveted and
acquired objects for which we have
paid too dearly? Who has not purchased his hat in some market or
other l There is General M'Clellan's
cocked-hat for example: I dare say
he was eager enough to wear it, and
he has learned that it is by no means
cheerful wear. There were the military beavers of Messeigneurs of Orleans: * they wore them gallantly in
the face of battle; but I suspect they
were glad enough to pitch them into
the James River and come home in
mufti. Ah, mes amis I a chacun son
schakot! I was looking at a bishop
the other day, and thinking, "My
right reverend lord, that broad-brim
and rosette must bind your great
broad forehead very tightly, and give
you many a headache. A good easy
* Two cadets of the House of Orleans
who served as Volunteers under General
M'Clellan in his campaign against Richmond.




382


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS


wide-awake were better for you, and I
would like to see that honest face
with a cutty-pipe in the middle of it."
There is my Lord Mayor. My once
dear lord, my kind friend, when your
two years' reign was over, did not you
jump for joy and fling your chapeaubras out of window: and hasn't that
hat cost you a pretty bit of money?
There, in a splendid travelling chariot,
in the sweetest bonnet, all trimmed
with orange-blossoms and Chantilly
lace, sits my Lady Rosa, with old
Lord Snowden by her side.    Ah,
Rosa! what a price have you paid
for that hat which you wear; and is
your ladyship's coronet not purchased
too dear?- Enough of hats. Sir, or
Madam, I take off mine, and salute
you with profound respect.
ON ALEXANDRINES.*
A LETTER TO SOME COUNTRY COUSINS.
DEAR COUSINS, - Be pleased to
receive herewith a packet of Mayall's
photographs, and copies of "Illustrated News," "Illustrated Times,"
"London Review," "Queen," and
"Observer," each containing an account of the notable festivities of the
past week. If, besides these remembrances of home, you have a mind to
read a letter from an old friend, behold here it is. When I was at
school, having left my parents in India, a good-natured captain or colonel
would come sometimes and see us
Indian boys, and talk to us about
papa and mamma, and give us coins
of the realm, and write to our parents,
and say, "I drove over yesterday, and
saw Tommy at Dr. Birch's. I took
him to 'The George,' and gave him
a dinner. His appetite is fine. He
states that he is reading' Cornelius
* This paper, it is almost needless to
say, was written just after the marriage
of the Prince and Princess of Wales in
March, 1863.


Nepos,' with which he is much interested. His masters report," &c. And
though Dr. Birch wrote by the same
mail a longer, fuller, and official statement, I have no doubt the distant
parents preferred the friend's letter,
with its artless, possibly ungrammatical, account of their little darling.
I have seen the young heir of Britain. These eyes have beheld him
and his bride, on Saturday in Pall
Mall, and on Tuesday in the nave
of St. George's Chapel at Windsor,
when the young Princess Alexandra
of Denmark passed by with her
blooming procession of bridesmaids;
and half an hour later, when the
Princess of Wales came forth from
the chapel, her husband by her side
robed in the purple mantle of the
famous Order which his forefather
established here five hundred years
ago. We were to see her yet once
again, when her open carriage passed
out of the Castle gate to the station
of the near railway which was to convey her to Southampton.
Since womankind existed, has any
woman ever had such a greeting? At
ten hours' distance, there is a city far
more magnificent than ours.  With
every respect for Kensington turnpike, I own that the Arc de l'ktoilc
at Paris is a much finer entrance to
an imperial capital.  In our black,
orderless, zigzag streets, we can show
nothing to compare with the magnificent array of the Rue de Rivoli, that
enormous regiment of stone stretching
for five miles and presenting arms
before the Tuileries.  Think of the
late FleetPrison and Waithman's Obelisk, and of the Place de la Concorde
and the Luxor Stone!  "The finest
site in Europe," as Trafalgar Square
has beei called by some obstinate
British optimist, is disfigured by trophies, fountains, columns, and statues
so puerile, disorderly, and hideous,
that a lover of the arts must hang
the head of shame as he passes to see
our dear old queen city arraying herself so absurdly; but when all is said
and done, we can show one or two




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


of the greatest sights in the world. went to see her, and found Goody and
I doubt if any Roman festival was as her companion crones all in a flutter
vast or striking as the Derby day, or of excitement about the marriage.
if any Imperial triumph could show  The whitewashed walls of their bleak
such a prodigious muster of faithful dormitory  were ornamented with
people as our young Princess saw on prints out of the illustrated journals,
Saturday, when the nation turned out and hung with festoons and true-lovto greet her.  The calculators are ers' knots of tape and colored paper;
squabbling about the numbers of hun- and the old bodies had had a good
dreds of thousands, of millions, who dinner, and the old tongues were
came forth to see her and bid her chirping and clacking away, all eager,
welcome. Imagine beacons flaming, interested, sympathizing; and one
rockets blazing, yards manned, ships very elderly and rheumatic Goody,
and forts saluting with their thunder, who is obliged to keep her bed (and
every steamer and vessel, every town has, I trust, an exaggerated idea of
and village from Ramnsgate to Graves- the cares attending on royalty), said,
end, swarming with happy gratula- " Pore thing, pore thing! I pity her."
tion; young girls with flowers, scat- Yes, even in that dim place there was
tering roses before her; staid citizens a little brightness and a quavering
and aldermen pushing and squeezing huzza, a contribution of a mite suband panting to make the speech, and scribed  by those dozen poor old
bow the knee, and bid her welcome! widows to the treasure of loyalty
Who is this who is honored with such with which the nation endows the
a prodigious triumph, and received Prince's bride.
with a welcome so astonishing?  A  Three hundred years ago, when our
year ago we lad never heard of her. dread Sovereign Lady Elizabeth came
think about her pedigree and family to take possession of her realm and
not a few of us are in the dark still, capital city, Holingshed, if you please
and I own, for my part, to be much (whose pleasing history of course you
puzzled by the allusions of newspaper carry about with you), relates in his
genealogists and bards and skalds to fourth volume folio, that - "At hir
Vikings,Berserkers, and so forth. But entring the citie, she was of the peoit would be interesting to know how pie received maruellous intierlie, as apmany hundreds of thousands of pho- peared by the assemblies, praiers, weltographs of the fair bright face have commings, cries, and all other signes
by this time made it beloved and which argued a woonderfull earnest
familiar in British homes. Think of lone:" and at various halting-places
all the quiet country nooks from  on the royal progress childrenhabited
Land's End to Caithncss, where kind like angels appeared out of allegoric
eyes have glanced at it! The farmer edifices and spoke verses to her -
brings it home from  market; the              Q       a m    a
curate from his visit to the Cathedral  can think
town; the rustic folk peer at it in the  Welcome again, as much as tongue can
little village shop-window; the squire's  tell,
children gaze on it round the drawing- welcome to joyous tongues and hearts
that will not shrink.
room table: every eye that beholds  God thee preserve, we pray, and wish
it looks tenderly on its bright beauty  thee ever well I
and sweet artless grace, and young
and old pray God bless her. We have  Our new Princess, you may be sure,
an elderly friend (a certain Goody has also had her Alexandrines, and
Twoshoes) who inhabits, with many many minstrels have gone before her,
other old ladies, the Union House of singing her praises.  Mr. Tupper,
the parish of St. Lazarus in Soho. who begins in very great force and
One of your cousins from this house strength, and who proposes to give her






384


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no less than eight hundred thousand
welcomes in the first twenty lines of
his ode, is not satisfied with this most
liberal amount of acclamation, but
proposes at the end of his poem a still
more magnificent subscription. Thus
we begin, "A hundred thousand
welcomes, a hundred thousand welcomes." In my copy the figures are
in the well-known Arabic numerals,
but let us have the numbers literally
accurate: —
" A hundred thousand welcomes I
A hundred thousand welcomes I
And a hundred thousand more I
O happy heart of England,
Shout aloud and sing, land,
As no land sang before;
And let the paeans soar
And ring from shore to shore,
A hundred thousand welcomes,
And a hundred thousand more;
And let the cannons roar
The joy-stunned city o'er.
And let the steeples chime it
A hundred thousand welcomes
And a hundred thousand more;
And let the people rhyme it
From neighbor's door to door,
From every man's heart's core,
A hundred thousand welcomes
And a hundred thousand more."
This contribution, in twenty not
long lines, of 900,000 (say nine hundred thousand) welcomes, is handsome indeed; and shows that when
our bard is inclined to be liberal, he
does not look to the cost. But what
is a sum of 900,000 to his further
proposal? -
" O let all these declare it,
Let miles of shouting swear it,
In all the years of yore,
Unparalleled before I
And thou, most welcome Wanderer
Across the Northern Water,
Our England's ALEXANDRA,
Our dear adopted daughterLay to thine heart, conned o'er and o'er,
In future years remembered well,
The magic fervor of this spell
That shakes the land from shore to shore,
And makes all hearts and eyes brim o'er;
Our hundred thousand welcomes,
Our fifty million welcomes,
And a hundred million more I"


call on the public for no less than
one hundred and fifty million one
hundred thousand welcomes for her
Royal Highness. How much is this
per head for all of us in the three
kingdoms? Not above five welcomes
apiece, and I am sure many of us
have given more than five hurrahs to
the fair young Princess.
Each man sings according to his
voice, and gives in proportion to his
means.   The guns at Sheerness,
" from their adamantine lips " (which
had spoken in quarrelsome old times
a very different language), roared a
hundred thundering welcomes to the
fair Dane. The maidens of England
strewed roses before her feet at
Gravesend when she landed. Mr.
Tupper, with the million and odd
welcomes, may be compared to the
thundering fleet; Mr. Chorley's song,
to the flowerets scattered on her
Royal Highness's happy and carpeted
path: -
"Blessings on that fair face I
Safe on the shore
Of her home-dwelling place,
Stranger no more.
Love, from her household shrine,
Keep sorrow far I
May for her hawthorn twine,
June bring sweet eglantine,
Autumn, the golden vine,
Dear Northern Star!"
Hawthorn for May, eglantine for
June, and in autumn a little tass of
the golden vine for our Northern
Star. I am sure no one will grudge
the Princess these simple enjoyments,
and of the produce of the last-named
pleasing plant, I wonder how many
bumpers were drunk to her health on
the happydayof herbridal? As for the
Laureate's verses, I would respectfully
liken his Highness to a giant showing
a beacon torch on "a windy headland." His flaring torch is a pinetree, to be sure, which nobody can
wield but himself. He waves it: and
four times in the midnight he shouts
mightily, "Alexandra!" and   the
Pontic pine is whirled into the ocean,
and Enceladus goes home.
Whose muse, whose cornemuse,


Here we have, besides the most
liberal previous subscription, a further




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


385


sounds with sach plaintive sweetness from Arthur's Seat, while Edinburgh  and   Musselburgh   lie rapt
in delight, and the mermaids come
flapping up to Leith shore to hear
the exquisite music? Sweeter piper
Edina knows not than Aytoun, the
Bard of the Cavaliers, who has given
in his frank adhesion to the reigning
dynasty. When a most beautiful,
celebrated, and unfortunate princess
whose memory the Professor loves -
when Mary, wife of Francis the Second, King of France, and by her
own right proclaimed Queen of Scotland and England (poor soul!) entered Paris with her young bridegroom, good Peter Ronsard wrote of
her" To qui as veu l'excellence de celle
Qui rend le ciel de l'Escossc envieux,
Dy hardiment, contentez vous mes yeux,
Vous ne verrez jamais chose plus
belle." *
Vous ne verrez jamais chose plus
belle."  Here is an Alexandrine written three hundred years ago, as -simple as bonjour. Professor Aytoun is
more ornate. After elegantly complimenting the spring, and a description of her Royal Highness's wellknown ancestors the " Berserkers,"
he bursts forth" The Rose of Denmark comes, the Royal
Bride I
O loveliest Rose I our paragon and
prideChoice of the Prince whom England
holds so dearWhat homage shall we pay
To one who has no peer?
What can the bard or wildered minstrel
say
More than the peasant who on bended
knee
Breathes from his heart an earnest
prayer for thee?
Words are not fair, if that they would
express
Is fairer still; so lovers in dismay
Stand all abashed before that loveliness
They worship most, but find no words
to pray.
Too sweet for incense I (bravo!) Take
our loves insteadMost freely, truly, and devoutly given;


Our prayer for blessings on that gentle
head,
For earthly happiness and rest in
Heaven
May never sorrow dim those dove-like
eyes,
But peace as pure as reigned in Paradise,
Calm and untainted on creation's eve,
Attend thee still I May holy angels," &c.
This is all very well, my dear
country cousins. But will you say
"Amen" to this prayer I won't.
Assuredly our fair Princess will shed
many tears out of the "dove-like
eyes," or the heart will be little worth.
Is she to know no parting, no care, no
anxious longing, no tender watches
by the sick, to deplore no friends and
kindred, and feel no grief? Heaven
forbid! When a bard or wildered
minstrel writes so, best accept his own
confession, that he is losing his head.
On the day of her entrance into London who looked more bright and happy than the Princess? On the day
of the marriage, the fair face wore its
marks of care already, and looked out
quite grave, and frightened almost,
under the wreaths and lace and
orange-flowers. Would you have had
her feel no tremor? A maiden on
the bridegroom's threshold, a Princess
led up to the steps of a throne? I
think her pallor and doubt became
her as well as her smiles. That,
I can tell you, was our vote who sat
in X compartment, let us say, in the
nave of St. George's Chapel at^Windsor, and saw a part of one of the
brightest ceremonies ever performed
there.
My dear cousin Mary, you have an
account of the dresses; and I promise
you there were princesses besides the
bride whom it did the eyes good to
behold. Around the bride sailed a
bevy of young creatures so fair, white,
and graceful, that I thought of those
fairy-tale beauties who are sometimes
princesses, and sometimes white
swans. The Royal Princesses and
the Royal Knights of the Garter
swept by in prodigious robes and
trains of purple velvet, thirty shil



* Quoted in Mignet's a" Life of Mary."
17*




386


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


lings a yard, my dear, not of course
including the lining, which, I have no
doubt, was of the richest satin, or that
costly " miniver" which we used to
read about in poor Jerrold's writings.
The young princes were habited in
kilts; and by the side of the Princess
Royal trotted such a little wee solemn
Highlander! He is the young heir
and chief of the famous clan of Brandenburg. His eyrie is amongst the
Eagles, and I pray no harm may befall the dear little chieftain.
The heralds in their tabards were
marvellous to behold, and a nod from
Rouge Croix gave me the keenest
gratification. I tried to catch Garter's eye, but either I couldn't or he
wouldn't. In his robes, he is like one
of the Three Kings in old missal illuminations. Goldstick in waiting is
even more splendid. With his gold
rod and robes and trappings of many
colors, he looks like a royal enchanter,
and as if he had raised up all this
scene of glamor by a wave of his glittering wand. The silver trumpeters
wear such quaint caps, as those I have
humbly tried to depict on the playful
heads of children. Behind the trumpeters came a drum-bearer, on whose
back a gold-laced drummer drubbed
his march.
When the silver clarions had blown,
and under a clear chorus of whiterobed children chanting round the
organ, the noble procession passed
into the chapel, and was hidden from
our sight for a while, there was silence,
or from the inner chapel ever so faint
ahum. Then hymns arose, and in
the lull we knew that prayers were
being said, and the sacred rite performed which joined Albert Edward to
Alexandra his wife. I am sure hearty
prayers were offered outside the gate
as well as within for that princely
young pair, and for their Mother and
Queen. The peace, the freedom, the
happiness, the order which her rule
guarantees, are part of my birthright
as an Englishman, and I bless God
for my share. Where else shall I
find such liberty of action, thought,


speech, or laws which protect me so
well? Her part of her compact with
her people, what sovereign ever better performed'? If ours sits apart
from the festivities of the day, it is
because she suffers from a grief so
recent that the loyal heart cannot
master it as yet, and remains treu und
fest to a beloved memory. A part of
the music which celebrates the day's
service was composed by the husband
who is gone to the place where the
just and pure of life meet the reward
promised by the Father of all of us to
good and faithful servants who have
well done here below. As this one
gives in his account, surely we may
remember how the Prince was the
friend of all peaceful arts and learning; how he was true and fast always
to duty, home, honor; how, through
a life of complicated trials, he was
sagacious, righteous, active, and selfdenying. And as we trace in the young
faces of his many children the father's
features and likeness, what Englishman will not pray that they may
have inherited also some of the great
qualities which won for the Prince
Consort the love and respect of our
country?
The papers tell us how, on the
night of the marriage of the Prince of
Wales, all over England and Scotland illuminations were made, the
poor and children were feasted, and in
village and city thousands of kindly
schemes were devised to mark the
national happiness and sympathy.
" The bonfire on Coptpoint at Folkestone was seen in France," "The
Telegraph " says, " more clearly than
even the French marine lights could
be seen at Folkestone." Long may
the fire continue to burn I There are
European coasts (and inland places)
where the liberty light has been extinguished, or is so low that you can't
see to read by it - there are great
Atlantic shores where it flickers and
smokes very gloomily. Let us be
thankful to the honest guardians of
ours, and for the kind sky under
which it burns bright and steady.




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387


ON A MEDAL OF GEORGE
THE FOURTH.
BEFORE me lies a coin bearing the
image and superscription of King
George IV., and of the nominal value
of two-and-sixpence. But an official
friend at a neighboring turnpike says
the piece is hopelessly bad; and a
chemist tested it, returning a like unfavorable opinion. A cabman, who
had brought me from a Club, left it
with the Club porter, appealing to
the gent who gave it a pore cabby, at
ever so much o'clock of a rainy night,
which he hoped he would give him
another. I have taken that cabman
at his word. He has been provided
with a sound coin. The bad piece is
on the table before me, and shall have
a hole drilled through it, as soon as
this essay is written, by a loyal subject who does not desire to deface the
Sovereign's image, but to protest
against the rascal who has taken his
name in vain. Fid. Def. indeed!
Is this what you call defending the
faith? You dare to forge your Sovereign's name, and pass your scoundrel pewter as his silver? I wonder
who you are, wretch and most consummate trickster?  This forgery is so
complete that even now I am deceived
by it- I can't see the difference between the base and sterling metal.
Perhaps this piece is a little lighter;
- I don't know. A little softer:is it? I have not bitten it, not being
a connoisseur in the tasting of pewter
or silver. I take the word of three
honest men, though it goes against
me: and though I have given two-andsixpence worth of honest consideration for the counter, I shall not attempt to implicate anybody else in
my misfortune, or transfer my ill-luck
to a deluded neighbor.
I say the imitation is so curiously
successful, the stamping, milling of
the edges, lettering, and so forth, are
so neat, that even now, when my
eyes are open, I cannot see the cheat.
How did those experts, the cabman,
and pikem;in, and tradesman, come


to find it out? How do they happen
to be more familiar with pewter and
silver than I am? You see, I put
out of the question another point
which I might argue without fear of
defeat, namely, the cabman's statement that I gave him this bad piece of
money. Suppose every cabman who
took me a shilling fare were to drive
away and return presently with a bad
coin and an assertion that I had given
it to him! This would be absurd
and mischievous; an encouragement
of vice amongst men who already are
subject to temptations. Being homo,
I think if I were a cabman myself, I
might sometimes stretch a furlong or
two in my calculation of distance.
But don't come twiice, my man, and
tell me I have given you a bad halfcrown. No, no! I have paid once
like a gentleman, and once is enough.
For instance, during the Exhibition
time I was stopped by an old countrywoman in black, with a huge umbrella, who, bursting into tears, said
to me, " Master, be this the way to
Harlow, in Essex?  " This the way
to Harlow? This is the way to Exeter, my good lady, and you will arrive
there if you walk about 170 miles in
your present direction," I answered
courteously, replying to the old creature. Then she fell a-sobbing as
though her old heart would break.
She had a daughter a-dying at Harlow. She had walked already "viftydree mile that day." Tears stopped
the rest of her discourse, so artless,
genuine, and abundant that-I own
the truth -I gave her, in I believe
genuine silver, a piece of the exact
size of that coin which forms the subject of this essay. Well. About a
month since, near to the very spot
where I had met my old woman, I
was accosted by a person in black, a
person in a large draggled cap, a person with a huge umbrella, who was
beginning, "I say, Master, can you
tell me if this be the way to Har "but here she stopped. Her eyes goggled wildly. She started from me, as
Macbeth turned from Macduff. She




388


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would not engage with me. It was
my old friend of Harlow, in Essex.
I dare say she has informed many
other people of her daughter's illness,
and her anxiety to be put upon the
right way to Harlow. Not long since,
a very gentleman-like man, Major
Delamere let us call him (I like the
title of Major very much), requested
to see me, named a dead gentleman
who he said had been our mutual
friend, and on the strength of this
mutual acquaintance, begged me to
cash his check for five pounds!
It is these things, my dear sir,
which serve to make a man cynical.
I do conscientiously believe that had
I cashed the Major's check there
would have been a difficulty about
payment on the part of the respected
bankers on whom lie drew. On your
honor and conscience, do you think
that old widow who was walking
from Tunbridge Wells to Harlow had
a daughter ill, and was an honest
woman at all? The daughter couldn't
always, you see, be being ill, and her
another on her way to her dear child
through Hyde Park. In the same
way some habitual sneerers may be inclined to hint that the cabman's story
was an invention -or at any rate,
choose to ride off (so to speak) on the
doubt. No. My opinion, I own, is
unfavorable as regards the widow
frcm Tunbridge Wells, and Major
Delamere; but believing the cabman
was honest, I am glad to think he
was not injured  by the reader's
most humble servant.
What a queer, exciting life this
rogue's march must be; this attempt
of the bad half-crowns to get into circulation!  Had my distinguished
friend the Major knocked at many
doors that morning, before operating
on mine? The sport must be something akin to the pleasure of tiger or
elephant hunting. What ingenuity
the sportsman must have in tracing
his prey -what daring and caution
in coming upon him! What coolness in facing the angry animal (for,
after all, a man on whom you


draw a check a bout portant will be
angry). What a delicious thrill of
triumph, if you can bring him down!
If I have money at the banker's, and
draw for a portion of it over the counter, that is mere prose- any dolt can
do that. But, having no balance,
say I drive up in a cab, present a
check at Coutts's, and, receiving the
amount, drive off? What a glorious
morning's sport that has been! How
superior in excitement to the common transactions of every-day life!.. I must tell a story; it is against
myself, I know, but it will out, and
perhaps my mind will be the easier.
More than twenty years ago, in an
island remarkable for its verdure, I
met four or five times one of the most
agreeable companions with whom I
have passed a night. I heard that
evil times had come upon this gentleman; and, overtaking him in a road
near my own house one evening, I
asked him to come home to dinner.
In two days, he was at my door again.
At breakfast-time was this second appearance. He was in a cab (of course
he was in a cab, they always are, these
unfortunate, these courageous men).
To deny myself was absurd.   My
fiiend could see me over the parlor
blinds, surrounded by my family, and
cheerfully partaking of the morning
meal. Might he have a word with
mel and can you imagine its purport? By the most provoking delay,
his uncle the admiral not being able
to come to town till Friday- would
I cash him a check? I need not
say it would be paid on Saturday
without fail.  I tell you that man
went away with money in his pocket,
and I regret to add that his gallant
relative has not come to town.yet!
Laying down the pen, and sinking
back in my chair, here, perhaps, I
fall into a five minutes' reverie, and
think of one, two, three, half a dozen
cases in which I have been content to
accept that sham promissory coin in
return for sterling money advanced.
Not a reader, whatever his age, but
could tell a like story.  I vow and




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


389


believe there are men of fifty, who will
dine well to-day, who have not paid
their school debts yet, and who have
not taken up their long-protested
promises to pay. Tom, Dick, Harry,
my boys, I owe you no grudge, and
rather relish that wince with which
you will read these meek lines and
say, " He means me." Poor Jack in
Hades! Do you remember a certain
pecuniary transaction, and a little
sum of money you borrowed "until
the meeting of Parliament?" Parliament met often in your lifetime: Parliament has met since: but I think I
should scarce be more surprised if
your ghost glided into the room now,
and laid down the amount of our little account, than I should have been
if you had paid me in your lifetime
with the actual acceptances of the
Bank of England.   You asked to
borrow, but you never intended to
pay. I would as soon have believed
that a promissory note of Sir John
Falstaff (accepted by Messrs. Bardolph and Nyin, and payable in Aldgate) would be as sure to find payment, as that note of the departed
-nay, lamented -Jack Thriftless.
He who borrows, meaning to pay,
is quite a different person from the
individual here described. Many -
most, I hope - took Jack's promise
for what it was worth-and quite
well knew that when he said, " Lend
me," he meant " Give me" twenty
pounds. " Give me change for this
half-crown," said Jack; "I know it's
a pewter piece;" and you gave him
the change in honest silver, and pocketed the counterfeit gravely.
What a queer consciousness that
must be which accompanies such a
man in his sleeping, in his waking,
in hik walk through life, by his fireside with his children round him!
" For what we are going to receive,"
&c. -he says grace before his dinner.
"My dears! Shall I help you to
some mutton? I robbed the butcher
of the meat. I don't intend to pay
him. Johnson my boy, a glass of
champagne?   Very good, isn't it?


Not too sweet. Forty-six. I get it
from So-and-so, whom I intend to
cheat." As eagles go forth and bring
home to their eaglets the lamb or the
pavid kid, I say there are men who
live and victual their nests by plunder.
We all know highway robbers in
white neckcloths, domestic bandits,
marauders, passers of bad coin. What
was yonder check which Major Delamere proposed I should cash but
a piece of bad money? What was
Jack Thriftless's promise to pay?
Having got his booty, I fancy Jack
or the Major returning home, and
wife and children gathering round
about him. Poor wife and children!
They respect papa very likely. They
don't know he is false coin. Maybe
the wife has a dreadful inkling of the
truth, and, sickening, tries to hide it
from the daughters and sons. Maybe
she is an accomplice: herself a brazen
forgery. If Turpin and Jack Sheppard were married, very likely Mesdames Sheppard and Turpin did not
know, at first, what their husband's
real profession was, and fancied, when
the men left home in the morning,
they only went away to follow some
regular and honorable business. Then
a suspicion of the truth may have
come: then a dreadful revelation;
and presently we have the guilty pair
robbing together, or passing forged
money each on his own account.
You know Doctor Dodd? I wonder
whether his wife knows that he is a
forger and scoundrel? Has she had
any of the plunder, think you, and
were the darling children's new dresses
bought with it? The doctor's sermon last Sunday was certainly charming, and we all cried. Ah, my poor
Dodd! Whilst he is preaching most
beautifully, pocket-handkerchief in
hand, he is peering over the pulpit
cushions, looking out piteously for
Messrs. Peachum and Lockit from
the police-office. By Doctor Dodd
you understand I would typify the
rogue of respectable exterior, not
committed to jail yet, but not undiscovered. We all know one or two




390


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such. This very sermon perhaps will
be read by some, or more likely -
for, depend upon it, your solemn
hypocritic scoundrels don't care much
for light literature —more likely, I
say, this discourse will be read by
some of their wives, who think, " Ah,
mercy! does that horrible cynical
wretch know how my poor husband
blacked my eye, or abstracted mamma's silver teapot, or forced me to
write So-and-so's name on that piece
of stamped paper, or what not?"
My good creature, I am not angry
with you. If your husband has broken
your nose, you will vow that he had
authority over your person, and a
right to demolish any part of it: if he
has conveyed, away your mamma's
teapot, you will say that she gave it
to him at your marriage, and it was
very ugly, and what not? if he takes
your aunt's watch, and you love him,
you will carry it erelong to the
pawnbroker's, and perjure yourself
-oh, how you will perjure yourself
-in the witness-box! I know this
is a degrading view of woman's noble
nature, her exalted mission, and so
forth, and so forth. I knowyou will
say this is bad morality. Is it? Do
you, or do you not, expect your
womankind to stick by you for better
or for worse? Say I have committed
a forgery, and the officers come in
search of me, is my wife, Mrs. Dodd,
to show them into the dining-room
and say, " Pray step in, gentlemen!
My husband has just come home from
church. That bill with my Lord
Chesterfield's acceptance, I am bound
to own, was never written by his
lordship, and the signature is in the
doctor's handwriting? " I say, would
any man of sense or honor, or fine
feeling, praise his wife for telling the
truth under such circumstances?
Suppose she made a fine grimace,
and said, " Most painful as my position is, most deeply as I feel for my
-William, yet truth must prevail, and
I deeply lament to state that the
beloved partner of my life did commit
the flAgitious act with which he is


charged, and is at this present moment
located in the two-pair back, up the
chimney, whither it is my duty to lead
you." Why, even Dodd himself,
who was one of the greatest humbugs
who ever lived, would not have had
the face to say that he approved of
his wife telling the truth in such a
case. Would you have had Flora
Macdonald beckon the officers, saying,
"This way, gentlemen!  You will
find the young chevalier asleep in
that cavern." Or don't you prefer
her to be splendide mnendax, and ready
at all risks to save him? If ever I
lead a rebellion, and my women betray
me, may I be hanged but I will not
forgive them: and if ever I steal a
teapot, and my women don't stand up
for me, pass the article under their
shawls, whisk down the street with it,
outbluster the policeman, and utter
any amount of fibs before Mr. Beak,
those beings are not what I take them
to be, and - for a fortune — I won't
give them so much as a bad halfcrown.
Is conscious guilt a source of unmixed pain to the bosom which harbors it? Has not your criminal, on
the contrary, an excitement, an enjoyment within quite unknown to you
and me who never did any thing wrong
in  our lives?  The housebreaker
must snatch a fearful joy as he walks
unchallenged by the policeman with
his sack full of spoons and tankards.
Do not cracksmen, when assembled
together, entertain themselves with
stories of glorious old burglaries
which they or bygone heroes have
committed? But that my age is
mature and my habits formed, I
should really just like to try a little
criminality. Fancy passing a forged
bill to your banker; calling on a
friend and sweeping his sideboard of
plate, his hall of umbrellas and coats;
and then going home to dress for
dinner, say - and to meet a bishop, a
judge, and a police magistrate or so,
and talk more morally than any man
at table! How I should chuckle (as
my host's spoons clinked softly in my




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


pocket) whilst I was uttering some
noble speech about virtue, duty,
charity! I wonder do we meet
garotters in society? In an average
tea-party, now, how many returned
convicts are there? Does John Footman, when he asks permission to go
and spend the evening with some
friends, pass his time in thuggee;
waylay and strangle an old gentleman,
or two; let himself into your house,
with the house-key of course, and appear as usual with the shaving-water
when you ring your bell in the morning   The verv possibility of such a
suspicion invests John with a new
and romantic interest in my mind.
Behind the grave politeness of his
countenance I try and read the lurking treason. Full of this pleasing
subject, I have been talking thiefstories with a neighbor. The neighbor tells me how some friends of hers
used to keep a jewel-box under a bed
in their room; and, going into the
room, they thought they heard a
noise under the bed. They had the
courage to look. The cook was under
the bed -under the bed with the jewelbox. Of course she said she had come
for purposes connected with her business; but this was absurd. A cook
under a bed is not there for professional purposes. A relation of mine
had a box containing diamonds under
her bed, which diamonds she told me
were to be mine. Mine! One day,
at dinner-time, between the entrees
and the roast, a cab drove away from
my relative's house containing the
box wherein lay the diamonds. John
laid the dessert, brought the coffee,
waited all the evening - and oh, how
frightened he was when he came to
learn that his mistress's box had been
conveyed out of her own room, and it
contained diamonds - "Law   bless
us, did it now? " I wonder whether
John's subsequent career has been
prosperous? Perhaps the gentlemen
from Bow Street were all in the
wrong when they agreed in suspecting John as the author of the robbery.
His noble nature was hurt at the sus

picion. You conceive he would not
like to remain in a family where they
were mean enough to suspect him of
stealing a jewel-box out of a bed-room
-and the injured man and my relatives soon parted. But, inclining
(with my usual cynicism) to think
that he did steal the valuables, think
of his life for the month or two whilst
he still remains in the service! He
shows the officers over the house,
agrees with them that the coup must
have been made by persons familiar
with it; gives them every assistance;
pities his master and mistress with a
manly compassion; points out what
a cruel misfortune it is to himself as
an honest man, with his living to get
and his family to provide for, that
this suspicion should fall on him.
Finally, he takes leave of his place,
with a deep though natural melancholy that ever he had accepted it.
What's a thousand pounds to gentlefolks! A loss certainly, but they
will live as well without the diamonds as with them. But to John
his Hhhonour was worth more
than diamonds, his Hhonour was.
Whohever is to give him back his
character? Who is to prevent hany
one from saying, "Ho yes. This is
the footman which was in the family
where the diamonds was stole?" &c.
I wonder has John prospered in
life subsequently? If he is innocent,
he does not interest me in the least.
The interest of the case lies in John's
behavior, supposing him to be guilty.
Imagine the smiling face, the daily
service, the orderly performance of
duty, whilst within John is suffering
pangs lest discovery should overtake
him. Every bell of the door which
he is obliged to open may bring a
police-officer. The accomplices may
peach. What an exciting life John's
must have been for a while! And
now, years and years after, when
pursuit has long ceased, and detection
is impossible, does he ever revert to
the little transaction? Is it possible
those diamonds cost a thousand
pounds? What a rogue the fence




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


must have been who only gave him
so and so! And I pleasingly picture
to myself an old ex-footman and an
ancient receiver of stolen goods meeting and talking over this matter, which
dates from times so early that her
present Majesty's fair image could
only just have begun to be coined or
forged.
I choose to take John at the time
when his little peccadillo is suspected,
perhaps, but when there is no specific
charge of robbery against him. He
is not yet convicted: he is not even on
his trial; how then can we venture
to say he is guilty? Now think what
scores of men and women walk the
world in a like predicament; and
what false coin passes current!
Pinchbeck strives to pass off his history as sound coin. He knows it is
only base metal, washed over with a
thin varnish  of learning.  Poluphloisbos puts his sermons in circulation: sounding brass, lacquered
over with white metal, and marked
with the stamp and image of piety.
What say you to Drawcansir's reputation as a military commander? to
Tibbs's pretensions to be a fine gentleman? to Sapphira's claims as a poetess, or Rodoessa's as a beauty? His
bravery, his piety, high birth, genius,
beauty - each  of these deceivers
would palm his falsehood on us, and
have us accept his forgeries as sterling coin. And we talk here, please
to observe, of weaknesses rather than
crimes. Some of us have more serious things to hide than a yellow
cheek behind a raddle of rouge, or a
white poll under a wig of jetty curls.
You know, neighbor, there are not
only false teeth in this world, but
false tongues: and some make up a
bust and an appearance of strength
with padding, cotton, and what not'?
while another kind of artist tries to
take you in by wearing under his
waistcoat, and perpetually thumping,
an immense sham heart. Dear sir,
may yours and mine be found, at the
right time, of the proper size and in
the right place.


And what has this to do with halfcrowns, good or bad? Ah, friend!
may our coin, battered and clipped
and defaced though it be, be proved
to be Sterling Silver on the day of
the Great Assay!
-4-e
"STRANGE TO SAY, ON CLUB
PAPER."
BEFORE the Duke of York's column, and between " The Athenaeum "
and "United Service" Clubs, I have
seen more than once, on the esplanade, a preacher holding forth to a
little congregation of badatds and
street-boys, whom he entertains with
a discourse on the crimes of a rapacious aristocracy, or warns of the
imminent peril of their own souls.
Sometimes this orator is made to
"move on" by brutal policemen.
Sometimes, on a Sunday, he points
to a white head or two visible in the
windows of the Clubs to the right
and left of him, and volunteers a statement that those quiet and elderly
Sabbath-breakers will very soon be
called from this world to another,
where their lot will by no means
be so comfortable as that which the
reprobates enjoy here, in their armchairs by their snug fires.
At the end of last month, had I
been a Pall Mall preacher, I would
have liked to send a whip round to all
the Clubs in St. James's, and convoke the few members remaining in
London to hear a discourse sub Dio on
a text from " The Observer" newspaper.  I would have taken post
under the statue of Fame, say, where
she stands distributing wreaths to
the three Crimean Guardsmen. (The
crossing-sweeper does not obstruct the
path, and I suppose is away at his villa
on Sundays.) And, when the congregation was pretty quiet, I would
have begun:In "The Observer" of the 27th
September, 1863, in the fifth page and
the fourth column, it is thus written:



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


393


" The codicil appended to the will
of the late Lord Clyde, executed at
Chatham, and bearing the signature
of Clyde, F. M., is written, strange to
say, on a sheet of paper bearing ' The
Athenceumn Club' mark."
What the codicil is, my dear brethren, it is not our business to inquire.
It conveys a benefaction to a faithful
and attached friend of the good FieldMarshal. The gift may be a lakh of
rupees, or it may be a house and its
contents-furniture, plate, and winecellar. My friends, I know the winemerchant, and, for the sake of the legatee, hope heartily that the stock is
large.
Am I wrong, dear brethren, in supposing that you expect a preacher to
say a seasonable word on death here?
If you don't, I fear you are but little
familiar with the habits of preachers,
and are but lax hearers of sermons.
We might contrast the vault where
the warrior's remains lie shrouded
and coffined, with that in which his
worldly provision of wine is stowed
away.   Spain and  Portugal and
France - all the lands which supplied his store-as hardy and obedient subaltern, as resolute captain, as
colonel daring but prudent-he has
visited the fields of all. In India
and China he marches always unconquered; or at the head of his dauntless Highland brigade he treads the
Crimean snow; or he rides from conquest to conquest in India once more;
succoring his countrymen in the
hour of their utmost need; smiting
down the scared mutiny, and trampling out the embers of rebellion;
at the head of an heroic army, a consummate chief. And now his glorious
old sword is sheathed, and his honors are won; and he has bought him
a house, and stored it with modest
cheer for his friends (the good old
man put water in his own wine, and a
glass or two sufficed him) -behold
the end comes, and his legatee inherits
these modest possessions by virtue of
a codicil to his lordship's will, written, "strange to say, upon a sheet of


paper, bearing ' The Athenceum Club'
mark."
It is to this part of the text, my
brethren, that I propose to address
myself particularly, and if the remarks I make are offensive to any of
you, you know the doors of our
meeting-house are open, and you can
walk out when you will. Around us
are magnificent halls and palaces frequented by such a multitude of men
as not even the Roman Forum assembled together. Yonder are the Martium and the Palladium. Next to the
Palladium is the elegant Viatorium,
which Barry gracefully stole from
Rome. By its side is the massive
Reformatorium: and the- the Ultratorium rears its granite columns
beyond. Extending down the street
palace after palace rises magnificent,
and under their lofty roofs warriors
and lawyers, merchants and nobles,
scholars and seamen, the wealthy,
the poor, the busy, the idle assemble.
Into the halls built down this little
street and its neighborhood, the principal men of all London come to hear
or impart the news; and the affairs of
the state or of private individuals, the
quarrels of empires or of authors,
the movements of the court, or the
splendid vagaries of fashion, the intrigues of statesmen or of persons
of another sex yet more wily, the
last news of battles in the great occidental continents, nay the latest
betting for the horse-races, or the
advent of a dancer at the theatreall that men do is discussed in these
Pall Mall agorae, where we of London
daily assemble.
Now among so many talkers, consider how many false reports must
fly about: in such multitudes imagine
how many disappointed men there
must be; how many chatterboxes;
how many feeble and credulous
(whereof I mark some specimens in
my congregation); how many mean,
rancorous, prone to believe ill of their
betters, eager to find fault; and then,
my brethren, fancy how the words of
my text must have been read and




394


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


received in Pall Mall! (I perceive several of the congregation looking most
uncomfortable. One old boy with a
dyed mustache turns purple in the
face, and struts back to the Martium:
another, with a shrug of the shoulder
and a murmur of "Rubbish," slinks
away in the direction of the Togatorium, and the preacher continues.)
The will of Field-Marshal Lord
Clyde-signed at Chatham, mind,
where his lordship died - is written,
strange to say, on a sheet of paper
bearing  " The Athenaeum   Club"
mark 1
The inference is obvious. A man
cannot get Athenaeum paper except
at " The Athenaeum." Such paper
is not sold at Chatham, where the
last codicil to his lordship's will is
dated. And so the painful belief is
forced upon us, that a Peer, a FieldMarshal, wealthy, respected, illustrious, could pocket paper at his Club,
and carry it away with him to the
country. One fancies the hall-porter
conscious of the old lord's iniquity,
and holding down his head as the
Marshal passes the door. What is
that roll which his lordship carries?
Is it his Marshal's baton gloriously
won?   No; it is a roll of foolscap
conveyed from the Club. What has
he on his breast, under his great-coat?
Is it his Star of India? No; it is a
bundle of envelopes, bearing the head
of Minerva, some sealing-wax, and a
half-score of pens.
Let us imagine how in the hall of
one or other of these Clubs this
strange anecdote will be discussed.
"Notorious screw," says Sneer.
"The poor old fellow's avarice has
long been known."
" Suppose he wishes to imitate the
Duke of Marlborough," says Simper.
" Habit of looting contracted in India, you know; ain't so easy to get
over, you know," says Snigger.
" hen officers dined with him in
India," remarks Solemn, " it was notorious that the spoons were all of a
different pattern.'
"Perhaps it isn't true.  Suppose


he wrote his paper at the Club?" inr
terposes Jones.
"It is dated at Chatham, my good
man," says Brown. "A man if he
is in London says he is in London.
A man if he is in Rochester says he
is in Rochester. This man happens
to forget that he is using the Club
paper: and he happens to be found
out: many men don't happen to be
found out. I've seen literary fellows
at Clubs writing their rubbishing
articles; I have no doubt they take
away reams of paper.   They crib
thoughts: why shouldn't they crib
stationery?  One of your literary
vagabonds who is capable of stabbing
a reputation, who is capable of telling
any monstrous falsehood to support
his party, is surely capable of stealing
a ream of paper."
" Well, well, we have all our weaknesses," sighs Robinson. "Seen that
article, Thompson, in ' The Observer' about Lord Clyde and the Club
paper? You'll find it up stairs. In
the third column of the fifth page
towards the bottom of the page. I
suppose he was so poor he couldn't
afford to buy a quire of paper. Hadn't
fourpence in the world. Oh, no!"
" And they want to get up a testimonial to this man's memory - a
statue or something!" cries Jawkins.
"A man who wallows in wealth and
takes paper away from his Club! I
don't say he is not brave. Brutal
courage most men have. I don't say
lie was not a good officer: a man
with such experience must have been
a good officer, unless he was born
fool. But to think of this man loaded with honors - though of a low
origin - so lost to self-respect as actually to take away 'The Athenaeum'
paper! These parvenus, sir, betray
their origin- betray their origin. I
said to my wife this very morning,
'Mrs. Jawkins,' I said,' there is talk
of a testimonial to this man. I will
not give one shilling. I have no
idea of raising statues to fellows who
take away Club paper.    No, by
George, I have not. Why, they will




ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


395


be raising statues to men who take
Club spoons next! Not one penny of
my money shall they have!'"
And now, if you please, we will tell
the real story which has furnished this
scandal to a newspaper, this tattle to
Club gossips and loungers.   The
Field-Marshal, wishing to make a further provision for a friend, informed
his lawyer what he desired to do.
The lawyer, a member of " The Athenaeum Club," there wrote the draft
of such a codicil as he would advise,
and sent the paper by the post to
Lord Clyde at Chatham. Lord Clyde,
finding the paper perfectly satisfactory, signed it and sent it back: and
hence we have the story of" the codicil bearing the signature of Clyde,
F. M., and written, strange to say,
upon paper bearing 'The Athenaeum
Club' mark."
Here I have been imagining a dialogue between a half-dozen gossips
such as congregate round a Club
fireplace of an afternoon. I wonder
how many people besides-whether
any chance reader of this very page has
read and believed this story about the
good old lord.  Have the country papers copied the anecdote, and our "own
correspondents" made their remarks
on it? If, my good sir, or madam,
you have read it and credited it, don't
you own to a little feeling of shame
and sorrow, now that the trumpery
little mystery is cleared? To "the
new inhabitants of light," passed
away and out of reach of our censure,
misrepresentation, scandal, dulness,
malice, a silly falsehood matters
nothing.  Censure and praise are
alike to him -
" The music warbling to the deafened ear,
The incense wasted on the funeral bier,"
the pompous eulogy pronounced over
the gravestone, or the lie that slander
spits on it. Faithfully though this
brave old chief did his duty, honest
and upright though his life was,
glorious his renown —you see he
tould write at Chatham on London
paper; you see men can be found to


point out how "strange " his behavior was.
And about ourselves? My good
people, do you by chance know any
man or woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbor? Have you ever found yourself
willing, nay, eager to believe evil
Of some man whom you hate?
Whom you hate because he is successful, and you are not: because he
is rich, and you are poor: because lie
dines with great men who don't invite
you: because he wears a silk gown,
and yours is still stuff: because he
has been called in to perform the
operation though you lived close by:
because his pictures have been
bought, and yours returned home unsold: because he fills his church, and
you are preaching to empty pews?
If your rival prospers, have you ever
felt a twinge of anger? If his wife's
carriage passes you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab, don't yon
feel that those people are giving them.
selves absurd airs of importance? If
he lives with great people, are you not
sure he is a sneak? And if you ever
felt envy towards another, and if
your heart has ever been black towards
your brother, if you have been peevish
at his success, pleased to hear his
merit depreciated, and eager to believe
all that is said in his disfavor -my
good sir, as you yourself contritely
own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so you may be sure, some
men are uncharitable, jealous, and
unjustregarding you.
The proofs and manuscript of this
little sermon have just come from the
trinter's, and as I look at the writing,
perceive, not without a smile, that
one or two of the pages bear, " strange
to say," the mark of a Club of which
I have the honor to be a member.
Those lines -quoted in a foregoing
page are from some noble verses
written by one of Mr. Addison's men,
Mr. Tickell, on the death of Cadogan,
who was amongst the most prominent
of Marlborough's captains and


point out how "strange" his behavior was.
And about ourselves?  My good
people, do you by chance know any
man or woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbor? Have you ever found yourself
willing, nay, eager to believe evil
of some man whom      you   hate?
Whom you hate because he is successful, and you are not: because he
is rich, and you are poor: because he
dines with great men who don't invite
you: because he wears a silk gown,
and yours is still stuff: because he
has been called in to perform the
operation though you lived close by:
because his pictures have been
bought, and yours returned home unsold: because he fills his church, and
you are preaching to empty pews?
If your rival prospers, have you ever
felt a twinge of anger? If his wife's
carriage passes you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab, don't you
feel that those people are giving themselves absurd airs of importance? If
he lives with great people, are you not
sure he is a sneak? And if you ever
felt envy towards another, and if
your heart has ever been black towards
your brother, if you have been peevish
at his success, pleased to hear his
merit depreciated, and eager to believe
all that is said in his disfavor- my
good sir, as you yourself contritely
own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so you may be sure, some
men are uncharitable, jealous, and
unjust regarding you.
The proofs and manuscript of this
little sermon have just come from the
printer's, and as I look at the writing,
I perceive, not without a smile, that
one or two of the pages bear, " strange
to say," the mark of a Club of which
I have the honor to be a member.
Those lines quoted in a foregoing
page are from some noble verses
written by one of Mr. Addison's men,
Mr. Tickell, on the death of Cadogan,
who was amongst the most prominent
"of Marlborough's captains and




396


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


Eugenio's friends." If you are acquainted with the history of those
times, you have read how Cadogan
had his feuds and hatreds too, as
Tickell's patron had his, as Cadogan's
great chief had his. " The I)uke of
Marlborough's character has been
so variously drawn " (writes a famous
contemporary of the duke's), "that
it is hard to pronounce on either side
without the suspicion of flattery or
detraction. I shall say nothing of his
military accomplishments, which the
opposite reports of his friends and
enemies among the soldiers have
rendered problematical. Those maligners who deny him personal valor
seem not to consider that this accusation is charged at a venture, since
the person of a general is too seldom
exposed, and that fear which is said
sometimes to have disconcerted him
before action might probably be more
for his army than himself." If Swift
could hint a doubt of Marlborough's
courage, what wonder that a nameless
scribe of our day should question the
honor of Clyde?
THE LAST SKETCH.
NOT many days since I went to
visit a house where in former years I
had received many a friendly welcome.
We went into the owner's - an artist's - studio. Prints, pictures, and
sketches hung on the walls as I had
last seen and remembered them. The
implements of the painter's art were
there.  The light which had shone
upon so many, many hours of patient
and cheerful toil, poured through the
northern window upon print and bust,
lay figure and sketch, and upon the
easel before which the good, the gentle, the beloved Leslie labored. In
this room the busy brain had devised,
and the skilful hand executed, I know
not how many of the noble works
which have delighted the world with
their beauty and charming humor.
Here the poet called up into pictorial


presence, and informed with life, grace,
beauty, infinite friendly mirth and
wondrous naturalness of expression,
the people of whom his dear books told
him the stories, - his Shakspcare, his
Cervantes, his Moliere, his Le Sage.
There was his last work on the easel
- a beautiful, fresh, smiling shape of
Titania, such as his sweet guileless
fancy imagined "The Midsummer
Night's "queen to be. Gracious, and
pure, and bright, the sweet smiling image glimmers on the canvas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to
have been grouped around their mistress in laughing clusters.  Honest
Bottom's grotesque head and form are
indicated as reposing by the side of
the consummate beauty. The darkling forest would have grown around
them, with the stars glittering from
the midsummer sky: the flowers
at the queen's feet, and the boughs
and foliage about her, would have
been peopled with gambolling sprites
and fays.  They were dwelling in
the artist's mind no doubt, and would
have been developed by that patient,
faithful, admirable genius; but the
busy brain stopped working, the
skilful hand fell lifeless, the loving,
honest heart ceased to beat. What
was she to have been -that fair
Titania —when perfected by the patient skill of the poet, who in imagination saw the sweet innocent figure,
and with tender courtesy and caresses,
as it were, posed and shaped and
traced the fair form? Is there record
kept anywhere of fancies conceived,
beautiful, unborn? Some day will
they assume form in some yet undeveloped light? If our bad unspoken
thoughts are registered against us,
and are written in the awful account,
will not the good thoughts unspoken,
the love and tenderness, the pity,
beauty, charity, which pass through
the breast, and cause the heart to
throb with silent good, find a remembrance too? A few weeks more, and
this lovely offspring of the poet's
conception would have been complete
- to charm the world with its beau



ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


397


tifil mirth. May there not be some
sphere unknown to us where it may
have an existence?  They say our
words, once out of our lips, go travelling in omne cevum, reverherating for
ever and ever. If our words, why
not our thoughts? If the Has Been,
why not the Might Have Been?
Some day our spirits may be permitted to walk in galleries of fancies
more wondrous and beautiful than
any achieved works which at present
we see, and our minds to behold and
delight in masterpieces which poets'
and artists' minds have fathered and
conceived only.
With a feeling much akin to that
with which I looked upon the fiiend's
- the admirable artist's - unfinished
work, I can fancy many readers turning to the last pages which were
traced by Ciharlotto Bronte's hand.
Of the multitude that have read her
books, who has not known and deplored the tragedy of her family, her
own most sad and untimely fate?
Which of her readers has not become
her friend? Who that has known
her books has not admired the artist's
noble English, the burning love of
truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the
indignation at wrong, the eager sympathy, the pious love and reverence,
the passionate honor, so to speak, of
the woman? What a story is that
of that family of poets in their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern
moors! At nine o'clock at night,
Mrs. Gaskell tells, after evening prayers, when their guardian and relative
had gone to bed, the three poetesses
-the three maidens, Charlotte, and
Emily, and Anne- Charlotte being
the "motherly friend and guardian
to the other two" —" began, like
restless wild animals, to pace up and
down their parlor, 'making out their
wonderful stories, talking over plans
and projects, and thoughts of what
was to be their future life."
One evening, at the close of 1854,
as Charlotte Nicholls sat with her
husband by the fire, listening to the
howling of the wind about the house,


she suddenly said to her husband,
" If you had not been with me, I must
have been writing now." She then
ran up stairs, and brought down, and
read aloud, the beginning of a new
tale.  When she had finished, her
husband remarked, " The critics will
accuse you of repetition."  She replied, "Oh! I shall alter that.  I
always begin two or three times before
I can please myself." But it was not
to be. The trembling little hand was
to write no more. The heart newly
awakened to love and happiness, and
throbbing with maternal hope, was
soon to cease to beat; that intrepid
outspeaker and champion of truth,
that eager, impetuous redresser of
wrong, was to be called out of the
world's fight and struggle, to lay
down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere where even a noble
indignation cor ulterius nequit lacerare,
and where truth complete, and right
triumphant, no longer need to wage
war.
I can only say of this lady, vidi tanturn. I saw her first just as I rose out
of an illness from which I had neve:c
thought to recover. I remember the
trembling little framc, the little hand,
the great honest eyes. An impetuous
honesty seemed to me to characterize
the woman. Twice I recollect she
took me to task for what she held to
be errors in doctrine. Once about
Fielding we had a disputation. She
spoke her mind out. She jumped too
rapidly to  conclusions.  (I  have
smiled at one or two passages in the
"Biography," in which my own disposition or behavior forms the subject
of talk.)  She formed conclusions
that might be wrong, and built up
whole theories of character upon
them. New to the London world,
she entered it with an independent,
indomitable spirit of her own; and
judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or affectation, with extraordinary keenness of
vision. She was angry with her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal. Often she




398


ROUNDABOUT PAPERS.


seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely; but perhaps
the city is rather angry at being
judged. I fancied an austere little
Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and
rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of
being a very pure, and lofty, and highminded person. A great and holy
reverence of right and truth seemed to
be with her always. Such, in our
brief interview, she appeared to me.
As one thinks of that life so noble, so
lonely- of that passion for truth —
of those nights and nights of eager
study, swarming fancies, invention,
depression, elation, prayer; as one
reads the necessarily incomplete,
though most touching and admirable
history of the heart that throbbed in
this one little frame - of this one
amongst the myriads of souls that
have lived and died on this great earth
- this great earth? - this little speck
in the infinite universe of God, -
with what wonder do we think of today, with what awe await to-morrow,
when that which is now but darkly


seen shall be clear! As I read this
little fragmentary sketch, I think of
the rest. Is it? And where is it?
Will not the leaf be turned some day,
and the story be told? Shall the deviser of the tale somewhere perfect
the history of little EMMA'S griefs and
troubles? Shall TITANIA come forth
complete with her sportive court, with
the flowers at her feet, the forest
around her, and all the stars of summer glittering overhead?
How well I remember the delight,
and wonder, and pleasure with whicli
I read " Jane Eyre," sent to me by
an author whose name and sex were
then alike unknown to me; the
strange fascinations of the book; and
how with my own work pressing upon
me, I could not, having tlken the volumes up, lay them down until they
were read through! Hundreds of
those who, like myself, recognized and
admired that master-work of a great
genius, will look with a mournful interest and regard and curiosity upon
the last fragmentary sketch from the
noble hand which wrote " Jane Eyre."




THE
SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.
BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.








THE
SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


I.
ON TIlE DISINTERMENT OF NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA.
M   Y DEAR -, -It is no easy
task in this world to distinguish
between what is great in it, and
what is mean; and many and many
is the puzzle that I have had in
reading History (or the works of
fiction which go by that name), to
know whether I should laud up to
the skies, and endeavor, to the best
of my small capabilities, to imitate
the remarkable character about whom
I was reading, or whether I should
fling aside the book and the hero of
it, as things altogether base, unworthy, laughable, and get a novel,
or a game of billiards, or a pipe of
tobacco, or the report of the last debate in the House, or any other employment which would leave the mind
in a state of easy vacuity, rather than
pester it with a vain set of dates
relating to actions which are in themselves not worth a fig, or with a parcel of names of people whom it can
do one no earthly good to remember.
It is more than probable, my love,
that you are acquainted with what is
called Grecian and Roman history,
chiefly from perusing, in very early
youth, the little sheepskin-bound volumes of the ingenious Dr. Goldsmith,
and have been indebted for your
knowledge of our English annals to
a subsequent study of the more vo18


luminous works of Hume and Smollett. The first and the last-named
authors, dear Miss Smith, have
written each an admirable history,
-that of the Rev. Dr. Primrose,
Vicar of Wakefield, and that of Mr.
Robert Bramble, of Bramble Hall, -
in both of which works you will find
true and instructive pictures of human
life, and which you may always think
over with advantage.  But let me
caution you against putting any considerable trust in the other works of
these authors, which were placed in
your hands at school and afterwards,
and in which you were taught to
believe. Modern historians, for the
most part, know very little, and,
secondly, only tell a little of what
they know.
As for those Greeks and Romans
whom you have read of in " sheepskin," were you to know really what
those monsters were, you would blush
all over as red as a hollyhock, and put
down the history-book in a fury.
Many of our English worthies are no
better. You are not in a situation to
know the real characters of any one
of them. They appear before you in
their public capacities, but the individuals you know not. Suppose, for
instance, your mamma had purchased
her tea in the Borough from a grocer
living there by the name ofGreenacre:
suppose you had been asked out to
dinner, and the gentleman of the
house had said, " lo! Francois! a




402


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


glass of champagne for Miss Smith; "
Courvoisier would have served you
just as any other footman would;
you would never have known that
there was any thing extraordinary in
these individuals, but would have
thought of them only in their respective public characters of Grocer and
Footman. This, Madam, is History,
in which a man always appears dealing with the world in his apron, or
his laced livery, but which has not
the power or the leisure, or, perhaps,
is too high and mighty, to condescend
to follow and study him in his privacy.
Ah, my dear, when big and little
men come to be measured rightly,
and great and small actions to be
weighed properly, and people to be
stripped of their royal robes, beggars'
rags, generals' uniforms, seedy outat-elbowed coats, and the like-or
the contrary say, when souls come to
be stripped of their wicked, deceiving
bodies, and turned out stark naked
as they were before they were born -
what a strange startling sight shall we
see, and what a pretty figure shall
some of us cut! Fancy how we shall
see Pride, with his Stultz clothes and
padding pulled off, and dwindled
down to a forked radish! Fancy
some Angelic Virtue, whose white
raiment is suddenly whisked over his
head, showing us cloven feet and a
tail! Fancy Humility, eased of its
sad load of cares, and want, and
scorn, walking up to the very highest
place of all, and blushing as he takes
it! Fancy- but we must not fancy
such a scene at all, which would be
an outrage on public decency. Should
we be any better than our neighbors?
No, certainly. And as we can't be
virtuous, let us be decent.  Figleaves are a very decent, becoming
wear, and have been now in fashion
for four thousand years. And so,
my dear, History is written on figleaves. Would you have any thing
further? 0 fie!
Yes, four thousand years ago, that
famous tree was planted. At their
very first lie, our first parents made


for it, and there it is still the great
Humbug Plant, stretching its wide
arms, and sheltering beneath its
leaves, as broad and green as ever,
all the generations of men. Thus,
my dear, coquettes of your fascinating sex cover their persons with figgery, fantastically arranged, and call
their masquerading, modesty. Cowards fig themselves out fiercely as
" salvage men," and make us believe
that they are warriors. Fools look
very solemnly out from the dusk of
the leaves, and we fancy in the gloom
that they are sages. And many a
man sets a great wreath about his
pate, and struts abroad a hero, whose
claims we would all of us laugh at,
could we but remove the ornament
and see his numskull bare.
And such- (excuse my sermonizing) - such is the constitution of
mankind, that men have, as it were,
entered into a compact among themselves to pursue the fig-leaf system
a l'outrance, and to cry down all who
oppose it. Humbug they will have.
Humbugs themselves, they will respect humbugs. Their daily victuals
of life must be seasoned with humbug.
Certain things are there in the world
that they will not allow to be called
by their right names, and will insist
upon our admiring, whether we will
or no. Woe be to the man who
would enter too far into the recesses
of that magnificent temple where our
Goddess is enshrined, peep through
the vast embroidered curtains indiscreetly, penetrate the secret of secrets, and expose the Gammon of
Gammons!     And as you must not
peer too curiously withlin, so neither
must you remain scornfully without.
Humbug-worshippers, let us come
into our great temple regularly and
decently: take our seats, and settle
our clothes decently; open our books,
and go through the service with
decent gravity; listen, and be decently
affected by the expositions of the
decent priest of the place; and if by
chance some straggling vagabond,
loitering in the sunshine out of doors,




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


dares to laugh or to sing, and disturb
the sanctified dulness of the faithful;
- quick! a couple of big beadles rush
out and belabor the wretch, and his
yells make our devotions more comfortable.
Some magnificent religious ceremonies of this nature are at present
taking place in France; and thinking
that you might perhaps while away
some long winter evening with an
account of them, I have compiled the
followipg pages for your use. Newspapers have been filled, for some days
past, with details regarding the Saint
Helena expedition, many pamphlets
have been published, men go about
crying little books and broadsheets
filled with real or sham particulars;
and from these scarce and valuable
documents the following pages are
chiefly compiled.
We must begin at the beginning;
premising, in the first place, that
Monsieur Guizot, when French Ambassador at London, waited upon
Lord Palmerston with a request that
the body of the Emperor Napoleon
should be given up to the French nation, in order that it might find a final
resting-place in French earth. To
this demand the English Government
gave a ready assent; nor was there
any particular explosion of sentiment upon either side, only some
pretty cordial expressions of mutual good-will. Orders were sent out
to St. Helena that the corpse should be
disinterred in due time, when the
French expedition had arrived in
search of it, and that every respect
and attention should he paid to those
who came to carry back to their
country the body of the famous
dead warrior and sovereign.
This matter being arranged in very
few words (as in England, upon most
points, is the laudable fashion), the
French Chambers began to debate
about the place in which they should
bury the body when they got it; and
numberless pamphlets and newspapers
out of doors joined in the talk. Some
people there were who had fought




and conquered and been beaten with
the great Napoleon, and loved him
and his memory. Many more were
there who, because of his great genius
and valor, felt excessively proud in
their own particular persons, and
clamored for the return of their
hero. And if there were some few
individuals in this great hot-headed,
gallant, boasting, sublime, absurd
French nation, who had taken a cool
view of the dead Emperor's character;
if, perhaps, such men as Louis Philippe,and Monsieur A.Thiers,Minister
and Deputy, and Monsieur Francois.
Guizot, Deputy and Excellency, had,
from interest or conviction, opinions
at all differing from those of the
majority; why, they knew what was
what, and kept their opinions to
themselves, coming with a tolerably
good grace and flinging a few handfuls of incense upon the altar of the
popular idol.
In the succeeding debates, then,
various opinions were given with
regard to the place to be selected for
the Emperor's sepulture.  " Some
demanded," says an eloquent anonymous Captain in the Navy who has
written an "Itinerary from Toulon
to St. Helena," "that the coffin
should be deposited under the bronze
taken from the enemy by the French
army - under the Column of the
Place Vcnd6mc. The idea was a fine
one. This is the most glorious monument that was ever raised in a
conqueror's honor. This column has
been melted out of foreign cannon.
These same cannons have furrowed
the bosoms of our braves with noble
cicatrices; and  this metal -conquered by the soldier first, by the
artist afterwards - has allowed to be
imprinted on its front its own defeat
and our glory. Napoleon might sleep
in peace under this audacious trophy.
But, would his ashes find a shelter
sufficiently vast beneath this pedestal?
And his puissant statue dominating
Paris, beams with sufficient grandeur
on this place: whereas the wheels of
carriages and the feet of passengers




404


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


would profane the funereal sanctity
of the spot in trampling on the soil
so near his head."
You must not take this description,
dearest Amelia, "at the foot of the
letter," as the French phrase it, but
you will here have a masterly exposition of the arguments for and against
tile burial of the Emperor under the
Column of the Place Vend6me. The
idea was a fine one, granted; but,
like all other ideas, it was open to
objections. You must not fancy that
the cannon, or rather the cannonballs, were in the habit of furrowing
the bosoms of French braves, or any
other braves, with cicatrices: on the
contrary, it is a known fact that
cannon-balls make wounds, and not
cicatrices (which, my dear, are wounds
partially healed); nay, that a man
generally dies after receiving one such
projectile on his chest, much more
after having his bosom furrowed by
a score of them. No, my love; no
bosom, however heroic, can stand
such applications, and the author
only means that the French soldiers
faced the cannon and took them.
Nor, my love, must you suppose that
the column was melted: it was the
cannon was melted, not the column;
but such phrases are often used by
orators when they wish to give a
particular force and emphasis to their
opinions.
Well, again, although N',poleon
might have slept in peace under " this
audacious trophy," how could he do
so, and carriages go rattling by all
night, and people with great iron
heels to their boots pass clattering
over the stones? Nor indeed could it
be expected that a man whose reputation stretches from the Pyramids
to the Kremlin, should find a column,
of which the base is only five and
twenty feet square, a shelter vast
enough for his bones. In a word,
then, although the proposal to bury
Napoleon under the column was ingenious, it was found not to suit;
whereupon somebody else proposed
the Madelaine.


" It was proposed," says the beforequoted author with his usual felicity,
"to consecrate the Madelaine to his
exiled manes " -that is, to his bones
when they were not in exile any
longer. " He ought to have, it was
said, a temple entire. His glory fills
the world. His bones could not contain themselves in the coffin of a man
-in the tomb of a king!"  In this
case what was Mary Magdalen to do?
"This proposition, I am happy to
say, was rejected, and a new one —
that of the President of the Council
-adopted. Napoleon and his braves
ought not to quit each other. Under
the immense gilded dome of the Invalides he would find a sanctuary
worthy of himself. A dome imitates
the vault of heaven, and that vault
alone " (meaning of course the other
vault) " should dominate above his
head. His old mutilated Guard shall
watch around him: the last veteran,
as he has shed his blood in his combats, shall breathe his last sigh near
his tomb, and all these tombs shall
sleep under the tattered standards
that have been won fiom all the nations of Europe."
The original words are "sous les
lambeaux cribles des drapeaux cueillis chez toutes les nations;" in English, " under the riddled rags of the
flags that have been culled or plucked "
(like roses or buttercups) "in all
the nations."  Sweet, innocent flowers of victory! there they are, my
dear, sure enough, and a pretty considerable hortus siccus may any man
examine who chooses to walk to the
Invalides.  The burial-place being
thus agreed on, the expedition was
prepared, and on the 7th July the
"Belle Poule" frigate, in company
with "La Favorite" corvette, quitted
Toulon harbor. A couple of steamers,
"The Trident" and "The Ocean,"
escorted the ships as far as Gibraltar,
and there left them to pursue their
voyage.
The two ships quitted the harbor in
the sight of a vast concourse of people, and in the midst of a great roar



THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


405


Ing of cannons.  Previous to the
departure of the "Belle Poule," the
Bishop of Frejus went on board, and
gave to the cenotaph, in which the
Emperor's remains were to be deposited, his episcopal benediction. Napoleon's old friends and followers, the
two Bertrands, Gourgaud, Emanuel
Las Cases, "companions in exile, or
sons of the companions in exile of
the prisoner of the infame Hudson,"
says aFrench writer, were passengers
on board the frigate.  Marchand,
Denis, Pierret, Novaret, his old and
faithful servants, were likewise in the
vessel. It was commanded by his
Royal Highness Francis Ferdinand
Philip Louis Marie d'Orleans, Prince
de Joinville, a young prince two and
twenty years of age, who was already
distinguished in the service of his
country and king.
On the 8th of October, after a
voyage of six and sixty days, the
"Belle Poule" arrived in James
Town harbor; and on its arrival, as
on its departure from France, a great
firing of guns took place. First, the
"Oreste" French brig-of-war began
roaring out a salutation to the frigate;
then " The Dolphin" English schooner
gave her one and twenty guns; then
the frigate returned the compliment
of " The Dolphin" schooner; then
she blazed out with one and twenty
guns more, as a mark of particular
politeness to the shore - which kindness the forts acknowledged by similar
detonations.
These little compliments concluded
on both sides, Lieutenant Middlemore, son and aide-de-camp of the
Governor of St. Helena, came on
board the French frigate, and brought
his father's best respects to his Royal
Highness.  The Governor was at
home ill, and forced to keep his room;
but he had made his house at James
Town ready for Captain Joinville
and his suite, and begged that they
would make usa of it during their
stay.
On the 9th, H. R. H. the Prince
ofJoinville put on his full uniform


and landed, in company with Generals
Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron Las
Cases, M. Marchand, M. Coquereau,
the chaplain of the expedition, and
M. do Rohan Chabot, who acted as
chief mourner. All the garrison were
under arms to receive the illustrious
Prince and the other members of the
expedition -who forthwith repaired
to Plantation House, and had a conference with the Governor regarding
their mission.
On the 10th, 11th, 12th, these conferences continued: the crews of the
French ships were permitted to come
on shore and see the tomb of Napoleon. Bertrand, Gourgaud, Las Cases,
wandered about the island and revisited the spots to which they had
been partial in the lifetime of the Emperor.
The 15th October was fixed on for
the day of the exhumation: that day
five and twenty years, the Emperor
Napoleon first set his foot upon the
island.
On the day previous, all things had
been made ready; the grand coffins
and ornaments brought from France,
and the articles necessary for the operation were carried to the valley of
the Tomb.
The operations commenced at midnight. The well-known friends of
Napoleon before named, and some
other attendants of his, the chaplain
and his acolytes, the doctor of the
"Belle Poule," the captains of the
French ships, and Captain Alexander
of the Engineers, the English Commissioner, attended the disinterment.
His Royal Highness Prince de Joinville could not be present because the
workmen were under English command.
The men worked for nine hours incessantlv, when at length the earth
was entirely removed from the vault,
all the horizontal strata of masonry
demolished, and the large slab which
covered the place where the stone sarcophagus lay, removed by a crane.
This outer coffin of stone was perfect,
and could scarcely be said to be damp




406


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


"As soon as the Abbe Coquereau
had recited the prayers, the coffin was
removed with the greatest care, and
carried by the engineer-soldiers, bareheaded, into a tent that had been prepared for the purpose. After the religious ceremonies, the inner coffins
were opened. The outermost coffin
was slightly injured: then came one
of lead, which was in good condition,
and enclosed two others- one of tin
and one of wood. The last coffin was
lined inside with white satin, which,
having become detached by the effect
of time, had fallen upon the body, and
enveloped it like a winding-sheet, and
had become slightly attached to it.
"It is difficult to describe with
what anxiety and emotion those who
were present waited for the moment
which was to expose to them all that
death had left of Napoleon. Notwithstanding the singular state of preservation of the tomb and coffins, we could
scarcely hope to find any thing but
some misshapen remains of the least
perishable part of the costume to evidence the identity of the body. But
when Doctor Guillard raised the sheet
of satin, an indescribable feeling of
surprise and affection was expressed
by the spectators, many of whom
burst into tears. The Emperor was
himself before their eyes! The features of the face, though changed,
were perfectly recognized; the hands
extremely beautiful; his well-known
costume had suffered but little, and
the colors were easily distinguished.
The attitude itself was full of ease,
and but for the fragments of the satin
lining which covered, as with a fine
gauze, several parts of the uniform,
we might have believed we still saw
Napoleon before us lying on his bed
of state. General Bertrand and M.
Marchand, who were both present at
the interment, quickly pointed out the
different articles which each had deposited in the coffin and remained in
the precise position in which they had
previously described them to be.
"The two inner coffins were carefully closed again; the old leaden




coffin was strongly blocked up with
wedges of wood, and both were once
more soldered up with the most minute precautions, under the direction
of Doctor Guillard. These different
operations being  terminated, the
ebony sarcophagus was closed as
well as its oak case. On delivering
the key of the ebony sarcophagus to
Count de Chabot, the King's Commissioner, Captain Alexander declared to him, in the name of the
Governor, that this coffin, containing
the mortal remains of the Emperor
Napoleon, was considered as at the disposal of the French Government from
that day, and from the moment at
which it should arrive at the place of
embarkation, towards which it was
about to be sent under the orders of
General Middlemore.  The King's
Commissioner replied that he was
charged by his Government, and in
its name, to accept the coffin from
the hands of the British authorities,
and that he and the other persons
composing the French mission were
ready to follow it to James Town,
where the Prince de Joinville, superior commandant of the expedition,
would be ready to receive it and conduct it on board his fiigate. A car
drawn by four horses, decked with
funereal emblems, had been prepared
before the arrival of the expedition,
to receive the coffin, as well as a pall,
and all the other suitable trappings
of mourning. When the sarcophagus
was placed on the car, the whole was
covered with a magnificent imperial
mantle brought from Paris, the four
corners of which were borne by Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron
Las Cases and M. Marchand. At
half-past three o'clock the funeral car
began to move, preceded by a chorister bearing the cross, and by the Abbe
Coquercau. M. de Chabot acted as
chief mourner. All the authorities of
the island, all the principal inhabitants, and the whole of the garrison,
followed in procession from the tomb
to the quay. But with the exception
of the artillerymen necessary to lead




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


407


the horses, and occasionally support troops, the 91st Regiment being on
the car when descending some steep the right, and the militia on the left.
parts of the way, the places nearest The cortege advanced slowly between
the coffin were reserved for the French two ranks of soldiers to the sound of
mission.  General Middlemore, al- a funeral march, while the cannons
though in a weak state of health, per- of the forts were fired, as well as
sisted in following the whole way on those of the 'Belle Poule,' and the
foot, together with General Churchill, ' Dolphin;' the echoes being repeated
chief of the staff in India, who had a thousand times by the rocks above
arrived only two days before from  James Town.   After two hours'
Bombay.   The immense weight of march, the cortege stopped at the
the coffins, and the unevenness of the end of the quay, where the Prince de
road, rendered the utmost carefulness Joinville had stationed himself at the
necessary throughout the whole dis- head of the officers of the three French
tance. Colonel Trelawney command- ships of war. The greatest official
ed in person the small detachment honors had been rendered by the Enof artillerymen who conducted the car, glish authorities to the memory of the
and, thanks to his great care, not the Emperor- the most striking testislightest accident took place. From  menials of respect had marked the
the moment of departure to the arri- adieu given by St. Helena to his
val at the quay, the cannons of the coffin; and from this moment the
forts and the 'Belle Poule' fired mi- mortal remains of the Emperor were
nute-guns. After an hour's march, about to belong to France. When
the rain ceased for the first time since the funeral-car stopped, the Prince
the commencement of the operations; de Joinville advanced alone, and in
and on arriving in sight of the town, presence of all around, who stood
we found a brilliant sky and beauti- with their heads uncovered, received,
ful weather. From the morning, the in a solemn manner, the imperial
three French vessels of war had coffin from the hands of General Midassumed the usual signs of deep dlemore.   His Royal Highness then
mourning: their yards crossed and thanked the Governor, in the name of
their flags lowered. Two French France, for all the testimonials of
merchantmen, 'Bonne   Amie' and sympathy and respect with which the
'Indien,' which had been in the roads authorities and inhabitants of St.
for two days, had put themselves Helena had surrounded the memoraunder the Prince's orders, and fol- ble ceremonial. A cutter had been
lowed during the ceremony all the expressly prepared to receive the
manoeuvres of the 'Belle Poulc.' The coffin.  During  the  embarkation,
forts of the town, and tile houses which the Prince directed himself,
of the consuls, had also their flags the bands played funeral-airs, and all
half-mast high.                   the boats were stationed round with
"On arriving at the entrance of their oars shipped. The moment the
the town, the troops of the garrison sarcophagus touched the cutter, a
and the militia formed in two lines magnificent royal flag, which the laas far as the extremity of the quay. dies of James Town had embroidered
According to the order for mourning for the occasion, was unfurled, and
prescribed for the English army, the the'Belle Poule' immediately squared
men had their arms reversed, and the her masts and unfurled her colors.
officers had crape on their arms, with All the manoeuvres of the frigate were
their swords reversed. All the in- immediately followed by the other
habitants had been kept away from  vessels. Our mourning had ceased
the line of march, but they lined the with the exile of Napoleon, and the
terraces commanding the town, and French naval division dressed itself
the streets were occupied only by the out in all its festal ornaments to re.




408


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


ceive the imperial coffin under the
French flag. The sarcophagus was
covered in the cutter with the imperial mantle. The Prince de Joinville
placed himself at the rudder, Commandant Guyet at the head of the
boat; Generals Bertrand and Gourgaud, Baron Las Cases, M. Marchand,
and the Abbe Coquereau occupied
the same places as during the march.
Count Chabot and Commandant Hernoux were astern, a little in advance
of the Prince. As soon as the cutter
had pushed off from the quay, the
batteries ashore fired a salute of
twenty-one guns, and our ships returned the salute with all their artillery. Two other salutes were fired
during the passage from the quay to
the frigate; the cutter advancing very
slowly, and surrounded by the other
boats.  At half-past six o'clock, it
reached the 'Belle Poule,' all the
men being on the yards with their
hats. in their hands.  The Prince
had arranged on the deck a chapel,
decked with flags and trophies of
arms, the altar being placed at the
foot of the mizzenmast. The coffin,
carried by our sailors, passed between
two ranks of officers with drawn
swords, and was placed on the quarter-deck. The absolution was pronounced by the Abbe Coquereau the
same evening. Next day, at ten
o'clock, a solemn mass was celebrated on the deck, in presence of the
officers and part of the crews of the
ships. His Royal Highness stood at
the foot of the coffin. The cannon
of the 'Favorite' and 'Oreste' fired
minute-guns during this ceremony,
which terminated by a solemn absolution; and the Prince de Joinville,
the gentlemen of the mission, the
officers, and the premiers maitres of the
ship, sprinkled holy water on the
coffin. At eleven, all the ceremonies
of the church were accomplished, all
the honors done to a sovereign had
been paid to the mortal remains of
Napoleon. The coffin was carefully
lowered between decks, and placed in
the chapelle ardente which had been pre

pared at Toulon forits reception. At
this moment, the vessels fired a last
salute with all their artillery, and the
frigate took in her flags, keeping up
only her flag at the stern and the
royal standard at the maintopgallantmast. On Sunday, the 18th, at eight
in the morning, the ' Belle Poule'
quitted St. Helena with her precious
deposit on board.
*' During the whole time that the
mission remained at James 'lown, the
best understanding never ceased to
exist between the population of the
island and the French. The Prince
de Joinville and his companions met
in all quarters and at all times with
the greatest good-will and the warmest testimonials of sympathy. The
authorities and the inhabitants must
have felt, no doubt, great regret at
seeing taken away from their island
the coffin that had rendered it so celebrated; but they repressed their feel.
ings with a courtesy that does honoi
to the frankness of their character."


II.


