'l l B RA R.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 824 
 
 R914e 
 

isa ' 
 
 

 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/essayssketchesof00russ_0 
 

 
 
 ESSAYS, 
 
 SKETCHES 
 
 OP 
 
 LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 BY A GENTLEMAN 
 
 WHO HAS LEFT HIS LODGINGS. 
 
 I ^ 
 
 V 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND RROWN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1820 . 
 
s v\ 
 
 
 .A 
 
 \ 
 
 
 Printed l)y A. and R, Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street, London. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 About a year ago a gentleman, without 
 a servant, took an apartment on the first 
 floor of my house. He was, apparently, 
 a young man ; but his look was not diffi- 
 dent and unpractised, like that of most 
 young men, but bold and decided, like 
 ' the countenance of a lieutenant of hus- 
 i sars, who has served a campaign or two, 
 '^"and as piercing as that of an Old Bailey 
 ^lawyer. He wore long black hair over 
 - his forehead, and used some words in his 
 Hnguage, which I never saw anywhere 
 But in the Bible and Common Prayer, 
 
 
 A 2 
 
IV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 and which, I suppose, are now out of 
 use. He took two servants, and began 
 to frequent the world. I observed he 
 went to Almack’s, and the French play j 
 was admitted into the Travellers’ club, 
 wore stays, and used much starch in his 
 neckcloth. Notwithstanding this, his 
 life was not so regular as that of most 
 young men of fashion. He did not al- 
 ways go out to dinner at a quarter before 
 eight, nor always come home at five in 
 the morning, nor always get up at half- 
 past two in the afternoon. I thought 
 this extraordinary, because I had ob- 
 served, that those who pretend to any 
 fashion, and claim merit from their want 
 of punctuality, are generally the most 
 exact people possible to be always twenty 
 jninutes too late wherever they go. My 
 lodger, on the contrary, very often went 
 out riding upon his return from a ball, 
 and then came and dined by himself, or 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 V 
 
 with my family, at four or five o’clock : 
 nor was he of the usual placid, indiffer- 
 ent humour, that men of the world ge- 
 nerally are. Sometimes a darkness would 
 come over his face, and he would sit 
 frowning at the chimney-piece in his own 
 room for a fortnight together. Every 
 now and then too he would go away for 
 a few days to Dublin or to Edinburgh, 
 without any apparent reason. But, on 
 the 5th of February last, he set out from 
 my house, about twelve at night, saying, 
 he should return in a few days. Since 
 that time I have heard nothing of him j 
 and being in great want of money to pay 
 my taxes, 1 went to search, to see if 
 there were any thing 1 could sell for rent, 
 of which I had not received one farthing. 
 I found a few old clothes, a dozen pair 
 of boots, and a large number of manu- 
 scripts : these were written in all kinds 
 of languages, ancient and modern, more 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 than I had ever heard of : some few were 
 in English ; and one called, “ On the 
 State of the Constitution,” in a totally 
 different hand. I suspect it was written 
 by the gentleman, for there was only one, 
 who used sometimes to pay my lodger a 
 visit. With these papers in my hand, I 
 went ofi* directly to Mr. Longman ; and 
 he has given me some hopes that 1 may 
 recover a part of my rent by their means. 
 Who the author may be, I do not pre- 
 tend to say ; or whether the last paper 
 relates at all to himself : I leave that to 
 the courteous reader ; and I beg him to 
 recollect, that I am not answerable for 
 the opinions of a gentleman who has left 
 his lodgings. 
 
 Sackville Street, 
 May 24. 1820. 
 
 JOSEPH SKILLETT. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 English and French Pride and Vanity « - Page 1 
 
 English and French Taste - - - - - 6 
 
 Men of Letters - - - - ---9 
 
 Irresolution - - - - - - - -14 
 
 Foreign Travel - _ - - -21 
 
 Vanity and Love of Fame - - 25 
 
 The World - - - - - 35 
 
 National Character - - - - - 48 
 
 Literary Taste - - - - - - 
 
 On Field-sports - - - - 70 
 
 An Agreeable Blan. — Society in London - - 74 
 
 On Plays - - - - 88 
 
 Political Economy - - - - - 124 
 
 State of the English Constitution - - -137 
 
 Marriage - - -* - - - -186 
 
 Orders of Knighthood - ^ - - - - 1 98 
 
 The Wandering Jew - - - - - 202 
 
'■' ) >' . 
 
 ■i . ' ■'■■•4tVih;';.^_. _ 
 
 .... . P. 
 
 :. ... I Lnn 
 
 ■’‘--'‘-^'r .. ^ fm]\il- :l ' 
 
 ‘.^ Bi> 
 
 ^ .1 
 
 . .. i’ ^yC:V:^:, 
 
 ■ V-' J * . 
 
 f 
 
ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES 
 
 OF 
 
 LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH PRIDE AND 
 VANITY. 
 
 We often hear of the pride of the English. It 
 is in fact the quality which distinguishes them 
 from the nations of the Continent, who are 
 on their side remarkable for vanity. These 
 two passions are the cause of most of the dif- 
 ferences which are observed by every passenger 
 from Dover to Calais, in government, in 
 towns, in society, dinners, and dress. Till now, 
 the object of the French people has always 
 been to make their power conspicuous to 
 other nations, even at the expense of liberty 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH 
 
 and happiness at home. Such was the basis 
 of their admiration for Louis XIV. and Na- 
 poleon; and as long as they could show lace 
 ruffles outside, they did not mind how dirty the 
 shirt was beneath. Even now their zeal for a 
 fi’ee constitution, if carefully sifted, will be 
 found to arise very much from the notion 
 that a limited monarchy is the fashion; and 
 they think it would not become the Great Na- 
 tion not to have as good a Chamber of De- 
 puties, and as much liberty of the press, as 
 their neighbours. The Englishman, on the 
 other hand, absolutely requires that the king 
 should govern according to law; he cannot 
 bear that any one should have a superiority 
 over him beyond wLat is clearly recognised 
 by the constitution as necessary ; his obedience 
 is paid to the magistrate, but his admiration is 
 reserved for virtue and talent. 
 
 Look to their buildings. On the Continent 
 you see magnificent public works ; but then the 
 money of the state has been disposed of by the 
 will of the monarch, in order to gratify the vanity 
 of his subjects. In England no expense of this 
 kind is borne cheerfully which does not go to 
 
PRIDE AND VANITY. 
 
 3 
 
 raise something intrinsically useful. The private 
 palaces on the Continent are also much finer 
 than those of England ; but in order to show 
 great apartments for receiving company, the 
 nobles submit to live in garrets and ascend 
 common stairs ; a lodger gives concerts in the 
 first floor, and an old woman fries pancakes in 
 the entrance. In England, a man of the smallest 
 fortune endeavours to have a house to himself, 
 where he occupies a few low, dark, dull rooms ; 
 — but he is independent. 
 
 Society on the Continent is one of the great- 
 est luxuries ; it is, in fact, an interchange of po- 
 lite vanity, and as it is itself so great an enjoy- 
 ment, it constitutes a principal object. But the 
 English, who are proud and reserved, take no 
 pleasure in society, and accordingly they only 
 meet when one of the number can gratify his 
 pride and his hospitality by giving a dinner or 
 a supper. Conversation is then an involuntary 
 obligation, and except over a bottle of wine, 
 which at once heightens the spirits and opens 
 the heart, is seldom enjoyed by the real John 
 Bull. It is in closing to his own fire-side, in 
 excluding all but his own family, in settling him- 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH 
 
 self in a large arm-chair, with the consciousness 
 that he is not obliged to entertain any body, 
 that consists the comfort^ which is the boast of 
 his language and his life. Comfort generally 
 means a great consideration for self, and a total 
 forgetfulness of other people. It is the same 
 attention to comfort, or the same solitary pride^ 
 which prevents a restaurateur from flourishing 
 in London : a better dinner might then be ob- 
 tained for half the sum ; but Mr. Bull likes to 
 have a mutton-chop in his own parlour. For 
 the same reason, a town on the Continent is 
 full of reading-rooms, but an Englishman has 
 his newspaper at home ; and whilst a fine day in 
 France brings every living soul out of doors, the 
 haughty tailors and punctilious green grocers of 
 England spend the evening in their close room of 
 six feet square, almost poisoned by the smell of 
 tlie cheese and apples in the cupboard. If you 
 look at the dress of the islanders and the conti- 
 nentalists, the same difference prevails ; the lat- 
 ter are very gaudy on occasions of display, 
 which they regulate with consummate know- 
 ledge and taste; but at other times they are 
 slovenly, and every one dresses according to his 
 
PRIDE AND VANITY. 
 
 5 
 
 fancy ; — so that a man who cannot afford finery 
 is admitted into the best society, almost in rags. 
 In England, neither men nor women wear rich 
 clothes ; but the poorest artist, or most wretched 
 author, would be humiliated in thought, if he 
 could not appear at an assembly drest like a 
 duke. Hence that intolerant uniformity of 
 costume, that severe and apparently childish 
 raillery of the least deviation from fashion which 
 is so peculiar to London. And here, by the 
 way, let me enter my protest against this daily 
 and hourly inquisition ; not only are men of the 
 world required to conform to the general cos- 
 tume, but persons who have no pretensions to 
 dress are forced to drill by the fashion of the 
 day. Dandelo does little else in conversation 
 but make sharp and ingenious remarks upon 
 the length of one man’s coat, and the colour of 
 another’s waistcoat ; and endeavours to be enter- 
 taining by noting the variations from the real 
 standard of taste. Of all men living he has 
 the least reason to complain of the Fall, since 
 the transgression of Adam has given him a 
 source of innocent occupation, and the whole 
 stock of his wit. 
 
6 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH TASTE. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at the great difference 
 which is observable in England and France in 
 taste for the beauties of nature. Whilst the 
 English are travelling hundreds of miles for a 
 view of a Scotch or a Swiss lake, and climbing 
 Ben-Nevis or Mont-Blanc, a Frenchman shrugs 
 up his shoulders at the horreur of such scenes, 
 and is sufficiently pleased with a parterre of 
 roses, or a dipt lime-tree. At first I attributed 
 the insensibility of the latter to their want of op- 
 portunity and town life ; but the fact is, they 
 live six months in the country in the finest sea- 
 son (May to October), whilst the English only 
 see their gardens as the flowers begin to fade. 
 Then I believed the French had not reached 
 this important step in the progress of civilis- 
 ation; but though this may account for the 
 want of taste in the mass, it will not explain the 
 apathy of the readers of Dante, Tasso, Racine, 
 
ENGLISH AND FRENCH TASTE. 
 
 7 
 
 and Voltaire, to the beauties of nature. The 
 real reason I believe to be the want of depth of 
 soul amongst these people. Taste may be di- 
 vided into three parts: — 1st, Natural taste, 
 which is pleased with bright colours and soft 
 sounds : this is the taste of the savage and the 
 child. 
 
 2dly, Thinking taste, or taste of the mind, 
 which is pleased with any effort of intellect, re- 
 gular walks, and regular sounds : this is the 
 taste of man in progress, of Le Notre in land- 
 scape gardening, and Giotto in painting. These 
 two species of taste are common. to both nations. 
 
 3dly, Feeling taste, or taste of the heart, which 
 connects every thing present with some emo- 
 tion of its own : this, again, may be subdivided 
 in a thousand ways, which are all comprehended 
 by Mr. Price under the terms Sublime, Beauti- 
 ful, and Picturesque. Of these three the 
 Frenchman has only an idea of the second ; that 
 is to say, he admires scenes which express ferti- 
 lity, richness, order, convenience, splendour, 
 gaiety, or pleasure; but he cannot enjoy, or 
 rather shrinks from those which signify terror, 
 power, majesty, infinity ; and he has not studied 
 B 4 
 
8 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH TASTE. 
 
 nature sufficiently to pay homage to her cre- 
 ation, when they do not accord with conve- 
 nience or utility. 
 
 The feelings of these people are much too 
 light and variable ; the tone of their minds is 
 much too gay and too sociable to take pleasure 
 in the grander views of nature ; they do not love 
 to enter into themselves, to dwell on a gloomy 
 idea, or to conceive a terrible event : they banish 
 the spectacle of death from their stage, and, 
 I believe, would willingly exclude the beetling 
 cliff and the stormy torrent from nature. 
 
MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 It is said that when one of Buonaparte’s 
 meanest flatterers, and who is of course one 
 of the meanest flatterers of the present King, 
 was proposing a re-modelling of the Institute, 
 the Emperor answered, Non^ laissons au moins 
 la ^epuhlique de Lettres. 
 
 This community, however, can hardly be 
 said to have the features of any government, 
 and more nearly approaches the fabled existence 
 of society, called by jurists a state of nature.” 
 There is no head or visible authority, either 
 hereditary or elected ; the governing principles 
 are self-love, hatred, and envy ; property, which 
 here consists in reputation, is like all original 
 property, the produce of a man’s own labour, 
 and is generally the object of many treacherous 
 stratagems, and cruel outrages, on the part 
 of the poorer members. 
 
10 
 
 MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 It is also a remarkable coincidence, that the 
 richer a man becomes the more he is attacked, 
 and the equality of rights consists in the im- 
 punity of wrongs. I happened lately to meet 
 with some of these savages. Laelius has a sort 
 of patriarchal influence amongst them, solely on 
 account of his superior age and correct memory; 
 he can awe his fellows by quoting the deci- 
 sions of their grandfathers, and amuse them by 
 playing a garrulous fountain of anecdote; he 
 is in what was called by Wilkes an anecdotage ; 
 is trifling in his conversation, and superficial 
 in his writings ; but his works were published 
 forty years ago, and he avails himself of the 
 notion that the booksellers and public of that day 
 were far superior to any thing at present to be 
 found on the Quai Voltaire, or the Palais Royal. 
 He is withal extremely neat in his language, 
 and indulgent in his sentiments ; and is there- 
 by enabled to conceal the vagueness of his 
 ideas and the malice of his heart : both, how- 
 ever, appear when he commits himself to print. 
 
 Junius is a man of an equal age, but who 
 resigns his claim to distinction on that ground, 
 in order to obtain the more difficult success 
 
MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 11 
 
 achieved by youthful enterprise ; he is deeply 
 learned, but having reached eminence by his 
 scholarship, he now wishes to throw it off, as 
 a postillion takes off his boots when the stage 
 is finished. I was surprised to find him al- 
 ways in the house of one of the most frivolous 
 women of the age, and often wondered how 
 each could derive pleasure from the intercourse 
 of the other, till some one made the remark 
 that a valuable commerce of vanity was carried 
 on between them : she furnished him with a 
 reputation for gallantry, which he wants, and 
 he furnished her with a character for wit, 
 which she had no hope of obtaining by any 
 exertions of her own. The hours they pass to- 
 gether must indeed be disagreeable to both, for 
 he misunderstands scandal, and she misquotes 
 history. I found him the other day hinting 
 to her his suspicions of an intrigue which had 
 been blown a twelvemonth before, and she 
 soon afterwards asked him if it was true that 
 Catharine of Medicis had ordered the St. Bar- 
 thelemy at the instigation of Louvois. 
 
 There is no class of persons, it may be ob- 
 served, whose failings are more open to remark- 
 
12 
 
 MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 than men of letters. In the first place, they 
 are raised on an eminence, where every thing 
 they do is carefully observed by those who have 
 not been able to get so high ; in the next place, 
 their occupation, especially if they are poets, 
 being either the expression of superabundant 
 feeling, or the pursuit of praise, they are na- 
 turally more sensitive and quick in their 
 emotions than any other class of men ; hence 
 a thousand little quarrels, and passing irritabi- 
 lities. In the next place, they have the power 
 of wounding deeply those of whom they are 
 envious. A man who shoots envies another who 
 shoots better ; a shoemaker even envies another 
 who makes more popular shoes ; but the sports- 
 man and the shoemaker can only say they do 
 not like their rival : the author cuts his brother 
 author to the bone, with the sharp edge of 
 an epigram or bon mot. Again, it often hap- 
 pens, that a man of letters is ignorant of the 
 world ; hence he offends against a number of 
 the laws of company, reveals a hundred little 
 feelings which he ought to conceal, and often 
 shows the resentment of injured pride, in return 
 for what was meant as kindness. 
 
MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 13 
 
 The quality which is most offensive in poets 
 is their very ready servility. It is not easy to 
 read with patience the verses which make 
 Augustus a god, and exalt Nero into a pro- 
 digy of virtue. 
 
 Too many of the worst men have got the 
 tribute of praise from the best poets ; Poly- 
 crates, Augustus, Nero, Justinian, Louis XIV. 
 Charles II., Bubb Doddington, the Duke of 
 Ferrara, have all had their wreath of luxu- 
 riant laurel from the hands of poets : how for- 
 tunate it would have been, had we been able 
 to say the reverse; that bad princes had all 
 been blamed, and only good ones praised ! The 
 praise of poetry would then have been what it 
 ought to be, an object of difficult attainment, 
 adding another to the few worldly motives 
 which kings have, to be better than their fel- 
 low-men: verse would then, indeed, have been 
 sacred, and a few lines, expressing in noble 
 terms the great qualities which had been actually 
 possessed by the object of them, would have 
 been remembered and quoted to the latest pos- 
 terity, giving a dignity to poetry, an incentive 
 to virtue, and a spectacle fitted to unite the ap- 
 probation with the wonder of mankind. 
 
14 
 
 IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Franchemont is the man of my acquaintance 
 who has the greatest quantity of English spirit, 
 and French esprit : his opinions are always libe- 
 ral, his intentions always upright, and his wishes 
 always hiunane. As he joins to the possession 
 of these qualities high rank and an immense 
 fortune, it is no wonder that he is perpetually 
 incited by his friends to enter into public life, 
 to serve his country in the field, or his fellow- 
 citizens in the senate. His own ardour seconds 
 their advice ; but after ten years’ deliberation he 
 has not yet determined whether he shall pursue 
 the career of arms, or whether he shall join 
 himself to a party of patriots, and make him- 
 self the dread of an encroaching court ; nor is 
 he entirely divided between these pursuits. I 
 found him one day eagerly perusing Eiiler; 
 when he declared with emphasis, that the ab- 
 stract sciences were the occupation best adapted 
 to make man happy, to engage his mind with- 
 
IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 15 
 
 out irritation, to offer obstacles without any 
 great danger of defeat, and to point out results 
 which contained no disappointment. On another 
 occasion, he was examining Varro and Co- 
 lumella ; and when he informed me that he had 
 finally determined to abandon public life, and 
 to make himself useful to mankind by the 
 improvement of agriculture, an occupation 
 which was of certain benefit to the public, and 
 gave a zest to domestic enjoyment, I endeavour- 
 ed, with eagerness, to deter him from this 
 resolution ; but the more I argued the more he 
 persisted in exalting the charms of retirement. 
 Two hours afterwards he burst into my 
 room, and informed me of the landing of 
 Buonaparte. After the first surprise I asked 
 him What do you mean to do ?” — • Oh ! 
 
 as for that, my resolution is taken : the success 
 of Napoleon would put an end to the peace 
 of Europe, and the liberty of France: whatever 
 faults I find with the present government may 
 be repaired : it is my duty as a citizen to arm. 
 I shall offer to put myself at the head of the 
 National Guard of my province, in which the 
 enemy has landed, and if the King will allow 
 
16 
 
 IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 me to be independent of his Generals, we may 
 have a very speedy success ; — a prosperous 
 event will convince the court that the friends 
 of liberty are not the enemies of royalty.’^ I 
 approved warmly of his intention, and advised 
 him to go instantly to the Tuilleries. But 
 before doing so he thought proper to consult 
 his friends. The first he went to was a vir- 
 tuous, but somewhat fanatical Constitutionalist. 
 Gn hearing his friend’s intention, What,” 
 said he, will you leave Paris till you have 
 assured to your country the observation of the 
 charter ? The present is a moment of alarm to 
 the court, and they will grant any thing ; but 
 if this movement is repressed, the cowl and the 
 censorship will be more active than ever. If 
 you value France, go to the Chamber, and 
 ask for the appointment of a constitutional 
 ministry” Franchemont, somewhat shaken, 
 went to his next friend, who, being a Repub- 
 lican, said to him, It is all over with the 
 Bourbons : the whole country will be in favour 
 of Napoleon ; and, besides, their bad faith is too 
 notorious to make any concession valuable: 
 wait in Paris, and we may bind down Napoleon 
 
IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 IV 
 
 to a real charter.’’ — Perhaps,” said Franche- 
 mont, the country, as you say, is ready to 
 pronounce the abdication of the Bourbons : if so, 
 I am quiet ; but even then I never can favour 
 the cause of Napoleon. The assistance of a mili- 
 tary chief has always brought on the downfall of 
 real patriots. Recollect the example of Cicero — 
 with what fatal imprudence he lent himself to 
 the policy of Pompey, and consented to prolong 
 the command of Caesar, till at length, aware of 
 his folly, he exclaimed to his friend, on entering 
 upon the civil war. Si victims eris, proscribare ; si 
 viceris, tamen servias ; so it will be with the ad- 
 herents of Napoleon.” Notwithstanding my 
 friend’s speech, his ardour in the Bourbon 
 cause was somewhat cooled by his friend’s ridi- 
 cule, and he endeavoured to blow it again into 
 a flame, by the help of a royalist bellows. His 
 loyal friend, however, who was a staunch cour- 
 tier, said, Franchemont, your spirit is excellent, 
 but you must not anticipate the King’s counsels ; 
 it would be wrong to show any jealousy of his 
 orders at this time : — go to the foot of the 
 Throne, and declare yourself ready to serve 
 under any General His Majesty may appoint.” 
 
18 
 
 IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 Distracted by such opposite counsel — un- 
 willing to turn his back on liberty — suspicious 
 of the sovereign he was about to serve — too 
 proud to ask a favour where he meant a ser- 
 vice, Franchemont returned to ask my opinion. 
 M. de Lasnes, a man of great experience, who 
 was with me, heard his doubts, and addrest him 
 in a decisive tone : — Avoid the perils of this 
 crisis ; you will lose your own life, and plunge 
 your children into poverty and disgrace. Re- 
 tire with them and your wife to your country- 
 seat.” To my great astonishment Franchemont 
 seemed pleased, and even grateful for this ad- 
 vice : he went away to prepare his family for 
 the journey. When he w^as gone, I remon- 
 strated with De Lasnes on the mischief he had 
 done, both to Franchemont and the public. — 
 You are mistaken,” said he; “ a man of his 
 undecided temper cannot be of real use to any 
 cause: before he has finally determined, the 
 first moment, which is always the most favour- 
 able, will be lost ; when he has determined, he 
 will immediately repent his choice, and contrast 
 the difficulties he encounters with a fanciful 
 picture of the advantages attending an opposite 
 
IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 19 
 
 conduct ; too keen of sight not to perceive the 
 absurdity of his adherents — too impartial to sub- 
 scribe entirely to any creed — too anxious to be 
 right, to bear the idea of being wrong, and too 
 ingenuous and too sensitive to be blind to his 
 own mistakes, he will often err, and always re- 
 gret : his behaviour will be a tissue of rash 
 action and more fatal inactivity; he will gra- 
 dually lose his own confidence, and inspire the 
 contempt of others. When applied to conduct, 
 the work of a too subtle mind resembles the ef- 
 fects of a mean spirit, and the world are better 
 satisfied with a solution which furnishes a gra- 
 tification to malevolence, than one which sup- 
 poses a refinement of intellect. They conceive 
 themselves entitled to distrust him who does 
 not seem unsuspicious of himself, whilst they 
 respect the undeviating line of strong stupidity, 
 and suppose reasons for a behaviour which pro- 
 ceeds from the want of them. What then 
 shall withstand the man, who, to a tolerable 
 understanding and a sagacious perception, joins 
 boldness of decision? He will repair errors, 
 whilst a man of nicer tact, but less firmness, 
 is content to avoid them; and having once 
 
20 
 
 IRRESOLUTION. 
 
 fixed his own plan, he will leave the rest to 
 fortune — 
 
 H^c arte Pollux hac vagus Hercules 
 Innisus arces attigit igneas. 
 
21 
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 Paris, 1815. 
 
 The English and the French, after an absence 
 of twenty years, have again met in the common 
 intercourse of life, and are exchanging bows, 
 ideas, and sentiments. 
 
 I overheard, one day, a young Englishman 
 entertaining a French lady with profligate prin- 
 ciples, and profane jests : although she had often 
 heard morality and religion attacked before, 
 she was so scandalised by the coarseness of 
 his conversation, that she, at last, told him his 
 language might suit the vicious society of 
 London, but was too wicked for Paris : his com- 
 panion, was, at the same time, telling an obscene 
 story to a young lady who fell asleep in the 
 middle of it ; — these young men are not 
 improved by travel. 
 
 An English married lady, whom I knew, was 
 remarkable for the plainness of her dress, the 
 modesty of her manners, and the piety of her 
 c 3 
 
FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 "22 
 
 conduct. She went from Paris this year, with 
 her head made into a stand for flowers, her ears 
 never open but to flattery, and her mouth full 
 of the pretty phrases, a little flirtation,” 
 innocent behaviour,” harmless dissipation,” 
 stupidity of married women in England,” 
 greater liberality in general society,” &c, — 
 she is not improved by traveh 
 
 I know a sensible English tradesman, who 
 used to shut a Frenchman out of doors ; and 
 laughed at every body who did not speak En- 
 glish as correctly, and even as vulgarly as him- 
 self ; he was so pleased with the kind reception 
 he got in France, and the patient attention 
 with which all his blunders were listened to, 
 that he promises he will go and do likewise ; — 
 he is improved by his travels. 
 
 A farmer of good sense, and good heart, 
 travelled through France soon after the peace: he 
 found that the people ♦ were neither sulky in 
 their manner, nor full of hatred against the 
 English, nor utterly abandoned to vice and folly, 
 as he had been told ; but on the contrary, civil, 
 gay, and ingenuous ; nay, he found tolerable 
 farmers, and honest fathers of families : fewer 
 
FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 23 
 
 paupers than in England, and much good 
 effected by the Revolution; he imputed the 
 old quarrels of his nation with theirs to the 
 Government, and recommends to the people to 
 give each other the right hand of friendship ; — 
 this man is improved, and will improve others. 
 
 Travellers from the Continent seldom stay 
 long enough in England to understand the 
 nature of her institutions, and sound the deep 
 seas of her prosperity. The French think they 
 have shown great discernment, as well as liber- 
 ality, in establishing Trial by Jury, They do 
 not seem to perceive that the goodness of the 
 stuff depends on the material of which it is 
 made, and that a jury must not only consist 
 of twelve men, but of twelve honest men ; other- 
 wise it is only a shirt very well made with 
 rotten thread. As long as the members of 
 juries in France are liable to be gained, or awed 
 by Government, the institution is good for 
 nothing, and indeed rather pernicious. 
 
 The Spaniards, in the same humour, bor- 
 rowed from England the liberty of the press ; 
 but they forgot to provide for the liberty of 
 the individual who was to print ; and the con- 
 c: 4 
 
FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 sequence was, that any author who published 
 against the reigning authority, was immediately 
 seized and imprisoned. England, like a work 
 of genius, deserves and requires a slow and 
 frequent perusal to understand its beauties. 
 
 Many an anomalous custom contains an 
 important lesson, and many a paradoxical law 
 is deduced from a profound and salutary 
 observation. 
 
25 
 
 VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Vanity is a passion which crosses its own pur- 
 poses, and begets contempt where it means 
 to inspire admiration. It begins by trying to 
 deceive others, and always re-acts by deceiving 
 and blinding him who practises it. The con- 
 science is thus soothed into torpor, and nothing 
 more is wanting to make a man base to the 
 lowest degree. — Vanity and meanness are con- 
 stant companions; for a man accustomed to 
 sacrifice truth and honesty, to obtain applause, 
 can more easily do it to gain the substantial 
 goods of life. This rule, however, has many 
 exceptions. Florus was a man, who, as he him- 
 self acknowledged at the end of his life, owed 
 
26 
 
 VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 his ruin to the indulgence of his vanity ; for a 
 little applause he often sacrificed great objects ; 
 to obtain all kinds of fame he often made him- 
 self completely ridiculous ; and to revenge 
 himself on those who eclipsed him in reputation, 
 he alienated one by one all his friends and sup- 
 porters ; yet, though a distressed and ambitious 
 man, he never bartered a single opinion, or 
 suffered the smallest stain upon his honour, for 
 the sake of fortune or of power. 
 
 Proteus did not take so many shapes to 
 escape questions as vanity does to provoke 
 admiration. Junius is a very good man, of 
 tolerable sense, but no knowledge ; yet nothing 
 will satisfy him but being thought a great 
 scholar. Lucius has spent three parts of his 
 life in reading, but he employs the remaining 
 quarter in trying to persuade the world that he 
 is a very idle, dissolute fellow, in order that 
 they may w^onder where his knowledge comes 
 from. Needwell tells every one that he is de- 
 scended from Henry IV. of France; whilst 
 Pearson is equally anxious to proclaim that he 
 is the son of a cobler, and that all his riches 
 and consequence are of his own making. Vau- 
 
VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 27 
 
 sien, who is a mere man of the world, affects 
 the greatest love of solitude ; but Tirlemont, 
 the author of a treatise on cubic equations, 
 fatigues every company he is with, to let them 
 understand that he is acquainted with all the 
 scandal of the day. I had got so far, when my 
 friend Paradell came in, and read my paper. 
 He said, when he had finished, The fault, as 
 you yourself show, is not in being vain, but in 
 placing vanity in a wrong position. A wise- 
 man, as a good author has observed, knows his , 
 defects, and hides them ; a fool betrays his by , 
 attempting to cover them. This is the darn in ■ 
 the stocking which is said to be the sign of i 
 premeditated poverty. It is the same thing 
 with good qualities. A wise man is vain of his 
 talents or knowledge ; but he shows them in a 
 modest way, that the world may supply the 
 praise due to them : a fool adds the praise him- 
 self, and the world, jealous of its authority, 
 gives none. Vanity, which every one blames, 
 is the most universal of all motives of action. 
 Et qui de contemneridd gloria librum scripsit^ 
 nomen c^xit. There are many characters so 
 slightly built, as to be capable of no higher or 
 
28 
 
 VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 more noble incitement. Were they without 
 vanity, they would be indolent in affairs, uncivil 
 and rude in society, selfish in their actions 
 j and behaviour. It is to a desire to conciliate 
 ! public opinion that we owe all the virtues of 
 weak characters : and even many great men 
 have been sustained in their career by the same 
 useful passion. What do you say to Cicero, 
 to Sully, and a thousand others, (not to men- 
 tion our friend Eschines,) who have derived their 
 best support from the happy faculty of being 
 pleased with themselves? 
 
 ^^It cannot be denied that vanity furnishes to 
 many individuals their whole stock of happiness. 
 Sibillus is so fortunately constituted, that no 
 ridicule, no neglect, no series of bad success 
 can wrest from him the opinion that he is the 
 first poet of the age. In a garret in Gray’s 
 Inn Lane’ he enjoys the imaginary applause 
 of a listening world, as much as Petrarch could 
 do when he was crowned in the Capitol. 
 
 “ There is no motive which ends in self more 
 noble than the love of fame. This is one of 
 the passions which has, in an extraordinary 
 degree, a good and a bad side. There is 
 
 10 
 
VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 29 
 
 nothing more silly and contemptible than the 
 mere hesoin de faire parler de soi, which ani- 
 mates so large a proportion of the candidates 
 for fame. The wearing a particular dress, or 
 driving an uncommon carriage ; writing quarto 
 books about nothing, or making a speech to 
 every mob that can be collected, are gener- 
 ally proofs of a desire to obtain distinction 
 without the qualities which deserve it. But 
 there is a love of fame that is the most power- 
 ful instrument of which Nature makes use to 
 produce discovery in science, and eminence in 
 arts. A man of genius feels himself alter- 
 nately impelled to perform great actions, and 
 deterred by the difficulty and labour of the 
 enterprise. In this struggle, the desire of ex- 
 ertion would gradually become less violent, and 
 would generally, in the end, be stifled by plea- 
 sure and indolence, did not the love of fame 
 furnish an auxiliary incitement to action. Pushed 
 on by such an impulse, the man of genius over- 
 comes every obstacle; he undervalues health, 
 time, life itself, in comparison to the attainment 
 of his object ; he investigates, weighs, and pro- 
 vides against the most minute blot in his plans ; 
 
30 
 
 VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 he passes the night without repose, and the 
 day without recreation ; he forgets the wear of 
 continual thought, the labour which perfection 
 requires, or the dangers which an untried enter- 
 prise may offer : — till, at length, he bursts forth 
 in splendour, like the sun through a mid-day 
 fog, the poet, the philosopher, or the hero of 
 his age. But his glory is not yet complete. In 
 centuries still to come, his verse shall swell the 
 bosom, or awake the tear ; his discovery shall 
 exalt the mind of the student, or guide the rud- 
 der of the navigator ; his example shall animate 
 the breast of patriots, and keep alive the love 
 of immortality. 
 
