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by Isaac  Disraeli

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Title: Curiosities of Literature,  Vol. II (of 3)
       Edited, With Memoir And Notes, By His Son, The Earl Of Beaconsfield

Author: Isaac  Disraeli

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[Illustration]


CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

BY

ISAAC DISRAELI.

A New Edition

EDITED, WITH MEMOIR AND NOTES,

BY HIS SON,

THE EARL OF BEACONSFIELD.


IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.


LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK





CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.


     CHARLES THE FIRST.     1

     DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.     5

     THE DEATH OF CHARLES IX.     7

     ROYAL PROMOTIONS.     10

     NOBILITY     11

     MODES OF SALUTATION, AND AMICABLE CEREMONIES, OBSERVED IN
       VARIOUS NATIONS.     12

     FIRE, AND THE ORIGIN OF FIREWORKS.     15

     THE BIBLE PROHIBITED AND IMPROVED.     19

     ORIGIN OF THE MATERIALS OF WRITING.     23

     ANECDOTES OF EUROPEAN MANNERS.     30

     THE EARLY DRAMA.     40

     THE MARRIAGE OF THE ARTS.     43

     A CONTRIVANCE IN DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.     47

     THE COMEDY OF A MADMAN.     48

     SOLITUDE     50

     LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS.     55

     ANECDOTES OF ABSTRACTION OF MIND.     59

     RICHARDSON.     62

     INFLUENCE OF A NAME.     65

     THE JEWS OF YORK.     75

     THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE SEAS.     79

     ON THE CUSTOM OF KISSING HANDS.     81

     POPES.     83

     LITERARY COMPOSITION.     85

     POETICAL IMITATIONS AND SIMILARITIES.     92

     EXPLANATION OF THE FAC-SIMILE.     110

     LITERARY FASHIONS.     113

     THE PANTOMIMICAL CHARACTERS.     116

     EXTEMPORAL COMEDIES.     130

     MASSINGER, MILTON, AND THE ITALIAN THEATRE.     137

     SONGS OF TRADES, OR SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.     142

     INTRODUCERS OF EXOTIC FLOWERS, FRUITS, ETC.     151

     USURERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.     158

     CHIDIOCK TITCHBOURNE.     171

     ELIZABETH AND HER PARLIAMENT.     179

     ANECDOTES OF PRINCE HENRY, THE SON OF JAMES I., WHEN A
       CHILD.     186

     THE DIARY OF A MASTER OF THE CEREMONIES.     194

     DIARIES--MORAL, HISTORICAL, AND CRITICAL.     206

     LICENSERS OF THE PRESS.     216

     OF ANAGRAMS AND ECHO VERSES.     229

     ORTHOGRAPHY OF PROPER NAMES.     237

     NAMES OF OUR STREETS.     239

     SECRET HISTORY OF EDWARD VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.     243

     ANCIENT COOKERY, AND COOKS.     245

     ANCIENT AND MODERN SATURNALIA.     256

     RELIQUIÆ GETHINIANÆ.     270

     ROBINSON CRUSOE.     274

     CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT DRAMAS.     277

     THE HISTORY OF THE THEATRE DURING ITS SUPPRESSION.     281

     DRINKING-CUSTOMS IN ENGLAND.     292

     LITERARY ANECDOTES.     300

     CONDEMNED POETS.     303

     ACAJOU AND ZIRPHILE.     308

     TOM O'BEDLAMS.     311

     INTRODUCTION OF TEA, COFFEE, AND CHOCOLATE.     317

     CHARLES THE FIRST'S LOVE OF THE FINE ARTS.     326

     SECRET HISTORY OF CHARLES THE FIRST, AND HIS QUEEN HENRIETTA.     836

     THE MINISTER--THE CARDINAL DUKE OF RICHELIEU.     340

     THE MINISTER--DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, LORD ADMIRAL, LORD
       GENERAL, &C., &C., &C.     355

     FELTON, THE POLITICAL ASSASSIN.     371

     JOHNSON'S HINTS FOR THE LIFE OF POPE.     380

     MODERN LITERATURE--BAYLE'S CRITICAL DICTIONARY.     382

     CHARACTERISTICS OF BAYLE.     383

     CICERO VIEWED AS A COLLECTOR.     396

     THE HISTORY OF THE CARACCI.     399

     AN ENGLISH ACADEMY OF LITERATURE.     406

     QUOTATION.     416

     THE ORIGIN OF DANTE'S INFERNO.     421

     OF A HISTORY OF EVENTS WHICH HAVE NOT HAPPENED.     428

     OF FALSE POLITICAL REPORTS.     438

     OF SUPPRESSORS AND DILAPIDATORS OF MANUSCRIPTS.     443

     PARODIES.     453

     ANECDOTES OF THE FAIRFAX FAMILY.     461

     MEDICINE AND MORALS.     464

     PSALM-SINGING.     472

     ON THE RIDICULOUS TITLES ASSUMED BY ITALIAN ACADEMIES.     479

     ON THE HERO OF HUDIBRAS; BUTLER VINDICATED.     491

     SHENSTONE'S SCHOOL-MISTRESS.     496

     BEN JONSON ON TRANSLATION.     500

     THE LOVES OF "THE LADY ARABELLA."     502

     DOMESTIC HISTORY OF SIR EDWARD COKE.     519

     OF COKE'S STYLE, AND HIS CONDUCT.     530

     SECRET HISTORY OF AUTHORS WHO HAVE RUINED THEIR BOOKSELLERS.     532




CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.




CHARLES THE FIRST.


Of his romantic excursion into Spain for the Infanta, many curious
particulars are scattered amongst foreign writers, which display the
superstitious prejudices which prevailed on this occasion, and, perhaps,
develope the mysterious politics of the courts of Spain and Rome.

Cardinal Gaetano, who had long been nuncio in Spain, observes, that the
people, accustomed to revere the Inquisition as the oracle of divinity,
abhorred the proposal of the marriage of the Infanta with an heretical
prince; but that the king's council, and all wise politicians, were
desirous of its accomplishment. Gregory XV. held a consultation of
cardinals, where it was agreed that the just apprehension which the
English catholics entertained of being more cruelly persecuted, if this
marriage failed, was a sufficient reason to justify the pope. The
dispensation was therefore immediately granted, and sent to the nuncio
of Spain, with orders to inform the Prince of Wales, in case of rupture,
that no impediment of the marriage proceeded from the court of Rome,
who, on the contrary, had expedited the dispensation.

The prince's excursion to Madrid was, however, universally blamed, as
being inimical to state interests. Nani, author of a history of Venice,
which, according to his digressive manner, is the universal history of
his times, has noticed this affair. "The people talked, and the English
murmured more than any other nation, to see the only son of the king and
heir of his realms venture on so long a voyage, and present himself
rather as a hostage, than a husband to a foreign court, which so widely
differed in government and religion, to obtain by force of prayer and
supplications a woman whom Philip and his ministers made a point of
honour and conscience to refuse."[1]

Houssaie observes, "The English council were against it, but king James
obstinately resolved on it; being over-persuaded by Gondomar, the
Spanish ambassador, whose facetious humour and lively repartees greatly
delighted him. Gondomar persuaded him that the presence of the prince
would not fail of accomplishing this union, and also the restitution of
the electorate to his son-in-law the palatine. Add to this, the Earl of
Bristol, the English ambassador-extraordinary at the court of Madrid,
finding it his interest, wrote repeatedly to his majesty that the
success was certain if the prince came there, for that the Infanta would
be charmed with his personal appearance and polished manners. It was
thus that James, seduced by these two ambassadors, and by his parental
affection for both his children, permitted the Prince of Wales to travel
into Spain." This account differs from Clarendon.

Wicquefort says, "that James in all this was the dupe of Gondomar, who
well knew the impossibility of this marriage, which was alike inimical
to the interests of politics and the Inquisition. For a long time he
amused his majesty with hopes, and even got money for the household
expenses of the future queen. He acted his part so well, that the King
of Spain recompensed the knave, on his return, with a seat in the
council of state." There is preserved in the British Museum a
considerable series of letters which passed between James I. and the
Duke of Buckingham and Charles, during their residence in Spain.

I shall glean some further particulars concerning this mysterious affair
from two English contemporaries, Howel and Wilson, who wrote from their
own observations. Howel had been employed in this projected match, and
resided during its negotiation at Madrid.

Howel describes the first interview of Prince Charles and the Infanta.
"The Infanta wore a blue riband about her arm, that the prince might
distinguish her, and as soon as she saw the prince her colour rose very
high."--Wilson informs us that "two days after this interview the prince
was invited to run at the ring, where his fair mistress was a spectator,
and to the glory of his fortune, and the great contentment both of
himself and the lookers-on, he took the ring the very first course."
Howel, writing from Madrid, says, "The people here do mightily magnify
the gallantry of the journey, and cry out that he deserved to have the
Infanta thrown into his arms the first night he came." The people
appear, however, some time after, to doubt if the English had any
religion at all. Again, "I have seen the prince have his eyes immovably
fixed upon the Infanta half an hour together in a thoughtful speculative
posture." Olivares, who was no friend to this match, coarsely observed
that the prince watched her as a cat does a mouse. Charles indeed acted
everything that a lover in one of the old romances could have done.[2]
He once leapt over the walls of her garden, and only retired by the
entreaties of the old marquis who then guarded her, and who, falling on
his knees, solemnly protested that if the prince spoke to her his head
would answer for it. He watched hours in the street to meet with her;
and Wilson says he gave such liberal presents to the court, as well as
Buckingham to the Spanish beauties, that the Lord Treasurer Middlesex
complained repeatedly of their wasteful prodigality.[3]

Let us now observe by what mode this match was consented to by the
courts of Spain and Rome. Wilson informs us that Charles agreed "That
any one should freely propose to _him_ the arguments in favour of the
catholic religion, without giving any impediment; but that he would
never, directly or indirectly, permit any one to speak to the _Infanta_
against the same." They probably had tampered with Charles concerning
his religion. A letter of Gregory XV. to him is preserved in Wilson's
life, but its authenticity has been doubted. Olivares said to
Buckingham, "You gave me some assurance and hope of the prince's
_turning catholic_." The duke roundly answered that it was false. The
Spanish minister, confounded at the bluntness of our English duke, broke
from him in a violent rage, and lamented that state matters would not
suffer him to do himself justice. This insult was never forgiven; and
some time afterwards he attempted to revenge himself on Buckingham, by
endeavouring to persuade James that he was at the head of a conspiracy
against him.

We hasten to conclude these anecdotes, not to be found in the pages of
Hume and Smollett.--Wilson says that both kingdoms
rejoiced:--"Preparations were made in England to entertain the Infanta;
a new church was built at St. James's, the foundation-stone of which was
laid by the Spanish ambassador, for the public exercise of her religion:
her portrait was multiplied in every corner of the town; such as hoped
to flourish under her eye suddenly began to be powerful. In Spain (as
Wilson quaintly expresses himself) the substance was as much courted as
the shadow here. Indeed the Infanta, Howel tells us, was applying hard
to the English language, and was already called the Princess of England.
To conclude,--Charles complained of the repeated delays; and he and the
Spanish court parted with a thousand civilities. The Infanta however
observed, that had the Prince loved her, he would not have quitted her."

How shall we dispel those clouds of mystery with which politics have
covered this strange transaction? It appears that James had in view the
restoration of the palatinate to his daughter, whom he could not
effectually assist; that the court of Rome had speculations of the most
dangerous tendency to the protestant religion; that the marriage was
broken off by that personal hatred which existed between Olivares and
Buckingham; and that, if there was any sincerity existing between the
parties concerned, it rested with the Prince and the Infanta, who were
both youthful and romantic, and were but two beautiful ivory balls in
the hands of great players.




DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.


The Duke of Buckingham, in his bold and familiar manner, appears to have
been equally a favourite with James I. and Charles I. He behaved with
singular indiscretion both at the courts of France and Spain.

Various anecdotes might be collected from the memoir writers of those
countries, to convince us that our court was always little respected by
its ill choice of this ambassador. His character is hit off by one
master-stroke from the pencil of Hume: "He had," says this penetrating
observer of men, "English familiarity and French levity;" so that he was
in full possession of two of the most offensive qualities an ambassador
can possess.

Sir Henry Wotton has written an interesting life of our duke. At school
his character fully discovered itself, even at that early period of
life. He would not apply to any serious studies, but excelled in those
lighter qualifications adapted to please in the world. He was a graceful
horseman, musician, and dancer. His mother withdrew him from school at
the early age of thirteen, and he soon became a domestic favourite. Her
fondness permitted him to indulge in every caprice, and to cultivate
those agreeable talents which were natural to him. His person was
beautiful, and his manners insinuating. In a word, he was adapted to
become a courtier. The fortunate opportunity soon presented itself; for
James saw him, and invited him to court, and showered on him, with a
prodigal hand, the cornucopia of royal patronage.

Houssaie, in his political memoirs, has detailed an anecdote of this
duke, only known to the English reader in the general observation of the
historian. When he was sent to France, to conduct the Princess Henrietta
to the arms of Charles I., he had the insolence to converse with the
Queen of France, not as an ambassador, but as a lover! The Marchioness
of Senecy, her lady of honour, enraged at seeing this conversation
continue, seated herself in the arm-chair of the Queen, who that day was
confined to her bed; she did this to hinder the insolent duke from
approaching the Queen, and probably taking other liberties. As she
observed that he still persisted in the lover, "Sir," she said, in a
severe tone of voice, "you must learn to be silent; it is not thus we
address the Queen of France."

This audacity of the duke is further confirmed by Nani, in his sixth
book of the History of Venice; an historian who is not apt to take
things lightly. For when Buckingham was desirous of once more being
ambassador at that court, in 1626, it was signified by the French
ambassador, that for reasons _well known to himself_, his person would
not be agreeable to his most Christian majesty. In a romantic threat,
the duke exclaimed, he would go and see the queen in spite of the French
court; and to this petty affair is to be ascribed the war between the
two nations!

The Marshal de Bassompiere, in the journal of his embassy, affords
another instance of his "English familiarity." He says, "The King of
England gave me a long audience, and a very disputatious one. He put
himself in a passion, while I, without losing my respect, expressed
myself freely. The Duke of Buckingham, when he observed the king and
myself very warm, leapt suddenly betwixt his majesty and me, exclaiming,
'I am come to set all to rights betwixt you, which I think is high
time.'"

Cardinal Richelieu hated Buckingham as sincerely as did the Spaniard
Olivares. This enmity was apparently owing to the cardinal writing to
the duke without leaving any space open after the title of Monsieur; the
duke, to show his equality, returned his answer in the same
"paper-sparing" manner. Richelieu was jealous of Buckingham, whose
favour with the Queen of France was known.

This ridiculous circumstance between Richelieu and Buckingham reminds me
of a similar one, which happened to two Spanish Lords:--One signed at
the end of his letter EL _Marques_ (THE _Marquis_), as if the title had
been peculiar to himself for its excellence. His national vanity
received a dreadful reproof from his correspondent, who, jealous of his
equality, signed OTRO _Marqies_ (ANOTHER _Marquis_).

An anecdote given by Sir Henry Wotton offers a characteristic trait of
Charles and his favourite:--

"They were now entered into the deep time of Lent, and could get no
flesh into their inns; whereupon fell out a pleasant passage (if I may
insert it by the way among more serious):--There was near Bayon a herd
of goats with their young ones; on which sight Sir Richard Graham
(master of the horse to the marquis) tells the marquis he could snap one
of the kids, and make some shift to carry him close to their lodgings;
which the prince overhearing, 'Why, Richard,' says he, 'do you think you
may practise here your old tricks again upon the borders?' Upon which
word they first gave the goatherd good contentment, and then while the
marquis and his servant, being both on foot, were chasing the kid about
the flock, the prince from horseback killed him in the head with a
Scottish pistol. Let this serve for a journal parenthesis, which yet may
show how his highness, even in such light and sportful damage, had a
noble sense of just dealing."




THE DEATH OF CHARLES IX.


Dr. Cayet is an old French controversial writer, but is better known in
French literature as an historian. His _Chronologie Novenaire_ is full
of anecdotes unknown to other writers. He collected them from his own
observations, for he was under-preceptor to Henry IV. The dreadful
massacre of St. Bartholomew took place in the reign of Charles IX.; on
which occasion the English court went into mourning. The singular death
of Charles has been regarded by the Huguenots as an interposition of
divine justice: he died bathed in his blood, which burst from his veins.
The horrors of this miserable prince on his dying bed are forcibly
depicted by the anecdotes I am now collecting. I shall premise, however,
that Charles was a mere instrument in the hands of his mother, the
political and cruel Catherine of Medicis.

Dr. Cayet, with honest _naïveté_, thus relates what he knew to have
passed a few hours before his death.

"King Charles, feeling himself near his end, after having passed some
time without pronouncing a word, said, as he turned himself on one side,
and as if he seemed to awake, 'Call my brother!' The queen mother was
present, who immediately sent for the Duke of Alençon. The king
perceiving him, turned his back, and again said, 'Let my brother come!'
The queen, his mother, replied, 'Sir, I do not know whom you mean; here
is your brother.' The king was displeased, and said, 'Let them bring my
brother the King of Navarre; it is he who is my brother.' The queen
mother observing the dying monarch's resolute order, sent for him; but,
for reasons known only to herself, she commanded the captain of the
guards to conduct him under the vaults. They went to the King of
Navarre, and desired him to come and speak to the king; at that moment,
this prince has since repeatedly said, he felt a shuddering and
apprehension of death so much that he would not go. But King Charles
persisting on his coming, the queen mother assured him that he should
receive no injury. In this promise, however, he put little trust. He
went, accompanied by the Viscount d'Auchy, on whose word he chiefly
relied. Having, however, observed under these vaults a great number of
halberdiers and arquebusiers in ranks, he would have returned, when the
viscount and the captain reassured him that no harm should happen to
him. The soldiers bowed, and their behaviour was respectful. By a
private staircase he entered the chamber of the king, who, immediately
on perceiving him, turned towards him, and stretched out his arms. The
King of Navarre was affected; he sighed and wept, and fell on his knees
at the side of the bed. Charles embraced, and having kissed him, said,
'My brother, you lose a good master and a good friend. I know it is not
you who occasions me so much trouble; had I believed what they said, you
would not have been alive; but I have always loved you. It is to you
alone I trust my wife and daughter; earnestly do I recommend them to
your care. _Do not trust the queen_; but God protect you!'

"The queen mother here interrupted him, 'Ah, sir, do not say
that!'--'Yes, madam, I must say it; it is the truth. Believe me, my
brother; love me; assist my wife and daughter, and implore God for mercy
on me. Adieu, my brother, adieu!' The King of Navarre remained till his
majesty expired."

The following minute particulars are drawn from the journal of Pierre de
L'Etoile. In the simplicity of his narration, so pleasing in the old
writers, the _nurse_ and the _monarch,_--the religious remorse of the
one, and the artless consolations of the other,--become interesting
objects.

"King Charles, two days before his death, having called for Mazzille,
his chief physician, and complaining of the pains he suffered, asked him
if it was not possible that he, and so many other celebrated physicians
that were in his realms, could give some alleviation to his disorder;
'for I am,' said he, 'cruelly and horridly tormented.' To which Mazzille
replied, that whatever had depended on them had been tried, but that in
truth God only could be the sovereign physician in such complaints. 'I
believe,' said the king, 'that what you say is true, and that you know
nothing else. Draw from me my _custode_ (or large cap), that I may try
to rest.' Mazzille withdrew, and left orders that all should leave the
king except three, viz., La Tour, St. Pris, and his nurse, whom his
majesty greatly loved, _although she was a Huguenot_. As she had just
seated herself on a coffer, and began to doze, she heard the king groan
bitterly, weeping and sighing; she then approached the bed softly, and
drawing away his _custode_, the king said to her, giving vent to a heavy
sigh, and shedding tears plentifully, insomuch that they interrupted his
discourse--'Ah! my dear nurse! my beloved woman, what blood! what
murders! Ah! I have followed wicked advice! O my God! pardon me, and be
merciful. I know not where I am, they have made me so perplexed and
agitated. How will all this end!--What shall I do? I am lost for ever! I
know it.'--Then the nurse thus addressed him:--'Sire, be the murders on
those who forced you to order them; your majesty could not help it, and
since you never consented, and now regret them, believe God will never
impute them to you, and will cover them with the mantle of justice of
his Son, to whom alone you should look for aid. Ah! for the honour of
God, let your majesty cease from this weeping.' Having said this, she
rose for a handkerchief, for his was drenched with tears: Charles having
taken it from her, made a sign that she should retire and leave him to
repose."

The dreadful narrative of the massacre of St. Bartholomew is detailed in
the history of De Thou; and the same scene is painted in glowing, though
in faithful colours, by Voltaire in the Henriade.--Charles, whose last
miserable moments we come from contemplating, when he observed several
fugitive Huguenots about his palace in the morning after the massacre of
30,000 of their friends, took a fowling-piece, and repeatedly fired at
them.

Such was the effect of religion operating, perhaps not on a malignant,
but on a feeble mind!




ROYAL PROMOTIONS.


If the golden gate of preferment is not usually opened to men of real
merit, persons of no worth have entered it in a most extraordinary
manner.

Chevreau informs us that the Sultan Osman having observed a gardener
planting a cabbage with some peculiar dexterity, the manner so attracted
his imperial eye that he raised him to an office near his person, and
shortly afterwards he rewarded the planter of cabbages by creating him
_beglerbeg_ or viceroy of the Isle of Cyprus.

Marc Antony gave the house of a Roman citizen to a cook, who had
prepared for him a good supper! Many have been raised to extraordinary
preferment by capricious monarchs for the sake of a jest. Lewis XI.
promoted a poor priest whom he found sleeping in the porch of a church,
that the proverb might be verified, that to lucky men good fortune will
come even when they are asleep! Our Henry VII. made a viceroy of Ireland
if not for the sake of, at least with a clench. When the king was told
that all Ireland could not rule the Earl of Kildare, he said, then shall
this earl rule all Ireland.

It is recorded of Henry VIII. that he raised a servant to a considerable
dignity because he had taken care to have a roasted boar prepared for
him, when his majesty happened to be in the humour of feasting on one!
and the title of _Sugar-loaf-court,_ in Leadenhall-street, was probably
derived from another piece of munificence of this monarch: the widow of
a Mr. Cornwallis was rewarded by the gift of a dissolved priory there
situated, for some _fine puddings_ with which she had presented his
majesty!

When Cardinal de Monte was elected pope, before he left the conclave, he
bestowed a cardinal's hat upon a servant, whose chief merit consisted in
the daily attentions he paid to his holiness's monkey!

Louis Barbier owed all his good fortune to the familiar knowledge he had
of Rabelais. He knew his Rabelais by heart. This served to introduce him
to the Duke of Orleans, who took great pleasure in reading that author.
It was for this he gave him an abbey, and he was gradually promoted till
he became a cardinal.

George Villiers was suddenly raised from private station, and loaded
with wealth and honours by James the First, merely for his personal
beauty.[4] Almost all the favourites of James became so from their
handsomeness.[5]

M. de Chamillart, minister of France, owed his promotion merely to his
being the only man who could beat Louis XIV. at billiards. He retired
with a pension, after ruining the finances of his country.

The Duke of Luynes was originally a country lad, who insinuated himself
into the favour of Louis XIII. then young, by making bird-traps
(pies-grièches) to catch sparrows. It was little expected (says
Voltaire) that these puerile amusements were to be terminated by a most
sanguinary revolution. De Luynes, after causing his patron, the Marshal
D'Ancre, to be assassinated, and the queen-mother to be imprisoned,
raised himself to a title and the most tyrannical power.

Sir Walter Raleigh owed his promotion to an act of gallantry to Queen
Elizabeth, and Sir Christopher Hatton owed his preferment to his
dancing: Queen Elizabeth, observes Granger, with all her sagacity, could
not see the future lord chancellor in the fine dancer. The same writer
says, "Nothing could form a more curious collection of memoirs than
_anecdotes of preferment_." Could the secret history of great men be
traced, it would appear that merit is rarely the first step to
advancement. It would much oftener be found to be owing to superficial
qualifications, and even vices.




NOBILITY.


Francis the First was accustomed to say, that when the nobles of his
kingdom came to court, they were received by the world as so many little
_kings_; that the day after they were only beheld as so many _princes_;
but on the third day they were merely considered as so many _gentlemen_,
and were confounded among the crowd of courtiers.--It was supposed that
this was done with a political view of humbling the proud _nobility_;
and for this reason Henry IV. frequently said aloud, in the presence of
the princes of the blood, _We are all gentlemen._

It is recorded of Philip the Third of Spain, that while he exacted the
most punctilious respect from the _grandees_, he saluted the _peasants_.
He would never be addressed but on the knees; for which he gave this
artful excuse, that as he was of low stature, every one would have
appeared too high for him. He showed himself rarely even to his
grandees, that he might the better support his haughtiness and repress
their pride. He also affected to speak to them by half words; and
reprimanded them if they did not guess the rest. In a word, he omitted
nothing that could mortify _his nobility._




MODES OF SALUTATION, AND AMICABLE CEREMONIES, OBSERVED IN VARIOUS
NATIONS.


When men, writes the philosophical compiler of "_L'Esprit des Usages et
des Coutumes_," salute each other in an amicable manner, it signifies
little whether they move a particular part of the body, or practise a
particular ceremony. In these actions there must exist different
customs. Every nation imagines it employs the most reasonable ones; but
all are equally simple, and none are to be treated as ridiculous.

This infinite number of ceremonies may be reduced to two kinds; to
reverences or salutations, and to the touch of some part of the human
body. To bend and prostrate oneself to express sentiments of respect,
appears to be a natural motion; for terrified persons throw themselves
on the earth when they adore invisible beings; and the affectionate
touch of the person they salute is an expression of tenderness.

As nations decline from their ancient simplicity, much farce and grimace
are introduced. Superstition, the manners of a people, and their
situation, influence the modes of salutation; as may be observed from
the instances we collect.

Modes of salutation have sometimes very different characters, and it is
no uninteresting speculation to examine their shades. Many display a
refinement of delicacy, while others are remarkable for their
simplicity, or for their sensibility. In general, however, they are
frequently the same in the infancy of nations, and in more polished
societies. Respect, humility, fear, and esteem, are expressed much in a
similar manner, for these are the natural consequence of the
organisation of the body.

These demonstrations become in time only empty civilities, which signify
nothing; we shall notice what they were originally, without reflecting
on what they are.

Primitive nations have no peculiar modes of salutation; they know no
reverences or other compliments, or they despise and disdain them. The
Greenlanders laugh when they see an European uncover his head, and bend
his body before him whom he calls his superior.

The Islanders, near the Philippines, take the hand or foot of him they
salute, and with it they gently rub their face. The Laplanders apply
their nose strongly against that of the person they salute. Dampier
says, that at New Guinea they are satisfied to put on their heads the
leaves of trees, which have ever passed for symbols of friendship and
peace. This is at least a picturesque salute.

Other salutations are very incommodious and painful; it requires great
practice to enable a man to be polite in an island situated in the
straits of the Sound. Houtman tells us they saluted him in this
grotesque manner: "They raised his left foot, which they passed gently
over the right leg, and from thence over his face." The inhabitants of
the Philippines use a most complex attitude; they bend their body very
low, place their hands on their cheeks, and raise at the same time one
foot in the air with their knee bent.

An Ethiopian takes the robe of another, and ties it about his own waist,
so that he leaves his friend half naked. This custom of undressing on
these occasions takes other forms; sometimes men place themselves naked
before the person whom they salute; it is to show their humility, and
that they are unworthy of appearing in his presence. This was practised
before Sir Joseph Banks, when he received the visits of two female
Otaheitans. Their innocent simplicity, no doubt, did not appear immodest
in the eyes of the _virtuoso_.

Sometimes they only undress partially. The Japanese only take off a
slipper; the people of Arracan their sandals in the street, and their
stockings in the house.

In the progress of time it appears servile to uncover oneself. The
grandees of Spain claim the right of appearing covered before the king,
to show that they are not so much subjected to him as the rest of the
nation: and (this writer truly observes) we may remark that the
_English_ do not uncover their heads so much as the other nations of
Europe. Mr. Hobhouse observes that uncovering the head, with the Turks,
is a mark of indecent familiarity; in their mosques the Franks must keep
their hats on. The Jewish custom of wearing their hats in their
synagogues is, doubtless, the same oriental custom.

In a word, there is not a nation, observes the humorous Montaigne, even
to the people who when they salute turn their backs on their friends,
but that can be justified in their customs.

The negroes are lovers of ludicrous actions, and hence all their
ceremonies seem farcical. The greater part pull the fingers till they
crack. Snelgrave gives an odd representation of the embassy which the
king of Dahomy sent to him. The ceremonies of salutation consisted in
the most ridiculous contortions. When two negro monarchs visit, they
embrace in snapping three times the middle finger.

Barbarous nations frequently imprint on their salutations the
dispositions of their character. When the inhabitants of Carmena (says
Athenæus) would show a peculiar mark of esteem, they breathed a vein,
and presented for the beverage of their friend the flowing blood. The
Franks tore the hair from their head, and presented it to the person
they saluted. The slave cut his hair, and offered it to his master.

The Chinese are singularly affected in their personal civilities. They
even calculate the number of their reverences. These are the most
remarkable postures. The men move their hands in an affectionate manner,
while they are joined together on the breast, and bow their head a
little. If they respect a person, they raise their hands joined, and
then lower them to the earth in bending the body. If two persons meet
after a long separation, they both fall on their knees and bend the face
to the earth, and this ceremony they repeat two or three times. Surely
we may differ here with the sentiment of Montaigne, and confess this
ceremony to be ridiculous. It arises from their national affectation.
They substitute artificial ceremonies for natural actions.

Their expressions mean as little as their ceremonies. If a Chinese is
asked how he finds himself in health, he answers, _Very well; thanks to
your abundant felicity_. If they would tell a man that he looks well,
they say, _Prosperity is painted on your face_: or, _Your air announces
your happiness_.

If you render them any service, they say, _My thanks shall be immortal_.
If you praise them, they answer, _How shall I dare to persuade myself of
what you say of me_? If you dine with them, they tell you at parting,
_We have not treated you with sufficient distinction_. The various
titles they invent for each other it would be impossible to translate.

It is to be observed that all these answers are prescribed by the
Chinese ritual, or Academy of Compliments. There, are determined the
number of bows: the expressions to be employed; the genuflexions, and
the inclinations which are to be made to the right or left hand; the
salutations of the master before the chair where the stranger is to be
seated, for he salutes it most profoundly, and wipes the dust away with
the skirts of his robe; all these and other things are noticed, even to
the silent gestures by which you are entreated to enter the house. The
lower class of people are equally nice in these punctilios; and
ambassadors pass forty days in practising them before they are enabled
to appear at court. A tribunal of ceremonies has been erected; and every
day very odd decrees are issued, to which the Chinese most religiously
submit.

The marks of honour are frequently arbitrary; to be seated with us is a
mark of repose and familiarity; to stand up, that of respect. There are
countries, however, in which princes will only be addressed by persons
who are seated, and it is considered as a favour to be permitted to
stand in their presence. This custom prevails in despotic countries; a
despot cannot suffer without disgust the elevated figure of his
subjects; he is pleased to bend their bodies with their genius; his
presence must lay those who behold him prostrate on the earth; he
desires no eagerness, no attention; he would only inspire terror.




FIRE, AND THE ORIGIN OF FIREWORKS.


In the Memoirs of the French Academy, a little essay on this subject is
sufficiently curious; the following contains the facts:--

FIREWORKS were not known to antiquity.--It is certainly a modern
invention. If ever the ancients employed fires at their festivals, it
was only for religious purposes.

Fire, in primæval ages, was a symbol of respect, or an instrument of
terror. In both these ways God manifested himself to man. In the holy
writings he compares himself sometimes to an ardent fire, to display his
holiness and his purity; sometimes he renders himself visible under the
form of a burning bush, to express himself to be as formidable as a
devouring fire: again, he rains sulphur; and often, before he speaks, he
attracts the attention of the multitude by flashes of lightning.

Fire was worshipped as a divinity by several idolaters: the Platonists
confounded it with the heavens, and considered it as the divine
intelligence. Sometimes it is a symbol of majesty.--God walked (if we
may so express ourselves) with his people, preceded by a pillar of fire;
and the monarchs of Asia, according to Herodotus, commanded that such
ensigns of their majesty should be carried before them. These fires,
according to Quintus Curtius, were considered as holy and eternal, and
were carried at the head of their armies on little altars of silver, in
the midst of the magi who accompanied them and sang their hymns.

Fire was also a symbol of majesty amongst the Romans; and if it was used
by them in their festivals, it was rather employed for the ceremonies of
religion than for a peculiar mark of their rejoicings. Fare was always
held to be most proper and holy for sacrifices; in this the Pagans
imitated the Hebrews. The fire so carefully preserved by the Vestals was
probably an imitation of that which fell from heaven on the victim
offered by Aaron, and long afterwards religiously kept up by the
priests. Servius, one of the seven kings of Rome, commanded a great fire
of straw to be kindled in the public place of every town in Italy to
consecrate for repose a certain day in seed-time, or sowing.

The Greeks lighted lamps at a certain feast held in honour of Minerva,
who gave them oil; of Vulcan, who was the inventor of lamps; and of
Prometheus, who had rendered them service by the fire which he had
stolen from heaven. Another feast to Bacchus was celebrated by a grand
nocturnal illumination, in which wine was poured forth profusely to all
passengers. A feast in memory of Ceres, who sought so long in the
darkness of hell for her daughter, was kept by burning a number of
torches.

Great illuminations were made in various other meetings; particularly
in the Secular Games, which lasted three whole nights; and so carefully
were they kept up, that these nights had no darkness.

In all their rejoicings the ancients indeed used fires; but they were
intended merely to burn their sacrifices, and, as the generality of them
were performed at night, the illuminations served to give light to the
ceremonies.

Artificial fires were indeed frequently used by them, but not in public
rejoicings; like us, they employed them for military purposes; but we
use them likewise successfully for our decorations and amusement.

From the latest times of paganism to the early ages of Christianity, we
can but rarely quote instances of fire lighted up for other purposes, in
a public form, than for the ceremonies of religion; illuminations were
made at the baptism of princes, as a symbol of that life of light in
which they were going to enter by faith; or at the tombs of martyrs, to
light them during the watchings of the night. All these were abolished,
from the various abuses they introduced.

We only trace the rise of _feux-de-joie_, or fireworks, given merely for
amusing spectacles to delight the eye, to the epocha of the invention of
powder and cannon, at the close of the thirteenth century. It was these
two inventions, doubtless, whose effects furnished the ideas of all
those machines and artifices which form the charms of these fires.

To the Florentines and the Siennese are we indebted not only for the
preparation of powder with other ingredients to amuse the eyes, but also
for the invention of elevated machines and decorations adapted to
augment the pleasure of the spectacle. They began their attempts at the
feasts of Saint John the Baptist and the Assumption, on wooden edifices,
which they adorned with painted statues, from whose mouth and eyes
issued a beautiful fire. Callot has engraven numerous specimens of the
pageants, triumphs, and processions, under a great variety of grotesque
forms:--dragons, swans, eagles, &c., which were built up large enough to
carry many persons, while they vomited forth the most amusing firework.

This use passed from Florence to Rome, where, at the creation of the
popes, they displayed illuminations of hand-grenadoes, thrown from the
height of a castle. _Pyrotechnics_ from that time have become an art,
which, in the degree the inventors have displayed ability in combining
the powers of architecture, sculpture, and painting, have produced a
number of beautiful effects, which even give pleasure to those who read
the descriptions without having beheld them.[6]

A pleasing account of decorated fireworks is given in the Secret Memoirs
of France. In August, 1764, Torré, an Italian artist, obtained
permission to exhibit a pyrotechnic operation.--The Parisians admired
the variety of the colours, and the ingenious forms of his fire. But his
first exhibition was disturbed by the populace, as well as by the
apparent danger of the fire, although it was displayed on the
Boulevards. In October it was repeated; and proper precautions having
been taken, they admired the beauty of the fire, without fearing it.
These artificial fires are described as having been rapidly and
splendidly executed. The exhibition closed with a transparent triumphal
arch, and a curtain illuminated by the same fire, admirably exhibiting
the palace of Pluto. Around the columns, stanzas were inscribed,
supported by Cupids, with other fanciful embellishments. Among these
little pieces of poetry appeared the following one, which ingeniously
announced a more perfect exhibition:

    Les vents, les frimats, les orages,
      Eteindront ces FEUX, pour un tems;
    Mais, ainsi que les FLEURS, avec plus d'avautage,
      Ils renaîtront dans le printems.

                 IMITATED.

    The icy gale, the falling snow,
      Extinction to these FIRES shall bring;
    But, like the FLOWERS, with brighter glow,
      They shall renew their charms in spring.

The exhibition was greatly improved, according to this promise of the
artist. His subject was chosen with much felicity; it was a
representation of the forges of Vulcan under Mount Ætna. The interior of
the mount discovered Vulcan and his Cyclops. Venus was seen to descend,
and demand of her consort armour for Æneas. Opposite to this was seen
the palace of Vulcan, which presented a deep and brilliant perspective.
The labours of the Cyclops produced numberless very happy combinations
of artificial fires. The public with pleasing astonishment beheld the
effects of the volcano, so admirably adapted to the nature of these
fires. At another entertainment he gratified the public with a
representation of Orpheus and Eurydice in hell; many striking
circumstances occasioned a marvellous illusion. What subjects indeed
could be more analogous to this kind of fire? Such scenical fireworks
display more brilliant effects than our stars, wheels, and rockets.




THE BIBLE PROHIBITED AND IMPROVED.


The following are the _express words_ contained in the regulation of the
popes to prohibit the use of the _Bible_.

"As it is manifest, by _experience_, that if the use of the holy writers
is permitted in the vulgar tongue more evil than profit will arise,
_because_ of the temerity of man; it is for this reason all Bibles are
prohibited (_prohibentur Biblia_) with all their _parts_, whether they
be printed or written, in whatever vulgar language soever; as also are
prohibited all summaries or abridgments of Bibles, or any books of the
holy writings, although they should only be historical, and that in
whatever Vulgar tongue they may be written."

It is there also said, "That the reading the Bibles of _catholic
editors_ may be permitted to those by whose perusal or power the _faith_
may be spread, and who will not _criticise_ it. But this _permission_ is
not to be granted without an express _order_ of the _bishop_, or the
_inquisitor_, with the _advice_ of the _curate_ and _confessor_; and
their permission must first be had in _writing_. And he who, without
permission, presumes to _read_ the holy writings, or to have them in his
_possession_, shall not be _absolved_ of his sins before he first shall
have returned the Bible to his bishop."

A Spanish author says, that if a person should come to his bishop to ask
for leave to _read_ the _Bible_, with the best intention, the bishop
should answer him from Matthew, ch. xx. ver. 20, "_You know not what you
ask_." And indeed, he observes, the nature of this demand indicates an
_heretical disposition_.

The reading of the Bible was prohibited by Henry VIII., except by those
who occupied high offices in the state; a noble lady or gentlewoman
might read it in "their garden or orchard," or other retired places; but
men and women in the lower ranks were positively forbidden to read it,
or to have it read to them, under the penalty of a month's imprisonment.

Dr. Franklin has preserved an anecdote of the prohibited Bible in the
time of our Catholic Mary. His family had an English Bible; and to
conceal it the more securely, they conceived the project of fastening it
open with packthreads across the leaves, on the inside of the lid of a
close-stool! "When my great-grandfather wished to read to his family, he
reversed the lid of the close-stool upon his knees, and passed the
leaves from one side to the other, which were held down on each by the
packthread. One of the children was stationed at the door to give notice
if he saw an officer of the Spiritual Court make his appearance; in that
case the lid was restored to its place, with the Bible concealed under
it as before."

The reader may meditate on what the _popes did_, and what they probably
would _have done_, had not Luther happily been in a humour to abuse the
pope, and begin a REFORMATION. It would be curious to sketch an account
of the _probable_ situation of _Europe_ at the present moment, had the
pontiffs preserved the omnipotent power of which they had gradually
possessed themselves.

It appears, by an act dated in 1516, that the Bible was called
_Bibliotheca_, that is _per emphasim, the Library_. The word library was
limited in its signification then to the biblical writings; no other
books, compared with the holy writings, appear to have been worthy to
rank with them, or constitute what we call a library.

We have had several remarkable attempts to recompose the Bible; Dr.
Geddes's version is aridly literal, and often ludicrous by its
vulgarity; as when he translates the _Passover_ as the _Skipover_, and
introduces _Constables_ among the ancient Israelites; but the following
attempts are of a very different kind. Sebastian _Castillon_--who
afterwards changed his name to _Castalion_, with his accustomed
affectation referring to _Castalia_, the fountain of the Muses--took a
very extraordinary liberty with the sacred writings. He fancied he could
give the world a more classical version of the Bible, and for this
purpose introduces phrases and entire sentences from profane writers
into the text of holy writ. His whole style is finically quaint,
overloaded with prettinesses, and all the ornaments of false taste. Of
the noble simplicity of the Scripture he seems not to have had the
remotest conception.

But an attempt by Père Berruyer is more extraordinary; in his _Histoire
du Peuple de Dieu_, he has recomposed the Bible as he would have written
a fashionable novel. He conceives that the great legislator of the
Hebrews is too barren in his descriptions, too concise in the events he
records, nor is he careful to enrich his history by pleasing reflections
and interesting conversation pieces, and hurries on the catastrophes, by
which means he omits much entertaining matter: as for instance, in the
loves of Joseph and the wife of Potiphar, Moses is very dry and concise,
which, however, our Père Berruyer is not. His histories of Joseph, and
of King David, are relishing morsels, and were devoured eagerly in all
the boudoirs of Paris. Take a specimen of the style. "Joseph combined,
with a regularity of features and a brilliant complexion, an air of the
noblest dignity; all which contributed to render him one of the most
amiable men in Egypt." At length "she declares her passion, and pressed
him to answer her. It never entered her mind that the advances of a
woman of her rank could ever be rejected. Joseph at first only replied
to all her wishes by his cold embarrassments. She would not yet give him
up. In vain he flies from her; she was too passionate to waste even the
moments of his astonishment." This good father, however, does ample
justice to the gallantry of the Patriarch Jacob. He offers to serve
Laban, seven years for Rachel. "Nothing is too much," cries the
venerable novelist, "when one really loves;" and this admirable
observation he confirms by the facility with which the obliging Rachel
allows Leah for one night to her husband! In this manner the patriarchs
are made to speak in the tone of the tenderest lovers; Judith is a
Parisian coquette, Holofernes is rude as a German baron; and their
dialogues are tedious with all the reciprocal politesse of metaphysical
French lovers! Moses in the desert, it was observed, is precisely as
pedantic as Père Berruyer addressing his class at the university. One
cannot but smile at the following expressions:--"By the easy manner in
which God performed miracles, one might easily perceive they cost no
effort." When he has narrated an "Adventure of the Patriarchs," he
proceeds, "After such an extraordinary, or curious, or interesting
adventure," &c. This good father had caught the language of the beau
monde, but with such perfect simplicity that, in employing it on sacred
history, he was not aware of the ludicrous style in which he was
writing.

A Gothic bishop translated the Scriptures into the Goth language, but
omitted the _Books of Kings_! lest the _wars_, of which so much is there
recorded, should increase their inclination to fighting, already too
prevalent. Jortin notices this castrated copy of the Bible in his
Remarks on Ecclesiastical History.

As the Bible, in many parts, consists merely of historical transactions,
and as too many exhibit a detail of offensive ones, it has often
occurred to the fathers of families, as well as to the popes, to
prohibit its general reading. Archbishop Tillotson formed a design of
purifying the historical parts. Those who have given us a _Family
Shakspeare_, in the same spirit may present us with a _Family Bible_.

In these attempts to recompose the Bible, the broad vulgar colloquial
diction, which has been used by our theological writers, is less
tolerable than the quaintness of Castalion and the floridity of Père
Berruyer.

The style now noticed long disgraced the writings of our divines; and we
see it sometimes still employed by some of a certain stamp. Matthew
Henry, whose commentaries are well known, writes in this manner on
Judges ix.:--"We are here told by what acts Abimelech _got into the
saddle_.--None would have _dreamed_ of making such a _fellow_ as he
king.--See how he has _wheedled_ them into the choice. He hired into his
service the _scum_ and _scoundrels_ of the country. Jotham was really a
_fine gentleman_.--The Sechemites that set Abimelech up, were the first
to _kick him off_. The Sechemites said all the ill they could of him in
their _table-talk_; they _drank healths_ to his _confusion_.--Well,
Gaal's interest in Sechem is soon at an end. _Exit Gaal_!"

Lancelot Addison, by the vulgar coarseness of his style, forms an
admirable contrast with the amenity and grace of his son's Spectators.
He tells us, in his voyage to Barbary, that "A rabbin once told him,
among other _heinous stuff_, that he did not expect the felicity of the
next world on the account of any merits but his own; whoever kept the
law would arrive at the bliss, by _coming upon his own legs_."

It must be confessed that the rabbin, considering he could not
conscientiously have the same creed as Addison, did not deliver any very
"heinous stuff," in believing that other people's merits have nothing to
do with our own; and that "we should stand on our own legs!" But this
was not "proper words in proper places."




ORIGIN OF THE MATERIALS OF WRITING.


It is curious to observe the various substitutes for paper before its
discovery.

Ere the invention of recording events by writing, trees were planted,
rude altars were erected, or heaps of stone, to serve as memorials of
past events. Hercules probably could not write when he fixed his famous
pillars.

The most ancient mode of writing was on _bricks_, _tiles_, and
_oyster-shells_, and on _tables of stone_; afterwards on _plates_ of
various materials, on _ivory_, on _barks_ of trees, on _leaves_ of
trees.[7]

Engraving memorable events on hard substances was giving, as it were,
speech to rocks and metals. In the book of Job mention is made of
writing on _stone_, on _rocks_, and on sheets of _lead_. On tables of
_stone_ Moses received the law written by the finger of God. Hesiod's
works were written on _leaden_ tables: lead was used for writing, and
rolled up like a cylinder, as Pliny states. Montfaucon notices a very
ancient book of eight leaden leaves, which on the back had rings
fastened by a small leaden rod to keep them together. They afterwards
engraved on bronze: the laws of the Cretans were on bronze tables; the
Romans etched their public records on brass. The speech of Claudius,
engraved on plates of bronze, is yet preserved in the town-hall of
Lyons, in France.[8] Several bronze tables, with Etruscan characters,
have been dug up in Tuscany. The treaties among the Romans, Spartans,
and the Jews, were written on brass; and estates, for better security,
were made over on this enduring metal. In many cabinets may be found the
discharge of soldiers, written on copper-plates. This custom has been
discovered in India: a bill of feoffment on copper, has been dug up near
Bengal, dated a century before the birth of Christ.

Among these early inventions many were singularly rude, and miserable
substitutes for a better material. In the shepherd state they wrote
their songs with thorns and awls on straps of leather, which they wound
round their crooks. The Icelanders appear to have scratched their
_runes_, a kind of hieroglyphics, on walls; and Olaf, according to one
of the Sagas, built a large house, on the bulks and spars of which he
had engraved the history of his own and more ancient times; while
another northern hero appears to have had nothing better than his own
chair and bed to perpetuate his own heroic acts on. At the town-hall, in
Hanover, are kept twelve wooden boards, overlaid with bees'-wax, on
which are written the names of owners of houses, but not the names of
streets. These _wooden manuscripts_ must have existed before 1423, when
Hanover was first divided into streets. Such manuscripts may be found in
public collections. These are an evidence of a rude state of _society_.
The same event occurred among the ancient Arabs, who, according to the
history of Mahomet, seemed to have carved on the shoulder-bones of sheep
remarkable events with a knife, and tying them with a string, hung up
these sheep-bone chronicles.

The laws of the twelve tables, which the Romans chiefly copied from the
Grecian code, were, after they had been approved by the people, engraven
on brass: they were melted by lightning, which struck the Capitol; a
loss highly regretted by Augustus. This manner of writing we still
retain, for inscriptions, epitaphs, and other memorials designed to
reach posterity.

These early inventions led to the discovery of tables of _wood_; and as
_cedar_ has an antiseptic quality from its bitterness, they chose this
wood for cases or chests to preserve their most important writings. This
well-known expression of the ancients, when they meant to give the
highest eulogium of an excellent work, _et cedro digna locuti_, that it
was worthy to be written on _cedar_, alludes to the _oil of cedar_, with
which valuable MSS. of parchment were anointed, to preserve them from
corruption and moths. Persius illustrates this:--

    Who would not leave posterity such rhymes
    As _cedar oil_ might keep to latest times!

They stained materials for writing upon, with purple, and rubbed them
with exudations from the cedar. The laws of the emperors were published
on _wooden tables_, painted with ceruse; to which custom Horace alludes:
_Leges incidere ligno_. Such _tables_, the term now softened into
_tablets_, are still used, but in general are made of other materials
than wood. The same reason for which they preferred the _cedar_ to other
wood induced to write on _wax_, as being incorruptible. Men generally
used it to write their testaments on, the better to preserve them; thus
Juvenal says, _Ceras implere capaces_. This thin paste of wax was also
used on tablets of wood, that it might more easily admit of erasure, for
daily use.

They wrote with an iron bodkin, as they did on the other substances we
have noticed. The _stylus_ was made sharp at one end to write with, and
blunt and broad at the other, to efface and correct easily: hence the
phrase _vertere stylum_, to turn the stylus, was used to express
blotting out. But the Romans forbad the use of this sharp instrument,
from the circumstance of many persons having used them as daggers. A
schoolmaster was killed by the Pugillares or table-books, and the styles
of his own scholars.[9] They substituted a _stylus_ made of the bone of
a bird, or other animal; so that their writings resembled engravings.
When they wrote on softer materials, they employed _reeds_ and _canes_
split like our _pens_ at the points, which the orientalists still use to
lay their colour or ink neater on the paper.

Naudé observes, that when he was in Italy, about 1642, he saw some of
those waxen tablets, called Pugillares, so called because they were held
in one hand; and others composed of the barks of trees, which the
ancients employed in lieu of paper.

On these tablets, or table-books Mr. Astle observes, that the Greeks and
Romans continued the use of waxed table-books long after the use of the
papyrus, leaves and skins became common; because they were convenient
for correcting extemporaneous compositions: from these table-books they
transcribed their performances correctly into parchment books, if for
their own private use; but if for sale, or for the library, the
_Librarii_, or Scribes, performed the office. The writing on table-books
is particularly recommended by Quintilian in the third chapter of the
tenth book of his Institutions; because the wax is readily effaced for
any corrections: he confesses weak eyes do not see so well on paper, and
observes that the frequent necessity of dipping the pen in the inkstand
retards the hand, and is but ill-suited to the celerity of the mind.
Some of these table-books are conjectured to have been large, and
perhaps heavy, for in Plautus, a school-boy is represented breaking his
master's head with his table-book. The critics, according to Cicero,
were accustomed in reading their wax manuscripts to notice obscure or
vicious phrases by joining a piece of red wax, as we should underline
such by red ink.

Table-hooks written upon with styles were not entirely laid aside in
Chaucer's time, who describes them in his Sompner's tale:--

    His fellow had a staffe tipp'd with horne,
    _A paire of tables all of iverie_;
    And a _pointell polished_ fetouslie,
    And wrote alwaies the names, as he stood,
    Of all folke, that gave hem any good.[10]

By the word _pen_ in the translation of the Bible we must understand an
iron _style_. Table-books of ivory are still used for memoranda, written
with black-lead pencils. The Romans used ivory to write the edicts of
the senate on, with a black colour; and the expression of _libri
elephantini_, which some authors imagine alludes to books that for their
_size_ were called _elephantine_, were most probably composed of ivory,
the tusk of the elephant: among the Romans they were undoubtedly scarce.

The _pumice stone_ was a writing-material of the ancients; they used it
to smoothe the roughness of the parchment, or to sharpen their reeds.

In the progress of time the art of writing consisted in _painting_ with
different kinds of _ink_. This novel mode of writing occasioned them to
invent other materials proper to receive their writing; the thin bark of
certain _trees_ and _plants_, or _linen_; and at length, when this was
found apt to become mouldy, they prepared the _skins of animals_; on the
dried skins of serpents were once written the Iliad and Odyssey. The
first place where they began to dress these skins was _Pergamus_, in
Asia; whence the Latin name is derived of _Pergamenoe_ or _parchment_.
These skins are, however, better known amongst the authors of the purest
Latin under the name of _membrana_; so called from the membranes of
various animals of which they were composed. The ancients had
_parchments_ of three different colours, white, yellow, and purple. At
Rome white parchment was disliked, because it was more subject to be
soiled than the others, and dazzled the eye. They generally wrote in
letters of gold and silver on purple or violet parchment. This custom
continued in the early ages of the church; and copies of the evangelists
of this kind are preserved in the British Museum.