ON TIlE VOYAGE FROM ST. HELENA
TO PARIS.
ON the 18th October the French
frigate quitted the island with its precious burden on board.
His Royal Highness the Captain
acknowledged cordially the kindness
and attention which he and his crew
had received from the English authorities and the inhabitants of the Island
of St. Helena; nay, promised a pension to an old soldier who had been
for many years the guardian of the
imperial tomb, and went so far as to
take into consideration the petition
of a certain lodging-house keeper, who
prayed for a compensation for the
loss which the removal of the Emperor's body would occasion to her. And
although it was not to be expected
that the great French nation should
forego its natural desire of recovering the remains of a hero so dear to it




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


409


foi the sake of the individual interest of
the landlady in question, it must have
been satisfactory to her to find that
the peculiarity of her position was so
delicately appreciated by the august
Prince who commanded the expedition, and carried away with him
animnce dimidium suce - the half of the
genteel independence which she derived from the situation of her hotel.
Ill a word, politeness and friendship
could not be carried further.  The
Prince's realm and the landlady's
were bound together by the closest
ties of amity. M. Thiers was Minister of France, the great patron of the
English alliance. At London M.
Guizot was the worthy representative
of the French good-will towards the
British people; and the remark frequently made by our orators at public
dinners, that "France and England,
while united, might defy the world,"
was considered as likely to hold good
for many years to come, - the union
that is. As for defying the world,
that was neither here nor there; nor
did English politicians ever dream of
doing any such thing, except perhaps
at the tenth glass of port at "Freemason's Tavern."
Little, however, did Mrs. Corbett,
the Saint Helena landlady, little did
his Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand
Philip Marie de Joinville, know what
was going on in Europe all this time
(when I say in Europe, I mean in
Turkey, Syria, and Egypt); how
clouds, in fact, were gathering upon
what you call the political horizon;
and how tempests were rising that
were to blow to pieces our AngloGallic temple of friendship. Oh, but
it is sad to think that a single wicked
old Turk should be the means of setting our two Christian nations by the
ears!
Yes, my love, this disreputable old
man had been for some time past the
object of the disinterested attention of
the great sovereigns of Europe. The
Emperor Nicolas (a moral character,
though following the Greek superstition, and adored for his mildness and
18*


benevolence of disposition), the Emperor Ferdinand, the King of Prussia,
and our own gracious Queen, had
taken such just offence at his conduct
and disobedience towards a young
and interesting sovereign, whose authority he had disregarded, whose
fleet he had kidnapped, whose fair
provinces he had pounced upon, that
they determined to come to the aid of
Abdul Medjid the First, Emperor of
the Turks, and bring his rebellious
vassal to reason. In this project, the
French nation was invited to join;
but they refused the invitation, saying, that it was necessary for the
maintenance of the balance of power
in Europe that his Highness Mehemet Ali should keep possession of
what by hook or by crook he had
gotten, and that they would have no
hand in injuring him. But why continue this argument, which you have
read in the newspapers for many
months past? You, my dear, must
know as well as I, that the balance
of power in Europe could not possibly
be maintained in any such way; and
though, to be sure, for the last fifteen
years, the progress of the old robber
has not made much difference to us
in the neighborhood of Russell Square,
and the battle of Nezib did not in the
least affect our taxes, our homes, our
institutions, or the price of butcher's
meat, yet there is no knowing what
might have happened had Mehemet Ali been allowed to remain quietly as he was: and the balance of
power in Europe might have beenthe deuce knows where.
Here, then, in a nutshell, you
have the whole matter in dispute.
While Mrs. Corbett and the Prince
de Joinville were innocently interchanging compliments at Saint
Helena, -bang! bang! Commodore
Napier was pouring broadsides into
Tyre and Sidon; our gallant navy
was storming breeches and routing
armies; Colonel Hodges had seized
upon the green standard of Ibraham
Pacha; and the powder-magazine of
St. John of Acre was blown up sky



410


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


high, with eighteen hundred Egyptian soldiers in company with it.
The French said that l'or Anglais had
achieved all these successes, and no
doubt believed that the poor fellows
at Acre were bribed to a man.
It must have been particularly unpleasant to a high-minded nation like
the French-at the very   moment
when the Egyptian affair and the balance of Europe had been settled in
this abrupt way - to find out all of a
sudden that the Pacha of-Egypt was
their dearest friend and ally. They
had suffered in the person of their
friend; and though, seeing that the
dispute was ended, and the territory
out of his hand, they could not hope
to get it back for him, or to aid him
in any substantial way, yet Monsieur
Thiers determined, just as a mark of
politeness to the Pasha, to fight all
Europe for maltreating him, -all
Europe, England included. He was
bent on war, and an immense majority of the nation went with him. He
called for a million of soldiers,
and would have had them too, had
not the King been against the project
and delayed the completion of it at
least for a time.
Of these great European disputes
Captain Joinville received a notification while he was at sea on board his
frigate: as we find by the official
account which has been published
of his mission.
"Some days after quitting Saint
Helena," says that document, "the
expedition fell in with a ship coming
from Europe, and was thus made acquainted with the warlike rumors
then afloat, by which a collision with
the English marine was rendered possible. The Prince de Joinville immediately assembled the officers of the
'Belle Poule,' to deliberate on an
event so unexpected and important.
"The council of war having expressed its opinion that it was necessary at all events to prepare for an
energetic defence, preparations were
made to place in battery all the guns
that the frigate oould bring to bear


against the enemy. The provisional
cabins that had been fitted up in the
battery were demolished, the partitions removed, and, with all the elegant furniture of the cabins, flung
into the sea. The Prince de Joinville
was the first 'to execute himself,'
and the frigate soon found itself
armed with six or eight more guns.
" That part of the ship where these
cabins had previously been, went by
the name of Lacedsemon; every thing
luxurious being banished to make
way for what was useful.
' Indeed, all persons who were on
board agree in saying that Monseigneur the Prince de Joinviile most
worthily acquitted himself of the
great and honorable mission which
had been confided to him. All affirm
not  only that the commandant
of the expedition did every thing at
St. Helena which as a Frenchman he
was bound to do in order that the remains of the Emperor should receive
all the honors due to them, but moreover that he accomplished his mission
with all the measured solemnity, all
the pious and severe dignity, that the
son of the Emperor himself would
have shown upon a like occasion.
The commandant had also comprehended that the remains of the Emperor must never fall into the hands
of the stranger, and being himself
decided rather to sink his ship than
to give up his precious deposit, he
had inspired every one about him
with the same energetic resolution
that he had himself taken 'against an
extreme eventuality.' "
Monseigneur, my dear, is really
one of the finest young fellows it
is possible to see.  A tall,, broadchested, slim-waisted, brown-faced,
dark-eyed young prince, with a great
beard (and other martial qualities no
doubt) beyond his years.  As he
strode into the Chapel of the Invalides
on Tuesday at the head of his men,
he made no small impression, I can
tell you, upon the ladies assembled
to witness the ceremony. Nor arc
the crew of the "Belle Poule " less




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


411


agreeable to look at than their com- age," —which operation they were
mander. A more clean, smart, ac- not, in a harmless church hung round
tive, well-limbed set of lads never with velvet and wax-candles, and
"did dance" upon the deck of the filled with ladies, surely called upon
famed "Belle Poule" in the days of to perform. Nor, indeed, can it be
her memorable combat with the reasonably supposed that the picked
"Saucy Arethusa."    "These five men of the crack frigate of the French
hundred sailors," says a French news- navy are a "good specimen" of the
paper, speaking of them in the proper rest of the French marine, any more
French way, " sword in hand, in the than a cuirassed colossus at the gate
severe costume of board-ship (la severe of the Horse Guards can be considered
tenue du bord), seemed proud of the a fair sample of the British soldier of
mission that they had just accom- the line. The sword and pistol, howplished.  Their blue jackets, their ever, had no doubt their effect - the
red cravats, the turned-down collars of former was in its sheath, the latter
blue shirts edged with white, above all not loaded, and I hear that the French
their resolute appearance and martial ladies are quite in raptures with these
air, gave a favorable specimen of the charming loups-de-mer.
present state of our marine - a     Let the warlike accoutrements then
marine of which so much might be pass. It was necessary, perhaps, to
expected and from which so little has strike the Parisians with awe, and
been required." - Le Commerce: 16th therefore the crew were armed in this
December.                         fierce fashion; but why should the
There they were, sure enough; a Captain begin to swagger as well as
cutlass upon one hip, a pistol on the his men? and why did the Prince de
other-a gallant set of young men Joinville lug out sword and pistol
indeed. I doubt, to be sure, whether so early? or why, if he thought fit to
the severe tenue da bord requires that make preparations, should the official
the seaman should be always fur- journals brag of them afterwards as
nished with these ferocious weapons, proofs of his extraordinary courage?
which in sundry maritime manoeu-    Here is the case.  The English
vres, such as going to sleep in your Government makes him a present of
hammock for instance, or twinkling the bones of Napoleon: English worka binnacle, or luffing a marlinspike, men work for nine hours without
or keelhauling a maintopgallant (all ceasing, and dig the coffin out of the
naval operations, my dear, which any ground: the English Commissioner
seafaring novelist will explain to you) hands over the key of the box to the
- I doubt, I say, whether these weap- French representative, Monsieur Chaons are always worn by sailors, and bot: English horses carry the funeralhave heard that they are commonly, car down to the sea-shore, accompaand very sensibly too, locked up until nied by the English Governor, who
they are wanted. Take another ex- has actually left his bed to walk in the
ample: suppose artillerymen  were procession and to do the French
incessantly compelled to walk about nation honor.
with a pyramid of twenty-four-pound  After receiving and acknowledging
shot in one pocket, a lighted fuse and these politenesses, the French captain
a few barrels of gunpowder in the takes his charge on board, and the
other —these objects would, as you first thing we afterwards hear of him
may imagine, greatly inconvenience is the determination " qu'il a su faire
the artilleryman in his peaceful state. passer" into all his crew, to sink
The newspaper writer is therefore rather than yield up the body of the
most likely mistaken in saying that Emperor aux mains de letrangerthe seamen were in the severe tenue du into the hand of the foreigner.  My
bord, or by " bord " meaning " tbord- dear Monseigneur, is not this par trop




412


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


fort? Suppose "the foreigner "had
wanted the coffin, could he not have
kept it? Why show this uncalledfor valor, this extraordinary alacrity
at sinking? Sink or blow yourself
up as much as you please, but your
Royal Highness must see that the
genteel thing would have been to
wait until you were asked to do so,
before you offended good-natured,
honest people, who-heaven help
them - have never shown themselves at all murderously inclined
towards you. A man knocks up his
cabins forsooth, throws his tables and
chairs overboard, runs guns into the
portholes, and calls le quartier du bord
oi existaient ces chambres, Lacedcenon.
Lacedaemon! There is a province, 0
Prince, in your royal father's dominions, a fruitful parent of heroes in its
time which would have given a much
better nickname to your quartier du
bord: you should have called it Gascony.
"Sooner than strike we'll all ex-pi-er
On board of the Bell-e Pou-le."
Such fanfaronnading is very well on
the part of Tom Dibdin, but a person
of your Royal Highness's " pious and
severe dignity" should have been
above it. If you entertained an idea
that war was imminent, would it not
have been far better to have made
your preparations in quiet, and when
you found the war-rumor blown over,
to have said nothing about what you
intended to do? Fie upon such cheap
Lacedsemonianism! There is no poltroon in the world but can brag about
what he would have done: however,
to do your Royal Highnesses's nation
justice, they brag and fight too.
This narrative, my dear Miss Smith,
as you will have remarked, is not a
simple tale merely, but is accompanied
by many moral and pithy remarks
which form its chief value, in the
writer's eyes at least, and the above
account of the sham Lacedremon on
board the "Belle Poule" has a
double-barrelled morality, as I conceive. Besides justly reprehending




the French propensity towards braggadocio, it proves very strongly a
point on which I am the only statesman in Europe who has strongly
insisted.  In " The Paris Sketch
Book" it was stated that the Fr'ench
hate us. They hate us, my dear, profoundly and desperately, and there
never was such a hollow humbug in
the world as the French alliance. Men
get a character for patriotism in
France merely by hating England.
Directly they go into strong opposition (where, you know, people are always more patriotic than on the ministerial side), they appeal to the people,
and have their hold on the people by
hating England in common with
them. Why? It is a long story,
and the hatred may be accounted for
by many reasons, both political and
social. Any time these eight hundred years this ill-will has been going
on, and has been transmitted on the
French side from father to son. On
the French side, not on ours: we
have had no, or few, defeats to complain of, no invasions to make us
angry; but you see that to discuss
such a period of time would demand
a considerable number of pages, and
for the present we will avoid the
examination of the question.
But they hate us, that is the long
and short of it; and you see how this
hatred has exploded just now, not
upon a serious cause of difference,
but upon an argument: for what is
the Pacha of Egypt to us or them
but a mere abstract opinion? For
the same reason the Little-endians in
Liliput abhorred the Big-endians;
and I beg you to remark how his
Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand
Mary, upon hearing that this argument was in the course of debate
between us straightway flung his
furniture overboard and expressed a
preference for sinking his ship rather
than yielding it to the etranger. Noth.
ing came of this wish of his, to be
sure; but the intention is everything.
Unlucky circumstances denied hir
the power, but he had the will.




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


413


Well, beyond this disappointment,
the Prince de Joinville had nothing
to complain of during the voyage,
which terminated happily by the
arrival of the "Belle Poule" at
Cherbourg, on the 30th of November,
at five o'clock in the morning. A
telegraph made the glad news
known at Paris, where the Minister
of the Interior, Tanneguy-Duchatel
(you will read the name, Madam, in
the old Anglo-French wars), had already made "immense preparations"
for receiving the body of Napoleon.
The entry was fixed for the 15th
of December.
On the 8th of December, at Cherbourg, the body was transferred from
the "Belle Poule" frigate to the
"Normandie"    steamer; on which
occasion the mayor of Cherbourg
deposited in the name of his town, a
gold laurel branch upon the coffin -
which was saluted by the forts and
dikes of the Iplace with ONE THOUSAND GUNS! There was a treat for
the inhabitants.
There was on board the steamer a
splendid receptacle for the coffin:
" a temple with twelve pillars and a
dome to cover it from the wet and
moisture, surrounded  with  velvet
hangings and silver fringes. At the
head was a gold cross, at the foot a
gold lamp: other lamps were kept
constantly burning within, and vases
of burning incense were hung around.
An altar, hung with velvet and silver,
was at the mizzen-mast of the vessel,
and four silver eagles at each corner of
the altar."  It was a compliment at
once to Napoleon and -excuse me
for saying so, but so the facts are
- to Napoleon and to God Almighty.
Three steamers, the " Normandie,"
the " Veloce," and the " Courrier,"
formed the expedition from Cherbourg to Havre, at which place they
arrived on the evening of the 9th of
December, and where the " Vloce"
was replaced by the Seine steamer,
having in tow one of the state-coasters, which was to fire the salute at the
moment when the body was trans

ferred into one of the vessels belonging to the Seine.
The expedition passed Havre the
same night, and came to anchor at
Val de la Have on the Seine, three
leagues below Rouen.
Here the next morning (10th), it
was met by the flotilla of steamboats
of the Upper Seine, consisting of the
three" Dorades," the three " Etoiles,"
the " Elbeuvien," the " Parisien," the
" Parisienne," and the "Zampa."
The Prince de Joinville, and the persons of the expedition, embarked
immediately in the flotilla, which
arrived the same day at Rouen.
At Rouen, salutes were fired, the
National Guard on both sides of
the river paid military honors to the
body, and over the middle of the
suspension-bridge a magnificent cenotaph was erected, decorated with
flags, fasces, violet hangings, and the
imperial arms. Before the cenotaph
the expedition stopped, and the
absolution was given by the archbishop and the clergy. After a couple of
hours' stay, the expedition proceeded
to Pont de l'Arche. On the 11th it
reached Vernon, on the 12th Mantes,
on the 13th Maisons-sur-Seine.
"Everywhere," says the official
account from which the above particulars are borrowed, "the authorities,
the National Guard, and the people,
flocked to the passage of the flotilla,
desirous to render the honors due to
his glory, which is the glory of France.
In seeing its hero return, the nation
seemed to have found its Palladium
again,- the sainted relics of victory."
At length, on the 14th, the coffin
was transferred from the "Dorade "
steamer on board the imperial vessel
arrived from Paris. In the evening,
the imperial vessel arrived at Courbevoie, which was the last stage of the
journey.
Here it was that M. Guizot went to
examine the vessel, and was very
nearly flung into the Seine, as report
goes, by the patriots assembled there.
It is now lying on the river, near
the Invalides, amidst the drifting ice,




414


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


whither the people of Paris are flocking out to see it.
The vessel is of a very elegant antique form, and I can give you on the
Thames no better idea of it than by
requesting you to fancy an immense
wherry, of which the stern has been
cut straight off, and on which a temple on steps has been elevated.  At
the figure-head is an immense gold
eagle, and at the stern is a little terrace, filled with evergreens and a profusion of banners. Upon pedestals
along the sides of the vessel are tripods
in which incense was burned, and underneath them are garlands of flowers
called here "immortals."  Four eagles surmount the temple, and a great
scroll or garland, held in their beaks,
surrounds it. It is hung with velvet
and gold; four gold caryatides support
the entry of it; and in the midst, upon a large platform hung with velvet,
and bearing the imperial arms, stood
the coffin. A steamboat, carrying
two hundred musicians playing funereal marches and military symphonies,
preceded this magnificent vessel to
Courbevoie, where a funereal temple
was erected, and " a statue of Notre
Dame de Grace, before which the seamen of the ' Belle Poule' inclined
themselves, in order to thank her for
having granted them a noble and
glorious voyage."
Early on the morning of the 15th
December, amidst clouds of incense, and thunder of cannon, and innumerable shouts of people, the coffin
was transferred from the barge, and
carried by the seamen of the "Belle
Poule " to the Imperial Car..
And now, having conducted our
hero almost to the gates of Paris,
I must tell you what preparations
were made in the capital to receive
him.
Ten days before the arrival of the
body, as you walked across the Deputies Bridge, or over the Esplanade
of the Invalides, you saw on the
bridge eight, on the esplanade thirtytwo mysterious boxes erected, where

in a couple of score of sculptors were
at work night and day.
In the middle of the Invalid
Avenue, there used to stand, on a
kind of shabby fountain or pump, a
bust of Lafayette, crowned with some
dirty wreaths of "immortals," and
looking down at the little streamlet
which occasionally dribbled below
him. The spot of ground was now
clear, and Lafayette and the pump
had been consigned to some cellar, to
make way for the mighty procession
that was to pass over the place of
their habitation.
Strange coincidence! If I had
been Mr. Victor Hugo, my dear, or a
poet of any note, I would, in a few
hours, have made an impromptu concerning that Lafayette-crowned pump,
and compared its lot now to the fortune of its patron some fifty years
back. From   him then issued, as
from his fountain now, a feeble dribble of pure words; then, as now,
some faint circle of disciples were
willing to admire him. Certainly in
the midst of the war and storm without, this pure fount of eloquence went
dribbling, dribbling on, till of a sudden the revolutionary workmen
knocked down statue and fountain,
and the gorgeous imperial cavalcade
trampled over the spot where they
stood.
As for the Champs Elysees, there
was no end to the preparations: the
first day you saw a couple of hundred
scaffoldings erected at intervals between the handsome gilded gas-lamps
that at present ornament that avenue;
next day, all these scaffoldings were
filled with brick and mortar.  Presently, over the bricks and mortar
rose pediments of statues, legs of
urns, legs of goddesses, legs and
bodies of goddesses, legs, bodies, and
busts of goddesses. Finally, on the
13th December, goddesses complete.
On the 14th, they were painted
marble-color; and the basements of
wood and canvas on which they
stood were made to resemble the same
costly material. The funereal urns




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


415


were ready to receive the frankincense
and precious odors which were to
burn in them. A vast number of
white columns stretched down the
avenue, each bearing a bronze buckler
on which was written, in gold letters,
one of the victories of the Emperor,
and each decorated with enormous
imperial flags. On these columns
golden eagles were placed; and the
newspapers did not fail to remark the
ingenious position in which the royal
birds had been set: for while those on
the right-hand side of the way had
their heads turned towards the procession, as if to watch its coming,
those on the left were looking exactly
the other way, as if to regard its
progress. Do not fancy I am joking:
this point was gravely and emphatically urged in many newspapers;
and I do believe no mortal Frenchman ever thought it any thing but
sublime.
Do not interrupt me, sweet Miss
Smith. I feel that you are angry. I
can see from here the pouting of your
lips, and know what you are going to
say. You are going to say, "I will
read no more of this Mr. Titmarsh;
there is no subject, however solemn, but he treats it with flippant
irreverence, and no character, however great, at whom he does not
sneer."
Ah, my dear! you are young now
and enthusiastic; and your Titmarsh
is old, very old, sad, and gray-headed.
I have seen a poor mother buy a
halfpenny wreath at the gate of Montmartre burying-ground, and go with
it to her little child's grave, and hang
it there over the little humble stone;
and if ever you saw me scorn the
mean offering of the poor shabby
creature, I will give you leave to be
as angry as you will. They say that
on the passage of Napoleon's coffin
down the Seine, old soldiers and
country people walked miles from
their villages just to catch a sight of
the boat which carried Ilis body, and
to kneel down on the shore and pray
for him. God forbid that we should


quarrel with such prayers and sorrow,
or question their sincerity. Something great and good must have
been in this man, something loving
and kindly, that has kept his name
so cherished in the popular memory,
and gained him such lasting reverence
and affection.
But, Madam, one may respect the
dead without feeling awe-stricken at
the plumes of the hearse; and I see
no reason why one should sympathize
with the train of mutes and undertakers, however deep may be their
mourning. Look, I pray you, at the
manner in which the French nation
has performed Napoleon's funeral.
Time out of mind, nations have
raised, in memory of their heroes,
august mausoleums, grand pyramids,
splendid statues of gold or marble,
sacrificing whatever they had that
was most costly and rare, or that was
most beautiful in art, as tokens of
their respect and love for the dead
person. What a fine example of this
sort of sacrifice is that (recorded in a
book of which Simplicity is the great
characteristic) of the poor woman
who brought her pot of precious ointment- her all, and laid it at the feet
of the Object which, upon earth, she
most loved and respected., "Economists and calculators" there were
even in those days who quarrelled
with the manner in which the poor
woman lavished so much "capital; "
but you will remember how nobly
and generously the sacrifice was appreciated, and how the economists
were put to shame.
With regard to the funeral ceremony that has just been performed
here, it is said that a famous public personage and statesman, Monsieur Thiers indeed, spoke with the
bitterest indignation of the general
style of the preparations, and of their
mean and tawdry character.   He
would have had a pomp as magnificent, he said, as that of Rome at the
triumph of Aurelian: he would have
decorated the bridges and avenues
through which the procession was to




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


pass, with the costliest marbles and
the finest works of art, and have had
them to remain there forever as
monuments of the great funeral.
The economists and calculators
might here interpose with a great
deal of reason; for, indeed, there was
no reason why a nation should impoverish itself to do honor to the
memory of an individual for whom,
after all, it can feel but a qualified
enthusiasm: but it surely might have
employed the large sum voted for the
purpose more wisely and generously,
and recorded its respect for Napoleon
by some worthy and lasting memorial,
rather than have erected yonder thousand vain heaps of tinsel, paint, and
plaster, that are already cracking
and crumbling in the frost, at three
days old.
Scarcely one of the statues, indeed,
deserves to last a month: some are
odious distortions and caricatures,
which never should have been allowed
to stand for a moment. On the very
day of the fete, the wind was shaking
the canvas pedestals, and the flimsy
wood-work had begun to gape and
give way. At a little distance, to be
sure, you could not see the cracks;
and pedestals and statutes looked like
marble. At some distance you could
not tell but that the wreaths and eagles
were gold embroidery, and not gilt
paper - the great tricolor flags damask, and not striped calico. One would
think that these sham splendors betokened sham respect, it one had not
known that the name of Napoleon is
held in real reverence, and observed
somewhat of the character of the nation. Real feelings they have, but
they distort them by exaggeration;
real courage, which they render ludicrous by intolerable braggadocio; and
I think the above official account of
the Prince de Joinville's proceedings,
of the manner in which the Emperor's
remains have been treated in their
voyage to the capital, and of the
preparations made to receive him in
it, will give my dear Miss Smith some
means of understanding the social


and moral condition of this worthy
people of France.


III.


ON THE FUNERAL CEREMONY.
SHALL I tell you, my dear, that
when Franqois woke me at a very
early hour on this eventful morning,
while the keen stars were still glittering overheard, a half-moon, as sharp
as a razor, beaming in the frosty sky,
and a wicked north wind blowing,
that blew the blood out of one's
fingers and froze your leg as you put
it out of bed;- shall I tell you, my
dear, that when Francois called me,
and said, "V'la vot' cafe, Monsieur
Titemasse, buvez-le, tiens, il est tout
chaud," I felt myself, after imbibing
the hot breakfast, so comfortable under three blankets and a mackintosh,
that for at least a quarter of an hour
no man in Europe could say whether
Titmarsh would or would not be
present at the burial of the Emperor
Napoleon.
Besides, my dear, the cold, there
was another reason for doubting. Did
the French nation, or did they not,
intend to offer up some of us English
over the imperial grave? And were
the games to be concluded by a
massacre? It was said in the newspapers that Lord Granville had desl)atched circulars to all the English
resident in Paris, begging them to
keep their homes. The French journals announced this news, and warned
us charitably of the fate intended for
us. Had Lord Granville written?
Certainly not to me. Or had lie
written to all except nme? And was I
the victim - the doomed one? -to
be seized directly I showed my face
in the Champs Elvsdes, and torn in
pieces by French 'Patriotism to the
frantic chorus of the " Marseillaise "?
Depend on it, Madam, that high and
low in this city on Tuesday were not
altogether at their ease, and that the




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


417


bravest felt no small tremor! And
be sure of this, that, as his Majesty
Louis Philippe took his night-cap off
his royal head that morning, he
prayed heartily that he might, at
night, put it on in safety.
Well, as my companion and I came
out of doors, being bound for the
Church of the Invalides, for which a
Deputy had kindly furnished us with
tickets, we saw the very prettiest
sight of the whole day, and I can't
refrain from mentioning it to my dear,
tender-hearted Miss Smith.
In the same house where I live
(but about five stories nearer the
ground), lodges an English family,
consisting of-1. A   great-grandmother, a hale, handsome old lady of
seventy, the very best dressed and
neatest old lady in Paris. 2. A
grandfather and grandmother, tolerably young to bear that title. 3. A
daughter. And 4. Two little greatgrand, or grand-children, that may
be of the age of three and one, and
belong to a son and daughter who are
in India. The grandfather, who is
as proud of his wife as he was thirty
years ago when he married, and pays
her compliments still twice or thrice
in a day, and when he leads her into
a room looks round at the persons
assembled, and says in his heart,
" Here, gentlemen, here is my wifeshow me such another woman in
England,"- this gentleman had hired
a room on the Champs Elysees, for
he would not have his wife catch cold
by exposing her to the balconies in
the open air.
When I came to the street, I found
the family assembled in the following
order of march: -
- No. 1, the great-grandmother walking daintily along, supported by
No. 3, her grand-daughter.
- A nurse carrying No. 4 junior, who
was sound asleep: and a huge
basket containing saucepans, bottles of milk, parcels of infants'
food, certain dimity napkins, a
child's coral, and a little horse
belonging to No. 4 senior.
-     A servant bearing a basket of condiments.


- No. 2, grandfather, spick and span,
clean shaved, hat brushed, white
buckskin gloves, bamboo cane,
brown great-coat, walking as upright and solemn as may be, having
his lady on his arm.
- No. 4, senior, with mottled legs
and a tartan costume, who was
frisking about between his grandpapa's legs, who heartily wished
him at home.
" M dear," his face seemed to say
to his lady, " I think you might have
left the little things in the nursery,
for we shall have to squeeze through
a terrible crowd in the Champs Elysees."
The lady was going out for a day's
pleasure, and her face was full of care:
she had to look first after her old
mother, who was walking ahead, then
after No. 4 junior with the nursehe might fall into all sorts of danger,
wake up, cry, catch cold; nurse might
slip down, or heaven knows what.
Then she had to look her husband in
the face, who had gone to such expense,
and been so kind for her sake, and
make that gentleman believe she was
thoroughly happy; and, finally, she
had to keep an eye upon No. 4 senior,
who, as she was perfectly certain, was
about in two minutes to be lost forever, or trampled to pieces in the
crowd.
These events took place in a quiet
little street leading into the Champs
Elysees, the entry of which we had
almost reached by this time.  The
four detachments above described,
which had been straggling a little in
their passage down the street, closed
up at the end of it, and stood for a
moment huddled together. No. 3,
Miss X —, began speaking to her
companion the great-grandmother.
"Hush, my dear,' said that old
lady, looking round alarmed at her
daughter. ", peak French." And she
straightway began nervously to make
a speech which she supposed to be in
the language, but which was as much
like French as Iroquois.  The whole
secret was out: vou could read it in
the grandmother's face, who was do




418


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


ing all she could to keep from crying,
and looked as frightened as she dared
to look.  The two elder ladies had
settled between them that there was
going to be a general    English
slaughter that day, and had brought
the children with them, so that they
might all be murdered in company.
God bless you, O women, moisteyed and tender-hearted! In those
gentle silly tears of yours there is
something touches one, be they never
so foolish. I don't think there were
many such natural drops shed that
day as those which just made their
appearance in the grandmother's eyes,
and then went back again as if they
had been ashamed of themselves,
while the good lady and her little
troop walked across the road. Think
how happy she will be when night
comes, and there has been no murder
of English, and the brood is all nestled under her wings sound asleep,
and she is lying awake thanking God
that the day and its pleasures and
pains are over. Whilst we were considering these things, the grandfather had suddenly elevated No. 4
senior upon his left shoulder, and I
saw the tartan hat of that young
gentleman, and the bamboo-cane
which had been transferred to him,
high over the heads of the crowd on
the opposite side through which the
party moved.
After this little procession had passed away -you may laugh at it, but
upon my word and conscience, Miss
Smith, I saw nothing in the course
of the day which affected me more -
after this little procession had passed
away, the other came, accompanied
by gun-banging, flag-waving, incenseburning, trumpets pealing, drums
rolling, and at the close, received by
the voice of six hundred choristers,
sweetly modulated to the tones of
fifteen score of fiddlers. Then you
saw horse and foot, jackboots and
bearskin, cuirass and bayonet, national guard and line, marshals and
generals all over gold. smart aides-de

camp galloping about like mad, and
high in the midst of all, riding on his
golden buckler, Solomon in all his
glory, forsooth - Imperial Ceesar,
with his crown over his head, laurels
and standards  waving   about his
gorgeous chariot, and a million of
people looking on in wonder and
awe.
His Majesty the Emperor and King
reclined on his shield, with his head a
little elevated. His Majesty's skull is
voluminous, his forehead broad and
large. We remarked that his Imperial Majesty's brow was of a yellowish color, which appearance was also
visible about the orbits of the eyes.
He kept his eyelids constantly closed,
by which we had the opportunity of
observing that the upper lids were
garnished with eyelashes. Years and
climate have effected upon the face
of this great monarch only a trifling
alteration; we may say, indeed, that
Time has touched his Imperial and
Royal Majesty with the lightest feather in his wing. In the nose of the
Conqueror of Austerlitz we remarked
very little alteration: it is of the
beautiful shape which we remember
it possessed five and twenty years
since, ere unfortunate circumstances
induced him to leave us for a while.
The nostril and the tube of the nose
appear to have undergone some slight
alteration, but in examining a beloved object the eye of affection is perhaps too critical.  Vive l'Empereur!
the soldier of Marengo is among us
again. His lips are thinner, perhaps,
than they were before! how white his
teeth are! you can just see three of
them pressing his under-lip; and pray
remark the fulness of his cheeks and
the round contour of his chin. Oh,
those beautiful white hands! many a
time have they patted the cheek of poor
Josephine, and played with the black
ringlets of her hair. She is dead now,
and cold, poor creature; and so are
Hortense and bold Eugene, "than
whom the world never saw a curtier
knight," as was said of King Arthur's
Sir Lancelot. What a day would it




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


419


have been for those three could they
but have lived until now, and seen
their hero returning! Where's Ney?
His wife sits looking out fiom M.
Flahaut's window yonder, but the
bravest of the brave is not with her.
Murat too is absent: honest Joachim
loves the Emperor at heart, and repents that he was not at Waterloo:
who knows but that at the sight of the
handsome swordsman those stubborn
English " canaille" would have given way? A king, Sire, is, you know,
the greatest of slaves - State affairs
of consequence- his Majesty the
King of Naples is detained no doubt.
When we last saw the King, however,
and his Highness the Prince of Elchingen, they looked to have as good
health as ever they had in their lives,
and we heard each of them calmly
calling out "Fire!" as they have
(lone in numberless battles before.
Is it possible? can the Emperor
forget? We don't like to break it to
him, but has he forgotten all about
the farm at Pizzo, and the garden of
the Observatory? Yes, truly: there
he lies on his golden shield, never
stirring, never so much as lifting his
eyelids, or opening his lips any wider.
0 vanitas vanitatum! Here is our
Sovereign in all his glory, and they
fired a thousand guns at Cherbourg
and never woke him!
However, we are advancing matters
by several hours, and you must give
just as much credence as you please to
the subjoined remarks concerning the
Procession, seeing that your humble
servant could not possibly be present
at it, being bound for the church elsewhere.
Programmes, however, have been
published of the affair, and your vivid
fancy will not fail to give life to them,
and the whole magnificent train will
pass before you.
Fancy, then, that the guns are fired
at Neuilly: the body landed at daybreak from  the funereal barge and
transferred to the car; and fancy the
car, a huge Juggernaut of a machine,


rolling on four wheels of an antique
shape, which supported a basement
adorned with golden eagles, banners,
laurels, and velvet hangings. Above
the hangings stand twelve golden
statues with raised arms supporting a
huge shield, on which the coffin lay.
On the coffin was the imperial crowln,
covered with violet velvet crape, and
the whole vast machine was drawn
by horses in superb housings, led by
valets in the imperial livery.
Fancy at the head of the procession
first of all
The Gendarmerie of the Seine, with their
trumpets and Colonel.
The Municipal Guard (horse), with their
trumpets, standard, and Colonel.
Two squadrons of the 7th Lancers, with
Colonel, standard, and music.
The Commandant of Paris and his Staff.
A battalion of Infantry of the Line, with
their flag, sappers, drums, music, and
Colonel.
The Municipal Guard (foot), with flag,
drums, and Colonel.
The Sapper-pumpers, with ditto.
Then picture to yourself more squadrons
of Lancers and Cuirassiers. The General of the Division and his Staff; all
officers of all arms employed at Paris,
and unattached; the Military School of
Saint Cyr, the Polytechnic School, the
School of theEtat-Major; and the Professors, and Staffof each. Go on inagining more battalions of Infantry, of Artillery, companies of Engineers, squadrons
of Cuirassiers, ditto of the Cavalry, of
the National Guard, and the first and
second legions of ditto.
Fancy a carriage, containing the Chaplain
of the St. Helena expedition, the only
clerical gentleman that formed a part of
the procession.
Fancy you hear the funereal music, and
then figure in your mind's eye -
THE EMPEROR'S CHARGER, that is,
Napoleon's own saddle and bridle
(when First Consul) upon a white
horse. The saddle (which has been
kept ever since in the Garde Meuble of
the Crown) is of amaranth velvet, embroidered in gold: the holsters and
housings are of the same rich material.
On them you remark the attributes of
War, Commerce, Science, and Art. The
bits and stirrups are silver-gilt chased.
Over the stirrups, two eagles were
placed at the time of the empire. The
horse was covered with a violet crape
embroidered with golden bees.
After this, came more Soldiers, General
Officers, Sub-Officers, Marshals, and
what was said to be the prettiest sight




420


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


almost of the whole, the banners of
the eighty-six Departments of France.
These are due to the invention of M.
Thiers, and were to have been accompanied by federates from each Department. But the Governmentvery wisely
mistrusted this and some other projects
of Monsieur Thiers; and as for a federation, my dear, it has been tried. Next
comes -
His Royal Highness the Prince de Joinville.
The 500 sailors of the "Belle Poule"
marching in double file on each side
of
THE CAR.
[Hush I the enormous crowd thrills as it
passes, and only some few voices cry
Vive l'Empereur! Shining golden in
the frosty sun - with hundreds of thousands of eyes upon it, from houses and
housetops, from balconies,black, purple,
and tricolor, from tops of leafless trees,
from behind long lines of glittering
bayonets under schakos and bear-skin
caps, from behind the Line and the
National Guard again, pushing, strugling, heaving, panting, eager, the
heads of an enormous multitude
stretching out to meet and follow it,
amidst long avenues of columns and
statues gleaming white, of standards
rainbow-colored, of golden eagles, of
pale funereal urns, of discharging
odors amidst huge volumes of pitchblack smoke,
THE GREAT IMPERIAL CHARIOT
ROLLS MAJESTICALLY ON.
The cords of the pall are held by two
Marshals, and Admiral and General
Bertrand; who are followed byThe Prefects of the Seine and Police,
&c.
The Mayors of Paris, &c.
The Members of the Old Guard, &c.
A Squadron of Light Dragoons, &c.
Lieutenant-General Schneider, &c.
More cavalry, more infantry, more artillery, more everybody; and as the procession passes, the Line and the National Guard forming line on each side
of the road fall in and follow it, until it
arrives at the Church of the Invalides,
where the last honors are to be paid to
it.]
Among the company assembled
under the dome of that edifice, the
casual observer would not perhaps
have remarked a gentleman of the
name of Michael Angelo Titmarsh,
who nevertheless was there. But as,
my dear Miss Smith, the descriptions


in this letter, from the words in page
418, line 36 —the party moved-up
to the words paid to it, on this page,
have purely emanated from your obedient servant's fancy, and not from
his personal observation (for no
being on earth, except a newspaper
reporter, can be in two places at once),
permit me now to communicate to you
what little circumstances fell under
my own particular view on the day
of the 15th of December.
As we came out, the air and the
buildings round about were tinged
with purple, and the clear sharp halfmoon before-mentioned was still in
the sky, where it seemed to be lingering as if it would catch a peep of the
commencement of the famous procession. The Arc de Triomphe was
shining in a keen frosty sunshine,
and looking as clean and rosy as if
it had just made its toilet. The
canvas or pasteboard image of Napoleon, of which only the gilded legs
had been erected the night previous,
was now visible, body, head, crown,
sceptre, and all, and made an imposing
show. Long gilt banners were flaunting about, with the imperial cipher
and eagle, and the names of the battles and victories glittering in gold.
The long avenues of the Champs
Elys6es had been covered with sand
for the convenience of the great procession that was to tramp across it
that day. Hundreds of people were
marching to and fio, laughing, chattering, singing, gesticulating as happy
Frenchmen do. There is no pleasanter
sight than a French crowd on the
alert for a festival, and nothing more
catching than their good-humor. As
for the notion which has been put forward by some of the opposition newspapers that the populace were on
this occasion unusually solemn or
sentimental, it would be paying a bad
compliment to the natural gayety of
the nation, to say that it was, on the
morning at least of the 15th of December, affected in any such absurd
way. Itinerant merchants were shouting out lustily their commodities of




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


421


cigar; and brandy, and the weather
was bo bitter cold, that they could not
fail to find plenty of customers.
Carpenters and workmen were still
making a huge banging and clattering
among the sheds which were built
for the accommodation of the visitors.
Some of these sheds were hung with
black, such as one sees before churches
in funerals; some were robed in
violet, in compliment to the Emperor
whose mourning they put on. Most
of them had fine tricolor hangings
with appropriate inscriptions to the
glory of the French arms.
All along the Champs Elysdes were
urns of plaster-of-Paris destined to
contain funereal incense and flames;
columns decorated with huge flags of
blue, red, and white embroidered with
shining crowns, eagles, and N's in gilt
paper, and statues of plaster representing Nymphs, Triumphs, Victories, or other female personages,
painted in oil so as to represent marble. Real marble could have had no
better effect, and the appearance of
the whole was lively and picturesque
in the extreme. On each pillar was a
buckler of the color of bronze, bearing
the name and date of a battle in gilt
letters: you had to walk through a
mile-long avenue of these glorious
reminiscences, telling of spots where,
in the great imperial days, throats
had been victoriously cut.
As we passed down the avenue,
several troops of soldiers met us: the
garde-municipale a cheval, in brass
helmets and shining jack-boots, noblelooking men, large, on large horses,
the pick of the old army, as I have
heard, and armed for the special occupation of peace-keeping: not the
most glorious, but the best part of
the soldier's duty, as I fancy. Then
came a regiment of Carabineers, one
of Infantry -little, alert, brownfaced, good-humored men, their band
at their head playing sounding marches. These were followed by a regiment
or detachment of the Municipals on
foot - two or three inches taller than
the men of the Line, and conspicuous


for their neatness and discipline. By
and by came a squadron or so of dragoons of the National Guards: they are
covered with straps, buckles, aiguillettes, and cartouche-boxes, and made
under their tricolor cock's plumes a
show sufficiently war-like. The point
which chiefly struck me on beholding
these military men of the National
Guard and the Line, was the admirable
manner in which they bore a cold
that seemed to me as sharp as the
weather in the   Russian  retreat,
through which cold the troops were
trotting without trembling and in the
utmost cheerfulness and good-humor.
An aide-de-camp galloped past in
white pantaloons.  By heavens! it
made me shudder to look at him.
With this profound reflection, we
turned away to the right, towards the
hanging-bridge (where we met a detachment of young men of the Pcole
de I'ltat Major, fine-looking lads, but
sadly disfigured by the wearing of
stays or belts, that make the waists of
the French dandies of a most absurd
tenuity), and speedily passed into the
avenue of statues leading up to the
Invalides. All these were statues of
warriors fiom Ney to Charlemagne,
modelled in clay for the nonce, and
placed here to meet the corpse of the
greatest warrior of all. Passing these,
we had to walk to a little door at the
back of the Invalides, where was a
crowd of persons plunged in the deepest mourning, and pushing for places
in the chapel within.
The chapel is spacious, and of no
great architectural pretensions, but
was on this occasion gorgeously decorated in honor of the great person
to whose body it was about to give
shelter.
We had arrived at nine: the ceremony was not to begin, they said, till
two: we had five hours before us to
see all that fiom our places could be
seen.
We saw that the roof, up to the
first lines of architecture, was hung
with violet; beyond this with black.
We saw N's, eagles, bees, laurel



422


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


wreaths, and other such imperial emblems, adorning every nook and corner
of the edifice.  Between the arches,
on each side of the aisle, were painted
trophies, on which were written the
names of some of Napoleon's Generals and of their principal deeds of
arms -and not their deeds of arms
alone, pardi, but their coats of arms
too. 0 stars and garters! but this is
too much. What was Ney's paternal
coat, prithee, or honest Junot's quarterings, or the venerable escutcheon of
King Joachim's father, the innkeeper?
You and I, dear Miss Smith, know
the exact value of heraldic bearings.
We know that though the greatest
pleasure of all is to act like a gentleman, it is a pleasure, nay a merit, to
be one -to come of an old stock, to
have an honorable pedigree, to be able
to say that centuries back our fathers
had gentle blood, and to us transmitted the same.  There is a good in
gentility: the man who questions it is
envious, or a coarse dullard not able
to perceive the difference between high
breeding and low. One has in the
same way heard a man brag that he
did not know the difference between
wines, not he-give him a good glass
of port, and he would pitch all your
claret to the deuce.  My love, men
often brag about their own dulness in
this way.
In the matter of gentlemen, democrats cry, " Psha! Give us one of
Nature's gentlemen, and hang your
aristocrats." And so indeed Nature
does make some gentlemen-a few
here and there. But Art makes most.
Good birth, that is, good handsome
well-formed fathers and mothers, nice
cleanly nursery-maids, good meals,
good physicians, good education, few
cares, pleasant, easy habits of life,
and luxuries not too great or enervating, but only refining —a course of
these going on for a few generations
are the best gentlemen-makers in the
world, and beat Nature hollow.
If, respected Madam, you say, that
there is something better than gentility
in this wicked world, and that honesty


and personal worth are more valuable
than all the politeness and high.
breeding that ever wore red-heeled
pumps, knights' spurs, or Hoby's
boots, Titmarsh for one is never going to say you nay. If you even go
so far as to say that the very existence
of this super-genteel society among
us, from the slavish respect that we
pay to it, from the dastardly manner
in which we attempt to imitate its airs
and ape its vices, goes far to destroy
honesty of intercourse, to make us
meanly ashamed of our natural affections, and honest, harmless usages, and
so does a great deal more harm than
it is possible it can do good by its example-perhaps, Madam, you speak
with some sort of reason. Potato
myself, I can't help seeing that the
tulip yonder has the best place in the
galden, and the most sunshine, and
the most water, and the best tending -and not liking him over well.
But I can't help acknowledging that
Nature has given him a much finer
dress than ever I can hope to have,
and of this, at least, must give him
the benefit.
Or say, we are so many cocks and
hens, my dear (sans arriere pensee),
with our crops pretty full, our plumes
pretty sleek, decent picking here and
there in the straw-yard, and tolerable
snug roosting in the barn: yonder
on the terrace, in the sun, walks
Peacock, stretching his proud neck,
squealing every now and then in the
most pert fashionable voice, and
flaunting his great supercilious dandified tail. Don't let us be too angry,
my dear, with the useless, haughty,
insolent creature, because he despises
us. Something is there about Peacock
that we don't possess. Strain your
neck ever so, you can't make it as
long or as blue as his —cock your
tail as much as you please, and it
will never be half so fine to look at.
But the most absurd, disgusting, contemptible sight in the world would
you and I be, leaving the barn-door
for my lady's flower-garden, forsaking
our natural sturdy walk for the pea



THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


423


cock's genteel rickety stride, and
adopting the squeak of his voice in
the place of our gallant lusty cock-adoodle-dooing.
I)o you take the allegory? I love
to speak in such, and the above types
have been presented to my mind while
sitting opposite a gimcrack coat-ofarms and coronet that are painted in
the Invalides Church, and assigned to
one of the Emperor's Generals.
Ventrebleu!  Madam, what need
have they of coats-of-arms and coronets, and wretched imitations of old
exploded aristocratic gewgaws that
they had flung out of the country-with the heads of the owners
in them sometimes, for indeed they
were not particular - a score of years
before?  What business, forsooth,
had they to be meddling with gentility, and aping its ways, who had
courage, merit, daring, genius sometimes, and a pride of their own to
support, if proud they were inclined
to be?  A clever young man (who
was not of high family himself, but
had been bred up genteelly at Eton
and the university) -young Mr.
George Canning, at the commencement of the French Revolution, sneered at " Roland the Just, with ribbons
in his shoes," and the dandies, who
then wore buckles, voted the sarcasm
monstrous killing. It was a joke, my
lear, worthy of a lackey, or of a silly
smart parvenu, not knowing the society into which his luck had cast him
(God help him! in later years, they
taught him  what they were!), and
fancying in his silly intoxication that
simplicity was ludicrous and fashion
respectable. See, now, fifty years are
gone, and where are shoebuckles?
Extinct, defunct, kicked into the
irrevocable past off the toes of all
Europe!
How fatal to the parvenu, throughout history, has been this respect for
shoebuckles.  Where, for instance,
would the Empire of Napoleon have
been, if Ney and Lannes had never
sported such a thing as a coat-ofarms, and had only written their sim

pie names on their shields, after the
fashion of Desaix's scutcheon vonder?- the bold Republican who led
the crowning charge at Marengo, and
sent the best blood of the Holy Roman Empire to the right-about, before
the wretched, misbegotten, imperial
heraldry was born, that was to prove
so disastrous to the father of it. It
has always been so.   They won't
amalgamate.   A country must be
governed by the one principle or the
other. But give, in a republic, an
aristocracy ever so little chance, and
it works and plots and sneaks and bullies and sneers itself into place, and
you find democracy out of doors. Is
it good that the aristocracy should so
triumph?-that is a question that
you may settle according to your own
notions and tastes; and permit me to
say, I do not care twopence how you
settle it.  Large books have been
written upon the subject in a variety
of languages, and coming to a variety
of conclusions. Great statesmen are
there in our country, from Lord Londonderry down to Mr. Vincent, each
in his degree maintaining his different
opinion. But here, in the matter of
Napoleon, is a simple fact: he founded a great, glorious, strong, potent
republic, able to cope with the best
aristocracies in the world, and perhaps
to beat them all; he converts his
republic into a monarchy, and surrounds his monarchy with what he
calls aristocratic institutions; and
you know what becomes of him. The
people estranged, the aristocracy
faithless (when did they ever pardon
one who was not of themselves?)the imperial fabric tumbles to the
ground.  If it teaches nothing else,
my dear, it teaches one a great point
of policy, -namely, to stick by one's
party.
While these thoughts (and sundry
others relative to the horrible cold
of the place, the intense dulness of
delay, the stupidity of leaving a warm
bed and a breakfast in order to witness a procession that is much better
performed at a theatre) - while these




424


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


thoughts were passing in the mind,
the church began to fill apace, and
you saw that the hour of the ceremony
was drawing near.
Imprimis, came men with lighted
staves, and set fire to at least ten
thousand wax-candles that were hanging in brilliant chandeliers, in various
parts of the chapel. Curtains were
dropped over the upper windows as
these illuminations were effected,
and the church was left only to the
funereal light of the spermaceti. To
the right was the dome, round the
cavity of which sparkling lamps were
set, that designed the shape of it brilliantly against the darkness. In the
midst, and where the altar used to
stand, rose the catafalque. And why
not? Who is God here but Napoleon?
and in him tho sceptics have already
ceased to believe; but the people does
still somewhat. He and Louis XIV.
divide the worship of the place between them.
As for the catafalque, the best that
I can say for it is that it is really a
noble and imposing-looking edifice,
with tall pillars supporting a grand
dome, with innumerable escutcheons,
standards, and allusions military and
funereal. A great eagle of course tops
the whole: tripods burning spirits of
wine stand round this kind of dead
man's throne, and as we saw it (by
peering over the heads of our neighbors in the front rank), it looked, in
the midst of the black concave, and
under the effect of half a thousand
flashing cross-lights, properly grand
and tall. The effect of the whole
chapel, however (to speak the jargon
of the painting-room), was spoiled by
being cut up: there were too many
objects for the eye to rest upon: the
ten thousand wax-candles, for instance, in their numberless twinkling
chandeliers, the raw tranchant colors
of the new banners, wreaths, bees,
N's, and other emblems dotting the
place all over, and incessantly puzzling, or rather bothering the beholder.
High overhead, in a sort of mist,
with the glare of their original colors


worn down by dust and time, hung
long rows of dim   ghostly-looking
standards, captured in old days from
the enemy. They were, I thought,
the best and most solemn part of the
show.
To suppose that the people were
bound to be solemn during the ceremony is to exact from them something
quite needless and unnatural. The
very fact of a squeeze dissipates all
solemnity. One great crowd is always, as I imagine, pretty much like
another. In the course of the last
few years I have seen three: that attending the coronation of our present
sovereign, that which went to see
Courvoisier hanged, and this which
witnessed the Napoleon ceremony.
The people so assembled for hours
together are jocular rather than solemn, seeking to pass away the weary
time with the best amusements that
will offer. There was, to be sure, in
all the scenes above alluded to, just
one moment-one particular moment-when the universal people
feels a shock and is for that second
serious.
But, except for that second of time,
I declare I saw no seriousness here
beyond that of ennui. The church
began to fill with personages of all
ranks and conditions. First, opposite
our seats came a company of fat grenadiers of the National Guard, who
presently, at the word of command,
put their muskets down against
benches and wainscots, until the arrival of the procession. For seven
hours these men formed the object of
the most anxious solicitude of all the
ladies and gentlemen seated on our
benches: they began to stamp their
feet, for the cold was atrocious, and
we were frozen where we sat. Some
of them fell to blowing their fingers;
one executed a kind of dance, such as
one sees often here in cold weatherthe individual jumps repeatedly upon
one leg, and kicks out the other violently, meanwhile his hands are flapping across his chest. Some fellows
opened thei r cartouche-boxes, and from




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


425


them drew eatables of various kinds.
You can't think how anxious we were
to know the qualities of the same.
"Tiens, ce gros qui mange une cuisse
de volaille!" —" I a du jambon,
celui-al."  "I should like some, too,"
growls an Englishman, "for I hadn't
a morsel of breakfast," and so on.
This is the way, my dear, that we see
Napoleon buried.
Did you ever see a chicken escape
fiom clown in a pantomime, and hop
over into the pit, or amongst the fiddlers? and have you not seen the
shrieks of enthusiastic laughter that
the wondrous incident occasions?
We had our chicken, of course:
there never was a public crowd without one. A poor, unhappy woman
in a greasy plaid cloak, with a battcred rose-colored, plush bonnet, was
seen taking her place among the
stalls allotted to the grandees. "Voyez done l'Anglaise," said everybody,
and it was too true. You could
swear the wretch was an Englishwoman: a bonnet was never made or
worn so in any other country. Half an
hour's delightful amusement did this
lady give us all. She was whisked
from seat to seat by the huissiers, and
at every change of place woke a peal
of laughter. I was glad, however, at
the end of the day to see the old pink
bonnet over a very comfortable seat,
which somebody had not claimed and
she had kept.
Are not these remarkable incidents?
The next wonder we saw was the arrival of a set of tottering old Invalids,
who took their places under us with
drawn sabres. Then came a superb
drum-major, a handsome, smiling,
good-humored giant of a man, his
breeches astonishingly embroidered
with silver lace. Him a dozen little
drummer-boys followed - " the little
darlings!" all the ladies cried out in
a breath: they were indeed pretty little fellows, and came and stood close
under us: the huge drum-major
smiled over his little red-capped flock,
and for many hours in the most perfect contentment twiddled his mus19


taches and played with the tassels of
his cane.
Now the company began to arrive
thicker and thicker. A whole covey
of Conseillers-d'Ltat came in, in blue
coats, embroidered with blue silk, then
came a crowd of lawyers in toques
and caps, among whom were sundry
venerable Judges in scarlet, purple
velvet, and ermine- a kind of Bajazet costume. Look there! there is
the Turkish Ambassador in his red
cap, turning his solemn brown face
about, and looking preternaturally
wise. The Deputies walk in in a
body. Guizot is not there: he passed
by just now in full ministerial costume. Presently little Thiers saunters back: what a clear, broad, sharpeyed face the fellow has, with his
gray hair cut down so demure! A
servant passes, pushing through the
crowd a shabby wheel-chair. It has
just brought old Moncey the Governor of the Invalids, the honest old man
who defended Paris so stoutly in 1814.
He has been very ill, and is worn
down almost by infirmities: but in
his illness he was perpetually asking
"Doctor, shall I live till the 15th?
Give me till then, and I die contented."  One can't help believing that
the old man's wish is honest, however
one may doubt the piety of another
illustrious Marshal, who once carried
a candle before Charles X. in a procession, and has been this morning to
Neuilly to kneel and pray at the foot
of Napoleon's coffin. He might have
said his prayers at home, to be sure;
but don t let us ask too much: that
kind of reserve is not a Frenchman's
characteristic.
Bang- bang! At about half-past
two a dull sound of cannonading was
heard without the church, and signals
took place between the Commandant
of the Invalids, of the National
Guards, and the big drum-major.
Looking to these troops (the fat Nationals were shuffling into line again),
the two Commandants uttered, as
nearly as I could catch them, the following words: -




426


THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


"HARRUM HUMP I"
At once all the National bayonets
were on the present, and the sabres of
the old Invalids up. The big drummajor looked round at the children,
who began very slowly and solemnly
on  their  drums, Rub-dub-dub -
rub-dub-dub- (count two between
each) - rub-dub-dub, and a great procession of priests came down from the
altar.
First, there was a tall handsome
cross-bearer, bearing a long gold
cross, of which the front was turned
towards his grace the Archbishop.
Then came a double row of about
sixteen incense-boys, dressed in white
surplices: the first boy, about six
years old, the last with whiskers, and
of the height of a man. Then followed a regiment of priests in black
tippets and white gowns: they had
black hoods, like the moon when she
is at her third quarter, wherewith
those who were bald (many were, and
fat too) covered themselves. All the
reverend men held their heads meekly
down, and affected to be reading in
their breviaries.
After the Priests came some Bishops of the neighboring districts, in
purple, with crosses sparkling on their
episcopal bosoms.
Then came, after more priests, a
set of men whom I have never seen
before —a kind of ghostly heralds,
young and handsome men, some of
them in stiff tabards of black and
silver, their eyes to the ground, their
hands placed at right angles with
their chests.
Then came two gentlemen bearing
remarkable tall candlesticks, with
candles of corresponding size. One
was burning brightly, but the wind
(that chartered libertine) had blown
out the other, which nevertheless kept
its place in the procession - I wondered to myself whether the reverend
gentleman who carried the extinguished candle felt disgusted, humiliated,
mortified - perfectly conscious that
the eyes of many thousands of people
were bent upon that bit of refractory


wax. We all of us looked at it with
intense interest.
Another cross-bearer, behind whom
came a gentleman carrying an instrument like a bed-room candlestick.
His Grandeur Monseigneur Affre,
Archbishop of Paris: he was in black
and white, his eyes were cast to the
earth, his hands were together at
right angles from his chest: on his
hands were black gloves, and on the
black gloves sparkled the sacred episcopal- what do I say? - archiepiscopal ring. On his head was the
mitre. It is unlike the godly coronet
that figures upon the coach-panels of
our own Right Reverend Bench. The
Archbishop's mitre may be about a
yard high: formed within probably
of consecrated pasteboard, it is without covered by a sort of watered silk
of white and silver.  On the two
peaks at the top of the mitre are two
very little spangled tassels, that frisk
and twinkle about in a very agreeable
manner.
Monscigncur stood opposite to us
for some time, when I had the opportunity to note the above remarkable
phenomena. He stood opposite me
for some time, keeping his eyes steadily on the ground, his hands before
him, a small clerical train following
after. Why didn't they move? There
was the National Guard keeping on
presenting arms, the little drummers
going on rub-dub-dub - rub-dub-dub
-in the same steady, slow way, and
the Procession never moved an inch.
There was evidently, to use an elegant phrase, a hitch somewhere.
[Enter a fat priest, who bustles up to
the drum-major.]
Fat priest — " Taisez-vous."
Little drummer- Rub-dub-dubrub-dub-dub, - rub-dub-dub, &c.
Drum major- " Qu'est-ce done? "
Fat priest -  Taisez-vous, vous
dis-je; ce n'est pas le corps. I n'arrivera pas - pour une heure."
The little drums were instantly
hushed, the procession turned to the
right about, and walked back to the
altar again, the blown-out candle that




THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON.


427


had been on the near side of us before
was now on the off side, the National
Guards set down their muskets and
began at their sandwiches again. We
had to wait an hour and a half at least
before the great procession arrived.
The guns without went on booming
all the while at intervals, and as we
heard each, the audience gave a kind
of " ahaaha! " such as you hear when
the rockets go up at Vauxhall.
At last the real Procession came.
Then the drums began to beat as
formerly, the Nationals to get under
arms, the clergymen were sent for and
went, and presently- yes, there was
the tall cross-bearer at the head of the
procession, and they came back!
They chanted something in a weak,
snuffling, lugubrious manner, to the
melancholy bray of a serpent.
Crash! however, Mr. Habeneck
and the fiddlers in the organ-loft
pealed out a wild shrill march, which
stopped the reverend gentlemen, and
in the midst of this musicAnd of a great trampling of feet
and clattering,
And of a great crowd of Generals
and Officers in fine clothes,
With the Prince    de Joinville
marching quickly at the head of the
procession,
And while everybody's heart was
thumping as hard as possible,
NAPOLEON'S COFFIN PASSED.
It was done in an instant. A box
covered with a great red cross - a
dingy-looking crown lying on the
top of it - Seamen on one side and
Invalids on the other - they had
passed in an instant and were up the
aisle.
A faint snuffling sound, as before,
was heard from the officiating priests,
but we knew of nothing more. It is
said that old Louis Philippe was
standing at the catafalque, whither
the Prince de Joinville advanced and


said, " Sire, I bring you the body of
the Emperor Napoleon."
Louis Philippe answered, " I receive
it in the name of France." Bertrand
put on the body the most glorious
victorious sword that ever has been
forged since the apt descendants of
the first murderer learned how to
hammer steel; and the coffin was
placed in the temple prepared for it.
The six hundred singers and the
fiddlers now commenced the playing
and singing of a piece of music; and
a part of the crew of the  "Belle
Poule" skipped into the places that
had been kept for them under us, and
listened to the music, chewing tobacco.
While the actors and fiddlers were
going on, most of the spirits-of-wine
lamps on altars went out.
When we arrived in the open air,
we passed through the court of the
Invalides, where thousands of people
had been assembled, but where the
benches were now quite bare. Then
we came on to the terrace before the
place; the old soldiers were firing off
the great guns, which made a dreadful stunning noise, and frightened
some of us, who did not care to pass
before the cannon and be knocked
down even by the wadding. The
guns were fired in honor of the King,
who was going home by a back door.
All the forty thousand people who
covered the great stands before the
Hotel had gone away too. The Imperial Barge had been dragged up
the river, and was lying lonely along
the Quay, examined by some few
shivering people on the shore.
It was five o'clock when we reached
home: the stars were shining keenly
out of the frosty sky, and Francois
told me that dinner was just ready.
In this manner, my dear Miss
Smith, the great Napoleon was buried.
Farewell.




I




LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROADSIDE SKETCHES.
BY TITMARSH.








LITTLE TRAVELS AND ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


I. - FROM      RICHMOND       IN
SURREY TO BRUSSELS IN
BELGIUM.
QUITTED "The Rose Cottage
Hotel" at Richmond, one of the
comfortablest, quietest, cheapest, neatest little inns in England, and a
thousand times preferable, in my
opinion, to " The Star and Garter,"
whither, if you go alone, a sneering
waiter, with his hair curled, frightens
you off the premises; and where, if
you are bold enough to brave the
sneering waiter, you have to pay ten
shillings for a bottle of claret; and
whence, if you look out of the window, you gaze on a view which is so
rich that it seems to knock you down
with its splendor- a view that has
its hair curled like the swaggering
waiter: I say, I quitted " The Rose
Cottage Hotel" with deep regret, believing that I should see nothing so
pleasant as its gardens, and its veal
cutlets, and its dear little bowlinggreen, elsewhere. But the time comes
when people must go out of town,
and so I got on the top of the omnibus, and the carpet-bag was put
inside.
If I were a great prince, and rode
outside of coaches (as I should if I
were a great prince), I would, whether
I smoked or not, have a case of the
best Havannas in my pocket- not
for my own smoking, but to give


them to the snobs on the coach, who
smoke the vilest cheroots.  They
poison the air with the odor of their
filthy weeds. A man at all easy in
his circumstances would spare himself much annoyance by taking the
above simple precaution.
A gentleman sitting behind me
tapped me on the back, and asked
for a light. He was a footman, or
rather valet. He had no livery,but
the three friends who accompanied
him were tall men in pepper-and-salt
undress jackets, with a duke's coronet
on their buttons.
After tapping me on the back, and
when he had finished his cheroot, the
gentleman produced another wind
instrument, which he called a " kinopium," a sort of trumpet, on which
he showed a great inclination to
play. He began puffing out of the
"kinopium " a most abominable air,
which he said was "The Duke's
March." It was played by particular request of one of the pepper-andsalt gentry.
The noise was so abominable that
even the coachman objected (although
my friend's brother footmen were ravished with it), and said that it was
not allowed to play toons on his 'bus.
" Very well," said the valet, " we're
only of the Duke of B-'s establishment, THAT'S ALL."  The coachman
could not resist that appeal to his
fashionable feelings.  The valet was
allowed to play his infernal kinopium,




432


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


and the poor fellow (the coachman),
who had lived in some private families, was quite anxious to conciliate
the footmen "of the Duke of B.'s
establishment, that's all," and told
several stories of his having been
groom in Captain Hoskins's family,
nephew of Governor Iloskins; which
stories the footmen received with
great contempt.
The footmen were like the rest of
the fashionable world in this respect.
I felt for my part that I respected
them. They were in daily communication with a duke! They were
not the rose, but they had lived beside
it. There is an odor in the English
aristocracy which intoxicates plebeians. I am sure that any commoner
in England, though he would die
rather than confess it, would have a
respect for those great big hulking
Duke's footmen.
The day before, her Grace the
Duchess had passed us alone in a
chariot-and-four, with two outriders.
What better mark of innate superiority could man want? Here was a
slim lady who required four —six
horses to herself, and four servants
(kinopium was, no doubt, one of the
number) to guard her.
We were sixteen inside and out,
and had consequently an eighth of a
horse apiece.
A duchess   6, a commoner =;
that is to say,
1 duchess = 48 commoners.
If I were a duchess of the present
day, I would say to the duke my noble
husband, " My dearest grace, I think,
when I travel alone in my chariot
from Hammersmith to London, I will
not care for the outriders. In these
days, when there is so much poverty
and so much disaffection in the country, we should not eclaboisser the canaille with the sight of our preposterous prosperity."
But this is very likely only plebeian envy, and I dare say if I were a
lovely duchess of the realm, I would
ride in a coach-and-six, with a coronet on the top of my bonnet and a robe


of velvet and ermine even in the dogdays.
Alas! these are the dog-days.
Many dogs are abroad-snarling
dogs, biting dogs, envious dogs, mad
dogs; beware of exciting the fury of
such with your flaming red velvet and
dazzling ermine. It makes ragged
Lazarus doubly hungry to see Dives
feasting in cloth-of-gold; and so if I
were a beauteous duchess... Silence, vain man! Can the Queen
herself make you a duchess?   Be
content, then, nor gibe at thy betters
of "the Duke of B-'s establishment - that's all."
On board "T The Antwerpen,"
off everywhere.
We have bidden adieu to Billings.
gate, we have passed the Thames
Tunnel; it is one o'clock, and of
course people are thinking of being
hungry.   What a merry place a
steamer is on a calm sunny summer
forenoon, and what an appetite every
one seems to have! We are, I assure
you, no less than 170 noblemen and
gentlemen together, pacing up and
down under the awning, or lolling
on the sofas in the cabin, and hardly
have we passed Greenwich when tha
feeding begins. The company waa
at the brandy and soda-water in an
instant (there is a sort of legend that
the beverage is a preservative against
sea-sickness), and I admired the pen.
etration of gentlemen who partook of
the drink.  In the first place, the
steward will put so much brandy into
the tumbler that it is fit to choke
you; and, secondly, the soda-water,
being kept as near as possible to
the boiler of the engine, is of a fine
wholesome heat when presented to
the hot and thirsty traveller. Thus
he is prevented from catching any
sudden cold which might be dangerous to him.
The forepart of the vessel is crowd..
ed to the full as much as the genteeler quarter. There are four carriages,
each with piles of imperials and aristocratic gimcracks of travel, under the




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


433


wheels of which those personages have
to clamber who have a mind to look
at the bowsprit, and perhaps to smoke
a cigar at ease. The carriages overcome, you find yourself confronted by
a huge penful of Durham oxen, lying
on hay, and surrounded by a barricade of oars. Fifteen of these horned
monsters maintain an incessant mooing and bellowing. Beyond the cows
come a heap of cotton-bags, beyond
the cotton-bags more carriages, more
pyramids of travelling trunks, and
valets and couriers bustling and swearing round about them. And already,
and in various corners and niches,
lying on coils of rope, black tar-cloths,
ragged cloaks, or hay, you see a score
of those dubious fore-cabin passengers, who are never shaved, who
always look unhappy, and appear
getting ready to be sick.
At one, dinner begins in the aftercabin —boiled salmon, boiled beef,
boiled mutton, boiled cabbage, boiled
potatoes, and parboiled wine for
any gentlemen who like it, and two
roast-ducks between seventy. After
this, knobs of cheese are handed round
on a plate, and there is a talk of a tart
somewhere at some end of the table.
All this I saw peeping through a sort
of meat-safe which ventilates the top
of the cabin, and very happy and hot
did the people seem below.
" How the deuce can people dine at
such an hour? " say several genteel
fellows who are watching the manoeuvres. "I can't touch a morsel before
seven."
But somehow at half-past three
o'clock we had dropped a long way
down the river. The air was delightfully fresh, the sky of a faultless
cobalt, the river shining and flashing
like quicksilver, and at this period
steward runs against me bearing
two great smoking dishes covered
by two great glistening hemispheres
of tin. "Fellow," says I, "what's
that?"
He lifted up the cover: it was
ducks and green pease, by jingo!
"What haven't they done yet the
19*


greedy creatures? "I asked. "Have
the people been feeding for three
hours?"
" Law, bless you, sir, it's the second
dinner. Make haste, or you won't get
aplace."  At whichwordsa genteel
party, with whom I had been conversing, instantly tumbled down the
hatchway, and I find myself one of
the second relay of seventy who are
attacking the boiled salmon, boiled
beef, boiled cabbage, &c. As for the
ducks, I certainly had some pease,
very fine yellow  stiff pease, that
ought to have been split before they
were boiled; but, with regard to the
ducks, I saw the animals gobbled up
before my eyes by an old widow lady
and her party just as I was shrieking
to the steward to bring a knife and
fork to carve them. The fellow! (I
mean the widow   lady's whiskered
companion) - I saw him eat pease
with the very knife with which he had
dissected the duck!
After dinner (as I need not tell the
keen observer of human nature who
peruses this) the human mind, if the
body be in a decent state, expands
into gayety and benevolence, and the
intellect longs to measure itself in
friendly converse with the divers intelligences around it.  We ascend
upon deck, and after cying each other
for a brief space and with a friendly
modest hesitation, we begin anon to
converse about the weather and other
profound and delightful themes of
English discourse. We confide to
each other our respective opinions of
the ladies round about us. Look at that
charming creature in a pink bonnet
and a dress of the pattern of a Kilmarnock snuff-box: a stalwart Irish
gentleman in a green coat and bushy
red whiskers is whispering something
very agreeable into her ear, as is the
wont of gentlemen of his nation; for
her dark eyes kindle, her red lips
open and give an opportunity to a
dozen beautiful pearly teeth to display
themselves, and glance brightly in the
sun; while round the teeth and the
lips a number of lovely dimples make




434


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


their appearance, and her whole countenance assumes a look of perfect
health and happiness. See her companion in shot silk and a dove-colored
parasol; in what a graceful Watteaulike attitude she reclines. The tall
courier who has been bouncing about
the deck in attendance upon these ladies (it is his first day of service, and
he is eager to make a favorable impression on them and the lady's
maids too) has just brought them
from the carriage a small paper of
sweet cakes (nothing is prettier than
to see a pretty woman eating sweet
biscuits) and a bottle that evidently
contains Malmsey madeira.   How
daintily they sip it; how happy they
seem; how that lucky rogue of an
Irishman prattles away I Yonder is
a noble group indeed: an English
gentleman and his family.   Children, mother, grandmother, grown-up
daughters, father, and domestics,
twenty-two in all. They have a table
to themselves on the deck, and the
consumption of eatables among them
is really endless. The nurses have
been bustling to and fro, and bringing, first, slices of cake; then dinner;
then tea with huge family jugs of
milk; and the little people have been
playing hide-and-seek round the deck,
coquetting with the other children,
and making friends of every soul on
board. I love to see the kind eyes
of women fondly watching them as
they gambol about; a female face,
be it ever so plain, when occupied in
regarding children, becomes celestial
almost, and a man can hardly fail to
be good and happy while he is looking on at such sights. "Ah, sir! "
says a great big man, whom you
would not accuse of sentiment, "I
have a couple of those little things at
home;" and he stops and heaves a
great big sigh and swallows down a
half tumbler of cold something and
water. We know what the honest
fellow means well enough. He is
saying to himself, "God bless my
girls and their mother! " but, being
a Briton, is too manly to speak out in


a more intelligible way. Perhaps it
is as well for him to be quiet, and
not chatter and gesticulate like those
Frenchmen a few yards from him,
who are chirping over a bottle of
champagne.
There is, as you may fancy, a num.
ber of such groups on the deck, and a
pleasant occupation it is for a lonely
man to watch them and build theories
upon them, and examine those two
personages seated cheek by jowl.
One is an English youth, travelling
for the first time, who has been hard
at his Guide-book, during the whole
journey.  He has a "Manuel du
Voyageur" in his pocket: a very
pretty, amusing little oblong work it
is too, and might be very useful, if
the foreign people in three languages,
among whom you travel, would but
give the answers set down in the
book, or understand the questions
you put to them out of it. The
other honest gentleman in the fur
cap, what can his occupation be?
We know him at once for what he is.
" Sir," says he, in a fine German accent, "I am a brofessor of languages,
and will gif you lessons in Danish,
Swedish, English, Bortuguese, Spanish, and Bersian." Thus occupied in
meditations, the rapid hours and the
rapid steamer pass quickly on, The
sun is sinking, and, as he drops, the
ingenious luminary sets the Thames
on fire: several worthy gentlemen,
watch in hand, are eagerly examining
the phenomena attending his disappearance, - rich clouds of purple and
gold, that form the curtains of his bed,
-little barks that pass black across his
disc, his disc every instant dropping
nearer and nearer into the water.
"There he goes!" says one sagacious observer. "No, he doesn't,"
cries another. Now he is gone, and
the steward is already threading the
deck, asking the passengers, right
and left, if they will take a little supper. What a grand object is a sunset, and what a wonder is an appetite
at sea! Lo! the horned moon shines
pale over Margate, and the red bea



ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


435


con is gleaming from distant Ramsgate pier.
A great rush is speedily made for
the mattresses that lie in the boat at
the ship's side; and as the night is
delightfully calm, many fair ladies
and worthy men determine to couch
on deck for the night. The proceedings of the former, especially if
they be young and pretty, the philosopher watches with indescribable
emotion and interest. What a number of pretty coquetries do the ladies
perform, and into what pretty attitudes do they take care to fall! All
the little children have been gathered
up by the nursery-maids, and are
taken down to roost below. Balmv
sleep seals the eyes of many tired
wayfarers, as you see in the case of
the Russian nobleman asleep among
the portmanteaus; and Titmarsh,
who has been walking the deck for
some time with a great mattress on
his shoulders, knowing full well that
were he to relinquish it for an instant,
snma nthp.r np.r.nn wnmld se.iP. nn it


elegant meal, are taken in the River
Scheldt. Little neat, plump-looking
churches and villages are rising here
and there among tufts of trees and
pastures that are wonderfully green.
To the right, as " The Guide Book"
says, is Walcheren: and on the left
Cadsand, memorable for the English
expedition of 1809, when Lord Chatham, Sir Walter Manny, and Henry
Earl of Derby, at the head of the English gained a great victory over the
Flemish mercenaries in the pay of
Philippe of Valois. The cloth-yard
shafts of the English archers did
great execution. Flushing was taken,
and Lord Chatham returned to England, where he distinguished himself
greatly in the debates on the American
war, which he called the brightest jewel
of the British crown. You see, my
love, that, though an artist by profession, my education has by no means
been neglected; and what, indeed,
would be the pleasure of travel, unless
these charming historical recollections
were brought to bear upon it?




now stretches his bed upon the deck,                    Antwerp.
wraps his cloak about his knees,   As many hundreds of thousands of
draws his white cotton nightcap English visit this city (I have met at
tight over his head and ears; and, as least a hundred of them in this halfthe smoke of his cigar rises calmly up- hour walking the streets, "Guidewards to the deep sky and the cheerful book" in hand), and as the ubiquitwinkling stars, he feels himself ex- tous Murray has already depicted the
quisitely happy, and thinks of thee, place, there is no need to enter into a
my Juliana!                      long description of it, its neatness, its
beauty, and its stiff antique splenWhy people, because they are in dor. The tall pale houses have many
a steam-boat, should get up   so of them crimped gables, that look like
deucedly early I cannot understand. Queen Elizabeth ruffs. There are as
Gentlemen have been walking over many people in the streets as in Lonmy legs ever since three o'clock this don at three o'clock in the morning;
morning, and, no doubt, have been the market-women wear bonnets of a
indulging in personalities (which I flower-pot shape, and have shining
hate) regarding my appearance and brazen milk-pots, which are delightful
manner of sleeping, lying, snoring. to the eyes of a painter. Along the
Let the wags laugh on; but a far quays of the lazy Scheldt are inpleasanter occupation is to sleep until numerable good-natured groups of
breakfast-time, or near it.       beer-drinkers (small-beer is the most
The tea, and ham and eggs, which, good- natured drink in the world);
with a beef-steak or two, and three or along the barriers outside of the
four rounds of toast, form the corn- town, and by the glistening canals,
ponent parts of the above - named are more beer-shops, and more beer



436


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


drinkers. The city is defended by
the queerest fat military. The chief
traffic is between the hotels and the
railroad. The hotels give wonderful
good dinners, and especially at "The
Grand Laboreur" may be mentioned
a peculiar tart, which is the best
of all tarts that ever a man ate since
he was ten years old. A moonlight
walk is delightful. At ten o'clock the
whole city is quiet; and so little
changed does it seem to be, that you
may walk back three hundred years
into time, and fancy yourself a majestical Spaniard, or an oppressed and
atriotic Dutchman at your leisure.
You enter the inn, and the old
Quentin Durward courtyard, on
which the old towers look down.
There is a sound of singing - singing
at midnight. Is it Don Sombrero,
who is singing an Andalusian seguidilla under the window of the Flemish
burgomaster's daughter? Ah, no! it
is a fat Englishman in a zephyr coat:
he is drinking cold gin and water in
the moonlight, and warbling softly -
"Nix my dolly, pals, fake away,
N-ix my dolly, pals, fake a-a-way." *
I wish the good people would
knock off the top part of Antwerp
Cathedral spire.  Nothing can be
more gracious and elegant than the
lines of the first two compartments;
but near the top there bulges out a
little round, ugly, vulgar Dutch
monstrosity (for which the architects
have, no doubt, a name) which offends
the eye cruelly. Take the Apollo,
and set upon him a bob-wig and a
little cocked-hat; imagine " God
Save the King" ending with a jig;
fancy a polonaise, or procession of
slim, stately elegant court beauties,
headed by a buffoon dancing a hornpipe. Marshal Gdrard should have
discharged a bomb-shell at that abomination, and have given the noble
steeple a chance to be finished in the
grand style of the early fifteenth century, in which it was begun.


