L I E> RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
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 WZiGi 
 
 lB43 jV .l
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
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 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 • 
 OP 
 
 HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 TREMAINE" AND « DE VERE." 
 
 '7CS- " /S-+C 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ATTICUS. 
 ST, LAWRENCE. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXLIII.
 
 3-0-3 
 vY Wlt> t 
 
 V.) 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 My publisher tells me I ought to write a Preface 
 to these Sketches. Why, I know not ; for I have 
 no particular account to give of them, further than 
 this, that although they are the genuine obser- 
 vations whcih occurred to my mind, in my passage 
 through the world, upon men and things in gene- 
 ral, the character of individuality does not belong 
 to them. In this, the moral painter may be com- 
 pared to the painter of nature. The hills and 
 valleys, the trees, the water, the flowers, and the 
 cottages, in a landscape, may all belong to known 
 genera, yet the specific landscape itself may never 
 have been seen. 
 
 a 2 
 
 OrO/
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 These sketches, however, are no more than what 
 any man who has lived long, and not shut his eyes, 
 must have marked as well as myself. But as it 
 is not everybody that has lived long, or that takes 
 the trouble of opening his eyes — or, if he does, of 
 committing to memory what, he has seen — the en- 
 deavour to do this may be thought not unuseful, 
 to those who would rather read than observe. 
 How this has been executed, is a very different, 
 and, to me, a very fearful question. In fact, it is 
 with apprehension that I again encounter the 
 world's eye. The success of ' Tremaine 1 and ' De 
 Vere,' (for, without disputing the various criticisms 
 that were made upon them, I may venture to 
 say they were successful,) has made any new 
 attempt at public notice, on my part, hazardous, 
 and perhaps impolitic. 
 
 I ought to have set before me the Just senti- 
 ments (by the by, not the practice) of xhe charm- 
 ing author of a most charming Romance : — " Je 
 resolus en effet de me tenir la, et ne pas risquer.
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 par une seconde publication, de detruire l'espece 
 de prestige qui sembloit attacher a la premiere. 
 // ne faut pas fatiyuer le bonheur, il echappe si 
 facilement /*" 
 
 Why, then, I have not yielded to this prudent 
 advice, is a question which I do not feel it very 
 comfortable to answer; for I was not even 
 fl obliged by hunger," or t( request of friends. " 
 It is, indeed, true that abundant leisure after a 
 busy life, and the necessity of seeking a diversion 
 of thought from reflections prompted by long and 
 severe illness, and still more severe domestic cala- 
 mities, may be deemed a fair excuse for committing 
 these lucubrations to paper ; but the excuse stops 
 here, and will not justify the sending them into the 
 world. Let me then fairly confess (whatever may 
 be said of the vanity of the confession,) that the 
 hope that the experience and observation of a lony 
 life might afford something useful, if not amusing, 
 to those who may come after me, has been the 
 deciding cause of the present publication. 
 * Mad. de Montolieu, Preface to Caroline.
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 It will be seen that I have again chosen the di- 
 dactic style of composition — more purely didactic 
 than before. I have not here even attempted a 
 story, as I did in my two former productions. The 
 characters introduced are merely instruments used 
 to convey the sentiments and opinions which form 
 the subject of the work. They cannot therefore 
 pretend to inspire more interest than what the in- 
 vestigations themselves may create. I am sensible 
 of the disadvantage of such a plan ; for though I 
 have been laughed at for saying I was no novelist 
 in writing Tremaine, it is but true that my original 
 design in that work, was solely and drily the Treatise 
 on Natural Religion which almost fills the third vo- 
 lume. I chose the dialogistic form merely as most 
 convenient to the argument ; and so confined to it 
 was the plan, that there was not even a name to the 
 speakers, — who were originally and literally A. and 
 B. This, however, looked so meagre, that I gave 
 them two names, Evelyn and Tremaine, but still 
 left them without characters or story. This was 
 very little less bald ; so I added a sort of charac-
 
 PREFACE. VU 
 
 ter, and by degrees a sort of story, which again, in 
 creating something like interest, I enlarged by the 
 addition of a heroine, and of course a love-tale. 
 Nevertheless the primary scope and intention of 
 the work was nowhere departed from ; I continued, 
 all through, a mere moralist, and never either in- 
 tended or pretended to be more. My heroine 
 herself, whom I have the melancholy delight of 
 thinking the world has been pleased with, was 
 close at my elbow ; so that I have not a claim to 
 the gift of imagination, even in that. 
 
 It was almost the same in De Vere. I wished 
 indeed to paint a Constance, but more to portray 
 a Mowbray, a Cleveland, a Wentworth, and a 
 Flowerdale. De Vere himself was secondary to 
 these ; the diseases of ambition were my chief, 
 and at first my only, objects. Nowhere, therefore, 
 have I claim to the distinction (in the present day, 
 a considerable one,) of being thought a novelist ; 
 much less a popular one. Whatever the lore I 
 have presented, it is didactic ; and, in the present
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 publication, even the form of romance is laid 
 aside. With this meagre but true account of my 
 work, I send it into the world. 
 
 Felix faustaque sit ! 
 
 R. P. W. 

 
 ATTICUS, 
 
 THE RETIRED STATESMAN. 
 
 VOL. 1,
 
 TO 
 
 WILLIAM EARL OF LONSDALE, 
 
 knight of the garter, &c &c. &c. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 The age of Dedications is over, and with 
 reason : for if a work is bad, no name, however 
 great, can make it good ; and on the other hand, 
 if it have merit, the want of such a name will 
 not disparage it. I must therefore look for 
 other motives in begging to inscribe this work, 
 such as it may be thought, to your Lordship. 
 They may be easily known, at least by those who 
 know what reason I have had, and for how long 
 a time, to esteem you beyond all men now alive. 
 The friendship you have allowed me to cultivate 
 with you, and the distinctions you have con- 
 descended to shew me, while they have done me 
 nothing but honour, make me hope that most of 
 the opinions entertained in the following narrative, 
 as well as the scenes and topics described, will not 
 be disapproved by your Lordship. If so, it will be 
 B 2
 
 4 DEDICATION. 
 
 a pleasure to me to think that the advance of our 
 years has not, as it has with many, created any 
 difference between us, in regard to those pub- 
 lic or private principles which we entertained 
 when both were much younger. To have been 
 allowed to share with you in those principles, and 
 to have acted upon them with you for years, has 
 always been regarded by me as one of my truest 
 sources of pride and gratification. In other 
 respects, you are now the only person left in the 
 world, to whom I may say, 
 
 " Quod spiro et placeo (si placeo) tuum est." 
 
 Vale et vive ! is the sincere wish of your obliged 
 an affectionate humble servant, 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 The following letters depict, I will not say, " a 
 great man struggling with the storms of fate," but 
 a rational being, who having acted a fair and 
 important part in the State, quits it before he is 
 worn out, or, in other words, before it quits him. 
 To think of a better world, and in doing so to 
 take leave of his former pursuits, and cultivate 
 his quieter tastes, and the natural, philosophic, and 
 independent disposition of his mind ; — these are 
 his praiseworthy objects. 
 
 He has honourably filled very honourable em- 
 ployments, and might have obtained riches as well 
 as power, had it not been for this his darling and 
 characteristic moderation. His resolution, however, 
 being doubted by his contemporaries, and great 
 and quick changes having occasioned much disorga- 
 nization in the political parties of the time, it was
 
 6 PREFACE. 
 
 thought that his abilities and experience would 
 make him a valuable acquisition to any party that 
 could obtain him. 
 
 This, and perhaps a wish to put his philosophy 
 to the trial, produce the discussions in the follow- 
 ing narrative. His actual retirement, and even his 
 professed resolution to live for himself after hav- 
 ing so long lived for the State, are not thought any 
 bar to the attempt to bring him back to business. 
 It was believed he would not be proof against 
 the usual temptations of power and interest, which 
 have so often seduced other statesmen back to a, 
 world which they have professed, and almost 
 sworn, to abandon. 
 
 The following letters are addressed to one of 
 the old colleagues of Atticus, by the gentleman 
 who was commissioned to make the trial above 
 referred to.
 
 LETTER L 
 
 To the Viscount L ~ 
 
 My dear Lord, 
 Though I have been silent, I have not for- 
 gotten the task I undertook, as a consequence 
 of the very interesting conversation that passed 
 at your Lordship's table the other day; and though 
 perhaps disappointed in my own notions of the 
 event, I must in all truth lay before you, and our 
 other friends, the result of my visit to Attieus. 
 
 I was not, as you know, among your supporters, 
 when you held that he would act up to his reso- 
 lution of retiring for ever, and would never repent 
 it. We, on our side, said that the experiment, 
 though of two years 5 standing, had not been suffi- 
 ciently tried ; that, old as he was in the world, 
 he was not sufficiently so to feel satisfied at having 
 abandoned it ; and that if one went to see him, 
 one would find him like the Distressed Anchorite, 
 in that clever tale of Columella, by the now 
 long forgotten Jago. You bade me in jest go and
 
 8 ATTICUS. 
 
 try ; and I have done so in earnest. As you wish 
 to know the result, le void. 
 
 To be sure it argued very little to do in the 
 world myself, to take so long a journey merely to 
 examine a man as to his sincerity in a matter of 
 so very little consequence as his living in or out of 
 public life. But as I had plenty of leisure, and am 
 fond, as you know, of observing character and 
 ascertaining motives ; and as, to confess the truth, 
 I was a little tired of the same round of company 
 and avocations, whether of business or amusement, 
 which I had lately been in; I set off one fine May 
 morning, full of courage and spirits, resolved to 
 probe Atticus to the bottom. 
 
 Let me at once say that I find you were right. 
 
 He is no dupe, whether of himself, or of cir- 
 cumstances. His tranquillity is sincere ; and he 
 affords an example of a most useful truth, — that 
 a man of a certain caste of mind may live in, and 
 even be fitted for, a tumultuous life, and yet when 
 all seems to prosper, can throw all behind him, 
 for higher and better objects. 
 
 But to come to a little method. — It was in the 
 afternoon that, after several hours 5 drive over hill 
 and dale, and through the beautiful forest which 
 anticipates the scenery about his rural mansion, I 
 arrived at what you know he was always interested 
 in calling his Llirias. It appeared at first less mo-
 
 ATTICUS. V 
 
 derate, or rather more striking, than it really was. 
 This was owing to what so fixed honest Scipio, 
 when his master, Gil Bias, first pointed out the 
 real Llirias to his view. I mean the four petits 
 pavilions which gave it that " air de noblesse/' 
 which charmed the ambitious secretary into an ex- 
 clamation, a Comment Diable, c'est un bijou que 
 cette maison, outre Pair de noblesse que donnent 
 ces quatre pavilions/' 
 
 In truth, when I looked at a little river at the 
 bottom of the hill on which the house was situated, 
 I fancied myself on the banks of the Guadalquiver, 
 and that the spires of a town which I saw in the 
 distance were those of Valentia, instead of St. 
 Mary's. Its situation, indeed, on an eminence, 
 though not very lofty ; its picturesque cupolas, 
 which were covered with lead, and decorated with 
 gilt vanes ; imposed greatly on the eye, and created 
 more expectation than was afterwards realized. 
 But I knew that Atticus, though he abounded in 
 comfort, was not rich, and that his motto was mo- 
 deration ; the parent, as he often said, of inde- 
 pendence and of happiness ; and though a Privy 
 Counsellor, I should have, perhaps, been disap- 
 pointed to have found him in a chateau de grand f 
 seigneur. 
 
 His retreat was certainly beautiful, particularly 
 in driving over a stone bridge of several arches, 
 b 5
 
 10 ATTICUS. 
 
 through which rattled the river, tolerably rapid, 
 which ended in that emblem of rural and busy 
 cheerfulness, a water-mill. Over this the road 
 began suddenly but gently to climb, and wound 
 between rows of umbrageous timber. We were 
 soon up the hill/and suddenly at the door ; which, 
 without any lodge, was like a convent door in the 
 middle of a village on the continent. This resem- 
 blance was increased not a little by a group of 
 country girls, some on a long bench, and some on 
 the ground. 
 
 All were busy, plying with nimble fingers, 
 which the eye could not follow, a number of lace 
 pillows and plaits of straw, which gave an air of 
 almost elegance to the occupation. It certainly 
 made a cheerful scene, for which I had in some 
 measure been prepared a few yards off, by songs 
 and gay laughs which reached the ear. u At least/' 
 said I to myself, "Atticus is no melancholy an- 
 chorite." 
 
 Having pulled a ponderous bell, which answered 
 in sounds that still kept up the notion of a con- 
 vent, I asked the young lace makers if they gene- 
 rally chose that place, so close to a gentleman's 
 door, for their employment ? "Oh ! " said they, "he 
 gives us leave, and says he likes to see us busy ; and 
 he keeps the money we get for us ; and the place 
 is so nice and shady, we do twice as much this
 
 ATTICUS. U 
 
 hot weather as at home." I again thought to my- 
 self, that Atticus had not left the world from 
 sourness. 
 
 The gate was now opened, and by our friend 
 himself, who had seen the carriage winding up 
 the hill, and as ceremony had long been banished 
 from this retreat, he was his own porter on the 
 occasion. 
 
 What struck me was, first his ruddy health ; 
 next, the familiarity of the children, who, far 
 from running away from the lord of the manor, 
 as the ' little tyrant of the fields/ were all eager to 
 attract his notice, and thronged about him so as 
 to impede his progress to greet me at the carriage 
 door. 
 
 " How different this," said I to him, as we shook 
 hands, "to Whitehall!" 
 
 " From which," returned he, " I suppose you 
 come? But with your eagerness in party and 
 state affairs, what could possess you to leave it, 
 to visit a mere gardener like me r 
 
 "You forget," said I, "that you are still a 
 Privy Counsellor, and can talk high matter if you 
 will. You forget too, that a gardener was once 
 compelled to quit his garden and become a king." 
 
 "But I am not Abdolonymus/' returned he, 
 "nor are you in want of one. You are not, I 
 trust, in want of a king ? — though you now change
 
 12 ATTICUS, 
 
 your kings, so often, or at least your governors* 
 that it would not surprise me if you were.'* 
 
 Here was a sort of opening to politics ; but as 
 we were now scarcely in the house, I thought it 
 best to delay my communication; and I gave way 
 to the pleasure of again seeing our friend, and see- 
 ing him so well. 
 
 We entered a handsome library, rather large for 
 a hermit, and furnished with all appliances for its 
 purpose ; and from its old fashioned windows we 
 beheld a gay and variegated garden, or court of 
 flowers, whose perfume scented the whole air 
 without, and regaled all within. This, with a 
 fountain murmuring in the middle, and freshening 
 all with its foam, made me fancy myself in the 
 Temple of Flora. I willingly complimented him 
 upon this, and indeed upon the whole appearance 
 of his house, and of himself; and could not help 
 saying, when he observed that I smiled, "why, 
 if I was not a man of the town, and still a poli- 
 tician, I should like to be an ex-official, and like 
 you/' 
 
 " You do my retreat great honour," said he ; 
 " but it would not do for you, nor you for it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " You are yet too young and too unquiet to be 
 content with it. Nature has not yet c done with 
 her resentments in you.' ~
 
 ATTICUS. 
 
 13 
 
 (i Resentments I " 
 
 " Yes ! You have still much to do, and to 
 change, or, as you will say, to reform; which, 
 meaning, as I take it, to alter for the better, you 
 are still upon your trial, and could not, if you would, 
 quit your post. But neither would you if you 
 could. You have still many victims to sacrifice ; 
 much to revenge." 
 
 "Howso?" 
 
 " You have not yet forgiven, and perhaps never 
 will forgive, the King and the Tories, for keeping 
 you or your fathers so long out of power. Do you 
 think then, because your romance a little revives in 
 the country after a six months' imprisonment in 
 London, that a few pinks and roses would compen" 
 sate for excitements like those you would abandon ? 
 Forbid it Heaven ! forbid it all energy of mind, or, 
 as you no doubt call it, public virtue." 
 
 He said this in a bantering tone ; so that I began 
 to be afraid he meant to laugh at me, and that my 
 mission would soon miscarry, even if I entered 
 upon it. 
 
 But here a couple of servants interrupted us, by 
 announcing dinner. 
 
 " Come," continued he, " you have had a long 
 journey, to see an old man who has left the world ; 
 and if you can bear with an old man's hours, you
 
 14 ATTICUS. 
 
 will perhaps dine with him, although the sun has 
 not yet set." 
 
 He then led the way into the dining-room, 
 where we found a small but elegant repast, the 
 truest exemplification of the simplex munditiis ; 
 and whether from the excellence of the cookery, 
 from curiosity, the novelty of the scene, and per- 
 haps a little hunger, I certainly thought that starv- 
 ing was by no means one of the necessary accom- 
 paniments of retreat. 
 
 Our dinner conversation need not be repeated ; 
 but after we had banqueted, and crowned the 
 whole with a glass of the finest hermitage I ever 
 tasted, I accepted our friend's proposal to visit 
 his garden and grounds, where, when the weather 
 was genial, he said he passed the greater part of 
 his time. I perhaps should have preferred a poli- 
 tical conversation, at an opportunity so meet for 
 it as an after-dinner We a ttte. But my tempe- 
 rate host having satisfied, not satiated, nature, 
 and seeing him anxious that the fine evening 
 should not be lost, I gladly sallied forth with 
 him into this fairy land of sweets and colours. 
 
 Nor was I surprised at his eagerness to be 
 among them, or that this sort of visit was as re- 
 gular as the evening itself. The ground imme- 
 diately under the windows of the library was a
 
 ATTICUS. 15 
 
 perfect paradise of sweets, arising indeed from 
 very simple flowers, but set off too with ornament ; 
 partaking more of the Italian style than perhaps 
 would have been approved by Kent or Repton, 
 though by no means of the school of Le Notre, 
 between which two schools it puzzled the amiable 
 author of " Les Jardins" to decide.* There were 
 here some classical urns, statues, marble balus- 
 trades, and fountains, giving richness, but without 
 destroying nature ; and some, but very few, expen- 
 sive exotics. In fact, my friend was simple (per- 
 haps too simple) and even frugal in his tastes. 
 To say nothing of the rose, the queen of the gar- 
 den, he found pleasure in the humble, though gay 
 polyanthus; the still more humble daisy; the 
 ranunculus, auricula, anemony ; the glowing violet, 
 u infant of the spring ;" and even primroses and 
 marigolds dotted and adorned his many-coloured 
 beds. 
 
 " Those gems are gay enough for me," said he, 
 pointing to them; "and not the less valuable 
 because common, and in almost every body's 
 power. Some of my poorest cottagers rival me 
 even in tulips." 
 
 * " Je ne decide pas entre Kent et Le N6tre." See the exqui- 
 site little poem "Les Jardins" of Delille. If the reader wish 
 to examine the taste of Le N6tre, let him refresh himself with 
 the plates of " Les belles maisons de la France."
 
 16 ATTICUS. 
 
 "And yet," said I, " you need not have come 
 so far for such pleasures as these." 
 
 ? You say true," he replied, " for a great cour- 
 tier, soldier, senator, and man of the world, but 
 also a bit of a philosopher, Sheffield, found them 
 in St. James's Park. I cannot forget what he 
 says of the power of the simplest nature, com- 
 pared with the sublime st art, in exciting devotion. 
 e I confess/ he says, e Westminster Abbey yonder 
 has a less share in it than the commonest flower 
 in my garden.' Hence the motto on his house, 
 'Hie siti Icetantur lares.' But moderation you 
 know is my motto, and hence I believe the even 
 temper (if it be even) on which you complimented 
 me just now. In truth, this little parterre, though 
 of but a few rods, is the only spot in which I 
 have indulged in any thing of art." 
 
 "Yet art," said I, " when elegant, is not a thing 
 to be neglected." 
 
 "It is not," he replied, " when not carried too 
 far, in what I call the pedantry of gardening, as in 
 France and Italy. A piping Fawn, or dancing 
 Satyr, is at least a classical appendage to woods 
 and gardens. They remind one of Horace and 
 Virgil ; so there they are. But I have, you see, 
 avoided the massive Treillages, the Neptunes and 
 the Amphitrites, the Tritons and the conch ee, 
 that disfigure (because wholly unnatural) such
 
 ATTICUS. 17 
 
 spots as these, where never Neptune could drive 
 his horses, nor Triton blow his shell." 
 
 I entirely agreed with him in this pure taste, 
 and we criticised Versailles and Le Notre pretty 
 severely. 
 
 "Do not, however, let us be unjust,' 5 said 
 Atticus. " Le Notre was a considerable man, and 
 only complied with the taste of the day, and of 
 his master, who was the most pompous of the 
 Bourbons, but by no means a man of genius." 
 
 " I remember/' said I, " that De Lille says what 
 he can for Le Notre, in his beautiful poem." 
 
 " And that was not a little," said Atticus. " I 
 have the passages by heart. After a charming 
 description of the two styles, he says of one, 
 
 1 Son air est moins riant, et plus majestueux, 
 L'autre de la nature amant respectueux ; 
 L'un, content d'un verger, d'un bocage, d'un bois, 
 Dessine pour le sage, et l'autre pour les rois.' M 
 
 All this brought Louis XIV. on the scene, and 
 I was not without the hope that the public cha- 
 racter and conduct of that monster of pride, by 
 exciting the public virtue and patriotism of Atti- 
 cus, might come in aid of my object. At least, I 
 thought it had a better chance of doing so than 
 philosophy and gardening, which now seemed so 
 much to absorb him. I had indeed resolved to
 
 18 ATTICUS. 
 
 examine him shrewdly, and search whether some- 
 thing of old ambition, and the raciness of power 
 and party, might not still remain, a lurking ember 
 in his heart, to be blown hereafter into flame. 
 
 But in vain. All I could get from him was, 
 that Louis was like his prototype Nebuchadnezzar, 
 an image of selfishness, ostentation and cruelty, 
 allowed by Providence, for inscrutable purposes, 
 to be a pest to mankind. 
 
 " He was the Assyrian," exclaimed Atticus, u of 
 Holy Writ ; like him the " rod of anger" of the Al- 
 mighty, and like him, perhaps, greeted on his arri- 
 val in hell by all other preceding ' rods/ — who, we 
 are told, rose from their thrones to receive him, 
 and expressed wonder that one so great should be 
 condemned like them." 
 
 Seeing me moved with curiosity at this not ob- 
 vious but forcible allusion, Atticus asked if I did 
 not recollect the sublime imagery of Isaiah, when 
 he recounts the arrival of this Assyrian in Hades. 
 
 ei Hell from beneath is moved for to meet thee 
 at thy coming : it stirreth up the dead for thee, 
 even all the chief ones of the earth : it has raised 
 up from their thrones all the kings of the na- 
 tions." 
 
 " Art thou also become as weak as we ? Art 
 thou become like unto us ? "
 
 ATTICUS. 19 
 
 H How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, 
 son of the morning ! " * 
 
 Our friend repeated these stirring verses in a 
 tone so glowing, and a manner so fervid, that I 
 really felt myself almost as enthusiastic as he ; and 
 I thought no more about Louis XIV. except to 
 ponder how he and all other heroes of the world, 
 kings, ministers, partizans, or fine ladies, must 
 sink into nothing under such considerations. It 
 also had another effect ; as, when I observed how 
 earnest our friend was in this burst, I began to 
 think in despair of the event of my mission. 
 
 " Lord f 9 thought I, (( in his opinion of the 
 
 unalterable effects of ambition, has not measured 
 his character rightly." 
 
 The solemnity with which Atticus concluded 
 the subject we had so unexpectedly fallen upon, 
 communicated itself to us both, and we paced up 
 and down the parterre for some minutes in silence. 
 It was, therefore, by way of introducing further 
 conversation, that I observed upon what really 
 struck me, the little space that Atticus had al- 
 
 * These sublime passages are what excite the admiration of 
 Lowth, himself a poet and a judge of poetry ; who says (and 
 truly) they were the boldest figures that ever were attempted. 
 (See his beautiful comment upon Isaiah.) Who can read them 
 without feeling the nothingness of the most successful worldly 
 career ; or who wonder if Atticus, when full of them, and at his 
 age, should resist the temptation to return ?
 
 20 ATTICUS. 
 
 lowed himself for his parterre, sweet and gay as it 
 was. It was in fact scarcely larger than that re- 
 tired and narrow slip called the Prior's garden, at 
 Strawberry Hill, and was shut up by a wall, low 
 indeed, but so topped by trees and shrubs that no 
 part of a very fine champaign country could be 
 let in. This I thought a fault, and told him so. 
 
 " I am quite aware of it/' said he, ? and you 
 will perhaps wonder to be told, that I even de- 
 signed it for the express purpose of confining the 
 view." 
 
 "And what could be your object?" said I. 
 
 " To assist meditation," he returned, " which as 
 you know seeks retirement, and shuts out the 
 world, 
 
 4 As all too wanton and too full of gauds, 
 To give it audience.' " 
 
 " Yet so beautiful a prospect as you might have 
 by cutting down those trees ! " 
 
 u . Had I no prospects elsewhere," he replied, 
 M you might be right. But you will find I abound 
 in them ; and as for cutting down those lovely 
 trees, name it not, for they all are inhabited by 
 Hamadryads ; but if by daemons, I would not be 
 the Rinaldo to destroy them. You will please to 
 recollect the wise Bacon (wise in the minutest 
 particular) banishes prospect from libraries, and 
 even proscribes side windows, on account of the
 
 ATTICUS. 21 
 
 interruptions they give to meditation. Our other 
 philosopher and statesman, Temple, seconds this 
 too, prettily enough, when he says, ( leisure and 
 solitude are the best effect of riches, because the 
 mother of thought. ' You see therefore that 
 there is no ingress or egress for this little plot, ex- 
 cept through the library/ 5 
 
 <e Your garden then is your library ? " said I. 
 
 " It is a part of it," he replied, ie for my flowers 
 and shrubs are close to my windows, which, if 
 open, they certainly would enter, and encircle 
 me in my chair. In truth, I am so fond of the 
 soothing freshness of plants, that I cannot have 
 them too near, and seem as if I should like to 
 dwell among their leaves like a bird. They are 
 the green shrouds that Milton talks of, and they 
 realize the visions which 
 
 ' as poetic eyes avow, 
 Hang on each leaf, and cling to every bough.' 
 
 In short, nothing is more true than that 
 
 ' The spleen was never felt where Flora reigns.' " 
 
 ie Good," said I. w Rousseau himself could not 
 feel, or even affect to feel, more pleasure in the 
 security of his solitude, than you do in yours." 
 
 " Certainly not," he replied ; " especially when, 
 pursuing some favourite train of thought, I refresh 
 myself by changing in-doors for out, and breathe 
 a reviving air, without interrupting the course of 
 my ideas. Besides, flowers, delightful every where,
 
 22 ATTICUS. 
 
 are still more so from being unmixed with more 
 extensive views ) they call every thing home, and 
 promote the calm so soothing and so necessary to 
 old age." 
 
 " You should have been the Head of a College, 
 and walked the cloister/' said I, " instead of a 
 statesman.'' 
 
 u And who so happy," he returned, " if he 
 pleases? 5 ' 
 
 " But your flowers, though sweet are few, and 
 this surprises me." 
 
 " I have a feeling about it,' 5 said he, " which 
 perhaps may surprise you more." 
 
 66 Pray let me know it." 
 
 i( Why you know my maxims as to the necessity 
 for moderation, even to make innocent pleasures 
 more enjoyable." 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 " Why then I would not have my garden too 
 extended. Not because flowers are not the most 
 delicious things on earth, speaking to the senti- 
 ment as well as the senses, but on account of the 
 intrinsic and superior value of moderation. When 
 interests are divided, they are not so strong. Three 
 acres of flowers and a regiment of gardeners, bring 
 no more pleasure than a sufficiency. Besides which, 
 in the smaller possession, there is more room for 
 the mental pleasure to step in, and refine all that 
 which is sensual. We become acquainted, as it
 
 ATTICUS. 23 
 
 were, and even form friendships, with individual 
 flowers. We bestow more care upon their bring- 
 ing up and progress. They seem sensible of our 
 favour, absolutely to enjoy it, and make pleasing 
 returns by their beauty, health, and sweetness. In 
 this respect a hundred thousand roses, which we 
 look at en masse, do not identify themselves with us 
 in the same manner as even a very small border ; 
 and hence, if the cottager's mind is properly at- 
 tuned, the little cottage garden may give him more 
 real delight than belongs to the owner of a thou- 
 sand acres. All this is so entirely nature, that give 
 me a garden well kept, however small, two or three 
 spreading trees, and a mind at rest, and I would 
 defy the world." * 
 
 " Good," I observed ; " and as you found all 
 your theories upon practical knowledge, you have, 
 no doubt, made the experiment yourself, or seen 
 it in others." 
 
 u I think I have, 5 ' said he. " At least, a rich neigh- 
 bour of mine has one whole acre of roses, another 
 of rhododendrons, a third of geraniums, and thirty 
 gardeners ; yet has he not the same pleasure as 
 I have. In fact, he is surfeited, and walks his 
 
 * It should seem that Atticus here had Pliny in his view in his 
 pretty letter to Bebius. "To a man of the studious turn of 
 Tranquillus, it is sufficient if he have but a small spot to relieve 
 the mind and divert the eye ; where he may saunter round his 
 grounds, traverse his single walk, grow familiar with his tvjo or 
 three vines, and count his little plantations."
 
 24 ATTICUS. 
 
 garden by way of duty more than love ; while I, 
 who have few labourers, and work myself, know 
 every leaf and flower and tree about me, with the 
 intimacy of a friend. I may think a single rose- 
 bush my mistress. But too many flowers are like 
 the seraglio of a sultan : much splendour, little 
 kindness, no love. It was this personal feeling 
 for individual plants, which no doubt principally 
 occasioned that burst of grief in Eve, which so 
 affects us upon her being forced from Paradise : 
 
 ' Oh ! flowers, 
 That never will in other climates grow, 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 At even ! which I hred up with tender hand 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
 Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 
 Your tribes, or water from the ambrosial fount V " 
 
 I own, my Lord, this warm rhapsody, which 
 seemed to come from the heart, communicated 
 itself, and I felt for a moment a little of the same 
 enthusiasm as my friend ; though so lately from 
 Whitehall. 
 
 You will recollect, however, that I was now a 
 hundred miles off, amid bowers Arcadian, and my 
 fear began to be, that instead of converting Atticus, 
 he would convert me ; so, to open some allusion at 
 least to greater objects, I observed to him that I 
 rather wondered at his fondness for " trim gar- 
 dens," when the forest with all its grandeur might 
 court him.
 
 ATTICUS. 25 
 
 " Surely," said I, " you must also love the no- 
 bleness of Nature? The oaks and elms, the mo- 
 narchs of the woods, high towering over, and far 
 more valuable than these humbler beauties r" 
 
 " I do," he replied ; " they always elevate me 
 by their magnificence. I can walk the forest with 
 the most enthusiastic, and worship with the most 
 pious the wonders of the Creator. But a gar- 
 den, you will recollect, is to a philosopher 
 (which you say I am) only what we have called 
 it, another library. Be assured that the time 
 may come (and I wish it may come soon), 
 when you may think it the most rational and in- 
 dependent, as well as the most soothing and inno- 
 cent, of all pleasures. The florist, the botanist, 
 the philosopher, the religious man, the statesman, 
 the invalid, all find delight in it. Perhaps the cul- 
 tivator with a view to mere profit, is least en- 
 chanted; but he too is pleased. Even the proud 
 man, though he may be disappointed every where 
 else, is soothed here. Nobody competes with, or 
 refuses him tribute ; his flowers, and fruits, and 
 walks, are all obsequious, and court Lim to love 
 them. All this is Nature, and natural tastes be- 
 ing so superior to artificial, can you wonder if I 
 would not exchange what I have called these i my 
 green shrouds/ that scent and ornament my win- 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 ATTICUS. 
 
 dows, and make my room a bower, for all the 
 golden magnificence of Versailles ?" 
 
 I had no more to say, but muttered, I believe, 
 something about Addison intending to be a Bi- 
 shop, after having been Secretary of State. 
 
 " He would have become his lawn well," said 
 Atticus. 
 
 " And are you like him in this too/' said I, " as 
 you certainly are in many other things }" 
 
 I said this hesitatingly, and rather hoping to 
 produce from his answer something like an open- 
 ing to my object. 
 
 " I am not so worthy of it/' replied he ; u but if 
 I were, even at my age, I know little that would 
 please me more. 5 ' 
 
 " You would then, though Lord Chancellor, ex- 
 change the mace for the mitre \" 
 
 ei It would be better for many a Lord Chancel- 
 lor, if he had that disposition/' returned our friend. 
 
 " Or a Prime Minister \" 
 
 " Best of all/' observed he, " if he could pos- 
 sibly have sufficient materials, as Addison had ; 
 and above all, could discipline himself to forget 
 the exciting storms in which he had passed his life. 
 But this no Prime Minister can do." 
 " Not even in such a place as this ? v 
 " He must first have these materials in his own
 
 ATTICUS. 
 
 27 
 
 mind/ 5 replied he, " before place can make any 
 difference. For, be assured, had I not for years 
 of my public life before it ended, been preparing 
 myself, I am not such an enthusiast as to sup- 
 pose walks or gardens could have ever been the 
 boundary of my wishes. " 
 " You, who so admire 
 
 ' The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields.' " 
 
 "Yes; for had I not had something else to 
 feed my mind as well as my eyes, I believe I 
 should starve on ennui, or, like Gil Bias, abandon 
 Llirias, and return to court/' 
 
 Here seemed to be a little opening, and it was 
 not without a sort of hope that I said, " Have two 
 years then done nothing to satiate you ? Two 
 years of absolute monotony, while all the world 
 are stirring in these most stirring times ! For- 
 give me if I say you have no right to be so 
 useless/' 
 
 " Useless \" cried he, with emphasis. " Was 
 Temple useless, though no man was more devoted 
 to retreat, as well as distinguished in business ?" 
 
 " Your model, then, is Sir William Temple," 
 said I ; "a celebrated and philosophic minister 
 certainly/' 
 
 "And could I have a better?" he answered. 
 " But though if I followed him, it would be like the 
 C 2
 
 28 ATTICUS. 
 
 little Julus, non passibus cequis. I would gladly 
 at Llirias be like ' him at Sheen/ " 
 
 " I trusty then, replied I, " if you are Hke him 
 in pursuits, that you will benefit the world as he 
 did, by pouring out your mind in literary la- 
 bours." 
 
 " They were charming labours/' said Atticus, 
 " and worth to mankind a thousand times more 
 than his political exertions, — which, however splen- 
 did, were only beneficial to his employers. In 
 short, he was a real philosopher ; and as he did 
 not bury his talents with himself, he was any 
 thing but what you said just now — useless." 
 
 He said this with a sort of determined if not 
 reproachful air, that made me think I was farther 
 off my object than ever. To sound him, how- 
 ever, I could not help observing, in allusion to 
 Sir William Temple's labours, that I supposed^ 
 as I hoped, that Atticus would at least continue 
 to help the world he had so long served, by giving 
 them, like his hero, the benefit of his experience 
 in print. 
 
 " Print," said he, smiling, " is too adventurous ; 
 but if you mean that I may be occupied with re- 
 cording my own thoughts as they arise, I know 
 not the employment more sweet, whatever their 
 worth." 
 
 My curiosity was greatly excited, and I fairly
 
 ATTICUS. 29 
 
 asked if a history of his own time would not be a 
 good thing ? He shook his head, and said, 
 
 * No. I have been too near to some, and too 
 far off from others. Many impostors, who yet 
 have a sort of character, which their own hypo- 
 crisy and other people's ignorance have enabled 
 them to obtain, I could dissect, and have dis- 
 sected. But, like Coriolanus with his own, I would 
 show their wounds in private. Pompous preten- 
 sions, violated promises, and a total failure in pro- 
 fessed principles, might be fairly and reasonably 
 exposed, and not the worse, because by a man who 
 had seen and understood their trickery. But to 
 raise personal enemies would disturb my tranquil- 
 lity; the only treasure (a great one indeed) that is 
 now left me. Nevertheless, I do not disguise that 
 I have often before me that attracting passage of 
 Sallust, which has kindled many a statesman, ere 
 now, with a wish to become an historian, — 'Igt- 
 tur ubi animus ex multis miseriis atque periculis 
 requievit, et mihi reliquam eetatem a Republica 
 procul habendum decrevi ; non fuit consilium so- 
 cordia atque desidia bonum otium conterere : 
 neque vero agrum colendo, aut venando, servilibus 
 officiis intentum, setatem agere. Sed a quo incepto 
 studioque me ambitio mala detinuerat, eodem re- 
 gressus, statui res gestas Populi Romani carptim, 
 ut quaeque memoria digna videbantur perscribere,
 
 30 ATTICUS. 
 
 eo magis, quod mihi a spe, metu, partibus Reipub- 
 
 licee, animus liber erat.' 
 
 But, come/' continued Atticus, " we have 
 
 paced this walk long enough, and you must be 
 
 tired of being so bound in by Art and Le Notre. 
 
 Let us go to Claremont, where Kent and Nature 
 
 vie for our love."* 
 
 Then pulling out a key, he opened a small 
 
 gate to which his gardener only had access, and 
 
 which shewed a path winding through hornbeams 
 
 and beeches. 
 
 This led us to a declivity, till we came to a 
 
 terrace, not so extensive indeed as Lowther, but 
 as smooth, as velvety, and soft to the feet, and 
 
 letting in all that the eye could desire for loveli- 
 ness of prospect. It looked precipitously upon 
 the rattling stream I had passed in the way to the 
 house, and though aloft, we could distinctly see 
 the foam, and hear the gurgling of its waters as 
 they leaped from rock to rock, or rather from 
 stone to stone. For though wild, it was on a 
 small scale, and partook, as I observed to him, of 
 its master's moderation. 
 
 "It has little of magnificence/' said he, "and 
 certainly is not a Niagara; but it has a great deal 
 of beauty, and those mountain ash and wild roses 
 which start from every fissure in the rock, with 
 
 * " Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,"
 
 ATTICUS. 31 
 
 the help of a little imagination, remind me of that 
 quaint account of Guy's cliff, in old Leland, — 
 c Nemusculum ibidem opacum, fontes liquidi et 
 gemmii, prata florida; antra muscosa; rivi levis 
 et per saxa decursus ; nee non solitudo, et quies, 
 musis amicissima.' " * 
 
 " The description/' said I, " is almost as inte- 
 resting as the place. But you have not told me 
 the name of your river, dashing from stone to 
 stone, your < rivi levis per saxa decursus.' " 
 
 " Digentia," said he. 
 
 " Digentia \» 
 
 "Yes ! the Digentia of Horace, where he made 
 so many philosophical prayers, — 
 
 1 Me quo ties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
 Quid sentire putas, quid credis, amice precari ? 
 Sit mihi quod nunc est ; etiam minus ; ut mihi vivam 
 Quod superest aevi ; si quid superesse volunt Di.'t 
 
 "Upon its banks also," continued Atticus, 
 * Horace probably raised those other questions, 
 so important to true philosophy, which so charm 
 us in retreat, but are so difficult to answer in 
 London." 
 
 " I fear I have forgotten them," said I, 
 
 u No wonder/ he replied. " I forgot them 
 
 * Thus translated by Leland himself: " It is a place meet for 
 the Muses ; there is silence ; a praty wood ; antra in vivo saxo , 
 and the river rolling over the stones with a praty noise." — In- 
 land's Itin. 4. 66. 
 
 f Hor. Epist. i. 18.
 
 32 ATTICUS. 
 
 myself many a year in Downing-street, at St. 
 Stephens', and at Boodle's. But here, where there 
 is no distraction from party or politics, they rush 
 vividly into one's mind. They are these: — whether 
 to glide gently down to old age, without being vexed 
 by poverty or avarice ? whether virtue is acquired 
 by study, or the gift of nature? what will reconcile 
 you to yourself? what produce tranquillity ? whe- 
 ther honours, or fortune, or the retired private 
 path in which life imperceptibly steals away? — 
 These are the questions which Horace* proposes 
 to discuss when on the banks of the Digentia, 
 but never at Rome. This then is my Digentia." 
 
 " It ought to be consecrated like its classical 
 original," I remarked, " if it promote such valua- 
 ble inquiries. But would you pursue even those, 
 at the price of forgetting all your fellow-labourers 
 for the good of the State, who are now slaving to 
 secure to you the very stream which you seem so 
 to enjoy." 
 
 " I have done enough," he replied, to have 
 earned the meed to which all public men aspire 
 (or pretend to aspire), the 
 
 ' TJt mihi vivam quod superest sevi.' 
 
 This was both Temple's and Bolingbroke's motto, 
 to say nothing of old Montaigne — Temple, who 
 retired to Sheen and Philosophy, 
 * Ibid.
 
 ATTICUS. 33 
 
 1 Ou, content d'un bocage, 
 L'Ainbassadeur des rois se plait a vivre en sage.' 
 
 "And Bolingbroke ?" 
 
 " Why he was like the Queen in Hamlets play, — 
 
 ' Methinks the lady doth profess too much.' 
 
 However, he pleased himself with thinking he 
 was made for retirement, and that for a time did 
 as well." 
 
 a And you ? " 
 
 " Why really I can only ask you to answer 
 yourself. If you have wished to probe me, you 
 have at least found me, without notice or prepara- 
 tion, in ( Arcady the blest ;' which you want me to 
 exchange for Whitehall. You, perhaps, think me 
 a self-deceiver, like Cowley. But I have not yet 
 broken my ribs ; nor even caught a cold ; so that I 
 am not yet disgusted.* Old as I am, I have still fire 
 enough left to be romantic; at least, if to admire 
 and love nature, to revel in a glorious morning, or 
 sooth my whole heart with the placidity of evening, 
 be romantic. In those happy moments far indeed 
 am I from thinking myself f Right Honourable.' 
 I rather liken myself B within these brakes and 
 trees,' to the genius of the wood, in the charming 
 but almost forgotten Arcadia. 
 
 * See, in Johnson's life of Cowley, the curious finish to all his 
 romance, ending in all the miseries of disappointment to high'- 
 formed expectations : a most useful lesson. 
 
 c 5
 
 34 ATTICUS. 
 
 ' For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power 
 Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, 
 And early, e'er the od'rous breath of morn 
 Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled horn 
 Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, 
 Number my ranks, and visit every sprout.' 
 
 I will not say with Rousseau, c If I am dying, lay 
 me under an oak, and I shall revive ; ' * but this 
 I am sure of, that a man who loves a tree, and 
 possesses one, possesses a lasting fund of happi- 
 ness." 
 
 This was said with so much earnestness, that I 
 began to think it scarcely worth while to proceed 
 with my design; but secretly suspecting there 
 might be a little enthusiasm in all these profes- 
 sions, which might give way to less vivid, but 
 more reasonable considerations, and thinking also 
 that I should never have a better opportunity, I 
 resolved boldly to enter on my subject. Prefatory 
 to this, however, having been at the drawing room 
 but three days before, I began the praises of the 
 Court, which I knew he once admired. 
 
 a Well," said I, " but the Court is a fine thing, 
 even compared with nature, and 1 know not whe- 
 ther the awfulness of majesty, with all its associa- 
 
 * It is remarkable that he shewed this in his last moments ; for 
 having got up more ill than usual, he desired to be carried to a seat 
 under a tree, to enjoy the face of nature, which had looked pecu- 
 liarly cheerful, he said, from his window. That day he died."
 
 ATTICUS, 35 
 
 tions, and set off with magnificence, beauty, ele- 
 gance, and the exquisite works of art, may not (I 
 speak it with humility to you priests of nature) 
 emulate, nay perhaps equal, the pomp of groves 
 and garniture of fields/ Certain it is, when I 
 have seen the court guise of the mincing Dryads 
 of St. James's, in nodding plumes, sparkling jewels, 
 and dazzling silks, all only giving greater excellence 
 to fine eyes, Hebe smiles, and graceful manners, 
 I have thought little of the Dryads cf the wood ; 
 and as to tulips, and even roses, I have questioned 
 if the tulips and roses of animated flesh and blood, 
 breathing sentiment, and looking sweetness equal 
 to the flowers themselves, were not more inspiring 
 than the still life of nature, however beautiful.'' 
 
 "Will you mention any of your bieathing 
 roses ? " said Atticus. 
 
 66 That might be invidious," answered I ; " but 
 
 there are Lady R., and Lady M., and Lady ? 
 
 and Miss B." 
 
 " And your associations " — said Atticus— •" what 
 are they ? " 
 
 " Why, of rank and grandeur, and, as I said, of 
 majesty." 
 
 u Would it not be better to Say, of goodness, 
 virtue, and wisdom ? ** 
 
 " Yes, if we were all philosophers, and always 
 lecturing in the Schools ; but the world is not so :
 
 36 ATTICTJS. 
 
 '^oh omnes arbusta juvant humilesque myricae.' " 
 
 (i And yet a garden, or a wood, the chaunt of the 
 birds, which at this moment so delights us — " 
 
 * I know what you would say," replied I, " that 
 these prompt us to silent and deep observation, 
 tending to develope goodness and wisdom. But, 
 if you will be philosophic wherever you go, I see 
 no reason why you should not carry philosophy to 
 a royal drawing-room, where you will find as much 
 study of nature (only more difficult perhaps to be 
 discovered) as in the wildest scenes that ever were 
 painted. Even, therefore, as a philosopher you 
 ought to return to court/" 
 
 He again shook his head, and I went on — 
 
 * That return, I can tell you, would be hailed 
 by many whom you respect, who are now in 
 power, and are, I know, willing that you should 
 share it with them. Excuse me too," I added, 
 seeing him pause, " if, after all, I think there 
 must, or will be a monotony in this way of life, 
 which is not fitting for a mind so active. We 
 cannot be always poring over a torrent, or smell- 
 ing at a rose. I know not whether you have 
 neighbours; but if they are confined to those 
 bits Of lacemakers who flocked about me on my 
 arrival, I think they will not satisfy your known 
 social qualities. Perhaps, indeed, you may have 
 a farming parson, or a Doctor Slop in the village,
 
 ATTICUS. 37 
 
 who may condescend to dine with you, and play 
 at backgammon now and then ; but is this to be 
 your lot, while others, not your superiors in mind, 
 are obtaining power and influence, and even duke- 
 doms, by mingling in the state ? " 
 
 To this he only answered (with his usual fond- 
 ness for Shakespear), 
 
 ' ' My library, a dukedom large enough ! ' ' 
 
 " True," said I ; {e large enough if science or 
 amusement are the only objects in life. But I 
 mistake if even science will suffice to a person 
 who has so tasted of the world ; and with a view 
 to your favourite pursuit, the investigation of cha- 
 racter, I should think you would rather, with 
 Johnson, walk Fleet-street. But I will give you 
 Shakespear for Shakespear — 
 
 ' And rather Mould intreat the company 
 To view the wonders of the world abroad, 
 Than living dully sluggardised at home, 
 Wear yourself out in shapeless idleness.' 
 
 Let me then be your Valentine, and intreat your 
 company c to view the world abroad/ " 
 
 "You come close," said he, after an evident 
 pause of consideration at this explicit proposal of 
 mine ; " but you would make a better Valentine, 
 and I perhaps a more obsequious Proteus, had I 
 not already seen those wonders, and felt how
 
 38 ATTICUS. 
 
 little they can do, for old age at least, in pro- 
 ducing that which every year's advance makes of 
 more and more importance to it. Hence the just- 
 ness of the sentiment, 
 
 1 Le sage a son jardin destine ses vieux ans.' 
 
 c Of what consequence to me,' said an octogenarian 
 friend of mine, who was childless, and offered a 
 peerage, { to have a coronet on my coffin ! ' : 
 
 At this I could not help asking whether he 
 really thought there ought to be no ambition in 
 the world ? 
 
 " Far from it," said he ; " nay, I think it may 
 often be a duty to engage in its strifes for the 
 sake of some noble end. But then, what may be a 
 duty in youth or middle age, would be inconsistent 
 when past the meridian. Even to the veteran, I 
 would not say that all worldly uses were flat and 
 unprofitable. But it is inconceivable how pour 
 and shapeless the objects most dazzling to the 
 glittering throng, appear to him who is going to 
 where he knows they will all sink to nothing, or 
 worse than nothing. Could men carry their pomp 
 and power with them, or women their beauty, 
 when they quit the world, it would be different ; 
 but as pomp and power, and beauty too, are 
 doomed irrevocably to be c food for worms/ ( to 
 lie in cold obstruction, and to rot'— I often think,
 
 ATTICUS. 39 
 
 when I see them in their very zenith, how soon 
 they must be sfript of all that they pride them- 
 selves upon here, and how soon the millions they 
 have despised may be more than their equals else- 
 where.'^ 
 
 Our friend here paused again for some minutes; 
 and, as I was sure he was sincere, I esteemed him 
 more than ever. I felt even almost as grave as 
 himself, and waited for him to go on. He there- 
 fore rather surprised me by a change of tone, when 
 he laughingly wound up by saying, 
 
 " No ! no ! There are no orators, aristocrats, or 
 exclusives in Heaven, whatever they may think 
 of it." 
 
 u All this is incontestable/' said I ; " but do 
 you mean that, because all must quit the world, 
 we are not to attend to its interests while in it? " 
 
 u Clearly not,'*' he replied ; " but the difficulty 
 is to distinguish between the world's interests and 
 our own. A grandiloquent minister, finding his 
 grandeur in a little danger, cries out, ' Vain pomp 
 and glory of the world, I hate you ! ' He assures 
 his audience that he took office against his will, 
 knowing he was too old for it ; but he must not 
 abandon the king. He therefore remains a little 
 longer; that is, as long as he can. Another 
 grandee has also a duty to perform (of course to 
 the country), and cannot refuse to save that country
 
 40 ATT1CUS. 
 
 by refusing to coalesce with the party that is upper- 
 most. A third suddenly discovers that he has 
 been in error all his life, but has become open to 
 conviction ; that is_, he sacrifices all the principles 
 for which he had fought for years when his friends 
 were in power, but, in consequence of this con- 
 viction, sides against them now they are out ! 
 These are admirable examples ; but, my good 
 friend, would you have me one of these ? " 
 
 "By no means," I said; " but when have I 
 endeavoured to make you change your principles 
 or your friends ? " 
 
 ie I must do so," he replied, (i if, having been 
 patrician all my life, I join men who ally them- 
 selves with persons whose known, and indeed 
 undenied, object is the destruction of the con- 
 stitution. These are the servilities, not the 
 honours of ambition ; but were they not so, for 
 the graver reason which I gave you, of attend- 
 ing to my own quiet after doing some duty in 
 the world, I have little virtue in refusing to re- 
 turn to it." 
 
 " Can study and retirement then make up for 
 all that you renounce ? " 
 
 " I speak advisedly/' returned he, " and pro- 
 bably, with more knowledge of myself than a 
 very considerable bishop and scholar, who said he 
 never would be tempted by the sweets of prefer-
 
 ATTIC US. 4 1 
 
 ment to sacrifice his philosophical freedom.* This 
 at any time ; but ill the present day, and in the 
 total dearth of that real patriotism which once I 
 witnessed, and was proud to support, my excla- 
 mation is, 
 
 ' Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk ! ' " 
 
 I own I felt the force of these representations, 
 
 and began to wish that Lord had sent a 
 
 better messenger to woo our hermit back to the 
 world. I, however, said something of his still 
 evident vigour, and hinted again the danger of mo- 
 notony and want of object in his solitude. i( You 
 have no right/ 5 I added, u yet to hide yourself, and 
 
 ' Under the shade of melancholy boughs 
 Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time. ' " 
 
 " Believe me," said he, " you are wrong. As 
 to solitude, it is a vulgar error into which you at 
 least will not fall, to suppose it a total retreat 
 from mankind. This would be as unnatural as 
 misanthropic. It has been better defined, that 
 intellectual state into which the mind voluntarily 
 surrenders itself to its own reflections;! and this 
 may obviously be the case, if he pleases, of a 
 man who lives in crowds, as well as of the hermit 
 of the desert. A more eloquent philosopher than 
 I, contrasting mere worldly pursuits with those 
 
 * See Bishop Watson's Memoirs of Himself, 
 f Zimmerman.
 
 42 ATTICUS. 
 
 of mind, observes that, ' in retreat, a more refined 
 and enlarged mind leaves the world behind it, 
 feels a call for higher pleasures, and seeks them in 
 retirement. The man of public spirit has recourse 
 to it in order to form plans for general good ; the 
 man of genius to dwell on his favourite themes ; 
 the philosopher to pursue his discoveries; and 
 the saint to improve himself in grace/ Blair, 
 however, nowhere says, but implies the contrary, 
 that this is either to neglect or despise the inter- 
 ests of the world. Solitude may even have its 
 frivolities, as well as a metropolis ; and an honest 
 minister, of which there are bright examples even 
 now, may be, and usually is, of far greater use to 
 mankind than the most virtuous hermit. I am 
 not therefore, with all my love of retirement (or 
 rather necessary tranquillity), so foolish an enthu- 
 siast about it as perhaps you think me. Assure 
 yourself, that though I am content to be out of 
 power, and may refuse to return to it, I 
 
 1 Cease not to wander where the Muses haunt, 
 Near stream, or shady grove, or sunny hill ; ' 
 
 My boughs are not c melancholy/ nor under them 
 do I 
 
 ' Lose or neglect the creeping hours of time.' " 
 
 £( Bravo \" said I, but, I fear, rather in bra- 
 vado ; for I had nothing very cogent to urge in 
 reply.
 
 ATTICUS. 43 
 
 u What/ 5 he continued, " says old Montaigne, 
 who lived a varied life, and was a shrewd observer? 
 1 The solitude which I love and recommend, is 
 that which enables me to withdraw my affections 
 and thoughts into myself. Local solitude rather 
 sets me at large, and I can even more willingly 
 embark in the business of the world when I am 
 alone. Even at the Louvre, the throng makes me 
 retire into myself. I am no enemy to courts, and 
 have spent part of my life in great companies; 
 but then it must be at my own time.' So far 
 Montaigne ; and let Montaigne speak for me." 
 
 " I am sorry for it," said I, " considering how 
 much you are wanted, and how much you might 
 still achieve of honours and power ; and as you 
 are not rich, forgive me if I add, of fortune." 
 