When the Egyptians employed for writing the _bark_ of a _plant_ or
_reed_, called _papyrus_, or paper-rush, it superseded all former modes,
for its convenience. Formerly it grew in great quantities on the sides
of the Nile. This plant has given its name to our _paper_, although the
latter is now composed of linen and rags, and formerly had been of
cotton-wool, which was but brittle and yellow; and improved by using
cotton rags, which they glazed. After the eighth century the papyrus was
superseded by parchment. The _Chinese_ make their _paper_ with _silk_.
The use of _paper_ is of great antiquity. It is what the ancient
Latinists call _charta_ or _chartae_. Before the use of _parchment_ and
_paper_ passed to the Romans, they used the thin peel found between the
wood and the bark of trees. This skinny substance they called _liber_,
from whence the Latin word _liber_, a book, and _library_ and
_librarian_ in the European languages, and the French _livre_ for book;
but we of northern origin derive our _book_ from the Danish _bog_, the
beech-tree, because that being the most plentiful in Denmark was used to
engrave on. Anciently, instead of folding this bark, this parchment, or
paper, as we fold ours, they rolled it according as they wrote on it;
and the Latin name which they gave these rolls has passed into our
language as well as the others. We say a _volume_, or volumes, although
our books are composed of leaves bound together. The books of the
ancients on the shelves of their libraries were rolled up on a pin and
placed erect, titled on the outside in red letters, or rubrics, and
appeared like a number of small pillars on the shelves.[11]

The ancients were as curious as ourselves in having their books richly
conditioned. Propertius describes tablets with gold borders, and Ovid
notices their red titles; but in later times, besides the tint of purple
with which they tinged their vellum, and the liquid gold which they
employed for their ink, they inlaid their covers with precious stones:
and I have seen, in the library at Triers or Treves, a manuscript, the
donation of some princess to a monastery, studded with heads wrought in
fine cameos.[12] In the early ages of the church they painted on the
outside commonly a dying Christ. In the curious library of Mr. Douce is
a Psalter, supposed once to have appertained to Charlemagne; the vellum
is purple, and the letters gold. The Eastern nations likewise tinged
their MSS. with different colours and decorations. Astle possessed
Arabian MSS. of which some leaves were of a deep yellow, and others of a
lilac colour. Sir William Jones describes an oriental MS. in which the
name of Mohammed was fancifully adorned with a garland of tulips and
carnations, painted in the brightest colours. The favourite works of the
Persians are written on fine silky paper, the ground of which is often
powdered with gold or silver dust; the leaves are frequently
illuminated, and the whole book is sometimes perfumed with essence of
roses, or sandal wood. The Romans had several sorts of paper, for which
they had as many different names; one was the _Charta Augusta_, in
compliment to the emperor; another _Livinia_, named after the empress.
There was a _Charta blanca_, which obtained its title from its beautiful
whiteness, and which we appear to have retained by applying it to a
blank sheet of paper which is only signed, _Charte Blanche_. They had
also a _Charta nigra_, painted black, and the letters were in white or
other colours.

Our present paper surpasses all other materials for ease and convenience
of writing. The first paper-mill in England was erected at Dartford, by
a German, in 1588, who was knighted by Elizabeth; but it was not before
1713 that one Thomas Watkins, a stationer, brought the art of
paper-making to any perfection, and to the industry of this individual
we owe the origin of our numerous paper-mills. France had hitherto
supplied England and Holland.

The manufacture of paper was not much encouraged at home, even so late
as in 1662; and the following observations by Fuller are curious,
respecting the paper of his times:--"Paper participates in some sort of
the characters of the country which makes it; the _Venetian_, being
neat, subtile, and court-like; the _French_, light, slight, and slender;
the _Dutch_, thick, corpulent, and gross, sucking up the ink with the
sponginess thereof." He complains that the paper-manufactories were not
then sufficiently encouraged, "considering the vast sums of money
expended in our land for paper, out of Italy, France, and Germany, which
might be lessened, were it made in our nation. To such who object that
we can never equal the perfection of _Venice-paper_, I return, neither
can we match the purity of Venice-glasses; and yet many _green ones_ are
blown in Sussex, profitable to the makers, and convenient for the users.
Our _home-spun paper_ might be found beneficial." The present German
printing-paper is made so disagreeable both to printers and readers from
their paper-manufacturers making many more reams of paper from one cwt.
of rags than formerly. Rags are scarce, and German writers, as well as
their language, are voluminous.

Mr. Astle deeply complains of the inferiority of our _inks_ to those of
antiquity; an inferiority productive of the most serious consequences,
and which appears to originate merely in negligence. From the important
benefits arising to society from the use of ink, and the injuries
individuals may suffer from the frauds of designing men, he wishes the
legislature would frame some new regulations respecting it. The
composition of ink is simple, but we possess none equal in beauty and
colour to that used by the ancients; the Saxon MSS. written in England
exceed in colour anything of the kind. The rolls and records from the
fifteenth century to the end of the seventeenth, compared with those of
the fifth to the twelfth centuries, show the excellence of the earlier
ones, which are all in the finest preservation; while the others are so
much defaced, that they are scarcely legible.

The ink of the ancients had nothing in common with ours, but the colour
and gum. Gall-nuts, copperas, and gum make up the composition of our
ink; whereas _soot_ or _ivory-black_ was the chief ingredient in that of
the ancients.[13]

Ink has been made of various colours; we find gold and silver ink, and
red, green, yellow, and blue inks; but the black is considered as the
best adapted to its purpose.




ANECDOTES OF EUROPEAN MANNERS.


The following circumstances probably gave rise to the tyranny of the
feudal power, and are the facts on which the fictions of romance are
raised. Castles were erected to repulse the vagrant attacks of the
Normans; and in France, from the year 768 to 987, these places disturbed
the public repose. The petty despots who raised these castles pillaged
whoever passed, and carried off the females who pleased them. Rapine, of
every kind were the _privileges_ of the feudal lords! Mezeray observes,
that it is from these circumstances romancers have invented their tales
of _knights errant_, _monsters_, and _giants_.

De Saint Foix, in his "Historical Essays," informs us that "women and
girls were not in greater security when they passed by abbeys. The monks
sustained an assault rather than relinquish their prey: if they saw
themselves losing ground, they brought to their walls the relics of some
saint. Then it generally happened that the assailants, seized with awful
veneration, retired, and dared not pursue their vengeance. This is the
origin of the _enchanters_, of the _enchantments_, and of the _enchanted
castles_ described in romances."

To these may be added what the author of "Northern Antiquities," Vol.
I. p. 243, writes, that as the walls of the castles ran winding round
them, they often called them by a name which signified _serpents_ or
_dragons_; and in these were commonly secured the women and young maids
of distinction, who were seldom safe at a time when so many bold
warriors were rambling up and down in search of adventures. It was this
custom which gave occasion to ancient romancers, who knew not how to
describe anything simply, to invent so many fables concerning princesses
of great beauty guarded by _dragons_.

A singular and barbarous custom prevailed during this period; it
consisted in punishments by _mutilations_. It became so general that the
abbots, instead of bestowing canonical penalties on their monks, obliged
them to cut off an ear, an arm, or a leg!

Velly, in his History of France, has described two festivals, which give
a just idea of the manners and devotion of a later period, 1230, which
like the ancient mysteries consisted of a mixture of farce and piety:
religion in fact was their amusement! The following one existed even to
the Reformation:--

In the church of Paris, and in several other cathedrals of the kingdom,
was held the _Feast of Fools_ or madmen. "The priests and clerks
assembled elected a pope, an archbishop, or a bishop, conducted them in
great pomp to the church, which they entered dancing, masked, and
dressed in the apparel of women, animals, and merry-andrews; sung
infamous songs, and converted the altar into a beaufet, where they ate
and drank during the celebration of the holy mysteries; played with
dice; burned, instead of incense, the leather of their old sandals; ran
about, and leaped from seat to seat, with all the indecent postures with
which the merry-andrews know how to amuse the populace."

The other does not yield in extravagance. "This festival was called the
_Feast of Asses_, and was celebrated at Beauvais. They chose a young
woman, the handsomest in the town; they made her ride on an ass richly
harnessed, and placed in her arms a pretty infant.[14] In this state,
followed by the bishop and clergy, she marched in procession from the
cathedral to the church of St. Stephen's; entered into the sanctuary;
placed herself near the altar, and the mass began; whatever the choir
sung was terminated by this charming burthen, _Hihan, hihan_! Their
prose, half Latin and half French, explained the fine qualities of the
animal. Every strophe finished by this delightful invitation:--

    Hez, sire Ane, ça chantez,
    Belle bouche rechignez,
    Vous aurés du foin assez,
    Et de l'avoine si plantez.

They at length exhorted him, in making a devout genuflexion, to forget
his ancient food, for the purpose of repeating without ceasing, _Amen,
Amen_. The priest, instead of _Ite missa est_, sung three times, _Hihan,
hihan, hihan_! and the people three times answered, _Hihan, hihan,
hihan_! to imitate the braying of that grave animal.[15]

What shall we think of this imbecile mixture of superstition and farce?
This _ass_ was perhaps typical of the _ass_ which Jesus rode! The
children of Israel worshipped a golden ass, and Balaam made another
speak. How fortunate then was _James Naylor_, who desirous of entering
Bristol on an _ass_, Hume informs us--it is indeed but a piece of cold
pleasantry--that all Bristol could not afford him _one_!

At the time when all these follies were practised, they would not suffer
men to play at _chess_! Velly says, "A statute of Eudes de Sully
prohibits clergymen not only from playing at chess, but even from having
a chess-board in their house." Who could believe, that while half the
ceremonies of religion consisted in the grossest buffoonery, a prince
preferred death rather than cure himself by a remedy which offended his
chastity! Louis VIII. being dangerously ill, the physicians consulted,
and agreed to place near the monarch while he slept a young and
beautiful lady, who, when he awoke, should inform him of the motive
which had conducted her to him. Louis answered, "No, my girl, I prefer
dying rather than to save my life by a _mortal sin_!" And, in fact, the
good king died! He would not be prescribed for out of the whole
Pharmacopoeia of Love!

An account of our taste in female beauty is given, by Mr. Ellis, who
observes, in his notes to Way's Fabliaux, "In the times of chivalry the
minstrels dwelt with great complacency on the fair hair and delicate
complexion of their damsels. This taste was continued for a long time,
and to render the hair light was a great object of education. Even when
wig first came into fashion they were all flaxen. Such was the colour of
the Gauls and of their German conquerors. It required some centuries to
reconcile their eyes to the swarthy beauties of their Spanish and their
Italian neighbours."[16]

The following is an amusing anecdote of the difficulty in which an
honest Vicar of Bray found himself in those contentious times.

When the court of Rome, under the pontificates of Gregory IX. and
Innocent IV., set no bounds to their ambitious projects, they were
opposed by the Emperor Frederick; who was of course anathematised. A
curate of Paris, a humorous fellow, got up in his pulpit with the bull
of Innocent in his hand. "You know, my brethren (said he), that I am
ordered to proclaim an excommunication against Frederick. I am ignorant
of the motive. All that I know is, that there exist, between this Prince
and the Roman Pontiff great differences, and an irreconcileable hatred.
God only knows which of the two is wrong. Therefore with all my power I
excommunicate him who injures the other; and I absolve him who suffers,
to the great scandal of all Christianity."

The following anecdotes relate to a period which is sufficiently remote
to excite curiosity; yet not so distant as to weaken the interest we
feel in those minutiæ of the times.

The present one may serve as a curious specimen of the despotism and
simplicity of an age not literary, in discovering the author of a libel.
It took place in the reign of Henry VIII. A great jealousy subsisted
between the Londoners and those foreigners who traded here. The
foreigners probably (observes Mr. Lodge, in his Illustrations of English
History) worked cheaper and were more industrious.

There was a libel affixed on St. Paul's door, which reflected on Henry
VIII. and these foreigners, who were accused of buying up the wool with
the king's money, to the undoing of Englishmen. This tended to inflame
the minds of the people. The method adopted to discover the writer of
the libel must excite a smile in the present day, while it shows the
state in which knowledge must have been in this country. The plan
adopted was this: In every ward one of the King's council, with an
alderman of the same, was commanded to see every man write that could,
and further took every man's book and sealed them, and brought them to
Guildhall to confront them with the original. So that if of this number
many wrote alike, the judges must have been much puzzled to fix on the
criminal.

Our hours of refection are singularly changed in little more than two
centuries. In the reign of Francis I. (observes the author of
Récréations Historiques) they were accustomed to say,--

    Lever à cinq, dîner à neuf,
    Souper à cinq, coucher à neuf,
    Fait vivre d'ans nonante et neuf.

Historians observe of Louis XII. that one of the causes which
contributed to hasten his death was the entire change of his regimen.
The good king, by the persuasion of his wife, says the history of
Bayard, changed his manner of living: when he was accustomed to dine at
eight o'clock, he agreed to dine at twelve; and when he was used to
retire at six o'clock in the evening, he frequently sat up as late as
midnight.

Houssaie gives the following authentic notice drawn from the registers
of the court, which presents a curious account of domestic life in the
fifteenth century. Of the dauphin Louis, son of Charles VI., who died at
the age of twenty, we are told, "that he knew the Latin and French
languages; that he had many musicians in his chapel; passed the night in
vigils; dined at three in the afternoon, supped at midnight, went to bed
at the break of day, and thus was _ascertené_ (that is threatened) with
a short life." Froissart mentions waiting upon the Duke of Lancaster at
five o'clock in the afternoon, when he _had supped_.

The custom of dining at nine in the morning relaxed greatly under
Francis I., successor of Louis XII. However, persons of quality dined
then the latest at ten; and supper was at five or six in the evening. We
may observe this in the preface to the Heptameron of the Queen of
Navarre, where this princess, describing the mode of life which the
lords and ladies whom she assembles at the castle of Madame Oysille,
should follow, to be agreeably occupied and to banish languor, thus
expresses herself: "As soon as the morning rose, they went to the
chamber of Madame Oysille, whom they found already at her prayers; and
when they had heard during a good hour her lecture, and then the mass,
they went to dine at ten o'clock; and afterwards each privately retired
to his room, but did not fail at noon to meet in the meadow." Speaking
of the end of the first day (which was in September) the same lady
Oysille says, "Say where is the sun? and hear the bell of the abbey,
which has for some time called us to vespers; in saying this they all
rose and went to the religionists _who had waited for them above an
hour_. Vespers heard, they went to supper, and after having played a
thousand sports in the meadow they retired to bed." All this exactly
corresponds with the lines above quoted. Charles V. of France, however,
who lived near two centuries before Francis, dined at ten, supped at
seven, and all the court was in bed by nine o'clock. They sounded the
curfew, which bell warned them to cover their fire, at six in the
winter, and between eight and nine in the summer. Under the reign of
Henry IV. the hour of dinner at court was eleven, or at noon the latest;
a custom which prevailed even in the early part of the reign of Louis
XIV. In the provinces distant from Paris, it is very common to dine at
nine; they make a second repast about two o'clock, sup at five; and
their last meal is made just before they retire to bed. The labourers
and peasants in France have preserved this custom, and make three meals;
one at nine, another at three, and the last at the setting of the sun.

The Marquis of Mirabeau, in "L'Ami des Hommes," Vol. I. p. 261, gives a
striking representation of the singular industry of the French citizens
of that age. He had learnt from several ancient citizens of Paris, that
if in their youth a workman did not work two hours by candle-light,
either in the morning or evening, he even adds in the longest days, he
would have been noticed as an idler, and would not have found persons
to employ him. On the 12th of May, 1588, when Henry III. ordered his
troops to occupy various posts at Paris, Davila writes that the
inhabitants, warned by the noise of the drums, began to shut their doors
and shops, which, according to the customs of that town to work before
daybreak, were already opened. This must have been, taking it at the
latest, about four in the morning. "In 1750," adds the ingenious writer,
"I walked on that day through Paris at full six in the morning; I passed
through the most busy and populous part of the city, and I only saw open
some stalls of the vendors of brandy!"

To the article, "Anecdotes of Fashions," (see Vol. I., p. 216) we may
add, that in England a taste for splendid dress existed in the reign of
Henry VII.; as is observable by the following description of Nicholas
Lord Vaux. "In the 17th of that reign, at the marriage of Prince Arthur,
the brave young Vaux appeared in a gown of purple velvet, adorned with
pieces of gold so thick, and massive, that, exclusive of the silk and
furs, it was valued at a thousand pounds. About his neck he wore a
collar of SS, weighing eight hundred pounds in nobles. In those days it
not only required great bodily strength to support the weight of their
cumbersome armour; their very luxury of apparel for the drawing-room
would oppress a system of modern muscles."

In the following reign, according to the monarch's and Wolsey's
magnificent taste, their dress was, perhaps, more generally sumptuous.
We then find the following rich ornaments in vogue. Shirts and shifts
were embroidered with gold, and bordered with lace. Strutt notices also
perfumed gloves lined with white velvet, and splendidly worked with
embroidery and gold buttons. Not only gloves, but various other parts of
their habits, were perfumed; shoes were made of Spanish perfumed skins.

Carriages were not then used;[17] so that lords would carry princesses
on a pillion behind them, and in wet weather the ladies covered their
heads with hoods of oil-cloth: a custom that has been generally
continued to the middle of the seventeenth century. Coaches were
introduced into England by Fitzalan Earl of Arundel, in 1580, and at
first were only drawn by a pair of horses. The favourite Buckingham,
about 1619, began to have them drawn by six horses; and Wilson, in his
life of James I., tells us this "was wondered at as a novelty, and
imputed to him as a mastering pride." The same _arbiter elegantiarum_
introduced sedan-chairs. In France, Catherine of Medicis was the first
who used a coach, which had leathern doors and curtains, instead of
glass windows. If the carriage of Henry IV. had had glass windows, this
circumstance might have saved his life. Carriages were so rare in the
reign of this monarch, that in a letter to his minister Sully, he
notices that having taken medicine that day, though he intended to have
called on him, he was prevented because the queen had gone out with the
carriage. Even as late as in the reign of Louis XIV. the courtiers rode
on horseback to their dinner parties, and wore their light boots and
spurs. Count Hamilton describes his boots of white Spanish leather, with
gold spurs.

Saint Foix observes, that in 1658 there were only 310 coaches in Paris,
and in 1758 there were more than 14,000.

Strutt has judiciously observed, that though "luxury and grandeur were
so much affected, and appearances of state and splendour carried to such
lengths, we may conclude that their household furniture and domestic
necessaries were also carefully attended to; on passing through their
houses, we may expect to be surprised at the neatness, elegance, and
superb appearance of each room, and the suitableness of every ornament;
but herein we may be deceived. The taste of elegance amongst our
ancestors was very different from the present, and however we may find
them extravagant in their apparel, excessive in their banquets, and
expensive in their trains of attendants; yet, follow them home, and
within their houses you shall find their furniture is plain and homely;
no great choice, but what was useful, rather than any for ornament or
show."

Erasmus, as quoted by Jortin, confirms this account, and makes it worse;
he gives a curious account of English dirtiness; he ascribes the plague,
from which England was hardly ever free, and the sweating-sickness,
partly to the incommodious form, and bad exposition of the houses, to
the filthiness of the streets, and to the sluttishness within doors.
"The floors," says he, "are commonly of clay, strewed with rushes; under
which lies, unmolested, an ancient collection of beer, grease,
fragments, bones, spittle, excrement of dogs and cats, and everything
that is nasty."[18] And NOW, certainly we are the cleanest nation in
Europe, and the word COMFORTABLE expresses so peculiar an idea, that it
has been adopted by foreigners to describe a sensation experienced
nowhere but in England.

I shall give a sketch of the domestic life of a nobleman in the reign of
Charles the First, from the "Life of the Duke of Newcastle," written by
his Duchess, whom I have already noticed. It might have been impertinent
at the time of its publication; it will now please those who are curious
about English manners.

                      "_Of his Habit_.

"He accoutres his person according to the fashion, if it be one that is
not troublesome and uneasy for men of heroic exercises and actions. He
is neat and cleanly; which makes him to be somewhat long in dressing,
though not so long as many effeminate persons are. He shifts ordinarily
once a day, and every time when he uses exercise, or his temper is more
hot than ordinary.

                       "_Of his Diet_.

"In his diet he is so sparing and temperate, that he never eats nor
drinks beyond his set proportion, so as to satisfy only his natural
appetite; he makes but one meal a day, at which he drinks two good
glasses of small beer, one about the beginning, the other at the end
thereof, and a little glass of sack in the middle of his dinner; which
glass of sack he also uses in the morning for his breakfast, with a
morsel of bread. His supper consists of an egg and a draught of small
beer. And by this temperance he finds himself very healthful, and may
yet live many years, he being now of the age of seventy-three.

              "_His Recreation and Exercise_.

"His prime pastime and recreation hath always been the exercise of
mannage and weapons, which heroic arts he used to practise every day;
but I observing that when he had overheated himself he would be apt to
take cold, prevailed so far, that at last he left the frequent use of
the mannage, using nevertheless still the exercise of weapons; and
though he doth not ride himself so frequently as he hath done, yet he
taketh delight in seeing his horses of mannage rid by his escuyers, whom
he instructs in that art for his own pleasure. But in the art of weapons
(in which he has a method beyond all that ever was famous in it, found
out by his own ingenuity and practice) he never taught any body but the
now Duke of Buckingham, whose guardian he hath been, and his own two
sons. The rest of his time he spends in music, poetry, architecture, and
the like."

The value of money, and the increase of our opulence, might form, says
Johnson, a curious subject of research. In the reign of Edward the
Sixth, Latimer mentions it as a proof of his father's prosperity, that
though but a yeoman, he gave his daughters five pounds each for their
portion.[19] At the latter end of Elizabeth's reign, seven hundred
pounds were such a temptation to courtship, as made all other motives
suspected. Congreve makes twelve thousand pounds more than a
counterbalance to the affection of Belinda. No poet will now fly his
favourite character at less than fifty thousand. Clarissa Harlowe had
but a moderate fortune.

In Sir John Vanbrugh's Confederacy, a woman of fashion is presented with
a bill of millinery _as long as herself_.--Yet it only amounts to a poor
fifty pounds! at present this sounds oddly on the stage. I have heard of
a lady of quality and fashion who had a bill of her fancy dressmaker,
for the expenditure of one year, to the tune of, or rather, which closed
in the deep diapason of, six thousand pounds!




THE EARLY DRAMA.

"It is curious to trace the first rude attempts of the drama in various
nations; to observe at that moment how crude is the imagination, and to
trace the caprices it indulges; and that the resemblance in these
attempts holds in the earliest essays of Greece, of France, of Spain, of
England, and, what appears extraordinary, even of China and Mexico."

The rude beginnings of the drama of Greece are sufficiently known, and
the old _mysteries_ of Europe have been exhibited in a former article.
The progress of the French theatre has been this:--

Etienne Jodelle, in 1552, seems to have been the first who had a tragedy
represented of his own invention, entitled Cleopatra--it was a servile
imitation of the form of the Grecian tragedy; but if this did not
require the highest genius, it did the utmost intrepidity; for the
people were, through long habit, intoxicated with the wild amusement
they amply received from their farces and moralities.

The following curious anecdote, which followed the first attempt at
classical imitation, is very observable. Jodelle's success was such,
that his rival poets, touched by the spirit of the Grecian muse, showed
a singular proof of their enthusiasm for this new poet, in a _classical_
festivity which gave room for no little scandal in that day; yet as it
was produced by a carnival, it was probably a kind of drunken bout.
Fifty poets, during the carnival of 1552, went to Arcueil. Chance, says
the writer of the life of the old French bard Ronsard, who was one of
the present _profane_ party, threw across their road a _goat_--which
having caught, they ornamented the goat with chaplets of flowers, and
carried it triumphantly to the hall of their festival, to appear to
sacrifice to Bacchus, and to present it to Jodelle; for the goat, among
the ancients, was the prize of the tragic bards; the victim of Bacchus,
who presided over tragedy,

    Carmine, qui tragico, vilem certavit ob hircum.

The goat thus adorned, and his beard painted, was hunted about the long
table, at which the fifty poets were seated; and after having served
them for a subject of laughter for some time, he was hunted out of the
room, and not sacrificed to Bacchus. Each of the guests made verses on
the occasion, in imitation of the Bacchanalia of the ancients. Ronsard
composed some dithyrambics to celebrate the festival of the goat of
Etienne Jodelle; and another, entitled "Our travels to Arcueil."
However, this Bacchaualian freak did not finish as it ought, where it
had begun, among the poets. Several ecclesiastics sounded the alarm, and
one Chandieu accused Ronsard with having performed an idolatrous
sacrifice; and it was easy to accuse the moral habits of _fifty poets_
assembled together, who were far, doubtless, from being irreproachable.
They repented for some time of their classical sacrifice of a goat to
Tragedy.

Hardi, the French Lope de Vega, wrote 800 dramatic pieces from 1600 to
1637; his imagination was the most fertile possible; but so wild and
unchecked, that though its extravagances are very amusing, they served
as so many instructive lessons to his successors. One may form a notion
of his violation of the unities by his piece "La Force du Sang." In the
first act Leocadia is carried off and ravished. In the second she is
sent back with an evident sign of pregnancy. In the third she lies in,
and at the close of this act her son is about ten years old. In the
fourth, the father of the child acknowledges him; and in the fifth,
lamenting his son's unhappy fate, he marries Leocadia. Such are the
pieces in the infancy of the drama.

Rotrou was the first who ventured to introduce several persons in the
same scene; before his time they rarely exceeded two persons; if a third
appeared, he was usually a mute actor, who never joined the other two.
The state of the theatre was even then very rude; the most lascivious
embraces were publicly given and taken; and Rotrou even ventured to
introduce a naked page in the scene, who in this situation holds a
dialogue with one of his heroines. In another piece, "_Scedase, ou
l'hospitalité violée_," Hardi makes two young Spartans carry off
Scedase's two daughters, ravish them on the stage, and, violating them
in the side scenes, the spectators heard their cries and their
complaints. Cardinal Richelieu made the theatre one of his favourite
pursuits, and though not successful as a dramatic writer, his
encouragement of the drama gradually gave birth to genius. Scudery was
the first who introduced the twenty-four hours from Aristotle; and
Mairet studied the construction of the fable, and the rules of the
drama. They yet groped in the dark, and their beauties were yet only
occasional; Corneille, Racine, Molière, Crebillon, and Voltaire
perfected the French drama.

In the infancy of the tragic art in our country, the bowl and dagger
were considered as the great instruments of a sublime pathos; and the
"_Die all_" and "_Die nobly_" of the exquisite and affecting tragedy of
Fielding were frequently realised in our popular dramas. Thomas Goff, of
the university of Oxford, in the reign of James I., was considered as no
contemptible tragic poet: he concludes the first part of his Courageous
Turk, by promising a second, thus:--

    If this first part, gentles! do like you well,
    The second part shall _greater murthers_ tell.

Specimens of extravagant bombast might be selected from his tragedies.
The following speech of Amurath the Turk, who coming on the stage, and
seeing "an appearance of the heavens being on fire, comets and blazing
stars, thus addresses the heavens," which seem to have been in as mad a
condition as the poet's own mind:--

    --How now, ye heavens! grow you
    So proud, that you must needs _put on curled locks_,
    And clothe yourselves in _periwigs of fire_!"

In the Raging Turk, or Bajazet the Second, he is introduced with this
most raging speech:--

    Am I not emperor? he that breathes a no
    Damns in that negative syllable his soul;
    Durst any god gainsay it, he should feel
    The strength of fiercest giants in my armies;
    Mine anger's at the highest, and I could shake
    The firm foundation of the earthly globe;
    Could I but grasp the poles in these two hands
    I'd pluck the world asunder.
    He would scale heaven, and when he had
    ----got beyond the utmost sphere,
    Besiege the concave of this universe,
    And hunger-starve the gods till they confessed
    What furies did oppress his sleeping soul.

These plays went through two editions: the last printed in 1656.

The following passage from a similar bard is as precious. The king in
the play exclaims,--

    By all the ancient gods of Rome and Greece,
    I love my daughter!--better than my niece!
    If any one should ask the reason why,
    I'd tell them--Nature makes the stronger tie!

One of the rude French plays, about 1600, is entitled "_La Rebellion,
ou meseontentment des Grenouilles contre Jupiter_," in five acts. The
subject of this tragi-comic piece is nothing more than the fable of the
frogs who asked Jupiter for a king. In the pantomimical scenes of a wild
fancy, the actors were seen croaking in their fens, or climbing up the
steep ascent of Olympus; they were dressed so as to appear gigantic
frogs; and in pleading their cause before Jupiter and his court, the
dull humour was to croak sublimely, whenever they did not agree with
their judge.

Clavigero, in his curious history of Mexico, has given Acosta's account
of the Mexican theatre, which appears to resemble the first scenes among
the Greeks, and these French frogs, but with more fancy and taste.
Acosta writes, "The small theatre was curiously whitened, adorned with
boughs, and arches made of flowers and feathers, from which were
suspended many birds, rabbits, and other pleasing objects. The actors
exhibited burlesque characters, feigning themselves deaf, sick with
colds, lame, blind, crippled, and addressing an idol for the return of
health. The deaf people answered at cross-purposes; those who had colds
by coughing, and the lame by halting; all recited their complaints and
misfortunes, which produced infinite mirth among the audience. Others
appeared under the names of different little animals; some disguised as
beetles, some like toads, some like lizards, and upon encountering each,
other, reciprocally explained their employments, which was highly
satisfactory to the people, as they performed their parts with infinite
ingenuity. Several little boys also, belonging to the temple, appeared
in the disguise of butterflies, and birds of various colours, and
mounting upon the trees which were fixed there on purpose, little balls
of earth were thrown at them with slings, occasioning many humorous
incidents to the spectators."

Something very wild and original appears in this singular exhibition;
where at times the actors seem to have been spectators, and the
spectators were actors.




THE MARRIAGE OF THE ARTS.


As a literary curiosity, can we deny a niche to that "obliquity of
distorted wit," of Barton Holyday, who has composed a strange comedy, in
five acts, performed at Christ Church, Oxford, 1630, _not_ for the
_entertainment_, as an anecdote records, of James the First?

The title of the comedy of this unclassical classic, for Holyday is
known as the translator of Juvenal with a very learned commentary, is
TEXNOTAMIA, or the Marriage of the Arts, 1630, quarto; extremely dull,
excessively rare, and extraordinarily high-priced among collectors.

It may be exhibited as one of the most extravagant inventions of a
pedant. Who but a pedant could have conceived the dull fancy of forming
a comedy, of five acts, on the subject of _marrying the Arts_! They are
the dramatis personæ of this piece, and the bachelor of arts describes
their intrigues and characters. His actors are Polites, a
magistrate;--Physica;--Astronomia, daughter to Physica;--Ethicus, an old
man;--Geographus, a traveller and courtier, in love with
Astronomia;--Arithmetica, in love with
Geometres;--Logicus;--Grammaticus, a schoolmaster;--Poeta;--Historia, in
love with Poeta;--Rhetorica, in love with Logicus;--Melancholico,
Poeta's man;--Phantastes, servant to Geographus;--Choler, Grammaticus's
man.

All these refined and abstract ladies and gentlemen have as bodily
feelings, and employ as gross language, as if they had been every-day
characters. A specimen of his grotesque dulness may entertain:--

    Fruits of dull heat, and sooterkins of wit.

Geographus opens the play with declaring his passion to Astronomia, and
that very rudely indeed! See the pedant wreathing the roses of Love!

"_Geog._ Come, now you shall, Astronomia.

_Ast._ What shall I, Geographus?

_Geog._ Kisse!

_Ast._ What, in spite of my teeth!

_Geog._ No, not so! I hope you do not use to kisse with your teeth.

_Ast._ Marry, and I hope I do not use to kisse without them.

_Geog._ Ay, but my fine wit-catcher, I mean you do not show your teeth
when you kisse."

He then kisses her, as he says, in the different manners of a French,
Spanish and Dutch kiss. He wants to take off the zone of Astronomia. She
begs he would not fondle her like an elephant as he is; and Geographus
says again, "Won't you then?"

_Ast._ Won't I what?

_Geo._ Be kinde?

_Ast._ Be kinde! How?"

Fortunately Geographus is here interrupted by Astronomia's mother
Physica. This dialogue is a specimen of the whole piece: very flat, and
very gross. Yet the piece is still curious,--not only for its absurdity,
but for that sort of ingenuity, which so whimsically contrived to bring
together the different arts; this pedantic writer, however, owes more to
the subject, than the subject derived from him; without wit or humour,
he has at times an extravagance of invention. As for
instance,--Geographus and his man Phantastes describe to Poeta the lying
wonders they pretend to have witnessed; and this is one:--

"_Phan._ Sir, we met with a traveller that could speak six languages at
the same instant.

_Poeta_. How? at the same instant, that's impossible!

_Phan._ Nay, sir, the actuality of the performance puts it beyond all
contradiction. With his tongue he'd so vowel you out as smooth _Italian_
as any man breathing; with his eye he would sparkle forth the proud
_Spanish_; with his nose blow out most robustious _Dutch_; the creaking
of his high-heeled shoe would articulate exact _Polonian_; the knocking
of his shinbone feminine _French_; and his belly would grumble most pure
and scholar-like _Hungary_."

This, though extravagant without fancy, is not the worst part of the
absurd humour which runs through this pedantic comedy.

The classical reader may perhaps be amused by the following strange
conceits. Poeta, who was in love with Historia, capriciously falls in
love with Astronomia, and thus compares his mistress:--

    Her _brow_ is like a brave _heroic_ line
    That does a sacred majestie inshrine;
    Her _nose, Phaleuciake_-like, in comely sort,
    Ends in a _Trochie_, or a long and short.
    Her _mouth_ is like a pretty _Dimeter_;
    Her _eie-brows_ like a little-longer _Trimeter_.
    Her _chinne_ is an _adonicke_, and her _tongue_
    Is an _Hypermeter_, somewhat too long.
    Her _eies_ I may compare them unto two
    Quick-turning _dactyles_, for their nimble view.
    Her _ribs_ like staues of _Sapphicks_ doe descend
    Thither, which but to name were to offend.
    Her _arms_ like two _Iambics_ raised on hie,
    Doe with her brow bear equal majestie;
    Her _legs_ like two straight _spondees_ keep apace
    Slow as two _scazons_, but with stately grace.

The piece concludes with a speech by Polites, who settles all the
disputes and loves of the Arts. Poeta promises for the future to attach
himself to Historia. Rhetorica, though she loves Logicus, yet as they do
not mutually agree, she is united to Grammaticus. Polites counsels
Phlegmatico, who is Logicus's man, to leave off smoking, and to learn
better manners; and Choler, Grammaticus's man, to bridle himself;--that
Ethicus and Oeconoma would vouchsafe to give good advice to Poeta and
Historia;--and Physica to her children Geographus and Astronomia! for
Grammaticus and Rhetorica, he says, their tongues will always agree, and
will not fall out; and for Geometres and Arithmetica, they will be very
regular. Melancholico, who is Poeta's man, is left quite alone, and
agrees to be married to Musica: and at length Phantastes, by the
entreaty of Poeta, becomes the servant of Melancholico, and Musica.
Physiognomus and Cheiromantes, who are in the character of gipsies and
fortune-tellers, are finally exiled from the island of Fortunata, where
lies the whole scene of the action in the residence of the _Married
Arts_.

The pedant-comic-writer has even attended to the dresses of his
characters, which are minutely given. Thus Melancholico wears a black
suit, a black hat, a black cloak, and black worked band, black gloves,
and black shoes. Sanguis, the servant of Medicus, is in a red suit; on
the breast is a man with his nose bleeding; on the back, one letting
blood in his arm; with a red hat and band, red stockings and red pumps.

It is recorded of this play, that the Oxford scholars resolving to give
James I. a relish of their genius, requested leave to act this notable
piece. Honest Anthony Wood tells us, that it being too grave for the
king, and too scholastic for the auditory, or, as some have said, the
actors had taken too much wine, his majesty offered several times, after
two acts, to withdraw. He was prevailed to sit it out, in mere charity
to the Oxford scholars. The following humorous epigram was produced on
the occasion:--

    At _Christ-church marriage_, done before the king,
    Lest that those mates should want _an offering_,
    The king himself _did offer_;--What, I pray?
    He _offered twice_ or _thrice_--to go away!"




A CONTRIVANCE IN DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.


Crown, in his "City Politiques," 1688, a comedy written to satirise the
Whigs of those days, was accused of having copied his character too
closely after life, and his enemies turned his comedy into a libel. He
has defended himself in his preface from this imputation. It was
particularly laid to his charge, that in the characters of Bartoline, an
old corrupt lawyer, and his wife Lucinda, a wanton country girl, he
intended to ridicule a certain Serjeant M---- and his young wife. It was
even said that the comedian mimicked the odd speech of the aforesaid
Serjeant, who, having lost all his teeth, uttered his words in a very
peculiar manner. On this, Crown tells us in his defence, that the
comedian must not be blamed for this peculiarity, as it was an
_invention_ of the author himself, who had taught it to the player. He
seems to have considered it as no ordinary invention, and was so pleased
with it that he has most painfully printed the speeches of the lawyer in
this singular gibberish; and his reasons, as well as his discovery,
appear remarkable.

He says, that "Not any one old man more than another is mimiqued, by Mr.
Lee's way of speaking, which all comedians can witness, was my own
_invention_, and Mr. Lee was taught it by me. To prove this farther, I
have _printed_ Bartoline's part in that manner of spelling by which I
taught it Mr. Lee. They who have no teeth cannot pronounce many letters
plain, but perpetually lisp and break their words, and some words they
cannot bring out at all. As for instance _th_ is pronounced by thrusting
the tongue hard to the teeth, therefore that sound they cannot make, but
something like it. For that reason you will often find in Bartoline's
part, instead of _th_, _ya_, as _yat_ for that; _yish_ for this; _yosh_
for those; sometimes a _t_ is left out, as _housand_ for thousand;
_hirty_ for thirty. _S_ they pronounce like _sh_, as _sher_ for sir;
_musht_ for must; _t_ they speak like _ch_,--therefore you will find
_chrue_ for true; _chreason_ for treason; _cho_ for to; _choo_ for two;
_chen_ for ten; _chake_ for take. And this _ch_ is not to be pronounced
like _k_, as 'tis in Christian, but as in child, church, chest. I desire
the reader to observe these things, because otherwise he will hardly
understand much of the lawyer's part, which in the opinion of all is the
most divertising in the comedy; but when this ridiculous way of speaking
is familiar with him, it will render the part more pleasant."

One hardly expects so curious a piece of orthoëpy in the preface to a
comedy. It may have required great observation and ingenuity to have
discovered the cause of old toothless men mumbling their words. But as a
piece of comic humour, on which the author appears to have prided
himself, the effect is far from fortunate. Humour arising from a
personal defect is but a miserable substitute for that of a more genuine
kind. I shall give a specimen of this strange gibberish as it is so
laboriously printed. It may amuse the reader to see his mother language
transformed into so odd a shape that it is with difficulty he can
recognise it.

Old Bartoline thus speaks:--"I wrong'd _my shelf, cho entcher incho
bondsh_ of marriage and could not perform _covenantsh_ I might well
_hinke_ you would _chake_ the forfeiture of the bond; and I never found
_equichy_ in a _bedg_ in my life; but I'll trounce you _boh_; I have
paved _jaylsh_ wi' the _bonesh_ of honester people _yen_ you are, _yat_
never did me nor any man any wrong, but had law of _yeir shydsh_ and
right o' _yeir shydsh_, but because _yey_ had not me o' _yeir shydsh_. I
ha' _hrown_ 'em in _jaylsh_, and got _yeir eshchatsch_ for my _clyentsh
yat_ had no more _chytle_ to 'em _yen dogsh_."




THE COMEDY OF A MADMAN.


Desmarets, the friend of Richelieu, was a very extraordinary character,
and produced many effusions of genius in early life, till he became a
mystical fanatic. It was said of him that "he was the greatest madman
among poets, and the best poet among madmen." His comedy of "The
Visionaries" is one of the most extraordinary dramatic projects, and, in
respect to its genius and its lunacy, may be considered as a literary
curiosity.

In this singular comedy all Bedlam seems to be let loose on the stage,
and every character has a high claim to an apartment in it. It is indeed
suspected that the cardinal had a hand in this anomalous drama, and in
spite of its extravagance it was favourably received by the public, who
certainly had never seen anything like it.

Every character in this piece acts under some hallucination of the mind,
or a fit of madness. Artabaze is a cowardly hero, who believes he has
conquered the world. Amidor is a wild poet, who imagines he ranks above
Homer. Filidan is a lover, who becomes inflammable as gunpowder for
every mistress he reads of in romances. Phalante is a beggarly bankrupt,
who thinks himself as rich as Croesus. Melisse, in reading the "History
of Alexander," has become madly in love with this hero, and will have no
other husband than "him of Macedon." Hesperie imagines her fatal charms
occasion a hundred disappointments in the world, but prides herself on
her perfect insensibility. Sestiane, who knows no other happiness than
comedies, and whatever she sees or hears, immediately plans a scene for
dramatic effect, renounces any other occupation; and finally, Alcidon,
the father of these three mad girls, as imbecile as his daughters are
wild. So much for the amiable characters!

The plot is in perfect harmony with the genius of the author, and the
characters he has invented--perfectly unconnected, and fancifully wild.
Alcidon resolves to marry his three daughters, who, however, have no
such project of their own. He offers them to the first who comes. He
accepts for his son-in-law the first who offers, and is clearly
convinced that he is within a very short period of accomplishing his
wishes. As the four ridiculous personages whom we have noticed
frequently haunt his house, he becomes embarrassed in finding one lover
too many, having only three daughters.

The catastrophe relieves the old gentleman from his embarrassments.
Melisse, faithful to her Macedonian hero, declares her resolution of
dying before she marries any meaner personage. Hesperie refuses to
marry, out of pity for mankind; for to make one man happy she thinks she
must plunge a hundred into despair. Sestiane, only passionate for
comedy, cannot consent to any marriage, and tells her father, in very
lively verses,

    Je ne veux point, mon père, espouser un censeur;
    Puisque vous me souffrez recevoir la douceur
    Des plaisirs innocens que le théâtre apporte,
    Prendrais-je le hasard de vivre d'autre sorte?
    Puis on a des enfans, qui vous sont sur les bras,
    Les mener an théâtre, O Dieux! quel embarras!
    Tantôt couche ou grossesse, on quelque maladie;
    Pour jamais vous font dire, adieu la comédie!

    IMITATED.

    No, no, my father, I will have no critic,
    (Miscalled a husband) since you still permit
    The innocent sweet pleasures of the stage;
    And shall I venture to exchange my lot?
    Then we have children folded in our arms
    To bring them to the play-house; heavens! what troubles!
    Then we lie in, are big, or sick, or vexed:
    These make us bid farewell to comedy!

At length these imagined sons-in-law appear; Filidan declares that in
these three girls he cannot find the mistress he adores. Amidor
confesses he only asked for one of his daughters out of pure gallantry,
and that he is only a lover--in verse! When Phalante is questioned after
the great fortunes he hinted at, the father discovers that he has not a
stiver, and out of credit to borrow: while Artabaze declares that he
only allowed Alcidon, out of mere benevolence, to flatter himself for a
moment with the hope of an honour that even Jupiter would not dare to
pretend to. The four lovers disperse and leave the old gentleman more
embarrassed than ever, and his daughters perfectly enchanted to enjoy
their whimsical reveries, and die old maids--all alike "Visionaries!"




SOLITUDE.


We possess, among our own native treasures, two treatises on this
subject, composed with no ordinary talent, and not their least value
consists in one being an apology for solitude, while the other combats
that prevailing passion of the studious. Zimmerman's popular work is
overloaded with commonplace; the garrulity of eloquence. The two
treatises now noticed may be compared to the highly-finished gems, whose
figure may be more finely designed, and whose strokes may be more
delicate in the smaller space they occupy than the ponderous block of
marble hewed out by the German chiseller.

Sir George Mackenzie, a polite writer, and a most eloquent pleader,
published, in 1665, a moral essay, preferring Solitude to public
employment. The eloquence of his style was well suited to the dignity of
his subject; the advocates for solitude have always prevailed over those
for active life, because there is something sublime in those feelings
which would retire from the circle of indolent triflers, or depraved
geniuses. The tract of Mackenzie was ingeniously answered by the elegant
taste of John Evelyn in 1667. Mackenzie, though he wrote in favour of
solitude, passed a very active life, first as a pleader, and afterwards
as a judge; that he was an eloquent writer, and an eloquent critic, we
have the authority of Dryden, who says, that till he was acquainted with
that noble wit of Scotland, Sir George Mackenzie, he had not known the
beautiful turn of words and thoughts in poetry, which Sir George had
explained and exemplified to him in conversation. As a judge, and king's
advocate, will not the barbarous customs of the age defend his name? He
is most hideously painted forth by the dark pencil of a poetical
Spagnoletti (Grahame), in his poem on "The Birds of Scotland." Sir
George lived in the age of rebellion, and used torture: we must entirely
put aside his political, to attend to his literary character. Blair has
quoted his pleadings as a model of eloquence, and Grahame is unjust to
the fame of Mackenzie, when he alludes to his "half-forgotten name." In
1689, he retired to Oxford, to indulge the luxuries of study in the
Bodleian Library, and to practise that solitude which so delighted him
in theory; but three years afterwards he fixed himself in London.
Evelyn, who wrote in favour of public employment being preferable to
solitude, passed his days in the tranquillity of his studies, and wrote
against the habits which he himself most loved. By this it may appear,
that that of which we have the least experience ourselves, will ever be
what appears most delightful! Alas! everything in life seems to have in
it the nature of a bubble of air, and, when touched, we find nothing but
emptiness in our hand. It is certain that the most eloquent writers in
favour of solitude have left behind them too many memorials of their
unhappy feelings, when they indulged this passion to excess; and some
ancient has justly said, that none but a god, or a savage, can suffer
this exile from human nature.

The following extracts from Sir George Mackenzie's tract on Solitude are
eloquent and impressive, and merit to be rescued from that oblivion
which surrounds many writers, whose genius has not been effaced, but
concealed, by the transient crowd of their posterity:--

     I have admired to see persons of virtue and humour long much to
     be in the city, where, when they come they found nor sought for
     no other divertissement than to visit one another; and there to
     do nothing else than to make legs, view others habit, talk of
     the weather, or some such pitiful subject, and it may be, if
     they made a farther inroad upon any other affair, they did so
     pick one another, that it afforded them matter of eternal
     quarrel; for what was at first but an indifferent subject, is
     by interest adopted into the number of our quarrels.--What
     pleasure can be received by talking of new fashions, buying and
     selling of lands, advancement or ruin of favourites, victories
     or defeats of strange princes, which is the ordinary subject of
     ordinary conversation?--Most desire to frequent their
     superiors, and these men must either suffer their raillery, or
     must not be suffered to continue in their society; if we
     converse with them who speak with more address than ourselves,
     then we repine equally at our own dulness, and envy the
     acuteness that accomplishes the speaker; or, if we converse
     with duller animals than ourselves, then we are weary to draw
     the yoke alone, and fret at our being in ill company; but if
     chance blows us in amongst our equals, then we are so at guard
     to catch all advantages, and so interested in point d'honneur,
     that it rather cruciates than recreates us. How many make
     themselves cheap by these occasions, whom we had valued highly
     if they had frequented us less! And how many frequent persons
     who laugh at that simplicity which the addresser admires in
     himself as wit, and yet both recreate themselves with double
     laughters!

     In solitude, he addresses his friend:--"My dear Celador, enter
     into your own breast, and there survey the several operations
     of your own soul, the progress of your passions, the
     strugglings of your appetite, the wanderings of your fancy, and
     ye will find, I assure you, more variety in that one piece than
     there is to be learned in all the courts of Christendom.
     Represent to yourself the last age, all the actions and
     interests in it, how much this person was infatuated with zeal,
     that person with lust; how much one pursued honour, and another
     riches; and in the next thought draw that scene, and represent
     them all turned to dust and ashes!"

I cannot close this subject without the addition of some anecdotes,
which may be useful. A man of letters finds solitude necessary, and for
him solitude has its pleasures and its conveniences; but we shall find
that it also has a hundred things to be dreaded.

Solitude is indispensable for literary pursuits. No considerable work
has yet been composed, but its author, like an ancient magician, retired
first to the grove or the closet, to invocate his spirits. Every
production of genius must be the production of enthusiasm. When the
youth sighs and languishes, and feels himself among crowds in an irksome
solitude,--that is the moment to fly into seclusion and meditation.
Where can he indulge but in solitude the fine romances of his soul?
where but in solitude can he occupy himself in useful dreams by night,
and, when the morning rises, fly without interruption to his unfinished
labours? Retirement to the frivolous is a vast desert, to the man of
genius it is the enchanted garden of Armida.

Cicero was uneasy amidst applauding Rome, and he has designated his
numerous works by the titles of his various villas, where they were
composed. Voltaire had talents, and a taste for society, yet he not only
withdrew by intervals, but at one period of his life passed five years
in the most secret seclusion and fervent studies. Montesquieu quitted
the brilliant circles of Paris for his books, his meditations, and for
his immortal work, and was ridiculed by the gay triflers he
relinquished. Harrington, to compose his Oceana, severed himself from
the society of his friends, and was so wrapped in abstraction, that he
was pitied as a lunatic. Descartes, inflamed by genius, abruptly breaks
off all his friendly connexions, hires an obscure house in an
unfrequented corner at Paris, and applies himself to study during two
years unknown to his acquaintance. Adam Smith, after the publication of
his first work, throws himself into a retirement that lasted ten years;
even Hume rallied him for separating himself from the world; but the
great political inquirer satisfied the world, and his friends, by his
great work on the Wealth of Nations.

But this solitude, at first a necessity, and then a pleasure, at length
is not borne without repining. I will call for a witness a great genius,
and he shall speak himself. Gibbon says, "I feel, and shall continue to
feel, that domestic solitude, however it may be alleviated by the world,
by study, and even by friendship, is a comfortless state, which will
grow more painful as I descend in the vale of years." And afterwards he
writes to a friend, "Your visit has only served to remind me that man,
however amused and occupied in his closet, was not made to live alone."

I must therefore now sketch a different picture of literary solitude
than some sanguine and youthful minds conceive.

Even the sublimest of men, Milton, who is not apt to vent complaints,
appears to have felt this irksome period of life. In the preface to
Smectymnuus, he says, "It is but justice, not to defraud of due esteem
the _wearisome labours_ and _studious watchings,_ wherein I have spent
and _tired_ out almost a whole youth."

Solitude in a later period of life, or rather the neglect which awaits
the solitary man, is felt with acuter sensibility. Cowley, that
enthusiast for rural seclusion, in his retirement calls himself "The
melancholy Cowley." Mason has truly transferred the same epithet to
Gray. Bead in his letters the history of solitude. We lament the loss of
Cowley's correspondence, through the mistaken notion of Sprat; he
assuredly had painted the sorrows of his heart. But Shenstone has filled
his pages with the cries of an amiable being whose soul bleeds in the
dead oblivion of solitude. Listen to his melancholy expressions:--"Now I
am come from a visit, every little uneasiness is sufficient to
introduce my whole train of melancholy considerations, and to make me
utterly dissatisfied with the life I now lead, and the life I foresee I
shall lead. I am angry, and envious, and dejected, and frantic, and
disregard all present things, as becomes a madman to do. I am infinitely
pleased (though it is a gloomy joy) with the application of Dr. Swift's
complaint, that he is forced to die in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a
hole." Let the lover of solitude muse on its picture throughout the
year, in the following stanza by the same poet:--

    Tedious again to curse the drizzling day,
      Again to trace the wintry tracks of snow!
    Or, soothed by vernal airs, again survey
      The self-same hawthorns bud, and cowslips blow!

Swift's letters paint in terrifying colours a picture of solitude, and
at length his despair closed with idiotism. The amiable Gresset could
not sport with the brilliant wings of his butterfly muse, without
dropping some querulous expression on the solitude of genius. In his
"Epistle to his Muse," he exquisitely paints the situation of men of
genius:

    ----Je les vois, victimes du génie,
    Au foible prix d'un éclat passager,
    Vivre isolés, sans jouir de la vie!

And afterwards he adds,

    Vingt ans d'ennuis, pour quelques jours de gloire!

I conclude with one more anecdote on solitude, which may amuse. When
Menage, attacked by some, and abandoned by others, was seized by a fit
of the spleen, he retreated into the country, and gave up his famous
Mercuriales; those Wednesdays when the literati assembled at his house,
to praise up or cry down one another, as is usual with the literary
populace. Menage expected to find that tranquillity in the country which
he had frequently described in his verses; but as he was only a poetical
plagiarist, it is not strange that our pastoral writer was greatly
disappointed. Some country rogues having killed his pigeons, they gave
him more vexation than his critics. He hastened his return to Paris. "It
is better," he observed, "since we are born to suffer, to feel only
reasonable sorrows."




LITERARY FRIENDSHIPS.