This style of criticism is base and
mean, and quite contrary to the orders of the immortal Goethe, who was
only for allowing the eye to recognize
the beauties of a great work, but
would have its defects passed over
It is an unhappy, luckless organization which will be perpetually faultfinding, and in the midst of a grand
concert of music will persist only in
hearing that unfortunate fiddle out of
tune.
Within - except where the rococo
architects have introduced their ornaments (here is the fiddle out of tune
again)- the cathedral is noble. A
rich, tender sunshine is streaming in
through the windows, and gilding the
stately edifice with the purest light.
The admirable stained-glass windows
are not too brilliant in their colors.
The organ is playing a rich, solemn
music; some two hundred of people
are listening to the service; and there
is scarce one of the women kneeling
on her chair, enveloped in her full,
majestic black drapery, that is not a
fine study for a painter. These large
black mantles of heavy silk brought
over the heads of the women, and
covering their persons, fall into such
fine folds of drapery, that they cannot
help being picturesque and noble.
See, kneeling by the side of two of
those fine devout-looking figures, is
a lady in a little twiddling Parisian
hat and feather, in a little lace mantelet, in a tight gown and a bustle. She
is almost as monstrous as yonder
figure of the Virgin, in a hoop, and
with a huge crown and a ball and a
sceptre; and a bambino dressed in a
little hoop, and in a little crown,
round which are clustered flowers and
pots of orange-trees, and before which
many of the faithful are at prayer.
Gentle clouds of incense come wafting
through the vast edifice; and in the
lulls of the music you hear the faint
chant of the priest and the silver tinkle
of the bell.
Six Englishmen, with the commissionaires, and the "Murray's Guidebooks " in their hands, are looking at


* In 1844.




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


437


the t, Descent from the Cross." Of
thi picture " The Guide-book " gives
you orders how to judge. If it is the
end of religious painting to express
the religious sentiment, a hundred of
inferior pictures must rank before
Rubens. Who was ever piously affected by any picture of the master?
He can depict a livid thief writhing
upon the cross, sometimes a blonde
Magdalen weeping below it; but it is
a Magdalen a very short time indeed
after her repentance: her yellow brocades and flaring satins are still those
which she wore when she was of the
world; her budy has not yet lost the
marks of the fiasting and voluptousness in which she used to indulge,
according to the legend. Not one of
the Rubens pictures, among all the
scores that decorate chapels and
churches here, has the least tendency
to purify, to touch the affections, or to
awaken the feelings of religious respect and wonder.  The " Descent
from the Cross " is vast, gloomy, and
awful; but the awe inspired by it is,
as I take it, altogether material. He
might have painted a picture of any
criminal broken on the wheel, and
the sensation inspired by it would
have been precisely similar.  Nor
in a religious picture do you want
the savoir-faire of the master to be
always protruding itself; it detracts
from the feeling of reverence, just as
the thumping of cushion and the
spouting of tawdry oratory does from
a sermon: meek religion disappears,
shouldered out of the desk by the
pompous, stalwart, big-chested, freshcolored, bushy-whiskered pulpiteer.
Rubens's piety has always struck us as
of this sort. If he takes a pious subject, it is to show you in what a fine
way he, Peter Paul Rubens, can treat
it. He never seems to doubt but that
he is doing it a great honor. His
"Descent from the Cross," and its
accompanying wings and cover, are a
set of puns upon the word Christopher, of which the taste is more odious
than that of the hooped-petticoated
Virgin yonder, with her artificial


flowers and her rings and brooches.
The people who made an offering of
that hooped petticoat did their best,
at any rate; they knew no better.
There is humility in that simple,
quaint present; trustfulness and kind
intention.  Looking about at other
altars, you see (much to the horror of
pious Protestants) all sorts of queer
little emblems hanging up under little
pyramids of penny candles that are
sputtering and flaring there.  Here
you have a silver arm, or a little gold
toe, or a wax leg, or a gilt eye, signifying or commemorating cures that
have been performed by the supposed
intercession of the saint over whose
chapel they hang. Well, although
they are abominable superstitions, yet
these queer little offerings seem to me
to be a great deal more pious than
Rubens's big pictures; just as is the
widow with her poor little mite compared to the swelling Pharisee who
flings his purse of gold into the plate.
A couple of days of Rubens and his
church-pictures makes one thoroughly
and entirely sick of him. His very
genius and splendor pall upon one,
even taking the pictures as worldly
pictures. One grows weary of being
perpetually feasted with this rich,
coarse, steaming food. Considering
them as church pictures, I don't want
to go to church to hear, however
splendid, an organ play " The British
Grenadiers."
The Antwerpians have set up a
clumsy bronze statue of their divinity
in a square of the town; and those
who have not enough of Rubens in
the churches may study him, and
indeed to much greater advantage, in
a good, well-lighted museum. Here,
there is one picture, a dying saint
taking the communion, a large piece
ten or eleven feet high, and painted
in an incredibly short space of time,
which is extremely curious indeed for
the painter's stuly.  The picture is
scarcely more than an immense magnificent sketch; but it tells the secret
of the artist's manner, which, in the




438


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


midst of its dash and splendor, is
curiously methodical.  Where the
shadows are warm the lights are cold,
and vice versd; and the picture has
been so rapidly painted, that the
tints lie raw by the side of one another, the artist not having taken the
trouble to blend them.
There are two exquisite Vandykes
(whatever Sir Joshua may say of
them), and in which the very management of the gray tones which the
President abuses forms the principal
excellence and charm. Why, after all,
are we not to have our opinion? Sir
Joshua is not the Pope. The color
of one of those Vandykes is as fine as
fine Paul Veronese, and the sentiment
beautifully tender and graceful.
I saw, too, an exhibition of the
modern Belgian artists (1843), the
remembrance of whose pictures after
a month's absence has almost entirely vanished. Wappers's hand, as I
thought, seemed to have grown old
and feeble, Verboeckhoven's cattlepieces are almost as good as Paul
Potter's, and Keyser has dwindled
down into namby-pamby prettiness,
pitiful to see in the gallant young
painter who astonished the Louvre
artists ten years ago by a hand almost
as dashing and ready as that of Rubens himself. There were besides,
many caricatures of the new German
school, which are in themselves caricatures of the masters before Raphael.
An instance of honesty may be
mentioned here with applause. The
writer lost a pocket-book containing
a passport and a couple of modest
ten-pound notes. The pettbn who
found the portfolio ingeniously put
it into the box of the post-office, and
it was faithfully restored to the owner; but somehow the two ten-pound
notes were absent. It was, however,
a great comfort to get the passport,
and the pocket-book, which must be
worth about ninepence.
Brussels.
It was night when we arrived by
the railroad from Antwerp at Brus

sels; the route is very pretty and
interesting, and the fiat countries
through which the road passes in the
highest state of peaceful, smiling cultivation. The fields by the roadside
are enclosed by hedges as in England,
the harvest was in part down, and an
English country gentleman who was
of our party pronounced the crops to
be as fine as any he had ever seen.
Of this matter a cockney cannot judge
accurately, but any man can see with
what extraordinary neatness and care
all these little plots of ground are
tilled, and admire the richness and
brilliancy of the vegetation. Outside
of the moat of Antwerp, and at every
village by which we passed, it was
pleasant to see the happy congregations of well-clad people that basked
in the evening sunshine, and soberly
smoked their pipes and drank their
Flemish beer. Men who love this
drink must, as I fancy, have something essentially peaceful in their
composition, and must be more easily
satisfied than folks on our side of the
water.  The excitement of Flemish
beer is, indeed, not great.  I have
tried both the white beer and the
brown; they are both of the kind which
schoolboys denominate "swipes,"
very sour and thin to the taste, but
served, to be sure, in quaint Flemish
jugs that do not seem to have
changed their form since the days of
Rubens, and must please the lovers
of antiquarian knickknacks. Numbers of comfortable-looking women
and children sat beside the head of
the family upon the tavern-benches,
and it was amusing to see one little
fellow of eight years old smoking,
with much gravity, his father's cigar.
How the worship of the sacred plant
of tobacco has spread through all
Europe! I am sure that the persons who cry out against the use
of it are guilty of superstition and
unreason, and that it would be a proper and easy task for scientific persons
to write an encomium upon the weed.
In solitude it is the pleasantest companion possible, and in company never




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


439


de trop. To a student it suggests all
sorts of agreeable thoughts, it refreshes
the brain when weary, and every
sedentary cigar-smoker will tell you
how much good he has had from it,
and how he has been able to return
to his labor, after a quarter of an
hour's mild interval of the delightful leaf of Havanna. Drinking has
gone from among us since smoking
came in. It is a wicked error to say
that smokers are drunkards; drink
they do, but of gentle diluents mostly,
for fierce stimulants of wine or strong
liquors are abhorrent to the real lover
of the Indian weed. Ah! my Juliana,
join not in the vulgar cry that is
raised against us. Cigars and cool
drinks beget quiet conversations,
good-humor, meditation; not hot
blood such as mounts into the head
of drinkers of apoplectic port or
dangerous claret. Are we not more
moral and reasonable than our forefathers?  Indeed I think so somewhat; and many improvements of
social life and converse must date
with the introduction of the pipe.
We were a dozen tobacco-consumers in the wagon of the train that
brought us from Antwerp; nor did
the women of the party (sensible women!) make a single objection to the
fumigation.  But enough of this;
only let me add, in conclusion, that an
excellent Israelitish gentleman, Mr.
Hartog of Antwerp, supplies cigars
for a penny apiece, such as are not to
be procured in London for four times
the sum.
Through smiling corn-fields, then,
and by little woods from which rose
here and there the quaint peaked towers of some old-fashioned chdteaux,
our train went smoking along at
thirty miles an hour. We caught a
glimpse of Mechlin steeple, at first
dark against the sunset, and afterwards bright as we came to the other
side of it, and admired long glistening canals or moats that surrounded
the queer old town, and were lighted
up in that wonderful way which the
sun only understands, and not even


Mr. Turner, with all his vermilion
and gamboge, can put down on canvas.  The verdure was everywhere
astonishing, and we fancied we saw
many golden Cuyps as we passed by
these quiet pastures.
Steam-engines and their accompaniments, blazing forges, gaunt manufactories, with numberless windows
and long black chimneys, of course
take away from the romance of the
place; but, as we whirled into Brussels, even these engines had a fine
appearance.  Three or four of the
snorting, galloping monsters had just
finished their journey, and there was
a quantity of flaming ashes lying under the brazen bellies of each that
looked properly lurid and demoniacal.
The men at the station came out with
flaming torches - awful-looking fellows indeed I Presently the different
baggage was handed out, and in the
very worst vehicle I ever entered, and
at the very slowest pace, we were
borne to the " H6tel de Suede," from
which house of entertainment this letter is written.
We strolled into the town, but
though the night was excessively fine,
and it was not yet eleven o'clock, the
streets of the little capital were deserted, and the handsome blazing
cafds round about the theatres contained no inmates. Ah, what a pretty sight is the Parisian Boulevard on
a night like this! how many pleasant
hours has one passed in watching the
lights, and the hum, and the stir, and
the laughter of those happy, idle people! There was none of this gayety
here; nor was there a person to be
found, except a skulking commissioner or two (whose real name in French
is that of a fish that is eaten with
fennel-sauce), and who offered to conduct us to certain curiosities in the
town. What must we English not
have done that in every town in Europe we are to be fixed upon by scoundrels of this sort; and what a pretty
reflection it is on our country that
such rascals find the means of living
on us I




440


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


Early the next morning we walked
through a number of streets in the
place, and saw certain sights. The
Park is very pretty, and all the buildings round about it have an air of
neatness- almost of stateliness. The
houses are tall, the streets spacious,
and the roads extremely clean. In
the Park is a little theatre, a cafi
somewhat ruinous, a little palace for
the king of this little kingdom, some
smart public buildings (with S. P. Q.
B. emblazoned on them, at which
pompous inscription one cannot help
laughing), and other rows of houses
somewhat resembling a little Rue de
Rivoli. Whether from my own natural greatness and magnanimity, or
from that handsome share of national
conceit that every Englishman possesses, my impressions of this city are
certainly any thing but respectful. It
has an absurd kind of Liliput look
with it. There are soldiers, just as in
Paris, better dressed, and doing a vast
deal of drumming and bustle; and
yet, somehow, far from  being frightened at them, I feel inclined to laugh
in their faces. There are little Ministers, who work at their little bureaux; and to read the journals, how
fierce they are! A great thundering
" Times" could hardly talk more big.
One reads about the rascally Ministers, the miserable Opposition, the designs of tyrants, the eyes of Europe,
&c., just as one would in real journals. The "Moniteur" of Ghent belabors the "Independent" of Brussels; the "Independent" falls foul of
the "Lynx"; and really it is difficult not to suppose, sometimes, that
these worthy people are in earnest.
And yet how happy were they sua si
bona norint! Think what a comfort
it would be to belong to a little state
like this; not to abuse their privilege,
but philosophically to use it. If I
were a Belgian, I would not care one
single fig about politics. I would not
read thundering leading-articles. I
would not have an opinion. What's
the use of an opinion here? Happy
fellows! do not the French, the Eng

lish, and the Prussians, spare them
the trouble of thinking, and make all
their opinions for them? Think of
living in a country free, easy, respectable, wealthy, and with the nuisance of
talking politics removed from out of
it. All this might the Belgians have,
and a part do they enjoy, but not the
best part; no, these people will be
brawling and by the ears, and parties
run as high here as at Stoke Pogis or
little Pedlington.
These sentiments were elicited by
the reading of a paper at the cafe in
the Park, where we sat under the
trees for a while and sipped our cool
lemonade. Numbers of statues decorate the place, the very worst I
ever saw. These Cupids must have
been erected in the time of the Dutcl
dynasty, as I judge from the immense
posterior developments. Indeed the
arts of the country are very low. The
statues here, and the lions before the
Prince of Orange's palace, would disgrace almost the figure-head of a ship.
Of course we paid our visit to this
little lion of Brussels (the Prince's
palace, I mean). The architecture
of the building is admirably simple
and firm; and you remark about it,
and all other works here, a high finish
in doors, wood-works, paintings, &c.,
that one does not see in France, where
the buildings arc often rather sketched
than completed, and the artist seems
to neglect the limbs, as it were, and
extremities of his figures.
The finish of this little place is exquisite.  We went through    some
dozen of state-rooms, paddling along
over the slippery floors of inlaid
woods in great slippers, without which
we must have come to the ground.
How did his Royal Highness the
Prince of Orange manage when he
lived here, and iher Imperial Highness
the Princess, and their excellencies
the chamberlains and the footmen?
They must have been on their tails
many times a day, that's certain, and
must have cut queer figures.
The ball-room is beautiful - all
marble, and y-t with a comfortable,




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


441


cheerful look; the other apartments
are not less agreeable, and the people
looked with intense satisfaction at
some great lapis-lazuli tables, which
the guide informed us were worth
four millions, more or less; adding
with a very knowing look, that they
were un peu plus cher que l'or. This
speech has a tremendous effect on
visitors, and when we met some of
our steamboat companions in the
Park or clsewhere-in so small a
place as this one falls in with them a
dozen times a day- " Have you seen
the tables?" was the general question. Prodigious tables are they, indeed! Fancy a table, my dear —a
table four feet wide -a table with
legs.  Ye heavens! tile mind can
hardly picture to itself any thing so
beautiful and so tremendous!
There are some good pictures in
the palace, too, but not so extraordinarily good as the guide-books and
the guide would have us to think.
The latter, like most men of his class,
is an ignoramus, who showed us an
Andrea del Sarto (copy or original),
and called it a Correggio, and made
other blunders of a like nature. As
i; the case in England, you are hurried through the rooms without being
allowed time to look at the pictures,
and, consequently, to pronounce a
satisfactory judgment on them.
In the Museum more time was
granted me, and I spent some hours
with pleasure there. It is an absurd
little gallery, absurdly imitating the
Louvre, with just such compartments
and pillars as you see in the noble
Paris gallery; only here the pillars
and capitals are stucco and white in
place of marble and gold, and plasterof-Paris busts of great Belgians are
placed between the pillars. An artist of the country has made a picture containing them, and you will
be ashamed of your ignorance when
you hear many of their names. Old
Tilly of Magdeburg figures in one
corner; Rubens, the endless Rubens,
stands in the midst. What a noble countenance it is, and what a




manly, swaggering consciousness of
power!
The picture to see here is a portrait, by the great Peter Paul, of one
of the governesses of the Netherlands.
It is just the finest portrait that ever
was seen.  Only a half-length, but
such a majesty, such a force, such a
splendor, such a simplicity about it!
The woman is in a stiff black dress,
with a ruff and a few pearls; a yellow
curtain is behind her - the simplest
arrangement that can be conceived;
but this great man knew how to rise
to his occasion; and no better proof
can be shown of what a fine gentleman he was than this his homage to
the vice-Queen. A common bungler
would have painted her in her best
clothes, with crown and sceptre, just
as our Queen has been painted by -
but comparisons are odious.  Here
stands this majestic woman in her
every-day working-dress of black
satin, looking your fiat off, as it were.
Another portrait of the same personage hangs elsewhere in the gallery,
and it is curious to observe the difference between the two, and see how a
man of genius paints a portrait, and
how a common limner executes it.
Many more pictures are there here
by Rubens, or rather from Rubens's
manufactory, -odious and   vulgar
most of them are; fat Magdalens,
coarse Saints, vulgar Virgins, with
the scene-painter's tricks far too evident upon the canvas. By the side of
one of the most astonishing colorpieces in the world, the " Worshipping
of the Magi," is a famous picture of
Paul Veronese that cannot be too
much admired. As Rubens sought
in the first picture to dazzle and astonish by gorgeous variety, Paul in
his seems to wish to get his effect by
simplicity, and has produced the most
noble harmony that can be conceived.
Many more works are there that
merit notice,- a singularly clever,
brilliant, and odious Jordaens, for
example; some curious costumepieces; one or two works by the
Belgian Raphael, who was a very




442


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


Belgian Raphael indeed; and a long
gallery of pictures of the very oldest
school, that, doubtless, afford much
pleasure to the amateurs of ancient
art. I confess that I am inclined to
believe in very little that existed
before the time of Raphael. There
is, for instance, the Prince of Orange's
picture by Perugino, very pretty indeed, up to a certain point, but all
the heads are repeated, all the drawing
is bad and affected; and this very
badness and affectation is what the
so-called Catholic school is always
anxious to imitate. Nothing can be
more juvenile or paltry than the works
of the native Belgians here exhibited.
Tin crowns are suspended over many
of them, showing that the pictures
are prize compositions: and pretty
things, indeed, they are! Have you
ever read an Oxford prize-poem?
Well, these pictures are worse even
than the Oxford poems -an awful
assertion to make.
In the matter of eating, dear sir,
which is the next subject of the fine
arts, a subject that, after many hours'
walking, attracts a gentleman very
much, let me attempt to recall the
transactions of this very day at the
table-d'hote. 1, green pea-soup; 2,
boiled salmon; 3, mussels; 4, crimped
skate; 5, roast-meat; 6, patties; 7,
melon; 8, carp, stewed with mushrooms and onions; 9, roast-turkey;
10, cauliflower and butter; 11, fillets
of venison piques, with assafcetida
sauce; 12, stewed calf's-ear; 13, roastveal; 14, roast-lamb; 15, stewed
cherries; 16, rice-pudding; 17, Gruybre cheese, and about twenty-four
cakes of different kinds. Except 5,
13, and 14, I give vou my word I ate
of all written down here, with three
rolls of bread and a score of potatoes.
What is the meaning of it? How is
the stomach of man brought to desire
and to receive all this quantity? Do
not gastronomists complain of heaviness in London after eating a couple
of mutton-chops? Do not respectable gentlemen fall asleep in their
arm-chairs? Are they fit for mental


labor? Far from it. But look at
the difference here: after dinner here
one is as light as a gossamer. One
walks with pleasure, reads with pleasure, writes with pleasure - nay, there
is the supper-bell going at ten o'clock,
and plenty of eaters, too. Let lord
mayors and aldermen look to it, this
fact of the extraordinary increase of
appetite in Belgium, and, instead of
steaming to Blackwall, come a little
further to Antwerp.
Of ancient architectures in the
place, there is a fine old Port de Halle,
which has a tall, gloomy, bastille
look; a most magnificent town-hall,
that has been sketched a thousand of
times, and opposite it, a building that
I think would be the very model for
a Conservative club-house in London.
Oh! how charming it would be to be
a great painter, and give the character
of the building, and the numberless
groups round about it. The booths
lighted up by the sun, the marketwomen in their gowns of brilliant hue,
each group having a character and
telling its little story, the troops of
men lolling in all sorts of admirable
attitudes of ease round the great
lamp. Halfa dozen light blue dragoons
are lounging about, and peeping over
the artist as the drawing is made, and
the sky is more bright and blue than
one sees it in a hundred years in
London.
The priests of the country are a
remarkably well-fed and 'respectable
race, without that scowling, hang-dog
look which one has remarked among
reverend gentlemen in the neighboring
country of France. Their reverences
wear buckles to their shoes, light-blue
neckcloths, and huge three-cornered
hats in good condition. To-day,
strolling by the cathedral, I heard the
tinkling of a bell in the street, and
beheld certain persons, male and female, suddenly plump down on their
knees before a little procession that
was passing. Two men in black held
a tawdry red canopy, a priest walked
beneath it holding the sacrament
covered with a cloth, and before him




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


443


marched a couple of little altar-boys shoulders of the famous statue. The
in short white surplices, such as you expression of woe is more manly and
see in Rubens, and holding lacquered intense; in the group as we know it,
lamps. A small train of street-boys the head of the principal figure has
followed the procession, cap in hand, always seemed to me to be a grimace
and the clergyman finally entered a of grief, as are the two accompanying
hospital for old women, near the young gentlemen with their pretty
church, the canopy and the lamp- attitudes, and their little silly, openbearers remaining without.        mouthed despondency. It has always
It was a touching scene, and as I had upon me the effect of a trick, that
staid to watch it, I could not but statue, and not of a piece of true art.
think of the poor old soul who was It would look well in the vista of a
dying within, listening to the last garden; it is not august enough for a
words of prayer, led by the hand of temple, with all its jerks, and twirls,
the priest to the brink of the black, and polite convulsions.  But who
fathomless grave. How bright the knows what susceptibilities such a
sun was shining without all the time confession may offend? Let us say
and how happy and careless every no more about the Laocoon, nor its
thing around us looked!           head, nor its tail. The Duke was
offered its weight in gold, they say,
The Duke d'Arenberg has a pic- for this head, and refused. It would
ture-gallery worthy of his princely be a shame to speak ill of such a
house.  It does not contain great treasure, but I have my opinion of the
pieces, but tit-bits of pictures, such as man who made the offer.
suit an aristocratic epicure. For such  In the matter of sculpture almost
persons a great huge canvas is too all the Brussels churches are decomuch, it is like sitting down alone to rated with the most laborious wooden
a roasted ox; and they do wisely, I pulpits, which may be worth their
think, to patronize small, high-fla- weight in gold, too, for what I know,
vored, delicate morceaux, such as the including  his reverence preaching
Duke has here.                    inside. At St. Gudule the preacher
Among them may be mentioned, mounts into no less a place than the
with special praise, a magnificent garden of Eden, being supported by
small Rembrandt, a Paul Potter of Adam and Eve, by Sin and Death,
exceeding minuteness and beauty, and numberless other animals; he
an Ostade, which reminds one of walks up to his desk by a rustic railWilkic's early performances, and a ing of flowers, fruits, and vegetables,
Dusart quite as good as Ostade. with    wooden   peacocks, paroquets,
There is a Berghem, much more monkeys biting apples, and many
unaffected than that artist's works more of the birds and beasts of the
generally are; and, what is more, field. In another church the clergyprecious in the eyes of many ladies as man speaks from out a hermitage;
an object of art, there is, in one of the in a third firom a carved palm-tree,
grand saloons, some needlework done which supports a set of oak clouds
by the Duke's own grandmother, that form the canopy of the pulpit,
which is looked at with awe by those and are, indeed, not much heavier
admitted to see the palace.       in appearance than so many huge
The chief curiosity, if not the chief sponges. A priest, however tall or
ornament, of a very elegant library, stout, must be lost in the midst of all
filled with vases and bronzes, is a these queer gimcracks; in order to be
marble head, supposed to be the consistent, they ought to dress him
original head of the Laocoon. It is, up, too, in some odd fantastical suit.
unquestionably, a finer head than that I can fancy the Curd of Meudon
which at present figures upon  the preaching out of such a place, or the




444


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


Rev. Sidney Smith, or that famous
clergyman of the time of the League,
who brought all Paris to laugh and
listen to him.
But let us not be too supercilious
and ready to sneer. It is only bad
taste. It may have been very true
devotion which erected these strange
edifices.
— 4 ---
II.- GHENT. - BRUGES.
GIIENT. (1840.)
THE Beguine College or Village is
one of the most extraordinary sights
that all Europe can show. On the
confines of the town of Ghent you
come upon an old-fashioned brick
gate, that seems as if it were one of
the city barriers; but, on passing it,
one of the prettiest sights possible
meets the eye: At the porter s lodge
you see an old lady, in black, and a
white hood, occupied over her book;
before you is a red church with a tall
roof and fantastical Dutch pinnacles,
and all around it rows upon rows of
small houses, the queerest, neatest,
nicest that ever were seen (a doll's
house is hardly smaller or prettier).
Right and left, on each side of little
alleys, these little mansions rise;
they have a courtlet before them, in
which some green plants or hollyhocks are growing; and to each house
is a gate, that has mostly a picture
or queer-carved ornament upon or
about it, and bears the name, not of
the Beguine who inhabits it, but of
the saint to whom she may have devoted it —the house of St. Stephen,
the house of St. Donatus, the English
or Angel Convent and so on. Old
ladies in black are pacing in the quiet
alleys here and there, and drop the
stranger a courtesy as he passes them
and takes off his hat. Never were
such patterns of neatness seen as these
old ladies and their houses. I peeped
into one or two of the chambers, of
which the windows were open to the
pleasant evening sun, and saw beds


scrupulously plain, a quaint old chair
or two, and little pictures of favorite
saints decorating the spotless white
walls. The old ladies kept up a quick,
cheerful clatter, as they paused to
gossip at the gates of their little qomiciles; and with a great deal of
artifice, and lurking behind walls, and
looking at the church as if I intended
to design that, I managed to get e
sketch of a couple of them.
But what white paper can render
the whiteness of their linen; what
black ink can do justice to the lustre
of their gowns and shoes? Both of
the ladies had a neat ankle and a
tight stocking; and I fancy that
heaven is quite as well served in this
costume as in the dress of a scowling,
stockingless friar, whom I had seen
passing just before. The look and
dress of the man made me shudder.
His great red feet were bound up in
a shoe open at the toes, a kind of
compromise for a sandal. I had just
seen him and his brethren at the
Dominican Church, where a mass of
music was sung, and orange-trees,
flags, and banners decked the aisle of
the church.
One begins to grow sick of these
churches, and the hideous exhibitions
of bodily agonies that are depicted on
the sides of all the chapels. Into one
wherein we went this morning was
what they called a Calvary: a horrible, ghastly image of a Christ in a
tomb, the figure of the natural size,
and of the livid color of death; gaping red wounds on the body and
round the brows: the whole piece
enough to turn one sick, and fit only
to brutalize the beholder of it. The
Virgin is commonly represented with
a dozen swords stuck in her heart;
bleeding throats of headless John
Baptists are perpetually thrust before
your eyes. At the Cathedral gate
was a papier-mache church-ornament
shop —most of the carvings and
reliefs of the same dismal character.
One, for instance, represented a
heart with a great gash in it, and a




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


445


double row of large blood-drops dribbling from it; nails and a knife were
thrust into the heart; round the whole
Was a crown of thorns. Such things
are dreadful to think of. The same
gloomy spirit which made a religion
of them, and worked upon the people
by the grossest of all means, terror,
distracted the natural feelings of man
to maintain its power - shut gentle
women into lonely, pitiless convents
-frightened poor peasants with tales
of torment - taught that the end and
labor of life was silence, wretchedness,
and the scourge- murdered those by
fagot and prison who thought otherwise. How has the blind and furious
bigotry of man perverted that which
God gave us as our'greatest boon, and
bid us hate where God bade us love!
Thank heaven that monk has gone
out of sight! It is pleasant to look
at the smiling, cheerful old Bdguine,
and think no more of yonder livid
face.
One of the many convents in this
little religious city seems to be the
specimen-house, which is shown to
strangers, for all the guides conduct
you thither, and I saw in a book
kept for the purpose the names of
innumerable Smiths and Joneses
registered.
A very kind, sweet-voiced, smiling
nun (I wonder, do they always choose
the most agreeable and best-humored
sister of the house to show it to
strangers?) came tripping down the
steps and across the flags of the little
garden-court, and welcomed us with
much courtesy into the neat little
old-fashioned, red-bricked, gable-ended, shining-windowed Convent of
the Angels. First she showed us a
whitewashed parlor, decorated with
a grim picture or two and some
crucifixes and other religious emblems, where, upon stiff old chairs,
the sisters sit and work. Three or
four of them were still there, pattering over their laces and bobbins; but
the chief part of the sisterhood were
engaged in an apartment hard by,
from which issued a certain odor


which I must say resembled onions:
it was in fact the kitchen of the establishment.
Every Beguine cooks her own little
dinner in her own little pipkin; and
there was half a score of them, sure
enough, busy over their pots and
crockery, cooking a repast which,
when ready, was carried off to a
neighboring room, the refectory,
where, at a ledge-table which is drawn
out from under her own particular
cupboard, each nun sits down and
eats her meal in silence. More religious emblems ornamented the carved
cupboard-doors, and within, every
thing was as neat as neat could be:
shining pewter-ewers and glasses,
snug baskets of eggs and pats of butter, and little bowls with about a
farthing's-worth of green tea in them
- for some great day of fete, doubtless. The old ladies sat round as we
examined these things, each eating
soberly at her ledge and never looking round. There was a bell ringing
in the chapel hard by.  "Hark! "
said our guide, " that is one of the
sisters dying. Will you come up and
sec the cells?
The cells, it need not be said, are
the snuggest little nests in the world,
with serge-curtained beds and snowy
linen, alld saints and martyrs pinned
against the wall. " We may sit up
till twelve o'clock, if we like," said
the nun; " but we have no fire and
candle, and so what's the use of sitting up? When we have said our
prayers, we are glad enough to go to
sleep."
I forget, although the good soul
told us, how many times in the day,
in public and in private, these devotions are made, but fancy that the
morning service in the chapel takes
place at too early an hour for most
easy travellers. We did not fail to
attend in the evening, when likewise
is a general muster of the seven hundred, minus the absent and sick, and
the sight is not a little curious and
striking to a stranger.
The chapel is a very big white,




446


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


washed place of worship, supported
by half a dozen columns on either
side, over each of which stands the
statue of an Apostle, with his emblem
of martyrdom. Nobody was as yet
at the distant altar, which was too far
off to see very distinctly; but I could
perceive two statues over it, one of
which (St. Laurence, no doubt) was
leaning upon a huge gilt gridiron that
the sun lighted up in a blaze -a
painful but not a romantic instrument
Df death. A couple of old ladies in
white hoods were tugging and swaying about at two bell-ropes that came
down into the middle of the church,
and at least five hundred others in
white veils were seated all round
about us in mute contemplation until
the service began, looking very solemn, and whito, and ghastly, like an
army of tombstones by moonlight.
The service commenced as the clock
finished striking seven: the organ
pealed out, a very cracked and old
one, and presently some weak old
voice from the choir overhead quavered out a canticle; which done, a
thin old voice of a priest at the altar
far off (and which had now become
quite gloomy in the sunset) chanted
feebly another part of the service;
then the nuns warbled once more overhead; and it was curious to hear, in
the intervals of the most lugubrious
chants, how the organ went off with
some extremely cheerful military or
profane air. At one time was a
march, at another a quick tune; which
ceasing, the old nuns began again,
and so sung until the service was
ended.
In the midst of it one of the whiteveiled sisters approached us with a
very mysterious air, and put down
her white veil close to our ears, and
whispered. Were we doing any thing
wrong, I wondered? Were they come
to that part of the service where heretics and infidels ought to quit the
church? What have you to ask, 0
sacred, white-veiled maid?
All she said was, " Deux centiemes
pour les suisses," which sum was


paid; and presently the old ladies,
rising from their chairs one by one,
came in face of the altar, where they
knelt down and said a short prayer;
then, rising, unpinned their veils, and
folded them up all exactly in the same
folds and fashion, and laid them
square like napkins on their heads,
and tucked up their long black outer
dresses, and trudged off to their convents.
The novices wear black veils, under
one of which I saw a young, sad,
handsome face; it was the only thing
in the establishment that was the least
romantic or gloomy: and, for the
sake of any reader of a sentimental
turn, let us hope that the poor soul
has been crossed in love, and that
over some soul-stirring tragedy that
black curtain has fallen.
Ghent has, I believe, been called a
vulgar Venice.  It contains dirty
canals and old houses that must satisfy the most eager antiquary, though
the buildings are not quite in so good
preservation as others that may be
seen in the Netherlands. The commercial bustle of the place seems considerable, and it contains more beer-shops
than any city I ever saw.
These beer-shops seem the only
amusement of the inhabitants, until
at least, the theatre shall be built, of
which the elevation is now complete,
a very handsome and extensive pile.
There are beer-shops in the cellars of
the houses, which are frequented, it is
to be presumed, by the lower sort;
there are beer-shops at the barriers,
where the citizens and their families
repair; and beer-shops in the town,
glaring with gas, with long gauze
blinds, however, to hide what I hear
is a rather questionable reputation.
Our inn," The Hotel of the Post,"
a spacious and comfortable residence,
*is on a little place planted round with
trees, and that seems to be the Palais
Royal of the town.   Three clubs,
which look from without to be very
comfortable, ornament this square
with their gas-lamps.  Here stands,
too, the theatre that is to be; there is




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


447


a cafe, and on evenings a military
band plays the very worst music I
ever remember to have heard. I went
out to-night to take a quiet walk
upon this place, and the horrid brazen
discord of these trumpeters set me
half mad.
I went to the cafe for refuge, passing on my way a subterraneous beershop, where men and women were
drinking to the sweet music of a
cracked barrel-organ. They take in
a couple of French papers at this cafe,
and the same number of Belgian journals. You may imagine how well
the latter are informed, when you hear
that the battle of Boulogne, fought by
the immortal Louis Napoleon, was
not known here until some gentlemen
out of Norfolk brought the news from
London, and until it had travelled
to Paris, and from Paris to Brussels.
For a whole hour I could not get a
newspaper at the cafe. The horrible
brass band in the mean time had quit:
tcd the place, and now, to amuse the
Ghent citizens, a couple of little boys
came to the cafe, and set up a small
concert: one played ill on the guitar,
but sang, very sweetly, plaintive
French ballads; the other was the comic singer; he carried about with him
a queer, long, damp-looking mouldy
white hat, with no brim. " Ecoutez,"
said the waiter to me, "il va faire
1'Anglais; c'cst tres dr6lc!"  The
little rogue mounted his immense
brimless hat, and, thrusting his
thumbs into the armholes of his
waistcoat, began to faire l'Anglais,
with a song in which swearing was
the principal joke. We all laughed
at this, and indeed the little rascal
seemed to have a good deal of humor.
How they hate us, these foreigners,
in Belgium as much as in France!
What lies they tell of us; how gladly
they would see us humiliated! Honest folks at home over their port-wine
say, "Ay, ay, and very good reason
they have too. National vanity, sir,
wounded -we have beaten them so
often." My dear sir, there is not a
greater error in the world than this.


They hate you because you are stupid, hard to please, and intolerably
insolent and air-giving.  I walked
with an Englishman yesterday, who
asked the way to a street of which
he pronounced the name very badly
to a little Flemish boy: the Flemish
boy did not answer; and there was
my Englishman quite in a rage,
shrieking in the child's ear as if he
must answer. He seemed to think
that it was the duty of" the snob,"
as he called him, to obey the gentleman. This is why we are hated - for
pride. In our free country a tradesman, a lackey, or a waiter will submit to almost any given insult from a
gentleman: in these benighted lands
one man is as good as another; and
pray God it may soon be so with us!
Of all European people, which is the
nation that has the most haughtiness,
the strongest prejudices, the greatest
reserve, the greatest dulness? I say
an Englishman of the genteel classes.
An honest groom jokes and hobs-andnobs, and makes his way with the
kitchen-maids, for there is good social
nature in the man; his master dare
not unbend. Look at him, how he
scowls at you on your entering an innroom; think how you scowl yourself
to meet his scowl. To-day, as we
were walking and staring about the
place, a worthy old gentleman in a
carriage, seeing a pair of strangers,
took off his hat and bowed very gravely with his old powdered head out of
the window: I am sorry to say that
our first impulse was to burst out
laughing-it seemed so supremely
ridiculous that a stranger should notice and welcome another.
As for the notion that foreigners
hate us because we have beaten them
so often, my dear sir, this is the greatest error in the world: well-educated
Frenchmen do not believe that we hdve
beaten them. A man was once ready
to call me out in Paris because I
said that we had beaten the French in
Spain; and here before me is a French
paper, with a London correspondent
discoursing about Louis Bonaparte




448


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


and his jackass expedition to Boulogne. " He was received at Eglintoun, it is true," says the correspondent, "but what do you think was
the reason? Because the English nobility were anxious to revenge upon his
person (with some coups de lance ) the
checks which the 'grand homme' his
uncle had inflicted on us in Spain."
This opinion is so general among
the French, that they would laugh at
you with scornful incredulity if you
ventured to assert any other. Foy's
history of the Spanish War does not,
unluckily, go far enough.  I have
read a French history which hardly
mentions the war in Spain, and calls
the battle of Salamanca a French victory. You know how the other day,
and in the teeth of all evidence, the
French swore to their victory of Toulouse: and so it is with the rest; and
you may set it down as pretty certain,
1st, That only a few people know the
real state of things in France, as to
the matter in dispute between us;
2d, That those who do, keep the
truth to themselves, and so it is as if
it had never been.
These Belgians have caught up,
and quite naturally, the French tone.
We are perfide Albion with them still.
Here is the Ghent paper, which declares that it is beyond a doubt that
Louis Napoleon was sent by the English and Lord Palmerston; and though
it states in another part of the journal (from English authority) that the
Prince had never seen Lord Palmerston, yet the lie will remain uppermost - the people and the editor will
believe it to the end of time....
See to what a digression yonder little
fellow in the tall hat has given rise!
Let us make his picture, and have
done with him.
I could not understand, in my walks
about this place, which is certainly
picturesque enough, and contains
extraordinary charms in the shape of
old gables, quaint spires, and broad
shining canals- I could not at first
comprehend why, for all this, the


town was especially disagreeable to me,
and have only just hit on the reason
why.   Sweetest Juliana, you will
never guess it: it is simply this, that I
have not seen a single decent-looking
woman in the whole place; they look
all ugly, with coarse mouths, vulgar
figures, mean mercantile faces; and
so the traveller walking among them
finds the pleasure of his walk excessively damped, and the impressions
made upon him disagreeable.
In the Academy there are no pictures of merit; but sometimes a second-rate picture is as pleasing as the
best, and one may pass an hour here
very pleasantly. There is a room appropriated to Belgian artists, of which
I never saw the like: they are, like all
the rest of the things in this country,
miserable imitations of the French
school-great nude Venuses, and
Junos a la ])avid, with the drawing
left out.
BRUGES.
The change from vulgar Ghent,
with its ugly women and coarse bustle, to this quiet, old, half-deserted,
cleanly Bruges, was very pleasant. I
have seen old men at Versailles, with
shabby coats and pigtails, sunning
themselves on the benches in the
walls; they had seen better days, to
be sure, but they were gentlemen still:
and so we found, this morning, old
dowager Bruges basking in the pleasant August sun, and looking if not
prosperous, at least cheerful and wellbred. It is the quaintest and prettiest
of all the quaint and pretty towns I
have seen. A painter might spend
months here, and wander from church
to church, and admire old towers and
pinnacles, tall gables, bright canals,
and pretty little patches of green garden and moss-grown wall, that reflect
in the clear quiet water. Before the
inn-window is a garden, from which
in the early morning issues a most
wonderful odor of stocks and wallflowers; next comes a road with trees
of admirable green; numbers of little children are playing in this road




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


449


(tie3 place is so clean that they may
roll in it all day without soiling their
pinafores), and on the other side of the
trees are little old-fashioned, dumpy,
whitewashed, red-tiled  houses.  A
poorer landscape to draw never was
known, nor a pleasanter to see - the
children especially, who are inordinately fat and rosy.  Let it be remembered, too, that here we are out
of the country of ugly women: the
expression of the face is almost uniformly gentle and pleasing, and the
figures of the women, wrapped in
long black, monk-like cloaks and
hoods, very picturesque. No wonder
there are so many children: "The
Guide-book" (omniscient Mr. Murray!) says there are fifteen thousand
paupers in the town, and we know
how such multiply. How the deuce
do their children look so fat and rosy?
By eating dirt-pies, I suppose. I saw
a couple making a very nice savory
one, and another employed in gravely
sticking strips of stick betwixt the
pebbles at the house-door, and so
making for herself a stately garden.
The men and women don't seem to
have much more to do. There are a
couple of tall chimneys at either suburb of the town, where no doubt manufactories are at work, but within the
walls everybody seems decently idle.
We have been, of course, abroad to
visit the lions. The tower in the
Grand Place is very fine, and the
bricks of which it is built do not yield
a whit in color to the best stone. The
great building round this tower is
very like the pictures of the Ducal
Palace at Venice; and there is a long
market area, with columns down the
middle, from which hung shreds of
rather lean-looking meat, that would
do wonders under the hands of Cattermole or Haghe. In the tower there
is a chime of bells that keep ringing
perpetually.  They not only play
tunes of themselves, and every quarter
of an hour, but an individual performs selections from popular operas
on them at certain periods of the
morning, afternoon, and evening. I
20


have heard to-day "Suoni la Tromba," "Son Vergin Vezzosa," from
"The Puritani," and other airs, and
very badly they were played too; for
such a great monster as a tower-bell
cannot be expected to imitate Madame Grisi or even Signor Lablachc.
Other churches indulge in the same
amusement, so that one may come
here and live in melody all day or
night, like the young woman in
Moore's "Lalla Rookh."
In the matter of art, the chief attractions of Bruges are the pictures
of Hemling, that are to be seen in
the churches, the hospital, and the
picture-gallery of the place. There
are no more pictures of Rubens to be
seen, and, indeed, in the course of a
fortnight, one has had quite enough
of the great man and his magnificent,
swaggering canvases. What a difference is here with simple Hemling
and the extraordinary creations of
his pencil! The hospital is particularly rich in them; and the legend
there is that the painter, who had
served Charles the Bold in his war
against the Swiss, and his last battle
and defeat, wandered back wounded
and penniless to Bruges, and here
found cure and shelter.
This hospital is a noble and curious
sight. The great hall is almost as it
was in the twelfth century; it is
spanned by Saxon arches, and lighted
by a multiplicity of Gothic windows
of all sizes; it is very lofty, clean,
and perfectly well ventilated; a screen
runs across the middle of the room,
to divide the male from the female
patients, and we were taken to examine each ward, where the poor people
seemed happier than possibly they
would have been in health and starvation without it.   Great yellow
blankets were on the iron beds, the
linen was scrupulously clean, glittering pewter-jugs and goblets stood by
the side of each patient, and they
were provided with godly books (to
judge from the binding), in which
several were reading at leisure. Honest old comfortable nuns, in queer




450


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


dresses of blue, black, white, and
flannel, were bustling through the
room, attending to the wants of the
sick. I saw about a dozen of these
kind women's faces; one was young
- all were healthy and cheerful. One
came with bare blue arms and a great
pile of linen from an out-house - such
a grange as Cedric the Saxon might
have given to a guest for the night.
A couple were in a laboratory, a tall,
bright, clean room, 500 years old at
least. "We saw you were not very
religious," said one of the old ladies,
with a red, wrinkled, good-humored
face, "by your behavior yesterday
in chapel." And yet we did not
laugh and talk as we used at college,
but were profoundly affected by the
scene that we saw there. It was a
fete-day: a mass of Mozart was sung
in the evening —not well sung, and
yet so exquisitely tender and melodious, that it brought tears into our
eyes. There were not above twenty
people in the church: all, save three
or four, were women in long black
cloaks. I took them for nuns at first.
They were, however, the common
people of the town, very poor indeed,
doubtless, for the priest's box that
was brought round was not added to
by most of them, and their contributions were but two-cent pieces, - five
of these go to a penny; but we know
the value of such, and can tell the
exact worth of a poor woman's mite!
The box-bearer did not seem at first
willing to accept our donation- we
were strangers and heretics; however,
I held out my hand, and he came perforce as it were. Indeed it had only
a franc in it: but que voulez-vous? I
had been drinking a bottle of Rhine
wine that day, and how was I to
afford more? The Rhine wine is
dear in this country, and costs four
francs a bottle.
Well, the service proceeded. Twenty poor women, two Englishmen,
four ragged beggars, cowering on the
steps; and there was the priest at
the altar, in a great robe of gold and
damask, two little boys in white sur

plices serving him, holding his robo
as he rose and bowed, and the moneygatherer swinging his censer, and
filling the little chapel with smoke.
The music pealed with wonderful
sweetness; you could see the prim
white heads of the nuns in their gallery. The evening light streamed
down upon old statues of saints and
carved brown stalls, and lighted up
the head of the golden-haired Magdalen in a picture of the entombment
of.Christ. Over the gallery, and, as
it were, a kind protectress to the
poor below, stood the statue of the
Virgin.
III. -WATERLOO.
IT is, my dear, the happy privilege
of your sex in England, to quit the
dinner-table after the wine-bottles
have once or twice gone round it, and
you are thereby saved (though, to be
sure, I can't tell what the ladies do
up stairs) -you are saved two or
three hours' excessive dulness, which
the men are obliged to go through.
I ask any gentleman who reads
this - the letters to my Juliana being
written with an eye to publication -
to remember especially how many
times, how many hundred times, how
many thousand times, in his hearing,
the battle of Waterloo has been discussed after dinner, and to call to
mind how cruelly he has been bored
by the discussion. " Ah, it was lucky
for us that the Prussians came up! "
says one little gentleman, looking
particularly  wise  and  ominous.
"Hang the Prussians!" (or, perhaps,
something  stronger,  "the  Prussians! ") says a stout old major on halfpay. " We beat the French without
them, sir, as beaten them we always
have! We were thundering down the
hill of Belle Alliance, sir, at the backs
of them, and the French were crying
' Sauve qui peut' long before the
Prussians ever touched them!" And
so the battle opens, and for many




ROAD-SIDE SKETCHES.


451


mortal hours, amid rounds of claret, time of peace (and this strange fact
rages over and over again.       is vouched for by every person of
I thought to myself, considering every nation), and being asked wherethe above things, what a fine thing it fore the King of Holland had been
will be in after-days to say that I have ousted from his throne, replied at
been to Brussels, and never seen the once, " Parceque c'etoit un voleur:"
field of Waterloo; indeed, that I am  for which accusation I believe there is
such a philosopher as not to care a some show of reason, his Majesty
fig about the battle - nay, to regret, having laid hands on much Belrather, that when Napoleon came gian property before the lamented
back, the British Government had outbreak which cost him his crown.
not spared their men and left him  A vast deal of laughing and roaring
alone.                           passed between these two worldly
But this pitch of philosophy was people and the postilion whom they
unattainable.  This morning, after called "baron," and I thought, no
having seen the Park, the fashionable doubt that this talk was one of the
boulevard, the pictures, the cafes -  many jokes that my companions were
having sipped, I say, the sweets of in the habit of making. But not so:
every flower that grows in this para- the postilion was an actual baron, the
dise of Brussels, quite weary of the bearer of an ancient name, the desplace, we mounted on a Namur dili- cendant of gallant gentlemen. Good
gence, and jingled off at four miles an heavens! what would Mrs. Trollope
hour for Waterloo.               say to see his lordship here?  His
The road is very neat and agree- father the old baron had dissipated
able: the Forest of Soignies here and the family fortune, and here was this
there interposes pleasantly, to give young nobleman, at about five-andyour vehicle a shade: the country, forty, compelled to bestride a clatteras usual, is vastly fertile and well ing Flemish stallion, and bump over
cultivated.  A farmer and the con- dusty pavements at the rate of five
ducteur were my companions in the miles an hour. But see the beauty
imperial, and, could I have under- of high blood: with what a calm
stood their conversation, my dear, grace the man of family accommodates
you should have had certainly a report himself to fortune! Far from being
of it. The jargon which they talked cast down, his lordship met his fate
was, indeed, most queer and puzzling like a man: he swore and laughed
- French, I believe, strangely hashed the whole of the journey, and as we
up and pronounced, for here and changed horses, condescended to parthere one could catch a few words of it. take of half a pint of Louvain beer, to
Now and anon, however, they conde- which the farmer treated him —inscended to speak in the purest French deed the worthy rustic treated me to
they could  muster; and, indeed, a glass too.
nothing is more curious than to hear  Much delight and instruction have
the French of the country. You can't I had in the course of the journey
understand why all the people insist from  my guide, philosopher, and
upon speaking it so badly. I asked friend, the author of "Murray's
the conductor if he had been at the Handbook."  He has gathered tobattle; he burst out laughing like a gether, indeed, a store of information,
philosopher, as he was, and said, "Pas and must, to make his single volsi bete." I asked the farmer whether ume, have gutted many hundreds of
his contributions were lighter now  guide-books.  How the Continentthan in King William's time, and al ciceroni must hate him, whoever
lighter than those in the time of the he is! Every English party I saw
Emperor?  He vowed that in war- had this infallible red book in their
time he had not more to pay than in hands, and gained a vast deal of his



452


LITTLE TRAVELS AND


torical and general information from
it.  Thus I heard, in confidence,
many remarkable anecdotes of Charles
V., the Duke of Alva, Count
Egmon, all of which I had before
perceived, with much satisfaction, not
only in " The Handbook," but even in
other works.
The Laureate is among the English
poets evidently the great favorite of
our guide: the choice does honor to
his head and heart. A man must have
a very strong bent for poetry, indeed,
who carries Southey's works in his
portmanteau, and quotes them in proper time and occasion. Of course at
Waterloo a spirit like our guide's
cannot fail to be deeply moved, and
to turn to his favorite poet for sympathy. Hark how the laureated bard
sings about the tombstones at Waterlo0:" That temple to our hearts was hallowed
now,
For many a wounded Briton there was
laid,
With such for help as time might then
allow,
From the fresh carnage of the field
conveyed.
And they whom human succor could not
save,
Here, in its precincts, found a hasty
grave.
And here, on marble tablets, set on high,
In English lines by foreign workmen
traced,
The names familiar to an English eye,
Their brethren here the fit memorial
placed;
Whose unadorned inscriptions briefly
tell
Their gallant comrades' rank, and
where they fell.
The stateliest monument of human pride,
Enriched with all magnificence of art,
To honor chieftains who in victory died,
Would wake no stronger feelings in the
heart
Than these plain tablets by the soldier's
hand
Raised to his comrades in a foreign
land."
There are lines for you! wonderful
for justice, rich in thought and
novel ideas. The passage concerning
their gallant comrades' rank should
be specially remarked. There indeed they lie, sure enough: the




Honorable Colonel This of the
Guards, Captain That of the IIussars,
Major So-and-So of the Dragoons,
brave men and good, who did their
duty by their country on that day,
and died in the performance of it.
Amen. But I confess fairly, that
in looking at these tablets, I felt very
much disappointed at not seeing the
names of the men as well as the officers. Are they to be counted for
nought 3 A few more inches of marble to each monument would have
given space for all the names of the
men; and the men of that day were
the winners of the battle. We have
a right to be as grateful individually
to any given private as to any given
officer; their duties were very much
the same. Why should the country reserve its gratitude for the genteel occupiers of the army-list, and
forget the gallant fellows whose
humble names were written in the
regimental books?  In reading of
the Wellington wars, and the conduct of the men engaged in them,
I don't know whether to respect
them or to wonder at them most.
They have death, wounds, and poverty in contemplation; in possession,
poverty, hard labor, hard fare, and
small thanks.  If they do wrong,
they are handed over to the inevitable
provost-marshal; if they are heroes,
heroes they may be, but they remain
privates still, handling the old brownbess, starving on the old twopence a
day. They grow gray in battle and
victory, and after thirty years of
bloody service, a young gentleman
of fifteen, fresh from a preparatory
school, who can scarcely read, and
came but yesterday with a pinafore
in to papa's dessert- such a young
gentleman, I say, arrives in a spickand-span red coat, and calmly takes
the command over.our veteran, who
obeys him as if God and nature had
ordained that so throughout time it
should be.
That privates should obey, and that
they should be smartly punished if
they disobey, this one can understand




ROAD-SIDE SKETChES.


453


very well. But to say obey for ever
and ever -to say that private John
Styles is, by some physical disproportion, hopelessly inferior to Cornet
Snooks -to say that Snooks shall
have honors, epaulets, and a marble
tablet if he dies, and that Styles shall
fight his fight, and have his twopence
a day, and when shot down shall be
shovelled into a hole with other
Styleses, and so forgotten; and to
think that we had in the course of
the last war some 400,000 of these
Styleses, and some 10,000, say, of
the Snooks sort - Styles being by
nature exactly as honest, clever, and
brave as Snooks -and to     think
that the 400,000 should bear this, is
the wonder!
Suppose Snooks makes a speech.
"Look at these Frenchmen, British
soldiers," says he, "and remember
who they are.    Two and twenty
years since they hurled their King
from his throne and murdered him"
(groans). " They flung out of their
country their ancient and famous
nobility —they published the audacious doctrine of equality - they made
a cadet of artillery, a beggarly lawyer's son, into an Emperor, and took
ignoramuses from the ranks -drummers and privates, by Jove!-of
whom they made kings, generals, and
marshals!  Is this to be borne "
(Cries of "No! no! ")    " Upon
them, boys! down with these godless
revolutionists, and rally round the
British lion! "
So saying, Ensign Snooks (whose
flag, which he can't carry, is held by
a huge grisly color-scrgeant) draws
a little sword, and pipes out a feeble
huzza. The men of his company,
roaring curses at the Frenchmen,
prepare to receive and repel a thundering charge of French cuirassiers.
The men fight, and Snooks is knighted because the men fought so well.
But live or die, win or lose, what


do they get   English glory is too
genteel to meddle with those humble
fellows. She does not condescend to
ask the names of the poor devils whom
she kills in her service. Why was
not every private man's name written
upon the stones in Waterloo Church
as well as every officer's? Five hundred pounds to the stone-cutters
would have served to carve the whole
catalogue, and paid the poor compliment of recognition to men who
died in doing their duty. If the
officers deserved a stone, the men
did. But come, let us away and
drop a tear over the Marquis of Anglesea's leg!
As for Waterloo, has it not been
talked of enough after dinner? Here
are some oats that were plucked before
Hougoumont, where grow not only
oats, but flourishing crops of grapeshot, bayonets, and legion-of-honor
crosses, in amazing profusion.
Well, though I made a vow not to
talk about Waterloo either here or
after dinner, there is one little secret
admission that one must make after
seeing it. Let an Englishman go
and see that field, and he never forgets
it. The sight is an event in his life;
and, though it has been seen by millions of peaceable gents -grocers
from  Bond Street, meek attorneys
from Chancery Lane, and timid tailors
from Piccadilly —I will wager that
there is not one of them but feels a
glow as he looks at the place, and
remembers that he, too, is an Englishman.
It is a wrong, egotistical, savage,
unchristian feeling, and that's the
truth of it. A man of peace has no
right to be dazzled by that red-coated
glory, and to intoxicate his vanity
with those remembrances of carnage
and triumph. The same sentence
which tells us that on earth there ought
to be peace and goodwill amongst
men, tells us to whom GLORY belongs.








THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.




0




THE   FITZ-BOODLE     PAPERS.*
FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


PREFACE.
GEORGE FITZ-BOODLE, ESQUIRE, TO
OLIVER YORKE, ESQUIRE.
Omnium Club, JMay 20,1842.
EAR SIR, - I have always been
considered the third-best whistplayer in Europe, and (though never
betting more than five pounds) have
for many years past added considerably to my yearly income by my skill
in the game, until the commencement
of the present season, when a French
gentleman, Monsieur Lalouette, was
admitted to the club where I usually
play. His skill and reputation were
so great, that no men of the club were
inclined to play against us two of a
side; and the consequence has been,
that we have been in a manner pitted
against one another. By a strange
turn of luck (for I cannot admit the
idea of.his superiority), Fortune,
since the Frenchman's arrival, has
been almost constantly against me,
and I have lost two and thirty nights
in the course of a couple score of
nights' play.
Everybody knows that I am a poor
man; and so much has Lalouette's
luck drained my finances, that only
last week I was obliged to give him
that famous gray cob on which you
have seen me riding in the Park (I
can't afford a thorough-bred, and hate


a cocktail), -I was, I say, forced to
give him up my cob in exchange for
four ponies which I owed him. Thus,
as I never walk, being a heavy man
whom nobody cares to mount, my
time hangs heavily on my hands; and
as I hate home, or that apology for it
-a bachelor's lodgings -and as I
have nothing earthly to do now until
I can afford to purchase another horse,
I spend my time in sauntering from
one club to another, passing many
rather listless hours in them before
the men come in.
You will say, Why not take to
backgammon, or ecartd, or amuse
yourself with a book? Sir (putting
out of the question the fact that I do
not play upon credit), I make a point
never to play before candles are lighted; and as for books, I must candidly confess to you I am not a reading
man. 'Twas but the other day that
some one recommended me to read
your Magazine after dinner, saying it
contained an exceedingly witty article
upon-I forget what. I give you
my honor, sir, that I took up the
work at six, meaning to amuse myself till seven, when Lord Trumpington's dinner was to come off, and
egad! in two minutes I fell asleep,
and never woke till midnight. Nobody ever thought of looking for me
in the library, where nobody ever


* " The Fitz-Boodle Papers " first appeared in " Frascr's Magazine " for the year
1842.
20*




458


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


goes; and so ravenously hungry was
I, that I was obliged to walk off to
Crockford's for supper.
What is it that makes you literary
persons so stupid? I have met various individuals in society who I was
told were writers of books, and that
sort of thing, and, expecting rather
to be amused by their conversation,
have invariably found them dull to a
degree, and as for information, without a particle of it. Sir, I actually
asked one of these fellows, "What
was the nick to seven? " and he stared
in my face, and said he didn't know.
He was hugely over-dressed in satin,
rings, chains, and so forth; and at
the beginning of dinner was disposed
to be rather talkative and pert; but
my little sally silenced him, I promise
you, and got up a good laugh at his
expense too. " Leave George alone,"
said little Lord Cinqbars, " I warrant
he'll be a match for any of you literary
fellows." Cinqbars is no great wiseacre; but, indeed, it requires no great
wiseacre to know that.
What is the simple deduction to be
drawn from this truth? Why, this
-that a man to be amusing and
well-informed, has no need of books
at all, and had much better go to the
world and to men for his knowledge.
There was Ulysses, now, the Greek
fellow engaged in the Trojan war, as
I dare say you know; well, he was
the cleverest man possible, and how?
From having seen men and cities,
their manners noted and their realms
surveyed, to be sure. So have I. I
have been in every capital, and can
order a dinner in every language in
Europe.
My notion, then, is this. I have a
great deal of spare time on my hands,
and as I am told you pay a handsome
sum to persons writing for you, I will
furnish you occasionally with some
of my views upon men and things;
occasional histories of my acquaintance, which I think may amuse you;
personal narratives of my own; essays, and what not. I am told that
I do not spell correctly.  This, of


course, I don't know; but you will
remember that Richelieu and Marlborough could not spell, and, egad!
I am an honest man, and desire to be
no better than they. I know that it
is the matter, and not the manner,
which is of importance. Have the
goodness, then, to let one of your
understrappers correct the spelling
and the grammar of my papers; and
you can give him a few shillings in
my name for his trouble.
Begging you to accept the assurance of my high consideration, I am,
sir,
Your obedient servant,
GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.
P.S. - By the way, I have said in
my letter that I found all literary persons vulgar and dull. Permit me to
contradict this with regard to yourself. I met you once at Blackwall,
I think it was, and really did not
remark any thing offensive in your
accent or appearance.
BEFORE commencing the series of
moral disquisitions, &c., which I intend, the reader may as well know
who I am, and what my past course
of life has been. To say that I am a
Fitz-Boodle is to say at once that I
am a gentleman. Our family has
held the estate of Boodle ever since
the reign of Henry II.; and it is out
of no ill will to my elder brother, or
unnatural desire for his death, but
only because the estate is a very good
one, that I wish heartily it was mine:
I would say as much of Chatsworth
or Eton Hall.
I am not, in the first place, what is
called a ladies' man, having contracted an irrepressible habit of smoking
after dinner, which has obliged me to
give up a great deal of the dear creatures' society; nor can I go much to
country-houses for the same reason.
Say what they will, ladies do not like
you to smoke in their bed-rooms;
their silly little noses scent out the
odor upon the chintz, weeks after you
have left them. Sir John has been




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


459


caught coming to bed particularly
merry and redolent of cigar-smoke;
young George, from Eton, was absolutely found in the little green-house
puffing an Havanna; and when discovered, they both lay the blame upon
Fitz-Boodle. "It was Mr. Fitz-Boodie, mamma," says George, "who
offered me the cigar, and I did not like
to refuse him."  "That rascal Fitz
seduced us, my dear," says Sir John,
" and kept us laughing until past midnight." Her ladyship instantly sets
me down as a person to be avoided.
"George," whispers she to her boy,
"promise me, on your honor, when
you go to town, not to know that
man."   And when she enters the
breakfast-room for prayers, the first
greeting is a peculiar expression of
countenance, and inhaling of breath,
by which my lady indicates the presence of some exceedingly disagreeable
odor in the room. She makes you
the faintest of courtesies, and regards
you, if not with a "flashing eye," as
in the novels, at least with a "distended nostril." During the whole
of the service, her heart is filled with
the blackest gall towards you; and
she is thinking about the best means
of getting you out of the house.
What is this smoking that it should
be considered a crime? I believe in
my heart that women are jealous of
it, as of a rival. They speak of it as
of some secret, awful vice that seizes
upon a man, and makes him a pariah
from genteel society. I would lay a
guinea that many a lady who has just
been kind enough to read the above
lines lays down the book, after this
confession of mine that I am a smoker,
and says, " Oh, the vulgar wretch!"
and passes on to something else.
The fact is, that the cigar is a
rival to the ladies, and their conqueror
too. In the chief pipe-smoking nations they are kept in subjection.
While the chief, Little White Belt,
smokes, the women are silent in his
wigwam; while Mahomet Ben Jawbrahim causes volumes of odorous incense of Latakia to play round his


beard, the women of tile harem do not
disturb his meditations, but only add
to the delight of them by tinkling on
a dulcimer and dancing before him.
When Professor Strumpff of G6ttingen takes down No. 13 from the wall,
with a picture of Beatrice Cenci upon
it, and which holds a pound of canaster, the Frau Professorin knows that
for two hours Hermann is engaged,
and takes up her stockings and knits
in quiet. The constitution of French
society has been quite changed within
the last twelve years: an ancient and
respectable dynasty has been overthrown; an aristocracy which Napoleon could never master has disappeared: and from what cause? I do
not hesitate to say, -from the habit of
smoking. Ask any man whether, five
years before the revolution of July, if
you wanted a cigar at Paris, they did
not bring you a roll of tobacco with a
straw in it? Now, the whole city
smokes; society ischanged; and be
sure of this, ladies, a similar combat
is going on in this country at present
between cigar-smoking and you. Do
you suppose you will conquer? Look
over the wide world, and see that
your adversary has overcome it. Germany has been puffing for threescore
years; France smokes to a man. Do
you think you can keep the enemy
out of England? Psha! look at his
progress. Ask the club-houses, Have
they smoking-rooms, or not? Are
they not obliged to yield to the general want of the age, in spite of the
resistance of the old women on the
committees? I, for my part, do not
despair to see a bishop lolling out of
" The Athenaeum" with a cheroot in
his mouth, or, at any rate, a pipe stuck
in his shovel-hat.
But as in all great causes and in
promulgating new and illustrious theories, their first propounders and exponents are generally the victims of
their enthusiasm, of course the first
preachers of smoking have been
martyrs, too; and George FitzBoodle is one. The first gas-man
was ruined; the inventor of steam



460


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


engine printing became a pauper. I
began to smoke in days when the
task was one of some danger, and paid
the penalty of my crime.  I was
flogged most fiercely for my first
cigar; for, being asked to dine one
Sunday  evening  with a half-pay
colonel of dragoons (the gallant,
simple, humorous Shortcut -heaven
bless him! —I have had many a
guinea from him who had so few), he
insisted upon my smoking in his room
at "The Salopian," and the consequence was, that I became so violently ill as to be reported intoxicated
upon my return to Slaughter-House
School, where I was a boarder, and I
was whipped the next morning for
my peccadillo. At Christ Church,
one of our tutors was the celebrated
lamented Otto Rose, who would have
been a bishop under the present Government, had not an immoderate
indulgence in water-gruel cut short
his elegant and useful career. He
was a good man, a pretty scholar and
poet (the episode upon the discovery
of eau-de-Cologne, in his prize-poem
on " The Rhine," was considered a
masterpiece of art, though I am not
much of a judge myself upon such
matters), and he was as remarkable for
his fondness for a tuft as for his nervous antipathy to tobacco. As illluck would have it, my rooms (in
Tom Quad) were exactly under his;
and I was grown by this time to be a
confirmed smoker. I was a baronet's
son (we are of James the First's
creation), and I do believe our tutor
could have pardoned any crime in the
world but this. He had seen me in a
tandem, and at that moment was
seized with a violent fit of sneezing(sternutatory paroxysm he called it)
- at the conclusion of which I was a
mile down the Woodstock Road. He
had seen me in pink, as we used to
call it, swaggering in the open sunshine across a grass-plat in the court;
but spied out opportunely a servitor,
one Todhunter by name, who was
going to morning chapel with his
shoestring untied, and  forthwith


sprung towards that unfortunate
person, to set him an imposition.
Every thing, in fact, but tobacco he
could forgive. Why did cursed fortune bring him into the rooms over
mine? The odor of the cigars made
his gentle spirit quite furious; and
one luckless morning, when I was
standing before my "oak," and
chanced to puff a great bouffee of
Varinas into his face, he forgot his
respect for my family altogether (I
was the second son, and my brother
a sickly creature then,-he is now
sixteen stone in weight, and has a
half-score of children); gave me a
severe lecture, to which I replied
rather hotly, as was my wont. And
then came demand for an apology;
refusal on my part; appeal to the
dean; convocation; and rustication
of George Savage Fitz-Boodle.
My father had taken a second wife
(of the noble house of Flintskinner),
and Lady Fitz-Boodle detested smok.
ing, as a woman of her high princi.
ples should.  She had an entiro
mastery over the worthy old gentleman, and thought I was a sort of
demon of wickedness. The old man
went to his grave with some similar
notion,-heaven help him! and left
me but the wretched twelve thousand
pounds secured to me on my poor
mother's property.
In the army, my luck was much thu
same. I joined the — th Lancers,
Lieut.-Col. Lord Martingale, in the
year 1817. I only did duty with the
regiment for three months. We were
quartered at Cork, where I found the
Irish doodheen and tobacco the
pleasantest smoking possible; and
was found by his lordship, one day
upon stable duty, smoking the shortest, dearest little dumpy clay-pipe in
the world.
"Cornet Fitz-Boodle," said my
lord, in a towering passion, "from
what blackguard did you get that
pipe?"
I omit the oaths which garnished
invariably his lordship's conversation.
" I got it, my lord," said I, " from




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


461


one Terence Mullins, a jingle-driver,
with a packet of his peculiar tobacco.
You sometimes smoke Turkish, I
believe; do try this. Isn't it good? "
And in the simplest way in the world
I puffed a volume into his face. "I
see you like it," said I, so coolly, that
the men - and I do believe the horses
-burst out laughing.
He started back - choking almost,
and recovered himself only to vent
such a storm of oaths and curses that
I was compelled to request Captain
Rawdon (the captain on duty) to
take note of his lordship's words; and
unluckily could not help adding a
question which settled my business.
"You were good enough," I said,
"to ask me, my lord, from what
blackguard I got my pipe; might I
ask from what blackguard you learned
your language?"
This was quite enough.  Had I
said, " From what gentleman did your
lordship learn your language' " the
point would have been quite as good,
and my Lord Martingale would have
suffered in my place: as it was, I
was so strongly recommended to sell
out by his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, that, being of a
good-natured disposition, never knowing how to refuse a friend, I at once
threw up my hopes of military distinction and retired into civil life.
My lord was kind enough to meet
me afterwards in a field in the Glanmire Road, where he put a ball into
my leg. This I returned to him some
years later with about twenty-three
others - black ones - when he came
to be balloted for at a club of which
I have the honor to be a member.
Thus by the indulgence of a simple
and harmless propensity, - of a propensity which can inflict an injury
upon no person or thing except the
coat and the person of him who indulges in it, -of a custom  honored
and observed in almost all the nations
of the world, - of a custom which,
far from leading a man into any
wickedness or dissipation to which
youth is subject, on the contrary, be

gets only benevolent silence and
thoughtful good-humored observation
-Ifoundat the age of twenty all
my prospects in life destroyed.  I
cared not for woman in those days:
the calm smoker has a sweet companion in his pipe. I did not drink immoderately of wine; for though a
friend to trifling potations, to excessively strong drinks tobacco is abhorrent. I never thought of gambling,
for the lover of the pipe has no need
of such excitement; but I was considered a monster of dissipation in
my family, and bade fair to come to
ruin.
"Look at George," my mother-inlaw said to the genteel and correct
young Flintskinners.  "He entered
the world with every prospect in life,
and see in what an abyss of degradation his fatal habits have plunged
him! At school he was flogged and
disgraced, he was disgraced and rusticated at the university, he was disgraced and expelled from the army!
lie might have had the living of
Boodle " ( her ladyship gave it to one
of her nephews), "but he would not
take his degree; his papa would have
purchased him a troop - nay, a lieutenant-colonelcy some day, but for his
fatal excesses. And now as long as
my dear husband will listen to the
voice of a wife who adores him -
never, never shall he spend a shilling
upon so worthless a young man. He
has a small income from his mother
(I cannot but think that the first
Lady Fitz-Boodle was a weak and
misguided person); let him live upon
his mean pittance as he can, and I
heartily pray we may not hear of him
in jail!"
My brother, after lie came to the
estate, married the ninth daughter of
our neighbor, Sir John Spreadeagle;
and Boodle Hall has seen a new little
Fitz-Boodle with every succeeding
spring. The dowager retired to Scotland with a large jointure and a wondrous heap of savings. Lady Fitz is
a good creature, but she thinks me
something diabolical, trembles when




462


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


she sees me, and gathers all her children about her, rushes into the nursery whenever I pay that little seminary a visit, and actually slapped
poor little Frank's ears one day when
iwas teaching him to ride upon the
back of a Newfoundland dog.
"George," said my brother to me
the last time I paid him a visit at the
old hall, " don't be angry, my dear
fellow, but Maria is in a - hum -in
a delicate situation, expecting her -
hum "- (the eleventh) - "and do
you know you frighten her? It was
but yesterday you met her in the
rookery-you were smoking that
enormous German pipe-and when
she came in she had an hysterical
seizure, and Drench says that in her
situation it's dangerous. And I say,
George, if you go to town you'll find
a couple of hundred at your banker's."
And with this the poor fellow shook
me by the hand, and called for a fresh
bottle of claret.
Afterwards he told me, with many
hesitations, that my room at Boodle
Hall had been made into a second
nursery. I see my sister-in-law in
London twice or thrice in the season,
and the little people, who have almost
forgotten to call me uncle George.
It's hard, too, for I am a lonely
man after all, and my heart yearns to
them. The other day I smuggled a
couple of them into my chambers,
and had a little feast of cream and
strawberries to welcome them. But
it had like to have cost the nurserymaid (a Swiss girl that Fitz-Boodle
hired somewhere in his travels) her
place. My step-mamma, who happened to be in town, came flying down
in her chariot, pounced upon the
poor thing and the children in the
midst of the entertainment; and when
I asked her with rather a bad grace
to be sure, to take a chair and a share
of the feast"Mr. Fitz-Boodle," said she, "I
am not accustomed to sit down in a
place that smells of tobacco like an
ale-house -an ale-house inhabited
by a serpent, sir! A serpent! - do


you understand me? -who carries
his poison into his brother's own
house, and purshues his eenfamous
designs before his brother's own children. Put on Miss Maria's bonnet
this instant. Mamsell, ontondy-voo '
Metty le bonny  maamsell. And I shall
take care, Mamsell, that you return
to Switzerland to-morrow. I've no
doubt you are a relation of Courvoisier - oui! oui! Courvoisier, vous comnprenny- and you shall certainly be
sent back to your friends."
With this speech, and with the children and their maid sobbing before
her, my lady retired; but ibr once
my sister-in-law was on my side, not
liking the meddlement of the elder
lady.
I know, then, that from indulging
in that simple habit of smoking, I
have gained among the ladies a dreadful reputation. I see that they look
coolly upon me, and darkly at their
husbands when they arrive at home
in my company. Men, I observe, in
consequence, ask me to dine much
oftener at the club, or " The Star and
Garter" at Richmond, or at "Lovegrove's," than in their own houses;
and with this sort of arrangement I
am fain to acquiesce; for, as I said
before, I am of an easy temper, and
can at any rate take my cigar-case
out after dinner at Blackwall, when
my lady or the duchess is not by. I
know, of course, the best men in
town; and as for ladies' society, not
having it (for I will have none of your
pseudo-ladies, such  as sometimes
honor bachelors' parties, - actresses,
couturieres, opera-dancers, and so
forth) - as for ladies' society, I say,
I cry pish! 'tis not worth the trouble
of the complimenting, and the bother
of pumps and black silk stockings.
Let any man remember what ladies'
society was when he had an opportunity of seeing them among themselves, as What-d'ye-call'im does in
the Thesmophoria -I beg pardon, I
was on the verge of a classical allusion, which I abominate) -I mean
at that period of his life when the




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


463


intellect is pretty acute, though the
body is small - namely, when a
young gentleman is about eleven
years of age, dining at his father's
table during the holidays, and is requested by his papa to quit the dinnertable when the ladies retire from it.
Corbleu! I recollect their whole
talk as well as if it had been whispered
but yesterday; and can see, after a
long dinner, the yellow summer sun
throwing long shadows over the lawn
before the dining-room windows,
and my poor mother and her company of ladies sailing away to the
music-room in old Boodle Hall. The
Countess Dawdley was the great
lady in our county, a portly lady who
used to love crimson satin in those
days, and birds-of-paradise. She was
flaxen-haired, and the Regent once
said she resembled one of King
Charles's beauties.
When Sir John Todcaster used to
begin his famous story of the exciseman (I shall not tell it here, for very
good reasons), my poor mother used
to turn to Lady Dawdlcy, and give
that mystic signal at which all
females rise from their chairs. Tufthunt, the curate, would spring from
his seat, and be sure to be the first to
open the poor for the retreating
ladies; and my brother Tom and I,
though remaining stoutly in our
places, were speedily ejected fiom
them by the governor's invariable
remark, "Tom and George, if you
have had quite enough of wine, you
had better go and join your mamma."
Yonder she marches, heaven bless
her! through the old oak hall (how
long the shadows of the antlers are on
the wainscot, and the armor of Rollo
Fitz-Boodle looks in the sunset as if
it were emblazoned with rubies) -
yonder she marches, stately and tall,
in her invariable pearl-colored tabinet,
followed by Lady Dawdley, blazing
like a flamingo; next comes Lady
Emily  Tufthunt (she was Lady
Emily Flintskinner), who will not for
all the world take precedence of rich,
rulgar, kind, good-humored Mrs.