 He shewed his dissent, and, after a pause, said, 
 w This might have weighed some years ago ; but I 
 thank Heaven, I have at length completely reached 
 that great desideratum in the pursuit of happiness 
 the being able to concentrate, not only all my feel- 
 ings, but all my ideas, and certainly all my wishes, 
 within the pale of this domain. I scarcely ask 
 myself how goes time, and still less the world ; 
 not because I am indifferent to my species (to all 
 of whom I wish well), but because, from the sim- 
 plicity of my pleasures and of my wants, the sa- 
 tiety of former objects (having fully enjoyed them)>
 
 44 ATTICUS. 
 
 and above all, perhaps, the loss of many dear and 
 excellent friends who encouraged and shared in 
 those objects, I have wisely, I think, reduced 
 every thing to my own circle of pursuits, and look 
 not abroad for better. As to the loss of friends, 
 I feel again with Sir William Temple, who you 
 say is my model: ' When I consider how many 
 noble and estimable men — how many lovely and 
 agreeable women — I have outlived among my ac- 
 quaintance, methinks it looks impertinent to be 
 alive/' 5 
 
 Here he became a little affected, but resuming 
 cheerfulness, he went on : — " As to fortune, you 
 say well; I am not rich, except that I have 
 enough, and richer therefore cannot be. I will 
 not fall into the cant of pseudo-philosophy, and 
 rail against the Court because I have left it ; for it 
 treated me better than I deserved. But having 
 left it (I think for better things at my age) I call 
 to mind the good yeoman of Kent, just before he 
 slew Jack Cade : — 
 
 ' Lord ! who would live turmoiled in the Court, 
 And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? 
 This small inheritance my father left me 
 Contenteth me, and 's worth a monarchy. 
 I seek not to wax great by other's waning, 
 Or gather wealth I care not with what envy ; 
 Sufficeth that I have maintains my state, 
 And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.' "
 
 ATTICUS. 45 
 
 " Of a truth/* said I, " these lines are power- 
 ful in support of your principle, and I only hope 
 that you will not, like him who uttered them, cut 
 off my head for ( breaking into your garden f but 
 even the philosopher Iden, you may remember, 
 was ambitious to get knighted, and followed the 
 Court whicli he had affected to despise." 
 
 u However this may be," he replied, u with the 
 help of such philosophy, or, as I would rather say, 
 resignation, as belongs to me, I feel that I have 
 all really wanting to my desires or my tastes. I 
 have, thank God (if I may venture in all humility 
 to risk such a supposition), no very heinous 
 transgressions on my conscience ; I' have no pain 
 of body, nor discontent of mind ; and I wish all 
 men well, though I converse with few. Those 
 few are at least honest ; and if I want higher com- 
 munications they are at hand every hour of the 
 day, and every watch of the night, with a benig- 
 nant, and I trust merciful though just Being, who 
 watches all my actions, and before whom I know 
 I am soon to appear." 
 
 I will own to you, my Lord, these solemn 
 words, set off by a still greater solemnity of voice 
 and manner, left me for a moment without reply. 
 
 I felt pushed, and was not sorry at his proposal 
 to vary the scene by walking to a summer-house
 
 46 ATTICUS. 
 
 at a little distance, where, he said, he had ordered 
 tea. 
 
 We did so, and from its windows beheld all the 
 glories of the setting sun. We made a quiet and 
 rather thoughtful repast; after which, bending 
 our way through a mazy path in the wood, we 
 returned to the house, under the guidance of the 
 meek-eyed twilight, who now before us, 
 
 " Slowly sail'd, and wav'd her banners gray." 
 And so ends my first day at Llirias. 
 
 " To-morrow to fresh fields and pastures new.'*
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 My dear Lord, 
 
 I am glad you liked my last, though you were 
 disappointed. I fear I cannot give you more hope 
 from the second day past with Atticus, than the 
 first ; but as you wish me to proceed I will. 
 
 Our evening was agreeable enough. The real 
 beauty of his place, and his unequivocal happiness 
 in it, made me abstain from all doubt of its lasting, 
 or at least from being so rude as to tell him that 
 I had any. We therefore became literary, and, 
 of course philosophical. Politics were banished 
 for agriculture ; of gardening we had had enough ; 
 and my expectations were a good deal shaken, 
 when I found that Atticus had a farm of 500 
 acres in his own hands, of which he was himself 
 the bailiff. 
 
 A man, thought I, with such a responsibility, 
 and out almost all day in such an interesting occu- 
 pation, even were he not a votary of the Muses, 
 or fond of the buskined Nymphs, can never com- 
 plain of ennui, or a monotonous life.
 
 48 ATTICUS. 
 
 I retired for the night with these impressions, 
 and they certainly were not diminished by any 
 thing I saw the next day. 
 
 I did not rise late, but found our friend had been 
 up two hours before me. He had read prayers 
 to his servants, who one and all had attended, and 
 he had already done business with his farmer and 
 head gardener, (who was also his woodman), before 
 I came down. We breakfasted at the garden door 
 of the room where we had dined the preceding 
 day ; which the cheerful warmth of the morning, 
 and the delicious scent of the May, made charm- 
 ing. 
 
 It did not open upon the parterre, being on 
 another side of the house, but it led the eye 
 at once to the end of a very long and well-kept 
 walk, lined on each side with horse-chesnuts, 
 now in their full blossom. There was here no 
 garden, but rather a ferme ornee; for an open 
 rail fenced it from the greenest meadow I ever 
 saw. From this arose a stream of rich perfume, 
 such as I had seldom met with, which Atticus 
 informed me was occasioned by the peculiar seeds 
 with which he had formed the meadow, (for it was 
 his own "creation), and which, with some pedantry, 
 as I told him, he said, was the Anthexanthum 
 Odoratum, which in fact occasions the perfume of 
 our hay stacks. We must suppose that he was 

 
 ATTICUS. 49 
 
 too proud of his new character, not to cultivate 
 Linnceus ; but he might as well have called his 
 favourite grass at once the Sweet-scented Vernal, 
 which I afterward found from his farmer was its 
 English, or, as he called it, its real name. 
 
 Breakfast over, we strolled down the walk, and 
 quaffed its sweet air with a delight unknown in 
 London. There was a stillness in it, not only 
 gratifying to the senses, but which seemed to sooth 
 the heart ; so that I almost wondered there could 
 be any tumult any where in the world, much less 
 any of our own creating, as if in very wantonness 
 and discontent at the lot awarded us by the Crea- 
 tor. It was one of those mornings which seem 
 the personification of calm. Some beautiful cows 
 were couchant, on the distant side of the meadow, 
 chewing the cud. Not another sound, but now 
 and then a chirp from the hedges, varied the quiet; 
 which w r as rather made more pleasant than other- 
 wise, by a soft mist or dew, which had exhaled 
 from the earth, but was now dissipating at the 
 approach of the sun. The w r hole w r as what the 
 painters call a repose, and it was worthy the beau- 
 tiful pencil of Cuyp in his sweetest and happiest 
 hour. 
 
 The feelings both of Atticus and myself partook 
 of the surrounding tranquillity, and each I believe 
 was afraid of destroying its effect by speaking. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 ATTICUS. 
 
 But having reached the bottom of the walk, I 
 found myself in a rustic building which I took at 
 first for a mere tool house, but which, in fact, was 
 one of the prettiest hermitages one could see. It 
 was built of trunks and boughs of trees, with the 
 bark on ; the roof covered with reeds, the sides 
 and windows shrowded with sweet briars, and all 
 " o*er canopied with luscious woodbine/' 
 
 " What a place ! " I observed, ** and what a 
 morning ! your evening retreat, with all its sober 
 but delightful sedatives, I admired enough yes- 
 terday, and thought I had done when I had seen 
 Digentia. But this seems as preferable in point 
 of enjoyment, as it surely is in the domestic scenes 
 it presents. There was retirement there, amount- 
 ing almost to sadness; but here all is joy and hope, 
 and such elasticity of spirit as I have seldom felt, 
 and cannot describe/' 
 
 " Why," replied he, (i none but those who have 
 enjoyed them, can know, or even understand, the 
 pleasures of the early morning. What delightful 
 poetry have we not read, of Aurora, and her rosy 
 steps and rosy fingers — what paintings not seen of 
 the Hours preceding or accompanying the Chariot 
 of Day. But no need of poetry, or painting, when 
 we have such realities as we are now breathing. 
 It is not the difference of the place, but of the 
 hour, that causes your surprise. The sweetness of
 
 ATTICUS. 51 
 
 the morning, however, is perhaps its least charm. 
 It is the renewed vigour it implants in all around, 
 that affects us — men, animals, birds, vegetation, 
 plants, flowers. These last palpably shew its 
 vivifying effect, by opening their buds and blos- 
 soms, (which had closed during night,) as if on 
 purpose to greet and be thankful for the return of 
 day. There is the same feeling in man. Refreshed 
 and soothed with sleep, his heart opens ; he is 
 alive to nature, and nature's God, and his mind is 
 more intelligent, because more fresh. He seems 
 to drink of the dew like the flowers, and feels the 
 same reviving effect. 
 
 " Here the heart swells, as you say, with hope 
 and joy; and here the understanding is any thing 
 but stagnant, though alone : nor am I surprised 
 that Booth, (the Booth of Amelia), when asked 
 by a town dame to describe what was so seductive 
 in the country, should enumerate the morning air, 
 though so cheap and common, among its chief 
 attractions. Here then the country has evidently 
 the advantage, for the town can never know or 
 feel this. The very hours preclude it, even had 
 we any other landscape than the streets/' 
 
 " Yet I have seen the sun rise, and even the 
 twilight of morning," replied I, "but without 
 these feelings." 
 
 " You forget/ 5 answered Atticus, " your own 
 d 2
 
 52 ATTICUS. 
 
 situation at the time ; for it must have been in 
 returning jaded from an all night's debate, or an 
 all night's dissipation, with far other children than 
 those of nature. I blame not those who prefer this 
 as a pleasure. In my youth, I too have preferred 
 it, or thought I did so. I have even quizzed the 
 country as much as Lady Townley herself,* while 
 in a ball room. I have sat at some Lady Mary's 
 feet, played with her fan, and thought her eyes 
 more dazzling than her diamonds. But all this 
 goes ; nature ever resumes her empire when the 
 excitement of youth has subsided, and the mind 
 feels still greater (because more refined) delight in 
 other objects of a higher cast." 
 
 " I listen to you with pleasure," said I, seeing 
 Atticus pause ; " you have described all without 
 doors well, but it is chiefly the interior I wish to 
 come to. You cannot always have these sights 
 and sounds ; you cannot always have this wea- 
 ther." 
 
 u The interior," replied he, " yields in nothing 
 to what I have described. To be sure, we may be 
 a little more joyous, or more sensual, from what 
 passes without, and it applies itself more to every 
 one's feeling. Thus, the carol of the lark, that has 
 
 * " As for walking, it is a country diversion, and I hate it." — 
 Provoked Husband.
 
 ATTICUS. 53 
 
 so well been called ' the light-enamoured bird ;' the 
 hum of the bees ; the verdure and gorgeous blos- 
 soms of the woods ; — these are sources of pleasure 
 common to all. So also the perfume of the air ; 
 though merely from thorns, and lilacs, and limes ; to 
 say nothing of grain, or tedded grass, or kine. But 
 all these are nothing to what a contemplative man 
 can make them by association. We ourselves par- 
 take vividly of the freshness. Every thing is new, 
 or renewed; the heart, the body, the intellect itself. 
 Then come those moments, " sweeter than honey, 
 or the honey comb," when the mind revolves its 
 own powers, in self conversation and self exami- 
 nation ; which is always best in the sweet cool of 
 the morning, before excitement or passion can be 
 roused, and we are alive only to gratitude to the 
 All Giver, for the goodness he has bestowed. 
 
 u This makes the whole soul run over, and what 
 was a sense immediately becomes a sentiment, 
 only heightened and refined, in a tenfold degree, 
 by grateful piety. The zest which this mixture 
 of mind communicates, can only be understood 
 by those who have felt it." 
 
 " This is but too true," said I, " and accounts 
 in some measure for my present impressions. " 
 
 " You are right," said he, u for the morning 
 seems, in consequence, to be set off in tints a
 
 54 ATTICUS, 
 
 thousand times more brilliant to the eye ; a finer 
 feeling breathes through the frame ; a sweeter 
 freshness exhilarates the heart ; and then it is that 
 truth, undisturbed by extraneous matter, darts 
 deeper into our thoughts, and renders them clearer 
 by divesting them of partiality. The composure 
 and mental pleasure which this produces, are 
 worth a diadem, and no retired man would seek 
 to change them, except for Heaven/' 
 
 Here Atticus stopt, and I could not help com- 
 plimenting him upon the deep consideration he 
 seemed to have given to the whole subject, as 
 well as the sincerity which glowed in his descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 " I see," said I, (i you do not here, any more 
 than elsewhere, do things by halves; and I am 
 afraid, if the College in Downing Street cannot 
 understand or appreciate your resolution, it is 
 because they are not yet worthy of it." 
 
 " It would perhaps have been better," said he, 
 " for the reputations of some of them, if they also 
 had retired in time. 
 
 i( And why not now ? 
 
 " Because the time is gone, never to return; and 
 if posterity deny them hereafter what they seem 
 themselves to have been infatuated in destroying — 
 I mean their characters as statesmen — it is theh* 
 own fault."
 
 ATTICUS. 55 
 
 iC I cannot permit this," said I, interrupting 
 
 him. " Has Lord destroyed his character 
 
 as a statesman ? " 
 
 These allusions to some of those whom I con- 
 sidered as my friends, I own somewhat piqued 
 me, and I could not help taxing him with some- 
 thing like spleen, till I became splenetic myself. 
 For I began to question the sincerity of his ro- 
 mance, and all the fine things which had so lately 
 charmed me. I even, (and I now feel ashamed of 
 it), imputed his obstinacy in retiring, to a petulant 
 fear that he would (to use his own often repeated 
 expression) be pushed from his stool by younger 
 competitors. 
 
 In this, he told me (and I now believe him) 
 that I treated him with injustice ; and he bade me 
 call to mind how minutely cautious he had been 
 in guarding himself from the most distant appear- 
 ance of having quarrelled with the world, like 
 Cowley, Rousseau, or Lord Chesterfield. 
 
 " Believe me," said he, " I am any thing but 
 
 ' the man to books confined, 
 Who from his study rails at human kind.' 
 
 I repeat, the world is, upon the whole, a good, 
 though perhaps not, as Pangloss called it, the best 
 of all possible worlds."
 
 56 ATTICUS. 
 
 " I agree/' said I ; u but pray how came Ches- 
 terfield to make one of the illustrious trio you 
 mentioned just now? If ever there was a man 
 who lived to the last moment of his life, lived in 
 the world, and loved it, it was surely this gartered 
 wit, this spoilt child of the aristocracy, favoured 
 alike by fortune and nature, and enjoying a repu- 
 tation as wide as Europe/' 
 
 " And yet with all this, you will be surprised 
 to find he was a growler," said Atticus; " not like 
 me, for I do not growl, and by no means think of 
 mankind, even the politicians among them, as he 
 did." 
 
 u Your proof/' I asked, rather amazed. " I 
 know he thought ill of mankind; but he never 
 quitted the world on that account/' 
 
 " Ecce signum" replied he, taking up a manu- 
 script book of extracts which lay on a rustic table, 
 and reading a letter of Chesterfield's which he had 
 copied with his own hand. 
 
 " I have run," said he, " the silly rounds of 
 business and of pleasure, and I have done with 
 them all. I have enjoyed all the pleasures of the 
 world, and consequently know their futility, and 
 do not regret their loss. I appraise them at their 
 real value, which is truly very low ; whereas those 
 who have not experienced, always over-rate
 
 ATTICUS. 57 
 
 them. They only see their gay outside, and are 
 dazzled with their glare. But I have been behind 
 the scenes. I have seen all the coarse putties and 
 dirty ropes, which exhibit and move the gaudy 
 machine. I have seen and smelt the talloiv candles 
 which illuminate the whole decoration, to the 
 astonishment and admiration of an ignorant mul- 
 titude. When I reflect back upon what I have 
 seen, what I have heard, and what I have done, I 
 can hardly persuade myself, that all that frivolous 
 hurry, and bustle, and pleasure of the world, had 
 any reality ; but I look upon all that is past as 
 one of those romantic dreams, which opium com- 
 monly occasions ; and I do by no means desire to 
 repeat the nauseous dose for the sake of the 
 fugitive dream. Shall I tell you that I bear this 
 melancholy situation with that meritorious con- 
 stancy and resignation which most people boast 
 of? No, for I really cannot help it. I bear it 
 because I must, whether I will or no ; and I think 
 of nothing but killing Time, now he is become 
 mine enemy. It is my resolution to sleep in the 
 carriage, the remainder of the journey." 
 
 " Thus you see, continued A tticus, "Chesterfield 
 considered Time his enemy, as much as Cowley." 
 
 " The railing of Cowley at courts, for the busi- 
 ness only of which, not their agremens, he seemed 
 D 5
 
 58 ATTICUS. 
 
 formed, and when, in fact, he began to be laughed 
 at, was far/' I replied, " from partaking of that 
 dignified and philosophic superiority to them, 
 which he would have you believe that he pos- 
 sessed/ 5 
 
 " I agree/ 5 observed Atticus; "and, as forme — 
 far, very far from undervaluing a noble ambition, 
 or even the splendour of a court which I may be 
 thought no longer able to enjoy; on the contrary, 
 giving the fullest meed of praise to many honour- 
 able and energetic men, who are, and will continue 
 to be, the benefactors of their country — I have 
 yet seen, among all parties, so many fools fill the 
 public eye as if they really had sense, and so many 
 hypocrites obtain honours as if they were honest 
 men ; and I have also seen so many of what they 
 call well-meaning people, run headlong into the 
 jaws opened for them by scoundrels ; that I am 
 content to be out of the world, not from indiffer- 
 ence to what may happen in it, but because I feel, 
 with a real patriot, a real poet, and a real lover of 
 mankind, that, 
 i 
 
 ' When vice prevails and impious men bear sway, 
 The post of honour is a private station.' 
 
 By this I do not mean to allude to those who 
 now nominally govern, — who are neither more
 
 ATTICUS. 59 
 
 vicious, nor more impious, than others, though 
 their ambition is of a more dangerous character 
 than what we have formerly known; but I do 
 allude to the mob, whom (alas for them !) they 
 have made their masters, and whom they will 
 find, before they are aware of it, the children of 
 both Impiety and Vice. In this predicament I feel 
 more than ever the propriety of retreat, and more 
 than ever, with the great Bard, exclaim that, 
 
 ' Often to our comfort shall we find, 
 The stranded beetle in a safer hold 
 Than is the full-wing' d eagle.' " 
 
 He said this so emphatically, and as if he had 
 given the matter such deep consideration, that I 
 despaired of moving him with any reply I could 
 make ; and I was therefore not sorry to be inter- 
 rupted by a servant announcing luncheon ; for we 
 had so beguiled the hours, that we had not seen 
 how far advanced was the day. As we followed 
 to the repast, Atticus proposed riding afterwards, 
 to which I gladly agreed ; and he wound up by 
 saying that, after so many vicissitudes as he had 
 witnessed, he was resolved, if he could, to seek 
 refuge in oblivion, or at least to think, with 
 Hazlitt, that c all that is worth remembering in 
 life is the poetry of it ! * 
 
 The luncheon was served in the library, which
 
 60 ATTICUS. 
 
 we had visited on the day of my arrival. It was 
 in statu quo, with this difference, that two very 
 beautiful busts of the finest statuary marble, which 
 were generally, or often, covered up to secure them 
 from dust, were, now there was " company," pro- 
 duced by the house-keeper in all their glory. They 
 were of Horace and Virgil, and seemingly much 
 valued by our host, to whose father they had been 
 presented by a Grand Duke of Tuscany, when he 
 concluded a mission he had filled, with great credit, 
 at Florence. Each had appropriate inscriptions, 
 which had been engraved in letters of gold, upon 
 black marble pedestals, forming a striking and 
 elegant contrast to the pure Parian of the busts 
 themselves. I read them with some eagerness, 
 being still anxious to get at the real mind of 
 Atticus as to the resolutions he had adopted. 
 That of Virgil consisted of the famous passages, 
 
 " Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes ; 
 Ilium non populi fasces, non purpura regum 
 Flexit," &c. 
 
 This I read, but our friend went on with the 
 rest, and with peculiar warmth when he came to 
 
 " Non res Rc-mana, perituraque regna ; neque ille 
 Aut doluit miserans inopem, aut invidit habenti. 
 Quos rami fructus, quos ipsa volentia rura
 
 ATTICUS. 61 
 
 Sponte tulere sua, carpsit ; nee ferrea jura, 
 Insanumque forum, aut populi tabularia -vidit." * 
 
 The Virgil inscription was perhaps more to 
 Atticus's taste ; the Horatian more to his philo- 
 sophy. It was as follows : 
 
 " Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum 
 Semper urgendo ; neque, dum procellas 
 Cautus horrescis, nimium premendo 
 Litus iniquum. 
 
 " Auream quisquis mediocritatem 
 Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti 
 Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda 
 Sobrius aula." f 
 
 Both inscriptions seemed the very epitome of 
 my friend's philosophy. Observing, however, that 
 I rather smiled on reading them, though the 
 smile was anything but of disapprobation, he 
 said, " you perhaps think, as I once did myself, 
 that these inscriptions are coxcombical, affected, 
 precieuses, and denoting anything but sincerity. 
 But you will recollect that I live much alone, 
 though not averse to company, and that these 
 reminiscences from the writers that charmed us 
 in our youth, are like the conversations of old 
 friends. Besides, whatever the frame of mind at 
 
 * Georg. ii. 498. f Lib - «• Od. x.
 
 G2 ATTICUS. 
 
 the moment — whether of joy or sorrow — philo- 
 sophical, or poetic, or devout, — if our authors are 
 well chosen, there is scarcely a sentiment that 
 cannot be found congenial to our humour, only 
 set off with more elegance and force than our 
 own thoughts or language can supply. Homer, 
 Horace, and Virgil, among the ancients,, and 
 Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Pope, 
 and Boileau, among the moderns, are admirable 
 specimens of this/' 
 
 I acknowledged the truth of these remarks, and 
 we both agreed that after we had been reading 
 the book of Nature, either in the struggling cha- 
 racters of the world, the aphorisms of philosophers, 
 or the silent, but thought-inspiring landscapes of 
 such a place as this, nothing could be sweeter 
 than to meet with our feelings pourtrayed in the 
 divine language ' of Old or Modern Bard, in hall 
 or bower/ 
 
 " Still," I observed, returning to my old wishes 
 to convert him to our opinions if possible, " still, 
 there must be different tastes and objects, and 
 therefore different species of exertion and con- 
 duct :" — and I broke out with that fine swelling 
 passage of Akenside, 
 
 ' ' Different minds 
 Incline to different objects ; one pursues 
 The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ;
 
 ATTICUS. 63 
 
 Another sighs for harmony and gi-ace, 
 
 And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires 
 
 The arch of Heav'n, and thunders rock the ground ; 
 
 When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air, 
 
 And Ocean groaning from his lowest bed 
 
 Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky 
 
 Amid the mighty uproar, while below 
 
 The nations tremble — Shakespeare looks abroad 
 
 From some high cliff superior, and enjoys 
 
 The elemental war ; while Waller longs 
 
 All on the margin of some flowery stream 
 
 To lay his careless limbs amid the cool 
 
 Of plaintain shades."* 
 
 Our friend seemed struck, not only with the 
 force of the passage, but the energy with which I 
 recited it, and smilingly said, " Thou almost per- 
 suadest me to return to the High Cliff, and enjoy 
 the elemental war. But it is for you to be Shake- 
 speare. After I have had so much of the uproar, 
 I should wish, if you please, to be Waller; for 
 though it may seem a little ludicrous at my time 
 of life, I can still lie by a flowing river, and be 
 happy. 
 
 ! Stratus nunc ad acpiae lene caput sacrse.' 
 
 How romantic did not that line make me when 
 first I construed it as a boy ! and how little have 
 I forgot it, even now ! " 
 
 * Pleasures of Imagination, iii. 550. O ! si sic omnia ! — for it 
 is worthy of Shakespeare himself.
 
 G4 ATTICUS. 
 
 "lam afraid," said I, affecting to scold, " after 
 all your former exertions, and all the country still 
 hopes from you, you are, in reality, a mere self- 
 indulgent, idle Epicurean." 
 
 " And why not," replied he, " as far as Epi- 
 curus's notion of happiness is concerned ? I can 
 have no quarrel with him there." 
 
 " What ! Pleasure the summum bonum ? " 
 
 " There is ambiguity in that word," said Atticus. 
 " If by pleasure you mean mere sensuality, as is 
 generally supposed, and enjoyed even at the ex- 
 pense of guilt, you are wrong. For take his defi- 
 nition of happiness in the abstract, and nothing 
 can be more innocent, or less warrant the conclu- 
 sion that has been drawn from it." 
 
 " Your definition," said I. 
 
 " Ease of body, and content of mind. This, 
 said he, it is to be happy ; and I agree to 
 it, whether in a Stoic, a Christian, or an Epi- 
 curean. So far the philosophers, to which I 
 accede ; only adding that it is in the different 
 modes which men allow or forbid themselves to 
 pursue, for the accomplishment of this end, that 
 the difference in their philosophy Consists. The 
 Stoic says, pain does not interrupt pleasure. 
 The Christian makes Heaven a sine qua non. The 
 Epicurean abhors pain, and makes no account
 
 ATTICUS. 65 
 
 of Heaven. Yet the difference does not break 
 in upon the definition. 
 
 " I certainly am no Stoic ; and I trust I am a 
 Christian ; yet whether one or the other, if I have 
 ease of body and content of mind I am happy. 
 The pleasure therefore consequent to this is hap- 
 piness ; and well-regulated pleasure, and happi- 
 ness, are the same things/' 
 
 " And do you agree with Epicurus/' said I, 
 in all the rest of his doctrines }" 
 
 " Certainly not; no more than I do with Aris- 
 tippus in the licence he gives in the pursuit of 
 pleasure ; or with Epicurus himself in his total 
 negation of God and Providence." 
 
 "Granting all this/' said I, "let us come to 
 the modes of acquiring this pleasure. Should 
 there not be activity, exertion, object, and there- 
 fore struggle? Should we not grow rusty, and 
 even benumbed, by merely vegetating in the silent 
 caves of retirement ? " 
 
 "Certainly we might/' he replied, "if we 
 knew not how to manage ourselves ; and hence 
 the disappointments and miseries of a Tremaine. 
 If you are happier, therefore, in the strifes, or 
 even the pomps and vanities of the world — if 
 such are your wishes, and your nature — you have 
 a right to try what they will do for you. But
 
 66 ATTICUS. 
 
 have a care that your pleasure does not turn to 
 poison, as sweet things often do. 
 
 " Thank Heaven, however, there are different 
 sorts of wishes, and even changes in natures, as 
 events ordain, and years roll on. It is for you to 
 ride on the whirlwind if you please ;*f or me, now, 
 to rest motionless in this chair, at this window, 
 enjoying the prospect, content with calm, and the 
 absence of all hankering after other things — in 
 short, with the charms of bewitching reverie." 
 
 " What these charms are, I wish I knew," said 
 I, .(I fear rather pettishly) ; " for I could never 
 understand the pleasure which, according to you, 
 consists in merely opening or shutting one's eyes." 
 
 " That depends," he replied, " upon what you 
 see with them." 
 
 "Whether shut or open, can you describe 
 them ?" said I. 
 
 " A Frenchman," he replied, but then a sen- 
 timental one, and a poet, shall do it for me. I 
 mean the lover of gardens, whom we yesterday 
 quoted so much : — 
 
 ' N'avez vous souvent, aux lieux infrequentes, 
 Rencontre" tout a coup ces aspects enchantes, 
 Qui suspendent vos pas, dont l'image cherie 
 Vous jette en une douce et longue reverie ? ' " * 
 
 " Beautiful," I exclaimed, recovering my good 
 
 * De Lille.
 
 ATTICUS. 67 
 
 humour, " but I am afraid too quiet to last, or be 
 often repeated ; especially if, meanwhile, the trum- 
 pet of the world sound a charge." 
 
 "That, 1 ' said he, "depends upon the humour, 
 cast of mind, and power of thought of the reveur." 
 
 " Yet I have often," I observed, " watched this 
 automaton of a reveur, both male and female, and 
 never could discover what particular humour they 
 were in, except of sleepiness; their eyes, like 
 Hamlet's, seeming fixed upon vacancy : — the last 
 thing I should choose for mine." 
 
 Atticus smiled at this dishonouring description 
 of which he had said was almost his favourite 
 pleasure. "You will please to recollect," an- 
 swered he, " that my reverie, at least, is thoughtful- 
 ness ; and, to you, I need not say that thoughtful- 
 ness is not sleepiness. The mind may be active, 
 though the body may not move." 
 
 " Agreed/ 5 said I, " but the very word is de- 
 rived from a dream; and to dream I suppose 
 implies that we are asleep." 
 
 " Have you never then, heard of waking 
 dreams ? Chateaux en Espagne ? Or, if really 
 sleeping dreams, how sweet may they not some- 
 times be ! and how often have we not been hap- 
 pier in those delightful delusions, than in home- 
 spun realities : so that, like Caliban, on waking 
 we have cried to sleep again."
 
 6*8 ATTICUS. 
 
 " You then/ 5 I replied, " require imagination, 
 with all its attendant flights, its visions, and en- 
 thusiasm, such as made Luther think the Devil 
 came to him in his cell. We have no such things 
 at the Treasury, whatever there may be on the 
 banks of the Digentia. At any rate you are a 
 favoured dreamer, and think only of angels; 
 others are not so fortunate, and dream only of 
 devils/ 5 
 
 " That again,' 5 said he, " depends upon the 
 character and circumstances of the dreamer. My 
 reverie being, as I said, always happy, must be 
 innocent, and thus implies a well-regulated mind, 
 or at least a conscience undisturbed by the devil. 55 
 
 " Good/' said I, (i but should you not add the 
 imagination of a poet ?" 
 
 * No objection, and indeed all the better for it. 
 Even I, who am no poet, and, when in business, 
 am most matter-of-fact, have sometimes, in that 
 very chair, thought of Queen Mab, and all the fro- 
 licks of Puck ; which have danced before my eyes, 
 especially in the dusk, till I was almost ready to 
 exclaim, like Horace, when he thought he heard 
 Calliope, 
 
 ' Auditis ? an me ludit amabilis insania ?' " * 
 
 * Do you hear her ? or does the sweet illusion play with my 
 senses ? — Hot. Lib. 3, Od. 4.
 
 ATTICUS. 69 
 
 (C Admirable !" said I ; 'who would ever have 
 supposed you had been a Secretary? and how 
 
 simple in Lord to send me to bring you 
 
 back to matter of fact ? But you ought to consider 
 that all have not this imagination of yours.' 5 
 
 " Nor is it necessary/ 5 said he ; " for I confine 
 not this charming, because most innocent, as well 
 as most vivid pleasure, to the favoured of the 
 Muses. It is not necessary that all reveurs 
 should be again like Horace, 
 
 ' Audire, et videor pios 
 Errare per lucos, amoense 
 
 Quos et aquas subeunt et aurse.' 
 
 Nor, like Grey in his evening walks, see Parnassus, 
 in every hill, and Aganippe in every fountain. 
 
 ' Et pedes quo me rapiunt, in omni 
 Colle Parnassum videor videre, 
 Fertileni sylvam, gelidamque in omni 
 Fonte Aganippen.' 
 
 It is the calm produced by this mere transit, 
 (even the indolent transit) of thought through the 
 brain, (provided all is at peace both within and 
 without), that constitutes the happiness I am 
 describing. But why attempt to describe what 
 has already been done so beautifully ? for surely 
 nothing can more exactly depict the reverie, than 
 the well-known stanzas, where the poet is the
 
 70 ATTICUS. 
 
 very personification of my dreamer. He stretches 
 his listless length at noon tide, at the foot of a 
 nodding beech, and pores (perhaps without much 
 consciousness) on the brook that babbles by. He 
 mutters wayward fancies ; and though I do not 
 like that our reveur should look c drooping, woe- 
 ful, wan/ or be ( crazed with care, 5 I have no ob- 
 jection to his being a little in love.' 5 
 
 " The picture,' 5 said I, rather amused, " is cer- 
 tainly exact, and all may understand it, whether 
 poets or not. 5 ' 
 
 " And all may enjoy it, 55 said Atticus, "whether 
 they understand it or not. Locke calls it mere irre- 
 gular musing ; and Addison seems to think that 
 a fool may possess it as well as a wise man. I 
 allow this is not much to the credit of my pet 
 pleasure ; but you will observe, it is the tranquil- 
 lity occasioned by the indulgence of it that I am 
 upholding. 55 
 
 "All very good, 55 replied I, "if to be found; 
 but give me lea^ve to ask if you ever really knew 
 a real instance of such enthusiastic happiness as 
 you have been describing. 5 ' 
 
 " I have, 5 ' answered Atticus ; " and would he 
 were still alive to answer for himself ! 5 ' 
 
 "Did I know him?' 5 
 
 " No ! he died too young. He was my dearest 
 and earliest friend, and so fond of indulging
 
 ATTICUS. 71 
 
 this pleasure, or, as perhaps you call it, this 
 fooPs paradise, that he was thought by some to 
 be dullest when his mind was most alive. Of 
 an evening he would sit long and late at his 
 window, seemingly unemployed, or only employed 
 in watching the twilight after the sun had ceased 
 to streak the west. The mere tops of trees 
 appeared to afford room for interminable observa- 
 tion, and he would shape out every twig and every 
 leaf, as set off in minute and beautiful relief by the 
 light behind. These were perpetually changing 
 their forms and colours, with the sinking day, 
 which charmed his painter's eye, till all was lost 
 in indistinguishable darkness. During the whole 
 time some thought or another was revolved; 
 though exactly what, he owned he could not tell. 
 Yet so sweet was it, that could he have bought 
 it for money, no price would have been too dear 
 for it.' 5 
 
 u Your picture,' 5 said I, " is really charming, 
 though I am not one of the favoured few who 
 understand and enjoy it. What I thought dull- 
 ness, is with you tranquillity ; and though, Heaven 
 knows! there is dullness enough, there is little 
 tranquillity, in the House of Commons." 
 
 " Here then," he answered, " you allow retire- 
 ment to have the advantage. But I mean not by 
 this to confine it to the country ; for though my
 
 72 ATTICUS. 
 
 reverie requires solitude, (as it is killed by inter- 
 ruption), solitude may be enjoyed, if we please 
 to command it, in town, as well as on ' sands 
 and shores, and desert wildernesses/ " 
 
 " You think then a farmer or a shopkeeper may 
 enjoy this reverie of yours, as well as a man of 
 imagination, or a philosoper." 
 
 " Not so well," he replied, " because a man of 
 imagination, though shut up within four walls, 
 may conjure up to his pleased fancy ten thousand 
 images, which he probably never saw before ; or 
 he may in one moment contemplate the whole 
 world, and take possession of it too, without ever 
 stirring from his seat. 
 
 " Such was Raleigh, drawn in that beautiful 
 Kenilworth, as a contrast to Blunt. The first 
 saw the whole Indies between him and the wall 
 which he looked upon ; the last, nothing but the 
 wall. But this is not necessary to the pleasure I 
 am talking of ; — which, after all, is, I believe, more 
 mechanical than spiritual, though certainly intel- 
 lectual/' 
 
 " Pray come to illustrations and examples/' 
 said I, " for I am curious to apply your theory. 
 It may one day serve me in good stead, when the 
 king shall have f no longer occasion for my ser- 
 vices.' " 
 
 6( You will, I fear, laugh at me still more,"
 
 ATTICUS. 7«* 
 
 replied Atticus, " should I come to minute par- 
 ticulars; for they are generally too simple, and 
 some of them too solemn for a politician or 
 man of the world to comprehend, much more to 
 appreciate/' 
 
 " Come to them, however, by all means ; for I 
 am impatient to begin. I trust the ingredients 
 are not of a melancholy cast." 
 
 " Judge for yourself. 
 
 " In the first place there must be entire soli- 
 tude. Not even a servant on the most trivial 
 domestic business must enter your temple of 
 silence : — for, though reverie is any thing but 
 spleen, it resembles it in this — 
 
 " Throw but a stone, the giant dies." 
 
 Obey, therefore, the sacred and most useful of all 
 commands, c commune with thine own heart in 
 thy chamber, and be still.' No one ever did this 
 without benefit, whether self-approbation or dis- 
 approbation were the result. 
 
 (( In the next place, there must be no agitating 
 passion, no guilt of heart or self-reproach, no 
 remorse of conscience, no envy, hatred, or malice ; 
 but all must be harmony, peace, and composure, 
 towards yourself and all God's creatures/' 
 
 " You surely," said I, " require too much of your 
 disciples, rich as may be the reward. But go on." 
 
 vol. 1. E
 
 74 ATTICUS. 
 
 « There must also," continued he, " be another 
 sine qua non, quite as important as the rest: — - 
 health, or at least freedom from pain." 
 
 " Why I suppose," said I, smiling, " that a fit 
 of the gout would be fatal to our Reveur." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," he answered; "there must 
 even be that perfect feeling of ease in the body, 
 that merely to sit and breathe, whether the mind 
 is at work or not, is in itself happiness enough. 
 This is the happiness of 
 
 — ' the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds ' 
 
 ' To be, contents his natural desire ; 
 He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire.' 
 
 This too, as the wise Paley has remarked, is a 
 happiness independent of any particular outward 
 gratification, and of which we can give no account. 
 It probably, therefore, he says, constitutes in a 
 great measure the happiness of infants and brutes, 
 and especially of the lower order of sedentary 
 animals, as of oysters, periwinkles, and the like ; 
 for which, adds the doctor quaintly, I have some- 
 times been at a loss to find out amusement." 
 
 " Your most obedient," I answered ; " I did not 
 know that I must reduce myself to an oyster or 
 periwinkle, to be qualified for a reverie." 
 
 " It is but one, you know, of many ingredients ; 
 but perhaps, after all, as efficacious as any. For,
 
 ATTICUS. 75 
 
 with this feeling of freedom from corporal suffer- 
 ing, and the mind at rest, we realize at once the 
 definition of Epicurus ; and then the most abso- 
 lute trifles may give the composure ; which, me- 
 chanical as it may seem to men of excited feelings, 
 is, be it observed, the happiness we are dis- 
 cussing." 
 
 "Mechanical happiness!" exclaimed I. C( Is 
 this, after all, your philosophy? and have you 
 retired from the world to discover that we are 
 mere machines ? " 
 
 * Far from it/' he rejoined; " but in one sense 
 we are perhaps nearer to the thing, and better for 
 being so, than probably you imagine." 
 
 (i I am eager to know how," said I. 
 
 a In order that you should do so/' replied he, " I 
 cannot do better than refer you to the same shrewd 
 head I have just quoted, for the happiness of peri- 
 winkles. He says, that if any positive signification, 
 distinct from what we mean by pleasure, can be af- 
 fixed to the term happiness, he should take it to 
 denote a certain state of the nervous system, in that 
 part of the human frame in which we feel joy and 
 grief, passion and affection. Wherever this may be, 
 he adds — whether in the heart, as most imagine, or 
 the diaphragm, or the orifice of the stomach, or 
 elsewhere, — pain in those parts, however produced, 
 
 E 2
 
 76 ATTICUS. 
 
 will derange the nervous system, and occasion 
 unhappiness." " Contra, a succession of pleasur- 
 able sensations (of course also, however produced) 
 will restore us to that harmonious condition which 
 gives to the mind its sense of complacency and 
 satisfaction. This state is happiness ; and it 
 is so far distinct from mere pleasure, that it 
 does not refer to any particular object of enjoy- 
 ment/' * 
 
 " You mean then," said I, " that if the nerves 
 are at rest, no matter how they become so, a man 
 is happy." 
 
 K I do ; and so far I prove what I said, that 
 happiness in this light may be held to be mecha- 
 nical. What are the good spirits we so much 
 admire and envy in children ? what the careless- 
 ness of danger of many, though they live in a 
 powder mill ? what the whistling ploughman, 
 'whistling for want of thought ?' but, best of all, 
 the song of the servant at his work ? what are all 
 these but this complacent state of the nerves — in 
 other words, this mechanical happiness ? " 
 
 " What then," I asked, " becomes of mind ? of 
 virtuous struggles, and heroic exertions ? Are 
 these to go for nothing ? n 
 
 * Mor. Phil. t. 22. The substance only, not the exact words, 
 is here given.
 
 ATTICUS. 77 
 
 <( God forbid ! but they are all intended for, 
 and embarked in, the production of that final state 
 which I have characterized as happiness. 
 
 " Even King Pyrrhus thought this, when, in 
 answer to his minister, who had asked him what 
 was to be the end of all his campaigns, he said, 
 they would sit down and make merry. And why 
 not now, said Cineus ? A question, which if that 
 was really the end of Pyrrhus's exertions, was not 
 easily answered/ 5 
 
 *' Might not Pyrrhus, however," I replied, 
 "" have said, that we were all born for exertion, and 
 had no right to reward till after the toil. ' Re- 
 freshment after toil, ease after pain ? ' " 
 
 " That is true," said Atticus ; " but it is not the 
 real question, — which is merely whether, if a man 
 can be happy by being quiet, he has not a right to 
 be so. To be sure, if all were thus, we should have 
 few histories ; which would rather be like the citi- 
 zen's journal in the Spectator, where the mending 
 the tongue of a buckle was an event. But if the 
 citizen was happy, what could Pyrrhus have been 
 more ? In short, the pursuit of happiness, though 
 stirring, is not the thing itself. We follow it 
 through struggle, through care, excitement, pain, 
 and all the energies ' that make ambition virtue ? 
 and while we do this we may be kindled, and per- 
 haps gratified for the time ; but we may also be
 
 78 ATTICUS. 
 
 disappointed, mortified, humbled ; perhaps hated, 
 and finally crushed. This may interest us too, 
 and prevent us from going to sleep ; but it is not 
 happiness." 
 
 * And yet," said I, " I thought the pursuit was 
 every thing, possession nothing. 
 
 1 Man never is, but always to be bless'd.* 
 
 Recollect La Rochefoucault ; e La moderation est 
 le langueur et la paresse de Tame, comme Tambi- 
 tion en est l'activite et Tardeur/ i3 
 
 " I admit the last," said Atticus, " but not the 
 first. For paresse and langueur, I would read la 
 tranquillitt. But if I mistake not, the same Roche- 
 faucault has this maxim also : — t Les ambitieux se 
 trompent, quand ils se proposent des fins a leur 
 ambition. Ces fins deviennent les moyens quand 
 ils sont arrives/ But for what purpose at last is 
 this activity and ardour ? Why, to obtain the very 
 tranquillity, composure, and quiet nerves — in short 
 the happiness — of my machine, purchased or not 
 by all those struggles, contests, and exhibitions of 
 virtue and vice, which so elevate or disgust us in 
 the history of man. If then this state can be 
 acquired, or is born with us, without any exertion, 
 he who has it has happiness, 
 
 Quod erat demonstrandum. "
 
 ATTICUS. 79 
 
 What think you, my Lord, of this ? or what 
 chance have I of operating upon the supposed 
 views and wishes of one so independent of the 
 world. For curiosity's sake, however, I returned 
 to our subject, and asked for more elucidation of 
 the Reverie. 
 
 u I have told you/' said he, " it may assume all 
 shapes ; it is as various as nature herself, and the 
 most perfect Proteus that can be fancied. Like 
 the cameleon, it changes hue a thousand times an 
 hour. It is different in different men, and often in 
 the same man. There is no holding it, or if we 
 do, its nature is changed, and it is gone. 5 ' 
 
 " Yet I should wish to learn what it is that 
 chiefly so delights you in these dreams." 
 
 "Trifles often. ' Trifles light as air;' Counting 
 the clouds ; as Cicero, when he had nothing 
 else to interest him, counted the waves. En- 
 joying mere sights, sounds, and scents, pro- 
 vided they are agreeable. Watching the moonlight, 
 if in the night, or the lark, if in the morning. 
 Even tracing a turk's head in the fire, if winter ; 
 or the outline of a landscape, if summer. You will 
 scarcely believe how this alone can occupy the 
 mute observing eye, — which, though fixed, is any 
 thing but lack lustre. 
 
 " You think that in these moments we dreamers 
 e 5
 
 SO ATTICUS. 
 
 gaze upon vacancy, because we look upon what is 
 common. True ! a leaf is common ; but so is the 
 sky, and the sky leads us to Heaven. 
 
 " Will you laugh when I tell you I have often, 
 like the friend I mentioned, dwelt for half an hour 
 together of an evening, upon mere foliage. I have 
 often done this, and felt every moment precious for 
 the tranquillity it bestowed. But if the battlement 
 of a castle or old monastery, or the spire of a village 
 church, arrest the eye, and in the midst of this, a 
 bell toll the hour, or to prayers, the felicity is 
 perfect. But all this is in the mind ; nor can we 
 leave out that which gives the peculiar zest and 
 crowning value to all — gratitude and admiration 
 to the beneficent and powerful Being who made in 
 us this happy disposition to be pleased with sim- 
 ple enjoyments/' 
 
 One would suppose that Atticus spoke with 
 prescience; for at the moment, a most monastic 
 clock in one of the turrets struck, and was 
 echoed along the little vale that undulated beneath 
 us. We listened in silence till it had finished, 
 when our friend went on. 
 
 " Sounds are great promoters of reverie. The 
 sheep bell on the hills, the waterfall in the valley 
 the distant watchdog, the cawing of the rookery. 
 Associations are more powerful still. The clock
 
 ATTICUS. 81 
 
 we heard just now, and that neighbouring spire 
 we see from this window bosomed in wood, 
 bring all Oxford before my eyes — Oxford, and 
 those dear days of study and promise, which 
 give to my youth its peculiar charm. Then was 
 the golden time ; then the unfolding of know- 
 ledge • then the foundation of friendships, so 
 sweet to the young heart ; and then, sweeter still, 
 t he seeds of Romance, and of classical taste, which 
 *ast our lives. How often at Oxford have I 
 floated down the Isis, in the middle of the stream, 
 and in the stillness of the evening, thinking of 
 the mysterious labyrinth and mouldering arches of 
 Godstow, which I had left, but was still absorbed 
 by Rosamond ! How have I enjoyed, without 
 knowing why, the mere rhythm of the oars, 
 while the dream went on, till the towers of 
 Christ Church beckoned me home, and Tom, the 
 mightiest of curfews, told me I was tardy. I have 
 still, after the lapse of half a century, that pon- 
 derous sound in my charmed ears ; — for charmed 
 they were, and charmed they still are, even in 
 recollection. 
 
 " These were mental pleasures. But at Oxford 
 was also the revelry of the spirits ; the heart 
 buoyant with vigour, unrepressed by care, and 
 gilding ever) 7 scene with mirth. And shall we not 
 thank reverie for thus, in old age, renovating
 
 82 ATTICUS. 
 
 our youth ? True, time may have blunted many 
 memories ; thank God ! not mine. But if in this 
 sort of enchantment, half sleeping, half waking, 
 I see all those images again, and feel their im- 
 pulses almost as fresh as ever, who shall say I 
 ought to break the spell because this is phantasy, 
 or return to the world because that is reality ? " 
 
 Here he paused, and I was too much struck 
 with the feeling and warmth with which he spoke, 
 to interrupt him. 
 
 After a brief turn or two, he renewed the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " But of all the causes of a reverie," continued 
 he — " that is, of ideas floating at large through the 
 mind — what are we not to say, if the scene of it 
 is, — as it often, nay generally, is with me, — in a 
 library. I said yesterday, after Shakespeare, e a 
 Dukedom large enough:' and Shakespeare is never 
 wrong. I question much if the Dukedoms to 
 which you alluded, were, or are, able to give to 
 those who obtained them a tithe of the varied 
 gratifications which the mere sight of a well 
 chosen collection of books affords. The whole 
 range of what concerns man is before you. The 
 memory leaps at once from subject to subject, as 
 humour prompts, or taste suggests. Science, 
 philosophy, history, mankind ; sweet poetry, and
 
 ATTICUS. S3- 
 
 sweeter truth j piety, and religious reverence; all 
 these rush upon the heart as if by magic. The 
 sages of antiquity, its heroes, its virtues, and its 
 crimes, challenge the most delightful medita- 
 tion, and we gaze till fancy has her fill. Then 
 the contrast with modern times, and modern dis- 
 coveries. In short the history of ever-varying 
 man, through all the vicissitudes of the thousands 
 of years that have past, by one stroke of imagi- 
 nation fills the pleased spirit with all that can be 
 deemed interesting to the soul. Yet all this 
 arises in a few minutes of time, and within a very 
 few yards of space. In fine, a library is like a 
 select conversazione, to which none but ser- 
 viceable, agreeable, and well-bred people are ad- 
 mitted, and from which everything vulgar or 
 wanting in education is excluded. It is the salon of 
 Mrs. Montague, Mademoiselle de FEspinasse, and 
 Horace Walpole ; the garden of Academus, and 
 the bower of Twickenham ; with this difference in 
 its favour, that your company is confined to no 
 age or country, but is chosen from the very best 
 of all that live, or have lived. Hence, to men of 
 vivid imaginations, the mere perusal of the backs 
 of books, containing their titles, has, by the help 
 of association, proved a source of active pleasure 
 by the promises held out. Hence too, a beauti- 
 ful passage in my master Addison (would that the
 
 84 ATTICUS. 
 
 scholar were at all like him, even longo intervallo) 
 that applies most exactly to my purpose. 
 
 ' A man of a polite imagination is let into a 
 great many pleasures, that the vulgar are not 
 capable of receiving. He can converse with a 
 picture, and find an agreeable companion in a 
 statue. He meets with a secret refreshment in 
 a description, and often feels a greater satisfaction 
 in the prospect of fields and meadows, than an- 
 other does in the possession. It gives him, in- 
 deed, a kind of property in everything he sees, 
 and makes the most rude, uncultivated parts of 
 nature administer to his pleasures ; so that he 
 looks upon the world, as it were, in another light, 
 and discovers in it a multitude of charms that 
 conceal themselves from the generality of man- 
 kind/ 
 
 Ci Shall we ever therefore again say that a re- 
 verie, if of this description, is drowsiness, or the 
 reveur a dreamer ?" 
 
 " I cry you mercy/* exclaimed I, (C and humble 
 myself before you, as Caliban did before Prospero. 
 Never will I offend again, against the majesty of 
 solitude, or the magic of reverie/' 
 
 " If you do," replied he, a I will cure you at 
 once, by making you take a walk in an apartment 
 you have not yet seen. I mean a gallery (the 
 only considerable expense I have incurred since
 
 ATTICUS. 85 
 
 my retreat), and which I have filled with all the 
 gothic lore I could find. Genealogies, armour, 
 and the portraits of many of the departed great, — 
 great in arts or arms — deliverers, or enslavers of 
 their country ; statesmen, philosophers, and poets, 
 who have enlarged her power by their knowledge, 
 or her reputation by their genius. " 
 
 " An interesting and never failing resource," 
 said I, " and I long to visit them." 
 
 " It is one of my best lions," he answered, 
 " and I mistake if even you do not feel something 
 like elation at the sight, and repent you of all the 
 affronts you have offered to my reverie." 
 
 We proceeded to this interesting gallery, which 
 was built in the form of a wing to the house. It 
 was not so large, or so rich, as that which occupied 
 Walpole so long at Strawberry-hill ; neither was 
 there the florid fretwork, nor the gilding, so incon- 
 gruous with the lath and plaister, which lowers 
 the consequence of that otherwise tasteful seat. 
 
 There was, however, a substantial oak wainscot, 
 the panels of which breathed of Elizabeth, and 
 were rendered still more striking by the portraits, 
 the tapestry, and the armour of that and the 
 times immediately preceding, or succeeding. Her- 
 self and her rival Mary, Essex, Leicester, Raleigh, 
 and the Howards, Philip II. and many of the 
 chivalry of France, as well as England, seemed
 
 £6 ATTICUS. 
 
 starting from their canvas, and made me fancy 
 myself in the courts of the Tudors, the Stewarts, 
 and the early Bourbons. On the portrait of Eliza- 
 beth, in panel, was the well-known and quaint 
 epitaph on her, preserved by Camden, in all the 
 false wit of the times. 
 
 " The Queen was brought by water to Whitehall, 
 At every stroke the oars tears let fall ; 
 More clung about the barge ; fish under water, 
 Wept out their eyes of pearl, and swam blind arter. 
 One would have said the men with easier thighs, 
 Had row'd her hither in her people's eyes ; 
 For howsoe'er my thoughts have ever scann'd, 
 She'd come by water had she come by land." 
 
 I was both interested and amused with this, 
 and everything else; for whichever way you turned, 
 helm, hauberk and twisted mail, spear and 
 rapier, frowned upon you as you moved along. 
 Some of these had been actually dug up in the 
 battle-fields of the time ; Flodden, Pinkney, Edge- 
 hill; and of an earlier age, one sword from St. 
 Alban's bore witness to York and Lancaster, by the 
 inscription on its blade, " God defend the right." 
 Everything seemed hallowed, and we fell natu- 
 rally into musing and silence, which lasted some 
 time. 
 
 A± length I observed, that in such a place we 
 read history without book, and that, though in so- 
 litude, I felt as if in the world,
 
 ATTICUS. 87 
 
 " And with this difference/' said Atticus, " that 
 we get the knowledge of it without the trouble. 
 But though living men may be wanting, there is 
 no solitude here." 
 
 " Here then/' I remarked, " is your sanctum ; 
 the holy of holies of your reverie ; which I sup- 
 pose you visit with all proper reverence for the 
 dead, and all proper indifference to the living." 
 
 He smiled, but could not help saying, that he 
 wondered how it came into the heads of those 
 who sent me, to suppose him so light and insin- 
 cere in his resolutions, as to think he could return 
 at a beckon. 
 
 u We trusted much," I answered, " to your 
 supposed want of occupation, which has often 
 converted very active persons from similar resolu- 
 tions. Even here/' I added, " forgive me if I ask 
 whether you are particularly constant in your 
 devoirs ? Does not even the romance of the 
 place wear out, and are you not sometimes many 
 days without visiting your gallery ?" 
 