 Having mentioned this subject, I cannot but 
 notice the cold objections of some metaphysicians. 
 It has been argued, that posthumous fame is 
 an unreasonable object of desire, as no man 
 can obtain it till he is incapable of enjoying it. 
 To this I shall answer that he who has done 
 actions to deserve it, has already obtained it 
 in imagination; he feels himself living in the 
 future ; he foresees the homage that will attend 
 upon his name. It would be easy to show, that 
 almost every great poet and philosopher has 
 
VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 31 
 
 foreseen his own immortality. If it be objected 
 that this foretaste of fame, being unaccompanied 
 by any homage, must be an airy and un- 
 substantial pleasure, I shall briefly reply that it 
 is of the same nature with many others which 
 have always been appreciated. If it is a pleasure 
 to contribute to the happiness, though without 
 hearing the thanks of an unknown beggar ; if 
 it is a pleasure to be read and admired by 
 distant nations, though they transmit no testi- 
 mony of their admiration ; if it is a pleasure to 
 be loved by persons in England, even when on 
 a voyage across the Atlantic ; — it may also be 
 a pleasure, and one of the highest degree, to 
 be conscious that we shall obtain the admir- 
 ation, the blessing, and the love of future 
 generations. 
 
 “ The vanity of which the severe philosopher 
 speaks so rigorously, is the cordial which makes 
 life supportable to individuals, and the chain 
 of roses of mixed society. And when it rises 
 to a love of fame, and especially of immortal 
 fame, it is the spring that moves the greatest 
 and most useful characters. Mention to me 
 the names of those who ^ sui memores alios 
 
32 
 
 VANITY AND LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 fecere merendo^ without vanity or love of 
 fame ! ” 
 
 Seeing I did not answer, my friend snapt his 
 fingers in token of victory : I laughed at his 
 vanity. 
 
35 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 There is no idea more vague or more un- 
 founded than that which a young person attaches 
 to the word — World. It is perpetually held 
 out by moralists and divines, that the world 
 is a wilderness where* every vice and every 
 bad passion grows without restraint ; and 
 those who have lived their whole lives in, 
 and have in fact formed a part of that very 
 world of which they complain, are continually 
 venting their satire against its malice, its injustice, 
 and its ingratitude. How much, then, is a young 
 man surprised, when, upon entering with more 
 than due caution upon a field where he expects 
 to be beset by .snares and assailed by calumny, 
 he finds himself received with easy and unaf- 
 fected kindness, and frequently obliged to the 
 good nature of a casual acquaintance. He is 
 unable to trace this philanthropy to its true 
 cause; he is not aware that, although each 
 
 D 
 
34 < 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 individual may be engaged in the pursuit of 
 his own interest or passion, the society bears 
 no enmity to him by whom no one has yet 
 been rivalled or thwarted. There is a ge- 
 neral and superficial love of our neighbour in 
 mankind, which to him appears sincere and ge- 
 nuine benevolence. He goes on, careless and 
 confident, till his progress awakens jealousy, and 
 his imprudence gives room for slander. His 
 indignation is roused; he recollects the admo- 
 nitions of his books, and again begins to rail at 
 the ambition, avarice, malice, and vanity of man. 
 His disappointment breaks out into bitterness, 
 and his mistake begets suspicion, which become 
 the elements of education to a new generation. 
 It may be worth while, then, to consider the im- 
 puted faults of the world, each in their turn, 
 and to endeavour to inspire a just candour, 
 rather than a total abhorrence of it. 
 
 Ambition, instead of being always a bad pas- 
 sion, is one which has led to many of the enter- 
 prises most beneficial to mankind. A dei^ire of 
 distinction inspired a Sully and a Franklin, as 
 well as a Richelieu and an Alberoni. The dif- 
 ference is, that this passion is subservient to tlie 
 
THE WORLD, 
 
 35 
 
 welfare of mankind in good and well-regulated 
 dispositions, whilst, in bad hearts, it tends only 
 to the aff^randisement of the individual. A 
 man of pure ambition will always sacrifice his 
 own elevation to his principles, whilst he whose 
 ambition is impure will always sacrifice his 
 principles to his own elevatioh. The first always 
 looks upon the maintenance or furtherance of 
 certain measures as the chief thing to be desired, 
 and upon himself as an instrument for promot- 
 ing them : the second views his own possession 
 of power as the chief thing to be desired, and 
 the accomplishment of general objects as a work 
 that may be forwarded or postponed, according 
 to convenience. A man, rightly ambitious, will 
 rejoice even in the success of a rival, if it is 
 likely to advance the public welfare, whilst a 
 badly ambitious man has the disposition, un- 
 justly attributed to the great Lord Chatham — 
 
 ‘‘ Would save his country if he could, 
 
 But d n it if another should.'' 
 
 But this point, namely, the usefulness of ambi- 
 tion, is, it should seem, sufficiently obvious; 
 
 D 2 
 
THE WORLD. 
 
 S6 
 
 therefore I shall not insist upon it. The next 
 worldly passion of which I shall speak is the 
 love of gain, to which I may join the love of 
 pleasure. Divines are never weary of holding 
 up these two propensities as absolutely vicious 
 in themselves, and tending only to misery in 
 this world, and the ne"xt. I cannot agree in 
 this representation ; it is agreeable to the bene- 
 volence of the Deity to suppose that he showered 
 down the flowers and fruits of the earth, not to 
 tantalise the being whom he created, but for his 
 comfort and enjoyment. What, then, can be 
 more natural and right than that he should 
 exert his physical and mental faculties in order 
 to obtain them? And the consequences are 
 such as might be expected from employments 
 agreeable to the will of the Creator. The indivi- 
 dual finds his mind occupied and interested, his 
 health improved, and his prospects continually 
 brightening ; the community increases in wealth 
 and knowledge ; the arts which contribute to 
 the enjoyment, and instruction which tends to the 
 improvement, of man, advance with equal steps. 
 Observe the countries where the love of gain 
 and the spirit of traffic have most prevailed, — at 
 
THE WORLD. 
 
 37 
 
 Florence in the fifteenth century, in Holland 
 and in England, — and you will see that they are 
 the same which have made the greatest dis- 
 coveries in science, and produced many of the 
 ornaments of modern literature : the reason of 
 which is clear ; for it is only when men, by their 
 industry and pursuit of wealth, have amassed a 
 sufficient stock to lay out something on super- 
 fluities, that they can allow any thing for the 
 support of astronomy and poetry. 
 
 It has been often objected, that the pro- 
 gress of wealth introduces dishonesty ; but this 
 is a mistake founded on superficial observ- 
 ation. The honesty of a rude peasantry is the 
 honesty of ignorance: it has no more merit 
 than the temperance of a man, who, never hav- 
 ing seen grapes, should leave them hanging on 
 the bush. The first sight of money dissipates 
 this species of honesty. But when society has 
 advanced in civilisation, there arises instead of 
 it a more enlightened integrity, which is founded 
 on the precepts of morality and the control of 
 opinion. 
 
 Great merit is often placed in abstinence 
 from sensual enjoyments. There are, un- 
 D 3 
 
38 . 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 doubtedly, examples of men who give so ex- 
 clusive an attention to the preparation of 
 luxuries for their own personal use, that they 
 can hardly afford time for the duties which 
 they owe to their God and to their neigh- 
 bour: but for a person to say, that he must 
 renounce the indulgence of the senses alto- 
 gether, for fear of being entirely absorbed by it, 
 is to confess a degree of physical appetite and a 
 want of moral taste, which does but little honour 
 to his temperance. Nor is there any sense in 
 supposing that we are intended to derive all our 
 pleasures from the mind. Our bodily constitu- 
 tion is so joined to the mental, that our pains 
 are always communicated from the one to the 
 other; and the Stoic himself could not be in- 
 sensible to the attack of a cholic, or the am- 
 putation of a leg. Why, then, should we 
 not take advantage of the dispensation of 
 nature, which also gives a participation of 
 pleasures ? And ought we to lose any oppor- 
 tunity of partaking in the bounty, and being- 
 grateful for the providence of our Creator ? The 
 man who gives a feast is offended if none come 
 to partake of it : may not the Supreme Being 
 
the world. 
 
 39 . 
 
 have somewhat of the same feeling to those who 
 reject his gifts? But, say the well-meaning 
 persons who disdain and despise the usual con- 
 duct of the world, is it not wicked to consume 
 in luxuries what might afford subsistence for 
 thousands of poor people? This argument, 
 which might have had weight in times of ig- 
 norance, is indisputably disproved by the 
 science of the present day. It is now evidently 
 demonstrated, that the money which is spent 
 on manufactures of convenience and luxury 
 supports the families of industrious labourers, 
 whilst that which is indiscriminately given in 
 charity, too often tends to the increase of an 
 idle and miserable population. 
 
 The result which I would enforce is, that 
 we should enjoy the conveniences of this life, 
 without setting too great a price on them. 
 Our occupation should always be to improve 
 our own lives, and add to the happiness of our 
 neighbours ; but a pleasure which fairly offers 
 itself, and which has no vice in it, should not, 
 because it is a pleasure, be avoided. 
 
 With regard to the malice of the world, it 
 may be remarked, that those who complain 
 D 4 } 
 
40 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 most of it are often those who deservedly suffer 
 by its judgment; nay, the malice of which they 
 are victims is often only a retribution for that 
 with which they have treated every individual 
 who fell under their observation. Yet it must 
 be allowed that the opinion of the world is often 
 stained with precipitancy and injustice. The 
 first rumoitr that is propagated produces an im- 
 mediate sentence, from which it is difficult to 
 obtain an appeal; and very often the fullest 
 justification is unable to allay the storm of pre- 
 judice by which an innocent character has been 
 assailed. Yet, even in these cases, it is generally 
 to be observed, that some imprudence has been 
 committi^d, which has opened the way to mis- 
 construction. Perhaps, upon the whole, the 
 general effect of an active and prying police 
 of tongues over conduct is beneficial. It 
 teaches men to observe decorum, as well as 
 to consult feeling; it teaches them, or should 
 teach them, to act in secret under an ad- 
 ditional control, which is often more powerful 
 than conscience; and when women see their 
 slightest imprudencies exaggerated into gross 
 misbehaviour, it must teach them to avoid 
 
THE WOULD. 
 
 41 
 
 temptation, which is the most certain means of 
 being free from evil. But when a person has 
 satisfied the reasonable demands of propriety, 
 as well as the just dues of conscience, it by no 
 means becomes him to be doubtful or timorous. 
 A bold countenance and a confident manner 
 impose on the great as well as the little vulgar ; 
 and mercy, it must be owned, is never shown 
 to him who once confesses himself in the wrong : 
 and this, perhaps, because it is usually a proof 
 of want of courage, the most unpopular of all 
 defects. 
 
 I shall be told, perhaps, of instances of excel- 
 lent men who have suffered the martyrdom of 
 opinion. Undoubtedly there are such, but many 
 who seem to be condemned without cause have 
 something in their characters that is mean or de- 
 ceitful. Others have neither of these defects, but 
 an undisguised liberty of speech, or an impa- 
 tient quickness at taking offence, which makes 
 them the natural enemies of their species. At 
 first none appear to be more unjustly persecuted 
 than those who change their opinions, either in 
 politics or religion. Reason would teach us 
 that such a change was rather a favourable propf 
 
42 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 of candour, but experience has shown that it is 
 so generally the effect of a want of integrity and 
 principle, as to justify the saying of a lady of 
 great talents, that she never could help con- 
 founding a convert and a convict. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, that mankind 
 take too great a delight in speaking ill of their 
 neighbours. It is, indeed, quite surprising to 
 see persons, generous and friendly in their na- 
 ture, retail the most scandalous reports con- 
 cerning people whom they would willingly assist 
 with half their fortune. There is often no 
 greater contrast than between the innocence of 
 a man’s life and the malice of his conversation ; 
 and he who would spare neither his time nor his 
 fortune for a beggar and a stranger, often exhi- 
 bits a want of charity and humanity to a com- 
 panion and a friend. This is nowhere more 
 remarkable than amongst the French philoso- 
 phers, as exhibited in their own writings, and 
 in the correspondence of Grimm. They are 
 full of compassion for a poor family at the other 
 end of the kingdom, and at the same time are 
 pulling one another to pieces like wild beasts. 
 The cause, no doubt, is, that their envy and ma- 
 
THE WORLD. 
 
 43 
 
 ligiiity are only excited by those who are and 
 may be their rivals. And in the present age 
 scandal, detraction, and calumny, have taken 
 the place of open enmity and private war, just 
 as forgery and private stealing have become the 
 substitutes of highway robbery and murder. 
 On this subject I cannot refrain from quoting the 
 eloquent denunciation of Jeremy Taylor : * — - 
 Every man hath in his own life sins 
 enough, in his own mind trouble enough, in his 
 own fortune evils enough, and in performance 
 of his offices failings more than enough to en- 
 tertain his own enquiry; so that curiosity after 
 the affairs of others cannot be without envy and 
 an evil mind. What is it to me if my neigh- 
 bour’s grandfather were a Syrian, or his grand- 
 mother illegitimate, or that another is indebted 
 five thousand pounds, or whether his wife be 
 expensive ? But commonly curious persons, or 
 (as the Apostle’s phrase is) busy-bodies, are not 
 solicitous or inquisitive into the beauty and or- 
 der of a well governed family, or after the vir- 
 
 Jeremy Taylor’s Holy Living. 
 
44 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 tues of an excellent person; but if there be any 
 thing for which men keep locks, and bars, and 
 porters, things that blush to see the light, and 
 are either shameful in manners, or private in 
 nature, these things are their care and their 
 business. But if great things will satisfy our 
 enquiry, the courses of the sun and moon, the 
 spots in their faces, the firmament of heaven 
 and the supposed orbs, the ebbing and flowing 
 of the sea, are work enough for us : or, if this be 
 not, let him tell me whether the number of the 
 stars be even or odd, and when they began to be 
 so ; since some ages have discovered new stars, 
 which the former knew not, but might have seen 
 if they had been where now they are fixed. If 
 these be too troublesome, search lower, and tell 
 me why this turf this year brings forth a daisy, 
 and the next year a plantane; why the apple 
 bears its seed in bis heart, and wheat bears it in 
 his head : let him tell why a graft taking nou- 
 rishment from a crab-stock shall have a fruit 
 more noble than its nurse and parent; let him 
 say why the best of oil is at the top, the best of 
 wine in the middle, and the best of honey at the 
 bottom, otherwise than it is in some liquors that 
 
THE WORLD. 
 
 45 
 
 are thinner, and in some that are thicker. But 
 these things are not such as please busy-bodies ; 
 they must feed upon tragedies, and stories of 
 misfortunes and crimes ; and yet, tell them an- 
 cient stories of the ravishment of chaste maidens, 
 or the debauchment of nations, or the extreme 
 poverty of learned persons, or the persecutions 
 of the old saints, or the changes of government, 
 and the sad accidents happening in royal fami- 
 lies among the Arsacidae, the Caesars, the 
 Ptolemies, these were enough to scratch the itch 
 of knowing sad stories : but unless you tell them 
 something sad and new, something that is done 
 within the bounds of their knowledge or rela- 
 tion, it seems tedious and unsatisfying ; which 
 shows plainly it is an evil spirit : envy and idle- 
 ness married together and begot curiosity. 
 Therefore Plutarch rarely well compares curious 
 and inquisitive ears to the execrable gates of 
 cities, out of which only malefactors and hang- 
 men, and tragedies pass, nothing is chaste or 
 holy. If a physician should go from house to 
 house unsent for, and enquire what woman 
 hath a cancer in her bowels, or what man a 
 fistula in his colic-gut, though he could pre- 
 
46 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 tend to cure it, he would be almost as unwel- 
 come as the disease itself: and therefore it is 
 inhumane to enquire after crimes and disasters 
 without pretence of amending them, but only to 
 discover them. We are not angry with search- 
 ers and publicans when they look only on public 
 merchandise, but w^hen they break open trunks, 
 and pierce vessels, and unrip packs, and open 
 sealed letters. 
 
 Curiosity is the direct incontinency of the 
 spirit; and adultery itself, in its principle, is 
 many times nothing but a curious inquisition 
 after, and envying of another man’s inclosed 
 pleasures : and there have been many who re- 
 fused fairer objects that they might ravish an 
 inclosed woman from her retirement and single 
 possessor. But these inquisitions are seldom 
 without danger, never without baseness; they 
 are neither just, nor honest, nor delightful, and 
 very often useless to the curious enquirer. For 
 men stand upon their guards against them, as 
 they secure their meat against harpies and cats, 
 laying all their counsels and secrets out of their 
 w^ay ; or as men clap their garments close about 
 them when the searching and saucy winds would 
 
THE WORLD. 
 
 47 
 
 discover their nakedness : as knowing that what 
 men willingly hear, they do willingly speak of. 
 Knock therefore at the door before you enter 
 upon your neighbour’s privacy; and remember 
 that there is no difference between entering into 
 his house, and looking into it.” 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 Paris, 1815. 
 
 I WAS sitting one day in company with a 
 Frenchman, a Spaniard, an Italian, an English- 
 man, and a German, when a conversation began 
 upon the merits of their respective nations. 
 As I found the argument growing warm, espe- 
 cially on the part of the Frenchman, who was 
 pouring a shower of small talk upon the Eng- 
 lishman, and of the Italian who was near 
 touching the ceiling with his hands, in order to 
 invoke the vengeance of Heaven upon the Ger- 
 man, I bethought me of a method to temper 
 the discussion; I proposed that each should 
 set forth his reasons for preferring his own na- 
 tion in a continued speech, and that I, as an 
 impartial hearer, should be the judge amongst 
 them. My proposal was soon accepted ; but 
 harmony had like to have been again destroyed 
 by a dispute who was to begin. The French- 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 49 . 
 
 man talked loud, the German muttered, and 
 the Italian spouted. Amidst the confusion of 
 their voices I could now and then distinguish 
 the words, comedie^ boulevards^ esprit^ emp^ 
 Jindungeriy genuss^ hequemlichkeit^ cantatrice^ 
 capo Wopera^ cosa superba, ; only the Spa- 
 niard, and the Englishman looked upon the 
 contest with seeming indifference, and con- 
 tempt ; at last I succeeded in stopping them, 
 and prevailed on them to speak in the following 
 order. 
 
 I addrest myself first to the Spaniard, who 
 was by no means a Liberal, and said, Tell me 
 why you consider your own nation as the wisest, 
 the happiest, and the best ? ’’ — he answered, I 
 consider the two former epithets as entirely 
 superfluous ; for if we are the best, we must be 
 the happiest ; and if we are the happiest and 
 best, we must be the wisest.’’ 
 
 Now, I believe, there is no man who per- 
 forms, so well as the Spaniard, his duty to God, 
 and to his neighbour. He worships in the most 
 exact, and even the most splendid manner, the 
 Divine Creator, the Redeemer, the Holy Ghost, 
 and the Blessed Virgin, and he does not for- 
 
 E 
 
so 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 get to pray for tlie intercession of the least of 
 the Saints whom the church has admitted ; he 
 is loyal to his king, to the utmost stretch of 
 Christian patience and submission ; he is kind 
 and charitable to his fellow-creatures, helping 
 the needy, and feeding the hungry ; he reaps 
 the reward of his good actions in a perpetual 
 cheerfulness. Cheerfulness is the habit of the 
 good ; gaiety is but the delirium of the wicked. 
 Nor let it be supposed, as many declamatory 
 writers have asserted, that the Inquisition has 
 diminished the happiness of Spain, It is only 
 through the acts of the Inquisition, that the 
 Spanish people have been preserved in an 
 unanimous faith. Now, even granting, for ar- 
 gument’s sake, that other religions may be 
 equally good for a future life, there is nothing 
 which tends so much to union and harmony 
 in the present, as worship at the same altar, 
 reliance upon the same means of salvation, 
 obligation to the same duties, and hope of the 
 same final reward. Much has been said of the 
 victims of the Inquisition. The care which that 
 holy tribunal employed not to hurt the reputation 
 of families, by publishing their proceedings, has 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 51 
 
 served to spread a clamour against them ; for 
 that which is secret is always magnified by 
 report. It is thus that fame revenges herself on 
 those who wish to keep her out. But, in reality, 
 are the victims of the Inquisition to be com- 
 pared with those of the day of St. Barthelemi, 
 and the revocation of the edict of Nantz ? — such 
 are the effects of admitting the infection, and 
 then endeavouring to stop it : or are they to be 
 compared with the thousands who suffered in 
 England under Henry VIII., Edward VI., and 
 Elizabeth ? — such are the consequences of ad- 
 mitting, without controul, the preachers of 
 heresy and schism. 
 
 If we do not want the religious toleration of 
 England, still less do we stand in need of her 
 political liberty. The sun which favours our 
 country with its propitious influence, gives us 
 enjoyment sufficient without seeking to busy 
 ourselves in the affairs of government. Liberty 
 is, in fact, a poor substitute for a fine climate. 
 The people of the South only require the pre- 
 sence of that power which raises the corn — 
 which ripens the grape, in order to be satisfied 
 with their position. To ask if they are happy, 
 E 2 
 
 ONIVERSITY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY 
 
52 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 you need only ask if they exist. But with the 
 people of the North it is necessary to dig mines, 
 to hew down forests, to build houses, to obtain, 
 in a small space of a few feet, that warm, 
 comfortable sensation, which a southern peasant 
 feels in the large mansion of nature ; he is 
 obliged to look for some artificial source of 
 pleasure, to intoxicate himself with the poison 
 of distilled spirits, or the tumult of political 
 contention. We court no such advantages. To 
 those who love care we leave the trouble of 
 governing ; and we should think it as absurd to 
 insist upon electing deputies, and making laws 
 because we have the right to do it, as to carry 
 burdens because we have backs capable of sup- 
 porting them.* Having said what is sufficient 
 to convince all men of sense, I will not dilate 
 upon the beauty of our country ; the majesty of 
 Granada, the splendour of Seville, the fertility 
 of Valencia. You know our land, and can do 
 justice to it.”* — Having thus spoken, the Spaniard 
 folded his arms in his cloak, which he always 
 
 * How much mortified this gentleman must be at the late 
 Revolution. —Ed. 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 53 
 
 wore, even in France ; and I observed he never 
 listened to a word that was spoken afterwards. 
 
 Having put the same question to the Italian 
 that I had addrest to the Spaniard, he an- 
 swered to the following purport : — That what 
 had been just said coficerning the pleasure 
 derived from climate, applied with equal force 
 to Italy, and set their two countries above all 
 the rest of Europe. ‘^Indeed,” he said,“ the na- 
 tive of London, or Hamburgh, cannot conceive, 
 unless he travels to our land, the pleasure to be 
 derived from the touch of a cisalpine atmosphere. 
 Our nerves seem to swell and extend them- 
 selves to receive the delightful sensation ; our 
 eyes dwell without fatigue or pain upon the 
 beauties of a rich and warm landscape; even 
 the voice maintains its clearness only in the 
 air which the sun has blessed. But if we had 
 merely this advantage, we should rival and not 
 precede Spain in happiness. It is to another 
 circumstance that Italy owes her glory^ her 
 occupation, her delight: — to taste. With justice 
 it has been said, that this is the only pursuit of 
 which the pleasures far out-balance the pains. 
 A man may meet with an unfaithful mistress, 
 E 3 
 
54 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 or be rejected by an ungrateful sovereign, but 
 nothing obliges him to gaze at a bad picture, 
 or dwell upon a disproportioned building. A 
 great work of art may be said to be the most 
 successful result of human effort : a fine statue 
 requires as much genius in the conception as 
 the most difficult problem of Newton ; it de- 
 mands as much skill in the execution as the 
 formation of a time-piece ; and when finished, 
 it attracts the admiration, and gratifies the 
 senses of thousands of spectators for thousands 
 of years. It is, I hope, needless for them to 
 prove that Italy excels all other nations in this 
 respect. The sublimity of Michael Angelo, 
 the grace and expression of Raphael, in fine, 
 the innumerable merits of our great architects, 
 sculptors, and painters, are not to be insulted bya 
 comparison with the smoky buildings of London, 
 the monuments in the Musee Fran9ois, or the 
 lusty goddesses of the Belgian painters. Give me 
 the portico of the Pantheon, and the interior 
 of St. Peter’s, the Transfiguraticm, the Com- 
 munion of St. Jerome, the St. Michael, the 
 St. Peter and St. Paul, the St. Peter Martyr, 
 the Moses of Michael Angelo, the Venus and 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 55 
 
 Apollo of the ancients ; give me, above all, the 
 music which our admirable Paesiello, Cimarosa, 
 and Rossini have produced, — and I will not 
 yield the palm of happiness to any part of Eu- 
 rope. For the prize of wisdom, too, I think we 
 may lay a fair claim. The greatest natural phi- 
 losophers, the most skilful negociators, the most 
 gifted poets, own Italy as their birth-place. The 
 discovery of the laws of motion, of the resistance 
 of the air, of the barometer, of the telescope, and 
 lately of Galvanism ; the knowledge of a fourth 
 quarter of the globe ; the history of Italy, of Flo- 
 rence, of the Council of Trent, and of the Civil 
 Wars of France, the Inferno, the Goffredo, and 
 the Orlando Furioso, from a portion of the share 
 which Italy has contributed to the civilisation of 
 Europe. It is for you, Sir,^’ he concluded, turning 
 to the German , to prove that the universities of 
 Heidelberg and Halle have done more.” 
 
 The German, though he seemed to be smoking 
 his pipe with great apathy, was not insensible 
 to the reproach ; and, like a skilful general^ im- 
 mediately changed the field of action. — I 
 can find but one fault with your discourse. 
 Signor,” he replied; “it is, that you have 
 
56 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER^ 
 
 entirely omitted to answer the principal questIoiTj> 
 namely, why you consider your nation as the 
 best? To this interrogatory, I can reply, 
 with a safe conscience, that the Germans are 
 the best people, because they do not assassinate 
 secretly, or murder openly ; because they are 
 honest in their dealings and pay their debts, 
 whether to government or individuals, with con- 
 science-calming punctuality. From Hamburgh 
 to Clagenfurt, there is scarcely a village which 
 has not its schoolmaster, whilst the capital of a 
 province is almost ignorant of the name of ex- 
 ecutioner. Our fruit hangs on the trees by the 
 road-side without being touched by any one ; 
 and the streets of our largest towns become 
 still as sleep early in the night. Other nations, 
 indeed, may boast of great discoveries in science, 
 and of a rapid progress in political philosophy ; 
 but we furnished them with the means. They 
 have sown a great part and reaped the whole ; 
 but we gave the field and invented the plough. 
 It is to us that they are indebted for the art 
 of printing, without which, knowledge could 
 not have moved; and for the Reformation, 
 without which it would have been arrested in 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 57 
 
 its march. In modern times, too, our literature 
 has taken a far -extended springing leap, which 
 leaving behind it the long-past glories of Italy 
 and France, place it by the side of England in 
 the race towards the spectator-girt, laurel- 
 surrounded goal, which is always in the horizon 
 of those bright geniuses, who have a heart- 
 convulsing desire of present immortality, and a 
 thousand-man power of intellectual sensation.” 
 These last words caused a pause : even the 
 Frenchman took a pinch of snuff, and sneezed 
 twice before he would begin. At last he started 
 with such volubility in praise of France, and of 
 Paris, that I am quite incapable of representing 
 his harangue. He gave the first ten mi- 
 nutes to those who had spoken before him, and 
 tried to prove that France excelled them in 
 the very particulars on which they had insisted. 
 He said there was no climate in Europe equal 
 to that of the south of France, and that even at 
 Paris the winter was over in February. As for 
 the fine arts, he quoted Lalande, who had spent 
 several years in and written several volumes 
 upon Italy, and who maintains there is nothing 
 to be seen there equal to what is to be found in 
 
58 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 France. In modern times he thought it beyond 
 a question, that the French painters were the 
 first in the world, which, however, was not to 
 be wondered at, as the English had not at all 
 turned their attention to the fine arts. The 
 works of David, he conceived, express a sub- 
 limity to which Raphael, born in a barbarous 
 age, never could attain ; in music the French 
 now far excelled the Italians. As for virtue, 
 which his German friend had introduced some- 
 what mal apropos into the discussion, he, like the 
 Delphine of Madame de Sta^ , defined it to con- 
 sist in a succession of generous impulses. And 
 these impulses acted no where with such vigour, 
 as in the country where an officer sacrificed his 
 life, in order to give the alarm to his regiment, 
 and a father went cheerfully to execution to save 
 the life of his son. Having thrown out these 
 remarks with an air degage^ he put on a more 
 Socratic look, as he addressed himself to the 
 Englishman. “ It is with your nation that ours 
 is most fit to be compared. In England, and in 
 France, les lumieres are generally spread like 
 the rays of the sun ; in other countries they 
 are scattered like flashes of lightning. But 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 59 
 
 it is more especially in French that elementary 
 books in every art and science are written; 
 it is in French that the reading of the world 
 profound or trivial, is carried on. If a mathe- 
 matician wishes to read the deepest book of science, 
 he studies the Mecanique Celeste ; if a Russian 
 nobleman desires to learn what is meant by the 
 feeling or wityhe takes up the tragedies 
 of Racine, or the tales of Voltaire, and learns 
 to smile and to cry like a civilised being. 
 Even the discoveries of your great Newton 
 have been brought to perfection by D’Alembert, 
 and Laplace; and in pure mathematics you 
 have not for a long time produced an equal 
 to Lagrange. Impartial judges (bowing to me) 
 will agree, that in the most profound and ab- 
 stract of human sciences, the people whom you 
 treat as frivolous and superficial, have gone far 
 beyond you. Your mathematicians of Oxford 
 and Cambridge, are not even acquainted with 
 that form of the calculus which we use for our 
 investigations. If we excel you in abstract 
 knowledge, there is still less doubt that we are 
 superior in practical happiness. For happiness 
 consists in nothing so much as in a temper 
 
60 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER, 
 
 of mind fitted for pleasure, or, to use a chemi- 
 cal phrase, in having a capacity for enjoyment. 
 A man may satisfy himself of this, by travel- 
 ling the same road when he is gay, and when 
 he is gloomy. In the first case, the country 
 will appear to him smiling, beautiful, or sublime ; 
 in the second, it will seem tame, dull, or savage. 
 Now the disposition of a Frenchman, is to 
 see every thing en beau. I remember being in 
 a wretched prison, guarded by Spaniards, who, 
 any day in the week, might have taken a fancy 
 to cut our throats ; yet we laughed all day and 
 acted plays in the evening. Englishmen would 
 have cut holes in the wall, and have been shot 
 in the attempt to escape. If we know how to 
 bear adversity, we also know how to enjoy pro- 
 sperity. What in the world so good as the 
 Restaurateurs and the Theatres of Paris ? What 
 country can compare with France for wines, 
 for dress, for dancing, and for plays ? 
 
 “ You will affirm that these sensual, and 
 marketable enjoyments destroy the taste for do- 
 mestic happiness ; but it is not so : no people 
 are more attached than the French to their 
 near relations ; and England cannot easily pro- 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 61 
 
 (luce a mother more attached than Madame 
 de Sevigne. It is the same with all the domestic 
 relations ; and it is sufficient to go to the cimetiere 
 of Pere la Chaise, to be convinced how true the 
 affection which the mothers, and sons, and 
 sisters of France have for each other. How 
 simple, and yet how tender the inscriptions upon 
 the tombs ! There the sister goes to renew 
 the tender recollection of her sister, and a son 
 to place a garland over the grave of his mother* 
 With you, the dead are never mentioned, never 
 visited, and, I believe, seldom remembered. 
 With the kindest feelings to their relations, the 
 French, it is true, do not think it inconsistent to 
 mix the sociability of a larger circle; and they en- 
 deavour to be happy through the short period of 
 existence allotted them ; ’whilst the English lose 
 half their lives in becoming acquainted with 
 those who are jumbled into the same half-cen- 
 tury as themselves.” 
 