Colonel Grogwater, as she would be
called, with a yellow little husband
from Madras, who first taught me to
drink sangaree. He was a new arrival in our county, but paid nobly to
the hounds, and occupied hospitably a
house which was always famous for
its hospitality- Sievely Hall (poor
Bob Cullender ran through seven
thousand a year before he was thirty
years old). Once when I was a lad,
Colonel Grogwater gave me two gold
mohurs out of his desk for whistmarkers, and I'm sorry to say I ran up
from Eton and sold them both for
seventy-three shillings at a shop in
Cornhill. But to return to the ladies,
who are all this while kept waiting
in the hall, and to their usual conversation after dinner.
Can any man forget how miserably
flat it was? Five matrons sit on sofas,
and talk in a subdued voice: -
First Lady (mysteriously).-" My
dear Lady Dawdley, do tell me about
poor Susan Tuckett."
Second Lady. - " All three children
are perfectly well, and I assure you as
fine babies as I ever saw in my life.
I made her give them Daffy's Elixir
the first day; and it was the greatest
mercy that I had some of Frederick's
baby-clothes by me; for you know I
had provided Susan with sets for one
only, and really " -
third Lady.-" Of course     one
couldn't; and for my part I think
your ladyship is a great deal too kind
to these people. A little gardener's
boy dressed in Lord Dawdley's frocks
indeed! I recollect that one at his
christening had the sweetest lace in
the world!"
Fourth Lady.-" What do you
think of this, ma'am - Lady Emily, I
mean? I have just had it from Howell and James: - guipure, they call it.
Isn't it an odd name for lace? And
they charge me, upon my conscience,
four guineas a yard! "
Third Lady. - "My mother, when
she came to Flintskinner, had lace
upon her robe that cost sixty guineas
a yard, ma'am! 'Twas sent from




THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


Malines direct by our relation, the
Count d'Araignay."
Fourth Lady (aside). - "I thought
she would not let the evening pass
without talking of her Malines lace
and her Count d'Araignay. Odious
people! they don't spare their backs,
but they pinch their"
Icre Tom upsets a coffee-cup over
his white jean trousers, and another
young gentleman bursts into a laugh,
saying, " By Jove, that's a good 'nn!"
" George, my dear," says mamma,
"had not you and your young friend
better go into the garden? But mind,
no fruit, or Dr. Glauber must be
called in again immediately!" And
we all go, and in ten minutes I and
my brother are fighting in the stables.
If, instead of listening to the matrons and their discourse, we had
taken the opportunity of attending
to the conversation of the Misses,
we should have heard matter not a
whit more interesting.
First Miss. - " They were all three
in blue crape; you never saw any
thing so odious. And I know for a
certainty that they wore those dresses
at Muddlebury, at the archery-ball,
and I dare say they had them in
town."
Second Miss. -" Don't you think
Jemima   decidedly crooked? And
those fair complexions, they freckle
so, that really Miss Blanche ought to
be called Miss Brown."
Third Miss. -" He, he he!"
Fourth Miss. - "Don't you think
Blanche is a pretty name "
First Miss. -"La! do you think
so, dear   Why, it's my second
name! "
Second  Miss.  " Then I'm sure
Captain Travers thinks it a beautiful
name!"
Third Miss.-" He, he, he!"
Fourth Miss.   " What was he
telling you at dinner that seemed to
interest you so? "
First Miss. -" 0 law, nothing!that is yes! Charles - that is, -
Captain, Travers, is a sweet poet, and
was reciting to me some lines that


he had composed upon a faded
violet: —
" ' The odor from the flower is gone,
That like thy 'like thy something, I forget what it
was; but his lines are sweet, and so
original too! I wish that horrid Sir
John Todcaster had not begun his
story of the exciseman, for Lady FitzBoodle always quits the table when
he begins."
Third Miss.- "Do you like those
tufts that gentlemen wear sometimes
on their chins? "
Second Miss. —  Nonsense, Mary!"
Third Miss. - "Well, I only asked
Jane. Frank thinks, you know, that
he shall very soon have one, and puts
bear's-grease on his chin every night."
Second Miss. -" Mary, nonsense! "
Third Miss.- "Well, only ask
him. You know he came to our
dressing-room last night and took the
pomatum   away; and he says that
when boys go to Oxford, they always "First A2iss.-" 0 heavens! have
you heard the news about the Lancers?  Charles - that is, Captain
Travers, told it me! "
Second Miss. - "Law! they won't
go away before the ball, I hope! "
First Miss. - "No, but on the 15th
they are to shave their mustaches!
IHe says that Lord Tufto is in a perfect fury about it!"
Second Miss. - " And poor George
Beardmore, too!" &c.
Here Tom upsets the coffee over
his trousers, and the conv'ersations
end. I can recollect a dozen such,
and ask any man of sense whether
such talk amuses him?
Try again to speak to a young
lady while you are dancing-what
we call in this country -a quadrille.
What nonsense do you invariably give
and receive in return! No, I am a
woman-scorner, and don't care to own
it. I hate youngladies! Have I not
been in love with several, and has any
one of them ever treated me decently?
I hate married women! Do they not




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


465


hate me? and, simply because I smoke, cious period of perhaps an hour, pertry to draw their husbands away from  haps a minute, I know not how long,
my society? I hate dowagers! Have thinking of that holy first love and
I not cause? Does not every dowa- of her who inspired it. How clearly
ger in London point to George Fitz- every single incident of the passion is
Boodle as to a dissolute wretch whom  remembered by me I and yet, 'twas
young and old should avoid?      long, long since. I was but a child
And yet do not imagine that I have then - a child at school - and, if the
not loved. I have, and madly, many, truth must be told, L-ra R-ggl-s (I
many times! I am but eight and would not write her whole name to
thirty,* not past the age of passion, be made one of the Marquess of Hertand may very likely end by running ford's executors) was a woman full
off with an heiress -or a cook-maid thirteen years older than myself; at the
(for who knows what strange freaks period of which I write she must have
Love may choose to play in his own been at least five and twenty. She
particular person  and I hold a man and her mother used to sell tarts,
to be a mean creature who calculates hard-bake, lollipops, and other such
about checking any such sacred im- simple comestibles, on Wednesdays
pulse as lawful love)- I say, though and Saturdays (half-holidays), at a
despising the sex in general for their private school where I received the
conduct to me, I know of particular first rudiments of a classical education.
persons belonging to it who are wor- I used to go and sit before her tray for
thy of all respect and esteem, and as hours, but I do not think the poor girl
such I beg leave to point out the par- ever supposed any motive led me so
ticular young lady who is perusing constantly to her little stall beyond a
these lines.  Do not, dear madam, vulgar longing for her tarts and her
then imagine that if I knew you I ginger-beer.  Yes, even at that early
should be disposed to sneer at you. period, my actions were misrepresentAh, no! Fitz-Boodle's bosom has ed, and the fatality which has optenderer sentiments than from his way pressed my whole life began to show
of life you would fancy, and stern by itself, - the purest passion was misrule is only too soft by practice. Shall interpreted by her and my schoolI whisper to you the story of one or fellows, and they thought I was
two of my attachments? All termi- actuated by simple gluttony. They
nating fatally (not in death, but in nicknamed me Alicompayne.
disappointment, which, as it occurred,  Well, be it so. Laugh at early
I used to imagine a thousand times passion ye who will; a high-born boy
more bitter than death, but from  madly in love with a lowly gingerwhich one recovers somehow more beer girl! She married afterwards,
readily than from  the other-named took the name of Latter, and now
complaint) -all, I say, terminating keeps with her old husband a turnpike,
wretchedly to myself, as if some fatal- through which I often ride; but I can
ity pursued my desire to become a recollect her bright and rosy of a sundomestic character.               ny summer afternoon, her red checks
My first love -no, let us pass that shaded by a battered straw bonnet,
over. Sweet one! thy name shall her tarts and ginger-beer upon a neat
profane no hireling page.  Sweet, white cloth before her, mending blue
sweet memory!    Ah, ladies, those worsted stockings until the young
delicate hearts of yours have, too, gentlemen should interrupt her by
felt the throb. And between the last coming to buy.
ob in the word throb and the words  Many persons will call this descripnow written, I have passed a deli- tion low; I do not envy them their
* He is five and forty, if he is a day gentility, and have always observed
old. -O.Y.                        through life (as, to be sure, every




THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


other gentleman has observed as well
as myself) that it is your parvenu who
stickles most for what he calls the
genteel, and has the most squeamish
abhorrence for what is frank and natural. Let us pass at once, however,
as all the world must be pleased, to a
recital of an affair which occurred in
the very best circles of society, as
they are called, viz. my next unfortunate attachment.
It did not occur for several years
after that simple and platonic passion
just described: for, though they may
talk of youth as the season of romance, it has always appeared to me
that there are no beings inf the world
so entirely unromantic and selfish as
certain young English gentlemen
from the age of fifteen to twenty.
The oldest Lovelace about town is
scarcely more hard-hearted and scornful than they; they ape all sorts
of selfishness and rouerie: they aim at
excelling at cricket, at billiards, at
rowing, and drinking, and set more
store by a red coat and a neat pair
of top-boots than by any other glory.
A young fellow staggers into collegechapel of a morning, and communicates to all his friends that he was
"so cut last night," with the greatest
possible pride. He makes a joke of
having sisters and a kind mother at
home who loves him; and if he speaks
of his father, it is with a knowing
sneer to say that he has a tailor's
and a horse-dealer's bill that will
surprise "the old governor."  He
would be ashamed of being in love.
I, in common with my kind, had
these affectations, and my perpetual
custom of smoking added not a little
to my reputation as an accomplished
roude. What came of this custom in
the army and at college, the reader
has already heard. Alas! in life it
went no better with me, and many
pretty chances I had went off in that
accursed smoke.
After quitting the army in the abrupt manner stated, I passed some
short time at home, and was tolerated
by my mother-in-law, because I had


formed an attachment to a young
lady of good connections and with a
considerable fortune, which was really
very nearly becoming mine. Mary
M'Alister was the only daughter of
Colonel M'Alister, late of the Blues,
and Lady Susan his wife. Her ladyship was no more; and, indeed, of
no family compared to ours (which
has refused a peerage any time these
two hundred years); but being an
earl's daughter and a Scotchwoman,
Lady Emily Fitz-Boodle did not fail
to consider her highly. Lady Susan
was daughter of the late Admiral
Earl of Marlingspike and Baron
Plumduff. The Colonel, Miss M'AIister's father, had a good estate, of
which his daughter was the heiress,
and as I fished her out of the water
upon a pleasure-party, and swam with
her to shore, we became naturally
intimate, and Colonel M'Alister forgot, on account of the service rendered to him, the dreadful reputation
for profligacy which I enjoyed in the
county.
Well, to cut a long story short,
which is told here merely for the
moral at the end of it, I should have
been Fitz-Boodle M'Alistcr at this
minute most probably, and master
of four thousand a year, but for the
fatal cigar-box. I bear Mary no malice in saying that she was a highspirited little girl, loving, before all
things, her own way; nay, perhaps
I do not, from long habit and indulgence in tobacco-smoking, appreciate
the delicacy of female organizations,
which were oftentimes most painfully
affected by it. She was a keen-sighted
little person, and soon found that the
world had belied poor George FitzBoodle; who, instead of being the
cunning monster people supposed
him to be, was a simple, reckless,
good-humored, honest fellow, marvellouslv addicted to smoking, idleness,
and telling the truth. She called me
Orson, and I was happy enough on
the 14th February, in the year 18 -(it's of no consequence), to send her
such a pretty little copy of verses




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


467


about Orson and Valentine, in which
the rude habits of the savage man
were shown to be overcome by the
polished graces of his kind and brilliant conqueror, that she was fairly
overcome, and said to me, " George
Fitz-Boodle, if you give up smoking
for a year I will marry you."
I swore I would, of course, and
went home and flung four pounds of
Hudson's cigars, two meerschaum
pipes that had cost me ten guineas at
the establishment of Mr. Gattie at
Oxford, a tobacco-bag that Lady FitzBoodle had given me before her marriage with my father (it was the only
present that I ever had from her or
any member of the Flintskinner family), and some choice packets of
Varinas and Syrian, into the lake
in Boodle Park. The weapon amongst
them all which I most regretted was
-will it be believed? -the little
black doodheen which had been the
cause of the quarrel between Lord
Martingale and me.   However, it
went along with the others. I would
not allow my groom to have so much
as a cigar, lest I should be tempted
hereafter; and the consequence was
that a few days after many fat carps
and tenches in the lake (I must confess 'twas no bigger than a pond)
nibbled at the tobacco, and came
floating on their backs on the top of
the water quite intoxicated. My conversion made some noise in the county,
being emphasized as it were by this
fact of the fish. I can't tell you with
what pangs I kept my resolution;
but keep it I did for some time.
With so much beauty and wealth,
Mary M'Alister had of course many
suitors, and among them was the
young Lord Dawdley, whose mamma
as previously been described in her
gown of red satin. As I used to
thrash Dawdley at school, I thrashed
him in after-life in love; he put up
with his disappointment pretty well,
and came after a while and shook
hands with me, telling me of the bets
that there were in the county, where
the whole story was known, for and


against me. For the fact is, as I must
own, that Mary M'Alister, the queerest, frankest of women, made no secret
of the agreement or the cause of it.
" I did not care a penny for Orson,"
she said, " but he would go on writing
me such dear pretty verses that at last
I couldn't help saying yes. But if
he breaks his promise to me, I declare, upon my honor, I'll break mine,
and nobody's heart will be broken
either."
This was the perfect fact, as I must
confess, and I declare that it was only
because she amused me and delighted
me, and provoked me, and made me
laugh very much, and because, no
doubt, she was very rich, that I had
any attachment for her.
"For heaven's sake, George," my
father said to me, as I quitted home
to follow my beloved to London, "remember that you are a younger brother and have a lovely girl and four
thousand a year within a year's reach
of you. Smoke as much as you like,
my boy, after marriage," added the
old gentleman, knowingly (as if he,
honest soul, after his second marriage,
dared drink an extra pint of wine
without my lady's permission!) "but
eschew the tobacco-shops till then."
I went to London resolving to act
upon the paternal advice, and oh!
how I longed for the day when I
should be married, vowing in my secret soul that I would light a cigar
as I walked out of St. George's Hanover Square.
Well, I came to London, and so
carefully avoided smoking that I
would not even go into Hudson's shop
to pay his bill, and as smoking was
not the fashion then among young
men as (thank heaven!) it is now, I
had not many temptations from my
friends' examples in my clubs or elsewhere; only little Dawdley began to
smoke, as if to spite me. He had
never done so before, but confessedthe rascal! - that he enjoyed a cigar
now, if it were but to mortify me.
But I took to other and more dangerous excitements, and upon the nights




468


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


when not in attendance upon Mary
M'Alister, might be found in very
dangerous proximity to a polished
mahogany table, round which claretbottles circulated a great deal too often,
or worse still, to a table covered with
green cloth and ornamented with a
couple of wax-candles and a couple
of packs of cards, and four gentlemen
playing the enticing game of whist.
Likewise, I came to carry a snuff-box,
and to consume in secret huge quantities of rappee.
For ladies' society I was even then
disinclined, hating and despising smalltalk, and dancing, and hot routs, and
vulgar scrambles for suppers. I never
could understand the pleasure of acting the part of lackey to a dowager,
and standing behind her chair, or
bustling through the crowd for her
carriage. I always found an opera
too long by two acts, and have repeatedly fallen asleep in the presence
of Mary M'Alister herself, sitting at
the back of the box shaded by the
huge beret of her old aunt Lady Betty
Plumduff; and many a time has
])awdley, with Miss M'Alister on
his arm, wakened me up at the close
of the entertainment in time to offer
my hand to Lady Betty, and lead the
ladies to their carriage. If I attended
her occasionally to any ball or party
of pleasure, I went, it must be confessed, with clumsy, ill-disguised illhumor. Good heavens! have I often
and often thought in the midst of a
song, or the very thick of a ball-room,
can people prefer this to a book and a
sofa, and a dear, dear cigar-box, from
thy stores, O charming Mariana
Woodville! Deprived of my favorite
plant, I grew sick in mind and body,
moody, sarcastic, and discontented.
Such a state of things could not
long continue, nor could Miss M'Alister continue to have much attachment
for such a sullen, ill-conditioned creature as I then was. She used to
make me wild with her wit and her
sarcasm, nor have I ever possessed the
readiness to parry or reply to those
fine points of woman's wit, and she


treated me the more mercilessly as
she saw that I could not resist her.
Well, the polite reader must remember a great fete that was given at
B-      House, some years back, in honor of his Highness the Hereditary
Prince of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel,
who was then in London on a visit to
his illustrious relatives. It was a fancy ball, and the poems of Scott being at
that time all the fashion, Mary was to
appear in the character of the "Lady
of the Lake," old M'Alister making
a very tall and severe-looking harper;
Dawdley, a most insignificant Fitzjames; and your humble servant a
stalwart manly Roderick Dhu. We
were to meet at B- House at
twelve o'clock, and as I had no fancy
to drive through the town in my cab
dressed in a kilt and philibeg, I agreed
to take a seat in Dawdley's carriage,
and to dress at his house in May
Fair. At eleven I left a very pleasant
bachelors' party, growling to quit
them and the honest, jovial claret-bottle, in order to scrape and cut capers
like a harlequin from the theatre.
When I arrived at Dawdley's, I
mounted to a dressing-room, and began to array myself in my cursed costume.
The art of costuming was by no
means so well understood in those
days as it has been since, and mine
was out of all correctness. I was
made to sport an enormous plume of
black ostrich-feathers, such as never
was worn by any Highland chief, and
had a huge tiger-skin sporran to dangle like an apron before innumerable
yards of plaid petticoat. The tartan
cloak was outrageously hot and voluminous; it was the dog-days, and
all these things I was condemned to
wear in the midst of a crowd of a
thousand people!
Dawdley sent up word, as I was
dressing, that his dress had not arrived, and he took my cab and drove
off in a rage to his tailor.
There was no hurry, I thought, to
make a fool of myself; so having put
on a pair of plaid trews, and very




FI'Z-iBOOI)LEs 'S   CONFESSIONS.


469


neat pumps, with shoe-buckles, my
courage failed me as to the rest of the
dress, and taking down one of his
dressing-gowns, I went down stairs to
the study, to wait untill he should
arrive.
The windows of the pretty room
were open, and a snug sofa, with innumerable cushions, drawn towards one
of them. A great tranquil moon was
staring into the chamber, in which
stood, amidst books and all sorts of
bachelor's lumber, a silver tray with a
couple of tall Venice glasses, and a
bottle of Maraschino bound with
straw. I can see now the twinkle of
the liquor in the moonshine, as I
poured it into the glass; and I swallowed two or three little cups of it, for
my spirits were downcast. Close to
the tray of Maraschino stood - must
I say it?-a box, a mere box of
cedar, bound rudely together with
pink paper, branded with the name
of " Hudson " on the side, and bearing on the cover the arms of Spain.
I thought I would just take up the
box and look in it.
Ah heaven" there they were-a
hundred and fifty of them, in calm,
comfortable rows: lovingly side by
side they lay, with the great moon
shining down upon them - thin at
the tip, full in the waist, elegantly
round and full, a little spot here and
there shining upon them - beautyspots upon the cheek of Sylvia. The
house was quite quiet.  Dawdley
always smoked in his room; - I had
not smoked for four months and
eleven days.
When Lord Dawdley came into
the study, he did not make any remarks; and oh, how easy my heart
felt! He was dressed in his green
and boots, after Westall's picture,
correctly.
" It's time to be off, George," said
he; "they told me you were dressed
long ago. Come up, my man, and
get ready."
I rushed up into the dressing-room
and madly dasled my head and arms


into a pool of eau-de-Cologne. I
drank, I believe, a tumblerful of it.
I called for my clothes, and, strange
to say, they were gone. My servant
brought them, however, saying that
he had put them away - making
some stupid excuse. I put them on,
not heeding them much, for I was half
tipsy with the exitement of the ciof the smo - of what had taken place
in Dawdley's study, and with the
Maraschino and the eau-de-Cologne I
had drunk.
"What a fine odor of lavenderwater!" said Dawdley, as we rode
in the carriage.
I put my head out of the window
and shrieked out a laugh; but made
no other reply.
" What's the joke, George?" said
Dawdley.   "Did I say any thing
witty?"
"No," cried I, yelling still more
wildly; "nothing more witty than
usual."
" Don't be severe, George," said he,
with a mortified air; and we drove
on to B- House.
There must have been something
strange and wild in my appearance,
and those awful black plumes, as I
passed through the crowd; for I observed people looking and making a
strange nasal noise (it is called sniffing, and I have no other more delicate
term for it), and making way as I
pushed on. But I moved forward
very fiercely, for the wine, the Maraschino, the eau-de-Cologne, and the
-the excitement had rendered me
almost wild; and at length I arrived
at the place where my lovely Lady of
the Lake and her Harper stood.
How beautiful she looked, - all eyes
were upon her as she stood blushing.
When she saw me, however, her countenance assumed an appearance of
alarm. " Good heavens, George!"
she said, stretching her hand to me,
"what makes you look so wild and
pale?" I advanced, and was going
to take her hand, when she dropped
it with a scream.




470


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


"'Ah   ah-ah!" she said. "Mr.
Fitz-Boodle, you've been smoking!"
There was an immense laugh from
four hundred people round about us,
and the scoundrelly Dawdleyjoined in
the yell. I rushed furiously out, and,
as I passed, hurtled over the fat Hereditary Prince of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel.
"Es riecht hier ungeheuer stark
von Tabak! " I heard his Highness
say, as I madly flung myself through
the aides-de-camp.
The next day Mary M'Alister, in a
note full of the most odious good
sense and sarcasm, reminded me of
our agreement; said that she was
quite convinced that we were not by
any means fitted for one another, and
begged me to consider myself henceforth quite free. The little wretch had
the impertinence to send me a dozen
boxes of cigars, which, she said, would
console me for my lost love; as she was
perfectly certain that I was not mercenary, and that I loved tobacco
better than any woman in the world.
I believe she was right, though I
have never to this day been able to
pardon the scoundrelly stratagem by
which Dawdley robbed me of a wife


and won one himself. As I was
lying on his sofa, looking at the moon
and lost in a thousand happy contemplations, Lord Dawdley, returning
from the tailor's, saw me smoking at
my leisure. On entering his dressing-room, a horrible, treacherous
thought struck him. "I must not
betray my friend," said he; " but in
love all is fair, and he shall betray
himself." There were my tartans,
my cursed feathers, my tiger-skin
sporran, upon the sofa.
He called up my groom; he made
the rascal put on all my clothes, and,
giving him a guinea and four cigars,
bade him lock himself into the little
pantry and smoke them without taking
the clothes of. John did so, and was
very ill in consequence, and so when
I came to B — House, my clothes
were redolent of tobacco, and I lost
lovely Mary M'Alister.
I am godfather to one of Lady
Dawdley's boys, and hers is the only
house where I am allowed to smoke
unmolested; but I have never been
able to admire Dawdley, a sly, sournois, spiritless, lily-livered fellow, that
took his name off all his clubs the
year he married.


MISS LOWE.


"I AM sick of this squeamish English world," said I, in bitter scorn, as I
sat in my lonely lodgings smoking
Mary M'Alister's cigars; "a curse
upon their affectations of propriety
and silly obedience to the dictates of
whimpering woman I I will away to
some other country where thought is
free, and honest men have their way.
I will have no more of your rosewater passion, or cringing drawingroom tenderness. Pshaw! is George
Fitz-Boodle to be bound up in the
scented ringlets of a woman, or made


to fetch and carry her reticule? No,
I will go where women shall obey and
not command me. I will be a sheik,
and my wife shall cook my couscous,
and dance before me, and light my
narghile. I will be a painted savage
spearing the fish, and striking the
deer, and my wife shall sing my great
actions to me as I smoke my calumet
in my lodge. Away! land of dowagers and milk-sops, Fitz-Boodle disowns you; he will wander to some
other clime, where man is respected,
and woman takes her proper rank in




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


471


the creation, as the pretty smiling
slave she should be."
I received at this time, in an abrupt
enclosure from my father, 1201., being
a quarter's income, and a polite intimation from Lady Fitz-Boodle, that
as I had disappointed every one of my
parents' expectations (she my parent!
faugh!), I must never look to the
slightest pecuniary aid from them.
Such a sum would not enable me
to travel across the Atlantic or to the
shores of the Red Sea, as was my
first intention; I determined, therefore, to visit a country where, if woman was still too foolishly worshipped,
at least smoking was tolerated, and
took my departure at the Tower
Stairs for Rotterdam and the Rhine.
There were no incidents of the voyage worth recounting, nor am I so absurd as to attempt to give the reader
an account of Holland or any other
country. This memoir is purely personal; and relates rather to what I
suffered than to what I saw. Not a
word then about Cologne and the
eleven thousand British virgins whom
a storm drove into that port, and who
were condemned, as I am pleased to
think, to a most merited death. Ah,
Mary M'Alister! in my rage and fury
I wished that there had been eleven
thousand and one spinsters so destroyed. Ah! Minna Liwe, Jewess
as thou wert, thou merited no better
a fate than that which overtook those
Christian damsels.
Minna Lowe was the daughter of
Moses L6we, banker at Bonn. I
passed through the town last year, fifteen years after the event I am about
to relate, and heard that Moses was
imprisoned for forgery and fraudulent
bankruptcy. He merited the punishment which the merciful Prussian law
inflicted on him.
Minna was the most beautiful creature that my eyes ever lighted on.
Sneer not, ye Christian maidens;
but the fact was so. I saw her for the
first time seated at a window covered
with golden vine-leaves, with grapes
just turning to purple, and tendrils


twisting in the most fantastical arabesques.  The leaves cast a pretty
checkered shadow over her sweet face,
and the simple, thin, white muslin
gown in which she was dressed. She
had bare white arms, and a blue ribbon confined her little waist.  She
was knitting, as all German women
do, whether of the Jewish sort or
otherwise: and in the shadow of the
room sat her sister Emma, a powerful
woman with a powerful voice. Emma was at the piano, singing, " Herz
mein herz warum  so trau-au-rig," -
singing much out of tune.
I had come to change one of
Coutts's circulars at Liwe's bank,
and was looking for the door of the
caisse.
"Links, mein herr!" said Minna
Lowe, making the gentlest inclination
with her pretty little head; and blushing ever so little, and raising up tenderly a pair of heavy blue eyes, and
then dropping them again, overcome
by the sight of the stranger. And
no wonder, I was a sight worth contemplating then, - I had golden hair
which fell gracefully over my shoulders, and a slim waist (where are you
now, slim waist and golden hair?),
and a pair of brown mustachios that
curled gracefully under a firm Roman
nose, and a tuft to my chin that
could not but vanquish any woman.
"Links, mein herr," said lovely Minna LIwe.
That little word links dropped upon
my wounded soul like balm. There
is nothing in links; it is not a pretty
word. Minna L6we simply told me
to turn to the left, when I was debating between that side and its opposite,
in order to find the cash-room door.
Any other person might have said
links (or rechts for that matter), and
would not have made the slightest impression upon me; but Minna's full
red lips, as they let slip the monosyllable, wore a smile so tender, and uttered it with such inconceivable sweetness, that I was overcome at once.
"Sweet bell!" I could have said,
"tinkle that dulcet note forever, —




472


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


links, clinks, linx! I love the chime.
It soothes and blesses me." All this
I could have said, and much more,
had I had my senses about me, and
had I been a proficient in the German
language; but I could not speak,
both from ignorance and emotion. I
blushed, stuttered, took off my cap,
made an immensely foolish bow, and
began forthwith fumbling at the doorhandle.
The reason why I have introduced
the name of this siren is to show
that if tobacco in a former unlucky
instance proved my enemy, in the
present case it was my firmest friend.
I, the descendant of the Norman
Fitz-Boodle, the relative of kings
and emperors, might, but for tobacco, have married the daughter of
Moses L;we, the Jew forger and convict of Bonn. I would have done it;
for I hold the man a slave who calculates in love, and who thinks about
prudence when his heart is in question. Men marry their cook-maids,
and the world looks down upon them.
Ne sit ancillce amor pudoril I exclaim with a notorious poet, if you
heartily and entirely love your cookmaid, you are a fool and a coward
not to wed her. What more can you
want than to have your heart filled
upl Can a duchess do more? You
talk of the difference of rank and the
decencies of society. Away, sir!
love is divine, and knows not vour
paltry, worldly calculations. It is
not love you worship, O heartless,
silly calculator! it is the interest of
thirty thousand pounds in the three
percents, and the blessing of a genteel mother-in-law in Harley Street,
and the ineffable joy of snug dinners,
and a butler behind your chair. Fool!
love is eternal, butlers and mothers-inlaw are perishable; you have but the
enjoyment of your three per cents
for forty years; and then, what do
they avail you? But if you believe
that she whom you choose, and to
whom your heart clings, is to be
your soul's companion, not now merely, but for ever and ever; then what a


paltry item of money or time has deterred you from your happiness,
what a miserable penny-wise economist you have been!
And here, if, as a man of the world,
I might be allowed to give advice to
fathers and mothers of families, it
would be this; young men fall in
love with people of a lower rank, and
they are not strong enough to resist
the dread of disinheritance, or of the
world's scorn, or of the cursed tyrant
gentility, and dare not marry the
woman they love above all. But if
prudence is strong, passion is strong
too, and principle is not, and women
(heaven keep them!) are weak. We
all  know   what   happens  then.
Prudent papas and mammas say,
"George will sow his wild oats soon,
he will be tired of that odious woman
one day, and we'll get a good marriage for him; meanwhile it is best to
hush the matter up, and pretend to
know nothing about it." But suppose George does the only honest
thing in his power, and marries the
woman he loves above all; then what
a cry you have from parents and
guardians, what shrieks from aunts
and sisters, what excommunications
and disinheriting! "What a weak
fool George is!" say his male friends
in the clubs; and no hand of sympathy is held out to poor Mrs. George,
who is never forgiven, but shunned
like a plague, and sneered at by a relentless pharisaical world until death
sets her free. As long as she is unmarried avoid her if you will; but as
soon as she is married, go! be kind
to her, and comfort her, and pardon
and forget, if you can! And lest
some charitable people should declare
that I am setting up here an apology
for vice, let me here, and by way of
precaution, flatly contradict them,
and declare that I only would offer a
plea for marriage.
But where has Minna L6we been
left during this page of disquisition i
Blushing under the vine-leaves positively, whilst I was thanking my stars
that she never became Mrs. George




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


473


Fitz-Boodle. And yet who knows
what thou mightst have become,
Minna, had such a lot fallen to thee?
She was too pretty and innocentlooking to have been by nature that
artful, intriguing huzzy that education made her, and that my experience found her. The case was simply
this, not a romantic one by any
means.
[At this very juncture, perhaps, it
will be as well to pause, and leave
the world to wait for a month until it
learns the result of the loves of Minna
Lowe and George Fitz-Boodle.    I
have other tales still more interesting
in store; and, though I have never
written a line until now, I doubt not
before long to have excited such a vast
sympathy in my favor, that I shall
become as popular as the oldest (I
mean the handsomest and most popular) literarycharacter of this or any
other age or country. Artists and
print publishers, desirous of taking
my portrait, may as well, therefore,
begin sending in their proposals to
Mr. Nickisson; nor shall I so much
look to a high remuneration for sitting (egad! it is a frightful operation), as to a clever and skilful painter, who must likewise be a decently
bred and companionable person.
Nor is it merely upon matters relating to myself (for egotism I hate,
and the reader will remark that there
is scarcely a single "I" in the foregoing pages) that I propose to speak.
Next month, for instance (besides the
continuation of my own and other
people's memoirs), I shall acquaint
the public with a discovery which is
intensely interesting to all fathers of
families: I have in my eye three new
professions which a gentleman may
follow with credit and profit, which
are to this day unknown, and which
in the present difficult times, cannot
fail to be eagerly seized upon.
Before submitting them to public
competition, I will treat privately
with parents and guardians, or with
young men of good education and
21


address; such only will suit.  G. S.
F. B.]
It has twice been my lot to leave
Minna Lowe under the vine-leaves;
on one occasion to break off into a
dissertation about marriage, which,
to my surprise, nobody' has pronounced to be immoral; and, secondly, Minna was obliged to give place
to that great essay on professions
which appeared in July, and which
enables me, as " The Kelso Warder"
observes, "to take my place among
the proudest and wisest of England's
literary men." This praise is, to be
sure, rather qualified; and I beg leave
to say once more that I am not a
literary character in the least, but
simply a younger brother of a good
house wanting money.
Well, twice has Minna Lowe been
left.  I was very nearly being off
from her in the above sentence, but
luckily paused in time; for if any
thing were to occur in this paragraph,
calling me away from her yet a third
time, I should think it a solemn
warning to discontinue her history,
which is, I confess, neither very romantic in its details, nor very creditable to myself.
Let us take her where we left her
in the June number of this Magazine,* gazing through a sunny cluster
of vine-leaves upon a young and
handsome stranger of noble face and
exquisite proportions, who was trying
to find the door of her father's bank.
That entrance being through her
amiable directions discovered, I entered and found Messrs. Moses and
Solomon LUwe in the counting-house.
Herr Solomon being the son of Moses,
and head-clerk or partner in the business.  That I was cheated in my
little matter of exchange stands to
reason. A Jew banker (or such as
I have had the honor to know) cannot
forego the privilege of cheating; no,
if it be but for a shilling. What do
I say, - a shilling? - a penny! He
* Fraseras.




474


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


will cheat you in the first place, in
the exchanging your note; he will
then cheat you in giving gold for
your silver; and though very likely
he will invite you to a splendid repast
afterwards that shall have cost him
a score of thalers to procure, he will
have had the satisfaction of robbing
you of your groschen, as no doubt he
would rob his own father or son.
Herr Moses L6we must have been
a very sharp Israelite indeed, to rob
Herr Solomon, or vice versa. The
poor fellows are both in prison for a
matter of forgery, as I heard last
year when passing through Bonn;
and I confess it was not without a
little palpitation of the heart (it is a
sausage-merchant's now) that I went
and took one look at the house where
I had first beheld the bright eyes of
Minna Lowe.
For let them say as they will, that
woman whom a man has once loved
cannot be the same to him as another.
Whenever one of my passions comes
into a room, my cheeks flush, - my
knees tremble, -I look at her with
pleased tenderness and (for the objects
of my adoration do not once in forty
times know their good fortune) with
melancholy secret wonder.  There
they are, the same women, and yet
not the same;.it is the same nose and
eyes, if you will, but not the same
looks; the same voice, but not the
same sweet words as of old.  The
figure moves, and looks, and talks to
you; you know how dear and how
different its speech and actions once
were; 'tis the hall with all the lights
put out and the garlands dead (as I
have said in one of my poems). Did
you ever have a pocket-book that
once contained five thousand pounds?
Did you ever look at that pocketbook with the money lying in it
Do you remember how you respected
and admired that pocket-book, investing it with a secret awe, imagining
it had a superiority to other pocketbooks? I have such a pocket-book;
I keep it now, and often look at it
rather tenderly.  It cannot be as


other portfolios to me. I remember
that it once held five thousand
pounds.
Thus it is with love. I have empty
pocket-books scattered all over Europe of this kind; and I always go
and look at them just for a moment,
and the spirit flies back to days gone
by, kind eyes look at me as of yore,
and echoes of old gentle voices fall
tenderly upon the car.  Away! to
the true heart the past never is past;
and some day when Death has cleared
our dull faculties, and past and future
shall be rolled into one, we shall..
Well, you were quite right, my
good sir, to interrupt me, I can't help
it, I am too apt to grow sentimental,
and always on the most absurd pretexts.  I never know when the fit
will come on me, or apropos of what.
I never was so jolly in my whole life
as one day coming home from a
funeral; and once went to a masked
ball at Paris, the gayety of which
made me so profoundly miserable,
that, egad! I wept like Xerxes
(wasn't that the fellow's name?), and
was sick - sick at heart. This premised, permit me, my friend, to indulge in sentiment apropos of Minna
Lo6we; for, corbleu! for three weeks,
at least, I adored the wench; and
could give any person curious that
way a complete psychological history
of the passion's rise, progress, and
decay; - decay indeed, why do I say
decay? A man does not "decay
when he tumbles down a well, he
drowns there; so is love choked
sometimes by abrupt conclusions,
falls down wells, and, oh the dismal
truth at the bottom of them!
"If, my lord," said Herr Moses,
counting out the gold fredericks to
me, you intend to shtay in our town,
I hope my daughtersh and I vill
have shometimesh de pleashure of
your high veil-born shoshiety? "
The town is a most delightful one,
Mr. Liwe," answered I. "I am myself an Oxford man, and exceedingly
interested about - ahem -about tho
Byzantine historians, of which I see




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


475


the university is producing an edition; and I shall make, I think, a
considerable stay."  Heaven bless
us! 'twas Miss Minna's eyes that had
done the business. But for them I
should have slept at Coblentz that
very night; where, by the way, the
H6tel de la Poste is one of the very
best inns in Europe.
A friend had accompanied me to
Bonn, —a jolly dragoon, who was
quite versed in the German language,
liaving spent some time in the Austrian service before he joined us; or
in the "Awthtwian thervith," as he
would call it, with a double-distilled
gentility of accent, very difficult to
be acquired out of Regent Street.
We had quarrelled already thrice on
the passage from England -viz., at
Rotterdam, at Cologne, and once
here; so that when he said he intended to go to Mayence, I at once
proclaimed that I intended to stay
where I was; and with Miss Minna
LiJwe's image in my heart, went out
and selected lodgings for myself as
near as possible to her father's house.
Wilder said I might go to - any
place I liked; he remained in his
quarters at the hotel, as I found a
couple of days afterwards, when I
saw the fellow smoking at the gateway in the company of a score of
Prussian officers, with whom he had
made acquaintance.
I for my part have never been famous for that habit of extemporaneous
friendship-making, which some lucky
fellows possess. Like most of my
countrymen, when I enter a room I
always take care to look about with an
air as if I heartily despised every one,
and wanted to know what the d-l
they did there! Among foreigners I
feel this especially; for the truth is,
right or wrong, I can't help despising
the rogues, and feeling manifestly my
own superiority. In consequence of
this amiable quality, then (in this particular instance of my life), I gave
up the table-d'hote dinner at the Star
as something low and ungentlemanlike, made a point of staring and not


answering when people spoke to me,
and thus Ihave no doubt impressed all
the world with a sense of my dignity.
Instead of dining at the public place,
then, I took my repasts alone;
though, as Wilder said with some
justice, though with a good deal too
much laisser-aller of tongue, "You
gweat fool, if it'th only becauth you
want to be thilent, why don't you
thtilldine with uth? You'll get a
wegular good dinner inthtead of a
bad one; and ath for thpeaking to you,
deped on it every man in the room
will thee you hanged futht!"
"Pray allow me to dine in my own
way, Wilder," says I, in the most
dignified way.
"Dine and be d-d! " said the
lieutenant, and so I lived solitary and
had my own way.
I proposed to take some German
lessons; and for this purpose asked
the banker, Mr. Lowe, to introduce
me to a master. He procured one, a
gentleman of his own persuasion;
and further, had the kindness to say
that his clerk, Mr. Hirsch, should come
and sit with me every morning, and
perfect me in the tongue; so that,
with the master I had and the society
I kept, I might look to acquire a very
decent German pronunciation.
This Hirsch was a little Albino of
a creature with pinkish eyes, white
hair, flame-colored whiskers, and
car-rings. His eyes jutted out enormously from his countenance, as did
his two large swollen red lips, which
had the true Israelitish coarseness.
He was always, after a short time,
in and out of my apartments. He
brought a dozen messages and run
as many errands for me in the course
of the day. My way of addressing
him was, "Hirsch, you scoundrel,
get my boots! " " Hirsch, my Levite,
brush my coat for me! "  "Run, you
stag of Israel, and put this letter in
the post!" and with many similar
compliments. The little rascal was,
to do him justice, as willing as possible, never minded by what name I
called him, and above all,- came from




476


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


Minna. He was not the rose; no,
indeed, nor any thing like it; but, as
the poet says, "he had lived beside
it; " and was there in all Sharon such
a rose as Minna Liowc?
If I did not write with a moral
purpose, and because my unfortunate
example may act wholesomely upon
other young men of fashion, and
induce them to learn wisdom, I should
not say a single syllable about Minna
L6we, nor all the blunders I committed, nor the humiliation I suffered.
There is about a young Englishman
of twenty a degree of easy self-confidence, hardly possessed even by a
Frenchman. The latter swaggers
and bullies about his superiority,
taking all opportunities to shriek it
into your ears, and to proclaim the
infinite merits of himself and his
nation; but, upon my word, the
bragging of the Frenchman is not so
conceited or intolerable as that calm,
silent, contemptuous conceit, of us
young Britons, who think our superiority so well established that it is
really not worth arguing upon,
and who take upon us to despise
thoroughly the whole world through
which we pass. We arc hated on the
Continent, they say, and no wonder.
If any other nation were to attempt
to domineer over us as we do over
Europe, we would hate them as
heartily and furiously as many a
Frenchman and Italian does us.
Now, when I went abroad I fancied
myself one of the finest fellows under
the sun.  I patronized a banker's
dinners as if I did him honor in
eating them; I took my place before
grave professors and celebrated men,
and talked vapid nonsense to them
in infamous French, laughing heartily
in return at their own manner of
pronouncing that language. I set
down as a point beyond question that
their customs were inferior to our
own, and would not in the least
scruple, in a calm way, to let my
opinion be known. What an agreeable young fellow I must have been!
With these opinions, and my


pleasant way of expressing them, I
would sit for hours by the side of
lovely Minna Liwe, ridiculing, with
much of that elegant satire for which
the English are remarkable, every
one of the customs of the country,the dinners, with the absurd unEnglish pudding in the very midst
of them; the dresses of the men,
with their braided coats and great
seal-rings. As for little Hirsch, he
formed the constant subject of my
raillery with Mademoiselle Minna;
and I gave it as my fixed opinion,
that he was only fit to sell sealingwax, and oranges to the coaches in
Piccadilly.
"0 fous afez tant d'esprit, fous
autres jeunes Anglais," would she
say; and I said, "Oui, nous avons
beaucoup d'esprit, beaucoup plus que
les Allemands," with the utmost simplicity; and then would half close
my eyes, and give her a look that I
thought must kill her.
Shall I tell the result of our conversation? In conversation 1, Minna
asked me if I did not think the tea
remarkably good, with which she
and her sister treated me. She said
it came overland from China, that
her papa's correspondent at Petersburg forwarded it to them, and that
no such tea was to be had in Ger.
many.   On this I seriously believed
the tea to be excellent; and next
morning at breakfast little Hirsch
walked smirking into my room, with
a parcel of six pounds of congo, for
which I had the honor of paying
eighteen Prussian thalers, being two
pounds fourteen shillings of our
money.
The next time I called, Herr Moses
insisted on regaling me with a glass
of Cyprus wine.  His brother Lowe
of Constantinople was the only person in the world who possessed this
precious liquor.  Four days afterwards LSwe came to know how I liked
the Cyprus wine which I had ordered
and would I like another dozen? On
saying that I had not ordered any,
that I did not like sweet wine, he




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


477


answered "Pardon!" it had been in
my cellar three days, and he would
send some excellent Medoc at a
moderate price, and would take no
refusal. A basket of Medoc came
that very night in my absence, with a
bill directed to the " High Well-born
Count von Fitz-Boodle." This excessive desire of the Lowe family to
serve me made me relax my importunities somewhat. "Ah!" says
Minna, with a sigh, the next time I
saw her, "have we offended you,
Herr George? You don't come to
see us any more now!"
"I'll come to-morrow," says I;
and she gave me a look and a smile
which, oh! —" I am a fool, I know
I am!" as the honorable member
for Montrose said t'other day. And
was not Samson ditto? was not
Hercules another?  Next day she
was seated at the vine-leaves as I
entered the court.  She smiled, and
then retreated. She had been on the
lookout for me, I knew she had.
She held out her little hand to me
as I came into the room. Oh, how
soft it was and how round! and with
a little apricot-colored glove thatthat I have to this day!  I had been
arranging a little compliment as I
came along, something quite new and
killing. I had only tehe art to say,
"Es ist sehr wrnrm.'
"Oh, Herr George!" says she;
"Lieber Herr George, what a progress have you made in German!
You speak it like a native! "
But somehow I preferred to continue the conversation in French;
and it was made up, as I am bound
to say, of remarks equally brilliant
and appropriate with that one above
given. When old L6we came in, I
was winding a skein of silk, seated in
an enticing attitude, gazing with all
my soul at Delilah, who held down
her beautiful eyes.
That day they did not sell me any
bargains at all; and the next found
me, you may be very sure, in the same
parlor again, where, in his schlafrock,
the old Israelite was smoking hia pipe.




"Get away, papa," said Minna,
" English lords can't bear smoke. I'm
sure Herr George dislikes it."
" Indeed, I smoke occasionally myself," answered your humble servant.
"Get his lordship a pipe, Minna,
my soul's darling!" exclaimed the
banker.
" Oh, yes! the beautiful long Turkish one," cried Minna, springing up,
and presently returned, bearing a long
cherry-stick covered with a scarlet and
gold cloth, at one end an enamelled
amber mouth-piece, a gilded pipe at
the other.  In she came dancing,
wand in hand, and looking like a
fairy!
"Stop!" she said: "I must light
it for Herr George." (By Jupiter!
there was a way that girl had of pronouncing my name, " George," which
I never heard equalled before or
since.) And accordingly, bidding her
sister get fire, she put herself in the
prettiest attitude ever seen: with one
little foot put forward, and her head
thrown back, and a little hand holding the pipe-stick between finger and
thumb, and a pair of red lips kissing
the amber mouth-piece with the sweetest smile ever mortal saw. Her sister, giggling, lighted the tobacco, and
presently you saw issuing from between those beautiful, smiling, red lips
of Minna's a little curling, graceful,
white smoke, which rose soaring up
to the ceiling. I swear, I felt quite
faint with the fragrance of it.
When the pipe was lighted, she
brought it to me with quite as pretty
an attitude and a glance that —
Psha! I gave old Moses Liwe fourteen pounds sterling for that pipe that
very evening; and as for the mouthpiece, I would not part with it away
from me, but I wrapped it up in a
glove that I took from the table, and
put both into my breast-pocket; and
next morning, when Charley Wilder
burst suddenly into my room, he
found me sitting up in bed in a green
silk night-cap, a little apricot-colored
glove lying on the counterpane before
me, your humble servant employed in




478


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


mumbling the mouth-piece as if it
were a bit of barley-sugar.
He stopped, stared, burst into a
shriek of laughter, and made a rush at
the glove on the counterpane; but,
in a fury, I sent a large single-volumned Tom Moore (I am not a poetical man, but I must confess I was
reading some passages in "Lalla
Rookh" that I found applicable to
my situation) - I sent, I say, a Tom
Moore at his head, which, luckily,
missed him; and to which he responded by seizing a bolster and thumping
me outrageously. It was lucky that
he was a good-natured fellow, and
had only resorted to that harmless
weapon, for I was in such a fury that
I certainly would have murdered him
at the least insult.
I did not murder him then; but if
he peached a single word upon the
subject, I swore I would, and Wilder
knew I was a man of my word.
He was not unaware of my tendre for
Minna Liowe, and was for passing
some of his delicate light-dragoon
jokes upon it and her; but these, too,
I sternly cut short.
" Why, cuth me, if I don't think
you want to mawwy her!" blurted
out Wilder.
" Well, sir," said I, "and suppose
I do?"
"What! mawwy the daughter of
that thwindling old clotheman  I
tell you what, Fittli-Boodle, they alwayth thaid you were mad in the
weg'ment, and, run me thwough, if I
don't think you are."
"' The man," says I, "sir, who
would address Mademoiselle Lowe in
any but an honorable way is a scoundrel; and the man who says a word
against her character is a liar! "
After a little further parley (which
Wilder would not have continued
but that he wanted to borrow money
of me), that gentleman retired, declaring that " I wath ath thulky ath
a bear with a thaw head," and left me
to my apricot-colored glove and my
amber mouth-piece.
Wilder's assertion that I was going


to act up to opinions which I had
always professed, and to marry Minlna
Lowe, certainly astounded me, and
gave me occasion for thought. Marry
the daughter of a Jew banker! I,
George Fitz-Boodle! That would
never do; not unless she had a million to her fortune, at least, and it
was not probable that a humble
dealer at Bonn could give her so
much.   But, marry her or not, I
could not refrain from the sweet
pleasure of falling in love with her,
and shut my eyes to the morrow
that I might properly enjoy the day.
Shortly after Wilder's departure,
little Hirsch paid his almost daily
visit to me. I determined- and wondered that I had never thought of the
scheme before - sagely to sound him
regarding Minna's fortune, and to
make use of him as my letter and
message carrier.
" Ah, Hirsch! my lion of Judah!"
says I, "you have brought me the
pipe-stick, have you? "
"Yes, my lord, and seven pounds
of the tobacco you said yol liked.
'Tis real Syrian, and a great bargain
you get it, I promise."
" Egad! " replied I, affecting an air
of much careless   ingenuousness.
" Do you know, Hirsch, my boy,
that the youngest of the Miss Lowes
-Miss Anna, I think you call
her "" Minna," said Hirsch, with a grin.
" Well, Minna - Minna Hirsch, is
a devilish fine girl; upon my soul
now, she is."
"Do you really think so? " says
Hirsch.
"' Pon my honor, I do. And yesterday, when she was lighting the
pipe-stick, she looked so confoundedly
handsome that I- I quite fell in love
with her; really I did."
" Ho! Vell, you do our people
great honor, I'm  sure," answered
Hirsch.
" Father a warm man? "
"Varm!    How   do you   mean
varm? "
" Why, rich. We call a rich man




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


479


warm in England; only you don't
understand the language. How much
will he give his daughter? "
"Oh! very little. Not a veek of
your income, my lord," said Hirsch.
"Pooh, pool0! You always talk
of me as if I'm rich; but I tell you I
am poor- exceedingly poor."
"Go away vid you!" said Iirsch,
increduously. " You poor! I vish
I had a year of your income; that I
do" (and I have no doubt he did,
or of the revenue of any one else).
"I'd be a rich man, and have de best
house in Bonn."
"Are you so very poor yourself,
Hirsch, that you talk in this way  "
asked I.
To which the young Israelite replied, that he had not one dollar to
rub against another; that Mr. LOwe
was a close man; and finally (upon
my pressing the point, like a cunning
dog as I was!), that he would do any
thing to earn a little money.
"Hirsch," said I, like a wicked
young reprobate and Don Juan,
"will you carry a letter to Miss
Minna Lowe q "
Now there was no earthly reason
why I should have made a twopennypostman of Mr. Hirsch. I might
with just as much ease have given
Minna the letter myself. I saw her
daily and for hours, and it would be
hard if I could not find her for a
minute alone, or at least slip a note
into her glove or pocket-handkerchief,
if secret the note must be. But, I
don't care to own it, I was as ignorant of any love-making which requires mystery as any bishop on the
bench, and pitched upon Hirsch, as
it were, because in comedies and romances that I had read, the hero has
always a go-between -a valet, or
humble follower —who performs the
intrigue of the piece. So I asked
Hirsch the above question, "Would
he carry a letter to Miss Minna
Lowe "
" Give it me," said he, with a grill.
But the deuce of it was, it wasn't
written. Rosina, in the opera, has


hers ready in her pocket, and says
" Eccolo qua" when Figaro makes the
same request, so I told Hirsch that I
would get it ready. And a very hard
task I found it too, in sitting down to
compose the document. It shall be
in verse, thought I, for Minna understands some English; but there is no
rhyme to Minna, as everybody knows,
except a cockney, who might make
"thinner, dinner, winner," &c., answer
to it. And as for Lwe, it is just as
bad. Then it became, as I thought,
my painful duty to send her a note in
French; and in French finally it was
composed, and I blush now when I
think of the nonsense and bad 'grammar it contained - the conceit above
all. The easy vulgar assurance of
victory with which I, a raw lad from
the stupidest country in Europe, assailed one of the most beautiful women
in the world!
Hirsch took the letter, and to bribe
the fellow to silence, I agreed to purchase a great hideous   amethyst
brooch, which he had offered me a
dozen times for sale, and which I had
always refused till now. He said it
had been graciously received, but as
all the family were present in the
evening when I called, of course no
allusion could be made to the note;
but I thought Minna looked particularly kind, as I sat and lost a couple
of fredericks at carte to a very stout
Israelite lady, Madame Lowe, junior,
the wife of Monsieur Solomon L6we.
I think it was on this night, or the
next, that I was induced to purchase
a bale of remarkably fine lawn for
shirts, for old Lowe had every thing
to sell, as is not uncommon with men
of his profession and persuasion; and
had I expressed a fancy for a coffin
or a hod of mortar, I have no doubt
Hirsch would have had it at my door
next morning.
I went on sending letters to Minna,
copying them out of a useful little
work called "Le Petit Secretaire
Franqais," and easily adapting them
to circumstances, by altering a phrase
here and there, Day and night I




480


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


used to dangle about the house. It
was provoking, to be sure, that Minna
was never alone now: her sister or
Madame Solomon were always with
her, and as they naturally spoke
German, of which language I knew
but few words, my evenings were
passed in sighing, ogling, and saying
nothing. 1 must have been a very
charming companion. One evening
was pretty much like another. Four
or five times in the week, old Lowe
would drop in and sell me a bargain.
Berlin-iron chains and trinkets for
my family at home, Naples soap, a
case of eau de Cologne; a beautiful
dressing-gown, lined with fur for the
winter; a rifle, one of the famous
Frankfort make; a complete collection
of the German classics; and finally,
to my awful disgust, a set of the Byzantine historians.
I must tell you that, although my
banking friend had furnished me with
half a stone of Syrian tobacco from
his brother at Constantinople, and
though the most beautiful lips in the
world had first taught me to smoke
it, I discovered, after a few pipes of
the weed, that it was not so much to
my taste as that grown in the West
Indies; and as his Havanna cigars
were also not to my liking, I was
compelled, not without some scruples
of conscience at my infidelity, to
procure my smoking supplies elsewhere.
And now I come to the fatal part
of my story. Wilder, who was likewise an amateur of the weed, once
came to my lodgings in the company
Df a tobacconist whom he patronized,
and who brought several boxes and
samples for inspection. Herr Rohr,
which was the gentleman's name, sat
down with us, his wares were very
good, and-must I own it?- I
thought it would be a very clever and
prudent thing on my part to exchange
some of my rare Syrian against his
canaster and Havannas. I vaunted
the quality of goods to him, and
going into the inner room, returned
with a packet of the real Syrian.




Herr Rohr looked at the parcel rather contemptuously, I thought.
"I have plenty of these goods in
my shop," said he.
"Why, you don't thay tho," says
Wilder, with a grin; "ith the weal
wegular Thywian. My friend FitthBoodle got it from hith bankerth, and
no mithtake!"
" Was it from Mr. Lowe?" says
Rohr, with another provoking sneer.
"Exactly. His brother Israel sent
it from Constantinople."
" Bah!" says Rohr. "I sold this
very tobacco, seven pounds of it, at
fourteen groschen a poulld, to Miss
Minna Lwe and little Mr. Hirsch,
who came express to my shop for it.
Here's my seal," says Mr. Rolr.
And sure enough he produced, from
a very fat and dirty forefinger, a seal,
which bore the engraving on the
packet.
"You sold that to Miss Minna
Lowe? " groaned poor George FitzBoodle.
" Yes, and she bated me down half
a gros in the price. Heaven help
you, sir! she always makes the bargains for her father. There's somcthing so pretty about her that we
can't resist her."
"And do you thell wineth, too, -
Thypwutlh and Mcdoc, hay " con.
tinued the brute Wilder, enjoying the
joke.
"No," answered Mr. Rohr, with
another  confounded sneer.  "He
makes those himself; but I have some
very fine M6doc and Greek wine, if
his high well-born lordship would like
a few dozen. Shall I send a pannier "
"Leave the room, sir!" here shouted I, in a voice of uncontrollable fcrocity, and looked so wildly that little
Rohr rushed away in a fright, and
Wilder burst into one of his demoniacal laughs again.
" Don't you thee, my good fwiend,"
continued he, " how wegularly thethe
people have been doing you? I tell
you their chawacterth are known all
over the town. There'th not a thtu



FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.                 481
dent in the place but can give you a Lwe on my arm. Wilder tells me
hithtory of the family. Lowe ith an that I looked blue with rage, and as
infarnal old uthuwer, and hith daugh- if I should cut the throat of any man
terth wegular mantwapth.  At the I met.
Thtar, where I dine with the officerth  We had driven down in old L6we's
of the garrithon, you and Minna are landau, the old gentleman himself
a thtandardjoke. Captain Hecrpauk acting as coachman, with Mr. Hirsch
wath caught himself for near six in his best clothes by his side. In the
weekth; young Von Twommel wath carriage came Madam    Solomon, in
wemoved by hith fwiends: old Colo- yellow satin; Miss Lowe in light
nel Blitz wath at one time tho nearly green (it is astonishing how persons
gone in love with the elder, that he of a light complexion will wear this
would have had a divorce from hith detestable color); Miss Minna was in
lady. Among the thtudentth the ma  white muslin, with a pair of black knit
nia hath beenjutht the thame. When- gloves on her beautiful arms, a pink
ever one wath worth plucking, Lowe ribbon round her delicate waist, and a
uthed to have him to hith houthe and pink scarf on her shoulders, for in
wob him, until at latht the wathcal'th those days —and the fashion exists
chawacter became tho well known, still somewhat on the Rhine-it was
that the thtudentth in a body have the custom of ladies to dress themdetherted him, and you will find that selves in what we call an evening cosnot one of them will dance with hith tume for dinner time;'and so was the
daughterth, handsome ath they are. lovely Minna attired. As I sat by her
Go down to Godesberg to-night and on the back seat, I did not say one
thee."                           single word, I confess, but looked un"I am going," answered I; "the utterable things, and forgot in her
young ladies asked me to drive down beauty all the suspicions of the mornin their carriage;" and I flung my- ing. I hadn't asked her to waltz,self back on the sofa and puffed away for, the fact is, I didn't know how to
volumes of smoke, and tossed and waltz (though I learned afterwards, as
tumbled the live-long day, with a hor- you shall hear), and so only begged
rible conviction that something of her hand for a quadrille.
what Wilder had told me might be   We entered thus Mr. Blintzner's
true, and with a vow to sacrifice, at garden as I have described, the men
least, one of the officers who had been staring at us, the lovely Minna on my
laughing at me.                  arm. I ordered refreshments for the
There they were, the scoundrels! party; and we sat at a table near the
in their cursed tight fiock-coats and boarded place where the people were
hay-colored  mustachios,  twirling dancing.  No one came up to ask
round in the waltzes with the citizens' Minna to waltz, and I confess I was
daughters, when, according to prom- not sorry for it,-for I own to that
ise, I arrived with the Israelitish la- dog-in-the-manger jealousy which is
dies at the garden at Godesberg, where common to love,- no one came but
dancing is carried on twice or thrice poor little Hirsch, who had been abin a week. There were the students, sent to get sandwiches for the ladies,
with their long pipes, and little caps, and came up making his bow just as I
and long hair, tippling at the tables was asking Minna whether she would
under the leaves, or dancing that ab- give no  response to my letters.
surd waltz which has always been the She looked surprised, - looked at
object of my contempt. The fact is, Hirsch, who looked at me, and layI am not a dancing man.          ing his hand (rather familiarly) upon
Students and officers, I thought, my arm, put the other paw to his
every eye was looking at me, as I en- great, red, blubber lips, as if enjointcred the garden with Miss Minna ing si!cnce; and, before a word, car21*




482


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


ries off Minna, and began twisting her
round in waltz.
The little brute had assumed his
best clothes for the occasion. He had
a white hat and a pair of white gloves;
a green satin stock, with profuse studs
of jewels in his shirt; a yellow waistcoat, with one of pink Cashmere underneath; very short nankeen trousers, and striped silk stockings; and a
swallow-tailed, short-waisted, lightbrown coat, with brass buttons; the
tails whirled in the wind as he and
his partner spun round to a very quick
waltz,- not without agility, I confess,
on the little scoundrel's part,-and
oh, with what incomparable grace on
Minna's! The other waltzers cleared
away, doubtless to look at her performance; but though such a reptile was below my jealousy, I felt
that I should have preferred to the
same music to kick the little beast
round the circle rather than see his
hand encircling such a waist as that.
They only made one or two turns,
however, and came back. Minna
was blushing very red, and very much
agitated.
"Will you take one turn. Friiulein
Lisa?" said the active Hirsch; and
after a little to-do on the part of the
elder sister, she got up, and advanced
to the dancing place.
What was my surprise when the
people again cleared off, and left the
pair to perform alone! Hirsch and
his partner enjoyed their waltz hovever, and returned, looking as illhumored as possible.  The band
struck up presently a quadrille tune.
I would not receive any of Minna's
excuses. She did not wish to dance;
she was faint, - she had no vis-a-vis
"( Hirsch," said I, with much courtesy, " take out Madam Solomon, and
come and dance."  We advanced, -
big Mrs. Solomons and Hirsch, Minna and I, - Miss Lisa remaining with
her papa over the Rhine wine and
sandwiches.
There were at least twenty couple,
who were mustering to make a quadrille when we advanced.  Minna


blushed scarlet, and I felt her trembling on my arm; no doubt 'twas
from joy at dancing with the fashionable young Englander. Hirsch,
with a low bow and a scrape, led
Madam Solomon opposite us, and
put himself in the fifth position. It
was rather disgusting, certainly, for
George Savage Fitz-Boodle to be
dancing vis-h-vis such an animal as
that!
Mr. Hirsch clapped his hands with
a knowing air, to begin. I looked
up from Minna (what I had been
whispering to her must not be concealed, -in fact, I had said so previously, es ist sehr warm; but I said
it with an accent that must have
gone to her heart), - when I say I
looked up from her lovely face, I
found that every one of the other
couples had retired, and that we four
were left to dance the quadrille by
ourselves!
Yes, by Heavens! it was so! Minna, from being scarlet, turned ghastly
pale, and would have fallen back,
had I not encircled her with my arm.
" I'm ill," said she; " let me go back
to my father." " You must dance,"
said I, and held up my clinched fist
at Hirsch, who I thought would have
moved off too; on which the little
fellow was compelled to stop. And
so we four went through the quadrille.
The first figure seemed to me to
last a hundred thousand years. I
don't know how Minna did not fall
down and faint; but gathering courage all of a sudden, and throwing a
quick, fierce look round about her,
as if in defiance, and a look which
made my little angel for a moment
look like a little demon, she went
through the dance with as much
gracefulness as a duchess. As for
me,-at first the whole air seemed
to be peopled with grinning faces,
and I moved about almost choked
with rage and passion. Then gradually the film of fury wore off, and
I became wonderfully calm, —nay,
had the leisure to look at Monsieur




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


483


Hirsch, who performed all the steps
with wonderful accuracy; and at
every one of the faces round about
it, officers, students, and citizens.
None of the gentlemen, probably,
liked my face, - for theirs wore, as I
looked at them, a very grave and demure expression. But as Minna was
dancing, I heard a voice behind her
cry, sneeringly, "Brava!" I turned
quickly round, and caught the
speaker. He turned very red, and
so betrayed himself. Our eyes met,
-it was a settled thing. There was
no need of any further arrangement,
and it was then, as I hav, said, that
the film cleared off; and I have to
thank Capt. Heerpauk for getting
through the quadrille without an
apoplexy.
"Did you hear that- that voice,
Herr George 2" said Miss Minna,
looking beseechingly in my face, and
trembling on my arm, as I led her
back to her father.  Poor soul! I
saw it all at once. She loved me, -
I knew she did, and trembled lest I
should run into any danger. I stuttered, stammered, vowed I did not
hear it; at the same time swearing
inwardly an oath of the largest dimensions, that I would cut the throat
whence that " Brava!" issued.  I
left my lady for a moment, and finding Wilder out, pointed the man to
him.
"Oh, Heerpauk," says lie. "What
do you want with him? "
"Charley," says I, with much
heroism and ferocity, " I want to
shoot him; just tell him so." And
when, on demurring, I swore I would
go and pull the captain's nose on the
ground, Wilder agreed to settle the
business for me; and I returned to
our party.
It was quite clear that we could
not stay longer in the gardens.
Lowe's carriage was not to come for
an hour yet; for the banker would
not expend money in stabling his
horses at the inn, and had accordingly
sent them  back to Bonn.   What
should we do? There is a ruined


castle at Godesberg, which looks
down upon the fair green plain of
the Rhine, where Mr. Blintzner's
house stands (and let the reader be
thankfulthat I don't give a description of scenery here): there is, I say,
a castle at Godesberg. "Explorons
le shatto," says I; which elegant
French Hirsch translated; and this
suggestion was adopted by the five
Israelites, to the fairest of whom I
offered my arm. The lovely Minna
took it, and away we went; Wilder,
who was standing at the gate, giving
me a nod, to say all was right. I
saw him presently strolling up the
hill after me, with a Prussian officer,
with whom he was talking.    Old
Lowe was with his daughter, and as
the old banker was infirm, the pair
walked but slowly. Monsieur Hirsch
had given his arm to Madam Solomon. She was a fat woman; the
consequence was, that Minna and I
were soon considerably ahead of the
rest of the party, and were ascending
the hill alone. I said several things
to her, such as only lovers say.
Corn il fay bo issy," says I, in the
most insinuating way. No answer.
Es ist etwas kalt," even I continued,
admirably varying my phrase. She
did not speak: she was agitated
by the events of the evening, and no
wonder.
That fair round arm resting on
mine, - that lovely creature walking
by my side in the calm moonlight, -
the silver Rhine flashing before us,
with  Drachenfels and the Seven
Mountains rising clear in the distance, - the music of the dance coming up to us from the plain below, -
the path winding every now and then
into the darkest foliage, and at the
next moment giving us rich views of
the moonlit river and plain below.
Could any man but feel the influence
of a scene so exquisitely lovely?
"Minna," says I, as she wouldn't
speak, - " Minna, I love you; you
have known it long, long ago, I know
you have. Nay, do not withdraw your
hand; your heart has spoken for me.




484


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


Be mine, then!" and taking her
hand, I kissed it rapturously, and
should have proceeded to her cheek,
no doubt, when - she gave me a
swinging box on the ear, started
back, and incontinently fell a screaming as loudly as any woman ever
did.
"Minna, Minna!" I heard the
voice of that cursed Hirsch shouting.
"Minna, meinegattin!" and he rushed
up the hill; and Minna flung herself
in his arms, crying, "Lorenzo, my
husband, save me! "
The Lowe family, Wilder, and his
friend, came skurrying up the hill at
the same time; and we formed what
in the theatres they call a tableau.
"You coward!" says Minna, her
eyes flashing fire, " who could see a
woman insulted, and never defend
her "
"You coward!" roared Hirsch;
" coward as well as profligate! You
communicated to me your lawless
love for this angel, - to me, her affianced husband; and you had the
audacity to send her letters, not one
of which, so help me Heaven, has
been received. Yes, you will laugh
at Jews, - will you, you brutal Englishman? You will insult our people,- will you, you stupid islander?
Psha! I spit upon you!" and here
Monsieur Hirsch snapped his fingers
in my face, holding Minna at the
same time round the waist, who thus
became the little monster's buckler.
They presently walked away, and
left me in a pleasant condition. I
was actually going to fight a duel on
the morrow for the sake of this fury,
and it appeared she had flung me off
for cowardice. I had allowed myself
to be swindled by her father, and
insulted by her filthy little bridegroom, and for what? All the consolation I got from Wilder was, -
"I told you tho, my boy, but you
wouldn't lithn, you gweat thoopid,
hlundewing ignowamuth; and now
I shall have to thee you shot and
buwied to-morrow; and I dare thay


you won't even remember me in your
will. Captain Schliiger," continued
he, presenting me to his companion,
"Mr. Fitz-Boodlc; the captain acts
for Heerpauk in the morning, and
we were just talking matters over,
when Webecca yonder quied out,
and we found her in the armth of
Bwian de Bois Guilbert here."
Captain Schlager was a little, social, good-humored man, with a
mustachio of a straw and silver
mixed, and a brilliant purple sabrecut across a rose-colored nose. He
had the iron cross at his button-hole,
and lookeo, as he was, a fierce little
fighter. But he was too kind-hearted
to allow of two boys needlessly cutting
each other's throats; and much to
the disappointment of Wilder, doubt.
less, who had been my second in the
Martingale affair, and enjoyed no
better sport, he said, in English,
laughing, "Vell, make your mint
easy, my goot young man, I tink
you af got into enough sgrabes about
dis tam Shewess; and dat you and
Heerpauk haf no need to blow each
other's brains off."
" Ath for Fitth apologithing," burst
out Wilder, "that'th out of the
quethtion. He gave the challenge,
you know; and how the dooth ith he
to apologithe now i"
"-He gave the challenge, and you
took it, and you are de greatest fool
of de two. I say the two young men
slhall not fight; " and then the honest
captain entered into a history of the
worthy family of Israel, which would
have saved me at least fifty pounds
had I known it sooner. It did not
differ in substance from what Rohr
and Wilder had both told me in the
morning. The venerable Lowe was
a great thief and extortioner; the
daughters were employed as decoyducks, in the first place, for the university and the garrison, and afterwards for young strangers, such as
my wise self, who visited the place.
There was some very sad story about
the elder Miss Lowe and a tutor fionm
St. John's College, Cambridge, who




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


485


came to Bonn on a reading tour;
but I am not at liberty to set down
here the particulars. And with regard to Minna, there was a still more
dismal history. A fine, handsome
young student, the pride of the university, had. first ruined  himself
through the offices of the father, and
then shot himself for love of the
daughter; from   which  time  the
whole town had put the family into
Coventry; nor had they appeared
for two years in public until upon
the present occasion with me. As for
Monsieur Hirsch, he did not care.
HIe was of a rich Frankfort family of
the peoples, serving his apprenticeship with Liiwc, a cousin, and the
destined husband of the younger
daughter.' He traded as much as he
could on his own account, and would
run upon any errand and buy or
sell any thing for a consideration.
And so, instead of fighting Captain
Heerpauk, I agreed willingly enough
to go back to the hotel at Godesherg,
and shake hands with that officer.
The reconciliation, or, rather, the
acquaintance between us, was effected
over a bottle of wine, at Mr. Blintzner's hotel; and we rode comfortably
back in a drosky together to Bonn,
where the friendship was still more
closely cemented by a supper. At
the close of the repast, Heerpauk
make a speech on England, fatherland, and German truth and love,
and kindly saluted me with a kiss,
which is at any lady's service who
peruses this little narrative.
As for Mr. Hirsch, it must be
confessed, to my shame, that the
next morning a gentleman having
the air of an old clothesman off
duty presented me with an envelope,
containing six letters of my composi

tion addressed to Miss Minna LUwe
(among them was a little poem in
English, which has since called tears
from the eyes of more than one
lovely girl); and, furthermore, a
letter from  himself, in which he,
Baron Hirsch, of Hirschenwald (the
scoundrel, like my friend Wilder,
purchased his title in "The Awthtwian Thervith") -in which he, I
say, Baron Hirsch, of Hirschenwald,
challenges me for insulting Miss
Minna Liwe, or demanded an apology.
This, I said, Mr. Hirsch might have
whenever he chose to come and fetch
it, pointing to a horsewhip which
lay in a corner; but that he must
come early, as I proposed to quit
Bonn the next morning. The baron's
friend, hearing this, asked whether I
would like some remarkably fine cigars for my excursion, which he
could give me at a great bargain? He
was then shown to the door by my
body-servant; nor did Hirsch von
Hirschenwald come for the apology.
Twice every year, however, I get a
letter from him, dated Frankfort,
and proposing to make me a present
of a splendid palace in Austria or
Bohemia, or 200,000 florins, should I
prefer money.  I saw his lady at
Frankfort only last year, in a front
box at the theatre, loaded with diamonds, and at least sixteen stone in
weight.
All! Minna, Minna! thou mayest
grow to be as ugly as sin, and as fat
as Daniel Lambert, but I have the
amber mouth-piece still, and swear
that the prettiest lips in Jewry have
kissed it!
The MS. here concludes with a
rude design of a young lady smoking
a pipe.




486


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


DOROTHEA.


THE reason why my memoirs have
not been continued with that regularity, which, I believe, is considered
requisite by professional persons, in
order to insure the success of their
work, is a very simple one, -I have
been otherwise engaged; and as I do
not care one straw whether the public do or do not like my speculations
(heartily pitying, and at the same time
despising those poor devils who write
under different circumstances) - as
I say, I was in Scotland shooting
grouse for some time past, coming
home deucedly tired of evenings,
which I devoted to a cigar and a
glass of toddy, it was quite impossible
to satisfy the curiosity of the public.
I bagged 1114 brace of grouse in
sixty days, besides dancing in kilt
before her M-y at Bl-r Ath-1.
By the way, when Mr. F-x M-le
gives away cairngorums, he may as
well say whose property they are. I
lent the man the very stone out of a
snuff-mull with which Charles Edward
complimented my great-great-aunt,
Flora MacWhirtcr.
The worthy publisher sent me
down his Magazine to Dunkeld (a
good deal of it will be found in
wadding over the moors, and perhaps
in the birds which I sent him), and,
at the same time, he despatched some
critiques, both epistolary and newspaperacious, upon the former chapter
of my Memoirs. The most indignant
of the manuscript critiques came from
a member of the Hebrew persuasion.
And what do you think is the opinion
of this Lion of Judah? Simply that
George Savage Fitz-Boodle is a false
name, assumed by some coward,
whose intention it is to insult the
Jewish religion! He says that my
history of the Lowe family is a dastardly attack upon the people! How
is it so? It I say that an individual


Christian is a rogue, do I impugn the
professors of the whole Christian religion?   Can my Hebrew critic say
that a Hebrew banker never cheated
in matters of exchange, or that a Hebrew was never guilty of a roguery?
If so, what was the gold-dust robbery,
and why is Ikey Solomons at Botany
Bay? No; the Lion of Judah may
be a good lion, but he is a deucedly
bad arguer, - nay, he is a bad lion,
he roars before he is hurt. Be calm,
thou red-maned desert-roarer, the
arrows of Fitz-Boodle have no poison
at their tip, and are shot only in play.
I never wished to attack the Jewish
nation, far from it, I have three bills
now out; nor is he right in saying
that I have made a dastardly statement, which I have given under a
false name; just the contrary, my
name is, as everybody knows, my
real name, - it is the statement which
is false, and I confess there is not
one word of truth in it- I never
knew, to my knowledge, any Hirsch
or Liwe in my life; I never was with
Minna Lwe; the adventures never
did occur at Bonn. Is my friend now
satisfied? Let him remember, in the
first place, that the tale is related of
individuals, and not of his people at
large; and in the second place, that
the statement is not true. If that
won't satisfy him, what will? Rabbi,
let us part in peace! Neither thee
nor thy like would George Fitz-Boodle
ever willingly harm —neither thee
nor any bearded nor unbearded man.
If there be no worse rogues in Jewry,
the people is more lucky than the
rest of the world, and the fact is good
to he known.
And now for the second objections.
These are mainly of one kind -most
of the journalists, fiom whose works
pleasing extracts have been made,
concurring in stating, that the last




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


487


paper, which the Hebrew thought so
dangerous, was, what is worse still,
exceedingly stupid.
This disgusting unanimity of sentiment at first annoyed me a good
deal, for I was pained to think that
success so soon bred envy, and that
the members of the British press
could not bear to see an amateur
enter the lists with them, and carry
off laurels for which they had been
striving long years in vain. Is there
no honesty left in the world, I
thought? And the thought gave me
extreme pain, for, though (as in the
Hebrew case above mentioned) I love
occasionally to disport with the follies and expose the vices of individuals, to attribute envy to a whole class
is extremely disagreeable to one
whose feelings are tore than ordinarily benevolent and pure.
An idea here struck me. I said
to myself, " Fitz-Boodle! perhaps the
paper is stupid, and the critics are
right." I read the paper: I found
that it was abominably stupid, and,
as I fell asleep over it, an immense
repose and calm came over my mind,
and I woke reconciled with human
nature.
Let authors consider this above
fact well, and draw their profit from
it.  I have met with  many men,
who, like myself, fancy themselves
the victims of a conspiracy-martyrs; but, in the long-run, the world
and the critics of nowadays are generally right; they praise too much
perhaps, they puff a small reputation
into a huge one, but they do not
neglect much that is good; and, if
literary gentlemen would but bear
this truth in mind, what a deal of
pain and trouble might they spare
themselves   There would be no
despair, ill-humor, no quarrelling
with your fellow-creatures, nor jaundiced moody looks upon nature and
the world.  Instead of crying the
world is wicked - all men are bad,
is it not wiser, my brethren, to say,
" I am an ass "? let me be content to
know that, nor anathematize universal


mankind for not believing in me. It is
a well-known fact, that no natural
man can see the length of his own
ears; it is only the glass —the reflection that shows them to him. Let
the critics be our glass, I am content
to believe that they are pretty honest,
that they are not actuated by personal motives of hatred in falling foul
of me and others; and this being
premised, I resume the narration of
my adventures. If this chapter don't
please them, they must, indeed, be very
hard to amuse.
Beyond sparring and cricket, I do
not recollect I learned any thing useful at Slaughter-House School, where
I was educated (according to an old
family tradition, which sends particular generations of gentlemen to
particular schools in the kingdom;
and such is the force of habit, that
though I hate the place, I shall send
my own son thither, too, should I
marry any day). I say I learned
little that was useful at Slaughter
House, and nothing that was ornamental. I would as soon have
thought of learning to dance, as of
learning to climb chimneys. Up to
the age of seventeen, as I have shown,
I had a great contempt for the female
race, and when age brought with it
warmer and juster sentiments, where
was I - I could no more dance nor
prattle to a young girl than a young
bear could. I have seen the ugliest
little low-bred wretches carrying off
young and lovely creatures, twirling
with them in waltzes, whispering between their glossy curls in quadrilles,
simpering with perfect equanimity,
and cutting pas in that abominable
"cavalier seul," until my soul grew
sick with fury. In a word, I determined to learn to dance.
But such things are hard to be
acquired late in life, when the bones
and the habits of a man are formed.
Look at a man in a hunting-field who
has not been taught to ride as a boy.
All the pluck and courage in the
world will not make the man of him
that I am, or as any man who has




488


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


had the advantages of early education
in the field.
In the same way with dancing.
Though I went to work with immense energy, both in Brewer Street,
Golden Square (with an advertising
fellow), and afterwards with old Coulon at Paris, I never was able to be
easy in dancing; and though little
Coulon instructed me in a smile, it
was a cursed forced one, that looked
like the grin of a person in extreme
agony. I once caught sight of it in
a glass, and have hardly ever smiled
since.
Most young men about London
have gone through that strange secret
ordeal of the dancing-school. I am
given to understand that young snobs
from attorneys' offices, banks, shops,
and the like, make not the least
mystery of their proceedings in the
saltatory line, but trip gayly, with
pumps in hand, to some dancing-place
about Soho, waltz and quadrille it
with Miss Greengrocer or Miss Butcher, and fancy they have had rather a
pleasant evening. There is one house
in Dover Street, where, behind a
dirty curtain, such figures may be
seen hopping every night, to a perpetual fiddling; and I have stood
sometimes wondering in the street,
with about six blackguard boys
wondering too, at the strange contortions of the figures jumping up
and down to the mysterious squeaking
of the kit. Have they no shame ces
gens? arc such degrading initiations
to be held in publicl No, the snob
may, but the man of refined mind
never can submit to show himself in
public laboring at the apprenticeship
of this most absurd art. It is owing,
perhaps, to this modesty, and the
fact that I had no sisters at home,
that I have never thoroughly been
able to dance; for though I always
arrive at the end of a quadrille (and
thank heaven for it too!) and though,
I believe, I make no mistake in particular, yet I solemnly confess I have
never been able thoroughly to comprehend the mysteries of it, or what


I have been about from tie beginning
to the end of the dance. I always
look at the lady opposite, and do as
she does: if she did not know how
to dance, par hasard, it would be all
up. But if they can't do any thing
else, women can dance; let us give
them that praise at least.
In London, then, for a considerable
time, I used to get up at eight o'clock
in the morning, and pass an hour
alone with Mr. Wilkinson, of the
Theatres Royal, in Golden Square;an hour alone. It was "one, two,
three; one, two, three-now jump
-right foot more out, Mr. Smith;
and if you could try and look a little
more cheerful; your partner, sir,
would like you hall the better."
Wilkinson called me Smith, for the
fact is, Idid not tell him my real
name, nor (thank heaven!) does he
know it to this day.
I never breathed a word of my
doings to any soul among my friends:
once a pack of them met me in the
strange neighborhood, when, I am
ashamed to say, I muttered something
about a "little French milliner,"
and walked off, looking as knowing
as I could.
In Paris, two Cambridge-men and
myself, who happened to be staying
at a boarding-house together, agreed
to go to Coulon, a little creature of
four feet high with a pigtail. His
room was hung round with glasses.
He made us take off our coats, and
dance each before a mirror. Once he
was standing before us playing on his
kit-the sight of the little master
and the pupil was so supremely ridiculous, that I burst into a yell of
laughter, which so offended the old
man that he walked away abruptly,
and begged me not to repeat my visits.
Nor did I. I was just getting into
waltzing then, but determined to drop
waltzing, and content myself with
quadrilling for the rest of my days.
This was all very well in France
and England; but in Germany what
was I to do? What did Hercules
do when Omphale captivated him?