The memorable friendship of Beaumont and Fletcher so closely united
their labours, that we cannot discover the productions of either; and
biographers cannot, without difficulty, compose the memoirs of the one,
without running into the life of the other. They pourtrayed the same
characters, while they mingled sentiment with sentiment; and their days
were as closely interwoven as their verses. Metastasio and Farinelli
were born about the same time, and early acquainted. They called one
another _Gemello_, or The Twin, both the delight of Europe, both lived
to an advanced age, and died nearly at the same time. Their fortune
bore, too, a resemblance; for they were both pensioned, but lived and
died separated in the distant courts of Vienna and Madrid. Montaigne and
Charron were rivals, but always friends; such was Montaigne's affection
for Charron, that he permitted him by his will to bear the full arms of
his family; and Charron evinced his gratitude to the manes of his
departed friend, by leaving his fortune to the sister of Montaigne, who
had married. Forty years of friendship, uninterrupted by rivalry or
envy, crowned the lives of Poggius and Leonard Aretin, two of the
illustrious revivers of letters. A singular custom formerly prevailed
among our own writers, which was an affectionate tribute to our literary
veterans by young writers. The former adopted the latter by the title of
sons. Ben Jonson had twelve of these poetical sons. Walton the angler
adopted Cotton, the translator of Montaigne.

Among the most fascinating effusions of genius are those little pieces
which it consecrates to the cause of friendship. In that poem of Cowley,
composed on the death of his friend Harvey, the following stanza
presents a pleasing picture of the employments of two young students:--

    Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
    How oft unwearied have we spent the nights!
    Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love,
    Wondered at us from above.
    We spent them not in toys, in lust, or wine,
       But search of deep philosophy,
       Wit, eloquence, and poetry,
    Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine.

Milton has not only given the exquisite Lycidas to the memory of a
young friend, but in his _Epitaphium Damonis_, to that of Deodatus, has
poured forth some interesting sentiments. It has been versified by
Langhorne. Now, says the poet,

    To whom shall I my hopes and fears impart,
    Or trust the cares and follies of my heart?

The elegy of Tickell, maliciously called by Steele "prose in rhyme," is
alike inspired by affection and fancy; it has a melodious languor, and a
melancholy grace. The sonnet of Gray to the memory of West is a
beautiful effusion, and a model for English sonnets. Helvetius was the
protector of men of genius, whom he assisted not only with his
criticism, but his fortune. At his death, Saurin read in the French
Academy an epistle to the manes of his friend. Saurin, wrestling with
obscurity and poverty, had been drawn into literary existence by the
supporting hand of Helvetius. Our poet thus addresses him in the warm
tones of gratitude:

    C'est toi qui me cherchant au sein de l'infortune,
      Relevas mon sort abattu,
    Et sus me rendre chère une vie importune.

        * * * *

    Qu'importent ces pleurs--
    O douleur impuissante! ô regrets superflus!
    Je vis, helas! Je vis, et mon ami n'est plus!

                       IMITATED.

    In misery's haunts, thy friend thy bounties seize,
    And give an urgent life some days of ease;
    Ah! ye vain griefs, superfluous tears I chide!
    I live, alas! I live--and thou hast died!

The literary friendship of a father with his son is one of the rarest
alliances in the republic of letters. It was gratifying to the feelings
of young Gibbon, in the fervour of literary ambition, to dedicate his
first-fruits to his father. The too lively son of Crebillon, though his
was a very different genius to the grandeur of his father's, yet
dedicated his works to him, and for a moment put aside his wit and
raillery for the pathetic expressions of filial veneration. We have had
a remarkable instance in the two Richardsons; and the father, in his
original manner, has in the most glowing language expressed his
affectionate sentiments. He says, "My time of learning was employed in
business; but after all, I have the Greek and Latin tongues, because a
part of me possesses them, to whom I can recur at pleasure, just as I
have a hand when I would write or paint, feet to walk, and eyes to see.
My son is my learning, as I am that to him which he has not.--We make
one man, and such a compound man may probably produce what no single man
can." And further, "I always think it my peculiar happiness to be as it
were enlarged, expanded, made another man, by the acquisition of my son;
and he thinks in the same manner concerning my union with him." This is
as curious as it is uncommon; however the cynic may call it egotism!

Some for their friend have died penetrated with inconsolable grief; some
have sacrificed their character to preserve his own; some have shared
their limited fortune; and some have remained attached to their friend
in the cold season of adversity.

Jurieu denounced Bayle as an impious writer, and drew his conclusions
from the "Avis aux Réfugiés." This work is written against the
Calvinists, and therefore becomes impious in Holland. Bayle might have
exculpated himself with facility, by declaring the work was composed by
La Roque; but he preferred to be persecuted rather than to ruin his
friend; he therefore was silent, and was condemned. When the minister
Fouquet was abandoned by all, it was the men of letters he had
patronised who never forsook his prison; and many have dedicated their
works to great men in their adversity, whom they scorned to notice at
the time when they were noticed by all. The learned Goguet bequeathed
his MSS. and library to his friend Fugere, with whom he had united his
affections and his studies. His work on the "Origin of the Arts and
Sciences" had been much indebted to his aid. Fugere, who knew his friend
to be past recovery, preserved a mute despair, during the slow and
painful disease; and on the death of Goguet, the victim of sensibility
perished amidst the manuscripts which his friend had in vain bequeathed
to prepare for publication. The Abbé de Saint Pierre gave an interesting
proof of literary friendship. When he was at college he formed a union
with Varignon, the geometrician. They were of congenial dispositions.
When he went to Paris he invited Varignon to accompany him; but Varignon
had nothing, and the Abbé was far from rich. A certain income was
necessary for the tranquil pursuits of geometry. Our Abbé had an income
of 1800 livres; from this he deducted 300, which he gave to the
geometrician, accompanied by a delicacy which few but a man of genius
could conceive. "I do not give it to you," he said, "as a salary, but an
annuity, that you may be independent, and quit me when you dislike me."
Something nearly similar embellishes our own literary history. When
Akenside was in great danger of experiencing famine as well as fame, Mr.
Dyson allowed him three hundred pounds a year. Of this gentleman,
perhaps, nothing is known; yet whatever his life may be, it merits the
tribute of the biographer. To close with these honourable testimonies of
literary friendship, we must not omit that of Churchill and Lloyd. It is
known that when Lloyd heard of the death of our poet, he acted the part
which Fugere did to Goguet. The page is crowded, but my facts are by no
means exhausted.

The most illustrious of the ancients prefixed the name of some friend to
the head of their works.--We too often place that of some patron. They
honourably inserted it in their works. When a man of genius, however,
shows that he is not less mindful of his social affection than his fame,
he is the more loved by his reader. Plato communicated a ray of his
glory to his brothers; for in his Republic he ascribes some parts to
Adimanthus and Glauchon; and Antiphon the youngest is made to deliver
his sentiments in the Parmenides, To perpetuate the fondness of
friendship, several authors have entitled their works by the name of
some cherished associate. Cicero to his Treatise on Orators gave the
title of Brutus; to that of Friendship, Lelius; and to that of Old Age,
Cato. They have been imitated by the moderns. The poetical Tasso to his
dialogue on Friendship gave the name of Manso, who was afterwards his
affectionate biographer. Sepulvueda entitles his Treatise on Glory by
the name of his friend Gonsalves. Lociel to his Dialogues on the Lawyers
of Paris prefixes the name of the learned Pasquier. Thus Plato
distinguishes his Dialogues by the names of certain persons; the one on
Lying is entitled Hippius; on Rhetoric, Gorgias; and on Beauty, Phædrus.

Luther has perhaps carried this feeling to an extravagant point. He was
so delighted by his favourite "Commentary on the Epistle to the
Galatians," that he distinguished it by a title of doting fondness; he
named it after his wife, and called it "His Catherine."




ANECDOTES OF ABSTRACTION OF MIND.


Some have exercised this power of abstraction to a degree that appears
marvellous to volatile spirits, and puny thinkers.

To this patient habit, Newton is indebted for many of his great
discoveries; an apple falls upon him in his orchard,--and the system of
attraction succeeds in his mind! he observes boys blowing soap bubbles,
and the properties of light display themselves! Of Socrates, it is said,
that he would frequently remain an entire day and night in the same
attitude, absorbed in meditation; and why should we doubt this, when we
know that La Fontaine and Thomson, Descartes and Newton, experienced the
same abstraction? Mercator, the celebrated geographer, found such
delight in the ceaseless progression of his studies, that he would never
willingly quit his maps to take the necessary refreshments of life. In
Cicero's Treatise on Old Age, Cato applauds Gallus, who, when he sat
down to write in the morning, was surprised by the evening; and when he
took up his pen in the evening was surprised by the appearance of the
morning. Buffon once described these delicious moments with his
accustomed eloquence:--"Invention depends on patience; contemplate your
subject long; it will gradually unfold, till a sort of electric spark
convulses for a moment the brain, and spreads down to the very heart a
glow of irritation. Then come the luxuries of genius! the true hours for
production and composition; hours so delightful, that I have spent
twelve and fourteen successively at my writing-desk, and still been in a
state of pleasure." The anecdote related of Marini, the Italian poet,
may be true. Once absorbed in revising his Adonis, he suffered his leg
to be burnt for some time, without any sensation.

Abstraction of this sublime kind is the first step to that noble
enthusiasm which accompanies Genius; it produces those raptures and that
intense delight, which some curious facts will explain to us.

Poggius relates of Dante, that he indulged his meditations more strongly
than any man he knew! whenever he read, he was only alive to what was
passing in his mind; to all human concerns, he was as if they had not
been! Dante went one day to a great public procession; he entered the
shop of a bookseller to be a spectator of the passing show. He found a
book which greatly interested him; he devoured it in silence, and
plunged into an abyss of thought. On his return he declared that he had
neither seen, nor heard, the slightest occurrence of the public
exhibition which had passed before him. This enthusiasm renders
everything surrounding us as distant as if an immense interval separated
us from the scene. A modern astronomer, one summer night, withdrew to
his chamber; the brightness of the heaven showed a phenomenon. He passed
the whole night in observing it, and when they came to him early in the
morning, and found him in the same attitude, he said, like one who had
been recollecting his thoughts for a few moments, "It must be thus; but
I'll go to bed before 'tis late!" He had gazed the entire night in
meditation, and did not know it.

This intense abstraction operates visibly; this perturbation of the
faculties, as might be supposed, affects persons of genius physically.
What a forcible description the late Madame Roland, who certainly was a
woman of the first genius, gives of herself on her first reading of
Telemachus and Tasso. "My respiration rose; I felt a rapid fire
colouring my face, and my voice changing, had betrayed my agitation; I
was Eucharis for Telemachus, and Erminia for Tancred; however, during
this perfect transformation, I did not yet think that I myself was any
thing, for any one. The whole had no connexion with myself, I sought for
nothing around me; I was them, I saw only the objects which existed for
them; it was a dream, without being awakened."--Metastasio describes a
similar situation. "When I apply with a little attention, the nerves of
my sensorium are put into a violent tumult. I grow as red in the face as
a drunkard, and am obliged to quit my work." When Malebranche first took
up Descartes on Man, the germ and origin of his philosophy, he was
obliged frequently to interrupt his reading by a violent palpitation of
the heart. When the first idea of the Essay on the Arts and Sciences
rushed on the mind of Rousseau, it occasioned such a feverish agitation
that it approached to a delirium.

This delicious inebriation of the imagination occasioned the ancients,
who sometimes perceived the effects, to believe it was not short of
divine inspiration. Fielding says, "I do not doubt but that the most
pathetic and affecting scenes have been writ with tears." He perhaps
would have been pleased to have confirmed his observation by the
following circumstances. The tremors of Dryden, after having written an
Ode, a circumstance tradition has accidentally handed down, were not
unusual with him; in the preface to his Tales he tells us, that in
translating Homer he found greater pleasure than in Virgil; but it was
not a pleasure without pain; the _continual agitation of the spirits_
must needs be a weakener to any constitution, especially in age, and
many pauses are required for refreshment betwixt the heats. In writing
the ninth scene of the second act of the Olimpiade, Metastasio found
himself in tears; an effect which afterwards, says Dr. Burney, proved
very contagious. It was on this occasion that that tender poet
commemorated the circumstance in the following interesting sonnet:--

                         SONNET FROM METASTASIO.
     "_Scrivendo l'Autore in Vienna l'anno 1733 la sua Olimpiade si
     senti commosa fino alle lagrime nell' esprimere la divisione di
     due teneri amici: e meravigliandosi che un falso, e da lui
     inventato disastro, potesse cagionargli una si vera passione,
     si fece a riflettere quanto poco ragionevole e solido
     fondamento possano aver le altre che soglion frequentamente
     agitarci, nel corso di nostra vita_.

    Sogni e favole io fingo, e pure in carte
    Mentre favole, e sogni, orno e disegno,
    In lor, (folle ch' io son!) prendo tal parte
    Che del mal che inventai piango, e mi sdegno.
    Ma forse allor che non m' inganna l'arte,
    Più saggio io sono e l'agitato ingegno
    Forse allo più tranquillo? O forse parte
    Da più salda cagion l'amor, lo sdegno?
    Ah che non sol quelle, ch'io canto, o scrivo
    Favole son; ma quanto temo, o spero,
    Tutt' è manzogna, e delirando io vivo!
    Sogno della mia vita è il corso intero.
    Deh tu, Signor, quando a destarmi arrivo
    Fa, ch'io trovi riposo in sen del VERO.

     _In 1733, the Author, composing his Olimpiade, felt himself
     suddenly moved, even to tears, in expressing the separation of
     two tender lovers. Surprised that a fictitious grief, invented
     too by himself, could raise so true a passion, he reflected how
     little reasonable and solid a foundation the others had, which,
     so frequently agitated us in this state of our existence._

                    SONNET--IMITATED.

    Fables and dreams I feign; yet though but verse
      The dreams and fables that adorn this scroll,
    Fond fool! I rave, and grieve as I rehearse;
      While GENUINE TEARS for FANCIED SORROWS roll.
    Perhaps the dear delusion of my heart
      Is wisdom; and the agitated mind,
    As still responding to each plaintive part,
    With love and rage, a tranquil hour can find.
    Ah! not alone the tender RHYMES I give
      Are fictions: but my FEARS and HOPES I deem
    Are FABLES all; deliriously I live,
      And life's whole course is one protracted dream.
    Eternal Power! when shall I wake to rest
      This wearied brain on TRUTH'S immortal breast?




RICHARDSON.


The censure which the Shakspeare of novelists has incurred for the
tedious procrastination and the minute details of his fable; his slow
unfolding characters, and the slightest gestures of his personages, is
extremely unjust; for is it not evident that we could not have his
peculiar excellences without these accompanying defects? When characters
are fully delineated, the narrative must be suspended. Whenever the
narrative is rapid, which so much delights superficial readers, the
characters cannot be very minutely featured; and the writer who aims to
instruct (as Richardson avowedly did) by the glow and eloquence of his
feelings, must often sacrifice to this his local descriptions.
Richardson himself has given us the principle that guided him in
composing. He tells us, "If I give speeches and conversations, I ought
to give them justly; for the _humours_ and _characters_ of persons
cannot be known unless I _repeat_ what they say, and their _manner_ of
saying."

Foreign critics have been more just to Richardson than many of his own
countrymen. I shall notice the opinions of three celebrated writers,
D'Alembert, Rousseau, and Diderot.

D'Alembert was a great mathematician. His literary taste was extremely
cold: he was not worthy of reading Richardson. The volumes, if he ever
read them, must have fallen from his hands. The delicate and subtle
turnings, those folds of the human heart, which require so nice a touch,
was a problem which the mathematician could never solve. There is no
other demonstration in the human heart, but an appeal to its feelings:
and what are the calculating feelings of an arithmetician of lines and
curves? He therefore declared of Richardson that "La Nature est bonne �
imiter, mais non pas jusqu'à l'ennui."

But thus it was not with the other two congenial geniuses! The fervent
opinion of Rousseau must be familiar to the reader; but Diderot, in his
éloge on Richardson, exceeds even Rousseau in the enthusiasm of his
feelings. I extract some of the most interesting passages. Of Clarissa
he says, "I yet remember with delight the first time it came into my
hands. I was in the country. How deliciously was I affected! At every
moment I saw my happiness abridged by a page. I then experienced the
same sensations those feel who have long lived with one they love, and
are on the point of separation. At the close of the work I seemed to
remain deserted."

The impassioned Diderot then breaks forth:--"Oh, Richardson! thou
singular genius in my eyes! thou shalt form my reading in all times. If
forced by sharp necessity, my friend falls into indigence; if the
mediocrity of my fortune is not sufficient to bestow on my children the
necessary cares for their education, I will sell my books,--but thou
shalt remain! yes, thou shalt rest in the _same class_ with MOSES,
HOMER, EURIPIDES, and SOPHOCLES, to be read alternately.

"Oh Richardson, I dare pronounce that the most veritable history is full
of fictions, and thy romances are full of truths. History paints some
individuals; thou paintest the human species. History attributes to some
individuals what they have neither said nor done; all that thou
attributest to man he has said and done. History embraces but a portion
of duration, a point on the surface of the globe; thou hast embraced all
places and all times. The human heart, which has ever been and ever
shall be the same, is the model which thou copiest. If we were severely
to criticise the best historian, would he maintain his ground as thou?
In this point of view, I venture to say, that frequently history is a
miserable romance; and romance, as thou hast composed it, is a good
history. Painter of nature, thou never liest!

"I have never yet met with a person who shared my enthusiasm, that I was
not tempted to embrace, and to press him in my arms!

"Richardson is no more! His loss touches me, as if my brother was no
more. I bore him in my heart without having seen him, and knowing him
but by his works. He has not had all the reputation he merited.
Richardson! if living thy merit has been disputed; how great wilt thou
appear to our children's children, when we shall view thee at the
distance we now view Homer! Then who will dare to steal a line from thy
sublime works! Thou hast had more admirers amongst us than in thine own
country, and at this I rejoice!"

It is probable that to a Frenchman the _style_ of Richardson is not so
objectionable when translated, as to ourselves. I think myself that it
is very idiomatic and energetic; others have thought differently. The
misfortune of Richardson was, that he was unskilful in the art of
writing, and that he could never lay the pen down while his inkhorn
supplied it.

He was delighted by his own works. No author enjoyed so much the bliss
of excessive fondness. I heard from the late Charlotte Lenox the
anecdote which so severely reprimanded his innocent vanity, which
Boswell has recorded. This lady was a regular visitor at Richardson's
house, and she could scarcely recollect one visit which was not taxed by
our author reading one of his voluminous letters, or two or three, if
his auditor was quiet and friendly.

The extreme delight which he felt on a review of his own works the works
themselves witness. Each is an evidence of what some will deem a violent
literary vanity. To _Pamela_ is prefixed a _letter_ from the _editor_
(whom we know to be the _author_), consisting of one of the most
minutely laboured panegyrics of the work itself, that ever the blindest
idolater of some ancient classic paid to the object of his frenetic
imagination. In several places there, he contrives to repeat the
striking parts of the narrative which display the fertility of his
imagination to great advantage. To the author's own edition of his
_Clarissa_ is appended an _alphabetical arrangement_ of the sentiments
dispersed throughout the work; and such was the fondness that dictated
this voluminous arrangement, that such trivial aphorisms as, "habits are
not easily changed," "men are known by their companions," &c., seem
alike to be the object of their author's admiration. This collection of
sentiments, said indeed to have been sent to him anonymously, is curious
and useful, and shows the value of the work, by the extensive grasp of
that mind which could think so justly on such numerous topics. And in
his third and final labour, to each volume of _Sir Charles Grandison_ is
not only prefixed a complete _index_, with as much exactness as if it
were a History of England, but there is also appended a _list_ of the
_similes_ and allusions in the volume; some of which do not exceed
_three_ or _four_ in nearly as many hundred pages.

Literary history does not record a more singular example of that
self-delight which an author has felt on a revision of his works. It was
this intense pleasure which produced his voluminous labours. It must be
confessed there are readers deficient in that sort of genius which makes
the mind of Richardson so fertile and prodigal.




INFLUENCE OF A NAME.


    What's in a NAME? That which we call a rose,
    By any other name would smell as sweet.

Names, by an involuntary suggestion, produce an extraordinary illusion.
Favour or disappointment has been often conceded as the _name_ of the
claimant has affected us; and the accidental affinity or coincidence of
a _name_, connected with ridicule or hatred, with pleasure or disgust,
has operated like magic. But the facts connected with this subject will
show how this prejudice has branched out.[20]

Sterne has touched on this unreasonable propensity of judging by
_names_, in his humorous account of the elder Mr. Shandy's system of
Christian names. And Wilkes has expressed, in Boswell's Life of Johnson,
all the influence of baptismal _names_, even in matters of poetry! He
said, "The last city poet was _Elkanah_ Settle. There is _something_ in
_names_ which one cannot help feeling. Now _Elkanah_ Settle sounds so
queer, who can expect much from _that name_? We should have no
hesitation to give it for _John Dryden_ in preference to _Elkanah
Settle_, from the _names only_, without knowing their different merits."

A lively critic noticing some American poets, says "There is or was a
Mr. Dwight who wrote a poem in the shape of an epic; and his baptismal
name was _Timothy_;" and involuntarily we infer the sort of epic that a
_Timothy_ must write. Sterne humorously exhorts all godfathers not "to
Nicodemus a man into nothing."

There is more truth in this observation than some may be inclined to
allow; and that it affects mankind strongly, all ages and all climates
may be called on to testify. Even in the barbarous age of Louis XI.,
they felt a delicacy respecting _names_, which produced an ordinance
from his majesty. The king's barber was named _Olivier le Diable_. At
first the king allowed him to got rid of the offensive part by changing
it to _Le Malin_; but the improvement was not happy, and for a third
time he was called _Le Mauvais_. Even this did not answer his purpose;
and as he was a great racer, he finally had his majesty's ordinance to
be called _Le Dain_, under penalty of law if any one should call him _Le
Diable_, _Le Malin_, or _Le Mauvais_. According to Platina, Sergius the
Second was the first pope who changed his name in ascending the papal
throne; because his proper name was _Hog's-mouth_, very unsuitable with
the pomp of the tiara. The ancients felt the same fastidiousness; and
among the Romans, those who were called to the equestrian order, having
low and vulgar _names_, were new named on the occasion, lest the former
one should disgrace the dignity.[21]

When _Burlier_, a French wit, was chosen for the preceptor of Colbert's
son, he felt his _name_ was so uncongenial to his new profession, that
he assumed the more splendid one of _D'Aucour_, by which he is now
known. Madame _Gomez_ had married a person named _Bonhomme_; but she
would never exchange her nobler Spanish name to prefix her married one
to her romances, which indicated too much of meek humility. _Guez_ (a
beggar) is a French writer of great pomp of style; but he felt such
extreme delicacy at so low a name, that to give some authority to the
splendour of his diction, he assumed the name of his estate, and is well
known as _Balzac_. A French poet of the name of Theophile _Viaut_,
finding that his surname pronounced like _veau_ (calf), exposed him to
the infinite jests of the minor wits, silently dropped it, by retaining
the more poetical appellation of _Theophile_. Various literary artifices
have been employed by some who, still preserving a natural attachment to
the names of their fathers, yet blushing at the same time for their
meanness, have in their Latin works attempted to obviate the ridicule
which they provoked. One _Gaucher_ (left-handed) borrowed the name of
_Scevola_, because Scevola, having burnt his right arm, became
consequently left-handed. Thus also one _De la Borgne_ (one-eyed) called
himself _Strabo_; _De Charpentier_ took that of _Fabricius_; _De Valet_
translated his _Servilius_; and an unlucky gentleman, who bore the name
of _Du bout d'Homme,_ boldly assumed that of _Virulus_. Dorat, a French
poet, had for his real name _Disnemandi_, which, in the dialect of the
Limousins, signifies one who dines in the morning; that is, who has no
other dinner than his breakfast. This degrading name he changed to
_Dorat_, or gilded, a nickname which one of his ancestors had borne for
his fair tresses. But by changing his _name_, his feelings were not
entirely quieted, for unfortunately his daughter cherished an invincible
passion for a learned man, who unluckily was named _Goulu_; that is, a
shark, as gluttonous as a shark. Miss _Disnemandi_ felt naturally a
strong attraction for a _goulu_; and in spite of her father's
remonstrances, she once more renewed his sorrows in this alliance!

There are unfortunate names, which are very injurious to the cause in
which they are engaged; for instance, the Long Parliament in Cromwell's
time, called by derision the _Rump_, was headed by one _Barebones_, a
leather-seller. It was afterwards called by his unlucky name, which
served to heighten the ridicule cast over it by the nation.

Formerly a custom prevailed with learned men to change their names. They
showed at once their contempt for vulgar denominations and their
ingenious erudition. They christened themselves with Latin and Greek.
This disguising of names came, at length, to be considered to have a
political tendency, and so much alarmed Pope Paul the Second, that he
imprisoned several persons for their using certain affected names, and
some, indeed, which they could not give a reason why they assumed.
_Desiderius Erasmus_ was a name formed out of his family name _Gerard_,
which in Dutch signifies amiable; or GAR _all_, AERD _nature_. He first
changed it to a Latin word of much the same signification, _desiderius_,
which afterwards he refined into the Greek _Erasmus_, by which name he
is now known. The celebrated _Reuchlin_, which in German signifies
_smoke_, considered it more dignified to smoke in Greek by the name of
_Capnio_. An Italian physician of the name of _Senza Malizia_, prided
himself as much on his translating it into the Greek _Akakia_, as on the
works which he published under that name. One of the most amiable of the
reformers was originally named _Hertz Schwartz_ (black earth), which he
elegantly turned into the Greek name _Melancthon_. The vulgar name of a
great Italian poet was _Trapasso_; but when the learned Gravius resolved
to devote the youth to the muses, he gave him a mellifluous name, which
they have long known and cherished--_Metastasio_.

Harsh names will have, in spite of all our philosophy, a painful and
ludicrous effect on our ears and our associations: it is vexatious that
the softness of delicious vowels, or the ruggedness of inexorable
consonants, should at all be connected with a man's happiness, or even
have an influence on his fortune.

The actor _Macklin_ was softened down by taking in the first and last
syllables of the name of _Macklaughlin_, as _Malloch_ was polished to
_Mallet_; and even our sublime Milton, in a moment of humour and hatred
to the Scots, condescends to insinuate that their barbarous names are
symbolical of their natures,--and from a man of the name of _Mac
Collkittok_, he expects no mercy. Virgil, when young, formed a design of
a national poem, but was soon discouraged from proceeding, merely by the
roughness and asperity of the old Roman names, such as _Decius Mus_;
_Lucumo_; _Vibius Caudex_. The same thing has happened to a friend who
began an Epic on the subject of _Drake's_ discoveries; the name of the
hero often will produce a ludicrous effect, but one of the most unlucky
of his chief heroes must be _Thomas Doughty_! One of Blackmore's chief
heroes in his Alfred is named _Gunter_; a printer's erratum might have
been fatal to all his heroism; as it is, he makes a sorry appearance.
Metastasio found himself in the same situation. In one of his letters he
writes, "The title of my new opera is _Il Re Pastor_. The chief incident
is the restitution of the kingdom of Sidon to the lawful heir: a prince
with such a _hypochondriac name_, that he would have disgraced the
title-page of any piece; who would have been able to bear an opera
entitled _L'Abdolonimo_? I have contrived to name him as seldom as
possible." So true is it, as the caustic Boileau exclaims of an epic
poet of his days, who had shown some dexterity in cacophony, when he
chose his hero--

    O le plaisant projet d'un poète ignorant,
    Qui de tant de heros va choisir _Childebrand_!
    D'un seul nom quelquefois le son dur et bizarre
    Bend un poème entier, ou burlesque ou barbare.
                                _Art Poétique_, c. iii. v. 241.

    In such a crowd the Poet were to blame
    To choose _King Chilperic_ for his hero's name.
                                   SIR W. SOAMES.

This epic poet perceiving the town joined in the severe raillery of the
poet, published a long defence of his hero's name; but the town was
inexorable, and the epic poet afterwards changed _Childebrand's_ name
to _Charles Martel_, which probably was discovered to have something
more humane. Corneille's _Pertharite_ was an unsuccessful tragedy, and
Voltaire deduces its ill fortune partly from its barbarous _names_, such
as _Garibald_ and _Edvidge_. Voltaire, in giving the _names_ of the
founders of Helvetic freedom, says, the difficulty of pronouncing these
respectable names is injurious to their celebrity; they are _Melchthal_,
_Stawffarcher_, and _Valtherfurst_.

We almost hesitate to credit what we know to be true, that the _length_
or the _shortness_ of a _name_ can seriously influence the mind. But
history records many facts of this nature. Some nations have long
cherished a feeling that there is a certain elevation or abasement in
proper names. Montaigne on this subject says, "A gentleman, one of my
neighbours, in over-valuing the excellences of old times, never omitted
noticing the pride and magnificence of the _names_ of the nobility of
those days! Don _Grumedan_, _Quadragan_, _Argesilan_, when fully
sounded, were evidently men of another stamp than _Peter_, _Giles_, and
_Michel_." What could be hoped for from the names of Ebenezer, Malachi,
and Methusalem? The Spaniards have long been known for cherishing a
passion for dignified names, and are marvellously affected by long and
voluminous ones; to enlarge them they often add the places of their
residence. We ourselves seem affected by triple names; and the authors
of certain periodical publications always assume for their _nom de
guerre_ a triple name, which doubtless raises them much higher in their
reader's esteem than a mere Christian and surname. Many Spaniards have
given themselves _names_ from some remarkable incident in their lives.
One took the name of the Royal Transport, for having conducted the
Infanta in Italy. Orendayes added de la Paz, for having signed the peace
in 1725. Navarro, after a naval battle off Toulon, added la Vittoria,
though he had remained in safety at Cadiz while the French admiral Le
Court had fought the battle, which was entirely in favour of the
English. A favourite of the King of Spain, a great genius, and the
friend of Farinelli, who had sprung from a very obscure origin, to
express his contempt of these empty and haughty _names_ assumed, when
called to the administration, that of the Marquis of _La Ensenada_
(nothing in himself).

But the influence of _long names_ is of very ancient standing. Lucian
notices one _Simon_, who coming to a great fortune aggrandised his name
to _Simonides_. _Dioclesian_ had once been plain _Diocles_ before he was
emperor. When _Bruna_ became queen of France, it was thought proper to
convey some of the regal pomp in her name by calling her _Brunehault_.

The Spaniards then must feel a most singular contempt for a _very short
name_, and on this subject Fuller has recorded a pleasant fact. An
opulent citizen of the name of _John Cuts_ (what name can be more
unluckily short?) was ordered by Elizabeth to receive the Spanish
ambassador; but the latter complained grievously, and thought he was
disparaged by the _shortness_ of his _name_. He imagined that a man
bearing a monosyllabic name could never, in the great alphabet of civil
life, have performed anything great or honourable; but when he found
that honest _John Cuts_ displayed a hospitality which had nothing
monosyllabic in it, he groaned only at the utterance of the _name_ of
his host.

There are _names_, indeed, which in the social circle will in spite of
all due gravity awaken a harmless smile, and Shenstone solemnly thanked
God that his name was not liable to a pun. There are some names which
excite horror, such as Mr. Stabback; others contempt, as Mr. Twopenny;
and others of vulgar or absurd signification, subject too often to the
insolence of domestic witlings, which occasions irritation even in the
minds of worthy, but suffering, men.

There is an association of pleasing ideas with certain _names_,--and in
the literary world they produce a fine effect. _Bloomfield_ is a name
apt and fortunate for a rustic bard; as _Florian_ seems to describe his
sweet and flowery style. Dr. Parr derived his first acquaintance with
the late Mr. _Homer_ from the aptness of his name, associating with his
pursuits. Our writers of romances and novels are initiated into all the
arcana of _names_, which cost them many painful inventions. It is
recorded of one of the old Spanish writers of romance, that he was for
many days at a loss to coin a fit name for one of his giants; he wished
to hammer out one equal in magnitude to the person he conceived in
imagination; and in the haughty and lofty name of _Traquitantos_, he
thought he had succeeded. Richardson, the great father of our novelists,
appears to have considered the _name_ of Sir _Charles Grandison_ as
_perfect_ as his character, for his heroine writes, "You know his _noble
name_, my Lucy." He felt the same for his _Clementina_, for Miss Byron
writes, "Ah, Lucy, what a _pretty name_ is _Clementina_!" We experience
a certain tenderness for _names_, and persons of refined imaginations
are fond to give affectionate or lively epithets to things and persons
they love. Petrarch would call one friend _Lellus_, and another
_Socrates_, as descriptive of their character.

In our own country, formerly, the ladies appear to have been equally
sensible to poetical or elegant _names_, such as _Alicia, Celicia,
Diana, Helena_, &c. Spenser, the poet, gave to his two sons two _names_
of this kind; he called one _Silvanus_, from the woody Kilcolman, his
estate; and the other _Peregrine_, from his having been born in a
strange place, and his mother then travelling. The fair Eloisa gave the
whimsical name of _Astrolabus_ to her boy; it bore some reference to the
stars, as her own to the sun.

Whether this name of _Astrolabus_ had any scientific influence over the
son, I know not; but I have no doubt that whimsical names may have a
great influence over our characters. The practice of romantic names
among persons, even of the lowest orders of society, has become a very
general evil: and doubtless many unfortunate beauties, of the names of
_Clarissa_ and _Eloisa_, might have escaped under the less dangerous
appellatives of _Elizabeth_ or _Deborah_. I know a person who has not
passed his life without some inconvenience from his _name_, mean talents
and violent passions not according with _Antoninus_; and a certain
writer of verses might have been no versifier, and less a lover of the
true Falernian, had it not been for his namesake _Horace_. The
Americans, by assuming _Roman_ names, produce ludicrous associations;
_Romulus_ Higgs, and _Junius Brutus_ Booth. There was more sense, when
the Foundling Hospital was first instituted, in baptizing the most
robust boys, designed for the sea-service, by the names of Drake,
Norris, or Blake, after our famous admirals.

It is no trifling misfortune in life to bear an illustrious name; and in
an author it is peculiarly severe. A history now by a Mr. Hume, or a
poem by a Mr. Pope, would be examined with different eyes than had they
borne any other name. The relative of a great author should endeavour
not to be an author. Thomas Corneille had the unfortunate honour of
being brother to a great poet, and his own merits have been considerably
injured by the involuntary comparison. The son of Racine has written
with an amenity not unworthy of his celebrated father; amiable and
candid, he had his portrait painted, with the works of his father in
his hand, and his eye fixed on this verse from Phædra,--

    Et moi, fils inconnu d'un si glorieux père!

But even his modesty only served to whet the dart of epigram. It was
once bitterly said of the son of an eminent literary character,--

    He tries to write because his father writ,
    And shows himself a bastard by his wit.

Amongst some of the disagreeable consequences attending some _names_,
is, when they are unluckily adapted to an uncommon rhyme; how can any
man defend himself from this malicious ingenuity of wit? _Freret_, one
of those unfortunate victims to Boileau's verse, is said not to have
been deficient in the decorum of his manners, and he complained that he
was represented as a drunkard, merely because his _name rhymed_ to
_Cabaret_. Murphy, no doubt, felicitated himself in his literary quarrel
with Dr. _Franklin_, the poet and critical reviewer, by adopting the
singular rhyme of "envy rankling" to his rival's and critic's name.

Superstition has interfered even in the _choice of names_, and this
solemn folly has received the name of a science, called _Onomantia_; of
which the superstitious ancients discovered a hundred foolish mysteries.
They cast up the numeral letters of _names_, and Achilles was therefore
fated to vanquish Hector, from the numeral letters in his name amounting
to a higher number than his rival's. They made many whimsical divisions
and subdivisions of names, to prove them lucky or unlucky. But these
follies are not those that I am now treating on. Some names have been
considered as more auspicious than others. Cicero informs us that when
the Romans raised troops, they were anxious that the _name_ of the first
soldier who enlisted should be one of good augury. When the censors
numbered the citizens, they always began by a fortunate name, such as
_Salvius Valereus_. A person of the name of _Regillianus_ was chosen
emperor, merely from the royal sound of his name, and _Jovian_ was
elected because his name approached nearest to the beloved one of the
philosophic _Julian_. This fanciful superstition was even carried so far
that some were considered as auspicious, and others as unfortunate. The
superstitious belief in _auspicious names_ was so strong, that Cæsar,
in his African expedition, gave a command to an obscure and distant
relative of the Scipios, to please the popular prejudice that the
Scipios were invincible in Africa. Suetonius observes that all those of
the family of Cæsar who bore the surname of Caius perished by the sword.

The Emperor Severus consoled himself for the licentious life of his
empress Julia, from the fatality attending those of her _name_. This
strange prejudice of lucky and unlucky names prevailed in modern Europe.
The successor of Adrian VI. (as Guicciardini tells us) wished to
preserve his own name on the papal throne; but he gave up the wish when
the conclave of cardinals used the powerful argument that all the popes
who had preserved their own names had died in the first year of their
pontificates. Cardinal Marcel Cervin, who preserved his name when
elected pope, died on the twentieth day of his pontificate, and this
confirmed this superstitious opinion. La Motte le Vayer gravely asserts
that all the queens of Naples of the name of _Joan_, and the kings of
Scotland of the name of _James_, have been unfortunate: and we have
formal treatises of the fatality of Christian names. It is a vulgar
notion that every female of the name of _Agnes_ is fated to become mad.
Every nation has some names labouring with this popular prejudice.

Herrera, the Spanish historian, records an anecdote in which the choice
of a queen entirely arose from her _name_. When two French ambassadors
negotiated a marriage between one of the Spanish princesses and Louis
VIII., the names of the Royal females were _Urraca_ and _Blanche_. The
former was the elder and the more beautiful, and intended by the Spanish
court for the French monarch; but they resolutely preferred _Blanche_,
observing that the _name_ of _Urraca_ would never do! and for the sake
of a more mellifluous sound, they carried off, exulting in their own
discerning ears, the happier named, but less beautiful princess.

There are _names_ indeed which are painful to the feelings, from the
associations of our passions.[22] I have seen the Christian _name_ of a
gentleman, the victim of the caprice of his godfather, who is called
_Blast us Godly_,--which, were he designed for a bishop, must irritate
religious feelings. I am not surprised that one of the Spanish monarchs
refused to employ a sound catholic for his secretary, because his name
(_Martin Lutero_) had an affinity to the _name_ of the reformer. Mr.
Rose has recently informed us that an architect called _Malacarne_, who,
I believe, had nothing against him but his _name_, was lately deprived
of his place as principal architect by the Austrian government,--let us
hope not for his unlucky _name_; though that government, according to
Mr. Rose, acts on capricious principles! The fondness which some have
felt to perpetuate their _names_, when their race has fallen extinct, is
well known; and a fortune has then been bestowed for a change of name.
But the affection for names has gone even farther. A _similitude of
names_, Camden observes, "dothe kindle sparkes of love and liking among
meere strangers." I have observed the great pleasure of persons with
uncommon names meeting with another of the same name; an instant
relationship appears to take place; and I have known that fortunes have
been bequeathed for _namesakes_. An ornamental manufacturer, who bears a
name which he supposes to be very uncommon, having executed an order for
a gentleman of the _same name_, refused to send his bill, never having
met with the like, preferring to payment the honour of serving him for
_namesake_.

Among the Greeks and the Romans, beautiful and significant names were
studied. The sublime Plato himself has noticed the present topic; his
visionary ear was sensible to the delicacy of a name; and his exalted
fancy was delighted with _beautiful names_, as well as every other
species of beauty. In his Cratylus he is solicitous that persons should
have happy, harmonious, and attractive _names_. According to Aulus
Gellius, the Athenians enacted by a public decree, that no slave should
ever bear the consecrated names of their two youthful patriots,
Harmodius and Aristogiton,--names which had been devoted to the
liberties of their country, they considered would be contaminated by
servitude. The ancient Romans decreed that the surnames of infamous
patricians should not be borne by any other patrician of that family,
that their very names might be degraded and expire with them. Eutropius
gives a pleasing proof of national friendships being cemented by a
_name_; by a treaty of peace between the Romans and the Sabines, they
agreed to melt the two nations into one mass, that they should bear
their _names_ conjointly; the Roman should add his to the Sabine, and
the Sabine take a Roman name.[23]

The ancients _named_ both persons and things from some event or other
circumstance connected with the object they were to name. Chance, fancy,
superstition, fondness, and piety, have invented _names_. It was a
common and whimsical custom among the ancients, (observes Larcher) to
give as _nicknames_ the _letters_ of the alphabet. Thus a lame girl was
called _Lambda_, on account of the resemblance which her lameness made
her bear to the letter λ, or _lambda_! Æsop was called _Theta_ by his
master, from his superior acuteness. Another was called _Beta_, from his
love of beet. It was thus Scarron, with infinite good temper, alluded to
his zig-zag body, by comparing himself to the letter s or z.

The learned Calmet also notices among the Hebrews _nicknames_ and names
of raillery taken from defects of body or mind, &c. One is called Nabal,
or _fool_; another Hamor, the _Ass_; Hagab, the _Grasshopper_, &c. Women
had frequently the names of animals; as Deborah, the _Bee_; Rachel, the
_Sheep_. Others from their nature or other qualifications; as Tamar, the
_Palm-tree_; Hadassa, the _Myrtle_; Sarah, the _Princess_; Hannah, the
_Gracious_. The Indians of North America employ sublime and picturesque
_names_; such are the great Eagle--the Partridge--Dawn of the
Day!--Great swift Arrow!--Path-opener!--Sun-bright!




THE JEWS OF YORK.


Among the most interesting passages of history are those in which we
contemplate an oppressed, yet sublime spirit, agitated by the conflict
of two terrific passions: implacable hatred attempting a resolute
vengeance, while that vengeance, though impotent, with dignified and
silent horror, sinks into the last expression of despair. In a
degenerate nation, we may, on such rare occasions, discover among them a
spirit superior to its companions and its fortune.

In the ancient and modern history of the Jews we may find two kindred
examples. I refer the reader for the more ancient narrative to the
second book of Maccabees, chap. xiv. v. 37. No feeble and unaffecting
painting is presented in the simplicity of the original. I proceed to
relate the narrative of the Jews of York.

When Richard I. ascended the throne, the Jews, to conciliate the royal
protection, brought their tributes. Many had hastened from remote parts
of England, and appearing at Westminster, the court and the mob imagined
that they had leagued to bewitch his majesty. An edict was issued to
forbid their presence at the coronation; but several, whose curiosity
was greater than their prudence, conceived that they might pass
unobserved among the crowd, and ventured to insinuate themselves into
the abbey. Probably their voice and their visage alike betrayed them,
for they were soon discovered; they flew diversely in great
consternation, while many were dragged out with little remains of life.

A rumour spread rapidly through the city, that in honour of the festival
the Jews were to be massacred. The populace, at once eager of royalty
and riot, pillaged and burnt their houses, and murdered the devoted
Jews. Benedict, a Jew of York, to save his life, received baptism; and
returning to that city, with his friend Jocenus, the most opulent of the
Jews, died of his wounds. Jocenus and his servants narrated the late
tragic circumstances to their neighbours, but where they hoped to move
sympathy they excited rage. The people at York soon gathered to imitate
the people at London; and their first assault was on the house of the
late Benedict, which having some strength and magnitude, contained his
family and friends, who found their graves in its ruins. The alarmed
Jews hastened to Jocenus, who conducted them to the governor of York
Castle, and prevailed on him to afford them an asylum for their persons
and effects. In the mean while their habitations were levelled, and the
owners murdered, except a few unresisting beings, who, unmanly in
sustaining honour, were adapted to receive baptism.

The castle had sufficient strength for their defence; but a suspicion
arising that the governor, who often went out, intended to betray them,
they one day refused him entrance. He complained to the sheriff of the
county, and the chiefs of the violent party, who stood deeply indebted
to the Jews, uniting with him, orders were issued to attack the castle.
The cruel multitude, united with the soldiery, felt such a desire of
slaughtering those they intended to despoil, that the sheriff, repenting
of the order, revoked it, but in vain; fanaticism and robbery once set
loose will satiate their appetency for blood and plunder. They solicited
the aid of the superior citizens, who, perhaps not owing quite so much
money to the Jews, humanely refused it; but having addressed the clergy
(the barbarous clergy of those days) were by them animated, conducted,
and blest.

The leader of this rabble was a canon regular, whose zeal was so fervent
that he stood by them in his surplice, which he considered as a coat of
mail, and reiteratedly exclaimed, "Destroy the enemies of Jesus!" This
spiritual laconism invigorated the arm of men who perhaps wanted no
other stimulative than the hope of obtaining the immense property of the
besieged. It is related of this canon, that every morning before he went
to assist in battering the walls he swallowed a consecrated wafer. One
day having approached too near, defended as he conceived by his
surplice, this church militant was crushed by a heavy fragment of the
wall, rolled from the battlement.

But the avidity of certain plunder prevailed over any reflection, which,
on another occasion, the loss of so pious a leader might have raised.
Their attacks continued; till at length the Jews perceived they could
hold out no longer, and a council was called, to consider what remained
to be done in the extremity of danger.

Among the Jews, their elder Rabbin was most respected. It has been
customary with this people to invite for this place some foreigner,
renowned among them for the depth of his learning, and the sanctity of
his manners. At this time the _Haham_, or elder Rabbin, was a foreigner,
who had been sent over to instruct them in their laws, and was a person,
as we shall observe, of no ordinary qualifications. When the Jewish
council was assembled, the Haham rose, and addressed them in this
manner--"Men of Israel! the God of our ancestors is omniscient, and
there is no one who can say, Why doest thou this? This day He commands
us to die for His law; for that law which we have cherished from the
first hour it was given, which we have preserved pure throughout our
captivity in all nations, and which for the many consolations it has
given us, and the eternal hope it communicates, can we do less than die?
Posterity shall behold this book of truth, sealed with our blood; and
our death, while it displays our sincerity, shall impart confidence to
the wanderer of Israel. Death is before our eyes; and we have only to
choose an honourable and easy one. If we fall into the hands of our
enemies, which you know we cannot escape, our death will be ignominious
and cruel; for these Christians, who picture the Spirit of God in a
dove, and confide in the meek Jesus, are athirst for our blood, and
prowl around the castle like wolves. It is therefore my advice that we
elude their tortures; that we ourselves should be our own executioners;
and that we voluntarily surrender our lives to our Creator. We trace the
invisible Jehovah in his acts; God seems to call for us, but let us not
be unworthy of that call. Suicide, on occasions like the present, is
both rational and lawful; many examples are not wanting among our
forefathers: as I advise, men of Israel, they have acted on similar
occasions." Having said this, the old man sat down and wept.

The assembly was divided in their opinions. Men of fortitude applauded
its wisdom, but the pusillanimous murmured that it was a dreadful
counsel.

Again the Rabbin rose, and spoke these few words in a firm and decisive
tone:--"My children! since we are not unanimous in our opinions, let
those who do not approve of my advice depart from this assembly!"--Some
departed, but the greater number attached themselves to their venerable
priest. They now employed themselves in consuming their valuables by
fire; and every man, fearful of trusting to the timid and irresolute
hand of the women, first destroyed his wife and children, and then
himself. Jocenus and the Rabbin alone remained. Their lives were
protracted to the last, that they might see everything performed,
according to their orders. Jocenus being the chief Jew, was
distinguished by the last mark of human respect, in receiving his death
from the consecrated hand of the aged Rabbin, who immediately after
performed the melancholy duty on himself.

All this was transacted in the depth of the night. In the morning the
walls of the castle were seen wrapt in flames, and only a few miserable
and pusillanimous beings, unworthy of the sword, were viewed on the
battlements, pointing to their extinct brethren. When they opened the
gates of the castle, these men verified the prediction of their late
Rabbin; for the multitude, bursting through the solitary courts, found
themselves defrauded of their hopes, and in a moment avenged themselves
on the feeble wretches who knew not how to die with honour.

Such is the narrative of the Jews of York, of whom the historian can
only cursorily observe that five hundred destroyed themselves; but it is
the philosopher who inquires into the causes and the manner of these
glorious suicides. These are histories which meet only the eye of few,
yet they are of infinitely more advantage than those which are read by
every one. We instruct ourselves in meditating on these scenes of heroic
exertion; and if by such histories we make but a slow progress in
chronology, our heart however expands with sentiment.

I admire not the stoicism of Cato, more than the fortitude of the
Rabbin; or rather we should applaud that of the Rabbin much more; for
Cato was familiar with the animating visions of Plato, and was the
associate of Cicero and of Caesar. The Rabbin had probably read only the
Pentateuch, and mingled with companions of mean occupations, and meaner
minds. Cato was accustomed to the grandeur of the mistress of the
universe; and the Rabbin to the littleness of a provincial town. Men,
like pictures, may be placed in an obscure and unfavourable light; but
the finest picture, in the unilluminated corner, still retains the
design and colouring of the master. My Rabbin is a companion for Cato.
His history is a tale

    Which Cato's self had not disdained to hear.--POPE.




THE SOVEREIGNTY OF THE SEAS.


The sovereignty of the seas, which foreigners dispute with us, is as
much a conquest as any one obtained on land; it is gained and preserved
by our cannon, and the French, who, for ages past, exclaim against what
they call our tyranny, are only hindered from becoming themselves
universal tyrants over laud and sea, by that sovereignty of the seas
without which Great Britain would cease to exist.

In a memoir of the French Institute, I read a bitter philippic against
this sovereignty, and a notice then adapted to a writer's purpose, under
Bonaparte, of two great works: the one by Selden, and the other by
Grotius, on this subject. The following is the historical anecdote,
useful to revive:--

In 1634 a dispute arose between the English and Dutch concerning the
herring-fishery upon the British coast. The French and Dutch had always
persevered in declaring that the seas were perfectly free; and grounded
their reasons on a work of Grotius.

So early as in 1609 the great Grotius had published his treatise of
_Mare Liberum_ in favour of the freedom of the seas. And it is a curious
fact, that in 1618, Selden had composed another treatise in defence of
the king's dominion over the seas; but which, from accidents which are
known, was not published till the dispute revived the controversy.
Selden, in 1636, gave the world his _Mare Clausum_, in answer to the
_Mare Liberum_ of Grotius.

Both these great men felt a mutual respect for each other. They only
knew the rivalry of genius.

As a matter of curious discussion and legal investigation, the
philosopher must incline to the arguments of Selden, who has proved by
records the first occupancy of the English; and the English dominion
over the four seas, to the utter exclusion of the French and Dutch from
fishing, without our licence. He proves that our kings have always
levied great sums, without even the concurrence of their parliaments,
for the express purpose of defending this sovereignty at sea. A copy of
Selden's work was placed in the council-chest of the Exchequer, and in
the court of admiralty, as one of our most precious records.

The historical anecdote is finally closed by the Dutch themselves, who
now agreed to acknowledge the English sovereignty in the seas, and pay a
tribute of thirty thousand pounds to the King of England, for liberty to
fish in the seas, and consented to annual tributes.

That the Dutch yielded to Selden's arguments is a triumph we cannot
venture to boast. The _ultima ratio regum_ prevailed; and when we had
destroyed their whole fishing fleet, the affair appeared much clearer
than in the ingenious volumes of Grotius or Selden. Another Dutchman
presented the States-General with a ponderous reply to Selden's _Mare
Clausum_, but the wise Sommelsdyke advised the States to suppress the
idle discussion; observing that this affair must be decided by the
_sword_, and not by the _pen_.

It may be curious to add, that as no prevailing or fashionable subject
can be agitated, but some idler must interfere to make it extravagant
and very new, so this grave subject did not want for something of this
nature. A learned Italian, I believe, agreed with our author Selden in
general, that the _sea_, as well as the _earth_, is subject to some
States; but he maintained, that the dominion of the sea belonged to the
_Genoese_!




ON THE CUSTOM OF KISSING HANDS.


M. Morin, a French academician, has amused himself with collecting
several historical notices of this custom. I give a summary, for the
benefit of those who have had the honour of kissing his majesty's hand.
It is not those who kiss the royal hand who could write best on the
custom.

This custom is not only very ancient, and nearly universal, but has been
alike participated by religion and society.

To begin with religion. From the remotest times men saluted the sun,
moon, and stars, by kissing the hand. Job assures us that he was never
given to this superstition, xxxi. 26. The same honour was rendered to
Baal, 1 Kings xix. 18. Other instances might be adduced.

We now pass to Greece. There all foreign superstitions were received.
Lucian, after having mentioned various sorts of sacrifices which the
rich offered the gods, adds, that the poor adored them by the simpler
compliment of kissing their hands. That author gives an anecdote of
Demosthenes, which shows this custom. When a prisoner to the soldiers of
Antipater, he asked to enter a temple.--When he entered, he touched his
mouth with his hands, which the guards took for an act of religion. He
did it, however, more securely to swallow the poison he had prepared for
such an occasion. He mentions other instances.

From the Greeks it passed to the Romans. Pliny places it among those
ancient customs of which they were ignorant of the origin or the reason.
Persons were treated as atheists, who would not kiss their hands when
they entered a temple. When Apuleius mentions Psyche, he says, she was
so beautiful that they adored her as Venus, in kissing the right hand.

The ceremonial action rendered respectable the earliest institutions of
Christianity. It was a custom with the primæval bishops to give their
hands to be kissed by the ministers who served at the altar.

This custom, however, as a religious rite, declined with Paganism.

In society our ingenious academician considers the custom of kissing
hands as essential to its welfare. It is a mute form, which expresses
reconciliation, which entreats favours, or which thanks for those
received. It is an universal language, intelligible without an
interpreter; which doubtless preceded writing, and perhaps speech
itself.