 The Englishman began with the most diffident 
 air, by refusing any comparison with the Spa- 
 niards, the Italians, or the Germans. The first, 
 he said, had no political liberty, the second had 
 not even independence, and the Germans could 
 
62 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 scarcely be said to possess a classical litera- 
 ture: without every one of these advantages 
 no nation could claim the pre-eminence. It 
 was now his duty to show that the English na- 
 tion was the wisest, the happiest, and the best. 
 The only mode of estimating the rank of 
 England in science and literature, was to 
 enumerate the men she had produced. What- 
 ever claims the Parisians (for Paris was France) 
 might have to distinction in the annals of 
 modern science, they would not dispute that 
 Bacon was the first theoretical teacher, tod 
 Newton the greatest practical discoverer of sound 
 philosophy. Nor could England be said to be 
 inferior to any in the science of the day; namely 
 chemistry ; when Priestley and Cavendish made 
 discoveries contemporary with those of Lavoi- 
 sier, and Davy had pushed his researches to 
 a distance which none of his rivals or fellow- 
 labourers had reached. 
 
 If we turn from physical science, and look 
 to history, which joining the investigation of 
 fact, with the exercise of moral judgment, and 
 the use of a cultivated style, seems to form 
 the link between the exact sciences, and polite 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 63 
 
 literature, we shall find that Hume is the most 
 profound, and Gibbon the most learned of 
 modern historians. I will not compare them 
 with De Thou or Rapin, D’Anquetil or La- 
 cretelle ; but I will assert, without hesitation, that 
 they have far surpassed Davila, Guicciardin, 
 Mariana, and Schiller. 
 
 In the region of poetry we fear no comparison 
 with France; in fact, except the tragedies of 
 Racine, two or three of Voltaire, and some pas- 
 sages of Corneille, France has no poetry of the 
 higher class : but even in those, have they any 
 thing so sublime as the conceptions of Milton ? 
 have they any characters so true, or an in- 
 vention so various as that of Shakspeare ? 
 
 “ If we look at the present state of literature, 
 our superiority is still more apparent ; the 
 six poets of our day have no parallels in 
 France. 
 
 “ I have now to speak of the happiness of 
 England. Good Heavens, what a fertile theme ! 
 No cold dissertation on the advantages of li- 
 berty, no detailed statement of the blessings 
 derived from industry, can give an inhabitant of 
 the Continent an idea of the well-being and 
 
64 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 prosperity of our island ; every man can there 
 think, and speak, and write as he pleases ; no 
 previous censorship of the press prevents the 
 general communication of facts and of ideas; 
 truth is not squeezed under the hat of a cardinal, 
 or screwed by the vice of an officer of police, 
 but carried into the broad day-light, and appre- 
 ciated by the general judgment of enlightened 
 men. 
 
 Nor have we stained the cause of hberty by 
 innumerable murders and proscriptions; our 
 revolution was fruitful in great qualities and 
 great virtues ; it produced but few crimes. 
 
 Perhaps of all the advantages our constitu- 
 tion has procured to us, none is more considerable 
 than the freedom of industry. 
 
 The consequence is, a perfection in the arts 
 of life, a solidity and completeness of happy 
 comforts, which one of your countrymen,” said 
 he to the Frenchman, called L,a poesie du hien-^ 
 Hre. The English shopkeeper has ten times the 
 eomfort of the Spanish grandee, and is twenty 
 times as independent as the Roman cardinal. 
 
 Nor have the English been less remarkable 
 in foreign war ; during the late war they gained 
 
NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 65 
 
 by sea the battles of Camperdown, St. Vincent, 
 Aboukir, Copenhagen, and Trafalgar.” — Oh, 
 but then,” said the Frenchman, your nation 
 are islanders, and cannot cope with us on the 
 land.” — Talavera, and Barrosa, Salamanca, 
 Vittoria, and Waterloo, are the answers to 
 this objection.” — 
 
 When all the parties had been heard, I said, 
 with the gravest face, and the most solemn tone 
 I could put on, that I would read over my 
 notes, and give my judgment another day. I 
 did not say, however, that I would give the 
 cause another hearing, as they do in the En- 
 glish chancery court, although it might have 
 been done, in this case, without costing the 
 parties a hundred pounds a-piece. 
 
 F 
 
(S 
 
 LITERARY TASTE. 
 
 Milan, 1818 . 
 
 From the beginning of literary history no dis- 
 pute seems to have been more eloquently main- 
 tained, or more often renewed than that between 
 the admirers of great but irregular genius, and 
 the pupils of exalted but chastened talent. 
 Amongst ancient authors, the contest has chiefly 
 turned upon the merits of Homer and Virgil, 
 so that the partisans of the two opinions may be 
 styled, for the sake of distinction, Homerians 
 and Virgilians. The former adore that which 
 is grand, original, and surprising; the latter 
 delight in that which is beautiful, harmonious, 
 and correct. Amongst the moderns, the two 
 parties have found frequent occasions to display 
 their differences. In Italy they have compared 
 Ariosto and Tasso, and have lately renewed 
 
LITERARY TASTE. 
 
 67 
 
 the contest in a different shape, under the titles 
 of Classici and Romantici ; in England they have 
 opened the lists for Dryden and Pope ; and in 
 Germany a great schism exists to this day be- 
 tween the followers of the English and the 
 French school of tragedy. But however acute 
 the weapons, however sharp the rencontres in 
 this controversy may be, there is little chance 
 that victory will entirely declare for either of the 
 combatants. There is a difference in the con- 
 stitution of mind of the respective parties. 
 TJiose whose feelings are bold, whose desire of 
 novelty is insatiable, whose adoration of genius 
 is unbounded, will always be Homerians ; whilst 
 those in whom the love of order is stronger than 
 the conception of excellence, and delicacy of 
 taste more prominent than enthusiasm, will as 
 certainly become Virgilians. Hence, with some 
 knowledge of the person, we might easily pre- 
 dict what would be his opinions. Thus, Vol- 
 taire, whose opinions of taste were drawn from 
 the writers of the age of Louis XIV., gave the 
 palm to Virgil against Homer ; whilst Mr. Fox, 
 whose vigorous mind delighted to wander 
 through a maze of invention, allotted a rank to 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 LITERARY TASTE. 
 
 the Greek poet far higher than that which h^ 
 gave to the Roman. Thus, Galileo, being an 
 inventor, whose thoughts require variety and 
 excitement in his reading consonant to his own 
 pursuits, naturally prefers Ariosto to Tasso; 
 whilst Metastasio, whose works are the result 
 of labour and polish, declares his predilec- 
 tion in favour of the author of the Jerusalem. 
 Reversing the rule we may form some estimate 
 of a person by his taste ; and this rule will ap- 
 ply to the fine arts as well as to poetry : for, 
 except the servile herd who only imitate admir- 
 ation, every one looks at a work of art, not to 
 gain instruction, which is new, as in a work of 
 science, but to excite a feeling he has previously 
 entertained. Thus, he who delights in the Aurora 
 of Guido, admires expression, dignity, and 
 grace; but he who chooses Titian and Paul 
 Veronese for his standard of perfection, is fond 
 of rich colours and varied groupes Those 
 who have a warm admiration of the Greek 
 temples will be, in all things, lovers of simpli- 
 city ; and those who, in their hearts, prefer the 
 churches of Bernini, are clearly of the same 
 class with the boys who run after the Lord 
 
LITERARY TASTE. 
 
 69 
 
 Mayor’s coach. The followers of Homer, 
 Dante, Ariosto, and Shakspeare, will be men 
 of bold character, and a springing and soaring 
 fancy; whilst the partizans of Virgil, Tasso, 
 and Racine, will be persons of refine4 discri- 
 mination, and little inventive genius. The 
 former are fit to take Troy, like the Achilles of 
 Homer ; and the latter to escape from it with 
 honour, like the iEneas of Virgil. 
 
VO 
 
 ON FIELD-SPORTS. 
 
 “ Image of war without its guilt.” 
 
 Somerville:. 
 
 London, 1819. 
 
 It is mentioned somewhere that Dr. Paley, who 
 was very fond of fishing, said, that if he was 
 called upon to state the cause of his pleasure in 
 it, he would be unable to do it. Yet it is not 
 difficult to state the elements which compose the 
 pleasure of fishing — the exercise of skill and 
 power, and that degree of uncertainty and ex- 
 pectation which creates an interest, are all con- 
 tained in fishing. 
 
 It would be more difficult to account entirely 
 for the pleasure of hunting. The skill is dis- 
 played by the hounds, and the power by the 
 horse; the death of the animal is no object, 
 and the whole pleasure of the pursuit is in the 
 pursuit itself: and yet there is something in 
 
FIELD-SPORTS. 
 
 71 
 
 the cry of the hounds, the rapidity of motion, 
 the excitement of air, and company, and emu- 
 lation, which raises the spirits to a degree that 
 hardly any thing else can do. It would appear 
 as if the chace were natural to man. 
 
 There are many wise and excellent persons 
 who think it wanton cruelty to indulge in any 
 field-sports. If the conjecture hazarded above, 
 that the pursuit of wild animals is part of our 
 nature, has any foundation, nothing can be said 
 against hunting by man in a savage state : and 
 I know not why that should not be the case. 
 A pike pursues a roach and sometimes bites off 
 a part without killing it ; the stoat pursues the 
 rabbit for half-a-day in the most regular man- 
 ner, sure of sucking its blood at last ; even the 
 earth-worm is a beast of prey. Why, then, 
 should not man be allowed by his Creator to 
 pursue certain animals which are his food ? But 
 it is said, that, whatever may have been the case 
 formerly in a savage state, field-sports are no 
 longer pursued from hunger or necessity, but 
 for pleasure and diversion. Foxes, as it is well 
 known, are preserved only for the pleasure of 
 hunting them. This is very true ; but does any 
 F 4 
 
72 
 
 FIELD-SPORTS. 
 
 one think it would be any advantage to these 
 animals that hunting should be abolished ? The 
 immediate consequence would be the destruc- 
 tion of all the foxes as a noxious race. Let us 
 suppose a fox endowed, as he often is in fable, 
 with the faculty of speech: he might then ad- 
 dress Gray, or Cowper, or Gilbert Wakefield, 
 in these terms : — “ Formerly we were allowed 
 six Hionths in the year to gain our livelihood, 
 and. bring up our families in quiet; many of us, 
 it is true, were destroyed in the course of the 
 winter, but that was the fortune of war, and the 
 enemy did not beat up our quarters above half- 
 a-dozen times in the whole year: upon the 
 whole we lived a pleasant life ; short and dis- 
 turbed, perhaps, yet safe from trap or gun, and 
 in the midst of plenty ; but now that you have 
 interfered, with your humanity, there has come 
 out a general order to shoot and destroy us, 
 wherever we may be found, till our whole an- 
 cient family is exterminated ! And this is out 
 of your special kindness !” 
 
 The same thing might be said of pheasants 
 and hares, which certainly would not be in such 
 plenty, were they not preseiwed for shooting. 
 
FIELD-SPORTS. 
 
 73 
 
 Whenever I see a wood full of hares and phea- 
 sants in summer, I rejoice that, for the sake of 
 two days’ carnage in winter, men have consented 
 to give life and enjoyment to so many beautiful 
 and peaceful animals. I have said nothing here 
 of the obvious topics of the benefits of field- 
 sports to the body and mind of man, of the 
 health and manliness they bestow, or the im- 
 mense advantages of the country life they pro- 
 duce. I wished to show that, even as a benefit 
 to the animals themselves, they ought to be en- 
 couraged. 
 
74 
 
 AN AGREEABLE MAN. — SOCIETY IN 
 LONDON. 
 
 London, 1819. 
 
 What is meant by an agreeable man ? 
 
 In Spain an agreeable man is he who is pos- 
 sessed of a good person, and an incessant flow 
 of talk. The science of conversation is there in 
 its infancy, and no distinction is made between 
 him who talks much and him who talks well. 
 The leading topic of a bel esprit is women ; and 
 the language itself is so formed as to confine 
 praise or blame entirely to their bodily quali- 
 ties. Es huena moza^ literally she is a good 
 girl,” means she is a pretty girl. Tiene me- 
 rito^ she has merit,” means she has some 
 good points in her face or figure. Besides be- 
 ing able to decide the proper degree of merit 
 which every woman possesses, the Spanish 
 agreeable man is able to cover obscenity with 
 the veil which is just thick enough to make 
 
AN AGREEABLE MAN. 
 
 75 
 
 it admissible in good company, though even 
 that is sometimes thrown aside like those which 
 are worn on the Alameda. From this source 
 he derives the principal fund of his convers- 
 ation, and makes amends for a total ignorance 
 on every kind of literature and politics. But 
 then, he also knows the plays which are to be 
 acted for the next month, and can tell, to a 
 tittle, if a single indecent posture has been 
 omitted in the fandango. 
 
 The agreeable man in Germany is quite a 
 different sort of person. He is a gentleman 
 who endeavours to make wit and gallantry after 
 the most approved models of the age of 
 Louis XIV. But his specific gravity being 
 much greater than that of the French nation, 
 he is, in fact, as little like M. de Coulanges 
 or St. Evremont as can well be imagined. His 
 little anecdotes are drawn from the Roman his- 
 tory, or, at best, from the Seven Years’ War; 
 his remarks and observations are conscientiously 
 sincere, but insufferably dull ; and his wit al- 
 ways disposes to melancholy. 
 
 In Italy an agreeable man is a much plea- 
 santer person: his manners are particularly 
 
76 
 
 AN AGREEABLE MAN. 
 
 civil ; he often has a good taste in the fine arts 
 and in polite literature, and, perhaps, an agree- 
 able talent for music ; but there is a feebleness 
 and effeminacy in his tone of thinking, which 
 finally wearies ; and his conversation is the pace 
 of a manege horse, trained till he has lost all 
 freedom of action. 
 
 Yet, it must be owned, that there are a 
 great many young men who are exceptions 
 to this rule; it is easy to see, however, that 
 they are exceptions. Their long dishevelled 
 hair, their wild rolling eyes, their vehement 
 action, their loud harangues in society, their 
 unusual language, and more unusual opinions, 
 show at once that they are not formed after the 
 oreneral rule of national character. 
 
 If we go from Italy to England we shall find 
 that the agreeable man gets more reputation, 
 more eating, and more drinking, in return for 
 his talk than anywhere else. He is perpetually 
 invited to dinner, where from ten to five-and- 
 twenty people are invited expressly to meet 
 him ; and, after all, it often happens that he is 
 sullen or unwell, and will not speak a word from 
 the beginning of dinner till the end. But if he 
 
AN AGREEABLE MAN, 
 
 77 
 
 should happen to be in spirits, he often talks so 
 loud, or so disputatiously, that you are forced to 
 bow to his opinions till after coffee. But if a 
 rival wit has been asked to meet him, there ge- 
 nerally arises a furious contest for superiority ; 
 each tries to gain a hearing for himself only, 
 and each attacks his opponent with arguments 
 too important for the hour of digestion. 
 
 France, perhaps, affords the best models of 
 an agreeable man. In them we see the most 
 refined politeness towards others, mixed with a 
 most perfect confidence in themselves — a 
 sprightliness which enlivens all around, and 
 produces as much light by reflection as by radi- 
 ation — a skill in placing every .topic in the 
 situation which alone can make it amusing in 
 conversation — a grace in treating the most fri- 
 volous matters, a lightness in touching the most 
 serious, and a quickness in passing from one to 
 the other, which to all other Europeans must 
 seem quite unattainable. They console them- 
 selves by saying the French are frivolous, by 
 which they mean that they interest themselves 
 in little frivolous concerns ; but they forget to 
 mention that they are the same people who 
 
78 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 marched into Lisbon and Moscow, and per- 
 fected the discoveries of Newton. 
 
 Such are the prominent characters in the con- 
 versation of their respective countries. But it 
 may happen, that, although individuals may 
 exist in a society, endowed with every power of 
 entertaining and enlightening, yet the forms of 
 society may be such that it is very difficult to 
 obtain the full advantage of their superior quali- 
 ties. This difficulty is the misfortune of London, 
 where there are more men of cultivated under- 
 standing, of refined wit, and literary or political 
 eminence, than in any metropolis of Europe. 
 Yet it is so contrived, that there is little free- 
 dom, little intimacy, and little ease in London 
 society. To love some persons very much, 
 and see often those that I love,” says the old 
 Duchess of Marlborough, is the greatest hap- 
 piness I can enjoy.” But in London it is equally 
 difficult to get to love any body very much, or 
 to see often those that we have loved before. 
 There are such numbers of acquaintances, such 
 a succession of engagements, that the town re- 
 sembles Vauxhall, where the dearest friends 
 may walk round and round all night without 
 
SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 79 
 
 ever meeting. If you see at dinner a per- 
 son whose manners and conversation please 
 you, you may wish in vain to become more in- 
 timate; for the chance is, that you will not meet 
 so as to converse a second time for three months, 
 when the dice-box of society may, perhaps, turn 
 up again the same numbers. Not that it is to be 
 inferred that you may not barely see the same 
 features again; it is possible that you may 
 catch a glimpse of them on the other side of St. 
 James’s Street, or see them near to you at a 
 crowded rout, without a possibility of approach- 
 ing. Hence it is, that those who live in Lon- 
 don are totally indifferent to one another ; the 
 waves follow so quick that any vacancy is im- 
 mediately filled up, and the want is not per- 
 ceived. At the same time the well-bred civi- 
 lity of modern times, and the example of some 
 very popular people,” have introduced u 
 shaking of hands, a pretended warmth, a sham 
 cordiality, into the manners of the cold and the 
 warm alike — the dear friend, and the acquaint- 
 ance of yesterday. Hence, we hear continually 
 such conversations as the following : — Ah ! 
 how d’ye do ? I’m delighted to see you ! How 
 
80 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 is Mrs. M ? ” — She is very well, thank 
 
 you.” — Has she any more children?” — 
 
 Any more ! I have only been married three 
 months. I see you are talking of my former 
 wife — she has been dead these three years.” — 
 Or My dear friend, how d’ye do, — you have 
 been out of town some time — where have you 
 been — in Norfolk ? ” — No, I have been two 
 years in India.” — 
 
 Thus, ignorant of one another’s interest and 
 ’occupations, the friendships of London contain 
 nothing more tender than a visiting-card. Nor 
 is it much better, — indeed it is much worse, — 
 if you renounce the world, and determine to live 
 only with your relations and nearest connec- 
 tions : if you go to see them at one o’clock 
 they are not up ; at two the room is full of in- 
 different acquaintance, who can talk over the 
 ball of the night before, and of course are 
 sooner listened to than yourself ; at three they 
 are gone shopping; at four they are in the 
 Park ; at five and at six they are out ; at seven 
 they are dressing; at eight they are dining 
 with two dozen friends; at nine and ten the 
 same; at eleven they are dressing for the ball; 
 
SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 81 
 
 and at twelve, when you are going to bed, they 
 are gone into society for the evening. Thus 
 you are left in solitude : you soon begin again 
 to try the world ; — let us see what it produces. 
 
 The first inconvenience of a London life, is 
 the late hour of dinner. To pass the day 
 impransus^ and then to sit down to a great din* 
 ner at eight o’clock, is entirely against the 
 first dictates of common sense, and common sto- 
 machs. Some learned persons, indeed, endeavour 
 to support this practice by precedent, and quote 
 the Roman supper; but those suppers were 
 at three o’clock in the afternoon, and ought to 
 be a subject of contempt, instead of imitation, 
 in Grosvenor Square. Women, however, are 
 not so irrational as men, in London, and gene- 
 rally sit down to a substantial luncheon, at 
 three or four : if men would do the same, the 
 meal at eight might be lightened of many of 
 its weighty dishes, and conversation would be 
 no loser; for it is not to be concealed, that 
 conversation suffers great interruption from the 
 manner in which English dinners are ma- 
 naged : first the host and hostess (or her unfor- 
 tunate co-adjutor) are employed during three 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON, 
 
 parts of dinner, in doing the work of the servants, 
 helping fish, or carving large pieces of veni- 
 son to twenty hungry souls, to the total loss 
 of the host’s powers of amusement, and the entire 
 disfigurement of the fair hostess’s face. Much 
 time is also lost by the attention every one is 
 obliged to pay, in order to find out (which 
 he can never do if he is short-sighted ) what 
 dishes are at the other end of the table ; and 
 if a guest wishes for a glass of wine, he must 
 peep through the Apollos and Cupids of the 
 jdateau^ in order to find some one to drink 
 with him ; otherwise he must wait till some one 
 asks him, which will probably happen in suc- 
 cession, so that after having had no wine for 
 half an hour, he will have to drink five glasses 
 in five minutes. Convenience teaches that 
 the best manner of enjoying society at dinner? 
 is to leave every thing to servants that servants 
 can do; so that you may have no farther 
 trouble than to accept of the dishes that are 
 offered to you, and to drink at your own time, 
 of the wines which are handed round. An 
 English dinner, on the contrary, seems to pre- 
 sume before-hand on the silence, dulness, and 
 
SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 8S 
 
 Stupidity of the guests^ and to have provided 
 little interruptions, like the jerks which the 
 chaplain gives to the Archbishop, to prevent his 
 going to sleep during sermon. 
 
 Some time after dinner comes the time of 
 going to a ball, or a rout ; but this is sooner said 
 than done : it often requires as much time to 
 go from St. James’s Square to Cleveland Row, 
 as to go from London to Hounslow. It would 
 require volumes to describe the disappoint- 
 ment which occurs on arriving in the brilliant 
 mob of a ball-room. Sometimes, as it has 
 been before said, a friend is seen squeezed like 
 yourself, at another end of the room without 
 a possibility of your communicating except 
 by signs ; and as the whole arrangement of the 
 society is regulated by mechanical pressure, you 
 may happen to be pushed against those to 
 whom you do not wish to speak, whether bores, 
 slight acquaintances, or determined enemies. 
 Confined by the crowd, and stifled by the heat, 
 and dazzled by the light, all powers of intellect 
 are lost ; wit loses its point, and sagacity its 
 observation; indeed, the limbs are so crushed, 
 and the tongue so parched, that, except par- 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 ticularly well-drest ladies, all are in the case 
 of the traveller, Dr. Clarke, when he says in 
 the plains of Syria, that some might blame him 
 for not making moral reflections on the state 
 of the country ; but that he must own the heat 
 quite deprived him of all power of thought. 
 
 Hence it is, that the conversation you hear 
 around you, is generally nothing more than 
 ‘‘Have you been here long? ’’ — “ Have you been 
 at Mrs. Hotroom’s ? ” — “Are you going to Lady 
 Deathsqueeze’s?” Hence, too, Madame de Stael 
 said, very justly, to an Englishman, “ Dans vos 
 routs le corps fait plus de frais que Tesprit.” But 
 even if there are persons of a constitution robust 
 enough to talk, they yet do not dare to do 
 so, as twenty heads are forced into the compass 
 of one square foot ; and even when, to your great 
 delight, you see a person to whom you have 
 much to say, and, by fair means or foul, elbows 
 and toes, knees and shoulders, have got near 
 them, they often dismiss you with shaking you 
 by the hand, and saying “ My dear Mr. — how 
 do you do ?” and then, continue a conversation 
 with a person whose ear is three inches nearer. 
 At one o’clock, however, the crowd diminishes ; 
 
SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 85 
 
 and if you are not tired by the five or six hours 
 of playing at company, which you have al- 
 ready had, you may be very comfortable for the 
 rest of the evening. 
 
 It has been said very justly of science, that 
 the profound discoveries of the greatest phi- 
 losophers of one age become the elements of 
 knowledge to the youth of the next. It 
 is nearly the reverse in conversation. The 
 anecdotes which form the buz of card parties 
 and dinner parties in one century, are in the 
 lapse of a hundred years, and sometimes less, 
 transplanted into quarto volumes, and go to in- 
 crease the stock of learning of the most grave 
 and studious persons in the nation; a story 
 repeated by the Duchess of Portsmouth’s wait- 
 ing woman to Lord Rochester’s valet, forms 
 a subject of investigation for a philosophical 
 historian ; and you may hear an assembly of 
 scholars and authors, discussing the validity of 
 a piece of scandal invented by a maid of honour 
 more than two centuries ago, and repeated to 
 an obscure writer by Queen Elizabeth’s house- 
 keeper. 
 
 The appetite for remains of all kinds, has 
 G 3 
 
86 
 
 SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 certainly increased of late to a most surprising 
 extent ; every thing which belongs to a great 
 man is eagerly hunted out, and constantly pub- 
 lished. If Madame de Sevigne wrote some letters 
 when she was half asleep ; if Dr. Johnson took 
 the pains of setting down what occurred to him 
 before he was breeched, this age is sure to 
 have the benefit of seeing these valuable works 
 on hot-pressed paper: all that good writers 
 threw by as imperfect, all that they wished to 
 be concealed from the world, is now edited in 
 volumes twice as magnificent as their chief works. 
 Still greater is the avidity for aim : it is a matter 
 of the greatest interest, to see the letters of every 
 busy trifler. Yet who does not laugh at such men? 
 To write to our relations and friends on events 
 which concern their interests and affections, is a 
 worthy employment for the heart and head of a 
 civilised man ; but to engrave upon the tittle- 
 tattle of the day, with all the labour and polish 
 which the richest gem could deserve, is a con- 
 temptible abuse of the pen, paper, and time 
 which is on our hands. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, that knowledge 
 of this kind is very entertaining ; and here and 
 
SOCIETY IN LONDON. 
 
 87 
 
 there amongst the rubbish, we find hints which 
 may give the philosopher a clue to important 
 facts, and afford to the moralist a better analysis 
 of the human mind, than a whole library of 
 metaphysics. 
 
88 
 
 ‘i 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 The dramatic art, when carried to perfection, 
 may be defined to be that of exhibiting human 
 nature in a point of view, either affecting or 
 amusing. If we adopt this definition, it will 
 not appear wonderful that the English should 
 have succeeded best in tragedy, and the French 
 in comedy. The English, fond of deep emotion, 
 and reflecting long upon their own sensations, 
 have pourtrayed with a truth which seemed 
 scarcely attainable, the character and conduct 
 of individuals whom fortune placed in the high- 
 est rank, and exposed to the most stormy 
 trials. But in proportion to their success in. 
 this branch of art, has been their failure in the 
 department of comedy. As they are little accus- 
 tomed to display their feelings in society, authors 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 89 
 
 have been obliged to supply, by extravagant 
 plots and eccentric characters, the want of ac- 
 curate portraits, and to borrow from fancy the 
 interest which observation could not afford. 
 
 The French, on the other hand, who act as 
 it were from the passion ^f the moment, who 
 brood over no sorrow, and analyse no passion, 
 gave to the workshop of the tragedian only 
 the undivided mass of our common affections. 
 Corneille spoke only to our pride and courage ; 
 Racine borrowed from Greece his fable and his 
 sentiments ; Voltaire, endeavouring to improve 
 upon them, has been more rhetorical than na- 
 tural. But if genius and eloquence have not 
 been sufficient to furnish France with a perfect 
 example of tragedy, the easy tone of society, the 
 grace and wit of ordinary conversation, and 
 even the egotism of her people, have contributed 
 to form the most perfect comedies the world 
 ever saw. Moliere might justly boast of having 
 given to the moderns a claim to perfection in a 
 very difficult and delightful branch of literature. 
 But as I am conscious that both the English 
 and French nations claim pre-eminence in both 
 
90 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 lines, I must illustrate my opinions more at 
 large. 
 
 It is quite superfluous to say any thing of the 
 merit of Shakspeare. Had it required any far- 
 ther illustration, the able comment of Schlegel 
 would fully serve to place it clearly before the 
 eyes of the world. His work would be still 
 more valuable, did he not adopt the prejudices 
 of an Englishman, and defend the faults as much 
 as he praises the beauties of his favourite author. 
 No sophistry, however ingenious, will be suffi- 
 cient to persuade an unprejudiced person, that the 
 unities are of no use in assisting the illusion of 
 the theatre. It is idle to say that there is no illu- 
 sion, or that — the truth is, the spectators are 
 always in their senses, and know, from the first 
 act to the last, that the stage is only a stage, and 
 that the players are only players. They came 
 to hear a certain number of lines recited with 
 just gesture and elegant modulation. The lines 
 relate to some action, and an action must be 
 in some place; but the different actions that 
 complete a story, may be in places very re- 
 mote from each other ; and where is the absurdity 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 91 
 
 of allowing that space to represent, first Athens, 
 and then Sicily, which was always known to 
 be neither Athens nor Sicily, but a modern 
 theatre ? ” * 
 
 As well might it be said that the ancient bag- 
 wig and sword were as suitable to the part of 
 Cato, as the Roman dress ; since every one knew 
 he was an Englishman, and not a Roman. 
 Indeed, the argument extends to the abolition of 
 all dramatic representation ; for why should not 
 a single person read out a play as well as or 
 better than a motley company? But the fact 
 is, a very lively image is presented to the senses, 
 and the mind derives great pleasure from pur- 
 suing the train of associations which are naturally 
 excited by the events and passions represented. 
 The knowledge that the scene is not real, 
 serves to prevent the distress from becoming 
 too intense, and thus an opportunity is 
 obtained of indulging the sensations of sympathy, 
 pity, love of virtue, and indignation against vice, 
 which nature has made so pleasing to us, with- 
 out the pain that usually accompanies them. 
 
 * Johnson, Preface to Shakspeare. 
 
92 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 But in this course of emotion, it is a sad blow to 
 the imagination to find on a sudden that the 
 hero has travelled from Peru to Spain, or has 
 grown twelve years older in the course of a 
 minute. 
 
 I will not here enter farther on the long-dis- 
 puted question of the unities, but will just 
 venture to propose a compromise. 
 
 If, on the one hand, a disregard of all proxi- 
 mity of time and place must weaken, if not 
 break the thread of imagination, on the other, 
 too strict an attention to these objects either 
 limits the author to a very narrow field of sub- 
 jects, or induces him to break another great 
 unity — the agreement of the person and the 
 action with the time and the scene. An audience 
 which is pleased with a hero, errant au 
 premier acte^ harhon au dernier may be justly 
 called barbarous ; but that which requires Mi- 
 thridate and his sons to carry on all their 
 schemes against one another in the same place, 
 must be owned to be endowed with no very 
 warm imagination. Be this as it may, Shak- 
 speare’s fault in this respect seems to be that 
 of the age, and approaches that of the early 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 93 
 
 painters, who put David, offering himself to 
 fight ; David, throwing the sling ; and David, 
 cutting off the head of Goliah, in the same 
 picture. 
 
 The other fault which I mentioned, that of 
 mixing comedy and tragedy, has been often de- 
 fended; it has, in fact, the merit of relieving 
 the mind, oppressed by too long a succession of 
 sad scenes, and makes a tragedy palatable to 
 ordinary minds. It is like the gas in mineral 
 waters, which makes steel supportable to weak 
 stomachs. But does it not also interrupt the 
 interest ? and does it not prevent the existence 
 of any strong emotion? Shakspeare has best 
 answered these questions, by diminishing the 
 number of such scenes in Othello, Lear, and 
 Macbeth. 
 
 The French tragedy may be fairly praised for 
 beautiful poetry, for high sentiments, and even 
 for grand situations. But it has one capital de- 
 fect — it is not true to nature. The French, as 
 a German writer truly observed, have painted 
 passions and not characters. We have love in 
 one play, ambition in another, but we have no- 
 where man. Shakspeare has described us more 
 
9f 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 truly ; yielding first to one feeling and then to 
 another, and giving way to the master passion 
 only after a struggle which exhibits the inmost 
 nerves of the human heart. The Macbeth of 
 Racine would have uttered magnificent verses 
 and eloquent reasons, but he would not have 
 been the individual whom we are all intimately 
 acquainted with. In making these remarks, I 
 would not be thought to undervalue the real 
 merits of the French tragedies: on the con- 
 
 trary, I go to see them repeatedly with great 
 pleasure. To hear the noblest sentiments of 
 man embodied in the elevated, and yet natural 
 diction of Racine, and pronounced by Talma 
 or Mademoiselle Duchesnois, is to me a high 
 gratification. But I regret that somewhat of 
 the likeness to human action is lost by the over- 
 attention which has been paid to the regularity 
 of the plot, the uniform succession of situation, 
 and the copiousness, if not prolixity, of the 
 speeches. Berenice is an instance of all these 
 faults : there is but one incident, and all the 
 scenes are but different ways of viewing the 
 same object. It would be endless to enumerate 
 the faults into which the French authors have 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 95 
 
 been led by their mistaken view of tragedy. 
 The best way, perhaps, is to consider a tragedy 
 of Voltaire and one of Shakspeare. In doing 
 this I own that some disadvantages must be in- 
 curred. The poet who could please the en- 
 lightened audience of Paris, after Corneille and 
 Racine had been long undisputed sovereigns of 
 the stage, must excel in purity of taste the au- 
 thor who wrote for a coarse and uncritical 
 people, and who left his plays as rude as he first 
 wrote them. But the question that should be 
 considered is, which of the two was the closest 
 copier of nature? not which was the nicest ob- 
 server of art. The two tragedies I shall take 
 are by no means the best of either author, but 
 they both belong to the first rank, and are 
 known all over Europe: — Le Fanatisme, or 
 Mahomet le Prophete ; and Hamlet, Prince of 
 Denmark. 
 