 " Not a day," he replied ; rt nor will you perhaps 
 wonder. Here, for instance, is the standard of 
 Scotland, taken in battle, and brought here by 
 one of my predecessors in this estate. Here 
 the armour of the virtuous and heroic Sully ! 
 Do you think when I look at them, that the
 
 88 ATTICUS. 
 
 whole romance of Scottish history, and the vivid 
 pictures of Henri Quatre in Davial, Sully, and 
 De Thou, do not immediately rise to my view. 
 They take possession of my very soul. Aye, 
 though almost exhausted yesterday, they are fresh 
 to-day, and again to-morrow; in short, non decies, 
 sed cenlies repetita placebit."* 
 
 Observing a number of pennons which were 
 waving among helmets, and back and breast pieces, 
 and inquiring what they were, he told me they 
 were the banners of all the former possessors of 
 the place (many of them ancestors), who had 
 been sheriffs of the county from the Conquest 
 downwards. 
 
 u Here again," he went on, " is that beautiful 
 but wicked Countess, the most beautiful and 
 wicked of her time, in whom beauty and infamy 
 seem joined, in order to prove how little intrinsi- 
 cally is the value of personal charms in producing 
 happiness. Look, and admire both her and the ar- 
 tist, and think how little Jansen could have ima- 
 gined he was painting a murderess, when paint- 
 ing her. Think, too, of the miserable end of both 
 her and Somerset; for, in both, life seemed pro- 
 longed only to enhance the punishment of their 
 
 * Not ten, but a hundred times repeated it will please.
 
 ATTICUS. 89 
 
 crimes * Is not this a true and inexhaustible 
 specimen of what history has been called — e philo- 
 sophy teaching by example ' ? What, therefore, can 
 it not do for a thinking man, though in solitude ?" 
 
 " I now see/' said I, " why almost all your 
 pictures are historical, and why portraits, though 
 some may have little merit as paintings, may yet 
 excite the deepest interest as records. Here, for 
 example, are two great men whose respective lives 
 and characters, though so totally different, I 
 could revolve by the hour." 
 
 " And you would do well," replied Atticus, ei if 
 you did. I know no two portraits which, in con- 
 templating their lots and characters, prompt more 
 philosophical reflection than those of King Wil- 
 liam and Dry den. They were placed here by my 
 father, who, though a public man and absorbed in 
 business, ever found time to court the Muses. 
 Hence these two heads, chiefs of their respective 
 classes which delighted him, became never-failing 
 subjects of his contemplation and comment. I 
 shall never forget the impression which one of 
 his dissertations upon them made on me when 
 quite a lad." 
 
 " I wish you would remember it now ?" said I. 
 
 * After living several years together in the same house, loath, 
 ing one another, she died of a lingering and most loathsome 
 disease.
 
 90 ATTIC US. 
 
 " He was shewing this gallery/' continued 
 Atticus, " to an enlightened friend, as I may now 
 be doing to you. The pictures, as was natural, 
 prompted many remarks ; they were both fa- 
 vorites with my father's friend, as well as himself. 
 The interest about them seemed pretty equal, or, 
 if there was any difference, it was in favour of 
 Dryden. Yet one was a king and a hero, the other 
 a poet and almost a beggar ; both, however, from 
 their works, equally immortal, if indeed, added 
 my father, Dryden was not the superior in esti- 
 mation. — How is this ? Why, sooth to say, 
 because the grave levels all distinction in the 
 lot of living beings ; and, after the grave, the 
 intrinsic man is alone considered by posterity. 
 William was certainly great, and a benefactor to 
 this country. Dryden was so too ; each in dif- 
 ferent ways. The benefactions of William were felt 
 more when alive, and chiefly among those who 
 led in public life ; — those of Dryden, among all 
 classes, in the closet of the philosopher, of the 
 man of imagination, or of the observer of life and 
 manners. William triumphed among statesmen 
 and heroes, but among them only. Dryden was 
 cherished by all mankind, from the scholar of the 
 cloister to the citizen of the world. Which then 
 is the best to imitate, or whose lot the best to 
 wish for?
 
 ATTIC US. 91 
 
 u Ignoro. It is only a fresh proof of the little 
 real superiority of the great (great in worldly esti- 
 mation) over the little in the same estimation. 
 Hence, Dry den is here at least upon a level with 
 a king. But, from this, concluded my father, 
 laughingly, do not let all the Tom Fools who tag 
 a rhyme and think themselves poets, also think 
 they are equal to Dryden, and on a level with 
 King William." 
 
 So far the narrative of Atticusj who added 
 that, in speculating upon the apparent inequality 
 in the lots of mankind, he had often recurred to 
 this little sermon of his father's ; which was sure, 
 if there were any doubts or difficulties about them, 
 to bring them all immediately to a level. 
 
 " If so," said I, " and these pictures read you 
 such lessons, you have as much philosophy in- 
 doors as you have without ; and ambition, I see, 
 is thrown away upon you." 
 
 " Rather," he replied, " I am thrown away 
 upon it." 
 
 But we were now at the end of the gallery of 
 which we had been examining the interesting lore ; 
 and the horses we had ordered coming to the 
 door, we mounted ; — I, more than ever struck with 
 all that I had seen and heard, and hoped still to 
 see and hear- For, as to my mission, — though 
 success seemed further off than ever, I would not
 
 02 ATTICUS. 
 
 yet resolve to give it entirely up, but wished to 
 probe our friend still deeper. 
 
 What passed upon it afterwards, shall be the 
 subject of another letter. 
 
 Meantime, I have the honour to be, 
 
 &c. &c. &c.
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 My dear Lord, 
 
 I left you I think yesterday, just as we had got 
 on horseback. Our ride was pregnant with 
 observation on my part. It lay through an open 
 glade in the forest, which stretches in great variety 
 from Atticus's mansion to his post town. It is 
 to him full of interests ; of which I had soon 
 speaking proofs. It had been the scene of his 
 infancy, his childhood, and his youth, and now of 
 his retired age. Here it was that he was nursed, 
 here his first school, here the scene of his college 
 vacations. 
 
 " You must not be surprised," said he, " if our 
 path should be devious. I only hope it will not 
 annoy you." 
 
 He said this as we stopt at a very snug farm 
 house, where dogs, an old horse, and even the 
 pigs, seemed to know him. 
 
 A man about his own age ran (for he did run) 
 from the house to greet him, and shewed pleasure 
 in his countenance at doing so.
 
 i>4 ATTICUS. 
 
 " This is my foster-brother/' said Atticus ; " it 
 is long since I have seen him/' 
 
 " A whole week; your honour," observed the 
 man, M and Dame and I have thought it long 
 too/' 
 
 This reciprocity of feeling, as well as the glad- 
 ness of both parties on their meeting, rather sur- 
 prised me, till Atticus informed me of what I 
 either never knew, or had forgotten ; that when he 
 was born, it was by no means unusual for the 
 child of a squire, if the mother was not strong 
 enough, to be sent to be nursed by the wife of 
 some neighbouring tenant. This created a mu- 
 tual regard between the families ever afterwards ; 
 and protection on one side, and attachment on 
 the other, seemed to be interwoven in the feelings 
 of each. 
 
 "How much better," said Atticus, "for the 
 happiness of both, and indeed the aggregate hap- 
 piness of all, than the present cold modes of exis- 
 tence, I am afraid to ask ; — for it is fast wearing 
 out, if not for ever gone. It is too certain that 
 the heartlessness that belongs to the economists 
 of this ill-fated time, makes their philosophy as 
 detestable, as it is absolutely false." 
 
 " False," I said ; — smiling, u what would Adam 
 Smith, or Malthus, or Miss Martineau " 
 
 " Or a thousand others," interrupted he, * say
 
 ATTICUS. 95 
 
 to my doubting what, according to them, is as 
 clear as the sun, — the sun, when every bit of 
 
 shade or shelter from its beam is cut down every 
 
 refreshing brook dried up, that cooled and miti- 
 gated its intenseness — and all this destruction, in 
 order to have a cheaper loaf." 
 
 " But Miss Martineau," said I, " is at least a 
 most able calculator/' 
 
 " Hang her \" cried he, with more spleen than 
 ever I saw in him. " I know nothing of her; but I 
 heartily wish she had married her father's book- 
 keeper, before she unsexed herself, as she has 
 done : — though I trust with little effect upon such 
 oldfashioned people as good Dobson here, and 
 myself." 
 
 " Some'at has vexed his honour, I see/' ob- 
 served Dobson ; " he used not to be so in former 
 times— no, not even when the French beat us, and 
 wheat were at sixty shillings. But I suppose you 
 have been talking them politics together, that sets 
 gentlemen so much by the ears. Ah ! the good 
 time when I used to go up to the hall, and feel 
 proud that the same breast suckled both the squire 
 and me, and was received all the kindlier for it, 
 without being afeard of being taunted for want of 
 spirit for doing it. But as for Lawyer Snake, who 
 says this, I know he is a liar as well as a lawyer ; 
 for he says that all the rich have got belongs to 
 the poor, and that is the reason they hate them.
 
 96 ATTICUS. 
 
 For my part, I don 't believe one nor t 'other; and 
 
 as for hating the poor v 
 
 (( True, my good fellow/' said Atticus, not per- 
 ceiving where this would end, if Dobson were once 
 set a going, " whoever says that both you and I are 
 not very honest fellows, and love one another as 
 foster brothers should, is as you say a liar. But as 
 I want five minutes with you, and we have a good 
 way to ride, we will go into your pretty garden, 
 which I wish this gentleman to see. He is fond 
 of these things, and will look at it while we have 
 our talk." 
 
 The farmer bowed, and we dismounted. They 
 had their talk, and I surveyed that prettiest 
 emblem of comfort and independence, the garden 
 of an English yeoman. We then, after a hearty 
 shake of the hand between Atticus and his foster- 
 brother, proceeded on our ride. 
 
 " Now this man," said Atticus, (i is one of the 
 right sort. My interest about him is certainly 
 not a common one, and our lives have been made 
 happier by the sort of connection between us. 
 But this Snake has been these ten years endea- 
 vouring to put enmity between him and me. He 
 tells him, that as to being a foster-brother, it is 
 all a fudge of the rich, the better to enslave the 
 poor ; and as to landlord and tenant, it is a mere 
 calculation of buying and selling — that is, who shall 
 buy cheapest, or sell dearest. Thus they are like
 
 ATTICUS. 97 
 
 mere chandler-shop keepers and consumers ; 
 kindliness and protection, and mutual regard are 
 out of the question ; and as interest alone is con- 
 cerned on either side, it matters not who or what 
 sort of persons are the parties; strangers, who 
 don't care a farthing for one another, being quite 
 as good as old friends, if not a great deal better, 
 as they will be more on the look-out to serve their 
 mutual objects/* 
 
 " These Economists, however,' 5 said I, " are 
 shrewd fellows, and mean ultimately the good of 
 the whole.' 5 
 
 "And well they consult it!" replied Atticus, 
 " by destroying all ties of kindred, and all relations 
 of charity ; reducing every thing, heart, soul, and 
 body, to pounds, shillings, and pence. It was but 
 last week, that this man Dobson came to me 
 with tears in his eyes, to complain of his son, a 
 sturdy fellow of two and twenty, who, he said 
 headed a party in the vestry to turn him out of his 
 place of churchwarden ; — which the old man had 
 administered for thirty years, and of which he was 
 very proud. Now, as the young rascal was my 
 godson, he thought I might influence him into 
 more consideration for his worn-out father. I 
 sent for him therefore, and set before him how 
 much a son, and he in particular, owed to so good 
 a father, and that even if for nothing else than to 
 
 vol. 1. F
 
 98 ATTICUS. 
 
 leave his last days in peace, he ought rather to 
 support him in his office, than conspire against 
 him. I found the gentleman however perfectly 
 Spartan, or at least an Owenite. He had the 
 impudence to tell me, that what I had said might 
 have done very well fifty years ago, but that all 
 was now reformed; the reign of humbug over; 
 and the race of gentlemen would soon be extin- 
 guished ; — that there was nothing in nature that 
 distinguished gentlemen from the poor they trod 
 upon ; as they could only eat, drink, and sleep, 
 and were subject to the same penalties as the 
 lowest ; — that, as to fathers and sons, after infancy 
 was passed they were no more to one another 
 than other men ; and as to any obligation incurred 
 by him to his father, his father had only done his 
 duty by him, or at best had done it for his own 
 pleasure ; — that the public good was now the only 
 rule to go by, and his father having grown old, 
 ought to yield to younger and abler bodies. 
 
 " All this he offered to prove by various writings 
 and speeches ; and when, upon hearing some of 
 the Authors named, I observed that most of them 
 were corrupt scoundrels, and associates in crime, 
 and some of them even convicted of the grossest 
 offences against honesty and morals, the fellow 
 sneeringly said, that was nothing to the purpose, 
 and he had long believed that it was not at all
 
 ATTICUS. 99 
 
 necessary to be a good private character in order 
 to shine as a public one. To all this reasoning 
 I could not but defer, and complimenting him 
 upon the progress he had made in Mr. Snake's 
 school, and generally upon his uncommon Amor 
 PatricB, I told him our conference was at an 
 end. 
 
 " Two days afterwards he came again, to say 
 that his father either would not live long, or from 
 age and infirmity, could not go on with the farm, and 
 he hoped my honour would let him have it on the 
 same terms ; that is, about half its value, if let by 
 competition ; in which case, he said, he should be 
 happy to oblige me by doing what he could for 
 his father. I did not absolutely thrust the door 
 in his face, but referring him to his own principles, 
 that utility was every thing, favour nothing, I 
 desired him to leave the house. He reddened, 
 and twirling the lock of the door in his hand, as 
 he went out, asked if that was to be the reward 
 of his father's attachment to me. But, said he, I 
 have been informed by lawyer Snake, that if you 
 refused, as he feared you would, it would be a 
 good ground for a petition to the House of Com- 
 mons, or the Treasury, as a case of opposition. 
 
 ( And can you get any one to present it Y said 
 I, much amused. 
 
 < Aye ! present it, and back it too/ he replied, 
 f2
 
 100 ATTICUS. 
 
 e or we shall have got little by the Reform 
 Bill.'" 
 
 " Admirable ! " exclaimed I to Atticus, " and 
 more pithy than all the arguments of all the rhe- 
 toricians that have set themselves in array against 
 corruption." 
 
 " You being one of them/' said Atticus. 
 
 " Aye ! but only to a certain point. Be as- 
 sured, all such cases as these must be stopt/' 
 
 " It is too late/ 5 replied Atticus, mournfully ; 
 and he added, as he rode on, that upon just now 
 asking the old man, if what his son had told him 
 about quitting the farm was true, he found that 
 the whole was a deliberate falsehood, cooked up 
 between his virtuous reforming son, and his mas- 
 ter in politics, Philosopher Snake. 
 
 In our rides through his beautiful country, he 
 pointed out many spots which he said he almost 
 considered sacred, because associated with hours 
 which were either particularly happy, or marked by 
 some perceptible acquisition at the time, of prin- 
 ciples, opinions, or tastes, which coloured his life, 
 and never afterwards left him. 
 
 Into this feeling I could easily enter, for I 
 have often myself lived over again in recollections 
 very interesting, though now less and less fre- 
 quent, from the absorptions of the world. Atticus 
 called these impressions epochs ; and they cer- 

 
 ATTICUS. 101 
 
 tainly with him had begun very early ; some before 
 he had left school, but most in his college vaca- 
 tions. His fondness for rooks was acquired as a 
 boy, from having been accustomed to get his Vir- 
 gil lesson, under the shade of an old rookery in 
 the grounds of a neighbouring gentleman. It was 
 here that, surrounded by the appropriate sights 
 and sounds, he got by art, as an exercise, those 
 beautiful passages of the Georgics, which he never 
 afterwards forgot, and still so often repeats. We 
 passed in our ride the old gable-ended house in 
 question, darkened by high and well-clipt yew 
 trees, at the end of which this identical rookery 
 is still to be seen ; and though a recollection of 
 above fifty years, the rook description burst from 
 him, as if only just remembered : 
 
 ** Turn liquidas corvi presso ter gutture voces, 
 Aut quater, ingeminant : et ssepe cubilibus altis, 
 Nescio qua prseter solitum dulcedine lseti, 
 Inter se foliis strepitant ; juvat imbribus actis 
 Progeniem parvam, dulcesque revisere nidos." * 
 
 This rookery, however, was not the only thing 
 in our ride whose locality recalled recollection, or 
 was considered sacred for the effects upon the 
 mind of Atticus which it had produced. We had 
 fallen upon his favourite topic, of moderation, and 
 humble security from the storms of life, — when I 
 
 * Georg. I., 410.
 
 102 ATTICUS. 
 
 asked if he had always been inclined to that phi- 
 losophy, and whether in youth, as he had all his 
 life been so active, he had not been much alive to 
 the grandeurs of high situation. 
 
 At this moment we were pursuing a sort of 
 forest track, which led to a little paling inclosing 
 a low cottage, picturesque enough, but scarcely 
 even comfortable. In some places, indeed, it 
 bent considerably out of the perpendicular, and 
 it seemed only to have lasted as long as it had, in 
 consequence of the old oak braces and purloins 
 on which its weather-beaten brickwork had rested. 
 The tiles also were evidently kept together by an 
 ancient vine, which gadded luxuriantly all over 
 the roof. 
 
 Yet Atticus eyed it with interest, and checking 
 his horse, observed, w I never can pass this cot- 
 tage without stopping to indulge the remembrance 
 of the time when I first saw it. You asked when 
 it was that I first became enamoured (as you say 
 I am) of my doctrine of Moderation, and humble 
 security. Know then it was here, where I 
 escaped, I believe, both drowning and burning, 
 for I felt in danger of both." 
 
 " And at what time ?" I asked. 
 
 " Why, in the very heyday of the blood ; and 
 the useful lesson I got, has stood me in stead ever
 
 ATTICUS. 103 
 
 " I know," said I, (i that you can find c sermons 
 in stones/ and get lessons from the commonest 
 scene or event ; so pray give me the particulars." 
 
 " You will be disappointed," he replied, a for 
 there was neither incident nor interest for any 
 one but myself. It was in riding through this 
 wood, full fifty years ago, that I was overtaken by 
 the most terrible thunder-storm I had ever known 
 or read of. Perhaps there may be something like it 
 in Virgil, or in a West India hurricane. A water- 
 spout seemed to have burst in the sky. Lightning, 
 such as I had never seen, rent the whole vault of 
 Heaven, and thunder, such as I never heard, was 
 above, about, and underneath, for it seemed to 
 bury itself in the very ground. I was drenched 
 through in a moment, and being afraid of taking 
 refuge among the trees, pushed on my horse as 
 fast as I could. But this was in vain ; the light- 
 ning arrested him like the horses of Diomed ; he 
 trembled, reared, and snorted with terror. And 
 surely with reason, for the Heavens themselves 
 seemed to open, and on a sudden, a flash abso- 
 lutely vertical, and a rattling explosion, more tre- 
 mendous than any we had yet experienced, struck 
 an immense oak from the top to the bottom, and 
 rent it all to pieces. 
 
 ? I confess I was appalled as much as my horse^ 
 and absolutely looked about for assistance, which
 
 104 ATTICUS. 
 
 I thought in such a place could only be by mi- 
 racle. At that moment, and not before, I saw this 
 cottage, covered with the splinters of the tree, 
 and heard a voice from a casement calling out, 
 ( Sir, come in here/ Though the appearance of the 
 house gave me no great idea of protection, still I 
 was cheered by hearing a fellow-creature offer me 
 assistance. I dismounted, leaving my horse to 
 such shelter as the wood could afford him, and 
 shall not forget the joy with which I saw this 
 identical low door open, and receive me within its 
 protection ; a shelter as unexpected as it was wel- 
 come. You see what the house is now ; and it 
 was no better then ; but under the circumstances, 
 I thought it a palace ; nor could any inhabitant of 
 such have been more zealous in assisting me than 
 the good-natured peasant that owned it. It re- 
 minded -me of Milton's Shepherd : 
 
 ' I take thy word 
 And trust thy honest offer' d courtesy, 
 Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds, 
 With smoky rafters, than in tap'stried halls, 
 And courts of princes, where it first was nam'd, 
 And yet is most pretended.' 
 
 u After all, hospitality is natural to man. Amid 
 the ten thousand pamperings that attend upon 
 wealth, it is forgotten, because we have not need 
 for it ; but it is only suspended, and themoment
 
 ATTIC US. 105 
 
 it is necessary, it revives. So I found it here. 
 Mine host and his wife bestirred themselves to 
 make me comfortable, by enabling me to exchange 
 my soaking clothes for a dry shirt and great coat. 
 A log was placed on the fire, which hastened 
 the boiling of a savory mess of bacon, which, 
 with beans, early for the season, soon smoked 
 upon the board. This, and a good appetite, 
 whetted by my late exertions, a clean trencher, 
 as clean a cloth, and a hearty welcome, made 
 all pressing unnecessary. In short, I fell to; 
 thought my fare equal to the best, and my 
 hosts excellent company; and the storm abating, 
 my abandoned steed was caught and placed 
 in a neighbouring hovel. I soon felt even 
 comfortable, and found that the true value of 
 things can only be known by contrast. I had 
 probably past this cottage fifty times without look- 
 ing at it ; certainly without knowing that it could 
 arrord protection, much less comfort ; yet I never, 
 either before or since, felt, or more valued, both 
 the one and the other ; and often in the storms of 
 life, I have looked back upon the shelter which this 
 humble dwelling gave me, and, mean as it was, 
 thought I could have been satisfied to be always 
 sure of such an asylum/' 
 
 " Your romance/ 5 said I, " seems to have be- 
 gun early." 
 
 f 5
 
 10G ATTICUS. 
 
 " Say rather/* returned he, u my philosophy ; 
 for the ideas generated by this adventure, if so it 
 can be called, never abandoned me. I saw how 
 little relief the highest situation could command 
 when in real distress, and how superior the most 
 moderate lot might comparatively be, in warding 
 off the adverse incidents of life." 
 
 " And pray," said I, " did this lesson also give 
 you your good temper ? for we always envied you 
 the equanimity with which you used to bear the 
 violence, the affected contempt, and arrogant hos- 
 tility, which you ministers so often encounter 
 from your opponents, as a consolation for their 
 being out of office." 
 
 ci This power, if I have it," he returned, " must 
 be constitutional, rather than derived from any 
 lesson of the sort you mention. Nevertheless, 
 I have sometimes thought, with pleasure, of an- 
 other little scene, which accident threw in my 
 way, just as I had entered the House of Commons, 
 and which made me think temper in debate one 
 of the very first qualifications for a member of 
 that stirring assembly." 
 
 ei And I hope you will add, for the House of 
 Lords too ?" cried I, with some jealousy. 
 
 i( They are a little more dignified," said he \ 
 .. which gives them a sort of artificial good temper 
 which the Commons perhaps think it beneath 
 them to study."
 
 ATTICUS. 107 
 
 u But your adventure, asked I ?" 
 
 " I miscalled it," replied he, " when I gave it 
 that name; but I have such vivid pleasure in 
 tracing early impressions, that things appear of con- 
 sequence which are of no consequence at all. How- 
 ever, it is only one other source of the pleasures of 
 reverie. The fact is, my preceptors on this oc- 
 casion had neither station nor learning, but were 
 of the merest bourgeoisie of a country town, where, 
 in one of my peregrinations, I had put up for the 
 night. The evening was peculiarly mild ; and a 
 mild evening is of itself luxury enough never to 
 be forgotten. While supper, therefore, was pre- 
 paring, I sallied out to view the marked outline 
 (there was not light for more) of a broad battle- 
 mented tower, forming part of the church of the 
 little town I had stopped in. In the church-yard, 
 which was walled round, I explored one or two 
 gates, one of which opened into a firm, trim, and 
 verdant bowling green, emitting all the freshness 
 which night in England always calls forth from 
 the sweet herbage, after a warm day. It was 
 bordered all round, or rather it was squared, with 
 a screen of dark trees, under which were flowers 
 whose bells and petals night had shut up ; but 
 the sweet-briar told he was there, though I could 
 not see him.
 
 108 ATTICUS, 
 
 " I was surprised to see a glimmering light, and 
 hear voices, rather murmuring than loud, at the 
 farther end. I made towards them, and found an 
 arbour, with a few lingering bowlers, who had stayed 
 long after their sport, round a tankard ; with a lant- 
 horn on the table to light them, or rather their pipes. 
 They were civil, and shewed no surprise when I 
 accosted them; and they entered with me into the 
 praise of bowling. They said it was a pleasant 
 game ; a skilful game ; a manly game ; and finally, 
 an old English game ; but they added, that, like 
 many other old English games, it was going out. 
 One, who seemed a Hoyle at the laws of it, 
 shaking his head, and dashing the ashes out of 
 his pipe, informed us that ? forty or fifty years ago 
 you could not travel into ne^er a market town in 
 England, but there was a green, and good treat- 
 ment. Now, there was only this and one at the 
 Assize town, in the whole county/ One of the 
 company said there was an excellent one at Bed- 
 ford. e Then that^s the best thing I know of Bed- 
 ford/ cried the man of authority ; ' I did not 
 think them Roundhead fellows had such good 
 taste/ — c For all that/ cried the other, e they are 
 as good as you or me, Mr. Tomlins, and better 
 mayhap than either of us ; and this 1*11 maintain/ — 
 He said this sharply, and as if nothing afraid ;
 
 ATTICUS. 109 
 
 in short, prepared to combat, and looking defi- 
 ance ; so that I expected some food for my obser- 
 vation-hunting spirit. But I was disappointed, 
 for Mr. Tomlins, in a tone of self-possession 
 and suavity mixed, which would have done 
 honour to a man of far higher condition, replied* 
 c Neighbour Wiggins, I allow I was wrong to 
 start the subject, when I knew we should 
 never agree. Were we to dispute till Dooms- 
 day about Radical or not Radical Bedford, it 
 would be a dispute about things and persons 
 which neither of us at bottom care for; which 
 sort of disputing never did good to no man, and 
 would endanger the harmony with which we have 
 past this true English evening, at this true Eng- 
 lish game -, so here's your good health, and a good 
 night to us all, and a merry game the next time 
 we come to the green/ — e Aye ! that's all right,' 
 said several, e there's no use quarrelling, which 
 never puts a man in the right :' so the tankard 
 went round till it was empty, and the company 
 then broke up and dispersed, each paying a 
 halfpenny to a boy who had waited their call 
 during their retirement to the arbour. 
 
 " Here then is an instance of a lesson which we 
 may take from our inferiors, and bring to account 
 if we please. I was then, as I have said, just
 
 110 ATTICUS. 
 
 warm in my seat in the House, where I had seen 
 many a Mr. Wiggins, but no Mr. Tomlins ; and I 
 resolved, if I could, to take Mr. Tomlins for my 
 model." 
 
 (S You have brought yourself off better than I 
 expected," said I, " for I own I did not know 
 what this bowling-green scene was to lead to* 
 However, it is as good in its way as your tumble- 
 down cottage, which appeared to you so substan- 
 tial, in contrast with the storm. From each, it 
 seems, you got excellent lessons, and I wish I 
 were like you. Yet, forgive me if I question if 
 even you, now so much at your ease, and having 
 profited so much by Mr. Tomlins's good temper, 
 would find your philosopher's stone very availing 
 in such a hovel as we have just left, or even on a 
 velvet bowling-green, were fortune in her vagaries 
 to strip you of Llirias." 
 
 " I hope," said he, Ci I shall not be tried ; be- 
 cause, moderate as you say I am, I feel that I am 
 spoiled by the world I have enjoyed. Sufficient, 
 however, is the day to the evil ; and it may be 
 well for me that I can recollect so vividly the 
 days of even my childhood, when to have ga- 
 thered a salad of my own rearing, or collected eggs 
 from nests of my own building, placed me at the 
 height almost of mortal pleasure."
 
 ATTICUS. Ill 
 
 To this I cried " Bravo !" with, I fear, a look of 
 incredulity, something like a sneer. 
 
 He gave me a look quite as like a sneer in return, 
 and said, " It perhaps would have been better for 
 you, could you have shared, or at least appreciated, 
 this taste of mine. After all," added he, " is not 
 this the pursuit and pleasure of our very nature ? 
 Are we not all bound to provide for ourselves, by 
 our own labours and exertions ; is not this as na- 
 tural to us, as it is to brutes to seek their suste- 
 nance, in whatever element they inhabit ? What is 
 it that makes Robinson Crusoe the delight of old 
 and young, but this independence in consequence 
 of personal exertions, forced upon him by the 
 circumstances of his life. Had he remained 
 under his father's wing, he might have been a 
 very good, and possibly a very happy shopkeeper 
 at York ; but would his interests, and his vigour, 
 and consequently his happiness, have been half 
 as much developed, as when Nature was called 
 upon to act so emphatically in him, when in his 
 island ? 
 
 a It is this natural feeling, and wish for inde- 
 pendence, that equalizes, in my mind, every lot of 
 man ; and those who are farthest removed from 
 it by theirs being cast too high, are, ten to one, 
 inferior in real happiness to their inferiors in
 
 112 ATTICUS. 
 
 fortune, by whom, perhaps, they are envied. 
 Hence rich people are generally dull people, and 
 for one La Fleur we have fifty Morosos among 
 them." 
 
 " Then you make no difference," said I, " be- 
 tween my lord and his servant." 
 
 " As to happiness, none," replied he ; a no 
 more than between the king and yourself/ 5 
 
 Now I felt quite as happy as a king, so held 
 my peace. 
 
 i( You see then," he went on, " the nearer we 
 approach to nature, and the fewer our wants in 
 our pursuits, not only are those pursuits simpler, 
 and cheaper, and therefore more in every one's 
 power, but the chances are, that the sum of our 
 happiness is greater." 
 
 " A perfect Diogenes," said I, " whose chief 
 utensil was a bowl to drink with, but which he 
 threw away upon seeing a boy drink out of his 
 hat!" 
 
 " Diogenes was a filthy fellow," observed Atti- 
 cus, u and out of bravado might carry things too 
 far. But see another of my youthful scenes." 
 
 Here he pointed to a large opening in the wood, 
 full of tall trees, but where the copsewood had 
 been cleared, and observed, that he had never 
 been happier in his life than when, at fifteen, he
 
 ATTICUS. 113 
 
 had been allowed, with half a dozen companions, 
 the use of a gun, to seek their fortunes for a day, 
 among the hares and rabbits which they came to 
 shoot, and dress themselves, by a fire of their 
 own kindling, and faggots of their own cutting. 
 This was to them, he said, the very height of pri- 
 mitive independence, and therefore of interest, for 
 it was the decree of nature. 
 
 (i I do not mean by this,' 5 he added, " that 
 men are to part with the delightful advantages 
 which education, fortune, and the security of 
 society afford us. But the more we study pri- 
 mitive pursuits, that is, the less we depend upon 
 artificial life for happiness, the more likely we 
 are to attain it. In a word, Nature is easily 
 satisfied ; Art insatiably covetous : — witness that 
 group of healthy children dancing at yonder cot- 
 tage door :" and he pointed to four or five brown 
 urchins, half naked, and sunburnt, but every one 
 with a smile, or rather grin on his countenance, 
 denoting the most perfect quiescence of the inte- 
 rior, whether in the diaphragm, or the orifice of 
 the stomach.* 
 
 " However/ 5 he continued, a we shall soon have 
 to witness still stronger proofs of my theory, if 
 
 * See aate, p. 75,
 
 114 ATTICUS. 
 
 my neighbour Squire, and would-be Peer, be but 
 at home." 
 
 At this, we approached a most splendid gate of 
 iron, in massive architecture, and much besmirched 
 with gilding. Through this we were admitted 
 into a fine avenue, leading to a very fine house, 
 much beniched with statues. 
 
 " Where are we going ? " said I. 
 
 " To my rhododendron and geranium neighbour 
 we talked of yesterday, who certainly is no disciple 
 of the '*■ Naturam sequi \" 
 
 « And what is the place called ? it seems a vast 
 domain." 
 
 " Its real and county name," said Atticus, " is 
 St, Julian's Manor $ but its present owner has 
 christened it Futtygur, in allusion to the scene of 
 his Indian life, where he amassed his million." 
 
 Upon this we came to the great door, which 
 was painted in white panels with gilt mouldings ; 
 and being let in, we were shewn into an apartment 
 magnificent in itself, but the furniture of it so 
 costly that it seemed treason to use it. A crimson 
 satin sofa invitingly tempted us ; but boots, dirty 
 with riding, forbade ; and Atticus wished heartily 
 for the cane settee which had served his Nabob 
 neighbour many a year in India, but was now 
 consigned to the servants' hall.
 
 ATTIC US. 115 
 
 " So much for the utility of grandeur !" said he, 
 looking about for an ordinary chair ; but he could 
 find none under fifty guineas in value, — ebony, 
 ivory, and burnished gold. We took them, how- 
 ever, though their hardness and straight backs gave 
 any notion but that of comfort. At that moment 
 through the window, we beheld two of the labour- 
 ing gardeners stretched fast asleep, on their coats, 
 under the shade of a laurel. The day was hot, 
 the shade cool, the work done, and sweetly did 
 they rest. 
 
 I could not help saying to Atticus, <f I suppose 
 you envy the lot of those fellows [" 
 
 " I envy them the sleep they seem to enjoy, 
 and the ease of their couch," said he ; " for 
 which we may look in vain in this fine room."* 
 
 All farther converse was suspended by the ap- 
 proach of the owner himself, a thin, poor-looking 
 person, very much like a Bramin, with a maho- 
 gany visage, and a halt in his gait. To Atticus, 
 as being Right Honourable, he was most conde- 
 scending ; and to me too, on being informed that I 
 was related to the Minister. He welcomed us to 
 
 * Le Roi philosophe felt something like this when he said to 
 D'Alembert in the gardens of Sans Souci, " Do you see that old 
 woman, a poor weeder, asleep on that sunny bank ? She is pro- 
 bably a more happy being than either of us."
 
 116 ATTICUS. 
 
 Futtygur, and attempted to set us chairs; but 
 being feeble with gout, the gold and ebony were 
 too heavy for him; and to relieve him we preferred 
 standing to admire his pictures, his marbles, and 
 his buhls. The pictures were all polygraphic; 
 but though he would not have minded the ex- 
 pense, it saved him a good deal of trouble in look- 
 ing for originals. Their broad and high- wrought 
 frames, dazzling in gold, filled the eye with splen- 
 dour, whatever might be wanting to the taste. 
 My companion commented upon the expense to 
 which this speeies of furniture had risen. 
 
 " Why yes," said he ; " but of what use is a 
 fortune if we may not spend it ? For my part, I 
 always like to encourage trade ; and if I feel I have 
 a taste for these things, why not?" And then 
 he laughed, provoking us to join with him, as well 
 as to approve his patriotic disposition. " I have 
 at least," he continued, " spared no expense, in or 
 out of doors, to make this purchase of mine, what 
 I was told both by my architect and landscape 
 gardener it might easily be, — the first thing in 
 the county. Here," said he, opening the folding 
 doors, which let in a room still more spacious and 
 rich, " is my real drawing-room ; this being only 
 ante, as it is called. I see your surprise at the 
 hangings, but I wanted something original. Pic-
 
 ATTICUS. 117 
 
 tures are too common, and what all may procure 
 for money ; so I gave Mr. Cartoon carte blanche ; 
 and he proposed what you see — this rich puckered 
 gauze, tied with roses. Perhaps you will not guess 
 how many yards are in the whole drapery, so I 
 will tell you at once — full two thousand ! !" 
 
 We expressed our astonishment. 
 
 " But pray," said I, (i with submission, is not 
 this, charming as it is, rather too much for the 
 country ? And is there a neighbourhood of nobles 
 and ladies elegant and rich enough properly to 
 appreciate this magnificence ?" 
 
 " To speak the truth," he replied, " I never 
 thought of that; and indeed I now recollect, at 
 the ball I gave when I first came here, I could 
 not assemble above a hundred people, and not 
 one peer among them. There were, indeed, two 
 Baronets, and three Earl's daughters (about whom 
 and myself some joking hints were given) : but even 
 they were not accompanied by the Countess their 
 mother, who was taken ill the very day of the ball, 
 so they were chaperoned by their governess ; — but 
 she was a clergyman's widow, and very accom- 
 plished." 
 
 "And did you see them no more?" asked I, 
 much amused. 
 
 " Why, yes ! they came over once again, and the 
 e ldest, who was the one the neighbours had given
 
 118 ATTICUS. 
 
 to me, seemed to take particular interest about 
 my place, going over the whole house and park, 
 and giving me several hints about the furniture. 
 Indeed, it was she who suggested the gauze hang- 
 ings, which I ordered of her mother's upholsterer, 
 at the Countess's own recommendation. But 
 somehow her Ladyship has not yet been here, 
 nor the young ladies since/' 
 
 " You must give another ball," I said. 
 
 " I should have no objection/' he replied, " if 
 every body would come ; but to spend hundreds 
 for Earl's daughters to be chaperoned by their 
 governess, will never do, were I twice as rich as I 
 am." 
 
 Here, our host looking a little embarrassed, 
 Atticus, to change the theme, asked if he had not 
 made some additions to his house since he had last 
 been there ? 
 
 ** O ! true," he answered, u and a great one 
 too ; no less than the library I talked to you of 
 last year. It is now finished, and what do you 
 think the mere fitting up cost me ? A thousand 
 pounds I assure you !" 
 
 " It must be magnificent, indeed," said Atticus ; 
 a I hope we may see it." 
 
 " O certainly ; and I want to consult you much 
 about the books. I don't like your garden, you 
 know ; but your taste in books is unquestionable."
 
 ATTICUS. 119 
 
 " By all means let us see them/' I cried ; and 
 he led the way to a great wing of the house, in 
 which a room, some fifty feet long, was fitted up 
 with a number of rosewood book-cases, with cor- 
 nices of gold, and doors of broad gilt wire, lined 
 with crimson damask like the chairs. From the 
 ceiling hung several large or-molu lamps; and 
 there was ample supply of reading-tables, reading- 
 chairs, and desks of all sizes. 
 
 Both Atticus and myself were in raptures; which 
 put him in high good humour ; till Atticus, after 
 saying that all was perfect, begged leave to open 
 the cabinets to look at the books. At this he 
 looked a lttle foolish, and pulling out his watch, 
 said, " Why, you would not now have time to 
 look at them, if they were there ; but, to tell you 
 the truth, the books are not bought yet." 
 
 u I thought," said I, unable to repress a laugh, 
 " you wished so much to consult our friend here 
 about them." 
 
 " O no," he replied, " it was only about the 
 cases and desks. I have, however, commissioned 
 a friend at the India House to look out for any 
 large library that may be to be disposed of; and I 
 assure you I have not stinted him in price." 
 
 " This is admirable!" said I to Atticus, when 
 we were again on horseback. 
 
 ( ' On the use and abuse of riches, he is the best
 
 120 ATTICUS. 
 
 study in the world," answered my companion ; 
 " he is my amusement, and my illustration, when- 
 ever a fit of my moderation, as you call it, comes 
 over me. He is the complete Lord Timon of 
 Pope : for, though 
 
 $ * His building is a town, 
 
 His pond an ocean, his parterre a down, 
 Who but must laugh the master when he sees, 
 A puny insect shivering in the breeze ? ' " 
 
 " His library reminds me also of Lord Timon/' 
 said I, " though he perhaps can hardly reach even 
 to that eminence. 
 
 ' In books, not authors, curious is my Lord: 
 To all their dated backs he turns you round : 
 These Aldus printed, these Du Sueil has bound. 
 Lo ! some are vellum, and the rest as good, 
 For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood.' " 
 
 " Quite right," said Atticus, " and you might 
 have added this fool to the quartette of worthies 
 adduced by the same Pope to prove that riches 
 are no grace from Heaven, but 
 
 4 Giv'n to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil, 
 To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil.' 
 
 Yet, strange to say, if he is sincere, even Sir 
 Futty, as I call him, yields sometimes to the 
 force of nature ; for he once confessed to me 
 he was too rich to be happy. I asked why?
 
 ATTICUS. 121 
 
 and he told me, as well as he could, that the 
 perpetual and too easy supply of his wants, as if 
 he had Fortunatus's wishing cap, by preventing 
 personal exertion, and placing him at the mercy 
 of others who said he had not taste enough, made 
 every thing flat. ' I was happier,' said he, with 
 a sigh, f when I was merely comfortable, and only 
 hoped to be rich.' * 
 
 u I should pity- him for this/ 5 I observed, " but 
 for his miserable vanity." 
 
 "Let us not, however," continued Atticus, 
 '* forget the corollary drawn by the philosophic- 
 poet from these seeming caprices of fortune. The 
 Lord of Futtygur has lavished thousands on mag- 
 nificence, without, I believe, a feeling of charity, 
 although he f always likes to encourage trade ;' 
 but, again, as of Timon, we may say, 
 
 ' Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; 
 Health to himself, and to his infants hread, 
 The lab'rer bears ; what his hard heart denies, 
 This charitable vanity supplies.' * 
 
 * See Pope's Moral Essays, Epist. 3 and 4. These terse re- 
 flections on human character of the moral poet, are, I fear, be- 
 ginning to be forgotton. We have fallen upon the age of lachry- 
 mose sentiment, instead of the manly sense and flowing numbers 
 which mark the above quotations. Now, every man and every 
 woman scribbler, " dies of a rose in romantic pain !" Query, fo r 
 "in aromatic" in " a rheumatic'' pain ? for many of our poets 
 and poetesses seem to be writhing with throes of suffering, whe- 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 ATTICUS. 
 
 Those moral lessons concluded our ride, which 
 the scenes we saw, and the good sense and good 
 humour of Atticus, made one of the most charm- 
 ing I had ever taken. 
 
 But I must conclude ; for if your Lordship is not 
 tired, I am. 
 
 I have nearly, but not quite, abandoned my 
 hope of re-producing our friend in the world ; and 
 I feel that all the little details I have related, ren- 
 der this hope weaker and weaker ; but particu- 
 larly one other conversation, which, as you still 
 command me to go on, I will report to-morrow. 
 
 Meantime, &c. &c. &c. 
 
 ther corporal or mental. Would that the age would return to 
 
 Pope, and leave Mr. , Mrs. , and Miss , to strain 
 
 words and weep by themselves !
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 My dear Lord. 
 
 I will not trouble you with the rest of our 
 day yesterday, after Atticus and myself returned 
 from our ride. It passed pretty much as the day 
 before. We dined alone, plainly, yet not so fru- 
 gally perhaps as if my host had been by himself. 
 There was even something like recherche in the 
 cookery, and particularly in a second bottle of 
 Johannisberg, so good as to shew that to please 
 the palate was not at all incompatible with recluse 
 philosophy. In the evening we again visited the 
 Digentia, but through another road, more public ; 
 indeed, through the whole hamlet, where I ob- 
 served cottagers at their doors, some dancing their 
 children, some tying up honeysuckles, and ail 
 seeming to enjoy the refreshment of rest after 
 labour. 
 
 As we passed, they all rose up and saluted 
 Atticus, and me as his guest. I was much pleased 
 with their natural civility, and the neatness and 
 apparent comfort of their dwellings. They seemed 
 to be built round a green, well nibbled by sheep, 
 g2
 
 121 ATTICUS. 
 
 which gave it a fresh and velvety appearance; and 
 in the midst of it was going on the old English 
 game of quoits. Atticus approached it with me, 
 and in an instant all the cottagers left their 
 benches to come to us. 
 
 (c His honour often plays with us," said one of 
 them, " and when he brings company they play 
 too : perhaps you would like to take a hand, Sir?" 
 Atticus laughed ; but as I had never handled a 
 quoit in my life, I declined the honour, rather to 
 the disappointment of the rustics. Two of them 
 now came to Atticus, and domng their hats, 
 begged the use of the Hall bowling-green, for the 
 hour that remained of light, to finish a match they 
 had begun two days before. 
 
 66 By all means," he said : " I like to see you 
 at these exercises ; but what is become of your 
 cricket ?" 
 
 •'We were afraid of spoiling the grass," they 
 said, " so we put it off till after the hay." 
 
 " Nonsense," replied the Squire, " you shall 
 have an acre immediately mown for you." 
 
 At this they all saluted him, some with a scrape, 
 some with hats, and some who had no hats tug- 
 ging their forelocks ; and we departed amid ex- 
 clamations of " Much obliged to you, and God 
 bless your honour." All this created pleasant 
 reflections ; and the terms he was on with his vil*
 
 ATTICUS. 125 
 
 lagers, to all of whom he was landlord, caused me 
 to be less and less surprised at his patience in re- 
 treat. 
 
 We had presently another occasion to observe 
 his mode of treating his dependents, which I can- 
 not help recording. 
 
 Crossing his very pretty park, the soft evening, 
 and beautiful deer looking at us, as if with curio- 
 sity, through the brakes that sheltered them, shed 
 a pleasure over the scene not easily described. 
 It gave me indeed a picture of rural elegance, 
 which would have set Shenstone a singing, as it 
 would me, had I had his pipe.* I told Atticus 
 he wanted nothing but the facilesque nympfue of 
 
 * See Shenstone's poem on Rural Elegance, if any body remem- 
 bers there was such a person. He certainly had much taste, 
 though too little money ; as the Leasowes demonstrated. But his 
 poetry is, I think, much undervalued. Witness his pastoral bal- 
 lad ; his School-mistress, and his Jessy, which few have come 
 near, and none exceeded. See also, in Rural Elegance, this 
 stanza : 
 
 ' ' While Charity at eve surveys the Swain 
 Enabled by these toils to cheer 
 A train of helpless infants dear, 
 Speed whistling home across the plain ; 
 See vagrant luxury, her hand-maid grown, 
 For half her graceless deeds atone, 
 And hails the beauteous work, and ranks it with her own."
 
 126 ATTICUS 
 
 Gray* to make the whole scene classic. At that 
 moment a train of some six or seven women and 
 children, in garments coarse enough and tolerably 
 worn, came through a glade in the plantations, 
 each with a bag on her head, of faggots of short 
 wood, which they had been picking up under the 
 trees ; where a few stragglers still loitered in the 
 same pursuit. They did not seem in the least 
 dismayed at meeting us, but curtseying to Atti- 
 cus, passed on, little minding their patched attire, 
 and upon the whole, most ordinary appearance, 
 I own I felt annoyed at the contrast between 
 them and all the embryo classical ideas I was en- 
 couraging. 
 
 " These certainly," said I, " are not the 
 nymphae I was quoting just now. For Heaven's 
 sake, are these the beings you usually meet with 
 in your park, or is it, as I hope, accidental }" 
 
 " It is certainly not the last," answered Atticus. 
 
 "Why then/' returned I, "do you not drive 
 them from you, and put an end to such filthy ob- 
 jects as surround you ?* 
 
 a Do you call those deer filthy objects ?" said 
 he. 
 
 * See Gray's beautiful Latin Ode : 
 
 " Risit et verme, facilesque Nymphse 
 Nare captantem, nee ineleganti, 
 Mane quicquid de violis eundo 
 Surripit aura."
 
 ATTICUS. 127 
 
 " No ! but I do those nauseating ragged petti- 
 coats and dirty cloaks, to say nothing of the little 
 swarm of blackguards that seem so to revel in 
 pilfering your wood. Talk of the dignity of man, 
 or the softness of woman ! compare these squaws 
 with the real f burghers of the forest/ which seem 
 so justly in fear, and bound away from them as 
 if to avoid contamination ! I am absolutely asto- 
 nished that you, who can so enjoy a Claude or a 
 Poussin, can ever allow such Esquimaux to come 
 so near you." 
 
 " Observe what they come for," said Atticus, 
 " and that will be your answer. Claude or Pous- 
 sin would not perhaps have put them into their 
 landscapes, but Teniers would, and have brought 
 them to good account. These savages," conti- 
 nued he, "are all of them, more or less, known 
 to me, and depend upon my house for most of 
 their comforts. Ought I therefore to drive them 
 from me, because they cannot afford to be so 
 spruce as the grisettes of London or Paris, in 
 their occupation of picking up a few miserable 
 windfalls, to me useless, and to them valuable r 
 The comforts of their supper to-night will be in- 
 creased, be warmer, and more salutary, for the dis- 
 grace which, in your eyes, I have suffered them to 
 inflict upon my park." 
 
 "You suffered!" I exclaimed. "I thought it
 
 128 ATTICUS. 
 
 had proceeded from their own thievish disposi- 
 tion ; or at best, from a bailiff who might want to 
 increase his consequence among the poor of the 
 parish/ 5 
 
 " We have no thieves here/ 5 answered Atticus ; 
 " and as for my bailiff, though he certainly gave 
 the permission, he knows I would not keep him 
 if he refused that which, God wot ! savours too 
 little of generosity to be mentioned/ 5 
 
 I own this did not satisfy my repugnance to 
 ragged petticoats : but seeing how entirely it pro- 
 ceeded from benevolence, I held my peace ; nor 
 did I think of reviving any political discussion, or 
 of even touching upon the whole subject of the 
 world and retreat ; which I thought useless with a 
 man whose principles as well as habits were, I 
 now felt, so fixed. Incidentally, however, or ra- 
 ther accidentally, the subject was renewed ; and 
 though I had renounced all thought of continuing 
 the augument with a view to victory, what I did 
 say drew from Atticus so much pleasant descant, 
 and in such a variety of ways, that I think it will 
 at least amuse, perhaps gratify, your Lordship to 
 give it in detail. I should premise, however, that 
 this was prompted, not by any effort or intention 
 of mine, but the mere accident of a particular let- 
 ter by the post, which, at this distance from town, 
 always arrives in the evening. The letter was
 
 ATTIC US. 12.9 
 
 to Atticus, and came from an old friend of his 
 and mine, who is, I believe, also known to your 
 Lordship, and esteemed by us all, notwithstanding 
 a thousand vagaries. 
 
 You may remember the highly-gifted, but eccen- 
 tric Mordaunt, and how his mind ran over with aH 
 sorts of acquired knowledge, supported by very 
 original and strong natural powers ! He was 
 thoroughly made for the world, but was so great 
 a philosopher in his closet, that he said the world 
 was not made for him. He liked good and even 
 fine company, and particularly ladies ; but all this, 
 he said, interrupted his studies, and consumed 
 much valuable time He had a work too in hand : 
 — that is, he had thought about it, but could not 
 find time to digest and arrange it ; in short, he had 
 not written a word. What to do amid clubs, 
 and dinners, and political discussions, it was diffi- 
 cult if not impossible to devise. He began to 
 think London an enemy to wisdom, and society 
 unfavourable to the acquisition of knowledge ; and 
 he actually took a house at Cambridge, where he 
 had been educated, by way of retreat. Far from- 
 succeeding, he found he had only changed what, 
 he said, was an inconvenient sort of society, for a 
 worse ; for he had as many interruptions, only with 
 less polish and more pedantry, in his companions. 
 He fled again, but not to London. 
 G 5
 
 130 ATTICUS. 
 
 Smit with descriptions " that look green in 
 song," and seduced by the poetry of sentimental 
 travellers, he thought the Continent the only land 
 of simplicity, and rational life. Madame de Stael 
 tempted him to Germany; Schlegel to Bonn. The 
 u fader land ; v the abounding river ; its legends, 
 its castles, its ruins, and the German bonhommie; 
 to say nothing of the seigneurial abodes of its 
 nobility, which flattered his aristocratical preju- 
 dices ; — all this made him abandon England, to 
 search where he might set up his rest, in a manner 
 more suitable to what he supposed his turn of 
 mind. Again he was disappointed. He went to 
 Bonn, and saw Schlegel ; but Bonn was any thing 
 but like his notions of a university ; for he was 
 full of Oxford and Cambridge, and the city was 
 wretchedly provincial. There, and even in gayer 
 and more polite districts, he sought in vain for 
 ladies and gentlemen. All seemed Bourgeoise. 
 The Rhine was for a long way flatter than the 
 Thames ; the scenery at best not so good as the 
 English lakes ; the chateaux barns ; the gardens 
 barren sands : and though the river was enlivened 
 by its many fortified towns and garrisons, he hated 
 whiskers and tobacco. He thought of Dresden, 
 and Leipzig, and Wiemar; but after the Rhine, 
 what could succeed ? He came home. 
 
 London, however, with all its attractions, was
 
 ATTICUS. 131 
 
 still too overpowering for his purpose, and his 
 travels had just given him elasticity enough to 
 make him think that absolute seclusion would be 
 a relief. 
 
 Having therefore a very romantic place in this 
 neighbourhood, which he had seldom visited in 
 his love for the world, he resolved to pitch his 
 tent there, and like Gibbon, whom perhaps he 
 affected to imitate, bade adieu to the " fumum et 
 opes strepitumque Romse," and with his library, 
 fixed himself within twenty miles of Atticus, whom 
 he consulted. 
 
 Atticus told him he was wrong ; that he had 
 not done with the world; and that his resolve 
 was a mere fit of romance. 
 
 They at first corresponded, and Mordaunt 
 seemed happy ; but the correspondence flagged, 
 and, after a letter or two, he wrote no more, not 
 even in answer to a very friendly one of Atticus, 
 who knowing him well, and being much his senior, 
 had ventured to oppose him. Three months had 
 elapsed since Atticus had written to him ; and the 
 following tardy but very honest letter was now 
 brought him as an answer. 
 
 " One would have thought," said Atticus, 
 laughing, and putting it into my hands, " that 
 you had informed friend Mordaunt of all our 
 discussions, and bribed him to exhibit himself
 
 132 ATTICUS. 
 
 on your side. Pray read ; for example is worth a 
 thousand theories, and I give you all the benefit 
 of such an ally." 
 
 This introduction made me eager to peruse the 
 letter, which, after the usual preamble, when he 
 came to the subject of his retirement, was as 
 follows : 
 
 " The Rocks 
 
 « May 
 
 u Shall I tell you frankly I am afraid you are 
 right, and that I have made a false step ? I was 
 misled by Gibbon and Zimmermann, not Cowley, 
 as you suppose, — who seems but a prig, notwith- 
 standing the court he has received from those 
 courtly divines, Sprat and Hurd. Horace and 
 Virgil, perhaps Pope, and a warm imagination, 
 may have done much with me. Be that as it 
 may, I feel my cheeks redden when I say, I be- 
 lieve you are right, and that I have made a false 
 step. 
 
 i£ Gibbon retired, and Rousseau retired, but 
 with different fates. Gibbon was followed into 
 retirement and enjoyed it; Rousseau was mad to 
 be so, failed, and was miserable. Gibbon gloried 
 in the most accomplished visitors in Europe ; 
 Rousseau could not stomach the abandoned man- 
 sion and antiquated housekeeper of Mr. Daven- 
 port.
 