Solomon says of the flatterers and suppliants of his time, that they
ceased not to kiss the hands of their patrons, till they had obtained
the favours which they solicited. In Homer we see Priam kissing the
hands and embracing the knees of Achilles, while he supplicates for the
body of Hector.

This custom prevailed in ancient Rome, but it varied. In the first ages
of the republic, it seems to have been only practised by inferiors to
their superiors:--equals gave their hands and embraced. In the progress
of time even the soldiers refused to show this mark of respect to their
generals; and their kissing the hand of Cato when he was obliged to quit
them was regarded as an extraordinary circumstance, at a period of such
refinement. The great respect paid to the tribunes, consuls, and
dictators, obliged individuals to live with them in a more distant and
respectful manner; and instead of embracing them as they did formerly,
they considered themselves as fortunate if allowed to kiss their hands.
Under the emperors, kissing hands became an essential duty, even for the
great themselves; inferior courtiers were obliged to be content to adore
the purple, by kneeling, touching the robe of the emperor by the right
hand, and carrying it to the mouth. Even this was thought too free; and
at length they saluted the emperor at a distance, by kissing their
hands, in the same manner as when they adored their gods.

It is superfluous to trace this custom in every country where it exists.
It is practised in every known country, in respect to sovereigns and
superiors, even amongst the negroes, and the inhabitants of the New
World. Cortez found it established at Mexico, where more than a thousand
lords saluted him, in touching the earth with their hands, which they
afterwards carried to their mouths.

Thus, whether the custom of salutation is practised by kissing the hands
of others from respect, or in bringing one's own to the mouth, it is of
all other customs the most universal. This practice is now become too
gross a familiarity, and it is considered as a meanness to kiss the hand
of those with whom we are in habits of intercourse; and this custom
would be entirely lost, if _lovers_ were not solicitous to preserve it
in all its full power.




POPES.


Valois observes that the Popes scrupulously followed, in the early ages
of the church, the custom of placing their names after that of the
person whom they addressed in their letters. This mark of their humility
he proves by letters written by various Popes. Thus, when the great
projects of politics were yet unknown to them, did they adhere to
Christian meekness. At length the day arrived when one of the Popes,
whose name does not occur to me, said that "it was safer to quarrel with
a prince than with a friar." Henry VI. being at the feet of Pope
Celestine, his holiness thought proper to kick the crown off his head;
which ludicrous and disgraceful action Baronius has highly praised.
Jortin observes on this great cardinal, and advocate of the Roman see,
that he breathes nothing but fire and brimstone; and accounts kings and
emperors to be mere catchpolls and constables, bound to execute with
implicit faith all the commands of insolent ecclesiastics. Bellarmin was
made a cardinal for his efforts and devotion to the papal cause, and
maintaining this monstrous paradox,--that if the pope forbid the
exercise of virtue, and command that of vice, the Roman church, under
pain of a sin, was obliged to abandon virtue for vice, if it would not
sin against _conscience_!

It was Nicholas I., a bold and enterprising Pope, who, in 858,
forgetting the pious modesty of his predecessors, took advantage of the
divisions in the royal families of France, and did not hesitate to place
his name before that of the kings and emperors of the house of France,
to whom he wrote. Since that time he has been imitated by all his
successors, and this encroachment on the honours of monarchy has passed
into a custom from having been tolerated in its commencement.

Concerning the acknowledged _infallibility of the Popes_, it appears
that Gregory VII., in council, decreed that the church of Rome neither
_had erred_, and _never should err_. It was thus this prerogative of his
holiness became received, till 1313, when John XXII. abrogated decrees
made by three popes his predecessors, and declared that what was done
_amiss_ by one pope or council might be _corrected_ by another; and
Gregory XI., 1370, in his will deprecates, _si quid in catholicâ fide
erasset_. The university of Vienna protested against it, calling it a
contempt of God, and an idolatry, if any one in matters of faith should
appeal from a _council_ to the _Pope_; that is, from _God_ who presides
in _councils_, to _man_. But the _infallibility_ was at length
established by Leo X., especially after Luther's opposition, because
they despaired of defending their indulgences, bulls, &c., by any other
method.

Imagination cannot form a scene more terrific than when these men were
in the height of power, and to serve their political purposes hurled the
thunders of their _excommunications_ over a kingdom. It was a national
distress not inferior to a plague or famine.

Philip Augustus, desirous of divorcing Ingelburg, to unite himself to
Agnes de Meranie, the Pope put his kingdom under an interdict. The
churches were shut during the space of eight months; they said neither
mass nor vespers; they did not marry; and even the offspring of the
married, born at this unhappy period, _were considered as illicit_: and
because the king would not sleep with his wife, it was not permitted to
any of his subjects to sleep with theirs! In that year France was
threatened with an extinction of the ordinary generation. A man under
this curse of public penance was divested of all his functions, civil,
military, and matrimonial; he was not allowed to dress his hair, to
shave, to bathe, nor even change his linen; so that upon the whole this
made a filthy penitent. The good king Robert incurred the censures of
the church for having married his cousin. He was immediately abandoned.
Two faithful domestics alone remained with him, and these always passed
through the fire whatever he touched. In a word, the horror which an
excommunication occasioned was such, that a courtesan, with whom one
Peletier had passed some moments, having learnt soon afterwards that he
had been about six months an excommunicated person, fell into a panic,
and with great difficulty recovered from her convulsions.




LITERARY COMPOSITION.


To literary composition we may apply the saying of an ancient
philosopher:--"A little thing gives perfection, although perfection is
not a little thing."

The great legislator of the Hebrews orders us to pull off the fruit for
the first three years, and not to taste them. He was not ignorant how it
weakens a young tree to bring to maturity its first fruits. Thus, on
literary compositions, our green essays ought to be picked away. The
word _Zamar_, by a beautiful metaphor from _pruning trees_, means in
Hebrew to _compose verses_. Blotting and correcting was so much
Churchill's abhorrence, that I have heard from his publisher he once
energetically expressed himself, that _it was like cutting away one's
own flesh_. This strong figure sufficiently shows his repugnance to an
author's duty. Churchill now lies neglected, for posterity will only
respect those who

    ----File off the mortal part
    Of glowing thought with Attic art.
                                   YOUNG.

I have heard that this careless bard, after a successful work, usually
precipitated the publication of another, relying on its crudeness being
passed over by the public curiosity excited by its better brother. He
called this getting double pay, for thus he secured the sale of a
hurried work. But Churchill was a spendthrift of fame, and enjoyed all
his revenue while he lived; posterity owes him little, and pays him
nothing!

Bayle, an experienced observer in literary matters, tells us that
_correction_ is by no means practicable by some authors, as in the case
of Ovid. In exile, his compositions were nothing more than spiritless
repetitions of what he had formerly written. He confesses both
negligence and idleness in the corrections of his works. The vivacity
which animated his first productions failing him when he revised his
poems, he found correction too laborious, and he abandoned it. This,
however, was only an excuse. "It is certain that _some authors cannot
correct_. They compose with pleasure, and with ardour; but they exhaust
all their force. They fly with but one wing when they review their
works; the first fire does not return; there is in their imagination a
certain calm which hinders their pen from making any progress. Their
mind is like a boat, which only advances by the strength of oars."

Dr. More, the Platonist, had such an exuberance of fancy, that
_correction_ was a much greater labour than _composition_. He used to
say, that in writing his works, he was forced to cut his way through a
crowd of thoughts as through a wood, and that he threw off in his
compositions as much as would make an ordinary philosopher. More was a
great enthusiast, and, of course, an egotist, so that _criticism_
ruffled his temper, notwithstanding all his Platonism. When accused of
obscurities and extravagances, he said that, like the ostrich, he laid
his eggs in the sands, which would prove vital and prolific in time;
however, these ostrich-eggs have proved to be addled.

A habit of correctness in the lesser parts of composition will assist
the higher. It is worth recording that the great Milton was anxious for
correct punctuation, and that Addison was solicitous after the minutiæ
of the press. Savage, Armstrong, and others, felt tortures on similar
objects. It is said of Julius Scaliger, that he had this peculiarity in
his manner of composition: he wrote with such accuracy that his MSS. and
the printed copy corresponded page for page, and line for line.

Malherbe, the father of French poetry, tormented himself by a prodigious
slowness; and was employed rather in perfecting than in forming works.
His muse is compared to a fine woman in the pangs of delivery. He
exulted in his tardiness, and, after finishing a poem of one hundred
verses, or a discourse of ten pages, he used to say he ought to repose
for ten years. Balzac, the first writer in French prose who gave majesty
and harmony to a period, did not grudge to expend a week on a page,
never satisfied with his first thoughts. Our "costive" Gray entertained
the same notion: and it is hard to say if it arose from the sterility of
their genius, or their sensibility of taste.

The MSS. of Tasso, still preserved, are illegible from the vast number
of their corrections. I have given a fac-simile, as correct as it is
possible to conceive, of one page of Pope's MS. Homer, as a specimen of
his continual corrections and critical erasures. The celebrated Madame
Dacier never could satisfy herself in translating Homer: continually
retouching the version, even in its happiest passages. There were
several parts which she translated in six or seven manners; and she
frequently noted in the margin--_I have not yet done it_.

When Pascal became warm in his celebrated controversy, he applied
himself with incredible labour to the composition of his "Provincial
Letters." He was frequently twenty days occupied on a single letter. He
recommenced some above seven and eight times, and by this means obtained
that perfection which has made his work, as Voltaire says, "one of the
best books ever published in France."

The Quintus Curtius of Vaugelas occupied him thirty years: generally
every period was translated in the margin five or six different ways.
Chapelain and Conrart, who took the pains to review this work
critically, were many times perplexed in their choice of passages; they
generally liked best that which had been first composed. Hume had never
done with corrections; every edition varies from the preceding ones. But
there are more fortunate and fluid minds than these. Voltaire tells us
of Fenelon's Telemachus, that the amiable author composed it in his
retirement, in the short period of three months. Fenelon had, before
this, formed his style, and his mind overflowed with all the spirit of
the ancients. He opened a copious fountain, and there were not ten
erasures in the original MS. The same facility accompanied Gibbon after
the experience of his first volume; and the same copious readiness
attended Adam Smith, who dictated to his amanuensis, while he walked
about his study.

The ancients were as pertinacious in their corrections. Isocrates, it is
said, was employed for ten years on one of his works, and to appear
natural studied with the most refined art. After a labour of eleven
years, Virgil pronounced his Æneid imperfect. Dio Cassius devoted twelve
years to the composition of his history, and Diodorus Siculus, thirty.

There is a middle between velocity and torpidity; the Italians say, it
is not necessary to be a stag, but we ought not to be a tortoise.

Many ingenious expedients are not to be contemned in literary labours.
The critical advice,

    To choose an _author_ as we would a _friend_,

is very useful to young writers. The finest geniuses have always
affectionately attached themselves to some particular author of
congenial disposition. Pope, in his version of Homer, kept a constant
eye on his master Dryden; Corneille's favourite authors were the
brilliant Tacitus, the heroic Livy, and the lofty Lucan: the influence
of their characters may be traced in his best tragedies. The great
Clarendon, when employed in writing his history, read over very
carefully Tacitus and Livy, to give dignity to his style; Tacitus did
not surpass him in his portraits, though Clarendon never equalled Livy
in his narrative.

The mode of literary composition adopted by that admirable student Sir
William Jones, is well deserving our attention. After having fixed on
his subjects, he always added the _model_ of the composition; and thus
boldly wrestled with the great authors of antiquity. On board the
frigate which was carrying him to India, he projected the following
works, and noted them in this manner:--

     1. Elements of the Laws of England.
             _Model_--The Essay on Bailments. ARISTOTLE.

     2. The History of the American War.
                       _Model_--THUCYDIDES and POLYBIUS.

     3. Britain Discovered, an Epic Poem. Machinery--Hindu
            Gods.   _Model_--HOMER.

     4. Speeches, Political and Forensic.
                                   _Model_--DEMOSTHENES.

     5. Dialogues, Philosophical and Historical.
                                         _Model_--PLATO.

And of favourite authors there are also favourite works, which we love
to be familiarised with. Bartholinus has a dissertation on reading
books, in which he points out the superior performances of different
writers. Of St. Austin, his City of God; of Hippocrates, _Coacæ
Prænotiones_; of Cicero, _De Officiis_; of Aristotle, _De Animalibus_;
of Catullus, _Coma Berenices_; of Virgil, the sixth book of the Æneid,
&c. Such judgments are indeed not to be our guides; but such a mode of
reading is useful, by condensing our studies.

Evelyn, who has written treatises on several subjects, was occupied for
years on them. His manner of arranging his materials, and his mode of
composition, appear excellent. Having chosen a subject, he analysed it
into its various parts, under certain heads, or titles, to be filled up
at leisure. Under these heads he set down his own thoughts as they
occurred, occasionally inserting whatever was useful from his reading.
When his collections were thus formed, he digested his own thoughts
regularly, and strengthened them by authorities from ancient and modern
authors, or alleged his reasons for dissenting from them. His
collections in time became voluminous, but he then exercised that
judgment which the formers of such collections are usually deficient in.
With Hesiod he knew that "half is better than the whole," and it was his
aim to express the quintessence of his reading, but not to give it in a
crude state to the world, and when his _treatises_ were sent to the
press, they were not half the size of his collections.

Thus also Winkelmann, in his "History of Art," an extensive work, was
long lost in settling on a plan; like artists, who make random sketches
of their first conceptions, he threw on paper ideas, hints, and
observations which occurred in his readings--many of them, indeed, were
not connected with his history, but were afterwards inserted in some of
his other works.

Even Gibbon tells us of his Roman History, "at the outset all was dark
and doubtful; even the title of the work, the true æra of the decline
and fall of the empire, the limits of the introduction, the division of
the chapters, and the order of the narration; and I was often tempted to
cast away the labour of seven years." Akenside has exquisitely described
the progress and the pains of genius in its delightful reveries:
Pleasures of Imagination, b. iii. v. 373. The pleasures of composition
in an ardent genius were never so finely described as by Buffon.
Speaking of the hours of composition he said, "These are the most
luxurious and delightful moments of life: moments which have often
enticed me to pass fourteen hours at my desk in a state of transport;
this _gratification_ more than _glory_ is my reward."

The publication of Gibbon's Memoirs conveyed to the world a faithful
picture of the most fervid industry; it is in _youth_ the foundations of
such a sublime edifice as his history must be laid. The world can now
trace how this Colossus of erudition, day by day, and year by year,
prepared himself for some vast work.

Gibbon has furnished a new idea in the art of reading! We ought, says
he, not to attend to the _order of our books, so much as of our
thoughts_. "The perusal of a particular work gives birth perhaps to
ideas unconnected with the subject it treats; I pursue these ideas, and
quit my proposed plan of reading." Thus in the midst of Homer he read
Longinus; a chapter of Longinus led to an epistle of Pliny; and having
finished Longinus, he followed the train of his ideas of the sublime and
beautiful in the Inquiry of Burke, and concluded with comparing the
ancient with the modern Longinus. Of all our popular writers the most
experienced reader was Gibbon, and he offers an important advice to an
author engaged on a particular subject: "I suspended my perusal of any
new book on the subject till I had reviewed all that I knew, or
believed, or had thought on it, that I might be qualified to discern how
much the authors added to my original stock."

These are valuable hints to students, and such have been practised by
others.[24] Ancillon was a very ingenious student; he seldom read a book
throughout without reading in his progress many others; his
library-table was always covered with a number of books for the most
part open: this variety of authors bred no confusion; they all assisted
to throw light on the same topic; he was not disgusted by frequently
seeing the same thing in different writers; their opinions were so many
new strokes, which completed the ideas which he had conceived. The
celebrated Father Paul studied in the same manner. He never passed over
an interesting subject till he had confronted a variety of authors. In
historical researches he never would advance, till he had fixed, once
for all, the places, time, and opinions--a mode of study which appears
very dilatory, but in the end will make a great saving of time, and
labour of mind: those who have not pursued this method are all their
lives at a loss to settle their opinions and their belief, from the want
of having once brought them to such a test.

I shall now offer a plan of Historical Study, and a calculation of the
necessary time it will occupy, without specifying the authors; as I only
propose to animate a young student, who feels he has not to number the
days of a patriarch, that he should not be alarmed at the vast labyrinth
historical researches present to his eye. If we look into public
libraries, more than thirty thousand volumes of history may be found.

Lenglet du Fresnoy, one of the greatest readers, calculated that he
could not read, with satisfaction, more than ten hours a day, and ten
pages in folio an hour; which makes one hundred pages every day.
Supposing each volume to contain one thousand pages, every month would
amount to three volumes, which make thirty-six volumes in folio in the
year. In fifty years a student could only read eighteen hundred volumes
in folio. All this, too, supposing uninterrupted health, and an
intelligence as rapid as the eyes of the laborious researcher. A man can
hardly study to advantage till past twenty, and at fifty his eyes will
be dimmed, and his head stuffed with much reading that should never be
read. His fifty years for eighteen hundred volumes are reduced to thirty
years, and one thousand volumes! And, after all, the universal historian
must resolutely face thirty thousand volumes!

But to cheer the historiographer, he shows, that a public library is
only necessary to be consulted; it is in our private closet where should
be found those few writers who direct us to their rivals, without
jealousy, and mark, in the vast career of time, those who are worthy to
instruct posterity. His calculation proceeds on this plan, that _six
hours_ a day, and the term of _ten years_, are sufficient to pass over,
with utility, the immense field of history.

He calculates an alarming extent of historical ground.

     For a knowledge of Sacred History he gives             3 months.
     Ancient Egypt, Babylon, and Assyria, modern Assyria}
       or Persia                                        }   1 do.
     Greek History                                          6 do.
     Roman History by the moderns                           7 do.
     Roman History by the original writers                  6 do.
     Ecclesiastical History, general and particular        30 do.
     Modern History                                        24 do.
     To this may be added for recurrences and re-perusals  48 do.
                                                          ____
                                  The total will amount to 10½ years.

Thus, in _ten years and a half_, a student in history has obtained an
universal knowledge, and this on a plan which permits as much leisure as
every student would choose to indulge.

As a specimen of Du Fresnoy's calculations, take that of Sacred
History.

     For reading Père Calmet's learned dissertations in the}
       order he points out                                 }  12 days
     For Père Calmet's History, in 2 vols. 4to (now in 4)     12
     For Prideaux's History                                   10
     For Josephus                                             12
     For Basnage's History of the Jews                        20
                                                             ----
                                                       In all 66 days.

     He allows, however, ninety days for obtaining a sufficient knowledge of
     Sacred History.

In reading this sketch, we are scarcely surprised at the erudition of a
Gibbon; but having admired that erudition, we perceive the necessity of
such a plan, if we would not learn what we have afterwards to unlearn.

A plan like the present, even in a mind which should feel itself
incapable of the exertion, will not be regarded without that reverence
we feel for genius animating such industry. This scheme of study, though
it may never be rigidly pursued, will be found excellent. Ten years'
labour of happy diligence may render a student capable of consigning to
posterity a history as universal in its topics, as that of the historian
who led to this investigation.




POETICAL IMITATIONS AND SIMILARITIES.


    Tantus amor florum, et generandi gloria mellis.
                     _Georg._ Lib. iv. v. 204.

    Such rage of honey in our bosom beats,
    And such a zeal we have for flowery sweets!
                                            DRYDEN.

This article was commenced by me many years ago in the early volumes of
the Monthly Magazine, and continued by various correspondents, with
various success. I have collected only those of my own contribution,
because I do not feel authorised to make use of those of other persons,
however some may be desirable. One of the most elegant of literary
recreations is that of tracing poetical or prose imitations and
similarities; for assuredly, similarity is not always imitation. Bishop
Hurd's pleasing essay on "The Marks of Imitation" will assist the critic
in deciding on what may only be an accidental similarity, rather than a
studied imitation. Those critics have indulged an intemperate abuse in
these entertaining researches, who from a _single word_ derive the
imitation of an _entire passage_. Wakefield, in his edition of Gray, is
very liable to this censure.

This kind of literary amusement is not despicable: there are few men of
letters who have not been in the habit of marking parallel passages, or
tracing imitation, in the thousand shapes it assumes; it forms, it
cultivates, it delights taste to observe by what dexterity and variation
genius conceals, or modifies, an original thought or image, and to view
the same sentiment, or expression, borrowed with art, or heightened by
embellishment. The ingenious writer of "A Criticism on Gray's Elegy, in
continuation of Dr. Johnson's," has given some observations on this
subject, which will please. "It is often entertaining to trace
imitation. To detect the adopted image; the copied design; the
transferred sentiment; the appropriated phrase; and even the acquired
manner and frame, under all the disguises that imitation, combination,
and accommodation may have thrown around them, must require both parts
and diligence; but it will bring with it no ordinary gratification. A
book professedly on the 'History and Progress of Imitation in Poetry,'
written by a man of perspicuity, an adept in the art of discerning
likenesses, even when minute, with examples properly selected, and
gradations duly marked, would make an impartial accession to the store
of human literature, and furnish rational curiosity with a high regale."
Let me premise that these notices (the wrecks of a large collection of
passages I had once formed merely as exercises to form my taste) are not
given with the petty malignant delight of detecting the unacknowledged
imitations of our best writers, but merely to habituate the young
student to an instructive amusement, and to exhibit that beautiful
variety which the same image is capable of exhibiting when retouched
with all the art of genius.

Gray, in his "Ode to Spring," has

    The Attic warbler POURS HER THROAT.

Wakefield in his "Commentary" has a copious passage on this poetical
diction. He conceives it to be "an admirable improvement of the Greek
and Roman classics:"

    --κἑεν αυδἡν: HES. Scut. Her. 396.
    --Suaves ex ore _loquelas_
    _Funde_.                    LUCRET. i. 40.


This learned editor was little conversant with modern literature, as he
proved by his memorable editions of Gray and Pope. The expression is
evidently borrowed not from Hesiod, nor from Lucretius, but from a
brother at home.

    Is it for thee, the Linnet POURS HER THROAT?
                            _Essay on Man_, Ep. iii, v. 33.

Gray, in the "Ode to Adversity," addresses the power thus,

    Thou tamer of the human breast,
    Whose IRON SCOURGE and TORTURING HOUR
    The bad affright, afflict the best.

Wakefield censures the expression "_torturing hour_," by discovering an
impropriety and incongruity. He says, "consistency of figure rather
required some _material_ image, like _iron scourge_ and _adamantine
chain_." It is curious to observe a verbal critic lecture such a poet as
Gray! The poet probably would never have replied, or, in a moment of
excessive urbanity, he might have condescended to point out to this
minutest of critics the following passage in Milton:--

    ----When the SCOURGE
    Inexorably, and the TORTURING HOUR
    Calls us to penance.
                       _Par. Lost_, B. ii. v. 90.

Gray, in his "Ode to Adversity," has

    Light THEY DISPERSE, and with them go
    The SUMMER FRIEND.

Fond of this image, he has it again in his "Bard,"

    They SWARM, that in thy NOONTIDE BEAM are born,
    Gone!

Perhaps the germ of this beautiful image may be found in Shakspeare:--

    ---- for men, like BUTTERFLIES,
    Show not their mealy wings but to THE SUMMER.
                          _Troilus and Cressida_, Act iii. s. 7.

And two similar passages in _Timon of Athens_:--

    The swallow follows not summer more willingly than we your lordship.

    _Timon_. Nor more willingly leaves winter; such _summer birds_ are
    men.--Act iii.

Again in the same,

    ----one cloud of winter showers
    These flies are couch'd.--Act ii.


Gray, in his "Progress of Poetry," has

    In climes beyond the SOLAR ROAD.

Wakefield has traced this imitation to Dryden; Gray himself refers to
Virgil and Petrarch. Wakefield gives the line from Dryden, thus:--

    Beyond the year, and out of heaven's high-way;

which he calls extremely bold and poetical. I confess a critic might be
allowed to be somewhat fastidious in this unpoetical diction on the
_high-way_, which I believe Dryden never used. I think his line was
thus:--

    Beyond the year, out of the SOLAR WALK.

Pope has expressed the image more elegantly, though copied from Dryden,

    Far as the SOLAR WALK, or milky way.

Gray has in his "Bard,"

    Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
    Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.

Gray himself points out the imitation in Shakspeare of the latter image;
but it is curious to observe that Otway, in his _Venice Preserved_,
makes Priuli most pathetically exclaim to his daughter, that she is

    Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life,
    Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee.

Gray tells us that the image of his "Bard,"

    Loose his beard and hoary hair
    Streamed like a METEOR to the troubled air,

was taken from a picture of the Supreme Being by Raphael. It is,
however, remarkable, and somewhat ludicrous, that the _beard_ of
Hudibras is also compared to a _meteor_: and the accompanying
observation of Butler almost induces one to think that Gray derived from
it the whole plan of that sublime Ode--since his _Bard_ precisely
performs what the _beard_ of Hudibras _denounced_. These are the
verses:--

    This HAIRY METEOR did denounce
    _The fall of sceptres and of crowns_.
                                           _Hudibras_, c. 1.

I have been asked if I am serious in my conjecture that "the _meteor
beard_" of Hudibras might have given birth to the "_Bard_" of Gray? I
reply, that the _burlesque_ and the _sublime_ are extremes, and extremes
meet. How often does it merely depend on our own state of mind, and on
our own taste, to consider the sublime as burlesque! A very vulgar, but
acute genius, Thomas Paine, whom we may suppose destitute of all
delicacy and refinement, has conveyed to us a notion of the _sublime_,
as it is probably experienced by ordinary and uncultivated minds; and
even by acute and judicious ones, who are destitute of imagination. He
tells us that "the _sublime_ and the _ridiculous_ are often so nearly
related, that it is difficult to class them separately. One step above
the sublime makes the ridiculous, and one step above the ridiculous
makes the sublime again." May I venture to illustrate this opinion?
Would it not appear the ridiculous or burlesque to describe the sublime
revolution of the _Earth_ on her axle, round the _Sun_, by comparing it
with the action of a _top_ flogged by a boy? And yet some of the most
exquisite lines in Milton do this; the poet only alluding in his mind to
the _top_. The earth he describes, whether

    ----She from west her _silent course_ advance
    With _inoffensive pace_ that _spinning sleeps_
    On her _soft axle_, while she _paces even_.

Be this as it may! it has never I believe been remarked (to return to
Gray) that when he conceived the idea of the beard of his _Bard_, he had
in his mind the _language_ of Milton, who describes Azazel sublimely
unfurling

    The imperial ensign, which full high advanced,
    _Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind_.
                                       _Par. Lost_, B. i. v. 535.

Very similar to Gray's

    _Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air!_

Gray has been severely censured by Johnson for the expression,

    Give _ample room and verge enough_,
    The characters of hell to trace.--_The Bard_.

On the authority of the most unpoetical of critics, we must still hear
that the poet _has no line so bad_.--"_ample room_" is feeble, but would
have passed unobserved in any other poem but in the poetry of Gray, who
has taught us to admit nothing but what is exquisite. "_Verge enough_"
is poetical, since it conveys a material image to the imagination. No
one appears to have detected the source from whence, probably, the
_whole line_ was derived. I am inclined to think it was from the
following passage in Dryden:

    Let fortune empty her whole quiver on me,
    I have a soul that, like an AMPLE SHIELD,
    Can take in all, and VERGE ENOUGH for more!
                           Dryden's _Don Sebastian._

Gray in his Elegy has

    Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

This line is so obscure that it is difficult to apply it to what
precedes it. Mason in his edition in vain attempts to derive it from a
thought of Petrarch, and still more vainly attempts to amend it;
Wakefield expends an octavo page to paraphrase this single verse. From
the following lines of Chaucer, one would imagine Gray caught the
recollected idea. The old Reve, in his prologue, says of himself, and of
old men,

    For whan we may not don than wol we speken;
    Yet in our ASHEN cold is FIRE yreken.
                    TYRWHIT'S _Chaucer_, vol. i. p. 153, v. 3879.

Gray has a very expressive _word_, highly poetical, but I think not
common:

    FOR WHO TO DUMB FORGETFULNESS a prey--

Daniel has, as quoted in Cooper's Muses' Library,

    And _in himself with sorrow_, does complain
    The misery of DARK FORGETFULNESS.

A line of Pope's, in his Dunciad, "High-born Howard," echoed in the ear
of Gray, when he gave, with all the artifice of alliteration,

    High-born Hoel's harp.

Johnson bitterly censures Gray for giving to adjectives the termination
of participles, such as the _cultured_ plain; the _daisied_ bank: but he
solemnly adds, I was sorry to see in the line of a scholar like Gray,
"the _honied_ spring." Had Johnson received but the faintest tincture of
the rich Italian school of English poetry, he would never have formed so
tasteless a criticism. _Honied_ is employed by Milton in more places
than one.

    Hide me from day's garish eye
    While the bee with HONIED thigh
                         _Penseroso_, v. 142.


The celebrated stanza in Gray's Elegy seems partly to be borrowed.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene
    The dark unfathom'd eaves of ocean bear:
    Full many a _flower_ is torn to blush _unseen,_
    And _waste its sweetness in the desert air_.

Pope had said:

    There kept by charms conceal'd from mortal eye,
    Like _roses_ that in _deserts bloom_ and _die_.
                                        _Rape of the Lock._

Young says of nature:

    In distant wilds by human eye _unseen_
    She rears her _flowers_ and spreads her velvet green;
    Pure gurgling rills the lonely _desert_ trace,
    And _waste their music_ on the savage race.

And Shenstone has--

    And like the _desert's lily_ bloom to fade!
                                            Elegy iv.

Gray was so fond of this pleasing imagery, that he repeats it in his Ode
to the Installation; and Mason echoes it in his Ode to Memory.

Milton thus paints the evening sun:

    If chance the radiant SUN with FAREWELL SWEET
    Extends his evening beam, the fields revive,
    The birds their notes renew, &c.
                                   _Par. Lost_, B. ii. v. 492.

Can there be a doubt that he borrowed this beautiful _farewell_ from an
obscure poet, quoted by Poole, in his "English Parnassus," 1657? The
date of Milton's great work, I find since, admits the conjecture: the
first edition being that of 1669. The homely lines in Poole are these,

    To Thetis' watery bowers the _sun_ doth hie,
    BIDDING FAREWELL unto the gloomy sky.

Young, in his "Love of Fame," very adroitly improves on a witty conceit
of Butler. It is curious to observe that while Butler had made a remote
allusion of a _window_ to a _pillory_, a conceit is grafted on this
conceit, with even more exquisite wit.

    Each WINDOW like the PILLORY appears,
    With HEADS thrust through: NAILED BY THE EARS!
                          _Hudibras_, Part ii. c. 3, v. 301.


    An opera, like a PILLORY, may be said
    To NAIL OUR EARS down, and EXPOSE OUR HEAD.
                                          YOUNG'S _Satires_.


In the Duenna we find this thought differently illustrated; by no means
imitative, though the satire is congenial. Don Jerome alluding to the
_serenaders_ says, "These amorous orgies that steal the senses in the
_hearing_; as they say Egyptian embalmers serve mummies, _extracting the
brain through the ears_." The wit is original, but the subject is the
same in the three passages; the whole turning on the allusion to the
_head_ and to the _ears_.

When Pope composed the following lines on Fame,

    How vain that second life in others' breath,
    The ESTATE which wits INHERIT after death;
    Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign,
    (Unsure the _tenure_, but how vast the _fine!_)
                                      _Temple of Fame_.

he seems to have had present in his mind a single idea of Butler, by
which he has very richly amplified the entire imagery. Butler says,

    Honour's a LEASE for LIVES TO COME,
    And cannot be extended from
    The LEGAL TENANT.
                     _Hudibras_, Part i. c. 3, v. 1043.

The same thought may be found in Sir George Mackenzie's "Essay on
preferring Solitude to public Employment," first published in 1665:
Hudibras preceded it by two years. The thought is strongly expressed by
the eloquent Mackenzie: "_Fame is a revenue payable only to our ghosts_;
and to deny ourselves all present satisfaction, or to expose ourselves
to so much hazard for this, were as great madness as to starve
ourselves, or fight desperately for food, to be laid on our tombs after
our death."

Dryden, in his "Absalom and Achitophel," says of the Earl of
Shaftesbury,

    David for him his tuneful harp had strung,
    _And Heaven had wanted one immortal song_.

This verse was ringing in the ear of Pope, when with equal modesty and
felicity he adopted it in addressing his friend Dr. Arbuthnot.

    Friend of my life; which did not you prolong,
    _The world had wanted many an idle song!_

Howell has prefixed to his Letters a tedious poem, written in the taste
of the times, and he there says of _letters_, that they are

    The heralds and sweet harbingers that move
    From _East to West, on embassies of love_;
    They can the _tropic cut_, and _cross the line_.

It is probable that Pope had noted this thought, for the following lines
seem a beautiful heightening of the idea:

    Heaven first taught _letters_, for some wretch's aid,
    Some banish'd _lover_, or some captive maid.

Then he adds, they

    _Speed the soft intercourse_ from soul to soul,
    And waft a sigh from _Indus_ to the _Pole_.
                                                   _Eloisa_.

There is another passage in "Howell's Letters," which has a great
affinity with a thought of Pope, who, in "the Rape of the Lock," says,

    Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
    And _beauty draws us with a single hair_.

Howell writes, p. 290, "'Tis a powerful sex:--they were too strong for
the first, the strongest and wisest man that was; they must needs be
strong, when _one hair of a woman can draw more than an hundred pair of
oxen_."

Pope's description of the death of the lamb, in his "Essay on Man," is
finished with the nicest touches, and is one of the finest pictures our
poetry exhibits. Even familiar as it is to our ear, we never examine it
but with undiminished admiration.

    The _lamb_, thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
    Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
    Pleased to the last he crops the flowery food,
    And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

After pausing on the last two fine verses, will not the reader smile
that I should conjecture the image might originally have been discovered
in the following humble verses in a poem once considered not as
contemptible:

    A gentle _lamb_ has rhetoric to plead,
    And when she sees the butcher's knife decreed,
    Her voice entreats him not to make her bleed.
                               DR. KING'S _Mully of Mountown_.

This natural and affecting image might certainly have been observed by
Pope, without his having perceived it through the less polished lens of
the telescope of Dr. King. It is, however, a _similarity_, though it
may not be an _imitation_; and is given as an example of that art in
composition which can ornament the humblest conception, like the
graceful vest thrown over naked and sordid beggary.

I consider the following lines as strictly copied by Thomas Warton:

                    The daring artist
    Explored the pangs that rend the royal breast,
    _Those wounds that lurk beneath the tissued vest_.
                                     T. WARTON on Shakspeare.

Sir Philip Sidney, in his "Defence of Poesie," has the same image. He
writes, "Tragedy openeth the greatest _wounds_, and showeth forth the
_ulcers_ that are _covered with tissue_."

The same appropriation of thought will attach to the following lines of
Tickell:

    While the charm'd reader with thy thought complies,
    And views thy _Rosamond_ with _Henry's_ eyes.
                                         TICKELL to ADDISON.

Evidently from the French Horace:

    En vain contre le Cid un ministre se ligue;
    Tout Paris, pour _Chimene_, a les yeux de _Rodrigue_.
                                                  BOILEAU.

Oldham, the satirist, says in his satires upon the Jesuits, that had
Cain been of this black fraternity, he had not been content with a
quarter of mankind.

    Had he been Jesuit, _had he but put on
    Their savage cruelty, the rest had gone!_
                                                Satire ii.

Doubtless at that moment echoed in his poetical ear the energetic and
caustic epigram of Andrew Marvel, against Blood stealing the crown
dressed in a parson's cassock, and sparing the life of the keeper:

    With the Priest's vestment _had he but put on
    The Prelate's cruelty--the Crown had gone!_

The following passages seem echoes to each other, and it is but justice
due to Oldham, the satirist, to acknowledge him as the parent of this
antithesis:

    On Butler who can think without just rage,
    _The glory and the scandal of the age_?
                                  _Satire against Poetry_.


It seems evidently borrowed by Pope, when he applies the thought to
Erasmus:--

    At length Erasmus, that great injured name,
    The _glory of the priesthood_ and the _shame_!

Young remembered the antithesis when he said,

    Of some for _glory_ such the boundless rage,
    That they're the blackest _scandal_ of the age.

Voltaire, a great reader of Pope, seems to have borrowed part of the
expression:--

    _Scandale_ d'Eglise, et des rois le modèle.

De Caux, an old French poet, in one of his moral poems on an hour-glass,
inserted in modern collections, has many ingenious thoughts. That this
poem was read and admired by Goldsmith, the following beautiful image
seems to indicate. De Caux, comparing the world to his hour-glass, says
beautifully,

                         _C'est un verre qui luit,
    Qu'un souffle peut détruire, et qu'un souffle a produit._

Goldsmith applies the thought very happily--

    Princes and lords may flourish or may fade;
    _A breath can make them, as a breath has made._

I do not know whether we might not read, for modern copies are sometimes
incorrect,

    A breath _unmakes_ them, as a breath has made.

Thomson, in his pastoral story of Palemon and Lavinia, appears to have
copied a passage from Otway. Palemon thus addresses Lavinia:--

    Oh, let me now into a richer soil
    _Transplant_ thee safe, where vernal _suns_ and showers
    Diffuse their warmest, largest influence;
    And of my _garden_ be the pride and joy!

Chamont employs the same image when speaking of Monimia; he says--

    You took her up a _little tender flower_,
    ---- and with a careful loving hand
    _Transplanted_ her into your own fair _garden_,
    Where the _sun_ always shines.

The origin of the following imagery is undoubtedly Grecian; but it is
still embellished and modified by our best poets:--

                  ----While universal _Pan_,
    Knit with the _graces_ and the _hours, in dance
    Led_ on th' eternal spring.
                                   _Paradise Lost_.

Thomson probably caught this strain of imagery:

                    Sudden to heaven
    Thence weary vision turns, where _leading soft
    The silent hours_ of love, with purest ray
    Sweet _Venus_ shines.
                               _Summer_, v. 1692.

Gray, in repeating this imagery, has borrowed a remarkable epithet from
Milton:

    Lo, where the _rosy-bosom'd hours,
    Fair Venus' train_, appear.
                                  _Ode to Spring_.

    Along the crisped shades and bowers
    Revels the spruce and jocund _spring_;
    The _graces_ and the _rosy-bosom'd hours_
    Thither all their bounties bring.
                                  _Comus_, v. 984.

Collins, in his Ode to _Fear_, whom he associates with _Danger_, there
grandly personified, was I think considerably indebted to the following
stanza of Spenser:

    Next him was _Fear_, all arm'd from top to toe,
    Yet thought himself not safe enough thereby:
    But fear'd each sudden movement to and fro;
    And _his own arms_ when glittering he did spy,
    Or _clashing heard_, he fast away did fly,
    As ashes pale of hue and wingy heel'd;
    And evermore on _Danger_ fix'd his eye,
    'Gainst whom he always bent a brazen shield,
    Which his right hand unarmed fearfully did wield.
                             _Faery Queen_, B. iii. c. 12, s. 12.

Warm from its perusal, he seems to have seized it as a hint to the Ode
to Fear, and in his "Passions" to have very finely copied an idea here:

    First _Fear_, his hand, his skill to try,
      Amid the chords bewildered laid,
    And _back recoil'd_, he knew not why,
      _E'en at the sound himself had made._
                                        _Ode to the Passions_.

The stanza in Beattie's "Minstrel," first book, in which his "visionary
boy," after "the storm of summer rain," views "the rainbow brighten to
the setting sun," and runs to reach it:

    Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,
    How vain the chase thine ardour has begun!
    'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run;
    Thus it fares with age, &c.

The same train of thought and imagery applied to the same subject,
though the image itself be somewhat different, may be found in the poems
of the platonic John Norris; a writer who has great originality of
thought, and a highly poetical spirit. His stanza runs thus:

    So to the unthinking boy the distant sky
    Seems on some mountain's surface to relie;
    He with ambitious haste climbs the ascent,
        _Curious to touch the firmament_;
        But when with an unwearied pace,
    He is arrived at the long-wish'd-for place,
    With sighs the sad defeat he does deplore,
    His heaven is still as distant as before!
              _The Infidel_, by JOHN NORRIS.

In the modern tragedy of _The Castle Spectre_ is this fine description
of the ghost of Evelina:--"Suddenly a female form glided along the
vault. I flew towards her. My arms were already _unclosed to clasp
her,--when suddenly her figure changed_! Her face grew pale--a stream of
blood gushed from her bosom. While speaking, her form withered away;
_the flesh fell from her bones_; a skeleton loathsome and meagre clasped
me in her _mouldering arms_. Her infected breath was mingled with mine;
her _rotting fingers_ pressed my hand; and my face was covered with her
kisses. Oh! then how I trembled with disgust!"

There is undoubtedly singular merit in this description. I shall
contrast it with one which the French Virgil has written, in an age
whose faith was stronger in ghosts than ours, yet which perhaps had less
skill in describing them. There are some circumstances which seem to
indicate that the author of the _Castle Spectre_ lighted his torch at
the altar of the French muse. Athalia thus narrates her dream, in which
the spectre of Jezabel, her mother, appears:

    C'étoit pendant l'horreur d'une profonde nuit,
    Ma mère Jezabel devant moi s'est montrée,
    Comme au jour de sa mort, pompeusement paree.--
    ---- En achevant ces mots epouvantables,
    Son ombre vers mon lit a paru se baisser,
    Et moi, je lui tendois les mains pour l'embrasser,
    Mais _je n'ai plus trouvé qu'un horrible mélange
    D'os et de chair meurtris_, et trainée dans la fange,
    _Des lambeaux pleins de sang et des membres affreux_.
                               RACINE'S _Athalie_, Acte ii. s. 5.

Goldsmith, when, in his pedestrian tour, he sat amid the Alps, as he
paints himself in his "Traveller," and felt himself the solitary
neglected genius he was, desolate amidst the surrounding scenery,
probably at that moment applied to himself the following beautiful
imagery of Thomson:

    As in the hollow breast of Apennine
    Beneath the centre of encircling hills,
    A myrtle rises, far from human eyes,
    And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild.
                                      _Autumn_, v. 202.

Goldsmith very pathetically applies a similar image:

    E'en now where Alpine solitudes ascend,
    I sit me down a pensive hour to spend,
    Like yon _neglected shrub_ at random cast,
    That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.
                                      _Traveller_.

Akenside illustrates the native impulse of genius by a simile of
Memnon's marble statue, sounding its lyre at the touch of the sun:

    For as old Memnon's image, long renown'd
    By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch
    Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string
    Consenting, sounded through the warbling air
    Unbidden strains; even so did nature's hand, &c.

It is remarkable that the same image, which does not appear obvious
enough to have been the common inheritance of poets, is precisely used
by old Regnier, the first French satirist, in the dedication of his
Satires to the French king. Louis XIV. supplies the place of nature to
the courtly satirist. These are his words:--"On lit qu'en Ethiope il y
avoit une statue qui rendoit un son harmonieux, toutes les fois que le
soleil levant la regardoit. Ce même miracle, Sire, avez vous fait en
moi, qui touché de l'astre de Votre Majesté, ai reçu la voix et la
parole."

In that sublime passage in "Pope's Essay on Man," Epist. i. v. 237,
beginning,

    Vast chain of being! which from God began,

and proceeds to

    From nature's chain whatever link you strike,
    Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.

Pope seems to have caught the idea and image from Waller, whose last
verse is as fine as any in the "Essay on Man:"--

    The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove,
    On which the fabric of our world depends,
    One link dissolv'd, the whole creation ends.
                _Of the Danger his Majesty escaped_, &c. v. 168.

It has been observed by Thyer, that Milton borrowed the expression
_imbrowned_ and _brown_, which he applies to the evening shade, from the
Italian. See Thyer's elegant note in B. iv., v. 246:

    ----And where the unpierced shade
    _Imbrowned_ the noon tide bowers.

And B. ix., v. 1086:

    ---- Where highest Woods impenetrable
    To sun or star-light, spread their umbrage broad,
    And _brown as evening_.

_Fa l'imbruno_ is an expression used by the Italians to denote the
approach of the evening. Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, have made a very
picturesque use of this term, noticed by Thyer. I doubt if it be
applicable to our colder climate; but Thomson appears to have been
struck by the fine effect it produces in poetical landscape; for he has

    ----With quickened step
    _Brown night_ retires.
                      _Summer_, v. 51.

If the epithet be true, it cannot be more appropriately applied than in
the season he describes, which most resembles the genial clime with the
deep serenity of an Italian heaven. Milton in Italy had experienced the
_brown evening_, but it may be suspected that Thomson only recollected
the language of the poet.

The same observation may be made on two other poetical epithets. I shall
notice the epithet "LAUGHING" applied to inanimate objects; and "PURPLE"
to beautiful objects."

The natives of Italy and the softer climates receive emotions from the
view of their WATERS in the SPRING not equally experienced in the
British roughness of our skies. The fluency and softness of the water
are thus described by Lucretius:--

    ----Tibi suaveis Dædala tellus
    Submittit flores: _tibi_ RIDENT _æquora ponti_.

Inelegantly rendered by Creech,

    The roughest sea puts on smooth looks, and SMILES.

Dryden more happily,

    The ocean SMILES, and smooths her wavy breast.

But Metastasio has copied Lucretius:--

    A te fioriscono
      Gli erbosi prat:
    E i flutti RIDONO
      Nel mar placati.

It merits observation, that the _Northern Poets_ could not exalt their
imagination higher than that the water SMILED, while the modern Italian,
having before his eyes _a different Spring_, found no difficulty in
agreeing with the ancients, that the waves LAUGHED. Modern poetry has
made a very free use of the animating epithet LAUGHING. Gray has
LAUGHING FLOWERS: and Langhorne in two beautiful lines personifies
Flora:--

    Where Tweed's soft banks in liberal beauty lie,
    And Flora LAUGHS beneath an azure sky.

Sir William Jones, in the spirit of Oriental poetry, has "the LAUGHING
AIR." Dryden has employed this epithet boldly in the delightful lines,
almost entirely borrowed from his original, Chaucer:--

    The morning lark, the messenger of day,
    Saluted in her song the morning gray;
    And soon the sun arose, with beams so bright,
    That all THE HORIZON LAUGHED to see the joyous sight.
                              _Palamon and Arcite_, B. ii.[25]

It is extremely difficult to conceive what the ancients precisely meant
by the word _purpureus_. They seem to have designed by it anything
BRIGHT and BEAUTIFUL. A classical friend has furnished me with numerous
significations of this word which are very contradictory. Albinovanus,
in his elegy on Livia, mentions _Nivem purpureum_. Catullus, _Quercus
ramos purpureos_. Horace, _Purpureo bibet ore nectar_, and somewhere
mentions _Olores purpureos_. Virgil has _Purpuream vomit ille animam_;
and Homer calls the sea _purple_, and gives it in some other book the
same epithet, when in a storm.

The general idea, however, has been fondly adopted by the finest writers
in Europe. The PURPLE of the ancients is not known to us. What idea,
therefore, have the moderns affixed to it? Addison, in his Vision of the
Temple of Fame, describes the country as "being covered with a kind of
PURPLE LIGHT." Gray's beautiful line is well known:--

    The bloom of young desire and _purple light_ of love.

And Tasso, in describing his hero Godfrey, says, Heaven

    Gli empie d'onor la faccia, e vi riduce
    Di Giovinezza _il bel purpureo lume_.

Both Gray and Tasso copied Virgil, where Venus gives to her son Æneas--

    ----_Lumenque_ Juventæ
    _Purpureum_.

Dryden has omitted the _purple light_ in his version, nor is it given by
Pitt; but Dryden expresses the general idea by

    ---- With hands divine,
    Had formed his curling locks and _made his temples shine_,
    And given his rolling eys a _sparkling grace_.

It is probable that Milton has given us his idea of what was meant by
_this purple light_, when applied to the human countenance, in the
felicitous expression of

    CELESTIAL ROSY-RED.

Gray appears to me to be indebted to Milton for a hint for the opening
of his Elegy: as in the first line he had Dante and Milton in his mind,
he perhaps might also in the following passage have recollected a
congenial one in Comus, which he altered. Milton, describing the
evening, marks it out by

    ---- What time the _laboured ox_
    In his loose traces from the furrow came,
    And the _swinkt hedger_ at his supper sat.


Gray has

    The _lowing herd_ wind slowly o'er the lea,
    The _ploughman_ homeward plods his weary way.

Warton has made an observation on this passage in Comus; and observes
further that it is a _classical_ circumstance, but not a _natural_ one,
in an _English landscape_, for our ploughmen quit their work at noon. I
think, therefore, the imitation is still more evident; and as Warton
observes, both Gray and Milton copied here from books, and not from
life.

There are three great poets who have given us a similar incident.

Dryden introduces the highly finished picture of the _hare_ in his Annus
Mirabilis:--

                   _Stanza_ 131.
    So I have seen some _fearful hare_ maintain
      A course, till tired before the dog she lay,
    Who stretched behind her, pants upon the plain,
      Past power to kill, as she to get away.

                          132.
    With his loll'd tongue he faintly licks his prey;
      His warm breath blows her flix up as she lies:
    She trembling creeps upon the ground away
      And looks back to him with _beseeching eyes_.

Thomson paints the _stag_ in a similar situation:--

    ----Fainting breathless toil
    Sick seizes on his heart--he stands at bay:
    The _big round tears_ run down his _dappled_ face,
    He _groans_ in anguish.
                                 _Autumn_, v. 451.

Shakspeare exhibits the same object:--

    The wretched animal heaved forth such _groans_,
    That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
    Almost to bursting; and the _big round tears_
    Coursed one another down his _innocent nose_
    In piteous chase.

Of these three pictures the _beseeching eyes_ of Dryden perhaps is more
pathetic than _the big round tears_, certainly borrowed by Thomson from
Shakspeare, because the former expression has more passion, and is
therefore more poetical. The sixth line in Dryden is perhaps exquisite
for its imitative harmony, and with peculiar felicity paints the action
itself. Thomson adroitly drops the _innocent nose_, of which one word
seems to have lost its original signification, and the other offends now
by its familiarity. _The dappled face_ is a term more picturesque, more
appropriate, and more poetically expressed.




EXPLANATION OF THE FAC-SIMILE.


The manuscripts of Pope's version of the Iliad and Odyssey are preserved
in the British Museum in three volumes, the gift of David Mallet. They
are written chiefly on the backs of letters, amongst which are several
from Addison, Steele, Jervaise, Rowe, Young, Caryl, Walsh, Sir Godfrey
Kneller, Fenton, Craggs, Congreve, Hughes, his mother Editha, and Lintot
and Tonson the booksellers.[26]

From these letters no information can be gathered, which merits public
communication; they relate generally to the common civilities and common
affairs of life. What little could be done has already been given in the
additions to Pope's works.

It has been observed, that Pope taught himself to write, by copying
printed books: of this singularity we have in this collection a
remarkable instance; several parts are written in Roman and Italic
characters, which for some time I mistook for print; no imitation can be
more correct.

What appears on this Fac-Simile I have printed, to assist its
deciphering; and I have also subjoined the passage as it was given to
the public, for immediate reference. The manuscript from whence this
page is taken consists of the first rude sketches; an intermediate copy
having been employed for the press; so that the corrected verses of this
Fac-Simile occasionally vary from those published.

This passage has been selected, because the parting of Hector and
Andromache is perhaps the most pleasing episode in the Iliad, while it
is confessedly one of the most finished passages.

The lover of poetry will not be a little gratified, when he contemplates
the variety of epithets, the imperfect idea, the gradual embellishment,
and the critical rasures which are here discovered.[27] The action of
Hector, in lifting his infant in his arms, occasioned Pope much trouble;
and at length the printed copy has a different reading.

I must not omit noticing, that the whole is on the back of a letter
franked by Addison; which cover I have given at one corner of the plate.

The parts distinguished by Italics were rejected.

      Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
    _Extends his eager arms to embrace his boy_,
                                              lovely
    Stretched his fond arms to seize the _beauteous_ boy;
           babe
    The _boy_ clung crying to his nurse's breast,
    Scar'd at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.
                        each _kind_
    With silent pleasure _the_ fond parent smil'd,
    And Hector hasten'd to relieve his child.
    The glittering terrors unbound,
    _His radiant helmet_ from his brows _unbrac'd_,
                                  _on the ground, he
    And on the ground the glittering terror plac'd_,
                     beamy
    And placed the _radiant_ helmet on the ground,
    _Then seized the boy and raising him in air_,
           lifting
    Then _fondling_ in his arms his infant heir,
         _dancing_
    Thus to the gods addrest a father's prayer.
                    glory fills
      O thou, whose _thunder shakes_ th' ethereal throne,
        deathless
    And all ye other _powers_ protect my son!
    _Like mine, this war, blooming youth with every virtue blest_,
        _grace_
    _The shield and glory of the Trojan race;
    Like mine his valour, and his just renown.
    Like mine his labours, to defend the crown_.
    Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
               the Trojans
    To guard _my country_, to defend the crown:
    _In arms like me, his country's war to wage_,
    And rise the Hector of the future age!
    Against his country's foes the war to wage,
    And rise the Hector of the future age!
                                   successful
    So when triumphant from the _glorious_ toils
    Of heroes slain, he bears the reeking spoils,
    Whole hosts may
    _All Troy shall_ hail him, with deserv'd acclaim,
        own the son
    And _cry, this chief_ transcends his father's fame.
    While pleas'd, amidst the general shouts of Troy,
    His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy.
               fondly on her
      He said, and gazing _o'er his consort's charms_,
    Restor'd his infant to her longing arms.
         on
    Soft _in_ her fragrant breast the babe she laid,
    _Prest to her heart_, and with a smile survey'd;
           to repose
    Hush'd _him to rest_, and with a smile survey'd.
                       _passion_
    But soon the troubled pleasure _mixt with rising fears_,
                                      dash'd with fear,
    The tender pleasure soon, chastised by fear,
    She mingled with the smile a tender tear.