 Now, to take Le Fanatisme first, it might be 
 worth while to consider whether it is a good 
 mode to set out with proclaiming that a tragedy 
 is to represent a particular passion. But with- 
 out spending any time in discussing a question. 
 
96 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 amply discussed and justly decided elsewhere 
 I imagine we may safely say, that to re- 
 present the chief of a religion, different from 
 our own, in the most odious colours; to 
 paint him as committing a great crime, of 
 which there is no record; to describe him, 
 contrary to the tenor of history, as a mon- 
 ster of cold-blooded vice, — this, we may surely 
 conclude, is not the best way to extinguish 
 bigotry. But even if it were so, I doubt if 
 so pious a purpose could justify a writer in 
 teaching his audience to detest a character 
 who was not detestable. Mahomet seems to 
 have been a man, in whom virtue and vice 
 were mixed in the ordinary proportions. He 
 found his nation idolaters ; the religion of 
 the Jews, and even that of the Christians, 
 perverted and corrupted. He endeavoured, 
 without destroying their faith, to persuade them 
 that the unity of God, was the vital principle of 
 
 * See the reviews of Miss Baillie’s Plays on the Passions, 
 in the Edinburgh Review. 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 97 
 
 religion, and that the particular articles of 
 their creed were not necessary to obtain 
 mercy at the judgment seat of Heaven. But, 
 having met with success, he became ambi- 
 tious, and declared that all who did not em- 
 brace his faith should be obliged to do so by 
 the sword. One of his early commandments 
 was to observe chastity ; but his passions got 
 the better of him, and not satisfied with his own 
 wives, he took possession of another person’s. 
 But that he was a cool hypocrite, only intent on 
 empire and lust, is what history by no means 
 teaches us. And there is no example which 
 poets can give, so mischievous as to distort 
 the qualities of a great man, and to make his 
 name unjustly odious to the world, for the sake 
 of a paltry stage-effect. * 
 
 * “ After the conquest of Mecca, the Mahomet of Voltaire 
 imagines and perpetrates the most horrid crimes. The poet 
 confesses that he is not supported by the truth of history, and 
 can only alledge que celui qui fait la guerre a sa jiatrie au nom 
 <le Dieu est caimhle de tout. Tlie maxim is neither charitable 
 nor philosophic ; and some reverence is surely due to the fame 
 of heroes and the religion of nations.’* Gibbon, vol. v. p. 239, 
 note, 4to. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 ON PLAYSv 
 
 But Voltaire having given the reins to his in- 
 vention on this subject, we must suppose that 
 his fiction is at least interesting and engaging. 
 Quite the contrary. The original story is told 
 by Gibbon in a few words, as follows : — At 
 the house of Zeid, his freedman and adopted 
 son, he beheld, in a loose undress, the beauty of 
 Zeineb (Zeid’s wife), and burst forth into an 
 ejaculation of devotion and desire. The servile, 
 or grateful freedman, understood the hint, and 
 yielded without hesitation to the love of his be- 
 nefactor.^' Out of this story Voltaire weaves 
 the most horrible tale : he makes Zeid the bro- 
 ther of Zeineb, and the son of Zopire, whom 
 Mahomet is said to have persecuted, and he 
 then makes Zeid, ignorant of his birth, murder 
 his father, in order to become the husband of 
 his sister ; whilst Mahomet, who urges him on, 
 intends to sacrifice him to his own passion for 
 Zeineb. A plot so horrible can create nothing 
 but disgust. Nor does it serve to exculpate 
 Voltaire, as he imagines, that Zeid is ignorant 
 of the crimes he commits. The spectator’s 
 knowledge of the real state of the case must pre- 
 vent his feeling any interest in the developement 
 
ON ’PLAYS. 
 
 99 
 
 of the plot. He cannot sympathise with Zeid, 
 for that were to wish for incest to be commit- 
 ted. Mahomet can only excite horror. Zo- 
 pire, indeed, awakens our pity; but the old 
 idolater is an inferior character. Nor is it a 
 sufficient justification of the plot to say, that 
 facts still more horrible are recorded by history, 
 or that the moral of the play is to prevent assas- 
 sination committed from the impulse of fanati- 
 cism. There are many facts in history unfit for 
 the stage ; the sack of Jerusalem by the Cru- 
 saders, for instance, which was a direct con- 
 sequence of fanaticism. An event may be too 
 horrible to derive lustre from the embellish- 
 ments of art and the ornaments of poetry. Nor 
 does an assassination prove any thing per se 
 against fanaticism. Brutus killed Caesar, who, 
 perhaps, was his father ; but that proves nothing 
 against the love of liberty. Assassination is a 
 crime which proceeds often from reason per- 
 verted, and from feelings too warmly excited, 
 either in a bad cause or a good one. The 
 crime should be met with punishment and 
 combated by reason : but the motive ought 
 
 H 2 
 
lob ON PLAYS. 
 
 not to be held up indiscriminately to our 
 abhorrence. 
 
 The want of sympathy in the fate of the: 
 chief actors in this play, is not compensated by 
 the fidelity of the characters to human nature. 
 Of characters, indeed, there is only one, viz. 
 Mahomet himself. Had Shakspeare under- 
 taken to paint such a character, he pro- 
 bably would have drawn him as others of the 
 same kind are known to have been, sometimes 
 enthusiast and sometimes hypocrite; speaking 
 in public the language of imposture, and even 
 in his most private moments excusing the 
 indulgence of his passions by some specious 
 view of the glory of God and the happiness of 
 mankind. Above all, he would have taken 
 care to have made the ambition and the 
 licentiousness of Mahomet appear in all his 
 actions, and be abjured in all his words. Now 
 the method of Voltaire has been completely dif- 
 ferent : not only does he avow his odious vices, 
 but he calls them by their names, and makes 
 epigrams and antitheses upon them as if he 
 were the Pope or Dr. Prideaux. He has not 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 101 
 
 been on the scene five minutes, when he says to 
 Omar, one of his companions, 
 
 Je viens mettre a profit les erreurs de la terre.” 
 
 And again — 
 
 “ Uamour seul me console ; il est ma recompense, 
 L’objet de mes travaux, I’idole que j’encense. 
 
 Le Dieu de Mahomet ; et cette passion 
 Est egale aux Jureurs de mon ambition^ 
 
 Be it observed, that his real language was so 
 very different, that when he asked his kindred 
 which of them would be his lieutenant, he said, 
 I know no man in all Arabia, who can offer 
 his kindred a more excellent thing, than I 
 now do you : I offer you happiness both in this 
 life, and that which is to come, &c.” * 
 
 But let us suppose, that this confidence is 
 made like Sir Walter Raleigh’s to Sir Christo- 
 pher Hatton, in the Critick, for the sake of 
 the audience. The next personage who comes 
 
 ^ Sale’s Koran, Prel. Discourse, p. 57. 
 H 3 
 
102 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 on, however, is Mahomet’s capital enemy. To 
 him surely he will assume the Prophet. But 
 no ; to him he says — 
 
 “ Vois quel est Mahomet ; nous sommes seuls, ecoute 
 Je suis ambitieux ; touthomme Test sans doute &c. 
 
 II faut un nouveau culte, et faut de nouveaux fers ; 
 II faut un nouveau Dieu pour Taveugle univers.” 
 
 ■ ‘‘ je connais ton peuple, il a besoin d’erreur 
 
 il faut m’aider a tromper Tunivers.” 
 
 Omar now returns, and Mahomet, after con- 
 certing with him a parricide exclaims — 
 
 Aliens, consultons bien mon int^r^t, ma haine, 
 L’amour, Tindigne amour, qui malgre moi m’en- 
 traine, 
 
 Et la religion, a qui tout est soumis, 
 
 Et la necessite, par qui tout est permis.” 
 
 I pass over other horrible and unnatural sen- 
 timents of Mahomet, and the scene where a 
 young girl, otherwise interesting, consents that 
 her lover, as the price of her hand, should be- 
 come an assassin, in order to give the last 
 words of Mahomet, pronounced before Omar 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 103 
 
 and his suite ; that is to say, those whom it is 
 his chief business to persuade of his divine 
 mission. 
 
 Dieu que j’ai fait servir au malheur des humains, 
 Adorable instrument de mes affreux desseins, 
 
 Toi que j’ai blaspheme, mais que je crains encore, 
 Je me sens condamne, quand Tunivers m’adore. 
 
 Je brave en vain les traits dont je me sens frapper, 
 J’ai trompe les mortels et je ne puis me tromper.V* 
 * * * * « 
 
 Je dois regir en Dieu I’univers pr^venu ; 
 
 Mon empire est dtouit se Thomme est reconnu.” 
 
 Such is the language of Mahomet, and I ap- 
 peal to the lowest conjuror who preaches his art 
 in the streets of Naples, if he could hope to 
 continue his trade, if he did not put a thicker 
 veil on his impostures. 
 
 I come now to the tragedy of Hamlet, which 
 has not pleased some of the best judges, even 
 in our own country : Sir Joshua Reynolds is 
 reported to have said, that he thought Shak- 
 speare, having a great many fine things in his 
 common-place book, invented the character of 
 H 4 
 
104 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 Hamlet, as a way of bringing them all out. 
 Dr. Johnson delivers his opinion of the conduct 
 of this play, in the following words : The 
 
 conduct is, perhaps, not wholly secure against 
 objections. The action is, indeed, for the most 
 part, in continual progression, but there are 
 some scenes which neither forward nor retard it. 
 Of the feigned madness of Hamlet, there appears 
 no adequate cause, for he does nothing which 
 he might not have done with the reputation of 
 sanity. He plays the madman most, when he 
 treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which 
 seems to be useless and wanton cruelty. 
 
 Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather 
 an instrument than an agent. After he has, 
 by the stratagem of the play, convicted the king, 
 he makes no attempt to punish him ; and his 
 death is at last effected by an incident which 
 Hamlet had no part in producing. The ca- 
 tastrophe is not very happily produced ; the 
 exchange of weapons is rather an expedient of 
 necessity, than a stroke of art. A scheme 
 might easily have been formed to kill Hamlet 
 with the dagger, and Laertes with the bowl. 
 
 “ The poet is accused of having shown little 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 105 
 
 regard to poetical justice, and may be charged 
 with equal neglect of poetical probability. The 
 apparition left the regions of the dead to little 
 purpose ; the revenge which he demands is not 
 obtained, but by the death of him that was re- 
 quired to take it; and the gratification which 
 would arise from the destruction of an usurper, 
 and a murderer, is abated by the untimely 
 death of Ophelia, the young, the beautiful, the 
 harmless, and the pious.’’ 
 
 Now it appears to me, that Shakspeare pro- 
 posed as his subject the workings of a noble, 
 but irresolute mind. For the purpose of his 
 plan, he places him where he is called upon to 
 perform an act of revenge on his uncle, for 
 the murder of his father, and incestuous mar- 
 riage of his mother. Let a man of feeling conceive 
 such a situation, and then tell me if the follow- 
 ing conduct is unnatural. In order to perplex 
 his mind, the author makes the appearance of 
 a ghost the only evidence of his mother’s guilt. 
 Hamlet’s first purpose is instant revenge ; but 
 the thoughts of so bloody an action, on the faith 
 of an apparition, reduce him to an indecision 
 which is the spring of his misfortunes, and of 
 all the subsequent events of the play. The al- 
 
106 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 ternative, on the one hand, of murdering his 
 uncle without cause; and on the other, of suffering 
 the daily intercourse and existence of a man 
 who may be the poisoner of his father, and the 
 seducer of his mother, drives him into so black, 
 so melancholy, so thoughtful a humour, that 
 he is glad to escape observation and detection, 
 by pretending madness which is only half- 
 feigned. In this state of mind he sees the king 
 at prayers, the design of killing him occurs, 
 but his doubts and troubles stay his hand, and 
 he contents himself with the illusion that he 
 only forbears, because assassination would then 
 be mercy. The play is an invention for dis- 
 covering whether his uncle be guilty, which, 
 though it convince him at the time, is far from 
 determining him to commit a deed so bloody. 
 He pauses on self-destruction as the term of 
 misery, and hence the soliloquy, To be or 
 not to be.” One very fine occasion for show- 
 ing the irresolution of Hamlet, is taken when 
 the player bursts into tears on reciting the story 
 of Hecuba — 
 
 O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I,*' &c. 
 Another still finer is in the fourth act, when 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 107 
 
 Hamlet sees Fortinbras pass by with an army 
 to conquer a little patch of ground.” The 
 soliloquy he makes on this occasion is so com- 
 plete a view of his character, that it is worth 
 while to give it entire. 
 
 How all occasions do inform against me, 
 
 And spur my dull revenge ! What is a man, 
 
 If his chief good, and market of his time, 
 
 Be but to sleep and feed ? a beast, no more. 
 
 Sure, He that made us with such large discourse, 
 Looking before, and alter, gave us not 
 That capability and god-like reason 
 To fust in us unus’d. Now, whether it be 
 Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
 
 Of thinking too precisely on the event, 
 
 A thought, which, quarter’d, hath but one part, 
 wisdom, 
 
 And, ever, three parts coward, — I do not know 
 Why yet 1 live to say, This things to do ; 
 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and 
 means 
 
 To do’t. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me : 
 Witness, this army, of such mass, and charge. 
 
 Led by a delicate and tender prince. 
 
 Whose spirit, with divine ambition puft, 
 
 Makes mouths at the invisible event ; 
 
108 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 Exposing what is mortal, and unsure, 
 
 To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare. 
 
 Even for an egg-shell. Rightly, to be great 
 Is not to stir without great argument ; 
 
 But greatly to find quarrel in a straw. 
 
 When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, 
 That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d. 
 Excitements of my reason, and my blood. 
 
 And let all sleep ? while, to my shame, I see 
 The imminent death of twenty thousand men. 
 
 That, for a fantasy, and trick of fame. 
 
 Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot, 
 Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause. 
 
 Which is not tomb enough, and continent. 
 
 To hide the slain ? — O, from this time forth. 
 
 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth !” 
 
 It has been observed, very justly, that his 
 behaviour to Ophelia, the most oiitageous thing 
 in the play, might arise from his being stung 
 with the suspicion of her treachery to him ; his 
 speech to his mother is severe, but not unnatu- 
 ral ; in the middle of it, a new suspicion of a 
 traitor rouses his hasty passion, and he pierces 
 the arras ; he does not appear to feel much for 
 his crime — his mind was fixed upon a greater 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 109 
 
 object, and Polonius had become hateful to him 
 by his time-servingness. Rosencrantz and Guil- 
 denstern he suspects as being accessaries to a plot 
 for his murder, and therefore plots against their 
 lives in return. On coming back to Denmark, 
 passion again overpowers him at the speech of 
 Laertes, and the taunt thrown out against him, 
 when he is conscious of having loved Ophelia, 
 and of being afflicted at her death. The king 
 conspires a second time against the life of 
 Laertes, and Hamlet is wounded. Enraged at 
 the apparent foul play, he rushes in, seizes his 
 antagonist’s foil, and wounds him with it. — 
 Is this very improbable? Informed of the 
 treachery, he instantly dispatches the king, and 
 thus the play ends. Upon the whole, the chain 
 of events is well connected. Hamlet, weak, 
 though hasty, gives reason to suspect his inten- 
 tions, but continually delays his execution. The 
 king sees through his madness, ,and endeavours 
 to destroy his life. Hamlet appears again, 
 yet irresolute. The king plots again, and with 
 more success ; but Hamlet has life remaining 
 to revenge his own death, not his father’s. The 
 catastrophe is a natural suite of the characters 
 
110 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 who are represented. Those who wish to see 
 the play regularly conducted to an end by 
 Hamlet, ask for that which is contrary to the 
 character to be represented. The very thing to 
 be shown is, that Hamlet by his irresolution 
 is rather an instrument than an agent.” Dr. 
 Johnsron might as well have asked that Othello 
 should be cured of his unreasonable jealousy. 
 But then, it may be objected, no interest can 
 attach to a play where the hero can never re- 
 solve to act. To this I might answer in the 
 words of an able critic — where the events 
 described, or represented, spring, in their na- 
 tural order of succession, from one source, the 
 sentiments of sympathy which they excite, will 
 all verge to one centre, and be connected by 
 one chain.” 
 
 But a still better answer may be given by 
 mentioning the fact, that Hamlet is acted as 
 frequently, if not more so, than any play on the 
 English stage. And thus Shakspeare has at the 
 same time exhibited one of the finest, but most 
 difficult characters it is possible to pourtray; 
 expressed the most philosophical sentiments 
 in the language of poetry ; and animated the 
 12 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 whole in a play, which the audience is always 
 glad to hear repeated. * 
 
 We come next to consider the comedies of 
 the two nations. It has been said that tragedy 
 exalts our nature, and that comedy lowers it. 
 But this is not true — I know not that the 
 Wonder lowers human nature more than 
 Phedre — that we have a less idea of the dig- 
 nity of man from the character of Charles 
 Surface than from that of lago. Tragedy 
 places odious passions in the most odious light, 
 and comedy throws a strong ridicule upon the 
 foibles of our nature. 
 
 The comedies of Spain were the first in Europe 
 to emerge from the barbarity of the rude ages, but 
 they are far from exhibiting such a resemblance 
 of human nature as has since been introduced 
 into the drama by the English and French. 
 The dramatis jpersonce commonly consist of a 
 very few characters : an old father, a daughter, 
 a lover, and his servant, who is the confidant of 
 his master and the bufibon of the play. The 
 
 * After I had written these remarks on Hamlet, I found 
 that many of them had been anticipated in Dr. Drake’s able 
 work on Shakspeare. 
 
112 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 intrigue is generally produced by making two or 
 more ■ mistresses and two or more lovers mis- 
 take each other’s persons and houses, and fall 
 into a series of mistakes which complicate their 
 affairs, and create an interest by the extreme 
 ingenuity and perplexity of the plot. But in all 
 these comedies there is no variety ; but one view 
 of human life, and no display of character. A 
 few comedies of Calderon, Lopez de Vega, and 
 Moreto, however, such as Lo Cierto por lo 
 Dudoso, Lo Moza del Cantaro, El Desden por 
 el Desden, and some others, might be mention- 
 ed, which are not liable to this censure. The 
 English and the French comedies of the time 
 of Charles II. and Lewis XIV. are both found- 
 ed upon the Spanish basis ; but the French have 
 been more successful than the English authors. 
 Congreve, Wycherley, and Farquhar, adopted 
 the intriguing plot of the Spanish plays ; but, 
 instead of copying the formal and heroic gal- 
 lantry of the Spanish customs, they adapted 
 their pieces to the licentious manners of our 
 own Court. Hence they have lost much of 
 their interest. Not all the wit of some of the 
 wittiest writers, scattered without stint upon 
 their dialogue, can make us feel an interest in 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 113 
 
 ladies of fashion, who come in disguise to the 
 Park, to hold conversations with young men of 
 the town in language too gross and indelicate to 
 be now tolerated in any society in the kingdom. 
 We can feel neither pleasure nor pain at the 
 misfortune of husbands, who seem to be quite 
 as deserving of favour as the lovers ; and a mar- 
 riage in masks is too remote from present 
 manners, to give us any picture of real life. 
 We see too plainly, that the whole is an imi- 
 tation of the transient forms and manners of a 
 court which is gone by, and which, being 
 founded on the most odious selfishness, the most 
 shameless want of principle, and the total ab- 
 sence of every affection of the heart, has left 
 nothing to cause it to be remembered. Mo- 
 liere, on the other hand, laid his foundations 
 deep upon human nature itself. His great co- 
 medies are founded on the vices of avarice and 
 hypocrisy, and on the foibles of affectation of 
 rank, affectation of knowledge, affectation of 
 sickness, which are always to be found in so- 
 ciety. His genius was of the highest order, 
 capable of seizing every shade of character, and 
 of placing it in the point of view in which it was 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 best calculated to excite ridicule. His best 
 comedies are a complete history of the vices or 
 foibles they are intended to represent ; and his 
 plots, instead of being a mere tissue of fortui- 
 tous incidents, are a well-conducted scheme of 
 exhibiting, in all its parts, that quality of human 
 nature, which forms his subject. He has done 
 this sometimes with the dignity of a satirist, and 
 sometimes with the playfulness and almost the 
 buffoonery of a clown ; and hence he has been 
 reproached by some with being a didactic 
 poet, and by others with being a mere farce- 
 writer. The latter of these charges is not worth 
 speaking of, and the former might be dis- 
 missed with the reflection, that the School for 
 Scandal,” which is, perhaps, the best of our 
 comedies, contains imitations of no less than 
 three of the comedies of Moliere. The design 
 and the character of Joseph Surface are evi- 
 dently taken from the Tartuffe, the scandal 
 scene from the Misantrope, and the broker 
 scene from the Avare. But it may be as well 
 to say a few words on the charge of dulness, 
 which has been so boldly brought forward 
 against the Tartuffe and the Misantrope. 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 115 
 
 There is no greater advantage to the literature 
 of a nation than to have a species of amuse- 
 ment, which is different from the common fare 
 of other nations. The comedies in verse of the 
 French may be esteemed to be of this sort; 
 they have a plot which is capable of being to 
 the full as interesting as that of any other 
 comedy, and finally they are the most re- 
 fined of any dramatic spectacle. The only 
 criticism that can be made is, that for per- 
 sons to speak verse is out of nature ; but this 
 is a question which must be decided by the 
 nation before whom these comedies are re- 
 presented ; for it is not, in fact, more out of na- 
 ture that verse should be spoken, than that so 
 much wit and so many incidents should occur 
 in so short a time : the whole, it must be recol- 
 lected, is a voluntary illusion. If, indeed, the 
 sentiments spoken w^ere heroic or extravagant, 
 the whole world would be competent to object ; 
 but every one must agree that they are not dif- 
 ferent from those which a comic writer of Eng- 
 land might put into prose. I know not why the 
 higher comedy may not as well be put into 
 rhyme as our tragedy into blank verse. It may 
 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 be said that comedy is intended to represent 
 real life, which tragedy is not ; but, in fact, the 
 School for Scandal is no more like ordinary so- 
 ciety than Hamlet is like the real life of kings 
 and queens. It being once allowed that rhyme 
 may be introduced in comedy, we gain the ad- 
 vantage of hearing very good poetry recited by 
 good actors. What, for example, can be more 
 like good familiar poetry, than the following ob- 
 servations on dress ? 
 
 Ariste. Toujours au plus grand nombre on doit 
 s’accommoder, 
 
 Et jamais il ne faut se faire regarder. 
 
 L’un et Tautre exces cheque, et tout homme bien 
 sage 
 
 Doit faire des habits ainsi que de langage ; 
 
 N y rien trop affecter, et, sans empressement, 
 Suivre ce que I’usage y fait de changement. 
 
 Mon sentiment n’est pas qu’on prenne la methode 
 De ceux qu^onvoit toujours rench^rir sur la mode; 
 Et qui, dans cet exc^s dont ils sont amoureux, 
 Seroient f^ch^s qu’un autre eut plus loin qu’eux ; 
 Mais je tiens qu’il est mal, sur quoi que Ton se 
 fonde, 
 
 De fuir obstin^ment ce que suit tout le monde, 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 117 
 
 Et qu’il vaut mieux soufFrir d’etre au nombre des 
 fous, 
 
 Que du sage parti se voir seal centre tons. 
 
 Or, if we wished to read a satire upon evil- 
 speaking, what could we ask better than the fol- 
 lowing dialogues between Ariste and Valere, 
 and Ariste and Cleon, from the Mechant of 
 Gresset ? 
 
 Ariste. Valere. 
 
 Valere. Lui refuseriez vous I’esprit ? j'aj peine a 
 le croire — 
 
 Ariste. Mais a Tesprit mechant je ne vois point 
 de gloire. 
 
 Si vous saviez combien cet esprit est aise, 
 
 Combien il en faut peu, comme il est meprise ! 
 
 Le plus stupide obtient la meme reussite. 
 
 Eh ! pourquoi tant de gens ont-ils ce plat merite ? 
 Sterilite de fame, et de ce naturel 
 Agreable, amusant, sans bassesse et sans fiel. 
 
 On dit fesprit commun : par son succes bizarre 
 La mechancete prouve a quel point il est rare : 
 Ami du bien, de fordre, et de fhumanite, 
 
 Le veritable esprit marche avec la bonte. 
 
 Cleon n’offre a nos yeux qu’une fausse lumiere. 
 
 I 3 
 
118 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 La reputation des mceurs est la premiere ; 
 
 Sans elle, croyez-moi, tout succes est trompeur. 
 Mon estime toujours commence par le cceur. 
 
 Sans lui I’esprit n’est rien, et, malgre vos maximes, 
 
 II produit seulement des erreurs et des crimes — 
 Fait pour etre cheri, ne serez-vous cite 
 Que pour le complaisant d’un homme deteste 
 V. Je vois tout le contraire ; on le recherche, 
 on Taime : 
 
 Je voudrois que chacun me detestat de meme. 
 
 On se Tarrache, au moins, je I’ai vu quelquefois 
 A des soupers divins retenu pour un mois : 
 
 Quand il est a Paris il ne peut y suffire. 
 
 Me direz-vous qu’on hait un homme qu’on desire ? 
 A. Que dans ses precedes Thomme est incon- 
 sequent ! 
 
 On recherche un esprit dont on hait le talent ; 
 
 On applaudit aux traits du mechant qu’on abhorre ; 
 Et loin de le proscire on I’encourage encore. 
 
 Mais convenez aussi qu’ avec ce mauvais ton, 
 
 Tons ces gens dont il est I’oracle ou le bouflPon, 
 Craignent pour eux le sort des absens qu’il leur livre, 
 Et que tous avec lui seroient faches de vivre: 
 
 On le voit une fois, il peut etre applaud! ; 
 
 Mais quelqu’un voudroit-il en faire son ami ? 
 
 F. On le craint ; c’est beaucoup. 
 
 A, Merite pitoyable : 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 119 
 
 Pour les esprits senses est-il done redoutable ? 
 
 C’est ordinairement a de foibles rivaux 
 Qu’il adresse les traits de ses mauvais propos. 
 
 Quel honneur trouvez-vous a poursuivre, a confondre, 
 A desoler quelqu’un qui ne peut vous repondre ? 
 
 Ce triomphe honteux de la mechancete 
 R^unit la bassesse et Tinhumanite. 
 
 Quand sur Tesprit d’un autre on a quelque avantage, 
 N’est-il pas plus flatteur d’en meriter Thommage, 
 De voiler, d’enhardir la foiblesse d'autrui, 
 
 Et d’en etre a la fois et I’amour et Tappui ? 
 
 F. Qu’elle soit un peu plus, un peu moins ver- 
 tueuse, 
 
 Vous m’avouerez du moins que sa vie est heureuse# 
 On epuise bientot une society ; 
 
 On sait tout votre esprit ; vous n’etes plus fete 
 Quand vous n’etes plus neuf ; il faut une autre scene 
 Et d’autres spectateurs : il passe, il se promene 
 Dans les cercles divers, sans gene, sans lien ; 
 
 Il a la fleur de tout, n’est esclave de rien. 
 
 A. Vous le croyez heureux ? Quelle ame me- 
 prisable ! 
 
 Si e’est la son bonheur, e’est etre miserable, 
 Etranger au milieu de la societe, 
 
 Et partout fugitif, et partout rejete. 
 
 Vous connoitrez bientot par votre experience 
 Que le bonheur du cceur est dans la confiance. 
 
 I 4 
 
120 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 Un commerce de suite avec les memes gens ; 
 L’union des plaisirs, des gouts, des sentimens ; 
 
 Une soci^te peu nombreuse, et qui s’aime, 
 
 Ou vous pensez tout haut, ou vous etes vous-meme, 
 Sans lendemain, sans crainte, et sans malignite, 
 Dans le sein de la paix et de la surete : 
 
 Voila la seul bonheur honorable et paisible 
 D’un esprit raisonnable, et d’un coeur ne sensible. 
 Sans amis, sans repos, suspect et dangereux, 
 L’homme frivole et vague est deja malheureux. 
 Mais jugez avec moi combien Test davantage 
 Un mechant affiche dont on craint le passage ; 
 
 Qui, trainant avec lui les rapports, les horreurs, 
 L’esprit de faussete, Tart affreux des noirceurs, 
 Abhorre, meprise, couvert d'ignominie, 
 
 Chez les honnetes gens demeure sans patrie : 
 
 Voila le vrai proscrit, et vous le connoissez. 
 
 F. Je ne le verrois plus si ce que vous pensez 
 Alloit m’etre prouve : mais on outre les choses ; 
 C’est donner a des riens les plus horribles causes. 
 Quant a la probity nul ne peut I’accuser: 
 
 Ce qu’il dit, ce qu’il fait n’est que pour s’amuser. 
 
 ,A. S’amuser, dites-vous ? Quelle erreur est la 
 votre ! 
 
 Quoi ! vendre tour-a-tour, immoler Tune a Tautre 
 Chaque societe, diviser les esprits, 
 
 Aigrir des gens brouill^s, ou brouiller des amis, 
 Calomnier, fl^trir des femmes estimables, 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 121 
 
 Faire du mal d’autrui ses plaisirs detestables ; 
 
 Ce germe d’infamie et de perversity 
 Est-il dans la meme ame avec la probite ? 
 
 Et parmi vos amis vous soufFrez qu’on le nomme ! 
 
 V, Je ne le connois plus s’il n’est point hon- 
 nete homme. 
 
 Mais il me reste un doute : avec trop de bonty 
 Je crams de me froquer de singularity. 
 
 Sans condamner Tavis de Cleon, ni le votre, 
 
 J’ai Tesprit de mon siecle, et je suis comme un autre; 
 Tout le monde est mychant ; et je serois partout 
 Ou dupe, ou ridicule, avec un autre gout. 
 
 A. Tout le monde est mychant ? Oui, ces cceurs 
 haissables, 
 
 Ce peuple d’hommes faux, de femmes, d^agryables. 
 Sans principes, sans mceurs, esprits bas et jaloux, 
 Qui se rendent justice en se myprisant tous. 
 
 En vain ce peuple alFreux, sansfrein et sans scrupule, 
 De la bonty du coeur veut faire un ridicule ; 
 
 Pour chasser ce nuage et voir avec clarty 
 Que rhomme n’est point fait pour la mechancete. 
 Consul tez, ycoutez pour juges, pour oracles, 
 
 Les hommes rassembiys ; voyez a nos spectacles, 
 Quand on point quelque trait de candour, de bonty,. 
 Ou brille en tout son jour la tendre humanity, 
 
 Tous les coeurs sont remplis d’une volupty pure, 
 
 Et c’est la qu’on entend le cri de la nature. 
 
 Le Mechanic Acte 4. sc. 4. 
 
122 
 
 ON PLAYS. 
 
 Ariste. Cleon. 
 
 A. Tout seroit expliqu^ si Ton cessoit de nuire, 
 Si la mechancete ne cherchoit a detruire. 
 
 C. Oh, bon ! quelle folie ! etes-vous de ces gens 
 Soup^onneux, ombrageux? croyez-vous aux me- 
 chans ? 
 
 Et realisez-vous cet etre imaginaire, 
 
 Ce petit prejuge, qui ne va qu’au vulgaire ? 
 
 Pour moi, je n’y crois pas : soit dit sans interet, 
 Tout le monde est mechant, et personne ne Test ; 
 On rc 9 oit, et Ton rend ; on est a-peu-pres quitte. 
 Parlez-vous des propos ? comme il n’est ni merite, 
 Ni gout, ni jugement qui ne soit contredit, 
 
 Que rien n’est vrai sur rien ; qu’importe ce qu’on 
 dit? 
 
 Tel sera mon h^ros, et tel sera le v6tre ; 
 
 L’aigle d’une maisonn’est qu’un sot dans une autre; 
 Je dis ici qu’ Eraste est un mauvais plaisant ; 
 
 Eh bien ! on dit ailleurs qu’ Eraste est amusant^ 
 
 Si vous parlez des faits et des tracasseries, 
 
 Je n’y vois, dans le fonds, que des plaisanteries ; 
 
 Et si vous attachez du crime a tout cela, 
 
 Beaucoup d’honn^tes gens sont de ces frippons-la. 
 L’agr^ment couvre tout, il rend tout legitime. ^ 
 Aujourd’hui dans le monde on ne connoit qu’un 
 crime, 
 
 C’est I’ennui: pour le fuir tousles moyens sont bons ; 
 Il gagneroit bientot les meilleures maisons, 
 
ON PLAYS. 
 