 ATTICUS. 133 
 
 " You will say, * What then are you ? How 
 does this bear upon the question ? ' 
 
 " I will tell you. I have here, as you know, 
 one of the most beautiful retreats in England. 
 How often have I admired it, and wondered that 
 I have not resided there. Spenser must have had 
 it in view when he wrote : 
 
 11 ' It was a chosen spot of fertile land, 
 
 Emongst wild hill set, like a little nest, 
 As if it had by Nature's cunning hand, 
 
 Been choycely picked out from all the rest, 
 And layed forth for en sample for the best.' 
 
 " It is certain I have as fine a house and garden, 
 as fine a country, and even almost as fine a lake, 
 as Gibbon possessed at Lausanne, or Rousseau in 
 his most elevated pitch could fancy. And were I 
 but alone ! 
 
 " But no matter. I have companions indeed, 
 but worse than none, and being so far too nu- 
 merous. There is a great deal of feasting, but 
 not of reason; a great deal of flow, but not of 
 soul. I do not dislike wine, or undervalue the 
 excitement of the mind through the instrumen- 
 tality of the body. I am perhaps too much for 
 Lucretius, and think it little pleasure to dine on 
 herbs, Archiacis recumbere lectis ; * but I am not 
 
 * " Si potes Archiacis conviva recumbere lectis, &c." 
 
 Horace, Ep. i. v,
 
 134 ATTICUS. 
 
 such a gourmand as not to care who may, or who 
 may not, be my neighbours. Now who are these 
 neighbours ? Why those of every remote country 
 gentleman who may find himself a little the worse 
 for being a little more than that illustrious cha- 
 racter. I can pore all the morning over Philoso- 
 phy and rational Divinity, when I find it ; I can 
 lose myself in Horace and Shakespear; can take 
 a ride with pleasure through groves and fields ; 
 and even afford an hour to the planning a proper 
 set-out for an embryo Sheriff; — which (God help 
 me !) they have made me. But the hour of ban- 
 quetting, so pleasant, (say what they will) to all 
 philosophers, divines, and scholars, — brings no 
 agremens to me. It falsifies its promises, to him 
 who has only retired to a country mob, to relieve 
 himself from the mob of the town. 
 
 " You will ask, who are these falsifiers ? and 
 what right have I thus to criticize or undervalue 
 them ? I do neither one nor the other. They are 
 all my equals ; many, my superiors ; but to sum 
 up all in a word, they do not suit me, nor I them. 
 I am not equal to their boisterous activity, nor 
 they to my monotonous repose. 
 
 * Fox-hunters, indeed, I respect for their 
 vigour; but I am no Fox-hunter. They despise 
 me for it : and I do not like to be despised. But 
 the neighbouring city is populous ; populous,
 
 ATTICUS. 135 
 
 however, only in manufacturers — ' money-loving 
 villains/ who think I ought to be set in the 
 stocks, as a drone in the hive. I believe they are 
 right. If it were but a Cathedral town, I might 
 have a chance of mental intercourse. But what 
 did Cambridge itself do for me ? or in what are 
 a Dean and Prebendaries better than Fellows ? 
 Since your kind visit I have not met with a 
 kindred mind. I could live in my study ; but to 
 have no relaxation is a want; and all out of it 
 here is humdrum. Even Gibbon longed for ra- 
 tional and cheerful companions of an evening, and 
 condescended to a game of cards as a change. Can 
 you wonder then that I long again for my pretty 
 town house, and the polite atmosphere which its 
 neighbourhood seemed to breathe ; where, by 
 merely closing my door, I was as solitary and as 
 meditative and as studious as I pleased, yet 
 when I pleased, was in a moment in the best 
 society, whether literary, political, or fashionable -, 
 old friends who talked to me of works of days 
 past, or young ones who dreamt of nothing but 
 ' morrow^s return.' This was always brilliant, 
 always busy, always on that sort of qui vive 
 which never lets the mind stagnate, or the body 
 languish for want of exercise. Scold, if you will, 
 but answer me. Shall I retire from retirement,
 
 136 ATTICUS. 
 
 and return to the world to be laughed at ; or sink 
 deeper and deeper in the mire of oblivion, by 
 fleeing to the Highlands of Scotland, the bogs of 
 Ireland, or the back-settlements of America? " 
 
 So far our literary recluse. 
 
 " And what will be your advice ? " said I, fold- 
 ing up the letter. 
 
 u To return instantly to Grosvenor Street, 
 whence, as I told him, he never should have 
 stirred." 
 
 u You see then," said I, (rather pleased with 
 this forcible proof of my theory, and thinking I 
 had a sort of triumph over Atticus,) " that I was 
 not so wrong in my opinions upon the impro- 
 priety, as well as inefncacy of seclusion, to en- 
 able us to live as nature and reason would require 
 of us. Here is a pregnant instance of * 
 
 " I know what you would say," interrupted 
 Atticus, begging pardon for stopping me ; " but 
 you will at least allow that I here foresaw the 
 event, and warned him of it, as I would a person 
 against riding a dangerous horse, which he knew 
 not how to manage. But this ought not to prevent 
 another, more skilful or firmer in the saddle, from 
 mounting. In fact, I knew our friend better than 
 he did himself/' 
 
 " Yet with equal, perhaps more enthusiasm
 
 ATTICUS. 13/ 
 
 than you have, how came you to succeed, and he 
 to fail ?" 
 
 " He mistook himself/' said Atticus, " and took 
 a momentary feeling for settled habit. He forgot 
 his real disposition, which is social, gay, and even 
 brilliant ; and from mere romance, as he himself 
 seems to confess, came to a decision which could 
 only be justified by long experience and habits of 
 action. How unlike his was his model Gibbon, 
 whose whole heart and soul were absorbed in an 
 immense undertaking, which it required a freedom 
 both from business and pleasure to accomplish. 
 Besides, Mordaunt, like you, is still in the vigour 
 of his life, and has many debts to the world to 
 pay, before he can have a right to play the veteran 
 in retirement.' 5 
 
 ee I believe you are right," said I ; " but if vigour 
 give a right to the world to expect exertion in its 
 favorites, who is to say that you, even yet, may 
 not obey the call that has been made upon you, 
 and return to its arena as well as Mordaunt." 
 
 At this I turned to some books that lay upon 
 the table, with a sort of significant air, which did 
 not escape him. They were Thucydides, and 
 Clarendon, and Cicero, and a volume of Parlia- 
 mentary debates, all full of markers, and open, as 
 if lately read. 
 
 " And what is your inference ? " said he, smiling.
 
 138 ATTICUS. 
 
 " Why, that it is a little remarkable that a man 
 who says he has entirely renounced the world, 
 and has done with its parties, struggles, and am- 
 bition, should choose for his favourite study (as 
 these marks and notes imply) the concentration 
 of all that is exciting, passionate, and stirring in 
 man's history. Such surely are the contents of 
 these stirring volumes/' 
 
 ci That is certainly their character," said Atticus. 
 
 " Well then," I replied, u I should say I hope, 
 without offence, that at your age, there can be little 
 of novelty, and, I should say, less of enthusiasm, 
 in historical reading. Most subjects must be 
 worn out ; and renouncing politics and office, and 
 even the world itself; bent, as you are, upon 
 higher contemplations ; to say nothing of your 
 having thumbed over all these pages before; it 
 marvels me I own to see you still keen upon 
 events and characters, the very scope and scene 
 of whose exertions are the rivalries of that world 
 from which you fly. What can now be the ob- 
 jects of history, to a man who has done with time ? 
 What to you, to inquire into the revolutions of 
 Athens or Rome, or, I might almost add of Eng- 
 land itself, when Athens, Rome, and England are 
 no longer objects of hope, interest, or action ? " 
 
 " I could easily answer," said he. (C As for my 
 age and enthusiasm, was Young's enthusiasm
 
 ATTICUS. 139 
 
 worn out, when at sixty he began the most 
 poetic and enthusiastic of his works ? To enthu- 
 siasm, however, I do not pretend, being now sa- 
 tisfied with quiet and common sense. Then, as 
 to novelty in history, or in any other subjects, if 
 you will consider, you will find that to read the 
 same things often, is not to exhaust novelty. In 
 some cases it will even add to it. We read with 
 far different feelings, as well as different objects, 
 according to our different ages, circumstances, or 
 humours at the time. The youth is absorbed by 
 the passion only, in a love story; the more mature 
 man criticises its literary merits ; the philosopher 
 looks for knowledge of human nature. It is the 
 same with history, as well as other studies. 
 
 a In my youth, when training for the world 
 which I hoped to conquer and possess, I read 
 Homer, and Shakespeare, Plutarch, and Thucy- 
 dides, Clarendon and Davila, certainly in a great 
 measure from taste, but in a much greater, to fit me 
 for public life. With the same view also, I may have 
 devoted myself even to the Muses, whose haunts 
 are anything but public ; but excellent in this, 
 that in cultivating the taste by the delights of 
 Belles Lettres, you improve those qualities which 
 give a polish to talents for business, and therefore 
 increase their value. This was then my chief ob- 
 ject. But this is no more ! I have been satis spec-
 
 140 ATTICUS. 
 
 tatum, et rude donatum; the business part of life is 
 over; nor seek I to prolong it. Pleasure is now my 
 business ; but the pleasure that befits an old man, 
 — the pleasure of mind. I have passed through the 
 world, and but for your visit, might think myself 
 forgotten in it: but not therefore are forgotten all 
 that formerly softened or swelled the soul; not 
 the less cease I to be interested in the character 
 and nature of myself and fellow-men ; and if his- 
 tory is, as it has been called, ' philosophy teaching 
 by examples/ I as a philosopher, have a right still 
 to read history. Its politics and its party rage are, 
 thank God ! done with ; and a man who has lived 
 his life can propose no good, nor even feel interest, 
 in reviving them. But the power of genius^ the 
 inspirations of eloquence, and the stern judgment 
 of impartial and enlightened historians, must still, 
 and for ever, interest us, as promoting a more cor- 
 rect knowledge of men and things. This could not 
 be so well done when under the influence of party 
 bias, and when truth itself is, as it sometimes 
 is, wrested from its straight line in order to 
 serve a particular object. The object gone, our 
 love of truth revives ; our minds are purified ; the 
 judgment is no longer obscured ; and we love and 
 read history, as we love and read poetry, for its 
 own sweet sake, independent of any interest but 
 what itself inspires."
 
 ATTICUS. 141 
 
 " You have explained this matter," said I, 
 f excellently well." 
 
 " Had I recollected in time," he answered, " I 
 could have spared you much attention ; for Bo- 
 lingbroke has done it much better. He at least 
 supports me ; and his is a support which, when 
 we do agree, I can never disdain." 
 
 As I looked inquiringly, he took down the vo- 
 lume. " It is here," he said, and read as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 c Ought we not to live some years at least to 
 ourselves, and for ourselves, in a state of freedom 
 under the laws of reason, instead of passing our 
 whole time in a state of vassalage, under those of 
 authority and custom ? Is it not worth our while 
 to contemplate ourselves, and others, and all the 
 things of this world, once before we leave them* 
 through the medium of sense, and, if I may say 
 so, of undefiled reason ? Is it not worth our while 
 to approve or condemn, on our own authority, 
 what we receive in the beginning of life on the 
 authority of other men, who were not then better 
 able to judge for us than we are now to judge for 
 ourselves ?** 
 
 " All this is clear," said I, " and history at 
 least may be made for ever new. But is it the 
 same with other studies ? Books of science, for 
 
 * Study and Use of History.
 
 142 ATTICUS. 
 
 example, which, when once acquired, you lay up 
 for practical use, but never study again. Who 
 that has got Euclid by heart, ever thinks of find- 
 ing novelty in his problems ? M 
 
 " Lord Hardwicke," replied Atticus : " though 
 perhaps it was their utility in exercising the rea- 
 soning faculties, rather than their novelty, that 
 made him, as is said, read over the whole of 
 Euclid at least once a year." 
 
 " But the Classics ? Is it possible they can 
 charm you now as they did at first, when you 
 must know every sentiment and every phrase that 
 is coming, long before you come to it ? " 
 
 ie Infinitely more, I assure you ; if only be- 
 cause the judgment is more mature, and we are 
 delivered from the glare and glitter of false 
 thoughts, often so attractive to young imagina- 
 tions. Time was when I could bear Cowley. Who 
 now can read him without either laughing at his 
 puerilities, or lamenting the bad taste of the times ? 
 Well may be applied to him what Gtuintilian says 
 of another, 
 
 ' Abundat dulcibus vitiis.' " 
 
 u They are not even sweet/ 5 said I, agreeing with 
 him. " But pass we to purer ages, and more chastis- 
 ed judgments. Will not reiterated sweetness cloy 
 even there? Will not the silver of Pope, and even
 
 ATTICUS. 143 
 
 the gold and diamonds of Shakespeare and Homer, 
 grow dull by repetition, and require much fur- 
 nishing in the mind, before, if ever, they can re- 
 cover their original brightness ? In short, if per- 
 sonal beauty loses its power to charm by being 
 frequently seen, may not poetry and fiction deaden 
 upon the mind by being frequently read ? Under 
 this impression, the most attractive and elevated 
 of the Classics may become ' toujours perdrix;' 
 or be taunted, as they were once by a worn-out 
 schoolmaster, who coarsely, but emphatically said, 
 he loved Virgil as a grocer did figs." 
 
 u Whimsically put," replied Atticus ; " and per- 
 haps difficult to answer without a little research. 
 Were the mind never varying — did the same hu- 
 mour and the same circumstances always remain 
 in the reader — your remark would be just. But 
 what so varying, what so different even from it- 
 self, at different times, as the mind and situation 
 of man ? Hear old Chaucer : — 
 
 ' What is the world ? what asken mon to have, 
 Now with his love, and now in his cold grave ? ' 
 
 Real classics have no sameness to real critics. 
 Even your schoolmaster might discover new light 
 in his very grammar, and leap for joy at ascertain- 
 ing the real meaning of a supine; or lose his 

 
 144 ATTICUS. 
 
 senses with his brother Le Sage, in endeavouring 
 to find out the paulo post futurum of a Greek 
 verb. But barring pedantry, what variety can- 
 not one man of genius find in the works of ano- 
 ther, ever changing with the feeling or humour of 
 the reader ! I will not say that the ^Eneid never 
 cloys. I agree with you; — we grow tired of ' fidus 
 Achates, fortemque Gyan, fortemque Cloanthum^ 
 and even the 6 pious ^Eneas' is himself sometimes 
 too tame for interest, certainly for novelty. But 
 neither are we bound, with your sated pedagogue, 
 always to begin at arma virumque. Take the 
 more animated parts, his storms and his ship- 
 wrecks ; his i Fuimus Troyes/ after Troy burned 
 and a nation ruined ; go with him to the Court of 
 Dido, or to her shade in Elysium ; or meet his 
 mother, i O ! Dia certe/ in the wood ; but, above 
 all feast the mind with the rural reign of his po- 
 lished, his lovely Georgics, painting nature to the 
 life in all her delightful productions, her many- co- 
 loured dies, changing with the seasons; and the 
 occupations, characters, and ways of life of her 
 favourite sons ! Do this, and then say whether 
 Virgil can ever be opened without a feast to what- 
 ever humour we may be in ? But what shall we 
 say to thee, thou ever varying, yet ever sensible 
 and practical Horace ? — now poet, now philoso-
 
 ATTICUS. 145 
 
 pher; man of contemplation, man of pleasure; 
 courtier, farmer, lover ; 
 
 1 Quocunque gaudes nomine ? ' " 
 
 " O ! " cried I, K I will spare you the trouble of 
 demonstrating his merits. He is the exception to 
 all the treason I have uttered ; and, as a proof, I 
 am seldom without him myself. I am afraid it 
 was of higher and graver works that I spoke, when 
 I talked of cloying." 
 
 u I can scarcely understand/' said he, u to 
 whom you allude. Not to Homer, not to Milton^ 
 not to Gray, and ah ! surely not to the great 
 master of all ? " 
 
 i( I will not blaspheme so much," I answered, 
 u as to do this ; and yet, knowing your devotion 
 to Shakespeare, I should be glad to hear what 
 you would say, to repudiate the slander, could a 
 man be found bold enough to hazard it." 
 
 " Slander, indeed," cried he, " if you think of 
 coupling his name with sameness. For who so 
 inexhaustible in his varieties ? who so profound in 
 his knowledge — his knowledge of all the hidden 
 springs of the heart, and of the causes or effects 
 of human events ? What feeling is there unde- 
 scribed ? What motive unexplored ? What pas- 
 sion not developed ? What duty not enforced ? 
 Ambition, avarice, prodigality, revenge, patriot- 
 
 vol. i H
 
 146 ATTICUS. 
 
 ism, filial piety, conjugal love ! All the romance 
 and witcheries of imagination ! All the homefelt 
 realities of life ! If we look for pathos, who so 
 pathetic ? for wit, who so witty ? for humour, who 
 so humorous ? In epic, beyond all, heroic ! In 
 tenderness, beyond all, sweet ! Indeed (to use his 
 own words), 
 
 ' Sweet as summer.' 
 
 In description, ever appropriate, he is gorgeous, 
 and sublime, or gentle and soothing, as the subject 
 requires ; whether Cleopatra sail down the Cyd- 
 nus a or 6 towers topple on their warders 5 heads/ 
 In short, in such immeasurable varieties of know- 
 ledge and imagery, who could ever find an end ? 
 or, closing the book, say he had finished ? No ! a 
 thousand lives might pass, and the lessons not be 
 terminated.' 5 
 
 u Why, I own/ 5 said I, much pleased, i( some 
 new discovery, or new result from studies already 
 accomplished by the reader, are, with him, ever 
 at hand. The youth who loved to think himself 
 Romeo, would soon perhaps become c young Harry 
 Avith his beaver on ; 5 then either rise into a states- 
 man with Wolsey, and lament the pomp, glory, 
 and disappointments of ambition; or indignant, 
 like Cassius, at being in awe of such a thing as 
 he himself, ( meditate the destruction of tyranny 
 and the death of tyrants. 5 55
 
 ATTIC US. 147 
 
 " You are quite right," said Atticus. " All this 
 may have been got by heart in our earlier reading ; 
 yet novelty is not worn out, and every aspect is 
 new to our last hour : — for even there, death-bed 
 scenes, if we wish for them, are found at hand, 
 impressing themselves with almost more effect 
 than even reality ever did before." 
 
 " You have delighted me," said I, seeing he 
 had ceased, " both with your theory as to study, 
 and these forcible illustrations of it. I know not 
 which pleases me the most. But this I know : — if 
 these are the uses you make of your retirement, 
 we will never wish to relieve you from it. For my 
 part, I am ready to set off to-morrow, re infecta, 
 and glad. to be so." 
 
 " A great concession," said he; u . but I fear you 
 will not be believed by your chiefs, if you tell them 
 that my life is not even monotonous, much less 
 melancholy. And yet, after all, are we right in 
 holding that monotony cannot be happy ? Do we 
 not see thousands passing through life occupied 
 day after day with the self-same employments^ 
 only varied by the return of the self-same reliefs ; 
 consisting merely or chiefly in the gratification of 
 natural wants; eating, drinking, and sleeping; per- 
 haps the very same food every day of the year, 
 treading the same round of exertion, and glad of 
 the same rest. These form the bulk of mankind ; 
 H 2
 
 148 ATTICUS. 
 
 yet so sweet is the calm of this monotony, that it 
 is seldom we see happier people ; and in my own 
 person, I can answer for it, the time never appears 
 so short." 
 
 " Why then" I asked, " do you take such 
 pains to fortify yourself against monotony ? Wit- 
 ness all these resources of learning, and elegant 
 though solitary amusements." 
 
 a It is because of my former life and occupation," 
 said he; "partly owing to education, greatly to 
 artificial wants. Had I been brought up a farmer 
 or manufacturer, it would not be so." 
 
 " Education is then a bad thing ? " 
 
 " Not so, even to a farmer or manufacturer, when 
 occupied. But I am far, very far from supposing 
 that leisure in retirement, and solitude, which you 
 call monotony, could suit the multitude, or any 
 one who has passed his life in business, and feels 
 suddenly deprived of it, without other resources 
 to fill up his hours. It is not, therefore, the mo- 
 notony of employment, but the want of it altoge- 
 ther, that occasions ennui, Hence, but for my 
 management of myself, and the store I had laid in 
 for resource and relief when alone, I should either 
 have never left business, or long ago returned to 
 it. As it is, the mere love of reading, — which Gib- 
 bon found out was a passion which derives fresh 
 vigour from enjoyment, and supplies each day and
 
 ATTICUS. 149 
 
 each hour with perpetual pleasure, — gives to the 
 student an empire over himself which no Emperor 
 ever had. Recollect Pradt^s account of Buona- 
 parte in peace, ' Je nVennuie ici jusqu 5 a perir. 
 II faut que je fasse la guerre. Je la ferai a la 
 Prusse/ 
 
 It is the want of power to make privacy of im- 
 portance, so as to be content with it, that is the 
 curse of riches, and brings the poor man to a 
 level with the highest, if he does not even out-top 
 him in enjoyment ; — as he certainly does if he have 
 this content." 
 
 " All this," said I, " I can understand ; but 
 when you talk of reading as an employment, what 
 would puzzle me, without a profession, would be 
 to know how to make a selection interesting, or 
 varied, or long enough to last. But I have pro- 
 fited so much, by illustrations from your own 
 practice, that I should like to get at the history 
 of your studies, and be made acquainted with your 
 favorite subjects." 
 
 u If you do me the honour to inquire," he an- 
 swered, " I have no scruple to say, that once it 
 was history. But though I will not now say with 
 Sir Robert Walpole, that I know history must be 
 false, yet the greater part of it must be so clouded 
 by passion and prejudice in the original writers, 
 that is, the actors, that the caution which ought to 
 accompany every step, derogates much from the
 
 150 ATTICUS. 
 
 pleasure of it. I now, therefore, turn to more 
 pleasing because purer objects/ 5 
 
 " And what are they ? " 
 
 " Chiefly philosophical criticism. This gives 
 not merely polish and elegance to the taste ; it re- 
 quires and improves all powers of the mind ; all 
 knowledge of nature ; both philosophy and his- 
 tory; every science, and almost every art. All 
 that Cicero ever said of an orator when before 
 the public, may be said of the critic in his closet, 
 when the public is forgotten. All our best facul- 
 ties and most refined feelings ; our genius, learn- 
 ing, judgment, powers of comparing, and finally 
 deciding ; all these animate and exercise the un- 
 derstanding with a delight and energy, and a self- 
 importance too, that laughs all duller employments 
 to scorn. 
 
 But chiefly at my age, in the evening, and before 
 retiring, 
 
 ' Let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloisters' pale.' 
 
 By which I mean, what all cloisters so delightfully 
 imply, ' religious contemplation/ Whatever the 
 previous subject, whether we have been affected 
 by pathos, or elevated to excitement, let our 
 minds be always then attuned to their best sus- 
 ceptibilities — to the real value of things unadul- 
 terated by the world, and leading to Heaven. If 
 we do this, the night closes in peace ; and though
 
 ATTICUS. 151 
 
 we may be humbled, yet not mortified, a soft and 
 soothing piety sends us to rest, with a grateful 
 confidence in God, that is seldom disappointed." 
 
 I will own to you, my Lord, in the most ardu- 
 ous debate I never saw Atticus so animated on 
 his subject, nor myself felt him so impressive, as 
 I did in these concluding words. I may say, too, 
 that I never esteemed him so much. I could not 
 help grasping his hand with a pleasure that was 
 most sincere ; though I felt, also, that it denoted 
 a most entire conviction on my part, that we 
 were all wrong in supposing the empire of ambi- 
 bition could not in him be extinguished. It was 
 plain that my hope of success in my mission, 
 which had long been on the wane, was now gone ; 
 and I came to my final resolution, to give up fur- 
 ther attempt to alter him. 
 
 This I fairly told him, after expressing to him 
 the delight I had had in these conversations. 
 
 What I shall hereafter do, I know not ; for he 
 insists that I shall remain his guest in my private, 
 though not in my ambassadorial capacity. Per- 
 haps I may stay; — but meantime I have thought 
 it right to commit all these details to paper, and 
 to lose no time in conveying them to those they 
 concern. 
 
 Believe me, 
 Your Lordship's ever faithful, &c.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 H 5
 
 TO 
 
 HER GRACE THE DUCHESS 
 
 OF 
 
 BUCKINGHAM AND CHANDOS, &c. &c. 
 
 Madam, 
 When last I had the happiness of being in 
 vour society at Stowe, the conversation (worthy 
 the season, for it was over a Christmas fire (turned 
 upon the subjects treated of in the first part of 
 the following pages ; and both yourself and the 
 Duke seemed to be struck with the Offley story, 
 though the details of it, as now appended, were 
 not then given. 
 
 It is certainly so far new, that even the chief 
 fact, of the preternatual appearance, has never to 
 my knowledge been in print. However that may 
 be, your Grace did me the honour to wish me to 
 let you present it to Sir Walter Scott, or put it 
 into writing myself ; which last I promised to do. 
 But the many eventful scenes I was afterwards 
 engaged in, chiefly and severely of domestic cala-
 
 156 DEDICATION. 
 
 mity, and ending in a distressing and lengthened 
 illness, prevented the performance of my promise. 
 I know not if I have even now succeeded. But if 
 your Grace will accept the Narrative, (no doubt a 
 little garnished in the details, but in the main true,) 
 as an unfeigned tribute of esteem for virtues uni- 
 versally acknowledged, you will add greatly to the 
 favours you have conferred upon 
 
 Your most obliged humble Servant. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 The above address had scarcely been sent from 
 the Continent to England, to be printed, when by 
 an unexpected and most lamented death, the 
 amiable and illustrious person for whom it was 
 intended was taken from the world which her 
 presence may be said to have blessed as well as 
 adorned. 
 
 This reminiscence may, in consequence, by 
 some be thought to be out of place, and therefore 
 perhaps better avoided. The Author hopes how- 
 ever to be forgiven, if the opportunity to perpetuate 
 the veneration which he ever entertained for the 
 virtues of this admirable lady, gives him a me- 
 lancholy pleasure which he is unwilling to part 
 with.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " The air bites shrewdly ; 
 It is a nipping and an eager air." 
 
 " What ! has this thing 
 Appear' d again to night ?" 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 It was as cold as it ought to be at Christmas, 
 and moreover the rain and the hail and the snow, 
 were blown with fearful violence against the walls 
 of Castle Campbell^ which stood beetling on a 
 rock overhanging the sea, near the Mull of Can- 
 tyre, in Scotland. 
 
 The wind whistled shrilly through the crevices 
 of doors and windows ; and even the rolling of 
 thunder, so uncommon at this time of year, was 
 heard, at first in the distance, but approaching 
 nearer and nearer, till it burst over the roof, part 
 of which it destroyed. 
 
 A large party, though engaged in the convi- 
 viality of dinner, were so far affected, not to say 
 alarmed, that the conversation often paused, and 
 even the progress of the banquet was sometimes 
 arrested, while, in silence, the guests contemplated
 
 158 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 one another's countenances, to read in them the va- 
 rious impressions made by the storm. 
 
 Mr. Campbell, the owner of the castle, entreated 
 his friends not to be alarmed, for it had stood the 
 buffeting of many worse attacks than the present. 
 The howling of the wind however, and the banging 
 of doors, continued till the dinner became almost a 
 Quakers' meeting; and the excitement was not at 
 all diminished, by the Mditre-d' Hotel entering to 
 beg his master's presence among the lower (he 
 might have added the upper) servants, who, he 
 said, could not be persuaded that Sawney Bean 
 had not again come from over the sea, full five 
 years before this time. 
 
 At this time some of the guests shuddered ; but 
 Mr. Campbell set up a laugh, which gave them 
 (especially the ladies) some comfort; for their 
 own alarm had been evidently by no means quieted, 
 by the tidings brought by the Maitre-d' Hotel ; 
 although who Sawney Bean was, or what the allu- 
 sion, no one could make out. 
 
 Mr. Campbell, apologizing for a few minutes 
 absence, left the room to appease his domestics ; 
 though no mere reasoning could persuade them 
 out of their fears of Sawney Bean. His return 
 created a general inquiry as to this mysterious 
 person; and all but two or three Scotch gen-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 159 
 
 tlemen, who knew the story, entreated Mr. Camp- 
 bell to inform them. 
 
 " Why," said he, " there certainly was such a 
 person, and a horrid fellow he was ; so that if you 
 have not a mind to have your blood run cold, you 
 had better not inquire.' 5 
 
 " Well ! but," said several, " the meaning of com- 
 ing from over the sea full five years before his 
 time ?" 
 
 " I had better tell you his history at once," 
 said Mr. Campbell ; upon which, the dinner being 
 over, the company all huddled closer round the 
 fire, while the hubbub from without did not de- 
 crease the interest within. 
 
 u Sawney Bean," said Mr. Campbell, " was a 
 robber, and a murderer, (by many thought to be 
 the devil himself,) who lived several years in a 
 cave on the opposite coast of Ireland/' 
 
 " When ?" cried several voices. 
 
 " At the beginning of the sixteenth century," 
 replied Mr. Campbell, u but in what year I have 
 forgotten. Certain it is, he was a cannibal as 
 well as a murderer, and lived, himself and his 
 wife and children, upon the bodies and blood of 
 the unfortunate people who fell into their hands." 
 
 " Heaven preserve us !" said, all the company, 
 while the rain beat louder and louder against the 
 windows.
 
 160 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " His cave/' continued Mr. Campbell, " com- 
 municated with the sea, but was almost closed up 
 with rocks, on one side ; and opened on the other 
 into the country, through a subterranean passage, 
 covered entirely with furze and briars. People 
 perpetually disappeared from the fields, and were 
 searched for, but always in vain. The land seemed 
 under a curse, and the inhabitants began to abandon 
 it. However, this horrible family were at length dis- 
 covered ; for the fewness of their victims began to 
 tempt them farther than usual from their strong- 
 hold. A farmer, with his wife behind him, on 
 horseback, being attacked by three of Bean's sons, 
 in the scuffle the wife fell off, and immediately 
 not only her throat was cut, but her blood drunk 
 by one of these fiends, while the other two endea- 
 voured to do as much by her husband. 
 
 " The farmer, however, whose name was Camp- 
 bell, wrought to madness by what he had seen, 
 fought so stoutly with a loaded whip, that the 
 wretches sought safety in flight ; and the farmer 
 pursuing them, saw the aperture through which 
 they escaped under ground, and having marked 
 it, immediately proceeded to the next town, where, 
 being joined by a competent force, well armed, he 
 returned to the spot he had marked, and heading his 
 companions through the subterranean passage, they 
 found this Modern Cacus, with his four sons and
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 161 
 
 four daughters; — who it seemed, to fill up the 
 measure of their wickedness, had married, as they 
 came to suitable ages. They all endeavoured to 
 make their escape through the opening towards 
 the sea j but the previous night, probably such a 
 one as this, had rolled shingle and loose fragments 
 of rock into the nook, so as to close them up like 
 a wall. 
 
 "They were all taken prisoners, bound hand and 
 foot, and soon after hanged ; but not till some of 
 them made confession of their cannibalism; which 
 was confirmed by the finding a number of hams 
 strung round the cave, which had all the appear- 
 ance of swine's flesh, but which they confessed to 
 be human/' 
 
 An exclamation from almost all the company 
 here interrupted Mr. Campbell, whom they en- 
 treated not to proceed. " It was too horrible ! it 
 could not be ! and in such a night too, to tell 
 such a story ?' 
 
 " But we are yet to learn/' said one gentleman, 
 "what is the meaning of this wretch's coming 
 over the sea before his time." 
 
 " Scotland would not be Scotland," returned 
 Mr. Campbell, " if some such appendage had not 
 been added to the tale. In truth the whole 
 neighbourhood believed that the storm which 
 had closed the sea entrance had been the express
 
 162 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 work of Providence ; for it never happened before. 
 Sawney believed it too ; and the farmer who took 
 him, being a Campbell, who had emigrated to the 
 north of Ireland from this place, he swore, as he 
 was led to execution, that he would visit it every 
 twenty years, and bring destruction upon all of 
 the name." 
 
 ** And did he ? " said the gentleman who asked 
 the former question. 
 
 " I do not find that in the history," answered 
 Mr. Campbell ; " but it is certain that there is a 
 tradition of periodical storms of a frightful nature, 
 which, perhaps, might measure this number of 
 years. About fifteen years ago a hurricane more 
 resembling those of the West Indies than of this 
 coast, boisterous as it is, destroyed the whole vil- 
 lage, with many Campbells in it ; though the castle 
 was too strong to be more than a little damaged. 
 Hence, as the tradition had marked a twenty year 
 periodical mischief, and the night is what we see 
 and hear, no doubt my people think it is Sawney 
 Bean that has raised this tremendous storm — that 
 is, has come five years before his time." 
 
 " After all, this is but superstitious nonsense," 
 said the gentleman, whose name was St. Lawrence. 
 " I was in hopes not only the storm was preter- 
 natural, but that it had been called down by some 
 particular wickedness of you Campbells ; not to
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 163 
 
 revenge the just fate of so vile a wretch. It is 
 evident that Providenee could never favour an in- 
 terference in such a case ; though it may have 
 called forth this very storm for some other, to us, 
 inscrutable purpose/' 
 
 Here the ladies, and some of the gentlemen* 
 became a little agitated ; the rattling from without 
 was deemed even portentous ; and a sort of so- 
 lemnity, which no one was willing to acknowledge, 
 pervaded all. The words " Providence, for in- 
 scrutable purposes,'' were repeated, and its power 
 of interposing (which no one denied) gradually 
 turned into that graver question, so often debated, 
 but so little settled, whether it ever did interpose, 
 through any but second, that is, natural causes. 
 
 " I am inclined to believe it has/' said Mr. St. 
 Lawrence. 
 
 '' There have certainly been tales to that effect," 
 cried several. 
 
 " Can you mention one ? " asked Mr. Campbell 
 — "one, not upon hearsay, not bandied about 
 through a thousand mouths, and with ten thou- 
 sand exaggerations and alterations, so as that no 
 one can know the same story when twice told ?" 
 
 " Yet the belief in immediate interposition, by 
 dreams, prophecies, and apparitions, has been 
 universal/' said Mr. St. Lawrence, " and still is 
 the creed of many."
 
 164 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " That is," replied Mr. Campbell, " because, as 
 has been well said, all feeling is for it, though all 
 reason is against it. With such uncertainties in 
 human events, the direct proof of a providential 
 interference is comfortable to man, at least to 
 good men; and I myself would be the first to 
 believe it, if the proof were well and irresistibly 
 authenticated. Are you in possession of any 
 such?" 
 
 " That remains to be seen/' answered Mr. St. 
 Lawrence," and fell into musing. " But mean- 
 time," added he, " there are many cases in which 
 the evidence is so remarkable, and so sincerely 
 believed by the parties concerned, that it almost 
 comes up to what you require." 
 
 " You, perhaps," observed Mr. Campbell, " re- 
 fer to the Bloomberg, the Lyttleton, the Percival, 
 and other stories of the same kind ; —to all which I 
 reply, they have never been sufficiently examined 
 to know what in them is true, what false ; to say 
 nothing of the object, which is generally infra dig. 
 The discovery of a pot of money, or even the 
 writings of the estate of a private individual, can 
 surely not be of importance enough to require 
 preternatural interference. What was there in 
 Mr. Bloomberg, respectable as he was, to make it 
 likely that a revelation was made in favour of his 
 money concerns ?"
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 16*5 
 
 " A pot of money/' answered Mr. Lawrence, 
 " may be infra dig. ; but what think you of a mur- 
 der, not otherwise discovered? — as in a case I 
 could name ; or still more, the proof of another 
 world, allowed in mercy to unhappy doubters ? — 
 as in the case of Lord Ly ttleton and Mr. Andrews, 
 which you seem to despise/' 
 
 K What you can tell of your own knowledge in 
 any case, I must be bound to believe," said Mr. 
 Campbell, " but then it must be knowledge, not 
 belief. I would therefore ask if you have mor e 
 proof of Lord Lyttleton's appearance to Mr. Miles 
 Peter Andrews, than the mere reports we all of us 
 heard ? " 
 
 " I heard the story from Mr. Andrews's own 
 mouth," said Mr. St. Lawrence. 
 
 All the company now joined Mr. Campbell in 
 requesting to hear particulars so authenticated. 
 The wind still howled, but was less and less re- 
 garded; and the fire being made brighter with 
 some crackling logs, Mr. St. Lawrence had every 
 advantage from attention which he could possibly 
 desire ; and he thus began. 
 
 * I had often heard much, and read much, of 
 Lord Lyttleton's seeing a ghost before his death ; 
 and of himself, as a ghost, appearing to Mr. 
 Andrews ; and one evening, sitting next to that 
 gentleman, during a pause in the debates of the
 
 16*6' ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 House of Commons, I ventured to ask him whether 
 there was any, and what truth, in the detailed story 
 so confidently related. Mr. Andrews, as perhaps 
 I ought to have expected, did not much like the 
 conversation ; he looked grave and uneasy, and I 
 asked pardon for my impertinent curiosity. Upon 
 this, he very good-naturedly said, it is not a sub- 
 ject I am fond of, and least of all in such a place 
 as this ; but if you will come and dine with me, I 
 will tell you what is true, and what is false. I gladly 
 accepted the proposal, and I think my recollection 
 is perfect as to the following narrative : 
 
 " Mr. Andrews, in his youth, was the boon com- 
 panion, not to say fellow rake, of Lord Lyttleton, 
 — who, as is well known, was a man distinguished 
 for abilities, but also for a profligacy of morals 
 which few could equal. With all this he was re- 
 markable for what maybe called unusual cowardice, 
 in one so determinedly wicked. He never re- 
 pented, yet could never stifle his conscience. 'He 
 never would allow, yet never could deny, a world 
 to come; and he contemplated with unceasing 
 terror, what would probably be his own state in 
 such a world if there was one. He was always 
 melancholy with fear, or mad in defiance; and 
 probably his principal misery here, was, that with 
 all his endeavours, he never could extinguish the 
 dread of an hereafter.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 1(>'7 
 
 u He once came down to breakfast, pale with the 
 agony he had suffered in a dream, which at first 
 he would not reveal. It turned out that for his 
 sins he thought he was inclosed in a globe of iron, 
 of the dimensions of the earth, heated red hot. 
 At that time all the world were execrating Mrs. 
 Brownrigg, who was hanged for whipping one of 
 her apprentices, a little girl, to death. Lord Lyt- 
 tleton had the greatest hatred to her very name ; 
 and to aggravate his punishment, he thought this 
 wretch was enclosed with him in his globe of hot 
 iron. An imagination so strong could not but be 
 active, inquiring, restless ; all which, added to his 
 fears, made him harp incessantly upon the ques- 
 tion of a future life. He used often to discuss it 
 with his friend Andrews, tc whom he at last said, 
 * Well ! if I die first, and am allowed, I will come 
 and inform you/ This was but a little before his 
 death. That death was attended with so many 
 mysterious reports of ghosts, warnings, and pro- 
 phecies, most of them such entire inventions, that 
 I shall not trouble the company with them, but 
 hasten to Mr. Andrews's part of the story." 
 
 " But," said one of the ladies, " when you say 
 viost of them, do you mean that any one was well 
 founded ? " 
 
 " I can only tell, and indeed undertake no 
 more/' replied Mr. St. Lawrence, " what I learned
 
 16S ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 from Mr. Andrews himself, who, I feel sure, is 
 good authority. It is true that the night before 
 Lord Lyttleton died, a fluttering of a bird was 
 heard, and perhaps a bird seen on the window 
 curtains. It is not true that Mrs. Humphreys, or 
 any other departed lady whom he had seduced, 
 appeared and warned him of his end. It is true 
 that he himself thought he was to die at a given 
 hour, and the clock was put on, in order to deceive 
 him into comfort. It is also true that he was 
 found dead with his watch in his hand, at but a 
 few minutes after the time he mentioned as his 
 last. But it is equally true, that upon any great 
 agitation, he was subject to a swelling of the 
 throat, which, without immediate assistance, might 
 kill him by strangulation. However, the coinci- 
 dence of event with prophecy was at any rate 
 most remarkable/ 5 
 
 " Agreed," said Mr. Campbell, 6e but no more 
 than coincidence." 
 
 a I mention it only as such/' observed Mr. St. 
 Lawrence ; ei but come we now to Andrews. An- 
 drews was at his house at Dartford, when Lord 
 Lyttleton died at Pitt Place, Epsom, thirty miles 
 off. Andrews's house was full of company, and 
 he expected Lord Lyttleton, whom he had left in 
 his usual state of health, to join them the next 
 day, which was Sunday. Andrews himself feeling
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 169 
 
 much indisposed on the Saturday evening, retired 
 early to bed, and requested Mrs. Pigou, one of 
 his guests, to do the honours of the supper table. 
 He admitted that when in bed he fell into a feverish 
 sleep, but was waked between eleven and twelve 
 by somebody opening his curtains. It was Lord 
 Lyttleton in a night-gown and cap, which Andrews 
 recognised. He also plainly spoke to him, say- 
 ing, he was come to tell him all was over. 
 
 u The world said, he informed him that there was 
 another state, and bade him repent, &c. &c. That 
 was not so, and I confine myself to the exact 
 words of this relation. " 
 
 " You are quite right," said Campbell. 
 
 " Now it seems," continued St. Lawrence, 
 '• that Lord Lyttleton was fond of horse-play, or 
 what we should call mauvaise plaisanterie ; and 
 having often made Andrews the subject of it, the 
 latter had threatened him with manual chastise- 
 ment the next time it occurred. On the present 
 occasion, thinking this annoyance renewed, he 
 threw the first things he could find, which were 
 his slippers, at Lord Lyttleton* s head. The figure 
 retreated towards a dressing-room, which had no 
 ingress or egress, except through the bedchamber ; 
 and Andrews, very angry, leapt out of bed to fol- 
 low it into the dressing-room. It was not there. 
 Surprised, he returned to the bed-room, which he 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 strictly searched. The door was locked on the 
 inside, yet no Lord Lyttleton was to be found. 
 He was astonished, but not alarmed, so convinced 
 was he that it was some trick of Lord Lyttleton ; 
 who he supposed had arrived according to his en- 
 gagement, but after he, Andrews, had retired. 
 He therefore rang for his servant, and asked if 
 Lord Lyttleton was not come. The man said 
 no. c You may depend upon it/ replied he, out 
 of humour, c he is somewhere in the house, for he 
 was here just now, and is playing some trick.' 
 But how he could have got into the bed-room, 
 with the door locked, puzzled both master and 
 man. Convinced, however, that he was some- 
 where in the house, Andrews, in his anger, ordered 
 that no bed should be given him — saying he might 
 go to an inn, or sleep in the stables. Be that 
 as it may, he never appeared again, and Andrews 
 went to sleep. 
 
 i( It happened that Mrs. Pigou was to go to 
 town early the next morning. What was her 
 astonishment, having heard the disturbance of the 
 night before, to hear on her arrival about nine 
 o'clock, that Lord Lyttleton had died the very 
 night he was supposed to have been seen. She 
 immediately sent an express to Dartford with the 
 news ; upon the receipt of which, Andrews, quite 
 well, and remembering accurately all that had 
 passed, swooned away. He could not understand
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 171 
 
 it, but it had a most serious effect upon him ; so 
 that, to use his own expression, he was not his 
 own man again for three years. 
 
 * Such is this celebrated story, stript of its 
 ornaments and exaggerations; and for one, I own, 
 if not convinced that this was a real message from 
 Heaven, which certainly I am not, I at least think 
 the hand of Providence was seen in it ; working 
 upon the imagination, if you please, and therefore 
 suspending no law of nature (though that, after 
 all, is but an ambiguous term) ; but still Provi- 
 dence, in a character not to be mistaken.' 5 
 
 u And for what purpose ?" asked Mr. Camp- 
 bell ; * to reclaim a gunpowder merchant ? If 
 you measure the importance of the interference 
 with the object, surely it refutes itself. Even 
 heathen Horace is better than a Divine on this 
 subject: — nee Deus inter sit nisi dignus vindice no- 
 dus." 
 
 " I feel all the force of that argument," said 
 Mr. St. Lawrence, " if the object rested where 
 you suppose it. But it is not so. Who is to 
 calculate the immensity of the effect upon thou- 
 sands of doubting minds, which only one authen- 
 ticated account of an apparently very trifling in- 
 terposition may create ? Andrews might be little 
 in himself; a speck, forming the centre of a small 
 circle ; but that circle might be the centre of 
 i 2
 
 172 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 others, and those again of many more ; so that 
 once establish the interference, however apparently 
 humble the immediate object, the benefit to reli- 
 gion in the world at large would be beyond imagi- 
 nation. You say yourself, that one well proved 
 revelation would make you a believer. Here, at 
 least, is a coincidence that almost astounds us ; 
 nor, if true (as I believe it to be), does it affect 
 the belief of its being a real interference, that Mr. 
 Andrews was not of sufficient importance to jus- 
 tify it. No ! not even if it could be proved that 
 it had no effect upon his own conduct in life. 
 You will say, perhaps, that Andrews allows he 
 was in a feverish sleep when disturbed by the ap- 
 pearance of his friend, and that such an appear- 
 ance is in the very nature of an unhealthy dream. 
 But you will observe that he was perfectly awake 
 when he threw his slippers at his head ; when he 
 saw him retreat to the dressing-room ; and when 
 he got out of bed to follow him. But even if all 
 this were merely fancy, may not Providence work 
 by the instrumentality of fancy, as well as reality ? 
 And if the object be of sufficient importance, as I 
 think I have shewn it to be, and the event prove 
 the character of the transaction, is it less Provi- 
 dence because set before the imagination instead 
 of the senses ?" 
 
 <e This is at least ingenious," said Mr. Campbell,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 173 
 
 The company almost one and all said it was 
 convincing, but particularly as to the argument 
 drawn from the want of consequence in the im- 
 mediate parties. 
 
 u We may allow, therefore," added Mr. St. 
 Lawrence, " that provided the fact of the interpo- 
 sition be proved from the event, the difficulty of 
 belief from circumstances, and circumstances only, 
 is over. On what else but this coincidence of 
 events, does the whole great miracle of prophecy 
 stand in our Sacred Books ? Yet many prophecies 
 may not appear of sufficient importance, and the 
 prophets themselves were often mean, and, what 
 is more, wicked. I remember indeed a case which 
 once much interested me, where the interference 
 (if it was interference, of which I am by no means 
 certain) was in favour of incontestible guilt." 
 
 Here St. Lawrence hesitated, and Mr. Camp- 
 bell's visitors all started at this preamble, but en- 
 treated him to gratify, after having so much raised, 
 their curiosity. 
 
 St. Lawrence w r ent on. 
 
 ei At the memorable dinner at Mr. Andrews's 
 which I have mentioned, his story naturally re- 
 called many others of the same kind ; and one 
 voluble gentleman, who had a greater range than 
 accuracy of memory, asserted that Sir Evan 
 Nepean, when Under Secretary of State, had been
 
 1/4 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 warned by a vision to save the lives of three or 
 four persons, who, but for this appearance, would 
 all of them have been hanged through Sir Evan's 
 neglect. 
 
 u You may suppose we did not give much 
 credence to this ; but knowing Sir Evan Nepean 
 very well, I informed him of what he was charged 
 with, and begged him to tell me what the ghost 
 said. ' The gentleman/ said he, good humour- 
 edly, ' romances not a little ; but what he alludes 
 to is the most extraordinary thing that ever 
 happened to me/ 
 
 " He went on tell me that one night, several 
 years before, he had the most unaccountable 
 wakefulness that could be imagined. He was in 
 perfect health; had dined early and moderately; had 
 no care, nothing to brood over, and was perfectly 
 self-possessed. Still he could not sleep, and 
 from eleven till two in the morning had never 
 closed an eye. It was summer, and twilight was far 
 advanced ; and to dissipate the ennui of his wake- 
 fulness, he resolved to rise and breathe the morn- 
 ing air in the Park. There he saw nothing but 
 sleepy sentinels, whom he rather envied. He 
 passed the Home Office several times, and at last, 
 without any particular object, resolved to let 
 himself in with his pass key. The book of entries 
 of the day before lay open upon the table, and in
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 175 
 
 sheer listlessness, he began to read. The first 
 thing appalled him — 'A reprieve to be sent to 
 York for the Coiners ordered for execution the 
 next day/ It struck him that he had had no 
 return to his order to send the reprieve ; and he 
 searched the minutes, but could not find it. In 
 alarm he went to the house of the Chief Clerk, who 
 lived in Downing Street ; knocked him up (it was 
 then long past three), and asked him if he knew 
 anything of the reprieve being sent. In greater 
 alarm, the Chief Clerk could not remember. e You 
 are scarcely awake/ said Sir Evan ; e collect your- 
 self; it must have been sent.' 
 
 " The Chief Clerk said he did now recollect he 
 had sent it to the Clerk of the Crown, whose 
 business it was to forward it to York." 
 
 " Good," said Sir E. " but have you his receipt 
 and certificate that it is gone ? " 
 
 « No ! " 
 
 " Then come with me to his house; we must 
 find him, it is so early. " It was now four, and the 
 Clerk of the Crown lived in Chancery Lane. 
 There was no hackney coach, and they almost 
 ran. The Clerk of the Crown had a country 
 house, and meaning to have a long holiday, he 
 was at that moment stepping into his gig to go 
 to his villa. Astonished at the visit of the Under- 
 Secretary at such an hour, he was still more so 
 at his business.
 
 176 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " My God ! " cried the Clerk of the Crown, 
 " the reprieve is locked up in my desk. 5 ' It was 
 brought ; Sir Evan sent to the post office for the 
 trustiest and fleetest express; and the reprieve 
 reached York the next morning, at the moment 
 the unhappy people were ascending the cart.' 5 
 
 " Another excellent story," said Mr. Campbell, 
 seeing St. Lawrence had finished ; u but equally 
 unconvincing. Here there is not a pretence of an 
 interference, for everything is by second causes, 
 and might have happened to any man." 
 
 " If interference," replied St. Lawrence, " mean 
 the setting aside the laws of nature, (which phrase 
 I again say is ambiguous talk,) this anecdote 
 certainly does not bear that character. But not 
 the less was it, according to my creed, provi- 
 dential ; because all things are providential — that 
 is, all second causes are planned by Providence for 
 his own just ends, though we cannot fathom them. 
 Perhaps, therefore, in order to avoid the ambi- 
 guity of the word interference, which alone seems 
 to you to be providential, we ought to call cases 
 of this sort remarkable. It is certain that if, as 
 you seem to think, providence of necessity means 
 miracle, there is no such thing; for miracles have 
 ceased." 
 
 u I should like to hear this detailed," said 
 Campbell, " for you seem to have studied it." 
 
 " It would take us too long/' replied St. Law-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 17/ 
 
 rence ; " and though the storm and Sawney Bean 
 have made us all serious, we are not fit for so 
 grave a dissertation." 
 
 " Upholding Providence in all things," ob- 
 served Campbell, a I wonder you have not en- 
 tered the region of dreams, those ' airy nothings/ 
 yet so wonderful in story/' 
 
 ie The philosophy of dreams," observed Mr. St. 
 Lawrence, " is one of the most puzzling in natural 
 or ethical philosophy, and was one of the desi- 
 derata which Lord Bacon left as a legacy for 
 posterity to unravel. For the most part, they 
 are what you have called them, e airy nothings/ 
 The reason is, that for one instance of coincidence 
 of events with a dream, there are millions of 
 fancies which cannot even be recollected. A 
 subject too which the dreamer has brooded over 
 all day, may be, and frequently is, pursued even in 
 sleep. Favourite sounds are repeated ; favourite 
 passages in authors ; and even difficulties in com- 
 position which have baffled waking endeavours, 
 as I have heard scholars say, have been suddenly 
 set right in a dream. Of course a particular con- 
 duct long revolved when awake, may also seem to 
 be recommended in sleep, and the event too may 
 sometimes coincide with the fancy, so that the 
 dream may appear prophetic. Of this there have 
 been a few, a very few examples. There is one in 
 i 5
 
 178 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 those interesting memoirs of the Chevalier John- 
 stone, (of course known to all you Scotch gentle- 
 men,) by which his life was saved after the battle 
 of Culloden." 
 
 Some of the English guests of Mr. Campbell 
 here begged to know particulars. 
 
 " He was much sought for after the battle/'* 
 said St. Lawrence, " and, if taken, would inevitably 
 have been shot. In a precarious concealment he 
 dreamt, that if he would attempt to go to Edin- 
 burgh, to a particular lady there, he would not 
 only succeed in reaching the city, but his life 
 would be saved. He obeyed the dream, and its 
 prophecy was accomplished. 
 
 " These coincidences however are so evidently 
 the effect of chance, and the dreamer is so entirely 
 at the mercy of his fancy, from being totally with- 
 out power over his faculties, that no argument 
 for a preternatural interference can be raised upon 
 them. But this is not the case with waking ap- 
 pearances. One, and one only dream, so authen- 
 ticated that it cannot be doubted, has moved me 
 with something like a belief that it might have 
 been sent from Heaven. A life was certainly for- 
 feited by it. But I fear I have dwelt too long/' 
 
 " No ! no ! ** cried all the company, and their 
 shrewd landlord at their head ; " we will not let 
 you off." And Mr. Campbell added, ( Scotchman
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 179 
 
 as I am, you may prepare for a very severe criti- 
 cism of anything preternatural/ 
 
 " I have already detailed my creed as to this/' 
 replied St. Lawrence, " by holding that ' provi- 
 dential ' does not necessarily mean preternatural. 
 But as to the fact of my dream, and its important 
 consequences, I defy your criticism, since I can- 
 not be said to know it from hearsay, but have exa- 
 mined into the truth of all its parts myself." 
 
 " This is charming/' cried several voices. 
 