The passage appears thus in the printed work. I have marked in Italics
the _variations_.

       Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
    Stretch'd his fond arms to _clasp_ the lovely boy.
    The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,
    Scar'd at the dazzling helm and nodding crest.
    With _secret_[28] pleasure each fond parent smil'd,
    And Hector hasted to relieve his child,
    The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,
    And placed the _beaming_ helmet on the ground:
    _Then kiss'd the child_, and lifting high in air,
    Thus to the gods _preferr'd_ a father's prayer:

      O thou, whose glory fills th' ethereal throne,
    And all ye deathless powers, protect my son!
    Grant him like me to purchase just renown,
    To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown;
    Against his country's foes the war to wage,
    And rise the Hector of the future age!
    So when, triumphant from successful toils,
    Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,
    Whole hosts may hail him, with deserv'd acclaim,
    And say, _this chief_ transcends his father's fame:
    While pleas'd amidst the general shouts of Troy,
    His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy.

    He _spoke_, and fondly gazing on her charms,
    Restor'd _the pleasing burden to her arms_:
    Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid,
    Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd.
    The _troubled pleasure_ soon chastis'd by fear,
    She mingled with the smile a tender tear.




LITERARY FASHIONS.


There is such a thing as Literary Fashion, and prose and verse have been
regulated by the same caprice that cuts our coats and cocks our hats.
Dr. Kippis, who had a taste for literary history, has observed that
"'Dodsley's Oeconomy of Human Life' long received the most extravagant
applause, from the supposition that it was written by a celebrated
nobleman; an instance of the power of _Literary Fashion_; the history of
which, as it hath appeared in various ages and countries, and as it hath
operated with respect to the different objects of science, learning,
art, and taste, would form a work that might be highly instructive and
entertaining."

The favourable reception of Dodsley's "Oeconomy of Human Life," produced
a whole family of oeconomies; it was soon followed by a _second part_,
the gratuitous ingenuity of one of those officious imitators, whom an
original author never cares to thank. Other oeconomies trod on the heels
of each other.

For some memoranda towards a history of literary fashions, the following
may be arranged:--

At the restoration of letters in Europe, commentators and compilers were
at the head of the literati; translators followed, who enriched
themselves with their spoils on the commentators. When in the progress
of modern literature, writers aimed to rival the great authors of
antiquity, the different styles, in their servile imitations, clashed
together; and parties were formed who fought desperately for the style
they chose to adopt. The public were long harassed by a fantastic race,
who called themselves Ciceronian, of whom are recorded many ridiculous
practices, to strain out the words of Cicero into their hollow
verbosities. They were routed by the facetious Erasmus. Then followed
the brilliant æra of epigrammatic points; and good sense, and good
taste, were nothing without the spurious ornaments of false wit.
Another age was deluged by a million of sonnets; and volumes were for a
long time read, without their readers being aware that their patience
was exhausted. There was an age of epics, which probably can never
return again; for after two or three, the rest can be but repetitions
with a few variations.

In Italy, from 1530 to 1580, a vast multitude of books were written on
Love; the fashion of writing on that subject (for certainly it was not
always a passion with the indefatigable writer) was an epidemical
distemper. They wrote like pedants, and pagans; those who could not
write their love in verse, diffused themselves in prose. When the
Poliphilus of Colonna appeared, which is given in the form of a dream,
this dream made a great many dreamers, as it happens in company (says
the sarcastic Zeno) when one yawner makes many yawn. When Bishop Hall
first published his satires, he called them "Toothless Satires," but his
latter ones he distinguished as "Biting Satires;" many good-natured men,
who could only write good-natured verse, crowded in his footsteps, and
the abundance of their labours only showed that even the "toothless"
satires of Hall could bite more sharply than those of servile imitators.
After Spenser's "Faerie Queen" was published, the press overflowed with
many mistaken imitations, in which fairies were the chief actors--this
circumstance is humorously animadverted on by Marston, in his satires,
as quoted by Warton: every scribe now falls asleep, and in his

    ----dreams, straight tenne pound to one
    Outsteps some _fairy_----
    Awakes, straiet rubs his eyes, and PRINTS HIS TALE.

The great personage who gave a fashion to this class of literature was
the courtly and romantic Elizabeth herself; her obsequious wits and
courtiers would not fail to feed and flatter her taste. Whether they all
felt the beauties, or languished over the tediousness of "The Faerie
Queen," and the "Arcadia" of Sidney, at least her majesty gave a vogue
to such sentimental and refined romance. The classical Elizabeth
introduced another literary fashion; having translated the Hercules
Oetacus, she made it fashionable to translate Greek tragedies. There was
a time, in the age of fanaticism, and the Long Parliament, that books
were considered the more valuable for their length. The seventeenth
century was the age of folios. Caryl wrote a "Commentary on Job" in two
volumes folio, of above one thousand two hundred sheets! as it was
intended to inculcate the virtue of patience, these volumes gave at once
the theory and the practice. One is astonished at the multitude of the
divines of this age; whose works now lie buried under the brick and
mortar tombs of four or five folios, which, on a moderate calculation,
might now be "wire-woven" into thirty or forty modern octavos.

In Charles I.'s time, love and honour were heightened by the wits into
florid romance; but Lord Goring turned all into ridicule; and he was
followed by the Duke of Buckingham, whose happy vein of ridicule was
favoured by Charles II., who gave it the vogue it obtained.

Sir William Temple justly observes, that changes in veins of wit are
like those of habits, or other modes. On the return of Charles II., none
were more out of fashion among the new courtiers than the old Earl of
Norwich, who was esteemed the greatest wit, in his father's time, among
the old.

Modern times have abounded with what may be called fashionable
literature. Tragedies were some years ago as fashionable as comedies are
at this day;[29] Thomson, Mallet, Francis, Hill, applied their genius to
a department in which they lost it all. Declamation and rant, and
over-refined language, were preferred to the fable, the manners, and to
nature--and these now sleep on our shelves! Then too we had a family of
paupers in the parish of poetry, in "Imitations of Spenser." Not many
years ago, Churchill was the occasion of deluging the town with
_political poems in quarto_.--These again were succeeded by _narrative
poems_, in the ballad measure, from all sizes of poets.--The Castle of
Otranto was the father of that marvellous, which once over-stocked the
circulating library and closed with Mrs. Radcliffe.--Lord Byron has been
the father of hundreds of graceless sons!--Travels and voyages have long
been a class of literature so fashionable, that we begin to prepare for,
or to dread, the arrival of certain persons from the Continent!

Different times, then, are regulated by different tastes. What makes a
strong impression on the public at one time, ceases to interest it at
another; an author who sacrifices to the prevailing humours of his day
has but little chance of being esteemed by posterity; and every age of
modern literature might, perhaps, admit of a new classification, by
dividing it into its periods of _fashionable literature_.




THE PANTOMIMICAL CHARACTERS.


        Il est des gens de qui l'esprit guindé
        Sous un front jamais déridé
        Ne souffre, n'approuve, et n'estime
        Que le pompeux, et le sublime;
        Pour moi j'ose poser en fait
        Qu'en de certains momens l'esprit le plus parfait
        Peut aimer sans rougir jusqu'aux marionettes;
        Et qu'il est des tems et des lieux,
        Où le grave, et le sérieux,
        Ne valent pas d'agréables sornettes.
                                  Peau d'Ane.

        People there are who never smile;
        Their foreheads still unsmooth'd the while,
        Some lambent flame of mirth will play,
        That wins the easy heart away;
        Such only choose in prose or rhyme
        A bristling pomp,--they call sublime!
        I blush not to like Harlequin,
        Would he but talk,--and all his kin.
      Yes, there are times, and there are places,
    When flams and old wives' tales are worth the Graces.

Cervantes, in the person of his hero, has confessed the delight he
received from amusements which disturb the gravity of some, who are apt,
however, to be more entertained by them than they choose to acknowledge.
Don Quixote thus dismisses a troop of merry strollers--"_Andad con Dios,
buena gente, y hazad vuestra fiesta, porque desde muchacho fui
aficionado a la_ Carátula, _y en mi mocedad se ne ivan los ojos tras la_
Farándula." In a literal version the passage may run thus:--"Go, good
people, God be with you, and keep your merry making! for from childhood
I was in love with the _Carátula_, and in my youth my eyes would lose
themselves amidst the _Farándula_." According to Pineda, _La Carátula_
is an actor masked, and _La Farándula_ is a kind of farce.[30]

Even the studious Bayle, wrapping himself in his cloak, and hurrying to
the market-place to Punchinello, would laugh when the fellow had humour
in him, as was usually the case; and I believe the pleasure some still
find in pantomimes, to the annoyance of their gravity, is a very natural
one, and only wants a little more understanding in the actors and the
spectators.[31]

The truth is, that here our Harlequin and all his lifeless family are
condemned to perpetual silence. They came to us from the genial hilarity
of the Italian theatre, and were all the grotesque children of wit, and
whim, and satire. Why is this burlesque race here privileged to cost so
much, to do so little, and to repeat that little so often? Our own
pantomime may, indeed, boast of two inventions of its own growth: we
have turned Harlequin into a magician, and this produces the surprise of
sudden changes of scenery, whose splendour and curious correctness have
rarely been equalled: while in the metamorphosis of the scene, a certain
sort of wit to the eye, "mechanic wit," as it has been termed, has
originated; as when a surgeon's shop is turned into a laundry, with the
inscription "Mangling done here;" or counsellors at the bar changed into
fish-women.

Every one of this grotesque family were the creatures of national
genius, chosen by the people for themselves. Italy, both ancient and
modern, exhibits a gesticulating people of comedians, and the same comic
genius characterised the nation through all its revolutions, as well as
the individual through all his fortunes. The lower classes still betray
their aptitude in that vivid humour, where the action is suited to the
word--silent gestures sometimes expressing whole sentences. They can
tell a story, and even raise the passions, without opening their lips.
No nation in modern Europe possesses so keen a relish for the
_burlesque_, insomuch as to show a class of unrivalled poems, which are
distinguished by the very title; and perhaps there never was an Italian
in a foreign country, however deep in trouble, but would drop all
remembrance of his sorrows, should one of his countrymen present himself
with the paraphernalia of Punch at the corner of a street. I was
acquainted with an Italian, a philosopher and a man of fortune, residing
in this country, who found so lively a pleasure in performing
Punchinello's little comedy, that, for this purpose, with considerable
expense and curiosity, he had his wooden company, in all their costume,
sent over from his native place. The shrill squeak of the tin whistle
had the same comic effect on him as the notes of the _Ranz des Vaches_
have in awakening the tenderness of domestic emotions in the wandering
Swiss--the national genius is dramatic. Lady Wortley Montagu, when she
resided at a villa near Brescia, was applied to by the villagers for
leave to erect a theatre in her saloon: they had been accustomed to turn
the stables into a playhouse every carnival. She complied, and, as she
tells us, was "surprised at the beauty of their scenes, though painted
by a country painter. The performance was yet more surprising, the
actors being all peasants; but the Italians have so natural a genius for
comedy, they acted as well as if they had been brought up to nothing
else, particularly the _Arlequino_, who far surpassed any of our
English, though only the tailor of our village, and I am assured never
saw a play in any other place." Italy is the mother, and the nurse, of
the whole Harlequin race.

Hence it is that no scholars in Europe but the most learned Italians,
smit by the national genius, could have devoted their vigils to narrate
the revolutions of pantomime, to compile the annals of Harlequin, to
unrol the genealogy of Punch, and to discover even the most secret
anecdotes of the obscurer branches of that grotesque family, amidst
their changeful fortunes, during a period of two thousand years! Nor is
this all; princes have ranked them among the Rosciuses; and Harlequins
and Scaramouches have been ennobled. Even Harlequins themselves have
written elaborate treatises on the almost insurmountable difficulties of
their art. I despair to convey the sympathy they have inspired me with
to my reader; but every _Tramontane_ genius must be informed, that of
what he has never seen he must rest content to be told.

Of the ancient Italian troop we have retained three or four of the
characters, while their origin has nearly escaped our recollection; but
of the burlesque comedy, the extempore dialogue, the humorous fable, and
its peculiar species of comic acting, all has vanished.

Many of the popular pastimes of the Romans unquestionably survived their
dominion, for the people will amuse themselves, though their masters may
be conquered; and tradition has never proved more faithful than in
preserving popular sports. Many of the games of our children were played
by Roman boys; the mountebanks, with the dancers and tumblers on their
moveable stages, still in our fairs, are Roman; the disorders of the
_Bacchanalia_, Italy appears to imitate in her carnivals. Among these
Roman diversions certain comic characters have been transmitted to us,
along with some of their characteristics, and their dresses. The
speaking pantomimes and extemporal comedies which have delighted the
Italians for many centuries, are from this ancient source.[32]

Of the _Mimi_ and the _Pantomimi_ of the Romans the following notices
enter into our present researches:

The _Mimi_ were an impudent race of buffoons, who exulted in mimicry,
and, like our domestic fools, were admitted into convivial parties to
entertain the guests; from them we derive the term _mimetic_ art. Their
powers enabled them to perform a more extraordinary office, for they
appear to have been introduced into funerals, to mimic the person, and
even the language of the deceased. Suetonius describes an _Archimimus_
accompanying the funeral of Vespasian. This Arch-mime performed his part
admirably, not only representing the person, but imitating, according to
custom, _ut est mos_, the manners and language of the living emperor. He
contrived a happy stroke at the prevailing foible of Vespasian, when he
inquired the cost of all this funeral pomp--"Ten millions of sesterces!"
On this he observed, that if they would give him but a hundred thousand
they might throw his body into the Tiber.

The _Pantomimi_ were quite of a different class. They were tragic
actors, usually mute; they combined with the arts of gesture music and
dances of the most impressive character. Their silent language often
drew tears by the pathetic emotions which they excited: "Their very nod
speaks, their hands talk, and their fingers have a voice," says one of
their admirers. Seneca, the father, grave as was his profession,
confessed his taste for pantomimes had become a passion;[33] and by the
decree of the Senate, that "the Roman knights should not attend the
pantomimic players in the streets," it is evident that the performers
were greatly honoured. Lucian has composed a curious treatise on
pantomimes. We may have some notion of their deep conception of
character, and their invention, by an anecdote recorded by Macrobius of
two rival pantomimes. When Hylas, dancing a hymn, which closed with the
words "The great Agamemnon," to express that idea he took it in its
literal meaning, and stood erect, as if measuring his size--Pylades, his
rival, exclaimed, "You make him tall, but not great!" The audience
obliged Pylades to dance the same hymn; when he came to the words he
collected himself in a posture of deep meditation. This silent
pantomimic language we ourselves have witnessed carried to singular
perfection; when the actor Palmer, after building a theatre, was
prohibited the use of his voice by the magistrates. It was then he
powerfully affected the audience by the eloquence of his action in the
tragic pantomime of Don Juan![34]

These pantomimi seem to have been held in great honour; many were
children of the Graces and the Virtues! The tragic and the comic masks
were among the ornaments of the sepulchral monuments of an archmime and
a pantomime. Montfaucon conjectures that they formed a select
fraternity.[35] They had such an influence over the Roman people, that
when two of them quarrelled, Augustus interfered to renew their
friendship. Pylades was one of them; and he observed to the emperor,
that nothing could be more useful to him than that the people should be
perpetually occupied with the _squabbles_ between him and Bathyllus! The
advice was accepted, and the emperor was silenced.

The parti-coloured hero, with every part of his dress, has been drawn
out of the great wardrobe of antiquity: he was a Roman Mime. HARLEQUIN
is described with his shaven head, _rasis capitibus_; his sooty face,
_fuligine faciem obducti_; his flat, unshod feet, _planipedes_; and his
patched coat of many colours, _Mimi centunculo_.[36] Even
_Pullicinella_, whom we familiarly call PUNCH, may receive, like other
personages of not greater importance, all his dignity from antiquity;
one of his Roman ancestors having appeared to an antiquary's visionary
eye in a bronze statue; more than one erudite dissertation authenticates
the family likeness; the nose long, prominent, and hooked; the staring
goggle eyes; the hump at his back and at his breast; in a word, all the
character which so strongly marks the Punch-race, as distinctly as whole
dynasties have been featured by the Austrian lip and the Bourbon
nose.[37]

The genealogy of the whole family is confirmed by the general term,
which includes them all; for our _Zany_, in Italian _Zanni_, comes
direct from _Sannio_, a buffoon: and a passage in Cicero, _De Oratore_,
paints Harlequin and his brother gesticulators after the life; the
perpetual trembling motion of their limbs, their ludicrous and flexible
gestures, and all the mimicry of their faces:--_Quid enim potest tam
ridiculum, quam_ SANNIO _esse? Qui ore, vultu, imitandis motibus, voce,
denique corpore ridetur ipso_. Lib. ii. sect. 51. "For what has more of
the ludicrous than SANNIO? who, with his mouth, his face, imitating
every motion, with his voice, and, indeed, with all his body, provokes
laughter."[38]

These are the two ancient heroes of pantomime. The other characters are
the laughing children of mere modern humour. Each of these chimerical
personages, like so many county members, come from different provinces
in the gesticulating land of pantomime; in little principalities the
rival inhabitants present a contrast in manners and characters which
opens a wider field for ridicule and satire than in a kingdom where an
uniformity of government will produce an uniformity of manners. An
inventor appeared in Ruzzante, an author and actor who flourished about
1530. Till his time they had servilely copied the duped fathers, the
wild sons, and the tricking valets, of Plautus and Terence; and,
perhaps, not being writers of sufficient skill, but of some invention,
were satisfied to sketch the plots of dramas, but boldly trusted to
extempore acting and dialogue. Ruzzante peopled the Italian stage with a
fresh enlivening crowd of pantomimic characters; the insipid dotards of
the ancient comedy were transformed into the Venetian Pantaloon and the
Bolognese Doctor; while the hare-brained fellow, the arch knave, and the
booby, were furnished from Milan, Bergamo, and Calabria. He gave his
newly-created beings new language and a new dress. From Plautus he
appears to have taken the hint of introducing all the Italian dialects
into one comedy, by making each character use his own; and even the
modern Greek, which, it seems, afforded many an unexpected play on
words, for the Italian.[39] This new kind of pleasure, like the language
of Babel, charmed the national ear; every province would have its
dialect introduced on the scene, which often served the purpose both of
recreation and a little innocent malice. Their _masks_ and _dresses_
were furnished by the grotesque masqueraders of the carnival, which,
doubtless, often contributed many scenes and humours to the quick and
fanciful genius of Ruzzante. I possess a little book of Scaramouches,
&c. by Callot. Their masks and their costume must have been copied from
these carnival scenes. We see their strongly-featured masks; their
attitudes, pliant as those of a posture-master; the drollery of their
figures; while the grotesque creatures seem to leap, and dance, and
gesticulate, and move about so fantastically under his sharp graver,
that they form as individualised a race as our fairies and witches;
mortals, yet like nothing mortal![40]

The first Italian actors wore masks--objections have been raised against
their use. Signorelli shows the inferiority of the moderns in deviating
from the moveable or rather double masks of antiquity, by which the
actor could vary the artificial face at pleasure. The mask has had its
advocates, for some advantages it possesses over the naked face; a mask
aggravates the features, and gives a more determined expression to the
comic character; an important effect among this fantastical group.[41]

The HARLEQUIN in the Italian theatre has passed through all the
vicissitudes of fortune. At first he was a true representative of the
ancient Mime, but afterwards degenerated into a booby and a gourmand,
the perpetual butt for a sharp-witted fellow, his companion, called
Brighella; the knife and the whetstone. Harlequin, under the reforming
hand of Goldoni, became a child of nature, the delight of his country;
and he has commemorated the historical character of the great Harlequin
Sacchi. It may serve the reader to correct his notions of one, from the
absurd pretender with us who has usurped the title. "Sacchi possessed a
lively and brilliant imagination. While other Harlequins merely repeated
themselves, Sacchi, who always adhered to the essence of the play,
contrived to give an air of freshness to the piece by his new sallies
and unexpected repartees. His comic traits and his jests were neither
taken from the language of the lower orders, nor that of the comedians.
He levied contributions on comic authors, on poets, orators, and
philosophers; and in his impromptus they often discovered the thoughts
of Seneca, Cicero, or Montaigne. He possessed the art of appropriating
the remains of these great men to himself, and allying them to the
simplicity of the blockhead; so that the same proposition which was
admired in a serious author, became highly ridiculous in the mouth of
this excellent actor."[42] In France Harlequin was improved into a wit,
and even converted into a moralist; he is the graceful hero of Florian's
charming compositions, which please even in the closet. "This imaginary
being, invented by the Italians, and adopted by the French," says the
ingenious Goldoni, "has the exclusive right of uniting _naïveté_ with
_finesse_, and no one ever surpassed Florian in the delineation of this
amphibious character. He has even contrived to impart sentiment,
passion, and morality to his pieces."[43] Harlequin must be modelled as
a national character, the creature of manners; and thus the history of
such a Harlequin might be that of the age and of the people, whose
genius he ought to represent.

The history of a people is often detected in their popular amusements;
one of these Italian pantomimic characters shows this. They had a
_Capitan_, who probably originated in the _Miles gloriosus_ of Plautus;
a brother, at least, of our Ancient Pistol and Bobadil. The ludicrous
names of this military poltroon were _Spavento_ (Horrid fright),
_Spezza-fer_ (Shiver-spear), and a tremendous recreant was Captain
_Spavento de Val inferno_. When Charles V. entered Italy, a Spanish
Captain was introduced; a dreadful man he was too, if we are to be
frightened by names: _Sanqre e Fuego_! and _Matamoro_! His business was
to deal in Spanish rhodomontades, to kick out the native Italian
_Capitan_, in compliment to the Spaniards, and then to take a quiet
caning from Harlequin, in compliment to themselves. When the Spaniards
lost their influence in Italy, the Spanish Captain was turned into
Scaramouch, who still wore the Spanish dress, and was perpetually in a
panic. The Italians could only avenge themselves on the Spaniards in
pantomime! On the same principle the gown of Pantaloon over his red
waistcoat and breeches, commemorates a circumstance in Venetian history
expressive of the popular feeling; the dress is that of a Venetian
citizen, and his speech the dialect; but when the Venetians lost
Negropont, they changed their upper dress to black, which before had
been red, as a national demonstration of their grief.

The characters of the Italian pantomime became so numerous, that every
dramatic subject was easily furnished with the necessary personages of
comedy. That loquacious pedant the _Dottore_ was taken from the lawyers
and the physicians, babbling false Latin in the dialect of learned
Bologna. _Scapin_ was a livery servant who spoke the dialect of Bergamo,
a province proverbially abounding with rank intriguing knaves, who, like
the slaves in Plautus and Terence, were always on the watch to further
any wickedness; while Calabria furnished the booby Giangurgello with his
grotesque nose. Molière, it has been ascertained, discovered in the
Italian theatre at Paris his "Médecin malgré lui," his "Etourdi," his
"L'Avare," and his "Scapin." Milan offered a pimp in the _Brighella_;
Florence an ape of fashion in _Gelsomino_. These and other pantomimic
characters, and some ludicrous ones, as the _Tartaglia_, a spectacled
dotard, a stammerer, and usually in a passion, had been gradually
introduced by the inventive powers of an actor of genius, to call forth
his own peculiar talents.

The Pantomimes, or, as they have been described, the continual
Masquerades, of Ruzzante, with all these diversified personages, talking
and acting, formed, in truth, a burlesque comedy. Some of the finest
geniuses of Italy became the votaries of Harlequin; and the Italian
pantomime may be said to form a school of its own. The invention of
Ruzzante was one capable of perpetual novelty. Many of these actors have
been chronicled either for the invention of some comic character, or for
their true imitation of nature in performing some favourite one. One,
already immortalised by having lost his real name in that of _Captain
Matamoros_, by whose inimitable humours he became the most popular man
in Italy, invented the Neapolitan Pullicinello; while another, by deeper
study, added new graces to another burlesque rival.[44] One Constantini
invented the character of Mezetin, as the Narcissus of pantomime. He
acted without a mask, to charm by the beautiful play of his countenance,
and display the graces of his figure; the floating drapery of his
fanciful dress could be arranged by the changeable humour of the wearer.
Crowds followed him in the streets, and a King of Poland ennobled him.
The Wit and Harlequin Dominic sometimes dined at the table of Louis
XIV.--Tiberio Fiorillo, who invented the character of Scaramouch, had
been the amusing companion of the boyhood of Louis XIV.; and from him
Molière learnt much, as appears by the verses under his portrait:--

    Cet illustre comédien
    De son art traça la carrière:
    Il fut le maître de Molière,
    Et la Nature fut le sien.

The last lines of an epitaph on one of these pantomimic actors may be
applied to many of them during their flourishing period:--

    Toute sa vie il a fait rire;
    Il a fait pleurer à sa mort.

Several of these admirable actors were literary men, who have written on
their art, and shown that it was one. The Harlequin Cecchini composed
the most ancient treatise on this subject, and was ennobled by the
Emperor Matthias; and Nicholas Barbieri, for his excellent acting called
the _Beltrame_, a Milanese simpleton, in his treatise on comedy, tell us
that he was honoured by the conversation of Louis XIII. and rewarded
with fortune.

What was the nature of that perfection to which the Italian pantomime
reached; and that prodigality of genius which excited such enthusiasm,
not only among the populace, but the studious, and the noble, and the
men of genius?

The Italian Pantomime had two peculiar features; a species of buffoonery
technically termed _Lazzi_, and one of a more extraordinary nature, the
_extempore dialogue_ of its comedy.

These _Lazzi_ were certain pleasantries of gesticulation, quite
national, yet so closely allied to our notions of buffoonery, that a
northern critic would not readily detect the separating shade; yet
Riccoboni asserts that they formed a critical, and not a trivial art.
That these arts of gesticulation had something in them peculiar to
Italian humour, we infer from Gherardi, who could not explain the term
but by describing it as "_Un Tour_; JEU ITALIEN!" It was so peculiar to
them, that he could only call it by their own name. It is difficult to
describe that of which the whole magic consists in being seen; and what
is more evanescent than the humour which consists in gestures?

"_Lazzi_," says Riccoboni, "is a term corrupted from the old Tuscan
_Lacci_, which signifies a knot, or something which connects. These
pleasantries called _Lazzi_ are certain actions by which the performer
breaks into the scene, to paint to the eye his emotions of panic or
jocularity; but as such gestures are foreign to the business going on,
the nicety of the art consists in not interrupting the scene, and
connecting the _Lazzi_ with it; thus to _tie_ the whole together."
_Lazzi_, then, seems a kind of mimicry and gesture, corresponding with
the passing scene; and we may translate the term by one in our
green-room dialect, _side-play_. Riccoboni has ventured to describe some
_Lazzi_. When Harlequin and Scapin represent two famished servants of a
poor young mistress, among the arts by which they express the state of
starvation, Harlequin having murmured, Scapin exhorts him to groan, a
music which brings out their young mistress, Scapin explains Harlequin's
impatience, and begins a proposal to her which might extricate them all
from their misery. While Scapin is talking, Harlequin performs his
_Lazzi_--imagining he holds a hatful of cherries, he seems eating them,
and gaily flinging the stones at Scapin; or with a rueful countenance he
is trying to catch a fly, and with his hand, in comical despair, would
chop off the wings before he swallows the chameleon game. These, with
similar _Lazzi_, harmonise with the remonstrance of Scapin, and
re-animate it; and thus these "_Lazzi_, although they seem to interrupt
the progress of the action, yet in cutting it they slide back into it,
and connect or tie the whole." These _Lazzi_ are in great danger of
degenerating into puerile mimicry or gross buffoonery, unless fancifully
conceived and vividly gesticulated. But the Italians seem to possess the
arts of gesture before that of speech; and this national characteristic
is also Roman. Such, indeed, was the powerful expression of their
mimetic art, that when the select troop under Riccoboni, on their first
introduction into France only spoke in Italian, the audience, who did
not understand the _words_, were made completely masters of the _action_
by their pure and energetic imitations of nature. The Italian theatre
has, indeed, recorded some miracles of this sort. A celebrated
Scaramouch, without uttering a syllable, kept the audience for a
considerable time in a state of suspense by a scene of successive
terrors; and exhibited a living picture of a panic-stricken man.
Gherardi in his "Théâtre Italien," conveys some idea of the scene.
Scaramouch, a character usually represented in a fright, is waiting for
his master Harlequin in his apartment; having put everything in order,
according to his confused notions, he takes the guitar, seats himself in
an arm-chair, and plays. Pasquariel comes gently behind him, and taps
time on his shoulders--this throws Scaramouch into a panic. "It was then
that incomparable model of our most eminent actors," says Gherardi,
"displayed the miracles of his art; that art which paints the passions
in the face, throws them into every gesture, and through a whole scene
of frights upon frights, conveys the most powerful expression of
ludicrous terror. This man moved all hearts by the simplicity of nature,
more than skilful orators can with all the charms of persuasive
rhetoric." On this memorable scene a great prince observed that
"_Scaramuccia non parla, e dica gran cosa_:" "He speaks not, but he says
many great things."

In gesticulation and humour our Rich[45] appears to have been a complete
Mime: his genius was entirely confined to Pantomime; and he had the
glory of introducing Harlequin on the English stage, which he played
under the feigned name of _Lun_. He could describe to the audience by
his signs and gestures as intelligibly as others could express by words.
There is a large caricature print of the triumph which Rich had obtained
over the severe Muses of Tragedy and Comedy, which lasted too long not
to excite jealousy and opposition from the _corps dramatique_.

Garrick, who once introduced a speaking Harlequin, has celebrated the
silent but powerful language of Rich:--

    When LUN appear'd, with matchless art and whim,
    He gave the power of speech to every limb;
    Tho' mask'd and mute, conveyed his quick intent,
    And told in frolic gestures what he meant:
    But now the motley coat and sword of wood
    Require a tongue to make them understood!

The Italian EXTEMPORAL COMEDY is a literary curiosity which claims our
attention.




EXTEMPORAL COMEDIES.


It is a curiosity in the history of national genius to discover a people
with such a native fund of comic humour, combined with such passionate
gesticulation, that they could deeply interest in acting a Comedy,
carried on by dialogue, intrigue, and character, _all' improvista_, or
_impromptu_; the actors undergoing no rehearsal, and, in fact, composing
while they were acting. The plot, called _Scenario_, consisting merely
of the scenes enumerated, with the characters indicated, was first
written out; it was then suspended at the back of the stage, and from
the mere inspection, the actors came forward to perform the dialogue
entirely depending on their own genius.[46]

"These pieces must have been detestable, and the actors mere buffoons,"
exclaim the northern critics, whose imaginations have a coldness in
them, like a frost in spring. But when the art of Extemporal Comedy
flourished among these children of fancy, the universal pleasure these
representations afforded to a whole vivacious people, and the recorded
celebrity of their great actors, open a new field for the speculation of
genius. It may seem more extraordinary that some of its votaries have
maintained that it possessed some peculiar advantages over written
compositions. When Goldoni reformed the Italian theatre by regular
comedies, he found an invincible opposition from the enthusiasts of
their old Comedy: for two centuries it had been the amusement of Italy,
and was a species of comic entertainment which it had created. Inventive
minds were fond of sketching out these outlines of pieces, and other men
of genius delighted in their representation.

The inspiration of national genius alone could produce this phenomenon;
and these Extemporal Comedies were, indeed, indigenous to the soil.
Italy, a land of _Improvisatori_, kept up from the time of their old
masters, the Romans, the same fervid fancy. The ancient _Atellanæ
Fabulæ_, or Atellane Farces, originated at Atella, a town in the
neighbourhood of ancient Naples; and these, too, were extemporal
Interludes, or, as Livy terms them, _Exodia_. We find in that historian
a little interesting narrative of the theatrical history of the Romans;
when the dramatic performances at Rome were becoming too sentimental and
declamatory, banishing the playfulness and the mirth of Comedy, the
Roman youth left these graver performances to the professed actors, and
revived, perhaps in imitation of the licentious _Satyra_ of the Greeks,
the ancient custom of versifying pleasantries, and throwing out jests
and raillery among themselves for their own diversion.[47] These Atellan
Farces were probably not so low in humour as they have been
represented;[48] or at least the Roman youth, on their revival,
exercised a chaster taste, for they are noticed by Cicero in a letter to
his literary friend Papyrius Pætus. "But to turn from the serious to the
jocose part of your letter--the strain of pleasantry you break into,
immediately after having quoted the tragedy of Oenomaus, puts me in mind
of the _modern method_ of introducing at the _end_ of these _graver
dramatic pieces_ the _buffoon humour of our low Mimes_ instead of the
_more delicate burlesque of the old Atellan Farces_."[49] This very
curious passage distinctly marks out the two classes, which so many
centuries after Cicero were revived in the _Pantomime_ of Italy, and in
its _Extemporal Comedy_.[50]

The critics on our side of the Alps reproached the Italians for the
extemporal comedies; and Marmontel rashly declared that the nation did
not possess a single comedy which could endure perusal. But he drew his
notions from the low farces of the Italian theatre at Paris, and he
censured what he had never read.[51] The comedies of Bibiena, Del Lasca,
Del Secchi, and others, are models of classical comedy, but not the
popular favourites of Italy. Signorelli distinguishes two species of
Italian comedy: those which he calls _commedie antiche ed eruditi_,
ancient and learned comedies; and those of _commedie dell' arte_, or _a
soggetto_, comedies suggested.--The first were moulded on classical
models, recited in their academies to a select audience, and performed
by amateurs; but the _commedie a soggetto_, the extemporal comedies,
were invented by professional actors of genius. More delightful to the
fancy of the Italians, and more congenial to their talents, in spite of
the graver critics, who even in their amusements cannot cast off the
manacles of precedence, the Italians resolved to be pleased for
themselves, with their own natural vein; and preferred a freedom of
original humour and invention incompatible with regular productions, but
which inspired admirable actors, and secured full audiences.

Men of great genius had a passion for performing in these extemporal
comedies. Salvator Rosa was famous for his character of a Calabrian
clown; whose original he had probably often studied amidst that
mountainous scenery in which his pencil delighted. Of their manner of
acting I find an interesting anecdote in Passeri's life of this great
painter; he shall tell his own story.

"One summer Salvator Rosa joined a company of young persons who were
curiously addicted to the making of _commedie all' improviso_. In the
midst of a vineyard they raised a rustic stage, under the direction of
one Mussi, who enjoyed some literary reputation, particularly for his
sermons preached in Lent.

"Their second comedy was numerously attended, and I went among the rest;
I sat on the same bench, by good fortune, with the Cavalier Bernini,
Romanelli, and Guido, all well-known persons. Salvator Rosa, who had
already made himself a favourite with the Roman people, under the
character of _Formica_[52] opened with a prologue, in company with other
actors. He proposed, for relieving themselves of the extreme heats and
_ennui_, that they should make a comedy, and all agreed. Formica then
spoke these exact words:

"_Non boglio già, che facimmo commedie come cierti, che tagliano li
panni aduosso a chisto, o a chillo; perche co lo tiempo se fa vedere
chiù veloce lo taglio de no rasuolo, che la penna de no poeta; e ne
manco boglio, che facimmo venire nella scena porta, citazioni,
acquavitari, e crapari, e ste schifenze che tengo spropositi da aseno._"

One part of this humour lies in the dialect, which is Venetian; but
there was a concealed stroke of satire, a snake in the grass. The sense
of the passage is, "I will not, however, that we should make a comedy
like certain persons who cut clothes, and put them on this man's back,
and on that man's back; for at last the time comes which shows how much
faster went the cut of the shears than the pen of the poet; nor will we
have entering on the scene, couriers, brandy-sellers, and goatherds, and
there stare shy and blockish, which I think worthy the senseless
invention of an ass."

Passeri now proceeds: "At this time Bernini had made a comedy in the
Carnival, very pungent and biting; and that summer he had one of
Castelli's performed in the suburbs, where, to represent the dawn of
day, appeared on the stage water-carriers, couriers, and goat-herds,
going about--all which is contrary to rule, which allows of no character
who is not concerned in the dialogue to mix with the groups. At these
words of the Formica, I, who well knew his meaning, instantly glanced my
eye at Bernini, to observe his movements; but he, with an artificial
carelessness, showed that this 'cut of the shears' did not touch him;
and he made no apparent show of being hurt. But Castelli, who was also
near, tossing his head and smiling in bitterness, showed clearly that he
was hit."

This Italian story, told with all the poignant relish of these vivacious
natives, to whom such a stinging incident was an important event, also
shows the personal freedoms taken on these occasions by a man of genius,
entirely in the spirit of the ancient Roman Atellana, or the Grecian
Satyra.

Riccoboni has discussed the curious subject of Extemporal Comedy with
equal modesty and feeling; and Gherardi, with more exultation and
egotism. "This kind of _spectacle_," says Riccoboni, "is peculiar to
Italy; one cannot deny that it has graces perfectly its own, and which
written Comedy can never exhibit. This _impromptu_ mode of acting
furnishes opportunities for a perpetual change in the performance, so
that the same _scenario_ repeated still appears a new one: thus one
Comedy may become twenty Comedies. An actor of this description, always
supposing an actor of genius, is more vividly affected than one who has
coldly got his part by rote." But Riccoboni could not deny that there
were inconveniences in this singular art. One difficulty not easily
surmounted was the preventing of all the actors speaking together; each
one eager to reply before the other had finished. It was a nice point to
know when to yield up the scene entirely to a predominant character,
when agitated by violent passion; nor did it require a less exercised
tact to feel when to stop; the vanity of an actor often spoiled a fine
scene.

It evidently required that some of the actors at least should be blessed
with genius, and what is scarcely less difficult to find, with a certain
equality of talents; for the performance of the happiest actor of this
school greatly depends on the excitement he receives from his companion;
an actor beneath mediocrity would ruin a piece. "But figure, memory,
voice, and even sensibility, are not sufficient for the actor _all'
improvista_; he must be in the habit of cultivating the imagination,
pouring forth the flow of expression, and prompt in those flashes which
instantaneously vibrate in the plaudits of an audience." And this
accomplished extemporal actor feelingly laments that those destined to
his profession, who require the most careful education, are likely to
have received the most neglected one. Lucian, in his curious treatise on
Tragic Pantomime, asserts that the great actor should also be a man of
letters, and such were Garrick and Kemble.

The lively Gherardi throws out some curious information respecting this
singular art: "Any one may learn a part by rote, and do something bad,
or indifferent, on another theatre. With us the affair is quite
otherwise; and when an Italian actor dies, it is with infinite
difficulty we can supply his place. An Italian actor learns nothing by
head; he looks on the subject for a moment before he comes forward on
the stage, and entirely depends on his imagination for the rest. The
actor who is accustomed merely to recite what he has been taught is so
completely occupied by his memory, that he appears to stand, as it were,
unconnected either with the audience or his companion; he is so
impatient to deliver himself of the burthen he is carrying, that he
trembles like a school-boy, or is as senseless as an Echo, and could
never speak if others had not spoken before. Such a tutored actor among
us would be like a paralytic arm to a body; an unserviceable member,
only fatiguing the healthy action of the sound parts. Our performers,
who became illustrious by their art, charmed the spectators by the
beauty of their voice, their spontaneous gestures, the flexibility of
their passions, while a certain natural air never failed them in their
motions and their dialogue."

Here, then, is a species of the histrionic art unknown to us, and
running counter to that critical canon which our great poet, but not
powerful actor, has delivered to the actors themselves, "to speak no
more than is set down for them." The present art consisted in happily
performing the reverse.

Much of the merit of these actors unquestionably must be attributed to
the felicity of the national genius. But there were probably some secret
aids in this singular art of Extemporal Comedy which the pride of the
artist has concealed. Some traits in the character, and some wit in the
dialogue, might descend traditionally; and the most experienced actor on
that stage would make use of his memory more than he was willing to
confess. Goldoni records an unlucky adventure of his "Harlequin Lost and
Found," which outline he had sketched for the Italian company; it was
well received at Paris, but utterly failed at Fontainebleau, for some of
the actors had thought proper to incorporate too many jokes of the "Cocu
Imaginaire," which displeased the court, and ruined the piece. When a
new piece was to be performed, the chief actor summoned the troop in the
morning, read the plot, and explained the story, to contrive scenes. It
was like playing the whole performance before the actors. These hints of
scenes were all the rehearsal. When the actor entered on the scene he
did not know what was to come, nor had he any prompter to help him on;
much, too, depended on the talents of his companions; yet sometimes a
scene might be preconcerted. Invention, humour, bold conception of
character, and rapid strokes of genius, they habitually exercised--and
the pantomimic arts of gesture, the passionate or humorous expression of
their feelings, would assist an actor when his genius for a moment had
deserted him. Such excellence was not long hereditary, and in the
decline of this singular art its defects became more apparent. The race
had degenerated; the inexperienced actor became loquacious; long
monologues were contrived by a barren genius to hide his incapacity for
spirited dialogue; and a wearisome repetition of trivial jests, coarse
humour, and vulgar buffoonery, damned the _Commedia a soggetto_, and
sunk it to a Bartholomew-fair play. But the miracle which genius
produced it may repeat, whenever the same happy combination of
circumstances and persons shall occur together.

I shall give one anecdote to record the possible excellence of the art.
Louis Riccoboni, known in the annals of this theatre by the adopted name
of Lelio, his favourite _amoroso_ character, was not only an
accomplished actor, but a literary man; and with his wife Flaminia,
afterwards the celebrated novelist, displayed a rare union of talents
and of minds. It was suspected that they did not act _all' improvista_,
from the facility and the elegance of their dialogue; and a clamour was
now raised in the literary circles, who had long been jealous of the
fascination which attracted the public to the Italian theatre. It was
said that the Riccobonis were imposing on the public credulity; and that
their pretended Extemporal Comedies were preconcerted scenes. To
terminate this civil war between the rival theatres, La Motte offered to
sketch a plot in five acts, and the Italians were challenged to perform
it. This defiance was instantly accepted. On the morning of the
representation Lelio detailed the story to his troop, hung up the
_Scenario_ in its usual place, and the whole company was ready at the
drawing of the curtain. The plot given in by La Motte was performed to
admiration; and all Paris witnessed the triumph. La Motte afterwards
composed this very comedy for the French theatre, _L'Amante difficile_,
yet still the extemporal one at the Italian theatre remained a more
permanent favourite; and the public were delighted by seeing the same
piece perpetually offering novelties and changing its character at the
fancy of the actors. This fact conveys an idea of dramatic execution
which does not enter into our experience. Riccoboni carried the
_Commedie dell' Arte_ to a new perfection, by the introduction of an
elegant fable and serious characters; and he raised the dignity of the
Italian stage, when he inscribed on its curtain,

     "CASTIGAT RIDENDO MORES."




MASSINGER, MILTON, AND THE ITALIAN THEATRE.


The pantomimic characters and the extemporal comedy of Italy may have
had some influence even on our own dramatic poets: this source has
indeed escaped all notice; yet I incline to think it explains a
difficult point in Massinger, which has baffled even the keen spirit of
Mr. Gifford.

A passage in Massinger bears a striking resemblance with one in
Molière's "Malade Imaginaire." It is in "The Emperor of the East," vol.
iii. 317. The Quack or "Empiric's" humorous notion is so closely that of
Molière's, that Mr. Gifford, agreeing with Mr. Gilchrist, "finds it
difficult to believe the coincidence accidental;" but the greater
difficulty is, to conceive that "Massinger ever fell into Molière's
hands." At that period, in the infancy of our literature, our native
authors and our own language were as insulated as their country. It is
more than probable that Massinger and Molière had drawn from the same
source--the Italian Comedy. Massinger's "Empiric," as well as the
acknowledged copy of Molière's "Médecin," came from the "Dottore" of the
Italian Comedy. The humour of these old Italian pantomimes was often as
traditionally preserved as proverbs. Massinger was a student of Italian
authors; and some of the lucky hits of their theatre, which then
consisted of nothing else but these burlesque comedies, might have
circuitously reached the English bard; and six-and-thirty years
afterwards, the same traditional jests might have been gleaned by the
Gallic one from the "Dottore," who was still repeating what he knew was
sure of pleasing. Our theatres of the Elizabethan period seem to have
had here the extemporal comedy after the manner of the Italians; we
surely possess one of these _Scenarios_, in the remarkable "Platts,"
which were accidentally discovered at Dulwich College, bearing every
feature of an Italian _Scenario_. Steevens calls them "_a mysterious
fragment_ of ancient stage direction," and adds, that "the paper
describes a species of dramatic entertainment of which no memorial is
preserved in any annals of the English stage."[53] The commentators on
Shakspeare appear not to have known the nature of these Scenarios. The
"Platt," as it is called, is fairly written in a large hand, containing
directions appointed to be stuck up near the prompter's station; and it
has even an oblong hole in its centre to admit of being suspended on a
wooden peg. Particular scenes are barely ordered, and the names, or
rather nicknames, of several of the players, appear in the most familiar
manner, as they were known to their companions in the rude green-room of
that day: such as "Pigg, White and Black Dick and Sam, Little Will
Barne, Jack Gregory, and the Red-faced fellow."[54] Some of these
"Platts" are on solemn subjects, like the tragic pantomime; and in some
appear "Pantaloon, and his man Peascod, with _spectacles_." Steevens
observes, that he met with no earlier example of the appearance of
Pantaloon, as a specific character on our stage; and that this direction
concerning "the spectacles" cannot fail to remind the reader of a
celebrated passage in _As You Like It_:

    ----The lean and _slipper'd Pantaloon_,
    With _spectacles_ on nose----.

Perhaps, he adds, Shakspeare alludes to this personage, as habited in
his own time. The old age of Pantaloon is marked by his _leanness_, and
his _spectacles_ and his _slippers_. He always runs after Harlequin, but
cannot catch him; as he runs in _slippers_ and without _spectacles_, is
liable to pass him by without seeing him. Can we doubt that this
Pantaloon had come from the Italian theatre, after what we have already
said? Does not this confirm the conjecture, that there existed an
intercourse between the Italian theatre and our own? Farther, Tarleton
the comedian, and others, celebrated for their "extemporal wit," was the
writer or inventor of one of these "Platts." Stowe records of one of our
actors that "he had a quick, delicate, refined, _extemporal_ wit." And
of another, that "he had a wondrous, plentiful, pleasant, _extemporal_
wit." These actors, then, who were in the habit of exercising their
impromptus, resembled those who performed in the unwritten comedies of
the Italians. Gabriel Harvey, the Aristarchus of the day, compliments
Tarleton for having brought forward a _new species of dramatic
exhibition_. If this compliment paid to Tarleton merely alludes to his
dexterity at _extemporaneous wit_ in the character of the _clown_, as my
friend Mr. Douce thinks, this would be sufficient to show that he was
attempting to introduce on our stage the extemporal comedy of the
Italians, which Gabriel Harvey distinguishes as "a new species." As for
these "Platts," which I shall now venture to call "Scenarios," they
surprise by their bareness, conveying no notion of the piece itself,
though quite sufficient for the actors. They consist of mere exits and
entrances of the actors, and often the real names of the actors are
familiarly mixed with those of the _dramatis personæ_. Steevens has
justly observed, however, on these skeletons, that although "the drift
of these dramatic pieces cannot be collected from the mere outlines
before us, yet we must not charge them with absurdity. Even the scenes
of Shakspeare would have worn as unpromising an aspect, had their
skeletons only been discovered." The printed _scenarios_ of the Italian
theatre were not more intelligible; exhibiting only the _hints_ for
scenes.

Thus, I think, we have sufficient evidence of an intercourse subsisting
between the English and Italian theatres, not hitherto suspected; and I
find an allusion to these Italian pantomimes, by the great town-wit Tom
Nash, in his "Pierce Pennilesse," which shows that he was well
acquainted with their nature. He indeed exults over them, observing that
our plays are "honourable and full of gallant resolution, not
consisting, like theirs, of pantaloon, a zany, and a w---- e, (alluding
to the women actors of the Italian stage;[55]) but of emperors, kings,
and princes." My conviction is still confirmed, when I find that Stephen
Gosson wrote the comedy of "Captain Mario;" it has not been printed, but
"Captain Mario" is one of the Italian characters.[56]

Even at a later period, the influence of these performances reached the
greatest name in the English Parnassus. One of the great actors and
authors of these pieces, who published eighteen of these irregular
productions, was Andreini, whose name must have the honour of being
associated with Milton's, for it was his comedy or opera which threw the
first spark of the Paradise Lost into the soul of the epic poet--a
circumstance which will hardly be questioned by those who have examined
the different schemes and allegorical personages of the first projected
_drama_ of Paradise Lost: nor was Andreini, as well as many others of
this race of Italian dramatists, inferior poets. The Adamo of Andreini
was a personage sufficiently original and poetical to serve as the model
of the Adam of Milton. The youthful English poet, at its representation,
carried it away in his mind. Wit indeed is a great traveller; and thus
also the "Empiric" of Massinger might have reached us from the Bolognese
"Dottore."

The late Mr. Hole, the ingenious writer on the Arabian Nights, observed
to me that _Molière_, it must be presumed, never read _Fletcher's_
plays, yet his "Bourgeois Gentilhomme" and the other's "Noble Gentleman"
bear in some instances a great resemblance. Both may have drawn from the
same Italian source of comedy which I have here indicated.

Many years after this article was written, has appeared "The History of
English Dramatic Poetry," by Mr. Collier. That very laborious
investigator has an article on "Extemporal Plays and Plots," iii. 393.
The nature of these "_plats"_ or "plots" he observes, "our theatrical
antiquaries have not explained." The truth is that they never suspected
their origin in the Italian "scenarios." My conjectures are amply
confirmed by Mr. Collier's notices of the intercourse of our players
with the Italian actors. Whetstone's Heptameron, in 1582, mentions "the
comedians of Ravenna, who are not _tied to any written device_." In
Kyd's Spanish Tragedy the extemporal art is described:---

    The Italian tragedians were so sharp of wit,
    That in one hour of meditation
    They would perform anything in action.

These extemporal players were witnessed much nearer than in Italy--at
the Théâtre des Italiens at Paris--for one of the characters replies--

    I have seen the like,
    In Paris, among the French tragedians.

Ben Jonson has mentioned the Italian "extemporal plays" in his "Case is
Altered;" and an Italian _commediante_ his company were in London in
1578, who probably let our players into many a secret.




SONGS OF TRADES, OR SONGS FOR THE PEOPLE.


Men of genius have devoted some of their hours, and even governments
have occasionally assisted, to render the people happier by song and
dance. The Grecians had songs appropriated to the various trades. Songs
of this nature would shorten the manufacturer's tedious task-work, and
solace the artisan at his solitary occupation. A beam of gay fancy
kindling his mind, a playful change of measures delighting his ear, even
a moralising verse to cherish his better feelings--these ingeniously
adapted to each profession, and some to the display of patriotic
characters, and national events, would contribute something to public
happiness. Such themes are worthy of a patriotic bard, of the Southeys
for their hearts, and the Moores for their verse.

Fletcher of Saltoun said, "If a man were permitted to make all the
ballads, he need not care who should make all the laws of a nation." The
character of a people is preserved in their national songs. "God save
the King" and "Rule Britannia" were long our English national airs.

"The story of Amphion building Thebes with his lyre was not a fable,"
says Dr. Clarke, "At Thebes, in the harmonious adjustment of those
masses which remain belonging to the ancient walls, we saw enough to
convince us that this story was no fable; for it was a very ancient
custom to _carry on immense labour by an accompaniment of music and
singing_. The custom still exists both in Egypt and Greece. It might,
therefore, be said that the _Walls of Thebes_ were built at the sound of
the only musical instrument then in use; because, according to the
_custom of the country_, the lyre was necessary for the accomplishment
of the work."[57] The same custom appears to exist in Africa. Lander
notices at Yàoorie that the "labourers in their plantations were
attended by a drummer, that they might be excited by the sound of his
instrument to work well and briskly."[58]

Athenæus[59] has preserved the Greek names of different songs as sung by
various trades, but unfortunately none of the songs themselves. There
was a song for the corn-grinders; another for the workers in wool;
another for the weavers. The reapers had their carol; the herdsmen had a
song which an ox-driver of Sicily had composed; the kneaders, and the
bathers, and the galley-rowers, were not without their chant. We have
ourselves a song of the weavers, which Ritson has preserved in his
"Ancient Songs;" and it may be found in the popular chap-book of "The
Life of Jack of Newbury;" and the songs of anglers, of old Izaak Walton,
and Charles Cotton, still retain their freshness.