 123 
 
 Si Ton s’aimoit si fort ; ramusement circule 
 Par les preventions, les torts, le ridicule. 
 
 Au reste, chacun parle et fait comme il Tentend ; 
 Tout est mal, tout est bien ; tout le monde est con- 
 tent. 
 
 A. On n’a rien a r^pondre a de telles maximes: 
 Tout est indifferent pour les ames sublimes. 
 
 Le plaisir, dites-vous, y gagne ; en v^rit^, 
 
 Je n’ai vu que Tennui chez la m^chanc^te. 
 
 Ce jargon 4ternel de la froide ironie, 
 
 L’air de d^nigrement, Taigreur, la jalousie, 
 
 Ce ton myst^rieaux, ces petits mots sans fin, 
 Toujours avec un air qui voudroit tire fin ; 
 
 Ces indiscretions, ces rapports infideles, 
 
 Ces basses fausset^s, ces trahisons cruelles ; 
 
 Tout cela n’est-il-pas, k le bien definir, 
 
 L’image de la haine, et la mort du plaisir ? 
 
 Aussi ne voit on plus ou sont ces caracteres, 
 L’aisance, la franchise, et les plaisirs sinceres. 
 
 On est en garde, on doute enfin si Ton rira. 
 L’esprit qu’on veut avoir gate celui qu'on a. 
 
 De la joie et du coeur on perd Theureux langage 
 Pour Tabsurde talent d’un triste persifflage. 
 
 Acte 4. sc. 7* 
 
124 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 London, 1819, 
 
 Political Economy is an awful thing. It is 
 appalling to think that the Legislature is often 
 called upon to decide questions which involve 
 the immediate happiness, perhaps the very 
 existence, of millions of the people by the rules 
 of a science which changes from day to day. It 
 is not a matter of very urgent or pressing ne- 
 cessity to know, whether oxygen gets the better 
 of phlogiston, or chlorine is a better founded 
 name than oxy-muriatic acid. But it is of an- 
 other kind of importance to know whether a 
 silver currency, of a certain standard, will prove 
 a considerable benefit or certain ruin ; whether 
 an overflowing abundance of cheap foreign com 
 is a blessing or a curse to the nation which im- 
 ports it. Yet these are questions to be decided 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 125 
 
 by reference to the authority of men, who, 
 with all their talents, do not, I must confess, in- 
 spire me with perfect confidence. In the first 
 place, it is difficult to trust implicitly in men 
 who allow themselves to contradict the most sa- 
 cred principles of their own laws. Adam Smith, 
 for instance, thinks it would be right that every 
 gentleman should be forced, by taxation, to 
 keep a certain quantity of land in his own hands. 
 M. Say, another great authority in these mat- 
 ters, maintains, that it would be right for a go- 
 vernment to point out the districts in which 
 manufactures ought to be established. If it is 
 not easy to pay implicit deference to the autho- 
 rity of great political economists, it is also diffi- 
 cult to obtain a precise idea of what is the 
 object or the subject of their science. M. Say, 
 above quoted, tells us, in the beginning of his 
 book, that political economy, which, according 
 to him, ought to be called by some harder name, 
 comprehends all means of acquiring wealth, and 
 that a stock of learning or professional know- 
 ledge is as much capital as any other species of 
 wealth. Yet, soon afterwards, he falls into 
 common language, and speaks of Bologna as a 
 place of great learning, but no wealth. 
 
126 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 Next, there is nothing so various as the opi- 
 nions of political economists. Adam Smith 
 says, that the price of provisions regulates 
 wages ; Lord Lauderdale maintains, and sup- 
 ports his opinion by witnesses, that it has almost 
 no influence upon wages. Political economists, 
 in general, think there cannot be too much ca- 
 pital, or too great an increase of machinery. 
 M. Sismondi thinks capital may be too abund- 
 ant, and that machinery may starve the people. 
 These opinions may be knowledge in the mak- 
 ing, as Bacon finely calls the opinions of en- 
 lightened men, but, until it is made, one would 
 hesitate to stake the happiness of a nation upon 
 them. A very useless controversy was carried 
 on for a long period on the division of the 
 population into productive and unproductive 
 labourers. It seems, at last, to be agreed to 
 drop the distinction altogether, although, per- 
 haps, it was good for arrangement. 
 
 Another distinction, almost as vain, has 
 sprung up, respecting the modes of spending 
 wealth. The money which is spent on improv- 
 ing land or building cotton-mills, is supposed 
 to be laid out productively ; whilst that which 
 is spent on consumable articles, such as claret 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 127 
 
 or silk, is supposed to be wasted. But it 3is 
 quite evident, that when men have attained a 
 certain degree of wealth they will spend a 
 great part of it, at least, on objects of en- 
 joyment. Whether they will benefit their 
 country thereby, depends solely on the industry 
 of the working part of the community. If they 
 are indolent, and have no opportunities for ma- 
 nufactures, as in Spain, the consumption of 
 English muslins by the grandees will only cause 
 the cultivation of a few more grapes and olives. 
 If, as in England, the people are industrious, 
 the consumption of silk and claret, raisins and 
 brandy, will cause a fresh impulse to be given 
 to the manufacturers of cotton, yarn, and muslin, 
 cloth and hardware, and to the commerce and 
 trade of the country. In fact, in an industrious 
 country, nothing better can be desired than a 
 great taste for luxurious enjoyments amongst 
 the people ; but in a sluggish country, on the 
 other hand, the use of foreign luxuries is only 
 confined to a few, and probably displaces some 
 articles of domestic manufacture. And here I 
 have mentioned one of the great limits to the 
 science of political economy, which has been 
 
128 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 nearly overlooked by its preachers, — the cus- 
 toms, habits, and manner of nations. In 
 France, for instance, M. Say tells us, any tax 
 on hats diminishes the consumption of the ar- 
 ticle. His observation shows, that France, is 
 not a country of gi’eat wealth ; but proves nothing 
 as he intends it should, with respect to taxes. 
 An intelligent manufacturer, who travelled to as- 
 certain the state of manufactures in France, found 
 that the main difference between that country 
 and England was, that the English workmen 
 worked many more hours than the French. Va- 
 lencia and Catalonia, where the most absurd 
 restrictions are imposed on agriculture and trade, 
 are the most flourishing and most populous parts 
 of Spain. Here is a proof that habits of industry 
 and taste for enjo}Tnent are of more importance 
 than any laws of regulation. 
 
 But the great hmit to the science of political 
 economy, is the difficulty of collecting data suf- 
 ficient upon which to found any certain rules. 
 If all nations were at peace, if they had all the 
 same currency and the same weights and mea- 
 sures, and if all national prejudices were abolish- 
 ed, it would then be easy to legislate according 
 01 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 129 
 
 to theoretical principles. But the frequent occur- 
 rence of war, the complication of political inter- 
 ests, the existence of ancient treaties, and, above all , 
 the establishments of capital and of people which 
 have taken place, on the faith of the continuance 
 of old arrangements, often render a question of 
 political economy much more difficult to solve 
 than almost any problem in the range of mathe- 
 matics. For instance, it is very easy to say, 
 that the trade in corn ought to be free, like any 
 other trade, and that if your farmers cannot 
 grow corn so cheap as the foreign farmers, they 
 ought to let it alone. But when you are re- 
 quested to consider that every other trade is 
 restricted by duties, amounting in some cases to 
 a prohibition; when you are told that many 
 millions of capital have been laid out, and many 
 hundred thousands of people bred up and em- 
 ployed, on the presumption that the growth of 
 corn would continue to be protected by law; 
 when it is stated to you that the taxes are so 
 heavy in this country and so light in other 
 countries, that the effect of a free importation of 
 corn would be the ruin of all the farmers, the 
 conversion of the people entirely into manufac- 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 turers, and the consequent dependence of 
 the whole nation on the commercial laws, and 
 even the caprices of foreign nations, you must 
 own you have a knotty question to decide ; and, 
 besides all this, the question may be of such 
 urgency, that I have seen several thousands of 
 farmers utterly ruined, the manufacturers suf- 
 fering for want of the internal trade, two hun- 
 dred banks broken, and money change its value, 
 solely because a year was given to consider of 
 the arguments of the political economists. 
 
 Again, with respect to paper-money. Nothing 
 is so easy as to understand and to retail the 
 sound theory of a metallic and paper circula- 
 tion; nothing more safe than to confute the 
 narrow and absurd maxims of the Bank Direc- 
 tors; and, you would suppose, nothing more 
 obvious than the wisdom of restoring a paper 
 which has been depreciated, to its just value. 
 But when you reflect that this question is inti- 
 mately connected with another, namely, the 
 finances and the taxes of the country; when 
 you consider that the restoration of the cur- 
 rency adds so much per cent to the taxes, 
 already difficult to pay, and an equal per cent- 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 131 
 
 acre to the debt which almost overwhelms the 
 
 o 
 
 country even now : when you reflect, besides, 
 that the measure is not one of honesty, because 
 the alteration was made twenty years ago, and 
 debts both public and private have been con- 
 tracted in currency depreciated from five to 
 thirty per cent. ; it is then worth examining, 
 whether it will not be better to make your paper 
 payable in gold at its present value. By adopt- 
 ing the more theoretical measure, it is true you 
 give a striking example of your love of prin- 
 ciple, and of the danger of ever leaving it, but 
 at the same time you risk the lives of a great 
 portion of your people, you cramp trade, you 
 arrest commerce, and place yourself in new dif- 
 ficulties, when you ought to be making a vigour- 
 ous effort to cope at once with your own debt, 
 and the rival manufactures of other nations. In 
 plain terms, these questions involve matters of 
 more importance than those which merely regard 
 the wealth of nations ; I mean considerations 
 which affect their morals and their lives. It is 
 very true that England would sell more cotton, if 
 her manufacturers got cheap corn from Poland. 
 But a statesman is bound to think, whether it 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 would be better to have a million more people 
 in the manufacturing towns, at the certainty of 
 losing half a million of farmers and labourers : 
 and he must place before his eyes the picture of 
 that half million starved out of existence, drag- 
 ging along with them, for a time, the people 
 employed in every branch of industry which 
 depends upon their demand, clamorous for a 
 pittance, which the inflexible spirit of science 
 denies, shaking, perhaps, the pillars of the state, 
 and menacing the whole order of society, before 
 they suffer themselves to be extirpated by 
 famine. And here I may^'remark, that there is 
 no more lamentable consequence of the misap- 
 prehension and misapplication of theories of 
 political economy, than the opinions which pre- 
 vail concerning the relief of particular distress. 
 It is true, certainly, that keeping a number of 
 the people on charity diminishes the funds of 
 labour, and maintains a population which the 
 society cannot fairly support. But this is no 
 argument against relieving a portion of the 
 people who, owing to some accidental circum- 
 stance, are thrown into misery. If you do not 
 relieve them they must perish, and the popu- 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 133 
 
 lation is thus made adequate to the demand. 
 This is the mode of acting recommended ; and 
 I must say, it is to the full as cruel as the most 
 extensive plan of war and conquest. But then, 
 it is said, if you do relieve them, you are divert- 
 ing the funds of labour from the useful produc- 
 tive class to another class who make no return. 
 But this is not at all necessary. Suppose, for 
 instance, a landholder lays down two of his car- 
 riage horses, and gives the money to the poor, 
 who are at the moment distressed ; he lessens 
 the consumption of oats, and increases that of 
 wheat; nor is it just to say, that the price of 
 wheat is thereby increased to the active labourer. 
 The persons relieved are, by supposition, 
 already existing, and have been considered in 
 the general production of corn for the year ; and 
 it would be a cruel method, indeed, to allow 
 them to starve, that corn might fall to a lower 
 price than usual. Again, a manufacturer or 
 merchant may lay out in some particular year 
 of great distress the surplus of his profits in 
 charity; if that surplus was to have been 
 left to accumulate in the funds, or employed 
 
 in stock-jobbing speculations, surely it may be 
 K 3 
 
134 - 
 
 political ECONOMY. 
 
 diverted without much harm. But to come to 
 the most difficult case of all, let us suppose 
 his surplus profits were to be employed in fresh 
 enterprises of industry; in cleansing land, 
 in extending a manufactory, in building a ship ; 
 even in this case he may do no harm by sup- 
 plying the starving poor ; for, if they are al- 
 lowed to perish, and the industry of the country 
 increases, a new population will be required, 
 and, in the meantime, he will be obliged to pay 
 higher wages to those who are employed in his 
 trade or manufacture. I have said, if the in- 
 dustry of the country increases, for it must be 
 allowed Xhat all these reasonings apply only to 
 a flourishing people. If the country is falling 
 into decay, no power on earth can maintain the 
 population ; the hand of charity will gradually 
 close, and new objects will, at the same time, 
 present themselves for relief. But it is not the 
 distress of one year, or a stagnation, ovang to 
 some temporary cause, which should induce us 
 to allow a part of our people, and that, perhaps, 
 including some of our most industrious arti- 
 zans to die before our eyes — it is not humane, 
 it is not wise. 
 
POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 135 
 
 Another error, besides those which relate 
 to the objects and the certainty of this science, 
 is the extreme exaggeration of its importance 
 when taken alone. It has been asserted, that 
 political economy affords rules for making 
 nations happy, without disturbing their in- 
 ternal government, or awakening, like other 
 political disputes, the alarms of ministers and 
 kings. * But this notion tends only to produce 
 delusion. The very ignorance in which des- 
 potic kings and their counsellors habitually live, 
 prevents their attaining a true knowledge of the 
 points in dispute between M. Say and M. Sis- 
 mondi. It is only where there is a free press 
 and an open discussion, that any science relat- 
 ing to government can attract attention and 
 acquire importance. True it is, certainly, that 
 Charles IV. of Spain established a Professor- 
 ship of Political Economy at Salamanca; but 
 he soon rendered the appointment useless by 
 placing the government in the hands of the 
 Prince of the Peace, who, for a long time after 
 
 * See Stewart’s Life of Adam Smith, 
 K 4 
 
136 
 
 POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 he was First Minister, thought Prussia and 
 Russia were the same country. 
 
 But even if a Minister should arise in a des- 
 potic country, disposed to carry into practice 
 sound plans of political economy, what obstacles 
 would he not meet in the execution of his work ? 
 How would he deal with royal monopolies? 
 By what means could he tax the nobility and 
 clergy ? In what manner would he relieve the 
 people from corvees and other forced labour? 
 Manifestly and clearly only by making a popu- 
 lar revolution. 
 
 Let us not then be deceived by specious pro- 
 posals for a benevolent despotism. Govern- 
 ment will always be conducted for the benefit of 
 those who govern. If the few alone govern, the 
 interests of the few only will be provided for ; 
 if the people themselves have a share in the go- 
 vernment, the interests of the many will be con- 
 sulted. 
 
137 
 
 STATE OF THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 “ To sust£lin, to repair, to beautify this noble pile is a charge 
 intrusted principally to the nobility, and such gentlemen of 
 the kingdom, as are delegated by their country to parliament. 
 The protection , of The Liberty of Britain is a duty which 
 they owe to themselves who enjoy it ; to their ancestors who 
 transmitted it down ; and to their posterity, who will claim at 
 their hands this, the best birth-right, and noblest inheritance of 
 mankind.’* Blackstone. 
 
 There is nothing in human councils, or hu- 
 man institutions which stands still. The letter 
 of law is changed to suit the occasion of the 
 day, and the spirit of a government varies with 
 the disposition of the rulers who govern, and 
 the state of the people who are governed. It 
 behoves us, then, as members of a free com- 
 munity, priding ourselves upon our liberty, and 
 
138 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 enjoying, (still enjoying) the benefits of a more 
 unrestrained, more immediate, and more ge- 
 neral discussion of all our interests, than any 
 nation ever before possessed, to examine from 
 time to time the condition of our state vessel, 
 to overhaul her rigging, and to see that she 
 has not sprung a-leak upon the stormy voyages 
 she has undergone. But if any moment is 
 more peculiarly fit for such an enquiry, it is 
 when a long and eventful reign has come to 
 its melancholy termination ; and when a prince 
 ascends the throne, under the auspices of new 
 laws, which we are assured are better calculated 
 to protect legal and orderly freedom, than the 
 old and venerable barriers called Magna Charta, 
 and the Bill of Rights, which they are in- 
 tended to modify and supplant. Yet, let me 
 even here protest against being supposed to 
 say, that those laws of themselves form any 
 effectual controul upon our liberties ; — the 
 strength of Sampson is not to be subdued by 
 seven green withs ; the new bills are only to be 
 considered as steps in legislation, and as afford- 
 ing a measure of the temper, in which the 
 government of tliis counti7 is in future to be 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 139 
 
 conducted. The spirit which has been mani- 
 fested by the ministers and their supporters 
 in the session of November, 1819, forms one of 
 the most important data upon which we can 
 found an estimate of the vigour still remaining 
 in the English constitution, and must be al- 
 lowed to have an important place in a memorial 
 of what is past, and a prognostic of what is 
 to come. 
 
 Ill reckoning up what the crown has gained 
 upon liberty during this reign, we must take 
 into account its two wars, American and French^ 
 and the increase of public debt and establish- 
 ments. In estimating, on the other hand, what 
 new securities liberty has gained, we must 
 put into the balance Mr. Fox’s law of libel, 
 the resolution against general warrants, and 
 the vast increased weight of public opinion ; and 
 this again leads us to the alarms and restrictive 
 measures. 
 
 Whatever may have been the reasons, good 
 or bad, which induced the government of 
 this country to undertake a war against the in- 
 surgent colonies of America, and whatever may 
 have been the policy, or even the necessity 
 of entering into a contest with the French re- 
 
140 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 public, it cannot be denied that the object of 
 both these wars was to oppose popular revolu- 
 tion, and that their spirit was contrary to 
 popular principles. It may be said, indeed, 
 that both of these wars were supported by the 
 full concurrence of the people of this country. 
 But this objection takes away nothing from 
 the weight of the observation ivhich I wish to 
 make. It must be recollected, that a high- 
 spirited nation is easily incited to take arms ; 
 and, whether they do so, in a cause congenial 
 to freedom, depends entirely upon the occasion 
 which presents itself, and the use which is 
 made of it by those whose talents qualify them 
 to direct public opinion. Now the occasions 
 upon which both of the wars before alluded to, 
 arose, were the resistance of a people to its 
 government ; and the arguments adopted to in- 
 duce this country to declare war, were chiefly 
 an appeal to its insulted dignity, and to its 
 feelings of loyalty and piety. During a long 
 period of this reign, comprising more than half 
 of its extended duration, no attempts have been 
 wanting to inflame the public mind, daily 
 and hourly, against the rebellious subjects of 
 our own king, and against a neighbouring 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 141 
 
 nation, which deposed and executed its sove- 
 reign. It is impossible but that these invectives 
 must have had their effect, and it can create 
 surprise in no one that a country so excited, so 
 taught, and so inflamed, and that too by one 
 of the most eloquent writers, and one of the 
 most eloquent speakers whom England has 
 produced, should become at last extremely 
 alive to every supposed misdemeanour against 
 prerogative, and completely dull and insensible 
 to any violation of constitutional rights. Nor 
 will those escape blame in the page of history, 
 if any such there were, who led the people 
 on by exaggerated representations of facts ; 
 who inflamed their imagination by highly-co- 
 loured pictures of carnage and of murder, 
 and endeavoured to put a stop to internal 
 and civil bloodshed in one nation, by extend- 
 ing slaughter and desolation to every state 
 in Europe, and every region of the globe. 
 The example of the French Revolution, how- 
 ever, has had an influence still more direct 
 on the progress of our affairs: the French 
 Revolution is ascribed to every thing, and every 
 thing is ascribed to the French Revolution. If 
 
STATE OF THE 
 
 IVJ 
 
 a book is written containing new opinions on 
 subjects of philosophy and literature, we are 
 told to avoid them, for to Voltaire and to Rous- 
 seau is to be ascribed the French Revolution. 
 If an ignorant cobler harangues a ragged mob 
 in Smithfield, we are told that the state is in 
 danger, for the fury of a mob was the begin- 
 ning of the French Revolution. If there is 
 discontent in the manufacturing towns, we are 
 told that the discontent of the manufacturing* 
 towns in France was the great cause of the 
 French Revolution. Nay ; even if it is proposed 
 to allow a proprietor of land to shoot partridges 
 and hares on his own ground, we are told 
 that this would be to admit the doctrine of 
 natural rights, the source of all the evils of the 
 French Revolution. * 
 
 It is in vain that these absurd clamours 
 are repeatedly refuted; it is in vain that it is 
 shown that the French Revolution arose from 
 one simple cause, the discordance of a brave 
 and enlightened people, with a corrupt. 
 
 * See Parliamentary Debates, 1819. 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 143 
 
 bigoted, and despotic government; it is in 
 vain that the atrocities of the revolution are 
 shown to have been owing partly to the cruel 
 character of the people, and partly to the alarm 
 excited by foreign interference. 
 
 It is to no purpose that it is observed, that 
 no comparison can be drawn between a country 
 which had no constitution and no freedom; 
 and one which has a constitution, and where 
 the whole people are free. 
 
 The voice of reason is not listened to ; the 
 whole precedent is taken in the gross as a re- 
 ceipt in full for every bad law; for every 
 ancient abuse ; for maintaining error, and 
 applauding incapacity. It is as if a patient were 
 worn out with bad fare, and exhausted with 
 debility, and a physician should administer 
 copious bleedings, because his next-door neigh- 
 bour was dying of a pleurisy. 
 
 Whilst the power of the crown has been 
 thus increased by the doctrines, it has been 
 no less augmented by the burdens of the war. 
 After the peace of 1763, the interest of the 
 debt was about 4,600,OOOZ. : it is now 
 
 31,440,000/. exclusive of the sinking fund. 
 
144 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 The whole sum raised by taxes and loans did not 
 then exceed I45OOO5OOO/. : the whole sum now 
 raised yearly in taxes alone, is between 54 and 
 55,000,000/. But this sum is great, not only in 
 comparison of all which has preceded, but also 
 with reference to the entire wealth of the 
 country. The income-tax of ten per cent, pro- 
 duced no more than 14,000,000/. Now it is 
 easy to conceive how great a weight must be 
 added to government by the immense sum thus 
 collected from the people. This great revenue 
 is divided into three portions, each adding in 
 its vocation to the influence of the crown. 
 The first is the debt ; the second establishment ; 
 and the third office. With respect to the in- 
 fluence of the debt, it is greater than could at 
 first sight be supposed : a fundholder is entitled 
 to his dividend, it may be said, and has no obliga- 
 tion to any one : but this rule does not hold in 
 practice. The large fundholder imagines, that it 
 will be of advantage to him to be a friend of 
 government in any business that may take place 
 with respect to the financial measures of the 
 year, and even though the minister should dis- 
 courage such an expectation, it is impossible 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 145 
 
 to avoid a certain degree of coquetry. Besides, 
 is it not natural that the fundholders should look 
 on those as their friends, who have been the 
 causes of their prosperity, and the immediate 
 instruments of their wealth ? It was probably to 
 make friends to the Hanover succession and 
 to themselves, that the Whigs of 1695 promoted 
 the funding system. 
 
 The Pitt system of government, therefore, 
 which created three times as much funded pro- 
 perty as it found, and enabled a banking corpo- 
 ration to issue money of paper to any extent, 
 must have made itself friends in proportion. At 
 the same time, I by no means intend to deny 
 that many stout friends of freedom are to be 
 found amongst those who have acquired fortunes 
 by the loans. But they are the exception. 
 
 The feeling of attachment to the ministry is 
 carried still farther by the smaller fundholders ; 
 numbers of them imagine that their property 
 is contingent upon the permanence of a 
 first Lord of the Treasury ; and they have no 
 other notion of opposition than an attempt to 
 make a national bankruptcy. This idea certain- 
 ly prevails only among the very ignorant, who 
 L 
 
146 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 are, however, a body of great weight and 
 number. 
 
 The second application of the taxes is to 
 establishment. An establishment which in 1 790 
 cost four millions and a half, now costs up- 
 wards of eighteen; our troops are augmented 
 with the increase of our colonies ; and our forts 
 and governments are multiplied in every part 
 of the globe. 
 
 The third direction of the public money is 
 to maintain offices, and allowing that many re- 
 ductions have been made, there still remains 
 enough to create and support an independent, 
 unpopular, incapable administration. It has 
 been said, that the reduction of establishment 
 and offices diminishes the influence of the 
 crown. Supposing that at the moment it does 
 so ; yet an establishment once reduced, is on the 
 contrary a source of increased influence ; for per- 
 sons who have served will be much more anxious 
 to be appointed to a vacancy, than those who 
 have not already devoted themselves to a 
 profession. It is wonderful to observe, too, 
 with how much eagerness parents seek to em- 
 ploy their sons in a situation of perpetual 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION, 
 
 147 
 
 dependence; 10,000Z. a year may be made by 
 physic; 14,000/. a year by surgery; 18,000/. 
 a year by the property of a newspaper ; ITjOOO/. 
 a year by pulling out teeth; but rather than 
 all these, a prudent, steady man, will make his 
 first-born a clerk in a government office, where, 
 if he surpasses his fellows both in merit and 
 favour, he may, in time, receive 2000/. a year 
 at the will of a minister. 
 
 A class of offices which is more important, 
 perhaps, than all the rest, is that of persons 
 employed in the collection of the revenue ; up- 
 wards of four millions a year are spent in this 
 necessary service. Every year a large book is 
 presented to the house of Commons, containing 
 an account of the augmentation of salaries and 
 superannuations, chiefly in offices of this 
 description. These offices are thus disposed 
 of. The offices of the excise are generally 
 given by the commissioners of excise appoint- 
 ed by government, a few being reserved for the 
 patronage of the Treasury ; i. e. in other words 
 for members of the house of Commons. The 
 offices of the customs are entirely at the dis- 
 posal of the Treasury ; the offices of the stamp 
 L 2 
 
 / 
 
148 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 and post-offices are given by the Treasury, at 
 the recommendation of members of parliament, 
 voting voith government. The receivers-general of 
 the land-tax, whose poundage alone amounts to 
 about 78,000Z. a year, and whose balances 
 give as much more, are appointed at the re- 
 commendation of county members voting voith 
 government. In the instance of one county, 
 this office was lately divided into two, to in- 
 crease the patronage. Where the members for 
 the county both vote with opposition, the appoint- 
 ment is given to the person who the first lord 
 of the Treasury thinks ought to be member for 
 the county. Thus it is, that the influence of 
 the crown has not only been augmented, but 
 organized, and directed in a manner never be- 
 fore known. 
 
 Without entering on the question of reform, 
 I may here observe, how much the disciplined 
 corruption of the Treasury increases ministerial 
 influence in parliament. The produce of the 
 taxes descends in fertilising showers upon the 
 proprietors, the agents, and the members of 
 boroughs. For them there is a state lottery 
 which is all prizes ; the beautiful gradation of 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 149 
 
 ranks is observed there, in all its harmonious 
 proportions. The elector of a borough, or a 
 person he recommends, obtains a situation in 
 the customs; the attorney who acts for the 
 borough, disposes of a commission in the navy ; 
 the member of parliament obtains a place in 
 the Mediterranean for a near relation ; the pro- 
 prietor of two boroughs obtains a peerage in 
 perspective ; and the larger proprietor, followed 
 by his attendant members, shines in the sum- 
 mer of royal favour, with a garter, a regiment^ 
 an earldom, or a marquisate. 
 
 To all this we must add the old inevitable in-^ 
 fluence of the crown, in the professions of the 
 . church and the law. How few men there are 
 who can go through life in utter contempt of 
 the rewards, which are the proper objects 
 of their ambition ! How few who, contenting 
 themselves with deserving to be Bishops and 
 Chancellors, by their talents and industry, do not 
 also endeavour to become so by their servility ! 
 
 Let us now examine the opposite scale. Some 
 improvements in constitutional law have been 
 made during the late reign. The chief of these 
 L 3 
 
ISO 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 is undoubtedly the libel law of Mr. Fox, to 
 which the whole security of the free press is 
 owing: another is the declaration of the il- 
 legality of general warrants ; and a great step 
 was made by placing the civil list more entirely 
 under the controul of parliament, first at the 
 beginning of the reign, and then by Mr. Burke’s 
 bill. The act by which George III. at his 
 accession, restrained his successor from remov- 
 ing the judges, is also a benefit ; but so slight a 
 one as to be hardly worth mentioning. 
 
 The publication of the debates in parliament, 
 and the general diffusion of political know- 
 ledge, is on the other hand, a most important 
 change. The censor of the Roman republic, 
 however austere in the exercise of his functions, 
 could never equal in minuteness of enquiry, 
 or severity of rebuke, the unseen and irrespon- 
 sible public of the British Empire. What 
 statesman can hear with unshaken nerves, that 
 voice, which, beginning in the whispers of the 
 metropolis, rises into the loud tone of defiance, 
 within the walls of parliament, and is then 
 prolonged by means of the hundred mouths of the 
 
ENGLISH COT^STITUTION. 
 
 151 
 
 press, till its innumerable echoes rebound from 
 the shores of Cornwall, and the mountains of 
 Inverness ? What minister, however profligate in 
 his notions, does not, in his parliamentary lan- 
 guage, endeavour, in some degree, to conciliate the 
 uncorrupted mind of the multitude ? The effect 
 of this power is, however, very vaguely estimated, 
 when it is said that public opinion overbalances 
 any advantage the crown may derive from 
 the increase of the standing army, or the ex- 
 tension of its influence. In the first place, 
 this argument proves too much, for if public 
 opinion is a sufficient counterpoise to power, why 
 should we maintain the Habeas Corpus Act, or 
 Magna Charta, or continue the existence of 
 Parliament itself? But in the second place, in 
 the very statement of their argument, its pro- 
 pounders are guilty of a fallacy ; they take for 
 granted, that all the opinion which has been 
 admitted to a share of influence in the state, is 
 in a spirit of enquiry, and of controul upon 
 the government : but if we examine the matter 
 ever so little, we shall see that this is far 
 from being the case. Let us analyze this great 
 
 L 4 
 
152 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 compound called public opinion, and endeavour 
 to ascertain of what simple elements it consists. 
 
 From the Revolution to the beffinning of 
 the present reign, the government of this coun- 
 try, though popular in all its laws, and most 
 of its maxims, was, in its nature aristocratical. 
 The people, in the enjoyment of liberty, gave a 
 large and generous confidence to those who 
 had toiled and suffered to obtain it. But at the 
 beginning of the present reign, several new 
 parties arose, of which it will be sufficient to 
 mark the outlines. 
 
 One of these parties consisted of a new 
 body of courtiers and sycophants, who called 
 themselves the king^s friends : this tribe, which 
 has been powerfully described by Mr. Burke, 
 has been of late, somewhat broken and dis- 
 persed ; yet in a division last year in the House 
 of Commons, it mustered above sixty. These 
 men are of the true eastern race, equally 
 indignant if a single equerry is taken away 
 from the household of a king who never leaves 
 his chamber, or if a single concession is grant- 
 ed to a million of people starving with hunger.. 
 
 10 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 153 
 
 Another of these parties consisted of the old 
 and steady friends of Divine Right ; they 
 found it was no longer of any use to say “ that 
 they were for passive submission, and were 
 determined to resist the present dynasty.’’ They 
 found, like Cedric in a late novel, that it was 
 hopeless to contest the crown with a govern- 
 ment so firmly established ; but in changing the 
 objects of their attachment, they by no means 
 altered the nature, or the spirit of it. They 
 knelt to their new deities with all the fervour of 
 the superstition which had bound them to 
 their former idols : they were still always ready 
 to forget the interest of their country, to fol- 
 low the advantage, or the caprice of a single 
 family ; and it appeared by their conduct, that 
 they had only abjured the errors of the House 
 of Stuart, to embrace those of the House of 
 Brunswick. No wonder that their allegiance was 
 received with the most emphatic expressions of 
 gratitude. * • 
 
 See the preface to Hogg’s J^acobite songs, lately published. 
 