 " It happened," continued St. Lawrence, u some 
 thirty or more years ago, when in my young days 
 I used to attend as a grand juryman at Lancaster 
 There had been a sad murder committed upon 
 a young person of the name of Horrocks, which, 
 from his being very amiable, created more than 
 ordinary interest and curiosity. He was found 
 robbed, and his head beaten in with bludgeons, 
 near the gate of a field belonging to a farmer or 
 good repute, who was in the midst of his harvest. 
 It was by no means late, being in fact a clear 
 autumnal evening; which increased the sense of 
 danger, as well as indignation, of the neighbour- 
 hood. Strict, long, and incessant search was 
 made for the murderers ; great rewards offered, 
 without success ; yet the interest and the search 
 continued for months. 
 
 ei Horrocks had a very particular friend, a
 
 ISO ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 weaver, and a Methodist like himself. The grief, 
 as well as eagerness of this man to discover the 
 murderer, seemed interminable ; he brooded over 
 it morning, noon, and night ; but six months 
 elapsed, and no discovery took place. 
 
 " M length one night he waked in great agita- 
 tion, and told his wife that God had revealed to 
 him in a dream, that Samuel Longwith, of Bolton, 
 was the murderer of Horrocks. This Longwith, 
 be it observed, was a man with whom he had no 
 acquaintance, whom he had scarcely ever seen, 
 and who lived twenty miles off. 
 
 " The wife, thinking this the mere wandering of 
 a mind absorbed with one melancholy idea, begged 
 him to be composed, and not indulge fancies so 
 injurious to another. He listened to her, and fell 
 again asleep, but again waked with greater horror, 
 saying he had had the same dream, and was now 
 so sure he was right, that he resolved to set out 
 instantly for Bolton, and apply for a warrant 
 against Longwith. He did so, and offered his 
 deposition to a magistrate, who very properly 
 refused it for want of proof. 
 
 (i The weaver retired in mortification, but pass- 
 ing through the market, met Longwith, whom he 
 immediately desired to go to a public house with 
 him, for he had something particular to commu- 
 nicate. There, locking the door, he at once told
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 181 
 
 him his errand. Longwith was seized with all 
 the disorder of guilt — faintly denied the accusa- 
 tion — and in his confusion said he was innocent, 
 for he did not strike the blow. — ( Then you 
 know who did/ replied the weaver ; and returning 
 to the magistrate with this conversation, a warrant 
 was granted, and the man taken up and examined. 
 For near three days he denied, but with prevari- 
 cation enough to prevent his discharge. At length, 
 after many hours spent in prayer, he desired to 
 make confession. He then stated that he had 
 been seduced by three persons to join them on a 
 robbing expedition — that they took the road to 
 Lancaster, where meeting Horrocks, who made 
 resistance, his companions, not himself, beat him 
 with bludgeons till he died. 
 
 u This confession came out before the Grand 
 Jury, and, upon it, Longwith was brought to trial. 
 The dream, and every thing deemed supernatural, 
 was of course not recorded, and indeed not offered 
 in evidence ; but the accuser, the wife, and the 
 magistrate who committed the prisoners, all bore 
 testimony to the truth of the preliminaries I have 
 narrated. I was at the trial, and the man, who 
 was doggedly silent after being found guilty, again 
 confessed his guilt just before his execution ; to 
 the no small satisfaction of the Judge (Rook); who 
 had no doubts, but many fears, arising from the
 
 182 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 paucity of the evidence, and the peculiar nature 
 of the facts which led to the discovery." 
 
 " Your story is curious," said Mr. Campbell, 
 " whatever inference you or others may draw from 
 it 5 and I like it the better, because, from the want 
 of acquaintance with Longwith, in the accuser, 
 the accomplishment of the dream would by many 
 be scarcely held to be the effect of chance. Yet 
 at present I think it was." 
 
 " It seems quite convincing," observed several 
 of the company. 
 
 " You, see, however," added Campbell, £i that 
 this is a mere insulated case, and the philosophy 
 of dreams must be better settled before it can be 
 made to tell." 
 
 " Who can say what secret associations of 
 memory, or combinations of fancy^ brought this 
 man to the mind of the sleeping methodist. And 
 is not that Providence ? " answered St. Lawrence. 
 
 " At any rate," said Campbell, " give me 
 ' something more than phantasy/ One real appa- 
 rition, like Lord Lyttleton's, supposing it real, 
 and not the creation of ' a feverish sleep,' and I 
 wall gladly yield the question.' " 
 
 u What you ask," returned St. Lawrence, " it is 
 impossible, or hardly possible to comply with; 
 because, according to my doctrine on this subject, 
 an intervention does not necessarily mean a
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 183 
 
 miracle, though a miracle is certainly an interven- 
 tion." 
 
 u How is it Providence unless it is miracle ? " 
 a sked Campbell. 
 
 u That would carry us too far — perhaps out of 
 our depths/' replied St. Lawrence ; " yet I think 
 the theory of a perpetual government of the Al- 
 mighty, spite of the objections drawn from free 
 will, not so difficult ; and upon a fit occasion, I 
 should have pleasure in discussing it, as clearing 
 up much of the doubt and obscurity of our present 
 subject. It is sufficient for that, if I can show 
 that an apparition does not necessarily imply 
 reality, but only an appearance, which being the 
 offspring of fancy, brought about by second 
 causes, and those second causes always foreseen, 
 permitted, and approved by Providence at the 
 creation of the world, all the object of such an 
 appearance may be answered, and yet no law of 
 nature be suspended." 
 
 " This is deep indeed," said Mr. Campbell, 
 ruminating upon the words. " Another time I 
 may tax your ingenuity to explain it. At pre- 
 sent I want a case more tangible than a weaver's 
 dream." 
 
 a Perhaps I could satisfy you even in this," 
 replied St. Lawrence, u by a remarkable relation 
 I once heard, and shall never forget ; but the story,
 
 184 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 which I might rank as a cause ceUbre, is really 
 too long for an attention already fatigued. The 
 evening is much advanced, and as the storm seems 
 abated, I believe something more cheerful would 
 be more welcome. What think you of music 
 instead of ghosts ? " 
 
 " Not so agreeable by half," exclaimed several 
 of the company, u especially always keeping in 
 view the great question of Providence, by which 
 we hope to profit." 
 
 Mr. Campbell approving this proposal, and 
 only moving to adjourn to the drawing-room for 
 coffee, as soon as that repast was over, St. Law- 
 rence gave the following history. 
 
 It is now some years since I paid an interesting 
 visit to one of my father's friends, a Mr. Offley of 
 Derbyshire. He was then exceedingly old, and 
 died soon after. His house had been built in 
 different ages, and was of all kinds of architecture ; 
 but the gothic having been its original style, there 
 were many remains of it, particularly in an im- 
 mense kitchen, and a gallery of black oak, in which 
 I was very fond of walking, when my friend was 
 occupied elsewhere. Among other things, I was 
 struck with a low, but exceedingly thick door, 
 with most massive hinges of iron spreading in 
 circles all over it, like our old church doors. It
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 185 
 
 was also strongly barred and padlocked, so as 
 very much to move my curiosity. In examining 
 this relic of antiquity by myself (for my friend 
 was from home); and indulging various conjectures, 
 whether its low Saxon archway did not denote the 
 age of Offa, King of Mercia, from whom I knew 
 my friend descended; whether it had been lhe 
 door of the dungeon, when the house was a castle ; 
 what scenes it had witnessed, what stories it had 
 to tell ; I felt quite at a loss, for I saw no one I 
 could ask for information. A maid-servant indeed 
 passed by, and I resolved to apply to her, to 
 know at least whither it led, and what it guarded. 
 But the girl was evidently hurrying away from 
 it; and though I stopt her to ask my question, 
 a sort of tremor came over her when she said 
 she had heard it shut up a staircase that led to the 
 top of a tower ; but few knew, for it was always 
 locked, and nobody ever had the key but her 
 master. 
 
 " What," said I, " I suppose it is or has been 
 haunted/' I said this from mere thoughtlessness, 
 when I observed the Abigail redden and look 
 disconcerted, and, as I thought, seemed very glad 
 to scud away from further questions. 
 
 " The place, observed I to myself, only wants 
 this to make it perfect; and I wished for my friend 
 to return, to explain what I began to think, and 
 perhaps to hope, was a mystery. In this humour
 
 186 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 my friend's butler (a rather garrulous senex) pass- 
 ing through^ I fairly asked him the same question, 
 observing, that I thought the maid had looked a 
 little frightened about it." 
 
 ee Ah ! " said my new Cicerone ; " poor ignorant ! 
 she is of the village, and perhaps believes in 
 ghosts, as many of them do : but Lord, Sir, there 
 is no such thing in London, and why there should 
 be here, no one alive can tell." 
 
 " Well reasoned," said I, * but pray can you 
 satisfy my curiosity, and tell me any history that 
 may belong to this tower ; and as you don't seem 
 to be a believer yourself, you perhaps may not be 
 afraid of doing so, though so near to the scene of 
 action." 
 
 " I would rather, Sir," he replied, " that you 
 would ask master, who might perhaps think it 
 disrespectful to talk of family secrets. Not that I 
 know them exactly; though I have sometimes heard 
 him hint at them, in company that he liked, when 
 I have been waiting upon him at table." 
 
 " Family secrets ! " cried I, u more and more cu- 
 rious. Where is your master ?" 
 
 * Gone to Norton, to a Justice meeting ; but he 
 told me to tell you he would be back in two hours, 
 and this was above an hour ago." 
 
 " It is a long time to wait/' said I, laughing, 
 " especially for a ghost." 
 
 " Lord, Sir," cried my new friend, " there is
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 187 
 
 no such thing, and to be sure, such a gentleman 
 as you don't believe a word about them; only 
 there certainly is something very extraordinary 
 which happened to master's father, or rather his 
 mother, which is a history I have often tried, but 
 never could tell clear. But his honour will soon 
 be home, and will surely tell all to you, and no 
 doubt take you up the stairs." 
 
 At this I asked my informant if ever he had 
 been up them himself. 
 
 * No ! " he said ; " they were so steep and bro- 
 ken ; " but seeing him too redden, and look rather 
 embarrassed, I could not help observing, that of 
 course it could be only that ; " for you/' I said, 
 " who have lived so much in town, and have so 
 little faith in ghosts, could have no fear on their 
 account/' 
 
 " O dear no ! " he replied ; u but pray, begging 
 your honour's pardon for the liberty, may I ask 
 if you think there can be such things ? For 
 though I think not, and am butler to his honour, 
 I know I am no scholar beyond writing and read- 
 ing, and keeping the cellar accounts." 
 
 " Very modest of you, Mr. Ambrose/' said I ; 
 " but pray, did you ever ask the minister of the 
 parish ? " 
 
 " Yes ! but he only laughed at me, and told me
 
 188 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 not to meddle with things I had no capacity for. 
 He seemed, indeed, to think that nobody could 
 tell to a certainty." 
 
 " And did that satisfy you ? " 
 
 a I can't say it did, Sir ; and I began to think 
 there might be something in it, and wished to go 
 up the tower, but, somehow or another, never did ; 
 and passing all the next winter in London, I never 
 thought of it again. — But I hear my master's 
 horses, and as it wants above an hour to dinner, 
 no doubt he will soon tell you every thing about it." 
 
 At these words he disappeared, leaving me 
 rather impatient to question my friend upon this 
 apparent mystery respecting the barred door and 
 forbidden tower. We soon came to an under- 
 standing about it, for I had only to tell him my 
 conversation with the maid and his butler, to let 
 in the whole subject. 
 
 " As to your maid," said I, " I have no doubt 
 she thinks there has been a murder committed, 
 and that either the victim or the murderer is to be 
 found up stairs ; but as to Mr. Ambrose, I find 
 he is an esprit fort, and from a London educa- 
 tion is an i Ebrew Jew' as to ghosts." 
 
 "The fellow lies," said my friend, laughing; 
 iC and no more dare go up the tower than the ( poor 
 ignorant ' he so despised."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 189 
 
 " But what are the facts/' said I, rather impa- 
 tiently, " for this sort of thing is de mon gibier." 
 " Are you a believer ? " asked he. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " An unbeliever ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Neither one nor the other ? " 
 « No I » 
 
 "Both?" 
 
 "Yes!' 5 
 
 " Upon my word, a very good subject to work 
 upon, and a most proper companion for Am- 
 brose." 
 
 " But the facts — the facts/' cried I ; " for I 
 really am impatient." 
 
 " Suppose we try the staircase ourselves/' said 
 Mr. Offley, ringing the bell. 
 
 " Willingly," answered I. 
 
 Here Mr. Ambrose came in, and was ordered 
 to bring the keys of the tower door, and also of 
 the padlock to the bar; a proceeding which brought 
 the coachman and footman, and all the maid ser- 
 vants of the house, to the end of the gallery, where, 
 trusting to their master's good nature, they stood 
 peeping, to investigate what they seemed to think 
 a very serious measure. 
 
 On ascending the stairs, I found them any thing 
 but what Mr. Ambrose described ; for in lieu of
 
 190 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 being steep and broken, they were easy and well 
 laid, and I looked in vain for a dark chasm, which 
 I had expected, similar to that dreadful one 
 described by our lost wizard, as having caused 
 the lamentable murder of poor Amy Robsart. 
 
 We were soon at the top, and while, what with 
 the steps, and the hope of my story, I was breath- 
 less with expectation, my companion coldly 
 observed, how little this was a place for a 
 ghost. 
 
 I was almost angry at his insouciance, and ex- 
 claimed, " Have you really dragged me up all this 
 way for nothing but to see a pigeon house ? The 
 darkness of your stairs promised something ; but 
 here — not even a trap door, or a blood-stained 
 piece of flooring, to recompense curiosity — it is 
 downright bad usage.' 5 
 
 " Are you really curious?" answered Mr. Offley, 
 a and have you a soupcon of faith, enough to hear 
 a story with a machinery, if not preternatural, 
 so nearly so in some parts of it, and so critical to 
 my fortune, that, even without faith, it might 
 command your attention." 
 
 " For Heaven's love, let me hear ! " said I, 
 thinking of Hamlet and his father's ghost. 
 
 " Sit down awhile," returned he, " and let me 
 assail your ears, I will not say 6 that are so forti- 
 fied against my story,' — for ( I do find thee apt;* —
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 191 
 
 but guard against delusion, or you may be like 
 Ambrose and the housemaid." 
 
 " I would I were/' answered I, " but since you 
 say your fortune was critically concerned, there 
 must be something really to recompense atten- 
 tion." 
 
 " There is/' he returned ; " and here it is. I 
 am now seventy years old, and my father died at 
 eighty, some thirty years ago. The event I am 
 about to relate happened when he was under fif- 
 teen ; so that I speak of a time at least a hundred 
 years back. At that time this house and estate 
 were possessed by the last male of the family of 
 Offley, who descended lineally from Offa, King of 
 Mercia. He was a sickly youth, and was sent to 
 Edinburgh both for education and health ; chiefly 
 the last. But being an orphan, and his guardian 
 much plunged in business of his own, he was placed 
 en pension with a supposed respectable Scotch 
 writer, highly recommended ; and, as to tuition, he 
 was under the best professors the University could 
 afford. He had two sisters, one of them after- 
 wards my honoured mother. You shall hear how 
 they were implicated in my story ; which I ought 
 to tell you I found among my father's papers, 
 choicely written. But you must go back with me 
 for them to the library, where they are deposited 
 under lock and key."
 
 192 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 You may suppose I assented. We descended 
 the stairs of the tower, which we again closely- 
 barred up, and having shut the library door, Mr. 
 Ofney began to read from his father's notes, what 
 I was afterwards permitted to copy, and which in 
 fact I have got by heart. 
 
 " Sir John Ofney, who had always been delicate, 
 at Edinburgh grew worse; so that the greatest fear 
 was felt for his life. Indeed, from the accounts, 
 his dissolution was daily expected by his domes- 
 tics, who were left in charge of the house, and by 
 his sisters, who were abiding with an aunt at Nor- 
 ton in this neighbourhood. 
 
 " On a certain day, one of the domestics, the 
 gardener, a man above all suspicion of being an 
 enthusiast (having been in fact refused admission 
 into the singer's gallery at church, because not 
 sufficiently devout), related that he had been thus 
 assailed : — whether it was reality or not, is a ques- 
 tion nothing doubted among the vulgar; and per- 
 haps not yet decided among their betters. Being 
 careful in his charge, he was accustomed to shut the 
 gates of Ofney House every evening at dusk. He was 
 about to proceed on this duty, when he found his 
 hand suddenly stopt by a man who pushed through 
 the gate, in all the appearance and likeness of his 
 master. Indeed, all question was put an end to
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 193 
 
 by the person, whoever he was, calling to him by 
 name, asking him how he did, and how all things 
 were going on at the Hall. You may suppose he 
 was sufficiently surprised ; but, nothing fearing, he 
 followed his master, not to the principal entrance, 
 but to the outer door of the old tower, at which he 
 (the master) pulled out a key, let himself in, and 
 proceeded deliberately up the stairs, — whither his 
 amazed servant did not think it respectful to follow 
 him, but remained at his post till he should think 
 proper to descend. This, although the stairs led 
 to no place but the leads, he never did ; and his 
 faithful domestic having in vain awaited his return 
 till dark night, betook himself to his dame, whose 
 ears he harrowed up by reciting what he had seen. 
 They immediately commenced a search through 
 the tower, and all the rooms which they ventured 
 to visit ; and, to render things sure, they invited 
 two of the neighbours to join them. But all to 
 no purpose. No master was to be seen — neither 
 in the tower, nor out of it ; and though their asto- 
 nishment kept them on the watch the whole night, 
 no trace of any master appeared. 
 
 " By this time the neighbourhood became 
 alarmed, and it was the unanimous opinion that the 
 two faithful domestics should shut up the house, 
 and remain in it till they heard tidings of Sir John. 
 To this, though a fearful proposition, they as- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 sented the rather, because all agreed that the hand 
 of Heaven was upon the family, either for good 
 or for evil. 
 
 " The three next days they remained in their 
 fortress, conversing only through the windows 
 with their honest neighbours, who came hourly 
 to inquire what news, and departed in a sort of 
 holy horror to find there was none. 
 
 " On the fourth day, they had visitors of another 
 description. The house it seems was then a 
 show-house, and four men now appeared in Scotch 
 tartan plaids and bonnets, desiring to be allowed 
 to see the premises. 
 
 " This was denied from an upper window by the 
 jealous guardians, who were inexorable to all the 
 threats and anger, as well as all the bribes, which 
 were offered to make them comply. But they 
 were astounded as well as afflicted when, having 
 told their assailants that they never would open 
 the house till they heard from their master, they 
 were informed that he was dead, and that his 
 death took place on the very evening when the 
 gardener said he had seen him. This only made 
 tnem the more obstinate ; till, after an hour's par- 
 ley, the visitors retreated, first breaking a number 
 of windows, in revenge for this disappointment/' 
 Here Mr. Offley stopt for a while, and asked 
 me what I thought of it.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 195 
 
 " I will tell you more, when I know more/' 
 replied I. u At present the prologue is good. I 
 await the action, and the denouement/' 
 
 ei Of course/* renewed Mr. Offley, " all this 
 was told to the neighbours, who of course also all 
 assembled in Divan to decide what to do. What 
 most moved their wonder was, that, wishing to 
 ascend the stairs of the tower where Sir John 
 had disappeared, they found that the doors, whe- 
 ther outer or inner, could not be opened, even 
 though the gardener brought the keys committed 
 to his keeping. How Sir John had made his 
 exit, nobody could tell. It was certain that no 
 one else could, in the present state of the door, 
 and as certain that, unless he had thrown himself 
 from the leads, he never could have got out again, 
 after getting in. In this dilemma it was mooted 
 whether the door should not be broken oj)en, and 
 hatchets were brought for that purpose ; when a 
 wight, somewhat cooler than the rest, proposed 
 that they should lay the whole case before Mr. 
 Newton." 
 
 " And who was Mr. Newton," said I. 
 
 u A gentleman of high degree/* returned Mr. 
 Oftley, " at that time residing, or rather buried in 
 seclusion, in the village. I would have shown you 
 his house in our rides, but it revived so many asso- 
 ciations that I forbore. It is surrounded with high 
 K 2
 
 196 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 walls towards the road, so that you can hardly see 
 it ; and this, with a mere wicket for a gate, makes 
 many a man pass it without curiosity, thinking it 
 a common grange. But it is pretty, though 
 gloomy within.' 5 
 
 " I conclude Mr. Newton was a character/ 5 
 said I. 
 
 "He was, and, as you will see, comme il y en 
 a peu. He was a man of good estate, bred to the 
 law, by which he hoped to make it better. But 
 with even great abilities, and great acquired know- 
 ledge, particularly of human character, he con- 
 tracted the strangest notions of the world/ 5 
 " He was, perhaps/ 5 said I, " a misanthrope. 55 
 tt Any thing but that ; but he conceived so ill 
 of our power or willingness to do well, that he 
 thought it unavailing to live even according to our 
 nature, among our fellows. He said all exertion was 
 not only selfish, but of no consequence, and that 
 if man had the will, he had not the power, to do 
 good to other men. In fact, he had fallen into 
 apathy, and wished to die. He knew the law, but 
 this did not mend the matter. He could not bear 
 its fictions; said the King 5 s Bench were rogues 
 for bringing pleas before them not properly be- 
 longing to them, by supposing trespasses never 
 committed ; and at length he lost all practice by 
 refusing to sign sham pleas.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 197 
 
 " However, he continued in Lincoln's Inn long 
 enough to become a Bencher ; when he took a final 
 resolution to bury himself in this neighbourhood ; 
 where the only person he saw, certainly the only 
 person he loved, was my grandfather, the father of 
 Sir John. Losing him, he was more recluse than 
 ever; though occasionally he used to visit the or- 
 phans of his friend, to inquire into their health 
 and position. He opposed the sending my uncle 
 to Edinburgh (especially without protection) both 
 from his ill health, and the weakness, if I must 
 confess it, of his intellect, But being only trus- 
 tee, and not guardian, he had no legal power, and 
 was overruled by those who had ; and Sir John 
 went, never to return. 
 
 u This was the person whom the bewildered rus- 
 tics resolved to consult, before they took any mea- 
 sures in regard to the apparition, which they now 
 as firmly as unanimously believed, had entered the 
 Hall house a few days before, though he had never 
 since been seen/' 
 
 " This/' said I, " is probably not the least won- 
 derful part of the story : — but go on.'* 
 
 Mr. OfHey proceeded : — ci The wonder was that 
 Mr. Newton knew nothing of what had passed. 
 But it was accounted for by the strangeness of his 
 life, locked sometimes for days in his bed-room, 
 with unrazored lips, a night-cap, and his books,
 
 198 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 during which few ventured to interrupt or ap- 
 proach him. The news even of Sir John's death 
 had not been yet told him ; but another communi- 
 cation from Edinburgh to his sisters, which soon 
 found its way to Mr. Newton, as their only friend, 
 awakened him at once from his trance, and set the 
 whole village in a flame. 
 
 " The letter was from Mr. M c Swecney, the 
 writer with whom my uncle lodged, and which, 
 after stating many particulars of his illness and 
 death by consumption, coolly announced that he 
 had made a will properly attested, by which, after 
 leaving his two sisters one hundred pounds apiece 
 as a remembrance, he bequeathed the whole of 
 his property, real and personal, out of pure affec- 
 tion and gratitude for his kindness to him in his 
 illness, to the above named M c Sweeney, whom he 
 called his landlord and friend. 
 
 " A thunderbolt at his feet, could not have 
 aroused Mr. Newton more than this news; and 
 being informed that the guardian of the two young 
 ladies, who brought the letter, waited to consult 
 him, he instantly admitted him; when, to his 
 amazement, he also learned all I have related to 
 you respecting the appearance of Sir John. This 
 appearance, as I told you, was on the very evening 
 of his death at Edinburgh ; and I think you will 
 be struck with the coincidence/'
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 199 
 
 (: I am, indeed/' said I, " and it gives birth to 
 a thousand reflections; but, at present, pray 
 go on." 
 
 iS There was an additional circumstance or two," 
 continued Offley, " too ridiculous to mention, but 
 this " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake/' cried I, " do not let me 
 miss a single point, ridiculous or not. I am quite 
 roused by this exciting story." 
 
 " I am sure," said Mr. Campbell, " so am I;" 
 and the observation was echoed by all his com- 
 pany. 
 
 u Well then," replied my friend, " take it as I 
 rind it here, though marked in the margin by my 
 father, c Popular Superstition/ " 
 
 The tale was, in addition to the gardeners 
 story, " That on the night of the visit of the 
 Scotchmen, no less than three rustics, being 
 in their separate cottages, saw from their win- 
 dows a great light on the top of the tower, and 
 the figure of Sir John, pale and ghastly, stretching 
 his hands, as it were in the act of imploring help, 
 towards Mr. Newton's house ; and this was what 
 chiefly impelled them to consult that gentleman." 
 
 " This is admirable nonsense ; " cried Mr. 
 Campbell. " The gardener, indeed, seems cer- 
 tainly to have been sincere ; were these so too ? " 
 
 " I know not/' replied St. Lawrence, " but the 
 whole affair so impressed itself on Mr. Newton,
 
 200 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 that he suddenly became a new man ; his eyes 
 flashed fire, and he who had scarcely been able to 
 crawl for two years, walked now with agitation 
 and firmness up and down his room, exclaiming, 
 at intervals, i Rascals ! forgers ! murderers ! this 
 must be the work of Providence! I will my- 
 self go and unravel it/ And this thought did 
 more to bring him to a rational contemplation of 
 the case than all that could be said to him. It 
 was like the delightful resolve of Uncle Toby, to 
 educate Le Fevre's son; which, as Trim said, 
 6 whenever his master was most affected at Le 
 Fevre's death, always acted like a sleeping draught 
 and calmed him to rest.' " 
 
 The determination of Mr. Newton was no tem- 
 porary ebullition. He recovered the full posses- 
 sion of his mind; resumed all his energies, of 
 which he had abundance in his youth ; and, after 
 a long conference with my mother's guardian, re- 
 solved to set out the next day for Edinburgh. 
 The guardian shrugged his shoulders, not in dis- 
 sent, but despair ; and I myself am almost lost 
 in wonder at this part of my narrative. That an 
 old man, not only buried in a lone corner of the 
 world for thirty years, but so completely so as to 
 have lost all his friends, and his influence, what- 
 ever it was ; and ignorant even of the thousand 
 alterations which time had brought on in the laws, 
 manners and customs, and characters of men,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 201 
 
 during that period; — that such a man, enfeebled in 
 body, and, as it was thought, in intellect, should 
 merely encounter such a journey, much more un- 
 dertake such an adventure, always did, and always 
 will, move my astonishment beyond all power to 
 unravel it." 
 
 " Did he succeed ? " said I, foolishly interrupt- 
 ing Mr. Offley. 
 
 ei You shall hear," he said. " Mr. Newton 
 ordered his horses/' 
 
 a Horses ! his horses ! could he ride?" 
 
 " I am not surprised at your question ; but such 
 is the fact. And here I must indulge myself in 
 recollecting the pleasure of my father, amounting 
 almost to an expansion of heart, whenever he 
 came to this part of the story, and described Mr. 
 Newton's sally, as he called it ;— as well he might, 
 for it was like Don Quixote's, only more happy. 
 Mr. Newton's chief passion had in fact all his life 
 been the menage, and his breed of horses seemed 
 to be the only thing that excited him in his retire- 
 ment. My father caught this passion from him, 
 and by his advice was sent for a whole year to the 
 academy of Angers, then the most celebrated 
 school of horsemanship in the world. My father 
 was proud of himself, and still more of Mr. New- 
 ton, on horseback ; and on this occasion his en- 
 k5
 
 202 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 thusiasm for the old man made him particularize 
 his whole air, dress, and appearance, when, at full 
 sixty years, he thus set out in the cause of two 
 helpless orphans, who seemed abandoned by all 
 the world." 
 
 " Chevalier preux," cried Mr. Campbell, u and 
 surely sans reproche : — but go on." 
 
 " Well then/' said St. Lawrence, " as Mr. 
 Offley describes it, he sat his horse, a full-blood 
 genet, most gracefully. His air was set off by his 
 dress ; which was a blue coat and red waistcoat, 
 bordered with gold lace ; a cocked hat, and light 
 jack boots, a belted sword, pistols in the holsters. 
 His groom was almost in the same costume. All 
 this gave an interest, and, considering the object, 
 as my father writes, of grandeur, to the set-out, 
 which seemed of the very best augury. The rus- 
 tics, bv whom the Offley family were much be- 
 loved, and who were still in agitation at the seem- 
 ing interference of Providence in their affairs, all 
 crowded round, and saluted him as he set off, and 
 implored, in their rough but sincere way, a bles- 
 sing upon his expedition." 
 
 u We are as interested as they could be," said 
 Mr. Campbell, a and long to get him to Edin- 
 burgh. I hope no accident ? " 
 
 " None at all to man or horse," said St. Law- 
 rence; "but he was eight days on the road; during
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 203 
 
 which time he revolved his intended plan of opera- 
 tions ; which in truth (hurried as he had been into 
 his enterprise, by a strong burst of feeling,) he had 
 no opportunity of doing before. In consequence of 
 this, his first step on arriving at Edinburgh was 
 to inquire after the most eminent counsel at the 
 Scotch bar. As he knew nobody, he was forced to 
 trust for this to the landlord of his inn, whom ac- 
 cordingly he asked for half a dozen names. f I will 
 myself/ he said, i examine them as to their compa- 
 rative merits/ The landlord, who was as intelli- 
 gent as his countrymen generally are, stared a little 
 at the intended examination, but furnished him 
 with a list of learned persons which might have 
 frightened a less clear head or less firm purpose 
 than Mr. Newton's. That very day, the Courts be- 
 ing in full Session, he went to them as a spectator, 
 and had the advantage of hearing almost all who 
 had been named in his list. Upon one of them he 
 fixed, waited upon him the same day, and giving 
 in his name as a Bencher of Lincoln's Inn, was 
 instantly admitted. The Advocate was astonished 
 at the tale he had to tell, particularly at the mi- 
 raculous appearance of Sir John at his own home, 
 at the very hour when he died above three hundred 
 miles off. 
 
 " Had I never been in Edinburgh, and were 
 now again in the Highlands, 1 ' said the Advocate,
 
 204 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " such evidence would be conclusive ; but I grieve 
 to say that ghosts are not now admitted to give 
 evidence in a court of law. Your purpose is so 
 benevolent that I would give up my whole time 
 to accomplish it ; but, as you well know, forgery 
 or murder cannot be implied from circumstances, 
 nor even, now-a-days, by a revelation from Hea- 
 ven." 
 
 " I am not so foolish as to suppose they can," 
 replied Mr. Newton ; " but your good advice in a 
 place to which I am so total a stranger, might en- 
 able me to commence and pursue inquiry ; which 
 is all I can at present pretend to. The end I leave 
 to an offended God, who will not permit such 
 villany to prosper." 
 
 " Supposing it to be villany," said M c Clintock, 
 the Advocate, eyeing him with wonder; till ob- 
 serving the glow of his enthusiasm in his very ex- 
 pressive features, he began to suspect that all 
 could not be quite right within. " We have not 
 even seen the will/' said the cautious advocate. 
 
 " No doubt it can be seen," returned Mr. New- 
 ton, " and perhaps your benevolence will take the 
 trouble of perusing it." 
 
 " Weelingly," answered Mr. M c Clintock, who 
 had taken no pains to correct his national pro- 
 nunciation ;" and if you will be here to-morrow at 
 this time, we will consult farther,"
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 205 
 
 Newton thanked him, and prepared to put a 
 paper in his hand, the character of which it 
 wanted not M c Clintock's sagacity to discover. 
 
 ft Hoot mon," said he, "ye dinna seem to ken 
 that a bonny act may be done by a Scotch as 
 well as an English Coonsel. I will not touch 
 your siller; if gude is to be done, I will share the 
 satisfaction with you, and that sal be my reward/' 
 
 With sincere gratitude Mr. Newton took his 
 leave of this generous lawyer, not without regret 
 that the morrow was so far off; for he promised 
 great things from an examination of the will. That 
 it was a forgery, he could not drive from his 
 imagination ; for, though poor Sir John was weak, 
 he had never been unkind or unjust, and had al- 
 ways shown great regard for his sisters. 
 
 How to pass the time till the meeting with Mr. 
 M c Clintock the next day, was a question; but 
 thoroughly possessed with the idea that M c Sweeny 
 was a forger, or something worse, he inquired, and 
 directed his steps towards his house ; unconscious 
 of any particular object in doing so, but in fact 
 because he could not help it. 
 
 " The Almightly Ruler," he said to himself, " is 
 now looking down upon us all. If this man has 
 played the villain, and ruined the two innocent 
 orphans, the villany will never be suffered to go
 
 206 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 unpunished. If / am criminal in suspecting him, 
 I trust I shall be forgiven." 
 
 The appearance at Norton, and the visit of the 
 Scotchmen, were deep in his mind ; and though 
 he could not be said to be prone to believe in pre- 
 ternatural interposition, that such a thing might 
 be, the whole history and. character of his religion 
 forbade him to doubt. Impressed with these feel- 
 ings, he found the street where the prosperous and 
 fortunate M C S weeny was domiciled ; and without 
 precisely knowing why, he paced up and down be- 
 fore his door ; casting many a wistful look at the 
 windows, till he began to challenge notice ; not at 
 all the less for the distinguished costume which I 
 have described. A hard shower of rain, however, 
 disturbed his peregrination, and he was uncertain 
 what to do, or where to go, when a good-natured 
 shopkeeper, in the shape of a short little man, a 
 chemist, who lived over against M c Sweeny, 
 prompted a little by the said good-nature, and 
 not a little by curiosity, requested him to take 
 shelter till the rain was over. 
 
 They both entered the chemist's parlour. He 
 was a busy little man ; so much so, that, though 
 he had a fair portion of business himself, he was 
 not easy without taking as full a share as they 
 would allow him in the business of his neigh-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 207 
 
 bours. He was, besides, struck with the evident 
 interest which his guest had displayed about M c 
 Sweeny's house. This, in a man of distinguished 
 appearance, and evidently a stranger and an Eng- 
 lisher to boot, denoted mystery; and mystery was 
 a thing which the chemist could never brook, 
 unless he was permitted to unravel it. There 
 were, besides, some other little motives which a 
 deep searcher into nature might perhaps have as- 
 certained ; but into these it is not my present bu- 
 siness to inquire. 
 
 The little chemist, whose name was Murdoch, 
 opened his battery, by handing his best chair to 
 Mr. Newton ; but, as the latter merely thanked 
 him, and then relapsed into thought, he strove to 
 make him talk a little, by talking a good deal him- 
 self. 
 
 " Ye '11 not be of this city, I doubt ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 66 Nor of Scotland, perhaps ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " England, perhaps ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " Are ye much southron ? " 
 
 u The county of Derby." 
 
 " It is a long way ; but nae doubt ye have busi- 
 ness, and business must be done." 
 'True."
 
 208 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " But may one ask, without fashing ye, what 
 business ? " 
 
 " That is of little consequence ; but if you must 
 know, the law." 
 
 " Eh ! then/' rubbing his hands, " that accoonts 
 for your sae often speering at neighbour McWee- 
 ny's hoose, right anent my shop ; for he is a lawyer, 
 God help him ! n 
 
 Mr. Newton now began to eye his inquisitive 
 host, and finding him in the very best disposition 
 to talk and be talked to, conceived the design of 
 making him subservient to his immediate object, 
 which was to get all the information he could of 
 M c Sweeny's character and habits. 
 
 " Do you know your neighbour well ? " said 
 Mr. Newton. 
 
 " Do I ? " replied the chemist, " I who have 
 been his friend — no, not his friend, his acquaint- 
 ance — this twenty years ; for awe he noo hauds 
 his heed so high already, that he will scarce speak 
 to one/' 
 
 " Already ! What has produced the change ? " 
 asked Mr. Newton. 
 
 66 Nae, nae ! ye need not be for telling us ye 
 came from so far south ; for ye must be strangely 
 uninformed, not to say eegnerant, begging your 
 pardon, not to ken what has happened."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 209 
 
 " Happened ! to whom ? " 
 
 u M c Sweeny, mon, who has gotten a fortune 
 like Plutus, by a mere stroke of a pen ; though I 
 knew him once when he was not sure he could 
 pay for his parritch breakfast. Oo, but he is a 
 fortunate mon ! '* 
 
 " I should like to know how ?" said Mr. 
 Newton. 
 
 " That ye sail directly," returned the chemist. 
 " To think how different the lots of some folk be 
 to other some ! " 
 
 He then, as briefly as he could, told the history 
 of Sir John Offley, who, he said, had lodged 
 above twelvemonths with M c Sweeney, who had 
 made a tolerable fortune out of him, let alone the 
 will he afterwards made for him, by which he 
 left him his whole estate, disinheriting his two 
 sisters in his favour. 
 
 " Made the will for him ! " cried Mr. Newton. 
 
 " Troth, yes/' replied his host, u for de'il ano- 
 ther mon had any hand in it, except Sandy Gra- 
 ham, and one or two more, who witnessed it; 
 for which the cunning writer no doubt paid hand- 
 some." 
 
 " It was all regular, then ? " said Mr. Newton, 
 with anxiety. 
 
 " O, aye ! reeglar en oof, quite enoof to throw
 
 210 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 out the puir young leddies, and so all Edinbro 5 
 says, puir things ! " 
 
 " Then it is perfectly known ? " observed Mr. 
 Newton. 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " And was no observation made ? No inquiry, 
 how Sir John came to act so unnatural a part ? 
 how he was attended? or how he died ?° 
 
 " Plenty of every thing of that sort/ 5 answered 
 Murdoch ; e£ for we are no quiet hereaboots when 
 sic a remarckable thing haypens to an upstart like 
 M c Sweeny. But he n'oo rides in his coach, though 
 its less than a little month sin the deeth of the 
 puir weak body that made this foolish wull. Yet 
 Sandy Graham and three other bodies, who were 
 sent to get possession of the hoose, came back 
 empty-handed, and were hooted at for their 
 pains." 
 
 (i You don't seem to like this M c Sweeny?" said 
 Mr. Newton. 
 
 " De'il a bit do I, nor ought I," returned 
 Murdoch. a How should I, when he gives himself 
 such airs to one who was always quite his equal, 
 to say nothing of the business of taking advantage 
 of that puir Sir John, when he had brought him 
 into such a state of childishness ?" 
 
 " Brought him into such a state ! " exclaimed
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 211 
 
 Mr. Newton, whose heart beat high within him ; 
 " do you say that of your neighbour ?" 
 
 H Deed do I," returned Murdoch, iC and the 
 whole street kens it as weel as me. But, eh, Sir, 
 what ails ye ? for ye seem far from canny. Shall 
 I get ye any thing from the shop ? I have every 
 thing that— " 
 
 ee Nothing, my good friend, nothing ; only I 
 find your story too interesting, especially as it re 
 lates to a countryman." 
 
 "Aye, now," rejoined the chemist, "to see how 
 a whole people may be scandaleezed ! I have 
 hear tell that ye Sassonochs care nothing for one 
 another, especially in a strange land ; not like us 
 Scots, who hang together like bees in a swarm." 
 
 Mr. Newton smiled, but begged him to explain 
 what he meant by saying M c Sweeny had brought 
 Sir John into a state of childishness. 
 
 " Why, you see, Sir,'^ returned the prudent 
 chemist, (rising to see that the door was close 
 shut, and loweri ag his voice,) (i I will no posi- 
 teevely say I was exact when I made use of that 
 expression, forasmuch that the puir chiel was him- 
 sel no very robust in mind or body, when he first 
 cam to board at Duncan M c Sweeny 5 s ; but it was 
 observit that the longer he staid the worse he got, 
 and the mair physic he took, the mair cheeldish
 
 212 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 he grew ; so that his preceptors all left him, and 
 he was no the better for the doctors and potheca- 
 ries (God forgive me ! for I rank as one of them,) 
 that succeeded. In fine, the lad took to his bed, 
 and often complained to me (for I then prepared 
 all the prescreeptions), that he was poisoned/ 5 
 
 " Poisoned ! " exclaimed Mr. Newton, in great 
 agitation. 
 
 " Aye ! that is, with the quaintity of medecine 
 he was forced to take, when he felt that good beef 
 and mutton was what he most wanted. M c Sweeny 
 too (I must call him Mr. M c Sweeny noo) was very 
 harsh with him to make him take this load of me- 
 decine, — against which, though against the interest 
 of my shop, I remonstrated poorfully — particularly 
 as to the immensity of hebenon — which ye ken, is 
 another but more learned word for henbane, — and 
 which, though quieting in small doses, would de- 
 stroy the intellect and bodies too of the whole 
 Court of Session, were their Lordships drenched 
 with it, as was this unfortunate lade." 
 
 " Unfortunate, indeed ! " said Mr. Newton ; u but 
 did you continue to supply this hellish drug after 
 your remonstrance ? w 
 
 " Indeed, no ! for I washed my hands of it, and 
 positeevely refused ; for which M c Sweeny, (that is 
 Mr. M C S weeny, or, as he soon will be, Laird of
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 213 
 
 Mac Sweenton,) said I was the greatest fule he 
 knew, and left my shop for Toby M c Clai shim's 
 in the Grass Market." 
 
 " And was there no good physician/' said Mr. 
 Newton, " called in to see that all was right that 
 was administered to this unhappy youth ? " 
 
 " De'il a one/' answered Murdoch, ei though it 
 is weell ken'd that Edinbro' aboonds wi' em. I was 
 the only medical that saw him, and when I was 
 dismissed, he was left solely to the care of M c 
 Sweeny and a nurse." 
 
 " Is that nurse to be found ?" said Mr. Newton, 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Troth,, she was his wife," answered Murdoch, 
 u and of course did aw she was bid by her hus- 
 band. There was also a maid servant, called Katie 
 M c Farlan, who, though a two-handed wench for 
 work, was a soft-hearted lassie for pety, and often 
 came to my shop to tell me how things were going 
 on ; and it was she who telled me all aboot the 
 wull." 
 
 Here Mr. Newton started from his chair, but 
 recovering himself, observed, that he thought Mur- 
 doch's conduct had been very commendable, but 
 that he ought also to have communicated with 
 some eminent physician, or even the magistracy 
 of the town, to prevent such mischief in the ty- 
 rant M c Sweeny.
 
 214 ST. LAWRENCE 
 
 " Then/' in a careless tone, he added, ci No 
 doubt your soft-hearted lassie thinks as you do 
 about it!" 
 
 ei Troth does she/ 5 replied Murdoch, " and I 
 could make her tell you the whole story at ony 
 time ye pleased/' 
 
 a It is no business of mine," observed Mr. 
 Newton, preserving his indifference. i£ Is she still 
 in her place?'' 
 
 " Deed is she/' said Murdoch, " nor would they 
 venture, I suppose, to part with her/' 
 
 « Why?" 
 
 " Knows too much/' continued the chemist, 
 putting his finger on his mouth, " particularly 
 aboot the wull." 
 
 " What can she know, if all was regular, but 
 that it was so ? " 
 
 66 The manner of preparing it," said Murdoch, 
 lowering his voice still more. " She was in and 
 oot of the room twinty times while M c Sweeny 
 was writing it by Sir John's bed-side, who only 
 answered ' Yes,' to every thing that was asked ; for 
 he was stupefied with the henbane ; so M C S weeny 
 wrote down what he pleased. She was also one 
 of the subscribing witnesses, and no doubt could 
 say a great deal." 
 
 " Was the will read over to Sir John before he 
 signed it?" asked Mr. Newton.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 215 
 
 u That I dinna ken, and therefore can no tak 
 upon me to say/ 5 replied the cautious Murdoch. 
 
 e: And have you never talked of all this to 
 others ?" 
 
 " O! yes, often; so that it is known aboot the 
 neighbourhood, and M c Sweeny with all his riches, 
 leads but a puir life of it." 
 
 u But why have you not revealed this to the 
 public authorities, or at least to the family in 
 England ? You would only have done your duty, 
 and would certainly be well rewarded." 
 
 " To tell you the truth," replied Murdoch, after 
 much hesitation, C( my conscience has smote me 
 aboot this. But I am a backward man. What I have 
 said is true ; but I know not how the law might 
 tak it up, and M c Sweeny is a lawyer. He has al- 
 ready indeed threatened me as having caused the 
 talk among the neighbours. He is also now rich, 
 and I poor ; and as to the faymily, not only they 
 are too far off, and might not regard so obscure 
 a chiel as myself; but I suppose, as the wull is 
 all right, I could do them nae gude, though I might 
 expose a rogue. In truth, I wonder at mysel for 
 this communication to a perfect stranger as you 
 are; but there is not a day passes without speaking 
 of it to some one or other. You seemed unco 5 cu- 
 rious aboot M c Sweeny's hoose, which set my wits
 
 216 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 a wandering ; and, besides, you were a Sas3onach, 
 and might, I thought, have something to do with 
 the faymily; which none of us neighbours have: — 
 and this in troth is the reason why I have been 
 so open. I expect, whoever you are, you will not 
 make me repent it." 
 
 " You never shall," said Mr. Newton, and then 
 asked Murdoch if he knew Mr. M c Clintock ? 
 
 a By repute only." 
 
 es And that repute — " 
 
 " Is good," continued the chemist. " Had I 
 had such a friend as him — " 
 
 " You would not have let this matter sleep ! " 
 
 " Troth, no ! but it little boots it now. It is too 
 late." 
 
 " Not so," said Mr. Newton, rising, " and I will 
 put your conscience to rest, if you have courage 
 enough to declare all you have now told me in 
 a Court of Justice." 
 
 " That may be a sair thing," answered Murdoch, 
 il and ruin a poor though honest man ; nor should 
 I be the first that has been ruined by yon." 
 
 " By yon ! do you mean M C S weeny ?" 
 
 " Troth, I do." 
 
 " Never fear then, for I will protect you ; and 
 if ruined here, you shall recover yourself in Der- 
 byshire, where I have both power and wealth.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 217 
 
 Moreover, I will now let you know that, being the 
 nearest friend of the orphan ladies you so much 
 pity, I have come here on purpose to inquire into 
 the case." 
 
 u I almost thought as much/' returned Murdoch, 
 rubbing his eyes as if awakened from a dream. 
 * And what shall I do?" 
 
 " Meet me at four to-morrow at Mr. M c Clin- 
 tock's house, and ask for Mr. Newton/' 
 
 u I will not fail," said the chemist ; and the good 
 Newton, with a heart beating high with hope, be- 
 took himself to his inn, where his late activity and 
 present enterprise gave a spur to his mind, such 
 as it had not known for years. He was rewarded 
 with a night's rest, such as benevolence like his 
 alone could enjoy. 
 
 " Here," said St. Lawrence, " Mr. Offley 
 paused, saying, his story was at an end." 
 
 " I have led you to the palpable finale," said he; 
 u and that being in view, the interest ceases — like 
 that of a novel after the marriage of the hero and 
 heroine." 
 
 " De'il a bit," cried I, catching a little of the 
 Murdoch dialect ; " you have not got us even to 
 the church door ; and, besides, I have a thousand 
 reflections to make and to hear, upon almost the 
 only well-authenticated story of an interference of 
 Providence that I ever met with. But this cause 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 218 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 ceWbre itself is not by any means finished ; for you 
 have not brought the parties into courts without 
 which of course their fate cannot be decided. M c 
 Sweeny, I trust, was at least brought to the gal- 
 lows.' 5 
 
 " 'Deed no/' said Mr. Offley, also adopting a 
 Murdoch phrase; but to my great disappoint- 
 ment ; —for I felt like the inimitable Uncle Black 
 in Miss Ferrer's inimitable " Inheritance," who 
 said he would never enjoy his life again, unless 
 the rascal Glossin was hanged. 
 
 tf * There was, however/' said Mr. Offley, u a 
 fresh instance of Mr. Newton's decision, which 
 ought to be told, especially by me, who have pro- 
 fited so much by it/' 
 
 " I am all ear," said I ; and Offley continued. 
 
 " You may be sure that the whole of Murdoch's 
 information was faithfully related to the Advocate 
 M c Clintock, who could not help admiring the sa- 
 gacity and acumen of Mr. Newton, as he com- 
 mented upon its different bearings in regard to 
 the criminality of M c Sweeny. Murdoch was again 
 examined, and it was agreed, if it could be done with 
 sufficient secrecy, that his douce lassie, the servant 
 maid, should also be interrogated, if she would 
 consent to it." 
 
 " Ye need nae gae far for her," said Murdoch, 
 " for I speered her foment the door as we came in."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 219 
 
 " Sure," cried Mr. Newton, " she does not sus- 
 pect." 
 
 * Never fear," said Murdoch, u for it was by 
 my advice and orders that she came." 
 
 cc Orders ! We did not know that she was under 
 your orders." 
 
 i£ That^s nothing to ony body," answered the 
 chemist ; " it*s enoof she is here, and a weeling 
 witness." 
 
 i£ Certainly," said Mr. M c Clintock, and Katie 
 M c Farlane was called in. 
 
 '• You must na stick at it/' said Murdoch, "but 
 oot with the truth, like an honest woman." 
 
 a I mean sae to do," replied Katie. 
 
 The result was critical for M C S weeny ; for it 
 seems that worthy person had been any thing but 
 upon his guard before the girl. He had often been 
 closeted with Tobias M c Laishlin, consulting with 
 him on the effects of various drugs upon the brain, 
 and was heard in one of these conferences to say, 
 e( You are right, henbane will do the business, 
 provided we give enough of it ; but the difficulty 
 is with that fule Murdoch, who is constantly re- 
 monstrating against it. We must rid ourselves of 
 him." 
 
 This was but the day before he left Mur- 
 doch's shop ; and though the Grass Market was
 
 220 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 an hour's distance further from McWeeny's, he 
 thenceforward employed Tobias M c Laishlin, in- 
 stead of him. Katie, too, between whom and 
 the chemist there seemed a considerable intimacy, 
 brought every packet and bottle she was sent for 
 to Tobias's, to be first inspected by Murdoch, 
 who was prompted to this at first by jealousy, and 
 then out of that curiosity about other people's 
 doings which I have described. 
 
 Soon, however, he became alarmed ; for he 
 said, " there was enough to have deadened the wits 
 of an elephant, let alone a weak puir child;" and 
 he accordingly desired the girl to disobey her mas- 
 ter when ordered to administer it. The disobedi- 
 ence, however, was detected, after which the doses 
 were always given by M c Sweeny himself, or by his 
 wife. The consequence was, a frequent rambling of 
 mind, as well as wasting of body ; and it was in 
 this state that the poor victim was advised to 
 make his will. For this purpose, it seems that 
 Sandy Graham, a lower writer than M c Sweeny 
 himself, but of the two much the shrewdest and 
 most skilful in the law, was called in ; and they 
 two were at work upon the parchments for three 
 whole days, during which M c Sweeny went fre- 
 quently to Sir John's bed-side ; but what passed 
 Katie could not say, except that now and then
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 221 
 
 she plainly could distinguish the patient's voice 
 in a querulous tone, and the words, " Yes ! yes ! 
 have it your own way — I will sign any thing — but 
 for God's sake leave me in peace." 
 
 A very few hours afterwards, the will was 
 taken to Sir John, who signed without reading 
 or hearing it read. This she knew, because there 
 was need, they said, of three witnesses, and Sandy 
 Graham, and another only, being on the spot, 
 she was called in when the deed was presented. 
 
 After this, Sir John never spoke more, and in 
 two days died, and here all evidence closed. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. M c Clintock, as he finished 
 taking it down, (for he wrote every word of it 
 "that your business bids as fair to be accom- 
 plished, as any case which appeared at first so 
 hopeless, that ever came before me/' 
 
 " I hope, however/' said Murdoch, approaching 
 Mr. M c Clintock, and wringing his hands, u that 
 M c Sweeny, tho' he desarves it weel, may not be 
 haynged. I should be sorry to have the bluid of 
 a fellow creature on my heed, especially as I live 
 opposite to him in the same street ; and should 
 fear his warlock every neecht." 
 
 At this, Katie broke out into loud lamentation, 
 and almost repented the full testimony she had 
 given. To relieve them, Mr. M c Clintock ordered 
 them into another room, and then, turning to Mr.
 
 222 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Newton, who impatiently waited his opinion, ob- 
 served, " even without your ghost, I think we 
 have case enough to obtain all that your benevo- 
 lence wishes; and heartily must I congratulate 
 you on the energy and perseverance, as well as 
 sagacity, you have shown." 
 
 " We have not yet arrived at the goal," said Mr. 
 Newton, thoughtfully. " I should not mind hang- 
 ing this murderer — for murderer he is ; but I fear 
 the uncertainties of a trial; and even were he 
 convicted, I do not see my way to the recovery 
 of the estate for my friend's children ; — the chief, 
 if not the only object I had in coming here.'* 
 
 " You say the will, as to form, is perfect.' 5 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Then the gibbet itself would do no good ? " 
 
 " None, without something more. 55 
 
 u Were he hanged for murder, would that set 
 aside the will?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Mr. Newton rubbed his forehead in thoughtful 
 anxiety, while M c Clintock pored over the case again. 
 <•' The moral guilt/ 5 pursued the latter, " is clear, 
 but even the legal connection might be difficult ; 
 and yet I think you may succeed as to your real 
 purpose." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " We may set aside the will, as produced by
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 223 
 
 fraud, and the plea of non compos when exe- 
 cuted." 
 
 u That however is also uncertain, and the pro- 
 cess long ! n 
 
 " Very long. The Chancery, the Ecclesiastical 
 Court, and an appeal to the Lords." 
 
 " Whole years ! possible ; perhaps probable." 
 
 "It will never do/' said Mr. Newton, and 
 relapsed into thought. 
 
 M c Clintock again busied himself with the 
 papers, but gave no farther opinion. 
 
 At length Mr. Newton breaking silence, said, 
 " Will you let me try my own way, as to this mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " By all means," answered the Advocate, 
 
 ' Nil desperandum, te duce.' " 
 
 " You are clear/' continued Mr. Newton, " that 
 there is evidence for a jury, both as to the murder 
 and the fraud ? " 
 
 (i Most certainly ; but I will not answer for the 
 event of either, and least of all for the time." 
 
 " Enough, enough," said Mr. Newton, taking 
 his hat and cane. " You shall hear from me to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Murdoch and Katie M c Farlane were now re- 
 leased, and all three walked together to the che- 
 mist's shop, where Mr. Newton and his host found 
 themselves once more alone.
 
 224 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " I like your lassie much/' said Mr. Newton, 
 * she is clear, and I believe honest." 
 