Among the Greeks, observed Bishop Heber, the hymn which placed Harmodius
in the green and flowery island of the Blessed, was chanted by the
potter to his wheel, and enlivened the labours of the Piræan mariner.

Dr. Johnson is the only writer I recollect who has noticed something of
this nature which he observed in the Highlands. "The strokes of the
sickle were timed by the modulation of the _harvest song_, in which all
their voices were united. They accompany every action which can be done
in equal time with an _appropriate strain_, which has, they say, not
much meaning, but its effects are regularity and cheerfulness. There is
an _oar song_ used by the Hebrideans."

But if these chants "have not much meaning," they will not produce the
desired effect of touching the heart, as well as giving vigour to the
arm of the labourer. The gondoliers of Venice while away their long
midnight hours on the water with the stanzas of Tasso. Fragments of
Homer are sung by the Greek sailors of the Archipelago; the severe
labour of the trackers, in China, is accompanied with a song which
encourages their exertions, and renders these simultaneous. Mr. Ellis
mentions that the sight of the lofty pagoda of Tong-chow served as a
great topic of incitement in the song of the trackers, toiling against
the stream, to their place of rest. The canoemen, on the Gold Coast, in
a very dangerous passage, "on the back of a high curling wave, paddling
with all their might, singing or rather shouting their wild song, follow
it up," says M'Leod, who was a lively witness of this happy combination
of song, of labour, and of peril, which he acknowledged was "a very
terrific process." Our sailors at Newcastle, in heaving their anchors,
have their "Heave and ho! rum-below!" but the Sicilian mariners must be
more deeply affected by their beautiful hymn to the Virgin. A society,
instituted in Holland for general good, do not consider among their
least useful projects that of having printed at a low price a collection
of _songs for sailors_.

It is extremely pleasing, as it is true, to notice the honest exultation
of an excellent ballad-writer, C. Dibdin, in his Professional Life. "I
have learnt my songs have been considered as an object of national
consequence; that they have been the solace of sailors and long
voyagers, in storms, in battle; and that they have been quoted in
mutinies, to the restoration of order and discipline."[60] The
Portuguese soldiery in Ceylon, at the siege of Colombo, when pressed
with misery and the pangs of hunger, during their marches, derived not
only consolation, but also encouragement, by rehearsing the stanzas of
the Lusiad.

We ourselves have been a great ballad nation, and once abounded with
songs of the people; not, however, of this particular species, but
rather of narrative poems. They are described by Puttenham, a critic in
the reign of Elizabeth, as "small and popular songs sung by those
_Cantabanqui_, upon benches and barrels' heads, where they have no other
audience than boys, or country fellows that pass by them in the streets;
or else by blind harpers, or such like tavern minstrels, that give a fit
of mirth for a groat." Such were these "Reliques of Ancient English
Poetry," which Selden collected, Pepys preserved, and Percy published.
Ritson, our great poetical antiquary in these sort of things, says that
few are older than the reign of James I. The more ancient songs of the
people perished by having been printed in single sheets, and by their
humble purchasers having no other library to preserve them than the
walls on which they pasted them. Those we have consist of a succeeding
race of ballads, chiefly revived or written by Richard Johnson, the
author of the well-known romance of the Seven Champions, and Delony, the
writer of Jack of Newbury's Life, and the "Gentle Craft," who lived in
the time of James and Charles.[61] One Martin Parker was a most
notorious ballad scribbler in the reign of Charles I. and the Protector.

These writers, in their old age, collected their songs into little penny
books, called "Garlands," some of which have been republished by Ritson;
and a recent editor has well described them as "humble and amusing
village strains, founded upon the squabbles of a wake, tales of untrue
love, superstitious rumours, or miraculous traditions of the hamlet."
They enter into the picture of our manners, as much as folio chronicles.

These songs abounded in the good old times of Elizabeth and James; for
Hall in his Satires notices them as

    Sung to the wheel, and sung unto the payle;

that is, sung by maidens spinning, or milking; and indeed Shakspeare had
described them as "old and plain," chanted by

    The spinsters, and the knitters in the sun,
    And the free maids that weave their threads with bones.
                                               _Twelfth Night_.

They were the favourites of the Poet of Nature, who takes every
opportunity to introduce them into the mouths of his clown, his fool,
and his itinerant Autolycus. When the musical Dr. Burney, who had
probably not the slightest conception of their nature, and perhaps as
little taste for their rude and wild simplicity, ventured to call the
songs of Autolycus, "two _nonsensical_ songs," the musician called down
on himself one of the bitterest notes from Steevens that ever
commentator penned against a profane scoffer.[62]

Whatever these songs were, it is evident they formed a source of
recreation to the solitary task-worker. But as the more masculine trades
had their own songs, whose titles only appear to have reached us, such
as "The Carman's Whistle," "Watkin's Ale," "Chopping Knives," they were
probably appropriated to the respective trades they indicate. The tune
of the "Carman's Whistle" was composed by Bird, and the favourite tune
of "Queen Elizabeth" may be found in the collection called "Queen
Elizabeth's Virginal Book." One who has lately heard it played says,
"that it has more air than the other execrable compositions in her
Majesty's book, something resembling a French quadrille."

The feeling our present researches would excite would naturally be most
strongly felt in small communities, where the interest of the governors
is to contribute to the individual happiness of the laborious classes.
The Helvetic society requested Lavater to compose the
_Schweitzerlieder_, or Swiss Songs, which are now sung by the youth of
many of the cantons; and various Swiss poets have successfully composed
on national subjects, associated with their best feelings. In such
paternal governments as was that of Florence under the Medici, we find
that songs and dances for the people engaged the muse of Lorenzo, who
condescended to delight them with pleasant songs composed in popular
language; the example of such a character was followed by the men of
genius of the age. These ancient songs, often adapted to the different
trades, opened a vein of invention in the new characters, and allusions,
the humorous equivoques, and, sometimes, by the licentiousness of
popular fancy. They were collected in 1559, under the title of "Canti
Carnascialeschi," and there is a modern edition, in 1750, in two volumes
quarto. It is said they sing to this day a popular one by Lorenzo,
beginning

    Ben venga Maggio
    E 'l gonfalon selvaggio,[63]

which has all the florid brilliancy of an Italian spring.

The most delightful songs of this nature would naturally be found among
a people whose climate and whose labours alike inspire a general
hilarity; and the vineyards of France have produced a class of songs, of
excessive gaiety and freedom, called _Chansons de Vendange_. Le
Grand-d'Assoucy describes them in his _Histoire de la Vie privée des
Français_. "The men and women, each with a basket on their arm, assemble
at the foot of the hill; there stopping, they arrange themselves in a
circle. The chief of this band tunes up a joyous song, whose burthen is
chorused: then they ascend, and, dispersed in the vineyard, they work
without interrupting their tasks, while new couplets often resound from
some of the vine-dressers; sometimes intermixed with a sudden jest at a
traveller. In the evening, their supper scarcely over, their joy
recommences, they dance in a circle, and sing some of those songs of
free gaiety, which the moment excuses, known by the name of _vineyard
songs_. The gaiety becomes general; masters, guests, friends, servants,
all dance together; and in this manner a day of labour terminates, which
one might mistake for a day of diversion. It is what I have witnessed in
Champagne, in a land of vines, far different from the country where the
labours of the harvest form so painful a contrast."

The extinction of those songs which formerly kept alive the gaiety of
the domestic circle, whose burthens were always chorused, is lamented by
the French antiquary. "Our fathers had a custom to amuse themselves at
the dessert of a feast by a joyous song of this nature. Each in his turn
sung--all chorused." This ancient gaiety was sometimes gross and noisy;
but he prefers it to the tame decency of our times--these smiling, not
laughing days of Lord Chesterfield.

    On ne rit plus, on sourit aujourd'hui;
    Et nos plaisirs sont voisins de l'ennui.


These are the old French _Vaudevilles_, formerly sung at meals by the
company. Count de Grammont is mentioned by Hamilton as being

    Agréable et vif en propos;
    Célèbre diseur de bon mots,
    _Recueil vivant d'antiques Vaudevilles_.

These _Vaudevilles_ were originally invented by a fuller of _Vau de
Vire_, or the valley by the river _Vire_, and were sung by his men as
they spread their cloths on the banks of the river. They were songs
composed on some incident or adventure of the day. At first these gay
playful effusions were called the songs of _Vau de Vire_, till they
became known as _Vaudevilles_. Boileau has well described them:--

    La liberté franchise en ses vers se déploie;
    Cet enfant de plaisir veut naître dans la joie.

It is well known how the attempt ended, of James I. and his unfortunate
son, by the publication of their "Book of Sports," to preserve the
national character from the gloom of fanatical puritanism; among its
unhappy effects there was however one not a little ludicrous. The
Puritans, offended by the gentlest forms of mirth, and every day
becoming more sullen, were so shocked at the simple merriment of the
people, that they contrived to parody these songs into spiritual ones;
and Shakspeare speaks of the Puritan of his day "singing psalms to
hornpipes." As Puritans are the same in all times, the Methodists in our
own repeated the foolery, and set their hymns to popular tunes and jigs,
which one of them said "were too good for the devil." They have sung
hymns to the air of "The beds of sweet roses," &c. Wesley once, in the
pulpit, described himself, in his old age, in the well known ode of
Anacreon, by merely substituting his own name![64] There have been
Puritans among other people as well as our own: the same occurrence took
place both in Italy and France. In Italy, the Carnival songs were turned
into pious hymns; the hymn _Jesu fammi morire_ is sung to the music of
_Vaga bella e gentile_--_Crucifisso a capo chino_ to that of _Una donna
d'amor fino_, one of the most indecent pieces in the _Canzoni a ballo_;
and the hymn beginning

    Ecco 'l Messia
    E la Madre Maria,

was sung to the gay tune of Lorenzo de' Medici,

    Ben venga Maggio,
    E 'l gonfalon selvaggio.

Athenæus notices what we call slang or flash songs. He tells us that
there were poets who composed songs in the dialect of the mob; and who
succeeded in this kind of poetry, adapted to their various characters.
The French call such songs _Chansons à la Vadé_; the style of the
_Poissardes_ is ludicrously applied to the gravest matters of state, and
convey the popular feelings in the language of the populace. This sort
of satirical song is happily defined,

    Il est l'esprit de ceux qui n'en ont pas.

Athenæus has also preserved songs, sung by petitioners who went about on
holidays to collect alms. A friend of mine, with taste and learning, has
discovered in his researches "The Crow Song" and "The Swallow Song," and
has transfused their spirit in a happy version. I preserve a few
striking ideas.

The collectors for "The Crow" sung:

    My good worthy masters, a pittance bestow,
    Some oatmeal, or barley, or wheat for _the Crow_.
    A loaf, or a penny, or e'en what you will;--
    From the poor man, a grain of his salt may suffice,
    For your Crow swallows all, and is not over-nice.
    And the man who can now give his grain, and no more,
    May another day give from a plentiful store.--
    Come, my lad, to the door, Plutus nods to our wish,
    And our sweet little mistress comes out with a dish;
    She gives us her figs, and she gives us a smile--
    Heaven send her a husband!--
    And a boy to be danced on his grandfather's knee,
    And a girl like herself all the joy of her mother,
    Who may one day present her with just such another.
      Thus we carry our Crow-song to door after door,
    Alternately chanting we ramble along,
    And we treat all who give, or give not, with a song.

Swallow-singing, or Chelidonising, as the Greek term is, was another
method of collecting eleemosynary gifts, which took place in the month
Boedromion, or August.

      The Swallow, the Swallow is here,
    With his back so black, and his belly so white,
      He brings on the pride of the year,
    With the gay months of love, and the days of delight.
    Come bring out your good humming stuff,
    Of the nice tit-bits let the Swallow partake;
    And a slice of the right Boedromion cake.
    So give, and give quickly,--
    Or we'll pull down the door from its hinges:
    Or we'll steal young madam away!
    But see! we're a merry boy's party,
    And the Swallow, the Swallow is here!

These songs resemble those of our own ancient mummers, who to this day,
in honour of Bishop Blaize, the Saint of Woolcombers, go about chanting
on the eves of their holidays.[65] A custom long existed in this country
to elect a Boy-Bishop in almost every parish;[66] the Montem at Eton
still prevails for the Boy-Captain; and there is a closer connexion,
perhaps, between the custom which produced the "Songs of the Crow and
the Swallow," and our Northern mummeries, than may be at first
suspected. The Pagan Saturnalia, which the Swallow song by its pleasant
menaces resembles, were afterwards disguised in the forms adopted by the
early Christians; and such are the remains of the Roman Catholic
religion, in which the people were long indulged in their old taste for
mockery and mummery. I must add in connexion with our main inquiry, that
our own ancient beggars had their songs, in their old cant language,
some of which are as old as the Elizabethan period, and many are
fancifully characteristic of their habits and their feelings.




INTRODUCERS OF EXOTIC FLOWERS, FRUITS, ETC.


There has been a class of men whose patriotic affection, or whose
general benevolence, have been usually defrauded of the gratitude their
country owes them: these have been the introducers of new flowers, new
plants, and new roots into Europe; the greater part which we now enjoy
was drawn from the luxuriant climates of Asia, and the profusion which
now covers our land originated in the most anxious nursing, and were the
gifts of individuals. Monuments are reared, and medals struck, to
commemorate events and names, which are less deserving our regard than
those who have transplanted into the colder gardens of the North the
rich fruits, the beautiful flowers, and the succulent pulse and roots of
more favoured spots; and carrying into their own country, as it were,
another Nature, they have, as old Gerard well expresses it, "laboured
with the soil to make it fit for the plants, and with the plants to make
them delight in the soil."

There is no part of the characters of PEIRESC and EVELYN, accomplished
as they are in so many, which seems more delightful to me, than their
enthusiasm for the garden, the orchard, and the forest.

PEIRESC, whose literary occupations admitted of no interruption, and
whose universal correspondence throughout the habitable globe was more
than sufficient to absorb his studious life, yet was the first man, as
Gassendus relates in his interesting manner, whose incessant inquiries
procured a great variety of jessamines; those from China, whose leaves,
always green, bear a clay-coloured flower, and a delicate perfume; the
American, with a crimson-coloured, and the Persian, with a
violet-coloured flower; and the Arabian, whose tendrils he delighted to
train over "the banqueting-house in his garden;" and of fruits, the
orange-trees with a red and parti-coloured flower; the medlar; the rough
cherry without stone; the rare and luxurious vines of Smyrna and
Damascus; and the fig-tree called Adam's, whose fruit by its size was
conjectured to be that with which the spies returned from the land of
Canaan. Gassendus describes the transports of Peiresc, when, the sage
beheld the Indian ginger growing green in his garden, and his delight in
grafting the myrtle on the musk vine, that the experiment might show us
the myrtle wine of the ancients. But transplanters, like other
inventors, are sometimes baffled in their delightful enterprises; and
we are told of Peiresc's deep regret when he found that the Indian
cocoa-nut would only bud, and then perish in the cold air of France,
while the leaves of the Egyptian papyrus refused to yield him their
vegetable paper. But it was his garden which propagated the exotic
fruits and flowers, which he transplanted into the French king's, and
into Cardinal Barberini's, and the curious in Europe; and these
occasioned a work on the manuring of flowers by Ferrarius, a botanical
Jesuit, who there described these novelties to Europe.

Had Evelyn only composed the great work of his "Sylva, or a Discourse of
Forest Trees," his name would have excited the gratitude of posterity.
The voice of the patriot exults in the dedication to Charles II.
prefixed to one of the later editions. "I need not acquaint your
majesty, how many millions of timber-trees, besides infinite others,
have been propagated and planted throughout your vast dominions, at the
instigation and by the sole direction of this work, because your majesty
has been pleased to own it publicly for my encouragement." And surely
while Britain retains her awful situation among the nations of Europe,
the "Sylva" of Evelyn will endure with her triumphant oaks. It was a
retired philosopher who aroused the genius of the nation, and who,
casting a prophetic eye towards the age in which we live, contributed to
secure our sovereignty of the seas. The present navy of Great Britain
has been constructed with the oaks which the genius of Evelyn planted!

Animated by a zeal truly patriotic, De Serres in France, 1599, composed
a work on the art of raising silk-worms, and dedicated it to the
municipal body of Paris, to excite the inhabitants to cultivate
mulberry-trees. The work at first produced a strong sensation, and many
planted mulberry-trees in the vicinity of Paris; but as they were not
yet used to raise and manage the silk-worm, they reaped nothing but
their trouble for their pains. They tore up the mulberry-trees they had
planted, and, in spite of De Serres, asserted that the northern climate
was not adapted for the rearing of that tender insect. The great Sully,
from his hatred of all objects of luxury, countenanced the popular
clamour, and crushed the rising enterprise of De Serres. The monarch was
wiser than the minister. The book had made sufficient noise to reach the
ear of Henry IV.; who desired the author to draw up a memoir on the
subject, from which the king was induced to plant mulberry-trees in all
the royal gardens; and having imported the eggs of silk-worms from
Spain, this patriotic monarch gave up his orangeries, which he
considered but as his private gratification, for that leaf which,
converted into silk, became a part of the national wealth. It is to De
Serres, who introduced the plantations of mulberry-trees, that the
commerce of France owes one of her staple commodities; and although the
patriot encountered the hostility of the prime minister, and the hasty
prejudices of the populace in his own day, yet his name at this moment
is fresh in the hearts of his fellow-citizens; for I have just received
a medal, the gift of a literary friend from Paris, which bears his
portrait, with the reverse, "_Société de Agriculture du Département de
la Seine_." It was struck in 1807. The same honour is the right of
Evelyn from the British nation.

There was a period when the spirit of plantation was prevalent in this
kingdom; it probably originated from the ravages of the soldiery during
the civil wars. A man, whose retired modesty has perhaps obscured his
claims on our regard, the intimate friend of the great spirits of that
age, by birth a Pole, but whose mother had probably been an
Englishwoman, Samuel Hartlib, to whom Milton addressed his tract on
education, published every manuscript he collected on the subjects of
horticulture and agriculture. The public good he effected attracted the
notice of Cromwell, who rewarded him with a pension, which after the
restoration of Charles II. was suffered to lapse, and Hartlib died in
utter neglect and poverty. One of his tracts is "A design for plenty by
an universal planting of fruit-trees." The project consisted in
inclosing the waste lands and commons, and appointing officers, whom he
calls fruiterers, or wood-wards, to see the plantations were duly
attended to. The writer of this project observes on fruits, that it is a
sort of provisions so natural to the taste, that the poor man and even
the child will prefer it before better food, "as the story goeth," which
he has preserved in these ancient and simple lines:--

    The poor man's child invited was to dine,
    With flesh of oxen, sheep, and fatted swine,
    (Far better cheer than he at home could find,)
    And yet this child to stay had little minde.
    "You have," quoth he, "no apple, froise, nor pie,
    Stewed pears, with bread and milk, and walnuts by."

The enthusiasm of these transplanters inspired their labours. They have
watched the tender infant of their planting, till the leaf and the
flowers and the fruit expanded under their hand; often indeed they have
ameliorated the quality, increased the size, and even created a new
species. The apricot, drawn from America, was first known in Europe in
the sixteenth century: an old French writer has remarked, that it was
originally not larger than a damson; our gardeners, he says, have
improved it to the perfection of its present size and richness. One of
these enthusiasts is noticed by Evelyn, who for forty years had in vain
tried by a graft to bequeath his name to a new fruit; but persisting on
wrong principles this votary of Pomona has died without a name. We
sympathise with Sir William Temple when he exultingly acquaints us with
the size of his orange-trees, and with the flavour of his peaches and
grapes, confessed by Frenchmen to have equalled those of Fontainebleau
and Gascony, while the Italians agreed that his white figs were as good
as any of that sort in Italy; and of his "having had the honour" to
naturalise in this country four kinds of grapes, with his liberal
distributions of cuttings from them, because "he ever thought all things
of this kind the commoner they are the better."

The greater number of our exotic flowers and fruits were carefully
transported into this country by many of our travelled nobility and
gentry;[67] some names have been casually preserved. The learned Linacre
first brought, on his return from Italy, the damask rose; and Thomas
Lord Cornwall, in the reign of Henry VIII., enriched our fruit gardens
with three different plums. In the reign of Elizabeth, Edward Grindal,
afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, returning from exile, transported
here the medicinal plant of the tamarisk: the first oranges appear to
have been brought into England by one of the Carew family; for a century
after, they still flourished at the family seat at Beddington, in
Surrey. The cherry orchards of Kent were first planted about
Sittingbourne, by a gardener of Henry VIII.; and the currant-bush was
transplanted when our commerce with the island of Zante was first opened
in the same reign. The elder Tradescant, in 1620, entered himself on
board of a privateer, armed against Morocco, solely with a view of
finding an opportunity of stealing apricots into Britain: and it appears
that he succeeded in his design. To Sir Walter Raleigh we have not been
indebted solely for the luxury of the tobacco-plant, but for that
infinitely useful root, which forms a part of our daily meal, and often
the entire meal of the poor man--the potato, which deserved to have been
called a _Rawleigh_. Sir Anthony Ashley, of Winburne St. Giles,
Dorsetshire, first planted cabbages in this country, and a cabbage at
his feet appears on his monument: before his time we had them from
Holland. Sir Richard Weston first brought clover grass into England from
Flanders, in 1645; and the figs planted by Cardinal Pole at Lambeth, so
far back as the reign of Henry VIII., are said to be still remaining
there: nor is this surprising, for Spilman, who set up the first
paper-mill in England, at Dartford, in 1590, is said to have brought
over in his portmanteau the two first lime-trees, which he planted here,
and which are still growing. The Lombardy poplar was introduced into
England by the Earl of Rochford, in 1758. The first mulberry-trees in
this country are now standing at Sion-house. By an Harleian MS. 6884, we
find that the first general planting of mulberries and making of silk in
England was by William Stallenge, comptroller of the custom-house, and
Monsieur Verton, in 1608. It is probable that Monsieur Verton
transplanted this novelty from his own country, where we have seen De
Serres' great attempt. Here the mulberries have succeeded better than
the silk-worms.

The very names of many of our vegetable kingdom indicate their locality,
from the majestic cedar of Lebanon, to the small Cos-lettuce, which came
from the isle of Cos; the cherries from Cerasuntis, a city of Pontus;
the peach, or _persicum_, or _mala Persica_, Persian apples, from
Persia; the pistachio, or _psittacia_, is the Syrian word for that nut.
The chestnut, or _chataigne_ in French, and _castagna_ in Italian, from
Castagna, a town of Magnesia. Our plums coming chiefly from Syria and
Damascus, the damson, or damascene plum, reminds us of its distant
origin.

It is somewhat curious to observe on this subject, that there exists an
unsuspected intercourse between nations, in the propagation of exotic
plants. Lucullus, after the war with Mithridates, introduced cherries
from Pontus into Italy; and the newly-imported fruit was found so
pleasing, that it was rapidly propagated, and six-and twenty years
afterwards Pliny testifies the cherry-tree passed over into Britain.
Thus a victory obtained by a Roman consul over a king of Pontus, with
which it would seem that Britain could not have the remotest interest,
was the real occasion of our countrymen possessing cherry-orchards. Yet
to our shame must it be told, that these cherries from the king of
Pontus's city of Cerasuntis are not the cherries we are now eating; for
the whole race of cherry-trees was lost in the Saxon period, and was
only restored by the gardener of Henry VIII., who brought them from
Flanders--without a word to enhance his own merits, concerning the
_bellum Mithridaticum_!

A calculating political economist will little sympathise with the
peaceful triumphs of those active and generous spirits, who have thus
propagated the truest wealth, and the most innocent luxuries of the
people. The project of a new tax, or an additional consumption of ardent
spirits, or an act of parliament to put a convenient stop to population
by forbidding the banns of some happy couple, would be more congenial to
their researches; and they would leave without regret the names of those
whom we have held out to the grateful recollections of their country.
The Romans, who, with all their errors, were at least patriots,
entertained very different notions of these introducers into their
country of exotic fruits and flowers. Sir William Temple has elegantly
noticed the fact. "The great captains, and even consular men, who first
brought them over, took pride in giving them their own names, by which
they ran a great while in Rome, as in memory of some great service or
pleasure they had done their country; so that not only laws and battles,
but several sorts of apples and pears, were called Manlian and Claudian,
Pompeyan and Tiberian, and by several other such noble names." Pliny has
paid his tribute of applause to Lucullus, for bringing cherry and
nut-trees from Pontus into Italy. And we have several modern instances,
where the name of the transplanter, or rearer, has been preserved in
this sort of creation. Peter Collinson, the botanist, to "whom the
English gardens are indebted for many new and curious species which he
acquired by means of an extensive correspondence in America," was highly
gratified when Linnæus baptized a plant with his name; and with great
spirit asserts his honourable claim: "Something, I think, was due to me
for the great number of plants and seeds I have annually procured from
abroad, and you have been so good as to pay it, by giving me a species
of eternity, botanically speaking; that is, a name as long as men and
books endure." Such is the true animating language of these patriotic
enthusiasts!

Some lines at the close of Peacham's Emblems give an idea of an English
fruit-garden in 1612. He mentions that cherries were not long known,[68]
and gives an origin to the name of filbert.

      The Persian Peach, and fruitful Quince;[69]
    And there the forward Almond grew,
      With Cherries knowne no longer time since;
    The Winter Warden, orchard's pride;
      The _Philibert_[70] that loves the vale,
    And red queen apple,[71] so envide
    Of school-boies, passing by the pale.




USURERS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.


A person whose history will serve as a canvass to exhibit some scenes of
the arts of the money-trader was one AUDLEY, a lawyer, and a great
practical philosopher, who concentrated his vigorous faculties in the
science of the relative value of money. He flourished through the reigns
of James I., Charles I., and held a lucrative office in the "court of
wards," till that singular court was abolished at the time of the
Restoration.[72] In his own times he was called "The great Audley," an
epithet so often abused, and here applied to the creation of enormous
wealth. But there are minds of great capacity, concealed by the nature
of their pursuits; and the wealth of Audley may be considered as the
cloudy medium through which a bright genius shone, and which, had it
been thrown into a nobler sphere of action, the "greatness" would have
been less ambiguous.

Audley lived at a time when divines were proclaiming "the detestable sin
of Usury," prohibited by God and man; but the Mosaic prohibition was the
municipal law of an agricultural commonwealth, which being without
trade, the general poverty of its members could afford no interest for
loans; but it was not forbidden the Israelite to take usury from "the
stranger." Or they were quoting from the Fathers, who understood this
point, much as they had that of "original sin," and "the immaculate
conception;" while the scholastics amused themselves with a quaint and
collegiate fancy which they had picked up in Aristotle, that interest
for money had been forbidden by nature, because coin in itself was
barren and unpropagating, unlike corn, of which every grain will produce
many. But Audley considered no doubt that money was not incapable of
multiplying itself, provided it was in hands which knew to make it grow
and "breed," as Shylock affirmed. The lawyers then, however, did not
agree with the divines, nor the college philosophers; they were
straining at a more liberal interpretation of this odious term "Usury."
Lord Bacon declared, that the suppression of Usury is only fit for an
Utopian government; and Audley must have agreed with the learned Cowell,
who in his "Interpreter" derives the term ab _usu_ et _ære_, quasi _usu
æra_, which in our vernacular style was corrupted into _Usury_. Whatever
the _sin_ might be in the eye of some, it had become at least a
_controversial sin_, as Sir Symonds D'Ewes calls it, in his manuscript
Diary, who, however, was afraid to commit it.[73] Audley, no doubt,
considered that _interest_ was nothing more than _rent_ for _money_; as
_rent_ was no better than _Usury_ for _land_. The legal interest was
then "ten in the hundred;" but the thirty, the fifty, and the hundred
for the hundred, the gripe of Usury, and the shameless contrivances of
the money-traders, these he would attribute to the follies of others, or
to his own genius.

This sage on the wealth of nations, with his pithy wisdom and quaint
sagacity, began with two hundred pounds, and lived to view his
mortgages, his statutes, and his judgments so numerous, that it was
observed his papers would have made a good map of England. A
contemporary dramatist, who copied from life, has opened the chamber of
such an Usurer,--perhaps of our Audley.

           ---- Here lay
    A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment,
    The wax continuing hard, the acres melting;
    Here a sure deed of gift for a market-town,
    If not redeem'd this day, which is not in
    The unthrift's power; there being scarce one shire
    In Wales or England, where my monies are not
    Lent out at usury, the certain hook
    To draw in more.
                            MASSINGER'S _City Madam_.

This genius of thirty per cent. first had proved the decided vigour of
his mind, by his enthusiastic devotion to his law-studies: deprived of
the leisure for study through his busy day, he stole the hours from his
late nights and his early mornings; and without the means to procure a
law-library, he invented a method to possess one without the cost; as
far as he learned, he taught, and by publishing some useful tracts on
temporary occasions, he was enabled to purchase a library. He appears
never to have read a book without its furnishing him with some new
practical design, and he probably studied too much for his own
particular advantage. Such devoted studies was the way to become a
lord-chancellor; but the science of the law was here subordinate to that
of a money-trader.

When yet but a clerk to the Clerk in the Counter, frequent opportunities
occurred which Audley knew how to improve. He became a money-trader as
he had become a law-writer, and the fears and follies of mankind were to
furnish him with a trading capital. The fertility of his genius appeared
in expedients and in quick contrivances. He was sure to be the friend of
all men falling out. He took a deep concern in the affairs of his
master's clients, and often much more than they were aware of. No man so
ready at procuring bail or compounding debts. This was a considerable
traffic then, as now. They hired themselves out for bail, swore what was
required, and contrived to give false addresses, which is now called
leg-bail. They dressed themselves out for the occasion; a great
seal-ring flamed on the finger, which, however, was pure copper gilt,
and they often assumed the name of some person of good credit. Savings,
and small presents for gratuitous opinions, often afterwards discovered
to be very fallacious ones, enabled him to purchase annuities of easy
landowners, with their treble amount secured on their estates. The
improvident owners, or the careless heirs, were soon entangled in the
usurer's nets; and, after the receipt of a few years, the annuity, by
some latent quibble, or some irregularity in the payments, usually ended
in Audley's obtaining the treble forfeiture. He could at all times
out-knave a knave. One of these incidents has been preserved. A draper,
of no honest reputation, being arrested by a merchant for a debt of
£200, Audley bought the debt at £40, for which the draper immediately
offered him £50. But Audley would not consent, unless the draper
indulged a sudden whim of his own: this was a formal contract, that the
draper should pay within twenty years, upon twenty certain days, a penny
doubled. A knave, in haste to sign, is no calculator; and, as the
contemporary dramatist describes one of the arts of those citizens, one
part of whose business was

    To swear and break: they all grow rich by breaking!

the draper eagerly compounded. He afterwards "grew rich." Audley,
silently watching his victim, within two years, claims his doubled
pennies, every month during twenty months. The pennies had now grown up
to pounds. The knave perceived the trick, and preferred paying the
forfeiture of his bond for £500, rather than to receive the visitation
of all the little generation of compound interest in the last descendant
of £2000, which would have closed with the draper's shop. The inventive
genius of Audley might have illustrated that popular tract of his own
times, Peacham's "Worth of a Penny;" a gentleman who, having scarcely
one left, consoled himself by detailing the numerous comforts of life it
might procure in the days of Charles II.

Such petty enterprises at length assumed a deeper cast of interest. He
formed temporally partnerships with the stewards of country gentlemen.
They underlet estates which they had to manage; and anticipating the
owner's necessities, the estates in due time became cheap purchases for
Audley and the stewards. He usually contrived to make the wood pay for
the land, which he called "making the feathers pay for the goose." He
had, however, such a tenderness of conscience for his victim, that,
having plucked the live feathers before he sent the unfledged goose on
the common, he would bestow a gratuitous lecture in his own
science--teaching the art of making them grow again, by showing how to
raise the remaining rents. Audley thus made the tenant furnish at once
the means to satisfy his own rapacity, and his employer's necessities.
His avarice was not working by a blind, but on an enlightened principle;
for he was only enabling the landlord to obtain what the tenant, with
due industry, could afford to give. Adam Smith might have delivered
himself in the language of old Audley, so just was his standard of the
value of rents. "Under an easy landlord," said Audley, "a tenant seldom
thrives; contenting himself to make the just measure of his rents, and
not labouring for any surplusage of estate. Under a hard one, the tenant
revenges himself upon the land, and runs away with the rent. I would
raise my rents to the present price of all commodities: for if we should
let our lands, as other men have done before us, now other wares daily
go on in price, we should fall backward in our estates." These axioms of
political economy were discoveries in his day.

Audley knew mankind practically, and struck into their humours with the
versatility of genius: oracularly deep with the grave, he only stung the
lighter mind. When a lord borrowing money complained to Audley of his
exactions, his lordship exclaimed, "What, do you not intend to use a
conscience?" "Yes, I intend hereafter to use it. We moneyed people must
balance accounts: if you do not pay me, you cheat me; but, if you do,
then I cheat your lordship." Audley's moneyed conscience balanced the
risk of his lordship's honour against the probability of his own
rapacious profits. When he resided in the Temple among those "pullets
without feathers," as an old writer describes the brood, the good man
would pule out paternal homilies on improvident youth, grieving that
they, under pretence of "learning the law, only learnt to be lawless;"
and "never knew by their own studies the process of an execution, till
it was served on themselves." Nor could he fail in his prophecy; for at
the moment that the stoic was enduring their ridicule, his agents were
supplying them with the certain means of verifying it. It is quaintly
said, he had his _decoying_ as well as his _decaying_ gentlemen.

The arts practised by the money-traders of that time have been detailed
by one of the town-satirists of the age. Decker, in his "English
Villanies," has told the story: we may observe how an old story contains
many incidents which may be discovered in a modern one. The artifice of
covering the usury by a pretended purchase and sale of certain wares,
even now practised, was then at its height.

In _Measure for Measure_ we find,

     "Here's young Master Rash, he's in for a commodity of _brown
     paper and old ginger_, nine score and seventeen pounds; of
     which he made five marks ready money."

The eager "gull," for his immediate wants, takes at an immense price any
goods on credit, which he immediately resells for less than half the
cost; and when despatch presses, the vender and the purchaser have been
the same person, and the "brown paper and old ginger" merely
nominal.[74]

The whole displays a complete system of dupery, and the agents were
graduated. "The Manner of undoing Gentlemen by taking up of
Commodities," is the title of a chapter in "English Villanies." The
"warren" is the cant term which describes the whole party; but this
requires a word of explanation.

It is probable that rabbit-warrens were numerous about the metropolis, a
circumstance which must have multiplied the poachers. Moffet, who wrote
on diet in the reign of Elizabeth, notices their plentiful supply "for
the poor's maintenance."--I cannot otherwise account for the
appellatives given to sharpers, and the terms of cheatery being so
familiarly drawn from a rabbit-warren; not that even in that day these
cant terms travelled far out of their own circle; for Robert Greene
mentions a trial in which the judges, good simple men! imagined that the
coney-catcher at the bar was a warrener, or one who had the care of a
warren.

The cant term of "warren" included the young coneys, or half-ruined
prodigals of that day, with the younger brothers, who had accomplished
their ruin; these naturally herded together, as the pigeon and the
black-leg of the present day. The coney-catchers were those who raised a
trade on their necessities. To be "conie-catched" was to be cheated. The
warren forms a combination altogether, to attract some novice, who in
_esse_ or in _posse_ has his present means good, and those to come
great; he is very glad to learn how money can be raised. The warren seek
after a _tumbler_, a sort of hunting dog; and the nature of a London
tumbler was to "hunt dry-foot," in this manner:--"The tumbler is let
loose, and runs snuffing up and down in the shops of mercers,
goldsmiths, drapers, haberdashers, to meet with a _ferret_, that is, a
citizen who is ready to sell a commodity." The tumbler in his first
course usually returned in despair, pretending to have out-wearied
himself by hunting, and swears that the city ferrets are so coaped (that
is, have their lips stitched up close) that he can't get them to open to
so great a sum as £500, which the warren wants. "This herb being chewed
down by the rabbit-suckers, almost kills their hearts. It irritates
their appetite, and they keenly bid the tumbler, if he can't fasten on
plate, or cloth, or silks, to lay hold of _brown paper_, _Bartholomew
babies_, _lute-strings_, or _hob-nails_. It hath been verily reported,"
says Decker, "that one gentleman of great hopes took up £100 in
hobby-horses, and sold them for £30; and £16 in joints of mutton and
quarters of lamb, ready roasted, and sold them for three pounds." Such
commodities were called _purse-nets_.--The tumbler, on his second hunt,
trots up and down again; and at last lights on a _ferret_ that will
deal: the names are given in to a scrivener, who inquires whether they
are good men, and finds four out of the five are wind-shaken, but the
fifth is an oak that can bear the hewing. "Bonds are sealed, commodities
delivered, and the tumbler fetches his second career; and their credit
having obtained the purse-nets, the wares must now obtain money." The
_tumbler_ now hunts for the _rabbit suckers_, those who buy these
_purse-nets_; but the _rabbit-suckers_ seem greater devils than the
_ferrets_, for they always bid under; and after many exclamations the
_warren_ is glad that the seller should repurchase his own commodities
for ready money, at thirty or fifty _per cent._ under the cost. The
story does not finish till we come to the manner "How the warren is
spoiled." I shall transcribe this part of the narrative in the lively
style of this town writer. "While there is any grass to nibble upon, the
rabbits are there; but on the cold day of repayment they retire into
their caves; so that when the _ferret_ makes account of _five_ in chase,
four disappear. Then he grows fierce, and tears open his own jaws to
suck blood from him that is left. Serjeants, marshalmen, and bailiffs
are sent forth, who lie scenting at every corner, and with terrible paws
haunt every walk. The bird is seized upon by these hawks, his estate
looked into, his wings broken, his lands made over to a stranger. He
pays £500, who never had but £60, or to prison; or he seals any bond,
mortgages any lordship, does anything, yields anything. A little way in,
he cares not how far he wades; the greater his possessions are, the
apter he is to take up and to be trusted--thus gentlemen are _ferretted_
and undone!" It is evident that the whole system turns on the single
novice; those who join him in his bonds are stalking horses; the whole
was to begin and to end with the single individual, the great coney of
the warren. Such was the nature of those "commodities" to which
Massinger and Shakspeare allude, and which the modern dramatist may
exhibit in his comedy, and be still sketching after life.

Another scene, closely connected with the present, will complete the
picture. "The Ordinaries" of those days were the lounging places of the
men of the town, and the "fantastic gallants," who herded together.[75]
Ordinaries were the "exchange for news," the echoing places for all
sorts of town-talk: there they might hear of the last new play and poem,
and the last fresh widow, who was sighing for some knight to make her a
lady; these resorts were attended also "to save charges of
housekeeping." The reign of James I. is characterised by all the
wantonness of prodigality among one class, and all the penuriousness and
rapacity in another, which met in the dissolute indolence of a peace of
twenty years. But a more striking feature in these "Ordinaries" showed
itself as soon as "the voyder had cleared the table." Then began "the
shuffling and cutting on one side, and the bones rattling on the other."
The "Ordinarie," in fact, was a gambling-house, like those now
expressively termed "Hells," and I doubt if the present "Infernos"
exceed the whole _diablerie_ of our ancestors.

In the former scene of sharping they derived their cant terms from a
rabbit-warren, but in the present their allusions partly relate to an
aviary, and truly the proverb suited them, "of birds of a feather."
Those who first propose to sit down to play are called the _leaders_;
the ruined gamesters are the _forlorn-hope_; the great winner is the
_eagle_; a stander-by, who encourages, by little ventures himself, the
freshly-imported gallant, who is called the _gull_, is the
_wood-pecker_; and a monstrous bird of prey, who is always hovering
round the table, is the _gull-groper_, who, at a pinch, is the
benevolent Audley of the Ordinary.

There was, besides, one other character of an original cast, apparently
the friend of none of the party, and yet in fact, "the Atlas which
supported the Ordinarie on his shoulders:" he was sometimes
significantly called the _impostor_.

The _gull_ is a young man whose father, a citizen or a squire, just
dead, leaves him "ten or twelve thousand pounds in ready money, besides
some hundreds a-year." Scouts are sent out, and lie in ambush for him;
they discover what "apothecarie's shop he resorts to every morning, or
in what tobacco-shop in Fleet-street he takes a pipe of smoke in the
afternoon;" the usual resorts of the loungers of that day. Some sharp
wit of the Ordinarie, a pleasant fellow, whom Robert Greene calls the
"taker-up," one of universal conversation, lures the heir of seven
hundred a-year to "The Ordinarie." A _gull_ sets the whole aviary in
spirits; and Decker well describes the flutter of joy and expectation:
"The _leaders_ maintained themselves brave; the _forlorn-hope_, that
drooped before, doth now gallantly come on; the _eagle_ feathers his
nest; the _wood-pecker_ picks up the crumbs; the _gull-groper_ grows fat
with good feeding; and the _gull_ himself, at whom every one has a pull,
hath in the end scarce feathers to keep his back warm."

During the _gull's_ progress through Primero and Gleek,[76] he wants
for no admirable advice and solemn warnings from two excellent friends;
the _gull-groper_, and at length, the _impostor_. The _gull-groper_, who
knows, "to half an acre," all his means, takes the _gull_ when out of
luck to a side-window, and in a whisper talks of "dice being made of
women's bones, which would cozen any man:" but he pours his gold on the
board; and a bond is rapturously signed for the next quarter-day. But
the _gull-groper_, by a variety of expedients, avoids having the bond
duly discharged; he contrives to get a judgment, and a serjeant with his
mace procures the forfeiture of the bond; the treble value. But the
"impostor" has none of the milkiness of the "_gull-groper_"--he looks
for no favour under heaven from any man; he is bluff with all the
Ordinarie; he spits at random; jingles his spurs into any man's cloak;
and his "humour" is, to be a devil of a dare-all. All fear him as the
tyrant they must obey. The tender _gull_ trembles, and admires this
roysterer's valour. At length the devil he feared becomes his champion;
and the poor _gull_, proud of his intimacy, hides himself under this
_eagle's_ wings.

The _impostor_ sits close by his elbow, takes a partnership in his game,
furnishes the stakes when out of luck, and in truth does not care how
fast the gull loses; for a twirl of his mustachio, a tip of his nose, or
a wink of his eye, drives all the losses of the gull into the profits of
the grand confederacy at the Ordinarie. And when the impostor has fought
the gull's quarrels many a time, at last he kicks up the table; and the
gull sinks himself into the class of the forlorn-hope; he lives at the
mercy of his late friends the gull-groper and the impostor, who send him
out to lure some tender bird in feather.

Such were the _hells_ of our ancestors, from which our worthies might
take a lesson; and the "warren" in which the Audleys were the
conie-catchers.

But to return to our Audley; this philosophical usurer never pressed
hard for his debts; like the fowler, he never shook his nets lest he
might startle, satisfied to have them, without appearing to hold them.
With great fondness he compared his "bonds to infants, which battle best
by sleeping." To battle is to be nourished, a term still retained at the
University of Oxford. His familiar companions were all subordinate
actors in the great piece he was performing; he too had his part in the
scene. When not taken by surprise, on his table usually lay open a great
Bible, with Bishop Andrews's folio Sermons, which often gave him an
opportunity of railing at the covetousness of the clergy; declaring
their religion was "a mere preach," and that "the time would never be
well till we had Queen Elizabeth's Protestants again in fashion." He was
aware of all the evils arising out of a population beyond the means of
subsistence, and dreaded an inundation of men, spreading like the spawn
of cod. Hence he considered marriage, with a modern political economist,
as very dangerous; bitterly censuring the clergy, whose children, he
said, never thrived, and whose widows were left destitute. An
apostolical life, according to Audley, required only books, meat, and
drink, to be had for fifty pounds a year! Celibacy, voluntary poverty,
and all the mortifications of a primitive Christian, were the virtues
practised by this puritan among his money bags.

Yet Audley's was that worldly wisdom which derives all its strength from
the weaknesses of mankind. Everything was to be obtained by stratagem;
and it was his maxim, that to grasp our object the faster, we must go a
little round about it. His life is said to have been one of intricacies
and mysteries, using indirect means in all things; but if he walked in a
labyrinth, it was to bewilder others; for the clue was still in his own
hand; all he sought was that his designs should not be discovered by his
actions. His word, we are told, was his bond; his hour was punctual; and
his opinions were compressed and weighty: but if he was true to his
bond-word, it was only a part of the system to give facility to the
carrying on of his trade, for he was not strict to his honour; the pride
of victory, as well as the passion for acquisition, combined in the
character of Audley, as in more tremendous conquerors. His partners
dreaded the effects of his law-library, and usually relinquished a claim
rather than stand a latent suit against a quibble. When one menaced him
by showing some money-bags, which he had resolved to empty in law
against him, Audley then in office in the court of wards, with a
sarcastic grin, asked "Whether the bags had any bottom?" "Ay!" replied
the exulting possessor, striking them. "In that case, I care not,"
retorted the cynical officer of the court of wards; "for in this court I
have a constant spring; and I cannot spend in other courts more than I
gain in this." He had at once the meanness which would evade the law,
and the spirit which could resist it.

The genius of Audley had crept out of the purlieus of Guildhall, and
entered the Temple; and having often sauntered at "Powles" down the
great promenade which was reserved for "Duke Humphrey and his
guests,"[77] he would turn into that part called "The Usurer's Alley,"
to talk with "Thirty in the hundred," and at length was enabled to
purchase his office at that remarkable institution, the court of wards.
The entire fortunes of those whom we now call wards in chancery were in
the hands, and often submitted to the arts or the tyranny of the
officers of this court.

When Audley was asked the value of this new office, he replied, that "It
might be worth some thousands of pounds to him who after his death would
instantly go to heaven; twice as much to him who would go to purgatory:
and nobody knows what to him who would adventure to go to hell." Such
was the pious casuistry of a witty usurer. Whether he undertook this
last adventure, for the four hundred thousand pounds he left behind him,
how can a sceptical biographer decide? Audley seems ever to have been
weak when temptation was strong.

Some saving qualities, however, were mixed with the vicious ones he
liked best. Another passion divided dominion with the sovereign one:
Audley's strongest impressions of character were cast in the old
law-library of his youth, and the pride of legal reputation was not
inferior in strength to the rage for money. If in the "court of wards"
he pounced on incumbrances which lay on estates, and prowled about to
discover the craving wants of their owners, it appears that he also
received liberal fees from the relatives of young heirs, to protect them
from the rapacity of some great persons, but who could not certainly
exceed Audley in subtilty. He was an admirable lawyer, for he was not
satisfied with _hearing_, but _examining_ his clients; which he called
"pinching the cause where he perceived it was foundered." He made two
observations on clients and lawyers, which have not lost their
poignancy. "Many clients in telling their case, rather plead than relate
it, so that the advocate heareth not the true state of it, till opened
by the adverse party. Some lawyers seem to keep an assurance-office in
their chambers, and will warrant any cause brought unto them, knowing
that if they fail, they lose nothing but what was lost long since--their
credit."

The career of Audley's ambition closed with the extinction of the "court
of wards," by which he incurred the loss of above £100,000. On that
occasion he observed that "His ordinary losses were as the shavings of
his beard, which only grew the faster by them; but the loss of this
place was like the cutting off of a member, which was irrecoverable."
The hoary usurer pined at the decline of his genius, discoursed on the
vanity of the world, and hinted at retreat. A facetious friend told him
a story of an old rat, who having acquainted the young rats that he
would at length retire to his hole, desiring none to come near him;
their curiosity, after some days, led them to venture to look into the
hole; and there they discovered the old rat sitting in the midst of a
rich Parmesan cheese. The loss of the last £100,000 may have disturbed
his digestion, for he did not long survive his court of wards.

Such was this man, converting wisdom into cunning, invention into
trickery, and wit into cynicism. Engaged in no honourable cause, he
however showed a mind resolved; making plain the crooked and involved
path he trod. _Sustine et abstine_, to bear and forbear, was the great
principle of Epictetus, and our moneyed Stoic bore all the contempt and
hatred of the living smilingly, while he forbore all the consolations of
our common nature to obtain his end. He died in unblest celibacy,--and
thus he received the curses of the living for his rapine, while the
stranger who grasped the million he had raked together owed him no
gratitude at his death.




CHIDIOCK TITCHBOURNE.


I have already drawn a picture of Jewish history in our country; the
present is a companion-piece, exhibiting a Roman Catholic one.

The domestic history of our country awakens our feelings far more than
the public. In the one, we recognise ourselves as men; in the other, we
are nothing but politicians. The domestic history is, indeed, entirely
involved in the fate of the public; and our opinions are regulated
according to the different countries, and by the different ages we live
in; yet systems of politics, and modes of faith, are, for the
individual, but the chance occurrences of human life, usually found in
the cradle and laid in the grave: it is only the herd of mankind, or
their artful leaders, who fight and curse one another with so much
sincerity. Amidst these intestine struggles, or, perhaps, when they have
ceased, and our hearts are calm, we perceive the eternal force of nature
acting on humanity; then the heroic virtues and private sufferings of
persons engaged in an opposite cause, and acting on different principles
than our own, appeal to our sympathy, and even excite our admiration. A
philosopher, born a Roman Catholic, assuredly could commemorate many a
pathetic history of some heroic Huguenot; while we, with the same
feeling in our heart, discover a romantic and chivalrous band of
Catholics.

Chidiock Titchbourne is a name which appears in the conspiracy of
Anthony Babington against Elizabeth, and the history of this
accomplished young man may enter into the romance of real life. Having
discovered two interesting domestic documents relative to him, I am
desirous of preserving a name and a character which have such claims on
our sympathy.

There is an interesting historical novel, entitled "The Jesuit," whose
story is founded on this conspiracy; remarkable for being the production
of a lady, without, if I recollect rightly, a single adventure of love.
Of the fourteen characters implicated in this conspiracy, few were of
the stamp of men ordinarily engaged in dark assassinations. Hume has
told the story with his usual grace: the fuller narrative may be found
in Camden; but the tale may yet receive from the character of Chidiock
Titchbourne, a more interesting close.

Some youths, worthy of ranking with the heroes, rather than with the
traitors of England, had been practised on by the subtilty of Ballard, a
disguised Jesuit of great intrepidity and talents, whom Camden calls "a
silken priest in a soldier's habit:" for this versatile intriguer
changed into all shapes, and took up all names: yet, with all the arts
of a political Jesuit, he found himself entrapped in the nets of that
more crafty one, the subdolous Walsingham. Ballard had opened himself to
Babington, a Catholic; a youth of large fortune, the graces of whose
person were only inferior to those of his mind. In his travels, his
generous temper had been touched by some confidential friends of the
Scottish Mary; and the youth, susceptible of ambition, had been
recommended to that queen; and an intercourse of letters took place,
which seemed as deeply tinctured with love as with loyalty. The
intimates of Babington were youths of congenial tempers and studies;
and, in their exalted imaginations, they could only view in the
imprisoned Mary of Scotland a sovereign, a saint, and a woman. But
friendship the most tender, if not the most sublime ever recorded,
prevailed among this band of self-devoted victims; and the Damon and
Pythias of antiquity were here out-numbered.

But these conspirators were surely more adapted for lovers than for
politicians. The most romantic incidents are interwoven in this dark
conspiracy. Some of the letters to Mary were conveyed by a secret
messenger, really in the pay of Walsingham; others were lodged in a
concealed place, covered by a loosened stone, in the wall of the queen's
prison. All were transcribed by Walsingham before they reached Mary.
Even the spies of that singular statesman were the companions or the
servants of the arch-conspirator Ballard; for the minister seems only to
have humoured his taste in assisting him through this extravagant plot.
Yet, as if a plot of so loose a texture was not quite perilous enough,
the extraordinary incident of a picture, representing the secret
conspirators in person, was probably considered as the highest stroke of
political intrigue! The accomplished Babington had portrayed the
conspirators, himself standing in the midst of them, that the imprisoned
queen might thus have some kind of personal acquaintance with them.
There was at least as much of chivalry as of Machiavelism in this
conspiracy. This very picture, before it was delivered to Mary, the
subtile Walsingham had copied, to exhibit to Elizabeth the faces of her
secret enemies. Houbraken, in his portrait of Walsingham, has introduced
in the vignette the incident of this picture being shown to Elizabeth; a
circumstance happily characteristic of the genius of this crafty and
vigilant statesman. Camden tells us that Babington had first inscribed
beneath the picture this verse:--

    Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula ducunt.
    These are my companions, whom the same dangers lead.

But as this verse was considered by some of less heated fancies as much
too open and intelligible, they put one more ambiguous:--

              Quorsum hæc alio properantibus?
    What are these things to men hastening to another purpose?

This extraordinary collection of personages must have occasioned many
alarms to Elizabeth, at the approach of any stranger, till the
conspiracy was suffered to be sufficiently matured to be ended. Once she
perceived in her walks a conspirator; and on that occasion erected her
"lion port," reprimanding her captain of the guards, loud enough to meet
the conspirator's ear, that "he had not a man in his company who wore a
sword."--"Am not I fairly guarded?" exclaimed Elizabeth.