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


489


What did Rinaldo do when Armida of other magnificent edifices in the
fixed upon him her twinkling eyes?Residenz, such as the guard-room, the
Nay, to cut all historical instances skittle-hall (Grossherzoglich Kalbsbratshort, by going at once to the earliest, enpunlpernickelisch  Schkittelspielsaal),
what did Adam do when Eve tempted &c., and the superb sentry-boxes behim? He yielded and became her fore the Grand-Ducal Palace. He is
slave; and so I do heartily trust Knight Grand Cross of the Ancient
every honest man will yield until the Kartoffel Order, as, indeed, is almost
end of the world- he has no heart every one else in his Highness's dowho will not. When I was in Ger- minions.
many, I say, I began to learn to waltz.  The town of Kalbsbraten contains a
The reader from this will no doubt population of two thousand inhabitexpect that some new love-adventures ants, and a palace which would acbetbll me-nor will his gentle heart be commodate  about six times that
disappointed. Two deep and tremen- number.  The   principality  sends
dous incidents occurred which shall three and a half men to the German
be notified on the present occasion.  Confederation, who are commanded
The reader, perhaps, remembers by a General (Excellency), two Majorthe brief appearance of his Highness Generals, and sixty-four officers of
the Duke of Kalbsbraten-Pumpernick- lower grades; all noble, all knights
el at B-    House, in the first part of of the Order, and almost all chambermy Memoirs, at that unlucky period lains to his Highness the Grand Duke.
of my life when the Duke was led to An excellent band of eighty perremark the odor about my clothes, formers is the admiration of the surwhich lost me the hand of Mary rounding     country, and leads the
M'Alister. I somehow found myself Grand-Ducal troops to battle in time
in his Highness's territories, of which of war. Only three of the contingent
anybody may read a description in the of soldiers returned from the Battle of
" Almanach de Goth."    His High- Waterloo, where they won much honness's father, as is well known, married or; the remainder was cut to pieces
Emilia Kunegunda Thomasina Char- on that glorious day.
leria Emanela Louisa Georgina, Prin-  There is a chamber of representacess of Saxe-Pumpernickel and a cous- tives (which, however, nothing can
in of his Highness the Duke. Thus the induce to sit), home and foreign
two principalities were united under ministers, residents from neighboring
one happy sovereign in the person of courts, law presidents, town councils,
Philibert Sigismund Emanuel Maria, &c., all the adjuncts of a big or little
the reigning Duke, who has received government.  The court has its
from his country (on account of thecel- chamberlains  and  marshals,  the
ebrated pump which he erected in the Grand Ducless her noble ladies in
market place of Kalbsbraten) the well- waiting, and blushing maids of honor.
merited appellation of the Magnificent. Thou wert one, Dorothea! Dost reThe allegory which the statues round member the poor young Englander?
about the pump represent is of a very We parted in anger; but I think -
mysterious  and  complicated sort. I think thou hast not forgotten him.
Minerva is observed leading up Ceres  The way in which I have Dorothea
to a river-god, who has his arms von Speck present to my mind is
round the neck of Pomona; while this: not as I first saw her in the
Mars (in a full-bottomed wig) is garden -for her hair was in bandriven away by Peace, under whose deaux then, and a large Leghorn hat
mantle two lovely children, represent- with a deep ribbon covered half her
ing the Duke's two provinces, repose. fair face, —not in a morning-dress,
The celebrated Speck is, asneed scarce- which, by the way, was none of the
ly be said, the author of this piece; and newest nor the best made - but as I




490                 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
saw her afterwards at a ball at the I hate your little women - that is,
pleasant splendid little court, where when I am in love with a tall one;
she moved the most beautiful of the and who would not have loved Dorobeauties of Kalbsbraten. The grand thea?
saloon of the palace is lighted - the  Fancy her, then, if you please,
Grand Duke and his officers, the about five feet four inches high -fanDuchess and her ladies, have passed cy her in the family color of light
through. I, in my uniform of the blue, a little scarf covering the most
-   th, and a number of young fellows brilliant shoulders in the world; and
(who are evidently admiring my legs a pair of gloves clinging close round
and envying my distingue appearance), an arm that may, perhaps, be somcare waiting round the entrance-door, what too large now, but that Juno
where a huge Heyduke is standing, might have envied then. After the
and announcing   the titles of the fashion of young ladies on the contiguests as they arrive.            nent, she wears no jewels or gim"HERR    OBERHOF UND BAUIN- cracks: her only ornament is a wreath
SPEKTOR VON SPECK!" shouts the of vine-leaves in her hair, with little
Heyduke; and the little Inspector clusters of artificial grapes.  Down
comes in. His lady is on his arm -  on her shoulders falls the brown hair,
huge, in towering plumes, and her in rich, liberal clusters; all that health,
favorite costume of light blue. Fair and good-humor, and beauty can do
women always dress in light blue or for her face, kind nature has done for
light green; and Frau von Speck is hers. Her eyes are frank, sparkling,
very fair and stout.              and kind. As for her cheeks, what
But who comes behind her? Lie- paint-box or dictionary contains pigber Himmel! It is Dorothea! Did ments or words to describe their red?
earth, among all the flowers which They say she opens her mouth and
have sprung from its bosom, produce smiles always to show the dimples in
ever one more beautiful? She was her cheeks.   Psha! she smiles benone of your heavenly beauties, I tell cause she is happy, and kind, and
you. She had nothing ethereal about good-humored, and not because her
her. No, sir; she was of the earth, teeth are little pearls.
earthy, and must have weighed ten   All the young fellows crowd up to
stone four or five, if she weighed an ask her to dance, and, taking from
ounce. She had none of your Chi- her waist a little mother-of-pearl renese feet nor waspy, unhealthy waists, membrancer, she notes them down.
which those may admire who will. Old Schnabel for the polonaise; KlinNo; Dora's foot was a good stout genspohr, first waltz; Haarbart, secone; you could see her ankle (if her ond waltz; Count Hornpieper (the
robe was short enough) without the Danish envoy), third; and so on. I
aid of a microscope; and that envi- have said why I could not ask her to
ous little, sour, skinny Amalia von waltz, and I turned away with a pang,
Mangelwiirzel used to hold up her and played ecart6 with Colonel Trumfour fingers and say (the two girls penpack all night.
were most intimate friends, of course),  In thus introducing this lovely
"Dear Dorothea's vaist is so much creature in her ball-costume, I have
dicker as dis."  And so I have no been somewhat premature, and had
doubt it was.                     best go back to the beginning of the
But what then? Goethe sings in history of my acquaintance with her.
one of his divine epigrams:        Dorothea, then, was the daughter
of the celebrated Speck before menEpicures aunting their taste, entitle me tioned. It is one of the oldest names
vulgar and savage,           in Germny, where her fther's and
Give them their Brussel-sprouts,but I amin Germany, where her father's and
contented with cabbage."     mother's houses, those of Speck and




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


Eyer, are loved wherever they are
known. Unlike his warlike progenitor, Lorenzo von Speck, Dorothea's
father, had early shown himself a
passionate admirer of art; had quitted
home to study architecture in Italy,
and had become celebrated throughout Europe and been appointed Oberhofarchitect and Kunst und Bau-inspektor of the united principalities.
They are but four miles wide, and his
genius has, consequently, but little
room to play.  What art can do,
however, he does. The palace is frequently whitewashed under his eyes;
the theatre painted occasionally; the
noble public buildings erected, of
which I have already made jnention.
I had come to Kalbsbraten, scarce
knowing whither I went; and having,
in about ten minutes, seen the curiosities of the place (I did not care to see
the King's palace, for chairs and
tables have no great charm for me),
I had ordered horses, and wanted to
get on, I cared not whither, when fate
threw Dorothea in my way. I was
yawning back to the hotel, through
the palace-garden, a valet-de-place at
my side, when I saw a young lady
seated under a tree reading a novel,
her mamma on the same bench (a fat
woman in light blue) knitting a stocking, and two officers, choked in their
stays, with various orders on their
spinach-colored coats, standing by in
first attitudes: the one was caressing
the fat-lady-in-blue's little dog; the
other was twirling his own mustache,
which was already as nearly as possible curled into his own eye.
I don't know how it is, but I hate
to see men evidently intimate with
nice-looking women, and on good
terms with   themselves.  There's
something annoying in their cursed
complacency -their evident sunshiny
happiness. I've no woman to make
sunshine for me; and yet my heart
tells me that not one, but several
such suns, would do good to my system.
"Who are those pert-looking officers," says I, peevishly, to the guide,


"who are talking to those vulgarlooking women?"
"The big one, with the epaulets,
is Major von Schnabel; the little one,
with the pale face, is Stiefel von Klingenspohr."
" And the big blue woman? "
"The Grand-Ducal Pumpernickelian-court-architectress and UpperPalace-and-building-inspectress Von
Speck, born V. Eyer,' replied the
guide. " Your well-born honor has
seen the pump in the market-place;
that is the work of the great Von
Speck."
"And yonder young person?"
"Mr. Court-architect's daughter;
the Friiulein Dorothea."
Dorothea looked up from her novel
here, and turned her face towards the
stranger who was passing, and then,
blushing, turned it down again.
Schnabel looked at me with a scowl,
Klingenspohr with a simper, the dog
with a yelp, the fat lady in blue just
gave one glance, and seemed, I
thought, rather well pleased. "Silence, Lischen! " said she to the dog.
"Go on, darling Dorothea," she
added, to her daughter, who continued her novel.
Her voice was a little tremulous,
but very low and rich.  For some
reason or other, on getting back to
the inn, I countermanded the horses,
and said I would stay for the night.
I not only staid that night, but
many, many afterwards; and as for
the manner in which I became acquainted with the Speck family, why
it was a good joke against me at the
time, and I did not like then to have
it known; but now it may as well
come out at once. Speck, as everybody knows, lives in the market-place,
opposite his grand work of art, the
town pump, or fountain. I bought a
large sheet of paper, and having a
knack at drawing, sat down with the
greatest gravity, before the pump, and
sketched it for several hours. I knew
it would bring out old Speck to see.
At first he contented himself by flat



492


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


tening his nose against the window
glasses of his study, and looking wha
the Englander was about. Then hi
put on his gray cap with the hug(
green shade, and sauntered to th(
door: then he walked round me, ant
formed one of a band of street-idlers
who were looking on: then at last h(
could restrain himself no more, but,
pulling off his cap, with a low bow,
began to discourse upon arts, and
architecture in particular.
" It is curious," says he, " that you
have taken the same view of which a
print has been engraved."
"That is extraordinary," says I
(though it wasn't, for I had traced
my drawing at a window off the very
print in question). I added that I
was, like all the world, immensely
struck with the beauty of the edifice;
heard of it at Rome, where it was
considered to be superior to any of
the celebrated fountains of that capital of the fine arts; finally, that unless, perhaps, the celebrated fountain
of Aldgate in London might compare
with it, Kalbsbraten building, except
in that case, was incomparable.
This speech I addressed in French,
of which the worthy Hofarchitect
understood somewhat, and, continuing to reply in German, our conversation grew pretty close. It is singular
that I can talk to a man and pay him
compliments with the utmost gravity,
whereas, to a woman, I at once lose
all self-possession, and have never
said a pretty thing in my life.
My operations on old Speck were
so conducted, that in a quarter of an
hour I had elicited fiom him an invitation to go over the town with him,
and see its architectural beauties.
So we walked through the huge halffurnished chambers of the palace, we
panted up the copper pinnacle of the
church-tower, we went to see the
Museum and Gymnasium, and coming back into the market-place again,
what could the Hofarchitect do but
offer me a glass of wine and a seat in
his house? He introduced me to his
Gattinn, his Leocadia (the fat woman


- in blue), " as a young world-observer,
t and worthy art-fricnd, a young scion
e of British Adel, who had come to refresh himself at the Urquellen of his
race, and see his brethren of the great
i family of Hermann."
s   I saw instantly that the old fellow
was of a romantic turn, from this,rodomontade to his lady: nor was, she a whit less so; nor was Dorothea
I less sentimental than her mamma.
She knew every thing regarding the
literature of Albion, as she  was
pleased to call it; and asked me
news of all the famous writers there.
I told her that Miss Edgeworth was
one of the loveliest young beauties
at our court; I described to her
Lady Morgan, herself as beautiful
as the wild Irish girl she drew; I
promised to give her a signature of
Mrs. Hemans (which I wrote for her
that very evening); and described a
fox-hunt, at which I had seen Thomas
Moore and Samuel Rogers, Esquires;
and a boxing-match, in which the
athletic author of "Pelham" was
pitched against the hardy mountain
bard, Wordsworth.   You see my
education  was not neglected, for
though I have never read the works
of the above-named ladies and gentlemen, yet I knew their names well
enough.
Time passed away. I, perhaps, was
never so brilliant in conversation as
when excited by the Asmanshauser
and the brilliant eyes of Dorothea that
day. She and her parents had dined
at their usual heathen hour; but I
was, I don't care to own it, so smitten, that for the first time in my life
I did not even miss the meal, and
talked on until six o'clock, when tea
was served.   Madame Speck said
they always drank it; and so placing
a teaspoonful of bohea in a caldron
of water, she placidly handed out this
decoction, which we took with cakes
and tartines. I leave you to imagine
how disgusted Klingenspohr and
Schnabel looked when they stepped
in as usual that evening to make their
party of whist with the Speck family!




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


493


Down they were obliged to sit; and
the lovely Dorothea, for that night,
declined to play altogether, and - sat
on the sofa by me.
What we talked about, who shall
tell? I would not, for my part, break
the secret of one of those delicious
conversations, of which I and every
man in his time have held so many.
You begin, very probably, about the
weather- 'tis a common subject, but
what sentiments the genius of Love
can fling into it! I have often, for
my part, said to the girl of my heart
for the time being, " It's a fine day,"
or, " It's a rainy morning! " in a way
that has brought tears to her eyes.
Something beats in your heart, and
twangle! a   corresponding  string
thrills and echoes in hers. You offer
her any thing - her knitting-needles,
a slice of bread and butter - what
causes the grateful blush with which
she accepts the one or the other
Why, she sees your heart handed over
to her upon the needles, and the bread
and butter is to her a sandwich with
love inside it. If you say to your
grandmother, "Ma'am, it is a fine
day," or what not, she would find in
the words no other meaning than
their outward and visible one; but say
so to the girl you love, and she understands a thousand mystic meanings in
them. Thus, in a word, though Dorothea and I did not, probably, on the
first night of our meeting, talk of any
thing more than the weather, or
trumps, or some subjects which to
such listeners as Schnabel and Klingenspohr and others might appear
quite ordinary, yet to us they had a
different signification, of which Love
alone held the key.
Without further ado then, after the
occurrences of that evening, I determined on staying at Kalbsbraten, and
presenting my card the next day to
the Hof-Marshal, requesting to have
the honor of being presented to his
Highness the Prince, at one of whose
court-balls my Dorothea appeared as
I have described her.
It was summer when I first arrived


at Kalbsbraten. The little court was
removed to Siegmundslust, his Highness's country-seat: no balls were
taking place, and, in consequence, I
held my own with Dorothea pretty
well.  I treated her admirer, Lieutenant Klingenspohr, with perfect
scorn, had a manifest advantage over
Major Schnabel, and used somehow
to meet the fair one every day, walking in company with her mamma in
the palace garden, or sitting under the
acacias, with Belotte in her mother's
lap, and the favorite romance beside
her. Dear, dear Dorothea! what a
number of novels she must have read
in her time! She confesses to me that
she had been in love with Uncas, with
Saint Prcux, with Ivanhoe, and with
hosts of German heroes of romance;
and when I asked her if she, whose
heart was so tender towards imaginary youths, had never had a preference for any one of her living adorers,
she only looked, and blushed, and
sighed, and said nothing.
You see I had got on as well as man
could do, until the confounded court
season and the balls began, and then
- why, then came my usual luck.
Waltzing is a part of a German
girl's life. With the best will in the
world-which, I doubt not, she entertains for me, for I never put the
matter of marriage directly to herDorothea could not go to balls and
not waltz. It was madness to me to
see her whirling round the room with
officers, attaches, prim little chamberlains with gold keys and embroidered
coats, her hair floating in the wind,
her hand reposing upon the abominable little dancer's epaulet, her goodhumored face lighted up with still
greater satisfaction. I saw that I must
learn to waltz too, and took my measures accordingly.
The leader of the ballet at the
Kalbsbraten theatre in my time was
Springbock, from Vienna. He had
been a regular Zephyr once, 'twas
said, in his younger days; and though
he is now fifteen stone weight, I can,
Ihlas! recommend him conscientious



494


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


ly as a master; and I determined to
take some lessons from him in the art
which I had neglected so foolishly in
early life.
It may be said, without vanity that
I was an apt pupil, and in the course
of half a dozen lessons I had arrived.it very considerable agility in the
waltzing line, and could twirl round
the room with him at such a pace as
made the old gentleman pant again,
and hardly left him breath enough to
puff out a compliment to his pupil.
I may say, that in a single week I
became an expert waltzer; but as I
wished, when I came out publicly in
that character, to be quite sure of myself, and as I had hitherto practised
not with a lady, but with a very fat
old man, it was agreed that he should
bring a lady of his acquaintance to
perfect me, and accordingly, at my
eighth lesson, Madame Springbock
herself came to the dancing-room, and
the old Zephyr performed on the
violin.
If any man ventures the least sneer
with regard to this lady, or dares to
insinuate any thing disrespectful to
her or myself, I say at once that he is
an impudent calumniator. Madame
Springbock is old enough to be my
grandmother, and as ugly a woman
as I ever saw; but, though old, she
was passionnae pour la danse, and not
having (on account, doubtless, of her
age and unprepossessing appearance)
many opportunities of indulging in
her favorite pastime, made up for
lost time by immense activity whenever she could get a partner.  In
vain, at the end of the hour, would
Springbock exclaim, "Amalia, my
soul's blessing, the time is up!"
"Play on, dear Alphonso!" would
the old lady exclaim, whisking me
round: and though I had not the
least pleasure in such a homely partner, yet for the sake of perfecting
myself, I waltzed and waltzed with
her, until we were both half dead with
fatigue.
At the end of three weeks I could
waltz as well as any man in Germany.


At the end of four weeks there was
a grand ball at court in honor of H.
H. the Prince of Dummerland, and
his Princess, and then I determined I
would come out in public. I dressed
myself with unusual care and splendor. My hair was curled and my
mustache dyed to a nicety; and of
the four hundred gentlemen present, if the girls of Kalbsbraten did
select one who wore an English hussar uniform, why should I disguise
the fact? In spite of my silence, the
news had somehow got abroad, as
news will in such small towns, - Herr
von Fitz-Boodle was coming out in
a waltz that evening. His highness
the Duke even made an allusion to
the circumstance.  When on this
eventful night, I went, as usual,
and made him my bow in the presentation, " Vous, Monsieur," said
he -" vous qui etcs si jeune, dcvez
aimer la dansc."  I blushed as red
as my trousers, and, bowing, went
away.
I stepped up to Dorothea. Heavens! how beautiful she looked! and
how archly she smiled, as, with a
thumping heart, I asked her hand for
a waltz!   She took out her little
mother-of-pearl dancing-book, she
wrote down my name with her pencil:
we were engaged for the fourth waltz,
and till then I left her to other partners.
Who says that his first waltz is not
a nervous moment? I vow I was
more excited than by any duel I ever
fought. I would not dance any contre-danse or galop. I repeatedly went
to the buffet and got glasses of punch
(dear simple Germany! 'tis with rumpunch and egg-flip thy children
strengthen themselves for the dance!)
I went into the ball-room and looked
- the couples bounded before me, the
music clashed and rung in my ears -
all was fiery, feverish, indistinct. The
gleaming white columns, the polished
oaken floors in which the innumerable tapers were reflected- all together swam before my eyes, and I was in
a pitch of madness almost when thu




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


495


fourth waltz at length came. " Will
you dance with your sword on?" said the
sweetest voice in the world. I blushed
and stammered and trembled, as I laid
down that weapon and my cap, and
hark! the music began!
Oh, how my hand trembled as I
placed it round the waist of Dorothea! With my left hand I took her
right - did she squeeze it X I think
she did - to this day I think she did.
Away we went! we tripped over the
polished oak floor like two young
fairies. " Courage, monsieur," said
she, with her sweet smile. Then it
was "Tres bien, monsieur."  Then
I heard the voices humming and buzzing about.  "I1 danse bien l'Anglais."  " Ma foi, oui," says another.
On we went, twirling and twisting,
and turning and whirling; couple
after couple dropped panting off.
Little  Klingenspohr himself was
obliged to give in. All eyes were
upon us-we were going round
alone. Dorothea was almost exhausted, when
I have been sitting for two hours
since I marked the points, thinking- thinking. I have committed
crimes in my life -who hasn't But
talk of remorse, what remorse is there
like that which rushes up in a flood to
my brain sometimes when I am alone,


and causes me to blush when I'm
abed in the dark?
I fell, sir, on that infernal slippery
floor. Down we came like shot; we
rolled over and over in the midst of
the ball-room, the music going ten
miles an hour, 800 pairs of eyes fixed
upon us, a cursed shriek of laughter
bursting out from all sides. Heavens!
how clear I heard it, as we went on
rolling and rolling! "My   child!
my Dorothea! " shrieked out Madame
Speck, rushing forward, and as soon
as she had breath to do so, Dorothea
of course screamed too; then she
fainted, then she was disentangled
from out my spurs, and borne off by
a bevy of tittering women. " Clumsy brute!" said Madame Speck, turning her fat back upon me. I remained
upon my secant, wild, ghastly, looking
about. It was all up with me —I
knew it was. I wished I could have
died there, and I wish so still.
Klingenspohr married her, that is
the long and short; but before that
event I placed a sabre-cut across the
young scoundrel's nose, which destroyed his beauty forever.
O Dorothea! you can't forgive me
- you oughtn't to forgive me; but I
love you madly still.
My next flame was Ottilia: but let
us keep her for another number; my
feelings overpower me at present.


OTTILIA.
CHAPTER I.                Yes, of no other than Ottilia v.
THE ALBUM. - THE MEDITERRANEAN Schlippenschlopp, the Muse of KalbsHEATH.               braten-Pumpernickel, the  friendly
little town far away in Sachsenland
TRAVELLING some little time back -where old Speck built the town
in a wild part of Connemara, where I pump, where  Klingenspohr was
had been for fishing and seal-shoot- slashed across the nose, - where Doing, I had the good luck to get ad- rothea rolled over and over in that
mission to the chateau of a hospitable horrible waltz with Fitz-Boo --- —
Irish gentleman, and to procure some Psha! - away with the recollection:
news of my once dear Ottilia.    but wasn't it strange to get news of




496


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


Ottilia in the wildest corner of Ireland, where I never should have
thought to hear her gentle name?
Walking on that very Urrisbeg
Mountain under whose shadow I
heard Ottilia's name, Mackay, the
learned author of " The Flora Patlandica," discovered the Mediterranean heath, -such a flower as I
have often plucked on the sides of
Vesuvius, and as Proserpine, no
doubt, amused herself in gathering as
she strayed in the fields of Enna.
Here it is - the self-same flower,
peering out at the Atlantic from
Roundstone Bay; here, too, in this
wild lonely place, nestles the fragrant
memory of my Ottilia!
In a word, after a day on Ballylynch Lake (where, with a brown fly
and a single hair, I killed fourteen
salmon, the smallest twenty-nine
pounds weight, the largest somewhere about five stone ten), my young
friend Blake Bodkin Lynch Browne
(a fine lad who has made his continental tour) and I adjourned, after
dinner, to the young gentleman's
private room, for the purpose of
smoking a certain cigar; which is
never more pleasant than after a hard
day's sport, or a day spent in-doors,
or after a good dinner, or a bad one,
or at night when you are tired, or in
the morning when you are fresh, or
of a cold winter's day, or of a scorching summer's afternoon, or at any
other moment you choose to fix
upon.
What should I see in Blake's room
but a rack of pipes, such as are to be
found in almost all the bachelors'
rooms in Germany, and amongst them
was a porcelain pipe-head bearing the
image of the Kalbsbraten pump!
There it was: the old spout, the old
familiar allegory of Mars, Bacchus,
Apollo virorum, and the rest, that I
had so often looked at from Hofarchitect Speck's window, as I sat there
by the side of Dorothea. The old
gentleman had given me one of these
very pipes; for he had hundreds of
them painted, wherewith he used to


gratify almost every stranger who
came into his native town.
Any old place with which I have
once been familiar (as, perhaps, I have
before stated in these " Confessions"
-but never mind that) is in some
sort dear to me; and were I Lord
Shootingeastle or Colonel Popland, I
think after a residence of six months
there I should love the Fleet Prison.
As I saw the old familiar pipe, I took
it down, and crammed it with Cavendish tobacco, and lay down on a sofa,
and puffed away for an hour well-nigh,
thinking of old, old times.
"You're very entertaining to-night,
Fitz," says young Blake, who had
made several tumblers of Punch for
me, which I had gulped down without saying a word. " Don't ye think
ye'd be more easy in bed than snorting and sighing there on my sofa, and
groaning fit to make me go hang
myself?"
"I am thinking, Blake," says I,
"about Pumpernickel, where old
Speck gave you this pipe."
"'Deed he did," replies the young
man; "and did ye know the old
Bar'n?"
"I did," said I. "My friend, I
have been by the banks of the Bendemeer. Tell me, are the nightingales
still singing there, and do the roses
still bloom  "
" The zhwhat? "  cries Blake.
"What the divvle, Fitz, are you
growling about? Bendemeer Lake's
in Wcstmoreland, as I preshume; and
as for roses and nightingales, I give
ye my word it's Greek ye're talking to me." And Greek it very possibly was, for my young friend, though
as good across country as any man in
his county, has not the fine feeling
and tender perception of beauty which
may be found elsewhere, dear madam.
"Tell me about Speck, Blake, and
Kalbsbraten, and Dorothea, and Klingenspohr her husband."
"He with the cut across the nose, is
it?" cries Blake. " I know him well,
and his old wife."
"His old what, sir " cries Fitz,




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


497


Boodle, jumping up from his seat.
"Klingensphor's wife old! - Is he
married again?- Is Dorothca, then,
d-d-dead "
" Dead! - no more dead than you
are, only I take her to be five and
thirty. And when a woman has had
nine children, you know, she looks
none the younger; and I can tell ye,
that when she trod on my corruns at
a ball at the Grand Jukc's, I felt
something heavier than a feather on
my foot."
"Madame do Klingensphor, then,"
replied I, hesitating somewhat, " has
grown rather - rather st-st-out? " I
could hardly get out the out, and trembled I don't know why as I asked the
question.
"Stout, begad! - she weighs fourteen stone, saddle and bridle. That's
right, down goes my pipe; flop!
crash falls the tumbler into the fender!
Break away, my boy, and remember,
whoever breaks a glass here pays a
dozen."
The fact was, that the announcement of Dorothea's changed condition caused no small disturbance
within me, and I expressed it in the
abrupt manner mentioned by young
Blake.
Roused thus from my reverie, I
questioned the young fellow about his
residence at Kalbsbraten, which has
been always since the war a favorite
place for our young gentry, and heard
with some satisfaction that Potzdorff
was married to the Behrenstcin, ILaarbart had left the dragoons, the Crown
Prince had broken with the — but
mum! of what interest are all these
details to the reader, who has never
been at friendly little Kalbsbraten?
Presently Lynch reaches me down
one of the three books that formed his
library (" The Racing Calendar" and
a book of fishing-flies making up the
remainder of the set). "And there's
my album," says he. "You'll find
plenty of hands in it that you'll recognize, as you are an old Pumpernickelaner." And so I did, in truth: it
was a little book after the fashion of
22


German albums, in which good simple little ledger every friend or acquaintance of the owner inscribes a
poem or stanza from some favorite
poet or philosopher with the transcriber's own name, as thus: -
"To the true house-friend, and beloved
Irelandish youth.
"'Sera nunquam est ad bonos mores
via.'
" VACKERBART,
"Professor atthe Grand-Ducal Kalbsbrat" cn-Puml,ernickelisch Gymnasium."
Another writes, -
" ' RVadelr on roses and forget me not.'
AMALIA V. NACHTMUTZE,
GEB. V. SCEILAFROCK,"
with a flourish, and the picture, mayhap, of a rose. Let the reader imagine
some hundreds of these interesting inscriptions, and he will have an idea
of the book.
Turning over the leaves, I came
presently on Dorothea's hand. There
it was, the little neat, pretty handwriting, the dear old up-and-downstrokes that I had not looked at for
many a long year, -the Mediterranean heath, which grew on the sunniest banks of Fitz-Boodle's existence, and here found, dear, dear little sprig! in rude Galwagian boglands.
" Look at the other side of the
page" says Lynch, rather sarcastically (for I don't care to confess that
I kissed the name of "Dorothea v.
Klingenspohr, born v. Speck" written under an extremely feeble passage
of verse). "Look at the other side
of the paper! "
I did, and what do you think I
saw?
I saw the writing of five of the little Klingenspohrs, who have all
sprung up since my time.
"Ha! ha! haw!" screamed the
impertinent young Irishman, and the
story was all over Connemara and
Joyce's Coun try in a day after.




498


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


CHAPTER II.
OTTILIA IN PARTICULAR.
SOME kind critic who peruses these
writings will, doubtless, have the
goodness to point out that the simile
of the Mediterranean heath is applied to two personages in this chapter - to Ottilia and Dorothea, and
say, Psha! the fellow is but a poor
unimaginative creature not to be able
to find a simile apiece at least for the
girls; how much better would we
have done the business!
Well, it is a very pretty simile.
The girls were rivals, were beautiful,
I loved them both, -which should
have the sprig of heath? Mr. Cruikshank (who has taken to serious painting) is getting ready for the exhibition a fine piece, representing FitzBoodle on the Urrisbeg Mountain,
county Galway, Ireland, with a sprig
of heath in his hand, hesitating, like
Paris, on which of the beauties he
should bestow it. In the background
is a certain animal between two bundles of hay; but that I take to represent the critic, puzzled to which
of my young beauties to assign the
choice.
If Dorothea had been as rich as
Miss Coutts, and had come to me the
next day after the accident at the ball,
and said, " George, will you marry
me?" it must not be supposed I
would have done any such thing.
That dream had vanished forever:
rage and pride took the place of love;
and the only chance I had of recovering from my dreadful discomfiture
was by bearing it bravely, and trying,
if possible, to awaken a little compassion in my favor. I limped home
(arranging my scheme with great
presence of mind as I actually sat
spinning there on the ground) —I
limped home, sent for Pflastersticken,
the court-surgeon, and addressed him
to the following effect: " Pfastersticken," says I, "there has been an
accident at court of which you will
hear. You will send in leeches, pills,
and the deuce knows what, and you


will say that I have dislocated my
leg: for some days you will state that
I am in considerable danger. You
are a good fellow and a man of courage I know, for which very reason you
can appreciate those qualities in another; so mind, if you breathe a word
of my secret, either you or I must
lose a life."
Away went the surgeon, and the
next day all Kalbsbraten knew that
I was on the point of death: I had
been delirious all night, had had eighty
leeches, besides I don't know how
much medicine; but Kalbsbratencrs
knew to a scruple. Whenever anybody was ill, this little kind society
knew what medicines were prescribed.  Everybody in the town
knew what everybody had for dinner.
If Madame Rumpel had her satin
dyed ever so quietly, the whole society
was on the qui vive; if Countess
Pultuski sent to Berlin for a new set
of teeth, not a person in Kalbsbraten
but what was ready to compliment her
as she put them on; if Potzdorff paid
his tailor's bill, or Muffinstein bought
a piece of black wax for his mustaches, it was the talk of the little city.
And so, of course, was my accident.
In their sorrow for my misfortune,
Dorothea's was quite forgotten, and
those eighty leeches saved me. I became interesting; I had cards left at
my door; and I kept my room for a
fortnight, during which time I read
every one of M. Kotzebue's plays.
At the end of that period I was
convalescent, though still a little
lame. I called at old Speck's house
and apologized for my clumsiness,
with the most admirable coolness; I
appeared at court, and stated calmly
that I did not intend to dance any
more;   and  when    Klingenspohr
grinned, I told that young gentleman
such a piece of my mind as led to his
wearing a large sticking-plaster patch
on his nose: which was split as neatly down the middle as you would
split an orange at dessert. In a
word, wlhat man could do to repair
my defeat, I did.




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


499


There is but one thing now of
which I am ashamed- of those killing epigrams which I wrote (mon
Dieu! must I own it? -but even
the fury of my anger proves the extent of my love!) against the Speck
family. They were handed about in
confidence at court, and  made a
frightful sensation -
"Is it possible?
"There happened at Schloss P-mp-rn-ckel,
A strange mishap our sides to tickle,
And set the people in a roar; -
A strange caprice of fortune fickle:
I never thought at Pumpernickel
To see a SPECK upon the floor!"
"La Perfide Albion; or, a Caution to
Waltzers.
"(' Come to the dance,' the Briton said,
And forward D-r-th-a led,
Fair, fresh, and three and twenty I
Ah, girls, beware of Britons red!
What wonder that it turned her head?
SAT VERBUM SAPIENTI."
", Reasonsfor not ~Marrying.
" 'The lovely Miss S.
Will surely say "yes,"
You've only to ask and try;
' That subject we'll quit,'
Says Georgy the wit,
' I've a much better SPEC in my eye! '"
This last epigram   especially  was
voted so killing that it flew like wildfire; and I know for a fact that our
Charge-d'Affaires at Kalbsbraten sent
a courier express with it to the
Foreign Office in England, whence,
through our amiable Foreign Secretary, Lord P-lm-rston, it made its
way into every fashionable circle:
nay, I have reason to believe caused a
smile on the cheek of R-y-lty itself.
Now that Time has taken away the
sting of these epigrams, there can be
no harm in giving them; and 'twas
well enough then to endeavor to hide
under the lash of wit the bitter pangs
of humiliation: but my heart bleeds
now to think that I should have ever
brought a tear on the gentle cheek of
Dorothea.
Not content with this-with humiliating her by satire, and with


wounding her accepted lover across
the nose - I determined to carry my
revenge still further, and to fall in
love with somebody else. This person was Ottilia v. Schlippenschlopp.
Otho   Sigismund  Freyherr von
Schlippenschlopp,  Knight  Grand
Cross of the Ducal Order of the TwoNecked Swan of Pumpernickel, of the
Porc-et-Siflet of Kalbsbratcn, Commander of the George and Blue-Boar
of D)ummerland, Excellency, and
High  Chancellor of the    United
Duchies, lived in the second floor
of a house in the Schwapsgasse;
where, with his private income and
his revenues as Chancellor, amounting together to some 3001. per annum,
he maintained such a state as very
few other officers of the Grand-Ducal
Crown could exhibit. The Baron is
married to Maria Antoinetta, a Countess of the house of Kartoffelstadt,
branches of which have taken root all
over Germany. He has no sons, and
but one daughter, the Friulein OTTILIA.
The Chancellor is a worthy old gentleman, too fat and wheezy to preside
at the Privy Council, fond of his pipe,
his ease, and his rubber. His lady is
a very tall and pale Roman-nosed
Countess, who looks as gentle as
Mrs. Robert Roy, where, in the novel,
she is for putting Baillie Nicol Jarvie
into the lake, and who keeps the
honest Chancellor in the greatest
order. The Friulein Ottilia had not
arrived at Kalbsbraten when the little
affair between me and Dorothea was
going on; or rather had only just
come in for the conclusion of it,
being presented for the first time that
year at the ball where I —where I
met with my accident.
At the time when the Countess was
young, it was not the fashion in her
country to educate the young ladies
so highly as since they have been
educated; and provided they could
waltz, sew, and make puddings, they
were thought to be decently bred;
being seldom called upon for algebra
or Sanscrit in the discharge of the




500


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


honest duties of their lives. But
Friulein Ottilia was of the modern
school in this respect, and came back
from her pension at Strasburg speaking all the languages, dabbling in all
the sciences: an historian, a poet, -
a blue of the ultramarinest sort, in a
word. What a difference there was,
for instance, between poor, simple
Dorothea's love of novel-reading and
the profound encycloptedic learning
of Ottilia!
Before the latter arrived from Strasburg (where she had been under the
care of her aunt the canoness, Countess Ottilia of Kartoffelstadt, to whom
I here beg to offer my humblest respects), Dorothea had passed for a
bel esprit in the little court circle, and
her little simple stock of accomplishments had amused us all very well.
She used to sing " Herz, mein Ierz "
and " T'en souviens-tu," in a decent
manner (once, before heaven, I thought
her singing better than Grisi's), and
then she had a little album in which
she drew flowers, and used to embroider slippers wonderfully, and
was very merry at a game of loto or
forfeits, and had a hundred small
agremens de societe which rendered her
an acceptable member of it.
But when    Ottilia arrived, poor
Dolly's reputation was crushed in a
month. The former wrote poems
both in French and German; she
painted landscapes and portraits in
real oil; and she twanged off a rattling piece of Listz or Kalkbrenner
in such a brilliant way, that Dora
scarcely dared to touch the instrument
after her, or venture, after Ottilia had
trilled and gurgled through "Una
voce," or "Di piacer" (Rossina was
in fashion then), to lift up her little
modest pipe in a ballad. What was
the use of the poor thing going to sit
in the park, where so many of the
young officers used ever to gather
round her? Whirr! Ottilia went by
galloping on a chestnut mare with a
groom after her, and presently all the
young fellows who could buy or hire
horseflesh were prancing in her train.


When they met, Ottilia would
bounce towards her soul's darling,
and put her hands round her waist,
and call her by a thousand affectionate names, and then talk of her as
only ladies or authors can talk of one
another. How tenderly she would
hint at Dora's little imperfections of
education! - how cleverly she would
insinuate that the poor girl had no
wit! and, thank God, no more she
had. The fact is, that do what I will
I see I'm in love with her still, and
would be if she had fifty children;
but my passion blinded me then, and
every arrow that fiery Ottilia discharged I marked with savage joy.
Dolly, thank heaven, didn't mind the
wit much; she was too simple for
that. But still the recurrence of it
would leave in her heart a vague,
indefinite feeling of pain, and somehow she began to understand that her
empire was passing away, and that
her dear friend hated her like poison;
and so she married Klingenspohr.
I have written myself almost into a
reconciliation with the silly fellow
for the truth is, he has been a good,
honest husband to her, and she has
children, and makes puddings, and is
happy.
Ottilia was pale and delicate. She
wore her glistening black hair in
bands, and dressed in vapory white
muslin. She sang her own words to
her harp, and they commonly insinuated that she was alone in the world,
-that she suffered some inexpressible and mysterious heart-pangs, the
lot of all finer geniuses, - that though
she lived and moved in the world, she
was not of it, —that she was of a
consumptive tendency and might look
for a premature interment. She even
had fixed on the spot where she
should lie: the violets grew there,
she said, the river went moaning by;
the gray willow whispered sadly over
her head, and her heart pined to be
at rest. "Mother," she would say,
turning to her parent, "promise me
- promise me to lay me in that spot
when the parting hour has come!"




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


501


At which Madame de Schlippenschlopp would shriek, and grasp her
in her arms; and at which, I confess,
I would myself blubber like a child.
She had six darling friends at school,
and every courier from Kalbsbratcn
carried off whole reams of her letterpaper.
In Kalbsbraten, as in every other
German town, there are a vast number of literary characters, of whom
our young friend quickly became the
chief. They set up a literary journal,
which appeared once a week, upon
light-blue or primrose paper, and
which, in compliment to the lovely
Ottilia's maternal name, was called
"The Kartoffelnkranz."  Here are a
couple of her ballads extracted from
"The Kranz," and by far the most
cheerful specimen of her style. For
in her songs she never would willingly let off the heroines without a
suicide or a consumption. She never
would hear of such a thing as a happy
marriage, and had an appetite for
grief quite amazing in so young a
person. As for her dying and desiring to be buried under the willowtree, of which the first ballad is the
subject, though I believed the story
then, I have at present some doubts
about it. For, since the publication
of my Memoirs, I have been thrown
much into the society of literary persons (who admire my style hugely),
and egad! though some of them are
dismal enough in their works, I find
them in their persons the least sentimental class that ever a gentleman
fell in with.
"TIE WILLOW-TREE.            r
"Know ye the willow-tree      r
Whose gray leaves quiver,
Whispering gloomily           t
To yon pale river?          f
Lady, at even-tide
Wander not near it:
They say its branches hide
A sad, lost spirit 1
"Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Paled seemed her cheek to be, -
Her blue eye tearful;       t


Soon as she saw the tree,
lHer step moved fleeter.
No one was there- ah me I
No one to meet her I
"Quick beat her heart to hear
The far bell's chime
Toll from the chapel-tower
The trysting time:
But the red sun went down
In golden flame,
And though she looked round,
Yet no one came 1
"Presently came the night,
Sadly to greet her, -
Moon in her silver light,
Stars in their glitter.
Then sank the moon away
Under the billow,
Still wept the maid aloneThere by the willow 1
"Through the long darkness,
By the stream rolling,
Hour after hour went on
Tolling and tolling.
Long was the darkness,
Lonely and stilly;
Shrill came the night-wind,
Piercing and chilly.
"Shrill blew the morning breeze,
Biting and cold,
Bleak peers the gray dawn
Over the wold.
Bleak over moor and stream
Looks the gray dawn,
Gray, with dishevelled hair,
Still stands the willow thereTHE MAID IS GONE I
" Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany, -
Sing for poor maiden-hearts brok!en and
weary;
Domine, Domine!
Sing we a litany,
Wail swe and weep we a wild AMiserere!"
One of the chief beauties of this
)allad (for the translation of which I
received some well merited complinents) is the delicate way in which
he suicide of the poor young woman
inder the willow-tree is hinted at;
or that she threw herself into the
vater, and became one among the
ilies of the stream, is as clear as a
)ikestaff. Her suicide is committed
some time in the darkness, when the
low hours move on tolling and tollng, and is hinted at darkly as befits
he time and the deed.




502


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


But that unromantic brute, Van
Cutsem, the Dutch Charge-d'Affaires,
sent to " The Kartoffelnkranz " of the
week after a conclusion of the ballad,
which shows what a poor creature he
must be. His pretext for writing it
was, he said, because he could not
bear such melancholy endings to
poems and young women, and theretore he submitted the following
lines -
I.
"Long by the willow-trees
Vainly they sought her,
Wild rang the mother's screams
O'er the gray water:
'Where is my lovely one?
Where is my daughter?
II.
"' Rouse thee, Sir Constable -
Rouse thee and look;
Fisherman, bring your net,
Boatman, your hook.
Beat in the lily-beds,
Dive in the brook!'
III.
"Vainly the constable
Shouted and called her;
Vainly the fisherman
Beat the green alder;
Vainly he flung the net,
Never it hauled her I
IV.
"Mother, beside the fire
Sat, her night-cap in;
Father, in easy-chair,
Gloomily napping;
When at the window-sill
Came a light tapping I
V.
"And a pale countenance
Iooked through the casement.
Loud beat the mother's heart,
Sick with a amazement;
And at the vision, which
Came to surprise her,
Shrieked in an agony -
'Lor' I it's Elizar!
VI.
" Yes, 'twas Elizabeth -
Yes, 'twas their girl;
Pale was her cheek, and her
Hair out of curl.
' Mother I ' the loving one,
Blushing, exclaimed,
'Let not your innocent
Lizzy be blamed.


VII.
"' Yesterday, going to aunx
Jones's to tea,
Mother, dear mother, I
Forgot the door-key!
And as the night was cold,
And the way steep,
Mrs. Jones kept me to
Breakfast and sleep.'
VIII.
"Whether her Pa and Ma
Fully believed her,
That we shall never know:
Stern they received her;
And for the work of that
Cruel, though short, night
Sent her to bed without
Tea for a fortnight.
IX.
"MORAL.
"Hey diddle diddlety,
Cat and the Fiddlety,
Maidens of England, take caution
by she!
Let love and suicide
Never tempt you aside,
And always remember to take
the door-key!"
Some people laughed at this parody, and even preferred it to the Griginal; but for myself I have no patience
with the individual who can turn the
finest sentiments of our nature into
ridicule, and make every thing sacred
a subject of scorn. The next ballad
is less gloomy than that of the willowtrce, and in it the 'ovely writer expresses her longing for what has
charmed us all, and, as it were,
squeezes the whole spirit of the fairy
tale into a few stanzas:
"FAIRY DAYS.
"Beside the old hall-fire —upon my
nurse's knee,
Of happy fairy days - what tales were
told to me I
I thought the world was once -all peopled with princesses,
And my heart would beat to hear -
their loves and their distresses;
And many a quiet night, —in slumber
sweet and deep,
The pretty fairy people-would visit
me in sleep.
"I saw them in my dreams - come flying
east and west,
With wondrous fairy gifts-the newborn babe they blessed;




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


503


One has brought a jewel — and one a
crown of gold,
And one has brought a curse - but she
is wrinkled and old.
The gentle queen turns pale-to hear
those words of sin,
But the king he only laughs - and bids
the dance begin.
The babe has grown to be-the fairest
of the land
And rides the forest green-a hawk
upon her hand.
An ambling palfrey white -a golden
robe and crown;
I've seen her in my dreams - riding up
and down;
And heard the ogre laugh - as she fell
into his snare,
At the little tender creature - who wept
and tore her hair!
"But ever when it seemed- her need
was at the sorest
A prince in shining mail - comes prancing through the forest.
A waving ostrich-plume -a buckler
burnished bright;
I've seen him in my dreams-good
sooth I a gallant knight.
Hiis lips are coral red - beneath a dark
mustache;
See how he waves his hand - and how
his blue eyes flash I
"'Come forth, thou Paynim knight I -
he shouts in accents clear.
The giant and the maid - both tremble
his voice to hear.
Saint Mary guard him well I - he draws
his falchion keen,
The giant and the knight —are fighting on the green.
I see them in my dreams - his blade
gives stroke on stroke,
The giant pants and reels -and tumbles like an oak I
" With what a blushing grace - he falls
upon his knee
And takes the lady's hand -and whispers, ' You are free I '
Ah I happy childish tales — of knight
and fai;rie I
I waken from my dreams - but there's
ne'er a knight for me;
I waken from my dreams —and wish
that I could be
A child by the old hall-fire - upon my
nurse's knee."
Indeed, Ottilia looked like a fairy
herself: pale, small, slim, and airy.
You could not see her face, as it were,
for her eyes, which were so wild, and
so tender, and shone so that they
would have dazzled an eagle, much


more a poor goose of a Fitz-Boodle.
In the theatre, when she sat on the
opposite side of the house, those big
eyes used to pursue me as I sat pretending to listen to the "Zauberflite," or to "Don Carlos," or " Egmont," and at the tender passages,
especially, they would have such a
winning, wceeping, imploring look
with them as flesh and blood could
not bear.
Shall I tell how I became a poet
for the dear girl's sake  'Tis surely unnecessary after the reader has
perused the above versions of her
poems. Shall I tell what wild follies
I committed in prose as well as in
verse? how I used to watch under
her window of icy evenings, and with
chilblainy fingers sing serenades to
her on the guitar? Shall I tell how,
in a sledging-party, I had the happiness to drive her, and of the delightful privilege which is, on these occasions, accorded to the driver?
Any reader who has spent a winter
in Germany perhaps knows it. A
large party of a score or more of
sledges is formed. Away they go to
some pleasure-house that has been
previously fixed upon, where a ball
and collation are prepared, and where
each man, as his partner descends,
has the delicious privilege of saluting
her. O heavens and earth! I may
grow to be a thousand years old, but
I can never forget the rapture of that
salute.
" The keen air has given me an appetite," said the dear angel, as we entered the supper-room; and to say
the truth, fairy as she was, she made a
remarkably good meal —consuming
a couple of basins of white soup, several kinds of German sausages, some
Westphalia ham, some white puddings, an anchovy-salad made witl
cornichons and onions, sweets innumerable, and a considerable quantity
of old Steinwein and rum-punch afterwards. Then she got up and danced
as brisk as a fairy; in which operation I of course did not follow her, but
had the honor, at the close of the even




504


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


ing's amusement, once more to have
her by my side in the sledge, as we
swept in the moonlight over the snow.
Kalbsbraten is a very hospitable
place as far as tea-parties are concerned, but I never was in one where
dinners were so scarce. At the palace
they occurred twice or thrice in a
month; but on these occasions spinsters were not invited, and I seldom
had the opportunity of seeing my
Ottilia except at evening-parties.
Nor are these, if the truth must be
told, very much to my taste.  Dancing I have forsworn, whist is too
severe a study for me, and I do not
like to play ecarte with old ladies,
who are sure to cheat you in the
course of an evening's play.
But to have an occasional glance
at Ottilia was enough; and many
and many a napoleon did I lose to
her mamma, Madame de Schlippenschlopp, for the blest privilege of
looking at her daughter.  Many is
the tea-party I went to, shivering
into cold clothes after dinner (which
is my abomination) in order to have
one little look at the lady of my
soul.
At these parties there were generally refreshments of a nature more
substantial than mere tea-punch,
both milk and rum, hot wine, consomme, and a peculiar and exceedingly disagreeable sandwich made of
a mixture of cold white puddings
and garlic, of which I have forgotten
the name, and always detested the
savor.
Gradually a conviction came upon
me that Ottilia ate a great deal.
I do not dislike to see a woman
cat comfortably. I even think that
an agreeable woman ought to be
friande, and should love certain little
dishes and knicknacks. I know that
though at dinner they commonly
take nothing, they have had roastmutton with the children at two, and
laugh at their pretensions to starvation.
No! a woman who eats a grain of
rice, like Amina, in " The Arabian


Nights," is absurd and unnatural;
but there is a modus in rebus: there is
no reason why she should be a ghoul,
amonster, an ogress, a horrid gormandizeress - faugh
It was, then, with a rage amounting almost to agony, that I found
Ottilia ate too much at every meal.
She was always eating, and always
eating too much. If I went there in
the morning, there was the horrid
familiar odor of those oniony sandwiches; if in the afternoon, dinner
had been just removed, and I was
choked by reeking reminiscences of
roast meat.  Tea we have spoken
of. She gobbled up more cakes than
any six people present; then came
the supper and the sandwiches
again, and the egg-flip and the horrible rum-punch.
She was as thin as ever —paler if
possible than ever: - but, by hea,
vens! her nose began to grou red!
lMon Dieu! how I used to watch
and watch it!   Some days it was
purple, some days had more of the
vermilion- I could take an affidavit
that after a heavy night's supper it
was more swollen, more red than
before.
I recollect one night when we were
playing a round game (I had been
looking at her nose very eagerly and
sadly for some time), she of herself
brought up the conversation about
eating, and confessed that she had
five meals a day.
" That accounts for it!" says I,
flinging down the cards, and springing up and rushing like a madman
out of the room. I rushed away into
the night, and wrestled with my
passion.  "What! Marry," said I,
"a woman who eats meat twenty-one
times in a week, besides breakfast and
tea? Marry a sarcophagus, a cannibal, a butcher's shop A -Away! " I
strove and strove. I drank, I groaned,
I wrestled and fought with my love
- but it overcame me: one look of
those eyes brought me to her feet
again. I yielded myself up like a
slave; I fawned and whined for her;




FITZ-BOODLE'S CONFESSIONS.


T,1        I,   ~


I.     I           r.


1 tnougnt ner nose was not so very ive hundred people on silver, and the
red.                              repast was certainly a princely and
Things came to this pitch that I magnificent one.
sounded his Highness's Minister to  I had, of course, arranged with
know whether he would give me Mademoiselle Schlippenschlopp. Capservice in the Duchy; I thought of tains Frumpcl and Fridelberger of
purchasing an estate there. I was the Duke's Guard, Mesdames de Butgiven to understand that I should get tcrbrod and Bopp, formed our little
a chamberlain's key and some post party.
of honor did I choose to remain, and  The first course, of course, conI even wrote home to my brother sisted of the oysters.  Ottilia's eyes
Tom in England, hinting a change in gleamed with double brilliancy as the
my condition.                     lackey opened them.   There were
At this juncture, the town of Ham- nine apiece for us - how well I recolburg sent his Highness the Grand lect the number!
Duke (lpropos of a commercial union  I never was much of an oysterwhich was pending between the two cater, nor can I relish them in natuStates) a singular present: no less ralibus as some do, but require a
than a certain number of barrels of quantity of sauces, lemons, cayenne
oysters, which are considered extreme peppers, bread and butter, and so
luxuries in Germany, especially in forth, to render them palatable.
the inland parts of the country, where  By the time I had made my prepathey are almost unknown.          rations, Ottilia, the Captains, and
In honor of the oysters and the the two ladies, had well-nigh finished
new commercial treaty (which arrived theirs.  Indeed Ottilia had gobbled
in fourqons despatched for the pur- up all hers, and there were only my
pose), his Highness announced a nine left in the dish.
grand supper and ball, and invited  I took one-IT WAS BAD. The
all the quality of all the principalities scent of it was enough,- they were
round about.   It was a splendid all bad.   Ottilia had eaten nine bad
affair: the grand  saloon brilliant oysters.
with hundreds of uniforms and bril-  I put down the horrid shell. Her
liant toilets —not the least beauti- eyes glistened more and more; she
ful among them, I need not say, could not take them off the tray.
was Ottilia.                        "Dear Herr George," she said,
At midnight the supper-rooms were " will you give me your oysters?"
thrown open, and we formed into little parties of six, each having a table,  She had them all down - before -
nobly served with plate, a lackey in I could say- Jack - Robinson
attendance, and a gratifying ice-pail
or two of champagne to eslayer the  I left Kalbsbraten that night, and
supper. It was no small cost to serve have never been there since.
22*






THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.
BEING APPEALS TO THE UNEMPLOYED YOUNGER SONS OF THE
NOBILITY.


FIRST PROFESSION.
THE fair and honest proposition in
which I offered to communicate privately with parents and guardians,
relative to two new and lucrative professions which I had discovered, has,
I find from the publisher, elicited not
one single inquiry from those personages, who I can't but think are very
little careful of their children's welfare to allow such a chance to be
thrown away. It is not for myself I
speak, as my conscience proudly tells
me; for though I actually gave up
Ascot in order to be in the way
should any father of a family be inclined to treat with me regarding my
discoveries, yet I am grieved, not on
my own account, but on theirs, and
for the wretched penny-wise policy
that has held them back.
That they must feel an interest in
my announcement is unquestionable.
Look at the way in which the public
prints of all parties have noticed my
appearance in the character of a literary man! Putting aside my personal narrative, look at the offer I
made to the nation, - a choice of no
less than two new professions! Suppose I had invented as many new
kinds of butcher's-meat; does any one
pretend that the world, tired as it is
of the perpetual recurrence of beef,
mutton, veal, cold beef, cold veal, cold
mutton, hashed ditto, would not have
jumped eagerly at the delightful intelligence that their old, stale, stupid
meals were about to be varied at
last?
Of course people would have come
forward. I should have had deputations from Mr. Gibletts and the


fashionable butchers of this world;
petitions would have poured in from
Whitechapel salesmen; the speculators panting to know the discovery;
the cautious with stock in hand eager
to bribe me to silence, and prevent
the certain depreciation of the goods
which they already possessed.   I
should have dealt with them, not
greedily or rapaciously, but on honest
principles of fair barter.  " Gentlemen," I should have said, or rather,
" Gents "- which affectionate diminutive is, I am given to understand, at
present much in use among commercial persons — " Gents, my researches,
my genius, or my good fortune, have
brought me to the valuable discovery
about which you are come to treat.
Will you purchase it outright, or will
you give the discoverer an honest
share of the profits resulting from
your speculation?  My position in
the world puts me out of the power
of executing the vast plan I have
formed, but 'twill be a certain fortune
to him who engages in it; and why
should not I, too, participate in that
fortune?"
Such would have been my manner
of dealing with the world, too, with
regard to my discovery of the new
professions. Does not the world
want new professions? Are there
not thousands of well-educated men
panting, struggling, pushing, starving, in the old ones? Grin tenants
of chambers looking out for attorneys
who never come? - wretched physicians practising the stalejoke of being
called out of church until people no
longer think fit even to laugh or to
pity? Are there not hoary-headed
midshipmen, antique ensigns growing




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


507


mouldy upon fifty years' half-pay?
Nay, are there not men who would pay
any thing to be employed rather than
remain idle? But such is the glut
of professionals, the horrible cutthroat competition among them, that
there is no chance for one in a thousand, be he ever so willing, or brave,
or clever: in the great ocean of life
he makes a few strokes, and puffs,
and sputters, and sinks, and the innumerable waves overwhelm him, and
he is heard of no more.
Walking to my banker's t'other
-day- and I pledge my sacred honor
this story is true-I met a young
fellow whom I had known attache
to an embassy abroad, a young man
of tolerable parts, unwearied patience,
with some fortune too, and, moreover,
allied to a noble Whig family, whose
interest had procured him his appointmcnt to the legation at Kriihwinkel,
where I knew him. ie remained for
ten years a diplomatic character; he
was the working-man of the legation:
he sent over the most diffuse translations of the German papers for the
use of the Foreign Secretary: he
signed passports with most astonishing ardor; he exiled himself for
ten long years in a wretched German
town, dancing attendance at courtballs, and paying no end of money
for uniforms. And for what? At
the end of the ten years - during
which period of labor he never received a single shilling from  the
Government which employed him
(rascally spendthrift of a Government,
va!), - lie was offered the paid attaches/hip to the court of H. M. the King of
the Mosquito Islands, and refused that
appointment a week before the Whig
Ministry retired. Then he knew that
there was no further chance for him,
and incontinently quitted the diploinatic service forever, and I have no
doubt will sell his uniform a bargain.
The Government had him a bargain
certainly; nor is he by any means
the first person who has been sold at
that price.
Well, my worthy friend met me in




the street and informed me of these
facts with a smiling countenance,which I thought a master-piece of diplomacy. Fortune had been belaboring and kicking him for ten whole
years, and here he was grinning in my
face; could Monsieur de Talleyrand
have acted better? " I have given up
diplomacy," said Protocol, quite simply and good - humoredly, "for between you and me, my good fellow,
it's a very slow profession; sure perhaps, but slow. But though I gained
no actual pecuniary remuneration in
the service, I have learned all the
languages in Europe, which will be invaluable to me in my new profession -
the mercantile one-in which directly I looked out for a post I found one."
" What! and a good pay?" said I.
"Why, no; that's absurd, you
know. No young men, strangers to
business, are paid much to speak of.
Besides, I don't look to a paltry clerk's
pay. Some day, when thoroughly
acquainted with the business (I shall
learn it in about seven years), I shall
go into a good house with my capital,
and become junior partner."
" And meanwhile? "
" Meanwhile I conduct the foreign
correspondence of the eminent house
of Jam, Ram, and Johnson: and very
heavy it is, I can tell you. From
nine till six every day, except foreign
post days, and then from nine till
eleven. Dirty dark court to sit in:
snobs to talk to,- great change, as
you may fancy."
" And you do all this for nothing? "
"I do it to learn the business."
And so saying Protocol gave me a
knowing nod, and went his way.
Good heavens! I thought, and is
this a true story? Are there hundreds of young men in a similar situation at the present day, giving away
the best years of their youth for
the sake of a mere windy hope
of something in old age, and dying before they come to the goal?
In seven years, he hopes to have a
business, and then to have the pleasure of risking his money? He will




508


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


be admitted into some great house
as a particular favor, and three months
after the house will fail. Has it not
happened to a thousand of our acquaintance? I thought I would run
after him and tell him about the new
professions that I have invented.
"Oh! ay! those you wrote about in
'Fraser's Magazine.' Egad! George,
Necessity makes strange fellows of
us all. Who would ever have thought
of you spelling, much more writing? "
( Never mind that. Will you, if I
tell you of a new profession, that, with
a little cleverness and instruction
from me, you may bring to a most
successful end - will you, I say, make
me a fair return? "
" My dear creature," replied young
Protocol, "what nonsense you talk!
I saw that very humbug in the magazine. You say you have made a
great discovery -very good; you
puff your discovery-very right;
you ask money for it - nothing can
be more reasonable; and then you
say that you intend to make your
discovery public in the next number
of the Magazine. I)o you think I
will be such a fool as to give you
money for a thing which I can have
next month for nothing? Good-by,
George, my boy; the next discovery
you make, I'll tell you how to get a
better price for it."  And with this
the fellow walked off, looking supremely knowing and clever.
This tale of the person I have called
Protocol is not told without a purpose, you may be sure. In the first
place, it shows what are the reasons
that nobody has made application to
me concerning the new professions,
namely, because I have passed my
word to make them known in this
Magazine, which persons may have
for the purchasing, stealing, borrowing, or hiring, and, therefore, they
will never think of applying personally to me. And, secondly, his story
proves also my assertion, viz., that all
professions are most cruelly crowded
at present, and that men will make
the most absurd outlay and sacrifices


for the smallest chance of success at
some future period. Well, then, I
will be a benefactor to my race, if I
cannot be to one single member of it,
whom I love better than most men.
What I have discovered I will make
known; there shall be no shilly-shallying work here, no circumlocution, no
bottle-conjuring business. But, oh!
I wish for all our sakes that I had
had an opportunity to impart the secret to one or two persons only; for,
after all, but one or two can live in
the manner I would suggest. And
when the discovery is made known, I
am sure ten thousand will try. The
rascals! I can see their brass plates
gleaming over scores of doors. Competition will ruin my professions, as
it has all others.
It must be premised that the two
professions are intended for gentlcmen, and gentlemen only —men of
birth  and  education.  No others
could support the parts which they
will be called upon to play.
And, likewise, it must be honestly
confessed, that these professions have,
to a certain degree, been exercised
before. I)o not cry out at this and
say it is no discovery! I say it is a
discovery. It is a discovery if I show
you- a gentleman -a profession
which you may exercise without derogation, or loss of standing, with certain profit, nay, possibly with honor,
and of which, until the reading of
this present page, you never thought
but as of a calling beneath your rank
and quite below your reach. Sir, I
do not mean to say that I create a profession. I cannot create gold; but
if, when discovered, I find the means
of putting it in your pocket, do I or
do I not deserve credit?
I see you sneer contemptuously
when I mention to you the word
AUCTIONEER.    "Is this all," you
say, "that this fellow brags and
prates about? An auctioneer, forsooth! he might as well have 'invented ' chimney-sweeping."
No such thing. A little boy of
seven, be he ever so low of birth, can




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


t09


do this as well as you. Do you suppose that little stolen Master Montague made a better sweeper than the
lowest bred chummy that yearly
commemorates his release? No, sir.
And he might have been ever so
much a genius or a gentleman, and
not have been able to make his trade
respectable.
But all such trades as can be rendered decent the aristocracy has
adopted one by one. At first they
followed  the profession  of arms,
flouting all others as unworthy, and
thinking it ungentlemanlike to know
how to read or write. They did not go
into the church in very early days,
till the money to be got from the
church was strong enough to tempt
them. It is but of later years that
they have condescended to go to the
bar, and since the same time only that
we see some of them following trades.
I know an English lord's son who
is, or was, a wine-merchant (he may
have been a bankrupt for what I
know). As for bankers, several partners in banking-houses have four balls
to their coronets, and I have no
doubt that another sort of banking,
viz., that practised by gentlemen who
lend small sums of money upon deposited securities, will be one day followed by the noble order, so that
they may have four balls on their
coronets and carriages, and three in
front of their shops.
Yes, the nobles come peoplewards
as the people, on the other hand, rise
and mingle with the nobles. With
the plebs, of course, Fitz-Boodle, in
whose veins flows the blood of a
thousand kings, can have nothing to
do; but, watching the progress of the
world, 'tis impossible to deny that the
good old days of our race are passed
away. We want money still, as much
as ever we did; but we cannot go
down from our castles with horse and
sword and waylay fat merchants —
no, no, confounded new policemen
and the assize-courts prevent that.
Younger brothers cannot be pages to
noble houses, as of old they were,


serving gentle dames without disgrace, handing my lord's rose-water
to wash, or holding his stirrup as he
mounted for the chase. A page, forsooth! A pretty figure would George
Fitz-Boodle or any other man of fashion cut, in a jacket covered with sugarloafed buttons, and handing in pennypost notes on a silver tray. The plebs
have robbed us of that trade among
others: nor, I confess, do I much
grudge them theirtrouvaille. Neither
can we collect together a few scores of
free lances, like honest Hugh Calverly, in the Black Prince's time, or
brave Harry Butler of Wallenstein's
dragoons, and serve this or that prince,
Peter the Cruel or Henry of Trastamare, Gustavus or the Emperor, at
our leisure; or, in default of service,
fight and rob on our own gallant account, as the good gentlemen of old
did. Alas! no. In South America
or Texas, perhaps, a man might have
a chance that way; but in the ancient
world no man can fight except in the
king's service (and a mighty bad service that is too), and the lowest European sovereign, were it Baldomero
Espartero himself, would think nothing of seizing the best-born condottiere that ever drew sword, and shooting him down like the vulgarest deserter.
What, then, is to be done? We
must discover fresh fields of enterprise- of peaceable and commercial
enterprise in a peaceful and commercial age.  I say, then, that the auctioneer's pulpit has never yet been
ascended by a scion of the aristocracy,
and am prepared to prove that they
might scale it, and do so with dignity
and profit.
For the auctioneer's pulpit is just
the peculiar place where a man of
social refinement, of elegant wit, of
polite perceptions, can bring his wit,
his eloquence, his taste, and his experience of life, most delightfully into
play. It is not like the bar, where
the better and higher qualities of a
man of fashion find no room for exercise. In defending John Jorrocks




510


rHE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


in an action of trespass, for cutting
down a stick in Sam Snooks's field,
what powers of mind do you require?
-powers of mind, that is, which Mr.
Sergeant Snorter, a butcher's son with
a great loud voice, a sizar at Cambridge, a wrangler, and so forth, does
not possess as well as yourself?
Snorter has never been in decent society in his life. I-e thinks the bar-mess
the most fashionable assemblage in
Europe, and the jokes of "grand
day" the ne plus ultra of wit. Snorter
lives near Russell Square, eats beef
and Yorkshire-pudding, is a judge of
port-wine, is in all social respects your
inferior. Well, it is ten to one but in
the case of Snooks v. Jorrocks, before
mentioned, le will be a better advocate than you; he knows the law of
the case entirely, and better probably
than you. He can speak long, loud,
to the point, grammatically-more
grammatically than you, no doubt,
will condescend to do. In the case of
Snooks v. Jorrocks he is all that can
be desired.  And so about dry disputes, respecting real property, he
knows the law; and, beyond this, has
no more need to be a gentleman than
my body-servant has-who, by the
way, from constant intercourse with
the best society, is almost a gentleman. But this is apart from   the
question.
Now, in the matter of auctioneering, this, I apprehend, is not the case,
and I assert that a high-bred gentleman, with good powers of mind and
speech, must, in such a profession,
make a fortune. I do not mean in all
auctioneering matters.  I do  not
mean that such a person should be
called upon to sell the good-will of a
public-house, or discourse about the
value of the beer-barrels, or bars with
pewter fittings, or the beauty of a
trade doing a stroke of so many hogsheads a week. I do not ask a gentleman to go down and sell pigs, ploughs,
and cart-horses, at Stoke Pogis; or to
enlarge at the Auction-Rooms, Wapping, upon the beauty of " The Lively
Sally" schooner. lThese articles of


commerce or use can be better appreciated by persons in a different rank of
life to his.
But there are a thousand cases in
which a gentleman only can do justice to the sale of objects which the
necessity or convenience of the genteel world may require to change
hands. All articles properly called
of taste should be put undoe his
charge. Pictures,-he is a travelled
man, has seen and judged the best
galleries of Europe, and can speak of
them as a common person cannot.
For, mark you, you must have the
confidence of your society, you must
be able to be familiar with them, to
plant a happy mot in a graceful manner, to appeal to my lord or the duchess in such a modest, easy, pleasant
way as that her grace should not be
hurt by your allusion to her-nay,
amused (like the rest of the company)
by the manner in which it was done.
What is more disgusting than the
familiarity of a snob? What more
loathsome than the swaggering quackery of some present holders of the
hammer? There was a late sale, for
instance, which made some noise in
the world (I mean the late Lord Gimcrack's, at Dilberry Hill). Ah! what
an opportunity was lost there! I declare solemnly that I believe, but for
the absurd quackery and braggadocio
of the advertisements, much more
money would have been bid; people
were kept away by the vulgar trumpeting of the auctioneer, and could not
help thinking the things were worthless that were so outrageously lauded.
They say that sort of Bartholomewfair advocacy (in which people are
invited to an entertainment by the
medium of a hoarse yelling beef-eater,
twenty-four drums, and a jack-pudding turning head over heels) is absolutely necessary to excite the public
attention.  What an error! I say
that the refined individual so accosted
is more likely to close his cars, and,
shuddering, run away from the booth.
Poor Iorace Waddlcpoodle! to think
that thy gentle accumulation of bric.




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.                  511
abrac should have passed away in He will not outrageously and indissuch a manner! by means of a man criminately laud all objects commitwho brings down a butterfly with a ted to his charge, for he knows the
blunderbuss, and talks of a pin'shead value of praise; that diamonds, could
through a speaking-trumpet! Why, we have them by the bushel, would
the auctioneer's very voice was enough be used as coals; that, above all, he
to crack the Sevres porcelain, and has a character of sincerity to supblow the lace into annihilation.  Let port; that he is not merely the advoit be remembered that I speak of the cate of the person who employs him,
gentleman in his public character but that the public is his client too,
merely, meaning to insinuate nothing who honors him and confides in him.
more than I would by stating that Ask him to sell a copy of Rafaelle for
Lord Brougham speaks with a north- an original; a trumpery modern Bruscrn accent, or that the voice of sels counterfeit for real old Mechlin;
Mr. Sheil is sometimes unpleasantly some common French forged crockery
shrill,                           for the old delightful, delicate DresNow the character I have formed den china; and he will quit you with
to myself of a great auctioneer is this. scorn, or order his servant to show
I fancy him a man of first-rate and you the door of his study.
irreproachable birth and fashion. I  Study, by the way, - no, "study" is
fancy his person so agreeable that it a vulgar word; every word is vulgar
must be a pleasure for ladies to which a man uses to give the world
behold and tailors to dress it. As a an exaggerated notion of himself
private man lie must move in the very or his condition. When the wretchbest society, which will flock round ed bagman, brought up to give evihis pulpit when he mounts it in his dence before Judge Coltman, was
public calling. It will be a privilege asked what his trade was, and replied
for vulgar people to attend the hall that "lle represented the house of
where he lectures; and they will con- Dobson and HIobson," he showed
sider it an honor to be allowed to pay himself to be a vulgar, mean-souled
their money for articles the value of wretch, and was most properly repriwhich is stamped by his high recom- manded by his lordship. To be a
mendation. Nor can such a person bagman is to be humble but not of
be a mere fribble; nor can any loose necessity vulgar. Pomposity is vulhanger-on of fashion imagine lie may gar, to ape a higher rank than your
assume the character. The gentle- own is vulgar, for an ensign of militia
man auctioneer must be an artist to call himself captain is vulgar, or
above all, adoring his profession; and for a bagman to style himself the
adoring it, what must he not know? "representative"  of Dobson  and
He must have a good knowledge of Hobson.    The honest auctioneer,
the history and language of all na- then, will not call his room his study;
tions; not the knowledge of the mere but his " private room," or his office,
critical scholar, but of the lively and or whatever may be the phrase comelegant man of the world. He will monly used among auctioneers.
not commit the gross blunders of pro-  He will not for the same reason call
nunciation that untravelled English- himself (as once in a momentary feelmen perpetrate; he will not degrade ing of pride and enthusiasm for the
his subject by coarse eulogy, or sick- profession I thought he should) - he
en his audience with vulgar banter. will not call himself an "advocate,"
lHe will know where to apply praise but an auctioneer. There is no need
and wit properly; he will have the to attempt to awe people by big titles;
tact only acquired in good society, let each man bear his own name withand know where a joke is in place, out shame. And a very gentlemanand how far a compliment may go. like and agreeable, though exception



512


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


al position (for it is clear that there canes, valuable arms, picturesque ancannot be more than two of the class), tiquities, with what eloquent entrainemay the auctioneer occupy.        ment might he not speak! He feels
He must not sacrifice his honesty, every one of these things in his
then, either for his own sake or his heart.  He has all the tastes of
clients', in any way, nor tell fibs about the fashionable world.  Dr. Meyhimselfor them. He is by no means rick cannot be more enthusiastic
called upon to draw the long bow in about an old suit of armor than
their behalf; all that his office obliges he; Sir Harris Nicholas not more
him to do - and let us hope his dis- eloquent regarding the gallant times
position will lead him to do it also -  in which it was worn, and the brave
is to take a favorable, kindly, philan- histories connected with it. He takes
thropic view of the world; to say up a pearl necklace with as much
what can fairly be said by a good- delight as any beauty who was sighnatured and ingenious man in praise ing to wear it round her own snowy
of any article for which he is desirous throat, and hugs a china monster
to awaken public sympathy.   And with as much joy as the oldest
how readily and pleasantly may this duchess could do.  Nor must he
be done! I will take upon myself, affect these things; lie must feel them.
for instance, to write an culogium upon He is a glass in which all the tastes
So-and-So's last novel, which shall be of fashion are reflected. He must be
every word of it true; and which every one of the characters to whom
work, though to some discontented he addresses himself-a genteel
spirits it might appear dull, may Goethe or Shakspeare, a fashionable
be shown to be really amusing and world-spirit.
instructive, - nay, is amusing and  How can a man be all this and not
instructive, - to those who have the be a gentleman; and not have had an
art of discovering where those pre- education in the midst of the best
cious qualities lie.              company - an insight into the most
An auctioneer should have the delicate feelings, and wants, and
organ of truth large; of imagination usages? The pulpit oratory of such
and comparison, considerable; of a man would be invaluable; people
wit, great; of benevolence, excessive- would flock to listen to him from far
ly large.                         and near. He might out of a single
And how happy might such a man teacup cause streams of world-phibe, and cause others to be!   le losophy to flow, which would be
should go through the world laugh- drunk in by grateful thousands; and
ing, merry, observant, kind-hearted. draw out of an old pincushion points
He should love every thing in the of wit, morals, and experience, that
world, because his profession regards would make a nation wise.
every thing. With books of lighter  Look round, examine THE ANNALS
literature (for I do not recommend OF AUCTIONS, as Mr. Robins rethe genteel auctioneer to meddle with marks, and (with every respect for
heavy antiquarian and philological him and his brethren) say, is there
works) he should be elegantly conver- in the profession SUCH A MAN? Do
sant, being able to give a neat history we want such a man? Is such a man
of the author, a pretty sparkling kind likely or not likely to make an imcriticism of the work, and an appro- mense fortune?  Can we get such a
priate eulogium upon the binding, man, except out of the very best
which would make those people read society, and among the most favored
who never read before; or buy, at there?
least, which is his first consideration.  Everybody answers "No!"  I
Of pictures, we have already spoken. knew you would answer no. And
Of china, of jewelry, of gold-headed now, gentlemen, who have laughed




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


513


at my pretension to discover a profession, say, have I not? I have laid
my finger upon the spot where the
social deficit exists. I have shown
that we labor under a want; and when
the world wants, do we not know that
a man will step forth to fill the vacant
space that Fate has left for him? Pass
we now to theSECOND    PROFESSION.
THis profession, too, is a great,
lofty, and exceptional one, and discovered by me considering  these
things, and deeply musing upon the
necessities of society. Nor let honorable gentlemen imagine that I am
enabled to offer them in this profession, more than any other, a promise
of what is called future glory, deathless fame, and so forth. All that I
say is, that I can put young men in
the way of making a comfortable
livelihood, and leaving behind them,
not a na.ne, but, what is better, a
decent maintenance to their children.
Fitz-Boodle is as good a name as any in
England. General Fitz-Boodle, who,
in Marlborough's time and in conjunction with the famous Van Slaap,
beat the French in the famous action
of Vischzouchee, near Mardyk, in
Holland, on the 14th of February,
1709, is promised an immortality upon
his tomb in Westminster Abbey;
but he died of apoplexy, deucedly in
debt, two years afterwards: and what
after that is the use of a name?
No, no; the age of chivalry is past.
Take the twenty-four first men who
come into the club, and ask who they
are, and how they made their money?
There's Woolsey-Sackville: his father was Lord Chancellor, and sat on
the woolsack, whence he took his
title; his grandfather dealt in coalsacks, and not in wool-sacks,- small
coal-sacks, dribbling out little supplies of black diamonds to the poor.
Yonder comes Frank Leveson, in a
huge broad-brimmed hat, his shirtcuffs turned up to his elbows. Leveson is as gentlemanly a fellow as the


world contains, and if he has a fault,
is perhaps too finikin.  Well, you
fancy him related to the Sutherland
family: nor, indeed, does honest
Frank deny it; hut entre nous, my
good sir, his father was an attorney,
and his grandfather a bailiff in Chancery Lane, bearing a name still older
than that of Leveson, namely, Levy.
So it is that this confounded equality
grows and grows, and has laid the good
old nobility by.the heels. Look at
that venerable Sir Charles Kitely, of
Kitely Park: he is interested about
the Ashantees, and is just come from
Exeter Hall. Kitely discounted bills
in the City in the year 1787, and
gained his baronetcy by a loan to
the French princes. All these points
of history are perfectly well known;
and do you fancy the world cares?
I'sha! Profession is no disgrace to a
man: be what you like, provided you
succeed.  If Mr. Fauntleroy could
come to life with a million of money,
you and I would dine with him: you
know we would; for why should we
be better than our neighbors?
Put, then, out of your head, the
idea that this profession is unworthy
of you: take any that may bring you
profit, and thank him that puts you
in the way of being rich.
The profession I would urge (upon
a person duly qualified to undertake it) has. I confess, at the first
glance, something ridiculous about it;
and will not appear to young ladies
so romantic as the calling of a gallant
soldier, blazing with glory, gold lace,
and vermilion coats; or a dear delightful clergyman, with a sweet blue
eye, and a pocket-handkerchief scented
charmingly with lavender-water. The
profession I allude to will, I own, be
to young women disagreeable, to
sober men trivial, to great stupid
moralists unworthy.
But mark my words for it, that in
the religious world (I have once or
twice, by mistake no doubt, had the
honor of dining in "serious" houses,
and can vouch for the fact that the
dinners there arc of excellent quality)




514


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


- in the serious world, in the great
mercantile world, among the legal
community (notorious feeders), in
every house in town (except some
haltfdozen which can afford to do
without such aid), the man I propose
might speedily render himself indispensable.
Does the reader now begin to take?
Have I hinted enough for him that
he may see with eagle glance the immense beauty of the profession I am
about to unfold to him? We have all
seen Gunter and Chevet; Fregoso, on
the Puerta del Sol (a relation of the exMinister Calomarde), is a good purveyor enough for the benighted
olla-eaters of Madrid; nor have I any
fault to find with Guimard, a Frenchman, who has lately set up in the
Toledo, at Naples, where he furnishes
people with decent food.  It has
given me pleasure, too, in walking
about London-in the Strand, in
Oxford Street, and elsewhere, to see
fournisseurs and comestible-merchants
newly set up.  Messrs. Morell have
excellent articles in their warehouses;
Fortnum and Mason are known to
most of my readers.
But what is not known, what is
wanted, what is languished for in England is a dinner-master,- a gentleman
who is not a provider of meat or wine,
like the parties before named, who can
have no earthly interest in the price
of truffled turkeys or dry champagne
beyond that legitimate interest which
lie may feel for his client, and which
leads him to see that the latter is not
cheated by his tradesmen. For the
dinner-giver is almost naturally an
ignorant man. How in mercy's name
can Mr. Sergeant Snorter, who is
all day at Westminster, or in
chambers, know possibly the mysteries, the delicacy, of dinner-giving?
How can Alderman Pogson know
any thing beyond the fact that venison
is good with currant-jelly, and that
he likes lots of green fat with his
turtle? Snorter knows law, Pogson
is acquainted with the state of the
tallow market; but what should he


know of eating, like you and me,
who have given up our time to it?
(I say ile only familiarly, for I have
only reached so far in the science as
to know that I know nothing.) But
men there are, gifted individuals,
who have spent years of deep thought
- not merely intervals of labor, but
hours of study every day-over
the gormandizing science -who like
alchemists, have let their fortunes go,
guinea by guinea, into the all-devouring pot,-who, ruined as they sometimes are, never get a guinea by
chance but they will have a plate of
pease in May with it, or a little feast
of ortolans, or a piece of Glo'ster salmon, or one more flask from their
favorite claret-bin.
It is not the ruined gastronomist
that I would advise a person to select
as his table-master; for the opportunities of peculation would be too great
in a position of such confidencesuch complete abandonment of one
man to another. A ruined man
would be making bargains with the
tradesmen. They would offer to cash
bills for him, or send him opportune
presents of wine, which he could convert into money, or bribe him in one
way or another. Let this be done,
and the profession of table-master is
ruined.  Snorter and Pogson may
almost as well order their own dinners, as be at the mercy of a "gastronomic agent" whose faith is not
beyond all question.
A vulgar mind, in reply to these
remarks regarding the gastronomic
ignorance of Snorter and Pogson,
might say, "True, these gentlemen
know nothing of household economy,
being occupied with other more important business elsewhere. But what
are their wives about? Lady Pogson
in Harley Street has nothing earthly
to do but to mind her poodle, and her
mantua-maker's and housekeeper's
bills. Mrs. Snorter in Bedford Place,
when she has taken her drive in the
Park with the young ladies, may
surely have time to attend to her husband's guests and preside over the




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


515


preparations of his kitchen, as she does
worthily at his hospitable mahogany."
To this I answer, that a man who
expects a woman to understand the
philosophy of dinner-giving, shows
the strongest evidence of a low mind.
He is unjust towards that lovely and
delicate creature, woman, to suppose
that she heartily understands and
cares for what she eats and drinks.
No: taken as a rule, women have no
real appetites. They are children in
the gormandizing way; loving sugar,
sops, tarts, trifles, apricot-creams, and
such gewgaws. They would take a
sip of Malmsey, and would drink
currant-wine just as happily, if that
accursed liquor were presented  to
them by the butler. Did you ever
know a woman who could lay her
fair hand upon her gentle heart and
sayon her conscience that she preferred dry sillery to sparkling champagne? Such a phenomenon does not
exist. They are not made for eating
and drinking; or, if they make a
pretence to it, become downright
odious.  Nor can they, I am sure,
witness the preparations of a really
great repast without a certain jealousy. They grudge spending money
(ask guards, coachmen, inn-waiters,
whether this be not the case). They
will give their all, heaven bless them!
to serve a son, a grandson, or a dear
relative, but they have not the heart
to pay for small things magnificently.
They are jealous of good dinners, and
no wonder. I have shown in a former discourse how they are jealous of
smoking, and other personal enjoyments of the male. I say, then, that
Lady Pogson or Mrs. Snorter can
never conduct their husbands' table
properly.  Fancy either of them
consenting to allow a calf to be stewed
down into gravy for one dish, or a
dozen hares to be sacrificed to a single
puree of game, or the best Madeira to
be used for a sauce, or half a dozen of
champagne to boil a ham in. They
will be for bringing a bottle of Marsala
in place of the old particular, or for
having the ham cooked in water.