 "Vary/' observed Murdoch, "clear as the 
 chrystal spring, and troth almost as fresh/' 
 
 " You seem to know her ? " 
 
 " So I ought, for we have much eentimacy." 
 
 " Perhaps of a particular kind ? " 
 
 " Vary parteecular." 
 
 " May I not know what? I think you may now 
 trust me 1 " 
 
 " Aye, weel, I believe I may, and ye will be 
 gude to us if we get into trouble for you ? n 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Weel then, I confess we are just man and 
 wife. We have no been to the kirk, and have no 
 livit together yet ; but the acknowlegement has 
 past, and we just wait the deeth of a relation, for 
 her to come and preseed here as my consort." 
 
 K I give you joy," said Mr. Newton, " and the 
 more as I may now depend upon her not swerving 
 in favour of M c Sweeny." 
 
 "I'll answer for it with my life," said Murdoch. 
 
 " Then I may make what use I please of her's 
 and your testimony with the villain M c Sweeny." 
 
 " In gude troth you may," answered the che- 
 mist; on which Mr. Newton, after shaking him by 
 the hand, and commending his honest feelings, 
 left the shop.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 225 
 
 That evening was given to deliberation, the next 
 morning to action. Mr Newton, having digested 
 his plan, resolved abruptly to break in upon M c 
 Sweeny's security, in order to prevent him from 
 profiting by time to meet the charge he meant at 
 once to make. He wished also, if he could, to 
 rind him alone, in order to open proposals he had 
 contemplated, without driving him, by exposure, 
 to resistance. His benevolent object was the 
 restoration of the estate, rather than punishment ; 
 and this he felt depended much upon quiet re- 
 monstrance in the first instance, accompanied 
 indeed by resolute hostility in the second, but 
 only in case of necessity. He therefore presented 
 himself at M c Sweeny's door, who, suspecting 
 nothing, admitted him. His presence won much 
 observation on the part of the writer, not unmin- 
 gled with fear when he heard he was a Southran, 
 and came from the county of Derby. 
 
 u And wha and what may you be ? and what 
 your buzziness with me ? " said M c Sweeny. 
 
 " We are not alone/' observed Mr. Newton, 
 pointing to a woman in the room, who also exhi- 
 bited some signs of alarm. 
 
 i( The wuman's my wife," said the writer, '• but 
 an ye come on ony buzziness of your ain, as I 
 guess ye do, she shall withdraw." 
 
 "My business," returned Mr. Newton, "is 
 L 5
 
 226 ST. LAWRENCE!. 
 
 more yours than mine, and if the lady is your 
 wife, she may remain if she pleases." 
 
 " Go your ways/* said M c Sweeny, turning 
 however a little pale at the dignified manner of 
 Mr. Newton ; "and noo, Sir, to the point, for 
 what buzziness ye can have wi* me, I canna pos- 
 sibly ken." 
 
 "You will not be long in learning it/* said 
 Newton, " since it relates to your late lodger Sir 
 John Offley." 
 
 "Ah! puir child; him that*s deed, and for 
 whom I bear this mournfu' habit." 
 
 " Yet you were no relation ! " continued Newton. 
 
 " Weel, and what of that ? He was o'er kind 
 to me and mine, and I ween I may weel mourn 
 for him." 
 
 "All very right/' replied Mr. Newton; "but 
 better perhaps for you both, had he not been so 
 kind; better for your conscience and his existence/' 
 At this, M c Sweeney, assuming an air of high 
 indignation, and in wrath (for he was very cho- 
 leric), replied, " I see now that you have come to 
 insult, instead of consult me ; you have been lees- 
 tening to some of the fules of the neighbourhood, 
 perhaps that blockhead Murdoch ; ye are not the 
 first he has sent here on a fule's errand; but I 
 desire you will leave my house — troop, — or I *11 
 gar ye."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 227 
 
 " Murdoch," answered Mr. Newton, with great 
 coolness, f * is no fool, neither did he send me." 
 
 " Ye ken him then ? " 
 
 a I do." 
 
 " And do ye ken other folkes in Edinbro' ? " 
 
 " I have consulted Mr. M^ Clintock." 
 " What the Advocate ! " said M c Sweeny (los- 
 ing much of his fierte). "And what may have 
 been your buzziness with him ? " 
 
 " The same as with you, which I will now open 
 to you." 
 
 M c Sweeny's features now assumed a livid hue, 
 while he listened to an exordium which he thought 
 boded him no good. For though violent some- 
 times even to ferocity, where he thought himself 
 safe, or undetected, he had all the cowardice of 
 little villains when they think their crimes are 
 known, and in clanger of punishment. He became 
 therefore even civil to Mr. Newton, when he told 
 him that he came to him in the name of two un- 
 protected orphans, whom, he must be conscious, 
 he had much injured. 
 
 " If you mean by the wull of Sir John OfSey," 
 returned M c Sweeny, " it was his ain doing, and I 
 should be parfectly demented if I suffered sic 
 a fortin to escape me, when absolutely in my 
 hands. Have ye any doubts about the wull, which
 
 228 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 is noo before the whole warld if they chuse to be 
 troubled with it. Ye will no deny that the wull is 
 binding in law ! " 
 
 u I neither deny nor admit," said Mr. Newton. 
 
 "Ho! then ye do not deny," answered the 
 cunning writer, taking courage; (e and perhaps 
 ye gat that from M c Clintock ? — The chiel is too 
 well versed in aw those matters to tell you ony 
 thing else; and if so, ye have had but a rule's 
 errand to have come aw the way from Derby, at 
 sic an expense as nae doubt it was, to invade an 
 honest man's legal rights." 
 
 This idea of the writer, that Mr. M c Clintock 
 had given an opinion in his favour, and thinking 
 there was no question but as to the technicality of 
 the will, called up all his honest courage. He now 
 declared he " would nae be bullied out of his rights, 
 and that his visitor might go back the way he 
 came." Nor was this feeling abated, when Mr. 
 Newton went on calmly, and without any thing 
 like reproach, to make a proposal which he said 
 he thought he ought to accept. 
 
 "And what may it be?" said M C S weeny, 
 disdainfully. u Nae honest man would offer 
 what nae innocent man ought no 5 to accept. But 
 I mind me to ask what may be your right to mak' 
 any proposal at aw ? Ye have not yet told me
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 229 
 
 your calling. You have no the air of a writer, Eng- 
 lish or Scotch, nor even of a man of buzziness of 
 ony kind. Ye much more resemble one of the 
 sodger-men who I remember under M c Callum- 
 more, up at the castle yonder, in the Fifteen. 
 However, I '11 just hear what ye have to say." 
 
 " Well then/' said Mr. Newton, in a tone of 
 solemnity which M c Sweeny did not like, tC in the 
 first place I am the trustee for Sir John Offley's 
 estate, and for his sisters, now co-heiresses : and 
 supposing the will correct as to form, which I by 
 no means admit, you know best how it was 
 brought about that Sir John should sign it, as 
 well as the immediate cause of his death so soon 
 after the work was done. — We know what we 
 are about, and upon what grounds we may ap- 
 peal to the law; but meaning you no ill, we 
 think a proposal reasonable, which, upon surren- 
 dering this deed of darkness, shall secure to 
 yourself and wife an annuity of three hundred 
 a-year for life/' 
 
 Here Mr. Newton paused, and fixed his steady 
 and searching eye upon the villain, to ascertain, if 
 he could, the effect of this touchstone. The result 
 it was not easy to discover. All the bad passions 
 seemed to take possession by turns of the cheek, 
 eyes, and eyebrows of the agitated writer: — 
 anger, fear, avarice, pride, curiosity — but no
 
 230 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 signs of remorse, or resentful, calumniated inno-* 
 cence. One thing was, however, soon clear. It 
 occurred to the sagacity and cunning of the man, 
 that the proposal was made to try him, in conse- 
 quence of the dearth of proof as to what had ac- 
 tually happened; and in that dearth the writer 
 resolved to put on the hero, and act accordingly. 
 " And so, Mr. What's - your - name," said he, 
 throwing himself back in his chair with an air of 
 calm contempt, a ye really think that Duncan 
 M c Sweeny, thirty years Writer to the Signet at 
 Edinburgh, is to be such a tike as to be bit by a 
 Southron, and to exchange for three hundred a 
 year, twice as many thousands. My answer is, 
 ye may just go back to the English fules that sent 
 ye, and tell them when they have got Duncan 
 M c Sweeny bound hand and foot for forging a 
 hand-writing to which there are three honest and 
 true witnesses, he will then deliberate whether to 
 accept your offer or not." 
 
 Mr. Newton checked the quick pulse which this 
 piece of audacity occasioned, then rising calmly 
 said, " M c Sweeny, before I go, let me implore 
 you to be aware of your real position, your real 
 danger. Your life, as well as your hoped-for 
 estate, is in our hands ; and do not natter your- 
 self that, because what you call a will may be cor- 
 rect in form, it is a matter of indifference how
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 231 
 
 it was brought about, You may perhaps have 
 heard that the hand of Providence itself was 
 extended to ward off the blow ; — which it would 
 have been, if your emissary Graham had got pos- 
 session of the house you coveted. You may have 
 heard that though hebenon could put a man out 
 of the world, his spirit might be allowed to range it 
 till justice was done upon all. The eye of the 
 same Providence is still at watch over this trans- 
 action, and is at this moment upon you and upon 
 me ; neglect not its warning, which I am allowed 
 to give you. I go, to return to-morrow, but with 
 & far less offer. Think of it, lest it should be still 
 more diminished. Meantime, confess yourself to 
 Heaven, and ask the pardon you so dreadfully 
 need, and which, if not too late to be granted, can 
 only be so on the fullest retribution to those you 
 have so cruelly injured." 
 
 The solemnity of this speech had a powerful ef- 
 fect upon the obdurate heart, and even upon the 
 rugged visage, of M c Sweeny. The latter did not 
 soften or relax from its accustomed savageness, but 
 it had a suffusion of fear and sense of danger little 
 before known to its possessor. He pondered all the 
 ominous words and the warning voice of Newton, 
 until, like Felix, he trembled ; yet so hardened is 
 sometimes even a timid villain, that, though he 
 dreaded what he had heard, and his heart failed
 
 232 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 him when he thought of discovery, nothing could 
 bend him from his purpose, of defying threats 
 which, though appalling, he thought and hoped 
 might only be assumed for the moment. He there- 
 fore made no answer, and Newton, hoping he had 
 made some impression, quietly left the room, but 
 turning round at the door, with great solemnity of 
 voice uttered the word " To-morrow.' 5 
 
 M c Sweeny was rather aghast, but recovering 
 himself, exclaimed as Newton withdrew, " De'il 
 tak the Sassanach loon ! I can no mak* him out. 
 He taalks big words, and nae doubt taks me for a 
 fule to think I would listen to sic a proposal, and 
 aw his gallimalfry aboot Providence. Not but 
 what I '11 no deny that sic a poower may interfere 
 with a man if he pleases; but he never does 
 please ; and if he did, what would he geet by wor- 
 rying sic a body as me with wraiths and bogles ? 
 After aw, I guess he is but one of them vagabond 
 Methodists we have lately heard of among the 
 Southrons, for all his laced coat. Three hundred 
 a-year ! I '11 think no more on't. Yet hoo the 
 chiel could have found oot about the hebenon 
 makes me stick at it a bit. I '11 away to Toby 
 M c Lashlin's to spear if he kent ony thing aboot 
 the brute ; and if he has not peached, I '11 snap 
 my fingers at his dimeenished proposal." 
 
 At this the writer snatched up his hat, and with
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 233 
 
 uneasy and tottering steps paced through the alleys 
 to the Grass Market ; for he feared to meet New- 
 ton's large and dignified figure at every turn of the 
 greater streets. 
 
 When arrived at Mr. M c Laishlin's, he immedi- 
 ately closeted himself with that worthy, and told 
 some, but not all of his conversation with Mr. 
 Newton — of whom he was delighted to find To- 
 bias knew nothing. As to hebanon, he said he 
 had never opened his lips to any person alive on 
 the subject; and as to the dead, there was no need 
 to fear anything from them. 
 
 " I knaw not that to a sartainty,' 5 replied 
 M c SweenVj shaking his head. " However, if ye 
 have no spoken of the hebenon to ony one, your 
 thoosand poonds may yet be safe.' 5 
 
 At this M c Sweeny took his leave, and returned 
 to his house in better spirits than he came. 
 " D — n the Southron,' 5 said he, " I am muckle 
 minded to have him clapt up for scandalizing me 
 in my profession. The wull by his ain account 
 is a gude wull, and what for should I give it up V 
 
 5 Twas thus the self-love implanted in our na- 
 ture for good purposes, could be abused for bad. 
 The self-deception of this miscreant prevented 
 him not only from owning himself what he was — 
 a murderer in cold blood — but also from seeing 
 that, were his case known, the murder would be
 
 234 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 the prominent feature of it. His fear, in fact, was 
 confined to the question of the validity of the 
 will. That appeased, and the estate u the be-all 
 and the end-all here/ 5 M c Sweeny, like Macbeth, 
 " jumpt the life to come." With these consola- 
 tions he condescended to consult Mrs. M c Sweeny 
 — a compliment he very seldom paid her; and 
 she, equally with himself, spurning the offer of 
 three hundred pounds a-year, it was determined to 
 await the next day's visit from Mr. Newton with 
 courage, and even to throw defiance in his teeth. 
 
 Meantime that gentleman held fresh confer- 
 ences with Mr. M c Clintock and Murdoch, to the 
 former of whom he opened what he had done, and 
 what he meant to do. u I am certain/' he said, 
 " the wretch is a coward as well as a villain, and 
 that it is only his ignorance of the extent of our 
 knowledge that has arrayed him in this false bra- 
 very/' 
 
 The advocate approved of all. "Only take 
 care," he observed, i( that you do not incur dan- 
 ger to yourself, by compounding a felony ;" a cau- 
 tion not thrown away upon the sagacious Newton. 
 
 The next day, true to his appointment, this be- 
 nevolent man again searched out M c Sweeny, 
 whom he found supported by his wife and Sandy 
 Graham, whom he had summoned to his assist- 
 ance. The looks of the wife were sour, but much
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 235 
 
 alarmed, and very different from the day before ; 
 Graham was dogged and thoughtful, but seem- 
 ingly hostile. 
 
 This tool, like his principal, believed the struggle 
 to be as to the validity of the will, and both de- 
 nounced vengeance upon Newton for thus slan- 
 dering them in their calling. In fine, the writer 
 Graham loudly advised the writer M c Sweeny to 
 treat the offer he had received with scorn ; an 
 advice which the writer M c Sweeny adopted, and 
 in no soft tone desired the unwelcome Newton to 
 depart the house. 
 
 "That I shall do," said Mr. Newton ; "but for 
 the love of yourself, if not for the love of God, 
 consider well before you drive on your ruin. Yes- 
 terday, I offered you three hundred a year, which 
 you refused ; to day I offer you but two ; if you 
 refuse that on my visit to-morrow, you will have 
 the option but of one. Have a care of a third 
 refusal, for if this last offer is also unsuccessful, I 
 warn you there will be no alternative between that 
 and the Grass Market/' 
 
 At these words the wretch turned pale, and 
 looked at his assistant for help ; for the Grass 
 Market and the chemist Toby M c Laishlin, were 
 now so associated together, that one could not be 
 mentioned without all three starting up together. 
 He did not perceive that by the Grass Market,
 
 236 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Mr. Newton meant the gallows. In visible alarm, 
 therefore, he asked him "if he was acquainted 
 with M c Laishlin ? » 
 
 " I am fully aware," answered Mr. Newton, 
 sternly, " of all your transactions with him ; the 
 drugs he supplied after you left Mr. Murdoch ; 
 and, alas ! I know the effects they produced in 
 the chamber of death." 
 
 At these words M C S weeny turned deadly pale ; 
 Graham too was affected to agitation, especially 
 when Mr. Newton continued, " I told you Provi- 
 dence was upon us. See to it. More I will not 
 say till I return to-morrow, when one hundred 
 pounds, and no more, will be offered you. Adieu." 
 
 " Was there ever sic a bully," said M C S weeny, 
 turning to Graham, when Mr. Newton left the 
 room. * He seems one of the Deevil's own clique 
 for finding oot things ; yet, would ye believe it ? 
 he has na been in Edinbro' aboove three days. 
 Eh ! Sandy, what would you advise doing ? " 
 
 " Stand up anent him like a man," answered 
 Graham, though he was evidently labouring under 
 some secret feeling, perhaps unknown to himself, 
 and notwithstanding his confidence in the validity 
 of the will remained unaltered. The truth is, 
 Graham had notions of a world of spirits, and in 
 his visit to Oiney House, from which he had been
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 237 
 
 repulsed, he had learned things which had made 
 the deepest impressions upon him. 
 
 But Mrs. M c Sweeny was now appealed to, and 
 gave a different opinion. "Ah! Duncan," said 
 she, " I always thought the matter too poorful for 
 ye to manage. Sax thoosand a year is not so 
 easily got, notwithstanding the deeth ; and though 
 innocent, I trust, who knaws that oor ain necks 
 may not be in danger ; seeing that I learnt from 
 Katie M c Farlane, who had it from Murdo, who 
 had it from his flunky, that this Sassonach that 
 calls himself Newton is one of the Judges of 
 London, and may have both power and wull to 
 judge us ; and what will he care^ Sassonach as he 
 is, when other Sassonachs are the people con- 
 sarned ? But let alone this, oh Duncan ! it is 
 proven, I hear, that Sir John appeared at his ain 
 hoose the vary niecht he died in oors ! " 
 
 Here M C S weeny told her to hold her peace. 
 u The woman," said he, (C is parfectly demented 
 to talk sich nonsense. Do not I, a writer of thirty 
 years, know what an English Judge is ? — and that 
 no sic a body can judge a cause in Scotland ? — and 
 as for bogles and apparitions — but what ails Sandy 
 there, sulking as if the Evil One himself had ap- 
 peared/' 
 
 " I knaw not what ye mean by the Evil One," 
 interrupted Mrs. M c Sweeny, "but ye ken noo,
 
 238 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 though ye did na till yesternight, when Katie 
 telTd it you, that some one did appear when least 
 expected, even just the wraith of puir Sir John, 
 when we thought him dead in his bed. Oh ! 
 Duncan, just think of what you are aboot, and tak 
 the SassanacVs money, that is, barring that he is 
 not the De'il himself." 
 
 e{ The woman seems to give good advice," said 
 Graham, who had shrewdness enough to see that 
 there were things in the case that had been kept 
 from him; besides which, he was, as has been 
 stated, struck with what had been hinted about 
 the appearance of Sir John. The tale was there- 
 fore told again, as it had been related by Katie, 
 on the authority of Murdo, on the authority of 
 Mr. Newton's groom, who had almost seen Sir 
 John himself; and it must be owned it had a 
 very visible and weighty effect upon the wight 
 Graham, — who now desired a word in private with 
 his principal, which was instantly granted him. 
 
 " Ye see," said Graham, " ye are at best on tick- 
 lish ground, and it may turn out to be a quick- 
 sand that may swallow us all up. I was as bold 
 as you, when this Newton first came in with his 
 paltry offer of two hundred pound a-year. In 
 truth, I took him for what ye telTd me he was, 
 some pettifogger of the faymily that was trying 
 his hand upon us to get back the estate. But no
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 239 
 
 sic a thing ; from his person and dress, and awfu' 
 presence, to say nothing of his awfV words, he 
 might weel pass for King Jamie himsel.* Before 
 I seed him, therefore, I expected that rather than 
 fall, he would rise and rise, till he came to ten 
 times as much. But De^il a bit ! insteed of that, 
 he lowers and lowers till you will have nothing — 
 nae siller at aw — but possibly a halter in the Grass 
 Market for your pains. " 
 
 Here M c Sweeny became violently agitated. 
 (i Oo, Sandy Graham," said he, "this from you! 
 You who gave such muckle assistance in making 
 the wull ! » 
 
 " I obeyed your orders," returned Sandy, " and 
 will maintain in any Court that the will is a good 
 will. But how you got him to consent to, or sign 
 it, being, as I remember, half asleep when you 
 put the pen in his hand, I am innocent ; and if 
 really his wraith appeared at his ain hoose at the 
 moment he departed, there must be something 
 more a-brewing than we are aware of. For ye'll 
 no deny, scoff as ye may, that sic a thing is possi- 
 ble with God. Therefore Duncan M c Sweeny, 
 consider weel before ye continue obstinate, and 
 perhaps run into the hangman's and the Evil 
 One's hands both together. Ye know best what 
 they can mak' against ye, and what means the allu- 
 
 * By this we may suppose that Mr. Graham was a Jacobite.
 
 240 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 sion to Toby M c Laishlin and his drugs; but I 
 mun tell ye, that what Donald Murdoch whispers 
 aboot henbane, is very awfu^, and if this Newton 
 body has been to M c Clintock's about it, as he 
 says he has, you may depend upon it things may 
 go crosser than ye think for." 
 
 All this made deep impression on the nerves of 
 Mr. M c Sweeny, the writer of thirty years. His 
 veins began to swell with emotion, occasioned by 
 a contest between fears for his safety, and regret 
 to throw away fortune. But Graham telling him 
 (i that he might have none to throw away, as, if 
 put to his oath, he (Graham) mun depose as to 
 the condition of Sir John when he signed, and 
 that the deed was carried to him wet from their 
 hands, and never read over to him," M c Sweeny 
 became suddenly alive, not to the most dreadful 
 part of his crime, but to the probability of the 
 will being set aside. 
 
 " Oh ! Sandy," at last he exclaimed, " what a 
 fule was I not to tak the three hundred pounds a 
 year ! " 
 
 Sandy quite agreed with him ; but to humour 
 his sinking hopes, fell in with his wish, to endea- 
 vour, upon Mr. Newton's next visit, to make him 
 revive that original offer, and then to accept it. 
 Accordingly, on Mr. Newton's arrival the next 
 day, he found his reception more peaceable, and
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 241 
 
 his host more pliant, than he had hitherto seen 
 him. He rose to receive him, and even handed 
 him a chair. 
 
 " Well, sir ! " said Mr. Newton, sternly. 
 
 u I wish it were weel, sir," answered the writer, 
 u for then I should know hoo to turn myself. At 
 present I am thinking the ups and downs of this 
 life, and aw its awfu uncertainties, mak it painful 
 for a body to know how to decide." 
 
 " Do you then reject my offer ? " asked Mr. 
 Newton. 
 
 a I canna preceesely say that I rejact it," re- 
 turned M c Sweeny. (i To be sure, three hundred 
 pounds a-year for life — " 
 
 " Remember, sir/' said Newton, still more 
 sternly, " that offer is not now before you.'^ 
 
 ee O ! aye," replied M c Sweeny, " I remember 
 me noo ; I rej acted it, and it is noo but twa." 
 
 Mr. Newton could have almost been amused at 
 this piece of impudence, but the solemnity and 
 importance of his errand checked him. 
 
 " M c Sweeny/' said he, gathering up his lofty 
 person, u I thought, and still think, you one of 
 the greatest villains upon earth; but I did not 
 know you were a little one. Your attempt to en- 
 trap more than I agreed for, will be as abortive as 
 your attempt upon the whole property, and it is 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 even ridiculous, considering what I am, and what 
 I know you to be." 
 
 "That is, an injured man," said M c Sweeny, 
 with unabashed effrontery ; " and in gude faith it 
 is you who are the deluder ; you will not stand to 
 your bargain, by which (I dinna ken how I cam 
 to be sich a blockhead), I forewent a noble fortin, 
 for twa paltry hundreds a-year. 
 
 " One word more of this kind, or one minute 
 more of hesitation," cried Mr. Newton, " and my 
 offer, even of one hundred, is withdrawn. Con- 
 sent or not consent, is the question." At which 
 words Mr. Newton pulled out his watch, and laid 
 it upcn the table. 
 
 The defeated writer, beaten out of his fence, bit 
 his lips almost through with rage, his chest 
 heaved, his teeth chattered, and his whole phy- 
 siognomy denoted a sullen ferocity from which 
 any wickedness might have been apprehended. 
 
 " The minute is out," said Mr. Newton, with a 
 calm determination, which forced M c Sweeny to 
 speak. 
 
 "And what do you expect me to do," said he, 
 "gin I comply?" 
 
 " Give up the will," returned Mr. Newton, 
 " and sign a release of the estate upon receiving 
 the annuity deed, which can be prepared at the
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 243 
 
 u I'll think on't," said McSweeny, "and give ye 
 an answer to-morrow." 
 
 " Not an hour more,' 5 cried Mr. Newton. " In 
 fact the deeds are already prepared under the di- 
 rection of Mr* M c Clintock, whose clerk is with 
 them at the door, but who also has my orders to 
 prepare other documents, in the shape of war- 
 rants, against you Duncan M c Sweeny, and Tobias 
 M c Laishlin, as principals, and Winnefred M c 
 Sweeny and Alexander Graham, as accessories, in 
 a transaction which you wot of, and which needs 
 no description from me." 
 
 "Oh! Chraist!" exclaimed M c Sweeny, "my 
 wife and aw ! Was there ever sich a misfortunate 
 person ! " 
 
 " Say rather, such a wicked one ! *' said Mr. 
 Newton. 
 
 " Ye mun have your wull," returned M c Sweeny, 
 " for I am bound hand and foot. The will is in 
 that scrutoir, you may tak it oot if you please." 
 
 " You must deliver it yourself," replied Mr. 
 Newton. M c Sweeny sighed, and then, with sullen 
 step and slow, took the fatal deed from his desk, 
 and threw it on the table to Mr. Newton, whose 
 face lightened almost to glory, as he grasped and 
 unfolded the parchment; then passing to the 
 street door, where Mr. M c Clintock's clerk was 
 waiting with his bag, he ushered him into the 
 M 2
 
 244 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 presence of the discomfited M C S weeny. With 
 him came one other ; — no less than the honest che- 
 mist, the author, or at least the instrument, of all 
 these wonders. The deeds were read over, signed, 
 sealed, and mutually delivered ; the release, in the 
 presence of the three witnesses above-mentioned ; 
 the annuity (which to save time was granted by 
 Mr. Newton himself), in that of the clerk and 
 Murdoch. 
 
 Thus, this excellent Newton had now achieved 
 all he wished : — he had restored to their inheritance 
 two helpless orphans, who, but for him, must 
 have been abandoned to poverty and distress. 
 Yet he denied all merit in himself; saying, he was 
 but an humble instrument of that Providence 
 which had appeared palpable throughout every 
 scene of this miraculous affair. 
 
 On his return home, he was met by his whole 
 village, the two orphans at their head. One of 
 those orphans was my mother, — through whose 
 marriage with my father I now own this myste- 
 rious tower. 
 
 As their trustee, Newton deposited the will and 
 the release of it in his own chest, till they should 
 be of age. At that period my mother gave herself 
 to my father, who took the name of Offley; and 
 when Mr. Newton drew out these eventful docu- 
 ments to provide for the marriage settlement, he
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 245 
 
 observed with elation, to them both, " These are 
 dear papers to me, for they made me discard all 
 my former opinions, of the inefficacy of worldly in- 
 terests to make man wish for life. — There is some- 
 thing worth living for" 
 
 St. Lawrence had now finished his story, which 
 had a visible effect upon his auditors, who all 
 crowded round him with thanks and pleasure. 
 They were charmed with the whole relation ; 
 charmed with the ghost, charmed with the event ; 
 and, above all, charmed with Mr. Newton. 
 
 "He was a canny chiel that," said Mr. Camp- 
 bell, affecting his native language. " I trust he 
 was happy, and did not relapse." 
 
 " So far from it," observed St. Lawrence, " that 
 his whole life and character seemed changed, and 
 he resumed all his energies, which never after- 
 wards failed. Neither was the vision of Sir John 
 to the gardener ever forgotten, though the re- 
 membrance of it, as Mr. Offley observed, was of 
 course mixed up with many inaccuracies and 
 exaggerations; so that his tower became, and 
 even now remains, a source of terror to the ser- 
 vants of the house, as w T ell as the good wives of 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Hence the bolts and bars w r hich first chal- 
 lenged my attention ; and if they were left open, I 
 have little doubt that poor Sir John would be
 
 246 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 seen coming down stairs every night, and Mr. 
 Offiey would scarcely have had a domestic, not 
 even Mr. Ambrose, to live with him.. 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt/' said Campbell, and fell 
 into a long fit of musing. " It is certainly what 
 you have called it, a cause celebre, and thus au- 
 thenticated, might convert many an unbeliever. 
 Yet after all, if there was to be a miraculous in- 
 terposition, why was it not more forcible and dis- 
 tinct at once. The appearance, supposed or real, 
 was no more than the figure of Sir John. He 
 spoke, indeed, to his gardener, but told him no- 
 thing, not even of his death, much less of the vil- 
 lains that caused it. The interposition therefore 
 was, I will not say for an object unworthy of it, 
 but altogether defective as a mean to its end." 
 
 " If you consider," returned St. Lawrence, " I 
 do not think you will retain that opinion. As for 
 the inadequacy, how can that be inadequate to 
 its end, which, in point of fact, did accomplish it." 
 
 All the company said that was unanswerable. 
 
 " Now to apply this," continued St. Lawrence, 
 " you must admit, that had not Sir John appeared 
 to the gardener (whether really to his eyes, or 
 only to his fancy, is of no consequence) the sub- 
 sequent events would not have taken place. It 
 was the appearance only that operated upon the 
 gardener to keep out the Scotch messengers, who, 
 once in, would have kept so by virtue of the will,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 247 
 
 and made it harder to have dispossessed them. It 
 was this appearance that kindled the zeal of the 
 neighbourhood, and probably the zeal, or at least, 
 the extraordinary conduct of Mr. Newton himself. 
 It is at any rate clear that success attended the 
 exertions that were made; and the inference 
 is but fair, that the success was achieved by 
 the belief that Heaven had interposed. You 
 think, perhaps, that if it had been a mere mortal 
 transaction, you could have ordered it better. It 
 may be so ; but when a thing apparently so diffi- 
 cult was done, I am content, without inquiry, to 
 believe it was well done. 
 
 " Perhaps/' continued St. Lawrence, " you 
 would have had this murder revealed as in the 
 opening of Hamlet, — possibly the richest effusion 
 of the genius of our great Bard, or of any other 
 since time began. The consummateness of the 
 art with which the appearance of King Hamlet is 
 introduced, can only be equalled by the pathos in 
 the conduct of the story afterwards. Yet I have 
 heard even that criticized, as too complicated to 
 be the work of Providence ; and a question has 
 been made, as to the necessity of the revelation to 
 the friend of Hamlet, and even to that friend's 
 friends, before it got round to Hamlet himself." 
 
 " He was the only party concerned," said 
 Campbell.
 
 248 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " I know what that would infer," replied St. 
 Lawrence; " but the inference, I think is hasty, 
 and, with submission, not sufficiently considered. 
 Supposing the fact of the ghost, as given by Saxo 
 Grammaticus, we say the intent of his coming was 
 best supported by the mode in which he came. 
 Had Hamlet alone seen his departed father, he 
 might have been thought, as he even thought him- 
 self, a visionary who had lost his senses from grief. 
 He almost says as much in one of the most beau- 
 tiful passages in the play: 
 
 • The spirit I have seen 
 May be the devil, and the devil hath power 
 T' assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
 Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, 
 As he is very potent with such spirits, 
 Abuses me to damn me.' 
 
 " Hence, though Horatio might also have been 
 allowed to have seen the apparition, yet, being 
 Hamlet's friend, a conspiracy against the King 
 might have been suspected. Whereas other 
 friends, but not so near to Hamlet, and mere part- 
 ners of the watch, being first assailed by the 
 vision, and being more familiar with Horatio than 
 the Prince, they communicate it to him, in the 
 first instance, in order that the account may be 
 better accredited where most necessary. Thus 
 two ends were answered; — the conviction in Ham-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 219 
 
 let that he had really seen his father; and the 
 proof to the world, on the testimony of other most 
 unbiassed witnesses, that the murdered King was 
 still permitted to walk." 
 
 " And what use do you make of all this/' said 
 Mr. Campbell, " as bearing on the present case ? 
 For I do not suppose you believe that King Ham- 
 let did really appear, and that the relation of 
 Saxo Grammaticus, and the embroidered additions 
 of Shakspeare, are true." 
 
 a I do not," returned St. Lawrence. " I only 
 use them as illustrations of what I had said in re- 
 gard to Providence, in the case I have related, 
 For if the facts be admitted, it is not for us to 
 criticize the manner in which Providence chose 
 to bring them about. What other objects were 
 to be answered, what hidden merits, interests, or 
 energies (of which there are many in this tale) were 
 to be developed, cannot at once appear. But had 
 the whole story of M c Sweeny been proclaimed by 
 Sir John from the top of the tower, there would 
 have been no difficulty, and therefore no virtue ; 
 Newton need not have stirred, and second causes 
 (the beauty of this tale) would have been at an end." 
 
 All Mr. Campbell's company acceded to this 
 
 reasoning of St. Lawrence, who was thanked 
 
 again and again for this singular, because so well 
 
 attested narrative of a divine interposition ; and 
 
 m 5
 
 250 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Campbell being left in a minority of one (teller 
 included), for the present gave up the point. 
 
 What afterwards passed between these two 
 friends, both shrewd reasoners, and both studious 
 of truth upon the great subject of Providence at 
 large, might be easily arranged from the notes 
 made of it by St. Lawrence himself. But I am 
 uncertain of the disposition of the world to attend 
 to the lucubrations of a hermit, when they would 
 willingly perhaps only listen to the excitements of 
 a politician. I dare scarcely therefore undertake 
 it. Yet the subject is of the last importance to the 
 mind, heart, and well-being of man. Can it, 
 ought it, to be neglected ? No ! 

 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 
 To the Honourable and Reverend Augustus 
 Phipps, Rector of Halesworth, County of 
 Suffolk. 
 
 To a Clergyman like yourself, seriously and 
 sincerely attached to the sacred profession you 
 have embraced, I need scarcely give reasons for 
 desiring to present to you a composition which has 
 for its aim the development of the mysteries of 
 Providence. Indeed, were you not clothed with the 
 clerical character, and likely, I verily believe, to 
 be a credit to it, from the earnestness which I have 
 perceived in you, I should still be glad to mark 
 my sense of the pleasure which, from your birth 
 upward, our connection has given me. But my 
 main inducement is what I have glanced at above — 
 the serious attention of your heart to holy sub- 
 jects ; among which none surely can be more in
 
 -52 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 teresting than that which I have attempted to 
 treat. 
 
 I am aware that for a layman, who has passed 
 a long life in the turmoil of worldly affairs, to 
 meddle with what so intensely concerns our no- 
 tions of God, may have an air of presumption, 
 which, however, I trust will not justly be imputed 
 to me. If the inquiry were not of all others the 
 most interesting to every man that lives, be his 
 class or occupation what it may; if heart and 
 soul were not in it ; and if I had not all my life 
 long been anxious to understand the mysteries I 
 have treated, and to endeavour to vindicate the 
 ways of God to man ; I would not have presumed 
 to attempt the grasp of such a subject. And as to 
 my lay pursuits in the business of the world, as 
 it is that business upon which the Great Power I 
 have dared to contemplate is emphatically em- 
 ployed, it probably the less unfits me for the task 
 I have ventured upon. 
 
 The hermit who so wished to understand the 
 mazes of Providence, which puzzled him in his 
 cell, was forced, you know, to sally into the world, 
 the better to study them. And it was there, 
 though he beheld very shocking things, that he 
 could alone accomplish their explanation.* 
 
 * The allusion is to Pamell's beautiful tale.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 253 
 
 But some one may say, " Are there not, and 
 have there not been, enough and to spare, of trea- 
 tises upon Providence?" 
 
 There certainly have been many, full of piety, 
 and full of learning, and written by great authori- 
 ties of the Church, men whom, in abilities, I could 
 never pretend to reach. But, from I know not 
 what fatality, none of the works have seemed to 
 me to have fairly encountered the true difficulties 
 of the question, and in the labyrinth of the op- 
 posing arguments in respect, to " fixt fate, free- 
 will, foreknowledge infinite/' have still ee found 
 no end, in wandering mazes lost." 
 
 Of the two divisions of Providence, moral and 
 physical, the latter has been well, successfully, and 
 beautifully treated ; and by none more so than by 
 the latest authorities ; among which Paley's Natu- 
 ral Theology (deservedly in every body's hand) is 
 an absolute jewel. It were to be wished that that 
 clearest and shrewdest of heads (notwithstanding 
 some hasty speculations) had completed his bene- 
 factions to mankind, by treating also of moral, or 
 particular Providence ; that which governs the ac- 
 tions of men, as well as the wonders of nature. 
 We might then not have to lament that no divine, 
 however able, seems to have been inclined fairly 
 to grapple with the true difficulties that are in- 
 sisted upon by the sceptics.
 
 254 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Whatever has been done, as far as I have been 
 able to judge, has rather eluded than combated 
 those giants, Predestination and Free-will, which 
 are always brought forward, to frighten us from 
 the endeavour to reconcile them with an all-dis- 
 posing Providence. Nor do any of them distin- 
 guish (at least not satisfactorily) the immense dif- 
 ference between an interposing Providence, and 
 one that has provided, silently, and quietly, for all 
 events from the beginning of time. This, in 
 fact, is the true question. Yet, for the most 
 part, when we look into the usual commentators, 
 we find nothing but direct interposition, expounded 
 as it may be, but with what success against the 
 assertors of free-will, may be problematical. 
 
 Thus Sherlock, one of the most respectable of 
 the authorities, in his very pious and learned work 
 expressly on the subject, upholds interposition 
 every where upon the authority of Holy Writ. 
 Quite enough to support the doctrine, if that were 
 merely the question. But he no where (satisfac- 
 torily at least) answers the objection, that if that 
 authority is to beat down all objections, free-will 
 must be at an end. His salvo is, to me, unten- 
 able. He is forced to open the field of chance, of 
 things unforeseen, of things exempt, as he sup- 
 poses, from the operation of the universal laws of 
 physics, — to give room and opportunity for Pro- 
 vidence to work in.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 255 
 
 Thus, he says, that " God reserves the ele- 
 ments, the wind, and the rain, and the tempest, to 
 influence events at his pleasure ; ,} — than which a 
 more unphilosophical notion, I need not tell you, 
 can hardly be imagined. I have no books here, 
 and I wish not to misrepresent him ; but I think 
 that he attributes the description of Sennacherib's 
 army before Jerusalem, to a storm sent on pur- 
 pose in the night ; as if that storm would not have 
 been effected by the laws of physics, exactly when 
 it was, without express interposition. Thus the 
 Almighty is represented like some of the heathen 
 Deities, ^Eolus for example, who kept the winds 
 imprisoned in his cave, to be let loose at pleasure, 
 or the request of a sister deity, Juno, who wanted 
 to destroy ^Eneas ! I need not tell you how con- 
 trary to all good divinity, as well as good philoso- 
 phy, this must be. Be this as it may, most of the 
 illustrations of Sherlock, whose work I mention 
 as the principle one, are taken from the history of 
 the Jews; which being so peculiar, and for so 
 peculiar a purpose, (in fact not less than a Theo- 
 cracy, as if God had quitted Heaven, and reigned 
 in person in Jerusalem,) cannot possibly be taken 
 as an illustration of what governs the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 Without disputing the plagues of ^Egypt, the 
 difference of the Bible account, from what would
 
 256 ST. LAWRENCE* 
 
 be an account on our principles, is this ; that in 
 the Bible, Moses appears to Pharoah as actually 
 commissioned by a diploma from Heaven, to 
 inflict the plagues he did upon the land, in order 
 to produce the liberation of the Israelites ; which 
 plagues were expressly created on the spur of the 
 occasion, to answer that particular purpose, and 
 were thus not in the concatenation of second 
 causes, founded in the law of nature, and resolved 
 upon -from the beginning, according to the hypo- 
 thesis I have supported. 
 
 With the greatest submission therefore to the 
 Dean, his account, though from the authority of 
 Scripture it must be taken as true as applied to the 
 Jewish history, — which had a particular and most 
 important end to answer, — cannot be generally ap- 
 plicable to the common course of things. It can- 
 not enter into the theory of Universal Providence ; 
 it is insulated both as fact and doctrine ; and as a 
 manual of philosophy, can satisfy no man, any 
 more than that the rain was sent expressly, that 
 is, miraculously, to destroy Sennacherib. You 
 will tell me that its being miraculous, only proves 
 it more providential ; and I perfectly agree. There 
 cannot indeed be a greater proof of Providence 
 than a miracle ; and our happiest feelings are con- 
 cerned in the support of the possibility of such an 
 interposition in a case so great as to want it.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 257 
 
 But this must wait for such a case. It cannot be 
 the common, usual mode of governing by second 
 causes. It is not a second cause if it be a miracle. 
 If often or regularly repeated, it is miracle no 
 more ; and, as Burke said of violent measures in 
 politics, where existence was at stake, it is making 
 the medicine of the commonwealth its daily bread. 
 
 I do not blame the divines for taking their 
 theories, and still less their examples, from the Old 
 Testament and Jewish history ; but I blame them 
 for confining themselves to those sources, and 
 from those authorities alone legislating for all the 
 rest of the world. The most pious and enthusi- 
 astic devotee must confess that the Jewish dispen- 
 sation is at an end ; that miracles are over ; and 
 that the earth will no longer open and swallow up 
 rebels to any laws, human or divine. We have 
 long, long been under another polity, and " the 
 ways of God to man" are altered from what they 
 were in the times of the Pentateuch, the Judges, or 
 the book of Kings. Not the less do we reverence 
 and believe the sublime authority, which says, that 
 not a sparrow falls to the ground without the 
 Father. How that is may be here seen. 
 
 What Sherlock, however, has failed to perform, 
 no other person that I recollect, at least among 
 divines, has attempted. There may be insulated 
 passages, or even sermons, here and there ; there
 
 258 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 is a great deal in the excellent Wollaston, and the 
 perspicuous Seed, applicable to Moral Providence ; 
 which (always be it observed) is the species I am 
 canvassing ; but there is no regular detailed es- 
 say, meeting and grappling with the cogent objec- 
 tions drawn from the incompatibility of a ruling 
 power that foresees, and therefore (as it is affirmed) 
 predestines every thing, and the position that the 
 will of man is free. There is no such performance, 
 clear, fair, and bold, except that of a layman, 
 Abraham Tucker, who certainly flinches from no- 
 thing, but wrestles manfully with the subject ; and 
 this performance I am free to confess is so clear, 
 simple, and convincing, that it would render this 
 attempt of mine unnecessary, but for the two or 
 three following considerations. 
 
 4st. It forms only part, and a very small one, 
 of a most voluminous range of works, valuable to 
 the metaphysician in his closet, distinguished for 
 depth of thought, satisfactory conclusion, and 
 above all, for a power and amplitude of illus- 
 tration which must do good to those who have 
 leisure and inclination for these subjects; and 
 hence I would advise you to give it a conspicuous 
 place on your shelves at Halesworth. 
 
 Paley, in his preface to his Moral and Political 
 Philosophy, excusing himself for not acknowledg- 
 ing obligation to preceding writers, on account of
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 259 
 
 the difficulty of tracing to whom every thing be- 
 longed, makes an exception in favour of Search's 
 (Tucker's) Light of Nature, on account of the 
 happiness of its illustrations. But being thus 
 voluminous, it is not, and cannot be in every 
 body's hands ; nor might those who wish to 
 examine his thoughts upon Providence, think it 
 worth while to burden themselves with so many 
 other subjects. 
 
 In the next place, from the amazing redundancy 
 of his ideas, and the vast variety of shapes in 
 which he places them before you, as well as the 
 quantity of words employed, tending sometimes 
 to clog instead of open the passage to his excel- 
 lent doctrine, those who wish or are best fitted 
 to understand things under simpler forms, might 
 be deterred from pursuing the matter with suffi- 
 cient perseverance. Nor do I know that the 
 pure, didactic, unornamented, perhaps dry style 
 in which the subject is handled, added to the 
 length of the argument, would have attractions 
 enough for many, who would require to be se" 
 duced, as it were, by ornament and elegance, into 
 the acquisition of knowledge. To these the path 
 might appear at first too rough and intricate to be 
 attempted. 
 
 Exclusive of this, I perhaps think that this 
 treatise is not so methodical as it might be, and
 
 260 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 as readers might wish it to be. Nor are the de- 
 ductions or illustrations by historical cases, so 
 practically striking as to preclude the necessity 
 for something more immediately obvious, and 
 under a more popular form. 
 
 I had made the attempt before in Tremaine ', 
 but even there, perhaps from its being new to me, 
 I am sensible I did not make the most of my own 
 theories ; and I have endeavoured (I trust with- 
 out repetition) to supply what may there be 
 thought wanting. 
 
 In presenting you with this small tract, I 
 have thought it right to accompany it by these 
 preliminary remarks, which I hope you will re- 
 member in perusing it ; and whatever its impres- 
 sion upon your better judgment, I trust you will 
 accept it both as a mark of my esteem and affec- 
 tion, and of the hope I have that in the sincere 
 devotion of yourself to the sacred profession you 
 have chosen, you will receive a reward, both here 
 and hereafter, which no other profession can give. 
 
 And so farewell. 
 
 Wiesbaden, May, 1836.
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 " Now Heaven walks on earth." 
 
 Shakspeare's Twelfth Night. 
 .' For he maketh the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof are 
 still." Psalm, cvii. 
 
 The morning after the stormy and fearful night 
 described in the last Chapter, found Mr. Camp- 
 be. 1 and St. Lawrence on the leads of a high 
 tower which overlooked the interior of Castle 
 Campbell, and commanded a wide prospect of 
 sea, and shore, and distant islands, extending as 
 far as the stupendous promontory of Fair Head 
 on the opposite coast of Ireland. They had as- 
 cended this commanding terrace with a view to 
 ascertain the damages, whatever they were, which 
 so perilous a night might have occasioned. With 
 the exception, however, of two or three boats that 
 had been staved on the beach, and a few cottages 
 unroofed, all was comparatively calm, made more 
 so by contrast. The sea, indeed, still swelled in 
 immense and reverberating undulations, but with- 
 out those mountainous waves that had been so 
 terrific. At the same time something like a sul-
 
 262 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 len and lowing swell at a distance, continued to 
 affect the timid part of Campbell Town with fears 
 of Sawney Bean, by no means yet entirely al- 
 layed. In other respects the contrast was won- 
 derful. The sun shone out with a light and 
 warmth that were exhilarating ; and though de- 
 tached glomerations of clouds chased one another, 
 now heavily, now swiftly, over the vault of Hea- 
 ven, yet they rested no where, and at length es- 
 caped into the horizon, leaving the stout old castle 
 that had been so buffeted, in full possession of its 
 strength, and its beautiful blue sea. The last, if not 
 calm, now dashed fainter and fainter against the 
 rocks that formed the base of the castle ; only 
 throwing up now and then a little spray, as if 
 merely to show it was still there. Even this at 
 length died away ; so changed and soothing was 
 the altered scene. 
 
 * How wonderful is this ! " said St. Lawrence 5 
 " to look at this prospect now, one would sup- 
 pose you had never any other than halcyon days 
 upon this rugged coast of yours, spite of Sawney 
 Bean, and all other permitted persecutors of the 
 Campbells from the other world." 
 
 a You think, then," replied the Laird, (i in com- 
 mon with many of my neighbours, that Sawney, 
 as a M c Leod once had the insolence to tell us, is
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 263 
 
 really allowed to persecute the Campbells i for 
 nae gude that they did?^" 
 
 " I know not," returned St. Lawrence, "how far 
 these descendants of the old Solemn-League-and- 
 Covenant men, who only owned the Almighty even 
 as their temporal prince, may, like their ancestors, 
 believe he still continues to reward and punish in 
 this world as in aforetime ; but though, if there 
 had been such a dispensation, it is now undoubt- 
 edly at an end, with the Macbriars, the Kettle- 
 drummies, and the Davy Deans, who upheld that 
 doctrine, the opinion is at least better than that 
 which supposes the Being who made us cares no- 
 thing for the creatures he has made, but leaves all 
 to chance and our own wilfulness." 
 
 u This savours much of our last night's specu- 
 lation," observed Campbell, " in which I allow 
 one of your illustrations, at least, was rather 
 startling, particularly with my friends below there, 
 who almost mobbed me for hazarding a doubt 
 about the appearance of the Offley spirit. You 
 told the story well. But now we are alone, if it 
 is not an unfair question (which, as you are not 
 even a divine, much less a bishop), perhaps it is 
 not, may I ask if you believe one tittle of this 
 miracle yourself?" 
 
 " I believe all that I have told you,^ replied 
 St. Lawrence ; u which, pray observe, by no means
 
 264 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 amounted to a miracle, but only an event, seem- 
 ingly preternatural, which might be the mere ebul- 
 lition of fancy in a man brooding intensely per- 
 haps on one idea, but which, being followed by 
 such important consequences, assumes the air of 
 reality. " 
 
 (i The reality itself, then," said Campbell, " you 
 do not believe; and I am willing to allow your 
 tale to be an extraordinary, perhaps the most ex- 
 traordinary presumption of an interposing Pro- 
 vidence I ever heard. You say yourself, however, 
 that it was a mere fancy of the man, and that 
 fancy fortuitous. As a serious argument for the 
 interference of Heaven, the matter must there- 
 fore be given up." 
 
 ce Not quite so easily/ 5 observed St. Lawrence ; 
 " for though w T e may say that the spirit of Sir John 
 Offley did not, by a command of the Almighty, ap- 
 pear in a real visible shape, and actually speak with 
 living breath, yet not the less, according to all my 
 theories and notions of the conduct of human 
 events by a superhuman power, might this fancied 
 appearance have been the designed mode of bring- 
 ing about w T hat really was accomplished/' 
 
 " You mean the restoration of the estate ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 66 Then pardon me if I am a stern unbeliever, 
 if only from the total inadequacy of the reason for
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 265 
 
 what, if you are right in your opening (though you 
 have not explained it), ought, it should seem, to 
 have been a million of times more important than 
 the mere restoration of property to a simple indi- 
 vidual, when thousands are daily as much wronged 
 without any interference at all. Colonel Gar- 
 diner's famous story gives a more plausible reason 
 for his vision (the conversion of a sinner), than 
 this, the mere preservation of filthy lucre." 
 
 a I have already observed/' replied St. Law- 
 rence, a that I asserted no miracle ; nor have I 
 stickled even for interference, farther than that 
 universal cognizance and regulation which I hold 
 are exercised by the Creator and Governor of the 
 World, through the intervention of second causes : 
 a constitution of things which I suppose you do 
 not deny." 
 
 " I neither affirm nor deny any thing at pre- 
 sent," replied Campbell ; " but shall be glad to 
 hear how a ghost, a thing not in nature, can be a 
 second cause ? n 
 
 " Again," said St. Lawrence, a let me deliver 
 myself from the charge of having introduced a 
 ghost. But you will allow there is such a thing 
 as fancy, visions, enthusiasm, dreams, call them 
 what you will, that operate powerfully upon the 
 brain (proportionably perhaps to its weakness) ; 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 but which actually do operate upon it, and often 
 impel to a particular conduct/ 5 
 
 " Suppose I grant this," said Campbell, " what 
 then?" 
 
 " Why add, if you please, that this fancy, or 
 whatever we call it, is not infused for the moment, 
 or expressly for a particular purpose, unforeseen 
 before, but is the consequence and offspring of a 
 certain natural constitution of the fancier, whom 
 I will call the patient, as I would, if he were by 
 constitution subject to the gout." 
 . " Well ; and still what then ? " 
 
 " Why then again, if, as we have supposed, this 
 dream or vision lead to conduct, we have at once 
 a second cause, without any violation of any law 
 of nature ; — which for the moment we will allow 
 a positive palpable messenger from Heaven would 
 be." 
 
 Campbell paused in reflection upon this ; then 
 asked what use his friend meant to make of it, 
 supposing it was conceded. 
 
 " Simply this," said St. Lawrence, M that se- 
 cond causes being the instruments by which Pro- 
 vidence governs the course of events, this fancy 
 in the Offley gardener became one of those instru- 
 ments, and the restoration of the estate was pro- 
 vidential or designed, although there was no mira- 
 cle in the case."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 267 
 
 Ci Ingenious enough/' observed Campbell ; " but 
 letting in a vast and boundless subject, with a 
 thousand data as conceded, which have puzzled 
 all the philosophers for a thousand years together." 
 " And yet, in my mind," replied St. Lawrence, 
 " offering no difficulty at all." 
 
 " You will be a benefactor to philosophy, if you 
 prove this," said Campbell, '• if only from the 
 stumbling block of free will, which no one in my 
 opinion has ever yet got over — priest or layman. — 
 Nay, the divines are so much put to it upon the 
 whole subject, that after a great many fine flou- 
 rishes about an interference, — the power of which 
 no one denies, could the difficulty from free-will 
 be got over, — they always have recourse to the 
 revelations of Scripture for proof ; — which is au- 
 thority and not argument. Granting the authority, 
 indeed, the contest is at an end; for there Pro- 
 vidence has plainly declared itself. But on the 
 other hand, there also would be predestination, 
 which puts an end to free-will, and, therefore, to 
 moral responsibility." 
 
 " For all this I am prepared," said St. Law- 
 rence, " but wait for farther objections of the 
 same nature, if you have them." 
 
 " Preliminary then, to this," continued Camp- 
 bell, i( a great and wide field must be gone over 
 as to the nature of second causes, and how it is 
 
 N 2 

 
 268 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 that Providence makes use of them to bring about 
 the events of the world/ 5 
 
 " To this/ 5 replied St. Lawrence., " I will wil- 
 lingly address myself, though I believe a man of 
 your class of mind need not such a preliminary. 
 Are you really disposed to so profound, and there- 
 fore jejune a discussion ? n 
 
 Campbell, who had in fact been all his life long 
 keen on the subject, replied, a I would listen to 
 nothing more willingly. But," added he, K the 
 air bites shrewdly, notwithstanding the sun ; and 
 the place, the top of a house, is not over conve- 
 nient. Sawney, too, over the way, might not be 
 pleased at such a subject being discussed, as it 
 were in his very sight; I therefore propose a 
 more commodious scene of debate.' 5 
 
 To this St. Lawrence agreed ; and followed his 
 friend to his private room in the lower part of the 
 Castle.
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 SECOND CAUSES. 
 