It is in the progress of the trial that the history and the feelings of
these wondrous youths appear. In those times, when the government of the
country yet felt itself unsettled, and mercy did not sit in the
judgment-seat, even one of the judges could not refrain from being
affected at the presence of so gallant a band as the prisoners at the
bar: "Oh, Ballard, Ballard!" the judge exclaimed, "what hast thou done?
A sort (a company) of brave youths, otherwise endued with good gifts, by
thy inducement hast thou brought to their utter destruction and
confusion." The Jesuit himself commands our respect, although we refuse
him our esteem; for he felt some compunction at the tragical executions
which were to follow, and "wished all the blame might rest on him, could
the shedding of his blood be the saving of Babington's life!"

When this romantic band of friends were called on for their defence, the
most pathetic instances of domestic affection appeared. One had engaged
in this plot solely to try to save his friend, for he had no hopes of
it, nor any wish for its success; he had observed to his friend, that
the "haughty and ambitious mind of Anthony Babington would be the
destruction of himself and his friends;" nevertheless he was willing to
die with them! Another, to withdraw if possible one of those noble
youths from the conspiracy, although he had broken up housekeeping,
said, to employ his own language, "I called back my servants again
together, and began to keep house again more freshly than ever I did,
only because I was weary to see Tom Salusbury's straggling, and willing
to keep him about home." Having attempted to secrete his friend, this
gentleman observed, "I am condemned, because I suffered Salusbury to
escape, when I knew he was one of the conspirators. My case is hard and
lamentable; either to betray my friend, whom I love as myself, and to
discover Tom Salusbury, the best man in my country, of whom I only made
choice, or else to break my allegiance to my sovereign, and to undo
myself and my posterity for ever." Whatever the political casuist may
determine on this case, the social being carries his own manual in the
heart. The principle of the greatest of republics was to suffer nothing
to exist in competition with its own ambition; but the Roman history is
a history without fathers and brothers! Another of the conspirators
replied, "For flying away with my friend I fulfilled the part of a
friend." When the judge observed, that, to perform his friendship he had
broken his allegiance to his sovereign, he bowed his head and confessed,
"Therein I have offended." Another, asked why he had fled into the
woods, where he was discovered among some of the conspirators, proudly
(or tenderly) replied, "For company!"

When the sentence of condemnation had passed, then broke forth among
this noble band that spirit of honour, which surely had never been
witnessed at the bar among so many criminals. Their great minds seemed
to have reconciled them to the most barbarous of deaths; but as their
estates as traitors might be forfeited to the queen, their sole anxiety
was now for their families and their creditors. One in the most pathetic
terms recommends to her majesty's protection a beloved wife; another a
destitute sister; but not among the least urgent of their supplications,
was one that their creditors might not be injured by their untimely end.
The statement of their affairs is curious and simple. "If mercy be not
to be had," exclaimed one, "I beseech you, my good lords, this; I owe
some sums of money, but not very much, and I have more owing to me; I
beseech that my debts may be paid with that which is owing to me."
Another prayed for a pardon; the judge complimented him, that "he was
one who might have done good service to his country," but declares he
cannot obtain it.--"Then," said the prisoner, "I beseech that six
angels, which such an one hath of mine, may be delivered to my brother
to pay my debts."--"How much are thy debts?" demanded the judge. He
answered, "The same six angels will discharge it."

That nothing might be wanting to complete the catastrophe of their sad
story, our sympathy must accompany them to their tragical end, and to
their last words. These heroic yet affectionate youths had a trial
there, intolerable to their social feelings. The terrific process of
executing traitors was the remains of feudal barbarism, and has only
been abolished very recently. I must not refrain from painting this
scene of blood; the duty of an historian must be severer than his taste,
and I record in the note a scene of this nature.[78] The present one was
full of horrors. Ballard was first executed, and snatched alive from
the gallows to be embowelled: Babington looked on with an undaunted
countenance, steadily gazing on that variety of tortures which he
himself was in a moment to pass through; the others averted their faces,
fervently praying. When the executioner began his tremendous office on
Babington, the spirit of this haughty and heroic man cried out amidst
the agony, _Parce mihi, Domine Jesu!_ Spare me, Lord Jesus! There were
two days of execution; it was on the first that the noblest of these
youths suffered; and the pity which such criminals had excited among the
spectators evidently weakened the sense of their political crime; the
solemnity, not the barbarity, of the punishment affects the populace
with right feelings. Elizabeth, an enlightened politician, commanded
that on the second day the odious part of the sentence against traitors
should not commence till after their death.

One of these _generosi adolescentuli_, youths of generous blood, was
CHIDIOCK TITCHBOURNE, of Southampton, the more intimate friend of
Babington. He had refused to connect himself with the assassination of
Elizabeth, but his reluctant consent was inferred from his silence. His
address to the populace breathes all the carelessness of life, in one
who knew all its value. Proud of his ancient descent from a family which
had existed before the Conquest till now without a stain, he paints the
thoughtless happiness of his days with his beloved friend, when any
object rather than matters of state engaged their pursuits; the hours of
misery were only first known the day he entered into the conspiracy. How
feelingly he passes into the domestic scene, amidst his wife, his child,
and his sisters! and even his servants! Well might he cry, more in
tenderness than in reproach, "Friendship hath brought me to this!"

     "Countrymen, and my dear friends, you expect I should speak
     something; I am a bad orator, and my text is worse: It were in
     vain to enter into the discourse of the whole matter for which
     I am brought hither, for that it hath been revealed heretofore;
     let me be a warning to all young gentlemen, especially
     _generosis adolescentulis_. I had a friend, a dear friend, of
     whom I made no small account, _whose friendship hath brought me
     to this_; he told me the whole matter, I cannot deny, as they
     had laid it down to be done; but I always thought it impious,
     and denied to be a dealer in it; but the regard of my friend
     caused me to be a man in whom the old proverb was verified; I
     was silent, and so consented. Before this thing chanced, we
     lived together in most nourishing estate: Of whom went report
     in the _Strand_, _Fleet-street_, and elsewhere about _London_,
     but of _Babington and Titchbourne_? No threshold was of force
     to brave our entry. Thus we lived, and wanted nothing we could
     wish for; and God knows what less in my head than _matters of
     state_. Now give me leave to declare the miseries I sustained
     after I was acquainted with the action, wherein I may justly
     compare my estate to that of Adam's, who could not abstain _one
     thing forbidden_, to enjoy all other things the world could
     afford; the terror of conscience awaited me. After I considered
     the dangers whereinto I was fallen, I went to Sir John Peters
     in Essex, and appointed my horses should meet me at London,
     intending to go down into the country. I came to London, and
     then heard that all was bewrayed; whereupon, like Adam, we fled
     into the woods to hide ourselves. My dear countrymen, my
     sorrows may be your joy, yet mix your smiles with tears, and
     pity my case; _I am descended from a house, from two hundred
     years before the Conquest, never stained till this my
     misfortune. I have a wife and one child; my wife Agnes, my dear
     wife, and there's my grief--and six sisters left in my hand--my
     poor servants, I know, their master being taken, were
     dispersed; for all which I do most heartily grieve_. I expected
     some favour, though I deserved nothing less, that the remainder
     of my years might in some sort have recompensed my former
     guilt; which seeing I have missed, let me now meditate on the
     joys I hope to enjoy."

Titchbourne had addressed a letter to his "dear wife Agnes," the night
before he suffered, which I discovered among the Harleian MSS.[79] It
overflows with the most natural feeling, and contains some touches of
expression, all sweetness and tenderness, which mark the Shakspearean
era. The same MS. has also preserved a more precious gem, in a small
poem, composed at the same time, which indicates his genius, fertile in
imagery, and fraught with the melancholy philosophy of a fine and
wounded spirit. The unhappy close of the life of such a noble youth,
with all the prodigality of his feelings, and the cultivation of his
intellect, may still excite that sympathy in the _generosis
adolescentulis_, which Chidiock Titchbourne would have felt for them!

     "A letter written by CHEDIOCK TICHEBURNE the night before he
     suffered death, vnto his wife, dated of anno 1586.

     "To the most loving wife alive, I commend me vnto her, and
     desire God to blesse her with all happiness, pray for her dead
     husband, and be of good comforte, for I hope in Jesus Christ
     this morning to see the face of my maker and redeemer in the
     most joyful throne of his glorious kingdome. Commend me to all
     my friends, and desire them to pray for me, and in all charitie
     to pardon me, if I have offended them. Commend me to my six
     sisters poore desolate soules, advise them to serue God, for
     without him no goodness is to be expected: were it possible, my
     little sister Babb: the darlinge of my race might be bred by
     her, God would rewarde her; but I do her wrong I confesse, that
     hath by my desolate negligence too little for herselfe, to add
     a further charge vnto her. Deere wife forgive me, that have by
     these means so much impoverished her fortunes; patience and
     pardon good wife I craue--make of these our necessities a
     vertue, and lay no further burthen on my neck than hath
     alreadie been. There be certain debts that I owe, and because I
     know not the order of the lawe, piteous it hath taken from me
     all, forfeited by my course of offence to her majestie, I
     cannot aduise thee to benefit me herein, but if there fall out
     wherewithal, let them be discharged for God's sake. I will not
     that you trouble yourselfe with the performance of these
     matters, my own heart, but make it known to my uncles, and
     desire them, for the honour of God and ease of their soule, to
     take care of them as they may, and especially care of my
     sisters bringing up the burthen is now laide on them. Now,
     Sweet-cheek, what is left to bestow on thee, a small joynture,
     a small recompense for thy deservinge, these legacies
     followinge to be thine owne. God of his infinite goodness give
     thee grace alwaies to remain his true and faithfull servant,
     that through the merits of his bitter and blessed passion thou
     maist become in good time of his kingdom with the blessed women
     in heaven. May the Holy Ghost comfort thee with all necessaries
     for the wealth of thy soul in the world to come, where, until
     it shall please almighty God I meete thee, farewell lovinge
     wife, farewell the dearest to me on all the earth, farewell!

     "By the hand from the heart of thy most faithful louinge
     husband,

     "CHIDEOCK TICHEBURN."

     "VERSES,

     "Made by CHEDIOCK TICHBORNE of himselfe in the Tower, the night
     before he suffered death, who was executed in Lincoln's Inn
     Fields for treason. 1586.

    My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
      My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
    My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
      And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
    The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun,
    And now I live, and now my life is done!

    My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
      The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
    My youth is past, and yet I am but young,
      I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
    My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun,
    And now I live, and now my life is done!

    I sought for death, and found it in the wombe,
      I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,
    I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,
      And now I dye, and now I am but made.
    The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;
    And now I live, and now my life is done![80]




ELIZABETH AND HER PARLIAMENT.


The year 1566 was a remarkable period in the domestic annals of our
great Elizabeth; then, for a moment, broke forth a noble struggle
between the freedom of the subject and the dignity of the sovereign.

One of the popular grievances of her glorious reign was the maiden state
in which the queen persisted to live, notwithstanding such frequent
remonstrances and exhortations. The nation in a moment might be thrown
into the danger of a disputed succession; and it became necessary to
allay that ferment which existed among all parties, while each was
fixing on its own favourite, hereafter to ascend the throne. The birth
of James I. this year, re-animated the partisans of Mary of Scotland;
and men of the most opposite parties in England unanimously joined in
the popular cry for the marriage of Elizabeth, or a settlement of the
succession. This was a subject most painful to the thoughts of
Elizabeth; she started from it with horror, and she was practising every
imaginable artifice to evade it.

The real cause of this repugnance has been passed over by our
historians. Camden, however, hints at it, when he places among other
popular rumours of the day, that "men cursed Huic, the queen's
physician, for dissuading her from marriage, for I know not what female
infirmity." The queen's physician thus incurred the odium of the nation
for the integrity of his conduct: he well knew how precious was her
life![81]

This fact, once known, throws a new light over her conduct; the
ambiguous expressions which she constantly employs, when she alludes to
her marriage in her speeches, and in private conversations, are no
longer mysterious. She was always declaring, that she knew her subjects
did not love her so little, as to wish to bury her before her time; even
in the letter I shall now give, we find this remarkable
expression:--urging her to marriage, she said, was "asking nothing less
than wishing her to dig her grave before she was dead." Conscious of the
danger of her life by marriage, she had early declared when she ascended
the throne, that "she would live and die a maiden queen:" but she
afterwards discovered the political evil resulting from her unfortunate
situation. Her conduct was admirable; her great genius turned even her
weakness into strength, and proved how well she deserved the character
which she had already obtained from an enlightened enemy--the great
Sixtus V., who observed of her, _Ch'era un gran cervello di
Principessa_! She had a princely head-piece! Elizabeth allowed her
ministers to pledge her royal word to the commons, as often as they
found necessary, for her resolution to marry; she kept all Europe at her
feet, with the hopes and fears of her choice; she gave ready
encouragements, perhaps allowed her agents to promote even invitations,
to the offers of marriage she received from crowned heads; and all the
coquetries and cajolings, so often and so fully recorded, with which she
freely honoured individuals, made her empire an empire of love, where
love, however, could never appear. All these were merely political
artifices, to conceal her secret resolution, which was, not to marry.

At the birth of James I. as Camden says, "the sharp and hot spirits
broke out, accusing the queen that she was neglecting her country and
posterity." All "these humours," observes Hume, "broke out with great
vehemence, in a new session of parliament, held after six prorogations."
The peers united with the commoners. The queen had an empty exchequer,
and was at their mercy. It was a moment of high ferment. Some of the
boldest, and some of the most British spirits were at work; and they,
with the malice or wisdom of opposition, combined the supply with the
succession; one was not to be had without the other.

This was a moment of great hope and anxiety with the French court; they
were flattering themselves that her reign was touching a crisis; and La
Mothe Fenelon, then the French ambassador at the court of Elizabeth,
appears to have been busied in collecting hourly information of the warm
debates in the commons, and what passed in their interviews with the
queen. We may rather be astonished where he procured so much secret
intelligence: he sometimes complains that he is not able to acquire it
as fast as Catherine de Medicis and her son Charles IX. wished. There
must have been Englishmen at our court who were serving as French spies.
In a private collection, which consists of two or three hundred original
letters of Charles IX., Catherine de Medicis, Henry III., and Mary of
Scotland, &c., I find two despatches of this French ambassador, entirely
relating to the present occurrence. What renders them more curious is,
that the debates on the question of the succession are imperfectly given
in Sir Symonds D'Ewes's journals; the only resource open to us. Sir
Symonds complains of the negligence of the clerk of the commons, who
indeed seems to have exerted his negligence, whenever it was found most
agreeable to the court party.

Previous to the warm debates in the commons, of which the present
despatch furnishes a lively picture, on Saturday, 12th October, 1566, at
a meeting of the lords of the council, held in the queen's apartment,
the Duke of Norfolk, in the name of the whole nobility, addressed
Elizabeth, urging her to settle the suspended points of the succession,
and of her marriage, which had been promised in the last parliament. The
queen was greatly angered on the occasion; she would not suffer their
urgency on those points, and spoke with great animation. "Hitherto you
have had no opportunity to complain of me; I have well governed the
country in peace, and if a late war of little consequence has broken
out, which might have occasioned my subjects to complain of me, with me
it has not originated, but with yourselves, as truly I believe. Lay your
hands on your hearts, and blame yourselves. In respect to the choice of
the succession, not one of ye shall have it; that choice I reserve to
myself alone. I will not be buried while I am living, as my sister was.
Do I not well know, how during the life of my sister every one hastened
to me at Hatfield; I am at present inclined to see no such travellers,
nor desire on this your advice in any way.[82] In regard to my marriage,
you may see enough, that I am not distant from it, and in what respects
the welfare of the kingdom: go each of you, and do your own duty."

     _27th October, 1566._

     "Sire,

"By my last despatch of the 21st instant,[83] among other matters, I
informed your majesty of what was said on Saturday the 19th as well in
parliament, as in the chamber of the queen, respecting the circumstance
of the succession to this crown; since which I have learned other
particulars, which occurred a little before, and which I will not now
omit to relate, before I mention what afterwards happened.

"On Wednesday, the 16th of the present month, the comptroller of the
queen's household[84] moved, in the lower house of parliament, where the
deputies of towns and counties meet, to obtain a subsidy;[85] taking
into consideration, among other things, that the queen had emptied the
exchequer, as well in the late wars, as in the maintenance of her ships
at sea, for the protection of her kingdom, and her subjects; and which
expenditure has been so excessive, that it could no further be supported
without the aid of her good subjects, whose duty it was to offer money
to her majesty, even before she required it, in consideration that,
hitherto, she had been to them a benignant and courteous mistress.

"The comptroller having finished, one of the deputies, a country
gentleman, rose in reply. He said, that he saw no occasion, nor any
pressing necessity, which ought to move her majesty to ask for money of
her subjects. And, in regard to the wars, which it was said had
exhausted her treasury, she had undertaken them for herself, as she had
thought proper; not for the defence of her kingdom, nor for the
advantage of her subjects; but there was one thing which seemed to him
more urgent, and far more necessary to examine concerning this
campaign; which was, how the money raised by the late subsidy had been
spent; and that every one who had had the handling of it should produce
their accounts, that it might be known if the monies had been well or
ill spent.

"On this, rises one named Mr. _Basche_,[86] purveyor of the marine, and
also a member of the said parliament; who shows that it was most
necessary that the commons should vote the said subsidies to her
majesty, who had not only been at vast charges, and was so daily, to
maintain a great number of ships, but also in building new ones;
repeating what the comptroller of the household had said, that they
ought not to wait till the queen asked for supplies, but should make a
voluntary offer of their services.

"Another country gentleman rises and replies, that the said _Basche_ had
certainly his reasons to speak for the queen in the present case, since
a great deal of her majesty's monies for the providing of ships passed
through his hands; and the more he consumed, the greater was his profit.
According to his notion, there were but too many purveyors in this
kingdom, whose noses had grown so long, that they stretched from London
to the west.[87] It was certainly proper to know if all they levied by
their commission for the present campaign was entirely employed to the
queen's profit. Nothing further was debated on that day.

"The Friday following when the subject of the subsidy was renewed, one
of the gentlemen-deputies showed, that the queen having prayed[88] for
the last subsidy, had promised, and pledged her faith to her subjects,
that after that one she never more would raise a single penny on them;
and promised even to free them from the wine-duty, of which promise they
ought to press for the performance; adding, that it was far more
necessary for this kingdom to speak concerning an heir or successor to
their crown, and of her marriage, than of a subsidy.

"The next day, which was Saturday the 19th, they all began, with the
exception of a single voice, a loud outcry for the succession. Amidst
these confused voices and cries, one of the council prayed them to have
a little patience, and with time they should be satisfied; but that, at
this moment, other matters pressed,--it was necessary to satisfy the
queen about a subsidy. 'No! no!' cried the deputies, 'we are expressly
charged not to grant anything until the queen resolvedly answers that
which we now ask: and we require you to inform her majesty of our
intention, which is such as we are commanded to by all the towns and
subjects of this kingdom, whose deputies we are. We further require an
act, or acknowledgment, of our having delivered this remonstrance, that
we may satisfy our respective towns and counties that we have performed
our charge.' They alleged for an excuse, that if they had omitted any
part of this, _their heads would answer for it_. We shall see what will
come of this.[89]

"Tuesday the 22nd, the principal lords, and the bishops of London, York,
Winchester, and Durham, went together, after dinner, from the parliament
to the queen, whom they found in her private apartment. There, after
those who were present had retired, and they remained alone with her,
the great treasurer having the precedence in age, spoke first in the
name of all. He opened, by saying, that the commons had required them to
unite in one sentiment and agreement, to solicit her majesty to give her
answer as she had promised, to appoint a successor to the crown;
declaring it was necessity that compelled them to urge this point, that
they might provide against the dangers which might happen to the
kingdom, if they continued without the security they asked. This had
been the custom of her royal predecessors, to provide long beforehand
for the succession, to preserve the peace of the kingdom; that the
commons were all of one opinion, and so resolved to settle the
succession before they would speak about a subsidy, or any other matter
whatever; that, hitherto, nothing but the most trivial discussions had
passed in parliament, and so great an assembly was only wasting their
time, and saw themselves entirety useless. They, however, supplicated
her majesty, that she would be pleased to declare her will on this
point, or at once to put an end to the parliament, so that every one
might retire to his home.

"The Duke of Norfolk then spoke, and, after him, every one of the other
lords, according to his rank, holding the same language in strict
conformity with that of the great treasurer.

"The queen returned no softer answer than she had on the preceding
Saturday, to another party of the same company; saying that 'The commons
were very rebellious, and that they had not dared to have attempted such
things during the life of her father: that it was not for them to impede
her affairs, and that it did not become a subject to compel the
sovereign. What they asked was nothing less than wishing her to dig her
grave before she was dead.' Addressing herself to the lords, she said,
'My lords, do what you will; as for myself, I shall do nothing but
according to my pleasure. All the resolutions which you may make can
have no force without my consent and authority; besides, what you desire
is an affair of much too great importance to be declared to a knot of
hare-brains.[90] I will take counsel with men who understand justice and
the laws, as I am deliberating to do: I will choose half-a-dozen of the
most able I can find in my kingdom for consultation, and after having
their advice, I will then discover to you my will.' On this she
dismissed them in great anger.

"By this, sire, your majesty may perceive that this queen is every day
trying new inventions to escape from this passage (that is, on fixing
her marriage, or the succession). She thinks that the Duke of Norfolk is
principally the cause of this insisting,[91] which one person and the
other stand to; and is so angried against him, that, if she can find any
decent pretext to arrest him, I think she will not fail to do it; and he
himself, as I understand, has already very little doubt of this.[92]
The duke told the earl of Northumberland, that the queen remained
steadfast to her own opinion, and would take no other advice than her
own, and would do everything herself."

The storms in our parliament do not necessarily end in political
shipwrecks, whenever the head of the government is an Elizabeth. She,
indeed, sent down a prohibition to the house from all debate on the
subject. But when she discovered a spirit in the commons, and language
as bold as her own royal style, she knew how to revoke the exasperating
prohibition. She even charmed them by the manner; for the commons
returned her "prayers and thanks," and accompanied them with a subsidy.
Her majesty found by experience, that the present, like other passions,
was more easily calmed and quieted by following than resisting, observes
Sir Symonds D'Ewes.

The wisdom of Elizabeth, however, did not weaken her intrepidity. The
struggle was glorious for both parties; but how she escaped through the
storm which her mysterious conduct had at once raised and quelled, the
sweetness and the sharpness, the commendation and the reprimand of her
noble speech in closing the parliament, are told by Hume with the usual
felicity of his narrative.[93]




ANECDOTES OF PRINCE HENRY, THE SON OF JAMES I., WHEN A CHILD.


Prince Henry, the son of James I., whose premature death was lamented by
the people, as well as by poets and historians, unquestionably would
have proved an heroic and military character. Had he ascended the
throne, the whole face of our history might have been changed; the days
of Agincourt and Cressy had been revived, and Henry IX. had rivalled
Henry V. It is remarkable that Prince Henry resembled that monarch in
his features, as Ben Jonson has truly recorded, though in a
complimentary verse, and as we may see by his picture, among the ancient
English ones at Dulwich College. Merlin, in a masque by Jonson,
addresses Prince Henry,

    Yet rests that other thunderbolt of war,
    Harry the Fifth; to whom in face you are
    So like, as fate would have you so in worth.


A youth who perished in his eighteenth year has furnished the subject
of a volume, which even the deficient animation of its writer has not
deprived of attraction.[94] If the juvenile age of Prince Henry has
proved such a theme for our admiration, we may be curious to learn what
this extraordinary youth was even at an earlier period. Authentic
anecdotes of children are rare; a child has seldom a biographer by his
side. We have indeed been recently treated with "Anecdotes of Children,"
in the "Practical Education" of the literary family of the Edgeworths;
but we may presume that as Mr. Edgeworth delighted in pieces of curious
machinery in his house, these automatic infants, poets, and
metaphysicians, of whom afterwards we have heard no more, seem to have
resembled other automata, moving without any native impulse.

Prince Henry, at a very early age, not exceeding five years, evinced a
thoughtfulness of character, extraordinary in a child. Something in the
formation of this early character may be attributed to the Countess of
Mar. This lady had been the nurse of James I., and to her care the king
intrusted the prince. She is described in a manuscript of the times, as
"an ancient, virtuous, and severe lady, who was the prince's governess
from his cradle." At the age of five years the prince was consigned to
his tutor, Mr. (afterwards Sir) Adam Newton, a man of learning and
capacity, whom the prince at length chose for his secretary. The
severity of the old countess, and the strict discipline of his tutor,
were not received without affection and reverence; although not at times
without a shrewd excuse, or a turn of pleasantry, which latter faculty
the princely boy seems to have possessed in a very high degree.

The prince early attracted the attention and excited the hopes of those
who were about his person. A manuscript narrative has been preserved,
which was written by one who tells us, that he was "an attendant upon
the prince's person since he was under the age of three years, having
always diligently observed his disposition, behaviour, and
speeches."[95] It was at the earnest desire of Lord and Lady Lumley that
the writer of these anecdotes drew up this relation. The manuscript is
without date; but as Lord Lumley died in April, 1609, and leaving no
heir, his library was then purchased for the prince, Henry could not
have reached his fifteenth year; this manuscript was evidently composed
earlier: so that the _latest_ anecdotes could not have occurred beyond
his thirteenth or fourteenth year,--a time of life when few children can
furnish a curious miscellany about themselves.

The writer set down every little circumstance he considered worth
noticing, as it occurred. I shall attempt a sort of arrangement of the
most interesting, to show, by an unity of the facts, the characteristic
touches of the mind and dispositions of the princely boy.

Prince Henry in his childhood rarely wept, and endured pain without a
groan. When a boy wrestled with him in earnest, and threw him, he was
not "seen to whine or weep at the hurt." His sense of justice was early;
for when his playmate the little Earl of Mar ill-treated one of his
pages, Henry reproved his puerile friend: "I love you because you are my
lord's son and my cousin; but, if you be not better conditioned, I will
love such an one better," naming the child that had complained of him.

The first time he went to the town of Stirling, to meet the king,
observing without the gate of the town a stack of corn, it fancifully
struck him with the shape of the top he used to play with, and the child
exclaimed, "That's a good top." "Why do you not then play with it?" he
was answered. "Set you it up for me, and I will play with it." This is
just the fancy which we might expect in a lively child, with a
shrewdness in the retort above its years.

His martial character was perpetually discovering itself. When asked
what instrument he liked best, he answered, "a trumpet." We are told
that none could dance with more grace, but that he never delighted in
dancing; while he performed his heroical exercises with pride and
delight, more particularly when before the king, the constable of
Castile, and other ambassadors. He was instructed by his master to
handle and toss the pike, to march and hold himself in an affected style
of stateliness, according to the martinets of those days; but he soon
rejected such petty and artificial fashions; yet to show that this
dislike arose from no want of skill in a trifling accomplishment, he
would sometimes resume it only to laugh at it, and instantly return to
his own natural demeanour. On one of these occasions, one of these
martinets observing that they could never be good soldiers unless they
always kept true order and measure in marching, "What then must they
do," cried Henry, "when they wade through a swift-running water?" In all
things freedom of action from his own native impulse he preferred to the
settled rules of his teachers; and when his physician told him that he
rode too fast, he replied, "Must I ride by rules of physic?" When he was
eating a cold capon in cold weather, the physician told him that that
was not meat for the weather. "You may see, doctor," said Henry, "that
my cook is no astronomer." And when the same physician, observing him
eat cold and hot meat together, protested against it, "I cannot mind
that now," said the royal boy, facetiously, "though they should have run
at tilt together in my belly."

His national affections were strong. When one reported to Henry that the
King of France had said that his bastard, as well as the bastard of
Normandy, might conquer England, the princely boy exclaimed, "I'll to
cuffs with him, if he go about any such means." There was a dish of
jelly before the prince, in the form of a crown, with three lilies; and
a kind of buffoon, whom the prince used to banter, said to the prince
that that dish was worth a crown. "Ay!" exclaimed the future English
hero, "I would I had that crown!"--"It would be a great dish," rejoined
the buffoon. "How can that be," rejoined the prince, "since you value it
but a crown?" When James I. asked him whether he loved Englishmen or
Frenchmen better, he replied, "Englishmen, because he was of kindred to
more noble persons of England than of France;" and when the king
inquired whether he loved the English or the Germans better, he replied
the English; on which the king observing that his mother was a German,
the prince replied, "'Sir, you have the wyte thereof;'--a northern
speech," adds the writer, "which is as much as to say,--you are the
cause thereof."

Born in Scotland, and heir to the crown of England at a time when the
mutual jealousies of the two nations were running so high, the boy often
had occasion to express the unity of affection which was really in his
heart. Being questioned by a nobleman, whether, after his father, he had
rather be king of England or Scotland, he asked, "Which of them was
best?" Being answered, that it was England; "Then," said the
Scottish-born prince, "would I have both!" And once, in reading this
verse in Virgil,

    Tros Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur,

the boy said he would make use of that verse for himself, with a slight
alteration, thus,

    Anglus Scotusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur.

He was careful to keep alive the same feeling in another part of the
British dominions; and the young prince appears to have been regarded
with great affection by the Welsh; for when once the prince asked a
gentleman at what mark he should shoot, the courtier pointed with levity
at a Welshman who was present. "Will you see, then," said the princely
boy, "how I will shoot at Welshmen?" Turning his back from him, the
prince shot his arrow in the air. When a Welshman, who had taken a large
carouse, in the fulness of his heart and his head, said in the presence
of the king, that the prince should have 40,000 Welshmen, to wait upon
him against any king in Christendom; the king, not a little jealous,
hastily inquired, "To do what?" The little prince turned away the
momentary alarm by his facetiousness: "To cut off the heads of 40,000
leeks."

His bold and martial character was discoverable in minute circumstances
like these. Eating in the king's presence a dish of milk, the king asked
him why he ate so much child's meat. "Sir, it is also man's meat," Henry
replied; and immediately after having fed heartily on a partridge, the
king observed that that meat would make him a coward, according to the
prevalent notions of the age respecting diet; to which the young prince
replied, "though it be but a cowardly fowl, it shall not make me a
coward." Once taking strawberries with two spoons, when one might have
sufficed, our infant Mars gaily exclaimed, "The one I use as a rapier
and the other as a dagger!"

Adam Newton appears to have filled his office as preceptor with no
servility to the capricious fancies of the princely boy. Desirous,
however, of cherishing the generous spirit and playful humour of Henry,
his tutor encouraged a freedom of jesting with him, which appears to
have been carried at times to a degree of momentary irritability on the
side of the tutor, by the keen humour of the boy. While the royal pupil
held his master in equal reverence and affection, the gaiety of his
temper sometimes twitched the equability or the gravity of the
preceptor. When Newton, wishing to set an example to the prince in
heroic exercises, one day practised the pike, and tossing it with such
little skill as to have failed in the attempt, the young prince telling
him of his failure, Newton obviously lost his temper, observing, that
"to find fault was an evil humour." "Master, I take the humour of you."
"It becomes not a prince," observed Newton. "Then," retorted the young
prince, "doth it worse become a prince's master!" Some of these harmless
bickerings are amusing. When his tutor, playing at shuffle-board with
the prince, blamed him for changing so often, and taking up a piece,
threw it on the board, and missed his aim, the prince smilingly
exclaimed, "Well thrown, master;" on which the tutor, a little vexed,
said "he would not strive with a prince at shuffle-board." Henry
observed, "Yet you gownsmen should be best at such exercises, which are
not meet for men who are more stirring." The tutor, a little irritated,
said, "I am meet for whipping of boys." "You vaunt, then," retorted the
prince, "that which a ploughman or cart-driver can do better than you."
"I can do more," said the tutor, "for I can govern foolish children." On
which the prince, who, in his respect for his tutor, did not care to
carry the jest farther, rose from the table, and in a low voice to those
near him said, "he had need be a wise man that could do that." Newton
was sometimes severe in his chastisement; for when the prince was
playing at goff, and having warned his tutor, who was standing by in
conversation, that he was going to strike the ball, and having lifted up
the goff-club, some one observing, "Beware, sir, that you hit not Mr.
Newton!" the prince drew back the club, but smilingly observed, "Had I
done so, I had but paid my debts." At another time, when he was amusing
himself with the sports of a child, his tutor wishing to draw him to
more manly exercises, amongst other things, said to him in good humour,
"God send you a wise wife!" "That she may govern you and me!" said the
prince. The tutor observed, that "he had one of his own;" the prince
replied, "But mine, if I have one, would govern your wife, and by that
means would govern both you and me!" Henry, at this early age, excelled
in a quickness of reply, combined with reflection, which marks the
precocity of his intellect. His tutor having laid a wager with the
prince that he could not refrain from standing with his back to the
fire, and seeing him forget himself once or twice, standing in that
posture, the tutor said, "Sir, the wager is won, you have failed twice."
"Master," replied Henry, "Saint Peter's cock crew thrice."--A musician
having played a voluntary in his presence, was requested to play the
same again. "I could not for the kingdom of Spain," said the musician,
"for this were harder than for a preacher to repeat word by word a
sermon that he had not learned by rote." A clergyman standing by,
observed that he thought a preacher might do that: "Perhaps," rejoined
the young prince, "for a bishopric!"

The natural facetiousness of his temper appears frequently in the good
humour with which the little prince was accustomed to treat his
domestics. He had two of opposite characters, who were frequently set by
the ears for the sake of the sport; the one, Murray, nicknamed "the
tailor," loved his liquor; and the other was a stout "trencherman." The
king desired the prince to put an end to these broils, and to make the
men agree, and that the agreement should be written and subscribed by
both. "Then," said the prince, "must the drunken tailor subscribe it
with chalk, for he cannot write his name, and then I will make them
agree upon this condition--that the trencherman shall go into the
cellar, and drink with Will Murray, and Will Murray shall make a great
wallet for the trencherman to carry his victuals in."--One of his
servants having cut the prince's finger, and sucked out the blood with
his mouth, that it might heal the more easily, the young prince, who
expressed no displeasure at the accident, said to him pleasantly, "If,
which God forbid! my father, myself, and the rest of his kindred should
fail, you might claim the crown, for you have now in you the
blood-royal."--Our little prince once resolved on a hearty game of play,
and for this purpose only admitted his young gentlemen, and excluded the
men: it happened that an old servant, not aware of the injunction,
entered the apartment, on which the prince told him he might play too;
and when the prince was asked why he admitted this old man rather than
the other men, he rejoined, "Because he had a right to be of their
number, for _Senex bis puer_."

Nor was Henry susceptible of gross flattery, for when once he wore white
shoes, and one said that he longed to kiss his foot, the prince said to
the fawning courtier, "Sir, I am not the pope;" the other replied that
"he would not kiss the pope's foot, except it were to bite off his great
toe." The prince gravely rejoined: "At Rome you would be glad to kiss
his foot and forget the rest."

It was then the mode, when the king or the prince travelled, to sleep
with their suite at the houses of the nobility; and the loyalty and zeal
of the host were usually displayed in the reception given to the royal
guest. It happened that in one of these excursions the prince's servants
complained that they had been obliged to go to bed supperless, through
the pinching parsimony of the house, which the little prince at the time
of hearing seemed to take no great notice of. The next morning the lady
of the house coming to pay her respects to him, she found him turning
over a volume that had many pictures in it; one of which was a painting
of a company sitting at a banquet: this he showed her. "I invite you,
madam, to a feast." "To what feast?" she asked. "To this feast," said
the boy. "What! would your highness give me but a painted feast?" Fixing
his eye on her, he said, "No better, madam, is found in this house."
There was a delicacy and greatness of spirit in this ingenious reprimand
far excelling the wit of a child.

According to this anecdote-writer, it appears that James the First
probably did not delight in the martial dispositions of his son, whose
habits and opinions were, in all respects, forming themselves opposite
to his own tranquil and literary character. The writer says, that "his
majesty, with the tokens of love to him, would sometimes interlace sharp
speeches, and other demonstrations of fatherly severity." Henry, who
however lived, though he died early, to become a patron of ingenious
men, and a lover of genius, was himself at least as much enamoured of
the pike as of the pen. The king, to rouse him to study, told him, that
if he did not apply more diligently to his book, his brother, duke
Charles, who seemed already attached to study, would prove more able for
government and for the cabinet, and that himself would be only fit for
field exercises and military affairs. To his father, the little prince
made no reply; but when his tutor one day reminded him of what his
father had said, to stimulate our young prince to literary diligence,
Henry asked, whether he thought his brother would prove so good a
scholar. His tutor replied that he was likely to prove so. 'Then,'
rejoined our little prince, 'will I make Charles Archbishop of
Canterbury.'"

Our Henry was devoutly pious, and rigid in never permitting before him
any licentious language or manners. It is well known that James the
First had a habit of swearing,--expletives in conversation, which, in
truth, only expressed the warmth of his feelings; but in that age, when
Puritanism had already possessed half the nation, an oath was considered
as nothing short of blasphemy. Henry once made a keen allusion to this
verbal frailty of his father's; for when he was told that some hawks
were to be sent to him, but it was thought that the king would intercept
some of them, he replied, "He may do as he pleases, for he shall not be
put to the oath for the matter." The king once asking him what were the
best verses he had learned in the first book of Virgil, Henry answered,
"These:--

    'Rex erat Æneas nobis, quo justior alter
    Nec pietate fuit, nec bello major et armis.'"

Such are a few of the puerile anecdotes of a prince who died in early
youth, gleaned from a contemporary manuscript, by an eye and ear
witness. They are trifles, but trifles consecrated by his name. They are
genuine; and the philosopher knows how to value the indications of a
great and heroic character. There are among them some which may occasion
an inattentive reader to forget that they are all the speeches and the
actions of a child!




THE DIARY OF A MASTER OF THE CEREMONIES.


Of court-etiquette few are acquainted with the mysteries, and still
fewer have lost themselves in its labyrinth of forms. Whence its origin?
Perhaps from those grave and courtly Italians, who, in their petty
pompous courts, made the whole business of their effeminate days consist
in _punctilios_; and, wanting realities to keep themselves alive,
affected the mere shadows of life and action, in a world of these
mockeries of state. It suited well the genius of a people who boasted of
elementary works to teach how affronts were to be given, and how to be
taken; and who had some reason to pride themselves in producing the
Cortegiano of Castiglione, and the Galateo of Della Casa. They carried
this refining temper into the most trivial circumstances, when a court
was to be the theatre, and monarchs and their representatives the
actors. Precedence, and other honorary discriminations, establish the
useful distinctions of ranks, and of individuals; but their minuter
court forms, subtilised by Italian conceits, with an erudition of
precedents, and a logic of nice distinctions, imparted a mock dignity
of science to the solemn fopperies of a master of the ceremonies, who
exhausted all the faculties of his soul on the equiponderance of the
first place of inferior degree with the last of a superior; who turned
into a political contest the placing of a chair and a stool; made a
reception at the stairs'-head, or at the door, raise a clash between two
rival nations; a visit out of time require a negotiation of three
months; or an awkward invitation produce a sudden fit of sickness; while
many a rising antagonist, in the formidable shapes of ambassadors, were
ready to despatch a courier to their courts, for the omission or neglect
of a single _punctilio_. The pride of nations, in pacific times, has
only these means to maintain their jealousy of power: yet should not the
people be grateful to the sovereign who confines his campaigns to his
drawing-room: whose field-marshal is a tripping master of the
ceremonies; whose stratagems are only to save the inviolability of
court-etiquette; and whose battles of peace are only for precedence?

When the Earls of Holland and Carlisle, our ambassadors extraordinary to
the court of France, in 1624, were at Paris, to treat of the marriage of
Charles with Henrietta, and to join in a league against Spain, before
they showed their propositions, they were desirous of ascertaining in
what manner Cardinal Richelieu would receive them. The Marquis of
Ville-aux-Clers was employed in this negotiation, which appeared at
least as important as the marriage and the league. He brought for
answer, that the cardinal would receive them as he did the ambassadors
of the Emperor and the King of Spain; that he could not give them the
right hand in his own house, because he never honoured in this way those
ambassadors; but that, in reconducting them out of his room, he would go
farther than he was accustomed to do, provided that they would permit
him to cover this unusual proceeding with a pretext, that the others
might not draw any consequences from it in their favour. Our ambassadors
did not disapprove of this expedient, but they begged time to receive
the instructions of his majesty. As this would create a considerable
delay, they proposed another, which would set at rest, for the moment,
the _punctilio_. They observed, that if the cardinal would feign himself
sick, they would go to see him: on which the cardinal immediately went
to bed, and an interview, so important to both nations, took place, and
articles of great difficulty were discussed by the cardinal's bedside!
When the Nuncio Spada would have made the cardinal jealous of the
pretensions of the English ambassadors, and reproached him with yielding
his precedence to them, the cardinal denied this. "I never go before
them, it is true, but likewise I never accompany them; I wait for them
only in the chamber of audience, either seated in the most honourable
place, or standing till the table is ready: I am always the first to
speak, and the first to be seated; and besides, I have never chosen to
return their visit, which has made the Earl of Carlisle so
outrageous."[96]

Such was the ludicrous gravity of those court etiquettes, or
_punctilios_, combined with political consequences, of which I am now to
exhibit a picture.

When James the First ascended the throne of his united kingdoms, and
promised himself and the world long halcyon days of peace, foreign
princes, and a long train of ambassadors from every European power,
resorted to the English court. The pacific monarch, in emulation of an
office which already existed in the courts of Europe, created that of
MASTER OF THE CEREMONIES, after the mode of France, observes Roger
Coke.[97] This was now found necessary to preserve the state, and allay
the perpetual jealousies of the representatives of their sovereigns. The
first officer was Sir Lewis Lewknor,[98] with an assistant, Sir John
Finett, who at length succeeded him, under Charles the First, and seems
to have been more amply blest with the genius of the place; his soul
doted on the honour of the office; and in that age of peace and of
ceremony, we may be astonished at the subtilty of his inventive shifts
and contrivances, in quieting that school of angry and rigid boys whom
he had under his care--the ambassadors of Europe!

Sir John Finett, like a man of genius in office, and living too in an
age of diaries, has not resisted the pleasant labour of perpetuating his
own narrative.[99] He has told every circumstance, with a chronological
exactitude, which passed in his province as master of the ceremonies;
and when we consider that he was a busy actor amidst the whole
diplomatic corps, we shall not he surprised by discovering, in this
small volume of great curiosity, a vein of secret and authentic history;
it throws a new light on many important events, in which the historians
of the times are deficient, who had not the knowledge of this assiduous
observer. But my present purpose is not to treat Sir John with all the
ceremonious _punctilios_, of which he was himself the arbiter; nor to
quote him on grave subjects, which future historians may well do.

This volume contains the rupture of a morning, and the peace-makings of
an evening; sometimes it tells of "a _clash_ between the Savoy and
Florence ambassadors for precedence;"--now of "_questions_ betwixt the
Imperial and Venetian ambassadors, concerning _titles_ and _visits_,"
how they were to address one another, and who was to pay the first
visit!--then "the Frenchman takes _exceptions_ about _placing_." This
historian of the levee now records, "that the French ambassador gets
ground of the Spanish;" but soon after, so eventful were these
drawing-room politics, that a day of festival has passed away in
suspense, while a privy council has been hastily summoned, to inquire
_why_ the French ambassador had "a defluction of rheum in his teeth,
besides a fit of the ague," although he hoped to be present at the same
festival next year! or being invited to a mask, declared "his stomach
would not agree with cold meats:" "thereby pointing" (shrewdly observes
Sir John) "at the invitation and presence of the Spanish ambassador,
who, at the mask _the Christmas before_, had appeared in the first
place."

Sometimes we discover our master of the ceremonies disentangling himself
and the lord chamberlain from the most provoking perplexities by a
clever and civil lie. Thus it happened, when the Muscovite ambassador
would not yield precedence to the French nor Spaniard. On this occasion,
Sir John, at his wits' end, contrived an obscure situation, in which the
Russ imagined he was highly honoured, as there he enjoyed a full sight
of the king's face, though he could see nothing of the entertainment
itself; while the other ambassadors were so kind as "not to take
exception," not caring about the Russian, from the remoteness of his
country, and the little interest that court then had in Europe! But Sir
John displayed even a bolder invention when the Muscovite, at his
reception at Whitehall, complained that only one lord was in waiting at
the stairs'-head, while no one had met him in the court-yard. Sir John
assured him that in England it was considered a greater honour to be
received by one lord than by two!

Sir John discovered all his acumen in the solemn investigation of "Which
was the upper end of the table?" Arguments and inferences were deduced
from precedents quoted; but as precedents sometimes look contrary ways,
this affair might still have remained _sub judice_, had not Sir John
oracularly pronounced that "in spite of the chimneys in England, where
the best man sits, is that end of the table." Sir John, indeed, would
often take the most enlarged view of things; as when the Spanish
ambassador, after hunting with the king at Theobalds, dined with his
majesty in the privy-chamber, his son Don Antonio dined in the
council-chamber with some of the king's attendants. Don Antonio seated
himself on a stool at the end of the table. "One of the gentlemen-ushers
took exception at this, being, he said, irregular and unusual, that
place being ever wont to be reserved _empty for state_!" In a word, no
person in the world was ever to sit on that stool; but Sir John, holding
a conference before he chose to disturb the Spanish grandee, finally
determined that "this was the _superstition_ of a gentleman-usher, and
it was therefore neglected." Thus Sir John could, at a critical moment,
exert a more liberal spirit, and risk an empty stool against a little
ease and quiet; which were no common occurrences with that martyr of
state, a master of ceremonies!

But Sir John,--to me he is so entertaining a personage that I do not
care to get rid of him,--had to overcome difficulties which stretched
his fine genius on tenter-hooks. Once--rarely did the like unlucky
accident happen to the wary master of the ceremonies--did Sir John
exceed the civility of his instructions, or rather his
half-instructions. Being sent to invite the Dutch ambassador and the
States' commissioners, then a young and new government, to the
ceremonies of St. George's day, they inquired whether they should have
the same respect paid to them as other ambassadors? The bland Sir John,
out of the milkiness of his blood, said he doubted it not. As soon,
however, as he returned to the lord chamberlain, he discovered that he
had been sought for up and down, to stop the invitation. The lord
chamberlain said Sir John had exceeded his commission, if he had invited
the Dutchmen "to stand in the closet of the queen's side; because the
Spanish ambassador would never endure them _so near him, where there was
but a thin wainscot board between, and a window which might be opened_!"
Sir John said gently, he had done no otherwise than he had been desired;
which however the lord chamberlain, _in part_, denied, (cautious and
civil!) "and I was not so unmannerly as to contest against," (supple,
but uneasy!) This affair ended miserably for the poor Dutchmen. Those
new republicans were then regarded with the most jealous contempt by all
the ambassadors, and were just venturing on their first dancing-steps,
to move among crowned heads. The Dutch now resolved not to be present;
declaring they had just received an _urgent invitation_, from the Earl
of Exeter, to dine at Wimbledon. A piece of _supercherie_ to save
appearances; probably the happy contrivance of the combined geniuses of
the lord chamberlain and the master of the ceremonies!

I will now exhibit some curious details from these archives of
fantastical state, and paint a courtly world, where politics and
civility seem to have been at perpetual variance.

When the Palatine arrived in England to marry Elizabeth, the only
daughter of James the First, "the feasting and jollity" of the court
were interrupted by the discontent of the archduke's ambassador, of
which these were the material points:--

Sir John waited on him, to honour with his presence the solemnity on the
second or third days, either to dinner or supper, or both.

The archduke's ambassador paused: with a troubled countenance inquiring
whether the Spanish ambassador was invited. "I answered, answerable to
my instructions in case of such demand, that he was sick, and could not
be there. He was yesterday, quoth he, so well, as that the offer might
have very well been made him, and perhaps accepted."

To this Sir John replied, that the French and Venetian ambassadors
holding between them one course of correspondence, and the Spanish and
the archduke's another, their invitations had been usually joint.

This the archduke's ambassador denied; and affirmed that they had been
separately invited to Masques, &c., but he had never;--that France had
always yielded precedence to the archduke's predecessors, when they were
but Dukes of Burgundy, of which he was ready to produce "ancient
proofs;" and that Venice was a mean republic, a sort of burghers, and a
handful of territory, compared to his monarchical sovereign:--and to all
this he added, that the Venetian bragged of the frequent favours he had
received.

Sir John returns in great distress to the lord chamberlain and his
majesty. A solemn declaration is drawn up, in which James I. most
gravely laments that the archduke's ambassador has taken this offence;
but his majesty offers these most cogent arguments in his own favour:
that the Venetian had announced to his majesty that his republic had
ordered his men new liveries on the occasion, an honour, he adds, not
usual with princes--the Spanish ambassador, not finding himself well for
the first day (because, by the way, he did not care to dispute
precedence with the Frenchman), his majesty conceiving that the
solemnity of the marriage being one continued act through divers days,
it admitted neither _prius_ nor _posterius_: and then James proves too
much, by boldly asserting, that the _last day_ should be taken for the
_greatest day!_--as in other cases, for instance in that of Christmas,
where Twelfth-day, the last day, is held as the greatest.

But the French and Venetian ambassadors, so envied by the Spanish and
the archduke's, were themselves not less chary, and crustily fastidious.
The insolent Frenchman first attempted to take precedence of the Prince
of Wales; and the Venetian stood upon this point, that they should sit
on chairs, though the prince had but a stool; and, particularly, that
the carver should not stand before him. "But," adds Sir John, "neither
of them prevailed in their reasonless pretences."

Nor was it peaceable even at the nuptial dinner, which closed with the
following catastrophe of etiquette:--

Sir John having ushered among the countesses the lady of the French
ambassador, he left her to the ranging of the lord chamberlain, who
ordered she should be placed at the table next beneath the countesses,
and above the baronesses. But lo! "The Viscountess of Effingham
standing to her _woman's right_, and possessed already of her proper
place (as she called it), would not remove lower, so _held the hand_ of
the ambassadrice, till after dinner, when the French ambassador,
informed of the difference and opposition, called out for his wife's
coach!" With great trouble, the French lady was persuaded to stay, the
Countess of Kildare and the Viscountess of Haddington making no scruple
of yielding their places. Sir John, unbending his gravity, facetiously
adds, "The Lady of Effingham, in the interim, forbearing (with rather
too much than little stomach) both her supper and her company." This
spoilt child of quality, tugging at the French ambassadress to keep her
down, mortified to be seated at the side of the Frenchwoman that day,
frowning and frowned on, and going supperless to bed, passed the
wedding-day of the Palatine and Princess Elizabeth like a cross girl on
a form.

One of the most subtle of these men of _punctilio_, and the most
troublesome, was the Venetian ambassador; for it was his particular
aptitude to find fault, and pick out jealousies among all the others of
his body.

On the marriage of the Earl of Somerset, the Venetian was invited to the
masque, but not the dinner, as last year the reverse had occurred. The
Frenchman, who drew always with the Venetian, at this moment chose to
act by himself on the watch of precedence, jealous of the Spaniard newly
arrived. When invited, he inquired if the Spanish ambassador was to be
there? and humbly beseeched his majesty to be excused, from
indisposition. We shall now see Sir John put into the most lively action
by the subtle Venetian.

"I was scarcely back at court with the French ambassador's answer, when
I was told that a gentleman from the Venetian ambassador had been to
seek me, who, having at last found me, said that his lord desired me,
that if ever I would do him favour, I would take the pains to come to
him instantly. I, winding the cause to be some new buzz gotten into his
brain, from some intelligence he had from the French of that morning's
proceeding, excused my present coming, that I might take further
instructions from the lord chamberlain; wherewith, as soon as I was
sufficiently armed, I went to the Venetian."

But the Venetian would not confer with Sir John, though he sent for him
in such a hurry, except in presence of his own secretary. Then the
Venetian desired Sir John to repeat the _words_ of his own
_invitation_, and _those_ also of his own _answer_! which poor Sir John
actually did! For he adds, "I yielded, but not without discovering my
insatisfaction to be so peremptorily pressed on, as if he had meant to
trip me."

The Venetian having thus compelled Sir John to con over both invitation
and answer, gravely complimented him on his correctness to a tittle! Yet
still was the Venetian not in less trouble: and now he confessed that
the king had given a formal invitation to the French ambassador,--and
not to him!

This was a new stage in this important negotiation: it tried all the
diplomatic sagacity of Sir John to extract a discovery; and which was,
that the Frenchman had, indeed, conveyed the intelligence secretly to
the Venetian.

Sir John now acknowledged that he had suspected as much when he received
the message; and not to be taken by surprise, he had come prepared with
a long apology, ending, for peace sake, with the same formal invitation
for the Venetian. Now the Venetian insisted again that Sir John should
deliver the invitation in the _same precise words_ as it had been given
to the Frenchman. Sir John, with his never-failing courtly docility,
performed it to a syllable. Whether both parties during all these
proceedings could avoid moving a risible muscle at one another, our
grave authority records not.

The Venetian's final answer seemed now perfectly satisfactory, declaring
he would not excuse his absence as the Frenchman had, on the most
frivolous pretence; and farther, he expressed his high satisfaction with
last year's substantial testimony of the royal favour, in the public
honours conferred on him, and regretted that the quiet of his majesty
should be so frequently disturbed by these _punctilios_ about
invitations, which so often "over-thronged his guests at the feast."