154 ^ 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 The third party consists of that large num- 
 ber of persons newly admitted by a little smat- 
 tering of newspaper reading, to a sight of the 
 political drama, who are carried away by the 
 vulgar feelings of admiration, for the trappings 
 of royalty; these persons are properly to be 
 reckoned amongst the mob. * 
 
 A fourth party, are those who are attached to 
 the laws, but are perpetual alarmists. They 
 would use the Constitution as some ladies do a 
 new gown, never put it on for fear it should 
 rain. They are continually reminding us of 
 the necessity of burying party animosities for the 
 sake of the country ; by which they mean, sus- 
 pending the laws, to quiet their own nerves. It 
 is upon these persons, especially, that the 
 very name of French Revolution has the great- 
 est effect ; they shut their eyes to every thing 
 that is encouraging, in order to fix their gaze 
 upon the low trash by which a few miserable in- 
 
 * Whenever this word occurs in our writings, it intends 
 persons without virtue, or sense, in all stations ; and many of 
 
 the highest rank are often meant by it.** 
 
 Tom Jon£s. 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 155 
 
 (iividuals gain a precarious livelihood. It is upon 
 these timid creatures also that the government 
 press has the most pernicious effect; nothing, it is 
 well known, is so likely to forward the sale of a 
 newspaper, as an account of any news that is 
 by the newsmen called bloody;’’ and now 
 that the war is over, there is no way of obtain- 
 ing such news, but by exaggerating the numbers 
 and the violence of public meetings. This ma- 
 noeuvre was practised to such an extent last 
 year, that the whole nation took the alarm, and 
 Englishmen were ready to cut each other’s 
 throats in the surmise of a plot. Unhappily, 
 in one instance, they went farther, and blood 
 was shed in civil commotion. May that day 
 never be repeated ! 
 
 We come now to the party, whom, for want 
 of any other name we may call the New Party. 
 They require a little further examination than 
 we have given to the others. 
 
 When education and wealth, and the public- 
 ation of the debates, brought the politics of the 
 day within the sphere of a larger portion of the 
 community than had hitherto attended to 
 
156 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 them, it was not to be expected that the 
 new observers should immediately understand 
 the movements of so complicated a machine as 
 the English Constitution. Except from the 
 newspapers, their only knowledge of its prin- 
 ciples was from books. Hence, according to their 
 several dispositions, they took up with axioms 
 wholly foreign to the practice of the best times. 
 The abettors of the Tories, for instance, main- 
 tained, that the prerogative entitled the king to 
 name his own ministers, and that whoever should 
 interfere, either with advice or remonstrance on 
 such a subject, would be almost guilty of trea- 
 son. The new allies of the Whigs, on the 
 other hand, thought that they were speaking 
 in the true spirit of the Constitution, when they 
 said that the House of Commons ought to be 
 entirely independent both of the Crown and the 
 House of Peers. To the Tory party these 
 maxims of their friends could not fail to be 
 agreeable, as they were quite reconcileable to 
 tlieir conduct, and, indeed, were, in many in- 
 stances, only a revival of their old doctrines, 
 which had been exploded by the Revolution of 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 157 
 
 1688. But some of the opinions of the new 
 popular party were by no means so favourable 
 to the Whigs : one or two instances of this may 
 be mentioned. The system of government be- 
 fore the accession of the present king, consisted 
 in uniting the most considerable interests of the 
 country with the greatest attention to the liber- 
 ties of the people. If then, at any time, a 
 popular leader rose up, whose measures were 
 sanctioned by public opinion, the party in 
 power showed themselves ready to coalesce with 
 him — a new vigour was infused into the admi- 
 nistration, and increased success crowned their 
 union. Thus, a coalition in 1 74^6 produced the 
 naval triumphs of the following year ; a coali- 
 tion in 1756 led to the brilliant triumphs of the 
 Seven Years’ War. But when, in 1783-4, 
 Mr. Fox formed a coalition to oppose the secret 
 intrigues of the court, a cry of shame !” re- 
 sounded from one end of the country to the other; 
 and when, again, he united himself to Lord 
 Grenville, in order to obtain a broad and libe- 
 ral administration, numbers of his partizans 
 grew cool in his cause, and sooner or later 
 
158 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 abandoned his party. The cause of this I con- 
 ceive not to consist entirely in the peculiar na- 
 ture of those coalitions, (although, perhaps the 
 former cannot be wholly justified;) but is also 
 partly to be attributed to the fact, that the 
 popular part of the nation has grown much 
 more critical in its observation of public 
 men. A coalition is, in fact, nothing more 
 than an oblivion of former differences, in 
 order to give effect to present agreement. With 
 respect to the past, it is surely laudable ; with 
 respect to the future, it is only an extension of 
 the principle of party. But the parties in the 
 nation love to think that the statesmen to whom 
 they are opposed, are not only wrong in con- 
 duct, but vicious in principle. A Foxite of 
 1797 looked upon Lord Grenville as a man en- 
 deavouring to ruin his country, that he might 
 not lose his place ; a Pittite of that day looked 
 upon Mr. Fox as risking revolutionary anarchy, 
 because he was excluded from office. These 
 are the exaggerations which prevail among per- 
 sons below the rank, or distant from the place 
 in which the leaders of political warfare are to 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 159 
 
 be found. No wonder that such persons should 
 be averse to any thing like a compromise. It 
 is as if in the last scene of Richard III. when 
 the audience eagerly expected Richard and 
 Richmond to fight their mortal combat, they 
 were to step forward and shake hands. 
 
 Let us now ask what is the consequence of this 
 general dislike of coalitions ? The first is, cer- 
 tainly, that a political leader, conscious of true 
 patriotism, will be cautious how he provokes a 
 clamour against him, which may deprive him of 
 the confidence of the people ; for the reliance on 
 its integrity is the only strength of a party in op- 
 position to the Court. The ultimate consequence 
 therefore is, that the Court having to fight its 
 adversaries single-handed, may, by a small 
 portion of that cunning, which is so common 
 in palaces, defeat every popular party and every 
 necessary measure, and place its own tools on 
 the ministerial bench. 
 
 Another demand of the popular part of the 
 nation is, that every political leader should, 
 from the beginning of his life to the end, pre- 
 serve the most rigid and undeviating consist- 
 
160 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 ency. Now, if this meant only, that he should 
 remain constant to the same great principles — 
 that having been an advocate for the Catholic 
 Emancipation, he should not turn against it — 
 that having been against the French war, he 
 should not of a sudden defend it — nothing, in 
 my mind, could be more just than to require 
 such consistency. The opposite would show a 
 want of honesty or want of firmness, either of 
 which would make a statesman unfit to be 
 trusted. But the consistency required is of an- 
 other and more difficult kind. Whatever 
 means a public man has recommended as fit to 
 be adopted in one state of the country, he is 
 required to promote at another^ and very dif- 
 ferent period ; whatever expressions he has let 
 drop in the heat of debate, imperfectly caught 
 up by a reporter in the gallery, he is required 
 to accept and adhere to as his creed: and if 
 ever he should be in power, he is to pay no at- 
 tention to the commands of prudence, he is to 
 give no time to smooth the obstacles which his 
 opponents in a long course of years have built 
 up ; but he is to rush headlong into a precipitate 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 161 
 
 course of action, under pain of being branded 
 as an apostate, and loaded with the reproach of 
 corruption, selfishness, and profligacy. It will 
 be very easy to give an instance of this from 
 recent history. When Mr. Fox came last into 
 power, his mind was fixed upon two things — 
 the Abolition of the Slave Trade — and Peace. 
 In order to accomplish these first ends of his am- 
 bition he endeavoured to form an administration 
 which the Court might not be inclined, or might 
 not be able, immediately to overthrow. But how 
 ill were his great views seconded by those who 
 professed to have in view the same objects with 
 himself! Every concession, however unimport- 
 ant in principle, which he made to his new col- 
 leagues, was seized upon with avidity as a proof 
 of degeneracy, and quoted against a whole life 
 of struggle. Nor did his enemies confine them- 
 selves to truth. At the risk of being thought 
 factious, he opposed a monument to Mr. Pitt ; 
 and not long after it was said that he supported 
 it. But the great clamour, as we may all re- 
 collect, was on the subject of the income tax. 
 It was found necessary to raise the income tax 
 to ten per cent. Mr. Fox declaring, that he 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 tliought it a very bad tax, but that his predeces- 
 sors had left him no choice. Was this true or 
 was it not ? If it was not, why has no one ever 
 attempted to show what other resources were 
 left for the administration ? If it was true, why 
 is Mr. Fox cruelly reviled for that which was 
 not his own doing ? If, indeed, he had persisted 
 in the war, without negociating for peace, and 
 had then proposed an income tax, he might 
 have been accused of inconsistency ; but if our 
 financial means had been overworked by the 
 war of the year before, there was then no alter- 
 native for Mr. Fox but to impose taxes of 
 which he disapproved ; or to say to the enemy. 
 Our resources are exhausted — we surren- 
 der at discretion.’’ Yet there is no reproach, 
 no invective, which has not been directed 
 against Mr. Fox for his supposed inconsist- 
 ency ! His memory has been pursued with 
 calumny so frequent, that even the best minds 
 have been tainted with prejudice against him ; 
 lind his name remains as a beacon for all 
 prudent men to avoid his generous devotion, 
 and a monument of the ingratitude of mankind 
 to those who endeavour to spare their lives or 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 168 
 
 promote their welfare. Let him who aspires to 
 the world’s power and the world’s favour, set 
 fire to the faggots of persecution, or give a loose 
 to the ambition of conquest ; let him tie down 
 the human race by superstition, or waste them 
 by the sword ; but if he wishes to be followed in 
 his lifetime, and adored after his death by the 
 greater portion of his country or of the globe, 
 let him beware how he pleads the cause of free- 
 dom, of toleration, of humanity, or of peace ! 
 
 It must be owned, certainly, that the severity 
 of public criticism checks some of those unprin- 
 cipled bargains and sudden turns which used 
 formerly to prevail among political parties. 
 Upon the whole, however, the political review 
 tends greatly to the advantage of the court. Not 
 only are its enemies divided and dispirited by 
 the shackles that are thrown upon them, but mi-- 
 nisters and courtiers are at the same time mainly 
 free from this restraint. Those who coalesce 
 with the men in power, those who are converts to 
 the treasury, find in the rewards of office a solid 
 compensation for any hooting they may under- 
 go. Whilst their adversaries are obliged to 
 suspend their attention to public affairs, in order 
 M 2 
 
164 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 to reconcile some discrepancy which appears 
 between their opinions on reform, at an interval 
 of twenty years, they who limit their humble 
 ambition to office, change their whole dress, 
 and appear with the great self-applause in an 
 entire new suit of principles, opinions, senti- 
 ments, and votes. The criticism of the public, 
 in the meantime, does not stop at individuals ; 
 party itself is the object of attack, and a re- 
 gular committee is formed in the capital, more 
 completely organized than any party ever was, 
 for the purpose of preaching against political 
 union. Nothing, of course, can be more agree- 
 able to the court party, with whom, indeed, 
 this language originated. If they could once 
 divide their opponents, and bring a third of 
 them to oppose rashly and inopportunely, and 
 another third to oppose weakly and seldom, 
 the court battle would be half gained. The 
 only solid hope of having any government car- 
 ried on would then rest on the ministry, and 
 however ingenious the objections that might be 
 made to their measures, no man could safely 
 say that he preferred the public views of 
 opposition to those of the ministry. The tools 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION, 165 
 
 of administration, are, therefore, most ready to 
 join in decrying party. They are still more 
 pleased when the self-styled reformers go a step 
 farther, and reprobate that very party which is 
 opposed to the Court. Down with the whigs !” 
 cries a trading politician at St. Stephen’s; 
 
 Down with the whigs !” echoes a political 
 tradesman from Charing Cross. Thus it is that 
 the ministers of the king, and the preceptors of 
 the multitude, unite in philippics against that 
 party to which the house of Brunswick owes its 
 crown, and the people its Bill of Rights. The 
 rise of this new body in the state, is, perhaps, 
 the most fortunate thing for the progress of the 
 crown which has occurred since the Revolution. 
 For whilst its members are active in propa- 
 gating all the old court echoes of the mischief 
 of party, the corruption of all public men, that 
 whigs are tories out of power, and tories whigs 
 in power ; another ministry would act just like 
 the present, and a hundred more such doc- 
 trines, they contain within themselves a prin- 
 ciple of destruction, which will prevent their 
 ever becoming really formidable to the go- 
 vernment. The creed which inculcates a 
 
 M 3 
 
166 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 distrust of all public men, applies as well 
 to their own leaders, as to those of other 
 parties. The experience of the last few years 
 has brought this to the test. Fortune had 
 favoured them, by giving them a leader whose 
 large possessions and gentlemanlike manners, 
 gave a dignity and importance to the part which 
 he took ; whilst his zealous hatred of injustice, 
 and sincere feeling for the people, atoned 
 with many friends of freedom for the eccentri- 
 cities and contradictions of his political opinions. 
 Instead of the hollow patriotism of Wilkes, 
 or the ingenious paradoxes of Horne Tooke, 
 the new party could boast that their leader 
 possessed the zeal of real conviction, and the 
 eloquence of the heart. But although every 
 pains were taken to bind him whom they had 
 brought into their snares, yet some of the 
 ablest of the party soon discovered that their 
 leader was as corrupt as the reviled and 
 persecuted whigs. And scarcely had this 
 fresh party been descried by our political 
 astronomers, before a new body broke off from 
 it, and began to run its course in a still more 
 irregular and eccentric orbit. If the new 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 167 
 
 party complained of the want of public spirit 
 among the whigs, and if a newer pretended to 
 expose the mock patriotism of the first sece- 
 ders, there still arose fresh sectaries, who did 
 not fail to declaim against the overbearing and 
 aristocratical insolence of the calvinistic church. 
 At the same time these renowned leaders, 
 whilst they made themselves weaker and 
 weaker by division, displayed every thing 
 which was wanton and inflammatory in lan- 
 guage, together with all that was feeble and 
 futile in conduct. Provocations to revolution 
 were not insinuated at secret clubs, and taught 
 by degrees to desperate and misguided follow- 
 ers, but openly proclaimed to mixed crowds, 
 composed of the idle and the curious, as well as 
 of the mischievous and the seditious. Like 
 other novelties, violence of language and avow- 
 als of rebellion had at first their attraction: but 
 the people soon began to be tired of hearing 
 the same speeches on the same subjects, and 
 with those who could find work, two or even one 
 shillings^ worth of meat and clothes, were soon 
 found to outweigh in value the froth and 
 frippery of a cobbling orator. But the blow 
 
 M 4f 
 
168 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 was struck : the speeches that had been made, 
 the resolutions that had been passed, and the 
 numbers that had been present at the scene, 
 formed intelligence sufficiently alarming to all 
 who suffered themselves to be alarmed ; and al- 
 though the real actors were as nothing when 
 opposed to the King, the house of Lords, the 
 house of Commons, the Army, the Navy, the 
 Clergy, the Bar, the Yeomanry, and the great 
 body of the commerce and trade of the coun- 
 try ; yet they were fully sufficient to excite a 
 temporary panic, and to force the concurrence 
 of great majorities in parliament to measures 
 totally opposite to the genius of the constitution. 
 
 Thus, the house of Commons more than once 
 has met, perfectly disposed to bear its part in 
 passing any measures of severe coercion, which 
 the ministers of the day thought fit to propose. 
 It was thus that in 1795 and in 1799, laws were 
 passed to prohibit public meetings without a suffi- 
 cient authority, and to prevent printing, unless 
 under certain regulations. In 1817 these mea- 
 sures were renewed, and in 1819 their severity 
 has been much increased. Public meetings in the 
 
 open air have been encumbered with so many 
 10 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 169 
 
 difficulties, and at the same time that they are 
 subjected to the restraints, have been declar- 
 ed to be so totally without the protection of the 
 law, that no prudent man will for the future 
 venture to a meeting out of doors, unless he is 
 assured that its object is sanctioned by autho- 
 rity, and that its language will be agreeable to 
 magisterial ears. This measure, as well as 
 others, has been supported by language as well 
 calculated to support the authority of the 
 Ottoman Porte, as that of the king of Great 
 Britain. Another law respecting the press has 
 this remarkable preamble. 
 
 Whereas pamphlets and printed papers 
 containing observations upon public events and 
 occurrences, tending to excite hatred and con- 
 tempt of the government and constitution of 
 these realms as by law established, and also 
 vilifying our Holy Religion, have lately been 
 published, in great numbers, and at very small 
 prices : and it is expedient that the same should 
 be restrained — 
 
 Now what is the principle which constitutes 
 the chief distinction of a free government ? Is 
 it that justice is duly observed between man 
 
170 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 and man ? No ; for under the despotic govern- 
 ment of Napoleon, justice, generally speaking, 
 was duly administered. Is it that there should 
 exist a senate or other assembly, formed for 
 the purpose of controlling the monarch ? No ; 
 for under the same Napoleon we have seen 
 such assemblies become, as under the Emperors 
 of Rome, the mere tool of the sovereign. The 
 ruling principle of freedom is this, that no 
 previous restraint is laid upon the actions, 
 speeches, or writings, of the members of the 
 state. The great argument of the advocates of 
 despotism is, that by strong previous restraint 
 all the tumults and disorders which might 
 arise from the unlimited discussion of public 
 events are prevented, and, at the same time, the 
 necessity of punishment is avoided. How com- 
 pletely this argument fails in practice, is proved 
 by the history of the Turkish monarchy, and 
 the late experience of Spain since the return of 
 Ferdinand. The argument of the friends of 
 liberty, on the other hand, is, that no security 
 for government can be so good as an easy 
 and ready vent for all the opinions, and all the 
 grievances of its subjects. By such means 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 171 
 
 those who are in authority may remove discon- 
 tent before it grows to disaffection, and consider 
 of a remedy before a grievance has become in- 
 curable. They acquire a knowledge of the designs 
 and a measure of the strength of every party in 
 the state. No secret plots disturb or arrest their 
 career ; the winds may blow, and the waves may 
 rise, but no hidden rocks and no lee-shore 
 threaten the existence of the navigator. But if 
 this is an advantage for the government, it is 
 a much greater one for the people. Every one 
 who has a mind to think, and a heart to feel, 
 must have the desire of knowing the dangers, 
 and of expressing his opinions on the policy of 
 his country : it is the natural feeling of man 
 who has risen above the rudeness of barbarism, 
 and has not suffered the debasement of cor- 
 ruption. — What is it which throws open to the 
 student all the works of ancient and modern 
 genius, and gives scope and vigour to his 
 thought ? Freedom of the Press. What is it 
 which ensures to the humble artizan a security 
 that the profits of his industry will be pro- 
 tected, and that no rank or office is shut to 
 his just ambition ? Personal Freedom. What 
 
172 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 is it that gives the injured citizen a right to be 
 heard by his country, and to make his com- 
 plaint ring in the ears of his oppressor ? Poli- 
 tical Freedom. But it were endless to tell 
 
 How from that sapphire fount the crisped brooks, 
 Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, 
 
 With mazy error under pendant shades 
 Run nectar, visiting each plant, and feed 
 Flow’rs worthy of Paradise ; which not nice art 
 In beds and curious knots, but nature boon 
 Pours forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain. 
 
 By the laws that I have mentioned, however, 
 and particularly by the preamble which I have 
 quoted, the principle of freedom is subverted, 
 and the ruling maxim of despotism is admitted. 
 
 The enactments, however, are far milder 
 than the declarations of the law ; any meeting 
 within doors may be held without observing 
 a single provision of the new act, and a petition 
 there agreed upon, may be signed by any 
 number of persons out of doors. Printing and 
 publishing are restrained most absurdly, it is 
 true, to persons of a certain property ; but still 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 173 
 
 it is not to be feared that any party, or any 
 opinion will want its advocate. This being the 
 state of things, it may be said, what have we 
 lost? Aye; but what have our adversaries 
 gained ? Why this, that upon any new occasion 
 of disaster and distress, the same violent lan- 
 guage will be used on the part of the disaffected, 
 and the ministers, on proposing new measures 
 of coercion, will say of the bills of 1819, as 
 one of them said the other day of the bills of 
 1799: See! the same principle has been 
 
 already introduced; the downfal of freedom 
 was then predicted as it is now, and yet liberty 
 is still in full vigour.’^ This they may say, 
 and they may repeat, until at length they propose 
 a veto on all public meetings, and a censorship on 
 the press. And the same speeches which were 
 made for the measures of the late session, 
 will serve equally well to prove the danger of 
 all petitioning, and the illegality of unlicensed 
 printing. 
 
 This result leads us to a consideration most 
 unfavourable to liberty. It has been observed, 
 with great truth, that the progress of the in- 
 fluence of the crown, is by slow and gradual 
 
174 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 advances, and that the resistance opposed by 
 the people, acts by sudden and occasional efforts. 
 Thus, we see, that after the means of patron- 
 age have ennabled the ministry to trench 
 one by one upon the best privileges of freedom, 
 a moment of distress produces enquiry, and, 
 by an unexpected blow the nation wins a tri- 
 umph which is equivalent to all that has been 
 gained by the Court. But this advantage is at 
 present entirely lost. Our enquiry on the in- 
 fluence of the Crown, leads us to the conclusion 
 that it is increasing rapidly and continually, and 
 that the murmurs which it excites from time to 
 time, serve only to produce new restrictions upon 
 liberty. Nor indeed can we ever expect that 
 it will be otherwise. Whilst every opinion may 
 be professed, some will always be found hos- 
 tile to religion and to monarchy ; and, whenever 
 the country is visited with distress, those 
 upon whom misfortune falls, will for a time 
 give a willing ear to any thing which pro- 
 fesses to be a plan for their relief. There are 
 two or three questions more, which I shall 
 endeavour shortly to dispatch. The first is, 
 what has hitherto been the influence of this pro- 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 175 
 
 gress upon the administration ? the second, 
 what is likely to be the final fate of the consti- 
 tution ? and the third, how this fate may best 
 be retarded ? 
 
 With respect to the first question, we may 
 observe, that from the accession of the late 
 king, the great object of the Court has been to 
 appoint its own ministers : but the very success 
 this scheme met with, has prevented that suc- 
 cess from being complete. 
 
 The Court, which led the nation into the 
 American war, and roused, unfortunately for 
 itself, a spirit of rancour against America, 
 showed itself incapable of conducting affairs 
 . with any tolerable management. The people 
 took the alarm, and resumed the sovereignty ; 
 but the Court by cunning and delay resisted 
 the blow 
 
 Mr. Pitt was half the choice of the Court, half 
 of the people; he sacrificed alternately to his 
 two patrons, and for the sake of power, was 
 willing to yield to prejudice in the closet, and 
 clamour in the country. He showed himself 
 bold and resolute indeed, when both the Court 
 and country were with him, and he gained a 
 
176 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 victory over the house of Commons of his 
 day, which showed to the king that a minister 
 need not always be made in Parliament. 
 Of his successors, the present ministers, 
 it is difficult at this moment to speak with 
 justice ; but without any needless harshness, it 
 may be observed, that their pretensions to power 
 are founded rather upon a knowledge of 
 business, and habits of office, than upon any 
 character for vigour and firmness as statesmen. 
 Upon the great questions which parliament is 
 bound to consider, they take no manly or de- 
 cisive course* Since the election of the last 
 parliament, they have agreed only upon two 
 measures, the propriety of imposing new bur- 
 dens upon the property, and the necessity of 
 laying fresh restrictions upon the liberty of the 
 subject. The keenest of their opponents in 
 vain tries to discover their line of policy ; the 
 most obsequious of their followers is astonished 
 at the readiness with which they submit to 
 modify their measures. Hence they have much 
 diminished the reverence for the king, tliat,’^ 
 according to Lord Clarendon, “ is the best 
 support of his royalty f and hence, we may 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 177 
 
 apply to them the observation of Cardinal de 
 Retz upon his opponent Mazarin. One of 
 the greatest evils,” he says, which the admi- 
 nistration of Cardinal Mazarin has done to the 
 monarchy, is the little attention he paid to keep- 
 ing up its dignity. The contempt in which 
 he held it succeeded, and this success is a still 
 greater misfortune than the former ; for it covers 
 and palliates the evils which will infallibly 
 happen, sooner or later, to the state, from the 
 habit which has been adopted.” Such in fact 
 is the government we have got ; a government, 
 like a boy’s hoop, driven first this way and 
 then that, over the stones and through the mire, 
 and sure to tumble down the first moment that 
 it is not beaten alonff. Whenever such a mi- 
 
 o 
 
 nistry shall fall, it will be entombed, not with 
 the curses, but with the sneers of the country ; 
 and at its entrance to the infernal regions, 
 it will meet with the fate of Pier Soderini, a 
 politician of its own stamp. 
 
 La notte che morl Pier Soderini 
 
 L'alma n’andd’ delf inferno alia bocca : 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 STATK OF THE 
 
 E Pluto le grid5 : anima sciocca ! 
 
 Ch'inferno ? va nel limbo dei bambini. * 
 
 With respect to the fate of the constitution, 
 it is somewhat difficult to say what it will be. 
 The progress which we have described above, 
 certainly tends directly to the euthanasia of 
 Mr. Hume ; but there are two circumstances of 
 no slight magnitude, which will obstruct the 
 final dissolution of our liberties. Both of these 
 have been described as forwarding the growth 
 of arbitrary power ; but they will both impede 
 its complete triumph. 
 
 The first is the national debt. However 
 well inclined the people may be to pay enor- 
 mous sums in taxes, for a government in which 
 they take a share, and to support wars of 
 their own choice, they will never submit to 
 pay so immense a tribute for a debt incurred by 
 their ancestors, to a king who admits them to 
 
 * This is an epigram by Machiavel, of which the following 
 is a translation. 
 
 The night that Piero Soderini died, 
 
 His soul went posting to the mouth of liell ; ^ 
 
 “ What? hell for you !*’ indignant Pluto cried ; 
 
 Go — and with brainless babes in limbo dwell.” 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 179 
 
 no portion of his power. The only thing 
 which reconciles the people to the payment of 
 sixty millions a year, is, the public discussion 
 of political affairs in the House of Commons, and 
 in the newspapers. 
 
 The second circumstance which stands in the 
 way of arbitrary power, is this very liberty of 
 discussion* There certainly exists in this coun- 
 try, a wery large mass of enlightened men, 
 who, without taking a decided part in her 
 political parties, entertain liberal ideas, and are 
 favourable to the progress of knowledge, and 
 all the improvements of civilised life. It is not 
 easy to conceive a nation passing from so 
 general a diffusion of the light of knowledge, to 
 the utter darkness of a despotism ; and this 
 cumstance formerly induced me to think tK# 
 British Constitution was immortal. 
 
 Nor do I yet despair of seeing the spirit of 
 our rights overcome the fears of our alarmists. 
 There are numbers, certainly, who, satisfied 
 with the quiet possession of their property, and 
 terrified with the example of the French 
 Revolution, are ready to surrender the remain- 
 der of the Constitution — 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 For what more oft in nations grown corrupt, 
 
 And by their vices brought to servitude, 
 
 Than to love bondage more than liberty; 
 Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty ? 
 
 The late elections, however, have shown that 
 the great body of the people are firmly 
 attached to their ancient laws. The next ques- 
 tion is, how the people, having that object in 
 view, may best be served ? Without presum- 
 ing to dictate on this subject, let us turn 
 to some words of Mr. Burke, written in the 
 year 1777? during the contest with America. 
 The time at which they appeared is thus de- 
 scribed by the same author : — Liberty is in 
 danger of being made unpopular to English- 
 men. The faults which gi'ow out of the 
 luxuriance of freedom, appear much more shock- 
 ing to us than the base vices which are generated 
 from the rankness of servitude. Accordingly, 
 the least resistance to power appears more 
 inexcusable in our eyes than the greatest abuses 
 of authority. All dread of a standing military 
 force is looked upon as a superstitious panic. 
 We are taught to believe that a desire of domi- 
 neering over our countrymen is love to our 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 181 
 
 country ; that those who hate civil war abet re- 
 bellion ; and that the amiable and conciliatory 
 virtues of lenity, moderation, and tenderness to 
 the privileges of those who depend on this king- 
 dom, are a sort of treason to the State.” At this 
 period, so momentous and so like the present, 
 let us see what was the advice of Mr. Burke : — 
 I am aware that the age is not what we all 
 wish. But I am sure, that the only means of 
 checking its precipitate degeneracy, is heartily 
 to concur with whatever is the best in our time ; 
 and to have some more correct standard of 
 judging what that best is, than the transient and 
 uncertain favour of a Court. If once we are 
 able to find, and can prevail on ourselves to 
 strengthen an union of such men, whatever acci- 
 dentally becomes indisposed to ill-exercised 
 power, even by the ordinary operation of human 
 passions, must join with that society ; and can- 
 not long be joined, without in some degree assi- 
 milating to it. Virtue will catch, as well as 
 vice, by contact, and the public stock of honest, 
 manly principle will daily accumulate. We are 
 not too nicely to scrutinize motives, as long as 
 action is irreproachable. It is enough (and for 
 N 3 
 
182 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 a worthy man^ perhaps, too much) to deal out 
 its infamy to convicted guilt and declared 
 apostacy. 
 
 This, gentlemen, has been, from the be- 
 ginning, the rule of my conduct ; and I mean to 
 continue it, as long as such a body as I have 
 described, can, by any possibility, be kept toge- 
 ther ; for I should think it the most dreadful of 
 all offences, not only towards the present gene- 
 ration, but to all the future, if I were to do any 
 thing which could make the minutest breach in 
 this great conservatory of free principles. Those 
 who, perhaps, have the same intentions, but are 
 separated by some little political animosities, 
 will, I hope, discern at last, how little conducive 
 it is, to any rational purpose, to lower its repu- 
 tation. For my part, gentlemen, from much 
 experience, from no little thinking, and from 
 comparing a great variety of things, I am tho- 
 roughly persuaded, that the last hope of pre- 
 serving the spirit of the English Constitution, 
 or of re -uniting the dissipated members of the 
 English race upon a common plan of tranquil- 
 lity and liberty, does entirely depend on their 
 firm and lasting union ; and, above all, on their 
 
ENGLISH CONSTITUTION. 
 
 183 
 
 keeping themselves from that despair, which is 
 so very apt to fall on those whom a violence 
 of character and a mixture of ambitious views, 
 do not support through a long, painful, and 
 unsuccessful struggle.” 
 
 Of all questions which can occur, there are 
 none so interesting as those which concern the 
 length and constitution of Parliament. Every 
 question which relates to it, the duration of 
 Parliament, non-resident freemen, diminishing 
 expense, corrupt boroughs, &c. &c. ought to be 
 brought into close and successive discussion. 
 Many improvements might, no doubt, be marie 
 without the slightest danger. But, in my 
 humble opinion, it would not be a wise measure 
 to divide the country into districts, each of 
 which is to return a member: such an alter«^ 
 ation would, in fact, be a complete change in 
 the form of government, and as such it is the 
 very catastrophe which I am anxious to avoid. 
 When we are obliged to look out for a new 
 Constitution, a more perfect one may, perhaps, 
 be devised. But, for one, I should wish to 
 avoid such a necessity, because, with all the 
 burthens of unnecessary wars, I still perceive 
 N 4 
 
184 
 
 STATE OF THE 
 
 more freedom, in combination with justice and 
 civilisation, in England, than I ever saw, heard, 
 or read of in any other country. This is, in fact, 
 the question to be decided ; for those who are 
 bent upon a Radical Reform contend, and must 
 contend, that we are suffering evils so great and 
 so far beyond common example, as fully to jus- 
 tify us in risking a change. This is a question 
 I shall not stop to argue now ; and, indeed, it 
 must be decided by the experience, knowledge, 
 and feeling, of each individual. 
 
 But I have another objection to dividing the 
 country into representing districts. In my 
 opinion, it is not wise to aim at perfection in 
 political reforms. Man was not made for it. 
 But in representation, above all other political 
 questions, perfection is impossible to reach. If, 
 then, we could have a majority of popular re- 
 presentatives in the House of Commons, ought 
 we not to be satisfied ? Ought we to chop off 
 Gatton, or Old Sarum, merely because it is an 
 imperfection, and destroys the symmetry of 
 ideal beauty ? If we could reduce the decayed 
 boroughs to form only a small portion of the 
 House of Commons, instead of being, as they 
 
ENGLISH constitution. 
 
 185 
 
 now are, the chief force of that assembly, should 
 we not have taken a sufficient security for good 
 government ? Ought not something to be con- 
 ceded for the sake of peace, with that large 
 body of men, who are ready to fight to extremity 
 against a theoretical plan of Reform ? 
 
 On the other hand, those who are so vio- 
 lently prejudiced against the very name of Re- 
 form, should consider how many of the people 
 are ready to serve under that banner ; and they 
 should beware how they increase those num- 
 bers, by protecting clear and convicted abuses 
 — Omnia dat quijusta negat. 
 