 " There 's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough hew them as we will." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 •' I suppose/ 5 said St. Lawrence, after a pause, 
 and they had shut the door, " that the Almighty, 
 whom we worship as such, is the Framer and First 
 Cause of all things. 
 
 Campbell nodded assent. — " I only made the 
 observation," added St. Lawrence, " to rid the 
 question of any rubbish of Spinozism or Epicu- 
 reanism that might stand at the threshold of the 
 subject." 
 
 " Make yourself perfectly easy," said Campbell, 
 " as to that/' 
 
 (i If he caused all things, then/' continued St. 
 Lawrence, (e it will be equally clear that he knew 
 the properties of all the things he caused ; their 
 relations between, their effects upon, one another ; 
 and the train of consequences eternally flowing 
 through all time, that would follow from those 
 effects, from their first creation to the present 
 moment, and all moments beyond it." 
 
 " Granting omniscience and foreknowledge/' said
 
 270 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Campbell, " which I am not disposed to deny, I 
 may readily subscribe to this." 
 
 "As a fair consequence to it, then," continued 
 St. Lawrence, u you will, perhaps, admit that the 
 Framer, whom I will now call Providence, had 
 some design in such a concatenation, not less, in 
 fact, than the production and direction of the 
 events that arose from them, constituting in re- 
 ality, the history of the world." 
 
 ** Go on," said Campbell. 
 
 " If this be so, these effects and relations, thus 
 generating one another, and influencing the actions 
 of men, without any visible interference of the ori- 
 ginal and First Cause, may be justly styled, as we 
 do style them, Second Causes. Pray pardon my 
 methodical formality in obtruding these truisms 
 upon you." 
 
 u Method," said Campbell, " is the life and soul 
 of an argument, even where the preliminaries are 
 known ; you have still, however, to show how the 
 relations and properties of matter can influence 
 the characters and actions of men." 
 
 (i That is surely, not difficult," said St. Law- 
 rence, " since the whole scene of our actions, the 
 foundation of all our conduct, the motives which 
 exercise our energies, and upon which our intellect, 
 thoughts, and all that prompts feeling, passion, 
 and ambition, depend, arise entirely from created
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 27 1 
 
 matter ; matter for spirit to work upon, but with- 
 out which we should have nothing to employ that 
 spirit. When we love, covet, or will a thing, which 
 are acts of the mind, and may therefore be called 
 spiritual, the thing itself must be material, and 
 strike through the senses, or the mind would have 
 no notion of it. Some fanciful metaphysicians 
 indeed have doubted of this, and supported innate, 
 
 or what they call connate ideas,* but " 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself/' interrupted 
 Campbell ; " we will grant all that/ 5 
 
 " Why indeed/' observed St. Lawrence, " the 
 notion is merely curious, and we may leave it 
 untouched. To proceed then. Created matter, 
 in all its millions of forms, changes, properties, 
 and relations, being that alone which sets the 
 mind and passions to work, and this exercise of 
 the mind and passions forming the characters, 
 and prompting the actions of men, they at once 
 become the Second Causes of which we are treat- 
 ing ; nor are there any created things, however 
 minute, trifling, or apparently useless, that may 
 not by their incessant action upon one another, 
 grow into palpable consequence, in exciting to 
 those motions which influence men's desires, and 
 impel to particular conduct." 
 
 * Sherlock, &c.
 
 272 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " I should be glad to see this exemplified/* said 
 Campbell. 
 
 " Why, take the field which is now lying under 
 a winter fallow on the side of that hill/' said St» 
 Lawrence. " You see its ridges laid up to sweeten 
 by the air, and be made crisp by frost, in order 
 the better to be pulverized and cleansed previous 
 to being sown. Take the seed now in the granary, 
 properly aired, regularly turned, and protected 
 from damp, in order to insure its efficacy to pro- 
 duce a crop when sown ; but which, if not thus 
 aired and turned, would be spoilt. Take the pre- 
 sent state of the elements, (even the storms of last 
 night,) influencing in some measure, though re- 
 motely, the future state of them during the grow- 
 ing season, so as to produce a plentiful, or cause 
 a scanty harvest in autumn P 
 
 "Well! and then }» 
 
 " Why, then, we have the most universal and 
 powerful source of interest to mankind, the supply 
 of food, influencing, as I need not tell you, in a 
 degree, I might almost say, the whole globe. Com- 
 merce, politics, war, perhaps revolution ; the hap- 
 piness, virtue, misery, or wickedness of man, are all 
 in a measure affected by the almost imperceptible 
 process of what is now going on in the air and in the 
 soil; that process depending upon the process of 
 preceding years, one before another, till you arrive
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 273 
 
 at the first moment of the creation. As this too 
 (the supply of food) forms the support of the whole 
 world, there is no end of its consequences ; for it 
 immediately lets in the whole scene of human ac- 
 tion ; gives impetus to character and opportunity 
 for its display ; in short, contributes to all moral 
 conduct, and all the events of history." 
 
 iC You have taken a large compass," observed 
 Campbell. 
 
 " By no means yet finished," answered St. 
 Lawrence. " For, take it farther up : what a 
 field it opens from the endless concatenation and 
 dependency of effect upon cause ! And where are 
 we to stop till, as I have said, we begin with Time 
 itself ? Would you say, then, that this could be, 
 and the First Cause indifferent to all the conse- 
 quences he was creating, and which must have 
 been before him at the time he was creating 
 them ? Some of them are stupendous. The happi- 
 ness of nations, as well as of individuals ; the li- 
 berty or slavery of the world ; the rise or fall of 
 thrones : — all this must have been in the mind of 
 the Almighty, when time commenced, and Second 
 Causes were sent, not to seek their fortune, but 
 to do his mil in the minutest particular, ( till time 
 should be no more/" 
 
 " This is stupendous, indeed ! " observed Camp- 
 bell. N 5
 
 274 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " But not more than true," replied St. Law- 
 rence, " or there is no truth in nature." * 
 
 * I cannot here refuse myself or the reader the pleasure of 
 presenting this sentiment, detailed by one who was a master of 
 his subject, and whose work should be more read than it is ; for, 
 first-rate upon almost all points, and high as it is in character, 
 It is not so generally known as it ought to be : 
 
 "As every provident person," says Abraham Tucker (under 
 the name of Edward Search), who has any great work to do, will 
 prepare the materials, engage the workmen and labourers, and 
 give the orders necessary for bringing it to perfection ; so, what- 
 ever God designs to produce by the operation of Second Causes, 
 he provides sufficient agents ; gives them the powers, the im- 
 pulses, and the motives requisite exactly to answer his purpose. 
 If he determines to bring plenty or scarcity upon the earth, he 
 disposes the air and the elements in such manner as neces- 
 sarily to produce either ; if he resolves to build up or pull down 
 kingdoms, he raises up men with peculiar talents, fitted either 
 for improving the arts of war and policy, or for throwing things 
 into confusion. From hence we may gather that the providence 
 of God is over all his works, and that in the formation of senti- 
 ent as well as unsentient natures, he had in view that series of 
 changes and events they would produce, and ordered his whole 
 multitude of Second Causes, so as to execute that plan of Provi- 
 dence which he had in his intention. Which plan contained the 
 order of succession we have spoken of, whereof the systems and 
 courses of nature, the dispensations of good and evil, the fates 
 and fortunes of men, and other sentient creatures, are the seve- 
 ral parts ; which, whether it has run for ever, or had a begin- 
 ning, owed its rise, either from everlasting, or some certain time, 
 to the power and action of the Almighty." — (Search's Light of 
 Nature, vol. v. pp. 83, 84, republished with the true name of 
 the author, Abraham Tucker, by the late Sir Henry Mildmay,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 275 
 
 " Yet it is difficult," observed Campbell, " to 
 suppose that the Almighty can be occupied, much 
 less interested, by the fall of a leaf, or the crawling 
 of a toad. That he could not descend to such 
 trifles, seemed to be the opinion both cf the Stoics 
 and Epicureans." 
 
 "The Stoics," replied St. Lawrence, "were wise 
 men, very wise for their times, when all the world 
 was in darkness ; but we beat them to nothing, 
 both in philosophy and divinity. And as to your 
 leaf and your toad, God made them ; which 
 is quite sufficient answer, without breaking our 
 brains about that useless question, as to his object 
 in doing it. He made them, and therefore, from 
 all analogies, must have made them for some pur- 
 pose known to himself, though not to us. How 
 many thousand things are there in creation, the 
 uses, or purposes of which we know not, and 
 never shall ! A lion, a monkey, a parrot, the beau- 
 tiful colours of the feathered tribe ; beautiful, but 
 hid in woods, and deserts, scarce beheld of us ; 
 flowers that blush unseen; gold and jewels, perhaps 
 at earth's centre, that never saw, and never will 
 see the light. What are these, in the eye of Heaven, 
 any more than the leaf and the toad? Yet the 
 wonderful contrivance and mechanism of many of 
 
 who was his grandson. — See the subject continued, note a in 
 the Appendix.)
 
 276 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 these things demonstrate even the fullest attention 
 of the Creator to the smallest objects. Bees, ants, 
 spiders, the rings of worms, the sea senemona* 
 (which seems mere pulp, but which can smother 
 and devour a small fish), the threads of a muscle, 
 spun by itself, and fastened to a rock to prevent its 
 being washed off! Why all this extraordinary 
 power lavished upon things apparently so mean in 
 comparison with Omnipotence, if created merely 
 to be abondoned as soon as made ? No, it would 
 be difficult, indeed impossible, for our finite minds 
 to discover the reasons that determined the Infinite 
 Mind to call into life, and still more into existence 
 without life, all that we see ; but, depend upon it, 
 nothing can be so false as the notion that there 
 is any thing in creation without a use, any more 
 than without a cause, and therefore without the 
 notice of the Creator." 
 
 This is very glowing," observed Campbell ; 
 " and I am inclined to say convincing. We will, 
 therefore, say that a toad carries something else 
 in its head besides a jewel ; namely, that it may 
 rank somewhere or other among Second Causes. 
 But pray go on." 
 
 i( If I have succeeded in explaining satisfacto- 
 rily the real theory of these Second Causes, I 
 would then proceed/' said St. Lawrence, " to show^ 
 how very little apparently in point of importance,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 277 
 
 those may be, which cause even singly, much 
 more combineclly, the most momentous, and some- 
 times terrible consequences. A slight put upon 
 the abilities of Pulteney, when subaltern to Sir 
 Robert Walpole as Secretary-at-War, by affronting 
 him into opposition, occasioned that sharp thorn 
 in the minister's side which afterwards rankled 
 and festered, with various fortune to the country, 
 for twenty years, till it produced his downfall. 
 Probably the Spanish war of 1739, and the battles 
 of Dettingen and Fontenoy, and even the great 
 Forty-five, and the delightful epic of Waverley, nay, 
 all that immortalizes Scott and Abbotsford, may 
 have remotely been occasioned by it. Tremaine 
 has used the remark of Horace Walpole, that a 
 quarrel between two bed-chamber women saved 
 the Spanish succession to France, and gave peace 
 to Europe at Utrecht. How many other conse- 
 quences (the consequence of that peace) followed 
 through the rest of the century ! How many so- 
 vereigns were affected, sovereignties created, or 
 altered; what wars, what alliancies, guaranties, 
 changes in the Droit Publique de l'Europe, the 
 high qualities, or deaths of great generals, the de- 
 thronement of kings ; I leave to history, and the 
 Abbe' Mably, to tell us. That leviathan, the Public 
 Debt of England, may have become a fixture from 
 the same cause. On the other hand, by preserv-
 
 278 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 ing Spain among our allies, instead of her making 
 a family compact against us, we should not have 
 been under the necessity of those wonderful strug- 
 gles which carried our maritime reputation to the 
 highest pitch of glory. Fond as I am of the 
 charming romance of Anson's Voyage, I might 
 even enmerate that, unobvious as it is, as one of 
 the consequences of the bed-chamber women's 
 quarrel." 
 
 " Good," said Campbell, "and I only wonder, 
 that with such a fertile field to work in, some 
 man of research, some keen, inquiring, penetrat- 
 ing and agreeable D'Israeli, has not bestowed 
 upon the world what would so instruct and so 
 amuse it." 
 
 ' ' ' What mighty contests rise from trivial things' 
 
 might certainly," said St. Lawrence, "furnish 
 much even to the divine and the philoso- 
 pher, as well as to the historian, and the poli- 
 tician. The jealousy of one sister of another in 
 ancient Rome, because her door was rapped at by 
 lictors, like London footmen, her husband being 
 consul, occasioned the mightiest change in the 
 Roman constitution, by which plebeinas were 
 admitted to the consulate. The dropping of a 
 garter at a ball, as it is said, by creating the most 
 illustrious of our chivalrous orders, occasioned 
 more heroic deeds than had ever been sung
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 279 
 
 before. A good dancing-master made Sir Chris- 
 topher Hatton Chancellor. The Lord Treasurer 
 Buckhurst owed his change of character, from 
 idleness to application to business, and his con- 
 sequent rise, to his indignation at being kept 
 waiting by a rich usurer, whom he despised, but 
 of whom, being then a dissipated, extravagant 
 young man, he wanted to borrow money. 
 
 But war and revolutions are the most striking 
 comments on our theory. Perhaps even the reign 
 of the Hundred Days in France, with all its mighty 
 consequences, the battle of Waterloo, the deaths 
 of a thousand heroes in the field, and of Ney by ex- 
 ecution, to say nothing to the exile to St. Helena, 
 itself one of the most interesting features in 
 all history : — perhaps even this was in a great mea- 
 sure owing to a mere court heart-burning; the 
 wife of Ney being coldly received.* 
 
 The subject is indeed inexhaustible, both in the 
 moral and physical world. In the latter how much 
 evil is owing to trifles, even the most remote in 
 point of time ! A buried garment in the time of 
 one plague, by being dug up, caused another a 
 hundred years afterwards. A single drop of prus- 
 sic acid perhaps in an unrinsed bottle, may cause 
 
 * Ney did not disguise that the nightly tears of his wife at 
 returning ill received from the Tuilleries, inclined him to quit 
 Louis XVIII. for Buonaparte
 
 280 ST. LAWRExNCE. 
 
 a death by which ten thousand other deaths may 
 be occasioned. His last goblet, by killing Alexan- 
 der, divided the whole world into a variety of sove- 
 reignties^ which employed all its interests and 
 energies, and brought forward character and 
 exertions, the political and philosophical effects 
 of which are felt to this day, and which perhaps 
 would not have been known (at least in their pre- 
 sent shape) but for this memorable debauch.' , 
 
 "Enough, enough," said Campbell, "I yield 
 you all you wish to demonstrate from the concat- 
 enation of Second Causes. Their effects are per- 
 fectly clear ; but whether their foundation was laid 
 intentionally by the Almighty, at the creation, in 
 order to produce all that happened afterwards, or 
 whether posterior events have sprung from 
 chance ; at best, whether Providence may not 
 have lain by, in order to convert any mischief that 
 chance may have occasioned, which is tantamount 
 to interposition pro re nata, (which you deny,) 
 — all this remains still to be discussed. For my 
 part, I hold myself a sheet of white paper ; only 
 I think that if the chance I have spoken of as to 
 effects, though proceeding from natural causes, 
 occasion mischief, the interposition to correct it 
 looks very like a miracle, by interfering with the 
 course of nature. 
 
 "There is no doubt," replied St. Lawrence,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 281 
 
 * that there are different opinions. All seem to 
 agree in dividing Providence into two sorts. 
 One a disposing, the other an interposing Provi- 
 dence. The first I have already canvassed, and 
 own myself its votary. The advocates of the 
 latter, however (not at all superstitious men), 
 think it scarcely possible that the Almighty 
 Framer should have created all the wonders that 
 we see both in physics and morals, and then 
 have thrown his work aside, being so perfect and 
 durable as to need no further care. This they say 
 would be to create merely for amusement : — which 
 we cannot conceive of the Almighty. They also 
 tell you, with somewhat more appearance of 
 reasonable inference, that there is proof in 
 physics of the necessity for continual watchful- 
 ness, from liability to get out of order, and a con- 
 sequent demand for repairs. In support of this 
 they are not without the aid of very learned and 
 observing natural philosophers and astronomers, 
 Newton among them, who demonstrate, from 
 theories confirmed by experiment, that from 
 greater or less friction, and other impediments to 
 motion, the progress of phenomena (as the orbits 
 of the planets) does not proceed equally, or 
 without variation, and might probably by this 
 have fallen into confusion, but for the interference 
 of him who originally planned them.* 
 * See Note B. Appendix.
 
 282 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 i( Hence, by analogy, they say it may be the 
 same in the progress of moral events — that is, the 
 moral government of the world ; and, in truth it 
 by no means appears, (at first sight, at least,) to 
 be a defective or inconsistent thing, that the 
 Builder of the world, let this power be what it 
 will, should reserve to himself the province of 
 watching over his own plans ; of seeing that all 
 parts continue as originally designed ; and if 
 through the weakness or wilfulness of the agents 
 left to their own free will, anything should get 
 wrong, that he should be at hand to remedy and 
 set it right. It is on this ground mainly that 
 divines defend the necessity of revelation itself, 
 and support the necessity for the mission of 
 Christ, in order to renew the rule of living which 
 had been given in the beginning, but afterwards 
 lost/' 
 
 " For an opposer of these opinions," observed 
 Campbell, " you are at least a candid expounder, 
 for I could almost doubt how you will be able to 
 overturn your own statement." 
 
 u I pretend not to overturn," replied St. Law- 
 rence. u On the contrary, valeat quantum valere 
 potest. But I may say this, and yet uphold what 
 I think a better theory ; better in this, that 
 though perhaps it may appear more far-fetched
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 283 
 
 and profound in its concoction, it is not liable to 
 what I think unanswerable objections. I do not 
 mean that it is impossible or unworthy of the 
 Creator (as many think), to have purposely left 
 his creation so far imperfect in itself as even to 
 require his assistance in the course established. 
 In point of fact, if the end is here, we actually 
 see imperfection all around us ; which made an 
 eloquent, amiable, and pious man exclaim, 
 
 ' The ways of Providence are dark and intricate, 
 Puzzled in mazes, and perplexed with evil ; 
 The understanding traces them in vain, 
 Nor sees with how much art the windings run, 
 Nor where the regular confusion ends.' 
 
 Imperfection therefore, (if, as I said, all is to end 
 here,) is the very character of created substance. 
 It is not at all therefore incongruous that the visi- 
 ble or sensible interference of Providence, by reve- 
 lation, or interposition, should form a part of the 
 scheme of its government. And in truth our whole 
 most sacred belief shows that on one occasion at 
 least it actually did so. Nevertheless, I do not 
 think that it generally does so ; since, although 
 the world once got so wrong as to require God^s 
 appearance upon earth, supported by a whole 
 train of illustrious miracles to prove it, there was 
 no such proof before, and certainly there has been
 
 284 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 none such since. The government by Second 
 Causes, that is, by concealed Causes, has therefore 
 proceeded as it did before, without it." 
 
 * What, however," said Campbell, " is your 
 reason for thinking that before, as now, sensible 
 interposition is not within the scheme ? I have 
 told you that I do not think it is myself, and that 
 is the reason why I disbelieve all those accounts 
 of apparitions, however attracting, such as the 
 Offley and Gardiner stories. But after the forci- 
 ble argument you have given, drawn from the 
 imperfection of the mundane system, for inter- 
 position from above, I own your repudiation of it 
 in favour of that other scheme, so complex, and, 
 as you say yourself, so far-fetched, seems to me 
 paradoxical." 
 
 " Not if I have made myself understood," 
 said St. Lawrence. ei In fact, though perhaps 
 more complex, and certainly more far-fetched, 
 than a visible interposition would be, yet it is 
 infinitely more free from those, to me, inexpugni- 
 ble difficulties which encompass that other system. 
 You talk of my defence of it ; but you will recol- 
 lect it was only of its possibility in a case of mag- 
 nitude sufficient to justify it, which case, from its 
 very nature, must occur most rarely ; perhaps 
 never did occur, except in that great case of all,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 285 
 
 when our salvation was at stake. Whereas, if 
 interposition were the usual and regular mode of 
 governing, the whole nature of things, and the 
 laws of nature themselves, would be altered, and 
 our free will in almost every instance endangered. 
 Whereas, according to the doctrine I have es- 
 poused, no law of nature is violated, and the free 
 will of man remains safe." 
 
 i£ I should like to have this more amply ex- 
 plained," said Campbell. 
 
 " The explanation can be easily given," returned 
 St. Lawrence, a provided you will favour me with 
 all your attention." 
 
 " I am all ear/ 5 said Campbell. 
 
 " That motives may be set before us, so as to pro- 
 duce, or rather persuade to, a certain conduct, with- 
 out forcing free will, the very term persuade demon- 
 strates; for no one will pretend that persuasion is 
 force. Now there are two sorts of force. One re- 
 straining, the other impelling. If either is employed 
 on will, it is no longer free. For example, if I 
 will at this moment to leave the room and walk 
 upon that strand, and by some asecret talisman 
 you are in possession of, you set me sleep, spite 
 of nature, you restrain me from my purpose, and 
 my will is controlled. Contra, if I wish to remain, 
 and the same talisman operating on my muscles
 
 286 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 and limbs, force me to get up and walk out at the 
 door. On the other hand, if though wishing, and 
 at liberty to walk, the sun lowers, and the day 
 changes, I am induced, (my free judgment being 
 exercised,) to give up my purpose of walking, and 
 remain where I am, though perhaps against in- 
 clination, my will is free. In like manner, if 
 wishing and intending to remain for any par- 
 ticular purpose, the sun shining out, and the 
 day becoming inviting, I give up my purpose 
 for the sake of the walk, my intention is 
 changed, yet no force is exercised upon my 
 will. Now, to apply this ; — if some second 
 cause, (like the lowering, or blazing sun,) de- 
 rived as it may be from Heaven, but ivithout 
 meddling with any law of nature, induce me after 
 using my liberty of judgment, \o pursue any par- 
 ticular conduct, I may be led to it by Providence, 
 but, being free to choose or reject, I am master of 
 my will. I will presently show how these Second 
 Causes may be, as I have observed, derived from 
 Providence. 
 
 iC But let us now suppose, that instead of what 
 I may call this persuasive Providence, a forcible, 
 that is, a controlling one, either by restraining or 
 compelling, is used.' 5 
 
 " Explain, if you please/ 5 said Campbell, " how
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 287 
 
 you would illustrate either the restraining or 
 impelling power, by anything short of an open 
 miracle. If I attempt to kill another, and 
 my arm is arrested by a visible hand, though 
 belonging to nobody ; or, contra, though unwilling 
 to kill, the same hand lifts mine and forces me to 
 strike — these are miracles ; but these, I suppose, 
 are not what you mean." 
 
 Ci Certainly not," replied St. Lawrence ; " the 
 interposing power of the nature I am supposing, 
 is more concealed, and therefore lies deeper. For 
 example, we all know how much the actions of 
 men depend upon their tempers and dispositions, 
 and even sometimes upon the quick or slow beat 
 of their pulses, the mere feelings of a moment. A 
 man to-day is not the same man to-morrow, 
 he may be bold, adventurous, generous, full of 
 zeal, one hour ; yet timid, cautious, close, and in- 
 different the next. Before dinner and after is 
 known to be very different. Hence the ancient 
 Germans, who seemed to be acquainted with this 
 philosophy, are said always to have held two deli- 
 berations upon great affairs, especially war — one 
 when drunk, the other when sober." 
 
 " And what use do you make of this ? " asked 
 Campbell. 
 
 "A considerable one," replied St. Lawrence, 

 
 288 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " for from the manner in which these influential 
 feelings in men's determination are brought about, 
 the whole theory we are discussing will be affected. 
 We all know upon how minute causes the temper 
 and disposition of an individual may depend. A 
 blight in the air, the east wind, rain, hunger, 
 bad news, mortifications, the loss of fortune, or of 
 those we love : — these render us morose and sad, 
 or c fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils/ On the 
 other hand, a genial climate, the advance of the 
 spring, gratified love or successful ambition; above 
 all, health ; — these render us j ocund, happy, and 
 complying, probably virtuous and pious, in short, 
 fit for good works. Now all these affirmations 
 and negatives prompt to corresponding conduct, 
 and give a shape and character to the actions 
 of men; and yet all are promoted or retarded, 
 or (according to the phrase already used) im- 
 pelled or restrained, by a thousand almost imper- 
 ceptible causes, and at the same time, all founded 
 in the laws of nature enacted by the Creator. 
 Accordingly, therefore, as those laws operate, so 
 will incline the temper and conduct of man. If a 
 storm such as that of last night arise, one conduct 
 may be pursued ; if the spring is sweet, another. 
 If the heat make the pulse beat quicker than usuab 
 or a blast of cold retard the circulation, so may 
 our actions, and therefore our morals, be affected.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 289 
 
 Well : — these instigators are all in the disposal of 
 Heaven ; but, as we say, not arbitrarily, but as it 
 was originally decreed, when the laws of nature 
 were ordained. According to that ordinance, those 
 laws are and must be administered. But once 
 changed, or liable to be changed, whatever the 
 object, the whole constitution of things is altered? 
 and we come either entirely to be governed by a 
 different dispensation, or a miracle is perpetually 
 displayed. Now, whenever the wind is made to 
 blow, either more gently or more roughly than it 
 would otherwise have done in the regular origi- 
 nally ordained course of nature, that course is dis- 
 turbed, and a miracle is performed. What shall 
 we say, then, if the whole tenor and character of 
 men's actions all over the world, are to be go- 
 verned by perpetual changes in the course and 
 order of nature ? A perpetual miracle is no mi- 
 racle at all ; and, from this constant and indeed 
 necessary interposition, we should lose our free 
 will, and there would be an end of the constitution 
 of things by which man is man." 
 
 "You have put this most powerfully," said 
 Campbell ; " but have we not, somehow or another, 
 forgot the position, that suasory topics may be 
 presented by Providence, and yet no violence of- 
 fered to free will ? " 
 
 "Not so," said St. Lawrence; for you must 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 remember how marked I was in observing, that the 
 wind was to be made to blow more gently or 
 roughly than it would otherwise in the natural 
 course of tilings, in order to become a miracle. If 
 arbitrarily altered, it must be in order that the 
 human feeling, or human judgment, must be warp- 
 ed, spite of itself. Resolution is not therefore to 
 have fair play ; the thing required must be done, 
 by the decree of Him who has so altered his origi- 
 nal laws ; and free will is at an end." 
 
 " You have opened a speculation, " observed 
 Campbell, " as profound as wide ; as important 
 as curious ; nor can I gainsay a word. Indeed, an 
 enemy myself to the doctrine of perpetual inter- 
 position, I am not the person to refute this part 
 of your scheme. I am still however not so en- 
 tirely convinced as I wish, if the stories of Sir 
 John Offley and Colonel Gardiner are true, that 
 the laws of nature were not for the moment sus- 
 pended. Not believing this to be possible, any 
 more than yourself, I am driven either to question 
 the relations, or to be still in the dark how to re- 
 concile the facts with your doctrine." 
 
 "I have already/' answered St. Lawrence, 
 "given you the authority for the Offley story; 
 and of the restoration of the family, there is exist- 
 ing proof enough. The anecdote of the extraordi- 
 nary and startling appearance to Colonel Gardiner
 
 ST. LAWRENCE, 291 
 
 rests, I believe, upon himself, but is supported by 
 the total change of his after-life.* I have told 
 
 * The account of this most extraordinary vision, though for- 
 merly in every body's hands, having been long out of sight, it 
 perhaps may be as well, in order to elucidate the argument, to 
 renovate its recollection, by republishing it, as given in a note 
 in Waverley. The relation is in the words of Dr. Doddridge. " The 
 Major had spent the evening (and, if I mistake not, it was the Sab- 
 bath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a 
 married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. The 
 company broke up about eleven ; and not judging it convenient 
 to anticipate the time appointed, he went into his chamber to 
 kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing book, or some 
 other way. But it very accidentally happened, that he took up 
 a religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, without 
 his knowledge, slipped into his portmanteau. It was called, if 
 I remember the title exactly, The Christian Soldier, or Heaven 
 taken by Storm, and it was written by Mr. Thomas Watson. 
 Guessing by the title of it that he would find some phrases of 
 his own profession spiritualized, in a manner which he thought 
 might afford him some diversion, he resolved to dip into it ; but 
 he took no serious notice of any thing it had in it ; and yet, 
 while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon 
 his mind (perhaps God only knows how), which drew after it a 
 train of the most important and happy consecmences. He 
 thought he saw an unusual blaze of light fall upon the book 
 which he was reading, which he at first imagined might happen 
 by some accident in the candle ; but lifting his eyes, he appre- 
 hended, to his extreme amazement, that there was before him, as 
 it were suspended in the air, a visible representation of the Lord 
 Jesus Christ upon the cross, surrounded on all sides with a glory ; 
 and was impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent to a 
 voice, had come to him, to this effect (for he was not confident 
 
 o 2
 
 292 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 you that I do not think either of the appearances 
 were real. That is, I do not think either that the 
 real flesh and blood of Sir John Offley, or of our 
 Saviour, were seen by the parties ; or that what 
 were seen were real ministering spirits, made visi- 
 ble from the invisible world, to accomplish what 
 they did accomplish. But I, nevertheless, believe 
 that it was the benign act of Providence, not by 
 creating the vision, but foreseeing that in the case 
 of Gardiner, for instance, he had created it him- 
 self, to afford the means for his conversion." 
 
 as to the words) ; ' Oh, sinner ! did I suffer this for thee, and 
 are these thy returns ? ' Struck with so amazing a phenomenon 
 as this, there remained hardly any life in him, so that he sunk 
 down in the arm-chair in which he sat, and continued, he knew 
 not how long, insensible." 
 
 " With regard to this vision," says the ingenious Dr. Hibbert, 
 " the appearance of our Saviour on the cross, and the awful 
 words repeated, can be considered in no other light, than as so 
 many recollected images of the mind, which probably had their 
 origin in the language of some urgent appeal to repentance, that 
 the Colonel might have casually read, or heard delivered. From 
 what cause, however, such ideas were rendered as vivid as actual 
 impressions, we have no information to be depended upon. This 
 vision was certainly attended with one of the most important of 
 consequences, connected with the Christian dispensation, the 
 conversion of a sinner. And hence no single narrative has, per- 
 haps, done more to confirm the superstitious opinion that appa- 
 ritions of this awful kind cannot arise without a divine fiat." — 
 Dr. Hibbert adds, in a note, "A short time before the vision, 
 Colonel Gardiner had received a severe fall from his horse. Did 
 the brain receive some slight degree of injury from the accident, 
 so as to predispose him to this spiritual illusion ? "
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 293 
 
 " Created it for himself ? " exclaimed Campbell. 
 
 u Yes ! for I hold that these phantasies, impor- 
 tant as they may be in the actions they pro- 
 mote, are not the direct interposition of Heaven, 
 but the mere accidents of nature ; but, then, like 
 other commoner occurrences, they also become 
 the medium through which Providence governs 
 the course of things. They are, in fact, as I have 
 before observed, Second Causes, as much as any 
 others we know ; and you must deny Providence 
 altogether, if you deny its power to avail itself of 
 the imagination in the direction of mankind." 
 
 " Granting this," said Campbell, " I am at a 
 loss how any Second Cause can be used as an 
 instrument to govern, that is to force, any par- 
 ticular conduct, if the subject, man, is left free.' 5 
 
 " I waited for this," replied St. Lawrence, " but 
 wished first to clear the specific question of sup- 
 posed apparitions from the ambiguities which 
 hung about it ; and I now ask if you are prepared 
 to grant me that these visionary appearances are 
 intrinsically nothing more nor less, in regard to 
 consequent conduct, than other natural sources of 
 impulse and action." 
 
 " I think I may grant this," said Campbell; 
 " and you are to show me in return how they can 
 be the work of Providence, and not be predes- 
 tined ; and if predestined how we can be free ? "
 
 294 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " To do this/* answered St. Lawrence, " I must 
 begin with certain postulates, which you will have 
 no difficulty, I dare say, to answer. You of 
 course allow a Creator of the world ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " That the world had a beginning ? " 
 
 " For the argument's sake, yes i *' 
 
 " Before that, then, what we now call time, did 
 not exist. In other words, the history of time, as 
 we are acquainted with it, began with the world/" 
 
 "Agreed. 
 
 " Perhaps too you admit that the Creator, when 
 he made the world, and with it ordained that time 
 should be, knew, that is foresaw, all that was to hap- 
 pen ; by all, I mean, the most trifling occurrence 
 in the minutest thing, though spread through the 
 whole boundless creation, the whole course of 
 the time he had thus ordained. All things, there- 
 fore, were before him, when time began, though 
 they were to occupy ages upon ages in their per- 
 formance/' 
 
 * This is profound," said Campbell, a and re- 
 quires much thought ; but I see no reason why I 
 should gainsay it now. I remember some such 
 idea in Tremaine,* in one of the Chapters upon 
 Providence, in which it is stated that the Map of 
 Time was before the Almighty at the creation of 
 the world." 
 
 * See Tremaine, vol. ill. p.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 295 
 
 u And did not this lead you to ultimate satis- 
 faction ?" asked St. Lawrence. 
 
 " It required beating out/' answered Campbell, 
 " more than I had leisure, or perhaps disposition 
 at the time to effect. I remember too the appli- 
 cation of the theory to the practice was rather 
 complicated, and not made so obvious in all cases 
 as it ought to have been. 
 
 " Probably this was so," said St. Lawrence ; 
 " and at any rate, the notion, and the use designed 
 to be made of it, was at least so uncommon, if not 
 new, that more time ought to have been given to 
 it. I have, however, myself explored its conse- 
 quences in all their ramifications, and find the 
 theory so sound in every case that can occur, so 
 as to prove Providence every where, without 
 trenching upon free will, that I hope I can satisfy 
 your doubts, as I have my own, which have long 
 been set at rest." 
 
 " Do this," said Campbell, " and you will in- 
 deed be mihi Magnus Apollo."
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 PARTICULAR PROVIDENCE. 
 
 " My reasoning is this/* said St. Lawrence. 
 bf All his works, to use the words of the Apostle, 
 are known unto God, from the beginning. No- 
 thing that has happened, or ever will happen, but 
 must have received his sanction. This you must 
 grant, or deny his power to create or alter, in 
 short to govern : which I do not understand you 
 to do.'* 
 
 " I do not/* observed Campbell. 
 
 " Well then ; having sanctioned, that is, author- 
 ised, and therefore ordered, all things from the 
 beginning, there is in fact no such thing as what 
 we erroneously are in the habit of thinking and 
 calling a particular intervention, or, if you will, a 
 Particular Providence, suddenly brought into ac- 
 tion on the spur of an occasion, not provided 
 for, and not foreseen : as for example, the sus- 
 pension of a law of nature, to effect or prevent a 
 particular purpose ; — as to preserve or to take a 
 particular life, or discover a particular secret. 
 All this has been observed, having been sane-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 297 
 
 tioned and known from the beginning. There was 
 no occasion to provide for it when it happened^ 
 for from the beginning, the thing itself, and the 
 mode of producing it, was settled in the divine 
 mind. Take, for example, the Gunpowder Plot. 
 There God foresaw that the Catholics, by virtue 
 of their free agency, would lay a plot to blow up 
 the Parliament. Under the scheme he had formed 
 for human action, he could not or would not take 
 away this free agency, but allowed it to proceed. 
 Being, however, equally resolved that the plot 
 should not succeed, he designed to defeat it ; and 
 we have already agreed, that to defeat intention, is 
 not to fetter free will. Now there were various 
 ways in which this might be done, when the 
 decree went forth at the beginning of time. 
 The second causes that influence the will, might 
 have been so cast as to have prevented the plot 
 from going so far as it did, or prevented it even 
 from being planned ; but his fore-knowledge 
 pointed out another resource, in the compunction, 
 or private friendship and gratitude towards Lord 
 Monteagle, which prompted the letter whicb 
 occasioned the discovery of the conspiracy. You 
 will observe there was here no interference with 
 free will, no forced event, not even a dream in- 
 fused for the purpose into any one's mind (which 
 so infused, would have been miraculous) ; but all 
 05
 
 298 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 arose from the regard of one of the conspirators 
 for a friend whom he wished to save. I remember 
 when a child being pleased with a picture of this 
 event, in which was the figure of Guy Fawkes 
 in the dark cellar, but an eye in the Heavens 
 darting its rays into the vault, as if the discovery 
 arose from interposition, in consequence of a sud- 
 den discovery. This was my opinion, as well as 
 that of many others, not children, and such the 
 idea given by the picture. According to our prin- 
 ciple it was not so ; there was no miracle, yet free 
 agency was allowed in its full scope. Although 
 some events have been brought about by means 
 so hidden and unforeseen, and therefore so sur- 
 prising, that we are apt to ascribe them to an im- 
 mediate and express intervention, and empha- 
 tically call it providential, it is no more so than the 
 minutest and most trivial occurrence, as the falling 
 of a leaf, or the blowing of a flower, which all is 
 equally the work of Providence." 
 
 " I wish you to detail this a little more/' said 
 Campbell. 
 
 " I need only,' 5 returned St. Lawrence, " go to 
 our two appearances, (whether supposed or real,) 
 which we have canvassed in the case of Offley and 
 Colonel Gardiner, for a full explanation. Then, 
 the restoration of the estate, and the conversion of 
 the sinner, were supposed to be accomplished by
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 299 
 
 an express interference of Heaven, and were, 
 therefore, emphatically denominated Particular 
 Providences; whereas, according to my theory, all 
 this was known and ordered c from the beginning/ 
 and no more particular or express, than that seed 
 should ripen in harvest, or particular medicines 
 heal particular diseases. If you want more in- 
 stances in explanation, I will refer you to Tre- 
 maine, where a collection of them is made, which 
 may probably interest you.* Meantime, I would 
 glance in passing at the Gunpowder Plot, the 
 preservation of Simonides, and of a nobleman by 
 his dog." 
 
 " As I have lost the recollection of these," said 
 Campbell, " it may be as well for our subject to 
 refresh our memories with them." 
 
 " The story of Simonides," answered St. Law- 
 rence, " as told by Cicero, is this. He was em- 
 ployed by Scopas to write a poem in his praise. 
 He wrote the poem, but only half of it was in 
 praise of Scopas, the other half was an eulogy on 
 Castor and Pollux. He recited his poem at a 
 supper given by Scopas, who only paid him half 
 the price agreed for, telling him Castor and Pollux 
 might pay him the other half. At that instant 
 Simonides was called out of the room by a mes- 
 
 * See Tremaine, vol. iii, p. 240, 264.
 
 300 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 sage, as it was stated, from two young men at the 
 gate, supposed afterwards to have been Castor and 
 Pollux; for no sooner had he left the company, 
 than the roof fell in and crushed them all." 
 
 " You do not believe,'' said Campbell, drily, 
 " that the young men were Castor and Pollux P* 
 
 " Not quite," returned St. Lawrence, laughing, 
 " but they were young men, the message saved 
 the poetfs life, and the opinion of the time was, 
 that he was saved by a Particular Providence. 
 According to my scheme he was saved by the fiat 
 indeed of Providence, but conceived and ordained 
 at the beginning of time, operating through an 
 immense train of second causes, one begetting 
 another till the end was accomplished, and not by 
 an insulated intervention resolved upon and 
 adopted pro re nata. It was providential, indeed, 
 but only because every thing is providential, and 
 not one thing more than another." 
 
 " And your dog story ? " asked Campbell. 
 
 £i Nay you are more likely to relate that to 
 me," returned St. Lawrence, " since it is Scotch. 
 But take it as I heard it recounted by a Scotch 
 Laird of the old school, who believed every word 
 of it. A nobleman of your land of cakes and 
 superstition, was said to have had a favourite 
 mastiff, in whom, such was his fondness, he had 
 pardoned many felonies, chiefly of sheep murder.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 301 
 
 His patience being worn out, he at length ordered 
 the dog to be hanged, and addressed him to that 
 effect, in a pathetic speech. The dog, as if he under- 
 stood him, instantly disappeared, and was no more 
 heard of in Scotland. Two years afterwards, the 
 Duke (for he was no less), travelling in Flanders, 
 was benighted in one of the forests there ; and the 
 next stage being a fortified town, he was told at 
 the lone inn where he had stopped, that being too 
 late, he would not be admitted) and he agreed to a 
 proposal made him to remain where he was all 
 night, the accommodation being tolerably good. 
 At supper, to his and his servant's astonishment, 
 he saw enter the room his old and favourite 
 mastiff, whom he had been forced to condemn to 
 death. Great were the rejoicings on both sides ; 
 and it was observed that the dog would never quit 
 him, but resisted all attempts of the people of the 
 house to drive or coax him from the chamber. 
 As night advanced, and the Duke prepared to go 
 to bed, the dog became agitated, he howled and 
 scratched the floor, then laid his paws on the 
 Duke's shoulders, and looked wishfully in his face, 
 but was comparatively quiet, till the servant 
 departed to a chamber allotted to him out of the 
 house. The Duke then beginning to undress, the 
 dog became violent in opposing the stripping, laid 
 hold of his coat with his teeth, and struggled
 
 302 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 hard, and even fiercely, to prevent him from pro- 
 ceeding. The Duke was struck with this strange 
 violence, and finding whenever he desisted, that 
 the dog was quiet, reposed himself in an arm-chair 
 instead of going to bed. Here he dosed for a 
 couple of hours, when he was waked by the bark 
 of his friend, and on opening his eyes was aston- 
 ished at seeing the bed descending through the 
 floor. He immediately gave an alarm; the descent 
 of the bed stopt; and the Duke grasped his pistols, 
 waiting the event. Some minutes afterwards he 
 thought the door, which was bolted in the inside, 
 was attempted ; at least he heard footsteps ; upon 
 which he fired through the planks, and hallooed 
 loudly for his servant from the window. It was 
 midsummer, and soon became light, and being 
 joined by his man, they sallied over the house, 
 accompanied every where by the dog, who ex- 
 pressed his pleasure, it was said, by every possible 
 canine gesticulation. They searched the house, 
 and every adjoining shed, but found the whole 
 abandoned ; nor (that I ever heard) was there any 
 farther result. But the dog was of course taken 
 home, pardoned all his felonies, and lived happily 
 with his master ever afterwards." 
 
 " Your tale," said Campbell, who had been 
 very attentive, i( concludes dans toutes les regies. 
 It is too good to be doubted ; and for my part
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 303 
 
 I will believe it as long as I can, nor inquire too 
 closely into its truth. If true, I cannot be sur- 
 prised, particularly at my countrymen, if they 
 feel it a proof beyond all possibility of attack, of 
 the express interposition of Heaven. The dog 
 seems to have received a commission from above 
 for the part he played; nay, to have committed 
 sheep murder expressly in order to be banished 
 forth the realm, in order to get to Flanders, in 
 order, finally, to save his masters life. He is 
 gifted with almost human reason on purpose ; and 
 though he does not speak, like the horse of Achilles, 
 or the ass of Balaam, yet he understands when 
 his master tells him to be hanged, and absconds, 
 but only to learn how people may be murdered if 
 they go to bed, by sinking through a trap door ! 
 There is here, therefore, surely, Particular Provi- 
 dence enough and to spare ; yet, strange to say, 
 you are here the sceptic, not I ! But let us hear 
 your exposition, which I dare say is a very learned 
 one." 
 
 As the tone of irony in which this was said, 
 was also good humoured, St. Lawrance, not mind- 
 ing it, replied, " You are not correct in calling 
 me a sceptic. The story may be true ; but true 
 or false, I only differ from your worthy countryman 
 who told it me, as to the nature and mode of the 
 Providence that caused the escape. He believed
 
 304 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 that it was interference pro re nata, in a case not 
 anticipated ; I, that it was cast long beforehand, 
 and the consequence of a train of natural causes 
 and effects, flowing one from another from the be- 
 ginning, until it ended in the catastrophe in ques- 
 tion. Thus we both support the notion of a 
 presiding Providence ; only his, to make it more 
 marked, savours not a little of the miraculous — 
 which you, perhaps justly, question ; mine admits 
 no miracle at all ; treating it like every other work 
 of the Almighty, as proceeding on known princi- 
 ples, and thus, without restraint imposed, or addi- 
 tional power conferred, upon the laws of nature/' 
 " There may be something in this," observed 
 Campbell, resuming his serious tone ; " but of 
 course it must hold throughout every case that 
 can be supposed. If so, how do you answer the 
 searching question of the fine lines in the Essay 
 on Man ? 
 
 1 Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, 
 Forget to thunder, and recal her fires ? 
 When the loose mountain trembles from on high, 
 Shall gravitation cease if you go by ? 
 Or some old temple nodding to its fall, 
 For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ? ' " 
 
 " The question is both fair and cogent," replied 
 St. Lawrence, " and you are entitled to a fair and 
 full answer. It has, indeed, been already, I 
 think, well answered in Tremaine, where the very
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 305 
 
 question is put, though the answer, perhaps, is not 
 so immediate, nor in such satisfactory detail as 
 such a question ought to have received. Evelyn, 
 however, is perfectly sound in saying, that though 
 the ruin would certainly not wait for Chartres 5 
 head if the law of physics required that it should 
 fall, yet Providence, if it had decreed the destruc- 
 tion of Chartres, would have taken care at the 
 creation of the world, that second causes should 
 have brought him within the danger, exactly at 
 the time when, by the law of physics, that danger 
 would be fatal." 
 
 " The difficulty," said Campbell, " is to know 
 How the Deity could command second causes even 
 at the creation. That he might foresee them, and 
 what could be produced from them, may perhaps 
 be granted ; but that he should ordain what he 
 pleased through them, they proceeding upon known 
 and unalterable rules, surpasses my belief. If the 
 rules by which they generate one another, are 
 alterable at pleasure, that is a different thing ; but 
 proceeding, as you say yourself, according to the 
 laws of nature, can that alteration take place with- 
 out miracle ? " 
 
 " The difficulty," said St. Lawrence, " will va- 
 nish, I think, if you go high enough ; that is, to 
 the archetypal ideas that were in the Creator's 
 mind when his work was contemplated. For ex-
 
 306 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 ample : — we will say Chartres was to be killed 
 by the fall of a ruin. That ruin could only fall 
 (all things consecutively considered) at a given 
 moment, through a chain of the laws of physics. 
 Here then was the second cause for the fall, and 
 of course it might be traced to that first act of the 
 Creator (whatever it was) from which all flowed. 
 Then Chartres was to come under the ruin pre- 
 cisely when he did. Now what brought him there ? 
 we will say any fortuitous motive, fortuitous to 
 us, but not fortuitous to the Creator, because all 
 the second causes, which in the end brought him 
 there, were foreseen, one after the other, as they 
 flowed in succession from the first cause which set 
 the rest in motion, and was itself set in motion 
 by God. Although, therefore, all that happened 
 after the first motion, proceeded by unchangeable 
 laws, not interruptions, but even the very conse- 
 quence of free will ; yet as that first motion was 
 originated by the sole will, and according to the 
 sole pleasure, of the Creator, the last, as well as 
 all the intermediate events, depended entirely 
 upon that will and pleasure. Hence, without any 
 meddling with the laws of nature, or the free will 
 of man, without miracle or sudden interposition, 
 Providence may have willed and provided for the 
 death of Chartres/' * 
 * " Upon the whole," says Tucker (Light of Nature, vol. v.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 307 
 
 " Your deduction is both clear and forcible," ob- 
 served Campbell, when St. Lawrence had finished, 
 "and will afford room for meditation for many 
 a future hour; and yet, all being the will of Hea- 
 ven, which from your own account man can nei- 
 ther withstand nor elude, I am not yet prepared to 
 say that his will is free." 
 
 "The whole depends upon that wnTs being 
 accomplished without force, as I have already ob- 
 served," replied St. Lawrence. 
 
 " Can you particularize ? ? asked Campbell. 
 
 "Easily. For was Adam not left to his free 
 will, or could he not have avoided his catastrophe, 
 when persuaded by Eve to the act of disobe- 
 dience ? '' 
 
 " I suppose he could," answered Campbell ; 
 " but you see Heaven, which by your own ac- 
 count determines every thing, determined he should 
 not. How then was he blameable ? " 
 
 " That," said St. Lawrence, " would justify 
 (as far as accounting for a thing can justify it) all 
 the murders and rapines "since the creation; but, 
 
 p. 188), " we may conclude freedom, in whatever light we place 
 it, or to whatever power, real or imaginary, apply it, by no means 
 repugnant to the operations of prior causes moving us to the ex- 
 ercise of that power, nor to the dominion of Providence, having 
 all those causes, and their causes, at disposal, so that the plan of 
 Providence may well take effect, without infringing a tittle upon 
 our liberty." — See also Appendix, note b .
 
 308 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 with submission, that is not the question, which 
 is simply, whether our motives are obligatory upon 
 us, merely because we follow, or are persuaded by 
 them. If you were now to quit this room, in 
 search of a book, or because somebody knocked 
 at the door, would your merely doing so make you 
 believe that you could not help it, and had no 
 choice ? " 
 
 " According to you/' replied Campbell, "I should 
 say it was the will of Heaven ! " 
 
 " Be it so ; but not that it was the will of Hea- 
 ven that you might not stay in the room if you 
 pleased/' 
 
 " It is embarrassing," said Campbell. 
 
 " I think not," returned St. Lawrence ; " for 
 suppose a man whose wisdom and virtue we greatly 
 respect, is sent to persuade us to a particular con- 
 duct, and we are convinced by his representations 
 and agree. No force is here used ; we were free 
 to choose or refuse ; the decision was our own. 
 Would you say that we had no will to do other- 
 wise, because what we adopted seemed most de- 
 sirable ? " 
 
 " I imagine I should not/' returned Campbell. 
 
 " So much then for our freedom, if the conduct 
 proposed were prudent, honourable, virtuous ! 
 Now take it the other way ? Suppose, some great 
 temptation; the feasible usurpation of a crown;
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 309 
 
 the easy but unjust conquest of a province, or the 
 blandishments of a mistress sent by one king to 
 another for a political purpose, like Louise de 
 Querouaille from Louis XIV. to Charles II. In 
 this latter case was any force put upon Charles ? 
 Louis foresaw, from his knowledge of Charles's 
 inrlamability, that he could win him by this temp- 
 tation to his views. He did so ; but was Charles 
 not free because he followed his natural impulses ? 
 or did Louis constrain him because he made use 
 of the second cause (Louise Querouaille), to bring 
 about the purpose he had conceived ? " 
 
 Here Campbell, caustic as he was, laughed out- 
 right, but owned the argument was good, though a 
 little profane. " At the same time," said he, " you 
 have not provided for a case where the suasory 
 representations are zmsuccessful, and yet the point 
 accomplished ; which it must be if Providence so 
 will it ; and if it is thus accomplished, spite of op- 
 position, what still becomes of free wall?" 
 
 " My answer is," returned St. Lawrence, " that 
 there can be no such case between us, because the 
 very proposition we are discussing, supposes, as in- 
 deed you yourself affirm, that the object, whatever it 
 is, is accomplished. There cannot, therefore, have 
 been the failure in the suasory representations you 
 have mentioned. In other words, you affirm success 
 and failure both at the same time, and belonging 
 
 * no
 
 310 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 to the same thing ; a conclusion impossible, and 
 therefore not logically admissible." 
 
 a But may I not suppose/' retorted Campbell, 
 who did not much relish this reply, " that it might 
 be a design of Providence for its own good pur- 
 pose, that Querouaille should become a mistress to 
 a good king, who being thus good, and possessed 
 of free will, thwarted this design by rejecting her ? " 
 
 a With submission again/ 5 answered St. Law- 
 rence, " your supposition, as I have said, is a con- 
 tradiction ; for a design cannot succeed and not suc- 
 ceed ; or what is the same thing, the specific means 
 taken to accomplish it cannot be a success and a 
 failure at the same time. Could we, moreover, for 
 a moment entertain the fancy, that Providence 
 could intend to force a human being to sin, we 
 should ourselves be guilty of the impiety of ima- 
 gining something at war with, and contradictory to, 
 all its attributes. That it makes use of sinners, 
 made so by themselves, to punish or defeat sin in 
 others, is no doubt true, and one of the wonders 
 of this whole wonderful subject; but who ever 
 heard of Heaven contriving sin as an original pur- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " You have explained this part of the subject 
 sufficiently well, to make me ponder it again and 
 again," said Campbell ; " but one difficulty remains 
 to be cleared ; I fear the greatest of all."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 311 
 
 a I wait for it," said St. Lawrence. 
 
 cc It is this. You have provided for all cases 
 where Providence is supposed to have foreseen, 
 through second causes propitious to its intentions, 
 what it has designed to do; and I remember Wol- 
 laston, perhaps the best of our writers upon this 
 subject^ puts this part of the case exceedingly well. 
 But I suppose, if you really grant free will, you 
 mean not to deny that an obstinate persistance in 
 his will, if free, might enable a man to baffle all the 
 second causes in the world in an attempt to alter 
 it. If so, and yet Providence be resolved to ac- 
 complish its intention, how is it to be done ? " 
 
 a I allow with you/' replied St. Lawrence, " this 
 seems the greatest of all the difficulties that have 
 been supposed : nevertheless, I will, if you please, 
 before we take it by the horns, beg leave to exa- 
 mine into its real extent and magnitude ; which I 
 am tempted to believe is not so great as at first 
 sight appears." 
 
 (i I am all attention," said Campbell. 
 
 • c What I mean to say," observed St. Lawrence 
 " is, that we must not suppose, because a man 
 cannot do what he wills, that his will is therefore 
 not free. His power may be abridged, but not 
 therefore his will; for power and will are very 
 distinct things.* A man may will to rob another, 
 
 * This is explained in great clearness, and at great length, in 
 11 Search's Light of Nature," vol. v. title Free Will.
 
 312 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 yet be prevented by second causes unforeseen by 
 himself, though not by Providence. He may fall 
 ill, or may miss his prey." 
 
 " That is true," said Campbell, " but what do 
 you make of it ? " 
 
 " Merely that Providence may fully curb a 
 man's actions without meddling with his will. 
 And we have seen, in a vast many instances, how 
 it can prompt these actions by suasory causes, 
 that is by causes short of force. The extent and 
 magnitude of your difficulty is therefore, as I have 
 said, very much reduced ; in fact to that most ex- 
 traordinary case of an obstinate man resisting all 
 suasory motives that can possibly arise from the 
 innumerable second causes which Providence may 
 have generated from the beginning. This must, 
 indeed, be so rare, that I can hardly think it can 
 be made use of in argument. Yet if it is, it will 
 by no means hinder the will of Providence from 
 taking effect." 
 