But of these matters - of kitchen
philosophy- I have no practical or
theoretic knowledge; and must beg
pardon if, only understanding the
goodness of a dish when cooked, I
may have unconsciously made some
blunder regarding the preparation.
Let it, then, be set down as an
axiom, without further trouble of demonstration, that a woman is a bad
dinner-caterer; either too great and
simple for it, or too mean - I don't
know which it is; and gentlemen,
according as they admire or contemn
the sex, may settle that matter their
own way. In brief, the mental constitution of lovely woman is such that
she cannot give a great dinner. It
must be done by a man. It can't be
done by an ordinary man, because he
does not understand it. Vain fool!
and he sends off to the pastry-cook in
Great Russell Street or Baker Street,
he lays on a couple of extra waiters
(green-grocers in the neighborhood),
he makes a great bother with his butler in the cellar, and fancies he has
done the business.
Bon Dieu! Who has not been at
those dinners? - those monstrous
exhibitions of the pastrycook's art?
Who does not know those made
dishes with the universal sauce to
each? - fiicandeaux, sweet-breads,
damp dumpy cutlets, &c., seasoned
with the compound of grease, onions,
bad port-wine, cayenne pepper, currypowder (Warren's Blacking, for what
I know, but the taste is always the
same) - there they lie in the old
corner dishes, the poor wiry Moselle
and sparkling Burgundy in the icecoolers, and the old story of white
and brown soup, turbot, little smelts,
boiled turkey, saddle-of-mutton, and
so forth.   "Try a little of that
fricandeau," says Mrs. Snorter, with
a kind  smile.  "You'll find it, I
think, very nice." Be sure it has
come in a green tray from Great Russell Street.  "Mr. Fitz-Boodle, you
have been in Germany," cries Snorter, knowingly; "taste the hock, and
tell me what you think of that."




516


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


How should he know better, poor
benighted creature; or she, dear good
soul that she is? If they would have
a leg of mutton and an apple pudding, and a glass of sherry and port
(or simple brandy and water called
by its own name) after dinner, all
would be very well; but they must
shine, they must dine as their neighbors. There is no difference in the
style of dinners in London; people
with five hundred a year treat you
exactly as those of five thousand.
They will have their Moselle or hock,
their fatal side-dishes brought in the
green trays from the pastrycook's.
Well, there is no harm done; not
as regards the dinner-givers at least,
though the dinner-eaters may have
to suffer somewhat; it only shows
that the former are hospitably inclined,
and wish to do the very best in their
power, - good honest fellows!  If
they do wrong, how can they help it?
they know no better.
And now, is it not as clear as the
sun at noon-day, that A WANT exists
in London for a superintendent of the
table -a gastronomic agent -a dinner-master, as I have called him before? Aman of such a profession
would be a metropolitan benefit; hundreds of thousands of people of the
respectable sort, people in white waistcoats, would thank him daily. Calculate how many dinners are given
in the City of London, and calculate
the numbers of benedictions that " the
Agency" might win.
And as no doubt the observant man
of the world has remarked that the freeborn Englishman of the respectable
class is, of all others, the most slavish
and truckling to a lord; that there is
no fly-blown peer but he is pleased to
have him at his table, proud beyond
measure to call him by his surname
(without the lordly prefix); and that
those lords whom he does not know,
he yet (the freeborn Englishman)
takes care to have their pedigrees and
ages by heart from his world-bible,
the " Peerage: " as this is an indisputable fact, and as it is in this par

ticular class of Britons that our agent
must look to find clients, I need not
say it is necessary that the agent
should be as high-born    as possible,
and that he should be able to tack,
if possible, an honorable or some other
handle to his respectable name.    IIe
must   have   it  on his professional
cardThe Honorable George Gormand Gobbleton,
A ician Chambers, Pall Mail.
Or,
IFir Augustus Carver Cramley Cramley,
Amtihitryonic Council Office, Swallow St.


or, in some such neat way, Gothic
letters on a large handsome crockeryware card, with possibly a gilt coatof-arms and supporters, or the bloodred hand of baronetcy duly displayed.
Depend on it plenty of guineas will
fall in it, and that Gobbleton's supporters will support him comfortably
enlough.
For this profession is not like that
of the auctioneer, which I take to be a
far more noble one, because more
varied and more truthful; but in the
Agency case, a little humbug at least
is necessary. A man cannot be a successful agent by the mere force of his
simple merit or genius in eating and
drinking. He must of necessity impose upon the vulgar to a certain degree. He must be of that rank which
will lead them naturally to respect
him, otherwise they might be led to
jeer at his profession; but let a noble
exercise, it, and bless your soul, all
the " Court Guide " is dumb!
Ile will then give out in a manly
and somewhat pompous address what
has before been mentioned, namely,




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


517


tiat hu has seen the fatal way in
which the hospitality of England has
been perverted hitherto, accapard'd by
a few cooks with green trays. (He
must use a good deal of French in
his language, for that is considered
very gentleman-like by vulgar people.)
IHe will take a set of chambers in
Carlton Gardens, which will be richly
though severely furnished, and the
door of which will be opened by a
French valet (he must be a Frenchman, remember), who will say, on
letting Mr. Snorter or Sir Benjamin
Pogson in, that " Mlilor is at home."
Pogson will then be shown into a
library furnished with massive bookcases, containing all the works on
cookery and wines (the titles of them)
in all the known languages in the
world. Any books, of course, will
do, as you will have them handsomely
bound, and keep them under plateglass. On a side-table will be little
sample-bottles of wine, a few truffles
on a white porcelain saucer, a prodigious strawberry or two, perhaps, at
the time when such fruit costs much
money. On the library will be busts
marked Udc, Careme, B1chamel, in
marble (never mind what heads, of
course); and, perhaps, on the clock
should be a figure of the Prince of
Condd's cook killing himself because
the fish had not arrived in time:
there may be a wreath of immortelles on
the figure to give it a more decidedly
Frenchified air. The walls will be
of a dark rich paper, hung round
with neat gilt frames, containing
plans of menus of various great dinners, those of Cambaceres, Napoleon,
Louis XIV., Louis XVIII., Heliogabalus, if you like, each signed by
the respective cook.
After the stranger has looked about
him at these things, which he does
not understand in the least, especially
the truffles, which look like dirty
potatoes, you will make your appearance, dressed in a dark dress, with
one handsome enormous gold chain,
and one large diamond ring; a gold
snuff-box, of course, which you will


thrust into the visitor's paw before
saying a word. You will be yourself
a portly grave man, with your hair a
little bald and gray.  In fact, in
this, as in all other professions, you
had best try to look as like Canning
as you can.
When Pogson has done sneezing
with the snuff, you will say to him,
" Take afauteuil. I have the honor
of addressing Sir Benjamin Pogson,
I believe?" And then you will explain to him your system.
This, of course, must vary with
every person you address. But let us
lay down a few of the heads of a plan
which may be useful, or may be modified infinitely, or may be cast aside
altogether, just  as circumstances
dictate. After all I am not going to
turn gastronomic agent, and speak
only for the benefit perhaps of the
very person wlho is reading this: —
"SYNOPSIS OF TIIE GASTRONOMIC
AGENCY   OF   TIlE  HONORABLE
GEORGE GOBBLETON.
" THE Gastronomic Agent having
traversed Europe, and dined with
the best society of the world, has
been led naturally, as a patriot, to
turn his thoughts howeward, and
cannot but deplore the lamentable
ignorance regarding gastronomy displayed in a country for which Nature
has done almost every thing.
"But it is ever singularly thus.
Inherent ignorance belongs to man;
and The Agent, in his Continental
travels, has always remarked, that
the countries most fertile in themselves were invariably worse tilled
than those more barren. The Italians
and the Spaniards leave their fields
to Nature, as we leave our vegetables,
fish, and meat. And, heavens! what
richness do we fling away,- what
dormant qualities in our dishes do
we disregard, - what glorious gastronomic crops (if The Agent may be
permitted the expression) - what
glorious gastronomic crops do we
sacrifice, allowing our goodly meats




518                 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.
and fishes to lie fallow! 'Chance,' membered, that our native country
it is said by an ingenious historian, possesses these altogether, while othwho, having been long a secretary in er lands only know them separately
the East India House, must certainly that, above all, whitebait is peculiarly
have had access to the best informa- our country's - our city's own! Blesstion upon Eastern matters-' Chance' ings and eternal praises be on it, and,
it is said by Mr. Charles Lamb, of course, on brown bread and butter!
'which burnt down a Chinaman's And the Briton should further rememhouse, with a litter of sucking-pigs ber, with honest pride and thankfulthat were unable to escape from the ness, the situation of his capital, of
interior, discovered to the world the London: the  lordly turtle floats
excellence of roast-pig.' Gunpowder, from  the sea into the stream, and
we know, was invented by a similar from the stream to the city; the rapfortuity." [The reader will observe id fleets of all the world se donnent
that my style in the supposed charac- rendezvous in the docks of our silvery
tcr of a Gastronomic Agent is pur- Thames; the produce of our coasts
posely pompous and loud.]    "So, and provincial cities, east and west,
tis said, was printing, - so glass. -  is borne to us on the swift lines of
We should have drunk our wine lightning railroads.     In a word —
poisoned with the villanous odor of and no man but one who, like The
the borachio, had not some Eastern Agent, has travelled Europe over, can
merchants, lighting their fires in the appreciate the gift - there is no city
Desert, marked the strange composi- on earth's surface so well supplied
tion which now glitters on our side- with fish as London!
boards, and holds the costly produce  " With respect to our meats, all
of our vines.                      praise is supererogatory. Ask the
" We have spoken of the natural wretched hunter of chevreuil, the poor
riches of a country. Let the reader devourer of rehbraten, what they think
think hut for one moment of the gas- of the noble English haunch, that aftronolnic wealth of our country of ter bounding in the Park of Knole or
England, and he will be lost in thank- Windsor, exposes  its magnificent
ful amazement as he watches the as- flank upon some broad silver platter
tonishing riches poured out upon us at our tables? It is enough to say of
from Nature's bounteous cornucopia! foreign venison, that they are obligel
Look at our fisheries!- the trout and to lard it. Away! ours is the palm
salmon  tossing  in  our brawling of roast; whether of the crisp mutton
streams; the white and full-breasted that crops the thymy herbage of our
turbot struggling in the mariner's net; downs, or the noble ox who revels on
the purple lobster lured by hopes of lush Althorpian  oil-cakes.  What
greed into his basket-prison, which he game is like to ours? Mans excels
quits only for the red ordeal of the pot. us in poultry, 'tis true; but 'tis only
Look at whitebait, great heavens! look in merry England that the partridge
at whitebait, and a thousand frisking, has a flavor, that the turkey can alglittering, silvery things besides, which most se passer de truffes, that the jolly
the nymphs of our native streams juicy goose can be eaten as he
bear kindly to the deities of our kitch- deserves.
ens -our kitchens such as they are.  "Our vegetables, moreover, sur"And though it may be said that pass all comment; Art (by the means
other countries produce the freckle- of glass) has wrung fruit out of the
backed salmon and the dark broad- bosom of Nature, such as she grants
shouldered turbot; though trout fre- to no other clime. And if we have
quent many a stream besides those of no vineyards on our hills, we have
England, and lobsters sprawl on oth- gold to purchase their best produce.
er sands than ours; yet, let it 1, re- Nature, and enterprise that masters




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


519


Nature, have done every thing for our
land.
"But with all these prodigious
riches in our power, is it not painful
to reflect how absurdly we employ
them? Can we say that we are in
the habit of dining well? Alas, no!
and The Agent, roaming o'er foreign
lands, and seeing how, with small
means and great ingenuity and perseverance, great ends were effected,
comes back sadly to his own country,
whose wealth he sees absurdly wasted, whose energies are misdirected,
and whose vast capabilities are allowed
to lie idle."...  [Here should
follow what I have only hinted at
previously, a vivid and terrible picture of the degradation of our table.].. " Oh, for a master spirit, to
give an impetus to the land, to see
its great power directed in the right
way, and its wealth not squandered
or hidden, but nobly put out to interest and spent!
"The Agent dares not hope to win
that proud station-to be the destroyer of a barbarous system wallowing in abusive prodigality-to become a dietetic reformer- the Luther
of the table.
"But convinced of the wrongs
wliich exist, he will do his humble
endeavor to set them right, and to
those who know that they are ignorant (and this is a vast step to knowledge) he offers his counsels, his active
co-operation, his frank and kindly
sympathy.   The Agent's qualifications are these:"1. He is of one of the best families in England; and has in himself,
or through his ancestors, been accustomed to good living for centuries.
In the reign of Henry V., his maternal great-great-grandfather, Roger de
Gobylton " [the name may be varied, of
course, or the king's reign, or the dish invented], " was the first who discovered
the method of roasting a peacock
whole with his tail-feathers displayed;
and the dish was served to the two
kings at Rouen. Sir Walter CramIcy, in Elizabeth's reign, produced bc

fore her Majesty,when at Killingworth
Castle, mackerel with the famous
gooseberry sauce, &c.
"2. He has, through life, devoted
himself to no other study than that of
the table, and has visited to that end
the courts of all the monarchs of
Europe; taking the receipts of the
cooks, with whom he lives on terms
of intimate friendship, often at enormous expense to himself.
"3. He has the same acquaintance
with all the vintages of the Continent;
having passed the autumn of 1811
(the comet year) on the great Weinberg of Johannisberg; being employed similarly at Bordeaux, in 1834:
at Oporto, in 1820; and at Xeres de la
Frontera, with his excellent friends,
Duff, Gordon, and Co., the year after.
He travelled to India and back in
company with fourteen pipes of Madeira (on board of 'The Samuel
Snob' East Indiaman, Captain Scuttler), and spent the vintage season in
the island, with unlimited powers of
observation granted to him by the
great houses there.
"4. He has attended Mr. Groves
of Charing Cross, and Mr. Giblett of
Bond Street, in a course of purchases
of fish and meat; and is able at a
glance to recognize the age of mutton,
the primeness of beef, the firmness
and freshness of fish of all kinds.
" 5. He has visited the parks, the
grouse-manors, and the principal gardens of England, in a similar professional point of view."
The Agent then, through his subordinates, engages to provide gentlemen
who are about to give dinner-parties -
"1. With cooks to dress the dinners; a list of which gentlemen he
has by him, and will recommend none
who are not worthy of the strictest
confidence.
"2. With a menu for the table,
according to the price which the
Amphitryon chooses to incur.
"3. IIe will, through correspondences with the various fournisseurs




520


THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS.


of the metropolis, provide them with
viands, fruit, wine, &c., sending to
Paris, if need be, where he has a
regular correspondence with Messrs.
Chevet.
"4. He has a list of dexterous
table-waiters (all answering to the
name of John for fear of mistakes,
the butler's name to be settled according to pleasure), and would strongly
recommend that the servants of the
house should be locked in the backkitchen or servants' hall during the
time the dinner takes place.
" 5. He will receive and examine
all the accounts of the fournisseurs,
- of course pledging his honor as a
gentleman not to receive one shilling
of paltry gratification from the tradesmen he employs, but to see that the
bills are more moderate, and their
goods of better quality, than they
would provide to any person of less
experience than himself.
"6. His fee for superintending a
dinner will be five guineas: and The
Agent entreats his clients to trust
entirely to him and his subordinates
for the arrangement of the repast,not to think of inserting dishes of their
own invention, or producing wine from
their own cellars, as he engages to
have it brought in the best order, and
fit for immediate drinking. Should
the Amphitryon, however, desire some
particular dish or wine, he must consult. The Agent in the first case by
writing, in the second, by sending a
sample to The Agent's chambers.
For it is manifest that the whole complexion of a dinner may be altered by
the insertion of a single dish; and,
therefore, parties will do well to mention their wishes on the first interview
with The Agent. He cannot be called
upon to recompose his bill of fare,
except at great risk to the ensemble of
the dinner and enormous inconvenience to himself.
"7. The Agent will be at home
for consultation from ten o'clock until
two-earlier, if gentlenen who are
engaged at early hours in the City
desire to have an interview: and be it


remembered, that apersonal interview
is always the best: for it is greatly
necessary to know not only the number but the character of the guests
whom the Amphitryon proposes to
entertain, -whether they are fond
of any particular wine or dish, what
is their state of health, rank, style,
profession, &c.
" 8. At two o'clock, he will commence his rounds; for as the metropolis is wide, it is clear that he must
be early in the field in some districts.
From 2 to 3 he will be in Russell
Square and the neighborhood; 3 to
34, Harley Street, Portland Place,
Cavendish Square, and the environs;
31 to 44, Portman Square, Gloucester
Place, Baker Street, &c.; 44 to 5, the
new district about Hyde Park Terrace; 5 to 53, St. John's Wood and
the Regent's Park.  He will be in
Grosvenor Square by 6, and in Belgrave Square, Pimlico, and its vicinity, by 7. Parties there are requested
not to dine until 8 o'clock; and The
Agent, once for all, peremptorily announces that he will NOT go to the
palace, where it is utterly impossible
to serve a good dinner."
TO TRADESMEN.
"Every Monday evening during the
season the Gastronomic Agent proposes to give a series of trial-dinners,
to which the principal gourmands of
the metropolis, and a few of The
Agent's most respectable clients, will
be invited. Covers will be laid for
ten at nine o'clock precisely. And as
The Agent does not propose to exact
a single shilling of profit from their
bills, and as his recommendation will
be of infinite value to them, the tradesmen he employs will furnish the weekly dinner gratis. Cooks will attend
(who have acknowledged characters)
upon the same terms. To save trouble, a book will be kept where butchers, poulterers, fishmongers, &c., may
inscribe their names in order, taking
it by turns to supply the trial-table.
Wine-merchants will naturally corn




FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS.


521


pete every week promiscuously, send-  And as he really will be an exceling what they consider their best sam- lent judge of eating and drinking,
pies, and leaving with the hall-porter and will bring his whole mind to bear
tickets of the prices. Confectionery to upon the question, and will speedily
be done out of the house. Fruiterers, acquire an experience which no permarket-men, as butchers and poul- son out of the profession can possibly
terers.  The Agent's maitre d'hotel have; and as, moreover, he will be an
will give a receipt to each individual honorable man, not practising upon
for the articles he produces; and let his client in any way, or demanding
all remember that The Agent is a sixpence beyond his just fee, the
very keen judge, and woe betide those world will gain vastly by the coming
who serve him or his clients ill!  forward of such a person, —gain in
" GEORGE GORMAND GOBBLETON. good dinners, and absolutely save
" Crton Gardens, June 10, 1842."  money: for what is five guineas for a
dinner of sixteen? The sum may
Here I have sketched out the heads be gaspille by a cook-wench, or by one
of such an address as I conceive a of those abominable, before-namcd
gastronomic agent might put forth; pastrycooks, with their green trays.
and appeal pretty confidently to the  If any man take up the business,
British public regarding its merits he will invite me, of course, to the
and my own discovery.  If this be Monday dinners.   Or does ingratinot a profession - a new one - a fea- tude go so far as that a man should
sible one- a lucrative one, - I don't forget the author of his good fortune?
know what is. Say that a man at- Ibelieve it does. Turnwe away from
tends but fifteen dinners daily, that is the sickening theme!
seventy-five guineas, or five hundred
and fifty pounds weekly, or fourteen  And now, having concluded my
thousand three hundred pounds for a professions, how shall I express my
season of six months; and how many obligations to the discriminating press
of our younger sons have such a cap- of this country for the unanimous apital even? Let, then, some unem- plause which hailed my first appearployed gentleman with the requisite ance? It is the more wonderful, as I
qualifications come forward. It will pledge my sacred word, I never wrote
not be necessary that he should have a document before much longer than
done all that is;tated in the prospcc- a laundress's bill, or the acceptance
tus; but, at any rate, let him say he of an invitation to dinner.  But
has: there can't be much harm in an enough of this egotism: thanks for
innocent fib of that sort; for the gas- praise conferred sound like vanity;
tronomic agent must be a sort of gratitude is hard to speak of, and at
dinner-pope, whose opinions cannot present it swells the full heart of
be supposed to err.                  GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.
23








CRITICAL REVIEWS.








CRITICAL REVIEWS.
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.*
A  CCUSATIONS of ingratitude, him where there is calm and plenty,
and just accusations, no doubt, and who has the wisdom    not to
are made against every inhabitant of give up his quiet in quest of visionthis wicked world, and the fact is, ary gain.
that a man who is ceaselessly engaged  Here is, no doubt, the reason why
in its trouble and turmoil, borne a man, after the period of his boyhither and thither upon the fierce hood, or first youth, makes so few
waves of the crowd, bustling, shifting, friends. Want and ambition (new acstruggling to keep himself somewhat quaintances which are introduced to
above water —fighting for reputa- him along with his beard) thrust
tion, or more likely for bread, and away all other society from  him.
ceaselessly occupied to-day with plans Some old friends remain, it is true,
for appeasing the eternal appetite of but these are become as a habit —a
inevitable hunger to-morrow - a man part of your selfishness; and, for new
in such straits has hardly time to ones, they are selfish as you are.
think of any thing but himself, and, Neither member of the new partneras in a sinking ship, must make his ship has the capital of affection and
own rush for the boats, and fight, kindly feeling, or can even afford the
struggle, and trample for safety. In time that is requisite for the estabthe midst of such a combat as this, lishment of the new firm. Damp and
the "ingenious arts, which prevent chill the shades of the prison-house
the ferocity of the manners, and act begin to close round us, and that
upon them as an emollient" (as the "vision splendid" which has accomphilosophic bard remarks in the Lat- panied our steps in ourjourney daily
in Grammar) are likely to be jostled farther from the east, fades away and
to death, and then forgotten. The dies into the light of common day.
world will allow no such compromises  And what a common day! what a
between it and that which does not foggy, dull, shivering apology for
belong to it - no two gods must we light is this kind of muddy twilight
serve; but (as one has seen in some through which we are about to
old portraits) the horrible glazed eyes tramp and flounder for the rest of
of Necessity are always fixed upon our existence, wandering farther and
you; fly away as you will, black Care farther from the beauty and freshness
sits behind you, and with his ceaseless and from the kindly gushing springs
gloomy croaking drowns the voice of clear gladness that made all
of all more cheerful companions. around us green in our youth! One
Happy he whose fortune has placed wanders and gropes in a slough of
* Reprinted from " The Westminster Review " for June, 1840. (No. 66.)




526


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


stock-jobbing, one sinks or rises in a
storm of politics, and in either case
it is as good to fall as to riseto mount a bubble on the crest of the
wave, as to sink a stone to the
bottom.
The reader who has seen the name
affixed to the head of this article
scarcely expected to be entertained
with a declamation upon ingratitude,
youth, and the vanity of human pursuits, which may seem at first sight
to have little to do with the subject
in hand. But (although we reserve
the privilege of discoursing upon
whatever subject shall suit us, and by
no means admit the public has any
right to ask in our sentences for any
meaning, or any connection whatever) it happens that, in this particular instance, there is an undoubted
connection. In Susan's case, as recorded by Wordsworth, what connection had the corner of Wood
Street with a mountain ascending, a
vision of trees, and a nest by the
Dove? Why should the song of a
thrush cause bright volumes of vapor to glide through Lothbury, and
a river to flow on through the vale of
Cheapside? As she stood at that corner of Wood Street, a mop and a pail
in her hand most likely, she heard the
bird singing, and straightway began
pining and yearning for the days of
her youth, forgetting the proper business of the pail and mop. Even so
we are moved by the sight of some
of Mr. Cruikshank's works- the
"Busen fililt sich jugendlich erschiittert," the "schwankende Gestalten"
of youth flit before one again,Cruikshank's thrush begins to pipe
and carol, as in the days of boyhood;
hence misty moralities, reflections,
and sad and pleasant remembrances
arise. He is the friend of the young
especially. Have we not read all the
story-books that his wonderful pencil has illustrated? Did we not forego
tarts, in order to buy his "Breaking-up," or his "Fashionable Monstrosities" of the year eighteen hundred and something? Have we not


before us, at this very moment, a print,
-one of the admirable "Illustrations
of Phrenology "-which entire work
was purchased   by a joint-stock
company of boys, each drawing lots
afterwards for the separate prints,
and taking his choice in rotation?
The writer of this, too, had the honor of drawing the first lot, and
seized immediately upon "Philoprogenitiveness"-a marvellous print
(our copy is not at all improved by
being colored, which operation we
performed on it ourselves)-a marvellous print, indeed,-full of ingenuity
and fine, jovial humor. A father,
possessor of an enormous nose and
family, is surrounded by the latter,
who are, some of them, embracing the
former.  The composition writhes
and twists about like the Kermes of
Rubens. No less than seven little men
and women in nightcaps, in fiocks,
in bibs, in breeches, are clambering
about the head, knees, and arms of
the man with the nose; their noses,
too, are preternaturally developedthe twins in the cradle have noses of
the most considerable kind.  The
second daughter, who is watching
them; the youngest but two, who
sits squalling in a certain wicker
chair; the eldest son, who is yawning; the eldest daughter, who is preparing, with the gravy of two muttonchops, a savory dish of Yorkshire
pudding for eighteen persons; the
youths who are examining her operations (one a literary gentleman, in a
remarkably neat nightcap and pinafore, who has just had his finger in
the pudding); the genius who is at
work on the slate, and the two honest
lads who are hugging the good-humored washerwoman, their mother, -
all, all, save this worthy woman,
have noses of the largest size. Not
handsome certainly are they, and vet
everybody must be charmed with the
picture.  It is full of grotesque
beauty. The artist has at the back
of his own skull, we are certain, a
huge bump of philoprogenitiveness.
He loves children in his heart;




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


527


every one of those he has drawn is
perfectly happy, and jovial, and affictionate, and innocent as possible.
He makes them with large noses, but
he loves them, and you always find
something kind in the midst of his
humor, and the ugliness redeemed
by a sly touch of beauty. The
smiling mother reconciles one with
all the hideous family: they have all
something of the mother in themsomething kind, and generous, and
tender.
Knight's, in Swecting's Alley;
Fairburn's, in a court off Ludgate
Hill; Hone's, in Fleet Street - bright,
enchanted palaces, which George
Cruikshank used to people with grinning, fantastical imps, and merry,
harmless sprites, - where are they.
Fairburn's shop knows him no more;
not only has Knight disappeared from
Sweeting's Alley, but, as we are given
to understand, Sweeting's Alley has
disappeared from the face of the globe.
Slop, the atrocious Castlereagh, the
sainted Caroline (in a tight pelisse,
with feathers in her head), the " Dandy of sixty," who used to glance at
us from Hone's friendly windowswhere are they? Mr. Cruikshank may
have drawn a thousand better things
since the days when these were; but
they are to us a thousand times
more pleasing than any thing else he
has done. How we used to believe
in them! to stray miles out of the
way on holidays, in order to ponder
for an hour before that delightful
window in Sweeting's Alley! in walks
through Fleet Street, to vanish abruptly down Fairburn's passage, and
there make one at his "charming
gratis" exhibition. There used to
be a crowd round the window in those
days, of grinning, good-natured mechanics, who spelt the songs, and
spoke them out for the benefit of the
company, and who received the points
of humor with a general sympathizing
roar. Where are these people now?
You never hear any laughing at
HB.; his pictures are a great deal
too genteel for that -polite points


of wit, which strike one as exceedingly
clever and pretty, and cause one to
smile in a quiet, gentleman-like kind
of way.
There must be no smiling with
Cruikshank. A man who does not
laugh outright is a dullard, and has
no heart; even the old dandy of sixty
must have laughed at his own wondrous grotesque image, as they say
Louis Philippe did, who saw all the
caricatures that were made of himself.
And there are some of Cruikshank's
designs which have the blessed faculty
of creating laughter as often as you
see them. As Diggory says in the
play, who is bidden by his master not
to laugh while waiting at table"Don't tell the story of Grouse in
the Gunroom, master, or I can't help
laughing."  Repeat that history ever
so often, and at the proper moment,
honest Diggory is sure to explode.
Every man, no doubt, who loves
Cruikshank has his " Grouse in the
Gunroom." There is a fellow in the
" Points of Humor" who is offering
to eat up a certain little general, that
has made us happy any time these
sixteen years: his huge mouth is a
perpetual well of laughter - buckets
full of fun can be drawn from it. We
have formed no such friendships as
that boyish one of the man with the
mouth. But though, in our eyes, Mr.
Cruikshank reached his apogee some
eighteen years since, it must not be
imagined that such is really the case.
Eighteen sets of children have since
then learned to love and admire him,
and may many more of their successors
be brought up in the same delightful
faith. It is not the artist who fails,
but the men who grow cold -the
men, from whom the illusions (why
illusions? realities) of youth disappear one by one; who have no leisure
to be happy, no blessed holidays, but
only fresh cares at Midsummer and
Christmas, being the inevitable seasons which bring us bills instead of
pleasures. Tom, who comes bounding home from school, has the doctor's account in his trunk, and his




528


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


father goes to sleep at the pantomime
to which he takes him. Pater infelix,
you too have laughed at clown, and
the magic wand of spangled harlequin; what delightful enchantment
did it wave around you, in the golden
days "when George the Third was
king! " But our clown lies in his
grave; and our harlequin, Ellar,
prince of how many enchanted islands, was he not at Bow Street the
other day,* in his dirty, tattered,
faded motley - seized as a lawbreaker, for acting at a penny theatre,
after having well-nigh starved in the
streets, where nobody would listen to
his old guitar? No one gave a shilling to bless him: not one of us who
owe him so much.
We know not if Mr. Cruikshank
will be very well pleased at finding
his name in such company as that of
Clown and Harlequin; but he, like
them, is certainly the children's friend.
His drawings abound in feeling for
these little ones, and hideous as in
the course of his duty he is from time
to time compelled to design them, he
never sketches one without a certain
pity for it, and imparting to the figure a certain grotesque grace. In
happy school-boys he revels; plumpudding and holidays his needle has
engraved over and over again; there
is a design in one of the comic
almanacs of some young gentlemen
who are employed in administering to
a schoolfellow the correction of the
pump, which is as graceful and elegant
as a drawing of Stothard. Dull
books about children George Cruikshank makes bright with illustrations - there is one published by the
ingenious and opulent Mr. Tegg. It
is entitled " Mirth and Morality,"
the mirth being, for the most part,
on the side of the designer - the morality, unexceptionable  certainly,
the author's capital. Hero are then,
to these moralities, a smiling train of
mirths supplied by George Cruikshank. See yonder little fellows


butterfly-hunting across a common!
Such a light, brisk, airy, gentlemanlike drawing was never made upon
such a theme. Who, cries the author -
" Who has not chased the butterfly,
And crushed its slender legs and
wings,
And heaved a moralizing sigh:
Alas I how frail are human things I
A  very  unexceptionable  morality
truly; but it would have puzzled another than George Cruikshank to make
mirth out of it as he has done. Away,
surely not on the wings of these
verses,  Cruikshank's  imagination
begins to soar; and he makes us
three darling little men on a green
common, backed by old farm-houses,
somewhere about May. A great
mixture of blue and clouds in the air,
a strong fresh breeze stirring, Tom's
jacket flapping in the same, in order
to bring down the insect queen or
king of spring that is fluttering
above him, - he renders all this with
a few strokes on a little block of
wood not two inches square, upon
which one may gaze for hours, so
merry and life-like a scene does it
present. What a charming creative
power is this, what a privilege - to
be a god, and create little worlds
upon paper, and whole generations of
smiling, jovial men, women, and
children half inch high, whose portraits are carried abroad, and have the
faculty of making us monsters of six
feet curious and happy in our turn.
Now, who would imagine that an
artist could make any thing of such a
subject as this? The writer begins
by stating,I love to go back to the days of my
youth,
And to reckon my joys to the letter,
And to count o'er the friends that I have
in the world,
Ay, and those who are gone to a better."
This brings him to the consideration
of his uncle. "Of all the then I
have ever known," says he, "my
uncle united the greatest degree of
cheerfulness with the sobriety of


* This was written in 1840.




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


529


manhood. Though a man when I
was a boy, he was yet one of the
most agreeable companions I ever
possessed.... He  embarked   for
America, and nearly twenty years
passed by before he came back again;... but oh, how altered! - he was
in every sense of the word an old
man, his body and mind were enfeebled, and second childishness had
come upon him. How often have
I bent over him, vainly endeavoring
to recall to his memory the scenes
we had shared together: and how
frequently, with an aching heart,
have I gazed on his vacant and lustreless eye, while he has amused
himself in clapping his hands, and
singing with a quavering voice a verse
of a psalm." Alas! such are the
consequences of long residences in
America, and of old age even in
uncles! Well, the point of this morality is, that the uncle one day in
the morning of life vowed that he
would catch his two nephews and tic
them together, ay, and actually did
so, for all the efforts the rogues made
to run away from him; but he was
so fatigued that he declared he never
would make the attempt again, whereupon the nephew remarks, -" Often
since then, when engaged in enterprises beyond my strength, have I
called to mind the determination of
my uncle."
Does it not seem impossible to
make a picture out of this   And
yet George Cruikshank has produced
a charming design, in which the
uncles and nephews are so prettily
portrayed that one is reconciled to
their existence, with all their moralities. Many more of the mirths in
this little book are excellent, especially
a great figure of a parson entering
church on horseback, - an enormous
parson truly, calm, unconscious, unwieldy. As Zeuxis had a bevy of
virgins in order to make his famous
picture - his express virgin - a clerical host must have passed under
Cruikshank's eyes before he sketched
this little, enormous parson of parsons.
23*


Being on the subject of children's
books, how shall we enough praise
the delightful German nursery-tales,
and Cruikshank's illustrations of
them? We coupled his name with
pantomime a while since, and sure
never pantomimes were more charming than these.  Of all the artists
that ever drew, from Michael Angelo
upwards and downwards, Cruikshank
was the man to illustrate these tales,
and give them just the proper admixture of the grotesque, the wonderful,
and the graceful. May all Mother
Bunch's collection be similarly indebted to  him; may "Jack the
Giant Killer," may "Tom Thumb,"
may "Puss in Boots," be one day
revivified by his pencil! Is not
Whittington sitting yet on Highgate
Hill, and poor Cinderella (in that
sweetest of all fairy stories) still pining in her lonely chimney nook? A
man who has a true affection for these
delightful companions of his youth is
bound to be grateful to them if he
can, and we pray Mr. Cruikshank to
remember them.
It is folly to say that this or that
kind of humor is too good for the
public, that only a chosen few can
relish it. The best humor that we
know of has been as eagerly received
by the public as by the most delicate
connoisseur. There is hardly a man
in England who can read, but will
laugh at Falstaff and the humor of
Joseph Andrews; and honest Mr.
Pickwick's story can be felt and loved
by any person above the age of six.
Some may have a keener enjoyment
of it than others, but all the world
can be merry over it, and is always
ready to welcome it. The best criterion of good humor is success, and
what a share of this has Mr. Cruikshank had! how many millions of
mortals has he made happy! We
have heard very profound persons
talk philosophically of the marvellous
and mysterious manner in which he
has suited himself to the time -fait
vibrer la fibre popllaire (as Napoleon
boasted of himself), supplied a pecu




530


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


liar want felt at a peculiar period, the
simple secret of which is, as we take
it, that he, living amongst the public,
has with them a general wide-hearted
sympathy, that he laughs at what
they laugh at, that he has a kindly
spirit of enjoyment, with not a morsel
of mysticism in his composition; that
he pities and loves the poor, and
jokes at the follies of the great, and
that he addresses all in a perfectly
sincere and manly way. To be greatly
successful as a professional humorist,
as in any other calling, a man must
be quite honest, and show that his
heart is in his work. A bad preacher
will get admiration and a hearing
with this point in his favor, where a
man of three times his acquirements
will only find indifference and coldness. Is any man more remarkable
than our artist for telling the truth
after his own manner?    Hogarth's
honesty of purpose was as conspicuous in an earlier time, and we fancy
that Gilray would have been far more
successful and more powerful but for
that unhappy bribe, which turned the
whole course of his humor into
an unnatural channel. Cruikshank
would not for any bribe say what he
did not think, or lend his aid to sneer
down any thing meritorious, or to
praise any thing or person that deserved censure.  When he levelled
his wit against the Regent, and did
his very prettiest for the Princess, lie
most certainly believed, along with
the great body of the people whom
he represents, that the Princess was
the most spotless, pure-mannered
darling of a princess that ever married
a heartless debauchee of a Prince
Royal. Did not millions believe with
him, and noble and learned lords
take their oaths to her Royal Highness's innocence? Cruikshank would
not stand by and see a women ill-used,
and so struck in for her rescue, he
and the people belaboring with all
their might the party who were
making the attack, and determining, from pure sympathy and indignation, that the woman must be in

nocent because her husband treated
her so foully.
To be sure we have never heard
so much from Mr. Cruikshank's own
lips; but any man who will examine
these odd drawings, which first made
him famous, will see what an honest,
hearty hatred the champion of woman
has for all who abuse her, and will
admire the energy with which he flings
his wood-blocks at all who side against
her.  Canning, Castlereagh, Bexley,
Sidmouth, he is at then, one and all;
and as for the Prince, up to what a
whipping-post of ridicule did lie tie
that unfortunate old man! And do
not let squeamish Tories cry out
about disloyalty; if the crown does
wrong, the crown must be corrected
by the nation, out of respect, of
course, for the crown. In those days,
and by those people who so bitterly
attacked the son, no word was ever
breathed against the father, simply
because he was a good husband, and a
sober, thrifty, pious, orderly man.
This attack upon the Prince Regent we believe to have been Mr.
Cruikshank's only effort as a party
politician.  Some early manifestoes
against Napoleon we find, it is true,
done in the regular John Bull style,
with the Gilray model for the little
upstart Corsican: but as soon as the
Emperor had yielded to stern fortune,
our artist's heart relented (as Beranger's did on the other side of the water), and many of our readers will
doubtless recollect a fine drawing of
"Louis XVIII. trying on Napoleon's
boots," which did not certainly fit the
gouty son of Saint Louis. Such satirical hits as these, however, must not
be considered as political, or as any
thing more than the expression of the
artist's national British idea of Frenchmen.
It must be confessed that for that
great nation Mr. Cruikshank entertains a considerable contempt, Let
the reader examine the " Life in Paris," or the five hundred designs in
which Frenchmen are introduced, and
he will find them almost invariablv




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


thin, with ludicrous spindle-shanks,
pigtails, outstretched hands, shrugging shoulders, and queer hair and
mustachios. He has the British idea
of a Frenchman; and if he does not
believe that the inhabitants of France
are for the most part dancing-masters
and barbers, yet takes care to depict
such in preference, and would not
speak too well of them. It is curious
how  these traditions endure.  In
France, at the present moment, the
Englishman on the stage is the caricatured Englishman at the time of
the war, with a shock red head, a
long white coat, and invariable gaiters. Those who wish to study this
subject should peruse Monsieur Paul
de Kock's histories of " Lord Boulingrog" and " Lady Crockmilove." On
the other hand, the old en'ire! has taken his station amongst us, and we
doubt if a good British gallery would
understand that such and such a character was a Frenchman unless he appeared in the ancient traditional costume.
A curious book, called "Life in
Paris," published in 1822, contains a
number of the artist's plates in the
aquatint style; and though we believe
he had never been in that capital, the
designs have a great deal of life in
them, and pass muster very well. A
villanous race of shoulder-shrugging
mortals are his Frenchmen indeed.
And the heroes of the tale, a certain
Mr. Dick Wildfire, Squire Jenkins,
and Captain O'Shuffleton, are made
to show the true British superiority
on every occasion when Britons and
French are brought together. This
book was one among the many that
the designer's genius has caused to be
popular; the plates are not carefully
executed, but, being colored, have a
pleasant, lively look. The same style
was adopted in the once famous book
called " Tom and Jerry, or Life in
London," which must have a word of
notice here, for, although by no means
Mr. Cruikshank's best work, his reputation was extraordinarily raised by
it. Tom and Jerry were as popular


twenty years since as Mr. Pickwick
and Sam Weller now are; and often
have we wished, while reading the
biographies of the latter celebrated
personages, that they had been described as well by Mr. Cruikshank's
pencil as by Mr. Dickens's pen.
As for Tom and Jerry, to show the
mutability of human affairs and the
evanescent nature of reputation, we
have been to the British Museum, and
no less than five circulating libraries,
in quest of the book, and "Life in
London," alas, is not to be found at
any one of them.    We can only,
therefore, speak of the work from
recollection, but have still a very clear
remembrance of the leather-gaiters of
Jerry Hawthorn, the green spectacles
of Logic, and the hooked nose of
Corinthian Tom.    They were the
school-boy's delight; and in the days
when the work appeared we firmly
believed the three heroes above named
to be types of the most elegant, fashionable young fellows the town afforded, and thought their occupations and
amusements were those of all highbred English gentlemen. Tom knocking down the watchman at Temple
Bar; Tom and Jerry dancing at Almack's; or flirting in the saloon atthe
theatre; at the night-houses, after
the play; at Tom Cribb's, examining
the silver cup then in the possession
of that champion; at the chambers
of Bob Logic, who, seated at a cabinet piano, plays a waltz to which
Corinthian Tom and Kate are dancing; ambling gallantly in Rotten
Row; or examining the poor fellow
at Newgate who was having his chains
knocked off before hanging: all these
scenes remain indelibly engraved upon
the mind, and so far we are independent of all the circulating libraries in
London.
As to the literary contents of the
book, they have passed sheer away.
It was, most likely, not particularly
refined; nay, the chances are that it
was absolutely vulgar. But it must
have had some merit of its own, that
is clear; it must have given striking




532


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


descriptions of life in some part or the officer, who, being accused of
other of London, for all London read cowardice for refusing to fight a duel,
it, and went to see it in its dramatic came among his brother officers, and
shape. The artist, it is said, wished flung a lighted grenade down upon
to close the career of the three heroes the floor, before which his comrades
by bringing them all to ruin, but the fled ignominiously. This design is
writer, or publishers, would not allow  capital, and the outward rush of
any such melancholy subjects to dash heroes, walking, trampling, twisting,
the merriment of the public, and we scuffling at the door, is in the best
believe Tom, Jerry, and Logic, were style of the grotesque. You see but
married off at the end of the tale, as the back of most of these gentlemen;
if they had been the most moral per- into which, nevertheless, the artist has
sonages in the world. There is some managed to throw an expression of
goodness in this pity, which authors ludicrous agony that one could scarceand the public are disposed to show to- ly have expected to find in such a
wards certain agreeable, disreputable part of the human figure. The next
characters of romance. Who would plate is not less good. It represents
mar the prospects of honest Roderick a couple, who, having been found one
Random, or Charles Surface, or Tom  night tipsy, and lying in the same
Jones? only a very stern moralist in- gutter, were, by a charitable though
deed. And in regard of Jerry Haw- misguided gentleman, supposed to be
thorn and that hero without a sur- man and wife, and put comfortably
name, Corinthian Tom, Mr. Cruik- to bed together. The morning came;
shank, we make little doubt, was glad fancy the surprise of this interesting
in his heart that he was not allowed pair when they awoke and discovered
to have his own way.               their situation. Fancy the manner,
Soon after " The Tom and Jerry " too, in which Cruikshank has depicted
and " The Life in Paris," Mr. Cruik- them, to which  words cannot do
shank produced a much more elabor- justice. It is needless to state that
ate set of prints, in a work which was this fortuitous and temporary union
called "Points of Humor."   These was followed by one more lasting and
"Points" were selected from various sentimental, and that these  two
comic works, and did not, we believe, worthy persons were married, and
extend beyond a couple of numbers, lived happily ever after.
containing about a score of copper-  We should like to go through every
plates. The collector of humorous one of these prints. There is the
designs cannot fail to have them in jolly miller, who, returning home at
his portfolio, for they contain some night, calls upon his wife to get him
of the very best efforts of Mr. Cruik- a supper, and falls to upon rashers of
shank's genius, and though not quite bacon and ale. How he gormandizes,
so highly labored as some of his later that jolly miller! rasher after rasher,
productions, are none the worse, in how they pass away frizzling and
our opinion, for their comparative smoking from the gridiron down that
want of finish. All the effects are immense grinning gulf of a mouth.
perfectly given, and the expression is Poor wife! how she pines and frets,
as good as it could be in the most at that untimely hour of midnight to
delicate engraving upon steel. The be obliged to fry, fry, fry perpetually,
artist's style, too, was then complete- and minister to the monster's appetite.
ly formed; and, for our parts, we And   yonder in the   clock: what
should say that we preferred his agonized face is that we see? By
manner of 1825 to any other which heavens, it is the squire of the parish.
he has adopted since.   The first What business has he there? Let us
picture, which is called " The Point not ask. Suffice it to say, that he has,
of Honor," illustrates the old story of in the hurry of the moment, left up




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


533


stairs his br-; his - psha! a part It was his ruling passion. What was
of his dress, in short, with a number military glory to him, forsooth? He
of bank-notes in the pockets. Look had the greatest contempt for it, and
in the next page, and you will see the loved freedom and his copper kettle a
ferocious, bacon-devouring ruffian of thousand times better - a kind of
a miller is actually causing this gar- hardware Diogenes. Of fiddling he
ment to be carried through the village has no better opinion. The picture
and cried by the town-crier. And represents the " sturdy caird " taking
we blush to be obliged to say that "poor gut-scraper " by the beard, -
the demoralized miller never offered drawing his "roosty rapier," and
to return the bank-notes, although he swearing to " speet him like a pliver"
was so mighty scrupulous in endeav- unless he would relinquish the bonnie
oring to find an owner for the cordu- lassie forever -
roy portfolio in which he had found "Wi ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee
them.                                 Upon his hunkers bended,
Passing from this painful subject,  An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
we come, we regret to state, to a se-  An' o the quarrel ended."
ries of prints representing personages Hark how the tinker apostrophizes
not a whit more moral. Burns's fa- the violinist, stating to the widow at
mous "Jolly Beggars" have all had the same time the advantages which
their portraits drawn by Cruikshank. she might expect from  an alliance
There is the lovely " hempen widow," with himself: -
quite as interesting and romantic as Despise that shrimp, that withered imp,
the famous Mrs. Sheppard, who has     Wi' a' his noise and caperin';
at the lamented demise of her hus-  And take a share with those that bear
band adopted the very same consola-   The budget and the apron I
t on.                               And by that stowp, my faith an' houpe,
"My curse upon them every one,        An' by that dear Kilbaigie I
They've hanged my braw John IIigh-  If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
landman;                         May I ne'er weet my craigie."


And now a widow I must mourn
Departed joys that ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can
When I think on John Highlandman."
Sweet " raucle carlin," she has none
of the sentimentality of the English
highwayman's lady; but being wooed
by a tinker and
"A pygmy scraper wil his fiddle
Wha us'd to trystes and fairs to driddie,"
prefers the practical to the merely
musical man. The tinker sings with
a noble candor, worthy of a fellow of
his strength of body and station in
life" My bonnie lass, I work in brass,
A tinker is my station;
I've travell'd round all Christian ground
In this my occupation.
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I
march'd
To go an' clout the caudron."


Cruikshank's caird is a noble creature; his face and figure show him to
be fully capable of doing and saying
all that is above written of him.
In the second part, the old tale of
"The Three Hunchbacked Fiddlers ':
is illustrated with equal felicity. The
famous classical dinners and duel in
" Peregrine Pickle " are also excellent
in their way; and the connoisseur of
prints and etchings may see in the
latter plate, and in another in this
volume, how great the artist's mechanical skill is as an etcher. The
distant view of the city in the duel,
and of a market-place in " The Quack
Doctor," are delightful specimens of
the artist's skill in depicting buildings
and backgrounds. They are touched
with a grace, truth, and dexterity of
workmanship that leave nothing to
desire. We have before mentioned
the man with the mouth, which appears in this number emblematical of




534 '


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


gout and indigestion, in which the
artist has shown all the fancy of Callot. Little demons, with long saws
for noses, are making dreadful incisions into the toes of the unhappy
sufferer; some are bringing pans of
hot coals to keep the wounded member warm; a huge, solemn nightmare
sits on the invalid's chest, staring solemnly into his eyes; a monster, with
a pair of drumsticks, is banging a
devil's tattoo on his forehead; and a
pair of imps are nailing great tenpenny nails into his hands to make
his happiness complete.
The late Mr. Clark's excellent
work, " Three Courses and a Dessert," was published at a time when
the rage for comic stories was not so
great as it since has been, and Messrs.
Clark and Cruikshank only sold their
hundreds where Messrs. Dickens and
Phiz dispose of their thousands. But
if our recommendation can in any way
influence the reader, we would enjoin
him to have a copy of " The Three
Courses," that contains some of the
best designs of our artist, and some
of the most amusing tales in our language. The invention of the pictures,
for which Mr. Clark takes credit to
himself, says a great deal for his wit
and fancy. Can we, for instance,
praise too highly the man who invented that wonderful oyster?
Examine him well; his beard, his
pearl, his little round stomach, and
his sweet smile. Only oysters know
how  to smile in this way; cool,
gentle, waggish, and yet inexpressibly innocent and winning.  Dando
himself must have allowed such an
artless native to go free, and consigned him to the glassy, cool, translucent wave again.
In writing upon such subjects as
these with which we have been furnished, it can hardly be expected that
we should follow any fixed plan and
order-we must therefore take such
advantage as we may, and seize upon
our subject when and wherever we
can lay hold of him.
For Jews, sailors, Irishmen, lIes

sian boots, little boys, beadles, policemen,   tall life-guardsmen, charity
children, pumps, dustmen, very short
pantaloons, dandies in spectacles, and
ladies with aquiline noses, remarkably
taper waists, and wonderfully long
ringlets, Mr. Cruikshank has a special
predilection. The tribe of Israelites
he has studied with amazing gusto;
witness the Jew in Mr. Ainsworth's
"Jack Sheppard," and the immortal
Fagin of   Oliver Twist."  Whereabouts lies the comic vis in these persons and things?  Why should a
beadle be comic, and his opposite a
charity boy?   Why should a tall
life-guardsman have something in him
essentially absurd?  Why are short
breeches more ridiculous than long?
What is there particularly jocose
about a pump, and whercforc does a
long nose always provoke the beholder
to laughter? These points may be
metaphysically elucidated by those
who list. It is probable that Mr.
Cruikshank could not give an accurate definition of that which is ridiculous in these objects, but his instinct
has told him that fun lurks in them,
and cold must be the heart that can
pass by the pantaloons of his charity
boys, the Hessian boots of his dandies, and the fan-tail hats of his dustmen, without respectful wonder.
He has made a complete little gaIlery of dustmen. There is, in the
first place, the professional dustman,
who, having in the enthusiastic exercise of his delightful trade, laid hands
upon property not strictly his own, is
pursued, we presume, by the right
owner, from whom he flies as fast as
his crooked shanks will carry him.
What a curious picture it is - the
horrid rickety houses in some dingy
suburb of London, the grinning cobbler, the smothered butcher, the very
trees which are covered with dustit is fine to look at the different expressions of the two interesting fugitives. The fiery charioteer who belabors the poor donkey has still a
glance for his brother on foot, on
whom punishment is about to descend.




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


535


And not a little curious is it to think
of the creative power of the man who
has arranged this little tale of low
life. How logicallyit is conducted!
how cleverly each one of the accessories is made to contribute to the
effect of the whole! What a deal of
thought and humor has the artist
expended on this little block of wood!
A large picture might have been
painted out of the very same materials, which Mr. Cruikshank, out of
his wondrous fund of merriment and
observation, can afford to throw away
upon a drawing not two inches long.
From the practical dustmen we pass
to those purely poetical.  There are
three of them who rise on clouds of
their own raising, the very genii of the
sack and shovel.
Is there no one to write a sonnet to
these? and yet a whole poem was
written about Peter Bell the Waggoner, a character by no means so poetic.
And lastly, we have the dustman
in love: the honest fellow, having
seen a young beauty stepping out of
a gin-shop on a Sunday morning, is
pressing eagerly his suit.
Gin has furnished many subjects to
Mr. Cruikshank, who labors in his
own sound and hearty way to teach
his countrymen the dangers of that
drink. In " The Sketch-Book " is a
plate upon the subject, remarkable
for fancy and beauty of design; it is
called the "Gin Juggernaut," and
represents a hideous moving palace,
with a reeking still at the roof, and
vast gin barrels for wheels, under
which unhappy millions are crushed
to death. An immense black cloud
of desolation covers over the country
through which the gin monster has
passed, dimly looming through the
darkness whereof you see an agreeable
prospect of gibbets with men dangling, burnt houses, &c. The vast
cloud comes sweeping on in the wake
of this horrible body-crusher; and you
see, by way of contrast, a distant,
smiling, sunshiny tract of old English
country, where gil as yet is not
known. The allegory is as good, as


earnest, and as fanciful, as one of John
Bunyan's, and we have often fancied
there was a similarity between the
men.
The reader will examine the work
called "My Sketch-Book" with not
a little amusement, and may gather
from it, as we fancy, a good deal of
information regarding the character
of the individual man, George Cruikshank: what points strike his eye as
a painter; what move his anger or
admiration as a moralist; what classes
he seems most especially disposed to
observe, and what to ridicule. There
are quacks of all kinds, to whom he
has a mortal hatred; quack dandies,
who assume under his pencil, perhaps
in his eye, the most grotesque appearance possible - their hats grow larger, their legs infinitely more crooked
and lean; the tassels of their canes
swell out to a most preposterous size;
the tails of their coats dwindle away,
and finish where coat-tails generally
begin.  Let us lay a wager that
Cruikshank, a man of the people, if
ever there was one, heartily hates
and despises these supercilious, swaggering young gentlemen; and his
contempt is not a whit the less laudable because there may be tant soit pen
of prejudice in it. It is right and
wholesome to scorn dandies, as Nelson said it was to hate Frenchmen;
in which sentiment (as we have before
said) George Cruikshank undoubtedly
shares.  In "The Sunday in London," * Monsieur the Chef is instruct* The following lines —ever freshby the author of " Headlong Hall," published years ago in " The Globe and Traveller," are an excellent comment on several of the cuts from "The Sunday in
London: "I.
"The poor man's sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning
He is caught in the fact
Of an overt act,
Buying greens on Sunday morning.
II.


" The rich man's sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station,




536


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


ing a kitchen-maid how to compound
some rascally French kickshaw or the
other-a pretty scoundrel truly! with
what an air he wears that nightcap of
his, and shrugs his lank shoulders,
and chatters, and ogles, and grins!
they are all the same, these mounseers; there are two other fellows -
morbleu! one is putting his dirty
fingers into the saucepan; there are
frogs cooking in it, no doubt; and
just over some other dish of abomination, another dirty rascal is taking
snuff! Never mind, the sauce won't
be hurt by a few ingredients more or
less. Three such fellows as these
are not worth one Englishman, that's
clear. There is one in the very midst
of them, the great burly fellow with
the beef: he could beat all three
in five minutes. We cannot be certain that such was the process going
on in Mr. Cruikshank's mind when
he made the design; but some feelings
of the sort were no doubt entertained
by him.


Against dandy footmen he is particularly severe. He hates idlers, pretenders, boasters, and punishes these
fellows as best he may. Who does
not recollect the famous picture,
" What is Taxes, Thomas?"  What
is taxes indeed; well may that vast,
over-fed, lounging flunky ask the
question of his associate Thomas:
and yet not well, for all that Thomas
says in reply is, "I don't know."
"   beati plushicolce," what a charming state of ignorance is yours! In
"The Sketch-Book" many footmen
make their appearance: one is a huge
fat Hercules of a Portman Square
porter, who calmly surveys another
poor fellow, a porter likewise, but out
of livery, who comes staggering forward with a box that Hercules might
lift with his little finger. Will Hercules do so? not he. The giant can
carry nothing heavier than a cockedhat note on a silver tray, and his
labors are to walk from his sentry-box
to the door, and from the door back
to his sentry-box, and to read the
Sunday paper, and to poke the hall
fire twice or thrice, and to make five
meals a day. Such a fellow does
Cruikshank hate and scorn worse
even than a Frenchman.
The man's master, too, comes in
for no small share of our artist's
wrath. There is a company of them
at church, who humbly designate
themselves " miserable sinners!"
Miserable sinners indeed! Oh, what
floods of turtle-soup, what tons of turbot and lobster-sauce must have been
sacrificed to make those sinners properly miserable. My lady with the
ermine tippet and draggling feather,
can we not see that she lives in Portland Place, and is the wife of an East
India Director? She has been to the
Opera over-night (indeed her husband,
on her right, with his fat hand dangling over the pew-door, is at this minute thinking of Mademoiselle Ldocadie, whom he saw behind the scenes)
-she has been at the Opera overnight, which with a trifle of supper
afterwards- a white and brown soup,


And escape the sight
Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.
III.
"The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;
The poor who would roast,
To the baker's must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.
IV.
"The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;
The poor can but share
A cracked fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.
V.


" The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;
The poor must steer
For his pint of beer
Where the saint can't choose


[him.
but spy


VI.
" The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society;
But the poor man's delight
Is a sore in the sight
And a stench in the nose of piety."




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.                       537
a lobster-salad, some woodcocks, and but then it is because he is a bad sola little champagne -sent her to bed dier: when he comes to have a huge
quite comfortable. At half-past eight pair of mustachios and the croixlier maid brings her chocolate in bed, d'honneur to briller on his poitrine cicaat ten she has fresh eggs and muffins, trisee, Jeanjean becomes a member of
with, perhaps, a half-hundred of a class that is more respected than
prawns for breakfast, and so can get any other in the French nation. The
over the day and the sermon till lunch- veteran soldier inspires our people
time pretty well. What an odor of with no such awe -we hold that
musk and bergamot exhales from the democratic weapon the fist in much
pew! - how it is wadded and stuffed, more honor than the sabre and bayoand spangled over with brass nails! net, and laugh at a man tricked out in
what hassocks are there for those who scarlet and pipe-clay.
are not too fat to kneel! what a flus-  That regiment of heroes is " marchtering and flapping of gilt prayer- ing to divine service," to the tune of
books; and what a pious whirring of " The British Grenadiers."  There
Bible leaves one hears all over the they march in state, and a pretty conchurch, as the doctor blandly gives tempt our artist shows for all their
out the text! To be miserable at this gimcracks and trumpery. He has
rate you must, at the very least, have drawn a perfectly English scene -
four thousand a year: and many per- the little blackguard boys are playing
sons are there so enamored of grief pranks round about the men, and
and sin, that they would willingly shouting, " Heads up, soldier," " Eyes
t ike the risk of the misery to have a right, lobster," as little British urchins
life-interest in the consols that accom- will do. Did one ever hear the
pany it, quite careless about conse- like sentiments expressed in France?
quences, and sceptical as to the notion Shade of Napoleon, we insult you by
that a day is at hand when you must asking the question. In England,
fulfil your share of the bargain.  however, see how different the case
Our artist loves to joke at a soldier; is; and designedly or undesignedly,
in whose livery there appears to him  the artist has opened to us a piece of
to be something almost as ridiculous his mind. In the crowd the only peras in the uniform of the gentleman son who admires the soldiers is the
of theshoulder-knot. Talllife-guards- poor idiot, whose pocket a rogue is
men and fierce grenadiers figure in picking. There is another picture, in
many of his designs, and almost al- which the sentiment is much the
ways in a ridiculous way. Here again same, only, as in the former drawing
we have the honest popular English we see Englishmen laughing at the
feeling which jeers at pomp or preten- troops of the line, here are Irishmen
sion of all kinds, and is especially giggling at the militia.
jealous of all display of military au-  We have said that our artist has a
thority.  "Raw   Recruit,"  "ditto great love for the drolleries of the
dressed," ditto "served up," as we Green Island. Would any one doubt
see them in "The Sketch-Book," are what was the country of the merry
so many satires upon the army: fellows depicted in his group of PadHodge with his ribbons flaunting in dies?
his hat, or with red coat and musket, " Place me amid O'Rourkes, O'Toolcs,
drilled stiff and pompous, or at last,  The ragged royal race of Tara;
minus leg and arm, tottering about  Or place me where Dick Martin rules
on crutches, does not fill our English  The pathless wilds of Connemra."
artist with the enthusiasm that fol- We know not if Mr. Cruikshank has
lows the soldier in every other part ever had any such good luck as to
of Europe. Jeanjean, the conscript see the Irish in Ireland itself, but he
in France, is laughed at to be sure, certainly has obtained a knowledge




538


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


of their looks, as if the country had
been all his life familiar to him.
Could Mr. O'Connell himself desire
any thing more national than the
scene of a drunken row, or could
Father Mathew have a better text to
preach upon? There is not a broken
nose in the room that is not thoroughly Irish.
We have then a couple of compositions treated in a graver manner, as
characteristic, too, as the other. We
call attention to the comical look of
poor Teague, who has been pursued
and beaten by the witch's stick, in
order to point out also the singular
neatness of the workmanship, and the
pretty, fanciful little glimpse of landscape that the artist has introduced in
the background. Mr. Cruikshank
has a fine eye for such homely landscapes, and renders them with great
delicacy and taste.  Old villages,
farm-yards, groups of stacks, queer
chimneys, churches, gable-ended cottages, Elizabethan mansion-houses,
and other old English scenes, he depicts with evident enthusiasm.
Famous books in their day were
Cruikshank's "John Gilpin" and
"Epping Hunt;" for though our
artist does not draw horses very scientifically, - to use a phrase of the atelier, -hefeels them very keenly; and
his queer animals, after one is used to
them, answer quite as well as better.
Neither is he very happy in trees, and
such rustical produce; or rather, we
should say, he is very original, his
trees being decidedly of his own make
and composition, not imitated from
any master.
But what then? Can a man he supposed to imitate every thing? We
know what the noblest study of mankind is, and to this Mr. Cruikshank
has confined himself. That postilion
with the people in the broken-down
chaise roaring after him is as deaf as
the post by which he passes. Suppose all the accessories were away,
could not one swear that the man was
stone-deaf, beyond the reach of trumpet? What is the peculiar character


in a deaf man's physiognomy? -can
any person define it satisfactorily in
words — not in pages; and Mr.
Cruikshank has expressed it on a
piece of paper not so big as the tenth
part of your thumb-nail. The horses
of John Gilpin are much more of the
equestrian order; and as here the
artist has only his favorite suburban
buildings to draw, not a word is to
be said against his design. The inn
and old buildings are charmingly designed, and nothing can be more
prettily or playfully touched.
" At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcony spied
Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.
"'Stop, stop, John Gilpin I Here's the
house I
They all at once did cry;
'The dinner waits, and we arc tired' -
Said Gilpin-' So am I I
" Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry: -
"'Stop thief stop thief l- a highwayman I'
Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.
" And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race."
The rush and shouting and clatter
are excellently depicted by the artist;
and we, who have been scoffing at his
manner of designing animals, must
here make a special exception in
favor of the hens and chickens; each
has a different action, and is curiously
natural.
Happy are children of all ages who
have such a ballad and such pictures
as this in store for them! It is a
comfort to think that woodcuts never
wear out, and that the book still
may be had for a shilling, for those
who can command that sum of money.
In " The Epping Hunt," which we
owe to the facetious pen of Mr. Hood,
our artist has not been so successful.




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


539


There is here too much horsemanship
and not enough incident for him; but
the portrait of Roundings the huntsman is an excellent sketch, and a
couple of the designs contain great
humor. The first represents the
Cockney hero, who, "like a bird,
was singing out while sitting on a
tree."
And in the second the natural order
is reversed. The stag, having taken
heart, is hunting the huntsman, and
the Cheapside Nimrod is most ignominiously running away.
The Easter Hunt, we are told, is
no more; and as " The Quarterly Review " recommends the British public
to purchase Mr. Catlin's pictures, as
they form the only record of an interesting race now rapidly passing
away, in like manner we should exhort all our friends to purchase Mr.
Cruikshank's designs of another interesting race, that is run already and
for the last time.
Besides these, we must mention, in
the line of our duty, the notable tragedies of " Tom Thumb " and " Bombastes Furioso," both of which have
appeared with many illustrations by
Mr. Cruikshank. The " brave army"
of Bombastes exhibits a terrific display of brutal force, which must
shock the sensibilities of an English
radical. And we can well understand
the caution of the general who bids
this soldatesque effrelee to begone, and
not to kick up a row.
Such a troop of lawless ruffians let
loose upon a populous city would
play sad havoc in it; and we fancy
the massacres of Birmingham renewed, or at least of Badajoz, which,
though not quite so dreadful, if we
may believe his Grace the Duke of
Wellington, as the former scenes of
slaughter, were nevertheless severe
enough; but we must not venture
upon any ill-timed pleasantries in
presence of the disturbed King Arthur
and the awful ghost of Gaffer Thumb.
We are thus carried at once into
the supernatural, and here we find
Vruikshank reigning supreme.  He


has invented in his time a little comic
pandemonium, peopled with the most
droll, good-natured fiends possible.
We have before us Chamisso's " Peter
Schlemihl," with Cruikshank's designs translated into German, and
gaining nothing by the change. The
"Kinder und Hans-Maerchen" of
Grimm are likewise ornamented
with a frontispiece, copied from that
one which appeared to the amusing
version of the English work. The
books on Phrenology and Time have
been imitated by the same nation;
and even in France, whither reputation travels slower than to any country except China, we have seen
copies of the works of George Cruikshank.
He in return has complimented the
French by illustrating a couple of
Lives of Napoleon, and the "Life in
Paris" before mentioned. He has
also made designs for Victor Hugo's
"Hans of Iceland."  Strange, wild
etchings were those, on a strange, mad
subject; not so good in our notion as
the designs for the German books,
the peculiar humor of which latter
seemed to suit the artist exactly.
There is a mixture of the awful and the
ridiculous in these, which perpetually
excites and keeps awake the reader's
attention; the German writer and the
English artist seem to have an entire
faith in their subject.  The reader,
no doubt, remembers the awful passage in " Peter Schlemihl," where the
little gentleman purchases the shadow
of that hero -" Have the kindness,
noble sir, to examine and try this
bag." " He put his hand into his
pocket, and drew thence a tolerably
large bag of Cordovan leather, to
which a couple of thongs were fixed.
I took it from him, and immediately
counted out ten gold pieces, and ten
more, and ten more, and still other
ten, whereupon I held out my hand
to him. Done, said I, it is a bargain;
you shall have my shadow for your
bag. The bargain was concluded;
he knelt down before me, and I saw
him with a wonderful neatness take




540


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


my shadow from head to foot, lightly
lift it up from the grass, roll and fold it
up neatly, and at last pocket it. He
then rose up, bowed to me once more,
and walked away again, disappearing
behind the rose-bushes. I don't know,
but I thought I heard him laughing
a little. I, however, kept fast hold
of the bag. Every thing around me
was bright in the sun, and as yet I
gave no thought to what I had done."
This marvellous event, narrated by
Peter with such a faithful, circumstantial detail, is painted by Cruikshank in
the most wonderful poetic way, with
that happy mixture of the real and supernatural that makes the narrative so
curious, and like truth. The sun is
shining with the utmost brilliancy in
a great quiet park or garden; there
is a palace in the background, and a
statue basking in the sun quite
lonely and melancholy; there is a sundial, on which is a deep shadow, and
in the front stands Peter Schlemihl,
bag in hand: the old gentleman is
down on his knees to him, and has
just lifted off the ground the shadow
of one leg; he is going to fold it back
neatly, as one does the tails of a coat,
and will stow it, without any creases
or crumples, along with the other
black garments that lie in that immense pocket of his. Cruikshank has
designed all this as if he had a very
serious belief in the story; he laughs,
to be sure, but one fancies that he is
a little frightened in his heart, in spite
of all his fun and joking.
The German tales we have mentioned before. "The Prince riding
on the Fox," " Hans in Luck," " The
Fiddler and his Goose," " Heads off,"
are all drawings, which, albeit not before us now, nor seen for ten years,
remain indelibly fixed on the memory. "Ileisst du etwa Rumpelstilzchen?"
There sits the Queen on her throne,
surrounded by grinning beef-eaters,
and little Rumpelstiltskin stamps his
foot through the floor in the excess of
his tremendous despair.  In one of
these German tales, if we remember
rightly, there is an account of a little


orphan who is carried away by a pity.
ing fairy for a term of seven years,
and passing that period of sweet apprenticeship among the imps and
sprites of fairy-land. Has our artist
been among the same company, and
brought back their portraits in his
sketch-book? He is the only designer fairy-land has had. Callot's imps,
for all their strangeness, are only of
the earth earthy. Fuseli's fairies belong to the infernal regions; they,
are monstrous, lurid, and hideously
melancholy. Mr. Cruikshank alone
has had a true insight into the character of the "little people."  They
are something like men and women,
and yet not flesh and blood; they are
laughing and mischievous, but why
we know not. Mr. Cruikshank, however, has had some dream or the other, or else a natural mysterious instinct (as the Seherinn of Prevorst
had for beholding ghosts),or else some
preternatural fairy revelation, which
has made him acquainted with the
looks and ways of the fantastical subjects of Oberon and Titania.
We have, unfortunately, no fairy
portraits; but, on the other hand,
can descend lower than fairy-land,
and have seen some fine specimens of
devils. One has already been raised,
and the reader has seen him tempting
a fat Iutch burgomaster, in an ancient gloomy market-place, such as
George Cruikshank can draw as well
as Mr. Prout, Mr. Nash, or any man
living. There is our friend once
more; our friend the burgomaster, in
a highly excited state, and running as
hard as his great legs will carry him,
with our mutual enemy at his tail.
What are the bets; will that longlegged bond-holder of a devil come
up with the honest Dutchman? It
serves him right: why did he put his
name to stamped paper? And yet
we should not wonder if some lucky
chance should turn up in the burgomaster's favor, and   his infernal
creditor lose his labor; for one so
proverbially cunning as yonder tall
individual with the saucer eyes, it




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


541


must be confessed that he has been
very often outwitted.
There is, for instance, the case of
"TThe Gentleman in Black," which
has been illustrated by our artist. A
young French gentleman, by name
M. Desonge, who, having expended
his patrimony in a variety of taverns
and gaming-houses, was one day pondering upon the exhausted state of
his finances, and utterly at a loss to
think how he should provide means
for future support, exclaimed very
naturally, "What the devil shall I
do?" He had no sooner spoken than
a GENTLEMAN IN BLACK made his
appearance, whose authentic portrait
Mr. Cruikshank has had the honor to
paint. This gentleman produced a
black-edged book out of a black bag,
some black-edged papers tied up with
black crape, and sitting down familiarly opposite M. Desonge, began conversing with him on the state of his
affairs.
It is needless to state what was the
result of the interview. M. Desonge
was induced by the gentleman to sign
his name to one of the black-edged
papers, and found himself at the close
of the conversation to be possessed
of an unlimited command of capital.
This arrangement completed, the
Gentleman in Black posted (in an
extraordinarily rapid manner) from
Paris to London, there found a young
English merchant in exactly the same
situation in which M. Desonge had
been, and concluded a bargain with
the Briton of exactly the same nature.
The book goes on to relate how
these young men spent the money so
miraculously handed over to them,
and how both, when the period drew
near that was to witness the performance of their part of the bargain,
grew melancholy, wretched, nay, so
absolutely dishonorable as to seek for
every means of breaking through their
agreement. The Englishman living
in a country where the lawyers are
more astute than any other lawyers
in the world, took the advice of a Mr.