1S6 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 Tn former times there was no subject upon 
 which parents exercised a more complete autho- 
 rity over their children, than that of marriage. 
 The sons and daughters of a great family were 
 affianced when young, and a voluntary prefer- 
 ence of their betrothed, was as much out of the 
 question in this case, as in the choice of a dry 
 nurse or a tutor. Such is still the fashion in 
 many parts of the continent of Europe ; and in 
 some capitals, Florence especially, and one or 
 two more in Italy, young unmarried women are 
 never allowed to come into society, even for a ball, 
 which seems an amusement peculiarly adapted 
 to their age. But it is generally agreed by the 
 enlightened, that the English method is the 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 187 
 
 best, and that the married persons who have 
 had the opportunity of seeing the world when 
 single, and of making their own choice, assisted 
 only by the advice and the discernment of their 
 parents, are most likely to be happy. A farther 
 view of the state of society in England may tend 
 to throw some doubts upon the accuracy of this 
 opinion. 
 
 When a young man comes into the English 
 world, full of spirits, confidence, and latent love, 
 the manner in which he is received, depends en 
 tirely upon his future prospects. If he has no 
 fortune, nor likely to have any, he is scarcely 
 permitted to be agreeable in general convers- 
 ation, and any merit he may have, like good 
 actions performed by heathens, tends rather to 
 his detriment than otherwise. If, on the con- 
 trary, he is likely to enjoy a title and a fortune, 
 his society is courted in exact proportion to his 
 rank in the peerage, and the amount of Kis rent- 
 roll. If he succeeds to these advantages by an 
 unexpected death, the eyes of every mother in 
 the land take a new view of him. He no sooner 
 enters a ball-room, than their attention is at- 
 
188 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 tracted towards him; the side-glances, not of 
 fair virgins, but of hoary matrons, are directed 
 to him ; and he may plainly see, that he has 
 the choice of the whole slave-market. The 
 truly affectionate mother, especially, may be 
 seen making the most marked advances. She 
 waits with evident impatience, for the approach 
 of the fat deer in the herd. Her manner to all 
 others is short, abrupt, and uneasy ; she thinks 
 it enough to throw out a flattering word or two 
 to poor men of fashion. Her whole soul is 
 bent upon the riches and title of Curtius ; and 
 in order to obtain him there is no insolence, 
 no meanness, no exertion, no fatigue, no 
 duplicity, no falsehood, which is not welcome 
 and familiar to her maternal soul. The rest 
 of the world stand in a ring, whilst she is bait- 
 ing her hook with flattery, and throwing out 
 a net of pressing invitations. At last the 
 poor young man, persuaded that the daugh- 
 ter is in love with him, and that it would be 
 dishonourable in him to trifle with her affec- 
 tions, throws his person and his fortune at her 
 feet. The one is accepted for the sake of the 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 189 
 
 Other, and a marriage, without love, founded up- 
 on fraud and delusion, is considered by the 
 whole world as the happiest of all possible events. 
 Such is the difference between the old and the 
 new-fashioned way of making marriages. The 
 latter has substituted for authority and duty a 
 complete system of inveiglement, which begins 
 by making society a cattle fair, and produces in 
 the end deceit amongst girls, and suspicion in 
 young men. 
 
 The difference, in short, is nearly the same 
 as that which may be observed between 
 England and France, in the method of recruit- 
 ing the army. France obliges her subjects to 
 serve the state, or find a substitute. England, 
 who abhors such cruelty, permits her officers 
 to entice men into drunkenness, and persuade 
 them to sell their lives in a moment of in- 
 toxication. If we were to put this into an 
 allegory in the manner of the Spectator and 
 Tatler, we might say that Cupid, it appears, can 
 very seldom be persuaded to accompany Hy- 
 men. The god of marriage then, for want of 
 his companion, looks to the society of Plutus 
 and Minerva. But of late the goddess of wis- 
 
190 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 dom has left him, and he has been seen in 
 company with the god of Thieves, who has 
 been ordered by Jupiter to attend him. 
 
 It remains now to be considered, whether the 
 marriages thus formed, are happier than those 
 of our ancestors. The Moravians, it is well 
 known, are so persuaded that choice is not 
 the foundation on which to build in marriage, 
 that their marriages are all made by lot ; and 
 their teachers affirm, that their unions are as 
 happy as any in the world. This, it must be 
 allowed, although it may suit the condition of 
 that simple and devout people, would not be a 
 good institution for any nation whose manners are 
 so corrupt and licentious as those of all the na- 
 tions of Europe now are. A man, who is young 
 and handsome, would be much mortified if he 
 were to draw a vulgar ugly girl ; and a celebrated 
 beauty would enter into the state of matrimony, 
 without any great reverence for the seventh 
 commandment, if she were to draw lot thirty- 
 four, which turned out to be a superannuated 
 and ruined beau, instead of lot sixty, the youth 
 upon whom her heart was fixed. But laying 
 aside all thoughts of following the example of the 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 191 
 
 Moravians, it may be questioned, whether the 
 liberty of choice produces as much happiness 
 in marriage as might be supposed. Persons 
 of moderate fortune in the one sex, and moder- 
 ate beauty in the other, may, indeed, have 
 time to study the characters of those they would 
 wish to marry. But it is not so with a man 
 or a woman who is supposed to be a prize in 
 this great lottery. Sporus, who is what is called 
 in the world a great fortune, no sooner beheld the 
 fair Lisetta, than he was struck by her beauty. 
 Her mother no sooner perceived that he was 
 struck by her beauty, than she put every art in 
 practice to catch him: he was scarcely acquainted 
 when he found himself obliged to propose. After 
 he was married, upon getting a little better ac- 
 quainted with his wife, he found that she had a 
 temper much more wearing than what is usually 
 called bad ; a crying, whining tone upon every 
 thing that happens ; a continual complaint, even 
 of things done on purpose to please her; a 
 perpetual narrative of grievances that have 
 happened, or grievances that are to happen. In 
 short, poor Sporus is so worn out with his 
 wife, that he does nothing but repeat the obr 
 
192 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 servation of the old Scotch lady, that she 
 wondered where the ill wives came from, all 
 the lassies are so good humoured.” 
 
 What are we to expect, it may be asked, 
 from a system which teaches girls in the bloom 
 of their simplicity, to disguise all their feel- 
 ings ? to conceal the preference they have, and 
 pretend to that which they have not ? What 
 can be expected, but that having practised 
 deceit before marriage to procure a husband, 
 they should employ it afterwards to conceal a 
 lover ? No sooner is a young girl brought into 
 the world, than she is taught dissimulation, 
 avarice, ambition, and dishonest love : her pas- 
 sions are all awakened, and it is no wonder 
 if the husband should become the sufferer. 
 According to the old fashion, a girl went from 
 one duty to another, from obedience in the 
 house of her father, to obedience in the house 
 of her husband. As for love, quite as much 
 as is required for married people naturally fol- 
 lows marriage; as naturally as a vine grows 
 on the elm against which it is planted, does a 
 woman, who is fresh and innocent, love the 
 man to whose person and fortunes she has been 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 193 
 
 united. As for that violent, unjust, irritating, 
 magnifying passion usually called love, which 
 is the foundation of many of our present mar- 
 riages, it cannot be said to be a good basis for 
 happiness. After a year or two of possession 
 it is worn out, and then, when the husband be- 
 comes indifferent to his wife, or, perhaps, dis- 
 covers in her a thousand faults, which his short- 
 sighted passion had taken for beauties ; the wife, 
 on the other hand, accustomed to tenderness, 
 mortified at the decay of her power, and in 
 want of a strong attachment, is open to the first 
 assailant who offers the adoration she has ceased 
 to receive. 
 
 We loved and we loved, as well as we could ; 
 
 Till the love was loved out of us both ; 
 
 When pleasure is fled, marriage is dead, 
 
 For pleasure first made it an oath. 
 
 Such is the history of Henry and Julia. 
 But hitherto, we have only spoken of love 
 matches between persons of equal rank. Let us 
 now consider the case of a young heir who falls 
 in love with an apothecary’s daughter. It is 
 very well to say that love levels all ranks. Rank 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 has its revenge. These marriages generally 
 take one of two roads ; either the husband be- 
 comes the tyrant of his wife, and makes 
 amends for the honour he has renounced by 
 turning a companion into a slave ; or else the 
 wife detaches the husband from all his old con- 
 nexions and natural associates, to place him in 
 the society of her own relations and friends. 
 And it is impossible it should be otherwise. 
 Even love, strong as he is, cannot long hold by 
 the single anchor of beauty. A thousand ties 
 of similar friendships, of similar occupations, of 
 similar habits, and even of similar amusements, 
 are necessary to connect the man and woman 
 who are chained to each other for life. 
 
 From all these considerations, we should be 
 apt to conclude that the parental authority, 
 although abused in former times, is still of great 
 service in determining upon proper unions for 
 young persons. Whilst a lover is blind to 
 all the faults of his mistress, and converts her 
 one merit of beauty into every other — sense, 
 wit, temper, reading, just as it suits him ; whilst 
 he mistakes the readiness common to all women 
 for an uncommon share of penetration, and 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 195 
 
 construes the gracious air with which his mis- 
 tress hears him talk, into solidity of judgment 
 and sweetness of disposition; a father or a 
 mother can make use of their reason, and per- 
 ceive the want of sense or of temper, which 
 is totally invisible to an unexperienced and 
 partial observer. 
 
 However, it may be said that, after all, the 
 fact ought to be attended to more than any 
 reasoning on this subject, and that it is gene- 
 rally acknowledged, that the marriages of the 
 French and Italians are less solemnly observed 
 than those of the English. The reply to this 
 is, that the marriages on the Continent are not 
 unhappy, because they are formed by the pa- 
 rents, but for several other good reasons. The 
 chief reason is, that men marry in those coun- 
 tries before they are disposed to settle, or, to 
 use another English phrase, before they have 
 sown their wild oats.” The consequence is, 
 that, about a year after the marriage, the hus- 
 band betakes himself to the same company, and 
 the same amusements or vices, which an English 
 gentleman follows before he leaves school, and on 
 his first entrance into the world. The English 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 gentleman having early satiated himself with 
 the gross enjoyments of the senses, looks out for a 
 companion, and endeavours with all his power 
 to make his home comfortable. The foreign 
 husband, on the other hand, treating his wife 
 with neglect, or, perhaps worse, indulges his 
 volatile inclinations, and is quite satisfied with 
 having had the droit du seigneur. A fresh lover 
 is soon at hand, the wife looks around her, 
 sees the fashion to be in favour of lovers, and is 
 soon contented to follow the crowd. It can 
 scarcely be denied, that the virtue of women de- 
 pends upon the conduct of men. The Hippia 
 of Juvenal was the countrywoman of Lucretia 
 and Cornelia; but, in the mean time, the 
 Romans had conquered the world — 
 
 Saevior armis 
 
 Luxuria incubuit, victumque ulsciscitur orbem. 
 
 Dr. Johnson, it is true, maintained, that as 
 the great mischief to be feared, is the confusion 
 of progeny, adultery is a much less crime in a 
 man than in a woman ; and that a woman would 
 not be justified who should leave her husband. 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 197 
 
 because she had detected him in an intrigue 
 with her chambermaid. But this is a coarse 
 manner of judging : from the moment a wife 
 knows of her husband’s intrigues, all the delicacy, 
 all the sacredness of marriage is over. Her fear 
 of censure or her sense of religion may pre- 
 vent transgression ; but her heart is gone away 
 from her oath for ever. 
 
198 
 
 ORDERS OF KNIGHTHOOD. 
 
 Brussels, 1816. 
 
 Gtoing, yesterday, with Frimont into a coffee- 
 house in this city, he desired me to observe 
 four men v/ho were sitting at a table near us ; 
 they were talking very loud of the kings of Eu- 
 rope, and showed very small respect for those 
 wise sovereigns. According to them, one was 
 a tyrant, another a despot, a third an ungrateful 
 blockhead, and a fourth a swindler. Asto- 
 nished at such language, I asked an explanation. 
 
 The first,” says Frimont, whose eyes roll so 
 wildly, and who is now spitting on the floor, 
 was one of the main promoters of the resist- 
 ance to Bonaparte at Madrid : he was wound- 
 ed five times in the cause of Ferdinand, and 
 
ORDERS OF KNIGHTHOOD. 199 
 
 would now have been in his? prisons in chains 
 had he not made a timely escape; his crime 
 consisted in making a speech against the Inqui- 
 sition. The next is a Frenchman who dis- 
 tinguished himself in overturning Bonaparte 
 in 1815; he was rewarded and caressed 
 at first by the Bourbons, and remained quiet, 
 till he was banished by the amnesty law, for 
 his behaviour in 1 792. The next was active in 
 organising the societies in Prussia, which liber- 
 ated the country, and secured the throne to the 
 present king; but having been an object of 
 suspicion ever since, he is come here to publish 
 a work on the extinction of the military 
 spirit in Europe. The fourth is a hair-dresser, 
 who was a favourite of one of the deposed 
 Napoleon Queens.’’ 
 
 Well,” said I, “ it is then no wonder they do 
 not like their sovereigns ; but, see, there are a 
 party of gentlemen decorated with orders : 
 amongst them, as Christian knights, truth, con- 
 stancy, valour, and generosity may be expected 
 to prevail. Let us hear what they say.” — My 
 friend smiled ; but, heedless of him, I joined the 
 company, and heard the most enthusiastic 
 
200 
 
 ORDERS OF KNIGHTHOOD. 
 
 praises of all that every government had done, 
 was doing, or was going to do : they did not 
 even omit to speak of the Dey of Algiers with 
 the respect due to a crowned head ; and one of 
 them was very eloquent on the legitimate im- 
 perial race of China. My friend hinted to me 
 to ask their names ; accordingly I enquired of 
 my neighbour, the name of the gentleman sitting 
 opposite, who, no doubt, from his large star, 
 must be a person of merit. You are right,” 
 said he, in general, to suppose an order is the 
 reward of merit, as it is in my own case; 
 but that gentleman is a Genoese of great fortune, 
 who having been a sad democrat, left his party 
 in order to obtain that star from the King of 
 Sardinia.” I soon left this side of the table, 
 and went over to the Genoese, to enquire con- 
 cerning my former neighbour. “ Indeed,” said 
 he, he is a wretched fellow : he was former- 
 ly a man of science in France, and distinguished 
 for that kind of thing; but now he pretends 
 to live with gens comme il faut^ and in order 
 to do it, got that decoration for abusing Bona- 
 parte, who was a favourer of science, and 
 praising the Bourbons, who discourage it: I 
 
ORDERS OF KNIGHTHOOD. 
 
 201 
 
 wonder they give their orders to any but men 
 of rank and fortune.’^ 
 
 The next name I enquired, I was told The 
 gentleman is a member of the Belgian cham- 
 ber of deputies. He ran away at the battle of 
 Waterloo ; but obtained that cross for voting 
 in favour of Holland, against his native 
 country.” 
 
 Tired of such characters, I took up my hat — 
 
 You now see,” said my friend, as we were 
 going away, that orders are not always the 
 reward of merit, and even are sometimes given 
 to cover the want of it. We are apt to despise 
 the South-sea islanders for exchanging their pigs 
 and yams, for beads and red cloth; but you 
 see that, for stars and ribands, red, green, 
 and blue, the Europeans will truck their for- 
 tune, their character, and even their liberty.” 
 
202 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 I HAVE now spent nearly eighteen hundred 
 years upon the earth. It is a scene of suffer- 
 ing, and I have suffered — it is a scene of sin, 
 and I have sinned — but it is also the dwelling 
 of many virtues, and I have learnt to practise 
 them. 
 
 My first steps, from the period which I dare 
 not do more than hint at, were towards Rome; 
 my first wishes were to erase from my memory 
 the words which yet thrilled throughout my 
 whole frame. For this purpose, I wished to 
 plunge into a life of pleasure, and with health 
 and pleasure I imagined that which was meant 
 a^ a curse might prove a blessing. The words 
 deceived. Often have I envied the miserable 
 invalid, occupied in keeping unbroken the slen- 
 der thread of existence, and finding, in the 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 203 
 
 means of preserving life, life itself. Often have 
 I longed to be in the place of the fasting hermit, 
 who is consoled for all his privations by visions 
 of immortal bliss. 
 
 Yet, for some years, nay, for many years, in 
 the usual human sense of those words — but 1 
 am not human ; even my vocabulary is separat- 
 ed from mankind — for many years, then, I en- 
 joyed the sensual delights which women, and 
 luxury, and good cheer can give. But there 
 came a time when these enjoyments failed to 
 give joy. The object was the same, the power 
 the same, the indulgence the same ; but the zest 
 was gone, the sensation was blunted and felt 
 /HO more. I became, as an English author has 
 described the Duke of Buckingham, as impa- 
 tient of pleasure as other men are of misfor- 
 tune. I tried every alley and corner of 
 Armida’s garden, but the enchantment was fled. 
 For the truth is, that much of the pleasure en- 
 joyed by debauched men does not arise from the 
 mere gratification of the senses, but from the 
 excitement produced by novelty and by strange- 
 ness. It is for this that we see men of plea- 
 sure fly perpetually from one woman to an- 
 
204f 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Other ; it is for this that they live by night and 
 sleep by day. A farce-writer has hit their cha- 
 racter very well, when he makes a party of 
 young men give a guinea a-piece to the waiter, 
 just by way of surprising the rascal !” For the 
 sake of this excitement, too, young men of the 
 town used formerly to attack the watchman and 
 insult the police. But in this, as in every other 
 respect, rakes of a lower order have a prodi- 
 gious advantage. They issue from the gin- 
 house to rob every jeweller in the city, or to 
 commit a theft in the very presence of the of- 
 ficers of justice, or to conduct a burglary of un- 
 exampled difficulty. If success crowns their 
 enterprise they are at once enriched, applauded, 
 and caressed ; they celebrate their triumph with 
 their companions and their mistresses. They 
 play for glory, and life is their stake. These 
 reflections might have sufficed to disgust me 
 with pleasure. How could I feel a delight 
 which the lowest of caitiffs and of convicts 
 taste ill a much higher degree? And then, 
 how could I hope to find novelty and excite- 
 ment for ever in the same pursuit ? Perpetual 
 agitation has as much monotony as perpetual 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 205 
 
 repose. And then, again, how bitterly did I 
 feel the difference of my lot from that of other 
 men ! The most dissolute of mortals cannot 
 exhaust pleasure much faster than pleasure ex- 
 hausts him. If he do not fall a victim to his 
 disorders he changes his pursuits. His tired 
 body, neither fit for great efforts, nor capable 
 of strong excitement, leaves him the tranquil 
 sensuality of middle age, and sometimes allows 
 his mind to take the sovereignty and open to 
 him a new career, happier than the former. 
 For there is a happiness suited to each age, 
 which the wise man knows how to seize. He 
 is neither angry, that, at forty, he takes no plea- 
 sure in marbles ; nor does he repine at seventy, 
 that he can no longer take the same violent exer- 
 cise in fox-hunting. He follows the series of 
 nature, and as he becomes tired of one pleasure 
 nature opens to him another. But 1 — I was 
 still young, still vigorous, still ardent in all my 
 movements and desires ; the want still pained 
 my breast,’’ but became no source of pleasure 
 when redrest.” I was an outcast ; the highest 
 refinements were to me no luxury ; the gayest 
 carousals gave me no mirth; those who had 
 
206 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 affected my heart perished in the throng ; but 
 even before they fell, I could not enjoy the so- 
 lace of their society when the first flow of love 
 was past. My strength still prompted me to 
 action, and action made me sick of moving ; I 
 was restless, without being busy. 
 
 In this state I endeavoured to occupy myself 
 with books. I found great pleasure in my first 
 reading of the poets, and when I took up one of 
 fame, whom I had never read, I gazed upon 
 it with a delight which few other things have 
 given me. “ Here,” I said to myself, “ is a 
 coffer full of happy hours,” and my imagin- 
 ation exaggerated the beauties of the work I 
 was about to read, far beyond those of all I had 
 read before. With the same pleasure, too, I read 
 Archimedes and Euclid, and the astronomers of 
 the court of the Ptolemies. But these occupied 
 only a small part of my prolonged life. When 
 I had done with them, I began upon philo- 
 sophy, and could I have found an interest in the 
 works which treat of these subjects, I might long 
 have been entertained with the variety of argu- 
 ments, and the different theories on the same 
 question. But I was disgusted with the per- 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 207 
 
 versity which would persist in resting the 
 laws of mind and morals upon partial and 
 exaggerated views. One philosopher main- 
 tains, that we ought to throw oflE* the fetters 
 which, he says, are imposed upon us by 
 the wants of the body ; that we ought to raise 
 our minds to the contemplation of truth 
 and falsehood, good and evil, by making our- 
 selves totally independent of physical appetites. 
 He tells us, that wealth and grandeur, so far 
 from being objects of pursuit, are only sources 
 of unhappiness, ignorance, and vice. When 
 we have listened awhile to him, up starts an- 
 other sage, also calling himself philosopher, who 
 says, that we were made for pleasure, and counts 
 learning and virtue only as the pleasures of a 
 sensible and refined man. These two opinions 
 have divided the world : Socrates and Plato, 
 and the Christian Fathers, and the rigid di- 
 vines, and Taylor and Pascal, and the Hindoo 
 Saints, have adopted the one ; the followers of 
 Epicurus, and Montaigne, and Chesterfield, 
 have maintained the other. Now what man of 
 plain sense does not see that the truth lies be- 
 tween these opinions? that we may safely 
 
208 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 indulge in the pleasures that are given to the 
 indulgence of our appetites, provided we do it 
 so moderately as not to interfere with the per- 
 formance of justice and benevolence, and the 
 study of truth ? and, on the other hand, that 
 all considerations of pleasure, or even of a ge- 
 nerous impulse, must be thrown aside, when we 
 are called to the discharge of a moral duty ? 
 
 It is the same with nearly all the speculative 
 opinions upon which tho world have remained 
 long divided. For instance, predestination and 
 free will. If a man is predestined to be a villain, 
 and to suffer eternal torments for being so, the 
 Deity cannot be called, towards him at least, a 
 benevolent Being. If, on the other hand, man 
 has entire free will, that is to say, totally inde- 
 pendent of motives and circumstances, the Deity 
 can have no prescience. The probability is, 
 then (and in these things a probability is all we 
 can hope for), that man is chiefly determined by 
 certain circumstances of birth, countiy, and 
 education, which do not depend on his own 
 choice ; but that there is no single case in which 
 the individual may not, by exerting the powers 
 of his own mind, defeat all those circumsUmces. 
 
 9 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 209 
 
 The prescience of the Deity still remains ; but 
 is general, and not particular. We may sup* 
 pose God knowing what Alexander or Newton 
 has done, and what mankind will do.* I read 
 at this time the Phaedo of Plato ; but how in* 
 conclusive are the reasonings ! He wishes to 
 prove the immortality of the soul, and the first 
 of his two chief arguments is, that as the soul is 
 nobler than the body, and as the body lasts 
 some time after death, the soul must last much 
 longer. But what has this to do with it ? The 
 body lasts, not as body, for it has none of the 
 functions of a body, but as a part of inert, in- 
 animate matter. Would it not have been more 
 rational to say, it was probable that the 
 body, which is- of baser stuff, should be convert- 
 ed into other substances ; and that the soul, 
 which is totally unlike the body, should have a 
 destiny totally different? Nor is the answer 
 which Socrates gives to his objector just. The 
 objector says, The harmony of a lyre is much 
 nobler than the wood and strings ; yet it would 
 not be just to say, when the lyre is broken that 
 
 * ‘‘ It is impossible but that offences must come, but woe to 
 him through whom they come.” 
 
 P 
 
210 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 because the wood and strings remain, the har» 
 mony must live much longer.” Socrates 
 answers this, by a long story of the lyre pro- 
 ducing discord, as well as harmony; but he 
 only clenches the objection ; for the soul also has 
 its discord as well as its harmony. If Crites had 
 said the music of the lyre, instead of its harmony, 
 his objection would have been unanswered. 
 The true answer to his objection, however, is, 
 that music and harmony are merely sounds 
 made by wood and strings, when considered 
 with respect to the lyre ; and that their beauty 
 and nobleness are derived entirely from our 
 minds. The second great argument of Socrates 
 is, that as the notion of equality must always 
 go along with the number two, so the notion of 
 life must always go along with the notion of the 
 soul. And that which has always life is im- 
 mortal, and what is immortal is indestructible. 
 Now, it is very true, that life and the soul 
 are always seen together ; but so are life and 
 the beating of the pulse : and it is one and the 
 same thing to say his pulse beats, and he lives ; 
 therefore by this argument the beating of the 
 pulse is immortal. 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 211 
 
 Yet I perceived in the words of Socrates, as 
 reported by Plato, many sublime truths; and 
 their being mixed with such erroneous reason- 
 ing, in the wisest of Grecian sages, went far to 
 convince me of the necessity of Revelation. 
 
 I was now sick of my knowledge, or rather of 
 my own ignorance and that of all the world; 
 when one day my attention was called by a wo- 
 man, still young, but with premature age in 
 her features, who stopped me, to beg relief. I 
 turned from her several times, when at last 
 she said bitterly, Sir, you are the cause.” I 
 looked at her and stopt involuntarily ; she 
 begged my pardon with tears ; and when I told 
 her to proceed, she told a tale which drove 
 a knife into my heart. She had been a young 
 and happy wife, when a procuress had em- 
 ployed all her arts to seduce her for my pleasures. 
 She succeeded but too well; I paid the mo- 
 ney and thought no more of it ; but she, first 
 won by the demon of avarice, and then given 
 up to the demon of lust, went from frailty 
 to vice, till she had ruined herself and all her 
 family. Her husband was dead ; her children 
 starving. I relieved their necessities ; the poor 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 woman again flourished, and lived to repair 
 her faults. The attention which this incident 
 roused, and the pleasure which the result afford- 
 ed, discovered to me a new vein of pleasures 
 which I flattered myself were purer, and less 
 disturbed than any I had ever felt. From this 
 time I entered upon a fresh career; I open- 
 ed the prison to the debtor ; sent physicians and 
 medicines to the sick ; and gave food and money 
 to the indigent. This occupation for some time 
 relieved the tedium and irksomeness of my long 
 pilgrimage. But my bounty, bestowed with- 
 out discrimination, and guided only by feeling, 
 was often barren of good, and sometimes not 
 unproductive of evil. My hand often yielded 
 to importunity the relief which should have 
 been given to merit concealed from sight, and 
 indigence blushing to be known. My alms, 
 directed by indolence, were often given to idle- 
 ness ; and rude profligacy obtained what was 
 due to industrious virtue. The effects, instead 
 of raising and swelling my heart, as at first, 
 were often^painful and embarrassing. One, whom 
 I had relieved, as I thought, from the depth 
 of poverty, 'and who came every day to utter 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 213 
 
 his gratitude and receive fresh benefits, turned 
 out an impostor, and finished, by robbing my 
 house. Some prisoners, to whom I had given 
 too large a sum of money, bought arms, with 
 which they murdered their keeper, and after- 
 wards set the whole town of Rome in alarm. 
 Every day revealed to me a thousand ungrate- 
 ful returns, and misapplied benefits, bringing 
 me at the same time as many new applications. 
 I grew weary of it. The title of the Benevolent, 
 given me by the people, which had at first 
 pleased and flattered me, grew nauseous to my 
 ear. 1 left the place, and went, or rather 
 flew to a country of barbarians. There I tossed 
 and tormented myself, till better thoughts 
 came into my head. I perceived that feeling, 
 without judgment, is an unsafe guide. I passed 
 a severe censure on myself; I said, that to 
 throw money to the right and left, without en- 
 quiry, was the mere indulgence of a selfish 
 lust of praise. I held no humanity real, 
 which did not walk between discretion and 
 exertion. Benevolence, to be useful, should be 
 wise and pains-taking ; nor is it even then a vir- 
 tue, which is all-sufficient. A man may be cha- 
 p 3 
 
2145 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 ritable to the poor, without repressing any of 
 his passions, without controuling any of his 
 vices, and even with a full indulgence of hatred 
 to his rivals, and profligacy in his own con- 
 duct. He alone who has combated with bad 
 dispositions, has the right to speak of the tri- 
 umph of virtue. — Enough of this ; I am not 
 going to pronounce my own panegyric. The 
 following extracts from my journal will tell my 
 story faithfully. 
 
 ROME. 
 
 How magnificent is the city of Rome. Its 
 splendour for a moment dazzled my senses, and 
 benumbed my grief; but it has quickly re- 
 turned with increased pain. The thousands 
 of human beings whom I see every moment 
 of the day, seem as strange to me as the flies 
 and the birds. I am not a passenger in the 
 same ship : I am worse than a stranger. I wish 
 them aU struck with the same judgment as 
 myself; I wish the world a desert, every one 
 of its cities a Carthage, and every Roman citizen 
 a Marius — yet I bear the Romans no ill will ; 
 they have conquered, they have triumphed; 
 
THE WANDERING JEWi 
 
 215 
 
 they flourish and enjoy. — I hate the triumphant 
 and the prosperous — yet they are vicious and 
 corrupt : in that I rejoice ; their manners may 
 afford me pleasure and satisfaction. 
 
 KaL Jan, — I have found an infinite satis- 
 faction in observing the manners of the women. 
 They are not here, as in Athens, confined to 
 a separate part of the house, and suffered to 
 see no men. They are allowed a free com- 
 merce with their acquaintances, and form a 
 part of every polished society. By as much 
 as this tended to improve and raise their minds, 
 whilst the ancient simplicity remained, by so 
 much it has tended to degrade them, now that 
 the whole people has degenerated. For the 
 women, forming the light and delicate surface 
 of society, are more easily infected by any change 
 in morals and behaviour; their weakness af- 
 fords no arms against the introduction of a 
 vicious fashion : and as the corruption of the 
 best things is the worst of all, so female modesty 
 and purity, once undermined, there ensues the 
 grossest abandonment of duty, and the most 
 open violation of decency. An instance occurs 
 just now to my mind : — Hippia the wife of 
 p 4 
 
216 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Fabricius Vejento, a senator, forgetting all the 
 proprieties of her sex, in the lust of an ignoble 
 attachment, has gone to Africa in the train 
 of a gladiator. But I could mention a thousand 
 such instances ; even the commonest brothels 
 are frequented by women of the highest rank in 
 Rome. The gay lovers, or rather libertines 
 of Rome, make no scruple, during dinner, and 
 in the presence of company, of carrying on 
 their intercourse with their mistresses, in the 
 most indecent manner. Yet it is natural, and 
 even pardonable, that women should indulge a 
 passion which seems to be so essential a part of 
 their existence, that if I were asked to define a 
 w'oman, I should say, it is a creature that loves. 
 They have other vices that are more disgust- 
 ing, and which, therefore, I delight more in 
 seeing them practise. For example, there is 
 not a noble wife in Rome that goes to dinner 
 till she has taken her wdne emetic, and prepared 
 herself an appetite by means that w^ould take it 
 away from the daughter of a ploughman. 
 
 I lately saw an instance of the manner, that 
 even the youngest and most innocent are pre- 
 pared to bear the sight, even of the greatest 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 217 
 
 crimes. I was present, by the favour of a 
 freedmari, at a feast of Nero. Britannicus, the 
 son of Claudius, was sitting as is usual, at a 
 smaller table opposite to the Emperor. An 
 officer, appointed for the purpose, tasted all 
 his victuals: he called for drink — it was too 
 hot; a slave poured in a cooler liquor; that 
 liquor must have contained poison, for he had 
 scarcely put it to his lips again, when he fell 
 back dead. * Those who were sitting by got 
 up in horror; but Octavia, his own sister, 
 though yet young, was able to compose her 
 countenance; and when Nero declared it was 
 only a fit, the gaiety of the feast was resumed. 
 
 It is a natural consequence of the total 
 worthlessness of their women, that the poets 
 who write love verses should be much at a loss 
 what to say. Propertius, though a very pretty 
 writer, falls into great inconsistencies in trying 
 to paint the idol of his imagination with the 
 features of his real mistress. In one elegy he 
 denies her permission to kiss even her mother, 
 that he may not be jealous ; whilst in others 
 
 ^ Tac. Ann. lib. xiii. c. 16 . 
 
218 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 he owns that she cannot be constant three days, 
 and that he has no sooner left Rome, than 
 her bed is occupied by another. 
 