Sir John now imagined that all was happily concluded, and was retiring
with the sweetness of a dove, and the quietness of a mouse, to fly to
the lord chamberlain, when behold the Venetian would not relinquish his
hold, but turned on him "with the reading of another scruple, _et hinc
illæ lachrymæ!_ asking whether the archduke's ambassador was also
invited?" Poor Sir John, to keep himself clear "from categorical
asseverations," declared "he could not resolve him." Then the Venetian
observed, "Sir John was dissembling! and he hoped and imagined that Sir
John had in his instructions, that he was first to have gone to him
(the Venetian), and on his return to the archduke's ambassador." Matters
now threatened to be as irreconcileable as ever, for it seems the
Venetian was standing on the point of precedency with the archduke's
ambassador. The political Sir John, wishing to gratify the Venetian at
no expense, adds, "he thought it ill manners to mar a belief of an
ambassador's making," and so allowed him to think that he had been
invited before the archduke's ambassador!

This Venetian proved himself to be, to the great torment of Sir John, a
stupendous genius in his own way; ever on the watch to be treated _al
paro di teste coronate_--equal with crowned heads; and, when at a tilt,
refused being placed among the ambassadors of Savoy and the
States-general, &c., while the Spanish and French ambassadors were
seated alone on the opposite side. The Venetian declared that this would
be a diminution of his quality; _the first place of an inferior degree
being ever held worse than the last of a superior_. This refined
observation delighted Sir John, who dignifies it as an axiom, yet
afterwards came to doubt it with a _sed de hoc quære_--query this! If it
be true in politics, it is not so in common sense, according to the
proverbs of both nations; for the honest English declares, that "Better
be the _head_ of the yeomanry than the _tail_ of the gentry;" while the
subtle Italian has it, "_E meglio esser testa di Luccio, che coda di
Storione_;" "better be the head of a pike than the tail of a sturgeon."
But before we quit Sir John, let us hear him in his own words, reasoning
with fine critical tact, which he undoubtedly possessed, on right and
left hands, but reasoning with infinite modesty as well as genius. Hear
this sage of _punctilios_, this philosopher of courtesies.

"The Axiom before delivered by the Venetian ambassador was _judged_ upon
_discourse_ I had with _some of understanding_, to be of value in a
_distinct company, but might be otherwise in a joint assembly_!" And
then Sir John, like a philosophical historian, explores some great
public event--"As at the conclusion of the peace at Vervins (the only
part of the peace he cared about), the French and Spanish meeting,
contended for precedence--who should sit at the right hand of the pope's
_legate_: an expedient was found, of sending into France for the pope's
_nuncio_ residing there, who, seated at the right hand of the said
_legate_ (the legate himself sitting at the table's end), the French
ambassador being offered the choice of the next place, he took that at
the legate's left hand, leaving the second at the right hand to the
Spanish, who, taking it, persuaded himself to have the better of it;
_sed de hoc quære_." How modestly, yet how shrewdly insinuated!

So much, if not too much, of the Diary of a Master of the Ceremonies;
where the important personages strangely contrast with the frivolity and
foppery of their actions.

By this work it appears that all foreign ambassadors were entirely
entertained, for their diet, lodgings, coaches, with all their train, at
the cost of the English monarch, and on their departure received
customary presents of considerable value; from 1000 to 5000 ounces of
gilt plate; and in more cases than one, the meanest complaints were made
by the ambassadors about short allowances. That the foreign ambassadors
in return made presents to the masters of the ceremonies from thirty to
fifty "pieces," or in plate or jewels; and some so grudgingly, that Sir
John Finett often vents his indignation, and commemorates the indignity.
As thus,--on one of the Spanish ambassadors-extraordinary waiting at
Deal for three days, Sir John, "expecting the wind with the patience of
an _hungry entertainment_ from a _close-handed ambassador_, as his
_present to me_ at his parting from Dover being but an old gilt livery
pot, that had lost his fellow, not worth above twelve pounds,
accompanied with two pair of Spanish gloves to make it almost thirteen,
to my shame and his." When he left this scurvy ambassador-extraordinary
to his fate aboard the ship, he exults that "the cross-winds held him in
the Downs almost a seven-night before they would blow him over."

From this mode of receiving ambassadors, two inconveniences resulted;
their perpetual jars of _punctilio_, and their singular intrigues to
obtain precedence, which so completely harassed the patience of the most
pacific sovereign, that James was compelled to make great alterations in
his domestic comforts, and was perpetually embroiled in the most
ridiculous contests. At length Charles I. perceived the great charge of
these embassies, ordinary and extraordinary, often on frivolous
pretences; and with an empty treasury, and an uncomplying parliament, he
grew less anxious for such ruinous honours.[100] He gave notice to
foreign ambassadors, that he should not any more "defray their diet,
nor provide coaches for them," &c. "This frugal purpose" cost Sir John
many altercations, who seems to view it as the glory of the British
monarch being on the wane. The unsettled state of Charles was appearing
in 1636, by the querulous narrative of the master of the ceremonies; the
etiquettes of the court were disturbed by the erratic course of its
great star; and the master of the ceremonies was reduced to keep blank
letters to superscribe, and address to any nobleman who was to be found,
from the absence of the great officers of state. On this occasion the
ambassador of the Duke of Mantua, who had long desired his parting
audience, when the king objected to the unfitness of the place he was
then in, replied, that, "if it were under a tree, it should be to him as
a palace."

Yet although we smile at this science of etiquette and these rigid forms
of ceremony, when they were altogether discarded a great statesman
lamented them, and found the inconvenience and mischief in the political
consequences which followed their neglect. Charles II., who was no
admirer of these regulated formalities of court etiquette, seems to have
broken up the pomp and pride of the former master of the ceremonies; and
the grave and great chancellor of human nature, as Warburton calls
Clarendon, censured and felt all the inconveniences of this open
intercourse of an ambassador with the king. Thus he observed in the case
of the Spanish ambassador, who, he writes, "took the advantage of the
license of the court, where no rules or formalities were yet established
(and to which the king himself was not enough inclined), but all doors
open to all persons; which the ambassador finding, he made himself a
domestic, came to the king at all hours, and spake to him when, and as
long as he would, without any ceremony, or _desiring an audience
according to the old custom_; but came into the bed-chamber while the
king was dressing himself, and mingled in all discourses with the same
freedom he would use in his own. And from this never-heard-of license,
introduced by the _French_ and the _Spaniard at this time, without any
dislike in the king, though not permitted in any court in Christendom_,
many inconveniences and mischiefs broke in, which could never after be
shut out."[101]




DIARIES--MORAL, HISTORICAL, AND CRITICAL.


We converse with the absent by letters, and with ourselves by diaries;
but vanity is more gratified by dedicating its time to the little
labours which have a chance of immediate notice, and may circulate from
hand to hand, than by the honester pages of a volume reserved only for
solitary contemplation; or to be a future relic of ourselves, when we
shall no more hear of ourselves.

Marcus Antoninus's celebrated work entitled Των εις εαυτον, _Of the
things which concern himself_, would be a good definition of the use and
purpose of a diary. Shaftesbury calls a diary, "A fault-book," intended
for self-correction; and a Colonel Harwood, in the reign of Charles the
First, kept a diary, which, in the spirit of the times, he entitled
"Slips, Infirmities, and Passages of Providence." Such a diary is a
moral instrument, should the writer exercise it on himself, and on all
around him. Men then wrote folios concerning themselves; and it
sometimes happened, as proved by many, which I have examined in
manuscript, that often writing in retirement, they would write when they
had nothing to write.

Diaries must be out of date in a lounging age, although I have myself
known several who have continued the practice with pleasure and
utility.[102] One of our old writers quaintly observes, that "the
ancients used to take their stomach-pill of self-examination every
night. Some used little books, or tablets, which they tied at their
girdles, in which they kept a memorial of what they did, against their
night-reckoning." We know that Titus, the delight of mankind, as he has
been called, kept a diary of all his actions, and when at night he
found upon examination that he had performed nothing memorable, he
would exclaim, "_Amici! diem perdidimus!_" Friends! we have lost a day!

Among our own countrymen, in times more favourable for a concentrated
mind than in this age of scattered thoughts and of the fragments of
genius, the custom long prevailed: and we their posterity are still
reaping the benefit of their lonely hours and diurnal records. It is
always pleasing to recollect the name of Alfred, and we have deeply to
regret the loss of a manual which this monarch, so strict a manager of
his time, yet found leisure to pursue: it would have interested us much
more even than his translations, which have come down to us. Alfred
carried in his bosom memorandum leaves, in which he made collections
from his studies, and took so much pleasure in the frequent examination
of this journal, that he called it his _hand-book_, because, says
Spelman, day and night he ever had it in hand with him. This manual, as
my learned friend Mr. Turner, in his elaborate and philosophical Life of
Alfred, has shown by some curious extracts from Malmsbury, was the
repository of his own occasional literary reflections. An association of
ideas connects two other of our illustrious princes with Alfred.

Prince Henry, the son of James I., our English Marcellus, who was wept
by all the Muses, and mourned by all the brave in Britain, devoted a
great portion of his time to literary intercourse; and the finest
geniuses of the age addressed their works to him, and wrote several at
the prince's suggestion. Dallington, in the preface to his curious
"Aphorisms, Civil and Militarie," has described Prince Henry's domestic
life: "Myself," says he, "the unablest of many in that academy, for so
was his family, had this _especial employment for his proper use_, which
he pleased favourably to entertain, and _often to read over_."

The diary of Edward VI., written with his own hand, conveys a notion of
that precocity of intellect, in that early educated prince, which would
not suffer his infirm health to relax in his royal duties. This prince
was solemnly struck with the feeling that he was not seated on a throne
to be a trifler or a sensualist: and this simplicity of mind is very
remarkable in the entries of his diary; where, on one occasion, to
remind himself of the causes of his secret proffer of friendship to aid
the Emperor of Germany with men against the Turk, and to keep it at
present secret from the French court, the young monarch inserts, "This
was done on intent to get some friends. The reasonings be in my desk."
So zealous was he to have before him a state of public affairs, that
often in the middle of the month he recalls to mind passages which he
had omitted in the beginning: what was done every day of moment, he
retired into his study to set down.--Even James the Second wrote with
his own hand the daily occurrences of his times, his reflections and
conjectures. Adversity had schooled him into reflection, and softened
into humanity a spirit of bigotry; and it is something in his favour,
that after his abdication he collected his thoughts, and mortified
himself by the penance of a diary.--Could a Clive or a Cromwell have
composed one? Neither of these men could suffer solitude and darkness;
they started at their casual recollections:--what would they have done,
had memory marshalled their crimes, and arranged them in the terrors of
chronology?

When the national character retained more originality and individuality
than our monotonous habits now admit, our later ancestors displayed a
love of application, which was a source of happiness, quite lost to us.
Till the middle of the last century they were as great economists of
their time as of their estates; and life with them was not one hurried
yet tedious festival. Living more within themselves, more separated,
they were therefore more original in their prejudices, their principles,
and in the constitution of their minds. They resided more on their
estates, and the metropolis was usually resigned to the men of trade in
their Royal Exchange, and the preferment-hunters among the backstairs at
Whitehall. Lord Clarendon tells us, in his "Life," that his grandfather,
in James the First's time, had never been in London after the death of
Elizabeth, though he lived thirty years afterwards; and his wife, to
whom he had been married forty years, had never once visited the
metropolis. On this fact he makes a curious observation: "The wisdom and
frugality of that time being such, that few gentlemen made journeys to
London, or any other expensive journey, but upon important business, and
their wives never; by which Providence they enjoyed and improved their
estates in the country, and kept good hospitality in their house,
brought up their children well, and were beloved by their neighbours."
This will appear a very coarse homespun happiness, and these must seem
very gross virtues to our artificial feelings; yet this assuredly
created a national character; made a patriot of every country
gentleman; and, finally, produced in the civil wars some of the most
sublime and original characters that ever acted a great part on the
theatre of human life.

This was the age of DIARIES! The head of almost every family formed one.
Ridiculous people may have written ridiculous diaries, as Elias
Ashmole's;[103] but many of our greatest characters in public life have
left such monuments of their diurnal labours.

These diaries were a substitute to every thinking man for our
newspapers, magazines, and Annual Registers; but those who imagine that
_these_ are a substitute for the scenical and dramatic life of the diary
of a man of genius, like Swift, who wrote one, or even of a lively
observer, who lived amidst the scenes he describes, as Horace Walpole's
letters to Sir Horace Mann, which form a regular diary, only show that
they are better acquainted with the more ephemeral and equivocal
labours.

There is a curious passage in a letter of Sir Thomas Bodley,
recommending to Sir Francis Bacon, then a young man on his travels, the
mode by which he should make his life "profitable to his country and his
friends." His expressions are remarkable. "Let all these riches be
treasured up, not only in your memory, where time may lessen your stock,
but rather in _good writings_ and _books of account_, which will keep
them safe for your use hereafter." By these _good writings_ and _books
of account_, he describes the diaries of a student and an observer;
these "good writings" will preserve what wear out in the memory, and
these "books of account" render to a man an account of himself to
himself.

It was this solitary reflection and industry which assuredly contributed
so largely to form the gigantic minds of the Seldens, the Camdens, the
Cokes, and others of that vigorous age of genius. When Coke fell into
disgrace, and retired into private life, the discarded statesman did not
pule himself into a lethargy, but on the contrary seemed almost to
rejoice that an opportunity was at length afforded him of indulging in
studies more congenial to his feelings. Then he found leisure not only
to revise his former writings, which were thirty volumes written with
his own hand, but, what most pleased him, he was enabled to write a
manual, which he called _Vade Mecum_, and which contained a
retrospective view of his life, since he noted in that volume the most
remarkable occurrences which happened to him. It is not probable that
such a MS. could have been destroyed but by accident; and it might,
perhaps, yet be recovered.

"The interest of the public was the business of Camden's life," observes
Bishop Gibson; and, indeed, this was the character of the men of that
age. Camden kept a diary of all occurrences in the reign of James the
First; not that at his advanced age, and with his infirm health, he
could ever imagine that he should make use of these materials; but he
did this, inspired by the love of truth, and of that labour which
delights in preparing its materials for posterity. Bishop Gibson has
made an important observation on the nature of such a diary, which
cannot be too often repeated to those who have the opportunities of
forming one; and for them I transcribe it. "Were this practised by
persons of learning and curiosity, who have opportunities of seeing into
the public affairs of a kingdom, the short hints and strictures of this
kind would often set things in a truer light than regular histories."

A student of this class was Sir Symonds D'Ewes, an independent country
gentleman, to whose zeal we owe the valuable journals of parliament in
Elizabeth's reign, and who has left in manuscript a voluminous diary,
from which may be drawn some curious matters.[104] In the preface to his
journals, he has presented a noble picture of his literary reveries, and
the intended productions of his pen. They will animate the youthful
student, and show the active genius of the gentlemen of that day. The
present diarist observes, "Having now finished these volumes, I have
already entered upon other and greater labours, conceiving myself not to
be born for myself alone,

    "Qui vivat sibi solus, homo nequit esse beatus,
        Malo mori, nam sic vivere nolo mihi."

He then gives a list of his intended historical works, and adds, "These
I have proposed to myself to labour in, besides divers others, smaller
works: like him that shoots at the sun, not in hopes to reach it, but to
shoot as high as possibly his strength, art, or skill will permit. So
though I know it impossible to finish all these during my short and
uncertain life, having already entered into the thirtieth year of my
age, and having many unavoidable cares of an estate and family, yet, if
I can finish a little in each kind, it may hereafter stir up some able
judges to add an end to the whole:

    "Sic mihi contingat vivere, sicque mori."

Richard Baxter, whose facility and diligence, it is said, produced one
hundred and forty-five distinct works, wrote, as he himself says, "in
the crowd of all my other employments." Assuredly the one which may
excite astonishment is his voluminous autobiography, forming a folio of
more than seven hundred closely-printed pages; a history which takes a
considerable compass, from 1615 to 1684; whose writer pries into the
very seed of events, and whose personal knowledge of the leading actors
of his times throws a perpetual interest over his lengthened pages. Yet
this was not written with a view of publication by himself; he still
continued this work, till time and strength wore out the hand that could
no longer hold the pen, and left it to the judgment of others whether it
should be given to the world.

These were private persons. It may excite our surprise to discover that
our statesmen, and others engaged in active public life, occupied
themselves with the same habitual attention to what was passing around
them in the form of diaries, or their own memoirs, or in forming
collections for future times, with no possible view but for posthumous
utility. They seem to have been inspired by the most genuine passion of
patriotism, and an awful love of posterity. What motive less powerful
could induce many noblemen and gentlemen to transcribe volumes; to
transmit to posterity authentic narratives, which would not even admit
of contemporary notice; either because the facts were then well known to
all, or of so secret a nature as to render them dangerous to be
communicated to their own times. They sought neither fame nor interest:
for many collections of this nature have come down to us without even
the names of the scribes, which have been usually discovered by
accidental circumstances. It may be said that this toil was the pleasure
of idle men:--the idlers then were of a distinct race from our own.
There is scarcely a person of reputation among them, who has not left
such laborious records of himself. I intend drawing up a list of such
diaries and memoirs, which derive their importance from diarists
themselves. Even the women of this time partook of the same thoughtful
dispositions. It appears that the Duchess of York, wife to James the
Second, and the daughter of Clarendon, drew up a narrative of his life;
the celebrated Duchess of Newcastle has formed a dignified biography of
her husband; Lady Fanshaw's Memoirs have been recently published; and
Mrs. Hutchinson's Memoirs of her Colonel have delighted every curious
reader.

Whitelocke's "Memorials" is a diary full of important public matters;
and the noble editor, the Earl of Anglesea, observes, that "our author
not only served the state, in several stations, both at home and in
foreign countries, but likewise conversed with books, and made himself a
large provision from his studies and contemplation, like that noble
Roman Portius Cato, as described by Nepos. He was all along so much in
business, one would not imagine he ever had leisure for books; yet, who
considers his studies might believe he had been always shut up with his
friend Selden, and the dust of action never fallen on his gown." When
Whitelocke was sent on an embassy to Sweden, he journalised it; it
amounts to two bulky quartos, extremely curious. He has even left us a
History of England.

Yet all is not told of Whitelocke; and we have deeply to regret the
loss, or at least the concealment, of a work addressed to his family,
which apparently would be still more interesting, as exhibiting his
domestic habits and feelings, and affording a model for those in public
life who had the spirit to imitate such greatness of mind, of which we
have not many examples.--Whitelocke had drawn up a great work, which he
entitled, "_Remembrances of the Labours of Whitelocke in the Annales of
his Life, for the instruction of his Children_." To Dr. Morton, the
editor of Whitelocke's "Journal of the Swedish Ambassy," we owe the
notice of this work; and I shall transcribe his dignified feelings in
regretting the want of these MSS. "Such a work, and by such a father, is
become the inheritance of every child, whose abilities and station in
life may at any time hereafter call upon him to deliberate for his
country,--and for his family and person, as parts of the great whole;
and I confess myself to be one of those who lament the suppression of
that branch of the _Annales_ which relates to the author himself in his
_private capacity_; they would have afforded great pleasure as well as
instruction to the world in their entire form. The first volume,
containing the first twenty years of his life, may one day see the
light; but the greatest part has hitherto escaped my inquiries." This is
all we know of a work of equal moral and philosophical curiosity. The
preface, however, to these "Remembrances," has been fortunately
preserved, and it is an extraordinary production. In this it appears
that Whitelocke himself owed the first idea of his own work to one left
by his father, which existed in the family, and to which he repeatedly
refers his children. He says, "The memory and worth of your deceased
grandfather deserves all honour and imitation, both from you and me; his
'Liber Famelicus,' his own story, written by himself, _will be left to
you_, and was an encouragement and precedent to this larger work." Here
is a family picture quite new to us; the heads of the house are its
historians, and these records of the heart were animated by examples and
precepts, drawn from their own bosoms; and, as Whitelocke feelingly
expresses it, "all is recommended to the perusal and intended for the
instruction of my own house; and almost in every page you will find a
dedication to you, my dear children."

The habit of laborious studies, and a zealous attention to the history
of his own times, produced the Register and Chronicle of Bishop Kennett.
"Containing matters of fact, delivered in the words of the most
authentic papers and records, all daily entered and commented on:" it
includes an account of all pamphlets as they appeared. This history,
more valuable to us than to his own contemporaries, occupied two large
folios, of which only one has been printed: a zealous labour, which
could only have been carried on from a motive of pure patriotism. It is,
however, but a small part of the diligence of the bishop, since his own
manuscripts form a small library of themselves.

The malignant vengeance of Prynne in exposing the diary of Laud to the
public eye, lost all its purpose, for nothing appeared more favourable
to Laud than this exposition of his private diary. We forget the
harshness in the personal manners of Laud himself, and sympathise even
with his errors, when we turn over the simple leaves of this diary,
which obviously was not intended for any purpose but for his own private
eye and collected meditations.[105] There his whole heart is laid open:
his errors are not concealed, and the purity of his intentions is
established. Laud, who too haughtily blended the prime minister with the
archbishop, still, from conscientious motives, in the hurry of public
duties, and in the pomp of public honours, could steal aside into
solitude, to account to God and himself for every day, and "the evil
thereof."

The diary of Henry Earl of Clarendon, who inherited the industry of his
father, has partly escaped destruction; it presents us with a picture of
the manners of the age, from whence, says Bishop Douglas, we may learn
that at the close of the last century, a man of the first quality made
it his constant practice to pass his time without shaking his arm at a
gaming-table, associating with jockeys at Newmarket, or murdering time
by a constant round of giddy dissipation, if not of criminal indulgence.
Diaries were not uncommon in the last age: Lord Anglesea, who made so
great a figure in the reign of Charles the Second, left one behind him;
and one said to have been written by the Duke of Shrewsbury still
exists.

But the most admirable example is Lord Clarendon's History of his own
"Life," or rather of the court, and every event and person passing
before him. In this moving scene he copies nature with freedom, and has
exquisitely touched the individual character. There that great statesman
opens the most concealed transactions, and traces the views of the most
opposite dispositions; and, though engaged, when in exile, in furthering
the royal intercourse with the loyalists, and when, on the Restoration,
conducting the difficult affairs of a great nation, a careless monarch,
and a dissipated court, yet besides his immortal history of the civil
wars, "the chancellor of human nature" passed his life in habitual
reflection, and his pen in daily employment. Such was the admirable
industry of our later ancestors: their diaries and their memoirs are its
monuments!

James the Second is an illustrious instance of the admirable industry of
our ancestors. With his own hand this prince wrote down the chief
occurrences of his times, and often his instant reflections and
conjectures. Perhaps no sovereign prince, said Macpherson, has been
known to have left behind him better materials for history. We at length
possess a considerable portion of his diary, which is that of a man of
business and of honest intentions, containing many remarkable facts
which had otherwise escaped from our historians.

The literary man has formed diaries purely of his studies, and the
practice may he called _journalising the mind_, in a summary of studies,
and a register of loose hints and _sbozzos_, that sometimes happily
occur; and like Ringelbergius, that enthusiast for study, whose animated
exhortations to young students have been aptly compared to the sound of
a trumpet in the field of battle, marked down every night, before going
to sleep, what had been done during the studious day. Of this class of
diaries, Gibbon has given us an illustrious model: and there is an
unpublished quarto of the late Barré Roberts, a young student of genius,
devoted to curious researches, which deserves to meet the public
eye.[106] I should like to see a little book published with this title,
"_Otium delitiosum in quo objecta vel in actione, vel in lectione, vel
in visione ad singulos dies Anni 1629 observata representantur_." This
writer was a German, who boldly published for the course of one year,
whatever he read or had seen every day in that year. As an experiment,
if honestly performed, this might be curious to the philosophical
observer; but to write down everything, may end in something like
nothing.

A great poetical contemporary of our own country does not think that
even Dreams should pass away unnoticed; and he calls this register his
_Nocturnals_. His dreams are assuredly poetical; as Laud's, who
journalised his, seem to have been made up of the affairs of state and
religion;--the personages are his patrons, his enemies, and others; his
dreams are scenical and dramatic. Works of this nature are not designed
for the public eye; they are domestic annals, to be guarded in the
little archives of a family; they are offerings cast before our Lares.

    Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace
      The forms our pencil or our pen design'd;
    Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face,
      Such the soft image of our youthful mind.
                                                SHENSTONE.




LICENSERS OF THE PRESS.


In the history of literature, and perhaps in that of the human mind, the
institution of the LICENSERS OF THE PRESS, and CENSORS OF BOOKS, was a
bold invention, designed to counteract that of the Press itself; and
even to convert this newly-discovered instrument of human freedom into
one which might serve to perpetuate that system of passive obedience
which had so long enabled modern Rome to dictate her laws to the
universe. It was thought possible in the subtlety of Italian _astuzia_
and Spanish monachism, to place a sentinel on the very thoughts as well
as on the persons of authors; and in extreme cases, that books might be
condemned to the flames as well as heretics.

Of this institution, the beginnings are obscure, for it originated in
caution and fear; but as the work betrays the workman, and the national
physiognomy the native, it is evident that so inquisitorial an act could
only have originated in the Inquisition itself. Feeble or partial
attempts might previously have existed, for we learn that the monks had
a part of their libraries called the _inferno_, which was not the part
which they least visited, for it contained, or hid, all the prohibited
books which they could smuggle into it. But this inquisitorial power
assumed its most formidable shape in the council of Trent, when some
gloomy spirits from Rome and Madrid foresaw the revolution of this new
age of books. The triple-crowned pontiff had in vain rolled the thunders
of the Vatican, to strike out of the hands of all men the volumes of
Wickliffe, of Huss, and of Luther, and even menaced their eager readers
with death. At this council Pius IV. was presented with a catalogue of
books of which they denounced that the perusal ought to be forbidden;
his bull not only confirmed this list of the condemned, but added rules
how books should be judged. Subsequent popes enlarged these catalogues,
and added to the rules, as the monstrous novelties started up.
Inquisitors of books were appointed; at Rome they consisted of certain
cardinals and "the master of the holy palace;" and literary inquisitors
were elected at Madrid, at Lisbon, at Naples, and for the Low Countries;
they were watching the ubiquity of the human mind. These catalogues of
prohibited books were called _Indexes_; and at Rome a body of these
literary despots are still called "the Congregation of the Index." The
simple _Index_ is a list of condemned books which are never to be
opened; but the _Expurgatory Index_ indicates those only prohibited till
they have undergone a purification. No book was allowed to be on any
subject, or in any language, which contained a single position, an
ambiguous sentence, even a word, which, in the most distant sense, could
be construed opposite to the doctrines of the supreme authority of this
council of Trent; where it seems to have been enacted, that all men,
literate and illiterate, prince and peasant, the Italian, the Spaniard
and the Netherlander, should take the mint-stamp of their thoughts from
the council of Trent, and millions of souls be struck off at one blow,
out of the same used mould.

The sages who compiled these Indexes, indeed, long had reason to imagine
that passive obedience was attached to the human character: and
therefore they considered, that the publications of their adversaries
required no other notice than a convenient insertion in their indexes.
But the heretics diligently reprinted them with ample prefaces and
useful annotations; Dr. James, of Oxford, republished an Index with due
animadversions. The parties made an opposite use of them: while the
catholic crossed himself at every title, the heretic would purchase no
book which had not been indexed. One of their portions exposed a list of
those authors whose heads were condemned as well as their books: it was
a catalogue of men of genius.

The results of these indexes were somewhat curious. As they were formed
in different countries, the opinions were often diametrically opposite
to each other. The learned Arias Montanus, who was a chief inquisitor in
the Netherlands, and concerned in the Antwerp Index, lived to see his
own works placed in the Roman Index; while the inquisitor of Naples was
so displeased with the Spanish Index, that he persisted to assert that
it had never been printed at Madrid! Men who began by insisting that all
the world should not differ from their opinions, ended by not agreeing
with themselves. A civil war raged among the Index-makers; and if one
criminated, the other retaliated. If one discovered ten places necessary
to be expurgated, another found thirty, and a third inclined to place
the whole work in the condemned list. The inquisitors at length became
so doubtful of their own opinions, that they sometimes expressed in
their license for printing, that "they tolerated the reading, after the
book had been corrected by themselves, till such time as the work should
be considered worthy of some farther correction." The expurgatory
Indexes excited louder complaints than those which simply condemned
books; because the purgers and castrators, as they were termed, or as
Milton calls them, "the executioners of books," by omitting, or
interpolating passages, made an author say, or unsay, what the
inquisitors chose; and their editions, after the death of the authors,
were compared to the erasures or forgeries in records: for the books
which an author leaves behind him, with his last corrections, are like
his last will and testament, and the public are the legitimate heirs of
an author's opinions.

The whole process of these expurgatory Indexes, that "rakes through the
entrails of many an old good author, with a violation worse than any
could be offered to his tomb," as Milton says, must inevitably draw off
the life-blood, and leave an author a mere spectre! A book in Spain and
Portugal passes through six or seven courts before it can be published,
and is supposed to recommend itself by the information, that it is
published with _all_ the necessary privileges. They would sometimes keep
works from publication till they had "properly qualified them,
_interemse calficam_," which in one case is said to have occupied them
during forty years. Authors of genius have taken fright at the gripe of
"the master of the holy palace," or the lacerating scratches of the
"corrector-general por su magestad." At Madrid and Lisbon, and even at
Rome, this licensing of books has confined most of their authors to the
body of the good fathers themselves.

The Commentaries on the Lusiad, by Faria de Souza, had occupied his
zealous labours for twenty-five years, and were favourably received by
the learned. But the commentator was brought before this tribunal of
criticism and religion, as suspected of heretical opinions; when the
accuser did not succeed before the inquisitors of Madrid, he carried the
charge to that of Lisbon: an injunction was immediately issued to forbid
the sale of the Commentaries, and it cost the commentator an elaborate
defence, to demonstrate the catholicism of the poet and himself. The
Commentaries finally were released from perpetual imprisonment.

This system has prospered to admiration, in keeping public opinion down
to a certain meanness of spirit, and happily preserved stationary the
childish stupidity through the nation, on which so much depended.

Nani's History of Venice is allowed to be printed, because it contained
_nothing against princes_. Princes then were either immaculate or
historians false. The History of Guicciardini is still scarred with the
merciless wound of the papistic censor; and a curious account of the
origin and increase of papal power was long wanting in the third and
fourth book of his history. Velly's History of France would have been an
admirable work had it not been printed at Paris!

When the insertions in the Index were found of no other use than to
bring the peccant volumes under the eyes of the curious, they employed
the secular arm in burning them in public places. The history of these
literary conflagrations has often been traced by writers of opposite
parties; for the truth is, that both used them: zealots seem all formed
of one material, whatever be their party. They had yet to learn, that
burning was not confuting, and that these public fires were an
advertisement by proclamation. The publisher of Erasmus's Colloquies
intrigued to procure the burning of his book, which raised the sale to
twenty-four thousand!

A curious literary anecdote has reached us of the times of Henry VIII.
Tonstall, Bishop of London, accused at that day for his moderation in
preferring the burning of books to that of authors, which was then
getting into practice, to testify his abhorrence of Tindal's principles,
who had printed a translation of the New Testament, a sealed book for
the multitude, thought of purchasing all the copies of Tindal's
translation, and annihilating them in the common flame. This occurred to
him when passing through Antwerp in 1529, then a place of refuge for the
Tindalists. He employed an English merchant there for this business, who
happened to be a secret follower of Tindal, and acquainted him with the
bishop's intention. Tindal was extremely glad to hear of the project,
for he was desirous of printing a more correct edition of his version;
the first impression still hung on his hands, and he was too poor to
make a new one; he gladly furnished the English merchant with all his
unsold copies, which the bishop as eagerly bought, and had them all
publicly burnt in Cheapside. The people not only declared this was a
"burning of the word of God," but it inflamed the desire of reading that
volume; and the second edition was sought after at any price. When one
of the Tindalists, who was sent here to sell them, was promised by the
lord chancellor, in a private examination, that he should not suffer if
he would reveal who encouraged and supported his party at Antwerp, the
Tindalist immediately accepted the offer, and assured the lord
chancellor that the greatest encouragement they had was from Tonstall,
the Bishop of London, who had bought up half the impression, and enabled
them to produce a second!

In the reign of Henry VIII. we seem to have burnt books on both sides;
it was an age of unsettled opinions; in Edward's, the Catholic works
were burnt; and Mary had her pyramids of Protestant volumes; in
Elizabeth's, political pamphlets fed the flames; and libels in the reign
of James I. and his sons.

Such was this black dwarf of literature, generated by Italian craft and
Spanish monkery, which, however, was fondly adopted as it crept in among
all the nations of Europe. France cannot exactly fix on the era of her
_Censeurs de Livres_; and we ourselves, who gave it its death-blow,
found the custom prevail without any authority from our statutes. The
practice of licensing books was unquestionably derived from the
Inquisition, and was applied here first to books of religion. Britain
long groaned under the leaden stamp of an _Imprimatur_. Oxford and
Cambridge still grasp at this shadow of departed literary despotism;
they have their licensers and their _Imprimaturs_. Long, even in our
land, men of genius were either suffering the vigorous limbs of their
productions to be shamefully mutilated in public, or voluntarily
committed a literary suicide in their own manuscripts. Camden declared
that he was not suffered to print all his Elizabeth, and sent those
passages over to De Thou, the French historian, who printed his history
faithfully two years after Camden's first edition, 1615. The same
happened to Lord Herbert's History of Henry VIII. which has never been
given according to the original, which is still in existence. In the
poems of Lord Brooke, we find a lacuna of the first twenty pages; it was
a poem on Religion, cancelled by the order of Archbishop Laud. The great
Sir Matthew Hale ordered that none of his works should be printed after
his death; as he apprehended that, in the licensing of them, some things
might be struck out or altered, which he had observed, not without some
indignation, had been done to those of a learned friend; and he
preferred bequeathing his uncorrupted MSS. to the Society of Lincoln's
Inn, as their only guardians, hoping that they were a treasure worth
keeping. Contemporary authors have frequent allusions to such books,
imperfect and mutilated at the caprice or the violence of a licenser.

The laws of England have never violated the freedom and the dignity of
its press. "There is no law to prevent the printing of any book in
England, only a decree in the Star-chamber," said the learned
Selden.[107] Proclamations were occasionally issued against authors and
books; and foreign works were, at times, prohibited. The freedom of the
press was rather circumvented, than openly attacked, in the reign of
Elizabeth, who dreaded the Roman Catholics, who were at once disputing
her right to the throne, and the religion of the state. Foreign
publications, or "books from any parts beyond the seas," were therefore
prohibited.[108] The press, however, was not free under the reign of a
sovereign, whose high-toned feelings, and the exigencies of the times,
rendered as despotic in _deeds_, as the pacific James was in _words_.
Although the press had then no restrictions, an author was always at the
mercy of the government. Elizabeth too had a keen scent after what she
called treason, which she allowed to take in a large compass. She
condemned one author (with his publisher) to have the hand cut off which
wrote his book; and she hanged another.[109] It was Sir Francis Bacon,
or his father, who once pleasantly turned aside the keen edge of her
regal vindictiveness; for when Elizabeth was inquiring whether an
author, whose book she had given him to examine, was not guilty of
treason, he replied, "Not of treason, madam, but of robbery, if you
please; for he has taken all that is worth noticing in him from Tacitus
and Sallust." With the fear of Elizabeth before his eyes, Holinshed
castrated the volumes of his History. When Giles Fletcher, after his
Russian embassy, congratulated himself with having escaped with his
head, and on his return wrote a book called "The Russian Commonwealth,"
describing its tyranny, Elizabeth forbad the publishing of the work. Our
Russian merchants were frightened, for they petitioned the queen to
suppress the work; the original petition, with the offensive passages,
exists among the Lansdowne manuscripts. It is curious to contrast this
fact with another better known, under the reign of William the Third;
then the press had obtained its perfect freedom, and even the shadow of
the sovereign could not pass between an author and his work. When the
Danish ambassador complained to the king of the freedom which Lord
Molesworth had exercised on his master's government, in his Account of
Denmark, and hinted that, if a Dane had done the same with a King of
England, he would, on complaint, have taken the author's head off--"That
I cannot do," replied the sovereign of a free people; "but if you
please, I will tell him what you say, and he shall put it into the next
edition of his book." What an immense interval between the feelings of
Elizabeth and William, with hardly a century betwixt them!

James the First proclaimed Buchanan's history, and a political tract of
his, at "the Mercat Cross;" and every one was to bring his copy "to be
perusit and purgit of the offensive and extraordinare materis," under a
heavy penalty. Knox, whom Milton calls "the Reformer of a Kingdom," was
also curtailed; and "the sense of that great man shall, to all
posterity, be lost for the fearfulness or the presumptuous rashness of a
perfunctory licenser."

The regular establishment of licensers of the press appeared under
Charles the First. It must be placed among the projects of Laud, and the
king, I suspect, inclined to it; for by a passage in a manuscript letter
of the times, I find, that when Charles printed his speech on the
dissolution of the parliament, which excited such general discontent,
some one printed Queen Elizabeth's last speech as a companion-piece.
This was presented to the king by his own printer, John Bill, not from a
political motive, but merely by way of complaint that another had
printed, without leave or license, that which, as the king's printer, he
asserted was his own copyright. Charles does not seem to have been
pleased with the gift, and observed, "You printers print anything."
Three gentlemen of the bed-chamber, continues the writer, standing by,
commended Mr. Bill very much, and prayed him to come oftener with such
rarities to the king, because they might do some good.[110]

One of the consequences of this persecution of the press was, the
raising up of a new class of publishers, under the government of Charles
I., those who became noted for what was then called "unlawful and
unlicensed books." Sparkes, the publisher of Prynne's "Histriomastix,"
was of this class. I have elsewhere entered more particularly into this
subject.[111] The Presbyterian party in parliament, who thus found the
press closed on them, vehemently cried out for its freedom: and it was
imagined, that when they had ascended into power, the odious office of a
licenser of the press would have been abolished; but these pretended
friends of freedom, on the contrary, discovered themselves as tenderly
alive to the office as the old government, and maintained it with the
extremest vigour. Such is the political history of mankind.

The literary fate of Milton was remarkable: his genius was castrated
alike by the monarchical and the republican government. The royal
licenser expunged several passages from Milton's history, in which
Milton had painted the superstition, the pride, and the cunning of the
Saxon monks, which the sagacious licenser applied to Charles II. and the
bishops; but Milton had before suffered as merciless a mutilation from
his old friends the republicans; who suppressed a bold picture, taken
from life, which he had introduced into his History of the Long
Parliament and Assembly of Divines. Milton gave the unlicensed passages
to the Earl of Anglesea, a literary nobleman, the editor of Whitelocke's
Memorials; and the castrated passage, which could not be licensed in
1670, was received with peculiar interest when separately published in
1681.[112] "If there be found in an author's book one sentence of a
venturous edge, uttered in the height of zeal, and who knows whether it
might not be the dictate of a divine spirit, yet not suiting every low
decrepit humour of their own, they will not pardon him their dash."

This office seems to have lain dormant a short time under Cromwell, from
the scruples of a conscientious licenser, who desired the council of
state, in 1649, for reasons given, to be discharged from that
employment. This Mabot, the licenser, was evidently deeply touched by
Milton's address for "The Liberty of Unlicensed Printing." The office
was, however, revived on the restoration of Charles II.; and through the
reign of James II. the abuses of licensers were unquestionably not
discouraged: their castrations of books reprinted appear to have been
very artful; for in reprinting Gage's "Survey of the West Indies," which
originally consisted of twenty-two chapters, in 1648 and 1657, with a
dedication to Sir Thomas Fairfax,--in 1677, after expunging the passages
in honour of Fairfax, the dedication is dexterously turned into a
preface; and the twenty-second chapter being obnoxious for containing
particulars of the artifices of "the papalins," as Milton calls the
Papists, in converting the author, was entirely chopped away by the
licenser's hatchet. The castrated chapter, as usual, was preserved
afterwards separately. Literary despotism at least is short-sighted in
its views, for the expedients it employs are certain of overturning
themselves.

On this subject we must not omit noticing one of the noblest and most
eloquent prose compositions of Milton; "the Areopagitica; a Speech for
the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing." It is a work of love and
inspiration, and breathing the most enlarged spirit of literature;
separating, at an awful distance from the multitude, that character "who
was born to study and to love learning for itself, not for lucre, or any
other end, but, perhaps, for that lasting fame and perpetuity of praise,
which God and good men have consented shall be the reward of those whose
published labours advance the good of mankind."

One part of this unparalleled effusion turns on "the quality which ought
to be in every licenser." It will suit our new licensers of public
opinion, a laborious corps well known, who constitute themselves without
an act of Star-chamber. I shall pick out but a few sentences, that I may
add some little facts, casually preserved, of the ineptitude of such an
officer.

     "He who is made judge to sit upon the birth or death of books,
     whether they may be wafted into this world or not, had need to
     be a man above the common measure, both studious, learned, and
     judicious; there may be else no mean mistakes in his censure.
     If he be of such worth as behoves him, there cannot be a more
     tedious and unpleasing journey-work, a greater loss of time
     levied upon his head, than to be made the perpetual reader of
     unchosen books and pamphlets. There is no book acceptable,
     unless at certain seasons; but to be enjoyned the reading of
     that at all times, whereof three pages would not down at any
     time, is an imposition which I cannot believe how he that
     values time and his own studies, or is but of a sensible
     nostril, should be able to endure.--What advantage is it to be
     a man over it is to be a boy at school, if we have only 'scaped
     the ferula to come under the fescue of an _Imprimatur_?--if
     serious and elaborate writings, as if they were no more than
     the theme of a grammar lad under his pedagogue, must not be
     uttered without the cursory eyes of a temporising licenser?
     When a man writes to the world, he summons up all his reason
     and deliberation to assist him; he searches, meditates, is
     industrious, and likely consults and confers with his judicious
     friends, as well as any that writ before him; if in this, the
     most consummate act of his fidelity and ripeness, no years, no
     industry, no former proof of his abilities can bring him to
     that state of maturity as not to be still mistrusted and
     suspected, unless he carry all his considerate diligence, all
     his midnight watchings, and expense of Palladian oil, to the
     hasty view of an unleisured licenser, perhaps much his younger,
     perhaps inferior in judgment, perhaps one who never knew the
     labour of book writing; and if he be not repulsed or slighted,
     must appear in print like a Punie with his guardian, and his
     censor's hand on the back of his title to be his bail and
     surety that he is no idiot or seducer, it cannot be but a
     dishonour and derogation to the author, to the book, to the
     privilege and dignity of learning."

The reader may now follow the stream in the great original; I must,
however, preserve one image of exquisite sarcasm.

     "Debtors and delinquents walk about without a keeper; but
     inoffensive books must not stir forth without a visible jailor
     in their title; nor is it to the common people less than a
     reproach; for if we dare not trust them with an English
     pamphlet, what do we but censure them for a giddy, vitious, and
     ungrounded people, in such a sick and weak state of faith and
     discretion, as to be able to take nothing but thro' the
     glister-pipe of a licenser!"

The ignorance and stupidity of these censors were often, indeed, as
remarkable as their exterminating spirit. The noble simile of Milton, of
Satan with the rising sun, in the first book of the Paradise Lost, had
nearly occasioned the suppression of our national epic: it was supposed
to contain a treasonable allusion. The tragedy of Arminius, by one
Paterson, who was an amanuensis of the poet Thomson, was intended for
representation, but the dramatic censor refused a license: as Edward and
Eleanora was not permitted to be performed, being considered a party
work, our sagacious state-critic imagined that Paterson's _own_ play was
in the same predicament by being in the same hand-writing! Malebranche
said, that he could never obtain an approbation for his "Research after
Truth," because it was unintelligible to his censors; at length Mezeray,
the historian, approved of it as a book of geometry. Latterly, in
France, it is said that the greatest geniuses were obliged to submit
their works to the critical understanding of persons who had formerly
been low dependents on some man of quality, and who appear to have
brought the same servility of mind to the examination of works of
genius. There is something, which, on the principle of incongruity and
contrast, becomes exquisitely ludicrous, in observing the works of men
of genius allowed to be printed, and even commended, by certain persons
who have never printed their names but to their licenses. One of these
gentlemen suppressed a work, because it contained principles of
government which appeared to him not conformable to the laws of Moses.
Another said to a geometrician--"I cannot permit the publication of your
book: you dare to say, that, between two given points, the shortest line
is the straight line. Do you think me such an idiot as not to perceive
your allusion? If your work appeared, I should make enemies of all those
who find, by crooked ways, an easier admittance into court, than by a
straight line. Consider their number!" This seems, however, to be an
excellent joke. At this moment the censors in Austria appear singularly
inept; for, not long ago, they condemned as heretical, two books; one of
which, entitled "_Principes de la Trigonométrie_," the censor would not
allow to be printed, because the _Trinity_, which he imagined to be
included in trigonometry, was not permitted to be discussed: and the
other, on the "Destruction of Insects," he insisted had a covert
allusion to the _Jesuits_, who, he conceived, were thus malignantly
designated.

A curious literary anecdote has been recorded of the learned Richard
Simon. Compelled to insert in one of his works the qualifying opinions
of the censor of the Sorbonne, he inserted them within crotchets. But a
strange misfortune attended this contrivance. The printer, who was not
let into the secret, printed the work without these essential marks: by
which means the enraged author saw his own peculiar opinions overturned
in the very work written to maintain them!

These appear trifling minutiæ; and yet, like a hair in a watch, which
utterly destroys its progress, these little ineptiæ obliged writers to
have recourse to foreign presses; compelled a Montesquieu to write with
concealed ambiguity, and many to sign a recantation of principles which
they could never change. The recantation of Selden, extorted from his
hand on his suppressed "Historie of Tithes," humiliated a great mind;
but it could not remove a particle from the masses of his learning, nor
darken the luminous conviction of his reasonings; nor did it diminish
the number of those who assented and now assent to his principles.
Recantations usually prove the force of authority rather than the change
of opinion. When a Dr. Pocklington was condemned to make a recantation,
he hit the etymology of the word, while he caught at the spirit--he
began thus: "If _canto_ be to sing, _recanto_ is to sing again." So that
he rechanted his offending opinions, by repeating them in his
_recantation_.

At the Revolution in England, licenses for the press ceased; but its
liberty did not commence till 1694, when every restraint was taken off
by the firm and decisive tone of the Commons. It was granted, says our
philosophic Hume, "to the great displeasure of the king and his
ministers, who, seeing nowhere in any government, during present or past
ages, any example of such unlimited freedom, doubted much of its
salutary effects; and probably thought that no books or writings would
ever so much improve the general understanding of men, as to render it
safe to entrust them with an indulgence so easily abused."

And the present moment verifies the prescient conjecture of the
philosopher. Such is the licentiousness of our press, that some, not
perhaps the most hostile to the cause of freedom, would not be averse to
manacle authors once more with an IMPRIMATUR. It will not be denied that
Erasmus was a friend to the freedom of the press; yet he was so shocked
at the licentiousness of Luther's pen, that there was a time when he
considered it necessary to restrain its liberty. It was then as now.
Erasmus had, indeed, been miserably calumniated, and expected future
libels. I am glad, however, to observe, that he afterwards, on a more
impartial investigation, confessed that such a remedy was much more
dangerous than the disease. To restrain the liberty of the press, can
only be the interest of the individual, never that of the public; one
must be a patriot here: we must stand in the field with an unshielded
breast, since the safety of the people is the supreme law. There were,
in Milton's days, some who said of this institution, that, although the
inventors were bad, the thing, for all that, might be good. "This may be
so," replies the vehement advocate for "unlicensed printing." But as the
commonwealths have existed through all ages, and have forborne to use
it, he sees no necessity for the invention; and held it as a dangerous
and suspicious fruit from the tree which bore it. The ages of the wisest
commonwealths, Milton seems not to have recollected, were not diseased
with the popular infection of publications, issuing at all hours, and
propagated with a celerity on which the ancients could not calculate.
The learned Dr. _James_, who has denounced the invention of the
_Indexes_, confesses, however, that it was not unuseful when it
restrained the publications of atheistic and immoral works. But it is
our lot to bear with all the consequent evils, that we may preserve the
good inviolate; since, as the profound Hume has declared, "The LIBERTY
OF BRITAIN IS GONE FOR EVER, when such attempts shall succeed."

A constitutional sovereign will consider the freedom of the press as the
sole organ of the feelings of the people. Calumniators he will leave to
the fate of calumny; a fate similar to those who, having overcharged
their arms with the fellest intentions, find that the death which they
intended for others, in bursting, only annihilates themselves.




OF ANAGRAMS AND ECHO VERSES.


The "true" modern critics on our elder writers are apt to thunder their
anathemas on innocent heads: little versed in the eras of our
literature, and the fashions of our wit, popular criticism must submit
to be guided by the literary historian.

Kippis condemns Sir Symonds D'Ewes for his admiration of two anagrams,
expressive of the feelings of the times. It required the valour of
Falstaff to attack extinct anagrams; and our pretended English Bayle
thought himself secure in pronouncing all anagrammatists to be wanting
in judgment and taste: yet, if this mechanical critic did not know
something of the state and nature of anagrams in Sir Symonds' day, he
was more deficient in that curiosity of literature which his work
required, than plain honest Sir Symonds in the taste and judgment of
which he is so contemptuously deprived. The author who thus decides on
the tastes of another age by those of his own day, and whose knowledge
of the national literature does not extend beyond his own century, is
neither historian nor critic. The truth is, that ANAGRAMS were then the
fashionable amusements of the wittiest and the most learned.

Kippis says, and others have repeated, "That Sir Symonds D'Ewes's
judgment and taste, with regard to wit, were as contemptible as can well
be imagined, will be evident from the following passage taken from his
account of Carr Earl of Somerset, and his wife: 'This discontent gave
many satirical wits occasion to vent themselves into stingie [stinging]
libels, in which they spared neither the persons nor families of that
unfortunate pair. There came also two anagrams to my hands, _not
unworthy to be owned by the rarest wits of this age_.' These were, one
very descriptive of the lady, and the other, of an incident in which
this infamous woman was so deeply criminated.

     FRANCES HOWARD.           THOMAS OVERBURIE.
     _Car finds a Whore.     O! O! base Murther_."

This sort of wit is not falser at least than the criticism which infers
that D'Ewes' "judgment and taste were as contemptible as can well be;"
for he might have admired these anagrams, which, however, are not of the
nicest construction, and yet not have been so destitute of those
qualities of which he is so authoritatively divested.

Camden has a chapter in his "Remains" on ANAGRAMS, which he defines to
be a dissolution of a (person's) name into its letters, as its elements;
and a new connexion into words is formed by their transposition, if
possible, without addition, subtraction, or change of the letters: and
the words must make a sentence applicable to the person named. The
Anagram is complimentary or satirical; it may contain some allusion to
an event, or describe some personal characteristic.[113]

Such difficult trifles it may be convenient at all times to discard;
but, if ingenious minds can convert an ANAGRAM into a means of
exercising their ingenuity, the things themselves will necessarily
become ingenious. No ingenuity can make an ACROSTIC ingenious; for this
is nothing but a mechanical arrangement of the letters of a name, and
yet this literary folly long prevailed in Europe.

As for ANAGRAMS, if antiquity can consecrate some follies, they are of
very ancient date. They were classed, among the Hebrews, among the
cabalistic sciences; they pretended to discover occult qualities in
proper names; it was an oriental practice; and was caught by the Greeks.
Plato had strange notions of the influence of _Anagrams_ when drawn out
of persons' names; and the later Platonists are full of the mysteries of
the anagrammatic virtues of names. The chimerical associations of the
character and qualities of a man with his name anagrammatised may often
have instigated to the choice of a vocation, or otherwise affected his
imagination.

Lycophron has left some on record,--two on Ptolemæus Philadelphus, King
of Egypt, and his Queen Arsinöe. The king's name was thus
anagrammatised:--

     ΠΤΟΛΕΜΑΙΟΣ,
     Ἁπὁ μελιτος, MADE OF HONEY:

and the queen's,

     ΑΡΣΙΝΟΗ,
     Ἡρας ιον, JUNO'S VIOLET.

Learning, which revived under Francis the First in France, did not
disdain to cultivate this small flower of wit. Daurat had such a
felicity in making these trifles, that many illustrious persons sent
their names to him to be anagrammatised. Le Laboureur, the historian,
was extremely pleased with the anagram made on the mistress of Charles
the Ninth of France. Her name was

     _Marie Touchet_.
     JE CHARME TOUT:

which is historically just.

In the assassin of Henry the Third,

     _Frère Jacques Clement_,

they discovered

     C'EST L'ENFER QUI M'A CRÉE.

I preserve a few specimens of some of our own anagrams. The mildness of
the government of Elizabeth, contrasted with her intrepidity against the
Iberians, is thus picked out of her title; she is made the English
ewe-lamb, and the lioness of Spain:--

     _Elizabetha Regina Angliæ_.
     ANGLIS AGNA, HIBERIÆ LEA.

The unhappy history of Mary Queen of Scots, the deprivation of her
kingdom, and her violent death, were expressed in this Latin anagram:--

     _Maria Steuarda Scotorum Regina_:
     TRUSA VI REGNIS, MORTE AMARA CADO:

and in

     _Maria St