Bagsby, of Lyon's Inn; whose name,
as we cannot find it in the "Law
List," we presume to be fictitious.
Who could it be that was a match for
the devil?  Lord -   very likely;
we shall not give his name, but let
every reader of this Review fill up the
blank according to his own fancy, and
on comparing it with the copy purt
chased by his neighbors, he will find
that fifteen out of twenty have written down the same honored name.
Well, the Gentleman in Black was
anxious for the fulfilment of his
bond. The parties met at Mr. Bagsby's chambers to consult, the Black
Gentleman foolishly thinking that he
could act as his own counsel, and
fearing no attorney alive. But mark
the superiority of British law, and see
how the black pettifogger was defeated.
Mr. Bagsby simply stated that he
would take the case into Chancery,
and his antagonist, utterly humiliated
and defeated, refused to move a step
farther in that matter.
And now the French gentleman,
M. Desonge, hearing of his friend's
escape, became anxious to be free from
his own rash engagements. IIe employed the same counsel who had
been successful in the former instance,
but the Gentleman in Black was a
great deal wiser by this time, and
whether M. Desonge escaped, or
whether he is now in that extensive
place which is paved with good intentions, we shall not say. Those who
are anxious to know had better purchase the book wherein all these interesting matters are duly set down.
There is one more diabolical picture
in our budget, engraved by Mr.
Thompson, the same dexterous artist
who has rendered the formerdiableries
so well.
We may mention Mr. Thompson's
name as among the first of the engravers to whom Cruikshank's designs have been intrusted; and next
to him (if we may be allowed to make
such arbitrary distinctions) we may
place Mr. Williams; and the reader




542


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


is not possibly aware of the immense
difficulties to be overcome in the rendering of these little sketches, which,
traced by the designer in a few hours,
require weeks' labor from the engraver. Mr. Cruikshank has not
been educated in the regular schools
of drawing (very luckily for him, as
we think), and consequently has had
to make a manner for himself, which
is quite unlike that of any other draftsman. There is nothing in the least
mechanical about it; to produce his
particular effects he uses his own particular lines, which are queer, free,
fantastical, and must be followed in
all their infinite twists and vagaries
by the careful tool of the engraver.
Those three lovely heads, for instance,
imagined out of the rinds of lemons,
are worth examining, not so much
for the jovial humor and wonderful variety of feature exhibited in
these darling countenances as for the
engraver's part of the work. See the
infinite delicate cross-lines and hatchings which he is obliged to render;
let him go, not a hair's breadth, but
the hundredth part of a hair's breadth,
beyond the given line, and the feeling
of it is ruined. He receives these little dots and specks, and fantastical
quirks of the pencil, and cuts away
with a little knife round each, not too
much nor too little. Antonio's pound
of flesh did not puzzle the Jew so
much; and so well does the engraver
succeed at last, that we never remember to have met with a single artist
who did not vow that the wood-cutter had utterly ruined his design.
Of Messrs. Thompson and Williams we have spoken as the first
engravers in point of rank; however,
the regulations of professional precedence are certainly very difficult,
and the rest of their brethren we
shall not endeavor to class. Why
should the artists who executed
the cuts of the admirable "Three
Courses" yield the pas to any one?
There, for instance, is an engraving
by Mr. Landells, nearly as good in
our opinion as the very best woodcut


that ever was made after Cruikshank,
and curiously happy in rendering
the artist's peculiar manner: this cut
does not come from the facetious
publications which we have consulted; but is a contribution by Mr.
Cruiksllank to an elaborate and
splendid botanical work upon the
Orchidacese of Mexico, by Mr. Bateman. Mr. Bateman despatched some
extremely choice roots of this valuable plant to a friend in England,
who, on the arrival of the case, consigned it to his gardener to unpack.
A great deal of anxiety with regard
to the contents was manifested by all
concerned, but, on the lid of the box
being removed, there issued from it
three or four fine specimens of the
enormous Blatta beetle that had been
preying upon the plants during the
voyage; against these the gardeners,
the grooms, the porters, and the porters' children issued forth in arms,
and this scene the artist has immortalized.
We have spoken of the admirable
way in which Mr. Cruikshank has
depicted Irish character and Cockney
character; English country character
is quite as faithfully delineated in the
person of the stout portcress and her
children, and of the " Chawbacon"
with the shovel, on whose face is
written "Zummerzetsheer." Chawbacon appears in another plate, or else
Chawbacon's brother. He has come
up to Lunnan, and is looking about
him at raaces.
How distinct are these rustics from
those whom we have just been examining!   They hang about the
purlieus of the metropolis: Brook
Green, Epsom, Greenwich, Ascot,
Goodwood, are their haunts. They
visit London professionally once a
year, and that is at the time of Bartholomew fair. How one may speculate upon the different degrees of rascality, as exhibited in each face of the
thimblerigging trio, and form little
histories for these worthies, charming
Newgate romances, such as have been
of late the fashion! Is any man so




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


543


blind that he cannot see the exact
face that is writhing under the thimblerigged hero's hat? Like Timanthes of old our artist expresses great
passions without the aid of the human
countenance. There is another specimen - a street row of inebriated
bottles. Is there any need of having
a face after this? " Come on!" says
Claret-bottle, a dashing, genteel fellow, with his hat on one ear-" Come
on! has any man a mind to tap me? "
Claret-bottle, is a little screwed (as
one may see by his legs), but full of
gayety and courage; not so that stout,
apoplectic Bottle-of rum, who has
staggered against the wall, and has
his hand upon his liver: the fellow
hurts himself with smoking, that is
clear, and is as sick as sick can be.
See, Port is making away from the
storm, and Double X is as flat as
ditch-water.  Against these, awful
in their white robes, the sober watchmen come.
Our artist, then, can cover up faces,
and yet show them quite clearly, as in
the thimblerig group; or he can do
without faces altogether; or he can,
at a pinch, provide a countenance for
a gentleman out of any given object
-a beautiful Irish  physiognomy
being moulded upon a keg of whiskey; and a jolly English countenance
frothing out of a pot of ale (the spirit
of brave Toby Philpot come back to
re-animate his clay); while in a fungus may be recognized the physiognomy of a mushroom peer. Finally, if
he is at a loss, he can make a living
head, body, and legs out of steel or
tortoise-shell, as in the case of the
vivacious pair of spectacles that are
jockeying the nose of Caddy Cuddle.
Of late years, Mr. Cruikshank has
busied himself very much with steel
engraving, and the consequences of
that lucky invention have been, that
his plates are now sold by thousands,
where they could only be produced by
hundreds before. He has made many
a bookseller's and author's fortune
(we trust that in so doing he may not
have neglected his own).  Twelve


admirable plates, furnished yearly
to that facetious little publication,
" The Comic Almanac," have gained
for it a sale, as we hear, of nearly
twenty thousand copies.  The idea
of the work was novel: there was, in
the first number especially, a great
deal of comic power, and Cruikshank's designs were so admirable
that " The Almanac " at once became
a vast favorite with the public, and
has so remained ever since.
Besides the twelve plates, this
almanac contains a prophetic woodcut, accompanying an awful Blarneyhum Astrologicum that appears in
this and other almanacs. There is
one that hints in pretty clear terms
that with the Reform of Municipal
Corporations the ruin of the great
Lord Mayor of London is at hand.
His Lordship is meekly going to dine
at an eightpenny ordinary, - his
giants in pawn, his men in armor
dwindled to "one poor knight," his
carriage to be sold, his stalwart aldermen vanished, his sheriffs, alas!
and alas! in jail!  Another design
shows that Rigdum, if a true, is also
a moral and instructive prophet. John
Bull is asleep, or rather in a vision;
the cunning demon, Speculation,
blowing a thousand bright bubbles
about him.   Meanwhile the rooks
are busy at his fob, a knave has
cut a cruel hole in his pocket, a rattlesnake has coiled safe round his
feet, and will in a trice swallow Bull,
chair, money and all; the rats are at
his corn-bags (as if, poor devil, he had
corn to spare); his faithful dog is
bolting his leg of mutton - nay, a
thief has gotten hold of his very candle, and there, by way of moral, is his
ale-pot, which looks and winks in his
face, and seems to say, O Bull, all this
is froth, and a cruel satirical picture
of a certain rustic who had a goose
that laid certain golden eggs, which
goose the rustic slew in expectation of
finding all the eggs at once. This is
goose and sage too, to borrow the
pun of "learned Dr. Gill;" but we
shrewdly suspect that Mr. Cruikshank




544


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


is becoming a little conservative in
his notions.
We love these pictures so that it is
hard to part us, and we still fondly
endeavor to hold on, but this wild
word, farewell, must be spoken by the
best friends at last, and so good-by,
brave woodcuts: we feel quite a sadness in coming to the last of our collection.
In the earlier numbers of "The
Comic Almanac" all the manners
and customs of Londoners that would
afford food for fun were noted down;
and if during the last two years the
mysterious personage who, under the
title of "Rigdum  Funnidos," compiles this ephemeris, has been compelled to resort to romantic tales, we
must suppose that he did so because
the great metropolis was exhausted;
and it was necessary to discover new
worlds in the cloud-land of fancy.
The character of Mr. Stubbs, who
made his appearance in "The Almanac" for 1839, had, we think,
great merit, although his adventures
were somewhat of too tragical a description to provoke pure laughter.
We should be glad to devote a few
pages to " The Illustrations of Time,"
"The Scraps and Sketches" and
"The Illustrations of Phrenology,"
which are among the most famous of
our artist's publications; but it is very
difficult to find new terms of praise,
as find them one must, when reviewing Mr. Cruikshank's publications,
and more difficult still (as the reader
of this notice will no doubt have perceived for himself long since) to
translate his design into words, and
go to the printer's box for a description of all that fun and humor which
the artist can produce by a few skilful turns of his needle. A famous
article upon "The Illustrations of
Time" appeared some dozen years
since in "Blackwood's Magazine,"
of which the conductors have always
been great admirers of our artist, as
became men of honor and genius.
To these grand qualities do not let it
be supposed that we are laying claim,


but, thank heaven, Cruikshank's humor is so good and benevolent, that
any man must love it, and on this
score we may speak as well as another.
Then there are "The Greenwich
Hospital" designs, which must not
be passed over.  "Greenwich Hospital " is a hearty, good-natured book,
in the Tom Dibdin school, treating
of the virtue of British tars, in approved nautical language. They maul
Frenchmen and Spaniards, they go
out in brigs and take frigates, they
relieve women in distress, and are
yard-arm and yard-arming, athwarthawsing, marlinspiking, binnacling,
and helm's-a-leeing, as honest seamen
invariably do, in novels, on the stage,
and doubtless on board ship. This
we cannot take upon us to say, but
the artist, like a true Englishman,
as he is, loves dearly these brave
guardians of Old England, and chronicles their rare or fanciful exploits
with the greatest good-will. Let any
one look at the noble head of Nelson
in "The Family Library," and they
will, we are sure, think with us that
the designer must have felt and loved
what he drew.   There are to this
abridgment of Southey's admirable
book many more cuts after Cruikshank; and about a dozen pieces by
the same hand will be found in a work
equally popular, Lockhart's excellent
"Life of Napoleon." Among these
the retreat from Moscow is very fine;
the Mamlouks most vigorous, furious,
and barbarous, as they should be. At
the end of these three volumes Mr.
Cruikshank's contributions to " The
Family Library" seem suddenly to
have ceased.
We are not at all disposed to undervalue the works and genius of Mr.
Dickens, and we are sure that he
would admit as readily as any man
the wonderful assistance that he has
derived from the artist who has given
us the portraits of his ideal personages, and made them familiar to all
the world. Once seen, these figures
remain impressed on the memory,




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


545


which otherwise would have had no
hold upon them, and the heroes and
heroines of Boz become personal acquaintances with each of us.  Oh
that Hogarth could have illustrated
Fielding in the same way! and fixed
down on paper those grand figures
of Parson Adams, and Squire Allworthy, and the great Jonathan Wild.
With regard to the modern romance of " Jack Sheppard," in which
the latter personage makes a second
appearance, it seems to us that Mr.
Cruikshank really created the tale,
and that Mr. Ainsworth, as it were,
only put words to it. Let any reader
of the novel think over it for a while,
now that it is some months since he
has perused and laid it down —let
him think, and tell us what he remembers of the tale.  George Cruikshank's pictures - always George
Cruikshank's pictures.  The storm
in the Thames, for instance: all the
author's labored description of that
event has passed clean away- we
have only before the mind's eye the
fine plates of Cruikshank: the poor
wretch cowering under the bridge
arch, as the waves come rushing in,
and the boats are whirling away in
the drift of the great swollen black
waters. And let any man look at
that second plate of the murder on
the Thames, and he must acknowledge how much more brilliant the
artist's description is than the writer's,
and what a real genius for the terrible
as well as for the ridiculous the former has; how awful is the gloom of
the old bridge, a few lights glimmering from the houses here and there,
but not so as to be reflected on the
water at all, which is too turbid and
raging: a great heavy rack of clouds
goes sweeping over the bridge, and
men with flaring torches, the murderers, are borne away with the
stream.
The author requires many pages to
describe the fury of the storm, which
Mr. Cruikshank has represented in
one. First, he has to prepare you
with the something inexpressibly
24


melancholy in sailing on a dark niglht
upon the Thames: "the ripple of
the water," "the darkling current,"
" the indistinctively seen craft," " the
solemn shadows " and other phenomena visible on rivers at night are detailed (with not unskilful rhetoric) in
order to bring the reader into a proper
frame of mind for the deeper gloom
and horror which is to ensue. Then
follow pages of description.  "As
Rowland sprang to the helm, and
gave the signal for pursuit, a war
like a volley of ordnance was heard
aloft, and the wind again burst its
bondage.  A   moment before, the
surface of the stream was as black as
ink. It was now whitening, hissing,
and seething, like an enormous caldron. The blast once more swept
over the agitated river, whirled off
the sheets of foam, scattered them
far and wide in rain-drops, and left
the raging torrent blacker than before.
Destruction everywhere marked the
course of the gale. Steeples toppled
and towers reeled beneath its fury.
All was darkness, horror, confusion,
ruin. Men fled from their tottering
habitations and returned to them,
scared by greater danger. The end
of the vworld seemed at hand.
The hurricane had now reached its
climax. The blast shrieked, as it
exulting in- its wrathful mission.
Stunning and continuous, the din
seemed almost to take away the
power of hearing. IIe who had faced
the gale would have been instantly stifled," &c., &c. See with what a tremenldous war of words (and good
loud words too; Mr. Ainsworth's
description is a good and spirited
one) the author is obliged to pour in
upon the reader before he can effect
his purpose upon the latter, and inspire him with a proper terror. The
painter does it at a glance, and old
Wood's dilemma in the midst of that
tremendous storm, with the little
infant at his bosom, is remembered
afterwards, not fiom the words, but
from the visible image of them that
the artist has left us.




546


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


It would not, perhaps, be out of
place to glance through the whole
of " The Jack Sheppard" plates,
which are among the most finished
and the most successful of Mr. Cruikshank's performances, and say a
word or two concerning them. Let
us begin with finding  fault with
No. 1, "Mr. Wood offers to adopt
little Jack Sheppard." A poor print,
on a poor subject; the figure of the
woman not as carefilly designed as
it might be, and the expression of the
eyes (not an uncommon fault with
our artist) much caricatured. The
print is cut up, to use the artist's
phrase, by the number of accessories
which the engraver has thought
proper, after the author's elaborate
description, elaborately to reproduce.
The plate of " Wild discovering
Darrell in the loft " is admirableghastly, terrible, and the treatment
of it extraordinarily skilful, minute,
and bold. The intricacies of the tilework, and the mysterious twinkling
of light among the beams, arc excellently felt and rendered; and one
sees here, as in the two next plates
of the storm and murder, what a fine
eye the artist has, what a skilful
hand, and what a sympathy for the
wild and dreadful. As a mere imitation of nature, the clouds and the
bridge in the murder picture may be
examined by painters who make far
higher pretensions than Mr. Cruikshank.  In point of workmanship,
they are equally good, the manner
quite unaffected, the effect produced
without any violent contrast, the
whole scene evidently well and philosophically arranged in the artist's
brain, before he began to put it upon
copper
Thi' famous drawing of" Jack carving the name on the beam," which
has been transferred to half the playbills in town, is over-loaded with
accessories, as the first plate; but
they are much better arranged than
in the last-named engraving, and do
not injure the effect of the principal
figure. Remark, too, the conscicn



tiousness of the artist, and that shrewd
pervading idea of form which is one
of his principal characteristics. Jack
is surrounded by all sorts of implements of his profession; lie stands
on a regular carpenter's table: away
in the shadow under it lie shavings
and a couple of carpenter's hampers.
The glue-pot, the mallet, the chiselhandle, the planes, the saws, the
hone with its cover, and the other
paraphernalia  arc all represented
with extraordinary accuracy and forethought. The man's mind has retained the exact (lawing of all these
minute objects (unconsciously perlhaps
to himself), but we can see with what
keen eyes he must go through the
world, and what a fund of facts (as such
a knowledge of the shape of objects
is in his profession) this keen student
of nature has stored away in his
brain.  In the next plate, where
Jack is escaping fiom  his mistress,
the figure of that lady, one of the
deepest of the aiaOKoXArot, strikes us
as disagreeable and unrefined; that
of Winifred is, on the contrary, very
pretty and  gracefil;  and  Jack's
puzzled, slinking look must not be
forgotten.  All the accessories are
good, and the apartment has a snug,
cosey air; which is not remarkable,
except that it shows how faithfully
the designer has performed his work,
and how curiously lie has entered
into all the particulars of the subject.
Master Thames Darrell, the handsonic young man of the book, is, in
Mr. Cruikshank's portraits of him,
no favorite of ours. The lad seems
to wish to make up for the natural
insignificance of his face by frowning
on all occasions most portentously.
_    This figure, borrowed from
o   the compositor's desk, will
I    give a notion of what we
mean. Wild's face is too
violent for the great man of history
(if we may call Fielding history),
but this is in consonance with the
ranting, firowning, braggadocio char
acter that Mr. Ainsworth has given
him.




GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


547


" The Interior of Willcsden Church"
is excellent as a composition, and
a piece of artistical workmanship;
the groups are well arranged; and
the figure of Mrs. Slhcppard looking
rountd alarmed, as her son is robbing
the dandy Kneebone, is charming,
simple, and unaffected. Not so "Mrs.
Shcppard ill in bed," whose face is
screwed up to an expression vastly
too tragic. The little glimpse of the
church seen tlrough the open door
of tile room  is very beautiful and
poetical: it is in such small hints
tlhat an artist especially excels; they
arc the morals which he loves to
append to his stories, and are always
appropriate and welcome. The boozing ken is not to our liking; Mrs.
Shcppard is there witll her horrified
eyebrows   again.  Why this cxaggeration - is it necessary for the
public?  We think not, or if they
require such excitemcnt, let our artist,
like a true painter as lie is, teach them
better things.*
"The Escape fiom Willesden Cage"
is excellent; ' The Burglary inWood's
house " has not less merit; " Mrs.
Sheppard in Bedlam," a ghastly picture indeed, is finely conceived, but
not, as we fancy, so carefully executed; it would be better for a little
more careful drawing in the female
figure.
"Jack sitting for his pictre " is
a very pleasing group, and savors of
* A gentleman (whose wit is so celebrated that one should be very cautious in
repeating his stories) gave the writer a
good illustration of the philosophy of
exaggeration. Mr. — was once behind
the scenes at the Opera when the sceneshifters were preparing for the ballet.
Flora was to sleep under a bush, whereon
were growing a number of roses, and
amidst which was fluttering a gay covey
of butterflies. In size, the roses exceeded
the most expansive sun-flowers, and the
butterflies were as large as cocked lhats; -
the scene-shifter explained to Mr. -,
who asked the reason why every thing
was so magnified, that the galleries could
never see the objects unless they were
enormously exaggerated. How many of
our writers and designers work for the
galleries?


the manner of Hogarth, wllo is introduced in the company. "The
Murder of Trenchard " must be
noticed too as renarkable for the
effect and terrible vigor which the
artist has given to the scene.  " The
Willesden Churchyard " has great
merit too, but die gems of the book
are the little vignettes illustrating
the escape from Newgate. Here, too,
much anatomical care of drawing is
not required; the figures are so small
that the outline and attitude need
only to be indicated, and the designer
has produced a series of figures quite
remarkable for reality and poetry too.
There are no less than ten of Jack's
feats so described by Mr. Cruikshank.
(Let us say a word here in praise of
the excellent manner in which the
author has carried us through tlhe adventure.) Here is Jack clattcring up
the chimney, now peering into the
lonely red room, now opening " the
door betwcen   the red room   and
the chapel."  What a wild, fierce,
scared look lie has, the y oung ruffian,
as cautiously lhe steps in, holding
light his bar of iron.  You can see
by his face how his heart is beating.
If any one were there! but no! And
this is a very fine characteristic of
the prints, the extreme loneliness
of them all. Not a soul is there to
disturb him - woe to him who should
- and Jack drives in the chapel gate,
and shatters down the passage door,
and there you have him on the leads.
Up he goes! it is but a spring of a
few feet from the blanket, and he is
gone -abiit, evasif, ermpit!  Mr.
Wild must catch him   again if he
can.
We must not forget to mention
"Oliver Twist," and Mr. Cruikshank's famous designs to that work.*
The sausage scene at Fagin's, Nancy
seizing the boy; that capital piece of
humor, Mr. Bumblc's courtship,
which is even better in Cruikshank's
version than in Boz's exquisite ac* Or his new work, "The Tower of
London," which promises even to surpses
Mr. ('ruikshank's former productions.




548


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


count of tile interview; Sykes's farewell to the dog; and the Jew,the dreadful Jew-that Cruikshank
drew! What a fine touching picture
of melancholy desolation is that of
Sykes and the dog! The poor cur is
not too well drawn, the landscape is
stiff and formal; but in this case the
faults, if faults they be, of execution
rather add to than diminish the effect
Df the picture: it has a strange, wild,
dreary, broken-hearted look; we
fancy we see the landscape as it must
have appeared to Sykes, when ghastly
and with bloodshot eves he looked at
it. As for the Jew in the dungeon,
let us say nothing of it —what can
we say to describe it? What a fine
homely poet is the man who can produce this little world of mirth or woe
for us! Does lie elaborate his effects
by slow process of thought, or do they
come to him by instinct? Does the
painter ever arrange in his brain an
image so complete, that he afterwards can copy it exactly on the
canvas, or does the hand work in
spite of him l
A great deal of this random work
of course every artist has done in his
time; many men produce effects of
which they never dreamed, and strike
off excellences, haphazard, which gain
for them reputation; but a fine quality in Mr. Cruikshank, the quality of
his success, as we have said before,
is the extraordinary earnestness and
good faith with which he executes
all he attempts - the ludicrous, the
polite, the low, the terrible. In the
second of these lie often, in our fancy,
fails, his figures lacking elegance and
descending to caricature; but there
is something fine in this too: it is
good that lie should fail, that he should
have these honest naive notions regarding the beau monde, the characteristics of which a namby-pamby teaparty painter could hit off far better
than he. He is a great deal too downright and manly to appreciate the
flimsy delicacies of small society —
you cannot expect a lion to roar
you like any sucking dove, or frisk


about a drawing-room like a lady's
little spaniel.
If then, in the course of his life and
business, he has been occasionally
obliged to imitate the ways of such
small animals, lie has done so, let us
say it at once, clumsily, and like as
a lion should.  Many artists, we
hear, hold his works 'ather cheap;
they prate about bad drawing, want
of scientific knowledge; - they would
have something vastly more neat,
regular, anatomical.
Not one of the whole band most
likely but can paint an Academy
figure better than himself; nay, or a
portrait of an alderman's lady and
family of children. But look down
the list of the painters and tell us
who are they? Ilow many among
these men are poets (makers), possessing the faculty to create, the
greatest among the gifts with which
Providence lhas endowed the mind of
man?   Say how many there are,
count up what they have done, and
see what in the course of some nine
and twenty years has been done by
this indefatigable man.
What amazing energetic fecundity
do wo find in him! As a boy lie began to fight for bread, has been hungry (twice a day we trust) ever since,
and has been obliged to sell his wit
for his bread week by week. And his
wit, sterling gold as it is, will find no
such purchasers as the fashionable
painter's thin pinchbeck, who can
live comfortably for six weeks, when
paid for and painting a portrait, and
fancies his mind prodigiously occupied all the while. There was an artist in Paris, an artist hairdresser,
who used to be fatigued and take
restoratives after inventing a new
coiffure. By no such gentle opera-.tion of head-dressing has Cruikshank
lived: time was (we are told so in
print) when for a picture with thirty
heads in it he was paid three guineas
- a poor week's pittance truly, and a
dire week's labor. We make no
doubt that the same labor would at
present bring hlin twenty timies the




LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER.


sum; but whether it be ill paid or charge of ingratitude, the startingwell, what labor has Mr. Cruikshank's post from which we set out, perhaps
been!  Week by week, for thirty we had better conclude. The reader
years, to produce something new; will perhaps wonder at the high.
some smiling offspring of painfil la- flown tone in which we speak of
bor, quite independent and distinct the services and merits of an indifrom its ten thousand jovial brethren; vidual, whom he considers a humin what hours of sorrow and ill-health ble scraper on steel, that is wonderto be told by the world, " Make us fully popular already. But none of
laugh or you starve — Give us fresh us remember all the benefits we owe
fun; we have eaten up the old, and him; they have come one by one,
are hungry."  And all this has he one driving out the memory of the
been obliged to do - to wring laugh- other; it is only when we come to
ter day by day, sometimes, perhaps, examine them  all together, as the
out of want, often certainly from ill- writer has done, who has a pile of
health or depression- to keep the books on the table before him-a
fire of his brain perpetually alight: heap of personal kindnesses from
for the greedy public will give it no  George Cruikshank (not presents, if
leisure to cool. This he has done, you please, for we bought, borrowed,
and done well. IIe has told a thou- or stole every one of them) - that we
sand truths in as many strange and feel what we owe him. Look at one of
fascinating ways; he has given a thou- Mr. Cruikshank's works, and we prosand new and pleasant thoughts to nounce him  an excellent humorist.
millions of people; he has never used Look at all: his reputation is increased
his wit dishonestly; he has never, in by a kind of geometrical progression;
all the exuberance of his frolicsome hu- as a whole diamond is a hundred times
mor, caused a single painful or guilty more valuable than the  hundred
blush: how little do we think of the splinters into which it might be broextraordinary power of this man, and ken would be. A fine rough English
how ungrateful we are to him!    diamond is this about which we have
Here, as we are come round to the been writing.
JOHN LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND
CHARACTER.*
WE, who can recall the consulship and long pointing quivering fingers;
of Plancus, and quite respectable, old- there was little Prince Arthur (Northfogyficd times, remember, amongst cote) crying, in white satin, and bidother amusements which    we had ding good Hubert not put out his
as children, the pictures at which eyes; there  was tlubert crying;
we were permitted to look. There there was little Rutland being run
was Boydell's Shakspeare, black and through  the poor little body by
ghastly gallery of murky Opies, glum  bloody Clifford; there was Cardinal
Northcotes, straddling Fuselis! there Beaufort (Reynolds) gnashing his
were Lear, Oberon, Hamlet, with teeth, and grinning and howling destarting muscles, rolling eyeballs, moniacally on his deathbed (apicture
* Reprinted from " The Quarterly Review," No. 191, Dec. 1854, by permission of
Mr. John Murray.




550


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


frightful to the present day); there
was Lady Hamilton (Romney) waving a torch, and dancing before a
black background, - a melancholy
museum indeed. Smirke's delightful
"Seven Ages" only fitfully relieved
its general gloom. We did not like
to inspect it unless the elders were
present, and plenty of lights and company were in the room.
Cheerful relatives used to treat us
to Miss Linwood's. Let the children
of the present generation thank their
stars that tragedy is put out of their
wav. Miss Linwood's was worstedwork. Your grandmother or grandaunts took you there, and said the
pictures were admirable.  You saw
"Tlhe Woodman" in worsted, with
his axe and dog, trampling through
the snow; the snow bitter cold to
look at, the woodman's pipe wonderful; a gloomy piece, that made you
shudder. There were large dingy
pictures of woollen  martyrs, and
scowling warriors with limbs strongly
knitted; there was especially, at the
end of a black passage, a den of lions,
that would frighten any boy not born
in Africa, or Exeter 'Change, and accustomed to them.
Another exhibition used to be
West's Gallery, where the pleasing
figures of Lazarus in his grave-clothes,
and Death on the pale horse, used to
impress us children. The tombs of
Westminster Abbey, the vaults at St.
Paul's, the men in armor at the Tower, frowning ferociously out of their
helmets, and wielding their dreadful
swords; that superhuman    Queen
Elizabeth at the end of the room, a
livid sovereign with glass eyes, a ruff,
and a dirty satin petticoat, riding a
horse covered with steel: who does
not remember these sights in London
in the consulship of Plancus? and
the wax-work in Fleet Street, not
like that of Madame Tussaud's,
whose chamber of death is gay and
brilliant; but a nice old gloomy waxwork, full of murderers; and as a
chief attraction, the Dead Baby and
the Princess Charlotte lying in state?


Our story-books had no pictures in
them for the most part. Frank (dear
old Frank!) had none; nor " The Parent's assistant;" nor " The Evenings
at Home;" nor our copy of the
"Ami des Enfans: " there were a few
just at the end of the Spelling-Book,
beside the allegory at the beginning,
of Education leading up Youth to the
temple of Industry, where Dr. Dilworth and Professor Walkinghame
stood with crowns of laurel. There
were, we say, justafew pictures, at the
end of the Spelling-Book, little oval
gray woodcuts of Bcwick's, mostly
of the Wolf and the Lamb, the Dog
and the Shadow, and Brown, Jones,
and Robinson with long ringlets and
little tights; but for pictures, so to
speak, what had we'! The rough
old wood -blocks in the old harlequin-backed fairy-books had served
hundreds of years; before our P'lancus, in the time of Priscus Plancus -
in Queen Anne's time, who knows
We were flogged at school; we were
fifty boys in our boarding-house, and
had to wash in a leaden trough, under
a cistern, with lumps of fat yellow
soap floating about in the ice and
water.  Are our sons ever flogged?
Have they not dressing-roons, hairoil, hip - baths, and Baden towels?
And what picture-books the young
villains have "  What have these
children done that they should be so
much happier than we were?
We had "The Arabian Nights"
and   Walter Scott, to  be sure.
Smirke's illustrations to the former
are very fine. We did not know how
good they were then; but we doubt
whether we did not prefer the little old
"Miniature Library Nights" with
frontispieces by Uwins; for these
books the pictures don't count. Every
boy of imagination does his own pictures to Scott and "The Arabian
Nights" best.
Of funny pictures there were none
especially intended for us children.
There was Rowlandson's " Doctor
Syntax:" Doctor Syntax, in a fuzzwig, on a horse with legs like sausages,




LEECH'S PICTURES OF LTFE AND CHIAIACTER.


551


riding races, making love, frolicking
with rosy exuberant damsels. Those
pictures were very funny, and that
aqua-tinting and the gay-colored plates
very pleasant to witness; but if we
could not read the poem in those days,
could we digest it in this? Nevertheless, apart from the text which we could
not master, we remember Doctor
Syntax pleasantly, like those cheerful
painted hieroglyphics in the Nineveh
Court at Sydenham. What matter
for the arrow-head, illegible, stuff?
give us the placid grinning kings,
twanging their jolly bows over their
rident horses, wounding those gooJhumored enemies, who tumble gayly
off the towers, or drown, smiling, in
the dimpling waters, amidst the ancrithmon gelasma of the fish.
After Doctor Syntax, the apparition of Corinthian Tom, Jerry Hawthorn, and the facetious Bob Logic,
must be recorded -a wondrous history indeed theirs was! When the
future student of our manners comes
to look over the pictures and the writing of these queer volumes, what will
he think of our society, customs, and
language in the consulship ofPlancus?
"Corinthian," it appears, was the
phrase applied to men of fashion and
ton in Plancus's time: they were the
brilliant predecessors of the " swell "
of the present period — brilliant, but
somewhat barbarous, it must he confessed. The Corinthians were in the
habit of drinking a great deal too
much in Tom Cribb's parlor: they
used to go and sec "life" in the ginshops; of nights, walking home (as
well as they could), they used to
knock down " Charleys," poor harmless old watchmen with lanterns,
guardians of the streets of Rome,
Planco Consule. They perpetrated
a vast deal of boxing; they put on
the "mufflers " in Jackson's rooms
they "sported their prads" in the
Ring in the Park; they attended
cock-fights, and were enlightened
patrons of dogs and destroyers of rats.
Besides these sports, the delassemens
of gentlemen mixing with the people,


our patricians, of course, occasionally
enjoyed the society of their own class.
What a wonderful picture that used
to be of Corinthian Tom dancing
with Corinthian Kate at Almack's!
What a prodigious dress Kate wore!
With what graceful abandon the pair
flung their arms about as they swept
through the mazy quadrille, with all
the noblemen standing round in their
stars and uniforms! You may still,
doubtless, see the pictures at the
British Museum, or find the volumes in
the corner of some old country-house
library. You arc led to suppose that
the English aristocracy of 1820 did
dance and caper in that way, and box
and drink at Tom Cribb's, and knock
down watchmen; and the children of
to-day, turning to their elders, may
say, "Grandmamma, did you wear
such a dress as that when you danced
at Almack's? There was very little
of it, grandmamma.    Did grandpapa kill many watchmen when he
was a young man, and     frequent
thieves' gin-shops, cock-fights, and
the ring, before you married him?
Did he use to talk the extraordinary
slang and jargon which is printed in
this book?  ie is very much changed.
He seems a gentlemanly old boy
enough now."
In the above-named consulate, when
we had grandfathers alive, there would
be in the old gentleman's library in the
country two or three old mottled portfolios, or great swollen scrap-books of
blue paper, full of the comic prints
of grandpapa's time, ere Plancus ever
had the atsces borne before him.
These prints were signed Gilray,
Bunbury, Rowlandson, Woodward,
and some actually George Cruikshank
— for George is a veteran now, and
he took the etching needle in hand as
a child. He caricatured "Boney,"
borrowing not a little fiom Gilray in
his first puerile efforts. He drew
Louis XVIII. trying on Boney's
boots. Before the century was actually in its teens we believe that
George Cruikshank was amusing the
public.




552


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


In those great colored prints in our
grandfathers' portfolios in the library,
and in some other apartments of the
house, where the caricatures used to
be pasted in those days, we found
things quite beyond our comprehension.  Boney was represented as a
fierce dwarf, with goggle eyes, a huge
laced hat and tricolored plume, a
crooked sabre, reeking with blood: a
little demon revelling in lust, murder,
massacre. John Bull was shown
kicking him a good deal: indeed he
was prodigiously kicked all through
that series of pictures; by Sidney
Smith and our brave allies the gallant
Turks; by the excellent and patriotic
Spaniards; by the amiable and indignant Russians, - all nations had
boots at the service of poor Master
Boney. How Pitt used to defy him!
How   good old George, King    of
Brobdingnag, laughed at GulliverBoney, sailing about in his tank to
make sport for their Majesties! This
little fiend, this beggar's brat, cowardly, murderous, and atheistic as he
was (we remember, in those old portfolios, pictures representing Boney
and his family in rags, gnawing raw
bones in a Corsican hut; Boney
murdering the sick at Jaffa; Boncy
with a hookath and a large turhan,
having adopted the Turkish religion,
&c.) -this Corsican monster, nevertheless, had some devoted friends in
England, according to the Gilray
chronicle,- a set of villains who
loved atheism, tyranny, plunder, and
wickedness in general, like their
French friend. In the pictures, these
men were all represented as dwarfs,
like their ally. The miscreants got
into power at one time, and, if we remember right, were called the Broadbacked Administration. One with
shaggy eyebrows and a bristly beard,
the hirsute ringleader of the rascals,
was, it appears, called Charles James
Fox; another miscreant, with a
blotched countenance, was a certain
Sheridan; other imps were hight
Erskine, Norfolk (Jockey of), Moira,
Henry Petty. As in our childish in

nocence we used to look at these demons, now sprawling and tipsy in
their cups; now scaling heaven, from
which the angelic Pitt hurled them
down; now cursing the light (their
atrocious ringleader Fox was represented with hairy cloven feet, and a
tail and horns); now kissing Boney's
boot, but inevitably discomfited by
Pitt and the other good angels: we
hated these vicious wretches, as good
children should; we were on the side
of Virtue and Pitt and Grandpapa.
But if our sisters wanted to look at
the portfolios, the good old grandfather used to hesitate. There were some
prints among them very odd indeed;
some that girls could not understand;
some that boys, indeed, had best not
see. We swiftly turn over those pro.
hibited pages. How many of them
there were in the wild, coarse, reckless,
ribald, generous book of old English
humor!
How savage the satire was-how
fierce the assault - what garbage hurled at opponents - wlat foul blows
were hit —what language of Billings.
gate flung! Fancy a party in a countryhouse now looking over Woodward's
facetiae or some of the Gilray comicalities, or the slatternly Saturnalia
of Rowlandson! Whilst we live wi
must laugh, and have folks to make
us laugh.  We cannot afford to lowF
Satyr with his pipe and dances and
ganbols.   But we have washed
combed, clothed, and taught the rogue
good manners: or rather, let us say,
he has learned them himself; for he
is of nature soft and kindly, and he
has put aside his mad pranks and
tipsy habits; and, fiolicsome always,
has become gentle and harmless,
smitten into shame by the pure presence of our women and the sweet,
confiding smiles of our children.
Among the veterans, thc old pictorial
satirists, we have mentioned the famous name of one humorous designer
who is still alive and at work. Did
we not see, by his own hand, his own
portrait of his own famous face, and
whiskers, in " The Illustrated London




LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER.


553


News " the other day  There was a
print in that paper of an assemblage
of Teetotallers in " Sadler's Wells
Theatre," and we straightway recorgnized the old Roman hand - the old
Roman's of the time of Plancus -
George Cruikshank's.  There were
the old bonnets and droll faces and
shoes, and short trousers, and figures
of 1820 sure enough. And there was
George (who has taken to the waterdoctrine, as all the world knows)
handing some teetotallesses over a
plank to the table where the pledge
was being administered. How often
has. George drawn that picture of
Crulikshank! Where haven't we seen
it? How fine it was, facing the effigy
of Mr. Ainsworth in "Ainsworth's
Magazine" when George illustrated
that periodical! How grand and severe he stands in that design in G.
C.'s " Omnibus," where he represents
himself tonged like St. Dunstan, and
tweaking a wretch of a publisher by
the nose! The collectors of George's
etchings-oh, the charming    etchings!-oh, the dear old "German
Popular Tales! "- the capital "Points
of Humor "-the delightful   Phrenology" and "Scrap-books," of the
good time, our time-Plancus's in
fct! - the collectors of the Georgian
etchings, we say, have at least a hundred pictures of the artist. Why, we
remember him in his favorite Hessian
boots in "Tom and Jerry" itself;
and in woodcuts as far back as the
Queen's trial. He has rather deserted
satire and comedy of late years, having turned his attention to the serious,
and warlike, and sublime. Having
confessed our age and prejudices,
we prefer the comic and fanciful to
the historic, romantic, and at present
didactic George.  May respect, and
length of days, and comfortable repose attend the brave, honest, kindly,
pure-minded artist, humorist, moralist! It was he first who brought
English pictorial humor and children
acquainted. Our young people and
their fathers and mothers owe him
many a pleasant hour and harmless
24*


laugh. Is there no way in which the
country could acknowledge the long
services and brave career of such a
friend and benefactor?
Since George's time humor has
been converted.  Comus and    his
wicked satyrs and leering fauns have
disappeared, and fled into the lowest
haunts; and Comus's lady (if she
had a taste for humor, which may be
doubted) might take up our funny
picture-books without the slightest
precautionary squeamishness. What
can be purer than the charming fancies of Richard Doyle? In all Mr.
Punch's huge galleries can't we walk
as safely as through Miss Pinkerton's
school-rooms?  And as we look at
Mr. Punch's pictures, at the " Illustrated News " pictures, at all the pictures in the book-shop windows at
this Christmas season, as oldsters, we
feel a certain pang of envy against
the youngsters - they are too well
off. Why hadn't we picture-books?
Why were we flogged so? A plague
on the lictors and their rods il the
time of Plancus!
And now, after this rambling pref.
ace, we are arrived at the subject in
hand - Mr. John Leech and his
' Pictures of Life and Character,"
in the collection of Mr. Punch. This
book is better than plum-cake at
Christmas. It is an enduring plumcake, which you may eat, and which
you may slice, and deliver to your
friends; and to which, having cut it,
you may come again and welcome,
from year's end to year's end. In
the frontispiece you see Mr. Punch
examining the pictures in his gallery
-a portly, well-dressed, middle-aged,
respectable gentleman, in a white
neckcloth, and a polite evening costume- smiling in a very bland and
agreeable manner upon one of his
pleasant drawings, taken out of one
of his handsome portfolios.  Mr.
Punch has very good reason to smile
at the work, and be satisfied with the
artist. Mr. Leech, his chief contributor, and some kindred humorists,
with pencil and pen have served Mr.




554


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


Punch admirably. Time was, if we
remember Mr. P.'s history rightly,
that he did not wear silk stockings
nor well made clothes (the litle dorsal
irregularity in his figure is almost an
ornament now, so excellent a tailor
has he). He was of humble beginnings. It is said he kept a ragged
little booth, which he put up at
corners of streets; associated with
beadles, policemen, his own ugly wife
(whom he treated most scandalously),
and persons in a low station of life;
earning a precarious livelihood by
the cracking of wild jokes, the singing of ribald songs, and half-pence
extorted from passers-by.  He is the
Satyric genius we spoke of anon: he
cracks his jokes still, for satire must
live; but he is combed, washed, neatly
clothed, and perfectly presentable.
He goes into the very best company;
he keeps a stud at Melton; he has a
moor in Scotland; he rides in the
Park; has his stall at the Opera; is
constantly dining out at clubs and in
private society; and goes every night
in the season to balls and parties,
where you see the most beautiful
women possible.  He is welcomed
amongst his new fiiends the great;
though, like the good old English
gentleman of the song, he does not
forget the small. He pats the heads
of street boys and girls; relishes
the jokes of Jack the costermonger
and Bob the dustman; good-naturedly spies out Molly the cook flirting
with policeman X, or Mary the nursemaid as she listens to the fascinating
guardsman. He used rather to laugh
at guardsmen, "plungers," and other
military men; and was until latter
days very contemptuous in his behavior towards Frenchmen. He has a
natural antipathy to pomp and swagger, and fierce demeanor. But now
that the guardsmen are gone to war,
and the dandies of "The Rag "dandies no more-are battling like
heroes at Balaklava and Inkcrmann *
by the side of their heroic allies, Mr.


Punch's laughter is changed to hearty
respect and enthusiasm.  It is not
against courage and honor he wars:
but this great moralist - must it be
owned?- has some popular British
prejudices, and these led him in peace
time to laugh at soldiers and Frenchmen. If those hulking footmen who
accompanied the carriages to tlhe
opening of Parliament the other day,
would form  a plush brigade, wear
only gunpowder in their hair, and
strike with their great canes on the
enemy, Mr. Punch would leave off
laughing at Jeames, who meanwhile
remains among us, to all outward
appearance regardless of satire, and
calmly consuming his five meals per
diem.   Against lawyers, beadles,
bishops an(t clergy, alnd authorities,
Mr. Punch is still rather bitter. At
the time of the Papal aggression he
was prodigiously angry; and one of
the chief misfortunes which happened
to him at that period was that,
through the violent opinions which
lie expressed regarding the Roman
Catholic hierarchy, lie lost the invaluable services, the graceful pencil, the
harmless wit, the charming fancy, of
Mr. Doyle. Another member of Mr.
Punch's cabinet, the biographer of
Jeames, the author of " The Snob
Papers," resigned his functions on
account of Mr. Punch's assaults upon
the present Emperor of the French
nation, whose anger Jeames thought
it was unpatriotic to arouse. Mr.
Punch parted with these contributors; he tilled their places with others
as good. The boys at the railroad
stations cried" Punch "just as cheerily, and sold just as many numbers,
after these events as before.
There is no blinking the fact that
in Mr. Punch's cabinet, Joln Leecl
is the right-hand man. Fancy a
number of " Punch " without Leech's
pictures! What would you give for
it?  The learned gentlemen who
write the work must feel that, without him, it were as well left alone.
Look at the rivals whom the popularity of " Punch " has brought into the


* This was written in 184.




LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER.


555


field; the direct imitators of Mr.
Leech's manner - the artists with a
manner of their own - how inferior
their pencils are to his in humor, in depicting the public manners, in arresting, amusing the nation! The
truth, the strength, the fiee vigor, the
kind humor, the John Bull pluck and
spirit of that hand are approached by
no competitor. With what dexterity
he draws a horse, a woman, a child!
He feels them all, so to speak, like
a man. What plump young beauties
those are with which Mr. Punch's
chief contributor supplies the old
gentleman's pictorial harem! What
famous thews and sinews Mr. Punch's
horses have, and how Briggs, on the
back of them, scampers across country! You see youth, strength, enjoymnent, manliness, in those drawings,
and in none more so, to our thinking,
than in the hundred pictures of
children which this artist loves to
design. Like a brave, hearty, goodnatured Briton, he becomes quite soft
and tender with the little creatures,
pats gently their little golden heads,
and watches with unfailing pleasure
their ways, their sports, their jokes,
laughter, caresses.  Enfaus terribles
come homne from Eton; young Miss
practising her first flirtation; poor
little ragged Polly making dirt-pies
in the gutter, or staggering under
the weight of Jacky, her nurse-child,
who is as big as herself-all these
little  ones, patrician  and  plebeian, meet witi kindness from this
kind heart, and are watched with
curious nicety by this amiable observer.
We remember, in one of those
ancient Gilray portfolios, a print
which used to cause a sort of terror
in us youthful spectators, and in
which the Prince of Wales     (his
Royal Highness was a Foxitc then)
was represented as sitting alone in a
magnificent hall after a voluptuous
meal, and using a great steel fork in
the guise of a toothpick. Fancy the
first young gentleman living employing such a weapon in such a way!


The most elegant Prince of Europe
engaged with a two-pronged iron
fork- the heir of Britannia with a
bident! The man of genius who
drew that picture saw little of the
society which he satirized and amused.
Gilray watched public characters as
they walked by the shop in St. James's
Street, or passed through the lobby
of the House of Commons. His studio
was a garret, or little better; his
place of amusement a tavern-parlor,
where his club held its nightly sittings
over their pipes and sanded floor.
You could not have society represented by men to whom it was not familiar.
When Gavarni came to England a
few years since - one of the wittiest
of men, one of the most brilliant
and dexterous of draughtsmen - he
published a book of " Les Anglais,"
and his Anglais were all Frenchmen.
The eye, so keen and so long practised to observe Parisian life, could
not perceive English character. A
social painter must be of the world
which he depicts, and native to the
manners which lie portrays.
Now, any one who looks over Mr.
Leech's portfolio must see that the
social pictures which lie gives us are
authentic.  What comfortable little
drawing- rooms and dining - rooms,
what snug libraries, we enter; what
fine young-gentlemanly wags they
are, those beautiful little dandies
who wake up gouty old grandpapa to ring the bell; who decline
aunt's pudding and custards, saying  that they will reserve themselves for an anchovy toast with
the claret; who talk together in ballroom doors, where Fred whispere
Charley -pointing to a dear little
partner seven year old -" My dear
Charlev she has very much gone off;
you should have seen that girl last
season!"  Look well at every thing
appertaining to the economy of the
famous Mr. Briggs: how snug, quiet,
appropriate all the appointments are!
What a comfortable, neat, clean,
middle-class house Briggs's is (in the
Bayswater suburb of London, we




556


CRITICAL REVIEWS.


should guess from the sketches of the
surrounding scenery)! What a good
stable he has, with a loose box for
those celebrated hunters which he
rides! How pleasant, clean, and warm
his breakfast-table looks! What a
trim little maid brings in the topboots which horrify Mrs. B.! What
a snug dressing-room he has, complete
in all its appointments, and in which
he appears trying on the delightful
hunting-cap which Mrs. Briggs flings
into the fire! How cosey all the Briggs
party seem in their dining-room:
Briggs reading a Treatise on Dogbreaking by a lamp; Mamma and
Grannie with their respective needleworks; the children clustering round
a great book of prints -a great
book of prints such as this before
us, which, at this season, must
make thousands of children happy
by as many firesides! The inner
life of all these people is represented:
Leech draws them   as naturally as
Teniers depicts Dutch boors, or Morland pigs and stables. It is your
house and mine: we are looking at
everybody's family circle. Our boys
coming from school give themselves
such airs, the young scapegraces!
our girls, going to parties, are so
tricked out by fond mammas-a social history of London in the middle
of the nineteenth century. As such,
future students -lucky they to have
a book so pleasant —will regard
these pages: even the mutations of
fashion they may follow here if they
be so inclined. Mr. Leecl has as
fine an eye for tailory and millinery
as for horse-flesh. How they change
those cloaks and bonnets! How we
have to pay milliners' bills from year
to year! Where are those prodigious
chatelaines of 1850 which no lady
could be without? Where those
charming waistcoats, those "stunning" waistcoats, which our young
girls used to wear a few brief seasons
back, and which cause 'Gus, in the
sweet little sketch of " La Mode,"
to ask Ellen for her tailor's address.
'Gus is a young warrior by this time,


very likely facing the enemy at Inkermann; and pretty Ellen, and that
love of a sister of hers, are married
and happy, let us hope, superintending
one of those delightful nursery scenes
which our artist depicts with such
tender humor. Fortunate artist, indeed! You see he must have been
bred at a good public school; that he
has ridden many a good horse in his
day; paid, no doubt, out of his own
purse for the originals of some of
those lovely caps and bonnets; and
watched paternally the ways, smiles,
frolics, and slumbers of his favorite
little people.
As you look at the drawings, secrets come out of them,-private
jokes, as it were, imparted to you by
the author for your special delectation. How remarkably, fol instance,
has Mr. Lcech observed the hairdressers of the present age! Look
at " Mr. Tongs," whom that hideous
old bald woman, who ties on her bonnet at the glass, informs that "she
has used the whole bottle of Balm of
California, but her hair comes off
yet." You can see the bear's-grease
not only on Tongs's head, but on his
hands, which he is clapping clammily
together. Remark him who is telling
his client " there is cholera in the
hair:" and that lucky rogue whom
the young lady bids to cut off "a
long thick piece " -for somebody,
doubtless. All these men arc different and delightfully natural and absurd. Why should hair-dressing be
an absurd profession?
The amateur will remark what an
excellent part hands play in Mr.
Leech's pieces: his admirable actors
use them with perfect naturalness.
Look at Betty, putting the urn down;
at cook, laying her hands on the kitchen table, whilst her policeman grumbles at the cold meat.  They are
cook's and housemaid's hands without mistake, and not without a certain beauty too. The bald old lady,
who is tying her bonnet at Tongs's,
has hands which you see arc trembling. Watch the fingers of the two




LEECH'S PICTURES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER.


557


old harridans who are talking scandal:
for what long years past they have
pointed out holes in their neighbors'
dresses, and mud on their flounces;
"Here's a go! I've lost my diamond
ring." As the dustman utters this
pathetic cry, and looks at his hand,
you burst out laughing.  These are
among the little points of humor.
One could indicate hundreds of such
as one turns over the pleasant pages.
There is a little snob or gent, whom
we all of us know, who wears little
tufts on his little chin, outrageous
pins and pant loons, smokes cigars
on tobacconists' counters, sucks his
cane in the streets, struts about with
Mrs. Snob and the baby (Mrs. S. an
immense woman, whom Snob nevertheless bullies), who is a favorite abomination of Leech, and pursued by that
savage humorist into a thousand of
his haunts.  There he is, choosing
waistcoats at the tailor's - such waistcoats! Yonder he is giving a shilling
to the sweeper, who calls him " Capting; " now lie is offering a paletot to


a huge giant who is going out in the
rain. They don't know their own
pictures, very likely; if they did, they
would have a meeting, and thirty or
forty of them  would be deputed to
thrash Mr. Leech. One feels a pity
for the poor little bucks. In a minute
or two, when we close this discourse
and walk the streets, we shall see a
dozen such.
Ere we shut the desk up, just one
word to point out to the unwary
specially to note the backgrounds of
landscapes in Leech's drawingshomely drawings of moor and wood,
and seashore and London streetthe scenes of his little dramas. They
are as excellently true to nature as the
actors themselves; our respect for the
genius and humor which invented
both increases as we look and look
again at the designs.  May we have
more of them; more pleasant Christmas volumes, over which we and our
children can laugh together. Can we
have too much of truth and fun and
beauty and kindness?




I




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.




DRAMATIS PERSONE.
Mr. HORACE MILLIKEN, a Widower, a wealthy Ciy Merchant.
GEORGE MILLIKEN, a C'hild, his Son.
Captain ToITcHiT, his Friend.
CLARENCE KiICKLEBURY, brother to Mfillilcen's late Wife.
JOHN HOWELL, 31l's Butler and coinfidential Servant.
CHARLES PAGE, Foot-&o.V
BULKELEY, Lady Kicklebury's Servant.
Mr. BONNINGTON..
Coachman, Ciabmnan; a Bluecoat Boy, another Boy (Mrs. Prior's Sons),
LADY KiCKLEBURY, Mo6ther-in-law to M1illik-en.
Mrs. BoN.NINGTON, Alilliken's Mo6ther (married again).
Mrs. PRIOR.
Miss PRIOR, her Daughter, Governess to Afilliken's Children.
ARADELLA MILLIKEN, a Child..
MARY BARLOW, School-r-oomz Maid.
A grown-up Girl and child of fffrs. Prior's, Ladql's K.'s Alaid, Cook.




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
ACT I.                have it for the asking; because the
SCENE. -   ILLIKEN'S villa at Rch- letters addressed to Horace Milliken,
mod tw rawEsq., might as well be addressed John
mond; two drawing-rooms opening into
one another. The late Mrs. MILLI- Howell,sq., for I read 'em, I put
KEN'S portrait over the mantelpiece; 'em away and docket 'em, and emember 'cm. I know his affairs better
book-cases, writing-tables, piano, news- than ie d oes: his inme  a shilli
papers, a handsomely firnished saloon. than hi  desm, his  ito a shilli
The baclck-)0nl opens, wi'th very ICZge Ipay his tradesmen, wear his coats if I
windows, on the lawn andpleasui'ewiound;ow, on the lawn and pleasu I please; but not you, you little scamp
ground; gate, and wall- over which of a clod-hopin  Ionghboy. Know
the heads of a cab and a carriage are ofn dopping pl ough.   n
seen, as persons arrive. Fruit, and a your station and do your business, or
ladder on the walls. A door to the you don't wear them buttons long, I
ladder on   ano     to the slceg- promise you.  [Exit Page. I
ining-roin,      to     l          Let me go on with the paper
partents,.                       [readcts]. How brilliant this writing
JOIIN. -Everybody out; governor is! "Times," "Chronicle," "Daily
in the city; governess (heigh-ho!) News," they're all good, blest if they
walking in the Park with the chil- ain't.  How much better the nine
dren; ladyship gone out in the car- leaders in them three daily papers is,
riage. Lct's sit down and have alook  than nine speeches in the House of
at the papers. Buttons! fetch " The  Commons! Take a very best speech
Morning Post" out of Lady Kickle- in the 'Ouse now, and compare it with
bury's room. Where's " The Daily   an article in "The Times!"   I say,
News," sir                         the newspaper has the best of it for
PAGE.-Think it's in Millikcn's philosophy, for wit, novelty, good
room.                               sense, too. And the party that writes
JOHN.- Milliken! you scoundrel! the leading article is nobody, and the
What do you mean by Milliken? chap that speaks in the House of
Speak of your employer as your gov- Commons is a hero.    Lord, Lord,
crnor, if you like, but not as simple how the world is 'umbugged! Pop'Milliken. Confound yourimpudence! lar representation! what is pop'lar
you'll be calling me Howell next.   representation? Dammy, it's a farce.
PAGE. -Well! I didn't know. Hallo! this articleis stole! I remcmYou call him Milliken.             bera passage in Montesquieu uncomJoIHN. -Because I know him, be- monly like it. [Goes and gets the book.
cause I'm intimate with him, because As he is standing upon sofe to get it,
there's not a secret he has but I may and sitting down to read it, Miss PRIOR




562


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


and the Children have come in at the
garden.  Children pass across stage.
Miss PRIOR enters by open window,
bringingflowers into the room.]
JoN. -It is like it. [lie slaps the
book, and seeing Miss PRIOR who enters, then jumps tp from sr!fa, saying
very respectfully,]
JOIiN. -I beg your pardon, Miss.
Miss P. [sarcIstically]. - Do I disturb you, Howcll?
JOHN. - Disturb! I have no right
to say - a servant has no right to be
disturbed, but I hope I may be pardoned for venturing to look at a volume in the libery, Miss, just in reference to a newspaper harticle - that's
all, Miss.
Miss P. - You are very fortunate
in finding any thing to interest you in
the paper, I'm sure.
JOHN. -Perhaps, Miss, you are
not accustomed to political discussion,
and ignorant of - al - I beg your
pardon: a servant, I know, has no
right to speak.   [Exit into diningroom, making a low, bow.]
Miss PRIOR.- The coolness of
some people is really quite extraordinary! the airs they give themselves,
the way in which they answer one,
the books they read! Montesquieu:
"lEsprit des Lois!"  [takes book up,
which J. has left on sofi.]  I believe
the man has actually taken this from
the shelf. I am sure Mr. Milliken,
or her ladyship, never would. The
other day " Helvetius" was found in
Mr. Howcll's pantry, forsooth! It is
wonderful how he picked up French
whilst we were abroad. "Esprit des
Lois! " what is it? it must be dreadfully stupid.  And as for reading
"Helvetius" (who, I suppose, was a
Roman general), I really can't understand how-Dear, dear! what airs
these persons give themselves! What
will come next? A footman- I beg
Mr. Howell's pardon —a butler and
confidential valet lolls on the drawingroom sofa, and reads Montesquieu!
Impudence!   And add to this, he
follows me for the last two or three
months with eyes that are quite hor

rid. What can the creature mean?
But I forgot - I am only a governess.
A governess is not a lady- a governess is but a servant- a governess
is to work and walk all day with the
children, dine in the school-room, and
come to the drawing-room to play the
man of the house to sleep. A governess
is a domestic, only her place is not the
servants' hall, and she is paid not
quite so well as the butler who serves
her her glass of wine.    Odious!
George! Arabella! there are those
little  wretches quarrelling  again!
[Exit. Children are heard calling out
and seen quarrelling in garden.]
JOHN [re-entering]. - See where she
moves! grace is in all her steps.
'Eaven in her high - no-a-heaven in
her heye, in every gesture dignity
and love - ah, I wish I could say
it! I wish you may procure it, poor
fool!   She  passes  by  me - she
tr-r-amples on me. Here's the chair
she sets in [kisses it]. Here's the
piano she plays on. Pretty keys,
them fingers outhivories you! When
she plays on it, I stand and listen at
the drawing-room door, and my
heart thr-obs in time! Fool, fool,
fool! why did you look on her, John
Howell! why did you beat for her,
busy heart! You were tranquil till
you knew her! I thought I could
have been a-happy with Mary till
then. That girl's affection soothed
me. Her conversation didn't amuse
me much, her ideers ain't exactly
elevated, but they are just and proper.
Her attentions pleased me.   She
ever kep' the best cup of tea for me.
She crisped my buttered toast, or
mixed my quiet tumbler for me, as I
sat of hevenings and read my newspaper in the kitching. She respected
the sanctaty of my pantry. When
I was a-studying there, she never
interrupted me.  She darned   my
stockings for me, she starched and
folded my chokers, and she sowed on
the habsent buttons of which time
and chance had bereft my linning.
She has a good heart, Mary has. I
know she'd get up and black the




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


563


boots for me of the coldest winter
mornings. She did when we was in
humbler life, she did.
Enter MARY.
You have a good heart, Mary!
MARY. - Have I, dear Jolln?
[sadly.]
JoHN. - Yes, child - yes. I think
a better never beat in woman's bosom.
You're good to everybody - good to
your parents whom you send half
your wages to: good to your employers whom you never robbed of a halfpenny.
MARY [zhirmpering].-Yes, I did,
John. I took the jelly when you
were in bed with the influenza; and
brought you the pork-wine negus.
JoIIN. -Port, not pork, child.
Pork is the haniimal which Jews
ab'or. Port is from Oporto in Portugal.
MARY [still cryiny]. - Yes, John;
you know every thing a'most, John.
JOHN. - And you, poor child, but
little! It's not your heart you want,
you little trump, it's education, Mary:
it's information: it's head, head, head!
You can't learn. You never can
learn. Your ideers ain't no good.
You never can hinterchange 'em with
mine. Conversation between us is
impossible.  It's not your fault.
Some people are born clever; some
are born tall, I ain't tall.
MARY. - Ho! you're big enough
for me, John. [Offers to take his hand.]
JonIN.-Lot go    my 'and-my
a-land, Mary! I say, some people
are born with brains, and some with
big figures. Look at that great ass,
Bulkeley, Lady K.'s man- the besotted, stupid beast! He's as big as
a life-guardsman, but lie ain't no
more education nor ideers than the
ox he feeds on.
MARY. - Law, John, whathever
do you mean I.
JOHN. - Hm! you know not, little
one! you never can know. Have
you ever felt the pangs of imprisoned
genius? have you ever felt what 'tis
to be a slave?


MARY.- Not in a free country, I
should hope, John Howell - no such
a thing. A place is a place, and I
know mine, and am content with the
spear of life in which it pleases heaven to place me, John: and I wish
you were, and remembered what we
learned from our parson when we went
to school together in dear old Pigeoncot, John —when you used to help
little Mary with her lessons, John, and
fought Bob Brown, the big butcher's
boy, because he was rude to me,
John, and he gave you that black hi.
JoHN. —Say eye, Mary, not heyc
L[ently].
MARY. - Eye; and I thought you
never looked better in all your life
than you did then: and we both took
service at Squire Milliken's-me as
dairy-girl, and you as knife-boy; and
good masters have they been to us
from our youth hup: both old Squire
Milliken and Mr. Charles as is master now, and poor Mrs. as is dead,
though she had her tantrums- and I
thought we should save up and take
" The Milliken Arms "- and now we
have saved up -and now, now, now
-oh, you are a stone, a stone, a
stone! and I wish you were hung
round my neck, and I were put down
the well! There's the hup-stairs bell.
[She starts, changing her manner as she
hears the bell, and exit.]
JOHN [looking after her]. -It's all
true. Gospel-true.  We were children in the same village - sat on the
same form at school. And it was for
her sake that Bob Brown the butcher's boy whopped me. A black eye!
I'm not handsome. But if I were
ugly as the Saracen's 'Ead, ugly as
that beast Bulkeley, I know it would
be all the same to Mary. She has
never forgot the boy she loved, that
brought birds'-nests for her, and spent
his halfpenny on cherries, and bought
a fairing with his first half-crown -
a brooch it was, I remember, of two
billing doves a-hopping on one twig,
and brought it home for little yellowhaired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked Mary.
Lord, Lord! I don't like to think




564


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


how I've kissed 'em, the pretty cheeks!
they've got quite pale now with crying -and she has never once reproached me, not once, the trump,
the little tr-rump!
Is it my fault [stamping] that Fate
has separated  us? Why did my
young master take me up to Oxford,
and give me the run of his libery and
the society of the best scouts in the
University? Why did he take me
abroad? Why have I been to Italy,
France, Jurnmany with him - their
manners noted and their realms surveyed, by jingo! I've improved myself, and Mary has remained as you
was. I try a conversation, and she
can't respond. She's never got a
word of poetry beyond Watt's Ims,
and if I talk of Byron or Moore to
her, I'm blest if she knows any thing
more about 'em than the cook, who
is as hignorant as a pig, or that beast
Bulkeley, Lady Kick's footman. Above
all, why, why did I see the woman
upon whom   my wretched heart is
fixed forever, and who carries away
my soul with her —prostrate, I say,
prostrate, through the mud at the
skirts of her gownd!    Enslaver!
why did I ever come near you? 0
enchantress Kelipso! how you have
got hold of me! It was Fate, Fate,
Fate. When Mrs. Milliken fell ill of
scarlet fever at Naples, Milliken was
away at Petersborough,   Rooshia,
looking after his property. Her foring woman fled. Me and the governess remained and nursed her and the
children. We nursed the little ones
out of the fever. We buried their
mother.  We brought the children
home over Halp and Happenine. I
nursed 'er all three. I tended 'em
all three, the orphans, and the lovely
gu-gu-governess. At Rome, where
she took ill, I waited on her; as we
went to Florence, had we been attacked by twenty thousand brigands,
this little arm had courage for them
all! And if I loved thee, Julia, was
I wrong? and if I basked in thy
beauty day and night, Julia, am I not
k man   and if, before this Peri, this


enchantress, this gazelle, I forgot
poor little Mary Barlow, how could 1
help it  I say, how the doose could
I help it?
Enter Lady KICKLEBURY, BULKELEY
following with parcels and a spaniel.
LADY K.- Are the children and
the governess come home?
JoHN.- Yes, my lady [in a perfectly altered tone].
LADY K. —Bulkeley, take those
parcels to my sitting-room.
JOiHN. - Get up, old stoopid. Push
along, old  daddylonglegs [aside to
BULKELEY].
LADY K. -Does any one dine
here to-day, Howell?
JOHN. - Captain Touchit, my lady.
LADY   K. —He's always dining
here.
JOHN. - My master's oldest friend.
LADY K. -Don't tell me.     He
comes from his club. He smells of
smoke; he is a low, vulgar person.
Send Pinhorn up to me when you go
down stairs. [Exit Lady K.]
JON. - I know.    Send Pinhorn
to me, means, Send my bonny brown
hair, and send my beautiful complexion, and send my figure-and, 0
Lord! O Lord! what an old tigress
that is! What an old Hector! How
she do twist Milliken round her
thumb! He's born to be bullied by
women: and I remember him    henpecked-let's see, ever since-ever
since the time of that little gloveress
at Woodstock, whose picter poor Mrs.
M. made such a noise about when she
found it in the lumber-room. Heh!
her picture will be going into the
lumber-room some day. M. must
marry to get rid of his mother-in-law
and mother over him: no man can
stand it, not M. himself, who's a Job
of a man. Isn't he, look at him!
[As he has been speaking, the bell has
rung, the Page has run to the gardendoor, and MILLIKEN enters through the
garden, laden with a hamper, bandbox,
and cricket-bat].
MILLIKEN. - Why was the carriage
not sent for me, Iowell?  There




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


565


was no cab at tile station, and I have box for my lady, I suppose, sir?
had to toil all the way up the hill [Looks in] - Turban, feathers, bugles,
with these confounded parcels of my marabouts, spangles - doose knows
lady's.                           what. Yes, it's forherladyship. [T'b
JoHN. - I suppose the shower took Page.] Charles, take this band-box
off all the cabs, sir. When dida man to her ladyship's maid. [To his mas
ever git a cab in a showecr? -or a ter.] What sauce would you like with
policeman at a pinch -or a friend the turbot? Lobster sauce or Holwhen you wanted him - or any thing landaisc? Hollandaise is best -most
at the right time, sir?          wholesome for you.  Anybody beMILLIKEN.- But, sir, why didn't sides Captain Touchit coming to dinthe carriage come, I say?        ner?
JOhN. - You know.                 MILLIKEN.- NO one that I know
MILLIKEN.- How do you mean I of.
know? confound your impudence!    JohN. -Very good. Bring up a
JOHN. - Lady Kicklebury took it bottle of the brown hock? lie likes
-your mother-in-law took it- went the brown hock, Touchit does. [Exit
out a visiting-Ham Common, Pc- JoHN.]
tersham, Twick'nam. - doose knows ^Enter Children. They run to MILLIwhere.  She, and her footman, and
her span'l dog.                                 KEN.
MILLIKEN. - Well, sir, suppose   BoTIr.- How d'you do, Papa!
her ladyship did take the carriage? How do you do, papa!
Hasn't she a perfect right? And if  MILLIKEN. - Kiss your old father,
the carriage was gone, I want to Arabella.  Come   here, Georgeknow, John, why the devil the pony- What?
chaise wasn't sent with the groom?  GEORGE. -  )on't care for kissing
Am I to bring a bonnet-box and a -kissing's for gals.   Have you
hamper of fish in my own hands, I brought me that bat from London?
should like to know?               MILLIKEN. - Yes.    Here's the
JOHN. - Hell! [laughs].        bat; and here's the ball [takes onefrom
MILLIKEN.-W Why do youi grin, pocket] - and -
you Cheshire cat?                  GEORGE.- Whrrc's the wickets,
JOHN. - Your mother-in-law had Papa. O-o-o — where's the wickets?
the carriage; and your mother sent [howls.]
for the pony-chaise. Your Pa want-  MILLIKEN. - My dear, darling
ed to go and see the Wicar of Putney. boy! I left them at the office. What
Mr. Bonnington don't like walking a silly papa I was to forget them!
when he can ride.                Parkins forgot them.
MILLIKEN. -And why shouldn't      GEORGE.- Then turn him away, I
Mr. Bonnington ride, sir, as long as say! Turn him away! [He stamnps.]
there's a carriage in my stable? Mr.  MILLIKEN. - What! an eld, faithBonnington has had the gout, sir! ful clerk and servant of ycur father
Mr. Bonnington is a clergyman, and and grandfather for thirty years past'
married to my mother. He has every An old man who loves us all, and hal
title to my respect.              nothing but our pay to live on?
JOmN. - And to your pony-chaise   ARABELLA. - Oh,    ou naurlght
- yes, sir.                       boy!
MILLIKEN. -And to every thing     GEORGE. -I ain't a naughty boy.
he likes in this house, sir.       ARABELLA.- You are a naughty
JOHN. - What a good fellow you boy.
are, sir! You'd give your head off  GEoRGE. - He! lie! lie! ihe
your shoulders, that you would. [Grins at her. ]
Is the fish for dinner to-day? Band-  MILLIKEN.-Hush, children! Here,




566               THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.
Arabella darling, here is a book for were courting her daughter she used
you. Look -aren't they pretty pic- not to mind it.
tures?                              MILLIKEN. - Don't - don't all ude
ARABELLA. - IS it a story, Papa? to those times. I'e looks ut his ivfc's
I don't care for stories in general. I pictutre. ]
like something instructive and serious.  GEORGE. - My  mamma was a
Grandmamma      Bonnington   and Kicklehurv. The Kiekleburv-s are the
grandpapa say-                    oldest tamily in the world. My name
GEORtGE. -He's not your grand- is George Kicklebury Milliken, of
papa.                             Pigeoucot, Hants; il.e Grove, RichARABELLA. - Hle iS my grand- mond, Surrey; and Portland Place,
papa.                             London, Esquire - my name is.
GEORGE. - Oh, you great story!    ToUCHIT. - You have forgotten
Look! look! there's a cab.  [Runs Billiter Street, hemp and tallow merout. The head of a.1ansoin cab i's seen chant.
over the 'garden-gate. Bell rings. Page  GEORGE. -Ohi, bother! I don't
comes.  Altercation between Cabman  care about that. I shall leave that
andCapai ToclT appjears to go when I'm a man: when I'm a man
on, urig whch]aud come into my property.
MILIE.     omne and kiss your  MILLIKEN. - YOU Come into your
old father, Arabella.  Ile's hungry property?
for kisses.                          GEORGE. - I shall, you   knowv,
ARAnELLA. -Don't. I want to go when you're dead, papa. I shiall. have
and look at the cab; and to tell Cap- this house, and Pi-eoncot; aind tile
tam  'louchit that he mustn't use house in town - no, I don't mind
naughty words. [Runus towards gar- about the house in towvn - and I
den. Pate is seen carrying a caipet- shian't let Bella livewivihi me- no,lI
bag.]                             wvon't.
E ate TUCII troghthe opc wil   BELLA. - No; I Won't live With
Ene dowdI  throuighacgr       you. And I'll have Pigeoneot.
dow sokin a cgar.GEORGE. - You shan't have PiToucnxlT. - How d'ye do, Milli- geoneot. I'll have it: and time ponies:
ken?  How are tallows, hey, my no- and I won't let you. ride them - and
ble merchant? I have broughit my the dog-s, and you shan't hrave even a
bag and intend to sleep -puppy to play wvith - and the dairy
GEORGE. - I say, godpapa,-      - and won't I have as much cream.
ToucHIT. - Well, godson!        as I like - that's all!
GEORGE. - Give us a cigar!        ToUCH-IT. - What a (larling boy!
ToUCHIT. - Oh1, you enfiant tern-. Your children arc brought uip beautible!                              fully, Milliken. It is quite delightful
MILLIKEN [wheezily].- Ah -ahem  to see them together.
- George Touchit! you wouldn't      GEORGE. - And I shiall. Sink the
mind - a - Smoking that cigar in the name of Milliken, I shall.
garden, would you? A h - ahb!      MILLIKEN. -Sink the name? why,
ToucHIT. -Hullo11! What's in the George,?
wind now?  You used to be a most   GEORGE. - Because the Millikens
inveterate smoker, Horace.        are nobodies.  Grandmamma says
MILLIKEN. -The fact is -my they arc nobodies. The Kickleburys
mother-in-law - Lady Kicklebury -  are gentlemen, and came over with
doesn't like it, and while she's wvith William the Conqueror.
us, you know -                      BELLA. - I know when that was.
TouCHIT. - Of course, of course One thousand one hundred and one
[throws away ciqar]. I beg her lad)'- thousand one hundred and oncty-one!
ship's pardon. I remember when you  GEORG E. - Bot her when they caine




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


567


over! But I know this, when I come
into the property I shall sink the
name of Milliken.
MILLIKEN. - So you are ashamed
of your father's name, are you, George,
my boy?
GEORGE. - Ashamed! No, I ain't
ashamed. Only Kicklebury is sweller
I know it is. Grandmamma says so.
BELLA. - 2Iy grandmamma does
not say so. My dear grandmamma
says tlat family pride is sinful, and
all belongs to this wicked world; and
that in a very few years what our
names are will not matter.
GEORGE.- Yes, she says so because
her father kept a shop; and so did
Pa's father keep a sort of shop - only
Pa's a gentleman now.
TOUCrrI. - l)arling child! How
I wish I were married! If I had
such a dear boy as you, George, do
you know what I would give him?
GEORGE   [quite pleased]. — What
would you give him, godpapa?
TOUCIIIT. -I would give him as
sound a flogging as ever boy had, my
darling. I would whil) this nonsense
out of him. I would send him to
school, where I would pray that he
might be well thrashed: and if when
he came home he was still ashamed
of his father, I would put him apprentice to a  chimney-sweep - that's
what I would do.
GEORGE. - I'm glad you're not my
father, that's all.
BELLA. - And I'm glad you're not
my father, because you are a wicked
man!
MILLIKEN. - Arabella!
BELLA. - Grandmamma says so.
IIe is a worldly man, and the world
is wicked. And he goes to the play:
and he smokes, and lie says -
TOUCHIT. -Bella, what do I say?
BELLA. - Oh, something dreadfll!
You know you do! I heard you say
it to the cabman.
TOUCIIIT.-So I did, so I (lid!
He asked me fifteen shillings fiom
Piccadilly, and I told him to go to
-- to somebody whose name begins
with a D.


CIIILDREN. -Here's another carriage passing.
BELLA. - The Lady Rumble's carriage.
GEORGE.-NO, it ain't: it's Captain Boxer's carriage [they run into
the garden].
ToUCHIT. -And this is the pass
to which you have brought yourself,
Iorace Milliken!  Why, in your
wife's time, it was better than this,
my poor fellow!
MILLIKEN. -Don't speak of her
in that way, George Touchit!
TOUCHIT.- What have I said?
I am only regretting her loss for your
sake.  She tyrannized over you;
turned your friends out of doors;
took your name out of your clubs;
dragged you about from  party to
party, though you can no more dance
than a bear, and from opera to opera,
though you don't know " God Save
the Queen" from " Rule Britannia."
You don't, sir; you know you don't.
But Arabella was better than her
mother, who has taken possession of
you since your widowhood.
MILLIKEN.- My dear fellow! no,
she hasn't. There's m nmother.
TOUCIIIT. -  es, to be sure, there's
Mrs. Bonnington, and they quarrel
over you like the two ladies over the
baby before King Solomon.
MILLIKEN. -Play the satirist, my
good fiiend! laugh at my weakness!
TOUCHIT.- I know you to be as
plucky a fellow as ever stepped, Milliken, whcn a man's in the case. I
know you and I stood up to each
other for an hour and a half at Westminster.
MILLIKEN. - Thank you!    We
were both dragons of war! tremendous champions! Perhaps I am a
little soft as regards women. I know
my weakness well enough; but in
my case what is my remedy? Put
yourself in my position.  Be a widower with two young children. What
is more natural than that the mother
of my poor wife should come and
superintend my family?  My own
mother can't. She has a half-dozen




568


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


of little half brothers and sisters, and
a husband of her own to attend to. I
dare say Mr. Bonnington and my
mother will conie to dinner to-day.
TOUCHcT. - Of course they will,
my poor old Milliken, you don't dare
to dine without them.
MILLIKEN.- Don't go on in that
manner, George Touchit!   Why
should not my stepfather and my
mother dine with me? I can afford
it. I am a domestic man, and like to
see my relations about me. I am in
the city all day.
TOUCHIT. - Luckily for you.
MILLIKEN.- And my pleasure of
an evening is to sit under my own
vine and under my own fig-tree
with my own olive-branches round
about me; to sit by my fire with
my children at my knees; to coze
over a snug bottle of claret after
dinner with a friend like you to share
it; to sec the young folks at the
breakfast-table of a morning, and to
kiss them and so off to business with
a cheerful heart. This was my scheme
in marrying, had it pleased heaven to
prosper my plan. When I was a boy,
and came fiom school and college, I
used to see Mr. Bonnington, my
father-in-law, with his young ones
clustering round about him, so happy
to be with him! so eager to wait on
him! all down on their little knees
round my mother before breakfast,
or jumping up on his after dinner. It
was who slould reach his hat, and
who should bring his coat, and who
should fetch his umbrella, and who
should get the last kiss.
TOUCHIT. - Whatft didn't he kiss
you? Oh the hard-hearted old ogre!
MILLIKEN.-Don't, Touchit! Don't
laugh at Mr. Bonnington! He is as
good a fellow as ever breathed. Between you and me, as my half brothers and sisters increased and multiplied year after year, I used to feel
rather lonely, rather bowled out, you
understand. But I saw them so happy
that I longed to have a home of my
own.   When my mother proposed
Arabella for me (for she and Lady




Kicklebury were immense friends at
one time), I was glad enough to give
up clubs and bachelorhood, and to
settle down as a married man. My
mother acted for the best. My poor
wife's character, my mother used to
say, changed after marriage. 1 was
not as happy as I hoped to be; but
I tried for it. George, I am not so
comfortable now as I might be. A
house without a mistress, with two
mothers-in-law reigning over it - one
worldly and aristocratic, another what
you call serious, though she don't
mind a rubber of whist:  I give you
my honor my mother plays a game
at whist, and an uncommonly good
game too-each woman dragging
over a child to her side: of course
such a family canlnot be comfortable.
[Bell rings.]  ''here's the first dinner-bell. Go and dress, for heaven's
sake.
TOUCIIT.- Why dress?    There
is no company!
MILLIKEN.- Why? ah! her ladyship likes it, you sec. And it costs
nothing to humor her. Quick, for
she don't like to be kept waiting.
TOUCHIT. -   Horace   Milliken!
what a pity it is the law declares a
widower shall not marry his wife's
mother! She would marry you else,
- she would, on my word.
Enter JOHN.
JOHN.- I have took the Captain's
things in the blue room, sir. [Exeunt
gentlemen, JOIIN arranges tables, 6c.]
Ha! Mrs. Prior! I ain't partial
to Mrs. Prior. I think she's an artful old dodger, Mrs. Prior. I think
there's mystery in her unfathomable
pockets, and schemes in the folds of
her umbrella. - But - but she's Julia's mother, and for the beloved one's
sake I am civil to her.
MRS. PRIOR. -Thank you, Charles
[to the Page, who has been seen to let her
zn at the garden-gate], I am  so much
obliged to you!  Good- afternoon,
Mr. Howell. Is my daughter-are
the darling children well? Oh, I am
quite tired and weary! Three horrid




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


569


omnibuses were full, and I have had be allowed. [ While talking, she opens
to walk the whole weary long way. all the letters on the table, rummlages the
Ah! times are changed with me, Mr. portfolio and writing-box, looks at cards
Howell. Once when I was young on mantelpiece, work in work-basket,
and strong, I had my husband's car- tries tea-box, and shows the greatest acriage to ride in.                 tivity and curiosity.]
JOHN [aside]. -His carriage! his      r,
coal-wagon! I know well enough    e-ener JOII    bearing a tr  with
who old Prior was. A merchant?            cakes,a decanter, c.
yes, a pretty merchant! kep' a lodg- Thank you, thank you, Mr. Howell!
ing-house, share in a barge, touting Oh, oh, dear me, not so much as
for orders, and at last a snug little that! Half a glass, and one biscuit,
place in " The Gazette."          please. What elegant sherry! [Sips
MRS. PRIOR. - How is your cough, a little, and puts down glass on tray.]
Mr. Howell? I have brought you Do you know, I remember in better
some lozenges, for it [takes unzberless days, Mr. Howell, when my poor dear
articles firoo her pocket], and if you husband? -
would take them of a night and morn-  JOHN. -Beg your pardon. There's
ing- oh, indeed, you would get bet- Millikcn's bell going like mad. [Exit
ter! The late Sir Henry Halford JOHN.]
recommended them to Mr. Prior. He   MRS. PRIOR. - What an abrupt
was his late Majesty's physician and person!  Oh, but it's comfortable,
ours. You know we have seen hap- this wine is! And - and I think
pier times, Mr. Howell. Oh, I am  how my poor Charlotte would like
quite tired and faint.            a little -she so weak, and ordered
JOHN. - Will you take any thing wine by the medical man! And when
before the school-room tea, ma'am? dear Adolphus comes home from
You will stop to tea, I hope, with Christ's Hospital, quite tired, poor
Miss Prior, and our young folks?  boy, and hungry, wouldn't a bit of
MRS. PRIOR. - Thank you: a little nice cake do him good! Adolphus is
glass of wine when one is so faint-  so fond of plum-cake, the darling
a little crumb of biscuit when one is child! And so is Frederick, little
so old and tired! I have not been saucy rogue; and I'll give them my
accustomed to want, you know; and piece, and keep my glass of wine for
in my poor dear Mr. Prior's time -  my dear delicate  angel Shatty!
JOHN. - I'll fetch  some wine, [Takes bottle andpaper out of her pocket,
ma'am. [Exit to the dining-room.]  cuts off a great slice of cake, and pours
MRS. PRIOR. - Bless the man, how  wine from wine-glass and decanter into
abrupt he is in his manner! He quite bottle.]
snocks a poor lady who has been usednter P            E.
to better days. What's here? Invitations- ho! Bills for Lady Kickle-  PAGE. -Master George and Miss
bury! They are not paid. Where is Bella is going to have their teas down
Mr. M. going to dine, I wonder? here with Miss Prior, Mrs. Prior, and
Captain and Mrs. Hopkinson, Sir she's up in the school-room, and my
John and Lady Tomkinson, request lady says you may stay to tea.
the pleasure. Request the pleasure!  MRS. PRIOR.-Thank you, Charles!
Of course they do. They are always How tall you grow! Those trousers
asking Mr. M. to dinner. They have would fit my darling Frederick to a
daughters to marry, and Mr. M. is a nicety. Thank you, Charles. I know
widower with three thousand a year, the way to the nursery. [Exit Mrs.
every shilling of it. I must tell Lady P.]
Kicklebury. Ie must never go to    PAGE. — Knoow the way!    I bethese places — never, never —mustn't licvc she do know the way. Been
25




570


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


a having cake and wine. Howell
always gives her cake and winejolly cake, ain't it! and wine, oh,
my!
Re-enter JOHN.
JOHN. - You young gormandizing
cormorant! What! five meals a day
ain't enough for you! What? beer
ain't good enough for you, hey?
[Pulls boy's ears.]
PAGE [crying]. - Oh, oh, do-o-n't,
Mr. Howell. I only took half a glass,
upon my honor.
JOHN. — Your a-honor, you lying
young vagabond!   I wonder the
ground don't open and swallow you.
Ialf a glass! [Holds up decanter.]
You've took half a bottle, you young
Ananias! Mark this, sir! When I
was a boy, a boy on my promotion, a
child kindly took in from charityschool, a horphan in buttons like you,
I never lied; no, nor never stole,
and you've done both, you little
scoundrel. Don't tell me, sir! there's
plums on your coat, crumbs on your
cheek, and you smell sherry, sir!
I ain't time to whop you now, but
come to my pantry to-night after
you've took the tray down. Come
without your jacket on, sir, and then
I'll teach you what it is to lie and
steal. There's the outer bell. Scud,
you vagabond!
Enter LADY K.
LADY K. - What was that noise,
pray?
JOHN.- A difference between me
and young Page, my lady. I was
instructing him to keep his hands
from picking and stealing. I was
learning him his lesson, my lady, and
he was a-crying it out.
LADY KI -It seems to me you
are most unkind to that boy, Howell.
He is my boy, sir. He comes from
my estate. I will not have him ill
used. I think you presume on your
long services. I shall speak to my
son-in-law about you.  [" Yes, my
lady; no, my lady;    very good,
my lady." Jol"' has answered each
sentence as she is speaking, and exit,




gravely bowing.]  That man must
quit the house. Horace says he can't
do without him, but he must do without him. My poor dear Arabella
was fond of him, but he presumes on
that defunct angel's partiality. Horace says this person keeps all his
accounts, sorts all his letters, manages
all his affairs, may be trusted with
untold gold, and rescued little George
out of the fire. Now I have come to
live with my son-in-law, I will keep
his accounts, sort his letters, and
take charge of his money: and if
little Georgy gets into the grate, I
will take him out of the fire. What
is here?  Invitation from  Captain
and  Mrs. Hopkinson.    Invitation
from Sir John and Lady Tomkinson,
who don't even ask me! Monstrous!
le never shall go - he shall not go!
[Mrs. PRIOR has re-entered, she drops a
very low courtesy to Lady K., as the latter,
perceivinq her, lays the cards down.]
MRS. PRIOR. - Ah, dear madam!
how kind your ladyship's message
was to the poor lonely widow-woman!
Oh, how thoughtful it was of your
ladyship to ask me to stay to tea!
LADY K. -With your daughter
and the children? Indeed, my good
Mrs. Prior, you are very welcome!
MRS. PRIOR.-Ah! but isn't it a
cause of thankfulness to be made welcome? Oughtn't I to be grateful
for these blessings? - yes, I say blessings.  And I am -I am, Lady
Kicklebury - to the mother - ofthat angel who is gone [points to the
picture]. It was your sainted daughter
left us- left my child to the care
of Mr. Milliken, and- and you, who
are now his guardian angel I may
say. You are, Lady Kickleburyyou are. I say to my girl, Julia,
Lady Kicklebury is Mr. Milliken's
guardian angel, is your guardian
angel -for without you could she
keep her place as governess to these
darling children? It would tear her
heart in two to leave them, and et
she would be forced to do so. You
know that some one - shall I hesitate
to say whom I mean? - that Mr.