 * * * # * * 
 
 I supped yesterday with Atticus. As he is 
 an idle and luxurious man, he supped at an 
 earlier hour than other people. Every thing was 
 in a magnificent stile. Having previously bathed 
 and anointed, we lay down about three o’clock 
 on beds of tortoise-shell, to a table of which 
 the support was ivory. Each guest was crown- 
 ed with a garland of roses, and the ceiling 
 was so contrived as to open from time to time, 
 and let fall showers of perfume upon the room. 
 There was a great profusion of sow’s belly, 
 and thrushes, and phaenicopterus, and many of 
 the dishes were deliciously prepared with honey. 
 The liver of a goose, however, dressed with 
 mulsus, milk, and fig, was the best dish I tasted. 
 Yet it moved even my pity, to see a poor 
 friend of the family to whom the good dishes 
 were never offered : he had not even the good 
 bread which was put to more favoured guests, 
 and happening by chance to taste his wine, I 
 found it execrable. The best part of his din- 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 219 
 
 ner consisted of a kind of bad crab. I wonder 
 what should induce him to come. The con- 
 versation certainly could offer no inducement ; 
 it was in the usual stile of this great aristocracy, 
 stately, correct, and dull. The dinner was as 
 barren of ideas, as it was copious in dishes. At 
 long pauses, and in short phrases, a few words 
 were said upon these last; as, ^‘This turbot 
 is excellent.’’ — Very good indeed.” ^^The wild 
 venison is very well drest” — I think it is.” — 
 Sometimes, too, a conversation of ten minutes 
 took place upon jewels, which all the company 
 understood ; but the subjects which alone seemed 
 to excite any interest, were wrestling and 
 wine. I have acquired much information on these 
 two subjects, and an indigestion. 
 
 I have been at another great dinner. There was 
 a Greek who talked much and with great inge- 
 nuity. I thought it very pleasant ; but after he 
 was gone, every one said that he was very 
 vulgar and impudent. It seems these Romans 
 like nothing but sound sense, and that only 
 in the Forum or the Senate. The hours of din- 
 ner they devote exclusively to eating, and 
 think their sense of tasting will be less fine, if 
 
220 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 they employ their attention on wit or anec- 
 dotes at the same time ; perhaps they are right. 
 % * * * * * 
 
 I was present lately at an entertainment 
 which promised very different fare from that 
 which I have described above. It was a sup- 
 per given by Lucan to Quintilian, Statius, 
 Juvenal, and other wits. Lucan is very rich, 
 and his supper was splendid ; but for amusement, 
 it afforded little. Every one seemed resolved not 
 to speak unless he could shine, and the con- 
 versation fell entirely into the hands of Paul- 
 linus, who, being a great talker, did nothing but 
 entertain us with an account of his journey to 
 Baiae, and the effects of the hot bath upon his 
 own constitution. Telesinus, who sate next 
 to me, said, in a low voice, If this man had 
 travelled over Asia and Africa, and was now 
 relating very curious things which he had seen 
 and heard, he would excite the envy and 
 hatred of the greater part of the company ; but 
 as he is a silly fellow, and only talks non- 
 sense, no one disputes with him the place of 
 orator of the table.” 
 
 Some one of the company was praising the 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 221 
 
 method of the rich men of Rome, of having a 
 farm adjoining their villas ; on which a young 
 man of the name of Tacitus said, Yes, it is 
 an admirable custom ; it puts one in mind, at 
 the same time, of the virtues of their ancestors 
 and their own vices.” 
 
 Upon the whole, the day passed disagreeably. 
 Quintilian was out of humour at being asked 
 to meet Juvenal, and Statius was evidently re- 
 volving in his mind a comparison between the 
 splendour of Lucan’s table, and the empty 
 honour which his public recitations of the The- 
 baid produce. I asked each of the guests 
 separately, his opinion of the Pharsalia, which 
 seems to me to contain more fine passages and 
 energetic thoughts, than any work of the day : 
 such as the comparison between Caesar and 
 Pompey ; the passage of the soul of Pompey 
 into those of Brutus and Cato, &c, See. 
 
 (Here follow more than a dozen quotations.) 
 No one, however, was of my opinion. One 
 said that Lucan was a very worthy man, but 
 knew nothing of poetry ; another, that his 
 taste was execrable ; a third, that all that was 
 good in him was in the first half of the first 
 
222 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 book ; and a fourth whispered in my ear, 
 that the story had been much better vers- 
 fied by a friend of his, whose poem had not 
 been fairly read through by any one of his 
 readers, but himself. 
 
 A FIRE. 
 
 Kal. Sextilesn — A fire has broken out which 
 threatens to destroy this immense town. I 
 was paying my respects to Flavius Sabinus, 
 who was taking his exercise in a carriage 
 under a covered portico, when an account was 
 brought us, of a violent fire that was con- 
 suming some houses on the Caelian hill. He 
 immediately threw himself from his carriage, 
 and we both ran to the spot ; for, as his house is 
 at the back of the Caelian, he reasonably 
 feared that it might be in danger. Upon 
 arriving there, we found that the fire had begun 
 in the Circus, and, catching some shops, had al- 
 ready been carried a great way by the wind. The 
 narrow streets, and high houses, afford a great 
 advantage to the flames. It was curious to see 
 the people who came out of these filthy 
 habitations ; many of them seemed not to have 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 223 
 
 seen the light of day for years ; their clothes 
 grew as it were to their skin, and their limbs, 
 unused to the weight of their bodies, scarcely 
 supported them; they turned their hollow 
 eyes on every side, as if uncertain where they 
 were and what had happened to them : yet I 
 observed that when they recovered their senses, 
 they were much more anxious about their rot- 
 ten moveables, than the senators for the safety 
 of their tables of gold and silver. But the very 
 poor had a more pressing care. Multitudes 
 were deprived on a sudden of their only means 
 of subsistence ; and some, despairing of succour, 
 threw themselves again into the flames from 
 which they had been rescued. The streets 
 were filled with children crying for their parents, 
 and old men blind and helpless from age. 
 Mok of these either mistaking the way by 
 which they could escape, were surrounded and 
 devoured by the flames, or overthrown and 
 trampled upon by a mob of ruffians, who were 
 searching for plunder. An old woman of 
 some fortune, was entirely deserted by her slaves 
 in the beginning of the tumult: she loaded 
 
'224* THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 herself with gold, and had already passed the 
 fire, when she was knocked down by some 
 of a gang of plunderers. I saw one of them, 
 after she had been stripped, throw her back 
 into the flames. In another part, a slave de- 
 voted his life to save the child of his master ; 
 he threw him into his mother’s arms, and, over- 
 come with the torture of his wound, ran 
 himself upon a sword. No aid was brought to 
 quench the flames. The soldiers of the city 
 guard ran about disguised with the mob, and 
 partook of the spoils. At intervals these 
 wretches gave a shout, as it were, of encourage- 
 ment, which formed a contrast with the cries of 
 women and children. When the fire reached 
 a great palace, the clamour was redoubled, 
 and some of the most unpopular patricians, so 
 far from getting aid against the fire, had the 
 misery of seeing lighted torches thrown into 
 their houses. They themselves fled in different 
 directions out of the town. Yet, in the midst 
 of all the clamour, as I was passing through a 
 quarter of the town remote from the fire, I 
 saw the people lying in the sun, and eating 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 225 
 
 their fried fish as if nothing had happened ; — 
 perhaps, to-morrow the same calamity will reach 
 their own dwellings. 
 
 Upon the whole, it was the most amusing 
 day I have passed in Rome. 
 
 15 . Idm. Nero came in from Antium just as 
 his own palace was taking fire ; he has ordered 
 his gardens to be thrown open to the people, 
 and temporary buildings to be erected. He 
 has even sent for furniture from Ostia, and 
 lowered the price of bread to a mere trifle : yet 
 an absurd rumour has spread amongst the 
 people, that he played the ‘^Fire of Troy, whilst 
 his own town was meeting the same fate. 
 
 23. It is now said that Nero set fire to 
 the city himself ; he has taken a prompt and de- 
 cisive resolution. It is necessary,’’ he said 
 to his freedman, to dispel this rumour, and 
 convince the people that I am ready to pu-*- 
 nish. The idle opinion they have taken up, 
 must be refuted by a great and public measure. 
 Let the Christians be condemned and put to 
 death immediately.” 
 
 24?. The order of the Emperor has been fully 
 executed ; I went to-day to glad my eyes with the 
 
 e 
 
226 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 sight. It was diverting to see some of the vic- 
 tims shut up in the skins of wild beasts, pursued 
 by dogs, and torn to pieces ; others were cruci- 
 fied, and I told them, as they groaned with pain, 
 that they ought to be satisfied, since they were 
 treated in the same manner as their God. As 
 the night approached, fires were kindled, and a 
 number of them thrown into the flames. The 
 people do not consider them as guilty, and 
 they are looked on with compassion ; but as it 
 was a dark night, and the fires were very splen- 
 did, a great multitude attended the spectacle. 
 I alone beheld their sufferings with real delight. 
 I did , not lose one of their cries, nor pass 
 unobserved one of their contortions ; and when 
 their bones were consumed, I scattered them 
 in the air, that none might preserve their re- 
 mains. Nero was there, and mixed in the 
 crowd in the disguise of a coachman. 
 
 It is astonishing to see the rapid and mag- 
 nificent creation of the new city. Of the 
 fourteen quarters into which old Rome was 
 divided, three were burnt to the ground, and 
 seven more reduced to ruins. Nero has shown 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 227 
 
 no small degree of judgment in his directions 
 for rebuilding the town. Each house is separate 
 and independent, forming what is called an 
 island. For every house built within a certain 
 time, of a kind of stone which is not affected by 
 fire, like the common tufo, the Emperor grants 
 a premium. He also engages to build the por- 
 ticoes in front of every house, from his own 
 funds : add to this, that the streets are broad, that 
 each house has a yard, and that water, is 
 brought to fixed places for the convenience of 
 extinguishing fires. 
 
 So much for the public ; but Nero has not 
 been less careful for, or less generous to himself. 
 He has built an immense palace, which con-^ 
 tains every luxury that a fertile imagination 
 could suggest to a sensual disposition. Gold, 
 and silver, and ivory, are the common materials 
 of the furniture. The columns of marble from 
 Alexandria, are, through a wantonness of de- 
 coration, incrusted with marble from Numidia. 
 The ceilings of the supper-rooms change with 
 every service, now exhibiting a face of glass, 
 and now of painting. But one is still more 
 surprised on going into the garden. Three of 
 
 e 2 
 
228 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 the seven bills of Rome are devoted to this 
 purpose. Here the trees are so planted as to 
 form in a short time an impenetrable shade; 
 there the ground is left open, and leaves a long 
 prospect of lakes, meadows, and temples. In 
 some parts are confined the beasts of the three 
 quarters of the globe ; in others the various 
 plumage of a thousand birds delight and daz- 
 zle the eyes. The magnificence of the baths is 
 indescribable. Even those in the city, built 
 for the use of the people, are adorned with 
 silver spouts, and enjoy the convenience of a 
 gi’ove, and a circus. I saw a common fellpw, 
 who had probably been active in the fire, 
 lounge out of the bath with this exclamation : 
 
 Some praise Romulus, for building the city ; 
 and some praise Augustus for beautifying it ; 
 but I say, Long live Nero for burning it.” 
 
 ) 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 As a spectator of life, I am often led to ob- 
 serve what makes men happy, whilst they who 
 are playing the game, seem scarcely ever to re- 
 flect on the causes of their pleasures and pains. 
 
 It appears to me, that if men were to consult 
 rationally their own interests, their pursuits 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 229 
 
 would always tend to something positive and 
 fixed. For I have observed, that those who 
 follow diligently a trade or a science, the results 
 of which can be weighed and measured, are 
 generally men of cheerful disposition and un- 
 reserved conversation ; whilst those whose hearts 
 are fixed upon the esteem of society, or public 
 reputation, are, for the most part, infected with 
 gloom in their solitude, and jealousy in their 
 commerce with the world. An instance of this 
 has occurred in my own street : — Publius Vir- 
 ginius kept one of the smallest wine-shops in 
 Rome, and was long in a state of great po- 
 verty : to make matters worse, as his neighbours 
 thought, he had married early in life ; but this 
 circumstance, though it narrowed his means, 
 quickened his industry. By great care and 
 frugality he accumulated a small sum of money, 
 with which he bought a larger shop, and laid 
 in a stock of better wine. His house acquired 
 great custom, partly from the merit of the owner, 
 but more from the superior excellence of his 
 commodity. Step by step he bought a vine- 
 yard, a villa, and, finally, a palace in Rome. 
 This man was never seen to be out of spirits : 
 S 3 
 
230 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 in the worst days of his poverty he always 
 said he knew what his best efforts could do, 
 and was willing and able to do it ; nor did he 
 ever sink under the event of untoward fortune : 
 he reckoned, justly, perhaps, that prudence 
 must in time gain the victory over chance. 
 
 His son Quintus is a very different man. 
 Inheriting from his father a large property, he 
 endeavoured, as much as possible, to forget 
 the obligation. He would fain have had it 
 believed, that the person to whose skill and 
 talents he was indebted for an independent for- 
 tune, was not the same Publius to whom he 
 owed his life and education, but some remote 
 ancestor, of whose history he knew nothing. 
 Not only did he show a want of gratitude and 
 right feeling hy this behaviour, but exposed 
 himself to general ridicule : it is become a matter 
 of diversion for all the idle patricians, to remark 
 the efforts he makes to push himself into their 
 society. In the forum, he is always squeezing 
 up to a judge, and whispering in his ear some 
 trifling piece of news. He returns to his house 
 with a greater number of clients, and is more 
 generous in the distribution of the sporlula, than 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 231 
 
 any one. His suppers are the most sumptuous 
 in Rome, and are attended by persons of the 
 greatest eminence, both for rank and talent. 
 Yet he is never satisfied with his situation. If 
 he can find nobody to play at the palla with 
 fiim, he thinks it is because he is the son of a 
 victualler. If Petronius Arbiter gives a sup- 
 per to which he is not invited, he thinks he is 
 losing ground in the world. If Gordian has 
 theatricals at his villa, and he is not one of the 
 company, he supposes that there is an inner 
 circle of patrician society, infinitely more select, 
 more refined, and more agreeable than that 
 in which he moves, from which he shall always 
 be excluded. Hence, his life is a series of 
 little vexations, and useless miseries : his inven- 
 tion is always on the rack to find a motive 
 for discontent, and the slightest word of raillery 
 is sufficient to poison the purest of his joys, 
 and outweigh a solid year of ostentatious parade. 
 
 I have made the same remark in contrasting 
 those who seek for fame as poets, and those 
 who seek for truth as men of science. The 
 poet, prowling in public libraries, and collecting 
 the breath of every blockhead who has a 
 o 4 
 
232 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW, 
 
 tongue, is mortified with the slightest hint of 
 censure, and trembles at the touch of a critic^s 
 pen. His whole wealth is in praise, and a sin- 
 gle word, the jest of a dinner, or the nonsense 
 of an idle party, levels him at once from the 
 highest prosperity to the utmost poverty. He 
 is always the — 
 
 Luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africura 
 
 Mercator metuens. 
 
 But the mathematician, or astronomical ob- 
 server, has his object before him, and when 
 he ascertains the truth, he finds a treasure of 
 which the world cannot rob him. He has all 
 the eagerness of pursuit, all the pleasure of dis- 
 covery; and he can enjoy alone and unseen, 
 the solution of a problem, which nature seemed 
 to have reserved as a secret for her wisest sons. 
 Even in fame he has a security, whilst men of 
 letters have only a chance, of immortality. 
 The laurels of the poet whom the age celebrates, 
 may in another century fade and fall from 
 his head ; but the labours of the man of science 
 form part of a pyramid, connected below with 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 233 
 
 the rudest discoveries of shepherd nations, and 
 supporting above the sublime apex which the 
 course of ages and the appearance of a Newton, 
 are necessary to complete. 
 
 * « # * # * 
 
 A battle has just taken place under the walls, 
 between the army of Vitellius, and that of Vespa- 
 sian. The people went out to see it as an amusing 
 sight, and applauded each party alternately as 
 they prevailed. The city was taken, but notwith- 
 standing the savage horrors of the scene, and 
 the smoke which yet rises from the ashes of the 
 Capitol, the inhabitants follow their occupations 
 and even their amusements as usual.* There 
 has at no time existed more licentiousness and 
 debauchery. The baths, and the theatres, are 
 all open ; I never expected to see man arrive to 
 such a pitch of magnanimity. This rabble 
 practise the best parts of the Stoic and Epicu- 
 rean philosophy : they are Stoics in disregarding 
 evil, and Epicureans in enjoying pleasure. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 Norice Oct^ — I have been to pass a few days at 
 the Tuscan villa of Pliny the younger. It is in a 
 
 « Tac. H. 1.5. 83. 
 
254 ? THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 pretty situation, with a very fine view of the 
 Apennines. As I approached it, I thought the 
 house beautiful, as it is all covered with vines, 
 which grow entirely over the roof : add to this a 
 very pretty fountain playing in the court, and 
 marble seats disposed here and there as conveni- 
 ence requires it ; I imagined I had at last escaped 
 from the kingdom of splendour, to that of taste. 
 But on approaching the house I saw, to my 
 sorrow, the box cut in the shapes of beasts 
 and birds, besides being occasionally carved out 
 into the letters of the owner’s name. How- 
 ever, the general arrangement is both pretty 
 and convenient. 
 
 Pliny’s way of life is singular, but not irra- 
 tional. In the morning he meditates in bed, 
 and dictates to a secretary. At this time, no 
 doubt, the thoughts are the clearest, though perr 
 haps not always the most vigorous. It is 
 when a man has been braced by air, and refresh- 
 ed by food, that his mind is most capable of 
 receiving, and emitting powerful ideas. But, to 
 continue — about ten o’clock we meet Pliny in 
 the scystus or cryptoporticus ; he then gets 
 into his carriage, and returns to take a short 
 sleep ; after this, he walks, and recites a Latin 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 235 
 
 or Greek oration, for the sake of digestion. 
 Exercise and the bath follow, and then to sup- 
 per about four o’clock. During supper a book 
 is read, and afterwards a comoedus or lyristes 
 heard. We then walk again; and this is the 
 hour for learned or familiar discussion. It is 
 a proof of what I before remarked, that Pliny’s 
 conversation at this time is raised to a tone far 
 above that which he attains in the compositions 
 at which he labours in the morning. These 
 are often puerile and tiresome ; exquisite in 
 style but trite in matter. For instance, there 
 is nothing at which he labours more than 
 his familiar letters. The other day he read us 
 one in which he asked the advice of his 
 friend Pompeius Saturninus, about the pub- 
 lication of an oration he had made when he 
 gave his library to his townsmen. He gives 
 invincible reasons, in my opinion, for not 
 making public a long discourse upon his own 
 munificence, and tells his friend how much 
 more the reward of virtue consists in conscience, 
 than in fame.* Yet he ends the whole with 
 an implicit deference to his friend’s judgment j 
 
 * Lib. I. c. 8. 
 
236 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 which can only imply, that he wants a sanction 
 to his vanity, which his own reason cannot 
 afford him. Indeed, he is a great coxcomb ; 
 he never does a generous thing, without turn- 
 ing a pretty phrase, and all his words and 
 actions, seem to be prepared as rough notes 
 for a panegyric on himself. Yet he is, after all, 
 a worthy man, and I like him for this, that 
 he does not give his freedmen bad wine, as a 
 great man I mentioned before; but the same 
 that he drinks himself. Besides, he never has 
 his slaves bound, and permits them to make 
 wills in favour of any they please in the house ; 
 saying, very truly, that the house in which they 
 serve, is their country and commonwealth. 
 
 Upon returning to Rome, I found a book 
 had appeared, which has long been anxiously 
 expected, — a history by Tacitus, beginning 
 from the time of Galba. Pliny told me, along 
 time ago, that Tacitus had asked, him to under- 
 take this history, but that he had requested, 
 and at length prevailed upon Tacitus to do it 
 himself. The appearance of the work has made 
 a great sensation ; and every one seems to be 
 violent, either for or against Tacitus, except 
 his friends. They say that they are greatly 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 237 
 
 disappointed ; that his style falls off very much 
 from that of the Life of Agricola, and of his 
 essay De Moribus Germanorum ; that the form 
 is neither that of a history, nor a treatise ; that 
 he has omitted what was most curious in the 
 lives and manners of the emperors, and made 
 unintelligible that which he has told; and that 
 it is clear, from the whole result, that he has 
 over-rated his talents, in supposing he could 
 write a work which would go down to posterity. 
 One of his particular friends, who whispered 
 this last remark in my ear, added, For my 
 part, I am very sorry for it; I think Cornelius 
 a man of very great talents for a short speech in 
 the senate, or a sharp saying on the forum, and if 
 he would take my advice, he would never take a 
 pen in his hand.” His enemies, on the contrary, 
 are all enraged at the success of his book. His 
 undisguised contempt for vice, whether it 
 shines in purple, or skulks in rags ; his impartial 
 estimate of the talents and achievements of 
 the men, who have made a figure on the theatre 
 of the world ; his powerful analysis of the moral 
 qualities of a selfish nobility, and a degraded’ 
 people, have excited in the breasts of many, an 
 animosity which is only more violent from not 
 
238 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 being entirely avowed. Many had hoped that 
 he would have aimed all the arrows in his 
 quiver, at the monsters who have governed 
 the empire : but they were not aware that a 
 genius so profound, must soon discover the 
 great political truth, that the vices of rulers are 
 but the counterpart of the vices of the people 
 governed. There must be cowardice and mean- 
 ness in a nation which long submits to the 
 authority of cruelty and corruption. Thus we 
 soon find Cornelius Tacitus, describing his 
 countrymen, as Homines qui nec totam servitu-- 
 tem^ nec totam libertatem pati possuntP And, 
 presently, we have not only the people, but 
 many of the knights and senators condemned 
 by the following sentence : Ignavissimus quis-^ 
 
 que^ et ut res docuit in periculo non ausurus^ 
 nimii verbis^ lingua feroces ; nemo scire^ et omnes 
 adjirmare : donee inopid veri et consensu erran- 
 tium victus^ sumpto thorace^ Galba^ 8^c. And a 
 few hours afterwards, when victory had declared 
 for Otho, — Alium crederes senatum^ aliumpo-^ 
 pulumj mere cuncti in castra^ anteire proximos, 
 certare cum prcBcurrentibiis^ increpare Galbam, 
 laudare militum judicium^ cxosculari Othonis 
 manum^ quantoque magis falsa ei ant quee fiebant^ 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 239 
 
 tantbplura facereP For my own part, I esteem 
 the history of Tacitus, as one of the greatest 
 productions of the human mind. Every event 
 which he draws rude from the pages of annal- 
 ists and chroniclers, becomes in his hands 
 an instructive lecture on human character ; and 
 a thousand* insignificant details are refined 
 into one short sentence, as much greater in 
 value as it is less in bulk than his original. 
 Some, nay many, faults are to be found. The 
 historian is too indignant with vice, to enter into 
 details which to future ages might be matter of 
 useful speculation ; and he works so much at a 
 story as often to cut away the whole narrative, 
 and leave nothing but the moral. But his 
 great defect is his style. By dint of study- 
 ing the ancients, and abhorring the moderns, 
 he has got an artificial and ambitious manner 
 of writing. That energy which Brutus and 
 Scipio displayed in action, he endeavours 
 to throw into metaphors, and antitheses; and 
 the puerile conceits of Seneca, and the orators 
 of the day, have been changed by him into 
 strong but fallacious epigrams. This taste has 
 led him at last to make an antithesis, where 
 
240 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 nothing but a plain fact was required. What 
 can be more useless, and indeed more false, 
 than the following turn ? Servius Galba iterum^ 
 P. Vinius comules inchoavere annum sibi ulti~ 
 mum^ reipubliccB prope supremumP His brevity 
 is also very often affected : thus, having de- 
 scribed the beginning of an insurrection, and the 
 sending of an army against the insurgents, he 
 drops the curtain with these words : Viso miliU 
 
 quiesr 
 
 They say he is writing another history which 
 is to begin from the death of Augustus. 
 
 ^ * * * * # 
 
 I promised Pliny, to make, one day, a jour- 
 nal of all that I should do from the hour I 
 rose, to that at which I went to bed. Yesterday 
 he required of me to perform my promise; 
 and here it is : — Six o’clock * : Got up * * 
 
 ******** 
 Went to attend the levee of Virginius Rufus: 
 a great many people there; he received us 
 
 * These hours are modern and not Roman. There have 
 evidently been erasures and corrections in the MSS. JEd, 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 241 
 
 very politely; they say he will again be consul : 
 Marcellus, who always used to speak ill of him, 
 has written a panegyric upon him. 
 
 Eight : — Went to the forum, by the side of 
 the litter of Virginius ; heard an uninteresting- 
 cause ; lounged about in the Forum amongst the 
 ' newsmongers. A report that the equestrian order 
 are to be deprived of the government of Egypt: 
 certainly no body of men forming the sub- 
 jects of a sovereign, were ever, before themselves, 
 the sovereigns of a great country; besides, 
 the knights being in fact merchants, govern ig- 
 norantly and selfishly. Heard a good story 
 of Regulus : he went to attend Aurelia upon 
 the occasion of her signing her will : he found 
 her drest in some very magnificent tunics ; 
 they pleased his fancy so much, that he insist- 
 ed upon her altering her will, to leave him 
 these tunics as a legacy. She complied, but 
 was so ill-natured as to get well. ^Vhat she 
 will think of his affection for her person, when 
 she reflects upon his conduct at that critical 
 time, is very doubtful. 
 
 Twelve o’clock : — Those about me ran away 
 in all directions, following some great man or 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Other, ill order to get the sportula. I went 
 home to dinner ; tried to settle with my host an 
 old account I have with him ; but he declar- 
 ed, that at twelve the business of the day was 
 over. 
 
 One o’clock : — Walked under the covered 
 portico of Nerva; many senators there in litters, 
 taking their sedentary exercise. Tired of this 
 gouty company, went to the Campus Martius ; 
 saw the young men shooting with arrows, 
 riding and playing at tennis ; — played for an 
 hour. 
 
 Three o’clock : — Went to the bath ; heard a 
 poet declaiming : he made so much noise that 
 Silius Italicus said, he had a mind to perform 
 a miracle ; and as Amphion had brought the 
 stones together, this poet was endeavouring to 
 separate them; in fact he made a bawling 
 which seemed as if it would crack the building. 
 
 Four o’clock : — Having put on my supper 
 garment, went to sup with Apicius, who is 
 worthy of his two namesakes. He had a red mul- 
 let of two pounds, which cost 4200 sestertii (525 
 francs), and wine of two or three hundred years 
 old, which cost 768 sestertii an ounce. 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 243 
 
 Amongst the guests, was an ill-looking fellow 
 from Tibur. He took away the garment which 
 Apicius gave him * ; and, not content with 
 sending several dishes away from table to his 
 wife and children, loaded himself with every 
 thing that was served, from the eggs to the 
 apples. I believe, also, I owe to him the loss 
 of my napkin, which my slave could no where 
 find to take back. 
 
 Between the courses, we played at dice, and 
 set to seriously as soon as supper was over. 
 I like play better than music : the latter soothes 
 the conscience for a moment; but the sting 
 soon returns ; the latter drives it out, and fills 
 its place with less racking emotion. Apicius 
 sent us away with rich presents. 
 
 ****** 
 Nothing can be more absurd than the praises 
 which are lavished on the judgment of Virgil. 
 The critic, having praised the invention of 
 Homer, wished to say something of Virgil by 
 way of antithesis. Had he said the execution of 
 Virgil, the point would have been as good and 
 
 * Each guest was presented with a robe, 
 R 2 
 
24?4f THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 the sense much better. Some critics too, have 
 found out that great art is shown in calling 
 jEneas Dux Trojanus when he goes into the 
 cave with Dido. But this is very weak, for it 
 would have been burlesque to say the pious 
 ^neas and Dido went into a cave together.’’ 
 And, with regard to propriety, what shall we 
 say to Eneas’s character of himself? — 
 
 Sum plus JEneas^ raptos qui ex hoste Penates, 
 
 * Classe veho mecum fama super cethera notus^ 
 
 And now let me say a few words on the 
 character of ^neas, who is, in fact, the subject 
 of the whole work. He is the hero of the poem, 
 and with his Trojans, not one of whom, except 
 himself, is the least remarkable, is the only 
 point of connection between the first and the 
 second part of the story. Yet, with this, he is not 
 only not interesting, but excites positive disgust. 
 He arrives at Carthage, where he is received 
 with the most cordial hospitality by the queen; he 
 
 * The remark, which is made by Sir R. Steele, in the Tat 
 ler, seems to have been anticipated by some Roman critics. 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 245 
 
 tells her a very long tale of the destruction of 
 Troy, in the course of which, he very much 
 praises his own valour, and tells how he brought 
 away his father, and left his wife to the 
 flames. He then seduces poor Dido, and im- 
 mediately abandons her: this is said to be 
 ordained by the gods ; which, however, is no ex- 
 cuse for Virgil, who governs the gods as well as 
 others. But allowing the gods told him to repay 
 the queen’s hospitality, by violating her person, 
 and driving her to commit suicide ; they did not 
 oblige him to enjoy a quiet sleep on board a 
 ship the very night on which he left her. 
 
 iEneas celsa in puppi, jam certus eundi 
 
 Carpebat somnos, rebus jam rite paratis. 
 
 After some insignificant events, he arrives in 
 Italy, where he deprives Turnus, a native, of the 
 hand of Lavinia, and wages an unjust war, to es- 
 tablish himself in a country where he has no 
 right to set his foot. Then, as for the cour- 
 age he shows in the war, he fights on every 
 occasion, except one, in impenetrable armour. 
 Had Horace, or any other notorious coward, 
 possessed a shield which saved his person 
 
246 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 from all danger, he certainly would not have 
 run away. The barbarity with which the hero 
 treats his enemies, although copied from 
 Homer, is very unsuitable to the 'pious JEneas^ 
 and the feelings of the age of Augustus. 
 What can we think of a hero who offers up one 
 enemy as a human sacrifice ; who taunts another 
 in the most brutal way, whilst he kills him ; and 
 who refuses to spare another who is a suppliant ? 
 
 The character of ^neas by no means com- 
 prehends all the faults of judgment into which 
 Virgil has fallen. There never was a greater 
 sinking, than to carry us from the magnifi- 
 cent story of burning Troy, and the unequalled 
 description of the shades below, to the insig- 
 nificant intrigues and wars of some petty 
 chieftains in Italy. And by way of incidents, 
 what can be more flat than Ascanius calling 
 his cake a table, and the ships being all turned 
 into nymphs ? 
 
 Virgil’s similies are rather too much like 
 one another. In the ninth book, Evander is 
 like a lion : a little after Turnus is a lion ; and 
 in the tenth book Turnus is a lion again. 
 In the twelfth book he is a bull. The images 
 
THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 247 
 
 are also sometimes low : Turnus is compared 
 
 to a kettle boiling over ; and ^neas setting fire 
 to the capital of his enemy, is like a country- 
 man fumi^atin^j a bee-hive. 
 
 If I were to analyze the story, many more 
 faults of judgment might be found; but the 
 diction and the poetry are so perfect, that I have 
 no inclination to touch it farther. The foliage 
 and the flowers so bewilder and delight my 
 senses, that I do not dare to prune the branches, 
 which, in fact, injure the beauty of the plant. 
 
 * * * * ,^ * 
 
 In looking at the state of Rome, I find ample 
 room for the enjoyment of my favourite passion 
 of contempt. In fact, the Romans are nothing 
 more than barbarians who have taken a rich 
 city, and are rioting in the spoils. They are at 
 once savage and effeminate, and have lost all 
 the virtues of their old condition, without ac- 
 quiring much of the polish of their new situ- 
 ation. Look at their coliseum and their baths, 
 their arches on the top of columns, and their 
 pilasters running up the sides of their arches ! 
 What sculptors have they, who do not come 
 from Greece ? What poetry and what eloquence 
 
248 
 
 THE WANDERING JEW. 
 
 have they which is not copied from the Greeks ? 
 Where are their mathematicians, their in- 
 ventors, their philosophers ? their Euclid, their 
 Archimedes, their Aristotle, their Plato? Their 
 luxury is savage and insatiable gluttony ; their 
 refinement odious and disgusting vice. 
 
 What will become of them ? They still have 
 the advantage of discipline over the neighbours 
 who surround them. Perhaps those neigh- 
 bours will, in time, attain a certain degree of 
 knowledge, without losing their old barbarous 
 virtues, and then declare themselves independ- 
 ent : at all events, the civilisation of the globe 
 seems to be secured for ever. 
 
 # * * * * * 
 
 ( The Manuscript ends here,) 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by A. and R, Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street, London. 
 

 
: ■ 
 
 # ■ - 
 
 

'mmi