 " How can that be," said Campbell, " when you 
 allow, though rarely, that a man, from his freedom, 
 may refuse, as it were, to be the instrument of 
 doing the thing designed ? " 
 
 " There may be other instruments," said St. 
 Lawrence ; and Campbell began to muse as if the 
 thought had just struck him. u Let us hear this 
 practically explained," said he.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 313 
 
 " Any history of any event in the world will do 
 it," answered St. Lawrence. 
 
 '• Would the bed-chamber women's quarrel ? * 
 asked Campbell, drily. 
 
 " Yes ! and you perhaps could not have a bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " I am all curiosity/ 5 returned the Laird. 
 
 " We must take the history beyond the bed- 
 chamber," proceeded St. Lawrence, "for it is 
 nothing less than the Peace of Utrecht. We are 
 to suppose that Providence, after authorizing the 
 Succession War, had resolved there should be 
 peace. The W T hig Ministry of Queen Anne, Godol- 
 phin, the Marlboroughs, with the Emperor and all 
 the Allies, were resolved the war should continue. 
 They had power to make the peace, but not the 
 will. Here then is your man of obstinacy, who 
 refuses to obey the suasory second causes that 
 may be presented to him ; and the scheme of go- 
 vernment laid down by Heaven leaves these in- 
 struments free." 
 
 " Well, and then ? " 
 
 " Why then Providence, which still resolves 
 upon the peace, chuses other instruments, and 
 that is all." 
 
 " Striking enough," observed Campbell. 
 
 " You see," continued St. Lawrence, K I enter 
 not here into the bed-chamber quarrel. Mrs. 
 
 vol. i. p
 
 314 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 Masham was only an inferior instrument to those 
 other superior instruments, Harley and Boling- 
 broke ; and old Sarah^s passionate temper was 
 subservient, by the disgust it occasioned to Queen 
 Anne, to the necessity for the fall of the Whigs ; 
 and here is as good an example as you can have, 
 how Providence may make every thing bend to 
 its will without forcing the will of man. 39 
 
 " I allow this," said Campbell, u and the rather 
 because it renders useless that curious, but fanci- 
 ful and far-fetched notion about a change in the 
 plan of the world, in order to get rid of this dif- 
 ficulty, which seems to be adopted in Tremaine." 
 
 e( You mean, I suppose," said St. Lawrence, 
 " the case of Sextus Tarquinius, fancied by Lau- 
 rentius Valla, which had engaged the attention of 
 Liebnitz. Tarquinius resolved to go to Rome to 
 be a king, as he was told by the Oracle he might 
 be, and meaning to be a very good king ; but re- 
 fusing the counsel of Jupiter not to go, this use 
 of his freewill, produced his destruction."* 
 " The whole is ingenious, but nothing more." 
 
 e< Still," answered St. Lawrence, " if even pos- 
 
 * The doctrine or illustration of Valla is so curious, that per- 
 haps I may be excused republishing it, in discussing a subject 
 upon which it so pointedly bears. — It will be found in the Ap- 
 pendix. Note C.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 315 
 
 sible in the nature of things, whether true or false, 
 it becomes of consequence as an illustration of the 
 theory of changes as to the plans of the world, 
 which I have imagined ; but the illustration I have 
 given is, I hope, enough without it." 
 
 * As to the case of Sextus Tarquinius, in my 
 turn I say, 'Valeat quantum valere potest/ I 
 allow, however, the solution is worth thinking of. 
 Meantime, you will add to my stores, if you will 
 follow up your former explanation with proofs, by 
 cases of the power of Providence to efts-pose, 
 where man is allowed to joro-pose. Believe me, I 
 shall be a willing listener. 5 ' 
 
 p 2
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 CASES OF PROVIDENCE. 
 
 ' ' Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, 
 When our deep plots do fail; and that should teach us, 
 There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew them how we will." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 £i I rejoice to have got thus far/* said St. Law- 
 rence, K for if I have succeeded in showing you 
 that Providence may be Providence and yet not 
 interfere with man's freedom, the illustrations of 
 that proposition by examples, in the examination 
 of second causes, will not only be easy, but agree- 
 able. It will amply make good the observation of 
 Bacon, that e a little philosophy inclineth a man's 
 mind to atheism; but depth in philosophy 
 bringeth men's minds about to religion. For 
 while the mind of man looketh upon second causes 
 scattered, it may sometimes rest in them and go 
 no farther ; but when it beholdeth the chain of 
 them confederate and linked together, it must 
 needs fly to Providence and Deity/ " 
 
 u This certainly falls in," said Campbell, " with
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 317 
 
 your general arrangement at the beginning of time, 
 of all that is to happen afterwards/ 5 
 
 u Before we proceed, however/ 5 continued St. 
 Lawrence, u . it will be right to have no misunder- 
 standing about one another^ terms ; which in all 
 discussions, but especially one like the present, 
 leads to inconvenience. I would therefore beg to 
 remind you, that I have endeavoured to show that 
 what in general is called providential, by which is 
 meant particular Providence (as when there has 
 been some wonderful piece of good, or escape from 
 evil fortune), is in fact no more providential than 
 ever)- thing we see and do every day of our lives ; 
 since all is under the guidance and has been ac- 
 tually foreseen by the eye of Heaven/ 5 
 
 * Yet if foreseen and allowed, it surely/ 5 said 
 Campbell, rt cannot fail to take place; and if it 
 cannot fail to take place, what again becomes of 
 Freedom ? 55 
 
 "I thought we had settled that point/ 5 answered 
 St. Lawrence ; " and indeed the language I have 
 used, that a thing may be foreseen, but not insti- 
 gated, goes the whole length of such difficulty as 
 there is (which I hold to be very little) in recon- 
 ciling the foreknowledge of the Almighty with the 
 free will of man. The accomplishment of many 
 of the prophecies are at once decisive of this, so, 
 as 1 think, to relieve us from all further difficulty 
 about the matter.' 5
 
 318 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " You would say/* replied Campbell, " that 
 though the prophets foretold events, they did not 
 cause them : which is true. But you forget it was 
 the Almighty who did cause them, — the Almighty 
 who gave the inspiration. 5 * 
 
 " And where is the difference, though it be 
 derived from Heaven/* asked St. Lawrence, " un- 
 less the foreseeing a thing is causing it ; which I 
 trust you do not hold ? ** 
 
 "I do not/* answered Campbell ; "but, if fore- 
 seen, can a thing happen otherwise than as it is 
 foreseen, and, if so, where is the liberty of choice?** 
 
 " Easily explained/* said St. Lawrence. " In 
 your own words, man proposes, God disposes. 
 In proposing, the will of man is free ; in disposing, 
 the power of God defeats success ; but the defeat 
 has nothing to do with the intention. I may resolve 
 to kill another, and God, without a direct inter- 
 ference with my mind, may not be able to alter 
 my resolve ; but he may deprive me of life, and 
 so prevent its effect. Would you, on that account, 
 say my will was invaded ? '* 
 
 " I am answered/* said Campbeil ; " for even 
 if this death had not been decreed from the begin- 
 ning, but resolved upon only at the moment, the 
 will is certainly not interfered with.** 
 
 " You will find/* said St. Lawrence, u this will 
 pervade every possible case in this division of the 
 subject.**
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 319 
 
 "You can then probably make out," said 
 Campbell, " more clearly than I think it is done in 
 Tremaine, one of his exemplifications of Provi- 
 dence, acting by second causes, though without an 
 express interference ; I mean the preservation of 
 Evelyn from a rabid dog, and of Tremaine himself 
 from the bullet of the Garde de Chasse. You will 
 recollect that Evelyn had time to shut the gate 
 only in the moment when the dog flew at it ; and 
 the Garde de Chasse only missed Tremaine, because 
 a snake happened to cross his path, in the moment 
 he was taking aim at the dog.* I own I never 
 sufficiently understood this ; for if, as seemed to 
 be laid down, Evelyn was made to arrive at the 
 gate at the exact time that he did, and the snake 
 was made to cross the path on purpose to prevent 
 the shot taking place, how is it possible that this 
 could not be an express interference/ 5 
 
 " Your remark is not unnatural," answered St. 
 Lawrence, "but also easily explained, if I have made 
 myself understood in my premise, that all the 
 events of the world were cast and provided for at 
 the commencement of time. In that case, Provi- 
 dence had provided thousands of years ago, for the 
 escape both of Evelyn and Tremaine, and fore- 
 knowing that these events would take place, and 
 
 * See Tremaine, vol. iii. 117.
 
 320 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 resolving they should be harmless, had so arranged 
 the course of second causes, that Evelyn was at 
 the gate, and the snake in the pathway, precisely 
 when they were. Thus there was no sudden in- 
 terference, as if the danger had not been antici- 
 pated, nor was there any miraculous meddling 
 with the laws of nature, to interrupt or alter the 
 free will of any of the parties. In point of fact, 
 the difficulty consists merely in the ambiguity of 
 the word you have used, in saying that Evelyn 
 was made to be at the gate, and the snake made to 
 cross the path." 
 
 "You have made this clear," said Campbell, 
 " and I thank you ; I have, however, many more 
 cases." 
 
 " As many as you please/' said St. Lawrence, 
 "for I wish the soundness of my doctrine to be 
 tried to the utmost." 
 
 "Well then," continued Campbell, "was not 
 the King of Prussia, though called the infidel king, 
 right, when after a victory he cried Dieu mercie et 
 mes gros battaillons ? If the gros battaillons by 
 their courage won the battle, in the usual way in 
 which battles were won, how was it Providence ? " 
 
 " The answer is," replied St. Lawrence, " that 
 Providence had decreed the battle should be won, 
 ages before Frederick was born; and had also
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 321 
 
 decreed the concatenation of second causes which 
 made the soldiers what they were." 
 
 * You give then, no personal merit to the sol- 
 diers/' said Campbell; " and whether they had been 
 heroes or cowards, the battle, according to you, 
 would have been won." 
 
 * Not so," answered St. Lawrence, " the soldiers, 
 as well as the king himself, have all the merit of 
 having, by the exercise of their own free will, made 
 themselves what they were, God permitting it at the 
 creation of the world, and using it as the instrument 
 by which the victory he had thought fit to decree, 
 was to be accomplished. Had the soldiers been 
 cowards, they would not have been proper instru- 
 ments, and all other things remaining the same, 
 the battle therefore would not have been won." 
 
 (C But," answered Campbell, " unless Heaven had 
 forced these second causes, which you allow your- 
 self would have been miracles, it could not be 
 sure of their producing the effect intended, and 
 they might have produced a contrary effect. How 
 in that case ? " 
 
 u In that case, as I have already held," said St. 
 Lawrence, "a different course of events would 
 have been planned." 
 
 "The supposition is stupendous ! nothing less 
 than that the free will of man might force the 
 Almighty to alter a plan." 
 p5
 
 322 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " To be consistent, I must go all that lengthy" 
 said St. Lawrence, " and all that we can say is 5 
 that in chusing to create a being with free will, it 
 was God's pleasure that it should be so. But to 
 return to your question of the personal merits of 
 the instruments employed, though the soldiers 
 were thus instruments, and could have done no- 
 thing but by the behest of the Almighty, the 
 merit of being what they were through their free- 
 dom of will, was all their own. And this explains 
 satisfactorily and unambiguously a phrase which 
 has sometimes embarrassed half-seeing sceptics, 
 that a man through or under Providence, has 
 accomplished any given thing/* 
 
 " I am content with this," said Campbell ; i£ but 
 what say you to King William's famous maxim, 
 (excellent for a soldier,) that every ball has its 
 billet." 
 
 u That it is what you have called it — excellent for 
 a soldier ; but that the bullet obeys the course of 
 second causes, like every thing else, and may and 
 must be affected like every thing else, by a man's 
 own conduct. It is not true therefore that death or 
 safety must inevitably take place, as they often do 
 take place in war ; the choice of being in the field, or 
 out of the field, being universally left to our- 
 selves."
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 323 
 
 " How so? " asked Campbell ; " is not the soldier 
 compelled to be present in the battle ? " 
 
 " Compelled by his officers, yes ! but not by 
 Providence, whether he will or no. Having 
 entered the service, he is bound ; but his entering 
 or not, was his own option." 
 
 "Do you mean then, that Providence could 
 not have compelled him to serve ? " 
 
 "We must settle what we mean by compel 
 before I answer. If you mean a blind compelling 
 force, where there is no choice but obedience, I 
 say no ; if you mean secret motives infused into 
 him by Heaven for the purpose proposed, it inter- 
 rupts his free will, is miraculous, and I also say no ; 
 but if you mean that it may be the intention of 
 God, and brought about by second causes acting 
 in concert with free will, there is neither compul- 
 sion nor necessity." 
 
 " This may apply/' observed Campbell, "before 
 the military life is embraced, but how afterwards, 
 when the trumpet has sounded, and the onslaught 
 commenced? Each being, as you say, decreed 
 by Providence, could Hotspur have escaped his 
 death at Shrewsbury, or Wellington met his at 
 Waterloo ? And if neither, what did it signify 
 what either chief did to affect either his personal 
 safety or destruction."
 
 324 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 " I have admitted," said St. Lawrence, " that 
 the death or the safety, had been already deter- 
 mined by Heaven ; but how the behest was to be 
 fulfilled, (not being forced,) depended upon the 
 conduct of the men themselves. The decree 
 against Hotspur, therefore, according to our 
 theory, went forth at the beginning of the world. 
 But how went forth ? Not that Hotspur should die 
 whatever his conduct, but only, we will say, in the 
 event of his acting in a particular way in the field ; 
 say for example, of his resolving to encounter all 
 who were clad in the armour of the king. If he 
 had not done this by virtue of his free will, he 
 might perhaps have been saved by the decree 
 being altered. The maxim therefore of the billet 
 is so far not true, that it does not deliver the sol- 
 dier from the necessity of exertion, or make his con- 
 duct in action indifferent. So also, the safety of the 
 Duke of Wellington may have been, and probably 
 was decreed. But how decreed ? Not so as to 
 give him a license to be careless of himself, or 
 march up to the mouth of a cannon pointed at his 
 breast, as if he bore a charmed life ; but using all 
 proper precautions that generals use, to avoid the 
 onsets becoming in a grenadier but not in them. 
 With this explanation King William's maxim may 
 be true ; without it, no individual exertion nor pru-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 325 
 
 dence can avail or be influential either for attack 
 or defence, but all must be blind predestination." 
 
 a You have well said," observed Campbell ; 
 " yet I should be glad to know how these second 
 causes, not miracles, (which we both of us dis- 
 card,) can be made to do the original will of 
 Heaven, in regard to either destruction or safety ? " 
 
 " For example, a loaded musket is presented ; 
 the aim direct, the trigger pulled : — must not the 
 man drop ? A thousand unexpected contingencies 
 may give the answer. The powder may have been 
 damaged in a thousand ways ; the ingredients in 
 the first concoction defective; or the particular 
 cartridge got wet, perhaps by a defect in the car- 
 touch box — perhaps that part only of the box 
 where that identical cartridge had been lodged; 
 and perhaps all these defects might be traced 
 through combinations of a thousand years ; or in 
 countries where the salt-petre was produced, ten 
 thousand miles off. All these may have been the 
 work of Providence with a view to save this 
 individual life, and all, you see, without miracle. 
 
 u Then as to destruction spite of precaution, I 
 need not say in how many ways it may be met. 
 A chance shot, when supposed out of reach, or 
 even from a supposed friend, as was suspected in 
 the death of Charles XII. But I will not fatigue 
 you with instances, all showing Providence, but
 
 326 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 no miracle, and all conceived and concocted at the 
 beginning of time, yet without in the least dis- 
 pensing with the exertions of man." 
 
 " Again/' observed Campbell, " you have well 
 said : but if this be true, and all be Providence 
 without miracle, whatever we do ourselves, what 
 becomes of the necessity of prayer." 
 
 " A great, awful, and imposing subject ! " said 
 St. Lawrence. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 THE DOCTRINE OF PRAYER. 
 
 " Shall we serve Heaven with less respect, 
 Than we do minister to our gross selves ? " 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 " When we pray," said St. Lawrence, in 
 answer to CampbelFs last question, " we pray to a 
 Superior Being, who, we at least think, can grant 
 our prayers, and this, whether that Being be 
 human or divine. Even idolators must think 
 there is an efficacy in their prayers, or they would 
 not offer them. There is this difference, however,
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 327 
 
 between prayers to a human and to a divine per- 
 son, — that to the first we are obliged to make known 
 our wants, or he would not understand them ; to 
 the last, though the object is the same, namely, that 
 our wants should be relieved, their exposition is 
 not necessary, as the Deity must know them 
 already. f Why then pray at all ? ' — that is a ques- 
 tion that has often been asked. If God not only 
 knows what our wants are, but also knows better 
 than ourselves, whether it is best to grant them or 
 not, it should seem prayer is unnecessary. All 
 this is exclusive of another proposition of still 
 greater importance, namely that God, disposing of 
 every thing in a manner the most wise and most 
 beneficial for all his creatures, it cannot be sup- 
 posed that the blind supplications of individuals 
 ever move him. 
 
 " The answer to these questions, (not unfair 
 ones,) has been made in many shapes. The 
 best seems to be, that prayer exercises our 
 humility, our sense of dependence upon God, and 
 being generally mixed with thanksgiving (though 
 by no means the same with it), it keeps up a com- 
 munication with Heaven salutary to the soul. 
 This would be good sense as well as piety, even 
 if there were not another and more cogent cause, 
 founded in self interest, for urgent humble, and
 
 328 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 earnest prayer ; for we are told that that may be 
 given to prayer which may be denied to neglect ; — 
 as indeed nothing is more common among human 
 creatures, than for one man, though ever so well 
 disposed towards another, or ever so cognizant 
 of his wants, to decline offering what the other is 
 too proud or too indifferent to ask. However, it 
 was not my intention, by way of prefacing my 
 answers to your questions, to enter upon either 
 the uses or nature of prayer ; I trust that that is 
 by no means necessary." 
 
 " Certainly not/' answered Campbell ; " it is, 
 however, a preface by no means thrown away. 
 At the same time I should wish to know how you 
 answer the objection you have yourself noticed, 
 that it is difficult, nay outrageous to suppose, weak 
 worms and ants that we are, that such creatures 
 can have such consequence with God as to bend 
 him from his will, were it otherwise possible ?" 
 
 " The answer is short, but most pithy," said St. 
 Lawrence. ec You will at least allow that it is 
 man's nature to pray ; that the whole race where- 
 ever found, educated or uneducated, are worship- 
 pers and supplicants/' 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Campbell." 
 
 * You allow, too, that God is the author of 
 nature ? " 

 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 329 
 
 " Of course ! " 
 
 " Then God himself has authorised us, worms 
 and ants as we are in comparison, to do the thing 
 that so surprises you." 
 
 " I have yet another specific question," said 
 Campbell, " which is this : — If every thing done, 
 or attempted to be done in the world, if all the 
 good and evil which occupy us from morning to 
 night, is the work of Providence, and being fore- 
 seen, cannot be altered, I still would ask, where 
 is the necessity for prayer ? What hope can be 
 entertained of success, what fear of failure, when 
 all is already settled in the divine mind ? " 
 
 u Pointedly put," answered St. Lawrence, u but 
 I think a little attention to the principles we have 
 laid down, will bring us easily through the diffi- 
 culty." 
 
 " I am all attention." 
 
 u The answer is most simple, being neither 
 more nor less than what I have just now held, 
 that God foreseeing whether we shall humble our- 
 selves before him, confide in, and pray to him, or 
 not, has, though long before our existence, settled 
 the result, as if it were the present hour; and 
 consequently we approach his throne with all the 
 hopes and fears of uncertainty, which the present 
 hour would create. This brings us to the old (T 
 believe sound, but almost incomprehensible) tenet*
 
 330 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 that there is no time with the Almighty, or at least 
 that every thing is present. It follows, therefore, 
 that whatever may be the case with the Deity, 
 with us, we may and must proceed as if all we did 
 was before him, according to our own notions of 
 the present." 
 
 u This is abstruse/' said Campbell. 
 
 iC It is so, but let us try if we cannot simplify it 
 a little. Let us suppose (if we may make such a 
 supposition) that God, instead of the illimitable 
 being he is, had not the foreknowledge we con- 
 ceive of him ; and that, instead of having finally 
 determined upon the object of our prayer, he 
 could have said, if I am supplicated in a proper 
 spirit, I will grant : if neglected, the thing wished 
 for shall not be. Let us suppose, I say, that this 
 is the idea of him entertained by his creatures ? " 
 
 " We should then," said Campbell, " be un- 
 doubtedly both desirous and bound to pray. 5 ' 
 
 " How little farther then do we go ; or rather I 
 may ask — do we go at all farther, when, thinking 
 this to be the condition of his listening to us, we 
 pour ourselves out to him in prayer ? We know 
 that he knows what is best for us, but best, accord- 
 ing to the disposition we show to cultivate or neg- 
 lect him ; and how does his having foreseen these 
 dispositions release us from the necessity of show- 
 ing them. Though the thing asked therefore has
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 331 
 
 been determined before hand, it has only been so 
 because of our praying for it, which has also been 
 known before hand ; and how can that be, if there 
 is no prayer at all ? " 
 
 " Your dilemma/' said Campbell, " seems little 
 short of convincing. Cases, however, do much 
 for the developement of principles, and I would 
 wish to hear more, illustrative both of the pos- 
 sibility of moving an Allwise, as well as Almighty 
 Being, and of his power, without miracle, to change 
 the course of things which would otherwise take 
 place." 
 
 " Would you name a specific case of the last ? "- 
 said St. Lawrence. 
 
 " Perhaps I cannot find a better than is sup- 
 plied by Tremaine, who himself asks this specific 
 question. c A child/ says he, ■ is sick ; the afflicted 
 and pious father implores Providence to bless the 
 endeavour of the physician. Does Providence 
 suddenly enlighten the physician's mind, discover 
 new drugs for him, or give superior efficacy to old 
 ones, in order to grant the prayer? If it do this, 
 it is miracle ; if it do not, it is not Providence. 
 So also, in the reverse of this ; if the physician's 
 knowledge is for a time clouded on purpose that 
 the child may die, it is miracle ; if it die because 
 the physician is naturally unskilful, it is not Pro-
 
 332 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 vidence.* I do not think this is specifically 
 answered in Tremaine.' \ 
 
 K Not specifically, perhaps," said St. Lawrence, 
 " but sufficiently in the general principles we have 
 been discussing, from which you can yourself 
 easily supply the answer. According to us, Pro- 
 vidence, in the beginning of time, (for to that as 
 our basis we must always revert,) foreseeing the 
 child's illness, and also the father's piety and 
 prayer, which it therefore seems good to him to 
 grant; foreseeing also, that the train of second 
 causes which it has laid, is such as that the child 
 may recover through the physician and remedies 
 employed, Providence gives its fiat to that train, 
 and thus may be said to bless the physician's 
 endeavour at the moment, though the result was 
 settled long ago. On the other hand, had the 
 father not been pious, not prayed, or been for any 
 reason condemned to lose his child, the original 
 train of second causes laid at the commencement 
 of the world, would have been altered, and the 
 child would have died. But being so laid at the 
 commencement, when the laws of nature were first 
 put in motion, there needed no alteration after- 
 wards, either to preserve or kill, and thus in 
 neither case was there any miracle or interference, 
 yet all was Providence." 
 
 * Tremaine, vol. iii, p. 246.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 333 
 
 u You have tolerably well unravelled a compli- 
 cated case/' said Campbell ; i( yet I own that I 
 have been sometimes puzzled by the storms on 
 this rugged coast, which have afforded ample food 
 for speculation upon this fearful subject. The 
 hair-breadth ^scapes I have witnessed of sailors 
 and fishermen, their frequent distress and dan- 
 ger, and as frequent preservation and recovery, 
 only, as it were, to brave and incur everything 
 anew, have turned me to the question with unre- 
 mitting interest; yet always without success. " 
 
 " What think they of it themselves ? " said 
 St. Lawrence. 
 
 " Why, for the most part, I believe, that the 
 relief comes immediately from above ; and coming 
 so often, when merely to look at the waves one 
 would think they could not escape being swallowed 
 up, they and we too- on shore, are inclined to 
 believe they must be particularly protected." 
 
 " Their belief is no more than natural, and at 
 any rate is comfortable/' said St. Lawrence. 
 
 "Heaven forbid we should disturb it ! " observed 
 Campbell. 
 
 " Disturb it ? " exclaimed St. Lawrence. " Every 
 thing I have said ; everything, I think, goes to 
 confirm it ; only not in the way you are disposed 
 to uphold. I am glad, however, you have men- 
 tioned the dangers of the sea, as they speak so
 
 334 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 immediately and so terribly to the senses, that 
 deliverance from them, more than from any other 
 dangers, seem peculiarly to demonstrate the care 
 and power of Providence. The jaws of a lion, 
 ready to close upon a man's head, are scarcely 
 more terrific or more inevitable than a ship 
 foundering in the waves ; and hence I remember 
 one of the most powerful instances of the conver- 
 sion of an infidel, was effected by his having been 
 twice the only man left in vessels destroyed by 
 storm. Can we wonder, then, at the emphatic 
 burst in the beautiful Psalm, 
 
 ' They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their 
 business in the deep waters — these men see the works of the 
 Lord, and his wonders in the deep.' " 
 
 ee A warm and eloquent, and, at the same time, 
 just ebullition/' said Campbell; "and it almost 
 proves direct interference." 
 
 " If anything could warrant that persuasion," 
 replied St. Lawrence, "it would be the picture 
 given throughout the glowing service from which 
 I have borrowed this citation. You may remem- 
 ber how this apposite and stirring Psalm goes on, 
 
 1 For, at his word, the stormy wind ariseth, which lifteth up 
 the waves thereof. 
 
 ' They are carried up to the heaven and down again to the 
 deep ; their soul melteth away because of their trouble.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 335 
 
 They reel to and fro, they stagger like a drunken man, and 
 are at their wits' end. 
 
 ' So when they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, he deliver- 
 eth them out of their distress. 
 
 1 For he maketh the storm to cease, so that the waves thereof 
 are still.'* 
 
 " No wonder that sailors are imbued with re- 
 ligion, notwithstanding the recklessness of their 
 lives." 
 
 " Did they not, however/* said Campbell, a on 
 these occasions, bestir themselves with the energy 
 that belongs to them, brave the danger instead of 
 succumbing, and mount to the topmast height of 
 it, instead of contenting themselves with prayer, 
 they might after all be disappointed/' 
 
 " This is but the gros battaillons over again/ 5 
 retorted St. Lawrence, rather displeased. " To 
 be sure, when danger threatens, they must brave 
 it, and, being human, by human means. God 
 beneficently says, e Call upon me in the time of 
 trouble, and I will hear thee.' But how hear? 
 By commuting exertion for invocation ? — No ! 
 by blessing the confident with success, but 
 abandoning the despairing, if they abandon them- 
 selves. And hence we may gather the real 
 scheme of providential government. For great is 
 the mistake to think that trusting to Providence, 
 
 • Psalm evil.
 
 336 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 as it is called, is to throw off all care from our own 
 shoulders, like the Methodist preacher and im- 
 postor H , who declares that being once 
 
 in want of a pair of breeches, he prayed for them, 
 and the next day one of his flock brought him a 
 pair as a present. No ! the vigilance of Provi- 
 dence, unremitting as it is, by no means remits 
 any one of our own energies, but demands their 
 exertion, in order to crown them with success. 
 We are therefore anything but released from the 
 necessity of acting, as many pious people think 
 we are. If we do not plough, sow, and reap, we 
 shall starve ; if we do not build houses, the rain 
 will not clear up to keep us dry ; if we rush into 
 the fire, it will .burn ; if into the water, it will 
 drown. All that we can look to, therefore, (and 
 a great thing it is,) is, that acting in our natures, 
 and endeavouring the best, God may, as I have 
 said, bless those endeavours by so disposing, or 
 (as I ought rather to say) by so having disposed 
 second causes, as to occasion success. The 
 corollary from this is, that the industry, the 
 struggles, and the labours of man, must proceed as 
 they do, notwithstanding we may feel that we are 
 under an invisible direction from above, or have 
 a friend at hand who will help, or has resolved to 
 help us if we deserve it : and prayer, so far from 
 being on that account unnecessary, is only the
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 33/ 
 
 more incumbent upon us in everything we do. 
 This ought never to be out of sight, and I have 
 dwelt the more earnestly upon it, because I have 
 observed mistakes not unimportant in many good 
 people, as to the nature of the providential go- 
 vernment, which it flatters them to think is, by 
 palpable and sudden interposition, setting aside 
 the usual course of nature in their favour." 
 
 ee This is only the truth," said Campbell, " but 
 if a poor man in distress find a pot of money, 
 which relieves him, will you say it is not 
 providential ? " 
 
 " Certainly not; but only providential as a 
 thing determined at the beginning of time, and so 
 working itself through all the second causes, till 
 the money is found. For I cannot too often 
 repeat, that all and everything that happens, or 
 can happen, is in that light providential. As a 
 special interposition, for a special purpose, as if 
 Providence had been taken by surprise, I unhesita- 
 tingly say no!"* 
 
 " You are at least consistent,'* observed 
 Campbell, " I had almost said convincing. But 
 what say you to the notions of a man with whom 
 I suppose you will not quarrel — Warburton ? I 
 allude to his book, Julian ; learned and ingenious, 
 
 * Vide note * in the Appendix. 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 338 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 if not convincing; written on purpose to prove 
 the miracle, (and therefore undoubtedly the 
 special interference of Heaven,) which prevented 
 the rebuilding of Jerusalem. The history relates * 
 that the workmen were perpetually, as well as 
 powerfully, interrupted in their attempt to dig the 
 foundations of the city, by the incessant bursting 
 forth of balls of fire, until, after repeated failures, 
 the enterprise was abandoned by the emperor, 
 sore against his will. Julian, I think, meant to 
 renew the enterprize in person, but was killed in 
 the Persian war, before he could attend to it. If 
 this be true, and it is not a particular interposition, 
 I don't know what is. However, I would rather 
 leave the bishop to settle with you, and be myself 
 a mere spectator of the fight/' 
 
 ee There will be no fight/ 5 answered St. Law- 
 rence. 
 
 " What, do you doubt the miracle, related by 
 writers both sacred and profane ? Do you deny the 
 fact of the discontinuance of the attempt, for the 
 cause stated ? " 
 
 e< Neither one nor the other,' 5 returned St. 
 Lawrence, " nor is the case worth a word. That 
 the workmen were baffled by a subterranean fire, 
 may be true ; that there was any interference to 
 make the fire break out where it did, and when it 
 
 * Ammiaaus Marcellinus.
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 33 9 
 
 did, does not appear, and cannot be proved. If 
 merely a volcanic operation, the whole question is 
 at an end, and its being the work of Providence to 
 prevent the rebuilding of Jerusalem, the object of 
 which I at least cannot appreciate, and do not 
 meddle with, must just be left to the explanations 
 we have already discussed, in regard to the 
 management of second causes, among which this 
 fiery eruption may evidently be classed." 
 
 " I own," observed Campbell, " that all these 
 considerations are certainly curious, perhaps pro- 
 found; at least they afford matter for deep and 
 continued thought. But what a Jew, especially 
 an ancient one, would say to you, for doubting 
 the whole history of his favoured ancestors, who 
 dealt in nothing but interposition, and whose very 
 government upon earth was visible theocracy ; 
 what Moses, and Elijah, and Samuel, would say to 
 you for these tenets, I should be almost fearful to 
 ask ! It is obvious that the Jews at least are above 
 being congregated with the common race of men. 
 Upon every, the most trifling occasions, God ap- 
 pears to them, no matter whether in day dreams 
 or night dreams, by shekinahs, or prophecies, or 
 the Bath KoL* There is a direct communication 
 
 * The Bath Kol was a sudden and temporary communication 
 from Heaven, in the mind of the persoD to whom it was made, as 
 a voice, or some passing sign. 
 
 Q 2
 
 340 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 with him ; he sends angels to them on all the 
 commonest occasions ; he makes, alters, and re- 
 news covenants ; gives names, executes malefac- 
 tors, or pardons repentant sinners on the spot. 
 Yet you endeavour to explain away all this, and 
 deny positive interposition ? Again, I say, what 
 will Moses and Samuel say to you for it ? " 
 
 a It concerns me very little/' answered St. Law- 
 rence, " for the Jewish history is altogether insu- 
 lated in the history of the world ; their nation was 
 like no other nation ; they professed to be chosen 
 expressly to be the depositaries of the understand- 
 ing and the worship of the one only God, amid 
 the universal idolatry of other nations. They at 
 least explain, therefore, a reason for this difference 
 between them and all other people, and with it per- 
 haps, for the different mode of proceeding towards 
 them adopted by Providence. I therefore profess 
 not to doubt, as you suppose me to do, by the 
 theory by which I abide. With the Jews, their 
 polity, their history, and miracles, I do not meddle ; 
 and thus explained, your observation does not 
 affect the system I have laid down ; at any rate, 
 their theocracy has long been at an end, and was 
 so long before the coming of Christ ; and a Jew, 
 as far as regards the mode in which Providence di- 
 rects him, is not different from any other man/ 5 
 
 u I thought to have hit you with this,' 5 said Camp-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 341 
 
 bell, " but you are armed at all points. I must 
 allow you have gone deeper than I into the whole 
 of this deep subject, favourite as it has always 
 been with me." 
 
 u I have often 6 outwatched the bear ' to do so,'^ 
 answered St. Lawrence ; " and if I have succeeded 
 in clearing the doubts of but one man, my grati- 
 fication will be complete/' 
 
 " But if you are satisfied with the explanation 
 of the propriety and duty of prayer, what will you 
 be as to the duty of thanksgiving? Upon that 
 there can be no doubt, no hesitation ; and yet/' 
 said Campbell, " I have heard men, by no means 
 hard of heart, selfish, or scorners, assert that it is 
 a mere feeling not warranted by the fact of the 
 case. They say that God in his wisdom having 
 ordered every thing he thought fit and right, it 
 would be fit and right without any view to serve 
 or benefit any particular individual, who, if happy, 
 is made so by a design of the creation, in the same 
 manner as other animals are designed to enjoy 
 themselves in their peculiar elements. What, for 
 example, seems happier than a duck in its pond, 
 a flock of pigeons in the air, a lamb, or even a 
 child at play ? Yet who thinks of their being grate- 
 ful for the necessity of being so, as a duty, or even 
 that it is expected, though the bounty is the volun- 
 tary bounty of God ? On this subject I cannot
 
 342 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 but recollect the amusement which the gratitude 
 or vanity of a pious dictionary-maker gave to Bo- 
 lingbroke, who always in his thanksgivings added, 
 particularly, that the Deity had created dictionary- 
 makers." 
 
 " Depend upon it/' said St. Lawrence, " that 
 quaint as this might be, the dictionary-maker had 
 a better heart than the man who ridiculed him ; 
 and as to thanksgiving being not warranted by the 
 fact of the case, if this is or can be thought by 
 any creature in a human shape, I should doubt 
 the character you have applied to him, of not being 
 hard of heart, selfish, or a scorner. On the con- 
 trary, I should think he had the heart of a stone. 
 I have heard, indeed, in that earthquake, the 
 French revolution, when all that was stately and 
 all that was beautiful in morals or religion was 
 overthrown, in order, afterwards, as was said, to 
 render every thing perfect — I have heard of pro- 
 fessed Atheists, and of some self-called philoso- 
 phers, who, among other reforms, thought grati- 
 tude was unworthy of man, and ought to be ex- 
 punged from the moral code. But, like other re- 
 formers, when their turn was served, and they had 
 got rid of rivals and seated themselves in their 
 places, they thought that this same homely grati- 
 tude, among other old-fashioned virtues which had 
 done their part for a few centuries in the service of
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 843 
 
 mankind, might still be of some use, and they 
 therefore restored it, with the churches they had 
 pillaged. So perhaps may it be with those, at 
 best blind and misguided people (if indeed they 
 exist) who, feeling all that can make the heart 
 buoyant with pleasure, though perhaps secret and 
 unaccountable, are yet able in their selfishness to 
 say they owe no thanks, for all is their due. But 
 these, as I have said, are blind and misguided, 
 hardened by pride, which they call philosophy. 
 Remove their philosophy, and let nature return, 
 and the Author of Nature will resume his rights. 
 I have not even the power to conceive a man, not 
 absolutely corrupt and rotten with the insolence 
 of prosperity, or hardened by misery, to feel the 
 mere pleasure of existence, and not be grateful 
 for it." 
 
 " You describe," observed Campbell, " men of 
 a Golden Age ; but where are they now to be 
 found?" 
 
 u Oftener than you seem to imagine," said St. 
 Lawrence, " for all the ills, moral and physical^ 
 that appear to surround us ; for though evil cer- 
 tainly is in part our lot, in how much greater de- 
 gree is good ? For one unhappy person, not made 
 so by his own act, how many thousands are there 
 who might revel in happiness if they pleased ? 
 How does the lone martyr to gout, when he looks
 
 344 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 from his chamber upon the crowds that pass and 
 repass, free and bounding, with the mere power of 
 limbs, think probably with discontent on his own 
 lot, to be a single prisoner, while myriads of his 
 fellow men are joyous with liberty ! So it is in 
 every thing, were men wise enough to see it; 
 both pain and misery are vociferous, enjoyment 
 quiet, and too often ungrateful. What comes 
 every day we think our due> and we care not for 
 the hand that feeds us, 
 
 ' For swinish gluttony 
 
 Ne'er looks to Heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast.' 
 
 We look only at the immediate, the visible, second 
 cause of our pleasures, and forget the first, be- 
 cause it is invisible," 
 
 " Are you of opinion then," said Campbell, 
 after seriously musing, " that the preponderance 
 of good over evil, of happiness over unhappiness, 
 is so decidedly great ? " 
 
 " Of nothing am I more certain," answered St. 
 Lawrence. 
 
 " Yet what a catalogue may be, and is made," 
 said Campbell, " of moral evils (to say nothing of 
 physical) which only to read, makes one shudder. 
 Shall I give you one I not long ago found in a 
 writer, not at all disposed to quarrel with Provi- 
 dence, I mean Abraham Tucker, the profound as
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 345 
 
 v\-ell as ingenious author of the Light of Na- 
 ture ¥> 
 
 " I know it well," said St. Lawrence, " but as 
 we are upon the subject, it will do no harm to 
 hear it again/' 
 
 Campbell then took down the volume and 
 read his catalogue, with a dry sort of wry face, 
 at the supposed preponderance of good in the 
 world. There were enumerated, unnatural pa- 
 rents, faithless wives, disobedient children, un- 
 grateful friends, deceitful patrons, approach of 
 ruin, disappointment of schemes, resentment of 
 affronts, animosities against persons we cannot 
 hurt, slights of the world upon supposed merit, 
 fear and superstition, fires, robbers, small-pox, 
 (why did he not add wars, plague, and blue 
 cholera?) apparitions, prognostics, and dreams, 
 doubts about predestination, desperations of a 
 future state, avidities and despondencies of metho- 
 dism, misgivings of free thinking. 
 
 " There," said Campbell, as he wound up, " whac 
 have you to oppose as a balance to this ? " 
 
 " Really," said St. Lawrence, " I wonder you 
 have contented yourself with so meagre a list ; for 
 while he was about it, Tucker might have added to 
 our shuddering, all the horrible diseases incident 
 to human nature, age, ache, penury, and imprison- 
 ment, the ' whips and scorns of the times, the op- 
 Q 5
 
 346 ST. LAWRENCE, 
 
 pressors wrong, the proud man's contumely, the 
 pangs of despised love, the law's delay, the inso- 
 lence of office, and above all, the spurns that pa- 
 tient merit of the unworthy takes/ All these are 
 to be found ; and you see Shakspeare understood 
 catalogues of evils, as well as Tucker himself; but 
 with all this, and were it ten times larger, it would 
 not reach one ten thousandth part of the good 
 to be ranged on the other side. For, as I have 
 observed, complaint is loud, content quiet ; for 
 one diseased man in body or mind, there are ten 
 thousand in health ; for one miserable, a thousand, 
 nay, the bulk of mankind, cheerful ; but were this 
 not so, as it is certain that vast numbers do ac- 
 tually escape misfortune, and are not exposed to 
 the evils of the catalogue, what have they to say 
 if they do not thank the Being that has so fa- 
 voured them ? Behold the man writhing under the 
 stone, torn with gout, or worn with tic dolou- 
 reux ; behold another cursed in his children, be- 
 trayed by his dearest friend, ruined by perfidy, 
 and reduced from opulence to beggary. Take a 
 happier subject, beaming with constant health, 
 ever tranquil in mind. Has he no cause to be 
 thankful? The very existence of evil, and the 
 greater it is, ought the more to touch the hearts of 
 those who are free from misery; and do not thou-
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 347 
 
 sands escape ? And are there no enjoyments which 
 ought to make the heart run over with gratitude ? 
 You ask what there is to balance our wretched- 
 ness. I answer, all that can make life lovely and 
 joyous. If there is winter, there are also the 
 spring, the summer, and the fruits of autumn. If 
 there is ugliness of body or mind, there are 
 beauty, the affections, the charities of kindred 
 (outnumbering a million of times the instances of 
 their contraries) ; all the generous passions, kind- 
 ness, friendship, honour ; the cardinal virtues, 
 piety, hope here and hereafter; health, animal 
 spirits, the acquisition of knowledge, gratified am- 
 bition, and (still more delightful) gratified love ! " 
 
 u Very charming," said Campbell, rather sardo- 
 nically, u but where do you find them, except in 
 those fictions in prose and verse which so please 
 and so cheat us ? " 
 
 " They are not only to be found/' replied St. 
 Lawrence, (( but to be found almost every where. 
 No -clime, no class of men, no situation in life, 
 rude or cultivated, is without them. The rich 
 man, the poor man, the king, the beggar, the old 
 man, the young one, the married, the unmarried, 
 the menial, the master, the pedagogue, the school 
 boy, the labourer, the lounger, the coarse, the 
 polished, the honest man, and even the rogue, 
 when not going to be hanged ! all these have apti-
 
 348 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 tudes for happiness, though in different degrees ; 
 and they so outnumber your sufferers, that while 
 enjoyment of some kind or other, if people are just 
 to confess it, is nearly universal, complaint is only 
 partial, and no one would wish to avoid it by ceas- 
 ing to live." 
 
 " You are at least a warm advocate/' returned 
 Campbell, " and no doubt say grace before and 
 after meat ? '' 
 
 " I do ; and though it may condemn my breed- 
 ing, I am even shocked to see that excellent and 
 most natural custom, prompted by such natural 
 feeling, so nearly worn out." 
 
 " And yet/' observed the Laird, with his usual 
 hesitating air, " would it not have been strange, if 
 not rather hard, if Providence had sent us into 
 the world to be starved ? " 
 
 " Does the contrary/' answered St. Lawrence, 
 " diminish our obligation that he sent us to be 
 well fed?" 
 
 *? I own that is a hit/' returned Campbell, and 
 he looked out at window as if to admire the 
 waves. 
 
 " For my part/' continued St. Lawrence, if I 
 am gourmand enough, and in health enough, to 
 feel remarkably better, happier, and gayer, for a 
 wholesome dinner ; and (laugh if you will) feel
 
 ST. LAWRENCE. 3 ID 
 
 in a peculiarly grateful mood for the general hap- 
 piness of the world, as well as my own, after the 
 repast." 
 
 u I wish not to disturb it,' 5 said Campbell, " by 
 any cavilling of mine ;" — and he fell into a sort of 
 reverie. 
 
 u If this, however/' continued St. Lawrence, after 
 a pause, u is so for a reason apparently of so small an 
 amount as the enjoyment of our food, what are 
 we not to say for all the larger benefits we receive ? 
 our preservation through every moment of the 
 day and night. This, too, you will perhaps say, 
 being common to every body, is no particular rea- 
 son for gratitude. But is it even so ? Is every 
 body in point of fact preserved ? or if they were, 
 is the extent of a benefit a reason for indifference? 
 For my part were there no misfortunes in my 
 own person or those about me, to remind me of 
 my precarious condition, and how soon a bolt 
 might strike me, I can never feel the enjoyment, 
 the unspeakable enjoyment, of health after illness, 
 though so common to all, nor the still more com- 
 mon gifts of sight, hearing, or the other senses — I 
 cannot even see them enjoyed by others, no, not 
 even by the child that does not belong to me, or 
 the frisking of the lamb you exemplified just now, 
 thankless from nature — I say I could not do this —
 
 350 ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 I cannot do it — without feeling my own stock of 
 pleasure increased, my heart swell, my mind ex- 
 pand and improve ; and feeling thus, gratitude to 
 my Creator becomes the predominant sentiment 
 of my whole intellectual being." 
 
 " My good friend," said Campbell, almost af- 
 fected, " this is a holy feeling ; never let it be dis- 
 turbed ; for me, it would be worse than useless to 
 say another word."
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note A. p. 275. 
 
 Therefore it behoves us to investigate those causes as far as 
 we have ability and opportunity for so doing, because from them 
 only we can attain any knowledge of the divine economy ; which, 
 whenever we can discover it, will prove an unerring guide to our 
 proceedings. The neglect of this duty, and the inobservance of 
 second causes, throw men into all the delusions of superstition 
 and enthusiasm : for while they imagine the divine power exerted 
 upon every particular occasion, they overlook those rules of pru- 
 dence which God has given for their direction. They deem it 
 unnecessary even to think for themselves, expecting an especial 
 guidance for every thing they are to do ; which lays them open 
 to the deceit of illuminations, dreams, omens, prodigies, and 
 such like trumpery. 
 
 On the other hand, a too close attachment to second causes, is 
 apt to generate prophaneness, making men forget the first, and 
 substitute an undesigning chance or blind fatality in the room of 
 it. But this can never happen, provided they bear in mind that, 
 how far soever they may trace the chain, they must rest it in the 
 divine operation at last, which, whenever exerted, they will find 
 accompanied with a disposing Providence, directing it in such a 
 manner as to produce the whole series of events to follow there- 
 upon. And the longer the chain, the greater number and intri- 
 cacy of causes and effects it must contain, and the larger must be 
 that plan of disposition which gave beginning to it. Therefore,
 
 352 APPENDIX. 
 
 the more a man thinks, he will discover natural causes lying, 
 still further and further behind one another : he will find his idea 
 of interposing Providence gradually diminish, and that of the 
 disposing proportionally increase. Therefore, let not men con- 
 demn one another too hastily of impiety or superstition, for both 
 are relative to the strength of each person's sight. The philoso- 
 pher may entertain so high an opinion of infinite wisdom, as that 
 upon the formation of a world, it might provide for every event 
 that is to happen during the whole period of its continuance ; 
 therefore he is not impious in asserting that all things since have 
 gone on in the course of natural causes, for his idea of the first 
 plan is so full as to leave no room for any thing to be interposed. 
 
 This the plain man cannot comprehend, the lines of his view 
 being short ; therefore he is not superstitious in imagining fre- 
 quent interpositions, because without them he cannot understand 
 a Providence at all. He may likewise find it impossible to con- 
 ceive that every motion of matter, and turn of volition, should be 
 calculated or foreseen, but supposes a watchful Providence 
 continually attentive to the tendency of second causes, inter- 
 posing every day, and every hour of the day, to correct the errors 
 of chance, and secretly turning the springs of action the way that 
 wisdom and goodness recommend. And he is excusable herein, 
 if this be the best conception he can form ; for it derogates not 
 from his idea of the divine wisdom and dominion, to imagine there 
 should be room left in nature for chance, so long as there is a 
 superintending power who can foresee the irregularities of chance 
 time enough to prevent them. 
 
 Thus, how largely soever we may ascribe to interposition, or 
 how much soever deduct therefrom, to add to the disposing Pro- 
 vidence, we cannot deny that every natural cause we see is an 
 effect of some prior cause, impulse of impulse, and volition of 
 motives and ideas suggested to the mind ; therefore must refer all 
 dispensations ultimately to the act of God : and as we cannot 
 imagine him to act without knowing what he does, and what will 
 result therefrom, we must conclude that act to proceed upon a
 
 APPENDIX. 353 
 
 plan and disposition of the causes tending to produce the parti- 
 cular consequences following thereupon. The only difference 
 between the man of common sense and the studious is concerning 
 the time when the disposition was made, which the one thinks a 
 few days or a few minutes, the other many ages ago ; the one 
 frequent and occasional, the other rare and universal ; but both 
 acknowledge that nothing ever happens without the permission or 
 appointment of our Almighty and ever vigilant Governor. 
 
 Tucker's Light of Nature. 
 
 Note B. p. 275. 
 
 The grand and beautiful discoveries of Laplace, Lagrange, and 
 others, in this department of astronomy, have noiv demonstrated, 
 that the observed variations in the orbits of the planets in conse- 
 quence of their mutual action on each other, instead of leading, 
 as it was conjectured they might ultimately do, to material and 
 even ruinous changes in the system, are periodical only, and that 
 the mean distances of the planets from the sun, and consequently 
 their mean periodic times, are absolutely invariable; that the 
 disturbing action keeps increasing up to a certain point, and then 
 again decreasing ; and so on alternately : — thus (like the compen- 
 sation balance of a modern chronometer) correcting its own {ap- 
 parent) errors, and providing for the preservation of a mean state 
 for any conceivable extent of time. This is unquestionably the 
 sublimest as well as the most beautiful of those modern discove- 
 ries which have already gone far to place our own era on a level 
 with that of Newton, — if not in the merit of our researches (for 
 ice have the light of his wondrous genius to work by), at least in 
 the unspeakable interest and importance of the results which 
 seem to be opening upon us. v
 
 354 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note B. p. 307. 
 EXTRACTS FROM TUCKER's LIGHT OF NATURE. 
 
 Nor can Despotism itself do any great matters without aid of 
 Free Will : for rewards, honours, and encouragements, those 
 engines of free agency, contribute more to the valour of armies, 
 than any scourges of punishment or peremptory edicts, concluding 
 ' for such is our will.' 
 
 Since, then, experience testifies that man can make so much 
 use of liberty towards accomplishing his designs ; why should we 
 scruple to think the same of God in a larger extent ? For he not 
 only has all the objects in his power which touch the springs of 
 action, but fabricated the springs themselves, and set them to 
 receive what touches they shall take. But we judge of the work- 
 ings of Providence by our own narrow way of proceeding ; we 
 take our measures from time to time, as the expedience of them 
 occurs to our thoughts, and then must make what use we can of 
 the materials or instruments before us, be they such as exactly 
 suit our purpose, or not. 
 
 In like manner we vulgarly imagine God acting occasionally, 
 and taking up purposes he had not thought of before, until a con- 
 currence of circumstances rendered them expedient. We appre- 
 hend him as having turned the numerous race of men loose into 
 the wide world, endowed them with various powers, talents, appe- 
 tites, and characters, without knowing precisely, or without caring, 
 what they will produce. We allow him, indeed, to have formed 
 the main lines of a plan ; but left large vacancies between to be 
 filled up by chance, whose wild workings lie under his control, to 
 divert their course when they ivould interfere with the strokes of 
 his pencil. 
 
 Now considering the vast variety of humours, the discordant 
 aims and interests among mankind, it must be acknowledged, that 
 the government of the world, in this view of it, could not be 
 administered, without either continual miraculous interpositions
 
 APPENDIX. 355 
 
 in the motion of matter, or compulsions and restraints upon free 
 agency, giving our volition another turn than it would take from 
 the motives pi-esent before us, or causing other motions to arise 
 in our limbs, and thoughts in our minds, than our present volition 
 would naturally produce. 
 
 But when we reflect that even the wanton gambols of chance 
 must result from agents and causes originally set at work by the 
 Almighty ; when we call to mind his infinite wisdom and omni- 
 science, which nothing can escape, nothing perplex or overload ; 
 it seems more congruous with that boundless attribute, to imagine 
 that no single, nor most distant effect of the powers and motions 
 he gave, was overlooked, no chasms or empty spaces left in his 
 design ; but that upon the formation of a world, he laid a full and 
 perfect plan of all the operations that should ensue during the 
 period of its continuance. 
 
 Note D. Page 314. 
 EXTRACT FROM TREMAINE, Vol. hi. Page 250'. 
 
 " Do you mean then," asked Tremaine, " that if any very 
 wicked man — Borgia, for example — had chosen in his free will to 
 be virtuous, that the course of things originally in the Divine 
 Mind, would have been affected by it ? " 
 
 " I go all that length," said Evelyn. 
 
 " This is the most extraordinary doctrine I ever heard!" ob- 
 served Tremaine, yet seriously revolving the train to which 
 this led. 
 
 " It is not altogether new," returned Evelyn ; "at least there 
 is a very curious dialogue of Laurentius Valla, quoted and enlarged 
 by Leibnitz, in his Essay upon the Goodness of God and the 
 Free Will of Man. In this he supposes Sextus Tarquinius to 
 consult the Delphic Oracle as to his fate. It is predicted. He 
 complains. The Oracle refers him to Jupiter and the Destinies ;
 
 356 APPENDIX. 
 
 to whom he bemoans himself, and says, they might have made 
 him happy if they had pleased. Jupiter answers, ' It is you who 
 determine your own lot. You choose to go to Rome to be a king, 
 and I know best what will happen there if you do. Give up going 
 to Rome, and the Destinies will spin another thread for you. 
 Sextus does not see why he should give up the chances of being a 
 king, and thinks he may avoid the evils of a visit to Rome, and 
 be a good monarch notwithstanding. He goes, and is undone." 
 
 " This is amusing," said Tremaine ; " but how does this come 
 up to your doctrine." 
 
 "The story is not ended," observed Evelyn. " Theodosius 
 the high priest, and favourite of Jupiter, is a little shocked at the 
 answer to Sextus, and submissively begs to know whether he 
 might not have been allowed to be a good king as he desired. 
 Jupiter, through Minerva, shows him the palace of the Destinies, 
 in which are the plans of many worlds, varying according to the 
 choice and actions of men. In some of these, he sees Sextus 
 under another choice, exceedingly happy ; but he had chosen as 
 above stated, and the plan of the world he was in was shaped 
 accordingly.