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


571


Milliken's mother, excellent lady my second, Charlotte, a girl as tall
though she is, does not love my child as your ladyship, though not with so
because you love her. You do love fine a figure. "Ah, no, Shatty " I
her, Lady Kicklebury, and oh! a say to her, "you are as tall as our
mother's fond heart pays you back! dear patroness, Lady  Kicklebury,
but for you, my poor Julia must go — whom you long so to see; but you
go, and leave the children whom a have not got her ladyship's carriage
dying angel confided to her!     and figure, child." Five children
LADY K. - Go! no, never! not have I, left fatherless and penniless by
whilst Iam in this house, Mrs. Prior. my poor dear husband — but heaven
Your daughter is a well-behaved takes care of the widow and orphan,
young woman: you have confided madam - and heaven's best creatures
to me her long engagement to Lieu- feed them!-you know whom I mean.
tenant -Lieutenant What-d'you-call-  LADY K. - Should you not like,
'im, in the Indian service. She has would you object to take - a frock or
been very, very good to my grand- two of little Arabella's to your child?
children - sle brought them over and if Pinhorn, my maid, will let me,
from Naples when my — my angel Mrs. Prior, I will see if I cannot find
of an Arabella died there, and I will something against winter for your
protect Miss Prior.              second daughter, as you say we are of
MRS. PRIOR. - Bless you, bless a size.
you, noble, admirable woman! Don't  MRS. PRIon. -The widow's and
take it away! I must, I will kiss orphans' blessings upon you! I said
your dear, generous hand! Take a my Charlotte was as tall, but I never
mother's, a widow's blessings, Lady said she had such a figure as yours -
Kicklebury - the blessings of one who has
who has known misfortune and seen
better days, and thanks heaven —
yes, heaven! - for the protectors she  CHARLES. - Mrs.  Bonnington!
has found!                      [Enter Mrs. BONNINGTON.]
LADY K. - You said- you had -    MRS.. - How do you do, Lady
several children, I think, my good Kicklebury?
Mrs. Prior?                        LADY K. -My dear Mrs. BonMRS. PRIOR. - Three boys - one, nington! and you come to dinner of
my eldest blessing, is in a wine-mer- course?
chant's office - ah, if Mr. Milliken  MRS. B. - To dine with my own
wouldbut give himanorder! an order son, I may take the liberty. How
fiom this house! an order from Lady are my grandchildren? my darling
Kicklebury's son-in-law! -      little Emily, is she well, Mrs. Prior?
LADY K.-It shall be done, my     LADY K. [aside].- Emily? why
good Prior - we will see.        does she not call the child by her
Mns. PRIOR. - Another, Adol- blessed mother's name of Arabella?
phus, dear fellow! is in  Christ's [To Mrs. B.] Arabella is quite well,
Hospital. It was dear, good Mr. Mrs. Bonnington. Mr. Squillings
Milliken's nomination. Frederick is said it was nothing; only her grandat Merchant Taylor's: my darling mamma Bonnington spoiling her, as
Julia pays his schooling. Besides, I usual. Mr. Bonnington and all your
have two girls —Amelia, quite a numerous young folk are well, I
little toddles, just the size, though hope?
not so beautiful —but in a mother's  MRS. B. - My family are all in
eyes all children are lovely, dear perfect health, I thank you. Is Horace
Lady Kicklebury -just the size of come home from the city?
vour dear granddaughter, whose     LADY K. - Goodness! there's the
clothes would fit her, I am sure. And dinner-bell, - I must run to dress.




572


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


MRS. PROR.- Shall I come with
you, dear Lady Kicklebury?
LADY K. - Not for worlds, my
good Mrs. Prior. [ExitLady K.]
MRS. PRIOR. - How do you do, my
dear madam? Is dear Mr. Bonnington quitewell? What a sweet, sweet
sermon he gave us last Sunday! I
often say to my girl, I must not go to
hear Mr. Bonnington, I really must
not, he makes me cry so. Oh! he is
a great and gifted man, and shall I
not have one glimpse of him?
MRS. B. - Saturday evening, my
good Mrs. Prior. Don't you know
that my husband never goes out
on Saturday, having his sermon to
compose?
MRS. P.- Oh, those dear, dear
sermons! Do you know, madam,
that my little Adolphus, for whom
your son's bounty procured his place
at Christ's Hospital, was very much
touched indeed, the dear child, with
Mr. Bonnington's discourse last Sunday three weeks, and refused to play
marbles afterwards at school? The
wicked, naughty boys beat the poor
child; but Adolphus has his consolation! Is Master Edward well, ma'am,
and Master Robert, and Master Frederick, and dear little funny Master
William?
MRS. B. - Thank you, Mrs. Prior;
you have a good heart, indeed!
MRS. P. -Ah, what blessings
those dears are to you! I wish your
dearest little grandson -
MRS. B. - The little naughty
wretch! Do you know, Mrs. Prior, my
grandson, George Milliken, spiltthe
ink over my dear husband's bands,
which he keeps in his great dictionary;
and fought with my child, Frederick,
who is three years older than George
- actually beat his own uncle!
MRS.   P. -  Gracious  mercy!
Master Frederick was not hurt, I
hope?
MRS. B. —No; he cried a great
deal; and then Robert came up, and
that graceless little George took a
stick; and then my husband came
out, and do you know George Milli

ken actually kicked Mr. Bonnington
on his shins, and butted him like a
little naughty ram?
MRS. P. - Mercy, mercy! what a
little rebel!  He is spoiled, dear
madam, and you know by whom.
MRS. B. -By his grandmamma
Kicklebury. I know it. I want my
son to whip that child, but he refuses. He will come to no good, that
child.
MRS. P.-Ahl, madam! don't say
so! Let us hope for the best. Master George's high temper will subside when certain persons who pet him
are gone away.
MRS. B. - Gone away! they never
will go away! No, mark my words,
Mrs. Prior, that woman will never go
away. She has made the house her
own: she commands every thing and
everybody in it. She has driven me
-me -Mr. Millikcn's own mother
-almost out of it. She has so annoyed my dear husband, that Mr.
Bonnington will scarcely come here.
Is she not always sneering at private
tutors, because Mr. Bonnington was
my son's private tutor, and greatly
valued by the late Mr. Milliken? Is
she not making constant allusions to
old women marrying young men, bccause Mr. Bonnington happens to be
younger than me   I have no words
to express my indignation respecting
Lady Kicklebury. She never pays
any one, and runs up debts in the
whole town. Her man Bulkeley's
conduct in the neighborhood is quite
- quite -
MRS. B. - Gracious goodness,
ma'am, you don't say so! And then
what an appetite the gormandizing
monster has!  Mary tells me that
what he eats in the servants' hall is
something perfectly frightful.
MRS. B. - Everybody feeds on my
poor son! You are looking at my
cap, Mrs. Prior? [During this time
Mrs. PRIOR, has been peering into a
parcel which  Mrs.  BONNINGTON
brought in her hand.]  I brought it
with me across the Park. I could
not walk through the Park in my




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


573


cap. Isn't it a pretty ribbon, Mrs. if he can't dinein his shooting-jacket?
Prior?                           Poor Mill! He has the slavery now
MRS. P. -Beautiful! beautiful! without the wife. [lie speaks sarcastiHow   blue becomes   you!  Who cally to the picture.]  Well, well!
would think you were the mother of Mrs. Milliken! You, at any rate, are
Mr. Milliken and seven other darling gone; and, with the utmost respect
children? You can afford what Lady for you, I like your picture even
Kicklebury cannot.               better than the original. Miss Prior!
MRS.   B. - And  what is that,
Prior?  A  poor clergyman's wife,nt           M     PRIOR
with a large family, cannot afford  Miss PRIOR. —I beg pardon. I
much.                            thought you were gone to dinner. I
MRs. P. -He! he!      You can heard the second bell some time since.
afford to be seen as you are, which [She is drawing back.]
Lady K. cannot. Did you not remark  TOUHIT. - Stop! I say, Julia!
low afraid she seemed lest I should [She returns, he looks at her, takes her
enter her dressing-room? Only Pin- hand.] Why do you dress yourself
horn, her maid, goes there, to arrange in this odd poky way? You used to
the roses, and the lilies, and the figure be a very smartly dressed girl. Why
- he! he I Oh, what a sweet, sweet do you hide your hair, and wear such
cap-ribbon! When you have worn a dowdy, high gown, Julia?
it, and are tired of it, you will give it  JULIA. -You mustn't call me
me, won't you?   It will be good Julia, Captain Touchit.
enough for poor old Martha Prior!  TOUCHIT. - Why? when I lived
MRS. B. -Do you really like it  in your mother's lodging, I called
Call at Greenwood Place, Mrs. Prior, you Julia. When you brought up the
the next time you pay Richmond a tea, you didn't mind being called Julia.
visit, and bring your little girl with When we used to go to the play
you, and we will sec.            with the tickets the Editor gave us,
MRS. P. - Oh, thank you! thank who lived on the second floor
you! Nay, don't be offended!   I   JULIA. - The   wretch! -don't
must! I must! [Kisses Mrs. Bo.- speak of him!
NINGTON.]                          TOUCHIT. —Ah! I am afraid he
MRS. B. - There, there!  We was a sad deceiver, that Editor. He
must not stay chattering! The bell was a very clever fellow. What droll
has rung. I must go and put the cap songs he used to sing! What a heap
on, Mrs. Prior.                  of play-tickets, diorama-tickets, conMns. P. -And I may come, too? cert-tickets, he used to give you!
You are not afraid of my seeing your Did he touch your heart, Julia?
hair, dear Mrs. Bonnington! Mr.    JULIA. -Fiddlededee!  No man
Bonnington too young for you! Why, ever touched my  heart, Captain
you don't look twenty!          Touchit.
MRS. B. —Oh, Mrs. Prior!         ToUCHIT.- What! not even Tom
MRS. P. -Well, five and twenty, Plight, who had the second floor after
upon my word —not more than five the Editor left it -and who cried so
and twenty- and that is the very bitterly at the idea of going out to
prime of life! [Exeunt Mrs. B. and India without you? You had a tendre
Mrs. P. hand in hand. As Captain for him - a little passion - you know
ToUCHIT enters, dressed for dinner, you had. Why, even the ladies here
he bows and passes on.]          know it. Mrs. Bonnington told me
ToUCHIT.- So, we are to wear that you were waiting for a sweetheart
our white cravats, and our varnished in India, to whom you were engaged;
boots, and dine in ceremony. What and Lady Kicklebury thinks you are
is the use of a man being a widower, dying in love for the absent swain.




574


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


JULIA. - I  ope - I hope - you
did not contradict them, Captain
Touchit.
TOUCHIT.-Why not, my dear?
JULIA. -May I be frank with
you? You were a kind, very kind
fiiend to us-to me, in my youth.
TOUCHIT. -I paid my lodgings
regularly, and my bills without asking
questions. I never weighed the tea
in the caddy, or counted the lumps
of sugar, or heeded the rapid consumption of my liqueurJULIA. - Hush, hush! I know
they were taken. I know you were
very good to us. You helped my
poor papa out of many a difficulty.
TOUCHIT [aside].-Tipsy old coalmerchant! I did, and he helped
himself too.
JULIA. - And you were always
our best friend, Captain Touchit.
When our misfortunes came, you got
me this situation with Mrs. Milliken
-and, and-don't you see?ToucHIT.-Well-what?
JULIA [laughing]. —I think it is
best, under the circumstances, that
the ladies here should suppose I am
engaged to be married-or-or,
they might be-might be jealous,
you understand. Women are sometimes jealous of others, -especially
mothers and mothers-in-law.
TOUCIIIT.- Oh, you arch-schemer! And it is for that you cover up
that beautiful hair of yours, and wear
that demure cap?
JULIA [slyly].-I am  subject to
rheumatism in the head, Captain
Touchit.
TOUCHIT. - It is for that you put
on the spectacles, and make yourself
look a hundred years old?
JULIA. —My eyes are weak, Captain Touchit.
TOUCHIT. — Weak with weeping
for Tom Flight. You hypocrite!
Show me your eyes?
Miss P.- Nonsense'
TOwCHIT.- Show me your eyes,
I say, or I'll tell about Tom Flight,
and that he has been married at
Madras these two years.


MIss P. — Oh, you horrid man!
[Takes glasses off.] There.
TOUCHIT. - Translucent    orbs!
beams of flashing light! lovely lashes
veiling  celestial brightness!  No,
they haven't cried much for Tom
Flight, that faithless captain! nor for
Lawrence O'Reilly, that killing Editor. It is lucky you keep the glasses on them, or they would transfix
Horace Milliken, my friend the widower here.   Do you always wear
them when you are alone with him?
MIss P.-I never am alone with
him. Bless me! If Lady Kicklebury
thought my eyes were-well, wellyou know   what I mean, -if she
thought her son-in-law looked at me,
I should be turned out of doors the
next day, I am sure I should. And
then, poor Mr. Milliken! he never
looks at me —heaven help him!
Why, he can't see me for her Ladyship's nose and awful caps and ribbons! He sits and looks at the portrait yonder, and sighs so. He thinks
that he is lost in grief for his wife at
this very moment.
ToucHIT. - What a woman that
was —eh, Julia- that departed angel! What a temper she had before
her departure!
Miss P.-But the wind was tempered to the lamb. If she was angry
- the lamb was so very lamblike and
meek and fleecy.
TOUCHIT. - And what a desperate
flirt the departed angel was! I knew
half a dozen fellows, before her marriage, whom she threw over, because
Milliken was so rich.
Miss P. -She was consistent at
least, and did not change after marriage, as some ladies do; but flirted, as
you call it, just as much as before.
At Paris, young Mr. Verney, the attache, was never out of the house: at
Rome, Mr. Beard, the artist, was
always drawing pictures of her: at
Naples, when poor Mr. M. went
away to look after his affairs at St.
Petersburg, little Count Posilippo
was forever coming to learn English
and practise duets. She scarcely ever




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


575


saw the poor children - [changinq her
manner as Lady KICKLEBUtY enters]
Hush- my lady!
ToUCHIT. -You may well say,
" poor children," deprived of such a
woman! Miss Prior, whom I knew
in very early days - as your ladyship
knows - was speaking - was speaking of the loss our poor friend sustained.
LADY K. - Ah, sir, what a loss!
[looking at the picture.]
TOUCIIIT. - What a woman she
was - what a superior creature!
LADY K. - A creature - an angel!
ToUCIIIT. - Mercy upon us! how
she and my lady used to quarrel!
[aside.] What a temper!
LADY K. - Hm - oh, yes - what
a temper [rather doubtfully at first].
TOUCIIT.- What a loss to Milliken and the darling children!
Miss PRIOR. -Luckily they have
you with them, madam.
LADY K. -And I will stay with
them, Miss Prior; I will stay with
them! I will never part from Horace,
I am determined.
Miss P. -Ah! I am very glad you
stay, for if I had not you for a protector I think you know I must go,
Lady Kicklebury. I think you know
there are those who would forget
my attachment to these darling children, my services to -to her - and
dismiss the poor governess. But
while you stay I can stay, dear Lady
Kicklebury!  With you to defend
me from jealousy I need not quite be
afraid.
LADY K. - Of Mrs. Bonnington.
Of Mr. Milliken's mother; of the
parson's wife who writes out his stupid sermons, and has half a dozen
children of her own? I should think
not indeed! I am the natural protector of these children. I am their
mother. I have no husband! You
stay in this house, Miss Prior. You
are a faithful, attached creaturethough you were sent in by somebody
I don't like very much [pointing to
TOUCHIT, who went off laughing when


JULIA began her speech, and is now
looking at prints, &c., in next room].
Miss P. —Captain Touchit may
not be in all things what one could
wish. But his kindness has formed
the happiness of my life in making
me acquainted with you, ma'am: and
I am sure you would not have me
be ungrateful to him.
LADY K. -A most highly principled young woman.    [Goes out in
garden and walks up and down with
Captain TouCIIIT.]
Enter MRS. BONNINGTON.
Miss P.- Oh, how glad I am you
are come, Mrs. Bonnington. Have
you brought me that pretty hymn you
promised me? You always keep your
promises, even to poor governesses.
I read dear Mr. Bonnington's sermon!
It was so interesting that I really
could not think of going to sleep until
I had read it all through; it was
delightful, but oh! it's still better
when he preaches it! I hope I did
not do wrong in copying a part of
it? I wish to impress it on the children.  There are some worldly influences at work with them, dear
madam [looking at Lady K. in the garden], which I do my feeble effort toto modify. I wish you could come
oftener.
MRS. B. -I will try, my dear-I
will try. Emily has sweet dispositions.
MRS. P. - Ah, she takes after her
grandmamma Bonnington!
MRS. B. -But George was sadly
fractious just now in the school-room
because I tried him with a tract.
Miss P.- Let us hope for better
times! Do be with your children,
dear Mrs. Bonnington, as constantly
as ever you can, for my sake as
well as theirs! I want protection
and advice as well as they do. The
governess, dear lady, looks up to you
as well as the pupils; she wants the
teaching which you and dear Mr.
Bonnington can give her! Ah, why
could not Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington
come and live here, I often think?




676


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


The children would have companions
in their dear young uncles and aunts;
so pleasant it would be. The house
is quite large enough; that is, it her
ladyship did not occupy the three
south rooms in the left wing. Ah,
why, why couldn't you come?
MRs. B.-You are a kind, affectionate creature, Miss Prior. I do
not very much like the gentleman
who recommended you to Arabella,
you know. But I do think he sent
my son a good governess for his
children.
Two Ladies walk up and down in front
garden.
ToucIIIT enters.
TOUCHIT. - Miss Julia Prior, you
are a wonder! I watch you with
respect and surprise.
Miss. P. - Me! what have I done?
a poor, friendless governess - respect
me?
TouHIT. - I have a mind to tell
those two ladies what I think of Miss
Julia Prior. If they knew you as I
know you, O Julia Prior, what a
short reign yours would be!
Miss P. -I have to manage them
a little. Each separately it is not so
difficult. But when they are together,
oh, it is very hard sometimes.
Enter MILLIKEN, dressed, shakes hands
with Miss P.
MILLIKEN. - Miss Prior! are you
well? Have the children been good?
and learned all their lessons?
Miss P. - The children are pretty
good, sir.
MILLIKEN. - Well, that's a great
deal as times go.  Do not bother
them with too much learning, Miss
Prior. Let them have an easy life.
Time enough for trouble when age
comes.
Enter JOIN.
JOHN.-Dinner, sir. [Andexit.]
MILLIKEN.-Dinner, ladies. My
Lady Kicklebury [gives arm to Lady
K].
LADY K. -My dear Horace, you
shouldn't shake hands with Miss Prior.




You should keep people of that class
at a distance, my dear creature. [T'henr
go in to dinner, Captain ToucHIT folowing with Mrs. BONNINGTON. As
they go out, enter MARY, with children's
tea-tray, &c., children following, and
after them Mrs. PRIOR. MARY gives
her tea.]
MRS. PRIOR. - Thank you, Mary I
You are so very kind! Oh, what delicious tea!
GEORGY. —I say, Mrs. Prior, I
dare say you would like to dine best,
wouldn't you?
MRS. P.-Bless you, my darling
love, I had my dinner at one o'clock
with my children at home.
GEORGY.- SO had we: but we go
in to dessert very often; and then
don't we have cakes and oranges
and candied-peel and macaroons and
things! We are not to go in to-day;
because Bella ate so many strawberries she made herself ill.
BELLA.-So did you.
GEORGY. - I'm a man, and men
eat more than women, twice as much
as women. When I'm a man, I'll
eat as much cake as ever I like. I
say, Mary, give us the marmalade.
MRS. P. -Oh, what nice marmalade! I know of some poor children
Miss P. -Mamma! don't, mamma
[in an imnplorinq tone].
MRS. P. -I know of two poor
children at home, who have very seldom nice marmalade and cake, young
people.
GEORGE. -You mean Adolphus
and Frederick and Amelia, your children. Well, they shall have marmalade and cake.
BELLA. - Oh, yes! I'll give them
mine.
MRS. P. - Darling, dearest child!
GEORGE [his mouthfiull]. - I won't
give 'em mine: but they can have
another pot, you know. You have
always got a basket with you, Mrs.
Prior, I know you have. You had it
that day you took the cold fowl.
MRS. P. -For the poor blind, black
man! oh, how thankful he was I




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


577


GEORGE. - I don't know whether
it was for a black man. Mary, get
us another pot of marmalade.
MARY. —I don't know, Master
George.
GEORGE. - I ill have another pot
of marmalade. If you don't, I'llI'll smash every thing-I will.
BELLA. - Oh, you naughty, rude
boy!
GEORGE.- Hold your tongue! I
will have it. Mary shall go and get
it.
MRS. P. -Do humor him, Mary;
and I'm sure my poor children at
home will be the better for it.
GEORGE. - There's your basket!
now put this cake in, and this pat of
butter, and  this sugar.  Hurray,
hurray! Oh, what jolly fun! Tell
Adolphus and Amelia I sent it to
them - tell 'em they shall never want
for any thing as long as George
Kicklebury Milliken, Esq., can give
it'em. Did Adolphus like my gray
coat that I didn't want?
Miss P. - You did not give him
your new gray coat?
GEORGE.- Don't you speak to
me; I'm going to school -I'm not
going to have no more governesses
soon.
MRS. P. -Oh, my dear Master
George, what a nice coat it is, and
how well my poor boy looked in it I
Miss P. - Don't, mamma! I pray
and entreat you not to take the
things!
Enter JOHN from dining-room with a
tray.
JOHN. - Some cream, some jelly,
a little champagne, Miss Prior; I
thought you might like some.
GEORGE. -Oh, jolly! give us hold
of the jelly! give us a glass of champagne.
JOHN. - I will not give you any.
GEORGE. -I'll smash every glass
in the room if you don't; I'll cut my
fingers; I'll poison myself-there!
I'll eat all this sealing-wax if you
don't, and it's rank poison, you know
it is.
25*


MRS. P. - My dear Master George.
[Exit JOHN.]
GEORGE. - Ha, ha! I knew you'd
give it me; another boy taught me
that.
BELLA.-And a very naughty,
rude boy.
GEORGE. - He, he, he! hold your
tongue, Miss! And said he always
got wine so; and so I used to do it
to my poor mamma, Mrs. Prior.
Usedn't to like mamma much.
BELLA. - Oh, you wicked boy!
GEORGY. -She usedn't to see us
much. She used to say I tried her
nerves: what's nerves, Mrs. Prior?
Give us some more champagne!
Will have it.  Ha, ha, ha! ain't
it jolly? Now I'll go out and have
a run in the garden.   [Runs into
garden.]
MRS. P. - And you, my dear?
BELLA. -I shall go and resume
the perusal of" The Pilgrim's Progress," which my grandpapa, Mr.
Bonnington, sent me.  [Exit ARABELLA.]
Miss P. - How those children are
spoilt! Goodness, what can I do?
If I correct one, he flies to grandmamma Kicklebury; if I speak to
another, she appeals to grandmamma
Bonnington.  When I was alone
with them, I had them in something
like order. Now, between the one
grandmother and the other, the children are going to ruin, and so would
the house too, but that Howellthat odd, rude, but honest and intelligent creature, I must say —keeps
it up. It is wonderful how a person
in his rank of life should have instructed himselfso. He really knows
- I really think he knows more than
I do myself.
MRS. P. - Julia, dear!
Miss P. - What is it, mamma?
MRS. P. - Your little sister wants
some under-clothing sadly, Julia dear,
and poor Adolphus's shoes are quite
worn out.
Miss P. —I thought so: I have
given you all I could, mamma.
Mns. P. - Yes, my love! you are




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


a good love, and generous, heaven
knows, to your poor old mother who
has seen better days. If we had not
wanted, would I have ever allowed
you to be a governess - a poor degraded governessl  If that brute
O'Reilly who lived on our second
floor had not behaved so shamefully
wicked to you, and married Miss
Flack, the singer, might you not have
been Editress of " The Champion of
Liberty" at this very moment, and had
your Opera box every night? [She
drinks champagne while talking, and
excites herself.]
MISS P.-Don't take that, mamma.
MRS. P.- Don't take it? why, it
costs nothing; Milliken can afford it.
Do you suppose I get champagne
every day q I might have had it as a
girl when I first married your father,
and we kep' our gig and horse, and
lived at Clapham, and had the best
of every thing. But the coal-trade is
not what it was, Julia. We met with
misfortunes, Julia, and we went into
poverty: and your poor father went
into the Bench   for twenty-three
months —two year all but a month
he did -and my poor girl was obliged to dance at " The Coburg Theatre" - yes, you were, at ten shillings
a week, in the Oriental ballet of " The
Bulbul and the Rose:" you were, my
poor darling child.
Miss P. - Hush, hush, mamma!
MRS. P.- And we kep' a lodginghouse in Bury Street, St. James's,
which your father's brother furnished
for us, who was an extensive oilmerchant. He brought you up; and
afterwards he quarrelled with my
poor James, Robert Prior did, and he
died, not leaving us a shilling. And
my dear eldest boy went into a winemerchant's office: and my poor darling Julia became a governess, when
you had had the best of education at
Clapham; you had, Julia. And to
think that you were obliged, my
blessed thing, to go on in the Oriental ballet of "The Rose and the
Bul"

Miss P. -Mamma, hush, hush!
forget that story.
Enter Pagefr'onm dining-room.
PAGE. -Miss Prior! please, the
ladies are coming from the diningroom.   Mrs. B. have had her two
glasses of port, and her ladyship is
now a-telling the story about the
Prince of Wales when she danced with
him at Carlton House. [Exit Page.]
Miss P. - Quick, quick! There,
take your basket! Put on your bonnet, and good-night, mamma. Here,
here is a half-sovereign and three
shillings; it is all the money I have
in the world; take it, and buy the
shoes for Adolphus.
MRS. P. - And the under-clothing,
my love -little Amelia's underclothing?
Miss P.-We will sec about it.
Good-night [kisses her].  Don't be
seen here, - Lady K. doesn't like it.
Enter Gentlemen and Ladies from
dining-room.
LADY K.- We follow the Continental fashion.  We don't sit after
dinner, Captain Touchit.
CAPTAIN T.    Confound the Continental fashion! I like to sit a little
while after dinner [aside].
MRS. B. - So does my dear Mr.
Bonnington, Captain Touchit. He
likes a little port-wine after dinner.
ToucHIT. -I'm not surprised at
it, ma'am.
Mns. B. - When did you say your
son was coming, Lady Kicklebury?
LADY K. - My Clarence! He will
be here immediately, I hope, the dear
boy. You know my Clarence?
TOUCHIT. - Yes, ma'am.
LADY K. - And like him, I'm
sure, Captain Touchit! Everybody
does like Clarence Kicklebury.
ToUCHIT.-The confounded young
scamp! I say, Horace, do you like
your brother-in-law?
MLLLIKEN. - Well - I - I can't
say - I - like him - in fact, I don't.
But that's no reason why his mother
shouldn't.  [During this, HIOWELL




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


579


preceded by BULKELEY, hands round
coffee. The garden without has darkened, as if evening.  BULKELEY is
going awa~y without off ring coffee to
Miss PRIOR.   JOHIN stamps on his
foot, and points to her.  Captain
TOUCIIT, laughing, goes up and talks
to her now the servants are gone.]
MRS. B. - Horace! I must tell
you that the waste at your table is
shocking. What is the need of opening all this wine? You and Lady
Kicklebury were the only persons
who took champagne.
ToUCHIT.-I never drink itnever touch the rubbish! Too old a
stager!
LADY K. -Port, I think, is your
favorite, Mrs. Bonnington?
MRs. B. - My dear lady, I do not
mean that you should not have champagne, if you like. Pray, pray, don't
be angry! But why on earth, for
you, who take so little, and Horace,
who only drinks it to keep you company, should not Howell open a pint
instead of a great large bottle?
LADY K. - Oh, Howell! Howell!
We must not mention Howell, my
dear Mrs. Bonnington.   lowell is
faultless! Howell has the keys of
every thing! Howell is not to be controlled in any thing! Howell is to be
at liberty to be rude to my servant!
MILLIKEN.- IS that all? I am
sure I should have thought your man
was big enough to resent any rudeness from poor little Howell.
LADY K. - Horace! Excuse me
for saying that you don't know - the
- the class of servant to whom Bulkeley belongs. I had him, as a great
favor, from Lord Toddleby. That
class of servant is accustomed generally not to go out single.
MILLIKEN. - Unless they are two
behind a carriage-perch they pine
away, as one love-bird does without
his mate!
LADY K. -No doubt! no doubt!
I only say you are not accustomed
here - in this kind of establishment,
you understand - to that class ofMRS. B.-Lady Kicklebury!     is


my son's establishment not good
enough for any powdered monster in
England? Is the house of a British
merchant -
LADY   K. -My dear creature!
my dear creature! it is the house of a
British merchant, and a very comfortable house.
MRS. B.-Yes, as you find it.
LADY K. - Yes, as I find it, when
I come to take care of my departed
angel's children, Mrs. Bonnington -
[pointing to picture] —of that dear
seraph's orphans, Mrs. Bonnington.
You cannot. You have other duties
-other children -a husband     at
home in delicate health, who -
Mits. B.-Lady Kicklebury, no
one shall say I don't take care of my
dear husband!
MILLIKEN. —My dear mother!
My dear Lady Kicklebury! [To T.,
who has come forward.] They spat
so every night they meet, Touchit.
Ain't it hard?
LADY K. -I say you do take care
of Mr. Bonnington, Mrs. Bonnington, my dear creature! and that is
why you can't attend to Horace.
And as he is of a very easy temper -
except sometimes with his poor Arabella's mother-he allows all his
tradesmen to cheat him, all his servants to cheat him, Howell to be rude
to everybody - to me amongst other
people, and why not to my servant
Bulkeley, with whom Lord Toddleby's groom of the chambers gave me
the very highest character.
MRS. B. - I'm surprised that noblemen have grooms in their chambers. I should think they were much
better in the stables. I am sure I
always think so when we dine with
Doctor Clinker. His man does bring
such a smell of the stable with him.
LADY K. - He! he! you mistake,
my dearest creature!  Your poor
mother mistakes, my good Horace.
You have lived in a quiet and most
respectable sphere - but not - not -
MRS. B. -Not what, Lady Kicklebury? We have lived at Richmond twenty years - in my late hus




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


band's time -when we saw a great
deal of company, and when this dear
Horace was a dear boy at Westminster School. And we have paid for
every thing we have had for twenty
years, and we have owed not a penny
to any tradesman, though we mayn't
have had powdered bfotmen six feet
high, who were impertinent to all the
maids in the place - don't! I will
speak, Horace-but servants who
loved us, and who lived in our families.
MILLIKEN.-Mamma, now, my
dear, good old mother! I am sure
Lady Kicklebury meant no harm.
LADY K. - Me! my dear Horace!
harm! What harm could I mean?
MILLIKEN.- Come! let us have
a game at whist. Touchit, will you
make a fourth? They go on so every
night almost. Ain't it a pity, now
ToucHIT. - Miss Prior generally
plays, doesn't she?
MILLIKEN. - And a very good
player, too.  But I thought you
might like it.
TOUCHIT. - Well, not exactly. I
don't like sixpenny points, Horace,
or quarrelling with old dragons about
the odd trick. I will go and smoke
a cigar on the terrace, and contemplate the silver Thames, the darkling
woods, the starry hosts of heaven. I
— I like smoking better than playing
whist. [MILLIKEN rings bell.j
MILLIKEN.-Ah, George! you're
not fit for domestic felicity.
ToucIIIT. - No, not exactly.
HOWELL enters.
MILLIKEN. - Lights and a whisttable. Oh, I see you bring'cm. You
know every thing I want. He knows
every thing I want, Howell does. Let
us cut. Miss Prior, you and I are
partners I
ACT II.
SCENE.- As before.
LADY K. — Don't smoke, you
naughty boy. I don't like it. Bc

sides, it will encourage your brotherin-law to smoke.
CLARENCE K. - Any thing to
oblige you, I'm sure.  But can't
do without it, mother; it's good for
my health.   When I was in the
Plungers, our doctor used to say,
" You ought never to smoke more
than eight cigars a day "- an order,
you know, to do it -don't you
see?
LADY K. —Ah, my child! I am
very glad you are not with those
unfortunate people in the East.
K. - So am I. Sold out just in
time. Mucl better fun being here,
than having the cholera at Scutari.
Nice house, Milliken's.  Snob, but
good fellow - good cellar, doosid
good cook. Really, that salmi yesterday, - couldn't have it better
done at "The    Rag" now. You
have got into good quarters here,
mother.
LADY K. - The meals arc very
good, and the house is very good;
the manners are not of the first order.
But what can you expect of city
people?  I always told your poor
dear sister, when she married Mr.
Milliken, that she might look for
every thing substantial, - but not
manners. Poor dear Arabella would
marry him.
K. - Would! that is a good one,
mamma! Why, you made her! It's
a dozen years ago. But I recollect,
when I came home fiom Eton, seeing  her crying  because  Charley
Tufton
LADY K. -Mr. Tufton had not a
shilling to bless himself with. The
marriage was absurd and impossible.
K. - He hadn't a shilling then.
I guess he has plenty now. Elder
brother killed, out hunting. Father
dead.  Tuf a baronet, with four
thousand a year if he's a shilling.
LADY K. - Not so much.
K. - Four thousand if it's a shilling.  Why, the property adjoins
Kicklebury's —I ought to know.
I've shot over it a thousand times




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


Iek! 1 remember, when I was quite
a young 'un, how Arabella used to
go out into Tufton Park to meet
Charley-and he is a doosid good
fellow, and a gentlemanlike fellow,
and a doosid deal better than this
city fellow.
LADY K. -If you don't like this
city fellow, Clarence, why do you
come here? why didn't you stop
with your elder brother at Kicklebury?
K. — Why didn't I? Why didn't
you stop at Kicklebury, mamma?
Because you had notice to quit. Serious daughter-in-law, quarrels about
management of the house — row in
the building. My brother interferes,
and politely requests mamma to
shorten her visit. So it is with your
other two daughters; so it was with
Arabella when she was alive. What
shindies you used to have with her,
Lady Kicklebury! Heh! I had a
row with my brother and sister about
a confounded little nursery-maid.
LADY K. - Clarence!
K.- And so I had notice to quit
too. And I'm in very good quarters
here, and I intend to stay in 'cm,
mamma. I say -
LADY K.- What do you say?
K. - Since I sold out, you know,
and the regiment went abroad, confound mne, the brutes at " The Rag"
will hardly speak to me! I was so
ill, I couldn't go. Who the doose
can live the life I've led, and keep
health  enough for that infernal
Crimea? Besides, how could I help
it? I was so cursedly in debt that I
was obliged to have the money, you
know. You hadn't got any.
LADY K. -Not a halfpenny, my
darling.  I am dreadfully in debt
mvselft
K. —I know you are. So am I.
My brother wouldn't give me any,
not a dump. Hang him! Said he
had his children to look to. Milliken
wouldn't advance me any more - said
I did him in that horse transaction.
He! he! he! so I did! What had I
to do but to sell out? And the fellows


cut me, by Jove. Ain't it too bad?
I'll take my name off " The Rag," I
will, though.
LADY K.- We must sow our wild
oats, and we must sober down; and
we must live here, where the living is
very good and very cheap, Clarence,
you naughty boy! And we must
get you a rich wife. Did you see at
church yesterday that young woman
in light green, with rather red hair
and a pink bonnet?
K. - I was asleep, ma'am, most of
the time, or I was bookin' up the odds
for the Chester Cup.  When I'm
bookin' up, I think of nothin' else,
ma'am,- nothin'.
LADY K.- That was Miss Brocksopp -Briggs, Brown and Brocksopp,
the great sugar-bakers.  They say
she will have eighty thousand pound.
We will ask her to dinner here.
K. - I say - why the doose do
you have such old women to dinner
here?  Why don't you get some
pretty girls?  Such a set of confounded old frumps as eat Milliken's
mutton I never saw. There's you,
and his old mother Mrs. Bonnington,
and old Mrs. Fogram, and old Miss
What's-her-name, the woman with
the squint eye, and that immense Mrs.
Crowder. It's so stoopid, that if it
weren't for Touchit coming down
sometimes, and the billiards and
boatin', I should die here —expire,
by gad! Why don't you have some
pretty women into the house, Lady
Kicklebury?
LADY K. - Why! Do you think
I want that picture taken down:
and another Mrs. Milliken? Wisehead!  If Horace married again,
would he be your banker, and keep
this house, now that ungrateful son
of mine has turned me out of his?
No pretty women shall come into the
house whilst I am here.
K. - Governess seems a pretty woman: weak eyes, bad figure, poky,
badly dressed, but doosid pretty
woman.
LADY K. - Bah!    There is no
danger from  her.  She is a most




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


faithful creature, attached to me beyond every thing. And her eyesher eyes are weak with crying for
some young man who is in India.
She has his miniature in her room,
locked up in one of her drawers.
K.- Then how the doose did you
come to see it?
LADY K. -We see a number of
things, Clarence.  Will you drive
with me?
K.-Not as I knows on, thank
you. No, Ma; drivin's too slow:
and you're goin' to call on two or
three old dowagers in the Park?
Thank your ladyship for the delightful offer.
Enter JOHN.
JOHN. - Please, sir, here's the man
with the bill for the boats; two
pound three.
K. - Damn it, pay it - don't bother mne!
JOHN. - Haven't got the money,
sir.
LADY K. - Howell! I saw Mr.
Milliken give you a check for twentyfive pounds before he went into town
this morning. Look, sir [runs, opens
drawer, takes out check-book]. There
it is, marked, " Howell, 251."
JOHN. - Would your ladyship like
to step down into my pantry and see
what I've paid with the twenty-five
pounds B Did my master leave any
orders that your ladyship was to inspect my accounts?
LADY K. -Step down into the
pantry! inspect your accounts? I
never heard such impertinence. What
do you mean, sir?
K. —Dammy, sir, what do you
mean?
JOIN. - I thought, as her ladyship
kept a heye over my master's private
book, she might like to look at mine
too.
LADY K. -Upon my word, this
insolence is too much.
JOHN. -I beg your ladyship's
pardon. I am sure I have said nothing.
K. - Said, sir! your manner is


mutinous, by Jove, sir! if I had you
in the regiment!JOiN. - I understood that you had
left the regiment, sir, just before it
went on the campaign, sir.
K. - Confound you, sir! [Starts
up.]
LADY K. - Clarence, my child, my
child!
JOHN. - Your ladyship needn't be
alarmed; I'm a little man, my lady,
but I don't think Mr. Clarence was
a-goin' for to hit me, my lady; not
before a lady, I'm sure. I suppose,
sir, that you won't pay the boatman?
K. - No, sir, I won't pay him, nor
any man who uses this sort of damned
impertinence!
JOHN. -I told Rullocks, sir, I
thought it was jest possible you
wouldn't. [Exit.]
K. - That's a nice man, that is -
an impudent villain!
LADY K.-Ruined by Horace's
weakness. He ruins everybody, poor
good-natured Horace!
K. - Why don't you get rid of the
blackguard '
LADY K.- There is a time for all
things, my dear. This man is very
convenient to Horace. Mr. Milliken
is exceedingly lazy, and Howell
spares him a great deal of trouble.
Some day or other I shall take all
this domestic trouble off his hands.
But not yet: your poor brother-inlaw is restive, like many weak men.
He is subjected to other influences:
his odious mother thwarts me a great
deal.
K. —Why, you used to be the
dearest friends in the world. I recollect when I was at Eton
LADY K. - Were; but friendship
don't last forever. Mrs. Bonnington
and I have had serious differences
since I came to live here: she has a
natural jealousy, perhaps, at my superintending her son's affairs. When
she ceases to visit at the house, as she
very possibly will, things will go more
easily; and Mr. Howell will go too,
you may depend upon it. I am al



THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


ways sorry when my temper breaks
out, as it will sometimes.
K. - Won't it, that's all!
LADY K. -At his insolence, my
temper is high; so is yours, my dear.
Calm it for the present, especially as
regards Howell.
K. - Gad! d'you know I was very
nearly pitchinginto him? But once,
one night in the Haymarket, at a
lobster-shop, where I was with some
fellows, we chaffed some other fellows,
and there was one fellah - quite a little fellah- and I pitched into him,
and he gave me the most confounded
lickin' I ever had in my life, since my
brother Kicklebury licked me when
we were at Eton; and that, you see,
was a lesson to me, ma'am. Never
trust those little fellows, never chaff
'em: dammy, they may be boxers.
LADY K. - You quarrelsome boy!
I remember you coming home with
your naughty   head  so bruised.
[Looks at watch.] I must go now to
take my drive. [Exit Lady K.]
K. -I owe a doose of a tick at
that billiard-room; I shall have that
boatman dunnin' me. Why hasn't
Milliken got any horses to ride?
Hang him! suppose he can't ridesuppose he's a tailor. He ain't my
tailor though, though I owe him a
doosid deal of money. There goes
mamma with that darling nephew and
niece of mine. [Enter BULKELEY.]
Why haven't you gone with my lady,
you, sir? [To BULKELEY.]
BULKELEY. - My lady have a-took
the pony-carriage, sir; Mrs. Bonnington have a-took the hopen carriage and
'orses, sir, this mornin', which the
Bishop of London is 'olding a confirmation at Teddington, sir, and Mr.
Bonnington is attending the scrimony. And I have told Mr. 'Owell,
sir, that my lady would prefer the
hopen carriage, sir, which I like
the hexercise myself, sir, and that the
pony-carriage was good enough for
Mrs. Bonnington, sir; and Mr.
'Owell was very hinsolent to me, sir;
and I don't think I can stay in the
'ouse with him.


K. - Hold your jaw, sir.
BULKELEY. - Yes, sir.     [Exit
BULKELEY.]
K. -I wonder who that governess
is? - sang rather prettily last night
-wish she'd come and sing now -
wish she'd come and amuse meI've seen her face before - where have
I seen her face?- it ain't at all a bad
one. What shall I do? dammy, I'll
read a book: I've not read a book
this ever so long. What's here?
[looks amongst books, selects one, sinks
down in easy-chair so as quite to be
lost].
Enter MISS PRIOR.
Miss PRIOR. -There's peace in
the house! those noisy children are
away with their grandmamma. The
weather is beautiful, and I hope they
will take a long drive. Now I can
have a quiet half-hour, and finish that
dear pretty "Ruth "-oh, how it
makes me cry, that pretty story.
Lays down her bonnet on table -goes to
glass —takes off cap and spectaclesarranges her hair-Clarence has got on
chair looking at her.)
K.-By Jove! I know who it is
now! Remember her as well as possible. Four years ago, when little
Foxbury used to dance in the ballet
over the water. Don't I remember
her! She boxed my ears behind the
scenes, by jingo. [ oming forwards.]
Miss Pemberton! Star of the ballet!
Light of the harem! Don't you remember the grand Oriental ballet of
"The Bulbul and the Peri "
Miss P. —Oh! [Screams.] No,
n -no, sir. You are mistaken: my
name is Prior. I - never was at" The
Coburg Theatre." IK. - [seizing her hand.] - No, you
don't, though! What! don't you
remember well that little hand slapping this face? which nature hadn't
then adorned with whiskers, by gad!
You pretend you have forgotten little
Foxbury, whom Charley Calverley
used to come after, and who used to
drive to "The Coburg" every night
in her brougham     How did you




584


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


know it was "The Coburg"? That Jeames? Take a public house? By
is a good one! Hlad you there, I Jove! I'll buy my beer there.
think.                             JOIHN.-Owe for it, you mean.
Miss P. - Sir, in the name of I don't think your tradesmen profit
heaven, pity me! I have to keep much by your custom, ex-Cornct
my mother and my sisters and my Kicklebury.
brothers.  When-when you saw       K. -By Jove! I'll do for you, you
me, we were in great poverty; and villain!
almost all the wretched earnings I  JOHN.-No, not that way, Capmade at that time were given to my tain.  [Stru2qles witL and throws
poor father then lying in the Queen's him.]
Bench hard by.   You know there     K. [screams]. - Hallo, Bulkeley!
was nothing against my character — [BULKELEY is seen strolling i  the
you know there was not. Ask Cap- garden.]
tain Touchit whether I was not ater
good girl. It was he who broughtEte            B   E
me to this house.                  BULKELEY. - What is it, sir?
K. - Touchit! the old villain!   K. - Take this confounded villain
Miss P. - I had your sister's con- off me, and pitch himinto the Thames
fidence. I tended her abroad on her - do you hear?
death-bed. I have brought up your  JOHN. - Come here, and I'll break
nephew and niece. Ask any one if I every bone in your hulking body. [To
have not been honest? As a man, as BULKELEY.]
a gentleman, I entreat you to keep  BULKELEY. - Come, come! what
my secret!  I implore you for the hever his hall this year row about?
sake of my poor mother and her chil-  Miss P. - For heaven's sake, don't
dren! [kneling.]                strike that poor man.
K. -by Jove! how handsome you    BULKELEY. —YOu bequiet. What's
arc!  How  crying becomes your he a hittin' about my master for?
eyes! Get up, get up! Of course    JoIiN. - Take off your hat, sir,
I'll keep your secret, but-      when you speak to a lady. [Takes
Miss P. -Ah 1 ah! [She screams up a poker.] And now come on both
as he tries to embrace her. HOWELL of you, cowards! [Rushesat BLKErushes in.]                       LEY and knocks his hat off his head.]
HOWELL. — Hands off, you little   BULKELEY   [stepping back]. —If
villain! Stir a step and I'll kill you, you'll put down that there poker, you
if you were a regiment of captains! know, then I'll pitch into you fast
What! insult this lady who kept enough. But that there poker ain't
watch at your sister's death-bed and fair, you know.
has took charge of her children!   K. —You villain! Of course you
Don't be frightened, Miss Prior. will leave this house.  And, Miss
Julia —dear, dear Julia-I'm   by Prior, I think you understand that
vou. If the scoundrel touches you, you will go too. I don't think my
I'll kill him.  I —I love you — niece wants to learn dancin', you
there- it's here - love you madly -  understand. Good-by. Here, Bulkcwith all my 'art- my a-heart!   ley! [Gets behind footman, and exit.]
Miss P.- Howell - for heaven's   Miss P. - Do you know the meansake, Howell!                    ing of that threat, Mr. Howell?
K.- Pooh -ooh! [bursting with    JOHN. - Yes, Miss Prior.
laughter]. Here's a novel, by jingo!  Miss P. -I was a dancer once,
Here's John in love with the govern- for three months, four years ago,
ess.  Fond of plush, Miss Pcmber- when my poor father was in prison.
ton-ey     Gad, it's the best thing I  JOHN. -Yes, Miss Prior, I knew
ever knew. Saved a good bit, ey, it. And I saw you a many times.




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


585


Miss P. - And you kept my secrpt?
JOHN. - Yes, Ju - Jul - Miss
Prior.
Miss P.-Thank you, and God
bless you, John  iowell.  There,
there, you mustn't! indeed, you
mustn't!
JON. - You don't remember the
printer's boy who used to come to
Mr. O'Reilly, and sit in your 'all in
Bury Street, Miss Prior? I was that
boy. I was a country-bred boythat is if you call Putney country,
and Wimbledon Common, and that.
I served the Milliken family seven
year. I went with Master Horace to
college, and then I revolted against
service, and I thought I'd be a man
and turn printer like Dr. Frankling.
And I got in an office; and I went
with proofs to Mr. O'Reilly, and I
saw you. And though I might have
been in love with somebody else before I did - yet it was all hup when I
saw you.
Miss P. [kindly]. -You must not
talk to me in that way, John Howell.
JOHN.- Let's tell the tale out. I
couldn't stand the newspaper nightwork. I had a mother and brothers
and sisters to keep, as you had. I
vent back to Horace Milliken, and
said, " Sir, I've lost my work. I and
mine want bread. Will you take me
back again? " And he did. He's a
kind, kind soul is my master.
Miss P. - He is a kind, kind soul.
JohN. - lie's good to all the poor.
His hand's in his pocket for everybody.  Everybody takes advantage
of hiia. His mother-in-lor rides over
him. So does his Ma. So do I, I
may say; but that's over now; and
you and I have had our notice to quit,
Miss, I should say.
Miss P. - Yes.
JOHN. - I have saved a bit of money- not much - a hundred pound.
Miss Prior - Julia -here I amlook -I'm a poor feller - a poor
servant - but I've the heart of a man
-and-I love you-oh! I love
youtl


MARY. - Oh - ho - ho! [MARY
has entered fi ro garden, and bursts out
crying.]
Miss P. - It can't be, John Howell - my dear, brave, kind John
Howell. It can't be. I have watched
this for some time past, and poor
Mary's despair here. [Kisses MARY,
who cries plentifully.] You have the
heart of a true, brave man, and must
show it and prove it now. I am not
- am not of your- pardon me for
saying so- of your class in life. I
was bred by my uncle, away from my
poor parents, though I came back to
them after his sudden death; and to
poverty, and to this dependent life I
am now leading. I am a servant like
you, John, but in another spherehave to seek another place now; and
heaven knows if I shall procure one,
now that that unlucky passage in my
life is known.  Oh the coward to
recall it! the coward!
MARY. - But John whopped him,
Miss! that lie did. He gave it him
well, John did. [Crying.]
Miss P. - You can't - you ought
not to forego an attachment like that,
John Howell. A more honest and
true-hearted creature never breathed
than Mary Barlow.
JOHN. -No, indeed.
Miss P. - She has loved you since
she was a little child. And you loved
her once, and do now, John.
MARY.- Oh, Miss! you hare a
hangel, -I hallways said you were a
hangel.
Miss P.-You are better than I
am, my dear-much, much better
than I am, John. The curse of my
poverty has been that I have had to
flatter and to dissemble, and hide the
faults of those I wanted to help, and
to smile when I was hurt, and laugh
when I was sad, and to coax, and to
tack, and to bide my time, - not witl
Mr. Milliken: he is all honor, and
kindness, and simplicity. Who did
he ever injure, or what unkind word
did he ever say? But do you think,
with the jealousy of those poor ladies
over his house, I could have staid




586


TIE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


here without being a hypocrite to both
of them? Go, John. My good, dear
friend, John Howell, marry Mary.
You'll be happier with her than with
me. There! there! [They embrace.)
MARY.-O-o-o-! Ithink Ill
go and hiron hout Miss Harabella's
frocks now  [Exit MARY.]
Enter MILLIKEN with CLARENCEwho is explaining things to him.
CLARENCE. - Here they arc, I
give you my word of honor. Ask
'em, damn 'em.
MILLIKEN. - What is this I hear?
You, John Howell, have dared to
strike a gentleman under my roof!
Your master's brother-in-law?
JOHN. - Yes, by Jove! and I'd do
it again.
MILLIKEN. -Are you drunk or
mad, Howell?
JOHN.- I'm as sober and as sensible as ever I was in my life, sir —I
not only struck the master, but I
struck the man, who's twice as big,
only not quite as big a coward, I
think.
MILLIKEN. - Hold your scurrilous
tongue, sir! My good nature ruins
everybody about me. Make up your
accounts. Pack your trunks - and
never let me see your face again.
JOIN. - Very good, sir.
MILLIKEN. - I    suppose, Miss
Prior, you will also be disposed to
- to follow Mr. Howell?
Miss P. - To quit you, now you
know what has passed? I never supposed it could be otherwise- I deceived you, Mr. Milliken - as I kept
a secret from you, and must pay the
penalty. It is a relief to me, the
sword has been hanging over me. I
wish I had told your poor wife, as I
was often minded to do.
MILLTKEN. - Oh, you were minded
to do it in Italy, were you?
Miss P. -Captain Touchit knew
it, sir, all along: and that my motives, and, thank God, my life were
honorable.
MILLIKEN. - Oh, Touchit knew
it, did he? and thought it honorable


- honorable. Ha! ha! to marry a
footman - and keep a public-house?
I - I beg your pardon, -John Howell
- I mean nothing against you, you
know. You're an honorable man
enough, except that you have been
damned insolent to my brother-in-law.
JOHN. — Oh, heaven! [JOHN strikes
his forehead, and walks away.]
Miss P. - You mistake me, sir.
What I wished to speak of was the
fact which this gentleman has no
doubt communicated to you - that I
danced on the stage for three months.
MILLIKEN. - Oh, yes. Oh, damme, yes. I forgot. I wasn't thinking of that.
KICKLEBURY. - You see she owns
it.
Miss P. - We were in the depths
of poverty. Our furniture and lodging-house under execution -from
which Captain Touchit, when he came
to know of our difficulties, nobly
afterwards released us. My father
was in prison, and wanted shillings
for medicine, and I - I went and
danced on the stage.
MILLIKEN.   Well?
Miss P. —And I kept the secret
afterwards; knowing that I could
never hope as governess to obtain a
place after having been a stage-dancer.
MILLIKEN. - Of   course   you
couldn't, - it's out of the question;
and may I ask, are you going to resume that delightful profession when
you enter the married state with Mr.
Howell?
Miss P. - Poor John! it is not I
who am going to - that is, it's Mary,
the school-room maid.
MILLIKEN. - Eternal blazes! Have
you turned Mormon, John Howell,
and are you going to marry the whole
house?
JoHrN. -I made a hass of myself
about Miss Prior. I couldn't help
her being 1 -1 -lovely.
KICK. - Gad, lie )roposed to her
in my presence.
JOIN. - What I proposed to her,
Cornet Clarence Kicklebury, was my
heart, and my honor, and my best,




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


587


and my every thing - and you -
you wanted to take advantage of her
secret, and you offered her indignities,
and you laid a cowardly hand on her
-a cowardly hand! -and I struck
you, and I'd do it again.
MILLIKEN. - What? Is this true?
[Turning round very fiercely to K.]
KIcK. -Gad! Well-I onlyMILLIKEN. - You   only  what?
You only insulted a lady under my
roof- the friend and nurse of your
dead sister - the guardian of my
children. You only took advantage
of a defenceless girl, and would have
extorted your infernal pay out of her
fear. You miserable sneak and coward!
KICK. - Hallo! Come, come! I
say I won't stand this sort of chaff.
Dammy, I'll send a friend to you!
MILLIKEN. -Go out of that window, sir. March! or I will tell my
servant, John IIowell, to kick you
out, you wretched little scamp! Tell
that big brute, - what's-his-name?
-Lady Kicklcbury's man, to pack
this young man's portmanteau and
bear's-grease pots; and if ever you
enter these doors again, Clarence
Kicklebury, by the heaven that made
me! - by your sister who is dead! -
I will cane your life out of your bones.
Angel in heaven! Shade of my Arabella-to think that your brother
in your house should be found to
insult the guardian of your children!
JOHN. - By jingo, you're a goodplucked one! I knew he was, Miss,
- I told you he was. [Exit, shaking
hands with his master, and with Miss P.,
and dancing for oy. Exit, CLARENCE,
scared, out of window.]
JOHN   [without].- Bulkeley, pack
up the Capting's luggage!
MILLIKEN.- How can I ask your
pardon, Miss Prior? In my wife's
name I ask it - in the name of that
angel whose dying-bed you watched
and soothed - of the innocent children whom you have faithfully tended since.
Miss P. - Ah, sir! it is granted
when you speak so to me.


MILLIKEN. - E1h, eh - d - don't
call me sir!
Miss P. -It is for me to ask pardon for hiding what you know now:
but if I had told you- you - you
never would have taken me into your
house - your wife never would.
MILLIKEN. - No, no. [ Weeping.]
MIss P. - My dear, kind Captain
Touchit knows it all. It was by his
counsel I acted. He it was who relieved our distress. Ask him whether my conduct was not honorable -
ask him whether my life was not devoted to my parents - ask him when
-when I am gone.
MILLIKEN. - When you are gone,
Julia! Why are you going? Why
should you go, my love - that is -
why need you go, in the devil's name?
Miss P. - Because, when your
mother —when your mother-in-law
comes to hear that your children's
governess has been a dancer on the
stage, they will send me away, and
you will not have the power to resist
them. They ought to send me away,
sir; but I have acted honestly by the
children and their poor mother, and
you'll think of me kindly when - I
- am - gone?
MILLIKEN. - Julia, my dearestdear- noble - dar - the devil! here's
old Kicklebury.
Enter LADY K., CHILDREN, and
CLARENCE.
LADY K.-So, Miss Prior! this
is what I hear, is it? A dancer in
my house! a serpent in my bosompoisoning-  yes, poisoning  those
blessed children! -occasioning quarrels between my own son and my
dearest son-in-law; flirting with the
footman! When do you intend to
leave, madam, the house which you
have po - poll - luted?
Miss P. - I need no hard language,
Lady Kicklebury: and I will reply to
none. I have signified to Mr. Milliken my wish to leave his house.
MILLIKEN. - Not, not, if you will
stay. [To Miss P.]
LADY K.- Stay, Horace! she




588


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


shall never stay as governess in this
house!
MILLIKEN. - Julia! will you stay
as mistress? You have known me
for a year alone - before, not so wellwhen the house had a mistress that is
gone. You know what my temper is,
and that my tastes are simple, and my
heart not unkind. I have watched
you, and have never seen you out of
temper, though you have been tried.
I have long thought you good and
beautiful, but I never thought to ask
the question which I put to you now:
-come in, sir! [to CLARENCE at
door]: - now that you have been persecuted by those who ought to have
upheld you, and insulted by those who
owed you gratitude and respect. I am
tired of their domination, and as weary
of a man's cowardly impertinence [to
CLARENCE] as of a woman's jealous
tyranny. They have made what was
my Arabella's home miserable by their
oppression and their quarrels. Julia!
my wife's friend, my children's friend!
be mine, and make me happy! Don't
leave me, Julia! say you won't -
say  you won't -dearest-dearest
girl!
Miss P. - I won't - leave - you.
GEORGE [without]. - Oh, I say!
Arabella, look here: here's papa
a-kissing Miss Prior!
LADY K. - Horace - Clarence my
son!  Shade of my Arabella! can
you behold this horrible scene, and
not shudder in heaven!  Bulkeley!
Clarence! go for a doctor-go to
Doctor Straitwaist at the AsylumHorace Milliken, who has married the
descendant of the Kickleburys of the
Conqueror, marry a dancing-girl off
the stage! Horace Milliken! do you
wish to see me die in convulsions at
your feet? I writhe there, I grovel
there. Look! look at me on my
knees! your own mother-in-law!
drive away this fiend!
MILLIKEN. - Hem! I ought to
thank you, Lady Kicklebury, for it
is you that have given her to me.
LADY K. - He won't listen   he
turns away and kisses her horrible


hand. This will never do: help me
up, Clarence, I must go and fetch his
mother. Ah, ah! there she is, there
she is!  [Lady K. rushes out, as the
top of a barouche, with Mr. and Mrs.
BONNINGTON and Coachman, is seen
over the gate.]
MRS. B. -What is this I hear, my
son, my son? You are going to
marry a-a stage-dancer? you are
driving me mad, Horace!
MILLIKEN.- Give me my second
chance, mother, to be happy. You
have had yourself two chances.
MRS. B. - Speak to him, Mr. Bonnington. [BONNINGTON makes dumb
show.]
LADY K. - Implore him, Mr. Bonnington.
MRS. B. - Pray, pray for him, Mr.
Bonnington, my love - my lost, abandoned boy!
LADY K. - Oh, my poor dear Mrs.
Bonnington!
MRS. B. - Oh, my poor dear Lady
Kicklebury! [They embrace each other.]
LADY K. - I have been down on
my knees to him, dearest Mrs. Bonnington.
MRS. B.-Let us both-both go
down on our knees - I will [to her
husband]. Edward, I will! [Both
ladies on their knees.  BONNINGTON
with outstretched hands behind them.]
Look, unhappy boy! look, Horace!
two mothers on their wretched knees
before you, imploring you to send
away this monster! Speak to him,
Mr. Bonnington.  Edward! use authority with him, if he will not listen
to his mother
LADY K. - To his mothers!
E nter TouCHIT.
TOUCIIIT. -What is this comedy
going on, ladies and gentlemen? The
ladies on their elderly knees -Miss
Prior with her hair down her back.
Is it tragedy or comedy-is it a rehearsal for a charade, or are we acting
for Horace's birthday? or, oh! - I
beg your Reverence's pardon —you
were perhaps going to a professional
duty?




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMIB.


589


MRS. B.- It's we who are praying
this child, Touchit. This child, with
whom you used to come home from
Westminster when you were boys.
You have influence with him; he
listens to you. Entreat him to pause
in his madness.
TOUCHIT. - What madness?
MRS. B. - That- that woman -
that serpent yonder - that - that
dancing-woman, whom you introduced to Arabella Milliken, —ah!
and I rue the day: -Horace is going
to mum - mum - marry her!
TOUCHIT.-WCll! I always thought
he would. Ever since I saw him and
her playing at whist together, when I
came down here a month ago, I
thought he would do it.
MRS. B.-Oh, it's the whist, the
whist! Why did I ever play at
whist, Edward? My poor Mr. Milliken used to like his rubber.
TOUCIIIT. - Since he has been a
widowerLADY rK.- A widower of that
angel! [Points to picture.]
TOUCHIT. - Pooh, pooh, angel!
You two ladies have never given the
poor fellow any peace. You were
always quarrelling over him. You
took possession of his house, bullied
his servants, spoiled his children; you
did, Lady Kicklebury.
LADY K. - Sir, you are a rude,
low, presuming, vulgar man. Clarence! beat this rude man!
TOucHIT.- From what I have
heard of your amiable son, he is not
in the warlike line, I think. My
dear Julia, I am delighted with all
my heart that my old friend should
have found a woman of sense, good
conduct, good temper - a woman
who has had many trials, and borne
them with great patience-to take
charge of him and make him happy.
Horace, give me your hand! I knew
Miss Prior in great poverty. I am
sure she will bear as nobly her present
good fortune; for good fortune it is
to any woman to become the wife of
such a loyal, honest, kindly gentleman as you ar!


Enter JOHN.
JOHN. - If you please, my ladyif you please, sir- Bulkeley -
LADY K. - What of Bulkeley,
sir?
JOHN. - He has packed his things,
and Cornet Kicklebury's things, my
lady.
MILLIKEN. -Let the fellow go.
JON. - He won't go, sir, till my
lady have paid him his book and
wages. Here's the book, sir.
LADY K. -Insolence! quit my
presence I And I, Mr. Milliken, will
quit a house -
JOHN. - Shall I call your ladyship
a carriage?
LADY K. - Where I have met
with rudeness, cruelty, and fiendish [to
Miss P., who smiles and courtesies] -
yes, fiendish ingratitude. I will go,
I say, as soon as I have made arrangements for taking other lodgings.
You cannot expect a lady of fashion
to turn out like a servant.
JOHN.- Hire " The Star and
Garter" for her, sir. Send down to
" The Castle;" any thing to get rid
of her. I'll tell her maid to pack her
traps. Pinhorn! [Beckons maid and
gives orders.]
TOUCHIT. -YOU had better go at
once, my dear Lady Kicklebury.
LADY K.    Sir!
TOUCHIT. - The other motlher-in-law
is coming! I met her on the road
with all her family. He! he! ihe
[Screams.]
Enter Mns. PRIOR and CIILDREN.
MRS. P. - My lady! I hope your
ladyship is quite well! Dear, kind
Mrs. Bonnington! I came to pay
my duty to you, ma'am. This is
Charlotte, my lady-the great girl
whom your ladyship so kindly promised the gown for; and this is my little girl, Mrs. Bonnington, ma'am,
please; and this is my Bluecoat boy.
Go and speak to dear, kind Mr. Milliken - our best friend and protector
-the son and son-in-law of these
dear ladies.  Look, sir! He has




690


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


brought his copy to show you. [Boy
shows copy.] Ain't it creditable to a
boy of his age, Captain Touchit
And my best and most grateful services to you, sir. Julia, Julia, my
dear, where's your cap and spectacles,
you stupid thing? You've let your
hair drop down. What! what! -
[Begins to be puzzled.]
MRs. B. - Is this collusion, madam?
MRs. P. - Collusion, dear Mrs.
Bonnington!
LADY K. -Or insolence, Mrs.
Prior?
MRS. P. - Insolence, your ladyship! What —what is it what has
happened? What's Julia's hair down
for   Ah! you've not sent the poor
girl away? the poor, poor child, and
the poor, poor children!
TOUCHIT. - That dancing at the
"Coburg" has come out, Mrs. Prior.
MRS. P. -Not the darling's fault.
It was to help her poor father in
prison. It was I who forced her to
do it. Oh! don't, don't, dear Lady
Kicklebury, take the bread out of the
mouths of these poor orphans! [Crying.]
MILLIKEN. - Enough of this, Mrs.
Prior: your daughter is not going
away. Julia has promised to stay
with me - and - never to leave me
- as governess no longer, but as wife
to me.
MRS. P. - Is it -is it true, Julia?
Miss P.- Yes, mamma.
MRS. P.- Oh! oh! oh! [Flings
down her umbrella, kisses JULIA, and
running to MILLIKEN,] My son, my
son! Come here, children. Come,
Adolphus, Amelia, Charlotte- kiss
your dear brother, children. What
my dears   How do you do, dears?
[to MILLIKEN'S children.]   Have
they heard the news? And do you
know that my daughter is going to
be your mamma? There —there —
go and play with your little uncles
and aunts, that's good children! [She
motions off the Children, who retire
towards garden. Her manner changes
to one of great patronage and intense


satisfaction.] Most hot weather, your
ladyship, I'm sure. Mr. Bonnington,
you must find it hot weather for
preachin'! Lor'! there's that little
wretch beatin' Adolphus! George,
sir! have done, sir!  [Runs to separate them.] How ever shall we make
those children agree, Julia?
Miss P. - They have been a little
spoiled, and I think Mr. Milliken
will send George and Arabella to
school, mamma: will you not, Hor.
ace?
MR. MILLIKEN. -I think school
will be the very best thing for them.
MRS. P. - And [Mrs. P. whispers,
pointing to her own children] the blue
room, the green room, the rooms old
Lady Kick has - plenty of room for
us, my dear!
Miss P. -No, mamma, I think it
will be too large a party, - Mr. Milliken has often said that he would like
to go abroad, and I hope that now
he will be able to make his tour.
MRS. P. -Oh, then! we can live
in the house, you know: what's the
use of payin' lodgin', my dear?
Miss P. -The house is going to
be painted. You had best live in
your own house, mamma; and if
you want any thing, Horace, Mr.
Milliken, I am sure, will make it
comfortable for you.  He has had
too many visitors of late, and will
like a more quiet life, I think. Will
you not?
MILLIKEN.- I shall like a life
with you, Julia.
JoHN. - Cab, sir, for her ladyship!
LADY K. -This instant let me
go!  Call my   people.  Clarence,
your arm! Bulkeley, Pinhorn! Mrs.
Bonnington, I wish you good-morning! Arabella, angel! [looks at picture] I leave you. I shall come to you
erelong. [Exit, refusing MILLIKEN'S
hand, passes up garden, with her servants
following her. MARY and other servants
of the house are collected together, whom
Lady K. waves off. Bluecoat boy on
wall, eating plums. Page, as she goes,
cries, iHurray, hutray! Bluecoat boy




THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


591


cries, IHurray!  Wthen Lady K. is
gone, JOHN advances.]
JOHN. - I think I heard you say,
sir, that it was your intention to go
abroad?
MILLIKEN. - Yes; oh, yes! Are
we going abroad, my Julia?
Miss P. - To settle matters, to
have the house painted, and clear
[pointing to children, mother, 4-c.] Don't
you think it is the best thing that we
can do?
MILLIKEN. - Surely, surely: we
are going abroad. Howell, you will
come with us of course, and with your
experiences you will make a capital
courier. Won't Howell make a capital courier, Julia?  Good, honest
fellow, John Howell. Beg your
pardon for being so rude to you just
now. But my temper is very hot,
very!
JOHN [laughing]. — You arc a Tartar, sir. Such a tyrant! isn't he,
ma'am?
Miss P. - Well, no; I don't think
you have a very bad temper, Mr. Milliken, a - Horace.
JOHN. - You must - take care of
him - alone, Miss Prior - Julia -
I mean Mrs. Milliken. Man and boy
I've waited on him this fifteen year:
with the exception of that trial at the
printing-office, which - which I won't
talk of now, madam. I never knew
him angry; though many a time I
have known him provoked. I never
knew him say a hard word, though
sometimes perhaps we've deserved it.
Not often - such a good master as
that is pretty sure of getting a good
servant-that is, if a man has a heart
in his bosom; and these things are
found both in and out of livery. Yes,
I have been a honest servant to him,
- haven't I, Mr. Milliken?
MILLIKEN. -Indeed, ves, John.
JoIN. - And so has Mary Barlow.
Mary, my dear!   [MARY comes forward.] Will you allow me to introduce you, sir, to the futur' Mrs.
Howell?- if Mr. Bonnington does
your little business for you, as I dare
say [turning to Mr. B.], hold gov'nor,


you will!-Make it up with your
poor son, Mrs. Bonnington, ma'am.
You have took a second 'elpmate,
why shouldn't Master Horace? [to
Mrs. B.] He- he wants somebody
to help him, and take care of him,
more than you do.
TOUCHIIT. - You never spoke a
truer word in your life, Howell.
JOHN. - It's my general 'abit, Capting, to indulge in them sort of statements. A true friend I have been to
my master, and a true friend I'll remain when he's my master no more.
MILLIKEN. - Why, John, you are
not going to leave me?
JOHN. -It's best, sir, I should go.
I-I'm not fit to be a servant in
this house any longer. I wish to sit
in my own little home, with my own
little wife by my side. Poor dear!
you've no conversation, Mary; but
you're a good little soul. We've saved
a hundred pound apiece, and if we
want more, I know who won't grudge
it us, a good feller - a good master -
for whom I've saved many a hundred
pound myself, and will take " The Milliken Arms " at old Pigeoncot - and
once a year or so, at this hanniversary, we will pay our respects to you,
sir, and madam. Perhaps we will
bring some children with us, perhaps
we will find some more in this villa.
Bless 'cm beforehand! Good-by, sir,
and madam - come away, Mary
[going].
MRS. P. [entering with clothes, 4ec.]She has not left a single thing in her
room. Amelia, come here! this cloak
will do capital for you, and thisthis garment is the very thing for
Adolphus. Oh, John! eh, Howell!
will you please to see that my children
have something to eat immediately!
The Milliken children, I suppose,
have dined already?
JOHN. - Yes, ma'am; certainly,
ma'am.
MRs. P. - I see he is inclined to be
civil to me now!
Miss P. —John Howell is about
to leave us, mamma. He is engaged
to Mary Barlow, and when we go




592


THE WOLVES AND THE LAMB.


away, he is going to set up housekeeping for himself. Good-by, and
thank you, John Howell [gives her
hand to JOHN, but with great reserve of
manner]. You have been a kind and
true friend to us - if ever we can
serve you, count upon us —may he
not, Mr..Milliken?
MILLIKEN. -Always, always.
Miss P. -But you will still wait
upon us- upon Mr. Milliken, for a
day or two, won't you, John? until
we -until Mr. Milliken has found
some one to replace you. He will
never find any one more honest than
you, and good, kind, little Mary.
Thank you, Mary, for your goodness
to the poor governess.
MARY. - Oh, miss! oh, mum!
[Miss P. kisses MARY patronizingly.]
Miss P. [to JoHNJ.-And after
they have had some refreshment, get
a cab for my brother and sisters, if you
please, John. Don't you think that
will be best, my - my dear?
MILLIKEN. - Of course, of course,
dear Julia!
Miss P. —And, Captain Touchit,
you will stay, I hope, and dine with
Mr. Milliken? And, Mrs. Bonnington, if you will receive as a daughter
one who has always had a sincere
regard for you, I think you will aid


in making your son happy, as I promise you with all my heart and all my
life to endeavor to do. [Miss P. and
M. go up to Mrs. BONNINGTON.]
MRS. BONNINGTON. - Well, there
then, since it must be so, bless you,
my children.
TOUCHIT. - Spoken like a sensible
woman! And now, as I do not wish
to interrupt this felicity, I will go and
dine at "The Star and Garter."
MIss P. - My dear Captain Touchit, not for worlds! Don't you know
I mustn't be alone with Mr. Milliken
until- until?MILLIKEN.- Until I am made the
happiest man alive! And you will
come down and see us often, Touchit,
won't you? And we hope to see our
friends here often. And we will have
a little life and spirit and gayety in
the place. Oh, mother! oh, George!
oh, Julia! what a comfort it is to me
to think that I am released from the
tyranny of that terrible mother-inlaw!
MRS. PRIOR. - Come in to your
teas, children. Come this moment,
I say. [The Children pass, quarrel.
linq, behind the characters, Mrs. PRIOR
summoning them; JOHN and MARY
standing on each side of the dining-room
door, as the curtain falls.]


THE END.




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